Boston Bombing Security Failure at Marathon

Where were the Police at the Finish Line of the Boston Marathon?

By Bill Honer

As I look at the videos of the finish line prior to the explosions and observe the two attackers moving with their deadly cargo, a fair question is “where were the police?”.

The finish line was likely the most congested area of the entire marathon. Their absence appears glaring, yet the media is not commenting on this. The failure of the police to observe and question two individuals carrying suspicious backpacks while walking along and seemingly paying no attention to the runners must be subjected to a thorough review.

A major breakdown in police security occurred. Had the attack taken place in a more remote area of the marathon, it would be easier to overlook this; after all, the police cannot be everywhere. However, the bombing transpired at the most congested location. An independent review needs to be conducted to identify deficiencies within the Boston Police Department and to strengthen security for future events.

Unfortunately, there are reasons why such an independent review may not be conducted. More than one hundred fifty persons were injured and lawsuits against the City of Boston are likely being prepared for filing at this moment. Another factor is the sensitivity of the police towards public criticism or negative articles in the media. While all government agencies dread such public exposure of their shortcomings, none is more resistant to such public scrutiny than the police.

This was not a case of technological error. The police simply needed “feet on the street” at a vulnerable location. A failure of this magnitude, if widely publicized, could reduce public confidence in a major institution and lead to demands for significant improvements. Given the desire of the corporate media to protect the fabric of critical institutions in American society, this debacle will likely receive less than the full attention it deserves. .

What happened? Did the security design require police officers to be present in the area where the bombs were deposited? If so, were they away having coffee? Whether the result of a poor design or a lapse in judgment by specific officers to leave their post, the police were simply not where they needed to be.

At the moment, there is a great deal of self-congratulation among law enforcement for a job well done in the investigation of tracking down the perpetrators. Given the swift progress made, along with the achievement of capturing one suspect alive, the officers involved have every right to take pride in their performance. However, more effective performance by the police in securing the marathon would have eliminated the need for not only the investigation, but for the loss of life and injuries sustained by so many.

Readers may wish to review the videos and look for the police presence, or tragically in this case, its absence.

billhoner35@aol.com

Why Mass Murder is More Likely in America

 

  Why Mass Murder is More Likely in America than in other Advanced Nations    

                                                          By Bill Honer

 

After reading part of the first paragraph, one might assume that I am a supporter of the NRA. Such is not the case. The prevalence of guns within a country does not always a result in high homicide rates. Guns are widespread in Switzerland and Israel, yet these nations have low homicide rates. Gun-control is needed more in America due to the social distance between Americans that renders it easier for its citizens to kill one another. The fundamental problem is therefore not guns, but rather the very cultural soul of the United States, with its emphasis on individualism that separates Americans from one another, rather than bringing them closer together as a society.

 

The latest mass murder in Connecticut left me, as it did most, deeply moved and saddened. The ages of the children rendered this violence especially tragic and poignant. Sociological studies, conducted by Geert Hofstede and others, revealed that no nation the world has a greater shared sensibility of individualism than America. This deeply held value that each individual is responsible for himself rather than a shared responsibility within society is implicitly a national rejection of a sense of community. It is currently reflected in the saying of some Americans “why should I pay for someone else’s health care?”

Statistics compiled by the United Nations office of drugs and crime revealed that the homicide rate for the United States (4.2 per 100,000) was four times greater than other advanced nations of Europe (Sweden 1.0, England 1.2, Norway 0.6, Italy 0.9, Spain 0.8, Germany 0.8, and France 1.1.) Given the higher incidence of homicides, the United States has its work cut out for it to join the other nations of high human development in achieving a lower homicide rate.

 

Strict gun-control is therefore essential simply because it is too easy for Americans to kill each other. There are 12,000 dead Americans in the last year to support this argument.

However, greater efforts have to be made to help the United States become a nation

of shared dreams and aspirations. This will not be an easy task. The spirit of 19^th-century rugged individualism runs deeply through the core of American society. The welfare Reform Act of 1995 that resulted in millions of children being thrown into greater poverty was called The Personal Responsibility act. In effect, the message that was sent was, “don’t tell us you can’t get a job, don’t tell us you have no one to take care of your kids, don’t tell us that the job you found does not pay enough to support your family, do something about it yourself. Don’t expect society to help you.”

 

If America is to achieve homicide rates commensurate with other advanced nations, social distance between Americans must decrease. Asians, African-Americans and Latinos are more open to having government play a role in their lives than are the majority of Whites, according to a PEW research study. Given the decline of the percentage of Whites in the total population of the United States, there is hope for

common dreams in the future, but how long will it take to achieve them?

(Bill Honer is an Author and Social Activist)

 

True Stories from from a World Traveler Bill Honer: A Trip on the Peruvian Amazon Copyright BillHoner2010

1979: I meet Sinners and Saints in Lima, Take a Boat Ride on the Amazon, and encounter a Crocodile

The flight from Mexico City to Lima proved to be quite illuminating. Another passenger shared an underground travel guidebook for South America; It painted a picture of a far more predatory landscape than the one described by the conventional guidebooks I had been reading. One section read:

“Hepatitis is a serious health risk, given the poor standards of hygiene in most South American countries. Many travelers go to Quito to recuperate. Gamma globulin can help somewhat, though it does not guarantee protection from the disease.”

The book proceeded to discuss personal safety:

“Pickpockets are especially prevalent at bus stations and crowded squares.   Armed robberies occur both in the cities and the more remote areas as well. Be careful with your possessions.”

I decided not to keep more than thirty dollars in cash when walking around town. The travelers’ checks were safe enough, but I would need to be vigilant to avoid being a crime victims.

After clearing immigration in Lima, I began looking around for someone who might be running a guesthouse. A woman saw me and offered a room. Her home was located in Miraflores, one of Lima’s nicer areas. It offered access to transportation and decent restaurants. The poorer the country, the better class restaurant I chose for dining, viewing the additional cost as health insurance. This approach often resulted in paying the same price one would pay for a meal at a medium-priced restaurant at home. I had taken only one carry-on bag, thus eliminating long waits for baggage claim.

As I waited for my new hostess, I noticed an older Germanic-looking woman pass by. Her features were rather severe. I could not help wonder what she had been doing in 1943; South America was a haven for many German war criminals.

The house was very comfortable; it overlooked a rocky bay called La Herradura, the horseshoe. I appreciated nature; perhaps it was all those trips as a child to the boat harbor in Flushing in Queens with my family. At least twice a week after school, my dad would drive us to the ocean or to Flushing, where we would remain until sunset.

That night, I went to La Colmena, the beehive, in the center of Lima. The huge plaza was quite a spectacle, with singers, dancers, and actors performing small pieces of theater, along with a plethora of ladies of the night. After an hour of watching the spectacle, I went to a café, ordered one beer and hen took a taxi back to Miraflores.

The next day was initially devoted to obtaining the gamma globulin injection. I went to a public health center and obtained a prescription. Next, I purchased some from a pharmacy, where I was told to go to, of all places, the local convent for my injection. A rather attractive nun extracted a small sum of Peruvian money from me and injected my bare bottom with gamma globulin..

“I have had my ass grabbed by a saint and solicited by a sinner in the last twelve hours!” I thought to myself. .

Leaving the convent and walking toward the bus station, I turned right at the next corner, only to see three tanks and a group of soldiers coming towards me.

I immediately turned and ran nonstop for two blocks, never looking back. There are times in life to ask questions and there are other occasions to lose no time running away. This was clearly the latter. It appeared that I had come close to walking into a revolution.

A leftist military coup was in power; it has made improvements in health and education, but in the end it was still a dictatorship.

I attended the horse races for the afternoon at the beautiful Hipodromo, where I had

two winners. The next morning I left for Iquitos, where I made arrangements to stay at a lodge run by anthropologists who were studying the Yagua Indians.

I knew there would be crocodiles nearby the lodge; thus it would be too dangerous to walk around without a guide. The river contained pirhanas; there were also some dangerous snakes. As long I was with a trained guide, I believed I would do quite well.

The boat that carried me from the town of Iquitos to the lodge looked like a larger version of the boat used in the movie The African Queen. It had a motor in the middle and chugged down the river in a leisurely fashion. There were three other passengers, a couple from South Africa and a government administrator from Lima who was on holiday.

The South Africans told a familiar story. Someone had used a knife to cut into their knapsack while they were traveling on a bus in La Paz, Bolivia; they lost their money,  but retained their passports. Of the twenty foreigners I had encountered in Peru, at least one-half had been robbed, some at knifepoint. It was not surprising I felt safer in the jungle than in Lima.

It was very hot and muggy on the river. The jungle landscape included a missionary compound and some temporary settlements. After many hours, the boat turned into a tributary and stopped. We climbed into a small motor boat and were taken to the lodge operated by the two Anthropologists, who were present to greet the new arrivals and

given an overview of “Adventure Lodge.”

“We hope this will prove to be an interesting and enjoyable experience for you. If you follow the rules, it is likely you will have a safe and healthy stay. When visiting the Yaguas, please do not offer money. If there is something you desire, please offer to barter something in return for it. Most importantly, please do not leave the lodge area without a guide and remember to drink lots of liquids, said one of the Anthropologists. . .

As I walked to my room, I passed a bright green macaw sitting on the railing.

“Hello,” said the bright red and green bird.

“Hello to you.” I answered.

After passing the friendly bird, my eyes turned towards a strange scene in the garden. A huge rodent, certainly the largest I had ever seen, was munching on plant leaves. His dining was interrupted by a playful kitten that stalked the larger animal and was pouncing on its back. The rodent remained undeterred from eating the lettuce. I later learned that I had been in the presence of “Charley” the pet capybara and “Elmo” the cat.

My room was unlike any I had experienced. The walls did not reach the ceiling. Mosquito netting was draped on top of the bed in tent-like fashion. I put my clothes away and decided to wander around the grounds.

Charlie was still consuming plants. I noticed a sign posted on a tree:

NOTICE :Do Not Go Beyond This Point!!! It is dangerous to do so.
This is not an amusement park. Please remain inside
the garden area unless accompanied by a guide.

I went to the main lodge in search of a guide and found one. Marco had been retained by the Peruvian civil servant, but was available for short-term excursions. It was a fairly long walk through the jungle to the encampment of the Yagua Indians. The guide was of Peruvian Indian ancestry; he wore short pants and was constantly slapping mosquitoes away from my legs.

I asked him to say some phrases in the language of the Yagua Indians. Upon arriving at the bamboo house of the Chief, the Shaman was sitting with him. As I entered, I said a few words of greeting to them in the language of the Yaguas.

The Cief pointed to me and waved his arm towards the Shaman, as if to say, “Will you look at this guy!” Both men laughed.

The guide smiled and said “they think you are pretty funny.”

All members of the tribe wore grass skirts; the men often carried bamboo blow guns and curare tipped darts to kill animals. Recently, a pregnant boar had been killed; a piglet had been saved and was being fed and nurtured by the tribe. A nine-year old boy was walking around with a monkey perched on my head; the women had decorated their faces with a paste from red berries. They were beautiful, with very dark eyes and beautiful smiles when they chose to share one.

The Indians greeted me with only mild interest since visitors were common. I found I was free to roam around. The nine year-old with the monkey perched on his head tagged along. Communication tended to be limited to pointing and smiles. Soon the guide appeared, indicating it was time to return to the lodge. I noticed the guide had a rather broad smile on his face. He had previously explained that every few months, the entire adult tribe took a euphoric drug and held a party that lasted several days. I wondered whether the guide had perhaps decided to get an early start on the party.

I went to the bar and ordered a beer. The cold drink was a relief from the incessant heat and humidity.

I returned to the room and tried to take a nap, climbing under the mosquito netting and stretching out on the bed. It was too hot for sleep; the humidity rendered the air suffocating. Outside, the jungle was noisy from the sounds of the macaws and monkeys. I had slept in Times Square in New York City and in the jungle; the former was clearly the more peaceful place. After much tossing and turning, I fell asleep.

The next day, I once again visited the Yagua village. Another group of tourists were already there. The guide explained that some of the men would demonstrate proficiency with blowguns in a few minutes.

They reminded me of Dizzy Gillespie hitting high C when they performed.

I walked around the village, observing the life of the Yagua. The women were preparing food, and the men were working on their blowguns.

After lunch, I went out with a guide in a rowboat; we traveled along one of the tributaries to the Amazon.

There were orchids growing sixty feet above ground. The butterflies were huge; some were the size of my hand. The guide pointed to a school of pirhanas.

It was proving to be a good trip; one more day in the jungle would be sufficient. I began checking on boat departures for the return trip down the Amazon to Iquitos.

That evening, I went for a walk with one of the guides. The jungle was so thick with vegetation that it made walking a slow process. He suddenly stopped and motioned me to be still.

I could see him staring intently into the stream. Finally, I saw the eyes peering out from the water; it was a crocodile.

