All The Young Punks Pt. 43

--- JULY 1983 ---

Tina sat in the reception area of the NYPD 46th Precinct, West Bronx at 8:41 AM on a weekday. She had been there for nearly an hour and she was not pleased. When Joe appeared, accompanied by an officer, she said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. She showed the officer documents. He signed one and handed the sheets back to Tina.

A few minutes later, on the street, she turned to Joe the moment they were clear of the precinct building.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You got into a fight after your show? Why? What's the fucking point?"

"I had one phone call," Joe said. "And I called Marty to avoid this bullshit."

"But you had him phone me to tell me you were okay. When you didn't come home last night I was worried."

"That's why I had Marty call you, but I expected him to post bail."

"He did, and then I told him he could go home," She glared at him. "An hour ago. Now I'm gonna be late for work."

"You didn't have to come up here."

"I wanted to know what happened." She said as they descended into 182 St. Station, far from the West Village.

Once on board the B-train, crowded with commuters going south into Manhattan, Joe didn't care to tell Tina the tale with strangers nearby, but she pressed him, pecking until he had enough and came out with it.

"Fuck it! You wanna know what happened? Some dude grabbed my crotch." He said it loud enough for everyone on the train to hear. Tina's eyes went wide. "I remained cool. I slowly pushed him back and made it clear that was not okay. Then the asshole copped an attitude. He's a big fucking dude, wide and heavy." Joe was speaking loud and clear, to the whole subway car, and Tina felt all the eyes on her, wishing now that she didn't peck so much. "After the show that creepy mother fucker tried to intimidate me." Joe's eyes were on fire. "So I knocked him on his ass. The cops were at the corner and heard the commotion. There was a scuffle. They arrested me." Joe looked up at the strangers eyes on him. "I didn't start it."

He paused, waiting for her reply. Tina said nothing.

"You did the right thing," an older black man said. "You don't put hands on another man like that."

"You didn't have to hit him," an older white woman said.

"Well," Joe met her eyes. "He was pushing me around because I rebuffed his gay advance. I did what I had to do to get him the fuck off me."

"Damn, right!" Another rider said.

"Stop!" Tina put her hands on Joe's. "Let's talk later."

"Oh," Joe laughed. "now you want to talk about it later after you dragged it out of me in public? Did I embarrass you?"

"Don't be a jerk."

"I had a shitty night in lock up. Excuse me for being a little on edge. I didn't ask you to come up here."

"The desk officer said you resisted arrest."

"I kinda did, but I'm not stupid enough to hit a cop."

The remainder of the subway ride was quiet. Joe didn't speak a word. Tina got off in Midtown. Joe walked to Chelsea to thank Marty for bailing him out of jail, and to apologize. He also had a meeting with his partners.

---- STEALING SHEKELS ----

Joe slid two sheets of paper over Marty's desk and then watched his partner read them. When Marty looked up Joe slid two more documents. Marty passed the first two to Stan. Then Joe gave him a third set.

"Where did you get these?"

"I have a Deep Throat inside EIC."

"A what?" Stan asked.

"An informant, whistleblower... ya know, Deep Throat, like Watergate."

"Holy shit," Stan said, looking at the third set of papers. "She's fucking us."

"Wow," Joe smiled. "Is that what it takes to get an F-bomb out of you, someone stealing your shekels?"

"That's anti-Semitic," Stan protested.

"What do Israelis call their money?"

"I'm not Israeli," Stan stared at Joe. "I'm an American, born and raised."

"Can we get back to business, Uncle Samstein?"

Marty laughed, looking at Joe. He loved how Joe harassed Stan but would never admit it. Stan glanced at the papers again. "Look at these numbers, she's overcharging us..." Stan did some quick math. "Forty percent."

Joe held up more documents, "She's upped her take. It started at one-third, then forty, and the last two tours she tacked on more than fifty percent on the bus rates."

Joe handed Marty the remaining invoices. "I did some recon before I decided to show you this. They're charging Sheila $350 per day and $1.60 per mile. EIB tour bus rates start at $550 and $2 per mile."

"Why is she getting such a great deal?" Marty asked. "And where did you get this infor?"

"It's called intel."

"Ha!" Stan laughed. "You think you're a spy?"

"No," Joe said, "but I have people inside Abrams and EIC."

Stan and Marty shared a glance. Joe often said things that made the two older Jews look at each other. Today was one of those days.

