“Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison.”

— Henry David Thoreau

We should never confuse Profiles in Courage with The Art of the Deal — although neither was written by the supposed author. But, anyone who has lived in SoHo long enough knew about the developer who had a reputation as well as a mentor — in this case Roy Cohen. He kept a running tab known as a “favor bank.” He chalked up favors and kept a Column A and a Column B. There would always come a time when one of these favors done for someone would be called in. Like Don Corleone.

Take the swift “deal” trhat Adams struck. Well, it wasn’t presented as a deal although only a fool would not assume there would be a payment — or maybe just a realisation of the cost. Justice Main dropped his prosecution willy-nilly and there was a heart felt press conference in which the Mayor was forthright, thankful and direct. He professed his innocence and discussed his future. He will be running for re-election and emphasized his accomplishments.

As a Republican.

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A fun vignette from Gulag:

“Cuba, one of four guys with the same name in the dorm who’d had a gun license in Pennsylvania, but was caught up in a ‘Stop and Frisk’ police action in Harlem, was starting to get antsy and had a temper tantrum last night. I had asked him what the dress code was for a Legal Visit, since he was expecting one of his attorneys to visit.

“Regular shirt with a collar or T-shirt with a pocket, State greens, pants and sneakers,” he said, his head popping up from his bunk in his cube.

Just as Cuba said that, Mac called to me that it was regular dress and no State greens except for the pants. Martin, the CO who was on for the night called from the Bubble that he would check as well. In the midst of getting all of this input at once, he had ignored Cuba, who had been asked first. I didn’t realize this since I was just confused by several people talking to me at once, until I saw the apple pie on my bed. It was the apple pie that I’d given Cuba to share from the “Pie Sale” which was held a few times a year.

I looked around for Cuba and finally found him stationed in a toilet stall with his feet on the rim of the toilet, legs bent and resting against the wall with the stall door closed. It was the smoking “hideout.” Unless the CO was looking to bust people, no one knew there was a smoker there. In fact, it was like playing hide and seek with a 5 year old who puts his hands over his eyes so that you can’t see him.

“Cuba?” I said, when he found him. “What’s the pie doing on my bed?”

He looked at me and grinned and shook his head, looking like George C. Tilyou grinning on the Steeplechase of the 1950’s in Coney Island. All teeth, bizarrely grinning, head shaking like a psychotic game show host.

“You pissed off or something?”

He shook his head again, up and down and then side to side, sitting with feet up on the toilet, toking on the cigarette.

“You asked me about dressing for your visit,” he said, still grinning and shaking his head, like he couldn’t get it out of  his mouth “and then you ignored me.”

I thought I was dealing with a 5 year old who was hiding his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation in a toilet with a guy that had a gun charge and was doing 7 years. A Muslim who was a prison survivor. 

Someone whose legs were registered weapons.

“I’m sorry,” I  said, stunned by this. “I was trying to listen to three different people talking to me at the same time. I’m really sorry.”

Here was an example of real danger in prison depending upon how it was handled.

“Listen,” I said again, “I really am sorry. Please accept my apology.”

I thought it was now getting ridiculous. Who goes around apologizing profusely for a feigned hurt, especially, to a 6’4″ Muslim who was a trained recon marine, in prison? 

And, yet, here I was in a toilet, holding a piece of pie.

“Take this pie,” I almost said. But instead, said, “I’ll just put this back on your  locker. Sorry, it was my mistake.”

I left the bathroom feeling like I’d just been involved in a lovers quarrel. When what he really felt like saying to him was, “Are you fucking kidding me? I give you a pie, hand you all kinds of treats for your advice which is often wrong or totally useless, and you pull a fucking childish stunt like this? You can take this pie and shove it up your ass.”

But, of course, that would actually have been suicidal. I could have been killed for saying something like that.

I simply went back to my cube and had a slice of lemon meringue pie and started a new Sudoku puzzle.

Cuba was definitely going through something. His family had not been getting his mail. The Imam called for him several times because for 5 years he’d participated in Ramadan and this year he wasn’t. And, he was moving to the Honor Dorm. Was he unraveling? He was now in year five of his seven year bid for having an unlicensed gun in Manhattan that he’d had locked in his glove compartment. And, a Manhattan A.D.A. needed a conviction on a charge that should have been probation, had it not happened in Harlem, up against a white prosecutor.

I left for the Gym at 8:15 and marveled at the 80 degree temperature. From minus 29 degrees four months ago, it was now HOT.

As soon as I got to the Gym, Al was standing by the door. He was a porter. His 5’7″ rotund, 62 year old look was unmistakable.

“Hey Al,” he smiled when he saw me, “Fuhgeddaboudit.”

He smiled and said, “Bada-Bing is in the weight room.” I looked over and saw Mark, a/k/a City, smiling at them both.

After doing my exercises in the weight room I came out and sat with Al for a few minutes. We sat together on the bleachers and made small talk. Although he was a porter in the Gym, exercise was anathema to him.

“Yeah,” said Al. “Dis is fuggin’ stupid.” 

“I know, but what was your fire going to accomplish?”

