HARRY THE HANGER Part Two

When you're a true legend you live in memories well after you're gone. My post on Harry has prompted reports from other cops who remember him.

Dave Dampier reminds me that when Harry went to court for the Road Gang Beer Check Caper he had a unique defense. He told the Honorable Richard Stanley that he'd plead not guilty because it was a post dated check. Post dated checks couldn't be prosecuted under the law. The rational was the writer, when warning not to cash the check until a date in the future, was admitting the check was no good at the time it was written. So the receiver should never have taken it.

The Judge asked Harry how it was post dated. Harry said to "Look in the little fish on top."

At the time, Bank of Naples checks had a fish logo. The judge looked and written in small letters in the fish was post dated. Everyone had a good laugh over that one. Except Harry, who went back to jail.

Then there was the time Ray Barnett used Harry as an undercover operative to make street drug buys in Immokalee. Ray had moved on from the NPD and was an investigator for the CCSO. He had a distinguished career there, ending up as a Chief.

Ray said Harry, with his winning ways, was making buys faster than Slick Willie could catch an intern. Trouble was, Ray found out he was also writing bad checks all over Immokalee at the same time. But what were you to expect? That's what Harry did.

Harold Young reminded me of Harry's crowning glory. That was the time Harry went into a store in Immokalee and cashed a FPL electric bill. Yes, that's what I said, cashed a FPL electric bill. And this, again, was when he was on the road gang. A working convict! Prison clothes and all. Don't ask me how he did it. And we can't ask Harry. He's hanging paper on that big bank in the sky.

HARRY THE HANGER

Harry was a sho'nuff paper hanger but don't ask him to do your wall paper. Harry's was the kind of paper hanger that's cop's jargon for bum check artists. Worthless check utterer. Forger. And Harry was at the top of his class.

It was an easier and more attractive job in the sixties. Many of the banks were private or state banks, not national banks insured by the FDIC. Rinky-dink operations. Cashing a check was a casual affair. If you'd left your checkbook at home, most stores had counter checks you could use. Counter checks were in a check's regular format, but minus the name of any bank. You just filled in the name of your bank, the amount, and signed it.

A friend once argued that you didn't even need a counter check. You could write one out on a piece of paper. To prove it, we walked up to the Bank of Naples and he did just that. No problem.

So, in this grand world of slack security, Harry made his living. A charmer, with a gift of BS, he was perfect for the job. Seldom was he even asked for ID. And some folks he'd skinned refused to press charges. His problem was he was too honest, many times using his real name, leading to many stints in jail.

Although a born and bred Naples Cracker, we weren't the only ones who got to enjoy Harry. I received a call from a used car dealer in Texas. Wanted to know if I'd ever heard of Harry. "You didn't take one of his checks did you?" I asked.

He had. Harry'd left it for payment on a car he bought. "I don't usually do business like that," the dealer said, "but he was so damn likable. Told me he was driving back to Naples to see his sick mother. Wanted to take her for a ride in a nice car before she died. When I found out the check was no good, I called you."

"What'd you sell him," I asked.

"Can't miss it," the fella said, "Caddy limo, black, 'bout as long as the Orange Blossom Special."

I had to laugh. I'd seen Harry driving it the day before. Gave me a big wave, tooted his horn.

Later Harry was on the road gang, working on Davis Boulevard, opposite the entrance to Brookside Village. There used to be a bar there called the Village Inn. The guard, who sat in a truck out of the sun and half-watched the crew of all trustee convicts, noticed Harry's crew sitting down. He went to check. They were all drinking cold beers. "What the. . .?" he said.

"I bought it at the Village Inn," Harry volunteered. "Nothin' goes down like a cold beer when you're hot and sweaty."

"Right," the guard said, "just walked in there in your prison stripes and he gave it you, you not havin' no money an' all."

"Oh, no," Harry said, "I wrote him a check."

And damned if he hadn't. The bartender, when asked what possessed him to take a check from a convict said, "I don't know, seemed like such a nice fellar."

ANOTHER SILLY SALESMAN. AND CUSTOMER

We were besieged by yet another salesman. He was selling this new, powerful, defense spray.

"This product is guaranteed to knock your adversary to his knees," he was blowing, "no matter if he's drunk, high on drugs, or crazy as a monkey on a motorcycle."

"We got that stuff already," I said, "and even when it's new it's doesn't work on most people. And when it gets some age on it, you might as well spray them with milk." It was true. This was just at the advent of defense sprays and they were concocted from tear gas. A good idea but a bad product.

Undeterred, the salesman plowed on. "But sir, this is made from capsicum, chili peppers. Not what you're speaking of."

