Road Work: Among Tyrants, Heroes, Rogues, and Beasts

by Mark Bowden

  Not that Tayoun has strong feelings about art, or even about the statue. Not at all. He doesn’t even like the statue.

  “You know, the Rocky statue is not a good statue,” he says, leaning forward and tapping his listener’s chest with his forefinger as if to confide inside information. “If it looked more like Rocky I would like it better, but it doesn’t look that much like him. I went over to see it. I’m a realist. I look at things, and I like ’em to look like what they’re supposed to look like. But this one? It don’t look nothin’ like Sylvester Stallone.”

  No, it was not aesthetics that motivated Tayoun. It was politics. The councilman shared Gorman’s outrage that the Guardians of Good Taste, some so-called experts of art, could reject a popular work on behalf of people who probably would like to have it—yes, right there on top of the art museum steps. So, in September, as a kind of warning shot, Tayoun introduced a resolution, the legislative equivalent of a nice suggestion, “asking the art commission to reconsider its arbitrary and capricious decision regarding the ‘Rocky’ statue, and to permit the statue to be placed at the art museum in Philadelphia.”

  Two months later, after the nice suggestion was ignored, Tayoun had the council’s legal authors draw up a document that, if approved, would have been much more than a suggestion. It would have been the law.

  “The legal draftsmen told me the bill was unconstitutional, that it contradicted the charter, which gives the art commission authority over deciding where to display things publicly in the city, but I didn’t care,” Tayoun recalls. “I thought it would make an interesting legal test in court. It was an egalitarian kind of thing. I mean, I don’t think these people should have the right to dictate to everyone else what is art.”

  Tayoun’s proposed ordinance succeeded where his resolution had failed; the art commission took him seriously. At the public hearing on the bill, those who came to argue against it outnumbered Tayoun, Gorman, and the handful of supporters rounded up by the Kensington truck driver. Gorman knew he had come as far as he could go. The enemy was arrayed before him with a staff of killer attorneys on leash.

  “They made it pretty clear that in order to do what we wanted, we would have to change the charter,” Gorman remembers. As any self-respecting up-from-the-streets Philadelphian knows, charter changes are nothing to be trifled with. Not even the Bambino, beloved former mayor Frank Rizzo, could get the charter changed. Gorman knew it was time to stop fighting and start talking.

  “They had worked out the compromise before the meeting even started,” he says, with newfound insight into the legislative process. The Hollywood star’s generous gift of himself would stand atop the art museum steps again, briefly, to mark the world premiere of the sequel to the sequel. Then, on July 11, it would be shipped to a large square of cement in front of South Philly’s indoor sports arena, the Spectrum.

  “They figured, We’ll put it down by the Spectrum; I mean, you and me go to see hockey, so we don’t know art from a hockey puck, right?” explained one of the officials who helped chisel the compromise. “Actually, this sort of thing happens fairly often. Museums are always getting gifts of artwork they don’t want. During World War II, there was a handy solution. There was this crucial shortage of bronze, you see…”

  Oh sad, oh unhappy day! Workers finally wrapped the giant statue of the Hollywood star in soiled, graying mattresses and hoisted and blasted it off its perch atop the Art Museum steps. It was a hot August day. The July 11 deadline had not been met because the eminent parties involved fell to arguing about who was going to pay to remove the genuine Work of Art. At the height of this dispute, one member of commerce director Doran’s staff offered an explanation:

  “The city is in no position to pay for removal of the statue. Clearly, the statue has overstayed its welcome on the front steps of the art museum. The art museum just wants the thing off their front porch. I can tell you that the city of Philadelphia is not going to spend a cent to ship some statue of Sylvester Stallone all over town. We figure, the statue was a promotion for the film, which has made, by current estimates, more than a hundred fifty million already this summer. Then, since it is going to the Spectrum, there was some talk of trying to get them to pay for it….”

  The Guardians, by now, had grown impatient. At a meeting held shortly before the statue was finally removed, it was seriously suggested that the lot of them march out and just push the statue off its pedestal, as a sort of, you know, protest, but this was rejected as undignified.

