Walking through the courtyard at the 2012 Austin Psych Fest early Sunday afternoon, I noticed Anton Newcombe standing off to the right, near one of the vendor’s tables. Not wanting to intrude, I intended just to continue on my way. As I went by, Anton glanced at me as if he thought that he knew me from somewhere. Realizing that the Dead Skeletons’ t-shirt that I was wearing had precipitated the mistaken identification, I stopped, pointed to the mantra-ringed skull logo and said, “Product of Iceland!” Anton spoke for a few minutes, presenting a short lecture on Tibetan Buddhism before saying that he had to run. It was going to be an interesting show!
— — —
The Brian Jonestown Massacre filled the stage at Emo’s East with instruments and musicians – nine for most of the show, eleven with the sitar player and the guest second tambourine player. A small crowd of friends, family and members of other bands framed the back.

Seeing Anton’s energetic direction and the rest of the band’s relaxed response, it seemed as if the Our Gang Little Rascals were playing, but with Nietzsche as a boy taking the place of Spanky, the scamps’ leader. The lack of pretense and gimmicks also could have given the wrong impression of something rough-hewn or amateurish, but the perfection of the performance proved that successful art is only that much better when not peppered with stunts.

The Psych Fest’s preceding groups all played for just around sixty minutes each. The audience hoped that the Brian Jonestown Massacre, as it was the final act, might be onstage at least a little longer. Winding up playing for well over two hours, they certainly didn’t disappoint their fans.

Maybe halfway through, Anton announced that he had to pee and asked Joel to talk about his new record. Joel at first appeared not to understand the request and Anton then told him to keep the audience busy for a few minutes. Joel, classy guy that he is, resisted the temptation of self-promotion and instead lauded the event. When Anton popped back onstage, BJM returned to high gear.

As the two hour mark approached, someone from the club’s staff yelled for the band to go home since he had to sweep the floor. Philistine duly ignored, the musical magic kept going. An Emo’s manager entered stage left and spoke with a member of the band, probably asking how much longer the concert was to last. Satisfied with the answer, the Emo’s guy made his exit. After two hours was well past tensed, Mr. Emo’s returned, this time talking fast and gesturing in an agitated manner. (Was the venue now open past the legal closing time?) As if not noticing the Emo’s issues, Anton continued playing the guitar and began to direct his band: “Remember the chords? Keep that riff going!” He then stood directly over the drummer, pointing out to him what to do. Anton walked over to an amplifier and placed a guitar on top. He kneeled in front of the equipment and began to manipulate the dials. Like some sorcerer out of Lovecraft, Anton called up spirits from the air and compelled them to combine their voices into a chorus of banshee screams and howls. The lights went out. For maybe a minute, Anton continued to conduct his demon orchestra before standing up to leave, disembodied souls still calling after him in the dark.

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

It was dark and cold. People were there. Some sat curled up on the floor, heads between their knees and arms crossed over their heads. Some held onto rails or poles, sobbing uncontrollably. Here and there a man comforted a crying woman or child. Some people had lost their senses. These ran about screaming and tearing at their hair or clothing and even jumped overboard.

There were a few who remained calm. The Traveler tried to speak with them. With no sign of seeing or hearing him, they just kept walking.

The music of a band filled the air.

The Traveler looked down and saw that he was enveloped by a green glow.

Walking about, The Traveler found a great walrus sitting very still on the uppermost deck. The walrus gave off the same dim green glow.

The Traveler addressed the beast, “What are you doing?”

Without moving, the walrus replied, “I’m praying for these people.”

The ship began to tilt. People screamed. Horrendous sounds of heavy objects falling, breaking machinery, steam, and explosions.

A dark vortex began to spin around The Traveler, lifting him up.

The walrus did not move until water covered his back. Then, the beast calmly swam away. Some distance from the sinking ship, the great walrus arced and dove below the water.

Watching the walrus swim off, The Traveler thought, “The dark and the cold water doesn’t bother him at all.”

The Traveler rose up through the night sky with the scene below shrinking and finally disappearing.

