The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster

by Craig Daliessio

  Eversen took a step back. Literally. It was like Angie used “the force” or something because she looked like she’d been pushed. Maybe it was that terrible “naked-from-thewaste-down” feeling they got when they realized their bluff didn’t work. But whatever it was they suddenly decided that the pressure and bluster wasn’t going to be productive. They turned into humans.

  “We have some things we need to talk to you about, Joe,” offered agent DiMeolo, “The front yard isn’t the place to do it. Can we come in?” “All friggin’ seven of you?” I asked. DiMeolo got a slight grin on his face. “No…no that’s a good point. Give me a minute.” He walked over to the car where agent Robertson was leaning. I’d been watching him the whole time. He was working on his fourth stick of nicotine gum since I stood him down. DiMeolo discussed something with him for a brief minute and then they both came over to where we were standing. “We’ll send a couple of these guys home, Joe,” DiMeolo said, “Maybe we don’t need this much presence.” I looked at Angie. She was still visibly shaken. She was still visibly pissed, too. I glanced over and saw Lowery looking out his window, smiling. He didn’t even try to hide himself this time. I did something I hadn’t done in about thirty years…I flipped him off. His face slid into a quick frown and he closed the blinds. “Yeah,” I said to DiMeolo, “Yeah, we can go inside.” So Agent Robertson, Eversen, DiMeolo, and two other of their crew came in and we sat down in the kitchen. “Youse want some coffee?” I asked. Angie shot me a quick look. “If any of you want coffee, there is a Dunkin’ Donuts out on Timberlake Drive, our friend Joe Randa owns it. Mention our name and you get a free donut, but you aren’t getting any of mine. Why don’t you get to the point of your intrusion so we can get on about our day?” Angie was angrier than I’d allowed for. “You heard the lady,” I said. “You have five minutes. Then I call my attorney.”

  Agent Robertson had just started to speak when his Italian compatriot interrupted. “Harvey,” he said to Robertson, “Let me go first, huh?” Robertson looked a little angry at this but he took a step back. DiMeolo smiled. “May we sit down, Joe?” He asked. “Yeah, you can sit in your car when you leave. Sitting in my living room is reserved for friends. Now get to it. You’re down to four minutes.” DiMeolo actually smiled a little at that. I could hear the distinctive Philly accent in his voice, so I asked him; “Where you from Cuz? I know that accent anywhere.” He smiled. “Sixteenth and Oregon.” He said, half apologizing. “I worked my way through college at Chickie’s and Pete’s.” “Okay so you’re paisan. We speak the same language. So cut the crap and tell me what’s going on.” “Mob involvement, Joe.” He said plain as day. “What?” Angie and I both said this simultaneously. “Mob involvement,” he repeated. “We’ve received several…actually many, anonymous tips that you were involved in mob activities. Now normally we tend to just file these things away as someone with a vivid imagination, but when we get that many of them we have to at least sniff around. So we did. Now we’re here to ask you some questions.”

  I was shocked. I was angry. “Mob activities?” I said. “Do you know my reputation…my family’s reputation? Do you know how I ran my business and how hard I worked to avoid any sort of involvement with those people? I was probably the only guy in Philly who wasn’t in bed with the mob. That’s why Waste International specifically targeted my business for buyout. Did you know that?”

  Agent DiMeolo agreed. “Joe we did our homework before we came here. We know all those things and they’re all true. But we kept getting tips. Now in fairness, you do know some people with mob ties. We cross-matched your name against our “known active” list and there were a few hits.” “Oh yeah?” I said, “Like who?” “Well,” DiMeolo replied, “Anthony Leonetti for one.” “Two Flush Tony Leonetti? He’s in the mob?” I asked. “Not exactly,” Agent DiMeolo continued. “But he has serious gambling debts with some of the mob families in Atlantic City, and you did just loan him the money to pay those debts off, and I understand you’re getting some vig on top of it. That makes you a direct contact Joe.”

  “First of all, I didn’t pay those debts. That money came from a neighborhood fund we set up as part of our selling out to Waste International. We paid off Tony’s debt to keep his family from not having a father anymore. He is paying the loan back with interest and it’s not going to me. It goes to the fund, same with the interest he’s paying.”