"You mean like that pepper spray the mail carriers use on dogs? That's no good, either."

"Still not the same thing, this is--"

I was tired of listening to him and decided to embarrass him by showing just how puny his product was. "Okay," I said, "let's give it a field test. We'll go out back and you can spray me with it."

The salesman was aghast. "Spray you? Oh, no, I wouldn't recommend that. No, I wouldn't do that."

Finally I badgered him enough that he gave in. The guy was genuinely trying to protect me but I couldn't see it. Chili peppers? Stuff you can eat? How bad could it be? We'll say it was one of those logical disfunctions that seem like a real good idea at the time.

We went out back, I made ready about ten-feet in front of him and he let go. (I think he used as little more than necessary because I was such an az-hole.) And the next thing I knew I was on my knees, couldn't breath, and my face felt like it had been painted with acid. Some of the worst pain I've ever felt. But, in fifteen-minutes it was over and aside from feeling really dumb, I was fine.

You see, the new amazing product was Cap Stun and let me endorse its effectiveness. Works on most people except an occasion PCP maniac or psychopath. We bought several cases.

The troops, of course, were not satisfied until they'd done their own field tests. It was a bad time to bow up at a cop, all of whom had their finger on the button, looking for an excuse to hose someone down. And on the midnight shift, you couldn't find a possum or armadillo that didn't have their little fists ball up, rubbing their eyes.

THE WILD SWANS ROUNDUP

Down in Port Royal's Lantern Lake area we had a problem. Swans. It was nesting season and swans are particular about where they nest. Like to try out lots of places before they find the ideal one. Trying out involves ripping out and mashing down existing foliage to form the nest. Unfortunately, at Lantern Lake they were doing it in folk's manicured flower beds.

The calls to curtail this vandalism poured in. And, of course, since no one else wanted anything to do with it, they landed on my desk. Not exactly the exciting police work you see on TV but, truthfully, indicative of most of the crap cops have to handle.

I didn't want to involve the troops in this silliness, so I gathered up our animal control dude, one Mr. Clarence Sack, and headed out on our mission. First stop was Jungle Larry's African Safari (Carribean Gardens). We wanted to know if he'd take them after Sack sacked them up. Larry said he'd be glad to, but was busy and couldn't pick them up for a day or two. I told him we were in a hurry and we'd just do it ourselves. Looking back, I'm sure he had a fleeting smile on his face.

We proceeded to Port Royal, located our quarry and Sack moved in. He went at it barehanded and soon found out you didn't just pick up a swan like a duck at the farmer's market. Swans are big. And strong. And they have beaks and stuff. Sack soon fled to his truck and locked himself in.

A crowd had started to form and was enjoying the show. This embarrassed me and I decided to tackle the problem myself. After all, Sack was an elderly, frail cat who could be butt-kicked by an aggressive egret. I was young, big, and strong. This was man's work.

Bad mistake. The swans put such an az-whuppin' on me I was soon scratching at the door of Sack's truck, begging him to unlock it and let me in. While the crowd roared, seeming to enjoy seeing the Chief of Police humiliated by two swans.

When I regained my courage, and the swans had gone back to cruising the pond, I asked one of the neighbors if I could use his phone and called Jungle Larry. I told him what had happened. He asked, innocently, "You mean you're not ready to make delivery?" Then he burst into laughter.

"Thanks a lot, pal," I said. "Why didn't you tell me how mean those suckers are?"

"Well," Larry said, gasping between laughing fits. "I figured you knew, being in such a hurry to pick 'em up and all."

"Obviously I don't. What do I do to capture 'em? Shoot 'em with a dart? What?"

"Naw," Larry said."just get behind them, reach down and grab their wings near the body and fold them back. It won't hurt 'em, or you. You get their wings like that and they lose all their strength.

Damn, if it wasn't true! We captured the birds, delivered them to Jungle Larry, and the rich folks in Port Royal's paradise were as happy as Jimmy Buffett with a cheeseburger. Jungle Larry let me name the two critters, Wayde and Lori, after my two little children at the time.

And it only took Sack and me a couple of weeks to heal up.

ELEMENTARY, WATSON

In Port Royal there were some normal size homes, some cottages really. They were located around Lantern Lake, off Galleon Drive. Half Moon Drive was there. Though the homes were small they weren't indicative of the size of the owner's wallet.

I was working a larceny there. The new owner, Mr Bell, had just moved his furniture into the cottage. When he tired of unpacking, and decided to make himself a drink, he noticed several bottles of scotch were missing.

I asked who moved him and he gave me the name of a nationwide mover. He was confident they were not responsible, because of their name. Said he'd been in the house several days before the movers arrived and the scotch had probably been missing beforehand and he hadn't noticed it. To the contrary, the movers were my first suspects.

