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Football is dead to me ... It should be dead to you too!

 

I was a big football fan. I had a season ticket to the New York Giants during the great years of the 1980's when they won their first two Super Bowls. I was glued to the TV every Sunday. I went to the bar to watch Monday night football every week with my cronies. We bet like crazy. On games. Prop bets. Pools. The Super Bowl was a holiday with a party and a big ta-do.

I haven't seen a game in almost ten years. 

Ever since they started kneeling during the National Anthem, I have refused to follow football. Or basketball for that matter. Both have become the repository of every malign trend in our society. You know where cashless bail originated? In the NFL where they gloss over criminal activity to get Felons on the field. Nothing matters anymore. Idiotic liberal white woman kill themselves to protect illegal immigrant child molesters. Football teams feature domestic abusers and gangbangers if they can block and tackle. Of course it is a matter of demographics. The talent pool football draws from is predominately from the criminal class. So supporting football is supporting crime and criminals.

The management of the game has gone full retard. Most recently illustrated by the selection of noted pervert and Satanist "Bad Bunny" as the halftime act. There are literally millions of other people who could have headlined. They picked this misbegotten abortion to represent America to it's fans. It should serve as the final nail in coffin. But it won't.

Football really only matters because of betting. It is a multimillion-dollar racket that has gone mainstream. I used to have to track down my bookie at the bar to place a wager. Now you can do it on your phone. Without betting, football would have all of the popularity of cricket or curling. So, it will continue its degenerate ways into the foreseeable future. Much to the determinate of our nation.

I remember enjoying the CBS documentary "The Violent World of Sam Huff." It was a profile of the New York Giant linebacker and All Pro. In those days the media was Giant-centric. Many of the players became media stars. Frank Gifford. Kyle Rote. Pat Summerall. Sam Huff never reached those heights but he was a Hall of Famer.

The game that Sam played is gone. He is famously quoted in the film; "We try to hurt everybody. We hit each other as hard as we can. This is a man's game."

Now we have "Bad Bunny" as the face of the NFL. Not Sam Huff.

I will be watching the Hallmark Channell instead of the Superbowl. 

If only I could bet on the widowed fireman with the precious daughter getting to marry the spunky city girl who came home to run her family's Christmas Tree lot. It would be a sure thing.

Special Delivery

 

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Twenty-Four- Special Delivery

McCarthy and Torrez sat on a bench at Valentino Park across from the Statue of Liberty. When you sat there, you felt like you could reach out and finger Lady Liberty as she seemed to be right in front of you. It never failed to soothe McCarthy’s spirit. He had gone to school with the fireman that the park was named after, and he would go there often to veg out and think. The kid had died in a fire long before 911, and his old man was a big shot in the longshoremen’s union and had a lot of political pull. He got a park named after his kid when all the firemen who died on 911 just got a plaque on the side of the railing facing where the World Trade Center used to be. It is all about who you know in this world. McCarthy liked to come here to remind himself of that fact.

The park was quiet today. Just a few sunbathers and a couple of old men fishing off the side of the pier. Two kids riding back and forth on skateboards. They should be in school, but who gives a shit? After all, they were homicide detectives, not the truant police. These kids were probably homeschooled entitled little shits who would make a beef with the rat squad if you ever questioned why they were out on a school day. McCarthy tried to look on the bright side.

Maybe they would roll out into the street and get hit by a bus. You can always hope.

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Ten

 

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Ten- A Rat In The Mouth is Worth Two In The Bush

Anna Feola poured an espresso and took the small white cup and saucer to the dapper elderly grey-haired man at the corner table. He looked up at her and smiled a shy smile that was out of place on his pale, elegant face. His resting face was a hard one, like he had seen bad things. Done bad things. Things you didn’t want to know about.  

It intrigued her to no end.  

“Here you go, sir,” she chirped cheerily. His smile deepened if that was possible. “You don’t have to call me, sir sweetie. Vincenzo is fine. Or V if you want. That’s what my friends call me.” “Okay, V it is. Say, I wanted to ask if my landlady ever called you V,” she teased him. He looked at her with a deadpan expression that almost scared her. “Whose your landlady?” “Celestine. Celestine DiMartino. I think you know her.”  

The old man leaned back until his back was against the wall. He smiled a little in remembrance. A fond remembrance, it would seem. “Yeah, I know her. From a long time ago. She is your landlady? Good, that’s good. You give her my regards, ok?” “I will V when I see her when I get home. I am sure she will be happy to get them.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe, maybe not. But give them to her all the same.” 

Anna gave him a quick smile and scurried back behind the counter. The line had already formed in the few moments she had spent at the table. She had to hurry to get out of the weeds. 

Vincenzo looked at the street as he did every other minute. He had lived a long time by being careful. With his wits and with his fist. Occasionally, with a pistol. Once and a while with a bomb. Those days were gone, and still not that far away if that made any sense.  

He had great eyesight. Sniper’s eyes, they used to call it. He saw a guy leaning against a Con Edison junction box in front of the barbershop. He was out of place in the new neighborhood. A guinea in a Member’s Only jacket circa 1986. That wouldn’t have been a surprise in this neighborhood twenty years ago. More like forty years ago. Still, there were a few holdouts. It was not as prevalent as the 1980’s but not anything unusual for some of the cheap ginzos who still lived around here. They never threw anything out. Some of them still had their communion suits and the envelopes that came with them. What was unusual was that he was studiously avoiding looking at the coffee shop. He was nervously peeping all around. Except at this front window. Vincenzo had super strong radar. When something was out of place, he noticed it. And he acted.  

