Good Samaritans Finish Last

"I said, 'You're Marshack, Rocky's broad. They say you killed Rocky, squeezed the life out of him with your killer cunt, but I say you did a good job. We all hated that fucker.'"

"Oh no," she said. "You are mistaken," she got up from her chair looking very distraught, and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, some other gal came in to do the interview."

"When I asked where Megan went, the new girl said she'd been called away. But back in the day, when Rocky was screwing her, she did have a nice ass. By the time I saw her, she'd lost most of the looks she'd once had. Dames do age, often quicker than guys. Maybe I came on a little too strong, but you gotta know, none of us liked Rocky, that son-of-a-bitch. Especially after the Attica prison riots when he called in the Nation Guard. The Gov was giving the finger to the rioters as the prison guards shot them down." (Rockefeller was then the New York State Governor)

Mick interrupted himself,

"What the fuck are we talking about? You asked about Joe."

"Yeah, Mick, you keep going on a memory chain."

"Ok. Back to Joe. I was just a kid and Joe was just a familiar face on the block. My cousin told me about Joe. From the time he was a teenager, Joe worked for a Jewish bootlegger out of Newark. Joe would drive up to Canada in a paneled truck with a long box inside it and pick up the hooch from some guys who conveniently also ran a mortuary. They'd give Joe a border pass for a dead body, and they'd tell him when to pass through the border. Even though they were paying off the station guard, Joe had to be precisely on time. Everything was timed to the split-second--and it worked every time."

"This will make ya laugh. I was a little kid, and I thought I had not seen Joe for a few weeks. I figured Joe had gone on vacation, so I asked him, 'How was your trip?'"

"Joe, never one for extra words, responded,

"I did OK, and I don't even speak Canadian."

After prohibition, the Hebe opened up a big restaurant in Newark's business district, but kept up the smuggling even though Prohibition was over."

"How do you remember all this shit so well?"

"Dates and numbers are something I always remember. Here's one for you. It was May 27th, 1947 when 'the Floating Angel fell.'"

"What is that, an Angel?"

"It was before your time, but the Angel's name was Evelyn McCale. Or was it McHale? Oh yeah, it was McHale. She jumped off the Empire State building from the 86th floor and when she landed she flattened the roof of a limo parked outside. The caved-in car roof looked just like a bed, and the crazy thing was, she looked like she had just fallen asleep. No blood, no grimace. She had the loveliest expression of serenity on her face. A young photographer walking by caught the whole scene. Life Magazine, the most important mag of the era, ran the photo full page. The caption was,

"Evelyn McHale reposes calmly in her grotesque bier," I've got the original clipping somewhere."

"Wow, what don't you know."

"Well, you got to keep up, or you get left behind."

"But to get back on track, you were saying, about Joe."

'Yeah, Joe was older than me, he was working for the mob when I was in knee britches. Joe was a guy the mob could rely on. He never opened his mouth or stepped aside unless he had to pee. If Joe was on a booze run, he pissed in a bottle. Joe ended up working for my cousin, Mikey, the guy who owned the bar. As you know, we've got the same moniker."

"But isn't your real name Frank, not Mickey?'"

"No one ever called me that except Father McDoogle. Anyway, Joe was a fine Irishman. President Regan, another Irishman, used to say, 'you gotta be flexible, or your chain can snap.'

"Yeah Mick, I think he also said, 'Politics is the second oldest profession with a striking resemblance to the first.' Whether he said that or some speechwriter fed him the line, we'll never know."

"Fuck it, don't interrupt me, I lose track. OK, where the fuck was I? Oh yeah, as the Italians began to take control of the rackets in Hell's Kitchen, my cuz, before he was murdered, sent Joe to run the Spillane bar. Good thing, because when Mickey was shot dead, it was what kept the meat and potatoes on the table for his Mom."

"Was Joe Irish? He sure didn't look like the rest of the crowd."

"Well, I know for certain his family came over from Dublin. His dad was some kind of a pawnbroker who bought and sold valuables. So I guess you could say he was Irish. Where his family originally came from, I never asked. In those days, anyone who came out of the old sod was considered Irish"

"You seem hesitant. Was Joe a Jew?"

