All The Young Punks Pt. 38

--- NOVEMBER 1981 ---

When Joe hung up the phone, T was staring at him sensing he had just received bad news. "What happened?"

Joe stood in silence, staring at her, his eyes welled up.

"Joe. What's wrong?"

"Johnny's dead." He stepped into the living room, sat on the sofa, and stared at the wall. "I have to go home."

"Tomorrow?"

"Sal's gonna call me first. He said I need to do something before I leave the city."

"Did he say what?"

"No," Joe wiped his face with his hand. "Sal was too upset to talk."

Tina sat beside him. "I'm so sorry, Joe." She hugged him.

"I'll take the first train after I do whatever it is he needs. It sounded important. Sal made me promise I'd wait for his call."

"Yeah, I heard." She looked into his eyes. "I'm going with you. I'll drive. I want to be there for you. I can miss a few days."

"Your schedule this week is crazy. That's what you said today."

"Who cares? This is more important."

Sal had given him no details, but Joe imagined a horrible end for his friend. He said only that Johnny's body would arrive at the funeral home in the morning, from New York. Joe sat in silence, numb and emotionless.

"Let's go to my parents' house tonight," Tina said. "We can stay there. I'll need some proper clothes for a funeral. We can spend the night and drive up early tomorrow."

"I have to wait for Sal's call."

"Phone him now and tell him we'll be at my house. Give him the number."

Joe hugged her without a word. He called Sal to give him the information and that T was driving him home.

"I'm glad she's coming," Sal said. "Johnny loved her."

"I know he did."

"I'm okay now, I can tell you what happened if you want."

Joe hesitated. "Okay."

Sal exhaled. "They found his body in an apartment. He'd been dead for days, maybe a week. The junkie bastards ran off. They just left him there."

Joe could hear Sal starting to lose it again. He paused to collect himself.

"The slumlord found him. Half naked. The mother fuckers stole his leather and boots."

"Junkie fuckers," Joe said low.

"They got the bastards. The slumlord had information on that skank's family. When the cops went there, they found them in the basement."

"That's enough," Joe said. "I'll talk to you in the morn..." he stopped. "What is it you need me to do?"

"We don't know if his belongings are with the body. The NYPD said they would try to send his leather and boots."

"So you want me to retrieve them?"

"If they're not with Johnny."

"Okay, buddy. Call the Costello house as soon as you know. I'll be waiting."

--- A GRIM ERRAND ---

The following morning they learned the leather and boots were not with Johnny. Joe had to retrieve them at the police station.

"It's the 44th Precinct," Sal said. "You got a pen? I'll give you..."

"I know where it is, Sal."

Driving to The Bronx, Tina apologized. "Had I known we were coming here I would not have suggested we stay at my house. This drive sucks."

"Don't worry about it. We have all day. Johnny's not going anywhere."

"I wish I colored my hair. I'm a mess."

"You're fine."

She pointed at the top of her head. "My roots are showing too much."

"No one cares."

"I care."

"Well, give yourself a break."

"Mags cares. She said my hair needs work."

"Well, she's a bitch."

"I usually do a touch-up on top when the roots come out, but I've been too busy. I was also thinking about changing the color. I hadn't decided."

"What color?"

"I don't know. I haven't decided."

Standing at the NYPD 44th Precinct reception desk, with a surly old cop in need of a shave on duty, Joe explained the situation. The officer appeared unmoved. His eyes betrayed his apathy. They had to wait a long time on a hard bench watching people come and go. Every person they saw not with a badge was having a terrible day. Two cops roughly handled a suspect ten feet away. He was bloodied, most likely resisting arrest, or not. He seemed unable to put up a fight. The desk officer directed Joe to a detective. There was another wait in a second room.

Detective Dan Reno was less thrilled than the first officer to be Joe's errand boy. He escorted them down to an evidence-holding area in the basement and handed them off to a third officer, a black woman who was at least not unfriendly. After a third long wait, she appeared with a large cardboard box. The name Bucci, with a case number, scribbled on the side. The officer's police badge name was Kenya. She was a lady who spent her extra cash on fingernails and eyelashes.

"I need you to check the contents and sign off," She said. "I'm sorry about your friend."

"Thank you," Joe said. "He had problems."

"Don't we all?" Officer Kenya half rolled her eyes.

Joe opened the box. "Holy fucking hell. What is that smell?" He looked inside just long enough to see the jacket and boots, and quickly closed the box."

Officer Kenya leaned back, waving her hand. "I need to inform you that we did not return his denim jeans. They were badly soiled."

