In one of the many
anecdotes that make up his new book, Pulitzer-winning newspaper columnist and
novelist Jimmy Breslin discusses a column he wrote that resulted in the
mistrial of a Chicago gangster. It happens by chance; Breslin bumps into the
defendant on the courthouse steps, catches him in a lie, and publishes the lie
in the newspaper, and suddenly the jury pool is irrevocably tainted. A few
months later, a retired detective contacts Breslin, asking for a repeat
performance for an incarcerated Brooklyn mobster. This time, all Breslin has to
do is report on a pair of murders that only the detective and the mobster know
about. Breslin says he'll do it after the trial, but when it comes time to
fact-check the crimes, Breslin can't "verify one bullet hole."
The real-world Mafia of The
Good Rat
is full of men who'll do anything to get what they want, but are too arrogant
and stupid to do it well. Burt Kaplan, the "rat" of the title, is smarter than
most, if not by much. But like those few of his associates who survived long
enough to be arrested, Burt eventually faces the inevitable: either give up the
goods to the police, or spend the rest of his days in jail, clinging to a code
of silence rapidly becoming as outdated as the criminals who created it. Even
then, he holds his peace. He only turns after the arrest of two crooked cops,
since he's convinced his former friends will rat him out if he doesn't get
there first. As a star witness at their trial, he delivers testimony that
reveals decades of fraud, racketeering, and murder.
Breslin weaves long quotes
from Burt's court appearance into Rat, using it as the spine for a collection of
legends, apocrypha, and musings about gangster life. It's a casual book, and
too often, that casualness feels like randomness. Taken individually, the
stories are fascinating, but they never combine into any cohesive whole; Breslin
wants to simultaneously eulogize and condemn the criminals he's writing about,
and the resulting mash-up is sentimental, sarcastic, and generally formless.
It's like getting waylaid by a drunken uncle who can't stop talking about the
old days. He's charming to listen to, but never quite coherent enough to be
worth remembering.