Goodfellas? Bedfellas.

The one night he’d spent in the joint facing armed robbery charges was life-changing. When Gregory walked out of jail on the 21st of March, 1962, he was a new man. That wasn’t to say that he’d turned over a new leaf and would walk the straight and narrow.  As a matter a fact, if anything, he would henceforth ply his trade with even more élan. What changed that morning was his status, for a deal was made with the devil. Just which side in the transaction played the role of Satan and which side lost its soul has still proven to be ambiguous.

Over the next thirty years, Gregory Scarpa “informed” - he informed the FBI - of plans and crimes and conspiracies, of conversations and rumors and goings-on among the Five Families of organized crime.  Gregory Scarpa also committed assault, supervised  bookmaking operations, hijacked trucks, trafficked in cocaine, loan-sharked, stole mail, laundered money, ran credit card scams, extorted, kidnapped, and tortured. And he personally murdered no less than a dozen people. From that day in 1962 when he was first “turned” until the very end of his long reign of terror in 1992, only when his behavior could no longer be hidden, Scarpa had spent a total of 30 days in jail. He had been known by other wise guys as the Grim Reaper; as the man who’d leave 666 as his calling card with his victims. And he’d collected over $150,000 in informant fees from his “handlers” while he was being protected.

One is naturally led to ask the question, like concerned citizen and freelance investigator Angela Clemente has done in a 300 page report to the Justice Department: Which is worse, a mafia that operates outside of the law or a government that knows no law?

Stubborn to Live, Stubborn to Die

The West Branch Susquehanna River zigzags its way through central Pennsylvania , passing to the east of the small community of Kelly Township, about 170 miles west of Philadelphia. Cornfields patina the countryside a brassy yellow, accentuating the thick boundaries of oak forests teeming with deer and fox. Farming and hunting naturally dominate the local activities but other than that there’s nothing to explain the unique group of men who’ve called this out-of-the-way place home… except: the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary.

On December 23, 1971, a man walked out the doors of the prison having served only five years of a thirteen year sentence thanks to a Presidential pardon. At the time, he was already more well- known than some of the men who’d occupied his cell-block before him – Whitey Bulger, Wilhelm Reich, and Alger Hiss – better known than any he served time with – Paul Vario, RobertLee Johnson, and John Gotti – and even more infamous than those that would follow – Henry Hill, John Wojtowicz, and Robert Hansen. His fame, however, didn’t help him “post-prison” and he met resistance in regaining the glory of his old life, so three years later he began to write his autobiography.

And then he disappeared.

His autobiography was published a few months later but it didn’t include his obituary. That was to be written and rewritten over the years by a countless parade of surmising G-men, deathbed thugs, and barstool theorists: “Disintegrated in a fat-rendering plant… Mixed in the concrete below Giant’s Stadium… Sealed in a drum in a toxic waste dump… Buried under the helipad at the Sheraton Savannah Resort… Crushed in scrap-metal and shipped to Japan.”

Etcetera. Etcetera.

Since Jimmy Hoffa mysteriously disappeared from a restaurant near his Detroit home in 1975, he’s died a thousand deaths… and counting, yet refuses to die.

Hi Trina!

Welcome to Three Hundred Words and thanks for the "follow!" A new story to come this weekend!

"Therapy strongly recommended"

Lee made sure to be out of bed early before his mother woke. Her heavy white thigh peeking out from under the gown that had bunched around her waist in the night was the last thing he saw before slipping past her open bedroom door. Previously, it had made him nauseous seeing his mother like that, especially when he’d been forced to sleep in bed with her, but not recently. Now it only made him angry. He’d been released from the Youth House three days ago. He hadn’t said more than two words to her since he came home.

 

Home…

What a joke.

Stupid psychiatrist…

He ran up the stairs from the basement flat and out into the dirty Bronx sunshine. The lively heat on his skin was a contradiction to the coldness he was feeling beneath it and he continued running until he reached 183^rd Street where he ducked behind a pillar and breathed in heavily the smoky shade of the subway terminal.

It was May 10^th, 1953. Mother’s Day.

He muttered to himself in a Texas accent as husbands and children passed by, probably taking the moms out for their special day. Or to church. Flowers and pretty hats and red lipstick and grotesque smiles.

I’m my own father…  mother never gave a damn…

There were a dozen cigarette butts beneath Lee’s cowboy boots when an elderly lady walked by, handing out pamphlets. He had no idea what she was selling. On a whim, he reached out. He related to what he read.

Six years later, when a reporter in Moscow asked him what prompted his embrace of Marxism and defection to the Soviet Union, Lee HarveyOswald responded, “I became interested about the age of 15, an old lady handed me a pamphlet about saving the Rosenbergs...”

