Second Thief, Best Thief

At one point in the ’60s, Hal, armed robber and free lance enforcer for La Cosa Nostra, lived in a relatively large apartment house in Bayonne. The residents were all White — as was the entire neighborhood. Everyone in the building was White, that is, until Hal’s African-American girlfriend moved in with him.

Then and there, people were not what one might describe as particularly broad-minded. Even so, under certain circumstances they might decide that every rule required an exception or two. With the Mob at the height of its street power, very few people would do anything to upset anyone connected even by the thinnest thread. And for any unconcerned with clouds still over the horizon, Hal at 6′ 4′, a formidable 250 lbs, and staring out at the world with the Devil’s own burning blue eyes, alone was reason enough to keep quiet concerning contrary opinions.

All except for a little old guy, the place’s superintendent. Every time Hal happened by, the character always seemed to be coughing or clearing his throat: “Uf, Uf, pieceofshit, Uf, Uf”, “Ur, Ur, Ar, asshole, Ur, Ar”, “Huw, Huw, lowlifeclown, Huw” and with many, many variations on the theme.

Hal ignored the snipe for a while. One day, Hal was putting the garbage in the basement and the super was there.

“Ahuh, Ahuh, scumbag, Ahuh, Ahuh”

Hal’s right arm shot out and grabbed the other much smaller man by his spindly throat. Hal lifted the guy up, keeping him at arm’s length. Looking right into the feeble fool’s terror-struck eyes, Hal simultaneously released the grip of the right hand and slapped with the left. The super went flying into the garbage cans, collapsing in a heap.

Hal started to go up the couple of flights of stairs. Hearing the sirens, he turned around and went outside and waited for the police to arrive.

A couple of police cars screeched to a halt out front. As the officers opened the doors of the vehicles, the super yelled from the basement window.

“THAT’S HIM! THAT’S THE ANIMAL THAT ATTACKED ME!”

Hal said nothing. The police placed him under arrest.

Later that same morning, Hal was led into court. The super scowled at him from the front row. Charges were read and the supposed victim was sworn in before testifying.

The super at first provided a factual account of the morning’s doings, leaving out his own provocative mumbling. The judge and the the others in the courtroom looked at the old man with expressions of shock and sympathy. They then turned their eyes to Hal, glaring at him with anger and contempt, and then looked back to the source of the story.

Instead of following sage advice of “go on till you come to the end: then stop”, the super so enjoyed being the center of attention that the he kept on talking.

“And after I hit the garbage cans, he put one foot on my throat and kicked me with the other. Then, he picked up a shovel and beat me on the head with it. And after that, . . .”

The judge and the rest listening to the tale now were looking at the old guy with expressions of disbelief. All heads then turned to Hal, nearly big enough to be two people, but seated and silent, as if in church and not appearing at all threatening.

“. . . he took a wrench and hit me on the knee. I tried to get away, …”

The judge interrupted, “When did all this happen?”

“About two hours ago, your Honor.”

The Judge looked at the huge defendant and then — sternly — at the thin and tiny complainant.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but if this was true, you’d be in the hospital for a VERY long time. If you ever waste the court’s time again trying to make trouble with your lies, I’LL make sure that YOU are in JAIL FOR A VERY LONG TIME! CASE DISMISSED!”

Standing, Hal allowed himself a slight smile.

Herby the Mailman lived across the street from the old City / County jail on Pavonia back of the courthouse. (My memory is that somehow or other the place had a Central Ave. address?) He had a couple of funny stories about that lockup.

1) I happened to be walking by the jail one very cold evening in the ’80s. There was a spot where the building indented, forming a somewhat half-hearted alley. There stood a very unhappy guard. The next day, I asked Herby the Mailman if he might shine any light on this curious detail. I knew that police officers who’d been on the losing side in an election were sometimes sent to walk a beat in cemeteries, supposedly protecting those beyond injury from insult. I wondered if the outdoor guard duty might be some similar punishment patrol.