The guide turned to me with an anxious expression and pointed to his lips to maintain silence. After viewing the mostly submerged creature, I continued the walk through the jungle. The colors were intense; I had never seen such bright yellow bananas.

That night, I slept restlessly under the mosquito net. It was wonderful to visit the Amazon, but it was also nice to leave it.

 

 

Wild but True Stories from America and around the World Chapter 16: 1979: I travel behind the Iron Curtain, but can I return to the West?

It was November, 1979; I had been staying in Mallorca for several months in the village of Soller, located on the north coast of the island. Hana and I met on the final day of her one week island vacation from Berlin.

“Why did I have to meet you on my last day here?” she said with a sense of frustration at having missed out on a holiday love affair.

“I could travel to Berlin next month; I have the time” I said hopefully. She had a pretty face and was well endowed in all the right places. Five weeks later, I called her up and she invited me to come for a visit. I caught a late morning flight from Palma to Frankfurt, then changed planes for a flight to Berlin

I arrived at two o’clock in the afternoon; the winter sky was already dark. It was bitter cold, but I was well prepared wearing a warm winter coat. I have long had a reputation among my friends and as a “candy ass.” I wear my label with pride.

Hana was there to greet me, but she was not alone. She introduced me to her ex-husband Heinrich. He was a man in his thirties, with a pleasant appearance, dark hair and medium-height. I was surprised to see him, but did not form any conclusions.

During the ride from the airport to her apartment, the conversation was relaxed, although I didn’t quite know what to make of the presence of the ex-husband. Communication between Hana and me was a challenge. She spoke Czech and German, with some limited Spanish. I spoke English and French, and a small amount of Spanish. We were therefore required to communicate in our weakest common language. Fortunately, Heinrich spoke good English and was very kind in communicating parts of our conversation in German for Hana’s benefit.

Her apartment was located in a four-story apartment building in the Charlottenburg section of Berlin. The living room faced the street.  Eric, her 11-year-old son ws introduced to me; he clicked his heels together, shook my hand and bowed his head in a formal, yet friendly manner. A great commotion ensued as three daschounds went wild at the sight of Hana. She talked to them in a loving, high-pitched voice that appeared to transport them to a state of ecstasy. The apartment exuded warmth and offered an agreeable contrast to the cold snowy street outside.

Heinrich spent the evening in the apartment, leaving around midnight. It appeared that he was serving as a chaperone at Hana’s request. At no point did he show any affection towards her. He was quite open with me; we discussed his business and he gave me every indication that he would enjoy having me as a friend.

The Charlottenburg neighborhood of Berlin had wide avenues; the coffee shops were clean and the pastries excellent. However, the coffee was a poor substitute for a Spanish café con leche’. My plan was to stay approximately ten days. The next morning, I explored the city, passing the afternoon and evening with Hana and Heinrich. There were hours during when Hana and I were alone, but neither of us made a sexual advance.

On my third day, I had a rather unpleasant experience that could have been avoided had Hana given more thought to the situation. I indicated that I would like to take the elevated subway across the Berlin Wall to see East Berlin, where Hana’s good friend Kristen lived. .

Kristen said that it was fine for us to come, although she didn’t understand why anyone would want to see the East Berlin. We took the elevated subway across the no man’s land between the wall on the West Berlin side and the East Berlin wall that prevented East Germans from fleeing their country. After the train arrived at the East Berlin station, we were required to pass through immigration; this turned out to be a major problem for me,

It was well-known by most locals that East German police harassed visitors to East Berlin , except those passing through immigration at a station referred to as Checkpoint Charlie, where the behavior of the East Germans was more closely monitored by American soldiers. Unfortunately, we were not at Checkpoint Charlie.

The major problem was that my old passport photo presented me with much longer hair and a much larger beard, giving me the appearance of a Russian dissident. A series of ten different police examined me and my passport, asking me to turn my head in different directions. After a while, I became alarmed that perhaps some charge was about to be trumped up. However, all that happened was I was denied entrance and sent back on the train to West Berlin. In a suggestion that was too little too late, Hana proposed we visit Checkpoint Charlie in order to cross without further problems. However, I had had enough interaction with officialdom for, the day, and was unwilling to suffer further indignities.

There were relatives living in Czechoslovakia in the town Brno; Hana suggested we take a five trip through East Germany to Czechoslovakia. At that time, the Soviets were occupying the country.

She visited Brno regularly, bringing clothes and food that were unavailable behind the “Iron Curtain” in Eastern Europe. Her car was an improbable three wheeler that inclined towards the front. The orange and yellow exterior added a further comic touch. She proposed that we make a five-day excursion through East Germany into Czechoslovakia and down to Brno. Ever interested in seeing a new part of the world,   I immediately accepted the offer.

As with most dictatorships, considerable contact with officialdom was required. Hana obtained a transit visa that allowed us to travel on the highway in East Germany leading to Czechoslovakia. A good navigational sense was essential since it was a crime to be found more than two miles from the road, which could lead to one’s arrest and likely imprisonment.

I visited the Czech Consulate the following day to obtain a visa. It turned out to be a very easy process since I was the only one who had come to the consulate that day requesting a visa. In the seventies, Czechoslovakia was hardly a popular travel destination; it was apparently something of a rarity apparently for Americans to visit. During my entire stay, I never saw another American tourist, or at least one recognizable as such.

Hana packed the little car full of chocolate, sardines and other canned goods that were difficult to obtain in Czechoslovakia. “We hate the Russians” she explained. “When they   first arrived, the first thing that we did was to remove all the street signs to make travel more difficult for them. None of the young girls would talk to the Russian soldiers; I heard stories that some of the soldiers cried when the girls refused to talk to them.” said Hana.

We started off on our trip early in the morning on a very cold day. There was no problem entering East Germany at the border; the road leading to Czechoslovakia was in good condition. We passed the cities of Halle and Dresden. Hana maintained a lively conversation while driving. She appeared excited at the prospect of returning to her native country and seeing her relatives and friends.

When we arrived in Brno, which is located in Moravia, Hana said that I needed to present myself at the local police station, a compulsory formality during the Soviet occupation. The conversation there was in Slavic and was beyond my comprehension. However, from the glances of the police in her direction, Hana’s well-endowed features surely counted for something. We left without the police asking me a single question.

Hana explained that for a host of reasons, she recommended that I stay in a government operated hotel, where the room was spacious and comfortable. The hotel itself was a lesson in bureaucracy run amok. Each floor had its own cleaning staff, reception, and accounting operations.  No one appeared to be terribly busy, nor did anyone seen particularly tired from overwork.

Czechoslovakia was proving to be an unsettling experience. Speaking English, French and Spanish enabled me to communicate in most countries in the world, but not here. I did not even have a Czech phrasebook at my disposal since the trip was unexpected. .

The next stop for us was the bank, where I changed money. There were few people waiting in line, yet progress was slow indeed. Hana leaned over and whispered “that teller is complaining to the customer that she is having trouble getting her six-year-old to eat. The clerk next to her is talking about her boyfriend. She loves him madly and is describing how wonderful he is. From the look on the face on the other clerk, it appears she harbors doubts as to the boyfriend’s excellent qualities. Notice the very thin smile on her face that is remaining in one place. It is likely that she has heard this conversation many times before, and wishes she had not done so.” said Hana saucily.

After the bank, we went to a nearby restaurant. What followed was an education in the scarcity of goods in Soviet controlled Czechoslovakia. The restaurant was almost empty, with only three patrons sitting at one table. The waiter arrived with large menus; Hana translated the dishes for me. I pointed to the chicken with potatoes; the waiter immediately shook his head and said “not today”. I pointed to two other entrées; neither was available. At that point, I put the menu down, smiled and said to Hana “Please ask him what entrées are available today.”

I studied Hana carefully during the meal; she had a different presence about her in Czechoslovakia than in Berlin. She was dressed elegantly and was wearing makeup. In Berlin, she wore unpretentious clothes, usually blue jeans and a green Army jacket. Of course, with her pretty face, nice legs and her other charms, she would have been appealing wearing anything, including a nun’s habit. Upon further reflection, Hana dressed in a nun’s habit presented erotic possibilities. Was she trying to impress her relatives and friends, or was her behavior designed to increase her status with the authorities?

She had bribed the border guards at the immigration checkpoint entering Czechoslovakia with bratwurst. This was not a profit-making venture, but rather one that provided enjoyment for her relatives and friends. She appeared to be reveling in her role as the rich relative from the West; I was unsure that I cared for the transformation.

Brno offered street scenes reminiscent of a 1920’s movie. An old-style trolley traveled noisily along a wide avenue under gray winter skies. Hana’s relatives were formal with me, well short of friendliness. There was a reserve that may have been due to my long hair and beard, or perhaps to my undefined relationship with Hana. For whatever reason, I felt uncomfortable at the obvious scrutiny and lack of warmth. These were not people I desired to spend time with. During one visit, her brother-in-law noticed that my socks did not match, making an issue of it. I have long had a habit of being comfortable wearing socks that do not match. While I don’t go out of my way to avoid matching them, I am not particularly concerned if the two are different.

They were unhappy people, hardly surprising given the harsh circumstances of living in an occupied country, yet I suspected they might have been unhappy in better times as well. The former Czech government of Alexander Dubcek had introduced a more liberal form of Communist government referred to as “Socialism with a human face.” The changes had not been well received in Moscow; soon the presence of Soviet tanks and troops were striking evidence of that displeasure.

The Soviets ousted Mr. Dubcek, relegating him to work as a night watchman, while placing their own man in power. Meanwhile, the Czechs could do little about it.

I overheard Hana’s cousin Nicole say to her husband “Look at this American traveling the world free as a bird, living in Mallorca and flying to Berlin on a whim, while our store shelves are half-empty.”

Given the uncomfortable welcome and the pettiness of some of the comments, I excused myself, citing travel fatigue, returning to my hotel with a feeling a relief to be away from her relations. After taking a nap, I strolled around town, stopping at a café, where I sipped coffee, listened to John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” on my portable cassette player and read Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “100 Years of Solitude.” This was a better way to spend my time.

That evening, Heinrich and Hana came to my hotel to invite me to an evening at one of Brno’s popular nightspots. It was a huge cave built into the side of a hill and lighted by large torches on the walls. We were soon joined by a Russian named Anatoly, who was the manager of a tire factory in his homeland. He was friendly and gregarious, talking freely about meetings with then Russian premier Leonid Breshnev and production difficulties that necessitated bribing other state enterprises responsible for raw materials that he needed at his factory. It was obvious that he trusted Heinrich and Hana and was clearly ready to have a few laughs and enjoy himself.

I wondered if Hana had cultivated him as a friend to give herself some insulation from the current régime; dictatorships fostered paranoid thinking. Everyone was in a good mood.  Heinrich, usually a man of few words, seemed quite content to join in the conversation. It was hard to know what was going on inside him. I wondered what had caused them to separate, and how they had remained on reasonably good terms. Although Eric was not Heinrich’s son, perhaps he was the reason why Heinrich kept in close contact. I could see that Hana could be exasperating. One night I was just coming into the living room when Hana started teasing him about something. I was surprised when he gave her a hard slap on her bottom. As she walked towards the kitchen, I noticed her rub herself to alleviate the sting. I would have loved to a volunteered for the task!

From their first meeting, Heinrich had been quite friendly towards me, speaking openly about the challenges facing him with his small business, where he employed two workers. It was a shop he had inherited from his father, and one that he was not pleased to operate. At the moment, it was not profitable enough to sell, but at the same time it made enough to pay the employees and provide him with a modest income.

There were indications that, given Hana’s self-absorption, she was not an easy partner. I felt intuitively that Heinrich was a decent man who was wise enough to realize he had made a mistake getting involved with her, but was drawn to her and her son for whatever reason. Back in Berlin, Heinrich always left Hana’s apartment in the evening. Did he have a lover waiting for him somewhere in Berlin? After my second night, Heinrich spent less time in Hana’s apartment in Charlottenburg. Perhaps, Hana concluded that Heinrich no longer needed to serve as a watchdog since I had not made any sexual advances.

The experience with Hana confirmed my suspicion that one of the reasons why the European ladies that I met in Mallorca usually willing were always willing to go to bed on the first night.  Mallorca was not home. They were on vacation and open to adventures, including those of the sexual variety. When they were in their hometown, their sensibilities were not the same.

The more that I observed her, the less I felt inclined to be her lover. The party at the nightclub continued; there was excellent wine, along with music provided by a quartet of violinists. The others were laughing, which I joined in on without understanding the language or the humor. Language had remained a major problem since neither Hana nor I was fluent in Spanish, which was our only common language.

At about two in the morning, fatigue overtook the group; it was time to leave. We went to the coat room to retrieve our belongings. In the presence of Heinrich, Hana suddenly lunged at me, hugging me in a tight embrace and looked expectantly in my eyes as she awaited a kiss. Ever inclined to avoid offense and concerned over the possibility of Heinrich’s discomfort, I gave her a peck on the cheek, gently pulling away from her.

