Norma McCluskie
Copyright 2010 by Norma McCluskie
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Published by Red Willow Publishing
DEDICATION
This is a story that needed to be told.
To my husband Bernard, the love of my life that inspired me to write this book....
My pride and joy are my children, my three daughters, Donna, Patricia and Diane, also my three sons, Martin, Sean and James. I praise them for their sincerity and commend them for the goals they set for themselves to make all their fantasies come true. I believe their dreams surpassed all my expectations.
I appreciate my sons and daughters in law, John, Robert, and Patrick; Leslie, Kerry and Olga... They know the true meaning of family.
I pray for my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, may their lives be secure, happy and full of love... I have so much hope and well wishes for all of them.
This dedication is especially for our mothers and fathers who left this world before us, but were the backbone of our resilience, our integrity and dedication to family.
For my friend, Delise, who steered me in the right direction.
To Colleen, who helped me immensely.
This is a tribute to my son Sean, who took the time to read my book endless times and corrected my mistakes. His confidence in my book was resolute.
To all the friends and relatives that stood at our side at our time of sorrow.
To my beloved son, Benny, who did not have the chance to live his life, but has been an inspiration for all of us.
And an angel came...
SOURCES OF INFORMATION
My Own Recollections
My Husband’s Recollections
My Daughters’ Recollections
Public Information from the Internet
Stories from the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun
Captive City—some inserts that are common knowledge
Chicago State’s Attorney’s Office
Public Information in Chicago’s Archives
“Trail of Memories”, written in 1945, Trail, BC, Canada
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 10: ARRANGING A MEETING
CHAPTER 11: DATE WITH THE DEVIL
CHAPTER 13: END OF A PARTNERSHIP
CHAPTER 25: PORTRAIT OF A KILLER
CHAPTER 46: RETURN TO ALBANY AVENUE
CHAPTER 53: SURGERIES AND RECOVERY
CHAPTER 56: POINT OF NO RETURN
INTRODUCTION
This is a true story about a young couple who owned and operated a small tavern in the city of Chicago. Norma came from a small city in British Columbia, Canada. Ben came from a small town in Scotland, United Kingdom. Both grew up in these small towns where everything was innocent. They came from loving families who encouraged them to be independent.
After the Second World War, many Europeans searched for a better life. Ben remembered the war when all of his four brothers were in the service and away for several years. His parents doted on him, but after the conflict was over, employment in Scotland was scarce. He decided to follow one of his brothers who immigrated to Canada. For many from Europe, Canada was a stepping stone to the United States.
They met and married in Toronto, Ontario, Canada but decided that Chicago offered more opportunities for them. I remember how naive we were and the big city was both exciting and scary.
With partners, they purchased a small tavern on the north side of Chicago. This was their first venture into a business that promised great rewards. They were excited at the prospects, but never being in a business before, found there were many drawbacks.
They hired a bartender for Friday nights, just for a couple of hours each week. The bartender was a hitman, although it was some time before they became aware of his true profession.
The holdup was the turning point in their relationship. Their partners decided the pub was not for them.
This is a story of the many events that this couple endured. It is also a story about survival.
This book took many years to write. Norma said, “I needed to dig into my past to remember all the details and incidents that made me a person. I remembered all the wonderful experiences I had of growing up with my family who loved me. I also recalled my yearning for adventure, which eventually brought me to Chicago.”
Chicago in the 1950s and the 1960s was a city riddled with crime. It was also a city where organized crime flourished. The police departments turned a blind eye and their attention elsewhere when many of these transgressions were committed. Many officers were on the take and bribery was a fact of life.
Sam DeStefano was an unscrupulous character. He was a loan shark and a big time hoodlum, who the police knew well. He operated a lucrative business loaning monies to many crooks, but also to politicians, judges and attorneys. He had them in his pocket.
Sam was also a sadist, a devil worshiper, and a murderer. He was a man with no conscience. He was a rapist and a criminal and it is documented that he was one of the worst torturers in the history of the United States. He was evil.
In order to collect these loans, he hired hitmen such as Charles Crimaldi who used forceful tactics. Guns and baseball bats were the weapons of choice. Chuck was as brutal as Sam. He enjoyed putting fear in a man or would murder him for a few bucks and the thrill.
We hired Chuck as our bartender, but after the holdup, the events that happened were unpredictable and intimidating. He was the ultimate bartender, he had charisma, personality and he was deadly.
There was no law for protection. We were a pawn for the States Attorney who put their interests before people in order to pursue bigger political gains.
After the death of our son, we fought for our sanity. There were no answers and to depend on the authorities was a joke. In Chicago, there was no justice.
This is a story that is both heart-warming and heart-wrenching. It is written in my own words and the incidents are truthfully described as I remembered them. The conversations are as close as I can recall. Each word may not be the exact word or phrase used, but the story is true.
This is a story about torture, murder, bribery and hate. It shows the lengths a mobster or the States Attorney will go to for their own gain.
It is also a story about love and family. It is about caring for each other and the many friends who cared about us.
These are my recollections and the names of persons used are also real people.
This is my story of ten years in our lifetime that we called a “Decade of Fear.”
