Early this month an organizer from the Bartenders' Union dropped in at Danny's Hideaway, a small, newly opened mid-Manhattan bar & grill. The bossa black-haired little ex-soldier named Dante Stradellareacted just as many another enterpriser had acted before him. First he argued. He had served 18 months overseas with the Army, had been wounded at Messina, was trying to make a start on borrowed money. The union would cramp his style. When that got him nowhere, in clipped West Side accents he spoke what was closer to his heart: he thought the union was a racket; his answer was no....
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