The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster

by Craig Daliessio

  Then he hugged me. For maybe the third or fourth time in my life, the Old Man hugged me. It was the closing of a chapter. A passing of a torch someplace in the universe. After that moment, every day we stayed in the neighborhood felt out of sequence. It was time to go.

  So we did.

  Book Two

  Virginia

  7

  The

  Damned

  Yankee

  Phil thought he was trouble as soon as he pulled up. Me? I wasn’t thinking that at all. But he sure was different. Different from anyone else who moved in here since this neighborhood was built. And I’ve seen almost all of them come and go.

  My name is Hank Milledge. I’ve been living here in Forest, Virginia for twenty-two years. I was born right up the road in Lynchburg, and we moved here ahead of all the development as the college brought more and more people to the area. It’s one of the most beautiful places on God’s Earth. My daddy is from around here. My momma was from Madison Heights, just north of the city. My daddy’s family originally settled in Georgia, in what became Milledgeville. But they built the insane asylum there and my granddaddy decided he didn’t want to live “near them nuts.” So they came up here to Lynchburg because the foundry had just opened.

  Now, when I say my momma is from just north of “the city” I’m talking about Lynchburg, Va. Not New York, or Philadelphia, or even Washington, D.C. which we are only about three hours from. Lynchburg is all the city I really need. I’ve been to those other places. Well, I haven’t been to Philadelphia, but I’ve been to New York and to Washington. Nice places. Exciting. But I’m a quasi-country boy. I’m no hick in the sticks. Lynchburg is a big enough town to avoid that. But I like the country. I love the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains that encircle this area like a fortress. From three of the four vantage points in my yard, you see mountains. I like that.

  Lynchburg used to be a sleepy town. Then Liberty University grew and grew and before you know it, people who came here to go to college fell in love with the place – for the same reasons I did- and they stayed. They came in droves and they stayed in them too. It’s nothing to see the license plates of twenty or thirty different states in one day around here. But that’s okay, they don’t live out this far. It’s a little pricey for a college student to rent something out here, so we only get buyers. Professors at the college mostly. Or retirees. People who want a lot of house for the money, but still have money to spend on a house. Oh and land, they usually want a little land. None of the houses in my neighborhood have postage stamp yards. We have an acre, some have more. It’s a great place to live.

  There are about one hundred twenty five houses in this community. All of them sit on a slice of heaven. There are no fences to speak of, there’s the occasional white picket in the front yard but nothing that screams of “privacy.” It’s a great place to raise a family. I know all my neighbors. I was here before any of this was developed so I’ve watched them all come, over the years. They came from a lot of places around the country. My neighbor two doors up is a biology professor at the college. His name is Dr. Jack Ford. He has three kids and a beautiful wife who –if you’re asking me- is a little above his abilities. He’s not the best looking guy in the world, with that receding hairline and beak-like nose. But he is a sweet man. One of the kindest people I ever met, and they supposedly met in high school and she just thinks the sun rises and sets on this guy.

  The house behind me belongs to Larry Erickson and his family. Larry is an insurance agent. He moved here to go to college and fell in love. First he fell in love with the girl who sat beside him in sophomore Music Appreciation class, and then he fell in love with the Blue Ridge Mountains. He almost never goes home. His parents live somewhere in Minnesota and they call him regularly asking him when he’s coming to visit. He tells me this all the time. He imitates his mother’s voice and her slightly Scandinavian accent.

  Both his parents were born in Minnesota, but his grandparents were all Swedish. So his folks have some of the accent remaining. Larry hates the cold. So he never goes back to Minnesota except for a week every summer. He fishes with his dad, and his mother tries teaching his wife how to cook authentic Swedish food. Apparently authentic Swedish food means about ten different kinds of Swedish meatballs, because that’s all she ever brings to cookouts or get togethers. She does a pretty darned good job with them, but it’s still a Swedish meatball. This is pretty ironic because he loves meatballs, but not the Swedish ones his wife makes. He loves Italian meatballs. In fact he loves Italian anything. He was immersed in The Sopranos while it was on, and his game room has The Godfather posters throughout. He is fascinated by the mafia. That’s why he and Phil hit it off so well.

