Perhaps the strangest experience in the Tunnel Diner was late one night (extremely early one morning?) A group of four JCPD arrived and went to the counter. One I knew and he sat next to me. They began to chat. “Have you seen (a woman’s name) lately? “I wish.” “Did you hear about me and (another JCPD)?” “No.” “We spotted (a woman’s name) in a taxi at Journal Square. We pulled the cab over and put her in the patrol car. The cab driver said ‘What is going on here?’ ‘Special investigation.”
I’m wondering to myself what to do when I get hauled in front a Grand Jury concerning the abduction of a prostitute. Memory goes blank from getting kicked in the head? Poor hearing from fireworks when I was a pre-teen?
James Leightnin had a story about aimlessly shuffling through the streets of the Lower East Side very early one cold morning.
“HEY! YOU!”
James to some little degree came out of his hang over fog. Only then did he see the row of Harleys. He’d happened on the NYC Hq of a heavy duty Outlaw Motorcycle Gang — und das is Verboten.
“WHADYA DOIN’ HERE?”
“I . . . I . . . I’m headed to the moonasippi (ed. note: This was James’s rendition of “municipal.”) center to get something to eat.”
“You look lousy. WAIT HERE!” The biker then turned and went into the tenement.
James was scared. He thought about trying to escape, but doubting that he’d get very far, instead, stayed shaking, rooted to the spot.
The biker returned, alone, carrying a paper bag.
“HERE!”
“Thank you, Sir.”
James moved away as quickly as he could, but that wasn’t much better than a slow walk. James didn’t look to see what was in the bag until he got around the corner. It was a fifth of Johnny Walker Red.
The Tunnel Bar, the corner of 15th and Henderson in Jersey City
Who remembers the two people who back in the late-’80s were outside around Central and Manhattan no matter how cold it got?
One was Petey. He slept on a bench in Pershing Field. It seemed impossible to see him there night after frigid night. He was a relatively young guy. Does anyone know his story?
The other was Marty who stood across the street from the Stop and Shop. Originally from Downtown, my father had known him for a long time. Marty was a scrawny little character. Most will probably be surprised to learn that he’d done hard time for a brutal assault on a Jersey City Police Officer.
Marty worked for a while at Hudson Refrigeration. There, he actually spit in a boss’s eye. Even in an age of a powerful Teamsters Union, Marty was out of a job. After that, he had a pickup truck that he used for cleanout / scrap work. I don’t know when or why that went sour.
Marty also was a customer at the Tunnel Bar — briefly. Strange to say, unless everyone else was sweating, Marty always complained about the tavern being too cold.
One summer evening, the temperature was in the ’70s. I was enjoying the at long last pleasant breeze. Marty got up out of his chair and closed the door.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cold.”
“You can’t close the door. It’s nice out.”
I went over and opened the door and then returned to behind the bar. A heavy shot glass whizzed just past my head.
I looked in the direction from where the makedo projectile had come. Marty yelled, “YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”
I went around the bar and over to Marty. “Get out.”
“The hell I . . .”
I was over 200 lbs then. Marty was maybe 135. I grabbed both his wrists and spun him off the chair and towards the door. A boot to the backside sent him to the sidewalk. Marty jumped up and towards the doorway. I slammed the door shut before he got back in.
Well, Marty did get his wish. The door was closed.
There was at least one other person involved in the attack on the JCPD. My memory is uncertain, but I think there were more. The one that I remember for sure, I was told, sustained severe injuries apparently just before being taken into custody. I don’t know how Marty fared.
Back before the ’70s, illegal gambling arrests in Hudson County rarely resulted in incarceration. With Judge Lerner’s arrival on Newark Avenue, that all changed quite abruptly. One courtroom observer related nearly falling on the floor one day when Lerner told an octogenarian “You need a shock!” before sending the old guy off to jail.
The wife half of a husband and wife bookie team put out of business tried a novel tactic to avoid winding up behind bars in this new era of interesting times . She checked into the Psych. ward of St. Francis Hospital with various vague symptoms. Nurses told of the Mrs. lounging about the floor attired in fine gowns and robes. She was conversing one day with another quite obviously pregnant patient and asked what the father did for a living.
“Are you a Christian?”
“Yeah?”
“you know about Mary?”