I dedicate this book to my children, my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren. I also dedicate this book to my beautiful son who lost his life when he was five years old. Without our love and a quest for justice for him, this book would not be possible. He lives in my heart and not a day goes by that I do not think about him. He is our guardian angel.
Norma McCluskie
PROLOGUE
I like to sit by myself at his gravesite. The guards are gone. It is peaceful and I can lose myself in my thoughts. What if? It is quiet, I can hear the birds chirping in the background, but I block all the sounds out and I can only feel my heart beating. I am sad. I think of what could have been. What if we had done things differently that awful night? We cannot blame each other. Ben says, “I should have taken them out together.” I say to myself, “You’re a coward. You stood there, afraid to move. You depended on him to save our children.” But I tell myself, “We had never been in this kind of situation, a fire, we didn’t know the smoke would come so quickly.” Ben forgot where the bunk beds were since we had just purchased them. He said, “I was groping in the dark, I could not find them.” It is easy to place the blame on one another, but we know we have to stand together; it was out of our hands. There was a hand greater than ours that reached out for our little boy and took him from us. I can see him among the angels; he is happy as he looks down on us and wonders why we are so sad. And an angel came.
CHAPTER 1: THE HOLDUP
October 5, 1962, was a Friday like so many other Fridays. When I woke up, the darkness was still upon us. It was early, but there was so much to do. My day began as usual. The floor had to be swept and washed. The bar had to be cleaned from the night before and lunches prepared for our clientele. Ben was up early and filled some coolers with beer for me. He checked the liquor bottles making sure they were adequate so everything would be easier when the men came in. At 6:30 a.m. he left for his construction job.
As he was leaving he said, “This job is closer to home, I don’t need to travel far. I should be home in the afternoon. Besides, the job is nearly finished; the brickwork is almost done. It is only going to last for a few more days.”
I was grateful for that; it was nice when he came home earlier. He could see the kids before bedtime, but also the day would not seem so long for me.
I smiled at him and said, “You must be tired.” I had been asleep when he had come to bed after closing the pub at 2:00 a.m. The hours were long and demanding.
He smiled back. “Will be home early today,” he responded and waved his hand as he left.
At 7:00 a.m. I was ready to open the pub. My usual morning clientele was standing outside quite impatiently. They were peering and banging on the window. I gave them a wave as I glanced at the clock and at the dot of 7:00 a.m., pushed the buzzer under the counter, unlocking the door. The men piled into the pub, pushing and shoving to be served first.
“Come on, guys,” I shouted cheerfully, “I will get to all of you.” Work for the men started at 7:30 a.m. They had only thirty minutes for quick refreshment and to get to their jobs. There was often a full bar and the men joked around with each other. They knew each other well, a number of them having worked together for many years. They were mischievous and full of pranks that they played on each other. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh. Most worked across the street at Cribben and Sexton stove factory. At 11:30 a.m. they would return for lunch.
These mornings with the men were enjoyable. They were fun and respectful. After a few quick drinks, they rushed to their jobs, looking forward to their next break. A few would purchase a miniature bottle of spirits to carry back to their work hidden in their pockets. I remembered how hard my father worked and knew these men were trying to earn an honest living.
As I tidied up the bar, thoughts of my father filled my mind. An immigrant like many of my customers, he had immigrated to Canada as a young man of sixteen. Being the oldest son of a family of thirteen, where only eleven had survived, he had never met many of his siblings.
He had worked in Montreal for a time before going to the city of Trail in British Columbia, Canada, where I and my brothers and sister were born. My father decided to work in the smelter, a processing plant, and he did so for thirty-five years. Because he had no education, he often said it was the perfect job for him, but my memory was about how hard he worked in a dirty and thankless job so he could give us a better life. He had come through the Depression as so many men had and was grateful for a job.
After the last customer left, I locked the tavern door to take my girls to school at 8:00 a.m.
“Come on,” I said, “we are running late.” After dropping the girls off at school, we returned to the tavern. I fixed breakfast for our boys and then took them upstairs to the apartment before reopening the pub.
Used glasses were still sitting on the counter and tables. I washed them quickly and put them back in order. My attention turned to the kitchen where there was still preparation to be done for the lunches. I glanced at the clock. Ret would be here soon. When she arrived, I would begin my usual Friday routine and take the checks we had cashed through the week to the bank. These were usually company checks. The bank would exchange them for money so we could have the funds available to cash our customer’s checks. Friday was payday.
As I worked tirelessly, my thoughts returned to our partner, Ret. I had seen her and her husband Packy a few times at social events, but did not know them well. They also came from Scotland as my husband Ben did. They had much in common. I remember when we met through our husbands when we were contemplating the purchase of the pub. The four of us had spent the evening together discussing our options and could not conceal our excitement. This business was a first for all of us.
Henrietta Burns, nicknamed Ret, was taller than me, blond and blue-eyed, not slim, but medium in size. She was attractive and had a personality similar to Ben’s. They both liked attention, loved people and a social life. Her husband Patrick, who earned the nickname Packy, was very different than his wife and I often wondered what they had in common. Packy was a very reserved and private individual. His face was ominous, never showing any emotion, and he rarely smiled. He appeared cold and aloof, but he and Ben got along very well. I shrugged my shoulders and returned to the task at hand.