"Are you guys aware that Sheila Abrams was once employed at EIB?"

Marty and Stan shared a glance. They then looked at Joe without a word.

"I'll take that as a no," Joe said. "In my digging, I heard a rumor that he may have sexually assaulted her so she left the company after he paid her off. Another version says they had a romantic relationship that went sour, and that's why she left. Deep Throat and my other source say they did have a relationship and Sheila left because David refused to make her a partner in his new company after she helped him build his little empire."

"Where are you hearing these rumors?" Stan asked.

"I'd rather not say, but this person knows Sheila better than any of us."

"Tommy Galardo?" Marty guessed, glancing at Stan.

"I told you I'd rather not say."

Joe leaned back in his chair and let his partners digest the intel their young but savvy partner had just given them. He had no idea how they would respond. He was hoping for a lawsuit.

"Everything is on here," Stan said. "Food and beverage, laundry services, a phone," he looked up. "You have a phone on the tour bus?"

"Yes. And she's doubling the charge on those items, 100% markup. I had to break her invoices down because she doesn't itemize her bills to us. It's a bus fee and a fee for incidentals, two numbers. EIC spells it all out," Joe pointed at an EIC invoice. "line by line, every nickel."

"What do you want to do?" Marty asked Joe.

"You're asking me?" Joe made a WTF face. "You're the wise businessmen. What's your advice?"

Marty and Stan shared another glance and then looked at Joe.

Joe slapped the desk, "We're gonna sue Sheila Abrams! I want to fire her ass and put her shiny new agency out of business. She's double dipping, taking her contractually agreed percentage of our income but also marking up services she farms out. I'm done taking it in the ass."

"Hold on," Stan said. "Before you make a scene, we have to take a breath and think this through. What are you going to do while she's fighting a lawsuit? Who's going to book your tours and provide transportation?"

"That's the least of my worries. My informant also told me that Ken Harris is still employed by EIC. They pay his salary at Abrams."

"What?" Marty said. "Why would they..." He looked at Stan who was already looking at him.

"And she's been meeting with David Benjamin and Roger Goodman."

Again, Marty and Stan looked at each other, then Joe. He had one more thing to tell them but was hoping his older, more experienced partners would have something useful to add.

"What are they trying to achieve?" Marty asked. "What could they possibly want from..."

"Our company, my band, all of it," Joe said. "Apparently, Benjamin squashes competition by acquiring any small management and tour companies he views as potential rivals."

"Oh please," Stan waved a dismissive hand. "He's swallowed a few small outfits, one on the west coast and another down south. They were regional players. We're not in the same league as..."

"Regional players?" Joe noted. "That's precisely what we are... in his backyard."

"But we're not big enough to compete with EIC."

"And he wants to keep it that way," Joe said. "David Benjamin wants to squash us, or take over, and Sheila is his inside agent." Joe exhaled. "This isn't bullshit, Stan. I have good sources."

"Deep Throat," Stan laughed. "Someone you don't know."

"Marty's right. I have Tommy, who knows Sheila really well since she fucked him right after she spilt with David. Tommy and Sheila go back many years. He knows her well. I also have her girl Laura. She's fed me some good intel. And I have my anonymous caller who works at EIC and loves my band, Deep Throat."

"Okay," Marty put his head in his hands and stared at his desk. "I can see what Sheila is doing, she's just a crook. I'm shocked," He gestured to the documents. "But there it is. EIC has been helping you with transportation, how is that helping them squash us?"

"I'm still not sure what their plan is, but I keep thinking about Roger Goodman telling me they want to do business with us. He said they can get us to the next level. They can provide us with access and services I could only dream of. Those are his words. Maybe the tour buses are a taste of the good life, and the stage crews, and the amenities."

"And playing EIC's theaters," Marty said. "So they gave Sheila the buses at cost as bait to lure your band in."

"Maybe," Joe said. "It worked. We love the buses and the stage help."

Stan leaned back. "How does that help Benjamin acquire Guerilla Records?"

"I don't know, Stan. I've been holding this information for days. Tomorrow, Tina and I are taking off for a week. When I get back I'll keep digging."

"Do you plan on doing the next tour?" Marty asked. "With Sheila fucking us?"

"Yes. I think we have to keep this quiet for now. I want more evidence," Joe held the invoices from five tours up. "before we bring in the lawyers."

"So you really want to sue her?" Stan asked.

"Don't you?"

.

.