He reached into his very expensive designer Italian black leather jacket and took out his burner phone. He always had one along with his regular phone. It was one of the only things he liked about living these days. The cellphone was an absolute delight for a hitman. No more searching out pay phones that were often broken and unusable. You had the world in your pocket, and you could call anyone at any time. When you used a one-time burner, nobody could track you. Or tape you. It was an invaluable asset in his line of work. 

He walked out of the shop and to the corner. He went up close to the shrine of St. Lucy with her eyeballs on a plate, so his back was to Court Street. Nobody could get a bead on him or read his lips. He hit a predetermined speed dial number and whispered into the phone. “Geno. There is a mook in a Member’s Only jacket across from the café. Find out what’s his story. When? Right now, you idiot. Take Huey and Frankie with ya.” He hung up. He made the sign of the cross as though he were saying a prayer and walked back to the cafe. The mook had not moved from across the street. 

He wasn’t packing these days. It had been a long time since he had, and he couldn’t stand a gun charge these days. Vincenzo was semi-retired, so he didn’t think anyone had a contract out on him for what he was doing in the here and now. You can’t rule out the sons and grandsons of some of the people he had taken out back in the day. There were over eighty of them after all, so the odds are that one of their descendants went into the life and wanted some payback. Or to make a name for themselves. Not that it would be any great accomplishment to take him out in his dotage. He was a tough nut, but he didn’t have the reflexes that he used to have. Still, why make it easy for the strunz. 

A black SUV with tinted windows pulled up across the street. It was the made-man’s transport of choice these days. Geno and Frankie got out and walked up to the Member’s Only Jacket. They discreetly went to either side of him. Geno spoke to him briefly and then put his arm over his shoulder and ushered him into the SUV as if he were a friend who was helping his buddy into his car so they could go out on the town. The only thing is, he probably had a pistol in his stomach where no one could see it. You knew something was up if you were paying attention. A civilian would start yelling and screaming for help. This mook acted like he just didn’t want anyone to see what was going on. Back in the day, people made sure they didn’t see what they didn’t want to see. With all the liberals in the neighborhood, you never knew who wanted to be a hero, so it was good that he went along without too much fuss. They didn’t need to make a scene. 

Vincenzo would have to find out and see what was up. You can’t leave something like this to those idiots. They could barely handle their everyday work. Anything out of the ordinary caused a big budel. If it were nothing, it would not be a problem. A couple of dollars and a little threat here or there would take care of any inconvenience if this guy were a civilian. If it were something different, then he could make the call.  He just couldn’t trust them to handle it, so it wouldn’t blow back on him. 

Vincenzo sipped his espresso and watched the street to see if there was any reaction. Maybe the cops would show up. Maybe the guy this strunz was meeting would show up. Maybe nothing would happen. A lot of fuckin’ maybees. He sat back and waited. He could be patient. It was how he had lasted this long. Slow and steady, and everything planned out. The quick ones like Crazy Joe and the Gaspipe would have been out the door in a New York minute. Beating the guy down like they were Sonny Corleone.  That’s why they were all either dead or in the can while he was here eating cannoli.

After a half hour, he took out his regular civilian phone and hit the speed dial. When it was picked up, he murmured into the old-fashioned flip phone. “Send Louie to pick me up at the store. Use his car.” He wouldn’t use the same car that picked up the mark. Or his Caddy. Fat Louie had a nondescript Jap rice-burner crash car that nobody would notice. 

Fat Louie pulled up in a battered, monkey shit brown Celica and parked at the hydrant. Vincenzo put a twenty under his cup and slipped out without anyone noticing him. He never paid since he had a tab, but he always left the girl a big tip. The young girl was busy serving a nasty twat who was arguing about how much cream cheese was on her bagel. He walked outside and crossed Court Street and got in the passenger side, and closed the door. He put on his seatbelt. Safety first. 

“Where did they go?” he asked in his raspy business voice. “The cherry factory.” He nodded as they drove down Court and passed under the highway. They slowly rolled up to the more industrial side of Red Hook. The part that had not quite been gentrified.  

Fat Louie had the right moniker as he was enormously fat and sweated out buckets of grease from the shit that he ate. His silk shirt was slick from sweat, and Vincenzo could only shake his head. He didn’t have much to work with these days, and believe it or not, this fat fuck was one of his more reliable men. If he didn’t get distracted by a passing ice cream truck. 

They pulled up in front of a battered building covered in graffiti and grime. Nobody had told them about gentrification. Of course, it was a choice. They wanted a low profile, and grime was a good camouflage.  Vincenzo didn’t wait for his minion to get up to open his door. Just squeezing out from behind the steering wheel of a Toyota was a big operation for that fatso, and he didn’t have the time to waste. “Head back to the club. I will call youse when I need to come back.” “Okay, boss,” Louie blurted. “I will make sure there is lunch for you when you get back.” Vincenzo just shook his head. Not everybody thought about lunch first. 

Vincenzo punched in the code to open the front door. He walked down a long corridor to another locked door that he opened the same way. It led to a long stairwell that went down two flights to a sub-basement. The Cherry factory offices were on the first basement level. The second level was where they packed the cherries in the little glass bottles with green labels that went all over the United States. It was one of the first hustles that the family had gotten involved in back in the thirties, when everyone had branched out into food. They should have gone into artichokes or olive oil, but instead were stuck with cherries. Maraschino fuckin’ cherries! Which kind of worked out for them. Now their brand was one of the most beloved condiments in America. Every bar and bistro carried their cherries. Little did anyone know what went on where they made the cherries. Or who made them. 