My thoughts were interrupted as I glanced up and Ret entered the premises with her youngest daughter. We exchanged greetings. I said, “I am out of here, will be back as soon as I can. I have already begun the lunches, maybe you can finish up. The boys are upstairs.”
When I got into my car, I noticed the red car parked across the street. It was a bright, new car and that caught my eye. New cars were rarely seen in our neighborhood. I shrugged off my observation and got into my car.
I spoke out loud to myself, “Wonder who that car belongs to? I have never seen it before.” I made a mental note to ask Ret if she knew whose car it was. I was not aware that someone in the red car was watching me. I also did not notice that a car was following me. Usually I was very observant of my surroundings, but not this particular morning. Later I questioned myself. I decided my lack of observation was due to my continued routine every Friday. I never expected anything to be different.
The bank was only a few miles away along Chicago Avenue. It was a route I had taken many times. I took care of our business at the bank, then proceeded back to the tavern, hurrying along. My thoughts went over each chore that had to be accomplished before lunchtime. My hair was still in curlers and I needed to change my clothes. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The time was close to 11:00 a.m.
Even though the bar was open, we usually did not see customers until 11:30 a.m. I ran upstairs to check on the younger children. My next step was to check out the bar to be certain everything was in order and ready for lunch. Because the bar was usually three deep, there would be standing room only. Most men wanted to have more than one drink and demanded to be served quickly. Anticipating these orders, I usually poured several shot glasses of whiskey in advance and stood them in a row to save time. By knowing what the customer drank, we could grab a whiskey quickly and keep them content.
Ret was putting the finishing touches on the lunches. We joked around for a bit, and then we heard the door open. I was standing at the edge of the table and could see the length of the bar, therefore I was the first to see the two men with black ski masks and guns coming towards the kitchen.
I whispered in a quiet voice, “I think we are going to be held up.” I did not panic but with a swift motion tossed the bag of money under the table leaving the moneybox that contained about eleven hundred dollars and change.
Ret laughed and thought I was kidding. However, as they stood in the open doorway, her expression changed as she realized this was not the case. They did not speak, but waved their guns in the air. Ret backed up against the sink and I backed up against the door to the apartment. Fear gripped my heart for the children who were upstairs. The men rambled through the kitchen, throwing open drawers and cupboards and as they did so, I slipped into the bar. I knew the gun was under the counter. Having never fired a gun, I thought I might brandish the firearm and say, “Drop it.” My hands were shaking as I picked up the revolver. I thought this would scare them. It seemed an eternity, but several minutes later they came out of the kitchen. They only had the box; they had not found the rest of the money. I could not speak, my voice had disappeared.
Once I started firing the gun, I couldn’t stop. They were firing back at me and the noise was deafening. As I stand less than five-feet tall, I just ducked behind the counter. I fired all of the bullets that were in the chamber, striking the ceiling and the jukebox and one bullet struck one of the robbers.
He screamed. “I’ve been hit!” I felt myself flinch. I could not believe I had shot someone.
The newspapers said someone threw a stool at me, but that was not true. It was like something one would see in a movie in slow motion. It seemed so unreal. As they exited the bar, money was flying everywhere. The robbers jumped into a waiting getaway car and I heard the car speed from the scene. It suddenly became quiet, except for the screeching tires as they fled. Believing it was safe, I crawled along the floor behind the bar and reached for the phone and called 911. Ret came out of the kitchen to see if I was all right. She asked me in a shaky, low voice, almost a whisper. “Are you okay?” She peered around the corner, and looked at me with the gun in my hand. In a shrill and excited voice she shrieked, “My God, Norma, are you crazy? What is wrong with you? Are you mad? What made you do that? When I heard the gunfire, I was scared to death. I was afraid to come out here.”
When I stood up, my knees were trembling, I responded, “You know, Ret, I didn’t even think about it. I just did it. God knows I know nothing about guns. I scared myself.” We hugged each other; laughing nervously, both of us traumatized by the events and happy to be alive.
The police arrived at the same time as the customers. Seeing them on the premises, our customers wanted to know what was going on. The officers took their time and alleged they did not receive the correct address. They had gone south instead of north on Albany Avenue. I let Ret give some of the testimony, while I ran upstairs to make sure the children were not harmed. I walked towards the bedroom and opened the door quietly, my heart pounding. What made me think one of the bullets could reach this far? I was thankful Marty was still sleeping. Benny and Ret’s daughter, Janine, was in the kitchen playing with toys, not aware anything was wrong. Ret and I went outside to retrieve what was left of the money they had dropped in their flight. The customers joined in to help.
The officers retrieved casings from the bullets and noticed blood by the door that indicated one of the alleged robbers had been hit.
It was exciting and frightening at the same time. Reporters came from several newspapers, making a big deal of the story and asking us to pose for pictures. They wanted a full story and description of how the robbery went down. Our clientele also wanting to know every detail and we were trying to oblige them.