“Yeah?”
“Well that’s how it was with me.”
Mrs. 5$-Straight suddenly decided that the County lockup didn’t seem all that bad after all. Saying that all mental clouds had lifted, she made a speedy exit from the mental illness experience.
# # #
In those pre-HIPAA days, it was common for the nurses to tell one and all of goings on in the hospital. Upon hearing of a famous Rock musician visiting his father in the Psych Ward, I — as nephew of a LCN Associate — had to say that this should not be talked about. The reply was “Why not?”
Insurance in those days only paid for hospitalization for a single disorder that hadn’t been discussed in my Psychology 101. (Something Reactive?) As luck would have it, each and every patient was admitted as diagnosed as being in that category.
Back in the ’80s two gung-ho cops started snagging junkies as they rode back to NJ through the Holland Tunnel after Lower East Side re-up jaunts. It’s not like it was hard to spot the returning shoppers: five people stuffed into a decrepit little car (with not a cent to spare, gas guzzlers never were used), attired in salvaged clothes, and often one or more already on the nod. (Why travel in a sure to garner attention little flock? Economy yet again ruled. The owner of the car made a few dollars by the rest kicking in for gas and tolls, which cost less than the individual train and subway fares.) As the police had their quarry pull over at the corner of 15th and Henderson — just across the street from the Tunnel Bar — tavern patrons enjoyed many hours of true crime diversion. The travelers were ordered spread-eagled to the sidewalk and there nearly strip searched and the vehicle ransacked. (I never saw any of the arrest reports, but I presume that the paperwork would show that I’d hallucinated and the contraband actually was immediately and clearly in plain view on the dashboard or the seat of the vehicle.) If the sifting operation failed to find anything, the rag tag crew might literally get a shoe to the backside and told to get moving.
One of these little dramas was underway one bright and sunny day. Something unusual was a hobo sitting on the step outside of the bar. As the homeless generally avoided police scrutiny, this struck me as strange. I even thought to myself, “Does he want to be next?” This intercept was a ball four for the cops. Some hours later, I again happened to be standing by the open door. The car that had been previously detained returned and stopped. The driver and a passenger jumped out and ran over to the empty yard next door where the bar’s garbage cans stood. A furious rummaging around ensued that lasted for only a few minutes. Empty handed and visibly frustrated, they hopped back into the car and left. I guess that the tramp had seen or sensed the hidden treasure and in a quiet moment proceeded to make it his own.
I remember another car that was (at first) missed by the vigilant JCPD duo. It was parked a block away on Provost St. A few minutes later, a door opened and someone fell out onto the asphalt. Then, another person jumped out of the car and ran to the Merit gas station and made an emergency call from one of the phone booths. The police car and an ambulance soon arrived. A search failed to turn up anything. Those still in the car were questioned and by their gestures seemed to be vehemently denying all knowledge of heroin purchases or use. After the ambulance left with the one who’d ODed, the rest were allowed to leave. It seems impossible to believe, but nearly exactly twenty-four hours later the very same car parked in the very same spot on Provost St. As luck would have it, after only a few minutes, the patrol car was headed up Henderson St before it lurched to a sudden halt. There was a brief pause of seeming hesitation (maybe the officers at first couldn’t believe their own eyes, thinking the sight some sort of imagined deja vu?) before the police turned and quickly floored off in pursuit. Their car screeched to a stop, blocking any escape for the foolish. This time drug possession was obvious; arrests quickly followed.
For ten years in Jersey City PG (PreGentrification), I ran a dive tavern — the Tunnel Bar — just outside the Holland Tunnel. One of the regulars was a former armed robber that we shall here call Hal who had been friends with Mob hit man “Kayo” Konigsberg. Hal had done time in a range of NJ penal institutions, including the Trenton and Rahway prisons. One of his interesting observations on life behind bars concerned the TV viewing preferences of the inmates. If anyone had asked me, I’d have thought that those inside looking out would have wanted to watch dancing girls and crime dramas. Hal reported that the actual far and away favorites were cooking shows — with the Galloping Gourmet ahead by a length.