  Phil is my neighbor to the right, Phil Lowery. The Lowery’s live between us and the biology professor. Phil grew up in Lynchburg. He’s almost my dad’s age and he retired from the old foundry years ago. He quit high school to work at the plant after his father died in a car accident. Eventually he got his G.E.D. and then his college degree at the community college. He climbed the ladder at the plant and was running the whole thing the last ten years before he retired. He’s a very smart man, that Phil. Wise too. There’s a difference.

  Phil and I have been here the longest. Usually we stand in my garage, drinking a beer and watching yet another new family unloading the moving van. Phil can size them up remarkably well. He has an insight. Oh and he loves Mobster movies. The guy has absolutely no sense of humor at all, so maybe the only entertaining thing he does, besides size up neighbors, and try to fix every outdated appliance in his house, is quote lines from every Mafia movie ever made. The Monday morning after the final episode of “The Sopranos” aired, he was in a funk and didn’t speak until Wednesday. When he isn’t here in my garage, he and Erickson will be holed-up in Erickson’s game room watching The Sopranos on DVD and making mental notes about mob behavior.

  We’ve watched a lot of these folks come here, Phil and me. From all over the country. And he’s never been wrong about any of ‘em. Never. That’s why I’ll never forget the day when that Mother-of-Pearl Escalade rolled down the street and pulled into the driveway of the house diagonally across from mine. The big Antebellum with the triple lot. Five acres this fella has. I was hoping that lot would lay untouched for another year. I was going to cash in my 401K after I turned sixty-five and buy it myself. But I never got the chance. Because he moved in.

  I remember it like yesterday. The Escalade crept down the block, and finally pulled into the driveway. A few minutes later, a beautiful blue Corvette Stingray came around the corner with a growl. I have to admit, I gave him points for not speeding in that thing. I don’t think I could have held my foot off the gas. He came down the street with the windows down and Bruce Springsteen playing. Loud enough that I could tell who it was, but not loud enough to be annoying. Okay, more points.

  Phil Lowery and I had been tinkering with a vacuum cleaner in my garage and eventually just sat down in some lawn chairs near the workbench and drank a few beers. I sat back with my beer and turned to look at Phil. He had been sitting slumped down in his chair, like a teenaged boy, half asleep. When the Escalade pulled up he looked up and pulled the bill of his Atlanta Braves cap up a bit so he could see better. He didn’t say anything.

  When the Corvette came down the street, he sat up stiffly. He leaned forward and set his Miller High Life on the concrete floor of my garage. His chin rested in his left hand and he adjusted his sunglasses with his right. The driver of the Corvette got out and walked up to the driver’s door of the Escalade and opened it. Out stepped an unspeakably beautiful woman with the blackest hair I ever saw. So black it had blue to it, like an oil slick almost. She was tan and tall and she looked glamorous. As a rule, I don’t stare at another man’s wife. It says not to do that right there in the Good Book. But I couldn’t help it. I caught myself after a long minute. It wasn’t lust. I’m a better man than that. It was good, ol’ admiration. Like what I felt for his Corvet
te when I first saw it, except in my loins. Old Boy had outkicked his coverage for sure.

  Phil never said a word. He slowly took a swig of his beer, never noticing the eruption of foam when he slammed the bottle down a bit too hard. “Pennsylvania.” I said. Phil didn’t respond for a long time. He was staring at the guy in the Corvette. I waited and repeated myself’ “Pennsylvania.” I said it a little louder this time. Phil didn’t move for the longest time. He was transfixed. I cleared my throat. Finally he looked at me with a worried look on his face. “Huh?” he grunted. “Pennsylvania,” I repeated, “...the license plates say ‘Pennsylvania.” Phil rubbed his eyes. “Yeah.” he mumbled. “We ain’t had none from Pennsylvania yet.” “They look like nice enough folks,” I said. “Especially the missus, huh Phil?” I said with a laugh. Phil didn’t answer right away. He took another swig from his beer, and turned to me and deadpanned, “They look like trouble to me.” With that he stood up and walked over to his house, went inside and shut the door.