Joe's heart sank knowing Johnny shit himself in death. He quietly signed the release, grateful there were no shitty Levis in the bottom of that box. He stared at the box, and then at Officer Kenya.

"Do you have shipping tape I can seal this with?"

"I'm sure I do." She looked in a nearby desk drawer, handed Joe shipping tape, and stepped back.

Joe looked at her while sealing the box. "I like your nails."

"Thank you," She held them up. "I love 'em, but they're a pain in my ass, always breaking."

Tina held her hand out. "That's why I keep it short and simple."

"I call her nails David Bowie's nails," Joe said.

Officer Kenya laughed. "Yes, white people's nails."

As Joe mummified the top of the box and the lady officer went about her business, Tina elbowed him. "Why must you always flirt? Johnny's dead. And you just..."

"Who's flirting? I'm just being nice."

"It's just..." Tina stopped as the officer returned.

"I'm truly sorry about your friend," she said to Joe. "And thank you for your patience."

"Thank you," Joe picked up the box. "C'mon, Johnny. Let's get you the fuck out of New York."

Johnny's leather goods were secure, the next thing Joe wanted to do was drive by the apartment he believed Johnny died in. He wasn't certain, but he needed to know. It was confirmed by police crime tape on the door below the stoop.

"Do you remember the story when Johnny got thrown in the trunk?" He asked T. "This is the place." They stared at the building for several seconds. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he said. "Get on Jerome Ave, north."

Minutes later, driving on Jerome towards Route 95, the Cross Bronx Expressway, Joe looked over at Tina. "Can you believe it took ninety minutes to pick up a box?"

"We need to pull over," she said. "I can smell it."

"We can't stop here. This is a shithole." Joe noted a stripped-down Ford Pinto. "Who strips a fucking Pinto?"

"Joe, it's fucking gross. That box needs to be in the trunk." She looked over at him. "We should have put it in the trunk."

"Just get to the highway, then we'll stop in a safer area."

Three minutes later... "Joe, my eyes are watering. We need to stop. This is disgusting."

Tina pulled into a gas station near the interstate. Joe removed the box from the rear seat and placed it in the trunk. Driving through Connecticut, he told Tina the story of his first night in New York, seeing the South Bronx for the first time, and Sal pissing on Yankee Stadium. He then told her of his following Johnny to the flophouse, as well as Johnny spitting in Sal's face in front of that stoop. He ended with the abduction of Johnny by his dad and two goons. And now, the deepest cut, Johnny died in that shooting gallery. In his mind, Joe could draw a straight line from the band's decision to come to New York and Johnny's death.

Tina had heard this all before, but she let him repeat his stories, sensing that Joe needed to talk. After a long silence through New Haven and beyond, Joe switched to better times. He reminisced about the days when he first met Johnny.

"You never met the real Johnny. He was the best. You only knew Johnny H, the worst version of him."

"He was still sweet," she said. "He was always kind to me."

"Yeah, he thought you were cool and hot. Ya know, If I hadn't claimed you first, he might..."

"Claimed me?" She turned to him. "You claimed me?"

"Yeah, I told those guys you were mine and they needed back the fuck off."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, right after we met, on your street."

"What did they say."

"Johnny said, 'Not if she picks me."

"Well, Johnny was sweet, but he wasn't my type."

"When you met him he was already half gone. I wish you could have met him before heroin took him away."

Joe realized he'd never really told Tina about Johnny Cool. He had pushed so much in the back of his mind out of bitterness for Johnny H, that he had almost forgotten the good times. At that time, with all the stress, he didn't feel charitable enough to speak well of him.

"I never told you how much Johnny taught me, his patience, and how he always had my back when Sal and I had words. He was like a big brother to me."

Joe turned his head to look out the window as he choked up a bit. "You'd never know from what you saw, but he was funny. Johnny had a dry sense of humor. He was the guy in the back seat with subtle one-liners."

They passed a mile in silence. Tina pointed to the glove box. "There's tissue in there." Joe wiped his nose with a Kleenex and sniffed. "He never said a bad thing about anyone, not even those he disliked. The worst thing Johnny would say is, 'He's not my favorite guy.' or that he wasn't a fan."

By the time they crossed the Rhode Island state line, Joe was fully composed. "T, I wish you knew him before heroin made him sad and uncool. I looked up to Johnny long before I looked down on him."

It was hard for Joe to keep it together while speaking of Johnny, so he stopped talking, staring out the side window the rest of the way. When they pulled up to the factory late in the afternoon, Sal and Nate were sitting on the loading dock. A few hoodrats were standing around.