Mr. Bell, didn't know that the highly skilled movers were picked up at the local labor shed when the driver got to his destination. In Naples these experts hung out under a shade tree near River Park Apartments. Anyone who wanted a day worker could go by there and pick one up.

I asked Mr. Bell if his milk was missing. He checked his refrigerator and came back with a confused look on his face. "Yes," he said, "it's gone. How'd you know that?"

"No problem," I said, "be back shortly."

Within an hour I had returned most of his scotch and had two moving experts in jail. Amazing detective work? I wish. Just knowing folk's habits.

All the experts at the labor shed were black. Black folks like to drink scotch and, you guessed it, milk. I simply went to the labor shed, found out who'd gone with the mover that morning, found them--drunk on liquid stupid--and sacked up them and the remainder of the scotch.

Mr. Bell thought I was Sherlock Holmes. I neglected to tell him what I've just told you. I did ask him, "All that Scotch was Bell's Scotch. And your name is Bell. You don't own it do you?"

Mr. Bell laughed. "Lord no, wish I did. I just own Bell Aircraft."

JACK BLISS DOES IT AGAIN

Before Jack Bliss was the NPD's first full-time detective, he pushed a cruiser, just like a lot of us. One early morning he fell in behind a Cadillac, driving fitfully toward the old Beach Club Hotel, near the Naples Pier. The vehicle would speed up, slow down, and ride on both sides of the road. Jack flipped on his siren and red light.

The driver paid no attention and continued to meander down the road. Finally, Jack pulled up beside the Caddy and shined his door-mounted spot light on the driver. The driver uttered some curses and pulled over.

Jack pulled in behind the drunk, and was alighting from his vehicle, when the Caddy took off again. This time Jack forced the car to the berm by wedging in front of it. He approached the car again.

The driver was a distinguished looking fifty-ish gent, in a dinner jack and wilted bow tie. He gave Jack a surly look. "Well," he slurred, "I guess you think you're the big frog in this small pond."

"Let me see you license," Jack said.

The drunk ignored him. "The big law and order man, arrest just about anyone you want?'

"Anyone that needs it," Jack said. "Let me see your license."

"But, I bet you lay off anyone important, has some horsepower, don't you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Jack said. "I've arrested the mayor, a few city councilmen, a movie star once, a priest. . ."

"Yes," the driver smirked, "but I'll bet you never arrested one of these." Whereupon he fished a card from his wallet and handed it to Jack. The card identified him as a U.S. Senator from the mid-west.

"No sir," Jack said, opening the car door, fishing out his handcuffs, and grabbing the driver by the arm, "but it was right at the top of my To Do list."

Jack always was an equal opportunity destroyer.

RACE ELATIONS

The sixties were a sad time, but humor could also be found. In sometimes unlikely places.

After MLK was killed we had a few disruptions in quiet ol' Collier County. Once Sheriff Doug Hendry deputized all the NPD cops and we went to Immokalee where the good citizens were trying to stir up a race riot. Back then, during picking season, Immokalee was mostly black, not Hispanic as it is today.

We didn't know who to trust. The blacks didn't want us there, and neither did the rednecks, thinking we were in some way helping the blacks. Go figure. And some Deliverance type threw a brick and another took a shot at me. Couldn't see who did either, but their aiming mechanism didn't work any better than their brain. (Later we were able to play a little catch-up so the evening wasn't a total loss)

Back in The Elephant's Graveyard, there was trouble at the W.T. Grant store, then in the Naples Shopping Center. A respectable size crowd of black folks had gathered and were beginning to chant and grumble about not being allowed to eat in the restaurant there. The manager, Jim McGrath, came out and asked, "Have any of you tried?" Uh, nope. "Well, where'd you get the idea you couldn't eat here? I'm in the business of doing business. You got a dime, I've got the coffee. Come on in"

Talk about somebody peeing on your campfire. Dropping your gooey marshmallow in the sand. So much for that demonstration. The stately Mr. McGrath was later a Naples City Councilman.

Then, the best of all. On the day MLK was whacked we were concerned there would be trouble in our ghetto, McDonald Quarters. We didn't want to show up in force and provoke an incident so we sent Det Ray Barnett over to have a look-see. A lttle later, one of the cops came and got me. "You gotta see this," he said, laughing.

We went to Miz Lillie's Green Top Social Palace where voices raised in song could be heard from within. A large crowd was singing an impassioned We Shall Overcome. Directing this impromptu choir was Det Ray Barnett. I gave Ray a questioning look.

Ray shrugged, said,"They didn't know the words."

And, overcome we did.