The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster

by Craig Daliessio

  Anyway, I smelled old Phil coming, while me and Bransford, and my cousin George were playing Bocce. I looked at George and laughed. I’d told him about the whole “Deadly Hand” thing on the ride from the airport. We were talking about how different it is down here and how some people think certain things because I’m Italian. “Georgie,” I said, “I could make up almost anything and tell them it’s an Italian thing, and they’d buy it. Some of them would, anyway.” Then I told him about Lowery and the “Deadly Hand.” George and I laughed ourselves simple.

  So I already knew he was in my garage before he poked his head out the door to where my Bocce court was. I looked up and muttered “Phil’s here.” to nobody in particular. About five seconds later he poked his head out the door. “Howdy neighbor!” he said, cheerful for a change. George started laughing before Phil even made it over to him. He remembered Mr. Catallano from the old neighborhood. Mr. Catallano had all the Mezilli’s under his umbrella, and Georgie’s mom and dad bought insurance from him as well. I knew better than even look at my cousin right now, or we’d both morph into unrepentant teenagers, laughing at this overly-perfumed man.

  Now, my cousin George is a very funny guy, and one of the quicker wits in my family. To avoid shaking Phil’s hand, and subsequently smelling like Aqua Velva for the rest of the night, just before I made the introduction between him and Phil, George excused himself to go to the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later with a grin on his face. “Yo Cuz!” He said with a wink, “No soap in the john? Just like the washroom at the landfill, right?” George said this while wiping his hands on his jeans in a very animated fashion. Without missing a beat, he walked over to Phil and stuck out his hand. “I’m his cousin George, from Philly. It’s nice to meet you.” I thought Lowery was going to pass out right there. He looked at Georges allegedly unwashed hand for a long second, probably imagining the germs leaping off at him, then jerked his hand back and started talking really fast, hoping George wouldn’t notice. My Cuz...I thought, That’s the Mezilli wit right there.

  By the end of the night, I had Phil thoroughly confused about the rules of Bocce. The balls all reeked of Aqua Velva, and he’d had one too many beers. He started telling Italian jokes. That was a big mistake. But not in the way you’d think. See, nobody loves a good “Dago” joke more than an Italian, and my cousin George and I, especially love them. But Lowery didn’t know that, so when he fired off the first one, George shot me a knowing look and we acted like it offended us.

  I thought that would end it, but Lowery kept throwing back La Birra and before you know it, he was making more really bad Italian jokes. I’ve heard them all, and some of them are really very funny. Apparently Phil has only heard the really bad ones. After the initial few jokes, it was harder and harder to feign offense. But we did it masterfully.

  George was so good at it that at one point he had Phil slobbering an apology and begging to be forgiven. George and I had spent a lot of time together, busting other guy’s chops. We did it well and we could play it straight like pros. Once, when Lowery decided to tell a mafia joke, George looked at me coyly and then walked over to Phil. He leaned in real close and whispered, “The Mezilli family doesn’t joke about the Mafia.” Then he looked at me without any facial expressions at all and said “Right Cuz?”

  “Omerta” I muttered, as I rolled my next shot on the Bocce court.

  It was all I could do not to fall over in fits right there. Poor Phil looked like he’d wet himself. If it wasn’t so funny, it would be pathetic. What was pathetic is that Phil only had maybe three beers. I don’t drink that often so I don’t keep much beer around. He and Bransford killed the partial six-pack that I’d had in my fridge. Georgie and I drank iced tea. It was funnier watching Phil getting drunk, than drinking anything ourselves anyway.

  I leaned over to George at one point and whispered, “He’s going to be a lot of fun on the ride to the boat in the morning!” George laughed out loud at that. “You need to hit every bump on the way,” he said, “Make him pay dearly for these bad Dago jokes. He’s gonna be seasick two hours before we leave the docks.” Phil finally wobbled home around 10PM. I wasn’t envious of the hangover he’d have in the morning, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d missed the trip altogether.