At first we felt like celebrities, but soon it became annoying. Everyone was chatting at the same time. The jukebox was a mess, plus the customers were examining the premises for bullet holes. I could not wait for the lunch hour to end as the questions were endless. They were beginning to irk me as we were asked to repeatedly give an account of the robbery. The pub was full of excitement as we tried to serve food and drinks. Neither we, nor the customers, had ever experienced a holdup. Once the lunch hour was over, we took a breath, but realized we still had the police to contend with.
The police’s excuse that they received the wrong address really bothered me. Although I was excited when calling 911, I was confident they received the correct address. Ben and Packy were working down the street not far from the tavern. They heard the news, I believe from a reporter.
Ben said, “My wife did well, I don’t need to come home.” He smiled, turned to the men on the job and explained what happened.
Most customers had left to go back to their jobs. The reporters from the media came and went, but the officers who had been on the premises for some time were everywhere searching for clues. We were nervous. A ton of questions were fired at us from the two policemen, but the robbers were masked and it happened so fast.
I watched as they dusted the kitchen for fingerprints. I explained to the officers that the suspects were wearing gloves but had noticed that they had dark eyes. I thought they were either Italian or Puerto Rican. They nodded their heads and wrote everything down. We tried to resume business as usual, but it was a very upside down day as we relived the events repetitively.
One officer asked, “Where did you get your gun?”
“We bought it from an ex-police officer,” I said, and gave his name. They did not respond, looked at each other and let the subject drop.
After the officers left, the place was quiet. Ret and I cleaned the bar. Lost in thought, we worked together in silence. We then sat down to discuss all that had transpired.
I was first to speak, “This wouldn’t have happened if we still had Duke.” It reminded both of us of how much we had depended on him. Ret looked at me in agreement, nodding her head, both of us realizing we could have been hurt. A worse thought was that one of us could have been killed.
CHAPTER 2: DUKE
We sat quietly and my thoughts were on Duke. How I came to love him. After we purchased the tavern from Bernice and Ed, Bernice said to us, “One thing I have to mention is the dog. His name is Duke and I need to leave him here. It is the only home he has ever had. Ed says we need to put him down. I was hoping if you decide to buy the place, you would keep him.” She had tears in her eyes as she put her hand on the dog’s neck and scratched him with affection. The dog licked her hand, returning the warmth.
“Ed won’t let me take him to the resort we bought.” Her face was strained as she looked at us with hope. We looked at the dog, a large Doberman pinscher that did not appear too friendly.
I thought, We had not bargained for a dog, and he does look mean. I had a dog while growing up and was hesitant about becoming attached to another one.
Ben quickly said, “Sure, we’ll keep him. We need a good watchdog.”
Later I questioned, “Are you sure we want to keep that dog? How is he going to react to the kids? All the dog knows is this pub. You know what they say about these dogs, they can turn on you.”
Ben replied, “He will be all right. He‘s old, Norma, and he is not going to hurt anyone. You don‘t want the woman to put him down, do you?” I shook my head no. Ben liked dogs. We kept the dog.
Duke became my dog; he was my companion and loved the children. They gave him a lot of attention, which he enjoyed. He wore a muzzle when he went outdoors to protect outsiders. Duke disliked uniforms and also wore the muzzle whenever the postman, a policeman, a deliveryman or anyone in uniform entered the premises. While we cashed checks, he sat without his muzzle inside the doorway leading upstairs. He deterred anyone from entering beyond the door and would let out a low growl to voice his disapproval. No one had the courage to venture past the entrance. He was a wonderful watchdog. At night he roamed the premises and nobody dared to enter.
CHAPTER 3: CONFLICT
We were grateful the robbery did not happen on a weekend or a holiday when all the children were upstairs in the apartment. On those days, it was always pretty hectic. The older kids teased the younger children and someone was always running up and down the stairs. Any one of the children could have come downstairs and walked into danger. It was a sobering thought.
Soon afterwards, we found out that the robbers had been arrested only a few blocks away from the tavern. Apparently, after leaving the crime scene, they raced through a red light and were stopped by the police. Because they were known criminals and acting suspicious, the men were brought to the police station for questioning. Fingerprints and mug shots were taken, but the men were later released. The suspect who had been shot went undetected by the police. I was concerned that I may have killed someone.
Later, in a police report, the officers claimed the robbers were seen changing cars at Homan Avenue and Ohio Street. They alleged the car used in the holdup was stolen from a parking lot at 3355 Ohio Street.
Being enthusiastic about our business, danger had never crossed our minds. My attention once again returned to our children. There were a total of eight kids, we each had four. We would be devastated if anything happened to any of them.
We had purchased the tavern in May 1960 and by the end of the summer of 1961 it had become evident that Packy was no longer happy with the arrangement. He felt he was working hard as a bricklayer and Ben had it easier running the pub. Ben offered to change positions.
“I miss working,” Ben said, “but Packy doesn’t want to work the pub. The only solution I can see is that we both work and you girls will have to take care of the pub. This worries me because I do not like to see you girls here on your own. Perhaps we can hire someone.”
“It defeats the purpose, Ben. We can manage. We know most of the customers,” I responded.
“I know, but you have a new baby to take care of. And there should be a man around.”
“I know, but Ret and I will be okay. We have Duke and he won’t let anything happen to us. I think we can handle things and if not, we will have to try something else.”