  As the wait wore on, hundreds of tourists from across the land posed for snapshots, fists held high, before the sculpted version of the man who had beaten the odds, beaten Apollo Creed, and seemingly beaten, at least for a time, Philadelphia’s high and mighty Guardians of Good Taste.

  Then one day a kindly construction contractor appeared with the right equipment and a soft heart for Rocky Balboa. When he and his men were done, only a chipped pedestal remained on the art museum’s steps. The Guardians rejoiced at the sight, and knew that it was good. And in good taste.

  Today, in the famous City of Brotherly Love, the Hollywood star’s generous gift stands, muscular and proud, outside the Spectrum, the same sports arena where he captured and defended and defended his crown. Common people come from all over the land to admire the work of A. Thomas Schomberg, the famous sculptor, and ponder its true meaning. The sculptor is gratified that his work will be permanently exhibited in Philadelphia, “which has one of the finest collections of public art on display anywhere in the world.” The Guardians of the world-famous art museum breathe easy, confident that the artistic sensibilities of the Spectrum’s patrons are not easily bruised. And Gorman, though somewhat disappointed, feels vindicated and proud. (There remains, however, in some quarters, the lingering suspicion that those Hollywood slickers put one over on the old hometown.)

  And out in the far-off land of palm trees, sand dunes, and major expressways, the dashing and possibly brilliant young actor/writer/director has modestly avoided further comment on the matter. Alone under the red-orange smear of Southern California’s setting sun, he most assuredly ponders other things (Rocky IV?), and in the rare moments of silence can hear, all across the land, the ring of cash drawers and the crank of turnstiles, happily ever after.

  MAYBERRY VICE

  FEBRUARY 1986

  When The Inquirer went on strike in 1985, I called a friend at Rolling Stone and begged for an assignment. This story was her idea. When it came out, it demonstrated for me one lucrative side benefit of having a story in a national magazine. I had been writing magazine articles for years, but this one prompted dozens of calls from movie producers. I sold the rights to Warner Brothers, and split the earnings with my editor and with Mike White and Rudy Legenza, the heroes of the story. The movie never got made, but it gave me some valuable experience with Hollywood, a nice payday, and lifelong friendships with Rudy and with Mike, who died suddenly of a heart attack just a few years ago. Mike and Rudy suggested that I contact some FBI agents in Philadelphia, a tip which led to my first book, Doctor Dealer. So all in all, the time I spent on strike was the most lucrative period of my career up until that time.

  Cocky as ever, the skinny Puerto Rican kid knew he was on to something. Now he would call these cops’ bluff. Maybe then this Blanco and his lieutenant would leave him and his friends alone.

  Only his cigarette cast light behind the corner bar where he waited. There were boards on the windows. It was the summer of 1983, and the kid wore a black net T-shirt. His jeans, also black, descended to a pair of puffy white ankle-high basketball shoes the size of ski boots, made larger still by laces left loose and untied. Tires cracked on gravel; the kid flicked the cigarette and clomped across the lot.

  At the wheel of the black Chevy, Lieutenant Rudy Legenza turned off the headlights. Beside him sat Blanco, Detective Mike White, whose mind flashed Mickey Mouse when the thin black figure in great white boots stepped out in the open. Mickey scurried into the backseat and closed th
e door. He could hardly wait with his news.

  “Listen. On my way over here tonight, this guy stops me, this Colombian guy, and he offers me a gram of coke. I promised to meet him five minutes from now. So I need a hundred bucks.”

  Mike groaned. “Why did you do that?”

  “You should never set anything up without telling us about it first,” said Rudy. Rudy was in charge; you could hear it in his voice.

  This was not the reception Mickey expected. What was with these cops? Blanco and the lieutenant had busted him a few days ago. Nothing serious, but they had enough to lean, to make him work on their stupid little cases. At this meeting here, he was supposed to collect all of ten bucks to buy a few lousy joints and a hit of acid from the fat American over on Dexter Street who was dealing right out on the sidewalk. How chickenshit can you get? “What are you fuckin’ with high school kids for?” he’d asked. “I hear there’s a Colombian living over on Washington Street who gets twenty kilos of coke from Miami every month! And you’re busting me?” And now he was offering them a Colombian who was ready to deliver a gram right off the bat and they were coming down on him like he had done something wrong!

