The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster

by Craig Daliessio

  Chris asked for a quarter pound of sweet, dry capacola and Mickey gave him a pound. He didn’t even charge him for it. “You’re a friend of Joe Mezilli’s and you gave me one hell of a laugh today, kid. It’s on the house.” Chris loved that part. The whole thing gave me a wonderful idea. Anyway, Like I said, everyone seemed to insist that I teach them Italian, even though I told them repeatedly that I didn’t speak the language. After this “Great Gabagool Incident” I realized that they wouldn’t know the difference anyway. I mean, Chris was ordering “Gabagool” because he’d heard it on The Sopranos. I figured I’d have some fun. From that day on, every once in a while I’d work some Italian sounding gibberish into a conversation. One midsummer day we were all hanging out in the garage, tuning on my Corvette and listening to a Phillies ball game on the radio, and just enjoying the cool of the evening. I took a look at the guys and figured this was a good scenario to try out my new game. There was a close play at home plate and the ump called the base runner out. I yelled at the radio, “That fazzadeetch!” I followed it up with “It’s that Ted Barrett, the home plate umpire. He hates the

  Phillies...always has. He’s such a mezzavoibal!”

  The guys all looked at me as if they knew what I meant. None of them did, of course, because I made those words up right there on the spot. But the look on their faces was priceless. They wanted those words to be real Italian. It was fun. The more I worked these phony Italian words into our daily conversation, the more I would hear them using them on their own. It became one of the funniest gags I had ever been a part of. Even Lowery started doing it. I heard him cursing at his used-up old leaf blower one Saturday afternoon. He pulled and pulled and couldn’t get it to start. He finally threw it on the ground and yelled, “You fazzadeetch!” I laughed until I cried.

  We had some families over for a swim one Sunday afternoon and I was cooking on the grille. Nothing fancy, burgers, dogs, some brats, and I had a nice pan of Italian sausages in gravy with peppers and onions on the side warmer. There were four families over including the Lowerys and the Milledges. I carried the tray over to the table and made a couple of sausage and pepper sandwiches and handed one each to Hank and Phil. “Here ya go boys, try these and tell me you’re old buddy Joe doesn’t know how to make the best Andra-botchelle in Virginia!” Both of them stared at the sandwiches hungrily. Milledge snagged one right away and took a huge bite. Lowery was his usual hesitant self. Milledge was smiling and red gravy was dribbling down his chin. “This is amazing, Joe!” He said between bites. “Whatddya call this again?” I shot Angie a quick, knowing glance and answered him; “Andra-botchelle” Milledge wiped his mouth and asked me earnestly, “Say it again, slower...” I had no problem teaching my buddy some farcical Italian. Glad to do it. “You pronounce it, Ahn-dray-bow-tchell-ay, Hank. It means “Sweet loin of the pig.” I looked across at Angie who was standing behind Milledge. She silently mouthed the words Andrea Bocelli? to me. I nodded my head ever-soslightly so only she noticed. She quickly buried her face in a napkin and pretended to sneeze. She walked to the other side of the pool and I watched her laughing hysterically. It was all I could do to keep it together after that.

  Milledge said it over again about five times until he was sure he’d mastered it. “Hey Joe, is that the word for all sausage, or just this sausage here, the way you prepared it?” he asked me. “Oh it’s pretty much what you’d call any sausage, Hank. This is special sausage, but you’d call any sausage by that.” Hank smiled and said it again, “Andrabotchelle! I like the sound of that!” “Look at you!” I said with a light slap on his back, “You’re becoming a real paisan.”

  About a week later, a couple of us men went to breakfast at the Cracker Barrel over by the college and Hank actually ordered the “Big Country Breakfast” and told the waitress he wanted extra “Andra-botchelle.” I choked on my coffee as he explained to the young girl, “Why Miss, it means ‘Sweet Loin of The Pig!’ Yep...” he said with a wink in my direction, “That’s real Eye-Talian!”

  This was working better than I’d hoped. Sadly…that was what caused the problems with the FBI.

