Thursday, December 31, 2009

THE GANG AT THE NPD--1965



Chief Sam Bass, Bob Alexander, Barrie Kee, Emmett Pound, Bud Wood, Chester Keene, Richard Davidson, Ken Mulling, Dottie Koester, Ed Jones, June Holtzhausen, Jack Bliss, Nick Trifiletti, Mike Grimm, Dave Dampier, GD Young, CH Dasher

Sam Bass had just been appointed Chief. Ben Caruthers was the previous Chief. Ben had replaced long-time Chief Cale Jones. Cale's son, Ed is in the photo above.

PRINCE AND THE PUGNACIOUS PUKES

For years a fella named Ralph Cox ran a private security patrol in Port Royal. Ralph was an ex-Naples cop and was diligent in his work, coming out every evening and patrolling all night in a little Morris Minor. His partner was a huge German Shepherd named Prince. (Ralph's son has been an NPD cop for years.)

After Naples slipped into a comatose state at about 3 AM, Ralph, and the cops on the night shift, would gather at 4 Corners, or the old Royal Castle for coffee, and for those truly adventurous souls, a hamburger and a bowl of grease (chili).

Prince was always good for a laugh. Ralph would position him so he could see his reflection in a storefront window and tell Prince to attack. The dogs would go nuts, snarling, barking, slamming into the window with his huge paws and body until Ralph told him to stop.

He was also fearless, one night attacking a 6' gator that was trying to cross 5th Ave So. In short order, the gator demonstrated how he could use his tail like a ball bat and knocked Prince into center field.

I always loved ol' Prince, especially after he saved my arse. Jack Bliss and I answered a call that there was a riot starting at the Royal Castle. When we arrived we found a group of whites and blacks making ugly faces at each other, just on the verge of exploding into a rumble. The cause was racial stupidity.

Back then, the Royal Castle had a back window that blacks used to place their orders. They didn't go inside, although they had every right to under the law. But rather than start trouble. they used the back window. To some drunken rednecks, that night, that wasn't far enough away. They wanted them off the property. The blacks declined. One redneck said he'd get his gun. One black said that was okay, he had a "shooter" in his car, too. That's about when Jack and I arrived.

Anyone with a lick of sense knows not to break up a fight. Most times, they'll both turn on you. But when you're paid to stop them. . ..

Jack and I were immediately surrounded by the nasty bunch. Jack said, "Get back to back and keep your gun handy. I'm not takin' any ass whoopin' for this money." I did as he said and was getting ready to start singin' Please Send My Saddle Home when I beheld a wonderful sight. Ralph hurrying into the parking lot, being pulled by a raging Prince. Seems they were stopping by for a snack and saw what was happening.

There are two things that will get an a-hole's attention: The racking of a shotgun, and the snarling of a police dog. One bark from Prince and the crowd evaporated. Vamoosed! GONE!

After that, I used to carry dog biscuits in my car in case I happened to run into my hero. I'd buy Ralph a hamburger every once in a while, too.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

WORST CASE OF WHAT?

After you spend a lifetime in the cop business surprises are few. They do come, though. Here're two that rattled my cage. You may find them hard to believe. Had I not read the actual court papers, I wouldn't have believed them, either.

The first happened over by Lake Okeechobee. I'd gone there to pick up a prisoner and got to telling war stories with one of the Deputies. He topped my best one all to hell with this.

A black man had been out on the town one evening and had consumed too much liquid stupid. Too drunk to make his way home, he hailed a taxi and rode it to his downtrodden rental project room. Arriving, he found he was short of money and decided to run for it and not pay. He didn't get far before the taxi driver pulled his trusty hog-leg and blew up his insolvent fare. Stone dead. The cops, of course, charged the taxi driver with Second Degree Murder.

A grand jury was convened to decide the matter. The actual decision read like this. No true bill. (No charges) A nigger shouldn't take a taxi ride he can't pay for.

The second happened in Eastern Tennessee, near Etowah, where I worked a short time. I guess every law enforcement agency in the area had a copy of the coroner's verdict in this particular case, and every new cop got to read it. To sort of show them the lay of the land, I guess.