The nightclub was within walking distance of my hotel. I found myself excited at the prospect of making love to her, wondering if I could invite her upstairs to my room. Would that create problems with the hotel staff?  How uncomfortable would Heinrich feel as if he watched his ex-wife enter a hotel with someone else? I had never been in a position like this; the language difficulties prevented me from knowing Hana’s relationship with her ex-husband. Had he left her because she had other sexual affairs? Did she tell him that she was not interested in a relationship with him, but needed his  help during my stay?

There were many opportunities during the first days for us to have made love discreetly. Was her sudden sexual interest designed to provoke Heinrich, or was her arousal simply due to the large amount of wine she had consumed?

It was not worth it. I shook hands with Heinrich, gave Hana a hug, and excused myself, saying I was tired and would see them in the morning. She gave a little shrug, as if to say “well, you had your chance.” Meanwhile, Heinrich’s face remained as inscrutable as back of a Japanese corporate executive.

The returns trip to West Berlin filled me with dread. Would East German immigration  deny me entrance to East Germany based on the variance between my passport photo and my current appearance?  If so, would I be forced to return to Czechoslovakia?

I decided that if that occurred, I would take a train to the Austrian border. How long would that take? My return flight to Mallorca was due to leave in less than two days.

Would these fascists arrest me on suspicion of using someone else’s passport?  Would I receive assistance from the American consulate? Consulate staff did not enjoy a good reputation for helpfulness.

The questions and concerns were churning in my brain. I decided not to share such   thoughts with Hana or Heinrich. They could not do much to help; there was no point in making them nervous.

The car pulled up to the border checkpoint. It was an extremely cold night, probably close to 15° Fahrenheit, yet the guards ordered us to turn off the engine. Travelers were being carefully questioned. I was feeling edgy; would I make it through or would these Fascists in leather hip boots cause me problems?

After an agonizing wait, it was our turn. The officials opened my travel bag and began looking through my books on yoga; perhaps looking for smuggled letters. It was doubtful they were seeking answers to metaphysical questions, or even the mundane question “why should these people have to wait in the cold when the car has a heater?” The uncertainty was taking an emotional toll on my psyche.

Hana was asked numerous questions, which she handled calmly. After a few minutes, the officer waved his arm to proceed. There were no amenities of “good evening” or “good bye”, certainly not the Californian phrase “Have a nice day”.

The remainder of the trip went smoothly.  As we entered the apartment in Berlin, I was surprised to see how orderly the place had been maintained by Eric. Here was an 11-year-old boy who had the ability to prepare my meals, take care of three dogs, go to school and adequately maintain a five room apartment. In the United States, Hana would have probably been arrested for child abuse after the neighbors complained to the authorities that am 11-year-old child had been left alone. The reason Hana gave for leaving Eric behind was that she feared, probably with good reason, that because he had been born in Czechoslovakia, Eric might not have been permitted to leave that country.

Years later, Hana visited me in Mallorca, with Heinrich still in toe. She came to my house in Puerto de Soller on the north coast of Mallorca, where I was living with my current lover. We both spoke more Spanish and were able to communicate effectively, but I continued to feel that I could not sense an emotional connection with her. traveling to Berlin had been an interesting life experience, but I did not expect that we would see each other again.  We never did.

 

 

 

 

 

Wild Tales from America and around the World by Bill Honer

Wild Tales from America and around the World

By Bill Honer

Chapter 3

How One Family Supported the California Criminal Justice System

Eagle is a Paiute Indian. I first met him in 1975 when he was enrolled a public jobs program in Sacramento that I helped to implement. He had originally been sentenced to death in Nevada for murder. Eagle was placed in a nonprofit organization targeting Native Americans, where he assisted in encouraging persons with alcohol addiction to seek treatment. I made a decision that, given his background of 16 years in prison prior to being paroled, he would need considerable assistance. He is now 78; he has never returned to prison.

Back in 1975, I could see he needed a lot of work to succeed. I invited him to my apartment for lunch on several occasions. He was very personable and showed considerable motivation in his work recruiting other American Indians to attend alcoholism counseling programs. It was an odd sight for the guards at the Sacramento County office building to see him arrive with his graying ponytail, colorful headband, and Fu Manchu style beard. Invariably questioned on the purpose of his visit,

he would reply “I have to go see Bill Honer. He’s my boss.”

Eagle had no relatives in the Sacramento area. His father lived on a reservation in Nevada. I introduced him to my mother and my sister. He continued to show excellent progress, and was such an excellent role model that the authorities at San Quentin Prison permitted him to accompany me on Friday nights to meet with a group of about 25 prisoners known as the American Indian Cultural Group.

The purpose of the visit was to help the men who were being paroled to Sacramento obtain work through the government sponsored public employment program that Nixon began and Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter continued.

Of the 10 ex-convicts who came to Sacramento and were employed in the public jobs program, only two returned to prison, a decent track record given the fact that they all had multiple felony convictions on their curriculum vitae. After the program was eliminated by President Reagan, the chances were quite good that many of those paroled to Sacramento did not become model citizens.

Once an official in the Office of the County Executive at Sacramento County said to me “you are leaving Sacramento County and visiting Marin County on a regular basis. “

I replied “That’s correct. I’m working with prisoners who are coming back to Sacramento so that when they arrive, they won’t hit people over the head and take their money.” He said “Oh” and walked away. I never heard any more about my leaving the county after that encounter

During my first visit inside San Quentin, the Sergeant of the guards said to me “Mr. Honer, we do not recognize hostages. In the event of problems, we shoot at blue” (the inmates wore blue). I was, of course, wearing blue pants; in fact the two pairs of pants that I owned were both blue. My impression was that the warning was an attempt to intimidate me.

I doubted we were in any danger; nothing ever happened during our many visits. On one occasion, we were waiting in the hall before entering the visiting room where the meeting was held. The sergeant started yelling “let’s move some guns”, after which guards went up the catwalk with large weapons. This felt like more intimidation. As we continued with what seemed to be an interminable wait, a dozen inmates led by several guards passed by on their way to death row. The good Sergeant, ever enthralled with the sound of his voice, called out “Dead men coming through.” As an opponent of the death penalty, it was a less than pleasant moment.

Eagle and I usually began the trip by stopping at Eppies restaurant in West Sacramento prior to heading to the Bay Area on Highway 80. After purchasing my coffee, I would call the Chief of my Division. “Clyde, I am on my way to San Quentin” His response was always the same “tell me Bill, what color pants are you wearing today?” I would say blue, and he would cry out “Oh my God!” It was a little joke, but it was nice to share it.

After one meeting, we drove back to Sacramento. On the way, Eagle said “there is a woman being released from the Sacramento County jail at midnight and I need to pick her up. Is that okay? “Sure, let’s go do it.”, I said.

 

I was living alone at that time and was in no hurry to return to the apartment. As we pulled up to the county jail, she was waiting outside. As soon as she saw Eagle, she ran to his Ford Thunderbird and climbed in the back seat.

“Bill, this is Alice”, said Eagle. We exchanged greetings and started on the ten mile drive to the center of Sacramento.

“How is your daughter Alice doing?” asked Eagle.

“Oh, she is right here!” pointing to the jail. “She has 30 days more to do on a shoplifting beef.” said Alice.

“How about your cousin George, how’s he doing?” said Eagle.

“He’s coming up for parole in a couple of months. George wants to get out of. Folsom;  he said it’s real hard time there.” said Alice.

Eagle’s tone became serious. “Alice, I hear your son could be sniffing gas for that murder in Fresno” he said.

“Yeah” she replied, “I’m kinda worried about him.”

The car stopped in front of Alice’s apartment in downtown Sacramento. After she left, Eagle and I just looked at each other in disbelief. All her relatives were at various stages of the criminal justice process. The family appeared to be doing an excellent job of supporting the criminal justice system in California. Perhaps it would have been a good idea for some of the prison guards to send a modest amount of their weekly paycheck to the family. Alice and the others were keeping them working for a long time to come.

The program enabled hundreds of thousands of unemployed persons nationwide to obtain gainful employment that improved the infrastructure of the nation and enabled them to live a modest middle-class lifestyle. Once Reagan, a destroyer of the American middle class, arrived in office, one of his first actions was to close the program and put 585 000 Americans out of work.

Of the 500 individuals participating in the program in Sacramento that I tracked, 63% had entered unsubsidized employment at the time of termination from the program. During the Reagan era, roughly 17% of Americans who had formerly been a part of the middle class left the ranks of the middle class as their income declined to below $12,000 per year, while the wealth of the top one percent of Americans increased by roughly fifty percent from 25 to 37 percent of the total wealth of the nation, complements of President proposed Reagan’s tax cuts that were passed by a Democratic Congress. Under his presidency, the minimum wage remained largely unchanged, accompanied by a huge increase in low-paying service jobs and a major decline in well-paying manufacturing jobs. Despite all of this, the majority of Americans, especially White Americans, rejoiced at having Ronald Reagan as President. Nothing could change that. Reagan imploded intellectually during a Presidential debate, and was forced to resort to the old acting trek of saying anything and us proceeded to wax on about the beauties of the California countryside rather than the issue at hand. Sadly, that may have been a function of

of the Alzheimer’s disease that destroyed his later life.

However, he told Americans what they wanted to hear, that all was well in the garden of America, and those who disagreed were simply “whiners.” The fact that Reagan acknowledged committing impeachable acts, such as violating the Boland amendment prohibiting mining of the harbors of Managua and that he sold arms to Iran in exchange for the release of hostages, did little to diminish his personal popularity among Americans, many of whom in all probability did not delve too deeply into the state of the nation.

The prison guards could have also sent a little gift to Ronald Reagan for keeping them employed with an additional supply of customers. Thanks to the CIA/Contra/crack cocaine connection that set loose a flurry of drug addictions in the ghettos of Los Angeles and elsewhere, the prison population in America soared during the Reagan administration.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wild but true Stories from America and around the World –Chapter 2 Bill Honer

Chapter 2

1969: Watching the Moon Landing with Mobsters

In 1969, Maureen and I were living in Forest Hills Queens. It was the night of the Moon landing; we decided that we needed to see this historic event on a larger television than the small one sitting in our living room. We found a lounge on Queens Boulevard that had a good television set and very few patrons.

The room was dim, with a beige satin dropped ceiling. The seats were oversized white leatherette and were very comfortable with their huge cushions. Sinatra was singing “There’s a Small Hotel” on the juke box. Other than the two men seated at the bar, the place was empty. I ordered two Schaefer’s, our New York brew of choice.

I tried to be discreet in observing the two men, who were wearing black suits and white shirts with the top button open. The large hands, heavy eyebrow ridges, and long sideburns indicated likely ties to the mob. One said, “Hey Mizzooch. I bet you five bucks you can’t name the seven dwarfs!”

The other gangster looked at his colleague carefully to make certain that he wasn’t bull-shitting him. He wasn’t. “Joey!” he yelled to the bartender. “Did you hear what Sal said? I get five bucks for naming the seven dwarfs. Okay, you animal. Listen good — Dopey, Grumpy, Sleepy…”; he proceeded to name them all. Sal opened his wallet to withdraw a five dollar bill, saying “I didn’t think you were that smart, go figure.”

Meanwhile, Maureen and I sat quietly sipping our Schaefers. It was likely their only civic duty was a monthly visit to the office of their respective parole agents. Rather than making us nervous, their presence had the opposite effect. We felt safe and secure; no one would be robbing or fighting in a “connected” establishment. In the early seventies, there were three streets in the Bronx — Fox, Simpson, and Tiffany — which were known to be very rough. Police statistics revealed that a person living on those streets had a one in eighteen chance of becoming a homicide victim, not even a twenty-to-one shot!

On the other hand, persons living where the Mafia did, in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn, had a one in twelve hundred chance of becoming a crime victim. Maureen and I continued to talk softly, although it was more fun to overhear the mobsters’ conversation.

“Hey, Sal, my cousin said to me that he thought he seen you working at a store on West Thirty-seventh Street. I told him he gotta stop eating those mushrooms.” said Grizzooch, as he gave those present his best Cro-Magnon smile.

Sal laughed “Working? Ya gotta be kidding me. I ain’t worked since that time in the fifties when Louie got us that job painting one of the bridges. I think we lasted three days. This friend of Lou’s comes over with an Irish guy and says that Mike here is our crew chief and that if we got any questions, all we gotta do is ask Mike. So me being a smart ass, I say to him, “Listen, Mike, do you think Ericco can get that pig he’s riding’ home first in the sixth at Aqueduct?’ So the Mick just looks at me with a hard stare and says, ‘This is a bridge, not the track, so get to work.’

