Posts Tagged ‘Big Boy’

You know about Tony Pro?

Friday, January 8th, 2010

Big Boy was driving his new ’64 Buick through an industrial area of Secaucus with a long-time friend, one of Tony Pro’s Business Agents.

As they approached the entrance of a small trucking outfit, “Big Boy, pull in here. I been meanin’ to stop by this place.”

Big Boy proceeded as directed. After parking in front of the firm’s office, figuring that this was some Teamster Union business, he did not get out of the car .

“Nah, don’ stay out here. C’mon inside with me.”

Big Boy got out of the car and entered the building with his friend. The Business Agent walked right past the receptionist’s desk. Ignoring the now yelling woman, he went into the owner’s office and then closed the door. The startled man began to get up. The Union official shoved him in the chest, pushing him back into the chair.

“SIT DOWN!”

The Business Agent took out his Union ID, “I’m with the 560 Teamsters, Tony Pro? You know about Tony Pro?” Looking out the window then around the office, “You got a good little thing goin’ here, about a dozen trucks right? RIGHT? I could shut this place down in 10 minutes. You’d havta start payin’ Union scale, benefits, pensions . . . Things wouldn’t be so rosy then, right? RIGHT? Yeah, well, I’m not here to give ya a hard time. I’m here to help ya. I’m a businessman, you’re a businessman, right? RIGHT? I’m a businessman, you’re a businessman . . . Yeah, well, every week you’re gonna give this guy $300 and things’ll just keep on bein’ rosy.”

Assuming only agreement, the Business Agent turned and walked out with Big Boy following behind him.

Getting back in the car, “Big Boy, every week, half of that $300 is yours.”

“I kept quiet ’cause I din’t wannna screw up y’r deal, but I don’ want no part of this. He calls cop and we got an extortion rap. And, if they ever even delivered a case of anythin’ to New York, it goes Federal: interfering with interstate commerce.”

“Nah, nah, nuttin’ like that ever happens. Y’r worryin’ abou’ nuttin’”

“That’s OK, but I ain’t helpin’ ya wid dis. I’m gonna keep stickin’ wit’ what I know.”

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ANYTHING in Union City gotta go by Bill Musto first.

Wednesday, December 30th, 2009

Back in the late ’60s, there was a dispute in my family over a small inheritance. Out of spite, one in-law — a construction worker — took a number of items of sentimental value from the home of the deceased.

One night, my father (whose nickname was Big Boy) was on his way to the Union City Transfer Station. He spotted the construction worker walking up Central Avenue by the then new apartment building. My father wanted to be the peacemaker. He intended to offer a cash reward for the return of the mementos.

Big Boy parked his Buick Wildcat, got out and approached the in-law. But, before Big Boy had a chance to say a word, the construction worker quickly stepped forward, and, without warning, punched my father in the face. Surprised and confused, Big Boy took a step backwards and got clipped by another shot. This time he immediately countered with a left jab, following up with a solid right that sent the construction worker to the pavement.

Big Boy walked over to where the failed pugilist now lay. My father wanted to make sure that the fall to the sidewalk had not resulted in some serious injury. Since the very groggy construction worker was soon propping himself up on one arm, there didn’t appear to be any need for a trip to the hospital.

Just before turning to go back to his car, my father happened to look up towards the entrance of the apartment building. The doorman was staring out a window, obviously having watched the entire little boxing match.

- – -

To try to explain away the bruises, my father fibbed to my mother. He told a vague story about standing in front of a door that suddenly sprung open. That worked for a week or so. Then a summons came in the mail. The construction worker had signed a complaint charging Anthony Olszewski with assault and battery. Big Boy had to go to court in Union City.

At first, my father thought the whole thing a joke. In Jersey City, after losing in a fair fight, no one would ever think of going to the police. What was to be expected if anyone was silly enough to go to court complaining that they got knocked out after hitting someone with a sucker punch? The only hope would be for the judge to be in a good mood and just throw the whole thing out the door with a laugh. A more likely prospect was a severe and quite public warning from the judge: “If you EVER again waste the court’s time with something like this, I’ll send YOU to jail!”