  Bransford was another story. He drank maybe one beer and then watched Phil embarrass himself. Bransford is an observer. Doubtless from all those years in the FBI. He was slightly suspicious of all of us when he first moved to the neighborhood, but a few cookouts and some of Angie’s linguine with white clam sauce put his mind at ease. The biggest problem was with Tommy. When he’d heard that Charlie Bransford was a former FBI agent, he wouldn’t come around the house if Charlie was here. I asked him what he was worried about. “Just old habits I guess, Joe.” he said, softly. There was sadness behind his eyes. “To be honest, even though nobody here knows about my past, I feel like I have it painted on my forehead. I re-live that one stupid moment over and over and over. When somebody who once worked for the Feds is around, it reminds me even more. Like one day he’s gonna stand up at a cookout and announce to everyone that I’m a convicted felon and that I robbed an ATM at the Sands. It’s embarrassing, you know?”

  I couldn’t pretend to understand what Tommy was feeling, so I did what I knew to do. I gave him a little punch in the arm and took him inside to get something to eat. Angie’s cooking can cure just about anything.

  But that night in my garage, Bransford wasn’t keying in on Tommy. In fact, he hadn’t met him yet. Instead, Charlie waited until Phil weaved his way home and then he sat down on a stool near my workbench. He looked at me straight on and said, “You, my friend, have a problem.” I had absolutely no idea what he meant by that. I asked him, “What are you talking about, Chollie?” Bransford loved that I called him that. “Chollie” is the nickname of former Phillies manager Charlie Manuel. Bransford is a baseball junkie and he instantly gravitated toward me giving him that nickname. He leaned in closer on one elbow and looked at George and me.

  “That man is scared to death of you, that’s what I’m talking about!” I almost dropped my bottle of water. “What?” I said in disbelief. “What the heck are you talking about Chollie?” Bransford started explaining in criminal psychology terms. He noticed that Phil was visibly uncomfortable and nervous around me and even more so around George, he presumed it was because he’d never met him. “He’s afraid of you being Italian, pal. It’s as simple as that.” I looked at George and started to laugh. “This is a joke, right? Cuz...you in on this?” George shook his head. He was as interested in this tale as I now was. “Explain this to me Chollie, please.”

  Bransford started talking about nervous ticks and “tells” like poker players notice. He talked about how alcohol loosens the tongue and often removes inhibitors. “People say things when they’re tipsy, Joe. You can tell a lot by what a guy says when he’s had a few. Those jokes he was telling, did you notice anything about the content?” I paused a second. “No, just bad Italian jokes. Same bad Italian jokes I’ve heard my whole life.” I answered. It was actually my cousin George who’d notice the pattern. Georgie spoke up, “At first they were just run of the mill Italian jokes, Cuz. Then every joke became about the mafia.”

  “Ding ding ding!” Bransford yelped. “We have a winner!” He took a swig of his water. “The man thinks you might be in the mafia somehow, buddy. Plain and simple.” I almost spit out my tea. “What!” I gasped, coughing as I tried to speak. “Yeah...he thinks you’re in the mob. He was nervous when he walked in here, I could see that plain as day. And he’s known you how long now? You ever heard the phrase ‘True words are spoken in jest’? Well that’s why he kept making mafia jokes at your expense. He wanted to see your reaction. He was actually “joking” about his perception of you.” “Oh hell...” I frowned. “You’re not kidding? This is what’s troubling this guy?”

  Charlie winked and said, “You betcha,” Then he continued, “You know...what you do
with this information is entirely up to you. Nobody is going to know about this conversation.” Charlie smiled mischievously. “Hmmm...this could be fun...” my voice trailed off. I’d already begun thinking of how to use this to break old Phil of his nosiness once and for all. But for now...there was a fishing trip to get underway.

  Peppers and Eggs

  Thursday morning we all met at my garage. All except Phil. Apparently I was right and he was feeling the pain of his three-beer-binge in my garage the night before. I gathered up everyone else, loaded the trucks and was ready to ship out before finally calling him. I figured I’d give him every chance to show up on his own and salvage his pride before giving him a warning shot across his bow. But when 8:30 AM rolled around, and still no Phil, I knew I had to call him.

  Phil came slithering across the street at 8:45. I had already told the other guys what happened, knowing they would be riding Phil the entire trip to Hampton. I was going to enjoy this. We’d been here almost two years now and I had –as of yet- not seen how the locals broke each other’s balls. This would be a learning experience for me. Phil crawled into the Escalade wearing his safety sunglasses. The kind with screens on the outside edges to prevent anything from blowing into the corners of your eyes. They were hideous, but apparently Phil had worn them since his days at the foundry, and –being the tightwad that he was- he kept them. The boys were ruthless. Milledge opened a can of Vienna sausages and stuck it under Phil’s nose. “You ate yet?” he said with a snicker. Phil groaned a little. Erickson had brought some Lutefisk, which is an abominable use of cod if you ask me. He offered Phil some of the slimy, white, shoe-leathery looking fish and Phil started to look a little green.