“I look surprised and says, “You mean this ain’t the track? I must’a taken a wrong turn and I’m in the wrong place. Thanks for telling me.”

“You shouldda seen the look on the Irishman’s face when I walked off. He started yelling ‘Where you going?’

“I yelled back, ‘I’m going to the Big A, where the fuck do you think I’m going?’ Even the bartender laughed at that one.

The evening passed quickly and pleasantly, with a few more mobsters arriving. The juke box appeared to be dedicated exclusively to Frank Sinatra. Then the bartender raised the television volume as the first astronaut from the earth was stepping onto the surface of the moon. Even the two gangsters appeared awed at this historic moment.

“Hey Mizzooch! Look at this.” said Sal.

“Sal, you see something like this and then you wonder how they can tap a phone?” said Mizzooch. Such was the relevance of the moon landing to the Mafia.

(Bill Honer is an independent world traveler, consultant, former government analyst, social worker and host of the cable television program “Social Issues.”)

 

Wild but True Tales from America and around the World: Chapter 1 By Bill Honer

Chapter I: A Practical Joke Results in Freedom for a Folsom Prison Inmate

One Sunday, I was sitting in the visiting room at Folsom Prison with Eddie, a former resident of Dannemora prison, which was where we first met when I was working on a prison rehabilitation project through the State University of New York. Over coffee, Tommy told me the astonishing story of how a practical joke he played changed the life of his prison buddy Joey.

I knew Joey. He was a big man, well over six feet and weighed at least 240 pounds. It isn’t easy having fun in prison. One day, Eddie was browsing through one of the tabloids and saw an ad encouraging those wanting their soul saved to write a woman who was a member of a Baptist church somewhere in Mississippi. “As a joke”, said Eddie, “I wrote a letter to them saying I was asinner and deeply in need of spiritual salvation. Then I signed Joey’s name to the letter”.

“Shortly after that, Joey starts receiving letters from Mary, a member of the church in Mississippi. Her letters became very personal, writing that she was open to having a relationship with him as well as saving his soul. Joey answered her “well I would certainly be interested in having a relationship with you. The only problem is that after I finish my sentence here in California, I’m scheduled to be extradited to Florida to face charges for another crime.”

“Mary wrote back ‘I am going to look into the charges in Florida. Maybe I can help.’ I have no idea what she did, but she managed to have the charges in Florida dropped. They continued writing, with their letters becoming more intimate. Joey then decided to propose marriage to her. Mary accepted and they were married inside the walls here.”

“How soon will you be able to be paroled?” she kept asking him during their Sunday visits. Joey said something like “Well honey, it would really help if I had a job before I meet the for parole board.” Ever willing to help, Mary told him “let me see what I can do.” Within three weeks, she found an employer in Sacramento willing to hire him. Now Joey had a wife, no pending charges, and a job waiting for him. He is going to be paroled in three weeks, go figure.” said Eddie

“That’s quite a story Eddie” I replied. During my previous visit two weeks before, Eddie had grown a full beard, complements of a decision of the California Supreme Court extending sartorial rights to prisoners. Today, the beard was gone. When I inquired why, Eddie replied, smiling wryly, “they wanted to take a picture of me with the beard. I did not want them to have that.” This strongly suggested that Eddie was not seriously considering making any major career changes after his release. As Joey walked by, Eddie looked up and said “Joey, how come you shaved your mustache?” Joey smiled, “I thought it made me look too masculine!”

(Bill Honer is a former government analyst, social worker and world traveler)

Memoirs of a World Traveler by Bill Honer

Memoirs of a World Traveler

By Bill Honer

1970-1974

Paris and Mallorca

In November 1971, Moe and I traveled from New York to Luxembourg. It was a very inexpensive way to fly to Europe. From there, it was only a few hours by train to Paris. We found a simple hotel on the left bank on the Rue de la Huchette in the Saint Germain de Pres district that was managed by Algerians; the staff was was reserved to the point of rudeness. After placing the luggage in our room, we went for a walk along the Seine, which was only a block away. Afterwards, we stopped at a nearby café’ with a view of Notre Dame, where we ate croissants, sipped café’ crèmes and read Le Monde.

“Look! Judy Collins is playing at the Olympia Theatre. Let’s go see her,” said an elated Moe. Later that evening, we found a small restaurant not far from the hotel. Afterwards, we strolled along Boulevard St. Michel, which was crowded with street and pedestrian traffic. Finding a bookstore, we stepped inside. Moe was a minimalist in her needs. If she had cigarettes, books, and coffee, she was quite content.

Successfully encouraging her to leave was quite another matter. I bought an English translation of “One Hundred Years of Solitude”, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Moe picked up “L´Etrangere” by Albert Camus. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at the same café by the Seine and ordered a bottle of wine. There were lights illuminating Notre Dame. The cafe was warm and cozy; it was a romantic setting. Several hours passed in quiet conversation.

Tired but satisfied with the day, we returned to the hotel, made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms. There were no thoughts about when to get up in the morning. There would be no work for the next six months, which was a nice prospect. We slept until late the next morning. The plan was to see the matinee performance of Judy Collins and then take the overnight train from Paris to Barcelona. From there, we would board the night ferry to Majorca.

Judy Collins was in excellent form; the audience was enthusiastic in its appreciation. It was the first time I had attended a televised concert. I remember being fascinated by the three cameramen intent on providing the director different perspectives to choose from during the performance. Twenty-two years later, I would produce my first television show on cable television in California.

After the concert, we made our way to the Gare du Sud, where I booked seats and couchettes on the Paris/Barcelona train. The six person compartments could be converted into “couchettes”. Although it lacked the plush comfort of the Pullman sleeping berths on American trains, a couchette was a major improvement over sitting up all night. There were two North African men and a Spanish couple already seated in our compartment. The Moroccans, Mustafa and Mohammed, were guest workers in Holland. The Spaniards Joaquin and Antonia, lived in Valencia and had just spent two weeks in Paris on vacation. Everyone used French as the common language of communication.

As was customary on European trains at the time, we shared bread, cheese, wine, and mineral water. Before long, the conductor was preparing the sleeping berths. The rhythm of the train clicking along the tracks was hypnotic; I soon fell asleep.

In the morning, we arrived at Port Bou. After clearing immigration, we boarded an older Spanish train for Barcelona. The trip along the Costa Brava was beautiful, with some outstanding views of coastal villages and the Mediterranean. In Barcelona, we went to a travel agency, where we bought tickets for the midnight ferry to Palma de Mallorca. The ship was huge, holding perhaps 100 vehicles.  There was a lounge, complete with a bar and plush leather chairs. The crossing was a bit rough, but I managed to get some sleep. When we disembarked in the morning, it was about 6 a.m.

The bay of Palma afforded views of the cathedral and other sights of the city. The sky was a pale blue, containing several puffy pink clouds. When we arrived at the Hotel Europa, which was located in El Arenal on the south coast, we were astonished to find that the cost of the room, breakfast and two four-course meals, including wine and mineral water, was equivalent to the price of two cappuccinos in a Greenwich Village cafe. It would be easy to live a very nice life here for a long time. The island, with its mountains, almond groves, and stone terraced hillsides of palm and olive trees, was beautiful.

While we were at the hotel in Paris, my friend Dan had called from Italy, where he and his lady friend Emily had been visiting Dan’s relatives in Sicily. It was agreed that we would meet at the Europa. On the first night of their arrival, we went dancing at a local nightclub. The entrance fee included unlimited bottles of champagne for the evening. At first Moe was reluctant to dance. However, after we proceeded to make a dent in the second bottle of champagne, I could not pull her away from the dance floor.

The next day we went to the Plaza Espana and took the late morning train to the village of Soller on the north coast of the island. The electric wooden train looked as though it had been built in the early part of the twentieth century. The first-class compartment was a parlor car with plush leather seats. The train tracks were set in the middle of a street that led out of the city; police stood at traffic lights at intersections stopping traffic as the train chugged along on its upward climb through the hills and mountains. At Son Pardo, the train passed the trotting race course. A decade later, my future wife Olivia would pack sandwiches and wine every Sunday in preparation for our big excursion from Soller to Palma to visit the race course for an afternoon of trotting racing.

The electric train passed fields of almond groves that gave way to the terraced hillside village of Bunyola. The next stage of the journey was a seven mile tunnel through a cordillera of mountains that separated Soller and its Port from the remainder of the island. At first light upon leaving the tunnel, a terraced canyon, appeared, covered with olive and pine trees. Slowly, the train descended down the mountainside towards the village of Soller, which was nestled under majestic peaks of Lofre and Puij Major. When we arrived at the station, we could see the orange colored tram moving along the tracks toward the front of the station, ready to take passengers through the valley of orange groves from the village of Soller to its Port.  Moe and I stopped at the Bar Turismo, with its entrance a few feet from the train tracks. I ordered a 103 cognac along with my coffee. The café was comfortable, with chairs that had armrests. The view included the church across the street, along with a view of the tram-via passing by every 30 minutes. The tram schedule provided Soller with a certain rhythm to life.

The village plaza was surrounded by cafes and the somber gray church front.  Although we lived in the Port, which was located about a mile away, our trips to the village were frequent. Often, we would sit at one of the outside tables of the cafeteria Soller, watching the local residents going about their daily business. It was enjoyable absorbing the rhythm and atmosphere of this small Spanish town. The village activity stood in contrast to the tranquility of the Port of Soller. Although the Port received busloads of vacationers from Palma, the tourists mainly sauntered along the harbor road,  stopped at one of the cafés overlooking the harbor, or sat on the beach. The side street leading to our apartment was usually empty. No one looked busy in the Port; the pace of life was invariably leisurely. The Bar Mallorca was our café of choice; the owner was cheerful man of advancing years who made excellent coffees while smoking his small cigars. The water of the circular harbor was aquamarine; it looked like a large swimming pool with a village surrounding it.

We rented an apartment from a friendly and gracious woman named Ana. Our evenings were spent drinking champagne and playing cards. During the day, we walked in the hills, read novels, and sipped coffee and cognac at the cafes. I also worked on my master’s thesis.

The sun did not rise above the tall mountains until about nine o’clock in the morning. Everyone would gather at that time on the terrace, sip coffee, and enjoy the sunshine when it arrived. The foothills of olive and pine trees offered a backdrop to the three-story medieval stone Es Port hotel, which was located directly across the street from our apartment.

“This is so different from Manhattan. I can’t believe it. The weekly cost to live here is about one half what I was paying for my therapy at the Fifth Avenue Center,” said Moe. “I would have to say that not only is this more fun, but I don’t even feel that I need therapy anymore.” she said.

I could well appreciate her comment. Moe had been suffering considerable anxiety in the final days before departure. How she had changed in such a short time! In Manhattan, she was popping valiums daily. Here, she was sitting on my lap in a cafe, with a San Miguel beer bottle in her hand, her arm around my shoulder, and a broad smile on her face. Her sitting on my lap probably scandalized the Majorcans. It was a great argument for the power of the environment. In some ways, it reminded me of how she had been in college in Plattsburgh. We would go dancing in Montreal, stay out all night, and cut classes the next day.

The absence of a stressful environment clearly worked wonders upon her. The road beside the hotel wound its way up the hillside past small “fincas”, rustic stone houses surrounded by gnarled olive trees. The road offered vistas of the harbor and eventually descended to the “Monumento”, a large stone monument, which was located at the intersection of the main road that led to the Port and the street northwards to Puij Major. There was a café where we could wait for the tram to Puerto Soller. If we started out later in the day, we would take the tram to the monument and walk through the hills to the Cafeteria Nautilus, which was located on top of a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. It was a modern white two-story building with a panoramic view of the sea. Juan and Miguel, the owners, were welcoming; we would sit looking out at the Mediterranean and watch the sun sink into the sea at sunset. This was a nice way to live.   .

At night, we would go to Soller for a few hours; it was a happy time for us all.  I would play three-cushion billiards with one of the local residents. When we arrived home, the time would be spent drinking champagne, talking philosophy, and playing cards until the early morning hours. Spain was still a dictatorship in the early seventies. The “men from the Generallissimo’s office”, as we referred to the national police force the “Guardia  Civil”, wore green uniforms and hard plastic black caps. These men were a frequent presence in Palma, but were less visible in the Port and the village of Soller. There were no women among their ranks, only men.

Under the dictator Franco, the Guardia Civil were never assigned to work in their home regions. Instead, they were required to move from their hometowns to another part of the country in order to protect the dictatorship. Their motto was “Todo por la Patria” or “all for the country.” This was hardly a comforting thought to the less fascist minded citizens of Spain. One Guardia married a local girl from the Port. For more than 30 years that I visited Soller, I witnessed many shop girls marry, have children and grow into middle-aged matrons. It was a simple life, enriched for us by the presence of an English lending library, located in the back section of the Bar Turismo. It was operated by Elaina, a diminutive woman who smoked camels and had a no-nonsense demeanor that occasionally bordered on rudeness. She was very helpful in sharing her extensive collection once she found that we were interested in reading serious literature. Available books included Hugo, Balzac, Narayan, Forster, Stendahl, Solzhenitsyn, Kundera, Malraux and many others.