Ben’s approach to the business was second to none, his easygoing manner and enthusiasm encouraged customers to frequent the pub and they felt at home. He humored the men and entertained the ladies. Packy was quiet and reserved and was not as sociable. He was tired after a days work and this possibly was the reason for his resentment.
I was not sure we could handle the bar with the same ease as Ben, but I knew we would be efficient. Mornings and afternoons were quieter. Lunch would be our busiest and most challenging time. At night, the men would take over. Weeknights, Packy wanted to close early. Ben was not in favor of this. Packy only worked every other night and Ben did not see this as a hardship.
Ben said, “If we are not consistent in our hours people will stop coming to the pub. They will go to other ones in the area. We need to stay open the same hours, even if some nights are quiet. Look Packy, if you want to leave early, I will close the pub.”
It had been easier when Ben worked with us. There was more time to take care of our children and do the cleaning. When he returned to work, everything became difficult. We could not keep up with the chores. Ret no longer could leave early. Our time was split between waiting on customers and slipping into the kitchen to try and get a head start for the next day. It was hectic. Lunches needed to be prepared in advance. Subsequently, both of us could be available to serve the bar; we tried to reorganize the kitchen to be more efficient. The hours were long and tempers were short. Now we had a new problem to contend with, a holdup. I shivered at the thought.
The holdup weighed heavy on my mind. We were two women alone, which was not a good thing. When we had Duke we felt safe, but Duke was gone. He had been killed by a bus and left in an alley to die. When he did not come home for several days, we hunted all over the neighborhood. Finally, a policeman gave us the sad news. The level of safety we felt with Duke was gone and we were vulnerable.
CHAPTER 4: HAPPIER TIMES
I thought back to the beginning and remembered when we discovered the bar. Ben mentioned that a bricklayer friend and he were discussing going into business. He wanted to show me the pub they had in mind.
“What do you think?” He was excited and energized as he showed me the tavern. “This would be another income for us and we would not have to worry about the winters. You know how hard it is to get work in the winter. We will need a couple of thousand dollars to get started.”
I was impressed and a little excited at the prospect of being in business. I did not know anything about pubs, but liked the idea.
When we drove past the tavern, there were cars parked everywhere and the pub appeared busy. I said wispily and a little disappointed, “It is a pretty grimy neighborhood. There are a lot of factories, which is probably why it is so dirty, but I guess that’s supposed to be a good thing.” I added, “It’s not a very good area to raise the kids; what are your thoughts?”
He replied and seemed agitated, “The kids will be fine. I have seen worse places in Scotland.” I did not respond. Ben did not like to be challenged. I had seen worse places as well, but I was not sure if it was a place I wanted to bring up my kids.
Weeds were growing everywhere. One could hardly see the sidewalk. The factory windows were dirty. The building needed painting. Papers were left on the street and the breeze was blowing them around. No one made an effort to pick them up. Men in overalls were walking around and greeting each other. Some were going into the factory, while others were leaving.
Ben remarked, “They work in shifts.” We drove around the block several times. We noticed scores of people and activity in the area. The adults were conversing, while plenty of children played in front of their homes. It looked like a happy community.
We found a Catholic school and church located on Fulton Street just south of Albany Avenue. Saint Mathews consisted of several large grey buildings; but the outside looked old and in need of repair.
“Look,” I said, “a Catholic church, stop so we can see the inside, it looks pretty old.”
Ben stopped the car and we got out and went into the church. The church was small, but the interior was wonderful. Its theme was angels and they were painted above the altar in bright, beautiful, soft colors. Next to the church and school was a convent.
“Let’s knock on the door and ask if we can see the school, what do you think?”
Ben replied, “That’s a good idea.”
A tiny nun came to the door and smiled at us warmly. We smiled back and asked, “Is it possible we can see the school? We are planning on moving into the area and have children that are school age.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, and walked us to the little schoolhouse. The classrooms were full of color and imagination. We were thrilled. I could not wait to tell Ret, as she was concerned if there was a Catholic school and church in the neighborhood.
We thanked Sister Teresa, the tiny lady with a huge smile. She introduced us to other nuns in the convent. They were extraordinary people and as we spoke to them, we knew their energy and enthusiasm would reflect on the children. Their optimistic outlook would encourage our kids to have a positive outlook on life.
CHAPTER 5: ALBANY AVENUE
It was a small tavern located on the northwest side of Chicago Avenue at 718 N Albany Avenue, a small side street situated just west of the viaduct. The street could easily be missed if one drove by too quickly. The pub was a two-story building south of Chicago Avenue and east of Laramie Street, nestled in a large factory area. A smaller factory sat at the base of the street. As one turned off Chicago Avenue, going around the bend onto Albany Avenue, the pub was located in the center of the block. An empty lot was situated on one side of the building and a small house on the other side that sat further back from the street.
Factories were everywhere. Cribben and Sexton was the largest, a stove factory directly across the avenue from the pub. This factory covered the entire block. Also in the vicinity were Kraft Foods, the railway and many smaller factories. At the end of the street on the corner was another pub called The 700 Club, where two men rented the premises and the owners lived upstairs. There were a total of five pubs in the area. The factories employed so many people that every tavern had their share of business. The proprietors from all of the pubs were friendly with each other. Ben was afraid someone would purchase the pub before we made a decision.
