Blogroll
- Anthony Olszewski
- Anthony.Olszewski@gmail.com
- Author Page at Amazon
- Email this Page
- Hudson County Facts
- Intellectual Predator
- Jersey City Free Books
- Jersey City History
- New Jersey Mafia
- New York Metro Workout
- Posts tagged Big Boy at HudsonCountyFacts.com
- Second Thief, Best Thief – Kindle Edition
- Second Thief, Best Thief at Google Books
Categories
Tags
- Abraham Petz
- Bernie the Beat
- Big Boy
- Bo
- Bobby
- Cuz
- David Friedland
- Don Nagle
- Eddie Conte
- Flo
- Frank Meyer
- George K
- Grumpy Will
- Hal
- Jackson
- James Leightnin
- Jimmy Wolf
- Jungle Juice Willy
- Pudge
- Rambling Ray
- Sal Jr.
- Sal Sr.
- Stan
- The Friendly Stranger
- The Reprobate
- Tom
- Tommy
- Union Terminal Cold Storage
- Vinny
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.
-
Recent Posts
Recent Comments
- daphne on That’s how you play the game.
- N.Labruno on A week or so after the abduction and murder of Butch Cap, . . .
- Alex Riddick on Tommy’s comments on the reports of his death.
- Patrick McLaughlin on The father of “Crazy” Joe Gallo was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a fine Italian dinner.
- maria scariati on Life-long resident of Jersey City hired as Security
Popular posts:
- Martin Casella: Don’t you know who I am?
- Nietzsche as a boy – The Brian Jonestown…
- “Our Computers Don’t Make Mistakes.”
- An attempt to murder all five heads of the New York Families
- The father of “Crazy” Joe Gallo was in…
- Lost Indian Tribe Surfaces In Jersey City –…
- Rape, Murder and Kidnapping
- Aniello Dellacroce was a financial wizard
- When Workman shot “Dutch” Schultz in Newark
- The Malcontent
Archives
- April 2022
- October 2019
- October 2017
- December 2016
- July 2016
- June 2016
- April 2016
- March 2016
- January 2016
- December 2015
- November 2015
- September 2015
- August 2015
- July 2015
- June 2015
- May 2015
- March 2015
- December 2014
- November 2014
- October 2014
- July 2014
- June 2014
- May 2014
- April 2014
- March 2014
- February 2014
- January 2014
- December 2013
- November 2013
- August 2013
- June 2013
- May 2013
- February 2013
- January 2013
- December 2012
- November 2012
- August 2012
- July 2012
- May 2012
- April 2012
- July 2011
- June 2011
Meta
EDEN’S GATE by David Friedland
A week or so after the abduction and murder of Butch Cap, . . .
In 1977, a week or so after the abduction and murder of Butch Cap, Tommy — a dealer in rare powders — was back in his North Bergen cliffside location and I visited him there. Partly from his pack rat, curio-loving nature, partly from keeping up appearances for his front of a supposed antique dealer, and partly as a way to have a multitude of notches and niches to keep things away from the shuddering glare of in plain view, Tommy had the place chock-a-block filled with bric-a-brac, object bizarre and early Addams Family decor. This was now all in a huge pile on the floor, as if hit by the proverbial hurricane. Tommy explained that the storm had come in the form of the Hoboken Police “looking for pictures of Butch Cap.” Whether he was there at the time of the search (and to some degree destroy) mission and so knew this by sight and sound or if it was just a surmise, that I don’t know. Tommy made mention that he did indeed have incriminating photos of his now dead partner. As the individual in question was quite definitely and permanently ex post facto, what the point was to one and all, I don’t know.
The day after Butch was stabbed and then pulled from there, I went up to River Road in North Bergen. I didn’t know about the mayhem of the night before. There was a “burnt-out” (non-functional) traffic light on River Road that served as a landmark. Tommy’s place was at the top of the long stairs going up the hill. Two grey Great Dane puppies (from Hope’s dog) were in a cage outside the door, crying because they were hungry. Everything else was strangely still. I walked down to the street and bought some sliced roast beef at a place that was there. I carried the meat back up to the puppies and then left.
Tommy wasn’t one to let things worry him for very long. Early that September, he even closed up shop for a few days — something for him generally unknown — to go to the Grateful Dead concert in Englishtown. He remarked that while listening to the music, he thought that “Since Butch always was so paranoid, he must be grateful to be dead.” If Tommy was with us now, I’d tell him that Butch Cap had proved Freud correct: “The paranoid is never entirely mistaken.”
I don’t think that I ever met the accomplices in the abduction and murder of Butch Cap, but Michael I had already run across. I was friendly with Manuel (Rocky) of Union City and his buddy Sammy from Hoboken. I’d drive them to Michael’s house in the Heights on New York Ave. (there were concrete — around 2 ft — lions out by the steps) or to the auto body shop in Hoboken. Hudson County is the world’s biggest small town.