British and American residents would gather there each morning for an opportunity to meet other expatriates. Some would come from the village of Deya, which was about five miles from Soller. Built on a terraced mountainside and situated above a rocky cove, it was the home of Robert Graves. Writers and would-be writers enjoyed living there. The Port, with its marina and the surrounding lush green hills, was my preference. Despite its charm, few of the British or Americans chose to live there, preferring Soller. There were more houses to choose from and more stores in Soller, which may have been factors in their decision. .

In the mornings, we would go to the bakery for roles and pastries. Then we would proceed to the Bar Mallorca, where we would take a table near the water, order café’ con leches, and enjoy the view. Feisty little dogs seemed to rule the Port. Cars moved slowly around them, with most drivers demonstrating patience with the reluctance of these members of the canine community to leave the street when traffic attempted to pass them.

It was always a big day when we would leave the village and take the train to the big city of Palma. There was an outdoor café at the station. One could sit and have a coffee cappuccino, and look over the Cyprus trees; there was also a nice view of the mountains that surrounded the village.

The train to Palma took about 40 minutes. It would chug along, winding its way up the hillside; the train would pass through tunnels. As we exited the tunnel, we had a different view of the village and the valley below. The train would then travel quickly through a  seven mile tunnel and would enter the charming village of Bunyola, which was a terraced  village built on a mountainside. The train would continue the city of Palma..

When we arrived, there was a café located right at the train station where one could wait comfortably, or simply have a drink to celebrate the arrival in Palma, which we oftemn did. We would then cross the street, pass the Plaza Espana, and begin our walk through the narrow winding pedestrian street made of Kabul stones that descended into the lower level of the city where American Express office was located.  In the early seventies, it was possible to receive once male and American Express at no charge. This was an exciting moment since we usually had mail waiting for us. We would then proceed to a   café and read the letters from home. .

There was a little restaurant near American Express that offered a decent lunch at astonishingly low prices, even by the standards of low-cost Mallorca at that time. The meals always included a salad, a main course, dessert, wine or mineral water, at a cost well below one American dollar. .

Sometimes we would go to see Jai Lai matches at the fronton, or take a walk by the cathedral. It was a wonderful time; there was enough money to live on. We were young and very comfortable in each others’ presence. There were only about five trains that went from Palma to Soller. The visit to the more dynamic city was a change from the peaceful pace of life in the village of Soller and the Port. Upon arrival back in Soller, we would take the tram back to the Port where our apartment was located. It was a very effective system.  The train always waited for the tram to arrive from the Port, and the tram always waited for the train to arrive from Palma before departing for the Port.

Although the trip was stimulating, there was a also a sense of ease and bliss about everything we did.  Mallorca was safe and clean. The ubiquitous cafes offered a respite from any activity.

Often in the mornings, we would walk down to the bakery, by our pastries, and proceed to a table at one of the outdoor cafes that overlooked the harbor .Moe and Emily would order cappuccino, while Dan and I would order a cognac as well. After a leisurely breakfast, we would get up when we saw the tram beginning to move towards its trip to the village of Soller. We would then take the train and walk a short distance to the Bar Turismo, where an American woman named Elaina maintained an English lending library that contained close to 7000 volumes. There was no shortage of good literature, from Gabriel Garcia Marquez to Stendahl.

The mornings at the Bar Turismo were the center of social and cultural life for English and American expatriates. The Majorcans occupied one side of the café, with the Americans and British occupying the back section. It was a comfortable place where one could have a conversation in English, read the International Herald Tribune, and enjoy an excellent coffee and cognac. For some of the regulars, particularly those that were living alone, these morning hours were the most important part of the day.

Bob, formerly of Beverly Hills, could be found in the same chair every morning. After his 25^th year in the café in the same chair, the owner of the café, placed a ceramic tile on the wall behind the chair that said “Tio Bob” He sat in that chair  every morning until his death.

After visiting fifty countries, it remains my favorite place in the world.

A one-page Guide to American Politics

This guide is designed for those Americans who, by necessity or inclination, do limited reading and analysis of social and political conditions within the United States. America has only one political party with two wings, the Democratic wing and the Republican wing. Discussion: The Democrats campaign from the left and govern from the center; the Republicans campaign from the right, then govern from the center-right while pursuing a pro-business agenda that does little to elevate the quality of life of ordinary people in America. As a result, there is only a modest range of potential change in policy that occurs between the center and center-right positions, resulting in a frozen democracy and the continuance of the status quo desired by the politicians’ masters.

The latter include influential members of the financial sector, the Republican and Democratic party leaders , and owners of the media. Lewis Lapham and Walter Karp refer to this group as “the permanent government” in America. Congress and the Presidency constitute the provisional government, where the morality play of social and political issues unfold; however, the real decisions are made by their masters. Congress is clearly the largest house of prostitution in the nation, with ordinary American’s experiencing the illusion, not the reality, of representative democracy. As one Republican Congresswoman was bold enough to say, “if you want access, you have to pay for it.” It would be helpful if all Senators wore race car driver outfits with logos revealing their corporate and other sponsors; it would then be easier for Americans to understand who owns them. The five member conservative majority on the Supreme Court demonstrated its corruption in the Gore decision after the 2000 election by reversing their long-standing respect for states rights while indicating that this decision was an exception. It was a politically motivated act to aid the Republicans to whom they owed their appointment to the High Court. The Court declined to allow a recount in the State of Florida, where there were numerous flaws in the election process, including  a system that fraudulently denied certification to eligible voters and police roadblocks in Volusia County designed to limit Black turnout in the election. Presidential Obama, like his predecessors, campaigned for change, but has largely promoted a continuance of government policies in many areas.

Moreover, in the healthcare debate, he could have submitted an administration backed bill that included a comprehensive single-payer plan. Instead, he avoided a contentious debate where he could potentially lose political points, leaving it to the corrupt Congress to pass a watered-down version of health care that still excludes millions of persons from healthcare coverage to this day.  On a personal level, it is not inspiring that he bought his house in Illinois at below market value from a man subsequently convicted of bribery and extortion. The American Electorate is divided into two groups. The first includes the majority of conservative White voters, along with a smaller percentage (10% of Blacks,  33%  of Asians, and  33% of Latinos) of minorities. The second group is comprised of roughly 40% of progressive White voters, along with 90% of blacks, 67% of Latinos and 67% of Asians, and smaller populations. The Conservative White Majority constitutes the poison that permeates American society through its promotion of 19^th-century rugged individualism, anti-intellectualism, and racism. Discussion: The rugged individualism is cast in modern-day society as “personal responsibility”, the name the Republicans gave to the 1995 welfare Reform Act. Under their view, each individual is responsible for himself; it is a form of social Darwinism that rejects collective responsibility and mutual support. Although they fear socialism, they have no idea that government subsidies to oil, agriculture and other industries constitute socialism. Indeed, as the late economist John Kenneth Galbreath observed, America has long had socialism for the rich and capitalism for the poor.

This is beyond their meager understanding. The anti-intellectualism is manifested with George Bush prancing around the stage and 2004 throwing out clichés such as “you can run, but you can hide.” and the success of Sarah Palin, despite her intellectual implosion on national television in her interview with Katie Couric. The racism is reflected not only in the placards from the tea party march in Washington depicting  the President as a monkey, but in Sarah Palin’s vice presidential campaign when she said, in addressing a White audience,  that “ it is good to be around real Americans”. How likely is it she would refer to a gathering of people of color by that term? The so-called Tea party movement is sponsored by two billionaires, appeals to the worst of American values, rugged individualism, anti-intellectualism and racism. Within the tea party, there is a fundamental rejection of a sense of community. During their public demonstrations, some supporters carried dehumanizing signs depicting President Obama

as a primate rather than a human being. It is important to note that many other tea party supporters were willing participants to march along side the persons carrying these racist placards. Tea party members, who are overwhelmingly white, fail to offer a positive vision of a better Society for all Americans. From the misspellings on the placards, many of the tea party supporters are not among our better educated citizens.

The so called “American Dream” is a pathetic one of a job, house and a car, with no thought given to the fact that such basics are merely a point of departure for enriching the human experience through the arts, music, literature and other pursuits that enhance the human experience. The dreams of the White majority are individual ones; mutual sharing and support are rejected. Under these conditions, is it a good idea to vote? One reason to vote for a different party is to deny legitimacy to the one party system of Democrats and Republicans. At the same time, a good reason to vote Democratic is, if one is not wealthy, to block the Republicans and their disregard for the quality of life of ordinary people.

The Moon Landing and the Mafia A Novel By Bill Honer Copyright 2000

The Moon Landing and the Mafia Excerpts)

By Bill Honer

Copyright 2000

2009 edition

Originally published on WordPress as

“The Queens Traveler” in 2009

Pages: 186

Reader screens: 706

Lou finds his dreams of world travel fulfilled by a wild ride that takes him to Hong Kong, the magical “El Fna” square in Marrakech, Kuala Lumpur, the Amazon River, the jungles of northern Guatemala, and many other destinations. He often travels with his good friend Carl, a brilliant chemist by profession who ingests homemade chemical compounds while living slightly to the left of sanity. Lou rides the “Magic Bus” between Istanbul and the Serbian city of Nis, meets beautiful ladies from Northern Europe while living on the Spanish island of Mallorca, and experiences adventures, the comic, and the erotic as he enjoys the sexual freedom of the sixties and seventies. He learns of the dangers facing an American traveling alone behind the “Iron Curtain” of Eastern Europe as he crosses the Berlin Wall into East Germany and Czechoslovakia. Readers will hopefully find pleasure in sharing the ride. Although a work of fiction, the novel was inspired by the author’s independent travels to more than fifty counties throughout the world. If you enjoy it, I may be contacted at billhoner9@gmail.com

or kennellolivia@yahoo.com (default e-mail) Book Reviews are welcomed-novel is available free at billhonerwordpress.com/

This novel is dedicated to my father John Honer, with gratitude for providing his children with loving affection and encouragement, along with a philosophy of life based on compassion, social justice, and the sensibility that life is to be enjoyed, not simply endured. Bill Honer, 2009

Introduction

Lou is a New Yorker who makes the most of life in the late sixties and early seventies, a time known for sexual freedom,and for some Americans, world travel. A social worker who has worked inside some of New York’s most infamous prisons with hard-core murderers and other violent offenders, Lou travels with Carl, a brilliant chemist by profession who spends considerable time ingesting homemade chemical compounds while living slightly to the left of sanity.

Dreams of world travel are fulfilled by visiting Hong Kong, the wild “El Fna” square in Marrakech, Kuala Lumpur, the Amazon River, the jungles of northern Guatemala, and many other places. Lou attends a major trial of heroine smugglers in Hong Kong, rides the “Magic Bus” between Istanbul and the Serbian city of Nis, meets beautiful ladies from Northern Europe while living on the Spanish island of Mallorca, and has his share of exotic experiences. He learns the dangers facing an American traveling alone behind the Iron Curtain of Eastern Europe during the seventies as he crosses the Berlin Wall as he visits the former East Germany and Czechoslovakia.

While all characters in the novel are fictional, the novel was inspired by my experiences traveling independently to more than 50 countries around the world. I had considered writing a memoir, but decided that some readers might well reject some of the more outrageous events in my life as sheer fiction; writing a fictional novel eliminates such concerns.

The novel is a wild ride that I hope will prove enjoyable for the reader. Bill Honer 2009

Part I: New York City

Chapter I

Queens 1969: Lou Shares the Moon landing with the Mafia

Lou lived in Forest Hills; his apartment was located on Burns Street and Yellowstone Boulevard. The view from the terrace included Forest Hills and Middle Village. For a city location, there were many trees to admire on a spring day.

New York in the sixties was highly segregated. The primary difference between Johannesberg and New York was that apartheid had not been formally codified into law, but New Yorkers in the sixties knew the unwritten rules of discrimination. Black people in Forest Hills were largely a rumor, while White people in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn were a miracle.

Forest Hills had good Jewish delicatessens and restaurants; there were also numerous cocktail lounges along Queens Boulevard, most of which were believed to be mob-controlled.

Lou had his phone number listed in the Queens directory. Sometimes, he received from former inmates who wanted to talk to their old social worker.

Margot, his lady friend, was getting ready to leave with him to attend an antiwar rally at United Nations Plaza. Thousands of people were taking the day off from work to protest the Vietnam War. Peter, Paul, and Mary, the folk singers, would be there. The protest leaders would no doubt have ample criticisms of President Nixon’s policies. Lou and Margot considered the President a craven politician with limited sensibilities; they had labored hard to convince friends at college to vote for the Democratic candidate Hubert Humphrey, but to no avail. It promised to be an interesting day.