“Pubs don’t sell that fast, it has been on the market for a while,” I said, “We need to think about everything before we make a decision. First, we need to get our finances in order. You need to be patient.”
I liked the little pub with its sixteen stools and several tables in the center of the room. There was one step to the entrance door of the tavern, which was situated in the middle of the building. Glass blocks were inserted for windows on each side of the doorway. They jutted out like bay windows, allowing only a trickle of light into the pub. To the left of the foyer, just inside the pub, there was a jukebox that sat under one of the windows. Situated to the right of the entry was a payphone and cigarette machine. Another door was next to the phone that led to the apartment upstairs, which was locked from the inside and seldom used. An entrance at the foot of the stairs from the apartment led outside, this door was adjacent to the pub entrance.
The pub had a dropped ceiling made of heavy canvas material in a deep maroon color that covered most of the windows on the left side of the room. As only half of the windows were visible, very little light came into the area. The tiled floor was slightly worn. A large air conditioner sat at the rear of the pub to the left against the back wall. Behind the wall was a tiny kitchen; the stairs to the right led to the apartment above. A back door opened into the fenced yard. At the end of the lot sat a garage that was never used for a car. It would eventually become a playhouse for the children.
The bar itself was not large, but compact. Entering the pub from the doorway, it was easy to see the sixteen stools wound around the bar in a line on the right hand side. The seats were small, but comfortable, with no backs so one could swivel around. In the middle of the bar on the back wall was the cash register, behind it were mirrors with shelves on both sides. Bottles of liquor organized into the order of their popularity sat on the shelves. The beer glasses below the liquor bottles were placed on white towels, the shot glasses next to them. They glistened under the small lights from the ceiling. The sink and washing facilities along with the ice machine and coolers were under the counter with the barrels of beer. Shiny taps were located on the top of the bar used to pour the draft beer.
There was a door at the end of the bar that led to a damp and musty basement. We were not aware that the basement flooded from time to time. Beside this entry was the pub telephone. At the end of the bar on the far side towards the kitchen was another cooler against the wall used for carryouts, usually six-packs of beer. Next to this cooler was a half door to deter persons from coming behind the bar.
The restrooms were located at the back, just before the entrance to the kitchen. The lady’s bathroom was located in front of another half door to the kitchen. It was relatively clean. The men’s lavatory was on the outside wall and was dirty and smelled of urine. One could see on the walls where men had missed the target.
The half door to the kitchen also served as a counter. It was kept bolted from the inside while serving food and cashing checks. Duke sat just inside the door to the right at the entranceway going upstairs.
Ben and I drove around the area several times in the weeks that followed. We entered the pub more than once. Ed and Bernice were only too happy to accommodate us. It was a very busy bar. The owners had allowed us to try our hand at pulling a few pints of beer.
“What’s your name?” a customer asked me, smiling. I looked up at him. His voice was pleasant, but his face was old and worn. I noticed some of his teeth were missing.
I smiled at him. “Norma.”
“That’s a nice name. The boys and I will see that you’re all right.”
CHAPTER 6: OUR BARTENDER
Chuck, our Friday night bartender, came to work just before 8:00 p.m.. There was a buzz in the bar and everyone was still talking about the robbery.
Chuck asked, “What’s going on?”
Ben responded, “The girls were robbed at gunpoint this morning and the robbers got away with a lot of cash.”
I glanced at Chuck. For some reason his facial expressions caused me to ask without hesitation in a slightly agitated voice, “They got away. Do you know anything about this?”
Chuck stared at me. “No, no,” he replied, with a startled look on his face.
Ben glared at me as if I had stepped out of line, motioning for me to be quiet. Chuck seemed surprised that we had a holdup. His body language indicated that he felt uneasy.
Staring at us, he said, “I hope you don’t think I had something to do with this?” He paused, “God, Ben, you know me better than that.” He appeared offended.
Ben said, “Of course not, but we need to explore every avenue to see if we can find out who robbed us. It was a lot of money to lose and we need to ask questions. Someone knew our schedule and knew these girls were alone. Many bars do the same thing we do, but they were not robbed, we were. We need to think about this because there are kids here. It worries us.”
Chuck responded with compassion, “I understand, Ben. I am sorry about the robbery.”
Previously, Ben, Packy and I had discussed the possibility that Chuck somehow was involved in the holdup or knew something about it.
Ben said, “What do you think? Chuck knows a lot of undesirables; do you believe he would set us up?”
I replied, “I hope not. You know him better than any of us. Do you think he would do something like that?”
Packy indicated he was not sure. He was a person who liked to mull a situation over and think seriously about it. The conversation had given us food for thought.
I asked the question that was on our minds. Chuck’s behavior suggested that I had insulted him. Ben was annoyed at my audacity. Packy did not express an opinion and kept silent. For me, it had been a long day and I was not sure if I believed him or not.
Chuck said, “Look, I know a lot of people in this neighborhood and I will put some feelers out and see what I can find out.” We left it at that.