“Imagine,” he said, “2 ta 4 for attemptid aason, whaddya kiddin’ me?”

“I know, man.”

I started my sets of 50 pushups as Al just sat on the bleachers shaking his head.

“I mean, what the fuck is ATTEMPTID ahson?” he said. “If I wuz gonna’ fuckin’ burn down a bildin’ I wouldna’ used a pint can a pain’ thinna.’ I’d get a 5 gallon can a gasoline to do it. Da dey think I’m stoopid?” 

I didn’t respond. Then he laughed, thinking of the scene in Goodfellas. 

“So, why’d they give you 2 to 4?”

“Ah,” he said, waving his arm like he was swatting a fly away. “I know I had 3 pria bids. Includin’ settin’ fire to dat car wid someone sleepin’ in it. An’ it was near this bildin’ so, y’know dey had me. I coulda’ gone ta trial but then it coulda’ been 7 years. An’ I din’ wanna do 7. I’m 62 so’s I said, okay, I’ll take da 2 ta 4.”

“Whatever,” I said, “so you going back to what you were doing when you get out?”

“Nah, I was wid the Teamsta’s. Drove a truck for ’em for 22 years.  I knew alla da guys.”

“Who?” I said.

“I knew that whole crew. Y’know Henry Hill, Jimmy the Gent, Tommy Gambino, the Lucheses. I knew ’em all. That guy DeNiro, man, he really had Jimmy Burke down perfect inna movie.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “And, Tommy was a good guy. He did 8 years. They tol’ him, ‘you give up your truckin’ business and we’ll cut ya a deal’ so’s he sol’ his business to his fren’ and did the time. Still makes his money tho’.”

“Friend of mine took me for a walk through Little Italy one time. He knew everybody too.”

“Same as Gravano, y’know the guy dat ratted out Gotti? He says, ‘I could walk through Little Italy any time I want and nobody’s gonna’ fuck wid me’ and he did. So’s he goes into Witness Pratection and got caught sellin’ drugs — after gettin’ off for NINETEEN murdas — he gets 20 years.”

“He still in Prison?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “But, nobody was’s crazy as Joe Gallo.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You know why dey called ‘im ‘Crazy Joe Gallo’ don’t  you?”

“No,” I said. “I only knew he was part of Murder Incorporated in the 50’s.”

He laughed, “Joey used to walk through Little Italy with a lion on a leash. That’s why they called him ‘Crazy Joe.'”

“No shit?”

Bada-Bing walked over as we were talking, taking a break from the weight room.

“Hey,” Al said to Mark, “did you know why they called Joey, ‘Crazy Joe?'”

Mark looked at him and said, “No.” He looked confused. 

“Whateva,” said Al.

“So, Al, did they ever find Hoffa?” I laughed. It was now like the Judge Crater joke. Hoffa was now in that category.

“Who knows where they put him. Some say he was boiled in acid; some say he was buried under the Meadowlands. Whoever did it ain’t sayin’.  That’s fa sure.”

“I’ll bet,” I said.

“Whole thing’s changed. There’s no more Omerta.” 

“Yeah,” he said, “dese guys here’d rat out anybody. I know a guy who just ratted out his father. Father was 90 years old and he ratted him out. Nice, huh?”

“Shit,” I said. “What was it for?”

“Murder.” He shook his head. “Thanks, sonny.”

“Ponte had a problem too, downtown,” I said. 

“Did he?” said Al.

“The Feds took over his garbage trucks. But, he had a shitload of properties in lower Manhattan. All those two-story buildings at the foot of Canal Street. You know what that area’s called now, don’t you?”

“No,”

“Ever hear of Tribeca?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Al. “That was where DeNiro’s film festival was. Right?”

“Not only that, but he’s got a couple of restaurants and buildings near where Ponte’s restaurant is on Laight street, I think it is. It’s where a lot of wiseguys used to hang out late at night and eat and drink and bring their girlfriends. 

From what I hear it was like Goodfellas. In those days, it was right by the West Side Highway, before things got chi-chi and real estate went through the roof.”

“Fuggin’ shame, ain’t it?” he said.

“They had a good time,” I said. “Can’t you picture them all sitting around until 4 or 5 in the morning, ‘Hey, you take care a dat t’ing?’ and ‘You got ya whooa wid you, or you gonna go home?'”

“Yeah,” said Al, “Tommy Gambino usta take us out once inna while. Strip show or jes drinks. He was a good guy.”

“Yeah,” I said, “when I was a kid, they’d all hang together in front of the building where I lived in Brooklyn. All dressed in shirts, ties and suits, just bullshitting with each other, doing business. Then they all moved to Staten Island.”

“Which bridge?”

“Verrazano. You know, the entire community was dug up and a roadway was dug for access to the new bridge. All of the politicians made fortunes on the land in Staten Island because they knew where the bridge roadway was going to land. That was before Travolta and the Bee Gees discovered Bay Ridge. It was real wiseguy turf then. Anastasia and his rubout in the barber’s chair, the Senate Rackets hearings, murders on the waterfront…”

“Yeah, tings was better then,” said Al, wistfully.

Copyright 2024 Gulag