My Uncle Emil

When I was nine or ten years old my uncle Emil told me a story that differed from the “original family story” about my grandfather, his death and how the family made a living as immigrants in San Francisco circa 1920s. The “original family story” was that grandpa Seraphin was a bootlegger and died of cirrhosis of the liver. As Emil tells it this is not the case. “Sure daddy was a bootlegger but he did not die because of that. He died because of the taxi company he owned. Back then a taxi license was worth more than gold, one license would cover as many cabs you owned and daddy owned six going on sixteen. That was a big business back then, and those bastards at Yellow Luxor and DeSoto did not want him getting any more cabs, they didn’t even want him having what he did have.” Back in the twenties in San Francisco the big cab companies were part of the mob. They controlled all the existing licensees determining who got what and how many cabs were out on the streets at any given time. The city in attempts to break up the system set up a lottery for 20 taxi licensees. Grandpa Seraphin was one of the lucky winners. Not speaking English he built the company up to six cabs one for himself Johnny Emil Victor David and Louis his good friend from the old country. It was a strong thriving business. “One night those bastards kidnapped Johnny; he was the youngest of us all. Daddy got a letter with Johnny’s pinkie finger, it was a warning to get out of the taxi business. Louis got word from another taxi driver with DeSoto that Johnny was being held in the basement of a bar the end of North Point. Dad was not the kind to take this sitting down, nor were any of us.” Uncle Emil went on to tell me how grandpa Seraphin, Victor, David, Louis and he went down to the bottom of North Point Street, with guns, shot their way into the basement, retrieved Johnny and all managed to get back home, but grandpa was shot in the side. ”He died a few days after the gun fight at the bar, the taxi company was never the same, sure we all had our cabs but it never grew. The only one still driving cab today is David” I asked my mother if the story was true, she laughed and said “that Emil can sure tell a tall tell.” Johnny was in a rest home most of my life he died a year after Emil told me the story. At the funeral, when we were walking by the open casket I looked in and sure enough Uncle Johnny was missing his pinkie finger.