New York in the 70s was a tough place. Tough guys were a dime a dozen. Killers cost a lot more.
Nowadays some guys think they are tough.
Few of them are.
Four years ago Richie Boy, his father Manny and I went to Sofia’s on West 48th Street for an after-work drink.
Sitting at the bar was Lil Joe; 6-3 and 300 pounds plus. He had left several jade pieces on consignment at our store. No one had looked at them yet.
We waved for him to join us for a beer. He plodded over with his cashmere coat over his muscular arm. I could have used it as a tent.
“He’s good for a laugh.” Richie Boy liked a good story and Lil’ Joe told of his diving venture on the East River.
“I have access to a shipwreck in the East River.”
“The General Slocum?” That excursion liner exploded in 1904 with 1300 souls on board. 1100 perished in the accident, which had been New York’s greatest disaster until 9/11.
“No.” Lil Joe shook his elephantine head. “It’s a British ship from the Revolutionary War.”
“What you got off it so far?” Richie Boy was hoping for gold coins. Doubloons were popular with his hedge funder clientele.
“Just some broken plates. It’s not easy diving the site.”
“Why not?” Manny had swum in the East River as a kid. He came from Brownsville.
“Because the wreck is located in Hell’s Gate and they called it that, because the East River and Harlem River meet the Long Island Sound and unlike many confluences which have smooth bottoms, Hell’s Gate has jagged rocks on the bottom. Hundreds” Big Joe sounded like an expers. “Visibility is sometimes less than zero and the current runs at 13 knots. We’re lucky to get twenty minutes of diving at slack tide.”
“Treacherous waters.” I had seen the rip tides tear through those straits.
We drank a few beers and Lil Joe told a few more war stories about diamond purchases in Tanzania. Each entailed more danger than most people liked to experience other than at the movies.
“Is Lil Joe bullshit?” asked Richie Boy, when the big man went to the washroom.
“All stories are true, if interesting.”
A few more beers were consumed and it was time to head home.
Happy hour is my new midnight.
I got Manny his coat. The old man has lost some freedom of movement. Lil Joe slid off his stool.
“I’ll help you.”
“Piss off,” snarled Manny. He didn’t need any help from a stranger.
“I could be your bodyguard,” Lil Joe offered with a smile.
“The day I need a bodyguard is the day you can throw dirt on my grave.” Manny pointed to me. “Besides I have the shabbas starker with me.”
“Shabbas starker?” Lil Joe wasn’t fluent in Yiddish.
“Shabbas means ‘the holy day’ and ‘starker’ means tough guy,” I explained Manny’s reworking of ‘shabbas goy’.
“You tough?” scoffed Lil Joe. He was twenty years younger and had me by a good 120 pounds.
“He was known as Maddog on his good days.” Richie Boy had witnessed my performance at various after-hour nightclubs.
“I’m quiet now.”
At 61 I was a shadow of that Maddog, although the last year at the steel mill had tightened my muscles.
“Well, my family is from the Bronx,” Lil Joe mentioned a Mafia gang.
“But they’re not here and Maddog is.” Manny let me help him on with his coat.
“Sorry, Lil Joe, a tough guy rep is hard to live down.”
Richie Boy paid the bill and we got his father a taxi. After watching the old man disappear into traffic, his son asked, “You think you could take Lil Joe?”
“If I hit him from behind with a chair, no problem.”
“Some things never change.”
“What about another beer?”
“Downtown.”
“Where else?”
He caught a cab to Balthazar.
No one cared about tough guys there.
/s320/1463133_624715570904170_1348407738_n.jpg” />
New York in the 70s was a tough place. Tough guys were a dime a dozen. Killers cost a lot more.
Nowadays some guys think they are tough.
More than a few.
The other night Richie Boy and I went to Sofia’s on West 48th Street for an after-work drink.
Sitting at the bar was Lil Joe; 6-3 and 300 pounds plus. He had left several jade pieces on consignment at our store. No one had looked at them yet.
We waved for him to join us for a beer. He plodded over with his cashmere coat over his muscular arm. I could have used it as a tent.
“He’s good for a laugh.” Richie Boy liked a good story and Lil’ Joe told us of his diving venture on the East River.
“I have access to a shipwreck in the East River.”
“The General Slocum?” That excursion liner exploded in 1904 with 1300 souls on board. 1100 perished in the accident, which was New York’s greatest disaster until 9/11.
“No.” Lil Joe shook his elephantine head. “It’s a British ship from the Revolutionary War.”
“What you got off it so far?” Richie boy was hoping for gold coins. Doubloons were popular with his hedge funder clientele.
“Just some broken plates. It’s not easy diving the site.”
“Why not?” Manny had swum in the East River as a kid. He came from Brownsville.
“Because the wreck is located in Hell’s Gate and they called it that, because the East River and Harlem River meet the Long Island Sound and unlike many confluences which have smooth bottoms, Hell’s Gate has jagged rocks on the bottom. Hundreds” Big Joe sounded like an expert of those treacherous waters. “Visibility is sometimes less than zero and the current runs at 13 knots. We’re lucky to get twenty minutes of diving at slack tide.”
“Treacherous waters.” I had seen the rip tides tear through those straits.”
We drank a few beers and Lil Joe told a few more war stories about diamond purchases in Tanzania. Each entailed more danger than most people liked to experience other than at the movies.
“Is Lil Joe bullshit?” asked Richie Boy, when the big man went to the washroom.
“All stories are true, if interesting.”
A few more beers were consumed and it was time to head home.
Happy hour is my new midnight.
I got Manny his coat. The old man has lost some freedom of movement. Lil Joe got off his stool.
“I’ll help you.”
“Piss off,” snarled Manny. I was family. He didn’t need any help from a stranger.
“I could be your bodyguard.” Lil Joe offered with a smile.
“The day I need a bodyguard is the day you can throw dirt on my grave.” Manny was serious and then pointed to me. “Besides I have the shabbas starker with me.”
“Shabbas starker?” Lil Joe wasn’t fluent in yiddish.
“Shabbas means ‘the holy day’ and ‘starker’ means tough guy,” I explained Manny’s malapropism on ‘shabbas goy’.
“You tough?” scoffed Lil Joe. He was twenty years younger and had me by a good 120 pounds.
“He was known as Maddog on his good days.” Richie Boy had seen my action at various after-hour nightclubs.
“I’m quiet now.”
At 61 I was a shadow of Maddog, although the last year at the steel mill had tightened my muscles.
“Well, my family is from the Bronx.” Lil Joe mentioned a Mafia gang.
“But they’re not here and Maddog is.” Manny let me help him on with his coat.
“Sorry, Lil Joe, a tough guy rep is hard to live down.”
Richie Boy paid the bill and we got his father a taxi. After watching the old man disappear into traffic, his son asked, “You think you could take Lil Joe?”
“If I hit him from behind with a chair, no problem.” A sneak attack would shift the odds in my favor.
“Some things never change.”
“What about another beer?”
“Downtown.”
“Where else?”
We caught a cab to Balthazar.
No one cared about tough guys there.