---- DYING BREATH ---

Joe left Marty's office and headed straight to the subway at 23rd Street. He was walking on 8th Avenue, replaying his meeting with his partners, not certain they were as infuriated as he was. He heard tires screech ahead of him, but he was stuck in his thoughts. As he approached 8th Street and 23rd, there was a crowd of pedestrians waiting for the light. Over the crowd, looking across the intersection, Joe saw a cabbie open his car door, step halfway out, look over the door frame, and fall back inside his Yellow Cab.

Joe pushed through the standing mass to see the cabbie had just run over an old man whose lower torso and legs were under the vehicle. His heart sank. The man's head and shoulders were exposed. His left side was pinned against the front of the driver's side tire. His arms moved, signaling he was still alive. The Cabbie called dispatch then emerged from his car and paced back and forth in a panic. Distraught, his hands went to his head, but he offered no aid to the man he'd just run over.

Joe stood frozen at the curb. The light changed. Pedestrians crossed the street, glancing at the man under the taxi. Most went on with their day. Others gathered around, but not too close to the taxi. Cars honked horns when the light changed again, annoyed their busy day was being disrupted. There was a low buzz in the crowd, people talking, hands over mouths, faces expressing concern or shock. A few women were close to tears, but none went to the man's side. This all happened in less than thirty seconds but felt like an eternity. Then Joe heard the callous words.

"He's a goner."

"The poor old bastard stepped off the curb," another man said. "right in front of the taxi."

Joe felt his blood pressure rising. Without thinking, he pushed through the crowd and walked through the crosswalk where moving cars were trying to navigate around the scene. A delivery truck leaned on his horn as Joe stepped directly in front of his bumper. He didn't react. Joe had tunnel vision. He didn't know what to do, but he sensed someone should be with this man. He went to his knees beside the elderly man under the Yellow Cab. The gray-haired man's eyes moved to meet Joe's, they were deep blue. Joe heard far-off sirens.

"Can you hear me, sir? The ambulance is on its way."

His lips moved. He was trying to speak, but could only muster a groan. Joe took the man's hand in his. The man squeezed Joe's hand, a good sign, his eyes locked in on the younger man. That's when Joe saw his tattoo, digits on his forearm, inches from Joe's hand holding his in a tight grip, like Joe was hanging on to this man's life. Joe's heart sank even lower if that was possible.

"Listen, stay with me. Yeah," Joe nodded and faked a smile. "You can hear the sirens, right? Help is coming."

Joe looked up at the four corners of the intersection, pedestrians and drivers gawked but went on their way when the traffic light favored them. It was just another day in New York City. This man had survived the horror of the holocaust, only to be taken out by a fucking cab? Joe released his hand and stood up.

"Is there a doctor here, a nurse, anyone with medical..."

A black woman pushed through the crowd. "I'm a nurse, but son, there's not much I can do."

Joe knelt back down and took his hand again. He didn't grip back. He looked up a Joe as if he wanted to say something. The sirens were getting closer. Joe got lower, putting his ear near the man's face, his shoulder on the pavement. The nurse reached down, over Joe, and checked his pulse on the man's neck.

"He's in shock." She looked up at the cabbie. "Do you have a blanket? We need to keep him warm."

The ambulance was very close but unable to move in mid-day traffic stopped by a pedestrian being run over by a taxi. Joe squeezed his hand.

"Stay with me, sir. Help is coming. Just breathe easy and focus on my eyes." He squeezed his hand again. "Can you hear that? The ambulance is right here. Hang on, sir. Stay with me. Focus on my eyes. Stay with us."

He blinked his eyes and remained focused on Joe. His lips moved, but only a light grunt came out, "Thank you." They were eye to eye when Joe heard a big engine behind him. The firetruck had arrived first. Joe held his hand tight. Everything went blank. He no longer heard voices or sirens. The city became background white noise. Joe focused on the man's face and eyes, holding a connection he hoped would be enough. The world beyond them was a blur.

He had big, bushy Andy Rooney eyebrows, like caterpillars. His nose was long and wide, his mouth large, and his lips thin. This man had not lost a hair in his life. His white hair was full and thick, and longer than men his age. His eyes never broke contact with Joe's, but his breathing became shallow.

"The fire department is here," the nurse said to Joe, her hand on his shoulder. "C'mon son, let them do their work."