Bem-vindo!

...to Pedro, and thanks for the "follow!"

If All You Have is a Hammer...

An ashen-faced man stood on the curb at 1201 Pennsylvania Avenue holding an umbrella. He scraped the frost from his watch to see that it was nearly 10 pm. A late winter rain was beginning to fall.

A siren gave yelp from around the corner as red and blue streaks splashed off the building’s shiny façade. A trio of Suburbans rolled up and the passenger door of the middle vehicle opened and the man dove in. The motorcade roared off, sirens blaring, leaving the man’s umbrella rolling in a puddle behind them. It didn’t slow down until it reached the Emergency Entrance to George Washington University Hospital some fifteen blocks away.

A few minutes later, another motorcade departed a mere four blocks west of the previous one. It too double-parked at the hospital and two men dashed inside. With jaws locked and fists clenched, the groups came face to face at a feeble patient’s bed-side. After a few tense minutes of threats and pointed fingers, Andrew Card and Alberto Gonzales departed, defeated.

The bed-ridden man in the middle of the commotion was John Ashcroft, US Attorney General, awaiting surgery for pancreatitis. Behind him was James Comey, acting Attorney General while Ashcroft was incapacitated, and he’d just heroically refused to give the Justice Department’s assent to the President’s 2004 eaves-dropping initiative amid constitutional concerns.

Heroics though, are short-lived.

Laws were “adjusted.” And after a private White House meeting, Comey dropped his concerns. His ensuing private career was a charmed one and he was even considered for the Supreme Court before being nominated as head of the FBI. Incidentally, Alberto Gonzales quickly replaced Ashcroft…

By June 6, 2013, the 64^th anniversary of Orwell’s warning, word had leaked that the question of the warrantless wire-tapping of every American citizen was now beyond debate.

Welcome: 101

Thanks to the latest follower, Nuha Amin!

The Good Son

On May 12, 1935, Giulia was being served up the queen’s treatment: a surprise breakfast in bed and now, surrounded by flowers and candies, she leaned back with her feet propped up on a fluffy ottoman in the parlor of her lovely Los Angeles home.

Her doorway was abuzz with activity. Friends and neighbors were dropping in with presents in their arms and kisses on their lips. And her children were arriving one by one. Soon, seven of them would be there. This Mother’s Day had almost not happened and everyone was making sure it was a special one for her. Her heart attack last September had left her weak and ruined her sight and hearing and they were sure that the only thing keeping her going was the love she had for her family. Especially her baby. He’d always taken care of his mama like nobody else. He never forgot her. She was so proud of him.

“Nicola,” she called out to her husband, “Is my bambino here yet?”

Nicola approached her from behind and placed one hand on her shoulder and crossed himself with the other. His eyes watered at the mention of their son.

“Cucciola mia… I’m sorry. Russ called earlier... He’s still making that picture in England but sends his love.”

Giulia sighed softly.

“Maybe for Christmas…”

But Russ wouldn’t make it home that Christmas. Or the next. Popular singer and actor Russ Columbo had died in a freak accident while Giulia was still recovering in the hospital from her heart attack. Afraid that the news would kill her, her family decided to keep it a secret. Russ would be forevermore on “an extended European trip.”

Ten years on, Giulia still hadn’t seen her son, but her dying words were "Tell Russ I am so proud..."

The Last Fairy in Ireland

On March 18, 1895, in County Tipperary, Ireland, two miserable figures sat on a limestone wall.

Michael’s twisted face told the tale. He was living in a fog, on the verge of collapsing. He’d not eaten well nor had proper sleep in 14 days. Since his wife had fallen ill. Or rather, since she’d been exchanged for that… thing… that had occupied her bed. He’d made daily four mile treks through the snow and rain and cold only to find the doctor not at home. And when the doctor did at last call upon his door, he was drunk and dismissive. When he walked four miles in the other direction to find Father Ryan, he at least did come to administer the Anointing but he refused to return again. No matter. By that time, he was sure that the Seanchaidhe was right. It was not pneumonia and that was not Bridget. The sudden unexpected flippancy of the beast was what finally led to his decisive actions.

But the question still nagged him: why hadn’t it flown up the chimney?

In his peripheral vision, he could see his friend nodding off.

“Look alive, Jack,” Michael said. “This be the third night, you still think the procession will pass by the ringfort?”

Jack sat up straight. “In the name of God, Michael, I do! Look for the white horse. You cut the reins as it passes by and your wife will be freed. The white horse, Michael…”

Four days later, the burnt mangled body of Bridget Cleary was found in a shallow grave a half mile away. Even as he was being arrested, Michael swore that it wasn’t his wife. It was a fairy. He’d only tortured and burned the changeling in order to get his beloved back. Why couldn’t they understand?