They were an attractive couple; Lou was six feet tall, with blue-green eyes and a slender build, while Margot was a brown-haired beauty with a hint of Asian features.

As they were leaving, the phone rang; it was Johnny Manning, an ex-convict that Lou had worked with inside Dannemora prison; he wanted to get together that evening. They agreed to meet at a bar on Queens Boulevard. This seemed a good idea because it happened to be the night of the moon landing; they would be able to see history made on a good television screen rather than the old Salvation Army purchased television sitting in the living room.

Lou had met Johnny while doing research with multiple felony offenders; there was directness about him which was reflected in his crime of choice, which was armed robbery.

“Look Lou, Johnny had once said to him, “I’m not going to try to present myself other than how I am. I am a thief, and I am not likely to change; it may not be the greatest thing in the world, but that is what I am.”

Johnny had first been arrested when he was sixteen years old. Due to prior convictions for theft, he was labeled “incorrigible” and sent to the Auburn State Prison for men. He was not released until he was twenty-one. Johnny once spoke about the day that he was freed.

“They gave me a white shirt, black suit and shoes, and two hundred dollars; then the bulls drove me down to the train station. When I was sitting in the train, I felt that everyone was staring at me because of the suit; local people knew that was the station where prisoners boarded the train.”

“Sometimes, the bulls bring a con handcuffed because they are taking him to a funeral in the city, so anyway there I am feeling like everyone is looking at me. I just kept staring out the window and avoiding eye contact. When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I still felt that everyone was staring at me and could tell I was a con because of that fucking suit. I called home and told my Mom to send my cousin Joey over with pants and a shirt for me. I went into the men’s room and changed; then I took a cab over to Greenpoint. I swear to God, Lou, it was only when I was out of that suit and into other clothes that I felt like I was out of prison,” he said.

The Enchanted Evening Lounge looked like a connected place; it was dimly lit, with a beige satin dropped ceiling. The seats were oversized white leatherette and were very comfortable. Upon sitting, one descended ten inches. Sinatra was singing “There’s a Small Hotel” from the juke box. Other than two men seated at the bar, the place was empty. Lou ordered two Schaefer beers, their New York brew of choice.

Lou discreetly observed the two men at the bar; both were wearing black suits and white shirts;  the expensive clothes suggested Wall Street. However, the large hands, heavy eyebrow ridges, and long sideburns indicated ties to the mob. One said, “Hey Gizzooch. I bet you five bucks you can’t name the seven dwarfs!”

The other gangster looked at his colleague carefully to make certain that he wasn’t bull-shitting him; he wasn’t. “Joey!” he yelled to the bartender. “Did you hear what Frankie said? I win five bucks for naming the seven dwarfs. Okay, you animal, listen good, Dopey, Grumpy, Sleepy…” Frankie shook his head and opened his wallet to retrieve a five dollar bill, saying “I didn’t think you were that smart, go figure.”

Lou and Margot sat quietly sipping their Schaefer beers. It was becoming clear why Johnny had chosen this bar; his “homeboys” from Attica and Dannemora congregated there. Their sense of civic responsibility was limited to a monthly visit to the office of their respective parole agents. Rather than make Margot and Lou nervous, it had precisely the opposite effect. They felt safe and secure; no one would be robbing a “connected” establishment. In the early seventies, there were three streets in the Bronx named Fox, Simpson, and Tiffany which were known to be very rough places to live. Crime statistics revealed that a person living on those streets had a one in eighteen chance of becoming a homicide victim, not even a twenty-to-one shot! On the other hand, persons living where the Mafia did in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn had a one in twelve hundred chance of becoming a crime victim! Lou and Margot continued to talk softly, although it was more fun to overhear the mobsters’ conversation.

“Hey, Frankie, my cousin said to me that he thought he seen you working at a store on West Thirty-seventh Street. I told him he gotta stop eating those mushrooms.” said Grizzooch, as he gave everyone his best Cro-Magnon smile.

Frankie laughed “Working? Ya gotta be kidding me. I ain’t worked since that time in the fifties when Carmine got us that job painting one of the bridges. I think we lasted three days. This friend of Carmine’s comes over with an Irish guy and says that Mike is our crew chief and that if we got any questions, all we gotta do is ask Mike. So me being a smart ass, I say to him, ‘Listen, Mike. Do you think Ericco can get that pig he is riding home first in the sixth at Aqueduct?’ So the Mick just looks at me with a hard stare and says, ‘This is a bridge, not the track. So get to work.’ I look surprised and says, ‘You mean this ain’t the track? I must a taken a wrong turn and I’m in the wrong place; thanks for telling me.’ You shoudda seen the look on the Irishman’s face when I walked off. He started yelling ‘Where are you going?’ I yelled back, ‘I’m going to the Big A, where do you think I’m going?’ said Frankie.

Even the bartender laughed at that one. Finally Johnny entered the club, shook hands with the mobsters, and came over to the table.

“Margot, this is my old friend Johnny.” said Lou.

“Hi Johnny, I’m glad to meet you.” said Margot.

“Same here Margot, I hope you don’t mind spending the evening with these goombas,” said Johnny, pointing to the gangsters at the bar.

“This place has a colorful atmosphere. I’m enjoying myself.” said Margot.

“I go back a long time with those guys; we are all graduates of the University of Sing-Sing.” he added.

“What was your major?” she asked.

“Armed Robbery,” replied Johnny.

“I heard that you were indicted last year for that two million dollar armored truck robbery at Aqueduct racetrack.” said Lou.

“That is true, but not at this moment; it seems the District Attorney had trouble getting a trial date and finding witnesses, so the case was dismissed with the right to represent.” he said with a tight smile.

Johnny leaned over in conspiratorial fashion. “About two months ago, my lawyer calls me and tells me to get down to La Fontana restaurant on Queens Boulevard at one o’clock. He had arranged a meeting with Carmine Mosca, who has a lot of political connections. There we are having some pasta and wine. My lawyer turns to Carmine and says, “Carmine, I want you to know that Johnny is a good boy, but he has a very big problem with the Aqueduct armored truck indictment. I thought that we might at least let you know about it,’ he said. Carmine just kept eating his penne, not saying much at all. My lawyer was doing most of the talking. After drinking his espresso, Carmine walks out. My lawyer turns to me and says, ‘It will cost you twenty-five grand to get the indictment dismissed.’ I said to him ‘How do you know that?’ He picks up Carmine’s napkin and shows me a small 25k printed in the corner. I couldn’t figure out how he wrote it; he must have done that many times. All I know is that the case against me was dismissed yesterday.” he said.

“It’s too bad that one of the guards had to be a hero and go for his gun.” Johnny continued . “He shot Billy Jackson in the chest; his brother Eddie freaked out when he saw his brother lying there dead, and he began pumping bullets into the guard. So for playing a hero protecting someone else’s money, that guard wound up dead.” he said shaking his head.

“Two million was a lot of money, but it never brought anyone luck.” he added.

The television announcers were busily building the suspense of the moon landing. The gangsters at the bar were even beginning to pay more attention to the event.

Margot was originally from a small community in western New York. This was her first meeting with a professional criminal. She found him charming in a boyish way; it made her forget that he made his living by sticking a thirty-eight in people’s faces.

“Johnny,” said Lou, “please tell Margot about the candy store incident.” asked Lou.

Johnny laughed. “So you want me to be the one to corrupt Margot’s view of New York’s finest?  All right.” he said.

“I had been out on parole for a while; the Green Point cops were always busting my chops for the sheer fun of it. They had nothing on me and that made them mad; not that I was leading a clean life, but we won’t go into what I was doing. One night I was with a woman whom I had known for awhile. It was Saturday night, we visited some clubs in Manhattan, and got back to Green Point around four in the morning. Now I have a routine that I follow. On Sunday mornings, I go to my Mom’s candy store and help her with the Sunday newspaper inserts. The problem was that Margie just kept hanging around the store, pestering me to pay attention to her; when I kept working, she started pushing on my shoulders.” said Johnny.

“That made me mad, so I grabbed her arm and pushed her out of the store and locked the front door; then I pulled the shades down so she couldn’t see me.”

“Margie started banging on the door so hard I thought she would break the glass. Meanwhile, she was out there on the street calling me every name in the book. After awhile, things went quiet outside; I figured that she got tired and went home. Well the next thing I know, two cops are pounding on the door. When I opened it, they grabbed me and tell me that I am being arrested for assault against one Margie Riordan. I told them what happened and that it was nothing but a bum beef, but these guys knew all about my past, and were not about to give me a pass. I said to them, ‘Look, guys. Can I at least make a phone call before you take me in?’ They weren’t happy about it, but they weren’t bad guys. I called a good friend named Joey and told him to meet me at the station house with a thousand in cash. Joey was a player, he knew that money could grease the wheels of justice with the Green Point detectives.”

“They put me in a holding cell after they booked me; I was a little worried because I was still on parole. Then I saw a detective named Schuster walking toward the cell; that was when I knew my problems would soon be over. Schuster couldn’t be straight with the help of a fucking ruler, excuse my French Margot. He took me to an interview room and closed the door. At first, he didn’t say anything. He just read the paperwork on me slowly. Finally, he looks up and says, ‘Johnny, it looks like you’ve been a bad boy again. Aren’t you still on parole? This won’t look good. No sir,’ he said shaking his head.”

“Look Detective Schuster, this is a bad rap. I swear to God all I did was shove her outside because she was pushing on my shoulders while I was trying to get the Sunday papers ready for my Mom, I said to him.”

‘Oh yeah,’ says Schuster. ‘You were always a fucking boy scout.’

“Look detective,” I says “Can’t we do something to work this out?  I’m telling you there is nothing to this case. Couldn’t five hundred wrap this up?  I mean for the inconvenience and everything?”

“He looked at me real hard. ‘I think you are minimizing the inconvenience Johnny.’ he says.

The greedy fuck, excuse my language again Margot, wanted the full yard, so I tell him Joey has the money in the waiting area. Schuster left me and went out to see Joey; he was stuffing the envelope in his pocket as he returned to the interview room.” continued Johnny.

“Now the son of a bitch is all smiles. He picks up the inkwell on his desk and proceeds to pour the ink onto the police report. Then he looked up at me, smiled and said. ‘See, Johnny, accidents happen.’ “That’s great, Schuster,” I said. “Can I go home now?”

‘Sure, no problem, but you still gotta go to Court. he says.”

“Go to Court? I screamed at him. I just paid you a grand to handle this piece of bullshit, and I gotta go to Court?”

“He said ‘Look Johnny, calm down and relax. You got my word the case will be dismissed. It’s just that there is already some paperwork for a court date, but I guarantee you the witness will not show up. I’m telling you can forget this ever happened.’ Sure enough, he was right. I went to Court and the case was dismissed for lack of evidence; Margie didn’t show up.” said Johnny.

“Later, I found out what really happened that day in court. Schuster and his partner went to see Margie early in the morning. They told her I had been spotted on Staten Island. ‘We need you to make a positive identification; can you come with us?’ they told her. So they gave Margie the grand tour of Staten Island and she never made it to Court.” said Johnny.

“Johnny, do many New York police take money?” asked Margot.

“Only those who are offered money accept. It is considered bad etiquette to refuse, and New York cops like to be polite.” said Johnny smiling.

Margot became pensive. “That is awful; I had no idea things were so bad.” she said.

“I knew a man whose uncle was a detective with the New York City police. He said his uncle told him that on the first day of each month, a cop would walk through the squad room and slap an envelope filled with cash down on each desk.” said Lou.

“My only complaint about them is that they are so greedy,” Johnny lamented. “No matter how much you give them, they always want more.” he said.

“This was not discussed in my criminology class.” said Margot shaking her head.

The bartender raised the television volume; the first astronaut from the earth was stepping onto the surface of the moon.       Even the two gangsters appeared to be engrossed in the historic moment.

“Hey Gizzooch! Look at this.” said Frankie.

“Frankie, you wonder how they can tap a phone?” said Gizzooch. This was the relevance of the moon landing to the Mafia.

The evening passed quickly and pleasantly, with a few more mobsters arriving; the juke box appeared to be dedicated exclusively to Frank Sinatra.

When it was time to leave, Johnny stayed behind with his friends.

“That was different,” said Margot, as they walked hand-in-hand down Queens Boulevard. It was a beautiful night; the lights from apartments in the high-rise buildings dotted the urban landscape. It was a pleasant walk home.

Chapter II

Albany 1969: The “Psycho-ceramics” Weekend

Lou often visited friends in Albany on the weekend. His friend Beth’s apartment in Albany was illuminated exclusively by colored lights; there were green, red, and orange bulbs. Even the refrigerator contained a rose colored lamp. If smoking grass resulted in the munchies, the subdued lighting enabled them to conduct a search and destroy mission in the food box without having their bloodshot eyes assaulted by white light. Since they liked to read, two white light bulbs were kept in a handy location and could be screwed into a light fixture when needed.