When he got to the second sub-basement, he pushed open the door and walked into a larger workspace. The cherry-pitting machines were up against the walls with the conveyor belts for the automated packing of the big commercial bottles. Boxes of bottles were stacked in the corner, waiting to be pitted and mixed and sorted, and pushed into bottles by the complicated automated system. Normally, there was a crew of wetbacks working to sort the cherries and to make sure that they flowed seamlessly into the bottles that they used to pack up the cherries. But no one was around. They all cleared out when they had to use the place. It was deserted even though it was the middle of the day. 

Except for three of his men and the mook in the Members Only jacket. He was tied to a battered metal kitchen chair over a drain. He already had a couple of bruises on his face. He had olive skin and a bit of a belly. You could tell he was a guinea, so there was a good chance he was connected in one way or another. ‘So, whose is this chooch?” Aiello asked. “He wouldn’t say,” Geno said as he gave the mook a quick slap in the face. “I just got started, boss, but I got this if you want. I can figure it out. You don’t have to stay. I tell ya, I got this.” 

Vincenzo shook his head. Geno wanted more responsibility. He was always pushing to get it. He was the best of a bad lot, but still, he didn’t really seem to have what it took to be a leader. He wasn’t smart enough. Alternately, he wasn’t brutal enough. He had to be schooled about every little fucking thing. This would be what the liberals called a “teachable moment.” Just not something they knew how to teach. Mob 101. 

“I ain’t got time for this shit,” Vincenzo rasped in his Mob boss voice. He walked up to the trembling figure in the chair and stared down at him. The sad sack was crying. He wasn’t weeping like a bitch, but the tears were definitely flowing. “Who the fuck are you, scumbag?” No response. Geno backhanded him, and he rocked back in his seat. Nothing. Frankie, the rat-faced weasel who had been the driver, spoke up. “Ya know, he looks kinda familiar to me. Like, I know him or something. I just can’t place him.”

Vincenzo looked a little closer. Yeah, he was right. He did look very familiar. He nodded to Geno. “Step it up. Find out what he wants. Was he strapped?” “Yeah, he had a twenty-two. With a silencer. He came here for a reason. I think we know the reason. Just not the why.” Frankie piped up again. “Does it matter what the reason is, boss?” Vincenzo shrugged. “It does because we need to know if it is a solo job or do we have a bigger problem. I will leave it to youse. Come see me at the club after you clean it up.”

The mystery man picked that moment to speak up. “Fuck you, Aiello. Rot in hell, you miserable fuck. You killed my father, and I am going to kill you.” Geno laughed. “Good luck with that fuck face. You ain’t gonna do shit.” Vincenzo paused for a moment. “So, who was your father?” “Salvatore Conte, you prick. A better man than you would ever be.” Well, that put a different slant on the matter. Conte had been a capo who had a lot of friends. In fact, there were several of his relatives who were still in the life. This shit-bird must be one of them. He didn’t have much to do with the Bonannos. That hit had strictly been a money job. Most likely, Conte’s son was a low-level associate. But the fuck was at least forty years old for fucks sake. He had whacked Conte in the nineties. What was he waiting for? He needed to do something to discourage this kind of thing. Just whacking him wouldn’t really do that. He needed to get creative. He loved to get creative. It had been a while since he had to make a statement. Might as well make it a good one.

“You want I should take care of this, Boss?” Geno smiled. He loved the idea of whacking someone. Anyone. It was one of his few pleasures. “No, I think we don’t want to just off this piece of shit. It leaves us with the rest of his fucked-up family. Plus, a bunch of shit-heads who watch too much of the Sopranos on the fucking TV and want to make a name for themselves without knowing the consequences. We need to show the fuckin’ consequences. Who knows who else might get it in their head to try their luck? We need to send them a message. I want them to see what I am talking about. Really see. Hmmm.”

Vincenzo walked over to the bench at the back of the room. He picked up a manual cherry pitter and walked back over to the chair. “Hold his head,” he said to Geno, who grabbed the struggling gavone in a headlock. Vincenzo put the cherry pitter to Conte’s eye. And plucked it out. Just like that. Like it was just another cherry. Then the other one. The poor fuck screamed, convulsed, and then pissed himself and collapsed.

Geno let go and backed up. He licked his lips and looked at the older man. Who didn’t seem to react or have any emotion after blinding someone as quickly and easily as if he were pitting a cherry to put on a banana split. “Looks like you lost your cherry, pal,” the old man cackled. He turned serious. “Now you can get rid of him. Two behind the ear. Then bleach him so we lose the DNA. Wrap him up and drop him off in the trunk of one of our burner cars in the Bonanno neighborhood down in Marine Park. Next to the golf course.  Oh, put a rat in his mouth. I think they might get the message.” Geno just nodded. “You got it.” He was in awe of the violence that had erupted from the frail older man with so little commotion. He deserved his rep, that was for sure. Maybe someday he can get the same rep. He was here to learn from the master.

Vincenzo wiped his hand on a rag and took it with him to dispose of it himself. Along with the cherry pitter, which was the only other thing he had touched and had his DNA on in this joint. He wrapped the bloody tool in the rag and turned to walk away.

He needed another espresso. Wet work always made him sleepy.

 

 

 

 

 

Betty Rubble is a dirty girl

 She loves Coldplay.

And ass play.

Because Betty Rubble is a dirty girl.

The Broken Scarlett Sky

I was sitting at my desk contemplating a blueberry scone when an older gentleman limped into my office. He was around six feet tall but looked like he had lost a few inches since his prime. He gave off the aura of an athlete in his twilight years as he limped up to my desk favoring one leg. Almost as if he were Willie Mays fumbling around in the outfield for the Mets when he was well past it. A sad and wistful nostalgia that was palpable if you knew what you were seeing.

