A certain
start-up executive movie producer, who had to refinance his $9,000,000 film
into an over-budget $15,000,000 bomb about a Sicilian American mob assassin,
found that he could only re-finance the venture if he seriously read and
considered a draft manuscript for inclusion written by a certain regional Bank
President's brother-in-law. The proviso stated that the Bank President would
have the right to personally advise and assist in the creative completion of
the current picture now being financed, and to insert new character(s),
locations, dialogue at his own expense apart from the loan. Being loaded with a net worth in excess of
$57,000,000, the Bank President himself could have financed the film
independently, but like most rich people, he gave himself a clause that if he
lost money, he would be reciprocated by other means through the bank. In
fact, the Bank President made the terms of repayment so good, the executive
producer was actually anxious to get back to his office to read the manuscript,
so as to get production underway again before he had to release the crew. He had less than 48 hours left to make a
decision.
Upon returning to the office at 10am., the
executive movie producer (through instructing his head secretary) summarily cleared his morning and afternoon of all calls and appointments, and plopped down on a comfortable Italian
Leather couch with a 10 oz. glass filled with ice and Glen Livet Scotch
whiskey. By the time he was finished with the Script, he, to his shock
would find that he was so into the story, he absent-mindedly went through the
whole 750 ml. bottle. This is what he read.
-----------------------------------
Escape
from Assassination: by Artie "super-trucker" Manohovitz
On a
lonely stretch of highway somewhere north of Sacramento, California, I
stopped off at a small roadside restaurant with a flop-house motel out back,
serving up the usual American Menu loved by Commercial Truck Drivers and
red-necks everywhere. And boy, was I wiped out, tired. It seated
only about 30 people at the tables and booths, and had room for 14 more at the
counter. Only about a half a dozen fellow truckers and 2 or 3 locals were
in the place on a cloudy and dark 2 am morning when I just about staggered,
rather than walked in.
No one was
at the counter. I bent over, heard and felt my back crack like someone
does his knuckles, stood up straight as I felt the blood start circulating a
bit more, sat down, and ordered an energy drink and a cup of coffee from the
waitress. I then mused over the lunch menu for two or three minutes
before deciding on a Triple Decker club with Roast Beef, Ham, Turkey, double
bacon, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and cottage cheese on the side.
I had just
finished my 70 hours driving for the week with a mandatory 24 hour down time
before I could be driving again, and I was wondering if I ever was going to get
off this Long Haul nonsense and get a regular short haul job where I could go
home every night and sleep in my own bed. This Company Owned Long Haul
with the anal driver managers having a snit every 45 minutes to a couple hours
on you was really the pits. But no matter how much I hated their guts, I
was always mindful to never say I was "off the truck", because that
is the language that means you quit, and you are stuck without a means home,
and someone is being sent out to take the keys away from you. But at least I
was my own person. Too many scuzzy people were being paired up out there
with the decent folks driving. And boy, could I tell you stories...all of
them true.
About 15 minutes after I ordered, a somewhat good-looking but slightly plump
-- saying I could look, but don't ask -- waitress served up the
grub, and as I was slowly eating my cottage cheese with a fork, a middle aged
white guy sat down at the counter two seats to my right. He was about six
foot with brown graying hair and blue eyes, and had a look about him that made
me look around to see if one of the several mirrors in the place
"cracked". Sheesh.
I noticed
that he carried a Rosary in his left hand, and he set it down on the counter in
front of him, and ordered a cup of coffee with a glass of milk on the side,
which he used as his creamer.
I looked
over at him for a moment, and when he noticed me looking at his Rosary, I
asked,
"You
Catholic?"
He looked downward to his left and then looked right at me, and said, "Nope. Not really. I guess you can say I have never been."
I put the question to him, "You mind if I ask why? I just got off a long shift and I have a few hours before I can unwind for my next 24 hours off. I see you got this Rosary...that's why I asked. Wanna discuss it?"