  Then they started in on him about how he ever got Gladys to let him come over to my garage long enough to drink three beers in the first place. Were they the first three beers he’d ever drank in his life? “Phil ain’t had a beer since Prohibition!” Milledge said with a laugh. They were having a good time at Phil’s expense and doing a good job of humbling him. But the best was yet to come. In one of the greatest single moments of ball-breaking I have ever witnessed, Hank Milledge leaned over and dropped an Alka Seltzer in Phil’s coffee cup. Phil was spitting and howling and I thought he was going to take a swing at Hank right there. I looked at George in the passenger’s seat and we burst out laughing. That Milledge, he’s a funny guy. I thought.

  I turned my head and scowled at Phil, “Don’t make me come back there,” I joked. I’d forgotten the conversation I’d had with Chollie Bransford the night before. Phil went white. Oh yeah, I thought, Phil is afraid of the big mean Italian. I figured I’d cut him some slack. “Phil,” I said, “I have just the thing you need.” I handed them a big cardboard box. “Boys,” I said, “This is the finest breakfast sandwich you will ever eat. My cousin George and I got up early and made you all some peppers and egg sandwiches. I get these rolls flown down from Philly once a week. You can’t get ‘em here. Dig in!” George and I took one each and then Milledge grabbed one. Phil looked a little unsure until I told him it was the sure cure for his headache and the way his stomach felt. He slowly unwrapped one of the sandwiches and took a bite.

  Now, very little makes me happier than seeing someone taste authentic Italian food for the first time. I’m not talking about those psuedo-cannolis at Olive Garden, or some Ragu poured over Angel Hair. I’m talking about the real deal. The stuff we ate in my house growing up. Like peppers and eggs. Or tomatoes and tripe.

  Phil was very uneasy eating my cooking, but the pure wonder of a peppers-and-eggs sandwich on a real Amorosso roll overwhelmed him. Phil was smiling and telling everyone how he’d never had something like this for breakfast.

  It was the most talking he’d done in a long time, which, as it turns out, was a little disconcerting. Because Phil talks with his mouth full and he smacks his lips like a dog eating peanut butter. The sounds emanating from the back seat were almost enough to make me lose my appetite. I handed my big thermos to Phil and he refilled his coffee cup. I watched him in the rearview to see his face when he tasted real strong coffee, the way Italians drink it. That was priceless. Maybe drinking some coffee would stop the garbage disposal sounds coming from his face.

  My cousin George was riding shotgun with me. Phil and Hank Milledge were in the back. Erickson decided to ride along with Tommy in my Tundra. He apparently had a long list of woodworking projects to complete and wanted to pick Tommy’s brain. Somewhere about halfway to Hampton, my cousin George decided it was time to toy with Phil. Out of nowhere, he looks at me and says, rather loudly, “You’ll never guess who I ran into at the Bocce club in Ridley last week.” I glanced at him quickly; he was wearing a Cheshire-cat grin. This is gonna be good. I thought to myself.

  “Who Cuz?” I asked, trying not to smile. This was a setup, that much I knew. Not knowing where this story was going was almost like having the gag played on me, along with Phil. George leaned over and pretended to not want Phil and Hank to hear him, but spoke loudly anyway. “Rennie Prima Donna!” He said triumphantly.

  Oh man! I knew what was coming. This was brilliant! I thought to myself, Why hadn’t I thought of this? I feigned surprise. I knew full well George hadn’t seen Rennie Prima Donna. Rennie retired to Sarasota about five years ago. But the story that was about to unfold was a classic in the annals of the Mezilli family, and it was perfect fodder for Phil’s apparent obsession with the idea that because I was Italian, I was somehow in the mob. In retrospect, maybe too perfect.

  “Rennie Prima Donna” was my Uncle Tony’s best friend in the Cement Finishers Union. They’d apprenticed together, and when Uncle Tony became local President, Rennie was his Secretary. His real name is Lorenzo Anthony Priemontese. You pronounce it “Pree-mon-teeze,” (although his sister Susanna liked to pronounce it “Preemon-tay-zee” because she thought it sounded regal that way) Of course in South Philly, everybody gets a nickname and it’s usually some sort of modification of your last name. Priemontese was almost too easy to modify into “Prima Donna” but that’s just what it became. Rennie loved it.