Later after closing the pub, Ben scolded me, “Norma, you can’t go around accusing people if you have no proof. Chuck was offended. I know we discussed the possibility earlier, but if you were patient he might have given his hand away.” He paused and then said, “If he was involved we will never know, he just put his guard up.”
Feeling betrayed, I replied, “I don’t care. Sometimes he acts strange, and he always has some weird characters hanging around him.” I added, “You know, I thought they were Italian and Chuck is Italian.”
He put his arm around me, laughing and speaking softly, “So are you. I know you have had a rough day. I thought you were pretty brave.” I got his point.
CHAPTER 7: SUSPECTS
We were not deterred by the robbery, but were anxious. We realized there were negative aspects to every business. We began taking precautions in the way we did business, switching around our banking hours and making more use of the buzzer on the tavern door. The purpose was to screen the people who came through it. Ben had a steel bar put across the inside of the front of the door so that when we were closed no one could get the door open, even if it were unlocked. Business continued as usual and we were pleased when the conversations changed to a lighter subject.
Several weeks later, two detectives came to see Ret and I with photographs in their hands. They asked if we could identify anyone in the pictures.
I studied them, shook my head and said, “Their faces were covered with masks; I could not identify them.”
Ret, however, lifted one of the photos into her hands, examined it carefully and explained in an excited voice, “This is the man who was sitting at the bar the morning of the holdup.”
This had taken place while I was at the bank. Ret showed them exactly where he sat, gave them a description of his clothing and what he ordered to drink.
“We never have any customers at that time. He was the only person at the bar, that’s why I remember him,” she exclaimed.
The officers were as excited as we were. “Are you sure?”
Ret said, “Oh yes, I am very sure.” She was pleased with herself and excited that she could identify one of the robbers.
The detectives explained that the men were photographed the morning of the robbery. They were stopped for a traffic violation. Because they were known criminals and acting suspiciously, they were taken to the police station, questioned and had their pictures taken. Their names were Frank Santucci, Anthony Donato and Robert Chesser.
Chuck was aware that the authorities had photos of the three men alleged to be the robbery suspects. He knew Ret had identified one of them, but did not say much. We told him the names of the suspects, but there was not any indication as to whether he knew them or not. He nodded his head and did not say anything that would have aroused our suspicion. He suddenly adopted a nervous twitch while he darted around behind the bar, trying to avoid any conversation with us. He had many faces and I began to think he also had many personalities. However, the expression in his eyes always gave him away. He was not a good liar.
When I think back, I remember he became very quiet. Everyone in the pub was talking about the robbery, but Chuck kept a low profile. He did not make any comments.
I said to him, “Isn’t it great that Ret has such a good memory to identify that guy? Otherwise they would have gotten away. Aren’t you glad they are caught?”
He smiled and said, “Yeah, sure.” I looked at him and realized his smile was not genuine.
I related my thoughts to Ben, “I don’t know why, but I believe Chuck knows these guys. When I mentioned this to Chuck, he shook his head, but something in his manner gives him away. I think he is lying, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that they were caught. What do you think?”
“Yes, maybe so, but you can’t jump to conclusions. You might be right. He hasn’t talked about it much, but I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
According to a newspaper report, Roswell Spencer was a chief investigator for the State’s Attorney’s Office and the man who arrested Frank Santucci. Mr. Santucci was arrested at the home of a former girlfriend that lived at 1701 N 35th Street. She was nursing Frank back to health. He had been wounded in the shoulder. The police claimed it was the bullet wound from the robbery.
Mr. Spencer also claimed that Miss Jean Hansen was once the girlfriend of Paul (Needlenose) Labriola, a hoodlum found poisoned and stuffed in a trunk of a car around 1954. Jean also had alliances with two other deceased hoodlums, James (Jingle Bells) Barsella and Martin (Marty the Ox) Ochs. Santucci was a known hoodlum associated with the Syndicate.
This information upset me. I showed Ben the paper. “Read this story, it’s so far-fetched. Can these people be real?”
We were relieved to discover that the police had arrested the men. They would not be around to hold up other places. Several days later I was asked to come down to the police station to see if I could pick out Mr. Santucci in a lineup. I went willingly. I thought about the newspaper account and explained to the officer that I could not identify anyone because the men wore masks.
The officer seemed annoyed and said, “Yes, we know they wore masks. We also know who he is and I will point him out to you in the lineup.
“Don’t you want to get these guys and put them away so they can’t hurt anyone else?” he asked in frustration, “I can tell you, he is our man.” He then showed me where Frank Santucci was in the lineup. “All you need to do is point to him. He is a bad guy and has hurt a lot of people. We need to take him off the street.” He paused for a moment. “We can’t do this without your testimony.”
Frank claimed he had received his broken collarbone in a gunfight the Saturday before. The authorities continued to maintain it was a gunshot wound he received in the holdup. I was glad to be of help. They explained that he was in a lineup with several plainclothes policemen and detectives. When they pointed Frank Santucci out to me; I pointed him out for the officers.
I said, “I hope he is the right person.” They assured me he was. I was standing in front of the lineup with the police strongly pressuring me to identifying Frank Santucci. We could see each other. Both of us avoided eye contact. Because of my positive identification of Frank Santucci and Ret’s positive identification of Robert Chesser, the three men were indicted for armed robbery and Ret and I would have to go to court.
