An hour later, we left, trucks fully loaded and drove, maybe via the Cross Bronx Expressway—I don’t recall and wouldn’t have recognized it--to a much larger facility, a tan, brick warehouse surrounded by tall chain-link fencing. As we approached, my driver flicked away his cigarette and rolled up his window.
“Make sure it’s locked.”
“What?”
“The fuckin’ door! That's what!”
I looked up. A much larger picket line, maybe 40 strikers blocked the gate to the warehouse. A couple were pointing at our truck. Shouting. Someone had alerted them. Two NYPD squad cars were angle- parked, bubble gum machines flashing, against the curb. A beefy red-faced sergeant and a couple of patrol guys were yelling and shoving, trying to restrain a suddenly angry mob.
My guilt was instantly transformed to fear, queasy and visceral. My door wouldn’t lock. The push-button latch mechanism was gone. I stared at the bleak little hole were the button should have been.
“Here!” The driver threw me a length of clothesline.
“Where did he get that?” I thought.
“Tie it!”
To do that, I had to lower the window, which barely cranked, and anchor it to...what? I remembered two knots—square knot and sheet bend—from my Boy Scout days.
“Tie the fucking thing!”
I fumbled around, wrapping the rope around the pillar of the vent window.
“Throw it over here!”
He grabbed for it, pulled it taut, wrapped it around his door handle, all the while driving. Then he pulled a short length of pipe wrapped in electrical tape, seemingly out of the air, laid it across his lap. I had a paperback in my pocket.
At that moment, McIntosh’s car glided in front of us. He got out, casual as a lord, and strolled over to an unmarked police car—I’d completely missed it—parked across from the pickets. A police lieutenant, tall, very Irish-looking—in those days most cops were—got out. In full view of the Puerto Rican and black union men, the two began to chat like old friends, soon laughing and smirking. They stepped out of my line of vision. I didn’t see what happened after that.
Despite the GQ blazer and preposterous yachting cap, or maybe because of it, McIntosh cut a fearsome figure. In Brooklyn terms, he didn’t give a fuck; for the law, for cops, for unions or factory owners, for fashion, for himself (according to press reports he wore a size 52 suit, carried an ice pick, drove himself to the hospital after being shot in the groin, half-strangled rogue mob boss Joey Gallo), and especially not for society. Years later, he died a terrible death, broken and sick in prison. He certainly wouldn’t give a fuck for me, but looking back, I suspect that as a “college boy” from a very rough neighborhood,” I triggered a certain curiosity—think a bug pinned to a piece of Styrofoam, in the man.
How rough was my neighborhood? Years later, armed with an Ivy League degree and working for Newsweek, I’d stop by at a bar on the corner of Madison and 49th called The Cowboy. Conversation was often dominated by columnist Pete Axthelm (a notorious gambler, now deceased) and a sportswriter named Peter Bonventre. The bartender fawned over them; he ignored me. My buddy, Dave Friendly, and I were usually too stressed out writing what seemed impossibly difficult stories, to care. One day, noticing my name on a credit card, asked, thebored bartender asked where I was from. “Third Avenue and Carroll Street,” I said. “Near Monte’s Venetian Room.” He asked a few questions. I mentioned unmentionable names. From that moment on, whenever I walked in, he’d find a way to announce, “Vince is from the roughest neighborhood in the city I ain’t shitting!” Go figure.
The police lieutenant gave a signal and the unmarked car drove off. The patrol cars left. It was us—the mob—against the union. McIntosh and a couple of his thugs strode up to the gate. Hand in his pocket, he stared hard at the protest leader, said no doubt, something terrible. The man hesitated; his face crumbled; he backed off. The picket line collapsed as we roared through. I remember of all those men, only one, a borracho (“drunk”) had the courage to step forward and curse us in Spanish. His friends dragged him safety
There it was: Jewish factory owners hiring Italian gangsters, using Irish cops, to break the poor. The end of my affair with the mob.
Inside, our truck was offloaded by scabs driving forklifts. As we waited for the rest of them to come through, I sat down by myself on a pile of cardboard and tried to read. I couldn’t focus. When I looked up, McIntosh was standing in front of me. A book was a curious thing.
“Mustache!” he said after a moment, “you like this kind of work, right?” I had the oddest sensation that my answer mattered to him.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
He peeled off a wad of bills and handed them to me. I shoved the money into my pocket. When I checked, it was $200.
“See you tomorrow bright and early,” he chirped and walked away.