Rocky had recently done a little time (1 yr Fed?) and somehow blamed Butch Cap. There often was talk of revenge, which struck me as fanciful. Everyone was very leary of Butch. I thought that he must be like the Hulk or something. I didn’t know about the uncle the mayor. I also didn’t know that Butch was doing business with Michael — and bad business at that.
If I remember correctly, Michael was shot (in the eye?) before the trial. He was out on bail in FLA. (Family trip?). He survived that. In prison, his father — a serious individual — was arrested for trying to sneak Michael out in the trunk of his car.
A Michael Labruno in a NJ State prison wrote a friend of mine. She was in the local papers for running a charity. Presumably, he saw the name there. He wanted to be a pen pal. Twenty years later — almost to the day — the Jersey Journal reported that someone with the same name as the Organized Crime figure convicted of the murder had been arrested on Colgate Street in Jersey City for possession of cases of stolen perfume. I’m not certain if it was one and the same, but the probable release date and the age were consistent.
Crime at City Hall in Jersey City
In the mid-60s, a protohippy (as luck would have it, a first cousin to the UBERHIPPY), and two accomplices, went to City Hall in Jersey City during normal business hours. Once inside, they hid and waited until the dead of night. Then, they snuck out and made their way to a safe believed to contain fifty thousand dollars in cash. The protohippy drilled a number of holes in the thick metal door.
“Hank, hand me the big screwdriver. I’m ready to rip.”
When the safe cracker’s apprentice heard this, the thought of all the money sent him into a state of shock. He released his grip and the metal tools fell to the stone floor with a clang that echoed throughout the building.
Alerted to intruders, the night watchman called the police, who quickly arrived on the scene. The little band of burglars attempted to escape by jumping out a first-story window. The cops quickly caught them hiding in a car less than a block away.
During this same era, Tom Whelan, the Mayor of Jersey City piled up over a million dollars through a seemingly infinite series of kickbacks and shakedowns. It’s often repeated that crime does not pay. That’s only true for those working the night shift.
The Protohippy celebrates New Year’s Eve
One New Year’s Eve in the mid-’70s, a by now through-the-mill Protohippy (a first cousin to the Uberhippy, as luck would have it) and his brother faced a dilemma. They were stuck inside Mom’s Greenville apartment without the cash to buy heroin. The Protohippy decided to take action so as to be able to usher in the New Year in the proper manner for a confirmed substance abuser — zonked out on H.
The dreadful duo, Protohippy carrying a handgun, made their way around the corner to a local saloon. What they did not know was that the beat cop had commenced celebrations much earlier in the day and by now was stretched out on a cot in the bar’s back room. Hearing the Protohippy announce the holdup, the police officer tried to take his gun from the holster. In his drunken state, the cop pulled the trigger before drawing the weapon and wound up wounding himself in the leg.
The Protohippy and Bro’ exited and ran home to Mom’s.
What the would-be desperadoes had failed to notice was that it had snowed late that evening. With no one else out and about, impressions in the snow recorded one pair of footsteps from the apartment house to the bar, and another pair leading right back to the supposed maternal hideaway. The Jersey City Police, even without the assistance of bloodhounds or Sherlock Holmes, quickly arrested Protohippy and Bro’.
Subsequent investigation showed that the gun had been stolen from a doctor’s office during a burglary.
Armed robbery resulting in the injury to a police officer, illegal possession of a stolen weapon, suspects in the breaking and entry of a doctor’s office, . . . and — with the trail in the snow — first degree stupidity . . . Thinking of the charges that they had to be facing, I could only imagine the two coming out from behind prison walls many years later: Squinting from the unaccustomed exposure to sunlight, they’d be hunched over canes, long white beards reaching almost to the ground, like twin Rip Van Winkle’s emerging from slumber.
That’s not how it worked out.
The papers wrote up the story as the heroic cop who’d just happened to be in the bar to use the rest room. In the news accounts, the police officer tried to stop the criminals, but was gunned down by one of the vicious hoodlums.
In a plea bargain, the Protohippy confessed to shooting the cop and then received a lenient sentence. Released at the time of the court date with “time served,” Bro’ did even better.
The Kiss by David Friedland
The Kiss
They told me I would die.
I have died a thousand times,
often without crying , at times by will
as when I left behind,
the desiccated skin
I called my life .
I died the moment I was born
and willed myself into another form.
I died every time I hated,
every time I mated and left satiated
too full, yet forlorn.
Who was I before I was born?
When the next night births my dawn.
Shall I rock or water form?
Every moment, is the death of the last.
We are seeds of summer’s past,
birthing flowers as each sun’s Rose
grows and withers at last.
I live yet not one single cell
of yesterday remains
Nor do I remember the hell
of my first birth’s pains.
Every word I write will pass
star-lit moons, filling the abyss.
Who will say I died
when Life embraced Death and kissed.
David Friedland 8/ 2015