I don't know why I asked the question. Maybe because I was both bored and too tired to move. The coffee was flowing, and I had nowhere to go except into a cold truck cab under half a dozen blankets and a short cot mattress type of a bed. So I listened.
He said:
"Someone
once asked me, why have I never been Catholic? Well, truth be told, I was
one for perhaps about a month. I made the verbal pledge, probably when I
was about 12 and didn't know any better, but when I experienced the cost
of that pledge, I took my vow back, and the local Catholic Priest disavowed me
with what a writer might term as "hateful spite." He actually
used many less "F" bomb profanities than the evil nun who ran the
others of his many acres perhaps 10 or more(?) acres of Church property which
included a school and various other buildings. But the fact remains, that
even my friends never heard him particularly drop the "f" bombs on
anyone until I said I would rather return to serving Jesus as a Presbyterian or
Methodist or even as a Baptist truthfully, rather than support those who were
slamming truck doors on people's hands like the two I saw up on the Boulevard
do to another Municipal worker as I was being driven slowly by, or that of
those who used the Sanitation department to kill and dispose of dead bodies on
my trash route. I'm sorry, but when I see the arms and legs and heads of
three corpses still sticking out from underneath the crushing plate in less
than 5 weeks, and another 5 or 6 in the next two years, twice on a major
highway in plain sight, something is wrong. And yeah, I know the
difference between a mannequin and a real human leg."
I asked, "Where was this?"
He replied, "New Jersey in the 1970s. All the time I was there, I was wishing I was growing up in the 1940s. I mean, I really identified more with the music and the radio and stuff like that, you know? I guess had I grown up in some place in the Mid-west, some rural towns were still in between that and the 1950s, almost as if they were still frozen in time. Me? I got Jersey.
Yeah, I know when the one old gangster, an under-boss I think -- but I'm
not sure, died in something like 1971, he left money enough to pave every
road in town, build a nice court house with a police station
and library in the basement. The mob there used the Town's Trash Company
to sometimes transport their hired killers as well as temporarily transport or
dispose of bodies at the County Landfill. From what I recall, of all of
the bodies or body parts I saw, not one of them had old skin, and they were all
white folks. One was a 19 year old blondish-orange haired gal I knew the
age but after so many years I can't recall her name any more."
I cut in, "You mean the mob in New Jersey used the trash company
to transport their hit men and dispose of the bodies at landfills?"
He coughed
a couple times, sipped his coffee, and continued:
"Oh yeah. Actually, after I
reported to the Police in the township where the Landfill was, and they found
-- I think it was 3 -- yeah, something like that, 3 or so bodies at the dump,
the mob switched to using 55 gallon drums of acid. There were alot more bodies than that dumped over the previous two or so years by that time, but maybe the 3 or so were the only ones they could find. I don't know. Anyway, the 55 gallon acid drums may have cost more, but they were less likely to come back at you. Rumor has it that is how they got rid of Jimmy Hoffa's body, but no one is supposed to have survived the cleanup of those who made the original hit, and then those guys got hit.
Anyway, the mob guys would stuff the corpse in the drum, fill it with sulfuric or some other kind of acid, let him or her soak for up to a couple days, and then run either a tug or a very small freighter out of Perth Amboy or Hackensack, and dump the body about 200 or so yards or more off the Northeast point of Sandy Hook. Sandy Hook is something like a 5 or 6 mile peninsula over in the middle of the state that juts out north into the bay toward New York. I remember the Hook well, as I did some training for yacht racing and that was our turn-around point when we did our drills. Sometimes we would anchor off the North shore, dingy in and catch and cook flounder and drink beer. When you're a kid drinking beer and eating camp-fire fish, being treated as and behaving as an adult on those kind of jaunts, its something you look kindly at, at first, anyway. But things changed in for us in '75, because we were warned by various sources the we should never stop to go fishing off the Hook again unless you wanted to be part cannibal.