"Quite honestly, I never asked. There were plenty of Hebe gangsters when we came up, and they weren't dressed in black with those little hats. They were dangerous and spoke languages none of us could understand. I never gave a shit what God people worshiped. In fact, I gave up the Roman Catholic Church in favor of the Seventh Day Adventist."

"When was that?"

"Not that long ago, I've even gone house to house."

"You're kidding me, Mick."

"No, I have. I guess I'm getting old or going crazy. Some of those folks down south are really good people and by joining their church it's like joining a big family."

"Anyway," Mick continued, "like any young guy, once you get the smell of cunt, nothing is going to stop you from fucking around. I got in the habit of hanging around the Spillane bar for a late-night beer after chasing the girls. That's when Joe and I became tight."

"But there is a private side to the guy. In all these years, I've never been to Joe's house, never had a meal with his family, but we've spent, Christ, I don't know, probably years together. I know he's got a daughter, who's a nurse, and a son who is a CPA, but that's about it. We talk about sports, races, and crime. Yeah, here in the Kitchen, crime is always of interest."

"When I was young, my big mouth got me in trouble, but Joe was always there to pull me out. I was dating this gal named Jenny O'Hare. She was kinda loose except in one spot. One day her period was late and she thought I got her pregnant. Her father came to find me at the bar and told me if I didn't marry her, he'd kill me. Joe broke into the conversation."

"Mr. O'Hare, by all means, my boy will do the right thing, but he's a poor lad without a pot to piss in. Why don't we wait till the lass is sure she's carrying your grandson."

"O'Hair got hot under the collar, "You're suggesting someone else got pregnant by someone else."

"Oh God no, I never even thought that was a possibility, she's a fine girl, a real Irish Rose, but don't you think we should give it a few more days to make sure it ain't a false alarm."

"As luck would have it, a week later, the lass was bleeding like a stuck pig. She never was pregnant. Just one of those mysteries of God called a late menstrual cycle. But O'Hare, once he learned that I was a poor fuck forbid her to see me.

Jenny wed a few months later in the summer to the O'Donahue kid whose dad had a bodega on 43rd and 9th.

I was still fucking Jen all the time they were engaged, standing her upright in the park, fucking her against a tree at night down the block on 44th St. I'm ashamed to say that the last time I fucked her was the night before she wed. And I'll be damned if her kid didn't look just like me. The sad end of the tale is that within a few years, Jenny turned into a regular behemoth, at least 340 pounds of truffled pig on the hoof. I think she eventually ate her in-laws out of business."

"I admit, But yeah, It was Joe who got me out of that scrape. I was coming up back then, doing my cartoon story stuff. We became pals, him being the older and wiser for years until I got the upper hand, writing them detective novels. Made a lot of moola off them. And the movies as well. That's when I earned Joe's respect and was able to throw him a grand each year for his birthday. He didn't want to take it, but I told him that I'd spend it on Lottery cards if he didn't. We know that pipe dream is a fool's paradise."

"I've always assumed it was Joe who helped you get me out of that jam."

"We don't talk about that," said Mick, as he put his pointer finger over his lips and quickly changed the subject."

"Now, here is something you would never have guessed. "You know for years there has always been a conflagration of homos, now we call'em gay, but this neighborhood was strong on cock-suckers even before the gays took over Greenwich Village."

"I dropped in the bar one time, '' Mick continued, "and there's a group of them folks sitting at the bar, must have been in the late eighties, and Joe says 'I want you to meet someone."

''Who do you think it was.?"

"His wife?"

"Nope, try again."

"Give me a hint?"

"He was a fat man, looked a bit like Hitchcock, another pervert. I was doing security on one of Hitch's film shoots, and I had to step in more than once to keep him from abusing the bitches who worked on the set. He wouldn't leave his actresses alone unless they had sex with him. Can you imagine being fucked by that rhinoceros?" They say he had his cock in so many women's mouths that his dick had tooth marks right along the upper part of the shaft. Fat guys often have very big cocks. The fat seems to go right to the dick."

"So, Jesus. Who do you think I met?"

"Tell me, I have no idea."

"Beard, James fucking Beard. Do you know who he was?

"I've heard of him."

"He was the fucking king of cooks, chefs, and cookbooks. Beard loved Spillane's. Called it 'his dive bar.' He'd come down here with his lover and his queer court, and they'd stay for hours. One 4th of July, he brought down three big picnic baskets of ribs, meatloaf, and apple pie. The pies were so full of butter that the crusts were dark yellow, the finest thing you'd ever tasted. Of course, there were fresh veggies. He was famous for using local produce."