It seems a car with three black tourists ventured into a mountain village where blacks were not allowed. And yes, that was still possible in Tennessee in the 1960's. They entered the little town but never came out. Their Cadillac, with New York plates, was found abandoned. Now, driving a Caddy with New York plates would put you in disfavor in many places in the South, but one occupied by blacks was tantamount to loading up with vials of nitro-glycerian and doing a bungee jump.

The three missing folks were found hanging by their necks in a tree. This was the actual coroner's verdict: Worst case of mass suicide I've ever seen.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

THE AMAZING PURPLE STUFF

When Jack Bliss taught me to be a detective, one of grand things he showed me was what he called purple stuff. Like gentian violet, the granular treatment for fungal infections, it had a persistent stain and, when diluted, a little bit went a long way.
We'd use it to catch sneak thieves, pilferers, and such. Rub on a little of the powder, and just wait for normal sweat or any moisture to do its work. Pretty soon everything was purple and it wouldn't come off. I loved the stuff. Not everyone did.

Chester Keene remembers the irate mother whose toddler had gotten too close to a newspaper rack's coin box we'd doctored. Some jerk had been stealing the money from the ones on the street so we'd doctored a few. Poor little Junior had turned into a Purple Paper Eater.

Long after Jack had left, I was still using the amazing purple stuff, once to catch a desk officer who was stripping turned in "lost and found" wallets of the cash. I doctored some of the money in one with purple stuff dust, and when the dispatcher turned up at the end of his shift with violet hands, he also left our employ.

Later on we came up with state of the art purple stuff. We were trying to find out who was stealing gas from the pump both the NPD and the Fire Department used. It was located behind the old station and we filled police and fire vehicles using the honor system. Pump 'er full and write on a clipboard log how many gallons, vehicle number, and initials.

Trouble was, the honor system only works if you're honorable and some cops or smoke breathers weren't.

If surveillance video cameras had been in use at the time, we could've sure used them. But they weren't. Blacks lights, however, that were really purple, were in limited use after the cops found out they would fluoresce (glow) on body fluids. We stole the idea from Hippies who used them to make Grateful Dead posters look really groovy. But what we needed now was a powder that would glow when diluted in gasoline.

Jack first suggested we save our urine and pour it in. Didn't work, too diluted in the hundreds of gallons tank. Neither of us were willing to donate blood or other bodily fluids--although the thought did cross our minds. I was kinda glad it didn't. Would've been hard to explain in court, pouring pee in a storage tank. Finally we found the new purple stuff, and a teaspoon full made a 1000 gallons of gas glow like a lightenin' bug in a coal miner's shorts. Dave Dampier remembers the name of the chemical I'd long forgotten. Anthracene. We poured it in and waited.

The next night we made a round of the parking lot with a portable black light. Two cars glowed around the gas cap. One car belonged to a fireman, the other to one of our civilian employees. Both fessed up to the thefts and the shortages stopped.

Mike Grimm remembers using it on a baited purse we put in the nurse's locker room at the hospital. One of the nurses had sticky fingers. Probably the one that emptied bedpans. Anyway, when Mike checked with the black light, the whole bathroom was glowing and so was she.

Great stuff, that purple.

Monday, December 28, 2009

HOLLYWOOD HOODWINKS Part 3

It was 1977 and they were filming a low-budget biggie called Thunder and Lightening in Naples. It starred David Carradine and Kate Jackson. And the director wanted to blow up a Cadillac on the end of Gordon Drive. Gordon Drive, an area so rich and uptight even the gentle Gulf Breeze squeaks like rusty hinges on a coffin.

"You wanna what?" I asked him.

"Blow up, burn a Caddy. Right in the middle of the street," he reiterated.

"Don't think so," I said. "First, there's the danger, then the damage to the street, then the explosion noise, then the lynching party that will form shortly thereafter.

The director laughed. "No danger," he said, "very little noise, no damage to anything but the Caddy. Let me show you how we do it." And he did.

Charley Sanders, a Deputy with the CCSO, was rigging the car for the explosion. Charley had experience in such matters, having been a stunt driver, Nascar racer, and mechanical genius. He was also doing the stunt driving for the film.