Anyway, the mob guys would stuff the corpse in the drum, fill it with sulfuric or some other kind of acid, let him or her soak for up to a couple days, and then run either a tug or a very small freighter out of Perth Amboy or Hackensack, and dump the body about 200 or so yards or more off the Northeast point of Sandy Hook. Sandy Hook is something like a 5 or 6 mile peninsula over in the middle of the state that juts out north into the bay toward New York. I remember the Hook well, as I did some training for yacht racing and that was our turn-around point when we did our drills. Sometimes we would anchor off the North shore, dingy in and catch and cook flounder and drink beer. When you're a kid drinking beer and eating camp-fire fish, being treated as and behaving as an adult on those kind of jaunts, its something you look kindly at, at first, anyway. But things changed in for us in '75, because we were warned by various sources the we should never stop to go fishing off the Hook again unless you wanted to be part cannibal.
Between 1975 and 1979, I think the
Mafia dumped 20 or 30 bodies over there just off the Northeast tip. It got so bad, that if you ate
flounder, even at a restaurant, let alone what a neighbor or relative might
have caught, you made sure it wasn't from a trek way out to the north point of
Sandy Hook, because you might be snacking on part of someone you know and not
know it...if you know what I mean."
I think my
mouth must have dropped open at this point, because he pointed to my plate, and
said:
"Good
thing you finished your sandwich. But if you need to hurl at any time,
it'll be quicker for you to run outside than to get into that tiny bathroom to
the back and to the left. And the toilet is so small, I think they stole
it from a first grade bathroom of an Elementary school somewhere. Just so
you know. Outside is a much bigger target to not miss."
I
leaned back and scratched my head, and looked that the waitress as she filled
my coffee cup and gave me one of those 'what the hell are you guys talking
about' looks.
The stranger then smiled and asked the waitress, "Free tonight sunshine?"
"Sunshine?" The waitress snapped back. "I ain't your sunshine and I'm NEVER free!"
"But
honey!" The
stranger said, "Your face is just so pretty
you light up the room! And how the grease just make your hair sparkle
under the fluorescent light, its just like seeing...."
"Shut
up and drink your coffee!" She curtly said, cutting him off, as she poured a refill
into his empty coffee cup and left to make her rounds to the other few
customers that were there, who happily received it in mildly jovial
anticipation.
"Where
was I?" asked
the stranger.
I
answered, "I lost track. You want to
go back to 1971 when the under-boss died?"
"Yeah, I guess." The stranger answered. "Nah. Let me fast forward to a year later, in 1972 or so, when another Mafia boss came around in a short limo, with an ice cream truck tailing behind. He was dying of cancer, and had the Good Humor truck give out free ice cream. I refused to accept, figuring I would adhere to the 'not taking anything from strangers' principle I learned at School. You have to remember, that this was the era of Dick and Jane illustrated educationals to the kids for the last two decades or something, and alot of kids were drilled with the fear of strangers principle as a means to help protect them. And when that failed, they could always open the Dick and Jane illustration book, and show Jane freaking out as the guy who kidnaps her is driving 80 mph and throws her out of a car and over the side of the cliff or something."
I
interrupted, while trying to be funny, "Did
they ever make it into a movie? Boy, that sure sounds like a lot of fun
to watch!"
He
replied, "Not that I know of. You can't
make stuff like that nowadays anyway. The minorities would scream racism
for not making Dick and Jane as Black or Hispanic or Asian, the Homosexuals
would make the kids queer, the Liberals would have Dick and Jane having sex as
7 year olds together "discovering" themselves, and the NAMBLA
freaks and the Muslim fundamentalists would be wanting consensual sex between
the kidnapper and a 7 year old Jane. No, I think it's just all too
politicized now."
'Too
bad." I
said,while still trying to be funny. "I
would have just wanted to see the part where the guy threw the kid out of the
car and over the cliff at 80 mph anyway. I'd be curious to see if they
save the kid by landing her on a giant cactus, then having her grab onto a
stranded bungee cord at the top of the cactus, and doing a bungee fall onto a
skunk she flattens into the clay, and then runs up to the cops and the
kidnapper now caught by the cops, and raises a big stink, or not."