Sal made a face as Joe walked up, an unspoken question... did you get it?

Joe gave him the barely perceptible nod. They hugged everyone, going down the line, without words. Sal got the full treatment and the most sympathy. He was choking up trying to talk.

"I know you looked up to Johnny," Sal said, holding back his emotions, and failing. "He was good to you Joe. I'm sorry for your loss."

"My loss? You knew him your whole life. I'm sorry he's gone, Sal."

"He loved you, T," Sal hugged her. "If Joe hadn't..." He sobbed into Tina's hair.

They just stood there in the parking lot, emotional wrecks. Every time someone new showed up, they repeated the hugs and words of sorrow. There was a procession of friends all evening. Joe couldn't recall ever shedding a tear at the garage before Johnny's death. He scrolled through his memory to the days and nights he jammed there, partied, or just hung out. All he knew were good times or angry times, but no crying at their factory home.

Tina and Joe sat on the porn sofa. A chill moved through the hard, industrial space. She leaned against him for warmth. Sal sat on the opposite couch in the lounge.

Joe looked across at him. "The last time I saw him was getting tossed in his dad's trunk."

"Twenty-two months ago," Sal said softly

"That was twenty-two months ago?" Joe said. "It feels like..."

"You've still never told me that story," Sal noted.

"Yeah. Well. Maybe that day is just for me. Johnny was finally in the hands of the only person who could help him." Joe shook his head and looked at Sal with a half smile. "It was sad and kind of funny at the same time."

"Bat's told my dad he should have hired a film crew and sold the scene to Scorsese."

"Bat's said that?"

"John Senior did his best," Sal found Joe's eyes. "Johnny put his family through hell and Bats returned the favor, but the old man never let it get him down."

"Did he come around much after his rehab?" Tina asked.

"He came back and hung around town for a while," Sal said. "Then he vanished. He came back months later when we were on the road. Pops said he was a mess, gaunt and sickly. That was the last time anyone saw him. He simply disappeared after that."

Joe exhaled, "Remember when he asked me about the trains I was taking to Penn Station?"

Nate had been quiet on the periphery, "Yeah, and he used the train to get back. I know where you're going, Joe. It's not your fault."

"I didn't invent Amtrak," Joe nodded. "I'm just sayin' he was determined to go back there."

Tony and Johnny Bats made it to the garage to update the band late in the evening. Johnny's body was found two days before The Minnow had arrived in NYC from the road. By the time Sal got back to Providence, Bats had already been to The Bronx and back. He made arrangements to have his son returned home and began planning a wake and funeral.

John Bucci went around thanking each person for being there individually as if this were a pre-wake. Bats shook Joe's hand. "Johnny saw you as a little brother." The tough old Italian hugged him. "I know you cared about my son. I'll never forget that."

"I know," Joe said, his voice cracking. "He was always good to me."

Bats reached Tina. "And you, my son adored you. He told me how lucky Joe was. I think he was jealous. I'm so happy to finally meet you. I wish it were under happier circumstances."

As he went around the group Joe admired him for keeping it together. As much as Joe liked to rag on these old Italians in his hood, he also respected the dignity many of them possessed. John Bucci Senior was a rock. After making the rounds, John spoke to everyone.

"The scumbags who left my son to rot in that slum were arrested. They were a half mile away with Johnny's leather and boots. I wish we could get..."

"We got them," Sal interrupted him.

Johnny Bat's furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"

"Joe and Tina picked them up this morning."

John Bucci Senior turned to Joe and T. That's when Joe saw the first cracks in his hard-as-steel exterior. The emotion on his face was unmistakable.

"John," Joe said. "There can be no suit for Johnny. He's got to be buried in his leather and boots. Sal gave me the info. We had to...."

"Thank you," Bats interrupted Joe, then paused. "I'm..." he turned away from the lounge area and walked a few paces towards Tony's cars to have a private moment.

"There is one problem," Joe said. "His things are in the trunk, in a box, and it stinks like holy hell." Joe paused. "I'm pretty sure Johnny died in his leather. I'm sorry, John."

"It's okay kid. He pissed himself in my trunk."

"I heard." Joe looked at Tina and exhaled. "The cops didn't return his jeans because..."

"Give that to box me," Pops said. "I'll have them cleaned tomorrow."