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

• Martin Casella posts at HudsonCountyFacts.com
• Casella’s Restaurant in Hoboken – the quintessential mob headquarters, meeting place and hangout

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Some twenty years ago, I ran a tavern — The Tunnel Bar — just outside the Holland Tunnel on the Jersey City side. Murders and melees were not unknown. And as many of the customers were career criminals, visits from the police and even the Feds were fairly common.

One beautiful spring day, I actually almost relaxed. It was around 3PM. The place was empty. It was the first warm day, so I’d opened both doors — the Henderson Street side and the 15th Street side.

A small, nondescript car stopped on Henderson Street. I didn’t recognize the car or the lone occupant. He leaned over to peer into the doorway. This sort of thing happened all the time. People were either looking for someone who owed them money or they were looking for somebody to borrow money from. As there was nobody in the tavern, I was certain that the guy’d just drive away. He didn’t. He made a right and parked on 15th Street and then got out. It was a medium-height White guy looking out at the world through a pair of very dark sunglasses.

Because I couldn’t think of any good reason for someone to be looking for an empty tavern, every synapse instantly lit up from adrenaline. The guy had a funny sort of confident swagger, like I’d seen in groups of police, but he was all by himself. His hands were empty, no weapons. He walked in the door and then stopped, looking down the length of the bar. Using both hands, he took off the sunglasses.

It was Mick Jagger.

He just bought a beer and left. Presumably, traveling alone, he had looked for an empty place so as not to be hassled.

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

“George, It’s late. An’ whats for anyhow? Y’er tapped out.”

“Don’t worry, I gotta good connection ove’dere. He’ll front me.”

“Y’er payin’ f’r d’ gas an’ d’ tolls?”

“Y’spring an’ I’ll treat’cha.”

“OK.”

- – -

Coming out of the Holland Tunnel.

“Nah, nah, don’ take Canal. We’s headin’ uptown.”

“If we’s goin’ t’ Harlem, shouldn’t we took da Bridge?”

“Nah, we ain’t goin’ tha’ far uptown.”

- – -

Somewhere in the Thirties.

“OK. Next block make a left. At the corner, a left. Here, here, left again. Slow now. Stop. Keep the engine runnin’.”

The dark street was filled with stores, all now closed. Most seemed to sell used cash registers. For no apparent good reason, a man was standing in front of one of the locked doors. A gust of wind sent an empty paper coffee cup skidding along the sidewalk into his feet. George walked up to the man and said something. The man handed George a folded manila envelope. George reached into his pocket, produced a small handgun, and then fired one shot. As if the strings of a puppet were cut, the man collapsed.

Getting in the car, “Take the Lincoln Tunnel back.”

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Ah, but as Summer must invariably give way to Fall, as the golden tresses of the young lass must turn to white, all good things must come to an end! It seems that Jack MacGonigle, owner of the aforementioned tavern, and his silent partner, and also his brother-in-law, Ivan “Stash” Piskorskey, Hudson City Police Captain were the possessors of tremendous stamina. Captain Piskorskey, in addition to his duties as a peace officer, had a night job at a trucking terminal. He made a deal with the watchman to allow Jack MacGonigle to drive into the yard with a van. On a daily basis all three helped themselves to a varied assortment of freight: cameras, cans of crab meat, typewriters, Oriental rugs, and, as the official report later stated, “many other items of value.”

It’s been said that “the wheels of the gods grind extremely slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine.” If you’re caught stealing at some corner candy store, the owner will just give you the old heave-ho, an’ don’t let the door hit ya in the ass! Large businesses work differently. It takes a long time for anybody to realize that anything is amiss. Then there will be a host of claims to both the trucking outfit and to various insurance companies for the lost merchandise. When it is obvious to all that the dam has, in fact, sprung a leak, the FBI will be contacted. The Feds have their own circular set of maneuvers. They just don’t run out to the warehouse and drag some clown off to Newark. They wait. They watch. They take pictures. No arrests are made until the snare is around the whole little clique. When the FBI is sure that they know every part of the scheme, and that there will be convictions, the whole crew gets arrested at the same time.