With that
remark, I might as well have said, 'My broker is
E.F. Hutton. And E.F. Hutton said...." You could
have heard a pin drop in the place. The ambient music stopped. The
cook stopped cooking. What people were talking all stopped talking.
Even the coffee stopped perking, and it looked like it was frozen at 2 cups, refusing
to perk again until I said...."Just
kidding! I was just kidding!"
A trucker
in the back booth remarked, "Boy, it's a
good thing youse off the road. You're delirious."
To which
the waitress remarked, "He's not delirious,
he's nuts! What kind of responsible person wants to see a little kid
thrown out of a car at 80 mph and think its funny?"
"But,
it's only pretend and educational." I offered. "All
slapstick comedy and most television is make believe anyway. I simply
thought I was being funny! I wasn't serious!"
A local remarked, "Well, that still doesn't make it right!"
"Sorry!" I said. "What if the kidnapper snatched a transvestite wearing a wig and fake boobs and threw him out of the car at 80 mph?" I asked those of the restaurant. The consensus was that it was more or less justifiable, but I was still in deep doo-doo with some pretty icy glares about a fictional kid remark. "Besides, he remembered it wrong. Jane stayed a captive in the car until Officer Bob or somebody chased down the robber and saved Jane after a successful high speed pursuit. She never got tossed out."
The guy next to me who was telling me all his stories then spoke up, "Just so you all know...I don't know this guy, and never set eyes on him before tonight!"
"Good thing!" snapped the waitress, "Good thing, or I'd be throwing you both out."
The
Stranger then returned to his story:
"1972, the under-boss is going up through the
streets one by one in a short limo, followed by an ice cream truck, looking for
anyone from kids on up to perhaps early high school age to give out free ice
cream. I carefully observed my manners, something I normally would
not do with peers, but was careful to abide by with anyone who looked over the
age of 60. I refused, not once or twice, but 8 or 9 times.
Telling
the Ice Cream guy, the limo driver and then the old man in the back. 'I'm
sorry, I am not allowed to take anything from strangers.'
The limo driver had a fit. He pulled a black super .38 revolver with dark
tannish grip, waved the gun in my face threatening to kill me or my brother or
those neighborhood peers with me if he didn't find out where I lived, and then
seeing we were virtually in front of the house, proceed to wreak havoc.
He kicked and then gun butted the storm door glass, broke the living room bay
widow with the butt and barrel of his gun with 3 or 4 whacks, walked over to
the family car and broke out the headlight, yelling that his boss was "a
sick old man...he's dying of cancer!", then scared the family cat in the
hedges, and failing to kick the cat, kicked a one foot deep gash into our new
aluminum trash can which the town demanded we replace the old heavy ones with
(which he would have happily broke his foot on, but because of a stupid town
ordinance, did not).
At that point, I turned to the old man and yelled, 'I hope you die, and
go to heck!' At that point, the limo driver cocked his piece, pointed it
at my head, and asked the old guy for permission to shoot this kid (meaning me). The under-boss
asked if I would take it back. I said, no. He said that he could
order the nice man to shoot me. I said, 'Even if he does, I get to go the
heaven and he really goes to heck, only he gets to burn even more. Go
ahead and shoot!' The under-boss told his driver twice to get in the car
and drive on, having a sour look on his face, as if suddenly at that point the under-boss realized for a moment, knowing he
couldn't 'Ice Cream' his way into heaven; but he kept on going around giving
Ice Cream away anyway, until it all ran out, I guess. Later that day I ran into over a dozen others I went to school with who said he came their way and they got two pieces of ice cream each. When they heard how I almost got shot and that made the under-boss give away two pieces to each of them, the only lament was that I didn't get shot, because then he would have given away the whole truck, and they could take home dozens of ice creams to share with their families or "pig out for days". Boy, was I loved. Eh.