I explained to Ben what had transpired at the police station.
He said, “I did not know they did things that way. I guess they are desperate to get this guy. You did the right thing.”
I said, “I felt guilty when they spoke to me like that, as if I did not want them caught, but you know I do. The truth is I really could not identify him and what if it is the wrong guy?”
“Don’t worry, Norma, these cops usually know what they are doing. I still think you did the right thing.”
CHAPTER 8: CHUCK CRIMALDI
Chuck’s attitude stuck in my mind. He appeared more than upset over the robbery and somehow I felt afraid, but did not understand why. My thoughts returned to when we first noticed him and remembered how we felt about him. We had decided to have a Friday night bartender as the owners before us had done. We used their choice of help for several months, but problems arose with this arrangement. Joe was a great guy, but he drank too much while working. We worried that trouble would break out and he would be in no condition to handle it. After Ben and Packy spoke to him, he took offense and quit.
We worked the place ourselves for several months and decided to find a replacement for Friday nights. Our place attracted other clientele besides factory workers. One fellow in particular caught our attention. Not exactly good looking, Chuck was about five-foot-seven, with blunt features and a slight build that did not conceal the fact that he was very strong. His black hair was receding; his dark brown eyes were sharp. Many times he stood alone looking around as if he was either planning to purchase the place or casing the premises. He was also in the building trade as a plumber and regularly came in for a drink after work. He was young and personable and got along with everyone.
Chuck frequented the bar every night and he seemed to have a following of people. He was very friendly and our husbands liked him, enjoying his company and sense of humor. They enjoyed a game of pool and he was a good competitor. He liked music and constantly played the jukebox, enjoying the same music as Ben. This created a friendship between the two. He had an infectious personality and mixed well with the old customers as well as the new.
I recalled that Joe had noticed our husbands being friendly with him and had emphasized that he was no good. He once stated, “You don’t want to get tied up with the likes of him, he’s bad news.” We thought at the time that Joe was jealous and ignored his comment.
We discussed the possibility of hiring him for Friday nights. We laughed at ourselves, as our first impressions were superfluous. We were all in favor and when approached he was delighted and took the job.
The customers had a lot of comments and everyone wanted input into our business. When we hired Chuck Crimaldi, we received a lot of feedback, some of which was not positive. But it had been no different with Joe; it was difficult to please everyone.
Chuck drew a crowd, was witty, and had charisma. We assumed that because he was born and raised in a neighborhood not far from Albany Avenue that many of his followers were old friends. He had some respectable associates that held good jobs and dressed in suits and ties, but many of his friends were vulgar and uncouth. He kept them in line either with a glance or a word. We thought they either respected him or were afraid of him. He knew how to manipulate people with a smile. He did have strange acquaintances; but none of us could pinpoint what it was about him that bothered us.
“What do you think of Chuck?” I asked Ben after he had been working for us for several weeks. “Ret likes him, but Packy seems dubious. The other day these guys that work at the factory said they heard he had some connection to the Mafia. You know about the Mafia, don’t you?”
Ben replied sarcastically, “Yes, I have heard of the Mafia. Chuck is a working guy just like us; that is just a rumor. You know every customer we have likes to think they are important and wants to be the favorite.”
I responded, “I know, but growing up I heard of these organizations. Some people call them the Mafia, the Crime Syndicate or The Outfit, whatever name you wish to use. Most Italians are against these men and when you read the papers here, they talk about them all the time. The customers also said he works for a guy called Sam DeStefano. There are many stories about Sam in the newspaper. They say he is a man who loans money and charges high interest rates, more than banks. One customer said he uses torture to collect his loans and is not a nice man.”
“Well, Norma, what do you think Chuck does in the Mafia? He is Italian, but he doesn’t look the type to do much of anything. He is hardly 145 pounds. Look, he is a nice guy. I don’t see it, and it doesn’t interfere with our business. After all, every time he comes into the pub he is in dirty work clothes. He seems to be working all the time. If he works for this guy Sam, I don’t know when. If you have noticed, he is always here or at his day job. Look, he is doing a good job and what he does in his own time is not our business.”
“Yes, he does do a good job and is well-liked, but I do get concerned about who he associates with. We really don’t want those kinds of people hanging around here. You know he has a girlfriend, I suppose he also needs to spend time with her.” I replied.
“Lots of guys have a wife and a girlfriend. We don’t have to like his lifestyle. Until we see something we don’t like, you need to ignore the rumors. After all, he only works for four hours every Friday night. We do not treat him any different than anyone else who comes into the pub.”
I replied, “Have you noticed how friendly he is with the policemen? He seems to know most of them. They hang around here sometimes. I heard that the police harass many of the other pubs, but not us. I wonder why?”
“Norma, he grew up in this area and probably knows them from that time. I don’t know why and don’t care. I am glad they don’t bother us.” Ben was becoming annoyed with me as my responses were challenging what he believed. I thought to myself that I probably did listen to too many rumors. I also was aware that the customers were really looking after our welfare. Most thought we were young and impressionable.