Throughout the years I have met many interesting people who have told me thrilling stories of their past. The first story that comes to mind would be the retired FBI agent I worked security with, who worked out of Newark in his heyday. He told me the many sting operations he was a part of, and how the FBI and NJ mafia had a common ground now again before going back to cat and mouse. We were driving to Coney Island on a security gig and he pointed to a diner and said “I shot a guy there.” I recently met another older man of eighty or so years of age, and even though I learned only a fraction of his story I believe it is one of those worth telling.
This man’s name is John, and after only thirty minutes of conversation he said the words “I worked for the mob”. I was more than thankful to hear this, the prior conversations had been about real estate in the 80s. I was at first surprised how easily John told me this; it was only my second time meeting him and this sort of story is a wild one which isn’t thrown around with the wind. I had admittedly known some information on John before meeting him, he had fended off a group of acid-tripping hippies from his house in the seventies–even shooting one of them with birdshot. He also believed the collapse of society would come sooner rather than later, and buried stores of tobacco in his lawn for mercantile trading when society collapsed. Suffice to say, I knew what I was getting into–I just didn’t know getting the story out would be that easy.
To set the scene: I walked into the man’s house and passed a project car from 1969, the older grandfather to my car from 1996. When we settle into the living room, I firstly see a handmade bowie knife mounted on the wall and a harpoon javelin beneath it. The environment alone told me that this place had stories to tell, and from the windows I could see the lawn where the tobacco was allegedly buried.
His tale started with him telling me about his early career as a musician. From the age of 16 he proved himself to be a capable jazz musician with the bass and guitar, and found a position working with bands as a backing musician. It was only a part-time gig, weekenders and traveling shows around the area. He was quick to tell me that he had been spoiled with his job, because at the age of 16 he made more money from the jazz bands than his father. He worked this job for a good deal of his life, working shows with bands and even starring in many big name soul, and jazz albums. When he mentioned being a resident player at the clubs he casually said, “these were all mob joints, and I was working for the mob.”
John firstly mentioned his habits with guns before circling back to the mob, telling me about the guns he would own–which I suspect do have connections to the mob. He explained, “with the money I made, my friends and I would talk to the police officers and buy their guns for cheap. We would get whatever they didn’t need, .38, 357, and when the cops switched over 9mm, it was a field day for us. We’d strike a deal: 200 for a revolver and a box of ammunition.” The idea of a proper bill of sale, and registration of your handgun was something that John would scrutinize heavily. To him, the sale of firearms was a simple exchange of goods and an honor code “don’t shoot anyone with this gun, and say the right words if you do.” This line of thought is very well expressed with the aforementioned shooting of a trespasser with birdshot, where he got off without charges or fines. The world of firearms to him was a world of camaraderie and sport, of course with notions of self defense too. When he was young he and his friends would take their dates to the dump, and shoot rats with their police pistols.
While he worked as a jazz musician at these mob joints, he was also hired as armed security because he was known to carry his 357 with him. It became clear to me that this man was more involved with the mob than he led on, where he casually mentioned them many times through his stories. Even noting that he found the mob to be more pleasant associates than cops, which he explained to be rooted from his anti-government sentiment after experiencing firsthand corruption in the police force ironically. He no doubt saw many and learned many things while working security at mob clubs. While he didn’t directly divulge those tales, he explored how the FBI suspected him of knowing things as well.
The FBI had a case of two missing persons, and they wanted John to testify against the Mob and help find these people. He tells them “I am a musician not a magician, I don’t make people disappear.” He never confirmed with me whether he knew anything or not. He explained that he had used the mob to “move money around” several times. Though regardless he rationalized that talking to the FBI wouldn’t do him any good with his friends in the mob. One day he got a call from one FBI agent who had been working particularly hard to flip him, and they picked him up and drove him to a diner in North Jersey. John had prepared himself though, he had a briefcase with files and papers from his attorney–and also a compact handgun. He explained going over the files with me, talking about the charges that could be against him–what his lawyer had prepared for him. Though he kept his Walther PPK (James Bond’s Gun) on his lap during the meeting, which although risky was legal due to NJ open carry laws. He said, “ I had specifically made it so that he would see the gun in my lap. And there were only two of us. When he saw the gun he turned red!” John was unabashed about how he would jerk the FBI around. He told me several times that ever since then he knew he was on a watchlist, which I don’t doubt.
At the end of the day I knew the lapses in his tales told a large story, one where he was more involved than he led on. While I could surmise that some of his tales were exaggerated, I doubt they were largely untrue. On the surface he is a normal eighty-year old man, and I believe him to be testament to the wildness of living–and the stories that hide behind the mundane screen of life.
Featured image by Rafiee Artist on Unsplash.