But, little by little, the certainty drained away and was replaced by anxiety. My father started to think, “Yes, that’s how things are HERE. But, is it the same in Union City?” So, he decided to speak with a friend who was a Business Agent for Tony Provenzano at the 560 Teamsters Union Local.

Telling the Business Agent the story of the altercation, Big Boy got to the part of receiving the notice to appear in court. He expected, hoped, at this point that the union official would start laughing. Instead, all color drained from his face.

“Did you talk with Musto?”

“Musto who?”

“Bill Musto. The Mayor.”

“I gotta talk with the Mayor abouta fight in the street!?”

“YES. ANYTHING in Union City gotta go by Bill Musto first. I’ll make the appointment for ya.”

- – -

A day or so later, my father waited to see the Mayor of Union City, Bill Musto, at City Hall. Once in the office, Musto bluntly told Big Boy that the construction worker had promised his lawyer a two thousand dollar bonus if there was jail time involved. The lawyer contacted the judge and offered a 50-50 split. Musto told His Honor that the deal was off. The thousand dollars had to go back.

Musto continued, “Now, there’s one thing that you’ve got to promise me. You never hit him.”

“But sir, the doorman saw the whole thing. I got whacked two shots first and all, but I knocked the other guy out.”

“Never mind. Just say he came charging at you. You held your forearms up in front of your face to protect yourself. He ran into you and knocked himself out.”

“But, nobody’s gonna believe that!”

“No matter. I need your word that that’s what you’re going to say in court.”

“If that’s what you want me to say, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Good. It’s all over. Don’t worry.”

As my father got up to leave, he put his hand in his pocket.

“Is there any way that I can thank you?”

“No, no. You’re a friend of ——, that makes you my friend. If there’s ever anything I can do for you don’t hesitate to ask”

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One of Tony Pro’s Business Agents

Wednesday, December 30th, 2009

In Hudson County PG (Pre-Gentrification), when someone bought a bar, it was important to show respect. That went double when the someone was Tony Pro. All of the Teamster boss’s inner circle were sure to be there to spend as much as possible – and to bring as many people with them as possible. This way, they increased Anthony Provenzano’s influence and, by participation, their own prominence.

A childhood chum of my father was one of Tony Pro’s Business Agents. To help make his friend’s following look big, my father (whose nickname was Big Boy) went with the group to the grand opening.

As most everyone else in the saloon that night was tied in to the Union, soon all conversations centered around shop talk. Not involved with the Teamsters, Big Boy kept quiet, just looking at the mirror on the backbar. He noticed that you could see the reflection of the front door. In the mirror the door opened. A guy stood there with a glaring, mad expression. He looked up and down the bar. His gaze fixed on where Tony Pro was sitting – just a few bar stools down from my father. The figure in the mirror moved quickly, his image disappearing from the reflection. My father turned and jumped off of the stool. The guy had skipped past him from behind and was grabbing a heavy quart soda bottle off of the bar. Very fast, he raised the bottle over Tony Pro’s head. Startled, Tony Pro looked up. Just then, Big Boy hit the would be assailant with a solid right.

The guy went flying and landed on a table. Bottles and glasses clattered and crashed to the floor. Everybody stopped talking. All eyes first went to the dazed man, then simultaneously to Tony Pro. Taking their cue from the upset look on Tony Pro’s face, his crew jumped up and began to punch and kick the prone figure. One even began to break up a chair to use one of the legs as a club.

My father waded into the crowd. “Guys! This is a public place! Just get him outta here!”

The mob stopped as if a spell was broken. They hustled the limp figure out the door.

My father’s friend grabbed him by the arm and pulled him over to Anthony Provenzano.

“Tony, I wanna introduce you to MY friend, Big Boy.”

“You know, twice you was the only guy thinking in the whole joint. First, when ya stopped the bozo, second when ya busted up that action goin on in front a’ witnesses. You know, I want to thank you. Come work for me. I like this place but it’s takin’ up too mucha’ my time. I could use you to run it.”

Pointing out that he’d always been on his own, my father politely declined.

