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“What’s wrong between
you and my brother?”
“I didn’t know anything
was wrong until about five minutes ago; I haven’t’ seen
John in two weeks; not since he left for vacation. Do
you know?”
“No. I just know that
he’s really angry…violently angry. He isn’t making
sense. He’s raving mad; that’s why I came here
tonight.”
The year was 1970.
They were sitting in De Costello’s Bar & Grill.
Costello’s was a man’s bar, not a sport’s bar, a man’s
bar. These men came here to drink and talk, to laugh
and eat. The old men told stories of war and business -
memories; the young men talk about more current
happenings.
And this was Thursday
night. Some thing always happened on Thursday night at
De Costello’s.
Angelo was afraid that
this Thursday night his brother and his brother’s
partner would be the event. And not in a good way.
At the backend of the
bar a few guys were involved in a conversation about
their cars and were planning a drag race to prove, once
and for now, whether Pete Greco’s Charger or Billy
Edwards’ Olds were the faster. It would take at least
four more drinks before they’d race; also, it was still
too early to drag over on the flats.
The front-end of the
bar had a crowd of guys looking at the charcoal drawing
that Don, sitting in the second seat from the corner,
was doing. The bar was a backward L. It came out from
the left hand wall about five stools worth, then made
its way to the back wall, where the restrooms were.
There was a restaurant area opposite the bar behind a
five-foot divider. Don was drawing Angelo and Joe, who
were talking earnestly three quarters of the way down
the bar.
This wasn’t the first
time Don had drawn Joe. Joe had a drawing in his house
that Don did the night Joe had found out he had the
clap. Don, it seemed, liked drawing people with
something on their mind.
Two years earlier John
and Joe had opened a small hunting shop together. They
had been good friends before their partnership, but the
partnership had brought them even closer together. And
now they were together all the time. What was
remarkable was that for two guys known for their
tempers, they never had even the smallest problem with
each other. Disagreements had always been a laugh-fest
of good humored mockery and teasing.
The shop was a hangout
where beer flowed and the sound of men laughing and
joking, and poking fun at each other rattled the walls
until well after today turned into tomorrow.
Louie, the owner and
bartender (most of the time), was a retired City cop,
and he kept De Costello’s a safe and comfortable place
for men to gather. He took no non-sense, and the
regulars respected him, trouble makers were smart enough
to stayed away.
On his way back from
the head Joe was stopped by Billy, another close friend,
who wanted Joe tell a story about Billy’s driving skills
and the big Olds’ power and maneuverability. This was a
two drink break from Angelo and the doom and gloom
atmosphere around him.
Now, Billy hated
oncoming vehicles that kept their bright-lights up when
approaching him – it was disrespectful, and he wasn’t
going to take disrespect from anyone.
His MO in these
situations was to blink his high-beams a few times to
remind the opposing driver that he had their brights
on. If the yahoo didn’t take the hint, Billy would
cross over the double yellow line into their lane in a
headlong rush to impact, clicking his brights on and off
until the disrespectful jerk turned his lights down.
The problem this night
was that the on coming vehicle was a cop, who, by later
accounts, was hopping in his seat in fear while the Olds
bore down on him.
The Olds was like a
missal locked onto a target, countering every evasive
action. This time the target was not only a cop, but a
Vietnam veteran helicopter pilot.
The drivers partner
finally told him to turn on the red light on top of the
police car. Billy quickly realized that he had to get
the f--- out of there, and quick.
The chase only lasted
for fifteen minutes before Billy lost the cops. They
obviously never got close enough to get his plate
number, because nothing ever came of it.
Joe was called back to
Angelo by the clock; he wanted to be next to Angelo when
John arrived.
When Joe got back to
Angelo he found Fat Jack sitting in his seat and a fresh
drink waiting for him. The drink was on the bar between
the two men. Jack, John and Angelo’s cousin, was very
agitated. All he was talking about was how he’d just
seen John and John was violently angry. This made
Angelo even more nervous. With John and Joe being in
the gun business, there was no shortage of guns available to
them.
Angelo sat on the stool
like a statue. This was a bad situation and it was out
of his control, and he didn’t like that at all.
The bar noise was load,
groups of men filled the barroom and were having a good
time.
Joe just put his drink
down on the bar, he was still leaning across the two men
when John appeared. “You son-of-a-bitch. How the f---
could you do this to me?” Joe turned to face his
partner, with the question still in his mouth when the
fist two shots slammed him back into the bar-rail.
Silence followed the
blasts – everyone in the room froze.
The next four shots
came in rapped succession.
Joe was lying on the
floor.
“Shit,” muttered
Angelo; he’d had no time to save his brother, or Joe.
No one moved for a long
time. It wasn’t until John reached over Joe and put the
empty revolver on the bar top that things started to
happen. Louie sprang to life first, and men started
talking in low tones, moving in to get a closer look;
Angelo stood up and walked toward the exit.
Fat Jack was the first
to laugh; Joe started laughing uncontrollably, releasing
his pent-up adrenaline.
Then everyone realized
that they’d been had.
Louie and Angelo were
really mad; they were cops and had to be, I guess.
Angelo never got the joke, Louie did - about a year
later. After all, it was Thursday night at De
Costello’s. |