Charley had disabled the hinges and placed hydraulic rams on the doors, hood, trunk, and bigger ones on the frame, shooting straight into the ground.

He also put a thing he called a cooker in between the front and rear seat, a round cylinder a little larger than a propane tank. Inside the open top's tray he put some sawdust and poured in a pint of gasoline. It would be fired electrically. I took Charley's word that most neighbors wouldn't even know the stunt had happened.

The Caddy was moved into position, the cameras rolled, and Charley threw a switch. The hydraulic rams shot into the doors, hood and trunk and they flew off the car. Simultaneously, the gas exploded inside the car sending a raging wall of fire out the holes were the doors had been. Then the two rams on the bottom of the car hit the road and the car jumped into the air. And there was no sound--it was added later--or damage except to the car. I later saw the scene in the movie and was amazed at the seeming destruction, knowing how they'd done it.

So, a few days later, when the director wanted permission to machine gun all the front windows out of a house they'd rented on Gordon Drive, and assured me no actual bullets would be fired, I said "Work out, Bubba. No problem."

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

HOLLLYWOOD HOODWINKS-Part 2

It seems Otto had chosen Naples for "the most beautiful skies in the world." And because it was far enough away from Miami that he could dodge the union, who he was in a bitter dispute with. Something about using scabs, non-certified movie makers in this most unionized of businesses. Or so we were told. Otto was saving money by using scabs. We found out later, he knew several other economies.

Well, the movie ticked on, with several scenes shot on the beach south of the pier, and at the Edgewater Beach Hotel, where cast and crew were staying. They were nice enough folks, except the self-important Preminger, and everything seemed to be sailing on like a fat duck on a smooth pond. Then one night, about two in the AM, I received a call from the desk man at the Edgewater. I'd talked to him previously and, not trusting movie people, asked him to call me if anything unusual went on.

"Otto and the whole crew have packed and are loading up. Most are gone already," he said. "Moved out like Oral Roberts' tent show when folks found out he'd healed that geezer in the wheelchair about 300 times."

"Be right down," I told him. I hurried but was too late. Located the desk man. "He pay his bill?" I asked.

"Nope, but his accountant left me his card with his office address on it, said to mail it there." I wrote down the name and address and phone number in New York City.

We, and everyone else, are still waiting to be paid. The firm, address, and phone number were bogus. The cards had been printed in advance so this scam was a premeditated act. We never caught up with Otto, being glad to be rid of him.

After production, Lisa Minelli, was quoted as saying she'd never work with the "tyrannical" director again. And the movie didn't do well at the box office. Most critics though it was not Otto's best work. He had few good ones afterwards. I saw the movie and though the actors did an excellent job, the thing was so slow in many parts it'd put a junkie riding out a horse load of crystal meth to sleep.

In Part 3, more goofy movie stuff.

Thanks to Chester Keene for his research.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

HOLLYWOOD HOODWINKS

The movie people were in town again and we met their arrival with mixed emotions. Watching movie production was fun, but you had to watch it with one eye. And keep the other on the participants. They were notorious flakes. In the past they'd borrowed police uniforms from us, then tried to steal them. Once a swamp buggy they'd borrowed for some epic had disappeared. One group even stole a PAL football uniform. So, when Otto Preminger's people contacted us to work security for them, we were wary.

Otto was a big deal at the time, and his movie Tell Me You Love Me, Junie Moon was touted to be Oscar material. It starred Liza Minelli, Ken Howard, and former pro football player, and later action star Fred "The Hammer" Williamson was a featured actor.

It was to be a standard deal, off-duty cops and the bill to be paid at the end of the job. (Now this service must be paid for in advance) The cops got to eat and drink the same thing the crew did. We agreed.

Things didn't start out well. One late evening I received a call urging me to go to the Anchor Bar and Lounge. Major faux pas. Arriving, I was greeted by the owner, Bill F, who was so distraught he could only mumble, "I don't even sell peanuts." An officer on the scene made things clearer.

Preminger, Minelli, Howard, and Williamson had been drinking and dancing. Suddenly, Bill came up to them and said they would have to leave. When asked why, he said "Because of him," pointing to Williamson, who was black. This caused an umpah storm, with Preminger yelling at Bill he'd never heard of such crap and Bill yelling for them to get out. By the time I arrived, they had left.