Next morning my mother, a fearless woman, walked down Carroll Street to Honey’s house.
“My Vinny is sick,” she said. “He ain’t working today.”
“Make sure it’s locked.”
“What?”
“The fuckin’ door! That's what!”
I looked up. A much larger picket line, maybe 40 strikers blocked the gate to the warehouse. A couple were pointing at our truck. Shouting. Someone had alerted them. Two NYPD squad cars were angle- parked, bubble gum machines flashing, against the curb. A beefy red-faced sergeant and a couple of patrol guys were yelling and shoving, trying to restrain a suddenly angry mob.
My guilt was instantly transformed to fear, queasy and visceral. My door wouldn’t lock. The push-button latch mechanism was gone. I stared at the bleak little hole were the button should have been.
“Here!” The driver threw me a length of clothesline.
“Where did he get that?” I thought.
“Tie it!”
To do that, I had to lower the window, which barely cranked, and anchor it to...what? I remembered two knots—square knot and sheet bend—from my Boy Scout days.
“Tie the fucking thing!”
I fumbled around, wrapping the rope around the pillar of the vent window.
“Throw it over here!”
He grabbed for it, pulled it taut, wrapped it around his door handle, all the while driving. Then he pulled a short length of pipe wrapped in electrical tape, seemingly out of the air, laid it across his lap. I had a paperback in my pocket.
At that moment, McIntosh’s car glided in front of us. He got out, casual as a lord, and strolled over to an unmarked police car—I’d completely missed it—parked across from the pickets. A police lieutenant, tall, very Irish-looking—in those days most cops were—got out. In full view of the Puerto Rican and black union men, the two began to chat like old friends, soon laughing and smirking. They stepped out of my line of vision. I didn’t see what happened after that.
Despite the GQ blazer and preposterous yachting cap, or maybe because of it, McIntosh cut a fearsome figure. In Brooklyn terms, he didn’t give a fuck; for the law, for cops, for unions or factory owners, for fashion, for himself (according to press reports he wore a size 52 suit, carried an ice pick, drove himself to the hospital after being shot in the groin, half-strangled rogue mob boss Joey Gallo), and especially not for society. Years later, he died a terrible death, broken and sick in prison. He certainly wouldn’t give a fuck for me, but looking back, I suspect that as a “college boy” from a very rough neighborhood,” I triggered a certain curiosity—think a bug pinned to a piece of Styrofoam, in the man.
How rough was my neighborhood? Years later, armed with an Ivy League degree and working for Newsweek, I’d stop by at a bar on the corner of Madison and 49th called The Cowboy. Conversation was often dominated by columnist Pete Axthelm (a notorious gambler, now deceased) and a sportswriter named Peter Bonventre. The bartender fawned over them; he ignored me. My buddy, Dave Friendly, and I were usually too stressed out writing what seemed impossibly difficult stories, to care. One day, noticing my name on a credit card, asked, thebored bartender asked where I was from. “Third Avenue and Carroll Street,” I said. “Near Monte’s Venetian Room.” He asked a few questions. I mentioned unmentionable names. From that moment on, whenever I walked in, he’d find a way to announce, “Vince is from the roughest neighborhood in the city I ain’t shitting!” Go figure.
The police lieutenant gave a signal and the unmarked car drove off. The patrol cars left. It was us—the mob—against the union. McIntosh and a couple of his thugs strode up to the gate. Hand in his pocket, he stared hard at the protest leader, said no doubt, something terrible. The man hesitated; his face crumbled; he backed off. The picket line collapsed as we roared through. I remember of all those men, only one, a borracho (“drunk”) had the courage to step forward and curse us in Spanish. His friends dragged him safety
There it was: Jewish factory owners hiring Italian gangsters, using Irish cops, to break the poor. The end of my affair with the mob.
Inside, our truck was offloaded by scabs driving forklifts. As we waited for the rest of them to come through, I sat down by myself on a pile of cardboard and tried to read. I couldn’t focus. When I looked up, McIntosh was standing in front of me. A book was a curious thing.
“Mustache!” he said after a moment, “you like this kind of work, right?” I had the oddest sensation that my answer mattered to him.
“Yeah. Thank you.”
He peeled off a wad of bills and handed them to me. I shoved the money into my pocket. When I checked, it was $200.
“See you tomorrow bright and early,” he chirped and walked away.
Next morning my mother, a fearless woman, walked down Carroll Street to Honey’s house.
“My Vinny is sick,” she said. “He ain’t working today.”
No comments:
Post a Comment