Beth was lovely and gracious; she made Lou feel as though it was his apartment whenever he came up from the city. The relationship between Margot and Lou was not exclusive.

Beth was a graduate student at the state university; Lou was strongly attracted to her. In fact, he had a difficult time keeping his hands off her well-rounded bottom.  Fortunately for Lou, she never complained; the attraction was reciprocal.

The big weekend was starting that night; Carl the chemist was coming from the North Country, along with Bob the mathematician, while Jim and Lorraine were coming from New York City. Even Nicko was taking the weekend away from his work at Broadway Burlesque to join the party.

Beth performed a final inspection of the premises. After viewing the supplies of grass, wine, cheese, coffee, bread, pasta, sauces, and salads, she was satisfied. The party should start around seven on Thursday and continue until Sunday evening. Past experience had taught them that a Friday to Sunday party was simply not long enough.

Nicko was the first to arrive. His long black hair extended over his leather jacket, he was wearing rose-tinted glasses and wore a facial expression that was even more haggard than usual.

“What a night! I worked the Broadway for eight hours. Two of the strippers did not show up, so everyone else was mad about having to do extra shows; then I went home with Helen Bed; it was a long night with her. She lasted two hours with the vibrator after we took some Jamaican ganja weed. I woke up at about eight-thirty this morning, and there was Helen was pushing on my shoulders saying ‘C’mon, Nicko you promised to whip me this morning.’ And you know, I hadn’t even had my coffee.” he said, pleading for understanding.

Lou sympathized with Nicko on the rigors of an evening with Helen. He had done it one time and thought he might have to undergo physical rehabilitation in order to walk erect again.

Lou offered Nicko some food, wine, and smoke, placing a Bill Evans album on the stereo. Nicko was an electronics specialist by profession; however, he was going through an unpleasant divorce and preferred to earn less these days, lest his soon-to-be ex-wife receive any additional  money from him before the final decree.

Nicko was kind and generous, except when his former consort was concerned. She still lived in the same three-story brownstone building in Brooklyn. Nicko took a hit off a thick joint Lou had rolled for his companions. “I nailed the old lady and her Japanese boyfriend last night with a pincer movement.” he said happily.

When pressed for an explanation, Nicko replied “Well you see, we have been plagued with roaches. So I sprayed my own first floor apartment and also the one on the third floor. It drove all the roaches into her apartment on the second floor. It was beautiful!” he said joyfully.

It was time to change topics. Nicko could discuss art, jazz, French literature, and a wide range of philosophy, but it was important to avoid conversations about his ex-wife.

Carl was the next to arrive. He was smoking his pipe as he cheerily strolled in and said, “Hi, everybody! I hope you are. If not, I have something that could put a smile on John Mitchell’s face.” he beamed.

Nicko smiled. “What is the world like these days in the North Country?” he inquired.

“It’s still colder than a witch’s tit! There are fools who are still taking their Cadillacs out on the ice in Lake Champlain.” he said.

“What do they do out there?” asked Lou

“They cut a hole in the ice, fish, drink beer, and feel like they are in paradise because their wives never go along.” answered Carl.

“It really gets cold up there.” said Nicko.

Carl was now waxing on an inescapable topic for the Plattsburgh residents of the North Country; it could not be ignored any more than a heart attack.

“I’ll tell you a true story Nicko. As you know, there is a prison outside of town called Dannemora. Several years ago a convict escaped in January. There were roadblocks all over the place, with dozens of police carrying shotguns. The first day went by without a trace of the prisoner. On the second day, a squad car was about a mile away from the main road. Suddenly, they saw the escapee running up to them, waiving his hands frantically.”

‘I never thought you would get here, I’m freezing!’ he said. They couldn’t get him back inside the walls fast enough to for his liking. That’s why the inmates call the place Little Siberia.” said Carl.

Lou decided to roll another joint as they reflected on the meteorological vagaries of the North Country. The doorbell rang; Lorraine and Jim had arrived. They had seen the latest Woody Allen comedy called “Sleeper”; everyone was interested learning whether it was a good film.

“It was funnier than hearing Nixon sing ‘Mammy’.” quipped Loraine.

“How is life in the City?” Lou inquired.

“Well, it isn’t easy getting gas, I can tell you that. I had to get up at five o’clock to get some.  The oil companies are making the shortage appear worse than it is by not unloading the oil from the ships. I visited my family in Bensonhurst yesterday. From the Fort Hamilton parkway, you could see the tankers sitting low in the water; they are holding a lot of oil.” he added.

“It’s a shame.” Said Carl.

“This is good stuff” said Beth “I think it put half the campus to sleep last night.”

Everyone took a toke and passed it to the next person. Lou put John Coltrane’s “Equinox” on the stereo; the group grew silent as they became absorbed in the music.

“I had a funny thing happen to me last night at the Broadway.” said Nicko. All present knew Nicko was the backstage floor director at Broadway Burlesque who provided audio and lighting support for the show.

“It was about two-thirty a.m., we had just completed the last show. There was Misty Lake, Golden Shanna, and Gimme More.”

“Gimme says, ‘Listen, Nicko, here we are baring our asses all night long; the least you can do is give us a little dance.”

“So I put on a G-strong and pasties. I showed them how to work the audio and microphone and went out onto the stage and did a five-minute strip number for them. They were yelling and cheering me on to continue the strip routine until I was naked.” said Nicko.

“I am very pleased to report that my genitals received a standing ovation! Then I feel asleep in the boss’s office. The next morning, Murray, the manager, shows up.” Continued Nicko.

“There I am, asleep in his easy chair, and all I’m wearing are the pasties and the G-string.”

‘Nicko!’ he yells at me ‘For Christ’s sake, I know boys have to be girls, but not on my time!’

“You can imagine the bullshit I put up with the rest of the day. He kept telling all the ladies ‘Nicko didn’t take a walk on the wild side, he took a five-mile run.’ From now on, I’m sticking strictly to floor directions and ass-grabbing, no more dancing.” Nicko said emphatically.

Lou sympathized with Nicko in having to deal with Murray. As an occasional weekend announcer and stage manager himself at the Broadway, he knew that Murray enjoyed being a ball-breaker when he was not occupied trying to convince a new dancer to lay down on the ‘casting couch,’ which consisted of an old green sofa that he had no doubt rescued from his most recent divorce. In his free moments, Murray would walk around the theater like the lord of an English manor. His only regret was that he was not fluent in Japanese and was therefore unable to communicate with the majority of the club’s patrons.

He was short, fat, and sloppily dressed. Murray did not walk, he waddled. If a group of young ducklings ever took a wrong turn and wound up on Lexington Avenue when Murray was out for a stroll, they probably would imprint and waddle right behind him. He was unfamiliar with the art galleries and museums New York had to offer, viewing an excursion to Aqueduct race track in Queens as a cultural activity.

Lou remembered a day when he and Nicko were talking in the control room at the Broadway. They were discussing Solzenhitzyn’s book, “The First Circle.” Murray came into the room and listened to the conversation for a few seconds.

“Solzenhitzyn?” said Murray. Isn’t he the guy that the Giants traded to the Raiders last year?” he asked.

The only book Murray had been known to read was “Lesbian Cowgirls at the Lavender Corral”; it took him six months to read it.

Explaining the writings of Alexander Solzenhitzyn to Murray would not be easy. Lou had taken the easy way out. “Murray, you have it wrong about Solzenhitzyn. It wasn’t last year the Giants traded him, it was two years ago.” Lou said.

“Oh,” replied Murray. “I thought it was last year.” Murray replied as he waddled back to the  plate of cold spaghetti in his office.

Lorraine had a story to tell. She worked as a nurse in Manhattan, often visiting patients in their homes.

“One of my elderly patients has a daughter named Marsha. She and I became friends; sometimes we go to films and concerts together, especially when Jim was visiting his family in Brooklyn.” said Lorraine.

”Marsha never married; her greatest passion in life was listening to the Beatles. We went to a showing of the “Yellow Submarine” at the Regency Theater. There were several people in the row behind us who were making some mildly critical comments about the acting ability of John Lennon. Suddenly, Marsha stood up and turned to face them, saying ‘John Lennon is a great man!’ It was touching to see such a normally mild-mannered person rise to a level of dignified passion.” said Lorraine.

Jim nudged Lorraine ”Tell everyone about Marsha’s mother.”

Lorraine laughed.

“Well, her mother’s name is Erma. I went with Marsha to visit her at the nursing home. She is frail, but her mind is very sharp. She is opposed to the war; Erma never refers to Nixon by name. It is always ‘that creep in the White House.’ She told me ‘Never trust anyone who goes on television with a dog on his lap.’ Marsha thought it was wonderful that her mother kept up on politics.” continued Lorraine.

“What bothered Marsha was that her mother, despite her advanced age, seemed obsessed with sex. While we were sitting in the dining room, another resident came in; he looked to be in his early seventies. His name was Harry; he wore a gray suit and a tie, and looked as if  he paid considerable attention to his appearance.” Continued Lorraine.

“‘Good morning Erma, good morning folks, nice day.’ he said graciously.”

‘Erma winked at him and said, ‘Harry, I would really like to get something straight between us!’ Well! Marsha almost lost her Viennese coffee.” said Lorranie.

“Harry looked at her quizzically. ‘What would that be, Erma?’ he asked innocently.”

“She looked at us and shook her head. ‘Harry may be seventy-two, but he is still a babe in the woods. He thinks “Deep Throat” is a medical condition, but he is nice looking and presentable, don’t you think?’ she inquired of us. Harry did not seem to know what to make of the conversation. ‘Erma is a great kidder.’ he said.”

‘Listen, sweetie pie, when it comes to you, I am as serious as a brain tumor. Let’s take a trip to Paris, shall we? The left bank is so colorful.’ she added brightly.”

“Harry appeared inclined toward the literal. He relied ‘Well, Erma, my grandchildren are coming from Texas next month.’ This acknowledgement of familial ties seemed to irritate Erma. ‘Screw the granchildren! It’s time you began to live Harry! Before you know it, you’ll be too old to enjoy yourself.’ Erma cautioned.”

‘Well, I suppose that is true, Erma. Hum-ah-well, perhaps we can discuss this another time.’

“Erma smiled at him. ‘You are right, Harry. We need to talk about this in private’ she said seductively.”

“I thought it was pretty funny, but Marsha was upset. ‘Mother, you can’t go about throwing yourself at men like that!’ she told her.”

“Erma gave Marsha a warm smile. ‘Well, dear, I really don’t throw myself at them. I just sort of nudge a little closer.’ she said”

“Marsha shook her head. ‘Mom, you are hopeless.’ said Marsha.”

“‘No, dear, that’s not true. I still have quite a bit of hope for Harry and me; I would bet he is  a tiger in bed!’ Erma said enthusiastically.”

“Erma is special.” said Lorraine.

“Lou, you got the gas mask here?” asked Nicko.

One outrageous feature of the parties was the presence of a World War II gas mask. The smoke from the grass would fill the mask, producing a very nice high.

“Great idea! Let’s use the gas mask?” asked Carl, who was sometimes referred to as the mad chemist.

“I’ll get it Nicko, but the thing should be outlawed!” said Lou.

“It is outlawed.” added Jim. “Don’t worry about it.”

The doorbell rang, it was Bob. He was a mathematician by profession; his favorite field of exploration was topology, which addressed theories of limits. He had certainly chosen the right group of friends, since limits often posed challenges for them.

Snow was falling outside. Lou put Wes Montgomery’s “Bumpin” on the stereo. The snow was intensified by the bright street lights. Occasionally, the rush of the wind could be heard; it was good to be with friends in a warm and cozy place.

“Mrs. Thompson was her usual weird self tonight,” said Beth. “I cannot believe how this woman spends her life. She has a ham radio and listens to the police communications. That is all she does; then she goes to work and spends her time telling us about the latest burglary. It would not be so bad if it were New York City, where strange things happened, but this is Albany!” she lamented.

Lou agreed. “You are right about that, Beth. Do you remember when I did research for a crime victimization project? Even for a jaded New Yorker like myself, some crimes had me shaking my head in disbelief,” he added.

“What were some of the stories?” asked Carl.

“Let me roll another joint. These stories are going to take a while,” said Lou. He changed the music to “Mort’s Report” by Red Garland. The tune was named in honor of Mort Fega, a jazz announcer who had a program called “Jazz Unlimited” on a New York City radio station in the early sixties.

“It was one of the hardest jobs I have ever had. The most difficult part of it was interviewing the next of kin in homicide cases. I will tell you this; there is not enough money to pay me to do that again. I tried to offer the victims something, such as telling them about the Crime Victims’ Compensation Board.” he added.

Joan, a friend of Beth’s arrived from the Albany suburbs to spend the night.