  (Meanwhile in D.C.)

  Harvey Robertson sat alone at his desk, late on a Friday night. The office lights had long been extinguished, and Harvey sat under the glow of his desk lamp and his computer monitor. His eyes grew blurry as he perused page after page of information from a file that was worn and weathered on the edges. The paper had long ago taken a yellowish hue and the font was classic typewriter.

  Robertson took a sip from a cold cup of coffee and reviewed his own notes on a case that has haunted him for more than thirty years. A missing person. An assumed mob hit. A classic burial at a construction site. He’d worked the case from the day it opened. He remembered interviewing the forlorn parents. He was the only agent who believed their tale from the beginning.

  In the middle of his investigation, they’d gone silent. Clammed up. Word in the neighborhood was they were instructed to have nothing more to say to the FBI and so Robertson struck out on his own. Unwilling to let the case be classified as “unsolved,” he worked every lead, followed every rumor, chased down every possible witness. But the names that kept being spoken all but assured that he was not going to get any information. Nicky Bruno, “No-Neck” Scarzone, Sam Colubriale. These were heavy hitters in the South Philly mob world and nobody…nobody, was going to speak if these men said not to. His frustration grew over the years.

  Robertson had built a decent career with the bureau, but in his heart he knew he’d never really accomplished what he’d come here to do. He wanted a big case, a blockbuster. Something that made the headlines. This one case might have been that, except it went as cold as ice on him and never came back to life. Thirty years had passed and Harvey had worked hundreds of cases. None of them spurred his passion and so none of them saw his best efforts. He was mailing it in, and somewhere deep in his heart he’d known that. This one case…this one damned case, and this one damned missing guy. He just never got his bearings after seeing his superiors reclassify it despite his protestations. He’d begged them not to close it. He’d always had a hunch that he was close, he told them. But they grew weary of the file and they over ruled him and shut the door.

  Harvey’s wife had left him about ten years ago. She too grew weary of the hollowness behind his eyes that spoke of the obsession he still had with this old, weathered file, stuffed full of leads that never materialized, and witnesses that had suddenly forgotten everything they claimed to have seen. When she could no longer take it, she left. Harvey barely noticed. His work had been his mistress and now he could devote his full affections to all her enticing curves.

  Earlier in the week, a young agent who was working the tip lines, and whom Harvey had befriended because he’d gone through training with the man’s father, brought Harvey a thumb drive. It was late in the day, almost quitting time. The agent walked up to Harvey and slipped him the drive discreetly, so no one else would see. “You need to have this,” was all he said. The young agent never even slowed down, he simply handed the small drive to Harvey and kept walking.

  Instinctively, Robertson put the drive in his pocket. Whatever it was that was on this file was so secret that he didn’t risk opening it while his coworkers were still in their offices. He would wait until they were all gone. He’d gone to the cafeteria and grabbed a bite to eat and waited. Around 6:30PM, he knew the office would be empty. Agents had families and they were gone to them. Gone to smiling faces, and kids, and hot meals and four bedroom, two-story colonials in nice neighborhoods. Harvey went back to his desk.

  He slid the drive into the port on his laptop and opened the file. “Anonymous Tips compiled from Forest, Virginia.” It read. “Topic: Possible mob activity.” Harvey Robertson stayed until almost midnight that first night, reading the tips and taking notes. Then he clicked on an MP3 file that said “Voice recorder.” And his world changed.

  He listened to a lot of unintelligible garbage for the first
seven minutes or so. He was about to write this entire thing off when he heard three male voices talking about what sounded like mob activity. He was listening rather absentmindedly, when he heard a name that shot through him like a lightning bolt. Rennie Priemontese. He sat up with a start, running his mouse over the start button for the voice recording, he played it again, to make sure he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. Rennie Priemontese. Robertson was certain he recognized that name, but he couldn’t remember where. He said it over and over to himself…

  By midnight he was exhausted and couldn’t keep his eyes open. He walked the four blocks to his tiny, cramped apartment over the ratty liquor store near the building where he worked. His wife Sue took the house in the divorce and he never saw any reason to buy another one. His apartment was immaculate and organized in the fashion of a man with OCD. Robertson was detail obsessed and it showed in his life, and in his personal quarters. Tired, he crawled into bed and fell asleep.