"When I realized one day the fat guy, that's what I called him, hadn't been around, I sez to Joe, 'Where's the fat guy? I sure liked his cooking.'"

Joe turns to me and says, "Heart attack, he was in here that same night and keeled over on his way out of the bathroom. We rushed him over to New York's Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, and he died right before my eyes. We're sitting in the emergency room, and they are dealing with some Harlem knife victim, and I'm screaming, 'this man is dying.' And they are saying, 'He has to wait his turn.' Some fucking service,' says Joe."

"That was a tuff break, I ain't crazy about queers, but I kind of got used to him,"

-----00000-----

More than a few years passed before Mick and I sat down across from each other. Mick had come into New York and rang me up. I met him at 'Foo Joy,' a Fukienese Restaurant on the outskirts of Chinatown.

Once NYC had only Cantonese cooking, but the Hong Kong restaurants were gaining. Tired of eating in those restaurants surrounded by fish tanks with the sad creatures awaiting slaughter, we opted for a different choice. Foo Joy served fried red pepper pork chops and wonderful fried fish rolls. I've never seen them on a menu anywhere else.

Foo Joy, now long gone, remains in the memory of its patrons. It stood on the edge of the restaurant streets. We parked about 100 yards past the place on a side street littered with parked cars. It looked abandoned like a no man's land. I was a little scared and said,

"This ain't a great neighborhood."

Mick patted his chest where he kept his snub nose revolver's shoulder holster.

"Don't worry kid, I got us covered."

Of course Mick was one of the few who had a carry permit in New York City.

Once we were seated, Mick got serious and said,

"Listen, "This is a very sad week for both of us. Our dear friend Joe has died of pancreatic cancer. They got no cure for that. A month ago he started having pain, thought it was an intestinal flu, and went to a doctor. Long story short, a month later he is not with us anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know the two of you were tight."

"Yes, we were."

"Could we talk a bit about Joe," now that he's passed. Can I ask about your relationship."

"Well you know we weren' gay, but yeah, I guess it is about time, with the one exception."

"Sure, that is understandable, because you are still living and breathing."

"Yeah, but who knows for how long?"

I knew not to press Mick on who his helper was that fateful day. I always assumed the only person that Mick trusted was Joe whom Mick would invite to our late-night soirees. But I wanted to know more."

I had waited years. It was late in the game. Joe had died. Mick was in his last decade. I knew Joe was older than Mick, but up until recently the older man was strong, and robust. He was still tending bar. If you asked how he felt, Joe would proudly say,

"I feel good and everything still works." And when he said everything he pointed at his dick.

"So Mick, when did you get friendly with Joe?"

Mickey Spillane and I kept in touch several times a year. As he aged, the late-night parties went out of style. He invited me down to his southern home, in Murrells Inlet, to do some fishing a few times, and we shot the bull. I never asked about the two thugs who disappeared. What's over is best left unsaid.

I was there in 2006, South Carolina, where Mick kept his summer base, expecting to be holding up my end of the heavy casket when we laid the old bastard to rest. But no, his wife wanted him cremated, and she scattered his ashes somewhere in the swampy inlet. Mick made it all the way to eighty-eight. He had a good run. I'm getting up there now, heading to my mid 70's. I'm still in good shape but, I notice some slight memory loss, not of events, but of names. An hour later the names usually come to me. God bless you, Mick my old buddy. May we meet somewhere in the clouds with a glass of whiskey in our hands.

-----00000-----

My Brazilian beauty died early, a victim of HIV. She said she had always used condoms but she finally admitted she was kidnapped coming out of a gay bar when she was a tranny, before her sex change, Gloria was gang-raped by a group of foreign sailors who'd smuggled her into a flophouse down near the docks. They were mad when they discovered she was not a girl and ass-raped her multiple times.

One sailor felt sorry for her. He got her out, and put her in a taxi before the other guys killed her and. She figured she picked up HIV from one of them. It didn't surface until about 8 years after the attack and by the time the disease was controllable she was too far gone to benefit from AZT.

To spare me the agony of watching her die she returned to the small town in Brazil where her sister took care of her till the end. I continued to send her money for whatever her needs were.