I have had those who brought me within the Church and Community of Roman
Catholicism seeking my conversion when I was younger, but the association
between them and members of a certain Sicilians-only New Jersey crime family,
and various other experiences I encountered within and without Roman Catholic
Church property assured me that I could never accept any Institution that saw
me and others as expendable and human property to be beaten, commanded as if a
slave, or any of the many inhuman indignities that they sought to do to bring
me and others of that Community into subjection."
"You
have a grudge with the Roman Catholics, and carry around a Rosary?" I asked.
"First
off, the Rosary I have here isn't mine. It belonged to my wife from a
time before we were married. She left Catholicism to be a Pentecostal
Presbyterian with me. We were married 22 years, and three days ago we had
her wake. We have two kids, one of each, both in the military. He's
in the Airborne, she's with the Marines. We're very proud of them
both. This Rosary was given to my wife by her grandmother when she was
graduating high school, and only a few minutes before coming in did I realize
it was in my coat pocket. I put it out so I can look at it and remind
myself so I don't forget to mail it in the morning.
Secondly,
I am a Mafioso hit survivor, no thanks to the Roman Catholic Church who
supported the contract on my life I lived through, although only a teenager and
put there because of a few perceived words of "disrespect", and
refusal to turn on a friend who made me his blood brother to help shield me
from being collateral damage.
In
1973, (about the time I saw the landlady's high school son push his best
friend off the top of a 13 story building one February morning), after escaping
an attempted execution on his life and killing the guy who tried to shoot him
in the head with a .22 short automatic pistol from behind; a Lieutenant
with the local Sicilian mob I called “Cappo”, went to prison. In 1979 he
came back, and looked me up to thank me, but someone else had his old job
promised open to him when he came back...only it wasn't open to him anymore,
even though it was the same godfather-like boss. He tried to have me be considered
a Consiglieri, but I couldn't keep an all "A" grades. Even with
an extension to June of 1974 to correct it. I just wasn't smart enough to
be considered for sponsorship,even if I got them up all the way and kept them
there.
Anyway
, after I had saved his life, in 1973 Cappo made me a blood brother much like
you see kids do or in a Western movie, a slice on two thumbs and a tight
handshake and pledge, a few words of Sicilian like one of my grandparents, and
saying I was under his protection. For a little while after he went away,
there was trouble. Then one of my grandparents brothers came out of the
wood-work. He ran books for the Bonano family, and had a sound-proof
room, put his son through 5 years of Yale University, the works. And for
a while, they let me be.
The
Lieutenant who took over the area which “Cappo” once ran, was supported by the
local priest. For whatever reason, in 1979 after Cappo got out, that
Lieutenant with the blessings of the priest decided to put out a $500 machete
death contract on my life. But the contract was also given the proviso that if you were 100% Sicilian and one of the prospects, a successful hit on me, while using a machete, would get you in...or as the mobsters put the initiation rite of passage: "made".
I
was down at the harbor, using a public restroom one night around 7 or 7:20
pm during the Fireman's Carnival (with a poor turnout because it rained earlier that day, as I recall). The only public restrooms open were located under the Pilot house. Anyway, I peek checked through the open window and carefully through the door and around behind me before going in (because I had previous fought off several other muggings at both Shea and Yankee Stadiums made at the restroom). I had just finished and was washing my hands when a
stocky figure, about 5'8" slammed the restroom door open, wearing a dark
leather jacket, a blue t-shirt, and blue jeans. He was a Sicilian American with black wavy
-- but curling at the end -- hair and brown eyes.
