A fetid dog’s breath breeze blows off the Delaware. Toxic water slaps against rotting kerosene-coated pylons as a rust-streaked tramp cinches her mooring lines easing up to the wharf in Marcus Hook.
The Load Master, a scoliosis-ridden fellow, with gray hair, clipboard under arm comes out of the harbor house. Eyeing the ship behind wire-rim glasses he writes down the ship’s entry into port on a manifest: 1:14 pm; May 3, 1957.
Two men on the wharf dressed in dark sport jackets, white shirts, straw fedora’s smoke, watch as the ship’s crew lowers the gangway. The men are armed. Their jackets protrude at the side.
A little further down another man waits. Wearing a deep purple Banlon shirt, light tan sports jacket, dark green pants, pointy black shoes, he rests a foot on weathered crate. His slicked back black curly hair is thick with Vitalis. Pock marks pepper his cheeks and neck, a gold cross hangs complimented by a gold ID bracelet on the left wrist. His street name is Rabbit because he moves around town quickly; born Anthony ‘Tony’ Fenza: he waits patiently for the ship’s crew to disembark.
Rabbit squints dragging on his cigarette. The crow’s feet around his eyes and scooped out cheeks become accentuated as he sucks in the nicotine like a Hoover. The ship’s crew stomp down the gangway a few men at a time. The two men in dark sport jackets toss their butts grinding them into the concrete with their black bovines. They edge toward the ramp. Rabbit stands erect flicking his smoke in the Delaware. He observes how the two men look at the faces of each passing seamen.
John Rohrbock balances a dark blue duffle bag over his shoulder. He’s about the tenth seaman to grip walk down the gangway. Eyeing Rabbit near the pump house Rohrbock gives a cool nonchalant nod. The men muscle in alongside Rohrbock and flash their county badges. They lead him towards the exit. Special County Investigators Fred Jack pats down the seaman while his partner stands ready in case Rohrbock tries to bolt. Rabbit watches the shake down. Jack pilfers Rohrbock’s wallet, seaman’s papers, passport, and dungaree pockets. A pack of Charros, El Buen Tono, Tabaco Suave Extra Fino top left shirt pocket is ripped open and dumped out. The Mexican cigarettes act as decoys for the five fat, hand rolled marijuana cigarettes. Handcuffed Rohrbock is led to a black coupe and taken to Media to be booked.
Disgusted Rabbit spits on the wharf. Son-a’va bitch, somebody tipped em,” he says under his breath. The marijuana was payoff to clear a debt. * * *
Friday’s at Pat’s Barber Shop are busy: gleaming straight razors scrape against leather and canvas strops, shaving lather fluffs into the barber’s hands from black electric lather machines. On west Tenth Street, the men come in to look their best for the weekend. By the end of the day Pat, Vince, and Mike will have their customer’s looking good for a night of drinking and getting laid. Chester’s Mayor Joseph Eyre gets a trim from Pat Lenzi. They’re talking about the Phillies. The shop is crowded as Rabbit walks in jingling the bell above the door. He tips his chin up at the barbers and mayor, “how are ya’s; Mayor Eyre?” Metal ceiling fans spin lazily circulating warm air, mixing aromas of Mennen Talcum powder, Bay Rum, and Jeris Hair Tonic.
The Negro shoe shine man beats out a rhythm with his shine rag as he polishes a business man’s cordovans on the stand. The man works at the bank across the street. Sections of the Chester Times, Marcus Hook Herald and Life magazines are scattered across a small reading table. Rabbit recognizes two seamen from Rohrbock’s ship waiting alongside a couple of Sinclair Refinery and an American Viscose man. They’re reading the newspaper.
Rabbit walks to the back wall, drops a coin in the pay phone slot. Inside his jacket pocket he digs out some crumbled paper slips and writes a series of numbers using a stubby chewed up pencil. “Yeah, sure. They pinched him. Yeah, when he got off. Musta’ got a tip. Somebody snitched. Son-a’va’bitches. Yeah… ok, alright, I’ll take care of it” Rabbit says quietly into the receiver. Taking a seat he reads the sports. Ralph the shop boy sweeps piles of hair into a dustbin, straightens up the magazines and papers. Father Rafferty comes out from the back room. Bold patterned curtains separate the room from the shop where the barbers change clothes, store bottles of hair tonics, extra clippers, spare scissors, new razors, and a box of Bazooka bubblegum for the kids. Off the room is a short narrow hallway that leads to the restroom. An old gray weathered wooden door opens up to an old timey toilet connected to a pull chain. An ancient cracked pedestal sink with a yellow bar of soap rests on top of a dark green cement floor. A pillbox frosted window above the toilet opens out into an alley behind the barbershop. The restroom smells like Mr. Clean. Tacked along light green walls in the room is a gallery of nude pinups from Stag, Cavalier and Argosy men’s magazines. Blonde, dark, brown haired dames with big bouncy tits and hairy pussies pose looking seductive.
The barber’s chuckle: every time Father Rafferty gets his haircut he goes back to pee and takes a long time to come back out. Mayor Eyre pays for his haircut tipping Pat he wishes everyone a great weekend. A fresh group of men step up for their haircuts. Rabbit takes Vince’s chair. “Hey Vin how are ya, let’s do a shave today” says Rabbit. Vince cranks the side hand lever on the chair elevating Rabbit. He mashes a foot pedal and reclines the back so he can apply a hot shaving towel. “How you been man?” asks Vince. “Good, good, Devil’s Dust at Jamaica today; 3-to-1 buy ya’s a few rounds. What’d ya say?” “Nah, not today, thanks” says Vince. The barbers never take the bets. They know the cops watch the shop for bookies and hoods. * * *
Joe Jacona’s ‘Big Tree’ taproom bartender Frank De Cinque rinses out beer mugs and shot glasses under a dim bar light. Soap bubbles float and pop in time to Johnny Mathis’ “The Twelfth of Never” on the juke. Four Greek sailors throw darts off in the corner. Pool balls crack dropping on top of one another corner and side pockets. Wispy blue cigarette smoke hovers under the low lit landscape like an Allegheny Mountain morning haze.
The table near the back exit a Sun Oil worker gets a hand job under the table. The gal’s arm muscles move up and down rhythmically. The lunch crowd evaporated like spilled tonic water. The Big Tree is empty for a handful of patrons. Bookie Sid Gruberman sits at the bar drinking a beer taking bets from Frank for the day’s last race. Eddie Pariso, Rabbit, Frenchy Elam, and Bobby ‘Sax’ Benson huddle around a table full of beer mugs, ashtrays, and cigarettes talking. “They gave Rohrbock $100 fine and four months in Graterford. Son’a va’bitches” says Rabbit. “Goddamn shame they put him in there that long. John’s an addict,” says Frenchy. “Somebody tipped them goddamn cops,” pipes in Rabbit. “Had to. I went with him one night to see Pedro at the plaza. In the evening Pedro watches the boats deliver fruits and vegetables from across the river in Santiago de la Pena. If you’re a regular Pedro’s the man. John and him work out a deal. He pays him dollars, that way Pedro gets more Peso for the buck on the black market. He’ll fix us up with as much as we need.” “Me and Frenchy ship out on the SS Wagon Box Thursday to Tuxpan” says Benson. “There’s a spot off the foc’sle door beam where you can hide a small package. Once them customs dicks leave the ship we go back and get it. Be a good pay-off.” “Yeah, I can move that shit up in Newark easy” says Pariso. “Yeah, but who’s tippin’ off the cops?” says Rabbit.
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