"You Spencer?" I like a man who comes right to the point. "That's what they tell me." "Names McGee. I want to hire you." "That's what I am here for, so you came to the right place. What do you need? Have a seat and let me know what this is all about."

He pulled back one of my client chairs and sat gingerly so he could extend his bad knee without touching the desk. You could tell it was his bad knee because it was obvious that he was favoring it as he walked.  He had a deep tan that you could only get if you were out on the water all the time or lived in a tanning parlor. Sandy hair which had gone white and an athlete's build that age and strain had weathered to the point where you could only get a fleeting glimpse of what he once had been. He reminded me of a retired athlete like Jim Brown or Dick Butkus who had been a prime physical specimen all of their life and were astonished at how their body had betrayed them.

"I live down in Florida on a houseboat in Fort Lauderdale. I'm retired but I used to do what you do now.  I didn't have a license or any paperwork. Kept it all off the books you might say.  I operated as a "salvage consultant.'" Basically, people hired me to find something they lost. I covered the expenses, and they owed me nothing if I didn't find it. But if I recovered it, they owe me half the value." "Sweet. But that's not how I operate." "I figured. I will pay your rate. I heard from some people that you are the best up here in Boston. I need you to find someone for me."

"Okay, who is it?"

"My best friend. His name is Meyer. Ludwig Meyer. He came up here for a conference at MIT and I haven't heard from him since. That was three weeks ago. His conference was supposed to be four days max. When nobody heard from him for a week, I came up here and went to his hotel to see if he was there. Sometimes he gets so involved in his work that he loses all track of the outside world. But that wasn't the case. He had checked in and was seen a couple of times, but he had never checked out. He hadn't been in his room for two weeks. It was a police matter. At least as far as the hotel is concerned.  I spoke to a cop named Frank Belson. I am sure you know him. Cheap raincoat. Smelly Italian cigars. He seemed to know what was what. He recommended I talk to you. So here I am."

"I know Frank. What did your friend do so that he had a conference at MIT? Is he a professor?"

"He was an economist. A pretty well-known one in economic circles. He had published a couple of important articles back in the day that he had monetized to support himself. Lately, he had been working on a computer algorithm that he said would be revolutionary. He said it had a predictive modality that was a game changer. I have to admit that I didn't follow it. But I know it has to have something with his disappearance." McGee leaned back in his chair with a puzzled expression. I had a feeling that doubt was a stranger to him, and he didn't like how it felt.

"Why didn't you start looking for him? You seem to have a lot on the ball. You know what to do. I am sure you have done it before so why pay me?" McGee gave me a soft smile and said, "How old do you think I am Spenser?" I looked him in the eyes and lied. "I don't know. Late sixties maybe?" "I am 87. Like Harry Callahan used to say a man has to know his limitations. Will you take the case?"

"Yes. I will. I will have a few questions. Do you want coffee? Half a scone?" "Coffee. You keep the scone."

I liked him. He let me eat my scone. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Hey it's time to get some Vitamins!

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For example, Shaklee cleaning products are plant-based and do not rely on the petrochemical additives that can be found in so many other commercial brands. Their personal care products are also clean and devoid of harmful additives. Their vitamins are naturally based and have the unique status of using live enzymes instead of the “dead” chemically formulated vitamins you grab off of the shelf at CVS. This aids in their adsorption and the interaction with your body which will lead to you noticing the difference in how you feel almost immediately. They always go above and beyond industry standards to ensure that their products are of the highest quality possible. They even have gummies for those of you who don’t have any teeth (you know who you are buddy).

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The case of the greasy infidel

 

My dear Holmes,

It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. I know that I have continually requested your assistance in the troubling matter of the disappearance of Lord Douchebag and the obscene affairs of the odious Lady Chatterley and her grass-stained lover. Be that as it may, I would request that we put that matter in abeyance so that I can ask for your assistance in an entirely different matter

We here at the Yard are well aware of the secret work your brother Mycroft does with the Foreign Office. It is the reason we have not inquired too closely into the comings and goings of various swarthy sepoys and tattooed lascars in his rooms at the club. We presume that he is simply gathering information that would educate rather than edify. However, a recent difficulty with certain foreign powers has caused some concern with my superiors and I would like to address them with you.

It seems that several members of a Bedouin cast have made visits to your brother’s abode. They are obviously clearly Musselman and we have followed several of them back to their place of worship which you might know as a “mosque.” On further investigation, we have determined that they are part of a plan to protest and cause disorder in the public square to protest the actions of certain Hebraic factions in the Holy Land. They plan a disorderly protest as well as acts of violence that can not be tolerated by Her Majesty’s government.

This would not be a problem if the Honorable Disreali were still in power. Unfortunately, the advent of Prime Minister Gladstone has led to a tolerance of violence towards the Jews. The Yard is therefore at an impasse. We can not take action for fear we will not be supported by the government when the Arab moves to kill the Jew. I would ask if you had some inkling of what we can do to effect change and prevent further disorder and criminal activity. Perhaps you could enquire of your brother as to the actual policy extant as to these disorders so we might take guidance as to what we might do.

Although we at the Yard are not enamored of the Hebrew in general, we do not want to see them killed in the street. Especially on our watch despite the popularity of that course of action among many of the party in power. Although the Wigs often claim to support the people of the book, they in fact cleave to the mercenary alliance with the vast pockets of the sheiks and sultans who are the bitter enemy of the Hebrews and who seek to destroy them root and branch.