  At 4:47AM, Harvey Robertson sat up in bed, sweating profusely and saying the name out loud. The name that was haunting him. The Moriarity to his Sherlock Holmes.

  “Rennie Priemontese!” He said it again and the memories rushed back to his brain like an avalanche. Priemontese had been the business manager for the cement finisher’s local in Philly. He was rumored to have been in that pit, the day that poor bastard was buried alive in the concrete. He was alleged to have information about the case. Robertson had tried interviewing him once but he wouldn’t talk and eventually, he moved to Florida.

  This was the name he’d heard on the voice recording in the anonymous tips file that the young agent had laid on his desk.

  At precisely 8:01 AM, Harvey Robertson was rapping on the wire mesh cage that surrounded the evidence room at Quantico’s FBI headquarters. He’d called ahead and called in a favor or two and gotten his pal Teddy Sinclair to dig up the evidence box from the case that had haunted him all these years. Teddy knew he was taking a risk giving this box to his friend, but he owed Harvey. They’d grown up together and when he’d run into some bad luck, Harvey had put the word in and gotten Teddy this clerk’s job.

  Teddy hurriedly handed the big cardboard box to Robertson, saying nothing. Robertson grunted a quick “Thanks Ted.” And spun on his heels and was gone in a flash. The box stayed in the trunk of Robertson’s car all week, and he brought in as much of the contents as he could slip into his briefcase each day until the entire file was secreted in his desk. That’s how he came to be sitting here tonight, on a Friday night, when his fellow agents were home with families or out with friends. Harvey Robertson was busy revisiting a case that had haunted him for half his life. All these years later, and now, finally, he had clues.

  He’d read, and re-read every note, listened to every call to the tip line until finally he knew this was his big chance. He found a number where he could reach the anonymous tipster and wrote it on a slip of paper that he tucked into his wallet. He carefully placed the files back in his bottom desk drawer and locked them up tightly. Then he walked outside into the late evening cool and dialed the number from his personal cell phone. From his home in Forest, Virginia, Phil Lowery answered…

  …

  17

  Today I Settled

  All

  Family Business

  All good things must come to an end. That’s how the old saying goes. Had I known I was alleged to be the “Accidental Mobster” I would have milked it a bit. I don’t know if it was a good thing or not...menz ah menz. I guess it could have had its good and it’s bad. It would be fun getting good parking and special seats at restaurants, but to be quite honest, I got that back home, and not because I was mistaken for a Don. It was because I was a good employer, a good neighbor and a good friend. I like to think maybe I was a good man as well. But here in Virginia, without me knowing it, the rumor mill had churned up too much trouble for me and I decided it was time to end this game. Especially after the FBI came knocking. Yeah…the FBI.

  It’s not like I’ll ever forget the date. It was December First. We’d been in Forest for a little over three years. I was putting up Christmas lights. Actually, I was putting up more Christmas lights. I typically put our lights out over Thanksgiving weekend and I had already done that, but it felt like we needed more. Like I said, I really get into Christmas.

  So I was in the front yard driving stakes into the ground to tie-down the giant inflatable “Winter Warlock” I’d had made. I had it made because I already have every available Christmas decoration on my lawn. I also have an enormous inflatable Eagles player that I put up on Sundays during the football season and leave up after Thanksgiving. The kids put a big Santa hat on it and we string some lights from its huge, broad shoulders. I always liked “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and I wondered why there were no “Winter Warlock” Christmas decorations. So I found the name of a company who makes inflatable promotional merchandise, did some digging about the licensing, and had a fifteen foot inflatable made. It even plays “Put One Foot In front of the Other.” I love the thing.