So it was here. The FBI had an agent, using an assumed identity, of course, rent an apartment directly across the street from “MacGonigles.” The premises were kept under surveillance, both by agents and by motion picture cameras, twenty-four hours a day. Appropriate listening and recording devices were installed in the walls of the bar and on both the public and private phone lines. The Feds got the pictures that they expected – Jack MacGonigle and Captain Stash Piskorskey unloading cases of goods during the dead of night. The Washington Net also caught a lot of other fish, both big and small. The FBI got pictures of Jack Terrier, accompanied by a parade of judges and police going into the bar every night. The wiretaps heard a host of “arrangements” discussed over the telephone. And the murmuring sounds that accompany counting, usually of cash, “one hundred, two hundred, three hundred….” Recordings of judges counting. Recordings of police counting. Hours and hours of it, every day.

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Artie was much shorter. With a bright red modish mop of hair, his skin had the pasty white of short days and long nights in the bars. Artie’s voice was loud and he waved his hands around as he spoke.

- – -

Sal Jr. was tending bar. Margie, Stash, and Sis were watching some show on TV. Billy Jansen and Artie were there, too. As it seemed to be settling into a quiet night, Sal Jr. wasn’t surprised when Jansen and Artie left to see if things were any livelier in the Hoboken dives.

Just as Billy Jansen was starting up the pickup truck a Spanish kid crossed the street. Artie yelled out to him.

“Hey, comp’, anytin’ for the head?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got dimes of good gold.”

“Le’me see.”

Leaning on the vehicle’s door, the entrepreneur handed Artie a small manila envelope. Billy Jansen immediately floored the truck, leaving the dealer sprawled out on the asphalt. Dazed and bruised, he staggered to his feet. He then ran to the housing projects yelling that he’d been robbed at the bar at the corner of 15th and Henderson. A crowd quickly assembled. Armed with bats, knives and chains, they ran the couple of blocks to the saloon.

Sal Jr. had no idea of Jansen and Artie’s little action and the rubber band snap of a tumultuous building reaction. Expecting only a slow couple of hours until closing, Sal Jr. leaned against the back bar by the cash register, watching TV. Suddenly, a swarm of people filled the tavern, yelling in Spanish and waving all sorts of crude weapons.

Sal Jr. skipped over to the end of the bar. He took a Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol off of a small shelf hidden back of the paper bags. Holding the weapon close to his chest, Sal Jr. released the safety and pulled back the slide, placing a bullet in the chamber. After the soft, short melody of clicks, the crowd became silent. Sal Jr. put his finger gently on the trigger.

“WHAT THE F*** IS GOING ON HERE!”

Three people started yelling, “My cousin was robbed! My cousin was robbed here!”

“What’cha talkin’ about? Nobody but the regulars been in all night. Ain’t nobody been robbed here!”

A young guy who looked like he’d been in a tussle spoke up, “It was the two in the red pickup truck!”

“You sees that the red pickup truck is gone. They took off and ain’t got nothin’ to do with the joint, nohow. You got a problem wit’ dem? Then you go an’ find ‘em. Don’t be givin’ me no grief over somethin’ I got no business with.”

The somewhat spent and dispirited crowd turned and started to shuffle towards the door. Sal Jr. kept the gun in his hand, but now pointed it towards the floor. He kept his eyes on the people walking out. Suddenly, one spun around and frisbeed an empty pint of Thunderbird wine. The bottle hit Sal Jr. on the head, bouncing off his oft-creased thick skull. The assailant stood there smiling, like he’d just got a ball in a basket.

“OKAY! NOW I’M PISSED!”

Sal Jr. brought up his arm, aiming the gun into the crowd in the doorway. The bottle tosser’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. Sal Jr. flicked his wrist, pointing the gun at the ceiling, simultaneously pulling the trigger. With the sound of the shot, the entire crew started to clamber and jump over each other, falling out the door. Scampering up from the sidewalk, they ran off in different directions.

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net

Stan did so well that he bought a Cadillac, which was a mistake. Smelling money, a union delegate pressured Stan to start paying dues. Stan refused. Dropping a dime, the union delegate ratted Stan out to the IRS. To make up for past arrears, Uncle Sam drove off in the Cadillac. If you can’t make it there, then Jersey City is the place to be. Stan hopped on the PATH and soon found Union Terminal Cold Storage near the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel. A hard worker, a reliable worker, working both late nights and early mornings, Stan again soon had a nice little business going.