  DiMeolo apparently knew this but it still made me somehow suspicious.

  “Well Joe, you do have a convicted bank robber here working for you. Thomas Fallone. He tried to steal and ATM back in 1989. That is a federal crime. “You didn’t think I knew about Tommy?” I answered, “He’s one of my best friends. I know Tommy since childhood on Shunk Street. Me and my dad made his bail so he could get out before his trial. I hired him down here and I bankrolled his construction business. Tommy needed a second chance and I was happy to give it to him. As far as I know, being a friend isn’t a crime either, Paisan. Again…cut the crap and let’s get down to business.”

  I was getting pissed now and I think DiMeolo knew it. “I’m calling a friend to come down here. Give me a minute.” I got Charlie Bransford on the phone. “Chollie” I said, “How fast can you be at my house?” “I’m at your front door right now Joe…” With that, Charlie Bransford walked in my living room. “Joe!” he said as soon as he walked in. “I looked out my window and saw the Crown Vics. They’re easy to spot when you’ve spent half your life in one.” Then he stopped in his tracks and looked at the men in my living room. “Well, well, well, look who it is. Good Morning, Harvey.” Agent Robertson went white and he started biting his cheek. Joe looked at me and a smile slowly crept across his face. “Joe I don’t know what’s going on here, but if Agent Robertson is involved, the facts are probably wrong.” Charlie wasn’t smiling when he said that and he shot Robertson a look like a big brother would when he caught his little brother in a lie.

  Charlie introduced himself to DiMeolo and showed him his credentials. “I can vouch for this man, agent DiMeolo. Now what’s the problem?” DiMeolo gave him the finer points in a hurry. The entire attitude in the room changed once Charlie showed up and everybody became cordial. Everybody except Agent Robertson, who stood there with his arms crossed, wearing a scowl. We went back to our conversation. “So what else is there Agent DiMeolo?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Joe,” he began, “Do you know Jimmy Verducci, from back home?” I thought for a minute. “No…no I can’t say that I do. Why?” DiMeolo stiffened a bit. “He’s a major leaguer with the Porcinilli family. Maybe even a capo. Well about a year ago he went missing. We never had a clue about where he might be, until one of the anonymous calls we got about you. That led us to believe he was here.” I cocked my head quizzically. “Like I said, I don’t know the guy. So what makes you think he’s here?” DiMeolo leaned in a little. “Joe, his nickname is ‘The Crusher.’ Jimmy, The Crusher, Verducci. Does the name mean anything now?” I thought about it some more. Then the light came on. “Wait…” I said. “Did one of your anonymous phone calls claim I had this Crusher guy out at my hunting camp?”

  DiMeolo smiled. He actually looked relieved. “Well you wouldn’t ask me that if you really had him out there. So, yes, that’s exactly what the informant said. Now please tell me this is some mistaken identity.” I laughed. “Okay, first, why don’t you guys all have a seat? I think it’s safe to drop the boxing gloves.” DiMeolo laughed and Eversen smiled at Angie. Robertson was still basically intent on being an ass, but he was outnumbered and he seemed completely intimidated by Chollie being there in my living room.

  Angie finally eased up a bit and offered to make some coffee for our guests. Ice, broken. I thought. Agent Eversen walked into the kitchen to help Angie while we stayed there in the living room to finish this whole affair. “The Crusher,” I began, “Is the first garbage truck our family ever owned. My grandfather bought him from the township back in 1953. He’s an old Ford Heavy Duty chassis and they alwa
ys had a grille on them that looked mean and menacing. Of course, being a trash truck, it crushes everything. So we gave him the nickname, ‘The Crusher.’” “So how did it end up out here at your hunting camp?” DiMeolo asked me. “About a year ago I got a phone call from Richard Green. He is the V.P. who did the Waste International deal with me. He said their corporate office wanted The Crusher gone. We had retired him years ago but we parked him on the front lawn of our office complex. He became a monument of sorts. The neighbors loved him. Anyway Green wanted to give me a chance to save him if we wanted to, so I had him shipped down and we parked him out by the hunting camp. I take my boys out there once in a while and let them practice driving a big truck like that, out where nobody can get hurt. I can take you out there to see him if you want.”