The man was clinging to life, for his children and grandchildren, his friends, and anyone who loved him. Joe didn't want him to leave them like this, dying suddenly and needlessly, alone. He glanced at the tattoo and then back to his eyes when the moment passed. Joe watched the light leave him just as the ambulance arrived.

Joe felt hands on his back, a fireman. He didn't want to leave. Joe was this man's last connection in a long life, and Joe felt it deeply. Two NYFD men pulled him up, away from the dead man. As they released him to check on the victim, Joe fell limp to the pavement, on his hands and knees. The nurse knelt beside him.

"It's okay, son. There was nothing you could do."

Joe looked up, gathered himself, and stood. The black lady looked down at him. "You gave him something. Compassion." Joe hugged her, tears running down his cheeks. He was without words.

The first paramedic approached and kneeled beside the deceased.

"He's gone," Joe said. "seconds ago, I watched his life pass."

The paramedic looked up at Joe, "You again? Is this what you do?"

It took Joe a moment before he realized it was the same young paramedic who responded to the down junkie long ago. Simon called 911. Joe waited by the junkie. The medic was black, or maybe Hispanic, with one of those beards so thin you wonder what's the point of it. Joe said nothing. The paramedic stared up at Joe.

"Are you okay, man?"

Joe stared blankly back at him, eyes connected, but nothing else.

"Dude!" The paramedic said louder. "Are you alright?"

Joe turned and made silent eye contact with the nurse. His lips almost smiled in gratitude for her being there. He exhaled, turned his back on the scene, and walked away pushing through the gawking New Yorkers. Faces stared at him. He felt like he was a player exiting the stage where their entertainment for the day was being performed, New York City. It's no more than a big fucking stage lives are lived and lost on. Not one of them felt the humanity Joe experienced at that moment. He had nothing to offer a dying man but a hand to hold, and it crushed him that he couldn't do more.

He skipped the subway and walked the eighteen blocks back to Jones Street, pausing at every crosswalk, watching those lights, and not stepping off too soon. As he approached Jones Street, he concentrated on his breathing, relaxing, trying to get past the last twelve hours of his life.

.

.

--- THE PRESIDENTIAL RANGE --

This was the camping trip that all other trips were leading up to. Joe had camped, fished, and hiked the White Mountains of New Hampshire with his dad at age fourteen. Their whole family had been there before that trip, when Joe was 10, and 12. That summer Joe and Dad did a father-and-son trip that left an impression on the son. He wanted to repeat his trek across the Presidential Range.

The thirty-five-day June-July road run went off perfectly. Ken and Laura were doing good work together. Guerilla Records had provided six bands to the Abrams Agency to run. Ruby Slippers had a record that was selling. The hard punks in every city loved The Studs. Jada was doing very well on the road, but her record sales were just meh. Joe kept the fact he knew Sheila was gouging his company a secret. He looked forward to the next invoice, evidence.

Joe had asked Marsha to please find the obituary of the man who died under the Yellow Cab and save it for him. It took a few days for him to recover from that moment in the city. Now he was driving through green valleys and rocky mountain passes of his native New England, but a different colony. The band and the city were far behind him.

Tina was enjoying the serenity of not suffering under the jack boot of Mags for a week. The drive from NYC to the Zealand Falls Campground was a vacation in itself. Joe let Tina take the wheel of Ellie for a stretch of rural New Hampshire highway, top down, her fabulous hair blowing in the wind. She smiled every mile. When he drove, T did her catching the wind thing, her hand out the window. Joe felt that these road trips were the most important in his life with Tina. Ironically, the road was a problem in their relationship but also the place they bonded so closely. Tina loved being on the road with Joe. All the pressures of the city, and their jobs, evaporated. He felt they connected more spiritually during the roadies... except for the poop tragedy.

Joe had reserved a site at Zealand Falls. They arrived mid-day, parked Ellie on the site, and hiked up the trail to the Appalachian Mountain Club's Zealand Falls Hut. Joe had been tight lipped, not giving away secrets, until their boots hit the trail.

"The AMC has a hut system along the Appalachian Trail. Tonight we're staying at the Zealand hut. Tomorrow we hike to the Mitzpah hut, and the day after that we hike to the Lake Of The Clouds hut."

"What are these huts? We're not packing food. How do we.."

"They have college kids staffing the huts. It's a summer job. Every night they have new hikers staying with them. When my dad I did this we met people from Germany and Australia. Every night was new faces, and some familiar, if you're hiking in the same direction."