I would beseech you to question your brother as to what he is doing with the visits of these disreputable desert dwellers and to find out if he is associating with them as part of his employment or for a more personal reason.

My best to Doctor Watson and I hope he is enjoying marital bliss since his recent wedding. I presume that he is fully recovered from the swelling and painful discharge he evidenced after his bachelor do. When last I saw him as he left the water closet, he was in pain to such a degree that I ventured to jest that he had begun to resemble a Chinese woman. Please assure him that was not in fact an allusion to the size of his breasts. We all increase in weight as we age. I trust he will forgive my impertinence and join you in your efforts in this most serious matter.

I remain as always,
Your obedient servant,
Inspector G. Lestrade
November 18, 1884

The Spinners - I'll Be Around

It's been a while......

It has been quite a while since I have posted here. I have just been too busy. Got a new pacemaker. Wasn't feeling all that great. Been putting stuff up sporadically at Lem's. Trying to write fiction in serious way.

I will try to do better.

Just know that both this blog and Trooper York is still alive and kicking.

(Note that this is a picture of Yankee Stadium. I haven't been there for more than ten years now. Doesn't mean I am not still a fan. But life can get in the way.)

 

The case of the missing documents

My dear Holmes,

It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. As you know it has been many years since I have last requested your assistance in the troubling matter of the disappearance of Lord Douchebag and several years since we examined the obscene affairs of the odious Lady Chatterley and her grass-stained lover. Today I must ask for assistance in an entirely different matter.

It has come to the attention of the Yard that certain top secret and confidential papers have been removed from the National Archives and have been found among the personal papers of a former prime minister. In a clandestine search of the abode of the recently deceased Prime Minister Lord Salisbury several very important confidential records regarding the Boer War were to be found among the personal papers in his study. These papers were marked Top Secret and are prohibited by both law and common practice from being removed from the archives of the government. These including many incriminating documents from prior administrations including several salacious letters from Lord Gladstone to underage soiled doves and quite a few indecipherable musings in Hebrew from that most disreputable Disraeli. When this discovery was brought to the attention of Prime Minister Balfour, he demanded that it be covered up. This is understandable since he is Lord Salisbury's nephew but still it rankles many of those at the Yard. 

I write to you in hopes that you might reach out to your brother Mycroft who still has contacts with Security Services even in retirement. The Yard would like to avail itself of the opportunity that this presents to cobble together a united front to investigate this odious breach in security and find some way to prevent it in the future.

I will note that the only item that was released to the Yard and the public was what can only be described as a recipe from the time of King George the Third who had outlined in his own hand the necessaires for a beef dish that he had learned to prepare in Hamburg before he took up the reign as King of England. It appears that Lord Salisbury has adapted this recipe and demanded that it be served to him every night as his only form of sustenance. It is passing strange that this is the only legacy that has been passed down from a figure who has been some important to history of the realm.

Something is just not quite right about this whole affair.

Please give my best to your brother Mycroft who I recall has moved to countryside of Yorkshire to work on his art. I know that in addition to his deeply felt devotion to the collection of artistic pieces, he has become a gourmet who revels in epicurean ecstasy provide by his personal chef. I know he eschews traditional English fare such as the meat pie and the Toad in the Hole, but I am quite sure he is enamored of a good Spotted Dick. If he can at all be helpful, I would be greatly appreciative.

I remain as always,
Your obedient servant,
Inspector G. Lestrade

November 12, 1903

The Man Who......

 

General George Armstrong Custer walked into the hotel room in Washington and the notables gathered therein jumped up as though Jesus himself had entered. They looked at his as Jesus since he would have to save them. Because he was the only hope the Democratic Party had of winning the Presidency in the upcoming election in the centennial year of 1876.

The only potentate who did not rise was the nominal canid ate Governor Samuel J. Tilden of New York who had been selected by the convention to carry the banner of the Democratic party. A handsome individual in expensive clothing with a diamond stickpin in his cravat he looked at the strutting gamecock with a jaundiced eye. He had been designated as the candidate by the convention but the party bosses wanted to what you should never do. Change horses in midstream. They wanted to replace him with the Hero of the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

Bayard and Thurman who had been among the bitter rivals that had contested the nomination were leading the charge. Even Hendricks who Tilden had taken on as his Vice-Presidential nominee was in on the attempt to steal the nomination. The only one who refrained was General Winfield Scott Hancock who thought if a general was to be the nominee it could only be him.

The problem was that the “soft money” contingent led by John Kelly from his own state of New York wanted to abrogate his victory and turn to a successful general to combat the dominance of the Republican Party ever since the War Between the State. They wanted to flood the nation with greenbacks instead of going back to the gold standard that Tilden embraced. This strutting peacock would be their puppet in this since he knew about as much about economics as a dog did about Latin. It is the rest of the duties of a President that would be the rub.

“Gentlemen thank you for inviting me to meet with you today. I have just arrived from the Dakota’s where we put paid to the savages as you well know.” Custer stood tall in his fringed buckskin jacket and battered felt hat like he had just ridden in from the battlefield. He was a theatrical presence of that there could be no doubt. He couldn’t even appear in his correct dress uniform. If these idiots thought they would control this vainglorious lout they had another thing coming. There was no doubt that he would take them into another war.

“Please sit down General and we can put our proposal to you.” John Kelly motioned to a seat in the middle of a circle of chairs that had been set up for the group to discuss their plans. It seemed that the New York Tammany Hall ward heeler had been chosen to be the spokesman for the group. Which was bad news for the Governor since his bitter break with Tammany Hall had poisoned the well. Now the Sachem would have his revenge by stealing the nomination.