He
entered carrying a sheathed machete in the middle of his left hand, and when he
saw me, he unsheathed it and declared my death was sanctioned by $500 contract,
but it wasn't about the money. He told me specifically that my upcoming death in the next few seconds
would have him “made” and it was "business, nothing
personal". The guy then proceeded to attack me with the
machete. I fought him off with a cunning use of my high school jacket,
twice struck the flat of the blade away with blows I don't know how I
landed, and was able to drill him in the face using the proper technique of supporting those blows with my hip and body weight
behind them, landing some perhaps 5 or 6 perhaps lucky punches. However, being only about 150 lbs at the time, it looked for a moment like I would never get past him, let alone knock him down or out, and that I was about to be "dead meat" if I didn't come up with something else, or someone come in and save me. But even
with a speedy in and out tactic and quick foot-work, using every technique I
could muster from the near 1200 fights I had from early childhood to that point in
time, he was seemingly more determined to kill me than I was to live, and I was unable to escape."
"1200
fights?" I
interrupted. "You're exaggerating a bit
are you?"
Not
in the least. I averaged about 150 -200 fights a year, sometimes 3 or 4
or 5 in the same day, for the previous 8 years; and I was 14 at the time.
I almost got kept back a grade at one point because all of the concussions and
mild or temporary swelling brain damage I suffered sometimes. Hell,
when I was 12, I had my head bead about with bricks and rocks so bad, that my
head swelled and bloated up like a soft melon. I could literally press my gently on my
mushy head, and poke between the separations in the plates of my cranium.
It was that bad. It took 3 weeks for the swelling to go all the way down
before my head was almost normal again.
All I had to do sometimes is walk on the same block, and I
had others 5 and 6 years older to 28 year olds attacking me for no
reason. Or sometimes it was because their second, third, or fourth cousin
in town lost a fight to me and it was "family honor". Whether I
won or lost, the fighting never seemed to stop because much of the town was too
inter-related, and I don't mean the Italian section which I did not live
in. At worst, you contended with a brother or immediate friend and the
second round was it. But with the rest of the whites in town...good
riddance. It was if it was some kind of Irish-German-Scandanavian blood
feud that marked you for life, even if you got along in sports or class, that
was if a separate issue. Once you were marked, you were always going to
be a "temporary", never a permanent friend because of this blood-feud
thing of never really forgiving. But then again, I had a sometimes really gave
lip, and that probably got me in about a third of the al
"What
about the guy with the machete?" I continued.
I
figured I had anywhere from 10 to 90 seconds to live, as my very best punches
only wobbled and knocked my attacker off in the wrong direction, and I could
not maneuver him because I had to also avoid the swinging machete which arm was
always just out of reach. Suddenly Cappo came in, and words were
exchanged. The assassin declared his authority and demanded his right to
fulfill his contract, but Cappo told me to go. I told Cappo to get him from
that side and I would get him from this. He said go. I gave Cappo
my jacket and told him to wrap it around his left arm. He had it in his
left hand as the assassin lunged and Cappo caught him by the wrist and they
twist and twirled exchanging what I perceived to be two or three blows.
Cappo yelled, “Leave, leave, and never come back!” I ran the
shortest route home I knew how, dodging into the shadows and behind trees and
into bushes at the slightest sign of pedestrians or headlights within a block
and a half away.
I
made it home, and watched for signs of anyone coming with a baseball bat in hand or very close by.
But no one came. The next morning, I went down to the public facility,
this time using my dark green Schwinn 10-speed, thinking it couldn’t have
happened. A crowd of about 30 to 40 people had gathered as the police
investigated. My jacket was in a pile on the floor, blood on top of it,
as far as I know, and there was a pool of blood. I wasn’t there 90
seconds before a strong hand gripped the shirt on my left shoulder, and the
very familiar voice sternly said, “What the hell are you doing here? I
told you to never come back!”
Cappo
pulled me away from the crowd, but I sensed that three or four people turned
their head slightly as though to try to be listening over the talking and
murmurs of the rest of the crowd.
Cappo
said,” This is no place for
you. What are you trying to do, get us both killed?”
“I’m
sorry.” I said, looking downwards before looking back up at his face
again. “I couldn’t believe it happened. I thought it was a
nightmare. When I woke up and saw my jacket was gone…”
At
that point Cappo turned me around swung his foot at me and just about kicked my
ass as I sprinted several steps away.