I talked to Bill who was still mumbling about not even selling peanuts. Finally, he calmed enough to tell me: "I can't allow niggers in here. You know the crowd here, I'd lose them all. And you let in one coon, pretty soon the place is full of them. That's why I don't sell food. Don't even sell peanuts. If you don't sell food, the Feds can't make you let them in."

Don't know if the "peanuts" thing was true but, at the time, having blacks and whites mingle in The Anchor, where liquid stupid flowed like tropical rain, could be a bad idea. The irony was, Williamson was a nice guy, educated--someone said he had a degree in architecture--and the Anchor crowd was delighted to have him and his celebrity among them.

The incident, blew over, and Williamson said no hard feeling. Had it been me, I'd have been real pissed off! Howsumever, Preminger was reticent on the issue, taking his revenge on Naples later.

Part 2 tomorrow.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

GUN CONTROL: A NO-BRAINER

Several years ago the Illinois town of Morton Grove was in the news for a new ordinance their City Council passed. No guns in Morton Grove. None! A little later, in 1982, Kennesaw, Ga passed a gun law, too. Theirs read, if you live in this town you'll damn sure own a gun and know how to use it. This dichotomy of thinking intrigued me and I began to track the outcome. Over the years, I've kept it up, the last check yesterday.

Morton Grove's robbery rate tripled in a short time. Their crime rate increased. Police officials there told me they were going to have to hire more officers.

Over the years several other cities in Illinois thought, for some reason, their crime rate wasn't high enough so they passed similar laws. As of yesterday, all have been rescinded. Except Morton Grove, who, evidently, can't recognize a stupid idea when they puke one up.

Kennesaw, on the other hand, had crime reduced so much cops there told me they was worried there might be lay-offs. This shouldn't be surprising. If you were a criminal would you rather burgle a house that you knew was free of guns or one that you knew had at least one gun and someone who knew how to use it? Duh! Criminals are cowards. They'd rather rob an 80 year-old woman than a 60 year-old man. Unless he was in a wheelchair. Cowardly scumbags!

Yet this simple concept is lost on many who still blame the gun for crime problems. That's like blaming the fork when you're in a feeding frenzy and stab your hand instead of the taters. A gun is just a tool.

All folks need to do is look at New York, whose 1911 Sullivan Act is the oldest and toughest in the country. When I was a cop and visited there, I had to leave my gun outside the city. Yet, guns are as common as rude, smelly, taxi drivers in turbans.

Go figure.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

YOU'RE A WHAT?

He looked like the perfect applicant. Physically fit, intelligent, and eager to be a cop. And, he'd just graduated from Florida State. But, nobody's perfect. The problem was his application. In the box where you checked off race, he'd marked American Indian. Which he obviously wasn't. I looked at the application again, then back at him and said, "Son, if you're an American Indian I'm Aunt Jemima."

Chucking at my remark--I said he was a smart lad--he said, "That's what I'm claiming and that's what counts." He went on. "I took a class in college on how to get a job and the EEOC rules are you are what you claim to be."

Doing the hiring at the SO, I was well aware of the EEOC, The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. It was a federal agency that told you how many folks you had to have of each race. We weren't under a mandate as yet as we tried as best we could, but it was a tough nut. There was just the three of us: Sarah Creamer, Dave Johnson, and me. We were trying to hire over 100 folks a year, doing all the polygraphs, background investigations, interviews, and scheduling. And we gave everyone one eligible a shot. But, it seemed the EEOC wanted us to hire people who were the right race, but otherwise unqualified. What the applicant had told us seemed to go against their intent. I told him that I was gonna make a call and I'd get back with him.

Called the office of the EEOC in Alexandria, Va. Had this conversation:

"Just had an applicant who is not an Indian but is claiming to be one for employment purposes," I said.

"Yes, and. . ."

"And is that legal?"

"Sure is. He can claim to be anything on the list. But it's only good for employment purposes. He can't claim he's an Indian and then go open up a casino. Different rules cover that."

I thanked her, hung up the phone and gave Dave Johnson, who was also keenly interested in this turn of events, a smile. "Why don't you go get Tonto," I said, "and give him a polygraph test. What he told us is the truth. And life is gonna be much easier around here."