Hipster Holocaust- Chapter 38

 

O’Malley and Johnson walked into the interrogation room and sat across from Fat Louie DeMaio. Fat Louie sat all calm and collected like a guinea Buddha. He didn’t look calm at first glance because he was sweating like a pig. But that was because of his thermostat not his energy. He was stoic almost meditative as he waited. Louie was cuffed to the table and had to lean slightly forward because he was too fat to sit back as his stomach kept him away from the edge of the table.

O’Malley gestured to Johnson. “Why don’t you unhook this fine gentleman Detective Johnson so we can have a little chat?” Johnson grimaced but went across the table and unlocked the cuffs. Fat Louie sat back and rubbed his wrist that had been severely chaffed as the cuffs as usual where too small for his meaty wrist. He looked at O’Malley expectantly like he would have to answer as to why he was sitting there in a too small chair in a too small room.

Hipster Holocaust

 

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty-Two

Goldie Hirshberg was pissed. Her fucking dog had run away. The stupid boxer was really her moron husband’s pet but she got stuck taking care of it. Along with their brat of a kid and their stupid brownstone. This wasn’t what she had signed up for when agreed to marry the jerk.

She had thought she had the perfect “Sex in the City” lifestyle when she had graduated from college. She moved to Manhattan from Manhasset to be on the cutting edge of fashion and style. Goldie thought she was in the height of fashion. Part of the hipster invasion she would go from art gallery opening to spoken word poetry slams. She loved to get all dolled up and go out with her three best girlfriends. Cosmo’s and flirting and maybe bringing somebody home when she felt particularly daring. Every week they sat in front of their TV to study “Sex in the City” which served as her textbook and lodestar. Like millions of other young women of her generation she thought she was oh so unique and fascinating while she slavishly copied the attitudes and actions from the show. She sent a decade proving how special she was by acting like everyone else.

Her carefree lifestyle all came to an end when she met Joshy on her birthday when she turned thirty-five. He was a Wall Street Guy. Tall, handsome and best of all he was a Jew. Mazel Tov. Her mother and grandmother could stop haking her to get married. They had a whirlwind courtship of fancy restaurants and trips to the Hamptons to his boss’s mansion on Shelter Island. They even took a helicopter there once when he was working on a big project and his boss wanted him at his fingertips. She didn’t care about him abandoning her to toady to his boss because she got to hang out at the pool with the Eastern European Trophy wife as they downed martini’s and basked in the sun.

They had the big wedding and the honeymoon to the Islands that anyone would want. She thought their life would be golden. A smart Manhattan apartment. A place in the Hamptons. Cocktails at the Carlyle in her Jimmy Choos. Except for one thing. She got pregnant on the honeymoon. Her husband refused to live in a Manhattan apartment with a new baby. He had grown up on the Upper West Side and swore his kid would have a yard. They joined the exodus of the rich urbanites to the wilds of Brooklyn. Brownstone Brooklyn to be exact. It was at least civilized. Not Bensonhurst or Borough Park. Carroll Gardens had smart restaurants and coffee shops. Even a cool bar or two. They bought a two-million-dollar brownstone next to his boss which sort of assuaged her grief at the end of her dream. You see she thought she was Carrie but she turned out to be Miranda. A miserable cunt who married a guy she really didn’t love who got stuck in Brooklyn!

Goldie had to make the best of it. She eventually dropped the rug rat. Bought the expensive stroller. Even got that stupid fucking dog. She just didn’t want the false aura of domesticity end her life. She had to go out for cocktails with her friends. They even took the trip out to Brooklyn now and then to hang out with her. She had been sitting at the outside café at that cool bar that pretended to be a slice of Texas in Brooklyn with her best friend. Along with a whole lineup of pretentious snots who were too cool for school. Other women who had settled for a dude with a dollar now that forty was in the offing and their biological clock has started going Koo-Koo bitch you are approaching your sell by date.

Today was the day that took the cake! She had the stupid dog run away. Her idiot husband would be livid. Sometimes she thought he loved the dog more then he loved her. He was certainly more affectionate toward him. Maybe that was it. He was gay for a dog. What a loser.

All of that didn’t matter. She had to find a way to smooth it over. She was good at that. She can say she was attacked by that bitch in the bakery. And that stupid man with the wagon. He was probably homeless so there would be no point in suing him. But they could sue that waitress, her bakery and anybody else she could think of. She came from a very litigious family.

Suing everybody in Brooklyn would not solve the problem when her husband came home. The only thing he loved more than that fucking dog was bourbon.

“Maria come down to take of the baby I have to go out,” she shouted in her normal petulant tone. She treated Maria like a slave. Which what these Mexicans were to these rich entitled hipster bitches. Just a robot to do what she said or get fired. They never hired legal immigrants. They wanted the power to intimidate them and bully them with impunity. So only illegals need apply. Mexicans were the new slave labor.  She never thought about what Maria thought about her and how she was treated. Goldie had never heard of Nat Turner. But then Goldie had never heard of a lot of things.

Maria rushed down and picked up the baby who immediately started cooing at her and was settled. Goldie felt jealous for a moment but only for a moment. There was time enough for her daughter to get to know her. Then she could torture her the way her mother had done to her. It was a family tradition.

“I don’t expect Joshy until late tonight. But if he calls or God forbid comes home early you can tell him I will be right back. I have to do an errand.” “Yes, Missus I will tell him.”

Goldie went out the door and dialed up an Uber. Thank God for the ride app. No need for a car. Or to call a dirty cab let alone a car service that used to service the transportation needs of people in Brooklyn until the ride share came along. The ride share app made living in Brooklyn almost tolerable.