  “Hey, look,” he said. “I told the guy I’d buy it, man. I have to go back. He’s probably waiting right now.”

  No answer. Mike and Rudy stared at each other. In the dim light, Mike’s sandy-red beard looked gray, there were lines under his eyes. Rudy is a shorter, wider man, with bright streaks of gray in his black hair and beard. They felt foolish, embarrassed. They knew how penny-ante these street busts were. Now Mickey Mouse here in the back seat had put them on the spot. Who was going to tell him their drug investigation was authorized to spend, count ’em, twelve more bucks?

  They’d started three days ago with $200. It was all they could wheedle out of the chief. But even Mike and Rudy hadn’t figured things would move this fast. Were they going to tell this kid that the Central Falls, Rhode Island, police were ready to bust him, were after the stupid American kid on Dexter Street for dealing a dime of dope, but weren’t interested in a Colombian with a gram of coke because they couldn’t afford the buy? For a hundred dollars?

  Both detectives pulled out wallets. Mike’s got three kids, so he didn’t even have twenty. Rudy, the bachelor, was frowning down at that week’s spending money. He turned on the overhead light and reluctantly began copying the serial numbers of his own bills.

  The chief would understand. Surely.

  Police headquarters, on Illinois Street, is a low, two-story brick bunker with white trim, basic municipal modern. It sits dead center of Central Falls, which means that no point in the jurisdiction is more than a half mile away. Even with 20,000 people jammed inside those boundaries, the smallest city in the smallest state is still what you might call a manageable district.

  In the lobby there’s a Coke machine and a row of four hard plastic chairs. On one wall there’s a framed photo display of all thirty-seven members of the force. Mike and Rudy are pictured as they looked before they made detective: beardless, in uniform. The centerpiece of the display is a larger picture, that of a man whose meaty Irish countenance fills all available space. This is the man who scowled at spending $200 to chase drug dealers in the dark, when that’s the kind of work that should be left to the state; this is the man who held the experienced opinion that Central Falls (his Central Falls) had no more of a drug problem than any other American city (that is, unstoppable), and whom Rudy had decided not to awaken and consult last night when he counted out a hundred dollars of his own money to the Puerto Rican kid with the giant shoes. This is Chief James F. Galligan.

  The detectives’ office is upstairs, in a long room with light-blue cinder-block walls. Old Glory flaps at eye level out the front window. Mike and Rudy sit in opposite corners. The small bulletin board over Mike’s left shoulder displays a yellowing newspaper ad of his older brother, Jack, in a trench coat with an upturned collar. Jack is a TV reporter in Providence. In the corner of the board there’s a blue-and-white bumper sticker: I SURVIVED CATHOLIC SCHOOL. Rudy’s corner is uncluttered. A few pictures from hunting magazines are tacked to his own bulletin board. His desk is just inside the door. Any shit that flies through lands in his lap.

  Mike hardly glanced from his paperwork that morning when Rudy stood up and announced, “I’m going down to see the chief about my hundred dollars.”

  Mike figured this was no big deal. Forking over that money was the kind of decision you have to make for yourself on the street. Still, he sensed they were out on a limb on this one. The undercover drug work was something Mike had pushed. At thirty-two, he was five years younger than Rudy, and had been on the force half of Rudy’s fourteen years. He was entitled to be more gung-ho. Mike had even taken courses with the Drug Enforcement Administration in Providence on his own time. They taught things like how to tail people without being noticed. He and Rudy were too well-known in Central Falls to make undercover buys themselves, so Mike recruited his cousin Frank Dougherty, a uniformed cop in Lincoln, the next town over, to help out—without pay, of course. Rudy was the one who had to sell the idea to the higher-ups, and Rudy was the one who’d be second-guessed.

  The meeting with the chief lasted less than ten minutes. James F. Galligan was a man of few words. Rudy came out laughing, but you could tell he was angry.