  If I know Phil, he was probably peeking through his blinds at them right now. Phil does that a lot and we’ve all accepted it. To be honest, it would be downright creepy except that Phil is so darned bad at it. He’ll do it in broad daylight with the sun shining right on him when he splits the blinds to peek out. Or at night he’ll do it with a light on behind him, and never, ever realize that he is silhouetting himself in the window. But he’s a good man, and it does somehow make us all feel a little more secure knowing Phil has one eye on the street at all times.

  Phil went home and I stayed in the garage, back in the shadows a bit, to watch my new neighbors as they arrived. “Pennsylvania,” I said to myself. “I wonder if he’s a Steelers fan.” The three other doors of the Escalade blew open like a tornado had hit them from the inside. Four kids spilled out. Three boys and a little girl. And two dogs. The little girl carried a pet carrier and I figured it must be a cat. The entire family came to a screeching halt in the front yard. They all stared at the peeing angel statue. I had wondered about that thing. A work crew had shown up a week ago, and installed it. It was the most hideous piece of yard art I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ve had a lawn jockey or two, and I’ve had an old wheelbarrow with flowers in it. But this pissing angel was pure ugly.

  The guy stood in front of the “Saint Urination” (as we’d all come to call it) shook his head made a call on his cell phone and his hands moved a lot when he was talking to whoever he was talking to. He stood there in front of the peeing angel, pointing at it and talking loudly and waving emphatically while the rest of the family went inside, laughing as they went. The littlest boy was pointing to his crotch, pretending to have his pecker in his hand, and imitating the peeing angel while his brothers laughed at him, which I thought was funny. The guy shook his head, went back to his Corvette, and leaned inside. He was rummaging around in the seat for a second and then I saw him pull his hand back, lift up the tail of his shirt and put a chrome-plated nine millimeter in a hip holster. What the heck was he carrying that around for? Well he’s no college professor. I thought to myself. Maybe he’s a cop.

  He stood and looked across the street towards Phil’s house for a second, shook his head, and went inside, and I went back to finishing this vacuum cleaner so Maryanne would get off my back and we wouldn’t go out and by that five-hundred dollar Dyson she wanted. “As long as I have duct tape and a screw driver, we ain’t spending five hundred dollars on a vacuum!” I’d told her. I’d managed to squeeze fourteen years out of this Sears unit we had and I wasn’t ready to give up on her just yet. “5-4-3-2…” I started counting in my head. My phone rang. I had an extension out in the garage and so I picked up. “Hello Phil” I said. I knew he was going to call me as soon as the guy across the street went inside. I also knew that Phil had been perched inside his living room, right up against the window with a pair of binoculars so powerful that you could probably see the hairs in Teddy Roosevelt’s nose on Mt. Rushmore from here.

  “Did you see the piece he was carryin’?” Phil asked me, in a slightly high-pitched voice. Phil always gets about a half-octave higher and real nasally when he gets excited or suspicious of someone. And since he is suspicious of almost everyone, this is how he usually talks. You can tell when Phil finally trusts someone and feels comfortable around them, because he goes back to his natural baritone. “What does a man need with a gun like that down here?” Phil hissed. I laughed loudly, “Phil Lowery!” I bellowed, “You have more firepower than the Virginia State Police and you want to know what that man was doing with a nine Millimeter? The bible talks about hypocrites, Phil. You weren’t listenin’ I guess.”

  “Weren’t no nine Mil. It was a .45 Colt. A 1911 model. And it was stainless steel, not chromed. What’s a man need that kind of force for...unless he’s afraid of something.” Phil answered. “Phil,” I said “For the love of God, you haven’t even met the man yet. What are you talking about?” Phil grunted into the phone, “I mean the man was carrying a .45 Colt Model 1911 in the console of his Corvette. The Corvette with Pennsylvania tags.” Phil paused, “You don’t find that suspicious?” I was dumbfounded. I literally did not know what to say. “No Phil,” I said, clearing my throat, “In fact I’m now suspicious of myself for missing whatever it is you think you saw there.”