--- I WANNA BE SEDATED ---

Joe had attended two wakes in his life. At age eleven it was his sister Janie's showing, except nothing was shown. The tiny casket was closed to conceal her horrible injuries. Joe assumed that's how they all were until he saw his Pepere at age thirteen.

He knew this affair would be a nightmare of high emotion. The Italians did nothing quietly, but their grief was loudest. Standing on the sidewalk, outside Mancini's Funeral Home with Tina, Nate, and Simon, they could hear the wailing inside. It was that loud. Joe hesitated before going in.

"This is gonna be a fucked up night," he said.

"Italian women are drama queens," Nate added

Tina looked at him shocked. "You know I'm Italian, right?'

Nate glanced at her. "You know you're a drama queen, right?"

"I am not a drama queen!" She said forcefully but low.

"You might be," Simon said.

Nate glanced at Joe, "Looks like you're the deciding vote.."

Tina looked at Joe.

"Old Italian ladies can be drama queens. Someday, you might be one, T. Watch the men. They're rocks. If you see a tear from an Italian man not named Sal, I want to know."

Nate leaned in and whispered. "Do you think he'll be here?"

"I think he will be, and all of his people," Joe said. "It's gonna be a fucking mob scene."

Nate snort-laughed, making Joe proud of the joke Tina and Simon didn't get. Not being from Federal Hill, Providence, or even Rhode Island, they had no clue who 'he' was.

"Who are we talking about?" Tina asked. " What people?"

"The New England mob," Joe said. "The mafia, la cosa nostra. Do you know what that is, Italian girl?"

"Yes, I know what that is. But why at Johnny's funeral?"

Joe looked past her to Nate who was shaking his head. "I swear buddy," he said to Nate. "She's a smart girl, but she has these blind spots."

"Are you talking about me?"

"She's a domesticated Italian."

"What does that mean?"

"You're a civilian. These Italians are different. You have them in New York, the Gambinos, Bonannos, Colombo... I forget the other two. You have five families. We have one."

Tina was astonished. "Is Johnny Bats a mobster? And Tony Meats?"

Nate replied dryly. "Do those sound like mob names to you?"

Tina's eyes got big, her mouth fell open, and she turned to Joe.

"No," he said. "They're not mafia, not made men, but they have many friends who are. And they all live on Federal Hill, and they do business. There will be a showing tonight, respect paid."

"So we can't say the word Italian or mob for the rest of the night," Nate said. "and wiseguy, no wiseguy.

"Don't mention gangsters or hitmen?" Simon smiled.

"And never use any two of those words in one sentence."

"Don't even think those words," Joe added as he took Tina by the hand and walked toward the entrance.

It was crowded inside. Progress was slow, the crying and wailing constant. Johnny's mother was decibels above his sister and aunts. He knew most of the mourners in the foyer where they signed names in the book. Joe pulled Tina aside.

"I don't want to go in yet. I'm not ready to see Johnny."

She squeezed his hand, "Okay, we can wait."

Simon gave a nudge and pointed, Sal was in an empty parlor across from Johnny's gathering. They wandered over, hugged Sal one by one, and chose to hang there before going in together. Sal wasn't ready either.

"I can't go in right now," Sal whispered. "His mom carrying on like this is killing me. When she sees me, she'll scream."

Johnny's mother and sister loved Sal, but there was a hitch. Some in the family, especially the aunts, blamed the band for Johnny's demise. There was no telling how they would receive the band. Johnny's mom let out a blood-curdling cry at the sight of an old friend.

Nate leaned in. "Can't they sedate her or something?"

"Fuck that," Joe said. "I wanna be sedated."

As if by divine intervention, the wailing stopped a minute later. The old friend Mrs Bucci cried out for was Dr. Esposito, a beloved physician on The Hill.

Joe nodded. "Good call Nate."

On that evening, every shopkeeper on Federal Hill would be there, a few city councilmen, Mayor Buddy Cianci made it a campaign stop, and of course, the boss. It's just the way it was on The Hill. Every Italian paid respect to the living as well as the dead. The Buccis were well-known and respected.

It was also embarrassing, in the most hurtful way, that the Buccis were burying a junkie son. Not everyone in the neighborhood was kind when they heard the news. People talked. Sal already had a short list of people he had to 'correct' after hearing what they had said about Johnny. It would wait until after the funeral

Joe's dad appeared with Jackie. After a brief visit with the band, they went into the parlor of grief. John Bucci once said of Joe's dad, "If he was Italian, we'd be pals." Joe replied, "If my dad was Italian, my mom wouldn't have married him." Bats said Joe's mom was a looker in her day. That shut Joe up.