Three New Welcomes

...makes it an even 100! Thanks for the "follows" from Salima, Amira, and Bella. I'm hoping to have a worthy story up tonight, or if not, then tomorrow!

Back with More in May

 

...just one more nap though :)

A Very Happy Christmas to You All

Praefigurare

On December 5, 1916, two children – a ten year old boy and a girl of seven – crouched in the gutter in front of 37 boulevard Saint-Michel in Paris, an icy wind whipping their scarves and mussing their straggly hair. The boy held out a cap while the girl moaned to passing strangers, “Please! Give us anything! Or take us home and feed us!”

One passer-by stopped and shared a bag of peppermints.

“Oh, thank you! You’ve saved our lives,” the children cried, “Our parents give us nothing but paper to eat!”

“You poor creatures! And with no socks on!”

At that moment, the door opened behind the two children and a nicely dressed woman stepped outside in a warm winter coat. She looked down at the two children in the gutter and shook her head.

“What are you two doing out here?”

The children, teeth chattering, looked meekly up and then back to the kindly woman who’d given them the peppermints. Suddenly, they leaped to their feet and bolted behind the woman and in through the door, giggling their way up the stairs.

“Those are my children, I apologize if they were bo-,” but her words were cut off by a slap to the face.

“You wretch! How could you? Not dressing them for the cold! Making them eat paper!”

Shocked, and yet not surprised, the mother turned and made her way back inside to find her mischievous children.

The “poor children” pranks were always planned by Andre but he soon found other ways to occupy his time and grew to become one of the mathematical geniuses of the 20^th century.

Simone Weil’s part in the pranks, however, was a foreshadowing of the voluntary suffering she would partake in as philosopher and mystic for the remainder of her short life.

Consider the Worms

Settled in the valley between the Adriatic and the Alps, not much happened in Montereale, Italy. The main source of excitement for most of the town was the local miller, whom everybody knew as “Menocchio,” and the excitement was in never knowing what he was going to say next.  On February 4, 1584, he sat down beneath a tree near the church to share a lunch with his friend Giovanni.

“Consider the worms,” Menocchio said, unwrapping the cloth from a wheel of pulsating cheese.

“Ah! Formaggio marcio,” Giovanni said, “it’s finally ready!”

A few maggots popped up into the air and landed on the grass. As Giovanni leaned to pick them up and plop them back onto the weeping cheese, he noticed the priest poking his head out of a window in the church, a fierce scowl on his face.

“Menocchio, you know I always enjoy your philosophizing but I think maybe you read too much.  You might be going too far, especially the silly things you say to the priest…”

The miller shrugged him off and pointed at the cheese, “…as I was saying: earth, air, water, and fire were mixed together, and out of that bulk a mass formed – just as cheese is made out of milk – and worms appeared in it, and these were the angels, and there was also God, he too having been created out of that mass…”

Menocchio’s explanation of creation was cut short when the priest appeared behind him.

“Domenico Scandella, you are to appear before the Inquisition for propagating heresy!”

Menocchio avoided judgment in that first trial but his inability to keep his self-educated views private led to him being burned at the stake fifteen years later amid the growing fears and reactions of a church facing a burgeoning and painful “protest.”

What Goes Up

The Key West Conchs were the patsies of the Single-A Florida State League at 32-79 and Johnny Crider of the St. Petersburg Cardinals wasn’t too concerned about being ready for the game. He’d been in the minors for three years and though he was batting a career high .248, he knew he would soon be on his way out.  Usually the team would arrive in town, warm up, play a game, and be back on the road before midnight without ever having seen anything but the ballpark.  But since the only bus available had them arriving in Key West some eight hours before game time on this August 6^th, 1974, there was time to kill so Johnny decided to see the sights, not knowing if he’d ever pass that way again.

From the free-roaming chickens in Mallory Square to the polydactyl cats lounging around the Hemingway House to the whispers heard along the docks of yet another overdue sailboat missing in the Bermuda Triangle, Johnny was finding Key West a fascinating place.

“Weird,” he kept whispering to himself as he sipped tequila at Sloppy Joe’s, “weird…”

When the first pitch was delivered in the bottom of the first inning at Wickers Field that evening, Johnny was in right field. A thick fog hung in the darkening sky despite a 20 knot wind and it amplified every sound; the lights in the outfield cast an eerie blue glow.

CRACK!

The pitcher turned and pointed straight up and Johnny raced in to field what he thought was a routine pop-up. The second baseman and the center fielder converged beneath the arcing ball also.  And then, the ball…

It didn’t go foul. It didn’t leave the park. It didn’t land.

It simply… disappeared.

“Weird,” Johnny whispered as the runner circled the bases. “Weird.”