So soon, after we'd made corrections to minor mistakes on new applications, we had guy's with names like Flynn Patrick O'Bradley who were mysteriously listed as an Eskimo. Or Denzil P. Fuddpucker claiming Pacific Islander heritage. Just for purposes of auditing, of course. And everyone was happy.

Ridiculous? Certainly. Nearly as asinine as the EEOC rules that prompted it. Your tax dollars at work.


Tuesday, December 15, 2009

RANDY

Randy was a tall, good-looking kid that, when I met him, should've been a senior in high school. Instead, he was in the City Jail. For something stupid, drunk and disorderly, something like that. Back then they put juveniles in jail for minor infractions if they were incorrigible, repeat offenders. That was Randy. Yet, he was one of the most likable kids I ever met. Smart, multi-talented, and with a smile that made you feel good.

When Randy was in jail, I would teach him how to develop and print evidence photos in our little darkroom. It was actually an unused stairwell in the jail we blocked off and painted black. Randy was a quick learner and was soon developing and printing better than his teacher.

During these work sessions we'd have long conversations, mostly about his situation. It seemed such a waste, the way his life was going. He said, candidly, that he knew exactly what his problem was. When he got carousing with his buddies, pretty soon they were drunk, then trouble would soon follow. He was hanging out with the wrong crowd.

"Well then," I asked, "why don't you hang with the right crowd?"

"You don't get it." he said, "Because of my reputation, no one decent wants to be around me," he said. "Or their parents won't let them near me."

Took me a while to swallow that one, but when I did it was like a punch in the gut. Advice, easy answers, aren't alway easy for the recipient. Or even possible. I do know he tried but it didn't work.

One night shortly after, I was called to the scene of a homicide. A young, enraged man had tried to crash through the jalousie windows of a house where his girlfriend lived. The father had shot him several times in the chest. I looked down at the face of Randy. He'd evidently been screaming with rage when the .357 slugs put him to rest. The rage I'd never seen before but had heard of and knew was in there.

When a child starts going bad, and travels so far, they come to a point where it's hard to turn around. You have to catch them early and make the necessary repairs. Sometimes a hitch in the military does it. Or a brush with the law. But the courts and juvenile system seldom work for hard case offenders.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

LOU GIBBS

Today's political correctness has strangled common sense. There's nothing you can say that isn't taken as a insult by someone. You wonder how this insanity ever became so dominate, let alone even achieved a foothold. Then you remember some characters who, by their actions, planted, fertilized, and watered it. Such a character was Lou Gibbs.

Lou was the Chief of Corrections at the Collier County Jail. Loud and abrasive, I personally think he had a warped sense of humor rather than being a rabid bigot and misogynist. But, there he was and as far as Lou was concerned you could take him or leave him. Except, he was a Chief and had to be accommodated if you wanted to remain employed.

At the time, I was doing the hiring at the CCSO. Lou went through jail personnel like Tiger goes through mistresses. Once I took him two ladies who were applying to be his personal secretary. I told him both were excellent candidates and I'd like him to interview them and make a selection. Both were sitting outside his office, the door ajar. Lou thundered, "Bring 'em both in and bend 'em over the desk. Then I can pick one." I know they must have heard him.

Another time he called one of his rookie employees, an Oriental, to his office. "Go to the armory and get me a pair of left-handed handcuffs he said." This, of course, is an old joke pulled on novices. There is no such animal as left-handed cuffs.

Later, the Oriental jailer returned to Lou's office and admitted, sheepishly, that he couldn't locate the cuffs. Lou said to him, "Couldn't find 'em? You didn't have any damn trouble finding Pearl Harbor."

Lou finally quit and returned to Indiana. The next winter we received a photograph from him. Lou was lying naked in the snow, belly down. The caption read, How we measure the snow depth in Indiana.

That was Lou. He's long gone now. And, I have to admit I liked him. A lot.

PS Someone reminded me that I was gonna have a big political correctness problem cause Japs and such aren't called Orientals now. Supposed to be called Asians. . .at least for today.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

CLOSET CRITTERS

Peril comes in many forms for cops. Sometimes with disastrous and lasting effects. One night, Chester Keene and Ray Loosey found this out when answering a seemingly innocent call.