The hour was growing late. As Joan entered the apartment, Carl, Bob, and Nicko were sitting in the kitchen talking; Beth and Lou had gone to sleep.

“Listen fellows, could you keep the noise down? I have to get up early tomorrow to teach a class.” she said.

“Sure, no problem.” said Carl. “What kind of class are you teaching?”

“I teach ceramics.” she responded.

“Oh!” said Nicko. “Do you teach psycho-ceramics?”

Puzzled, she repeated the word ‘psycho-ceramics?’

“Yes!” said Nicko “Crackpots!” After that little exchange, Joan was rather cool to the group.

The party would be referred to in the future as the ‘psycho-ceramics weekend.’

Beth and Lou came out after awhile and rejoined the party.

“Hey Lou.” said Jim. “How is Jack doing?”

Jack was a mutual friend. He was only twenty-three years old, but had already worked as a bassist with Art Blakely and Horace Silver.

“Nicko, you are not going to believe what happened to him earlier this year. Let me tell you all about Jack and his dead dog.” said Lou.

“Jack makes his living as a jazz musician, but augments his income by apartment sitting for some wealthy people in Manhattan.”

“One weekend, he was due to sit in a beautiful apartment on Park Avenue, where the doorman had a uniform similar to a high-ranking general in the Guatemalan army. The apartment itself was spacious and elegantly furnished. His main job was to feed and walk a large German Shepard named Klaus.”

“When Jack awoke on Saturday, he discovered a major problem. Klaus had died, apparently in his sleep. He was lying there peacefully, but also quite dead. Not wishing to spend the weekend with the deceased canine, he called New York City Animal Control.

‘Hi. I am calling to ask you to come pick up a dead dog at 730 Park Avenue, Apartment 10. My name’s Ferguson’ Jack said nervously.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferguson, but we don’t pick up dead animals over the weekend. We used to do it seven days a week, but we have had cutbacks in our budget,’ was the patient but firm reply from New York City officialdom.” Lou continued.

“Jack was starting to panic, even though the dog’s untimely demise was not his fault. The inescapable fact was that Klaus died while in his care, he felt guilty about that. What would he tell the Seldrige couple when they returned on Monday?

‘Listen.’ he pleaded, ‘You gotta’ help me. I can’t spend the weekend with a dead dog.’

“New York City officialdom was growing impatient with Jack. ‘Listen, fellah. I’m sorry, but what do you want me to do, call up one of the workers at home and say, ‘Listen Joe. I know you have two tickets to the Jets’ game, but Jack’s dog has died, and he needs a rescue squad to come to Park Avenue right away. How about coming in on your day off as a volunteer? You know the Bronx is especially beautiful on weekends. Now I’ll tell you, Jack. If I made that call to Joe, there would not be a single word he would say that I could repeat to my mother, and her language is not always the best, so what you gotta do is bring the dog up there by five o’clock today. OK?’ he said.”

“Jack started searching frantically for a covering. In the kitchen closet, he found a large burlap bag that could accomplish the task. After pushing Klaus inside, he hauled the bag over his shoulder. To his horror, the right leg of the dead dog broke through the bag, stopping just under his chin, scaring the hell out of him.” continued Lou.

‘I have to put him in something!’ thought Jack. A frantic search of the bedroom closet produced a large cloth suitcase. With Klaus now suitably encased, he took the elevator down to the street and started hailing cabs. New York City Cab drivers have two rules; the first is to never wear body deodorant, the second is never go to the Bronx.”

“After waiting forty minutes for a cab without success, Jack decided to take Klaus on the subway to his final resting place. He deposited a subway token, then struggled to lift the case over the turnstile; the dog weighed a ton! A man came up behind him and cheerfully said, ‘Can I help you with that?’ Jack looked at him gratefully and said, ‘Hey, man, I really appreciate that.’ Jack went through the turnstile. When he turned around to pick up the suitcase, he saw the man running like hell out of the station with the case!” said Lou.

“Jack couldn’t believe it. A Good Samaritan thief had saved him a trip to the Bronx. He laughed as he thought of the thief’s amazement and horror upon opening the suitcase. Then he tried to imagine what the thief would do when he opened the case.” said Lou.

“Jack’s scenario for what happened next was as follows: The thief ran out of the subway and caught a bus to Harlem, which was only a few minutes away. He would have wanted to put a little distance between himself and the subway station.”

“Jerome, as Jack envisioned him, was nineteen years old and a veteran thief. He had the build of an athlete, the result of exhaustive weight lifting, compliments of the New York State Correctional System. This suitcase weighed a ton; what could be inside? After getting off the bus, he entered a back alley and went behind a dumpster. He opened the case. ‘Sheet!’ he screamed. ‘I don’t believe this.’ Jerome didn’t scare easy, but the glazed eyes and frozen grin of that dog sapped the strength from those over-developed biceps. As he stared transfixed at the open case, he was spotted by one of his home boys, Jason, who walked down the alley to see what was happening. ‘Jerome, how you — what the fuck is that? That motherfuckin’ dog look like he dead.’ Jerome just shook his head in disbelief.”

Lou continued, narrating Jack’s description of subsequent events.

‘What kind of pervert goin’ to take a dead dog for a subway ride?’ said Jerome. ‘Ain’t much to be seen on a subway train. The guy looked like he was on his way to Miami; a dead dog don’t need no suntan. When I opened that case, I’m thinking ‘Maybe he got a stereo inside cause it was heavy. Stereo my ass! Ain’t getting no music from a dead dog. Thing look like it was smiling at me and taking me off, like we sure fooled you mother-fuckin’ ass, didn’t we? Running out of that station like you carrying gold bullion! Well, the bull on you, stupid. I mean that’s how he was smiling with this shit-eating grin on his face. This city getting stranger by the day, that the last time I boost a suitcase from a white dude. Black folk got more sense than be carrying something like that around. Listen bro, you think that Chinese place on 135th pay me anything for this? He be a pretty big dog. Mystery meat over rice, what cha think man? It be worth a try.’

“The muscular thief trudged his wares over to the Golden Dagon restaurant. Ten minutes later, he emerged without Klaus, looked both ways, then hurried down the street.” said Lou.

“How long were you at Knosole Insurance company, Lou?’ asked Beth.

“Five years, it was definitely the nadir of my existence.” said Lou.

“What made it so bad?” asked Lorraine.

“It was demanding work. I went there immediately after high school; in fact, it was as regimented as school and involved more hours.” said Lou.

“The thought of still being there sends chills down my spine. There was a little bell that sounded at eight-thirty in the morning to signal the start of the work day; that was followed by bells for lunch and quitting time. The work of processing claims was endless.” he said.

“How come you stayed there so long?” asked Bob.

“That’s a good question,” said Lou. “I received free tuition for New York University as a condition of employment; that was the primary reason.” replied Lou.

“Most of the men and women who worked there smoked cigarettes and drank substantial quantities of alcohol on a daily basis. For the most part, they lived out on Long Island. In addition to the demands of the job, they had an ugly commute every day; they had total economic responsibility for the family. The wife was on Long Island with the kids and the house. By the time many of them reached the age of forty-five, they were dropping dead like flies from heart attacks.” he said.

“Some of the old-timers urged me to leave.” said Lou.

“God, that sounds terrible.” said Jim.

“The one redeeming quality of the place was the people; there were some real characters, like Honest Roy.” said Lou.

“Hey Lou, why don’t you tell everybody about the time that Honest Roy took his wife to Atlantic City?” asked Carl.

“Sure Carl, that is one of my favorites.” said Lou.

“I met Honest Roy when I was eighteen. By the time I reached twenty, his wife Dora, accused me of corrupting her husband. There was no basis for this accusation since Roy was quite debauched at the time of our first meeting. On my first day on the job, he tried to convince me that he had a disability claimant from the Bronx of Jewish-Irish lineage whose name was Turalura Lipshutz.” said Lou.

“He was thirty-two years old and had worked for Knosole for twelve years. Other than smoking, drinking, gambling, and visiting brothels, Roy was a clean living guy.” continued Lou.

“On Saturday mornings, he would wake up, pour himself a beer, light up a Pall Mall cigarette and watch cartoons with his two young daughters. After a while, he would be there by himself watching the cartoons! The girls had gone off to play; there he was still watching Yogi Bear!” said Lou.

“On one occasion, he took his bride of eleven years to Atlantic City. Roy was a pure city boy who only felt at home around concrete and asphalt. In a typical week, the only grass he saw was the turf course at Aqueduct Racetrack. After breathing the brisk ocean air, he needed to restore his system to its normal state of dissipation with a few drinks; the problem was his wife Dora was not interested in spending her vacation inside a bar.” continued Lou.

“Roy’s mouth was watering at the thought of a Seagram Seven and ginger ale. As he looked at the crowded boardwalk, he noticed there were plenty of available pedal cabs pushing people up and down the boardwalk.” continued Lou.

‘That looks like fun, honey.’ he said to Dora. ‘Would you like to try it while I take a nap?’ said Roy.”

“Dora thought about it. Somewhat doubtfully, she said she would give it a try. Roy gave the pedal cab driver a large tip and told him to ‘give her a nice long ride.’ With Dora safely ensconced in the cab, he crossed the street and headed into the nearest bar. Taking a window table, he had an excellent view of Dora’s travels up and down the boardwalk. He lit a Pall Mall and ordered a Seagram Seven and ginger ale. Roy was amazed when, two hours later, Dora emerged from the pedal cab in high spirits. She had loved it!” said Lou.

‘I think I would like to do that again tomorrow, honey.’ she told him. Honest Roy was ecstatic at this fortunate turn of events.”

‘Sure you can honey!’ he told her. ‘Only the best for my girl,’ he added”.

“Roy had a great sense of humor. One afternoon, we were at the Metropole café on Seventh Avenue. There was a copy of the New York Daily News on the bar; Roy looked at it and said ‘Hey, there is my brother Joe; I have not seen him in years.’ I looked at the paper. On the front page, there was an electrical worker with his head sticking out of a manhole! What a way to see a long-lost relation, but that was Roy. He gave me a many laughs; I miss him.” said Lou.

“Didn’t you tell me about another guy who worked there who was also very funny?” asked Beth.

“Oh yes! His name was Arturo; he was even funnier than Roy. I have to tell you all this story if it is all right.” said Lou.

“Lay it on us! Then we will turn up Coltrane and blow the walls off!” said an enthusiastic Carl.

“My middle name is William; Arturo always called me ‘Billy Boy.’ He worked for Knosole as a claims investigator; Arturo was married and had three children. Before he took on those responsibilities, he was a minor league baseball player in the farm club of the Dodgers. However, the family required more stable earnings than those of a minor-leaguer, so he joined the ranks of the employed at Knosole Insurance Company, Mother Knosole, the mother of them all, at least that was how the majority of the Workers at Edison thought of their employer.” continued Lou.

“Knosole had seven thousand workers employed in one building; it was office work in the early sixties, a dehumanizing experience. Unlike some who became broken men due to the work and the dismal ambience, Arturo kept his spirit and soul intact. His humor was legendary.” Lou continued.

“One day, Arturo was walking down a very crowded Avenue of the Americas at lunch time with Honest Roy and me. We were all brothers of the turf and no strangers to Belmont and Aqueduct Racetracks; I continued to place bets through my contacts even after I quit working there.” said Lou.

“Arturo was walking in the middle, his arms draped over our shoulders. Suddenly, he screamed out, ‘And they’re off! It’s Billy Boy in front by two lengths, Honest Roy is second, and old Arturo is last. Moving down the back stretch, Billy Boy continues in front, Honest Roy  inches a little closer to the lead, and old Arturo continues to trail.’ Now Arturo is really screaming loudly, ‘As they turn for home, Honest Roy joins Billy Boy for the lead, they are running neck and neck, and here they come down the stretch!’ yelled Arturo.”

“He then started pushing our shoulders back and forth as a jockey would urge a horse to go forward. Some lunch time strollers were becoming alarmed at the sight of this agitated man jerking the shoulders of his companions.” continued Lou.

‘As they pass the sixteenth pole, it’s Honest Roy on the outside, and closing fastest of all is old Arturo! They are nose and nose, as they hit the wire, it is old Arturo by a head!’ he screamed.”

“By the time we returned to our gray skyscraper, we were all in great spirits thanks to Arturo.” said Lou.

“He sounds like a good man.” said Nicko.

“Let me tell you, brother. We did not make a lot of money, but we had some good times.” said Lou.

The party went on for three days. People would get tired, go to sleep, then rejoin the party. There was usually someone around. On Saturday at six a.m. everyone was asleep except Nicko; he walked over to the twenty-four hour supermarket called the Price Whacker. Business there was slow; the clerk was grateful to talk with Nicko.

By Sunday afternoon, Carl and Bob had headed back to the North Country. Lou and the others said goodbye to Beth and made their way back to the city. The psycho-ceramics weekend had come to a close.