“Get
your ass outta here!”
Cappo growled as he gritted his teeth.
“And
don’t let me catch you anywhere past the Nightclub on the other side of this parking lot ever again.”
Over
the next few days I was tailed around town by two men in an American made black
four door sedan. Sometimes I was out walking or jogging from place
to place, sometimes I was riding my 10 speed, and twice I was coming home from
school.
"Oh, no." I muttered to myself, and then asked the waitress if they sold any large or stiff alcoholic beverages? All she could do is roll her eyes and crack that the only stiff drinks they serve has to do with "old coffee". When I tuned back in, I found the guy still on his trip down memory lane. He continued.
On or about the Thursday after surviving the weekend, I got off the bus
a few blocks from home. I had to walk past a funeral parlor on an estate,
and there they were waiting. Two guys jumped out of a black four door
sedan carrying guns and running towards me. One was carrying a snub nosed
.45 and the other a sawed off pump-action shotgun.
I had been doing my
homework in each of the following classes I had throughout the day, so as to free myself of taking
any books home in case I had to run. That decision saved my life yet
again. Before they knew it, I was running full blast among the trees of the estate, dodging and
weaving left and right, crunching the leaves and acorns, and really
flying. I made a v-line through peoples back yards I have never been
through before, scared some ugly old fat woman walking around half naked in her
nightie, leaped a doberman pincher and then a German shepherd before they knew what
past them, and for the first time in my life hurdled...hurdled, mind you, a 5
foot fence.
The would be assassins ended up watching the house, and I wasn't able to go home until well after dark, and then only through the cellar. On Friday they spotted me, chased me into my own home with the same guns, but I evaded them by a quick weave in and out of the attic. As I ran away, I could hear an old guy yelling for the goonbas to come out and chase me down the street."
At that
point I stopped him and put to him, "You would
think they would have taken your family hostage. Why didn't they?"
"I
don't know. The year or two before that, the guy with the snub .45 took
the town Police Lieutenants wife hostage. He was really on an anti-mafia
anti-crime wave. And for a while, maybe 6 months, many of us were really
feeling safe. But then one day, there was this guy from the mob who
walked right up to Mrs. G. in the driveway as she was gathering her groceries
out of the car. Right in front of me and several others from the next
neighborhood over who happened to be passing by. We had the cops called,
and could hear the screaming by the guy that he was going to kill her because
her husband refused the pay-offs. The stand-off lasted about 5 hours, and
it was this same guy with the snub .45 revolver that came out in cuffs.
He was maybe 30 lbs. lighter then, but it was the same guy who would be chasing me with a gun just a few years later.
After that guy came out and the hostage stand-off ended,
in in the weeks and months after, regardless of the fact that Mrs. G went from a happy friendly out-going housewife and turned into a hostile recluse, Mr. G. came into all sorts of money, made Captain and then
Police Chief, and he most certainly could no longer be trusted. He was one of
them. If you told him anything, it was like the next 10 seconds later, he
was telling the mob. But maybe part of the agreement for him to cooperate
was to lay off whoever they were afters families, I guess. But really...I
don't know.
But once Mr. G. went corrupt, bodies started showing up in the back of the town's garbage trucks. I mean, I would bring out the trash, and there would sometimes be a body, whether it was a dead 19 year old girl or or this or that guy half crushed up under the crusher plate. Sometimes just a limb. After 6 or 7 months from the time Mr. G. went corrupt, you got to know when a hit was going down when certain substitutes were on the back of the Municipal garbage trucks. But nobody talked about it, or if you started to, they put their hand over your mouth, pulled you aside, and whispered for you to shut up or they would kill you themselves, because to talk about it would get them and their whole family killed. And with that you most certainly would walk away with at least a few bruises so as to know they were serious about what they were saying to you, the big mouthed idiot who was going to get everyone killed if you didn't shut the hell up.
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