A lady had some kind of critter in her house. She'd seen the alien scurry in off the patio and then lost view of it. It wasn't a snake, it was something furry. About the size of a cat. And she was scared. Our blue knights were dispatched.

Arriving on the scene, Chester tried to calm the complainant, assuring her that everything was in good hands. They'd search the house and dispatch the hirsute intruder posthaste.

In just a few minutes Loosey did indeed find the culprit when he opened a closet door. And he was shocked. So was the householder, who was standing behind him. So alarmed she shoved Loosey into the closet and slammed the door. And the critter, also upset, did what those of his species do. Being a skunk, he sprayed Loosey down.

Now I know all of you, at some time or other, have whiffed the product of a skunk's displeasure. Maybe just driving down the road the distinctive odor has swept into your vehicle. It's a slap in the nose not soon dispelled. That in mind, consider being actually sprayed. Or being close up to some poor soul that was. Unbearable.

While Chester and the lady teared and choked, Loosey ran to the car and started to get in. Chester stopped him, telling him that if he got that stink on the interior, the car would be ruined, it'd never come out. What to do?

Chester was always an ingenious cop with a grand sense of humor. So, Loosey was put on the top of the patrol car, and told to lie down and hold on to the light bar. A second car followed to ward off traffic in case Loosey lost his grip and tumbled to the asphalt. In this fashion, he was hauled to the rear of the PD where the hose used to wash cars was put to use in an attempt to fumigate our smelly savior.

The hosing down kinda worked but Loosey was still rank. He wanted to go home and shed the horrid smelling costume and get in a good bath. And this was the only reasonable thing to do. But, on arriving at his house, his wife had other ideas. She wouldn't let Loosey in.

Eventually, the situation worked itself out. Loosey was sanitized, although there were those who said he had a distinctive air about him for several days. And for some time after, Critter in the House calls were answered by cops in Hazmat gear.

Handy Hint: Should you or your dog gets zapped by a polecat, douse yourself with tomato juice. Seriously, it works.

Thanks for this true tale to Chester Keene, an old friend and associate, who I had the pleasure of working with at both the NPD and CCSO.

Friday, December 4, 2009

BE CAREFUL WHAT ADVICE YOU GIVE

Cops give out a lotta advice. Better slow down. Don't do that again. Go home and sober up. Stuff like that. Sometimes it's heeded, most times just for a while, or not at all. But, sometimes a joke is taken for advice with disastrous results.

We had a black business woman who owned a juke/restaurant, The Green Top Social Palace, in McDonald's Quarters. Her name was Lillie Williams, but all referred to her as Miz Lillie as she was a force to be reckoned with.

Miz Lillie had been having trouble with a drunken customer, who we'll call S. Jay. She asked him to leave and he wouldn't. So she called the PD.

On arriving, Miz Lillie said S. Jay had left the premises, but she knew he would come back and cause more trouble. She didn't know what to do.

Our officer, Rich David, said, joking, "Why don't you get out that pistol of yours and shoot him." Everyone knew that Lillie kept a hog-leg under the counter. The cop then closed out the incident and returned to patrol.

About thirty-minutes later Miz Lillie called the station. "S. Jay come back and I shot him." Officers hurried to the scene, one of them Mike Grimm. Mike said Lillie came up with that pistol and just started spraying lead. It was a miracle she hit the intended target. She shot her juke box, a pinball machine and scared the hell out of most of her customers. The ones who weren't hugging the floor were flying out of there like their asses were on fire. And, S. Jay had also been hit, a bullet in the leg.

When asked why she'd done it she said, "Cause Officer Rich tolds me to," she replied.

And I guess she was right.

PS The Green Top Social Palace had many names. It was also called the Green Top Social Club or Place. But, Miz Lillie, herself, said it was supposed to be the Green Top Social Palace but the sign painter misspelled it to Place.