  Phil was getting agitated and it made his voice get higher. “A rich man buys a house, worth almost a Million dollars, and I heard from Monte Crispin at the county office that he paid in cash. He shows up with a fancy car, and a fancy truck, and a fancy wife, and a pissin’ Italian statue in his front yard, and now he has a gun, and you don’t see the connection?” I was trying not to laugh, and also worried that Phil was about to make a very bad first impression on our new neighbors. “No Phil,” I said, “I don’t see the connection. But, did he really pay cash for that house?” Phil whispered into the phone, “I heard he literally brought a satchel full of money to the closing.” He paused, I’m going to call my friend Steve at the title company and see if he can tell me for sure. But he pays a Million dollars cash for a house and now he’s carrying a gun like that?”

  “Phil,” I asked him, “How many .45 Colt 1911’s do you have?” Phil sputtered and hissed. I had him. “I have three, what does that have to do with it?” Phil was getting angry now. “And the house was only listed for seven-thirty-five Phil. You’re going to start rumors before the man has even unpacked a box.” “Sure, defend the man.” I swear I could hear Phil’s lips quivering in anger now, “He comes down here paying three quarters of a million dollars in cash for a house and driving at least another hundred thousand dollars in cars and toting a stainless steel Colt. But I’m sure it’s all coincidence.”

  “Phil,” I said, trying to reason with him, “You have three Colt 1911’s. You also have an AK74, two Weatherby .308’s, a snub-nose .38, and at least two dozen decrepit old Claymores that your brother-in-law, the supply sergeant, stole from Fort Benning. You could start World War Three and then supply both sides for a week! And you’re criticizing this man for a sidearm?”

  My argument made perfect sense, but that only irritated Phil even more. When Phil found someone suspicious, he was seldom ever talked out of it. “Sure,” he hissed into his phone, “Side with the mobster. We’ve been neighbors for twenty years. You and I are the only native Lynchburgers in the neighborhood. But you just go ahead and stick up for our new neighbor. He’s probably in the witness protection program, or worse. He’s probably coming down here to expand his family’s territory.”

  This was already going too far. I had to reel him in. “Phil,” I said, in a calming tone, “The man probably moved here from a city. Maybe he needed a sidearm where he lived. Maybe he is a federal agent or something. Maybe they are carrying a bit of cash...you know, moving and all, and he wanted some protection. My point is, Phil, you can’t be sure of nothin’ you just said, so why don’t you relax a bit until we get to know him?”

  Phil was quiet on the other end of the line. I knew he was busy thinking
of ways to investigate the new neighbor. “Phil?” I said quietly. No response. “Phil!” I bellowed.

  “Huh...what?” he chortled, “Yeah. We’ll give him a chance. Kick his tires a bit. But I’m going to be watching him. You best believe that.” “Of course you are, Phil, you watch everybody.” I muttered. “Huh? You say sump’n?” Phil barked. “No, Phil. I just said ‘You watch him for everybody else, you’re the eldest here, Phil. You keep us aware of this guy, okay?” Phil grunted, like a guinea pig. “Okay Phil, I have to go and finish this vacuum cleaner before Maryanne makes me go out and buy a new one. Keep an eye on the new guy, Phil, just don’t overstep your bounds, ya hear?” I hung up the phone and got back to my repairs on the vacuum cleaner motor. But I have to admit, some of what Phil had said was starting to raise questions in my own mind. What if this guy was some sort of trouble? Maybe it was good that Phil was suspicious.

  You Can Take The Boy Out of Philly

  (But You can’t Take Philly Out of The Boy )

  We got to Forest just before Thanksgiving. We unpacked over the holiday, going out to eat instead of cooking the traditional turkey, and macaroni, and baked ziti, and antipasta. See, we Italians eat all the things you eat at a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, plus everything we eat on Sundays at Nonna’s. That’s how we do it in our neighborhood. But with the rush of moving, and settling in, and getting the kids enrolled in school, and buying new furniture, and changing our driver’s licenses…you see what I’m saying? Christmas was on us before we knew it.

  We decided to go home to Philly that first Christmas. We figured the coast was clear with our families. We had already made the move and so there was no talking us out of it. Our relatives would get another year with us and so we thought that would ease the transition a bit. Plus I was worried about Pop adjusting. He was calling me every single day now, mostly just to chit chat, and I knew he was really struggling to adapt to us not being there.