  So I was out on the lawn making a spot for it, hoping to get it done before the kids came home from school that afternoon, when three dark blue Ford Crown Victoria pull up and out pop seven very obvious government agents. I thought maybe it was another check on Tommy, so I wasn’t startled. Honestly…I haven’t done anything wrong so I wouldn’t get nervous anyway. I stood up and stretched my back and walked over to the guy who looked like he was in charge. This time he didn’t smile or appear casual. When the Feds had come to check out Tommy’s address change a couple of years before, they were very nice, very cordial and very pleasant. These guys were serious. That was my first clue.

  I stuck my hand out anyway and all I got in response was the flash of an FBI I.D. (They don’t actually carry a “badge”) and a sour look. “Joseph Mezilli?” He said gruffly. “Yeah, I’m Joe Mezilli. Something I can do for you?” He identified himself as Agent Robertson. He rattled off the names of the other agents with him, but it’s not like I was writing them down or anything. There was one woman. An attractive woman named Martina Eversen who instantly went to my door. Now I was pissed. “Excuse me, Cuz…is there some reason you’re here and some reason this lady thinks she can just walk into my home?”

  Agent Robertson took the typical “bad cop” approach. “Mr. Mezilli we don’t have a warrant but we could obtain one directly if that becomes necessary.” Now he was threatening me. I don’t enjoy that. It ranks up there with trying to pressure me. The last time someone pressured me, the selling price of my garbage company went up over fifty percent. There’s a reason a man lives his life the right way, it’s so that in times like this, he can be bold. I was getting pissed and I could feel my blood pressure going up. “Well now what would you obtain a warrant for, exactly, Agent Robertson? Too many Christmas lights?” Just as I said this, Angie came out of the house. “Joe…what’s going on Baby?” Angie was scared. Now I was hot. Turning to Robertson I got a little closer and probably a little menacing. I’m six-feet-four. He is about five-feet ten. “Listen, Agent Robertson, now you’ve upset my wife. You have precious few seconds remaining to tell me what the hell you are doing here or this can get ugly.”

  Robertson’s hand went to his hip, under his trench coat, but he didn’t bring it out. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Mezilli? Because I am a federal agent and that is a crime, sir.” “Two things Cuz,” I answered, “One; It’s no more a crime than showing up here and harassing me without any reason, and Two; It’s not a threat. It’s a guarantee. You understand me?” I stepped back a bit when Anj grabbed my arm. “Now, you want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  Agent Eversen came over and tried to defuse the situation. I didn’t know whether she was simply being the “good cop” or she had picked up on Agent Robertson’s asshole hormone working overtime and decided it was a good idea to stop this before it became some sort of “Ruby Ridge” thing. Agent Eversen got between us and tried to make some peace. I
nstantly I knew this was a bluff. If there was a real reason for them being here, I had already given Harry Hairshirt over there a reason to take me down. He was blowing holes in me in his imagination…I could tell that from his eyes. But he didn’t move on me so I figured this was a fact-finding mission. My first guess was someone back home was in some trouble and this was a climb up their family tree, so-to-speak. But I instantly dismissed that idea. It wasn’t anything like that at all. It couldn’t have been because I would have already heard about it long before the FBI showed up.

  Agent Robertson, red faced and seething, stepped away and walked over toward his car. Another agent, a very Italian looking guy named DiMeolo walked over and stuck out his hand. “You’ll have to excuse my partner,” he said. “He’s had a bad couple of days, what with the way the Redskins are playing and all.” I looked at Angie and said, “You see this? This is the nice Italian guy here to gain our confidence after his jerk partner has thrown a scare into me.” Angie laughed at this. Agent Eversen looked at Anj and said coyly; “Something funny. Mrs. Mezilli?” Oh God. She went after my wife. You think I can be a hardass? Try messing with my beautiful, sweet, loving wife where her family is concerned. You just poked the bear, lady. I thought to myself.

  Angie took a step towards her and stuck her finger right in her face and said “Yeah! I think it’s really funny that you think you scared my husband. The only thing that scares this man is me when I’m pregnant or his grandmother when she shoots him the maloik. Now you’ve played your game enough, what the hell are you doing here?”