While she was waiting, she went to the mailbox and reached behind it to the hidden recess in the wall. She slid a panel out and took out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter she had secreted there. She lit up a butt and put the pack and lighter away. She had promised Joshy she would stop smoking after she had the baby but that was just one of the many things she had lied about. She really needed that smoke.

The Uber pulled up. Great. A fuckin’ Toyota. She had to squeeze in a fucking Toyota. Can this day get any shittier. “Car for Goldie,” asked the driver who looked more like a Russian MMA fighter than an Uber Driver. “Yeah, that’s me. Take me to Otsego off Van Brunt in Red Hook.” Goldie threw her ciggie on the floor and got in the back seat.

They drove without incident to the hipster brewery that specialized in home brewed bourbons. She knew Joshy loved their stuff so was going to get him a big bottle to give him before she told him she had lost his dog. Maybe that would distract him for a moment.

She strolled into the place with her usual toxic mix of bravado and entitlement. She bellied up to the bar and order a Cosmo. She needed a little liquid courage to face what she was going to get when her hubby got home. He would be pissed off. Not in a violent way. He was too much of wimpy nerd to raise his hand to her. In any event she would kick his ass if he did. He would just whine and pout and act out unless he got something to distract him. The bourbon should do the trick. Plus, the stupid mutt would probably come home on his own. Didn’t Lassie always find her way home? Why couldn’t that dumb fuck find his way home.

As she ruminated on her sorry lot in life, she had inhaled that Cosmo as if it was water. The bartender was no dummy so he set up a new one by the time she had finished the last drop of her first. He did the same with the next one. And the three after that.

She had managed to get trashed. She did that when she was upset. Or even more when she was uncertain. As she stumbled out of the bar she stopped and took a deep breath of the night air. What time was it? She had no idea. No matter. She had decided on the strategy to deflect her husband’s anger. Shock and awe. She would give him his bottle of bourbon. And a blow job. That always got her what she wanted ever since Hebrew camp. Still, she was pissed. He gets all that and what the fuck does she get?

“I know,” she mumbled to herself. “Ice Cream.” That new fancy ice cream parlor she had read about in Time Out New York was around here somewhere. She would find it and get some ice cream to go with the bourbon. Look out bitches because Goldie has fixed it so everybody would be happy!

She had only a general idea of where she was going. She staggered in a zig zag pattern from the wall of a building to the cars in the street. She would bounce off one and stagger diagonally to the other to bounce off that.  Still moving forward in search of her ice cream.

If this kept up much longer, she would just call an Uber and go home. She had just bounced off an older model BMW. What was that car doing in Red Hook. Some people had more money than sense. She barely noticed someone standing in the doorway. Not that she was afraid. Her natural stance was arrogance and entitlement and drink only reinforced her tendencies. She was never afraid. Not even wandering drunkenly in Red Hook.

She tried to straighten up a little as she started past the figure in the darkened doorway of a shuttered shop. She passed him by without a thought in her drunken head. She had only gotten about two feet in past the doorway when she felt a vise like grip around her breasts as an arm grabbed her and held her tight. She tried to scream but nothing came out. Just a wet gurgle. She only felt that wetness. As if she had thrown up on herself. She dropped her bottle and it sounded like a gunshot when it broke on the sidewalk. She wanted to shout. To scream. To complain. But nothing came out. Except more gurgles. And blood.

She fell to the ground and her last thoughts were not of her husband. Not of her child. Her last conscious thought was of the hundred dollars she had lost in that broken bottle.

She was that kind of fool.

Hipster Holocaust

 

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty-One

Anna was doing her evening self-care ritual. She had taken a warm shower to get all of the grime from working at the bakery and traveling on the subway to another audition. She had even washed her hair which was a pain in the ass because she was a member of the Lotta-hair-club. Then the various creams and oils she always applied after her shower. Ending with her sitting in front of her mirror using her Gua Sha. It was made of her favorite crystal green aventurine.

Green aventurine gave her grounding and stability. It gave her strength and courage which she needed since she had just been in a fight. She hadn’t been in a fight since kindergarten and she didn’t know how she felt about it. She was always getting into it to protect somebody else. She would fight with her bosses when they abused the Mexicans who worked in the kitchen. Anna suspected that they were illegal so they didn’t say shit if they had a mouthful. She had to stick up for them. She would not stand by and see anybody bullied.

That’s why she jumped into help Leo. He seemed to be on the spectrum. Or slow as Celestine put it. He needed someone to step up for him since his mother was gone. She wasn’t going to take him on as a permanent project but she wouldn’t let him be bullied right in front of her eyes.

Using the Gua Sha always calmed her down. The repetitive stroking of her cheek and face up and down to stimulate blood flow and lessen inflammation. She would meditate later to clear her charkas as she had done since she was a teenager and had first gotten into yoga.

“Anna Bella, can you come down for a minute,” Celestine shouted in the hallway. Anna sighed. She loved her dearly but there was a downside to living with a landlord who treated you like family. You were at her beck and call at all times. Celestine was oblivious to the fact that she needed some time alone once in a while. Especially after an emotional upheaval like a fist fight on Court Street.

“Okay Celestine, just a minute,” she shouted in turn. She got up and rinsed her face in warm water and patted it dry. She went down the stairs from her parlor floor apartment to the basement. Celestine was sitting in her chair and motioned to her to sit on the couch. Good thing she was wearing sweats instead of her night gown. Celestine was typical of every old Italian lady has she had her furniture covered in plastic slipcovers. At least the couch and the love seat next to it. She didn’t cover her recliner but it was covered in a crocheted blanket that her sister had sent her.