Between trucks, Stan became a regular in the Tunnel Bar, where he’d watch TV and chat, stretching out a Schenley and water. Stan became particular friends with Hal, a semi-retired enforcer for the loan sharks. Stan told Hal army stories. Hal had many interesting and curious tales of life behind bars. One Saturday was different. Stan showed up early and drank steadily. He had a dazed, distracted look. Late that afternoon, Stan asked the bartender, Sal, Jr, if he wanted to make a few extra dollars.

“Sal, I got a truck lined up but the guys at Union Terminal can’t take it until ten o’clock tonight. How’s about you doin’ it? It pays forty-five dollars and shouldn’t take but an hour.” Sal, Jr. knew something was not right. Stan never passed anything up.

“Nah, thanks Stan, but Saturday is my early day. I close up at seven. I’d have to wait around three hours. And anyhow, I’m lookin’ forward to goin’ home early and takin’ it easy.”

Later that evening, Stan ran into Skip, a local druggie and told him about the job all set up and waiting. As Skip was always looking to get high, Stan’s proposition seemed to be proof that God was looking down with compassion.

Skip ran over to Union Terminal. He sat on the loading dock behind the trailer, waiting for the night crew to arrive. Shortly after ten, the wooden doors of the warehouse slid open. Skip jumped up smiling.

“‘Ey, Jake. I’m workin’ this a here trailer!”

“I thought that was Stan’s?”

“Yeah, but he was up ‘roun’ the clock and jus’ needed to crash an’ so’s he handed it off to me.”

As Stan wasn’t there, Jake was satisfied with the explanation. He began to bring out pallets for the unloaded freight.

It was cases of ham, heavy cases. Forty-five dollars was just enough for PATH fare, a needle, a soda, a pack of cigarettes, and four bags of heroin. It was going to be a great Saturday night! Motivated and focused, Skip worked through the truck like it was an Olympic event.

Finished, Skip jumped off of the loading dock and ran up to the tractor. He stepped up onto the running board. The Rebel truckdriver, a heavy man with a beard slumbered behind the wheel. Skip tapped on the window. The man inside woke with a start.”

“Wuz you wan’?”

“Good evening Sir! Your truck’s all finished!”

“Where’s Stan at?”

“He couldn’t be here tonight. I did the job for him.”

“Yeah? Well thank ye kindly.”

And the driver went back to sleep.”

Skip again tapped on the window.

“Uh, did you want to check to see that it’s done?”

“Nah, I sees the weights off. I believe yuh.”

“Well, that’s forty-five dollars.”

“FOR WHAT!?”

“FOR UNLOADIN’ YER TRUCK, CRACKER!”

“YOUSE BETTER HAUL YER ASS OFF BEFORE I CLIMBS ON DOWN AND BEATS SOME SENSE INTO YUH!”

The warehouse night boss came running over.

“Guys, GUYS! You know the policy is for the shop not to get involved between the drivers and the helpers. But, I ain’t gonna let this trouble boil over. I saw this man pay Stan in advance.”

“You paid Stan?”

“Damned, right I did. Forty-five dollars. Said he was short on the rent. I was a little leery . . . but as he’s been good every week for goin’ on a year now . . .”

“My apologies. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

For the rest of the night, Skip prowled the streets and alleys around the Tunnel. It took hours, but in the end he found Stan. Skip severely beat him, breaking Stan’s arms and legs.

If Stan had called the Police, it was not very likely that theft by deception with a notorious street criminal as the victim would engender much sympathy.

Most people would immediately seek medical attention. Not Stan.

No one knows how he did it. No one knows if there was an accomplice or if Stan crawled there.

But, somehow or other, Stan got to the Grove Street PATH station, to the down elevator. When he slid off at the bottom, Stan began to shriek and to scream.

“IT BUCKED AN’ THREW ME!!! AAAAAAHHHHH!!! IT BUCKED AN’ THREW ME!!! OH, GOD SOMEONE HELP!!! IT BUCKED AN’ THREW ME!!!”

From the resulting law suit, Stan received a million dollars.

Anthony Olszewski
aolsz@bellatlantic.net