  He and my Uncle Tony were the same age, right to the day. They were both born September 7, 1939. They met in St. Rose of Lima Elementary School in the first grade and became best friends immediately. They did everything together, right up to, and including, the famous, “Body Bag Incident, of 1979.” The beautiful thing was that George had concocted a brilliant way to retell that story in front of Phil Lowery while not telling the story to Phil directly. George basically set up old Phil to eavesdrop as we discussed it. It was amazing. It happened like this...

  I looked at George in mock surprise, just catching his subtle wink. “You saw Rennie Prima Donna? After all these years?” George answered in a not-so-hushed tone, “Yep, Lorenzo Anthony Priemontese, right there in the flesh at the Bocce club.” George was getting warmed up now, he continued, “He was looking dapper too. People always said he got made after that whole body bag thing. Uncle Gook never said anything about it, but how else do you explain him witnessing that, and not ending up dead himself?”

  George paused and looked over his shoulder at Phil, who quickly bit off another piece of his peppers-and-eggs. He acted like he was looking out the window, but I’d been watching him in the rear-view...he was eavesdropping. George quickly leaned over against his window, acting as if he didn’t want to be overheard and giving the impression that this whole conversation was a secret. You have to play this sort of thing right, or it’s not going to work. George was baiting the trap, but you can’t have the bait actually look like bait, you know?

  A few minutes later, George leaned back over and whispered loudly, “Cuz, you think that stuff really happened? Them burying that guy for Nicky Bruno and all? All that concrete? You think Uncle Tony was just shining us because we were little boys back then, or do you believe him?” This was the defining moment. I looked at George and with a really serious tone I said, “I heard from someone who was there, that every word is true. It happened j
ust like Uncle Gook said it did. Only...” I paused here to make the bait simply irresistible to Phil.

  “...I heard the guy was still alive when they buried him in the concrete!” I said this in mock disbelief. George let out a low, soft whistle. “Get out!” he said, “Still alive? Who told you this?” George was trying not to laugh. I could hear it in his voice. Now it was a contest between us. Tell this story loud enough for Phil to hear it and get caught up in it, but act like we didn’t realize he was listening. The only difficult thing was not laughing at each other.

  I continued with my version of the story. “You remember Mosquito Johnny Damonico?” I asked. George chuckled, “The little gimp-legged kid who used to run behind the mosquito truck breathing that fog every night in the summer?” I smiled, “Yeah, the one with the really cute sister, whose...” George interrupted me and completed the story. “...whose pigtails I cut off with the hedge trimmers, because she wouldn’t kiss me at the community pool!” George laughed, “Yeah, I remember her. Her name was Margo, or something like that. She had bucked teeth like a little blonde haired gopher. We always teased her because she was a blonde. She was the only blonde in Little Italy.” George was really having fun with this. So was I. Now came the good part. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Hank Milledge sleeping with his head resting against the window and his mouth open. He was snoring pretty loudly and this made Phil have to lean forward to hear us better. That’s what he was doing at the moment, pretending to be texting on his cell phone. Phil never textmessages. He still has an old phone with a number pad instead of a QWERTY keyboard, and he can never figure out how to switch between numbers and letters. He tried texting me directions once to a high school football game his nephew was playing in. All I got was a bunch of cryptic gibberish that looked like an Ottendorf Cipher. Either that or the combination for his high school gym locker. I leaned over toward George, which made it easier for Phil to eavesdrop. “Well Mosquito Johnny works as a bartender at Pagliacci’s on weekends, and he overheard Jimmy-the-Bean Valente telling another guy that they were the ones who put him there. They said he had nicked the poor box at Nicky Bruno’s church and Nicky had him clipped for that.” George feigned shock. In truth, there is no one named “Nicky Bruno” running any mob in Philly. “Jimmy-the-Bean” was an accountant for John Wannamaker’s department stores. That’s how he got his nick name, he was a bean counter. Mosquito Johnny was a hairdresser and later -after a chop and a snip- became “Jasmine Dipolito.” But Phil Lowery didn’t know any of this.