On the Town With Breslin

JIMMY BRESLIN is nearly everybody's everything. He is a culture hero of sorts for jocks, politicians, journalists, former New York Post readers and drunks everywhere. He also has a following among couples who make it to the beat of Johnny Carson six nights a week all over the length and breadth of this great country of ours-so when Breslin comes to Cambridge, who has the right to keep away?

Not me, for one. And, on one suicidal afternoon during exam period, I headed to the Coop Annex to watch the big man sign copies of his big new book, The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight.

The book is a novel about the Mafia, and, when Coop shoppers asked Breslin discreet questions about that organization, he couldn't see what all the fuss was about. "Hell, when it comes to larceny, I'm betting on the businessman," he said. "The Mafia-they're tough guys-but they're only trying to steal as much as the Protestant bankers do. And they don't succeed. In their wildest dreams, they didn't think of stealing as much as Wolfson could."

It was quite impressive. The tough voice, the big eyes, the small hands were just like on TV, only you notice that Breslin in person is short as well as heavy and that there are some strands of silver in his black hair. But he is a celebrity-after Mailer, Capote and Jacqueline Susanne, probably the best known writer-personality in America-and few people could think of much to ask him. So Breslin kibbitzed with a reporter standing beside him.

"Ever been to Philadelphia? I was in that place, Sessler's, the other day, and I couldn't breathe. Went right to a bar after that. That ended that day."

"Where are you staying?" asked the reporter.

The Ritz. I haven't got any money. I'd stay there even if they [the publisher] weren't paying for it. There are two entrances, and I'd take my suitcases and go out the back door."

"Hell, I'm not even allowed to have a checking account. If I had one, that would be ridiculous. When I go away, I get one blank check with my wife's signature on it, and that's it."

A girl walked up with a copy of his book and said, "Hi."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Breslin.

"I haven't decided yet."

He laughed and said, "Well, you better decide fast, 'cause I'm about to run to the nearest bar."

A Harvard guy asked about politics and Breslin said, "That GE strike-that's the dynamite connection. You should go down there, hang around and get them to buy you a drink. But you guys, you go down with long hair and guitars-you have no fucking chance. You kids have got to give something so you can help out. Strikers-that's the whole thing right there."

Asked about his unsuccessful bid to be New York City Council President, Breslin smiled. "I refer to it as Norman Mailer's campaign," he said. But he was serious about his and Mailer's platform position that New York should be the fifty-first state. "To discuss the city of New York in any way other than it handling its own business is insanity. It's like nursing a cancer patient. New programs are bullshit. Money starts the whole game."

BRESLIN signed a book, inscribing it "To Tom and Debbie" for a law student who identified himself as a newlywed. As Larry King (the Harper's writer and a friend of Breslin's) arrived, someone asked when another book would follow Gang.

"I'm not writing another book yet," said Breslin. "That starving in the garret stuff is fine for the writer. But what about the people you take starving with you-a wife and six kids. All that noise!" He paused. "I could come back doing the movie clock for the Record-American too. Who knows? At least you try."

As Breslin, King and a few reporters walked quickly towards Boylston Street, fleeing the Coop forever, Breslin turned and said, "I was reading that Exley book [ A Fan's Notes]. I don't know what I'm doing on the same side of the street as that guy." He led the group like a platoon leader, stopping once (at Nini's, for a paper) before reaching the ultimate destination-Whitney's on Boylston Street. Once there, Breslin went right to the bar and made a place for himself. A late-afternoon talk show blared from the TV set high above the drinkers. Soon the Whitney's crowd began to notice that Breslin was in their midst. A man wearing an MBTA uniform told him that the Mafia was not a joke, Breslin scowled. Another man asked him if he thought football was crooked. "I hope so," he answered. "Who wants everything a hundred per cent?" Then Breslin turned away from his fans for good and drank the first of many beers.