 

“Anna whata you do? I hear you were fighting in front of your store today. What’s the matter? You in trouble?” Celestine asked as she looked very concerned. Anna just laughed to herself. Sure, she was a neighborhood girl now. Which means everybody was up in her business. “The jungle telegraph really works Celestine. How did you hear about that?” she asked with a smile. “You know more about what is happening in the neighborhood than I do and you never leave the house.”

Celestine answered with a guilty smile of her own. “Please Bella I donna wanna gossip. But that chiacchierone Birdie Rubino couldn’t wait to call me up and tell me you were in a fight. Why were you fighting?” Anna laughed again. “Boy she gets around. She always comes into the store and minds everybody’s

 

 

 business. I wasn’t really in a fight. I just had to straighten out this girl that was hitting Leo. You know Leo? Your friend that died son. He is always walking around with the pushcart. Some nasty lady had her dog and he ran and attacked him. Got all tangled up in his legs and the cart. Then the waitress started hitting him. I couldn’t let that happen. So I decked her,” Anna said all in a rush.

Celestine laughed out loud. “Good for you Bella. You canta let them hurt poor Leo. That Bambino is lost without his mother. Good for you! But are you gonna get in trouble? These new people they like to sue. They sued Connie because she wouldn’t shovel her snow. They will sue anybody. Are you gonna have a problem with this?” “No, I don’t think so. It was the waitress and she doesn’t any money for a lawyer. She works at that bar on the corner. She doesn’t want any trouble.”

Celestine looked at her for a moment as if she was deciding if she should say something. “You know what you should do? If the girl makes a problem, you tell Vincenzo. He will take care of it. I promise you.” Anna smiled deeply at this and Celestine blushed because she knew that Anna was thinking.

“Oh, so I should ask your boyfriend to take of it for me?” Anna joked. “If I tell him you were asking he will be sure to jump in.” “Statazit you. He will do it because he likes you. Don’t you tell me he is nice to you every day. He don’t do that with people he don’t like. You tell him and he will do it. For you. Now let’s a stop with this foolishness. How about we have some ice cream, eh?”

Anna laughed at the obvious way Celestine tried to wiggle out of talking about her long-lost love. Plus, the fact that she thought that ice cream cured everything. Well at least in that she was right.

Anna went into kitchen and opened the old school freezer compartment. She took out a half empty gallon of butter pecan ice cream and went over to the counter. She took out two spoons and a couple of small bowls from the cabinet. She got the ice cream scooper that she had gifted Celestine out of the red ceramic La Creuset cylinder that held all of her utensils. Another gift she had given her on her birthday. She made two bowls of ice cream that used up what was left in the carton.

Anna walked back to the living room and gave Celestine a bowl and a spoon. They sat quietly for a moment as they both turned their attention to the tasty frozen treat. As they spooned up the butter pecan Anna decided to ask some questions.

“Let me ask you a question Celestine. Leo what’s his story. I know you told me some of it. He lived with his mom who was you friend. Ever since he was a kid. Now that she is passed, he is all alone. He just walks all over the neighborhood and picks thing out of the garbage. What don’t I know about him?” “Well, he is slow. Not mentally retarded like Rose that poor girl from Tompkins Place. He is just slow and can’t really deal with people. His mother took him at of school at an early age. I thought she was wrong to do it but she wouldn’t listen to anyone. A lot of people kept their children home if they were slow in the old days. Not so much anymore. I never thought he was that slow but he did have a problem talking to people he didn’t know. The problem was always gonna be when the mother died. They have no other family. Lucky there is money. She owned a couple of houses and made a lot of rent money. I think the lawyer on Court Street collects the money now and gives Leo an allowance every month. She set it up before she died.”

Anna thought about that for a moment. “But if nobody checks on the lawyer, he can steal all the money, right? I wouldn’t trust him with that. I hear bad things about him.” Celestine smiled at her as though she had made a smart observation. “Yes, that is true. But you see Leo’s father used to work with Vincenzo. In fact, the story is he saved his life. He told the lawyer no funny business after the mother died. And the lawyer would never cross Vincenzo.” Anna giggled. “It all goes back to Vincenzo doesn’t it Celestine?” “Not all of it but a lot of it does Bella. He looks out for Leo in his own way.” Anna agreed with that, “He looks out for me too. I saw that when I got into the tussle, he was ready to intervene. But he let me handle it. I just saw that he had my back.”

Celestine looked a little cowed at that news. “Bella please donna get too close with Vincenzo. He is a bad man. I know he sometime does good things but you have to remember he is a bad one. The Black Hand has always been like that. They give with one hand and take with the other. Please donna get too close to him. It is nice that he was behind you but he really didn’t do anything did he? He should have helped Leo. Not you. Still, you dida good thing. I am proud of you.”

Celestine put out her arms and Anna got up and hugged the old lady. They looked at each other and laughed. It was great that they had found each other. It made both of them a lot less lonely.

Anna picked up the bowls and spoons and brought them to the sink to wash. She put them on the drainboard and wiped her hands on the dish towel. She went back to the living room.

“I going upstairs Celestine. Thanks for the ice cream and your concern about me. Don’t worry. I will be careful. I am not too worried. After all I have you and Vincenzo looking after me.”

Celestine waved at her and said, “You kidder you. You go and get your sleep. I will see you tomorrow.”

Anna went upstairs and changed and brushed her teeth. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up. She really did appreciate Celestine and how she cared about her. It was so different than how she grew up. It gave her a warm feeling. She really wanted to do something nice for her. She stopped moving for a minute. That’s it.

She would get her some ice cream.