Joe DiMaggio sat with us. “What’s doin’, Joey boy?” Solomon Lepidus bellowed. A second later he said,“Can you imagine that, Joey boy? I’m willin’ to put up eight million in real dollars to buy the Yankees and Paley turned me down. That Steinbrenner! The shipping guy from Ohio! CBS is selling the New York Yankees to him!” “Solomon,” I said. “You were turned down because The Times exposed how you were laundering money for organized crime figures.” “Them dirty whores! Let them try to prove it!” On a mobster friend’s attempted purchase of the New York Yankees.

"Madonna came over once when she was a young woman breaking into the business. Surprisingly, when it came to men, Madge, at least to me, seemed clueless…" “I haven’t met a man who piqued my interest since I left Michigan, David . . .That’s the truth! Not one!” "Don’t take this the wrong way, you’re really good-looking, and it’s obvious you’re extremely intelligent. But as far as presentation goes, well, most men in Manhattan, I mean the kind that you should be dating, are looking for, well, again, I’m not trying to be rude, but they’re looking for someone less intimidating. And with the way that you present yourself, like some hippy who doesn’t take baths, it would turn most guys off before you had a chance to turn them on.” “Let’s just drop it. I’m not interested in your opinion. Furthermore, I like who I am.” On a young Madonna.

One December night in 1961, we went to the Copa. Matty “The Horse” Ianniello, the future crime boss of the Genovese crime family, his beloved wife, Beatrice May, Solomon, Hana, Morty Lefko (aka “The Colonel”), his wife, Leslie and me. All of us got along just fine until the women went to freshen up. “I can’t believe the stuff you put up with from that wife of yours, Matty,” The Colonel said. “A tough guy like you.” Matty slowly drew his gun from its holster. Jammed the barrel deep into The Colonel’s mouth. “What did you say?” The Colonel pissed his pants. On Mobster Matty “The Horse” Ianniello.

As for Willie (Mays), he was in a class by himself. The same league as Sugar Ray Robinson in boxing; Bob Cousy in basketball; Jim Brown in football. These men were the Prousts, the Tolstoys, and the Joyces—not just of 1951 but of all time. Now that I’m eighty years old with perspective, I know that to be truer than ever.On great athletes and great writers.

I have to confess, at least to myself if not to Liam, not to Elizabeth, that a chunk of me doesn’t think it a despicable thing that I was in barbarous shootouts with the men I opposed. Maybe a large chunk doesn’t consider my behavior despicable. I was no better than they were. I was probably a whole lot worse considering the advantages with which I had started out. But how many of us went off to war without blinking or thinking? Killed better men than we were?David Lazar on himself.

"When gambling beats art, something is certainly fucked up in this world."David Lazar