Thanks to Dave Dampier and Mike Grimm

Thursday, December 3, 2009

THEY ALWAYS DO

In the early 80's I worked a short time as a Deputy in Tennessee. After about two days on the job, I gathered all my family and gave them the following instructions. "If a cop up here asks you to do anything, do it. Anything." There was good reason for this advice. These were the meanest, wildest, critters I'd ever encountered in law enforcement. All had blackjacks and other instruments of misery--that were just a memory in LE elsewhere--and they loved to use them. Especially if you didn't do just what they said. And the courts would back them up.

Most cops are against this. That's not to say that someone who attacks a police officer isn't due a demonstration of real police violence. But just beating up folks cause you can is usually a cowardly act.

Of course, their clientele was often hillbillies, or Deliverance folks as I called them. Maybe the cops in my part of Tennessee had found from dealing with them what worked and what didn't. They were different.

We had one community that didn't even recognize the existence of law enforcement. They wouldn't talk to you, look at you, or assist a cop in any way. And they had their own justice system. We would regularly get calls from delivery folks, or mail carriers that a body was lying beside the street, a victim of hillbilly justice.

On evening we received a call from the state prison. They had released a hillbilly from our county who had promised, as soon as he got back home, to kill his uncle. The uncle had testified against him in court.

We took the threat seriously. If a hillbilly says he's gonna go home and get his gun and kill you, you better arm yourself. They don't make idle threats. So we called the uncle and warned him, then headed to his house, about 40 miles away.

On the way there, we saw a car pulled over to the side of the road. On inspection, our quarry was passed out inside. Along with three other drunkards. Seems he'd caught a ride with them, and just becoming a free man, had way too much fun with liquid stupid. We gathered them all up, and headed for the jail.

Mine was a big thug about the size of Hulk Hogan. His arms were so huge I had to use two sets of cuffs, extending the length, to cuff his arms behind his back.

On the way to the jail, he was strangely quiet. I usually tried to joke with or at least talk to folks, but he'd have none of it. It wasn't until we got to the jail, and I was locking him up, that he finally spoke. "I wanna thank you for not beatin' me with your blackjack," he said.

I was confused. "First off, I don't use a blackjack and second you didn't do anything to warrant an az whuppin'. Why'd you think I'd beat you."

He shrugged. "Cause they always do," he said.

And I have no doubt about it.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

GOOD ADVICE?

Went to the doctor the other day and he said if I didn't lose some weight I was gonna die. I told him he caught me once, maybe twice, but that line wouldn't work any longer. He was confused. I explained that he told me years ago if I didn't quit smoking I was gonna die. So not wanting to die, I quit.

Then, a couple years later, he said if I didn't get my cholesterol down I was gonna die. I told him I though quitting cigarettes would insure I wouldn't die. Nope, he says, cholesterol would whack you, too. So started working on that.

Now, he says I'm too fat, gonna die again. Thinking back, I'm beginning to suspect his advice. And honesty.

We once had a neighbor who looked like Gandhi. Had a towel wrapped around his head looked like a turban, emaciated body, baggy drawers. Went running in the neighborhood every afternoon. One day I was picking up the mail and he stopped at the mailbox, held on, gasping for air. I asked if he was okay and he said yeah but the running was miserable, made him feel like he was dying. So I asked why the hell he was doing it. He said he'd had a mild heart attack and the doctor said if he didn't start running he'd die. Sound familiar?

I told him he should get a second opinion and he said he had; exercise was where it was at if you didn't want to die. So away he goes, huffing and puffing, his face twisted in agony like when Denzil caught his cahones in the churn. But, he ran for about two more weeks. Then they found him beside the road, flies buzzing around his mouth, dead as his plan for eternal life.

And there was another guy, older, small in stature but well built. Used to run by the station every morning on his way to the beach. There, he'd swim outta sight, then swim back.

Had a conversation with him one day about sharks. How they were catching hammerheads and all types of baddies off the pier. (At the time you could fish for sharks off the pier and all the baiting caused them to migrate there for a meal)

Our athlete just laughed, said his doctor said swimming was the best exercise he could do and he was gonna keep it up. A few weeks later he turned up missing, after swimming out of sight.

Every time I see Jaws I think of him. Or maybe his old heart just exploded like Gandhi's. Then I ponder on living seventy-some wonderful years or ninety-some miserable ones.