-----00000-----

I might as well fill you in on the last few pieces of info about Joe, the mystery man. I picked up some of this info quite by accident. it did not come from Mickey's mouth. The other revelation came from Joe himself. It happened like this.

After Gloria, my "wife," returned to Brazil I was suffering with bouts of depression. I had been living in a high rise just south of Madison Square Garden so I'd thought I'd wandered over to Spillane's bar to commiserate with Joe.

Mick was no longer coming in for his summer escape and was ensconced in the arms of his new wife in North Carolina. No sooner had he divorced Sherry than he remarried a twenty-seven-year-old beauty queen, Jane Johnson, with two young children.

I'd noticed on several occasions during my walk from the subway up to Spillane's Bar, that there was a massage parlor near the corner of Forty-third and Ninth. Coming out of the Port Authority Station, I saw someone who looked like Joe coming out of the parlor. I kept my distance, and stayed half a block away. He didn't notice me.

I went into the drugstore and bought a nail clipper. When I figured enough time had passed I wandered back to the bar. There was Joe, behind the bar looking quite content. I never mentioned that I'd seen him coming out of the parlor. I didn't want him to think I was following him. I knew he kept his personal life very private. But I was curious. What did a man of his age find of interest in such a place?

In search of an answer, I visited the same parlor and met the 'manager,' Sam, who ran the place. He said his sister was the owner.The truth of ownership among the Chinese, one never knows. Their family ties lead all the way back to the old country. When I asked about the old man with the tan leather jacket that Joe always wore outside the bar, and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table, Sam was forthcoming. Of course, he knew who Joe was, and acknowledged he was a frequent visitor.

"Go try his favorite masseuse, her name 'Ju-Ju.' Only fifty dollar for one hour."

What did I have to lose? I paid the fifty with a bill I'd tucked in the back of my wallet. I never liked those fifties and was sure I'd passed some mistakenly because with a quick glance as they looked like five-dollar bills.

I followed Sam into the back of the shop and down a dark corridor. There were several small rooms sectioned off on the right and left. Each room had a bed, a table with a cd player and a tray with several bottles of liquids and oils.

"Here," Sam pointed at three hooks on the wall,

"You hang stuff up here. Make naked." And he was gone.

I undressed and lay face down on the massage table. There was a cut-out in the table where you put your face. The hole seemed too small, surrounded by tissue paper. I laid my face on the tissue paper and waited. ` A few minutes later a soft female voice accompanied the rustle of the curtain and asked, "You ready?"

"Yes, come in."

I turned over on my side, unprepared for the ravishing beauty that stood beside me. Jo-jo grabbed a towel and quickly covered my midsection, hiding my lower extremities.

"It's warm in here, no need to cover me up."

"We supposed to," she said with a musical voice, soft and sweet.

She was an ethereal creature, probably just over five feet. I'd guess between eighteen and twenty-two. She was almost owl-like with two large dark eyes, her Asian eyelids had only a hint of an acanthus fold. Her ears were small, simple in form, almost lacking lobes with two jade earring buttons. She had a tiny graceful nose, shiny jet black hair cut to chin-length.

Jo-Jo's lovely lips were half cushions, not vulgar but still sensual. I knew large lips were not an Asian preference, hers were a perfect compromise. Jo-Jo's breasts were large for a young Asian but not too large to make her top-heavy and give her a Western appearance. Her ass was small, almost boyish, which was my preference, although most of my past paramours were big assed. The exception was my high school sweetheart, a sprinter, who out of the blue married someone when I was away for a month.

Jo-Jo wore short shorts--red. A tight-fitting white cotton blouse that lifted as she worked, revealing her delicate back. I wondered if a hand at the right moment might quickly caress her buttocks or probe between her legs. Of course, the tight shorts would have to be pulled down, and served as a line of defense. Quick caresses were tolerated, but to attain further intimacies one must be a familiar client and a good tipper, then you might probe those boundaries.

Jo-jo smiled. She was instantly likable. There was a fineness about her that did not signal corruption. Was she married, did she have children in China? I never asked. I was enchanted. If I was younger I might have proposed marriage and enrolled to study Chinese, but assumed I was too late? I knew massage girls, albeit ones who radiated a hooker's charm, were always available to play with, unless the older man's wallet was empty. In that case, desire was unattainable.