  Robertson spoke up, “I think that might just be a good idea…” he began. Then DiMeolo winked at me and said, “No, no I don’t think that’s necessary. Who would make up a story like that?” DiMeolo walked over and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Mezilli, we owe you a big apology. We should have simply called you first, sir. The element of surprise wasn’t needed here.” He said this as he shot a sarcastic look at Robertson. I instantly got the feeling that this was his idea, not Dimeolo’s. “I’m very sorry we upset your afternoon like we did.”

  Now, I have a long, slow fuse for a temper. But I’m also quick to forgive. I shook his hand and smiled. “It’s okay Paisan. You have a job to do and these days you never can tell, right?” I turned and walked into the kitchen. Why don’t you guys come in here and have some coffee before you go, huh?” DiMeolo, Robertson, Eversen, Charlie Bransford, and one other agent who never said anything, came in and sat down at our table. We had coffee and broke out some cannoli and by the time they left, we were all on a first name basis. All except Robertson who looked like someone had given him a wedgie.

  The FBI agents all left around 2:30, which was good because my kids were going to be home soon and I didn’t want them to see this. As we walked out to their waiting cars, I asked DiMeolo -whose name was actually Frank- “Frank can you tell me who the tips came from?” Now, I had a damned good idea but I wanted to be certain.

  “They come in anonymously, Joe. Even I don’t know” He said. Then he winked, “I bet Agent Bransford could find out for you.” “Fair enough.” I said, shaking his hand. “You guys be careful out there and Merry Christmas to you.” They drove off and as I was heading back to my house, I noticed Lowery staring out his window again. I know it was you, you ass! I thought. Just to give him fits, I raised my right hand with the index and pinky fingers extended and gave him the death horns. He closed his curtains in a hurry.

  This ends now. I said to myself.

  Charlie turned to leave and I stopped him. “Hang on a second Chollie; come inside if you have a minute. I need to talk to you.” Charlie agreed and we went back inside and sat at the breakfast bar drinking coffee. “This has really pissed me off.” I began, “I know it was Lowery, and you know it too. You nailed it a year ago when we were in my garage that night. But I had no idea he had taken it this far. This could have really gotten out of hand.” Charlie agreed, “Yeah I was thinking the same thing when I walked in and saw Harvey Robertson was here.” “You know Robertson?” I asked. “Yeah, we have a history.” Charlie replied. “I worked with him for about a year or so up in Quantico. I was getting some specialized forensic training and he was sort of desk-bound.

  He got his start in the Trenton, New Jersey office and then moved to Philadelphia for a time. He was a terrible field agent and they moved him to HQ just to get him off the live cases. Harvey was known for working from presupposition and ignoring the facts that didn’t fit his narrative.” Charlie took a sip of his coffee and continued.

  “Robertson is past retirement age but he hangs on. They moved him back out to the field in the hopes that the activity would push him to wanting to hang them up. He just stays on stubbornly. He acts like the lead agent in every investigation but he really isn’t. You probably picked that up today. DiMeolo was really the guy in charge.” “Yeah,” I said with a smirk, “Robertson started off calling the shots but DiMeolo stepped in and steered us away from the rocks.

  Charlie continued, “Well if it was entirely Robertson’s call, he might have come here with a tactical team and kicked your door in. That’s no joke either; he’s that sort of an asshole. I also wouldn’t be surprised that if he was in charge, your lines would have been tapped and your house bugged.” I sat up, startled by what he was saying. “What? Are you serious?” “Serious as a heart attack. I’d say the odds are sixty-forty against it, because I think DiMeolo was running this case. But you never know” Charlie responded. “I’ll call DiMeolo tomorrow and ask him for a tech clearance on your house. I still have enough clout to get something like that done. If there’s anything here, they’ll tell me. I’m doubtful though. Robertson wasn’t calling the ball on this one. DiMeolo doesn’t strike me as the type who would get special permission to get a tech warrant on something as flimsy as anonymous phone tips. But Robertson would have. That jackass would have staked out his own mother in the bathroom at Macy’s if he had a suspicion. He’s gung ho.”