Over the last few years, with an entire channel dedicated to all manner of skillet jockeys, I’ve thought of William S. Burroughs’s prediction of Control seeping into the pores of the culture. This would mean that there’s now no difference in kind between those incarcerated and those not. Through a Guantanamo Bay of the mind, it’s not society and overseas military bases, prisons, and mental hospitals, but a society of overseas military bases, prisons, and mental hospitals.
And, as A.J., last of the big time spenders, might have said, bon appetit!
One summer early evening, someone I’d never seen before walked through the door on the Henderson Street side into the Tunnel Bar. The regulars were laborers, truck drivers, area residents and street people of one sort or another. The rule proving exceptions — with the saloon just a block from the Jersey City side of the Holland Tunnel — could be anybody else. The newcomer was a piece that definitely came from a different jigsaw puzzle.
He was young, tall, thin, and very clean cut. His light brown hair was short, but not so much so to appear military or some other manner of institutional. He was wearing a suit, fairly new, but not expensive, without a tie. He was White and very much so — extremely pale tending to the albino. Besides genes, his skin also seemed never to have been exposed to sunshine. His features were fine, apparently not having had the experience of a fist fight or some other rough and tumble.
And this unknown quantity was mad. The look on his face of extreme displeasure made me concerned that some problem was about to arrive.
Then Jules — one of the wino crew who lived under the 16th Street and Henderson railroad bridge with the rest of the bompies — came in too. Jules looked very sheepish. Did Jules do something to annoy the man and now was looking for my help?
Jules took the lead and walked the 15 feet or so to the bar’s takeout order spot with the man following a few steps behind. Jules ordered.
“Six quarts of Thunderbird.”
A single quart of Thunderbird was an unusual purchase. Pints were much more common, paid for in change often a few pennies short. I was about to ask Jules if he had enough money. The man with him seemed to anticipate my question.
“Give it to him!”
Jules again to me. “And a quart of Fleischmann’s. A case of Budweiser.”
With the man vouching for the purchase, I now had no reason to be worried, as far as money was concerned. I began to assemble the order.
Jules now to his new friend. “Would it be OK if I got a pint of Fleischmann’s for myself?”
Annoyed. “A pint of Fleischmann’s for yourself?”
Jules went from sheepish to something approaching a cringe. I looked at the financial backer of this street soiree.
“Give it to him!”
When told the total, the man took out his wallet and without hesitation counted out bills to pay.
I packed most of the bottles into a box and handed Jules the pint of whiskey. The duo picked up the packages. They went out the door to Henderson Street and made a left in the direction of the railroad bridge.
The next day, when Jules came to the bar for his more usual pint of wine, I asked him, “Who was that guy last night?”
“He’s an undertaker.”
“Is he a relative of yours?” I thought that perhaps a nephew would pay for a party and still not be happy about it.
“Naw. He’s a queer. He buys us booze and then sucks us all off.
# # #
I was told that Jules was a machinist and had brothers who owned a shop. Jules could work there whenever he wanted, but preferred not to.
Once someone makes the existential choice of substance abuse, next is the practical matter of financing this new lifestyle. Since in Jersey City PG (Pre-Gentrification) rock stars and heiresses were few and far between, adventurous locals had to rely on their own ingenuity.
One imaginative fellow somehow got hold of an expensive looking suit and a late model Cadillac. He then proceeded to a Journal Square jewelry store and made certain that the clerk saw the car parked nearby. After being shown a diamond ring, the director and star of this little drama simply grabbed the pricey item and ran out the door, leaving the car behind as a puzzle for the police. Wending his way to the North Bergen cliff-side home of a dealer in rare powders — one known as T — he exchanged the glittering stone and its gold band for $225 worth of cocaine.
T — always wanting to impress the ladies with his prowess (intellectual or otherwise) — related to a female companion that he’d very quickly sold the ring for thousands of dollars. As luck would have it, the pretty Miss also knew the original acquirer and told him the tale. A feud ensued, Hudson County’s own little ring saga of the gutters, that ended with both T’s and the thief’s arrest.
I, Claudius was very popular in the Tunnel Bar. One evening a little crowd of regulars were watching as Claudius was summoned before Caligula. Next thing on the screen is the walk on the wild side emperor doing the shimmy-shimmy, shakey-shake.
As luck would have it, just then in walks a somewhat tipsy Hal who at first finds the performance quite captivating, murmuring, “What’s this? VCR?”
“Nah,” I says, “jus’ TV.”