“Nah, nah. The wife had me on the leash last week, so after supper, I’d sit in the front room with the lights off listenin’ to the radio and just stare out the window. I thinks I’m seein’ things, but there’s this coffee can gettin’ lowered down on a string. Some time later, a guy comes by and sticks somethin’ in the can which then starts on a return trip back up to the window. This goes on for a coupla days. Just the other night, the can goes up and the siren goes off. Since then, they’ve had the poor guy out there all night freezin his balls off.

2) Next to the jail was a boiler building that provided the heat in the winter. Even during the summer months a “fireman” (boiler operator) was on duty every night. As might be expected, there was not much to do during the warm months, so the boiler operator made like a Rip Van Winkle.

One horrendously hot and humid night back when air conditioning was considered a luxury, the prisoners — unable to sleep — were hooting and hollering. This noise interrupted the slumber of the boiler operator.

“HEY! Stop it with all the racket! I’m tryin’ to sleep.”

“IF WE CAN’T SLEEP, YOU AIN’T GONNA SLEEP EITHER!”

“Oh yeah? Well, since I’m up, I got a little somethin’ for you!”

And so on this 90 degree night, the fireman started up the boiler, heating up the radiators in the jail.

“PLEASE! PLEASE! TURN IT OFF! WE’LL BE QUIET!”

All the Ebola hoopla reminds me of back when communicable diseases were handled with like a no margin for error policy. That was long ago. For well over ten years now, Jersey City has had one of the highest rates of Tuberculosis — if not the highest — in the State. Does any paper or politician discuss this grave threat to public health? Nope. Nobody gives it a thought.

Things were way different in the late-’70s. If you got TB, you went to Pollack Hospital and you stayed there until they decided to let you go.

One of the regulars at the Tunnel Bar — let’s call ‘im Johnny Noir — got hauled off for Tuberculosis. Once his condition improved, Noir was let out one weekend, but was told to report back bright and early Monday AM. After two days and three nights of drinking, the impatient patient decided that he wasn’t going to return to the hospital.

Noir’d given the bar’s pay phone number as contact information. After Monday morning started to get some tread wear, the telephone began ringing with calls inquiring about the health-compromised individual. Each time Jimmy Taraski the then tavern owner answered the phone, Johnny Noir just waved a hand and shook his head, indicating a no-go for conversation.

Maybe, an hour later, a police car pulls up and an uniformed officer walks in the door of the Tunnel Bar. Proceeding no further, he says, “Is there a John Noir here?”

“That’s me?”

“How we gonna do this?”

“Whad’ya mean?”

“You’re goin’ back t’ Pollack. Is it gonna be with cuffs or without?”

Not even finishing his drink, Noir jumped up and hurried to the door. “I’m going! I’m going!”

Back in the early-‘80s, I had a Harley-Davidson Super Glide. Though the engine was the same 74 cu. in. as a police bike, lacking the racks and packs, the appearance was quite dissimilar. With shoulder-length hair and clad in worn jeans and a WWII era fatigue coat, the same could have been said of me.

One day I was riding the Harley south of the Square on Kennedy Boulevard, a few blocks before Montgomery. Waiting at a light in the left lane, I spotted Al, a regular at the Tunnel Bar who lived over by Christ Hospital, behind the wheel of a car to the right. As the light changed, with a black leather mittenned right hand, I gave him a wave. He glanced over at me and then drove up around fifteen feet and pulled over to the side. I was concerned that that Al might have intended to hand me numbers (illegal lottery) slips. Since running those across town on an attention-grabbing vehicle was not a formula for success, my first thought was to ignore him and just get going. It then popped into my head that he might need help and so I should at least stop and check. As I guided the motorcycle alongside the driver’s window, I looked down and saw that Al had his wallet open to a license. He was leafing through papers in the glove compartment, apparently in search of the registration and insurance documents. I rapped on the window. Al looked up very sheepishly.

“Listen and listen good, you fuckin’ drunk. I’m givin’ ya a break this time. Go home and sleep it off.”

“Thank you, officer.”