  Angie took a sip of her coffee and asked Charlie something a lot more important. “Chollie, how far do you think this goes? I mean if Phil Lowery was such a slave to his vivid imagination that he called the FBI so many times, who else did he tell?” I smiled at Anj. I was thinking the same thing myself. “Good point, Babe.” I said, “How do we know the entire town doesn’t suspect us? You know what a busybody Phil is, who knows how far this has gone.” Charlie scratched his head and smiled at us. “Well,” he said, “You can either go door to door and tell each and every fix this with every single person in town, or you can just assume that Charlie hasn’t gone too far afield with this and just deal with him for now.”

  What do you suggest, Charlie?” I asked. “I’d just keep an eye out for people treating you differently and let it go from there. I never suspected you, and I was in the FBI for twenty-seven years. From what I’ve seen since I moved here, only a handful of folks even give Lowery any credence anyway. I wouldn’t worry about it much. Besides that, Phil isn’t a guy to waste words on the locals if he thinks the big fish will believe him. That’s why he went to the FBI instead of spreading a rumor around town…so he’d be the hero when they kicked your door in.”

  Charlie is a smart guy and Angie and I decided to just let it go for now. But I was definitely going to have it out with Phil. Charlie stood to leave. “Thanks for coming over Pal,” I said to him. “You probably saved us from a very ugly scenario.” Charlie put his hand on my shoulder. “Joey Trucks” he said with a laugh,” “My neighbor, the accidental mobster.” I closed the door behind him and turned to

  Angie. “I’m going over there right now…”

  Dealing With a Rat

  One time when I was a kid, my dad had heard some rumblings about our family being “connected.” Some neighbor was jealous of the dividend our hard work was paying and he decided to just spread a rumor. It pissed the Old Man off to no end and he went straight to the source. It was one of the few times I ever saw my dad really, enraged. He could get mad, God knows he could. But I never saw my dad look like he was going to lose control other than two or three times. He was not very pleasant with that guy.

  Once I remember was when the unions tried forcing themselves on our shop. They harassed our guys so much, even damaging our trucks, so that my father actually went to the local president’s house with a baseball bat. He never even knocked. He just walked in and poked the guy in his chest with the bat and said “Listen Lou, if you show up at my place again with your goons and your pamphlets, I’m going to come back here and I’ll go through you,” then he turned to Lou Gentile’s big, fat son Robert “and I’ll go through you,” then he looked at his wife “and I’ll go through you, and anybody else in your god-damned house until I figure out who is bothering my guys. Capisce, paisan?” My old man said L
ou peed his pants right there in his own kitchen.

  I wasn’t carrying a bat, and I wasn’t out to make Phil Lowery’s dam burst. But I was hot. I knocked on Phil’s door and Gladys answered. As soon as she saw me she went white as a sheet. “Hello Gladys” I said, “Where is your husband?” I was going to just walk in his house but I knew Phil was a gun owner, and I didn’t trust him not to actually take a shot. I also didn’t think Gladys had the slightest clue what Phil had done so I tried to remain calm and not show my anger towards her. Gladys’ knees buckled a bit and she stepped back from the door. “Pheel!” she yelled, never taking her eyes off of me. “Pheel get up here now!”

  Phil trudged up the steps from his basement. I imagine he was down there trying to adapt a baby monitor into a bugging device so he could spy on me. He opened the basement door and as soon as he saw my face he went limp. I thought he was going to cry. He swallowed hard and tried sticking his hand out. “W...well hello neighbor!” He offered. “What brings you over here to…” I wasn’t in the mood for Phil’s crap. “Don’t give me that country-boy charm, pal. You know damn well what you did. The FBI was just at my house, Phil. The Mother-F… the FBI! In my home!” I had almost blown the fuse. I hadn’t uttered the “F” word in over thirty years. It was one of those things I had decided on early in life, that I would distance myself a bit from the regular Joe’s in the neighborhood. It was part of being a success and part of being a Mezilli. You work to earn respect, and then you work to keep respect. Just now…that was as close as I’d come to launching an F Bomb in more than half my life.

  “Do you know how hard it is to scare my wife, Phil? My Angie? Well the FBI will do the job. They’ll scare pretty much anybody. If my kids had been home, I’d already be beating the shit out of you, are we clear about this?” I thought Phil was going to have a heart attack. He grabbed his chest and started licking his lips. And then he did the one thing that would cement my never respecting him again. He lied.