“IT’S A FAG!,” Hal screams. “IT’S A QUEER! WHADY’A WATCHIN’ THIS FOR?”
“Hey! This is Channel 13,” was my reply.
Incensed, Hal began to stride back and forth, slamming his fist down into the air. “CHANNEL 13! KIDS COULD BE WATCHIN’!”
To this day, I find quite touching Hal’s concern for the public morals — of juveniles in particular.
My father had many stories about taking numbers — the illegal lottery — during the ’50s and ’60s down by the corner of 4th and Grove in Jersey City. (The Green Door tavern, Jean’s Luncheonette, Lou’s Barber Shop, the fruit and vegetable store — even the corner itself — all are long gone.)
One of the tales concerned sitting on milk crates on the sidewalk along with some other guys from the neighborhood, While my father was writing out a betting slip, a new car came to a sudden halt in the street in front. A well-dressed, husky young man got out and ran over to the group yelling “WHAT’S GOING ON HERE!”
Quickly standing up — and simultaneously flinging the pencil and paper off to the side — my father asked “Whad’ya mean?” He was puzzled for the visitor was not Jersey City Police — those all were one way or another well-known. Was he a Prosecutor? State? A Fed?
The stranger put his hand in his pocket, Everyone expected some sort of badge to emerge, No, in the wallet was just a driver’s license.
“I’m Harold Delmore of the Delmore Milk Company. Those are our crates that you’re using for benches. I want them back.”
As Mr, Delmore put his hand on one of the then wooden boxes, my father said “Hey! There’s a deposit on these! You gotta pay that first before you goes takin’ anytin’.
“Now confused, “I . . . uh . . . don’t have any money with me.”
“So? You came here lookin’ to cheat us out of the deposit? Get goin’ before I call a cop!”
Harold Delmore ran back to his car and never came back.
Vinny Buchelle spoke of an amusing incident that occurred when he was working (as an inmate) in the morgue at the Trenton State Hospital for the Criminally insane. On one particularly busy day, they ran out of slabs. Another inmate/worker asked the boss what they should do.
“Throw ‘im on the floor. Whadya think? We’re gonna send ‘im back?”
My father was a numbers (illegal lottery) bookie in Downtown Jersey City from the ’50s through the ’80s. Back when he ran his operation out of a candy store on Fourth and Grove (back when there was a Fourth and Grove), a new customer — who we shall call Jake — started betting a significant amount every day.
After placing his now routine daily numbers, Jake had a query “Tony, do you take baseball action?”
Back then bookies were specialists; numbers guys didn’t take sports bets; sports guys didn’t take track (horse) bets. My father was about to say, no, but instead nodded in the affirmative.
“OK here’s fifty for the Whirlybirds on Saturday.”
After Jake left someone who hung out in the candy store — George — had a question. “You’re takin’ sports now, Tony?”
“Nah, I jus’ didn’ wan’ ta chase a spender. I’m gonna run aroun’ the corner and han’ it over to Sal.”
“Yah, know, there’s somethin’ uncanny abou’ tha’ Jake. Whadevah team he bets on always loses.”
A little later while walking over to the neighborhood sports bookie, my father thought about what George had said. “Sal, the Whirlybirds are playin’ this Saturday?”
“Yeah. Gainsda Pitchforks.”
“OK. Here’s fifty on the Pitchforks.”
For that entire season, every time that Jake placed a bet on a team, my father instead put it on the opposition. He wound up having to pay out only once or twice.
Second Thief, Best Thief – An Old Jersey City Saying
The Jersey City Waterfront once was covered with warehouses and piers. Adjacent to these were miles of railroad yards dotted with innumerable sheds and small buildings for use as storage and as workshops for mechanics, machinists, and welders.
During the depression, children from impoverished families would climb onto the roofs of the outlying structures, both to hide and to gain a view of the surrounding area. From up there, they'd watch for workers stealing from the docks, the trains, or the warehouses. The initial crooks would sneak off into the weeds to hide the swag with the idea of retrieving it at the end of the shift. Seeing opportunity made available, the kids would wait a bit for the situation to cool. Then, they'd climb down, grab the goods, and make a getaway through the vacant lots.
Practitioners coined the saying "second thief, best thief" to describe this method of survival.