  “I almost didn’t get it back,” he said. His ears were red.

  “Rudy? Rudy Legenza?”

  “That’s me. Who’s this?”

  “This is Ralph. You know, Ralph Mott.” Rudy didn’t know, but he’d learned not to discourage people.

  “Hey, Ralph,” he said warmly. “Nice to hear from you. What can I help you with?”

  “You did me a favor a few years ago, Rudy. I think I might be able to return it. Can you meet me, say, up at the Store 24 tomorrow morning?”

  This happened often to Rudy. He’d grown up in Central Falls and seemed to know everyone—except Colombians, that is. Rudy’s parents had worked in the wire mills. Back in the fifties, their neighborhood had been the Italian corner of Central Falls. If a cop caught Rudy anywhere else, he’d get a boot on the rump and a stern suggestion to get back where he belonged. Nowadays, you did that and you’d be up on charges. It hurt Rudy to drive down the old block and see it in such disrepair. Theirs had been the typical Central Falls tenement, a three-story wood-frame with shingles. The city had block after block of them. Rudy’s old place, like many, had been renovated with low-income-housing grants, its bleached wood shingles replaced with shiny striations of aluminum siding. It gave the neighborhood an institutional look.

  After hanging up the phone, Rudy remembered who Ralph Mott was: a drunk, pleasant when sober. Rudy had picked him up five years before, after Mrs. Mott came in black-and-blue. Eventually, she wanted to drop the charge. But Rudy told Ralph they were going to prosecute anyway. At the metal desk in the interview room, an airless closet with yellow walls, Rudy made him sweat for a half hour. Ralph was pleading when Rudy finally made a show of giving in. He tore up the summons and said, “You owe me one. Don’t let this happen again.” As far as he knew, it hadn’t.

  Rudy was waiting in the parking lot outside the store when Ralph walked up. He looked the same, bedraggled and strung out. Rudy bought him coffee, and they leaned against the black Chevy in the morning sunlight.

  “What have you got for me?” Rudy asked.

  “Some people next door to me, Colombians. They were making such a racket that I couldn’t sleep, so I watched them out the window. At first I thought they were breaking into this car across the street, but when I looked closer I could see they were taking the door panels off. I saw them taking out packages of this white stuff from inside the car door.”

  “What do you mean, ‘white stuff’?”

  “I don’t know. It was in packs that looked like plastic, about six inches wide and a foot long. I seen on the TV where they had it hidden in door panels like that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was cocaine.”<
br />
  At the metal desk in the interview room, the kid from Dexter Street was more indignant than scared. Just a fat nineteen-year-old with acne and blond hair jutting out in all directions. He was trying to act tough.

  Mike read him his rights. “Want to say anything?”

  “Yeah. What are you bothering me for? What are you bothering my friends for? We’re small-timers. We don’t hurt anybody. Why don’t you go after the Colombians? The big guys are making a fuckin’ mint, and you’re busting me for pot.”

  “So, tell me about the big guys. I’d be happy to go after them.”

  “Right. I bet you would. What about the Colombian on Foundry Street—Gomez? He’s got shipments coming straight up from South America through Miami. He must be dealing fifty kilos a month to the East Side of New York!”

  Mike was getting tired of hearing this. “Yeah, yeah. Now tell me where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.”

  “Holy cocaine, Batman! I think we’re getting snowed under here!”

  Mike was always kidding around. Yet this talk of coke and Colombians was starting to trouble him. Rudy felt it, too. They mulled over the mounting evidence as they cruised their familiar maze of streets.

  A few months before, they had begun noticing strange cars, expensive cars, with out-of-state tags. There were no fancy restaurants here, no hotels or motels, no tourist attractions. So they had plugged the tags into the computer and found that some of the people who owned these cars had been busted—cocaine.

  “I got a call from a friend who works at the bank, a guy I went to high school with,” Rudy said. “He called and he said, ‘People are coming in here changing small bills for large bills.’ So I said, ‘Well, what do you mean?’ So he said, ‘They’re bringing in small bills and they’re taking all our fifties and hundreds.’”