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Frank Hague’s Christmas Quarter

Saturday, November 28th, 2009

By Anthony Olszewski
copyright 2006

During the long, hard, haul of 1931, a quarter was a lot of money. Twenty-five cents was a real big deal back then. With a dime you bought a ticket to the Saturday matinee at the movies. The show ran from 10 o’clock in the morning until 3 in the afternoon: cartoons, newsreels, serials, the feature film, and door prizes! On the way to the theatre, one store had two hot dogs for a nickel. A few doors down, another store sold two big candy bars for five cents. For the same price, just down the block, yet another store gave you two sodas. It all added up to a Depression-era kid’s vision of heaven.

Sadly, usually there wasn’t any way to scrape together a quarter. A family that just barely managed to stay housed, clothed, and fed considered themselves well off.

But this morning was different! On Christmas day during the Depression, Mayor Frank Hague handed out a quarter to every child that lined up across the street from City Hall in Jersey City. All a kid had to do to get the money was to wake up early . . . and stand in line.
- – -
Big Boy really wasn’t. He was a skinny nine-year old – and small for his age. His dad, a Polish immigrant, had been out of work for a couple of years now. Most every morning, Big Boy started the day by stealing a bottle of milk off of somebody’s stoop and a bag of rolls from in front of a store. But he didn’t have to do that today. For Christmas, his family managed to collect enough food for a couple of normal meals. Plus, he had to get down to City Hall early for his quarter.

Big Boy ran out of the apartment with his hat and gloves still under his arm, putting a coat on at the same time as he rushed down the stairs. He stopped at the vestibule door to put on the hat and gloves and then hurried outside. He walked slowly for two blocks, taking care because the streets were covered with ice. But as soon as he came to Newark Avenue, where the shopkeepers had sprinkled coal cinders on the well-shoveled sidewalks, Big Boy again started to run.

Four o’clock in the morning, Christmas day, all the stores were closed.

Continuing up Grove Street, Big Boy saw that there already was something of a crowd, even though dawn was still over an hour away. The kids, though varying somewhat in height, were nearly indistinguishable. All were thin with patched, hand-me-down coats and hats pulled over their ears. One here had a new pair of gloves, one there had a new hat, for, after all, it was Christmas day. But, besides the scattering of rule-proving exceptions, it was if the crowd was made up of members of some children’s army that had clad them in uniforms meted out by a supply sergeant.

Several hours went by in the bitter cold. As the sun rose and the sky turned gray, to some slight degree the freezing wind began to be almost bearable.

Reporters and cameramen started to arrive. Church bells again were ringing. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Big Boy looked behind him. A line of boys stretched around the block.

Just then, two police cars pulled up – followed by a black limousine and two more police cars. One of the higher-ranking police officers rushed to open the car’s door. Jersey City Mayor Frank Hague got out, immediately putting on his fedora. Mayor Hague briskly walked over to the first child. The entire line straightened into nearly military precision.

“Merry Christmas, here you are.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

And the young boy ran off. With a similar salutation, Frank Hague quickly handed a coin to the next in line.

As soon as Big Boy thanked the Mayor for the quarter, the child thought up a scheme. He ran down the block, from which a line of kids stretched, turned at the corner, and ran along that entire street, the line still there. He turned at the next corner. The end of the line was towards the middle of that block. Big Boy got back in line.

Several hours later, he again stood in front of Frank Hague. Instead of the immediate “Merry Christmas,” followed by the quarter, Mayor Hague first paused for a moment.

“Lad, d’y'know that ye’r quite distinguished?”

“Wha’d'ya mean by that, Mayor?”

Frank Hague’s eyes took on a steely glint. Handing Big Boy the quarter Mayor Hague said, “That means that I don’t want to see you again today.”

What to others would only have been a sea of faces, to Frank Hague each and every one was an individual – a son of two voters, perhaps the grandson of four voters, a voter himself in a couple of years. One skinny kid was clever enough that cold Christmas morning to get an extra quarter. But, Mayor Hague let the child know that he wasn’t smart enough to fool Frank Hague.

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