Saturday, mid-morning, Irish Mike, the nickname bestowed on him by friends and foes alike, took a deep breath, thought about the conversation he had with the head of the Devils, then hung up the phone. His associates would not be happy with his decision. However, it would be a necessary sea change, one that was inevitable, if he and those who relied on him for their income were to survive the sixties. As he walked under the elevated train tracks, casually looking at the growing number of empty storefronts on both sides of the street, Mike processed the opportunity that was just presented to him and decided that rather than discuss it among his waiting crew, he would present the Devil's proposal as fait accompli.
Michael Hennessy was the product of two honest, hardworking Irish Catholic contributors to the American dream. At 5’10 inches, the first-born male descendant with bright red hair, fair skin, and choir boy looks, could charm the pants off of everyone he met; one reason why he had risen so quickly through the ranks of his illicit organization. The other being that he was ruthless. Smart with an IQ over 140, he was an enigma. After graduating from one of the nearby Catholic high schools, he was presented with numerous college scholarship offers as well as multiple career choices that were designed to take advantage of his intellect. Instead, the clothes horse spurned them all for the lure of instant financial gratification and the thrill of living on the edge. Rather than take the path of success through study and hard work, he chose to take a shortcut, one that was rooted in the neighborhood that he grew up in, and its history of crime.
Looking at his Timex high school graduation gift watch, he quickened his pace and headed down the sidewalk directly under the Frankfort-Market Street Subway. It was an elevated line near an El stop and across the street from his destination ‘The El Dinner.’ Proudly residing in the Kensington section of Philadelphia, which was nestled between North Philadelphia to the south and Lower Northeast Philly to the north, the El Diner’s clientele consisted of a large working-class Irish Catholic community. A pillar of local Kensington businesses, The El Dinner, had been in existence since 1934. It was that year, against all odds, that two brothers of Greek descent started the diner during the depression, entrepreneurs who were committed to serving great food at a reasonable price. And that’s exactly what The El Diner did, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Walking with the swagger that defined him, Irish Mike, arrived at’ The El’ and burst through the revolving doors, knowing exactly where he was headed in the family-oriented restaurant with its vinyl colored red booths and chrome accents. Walking past its traditional long sit-down counter that offered direct service, he headed toward the multiple occupant booths that were always served by an attentive wait staff. Acknowledging in his own way, with a nod of his head and a good to see you smile to those neighborhood diner patrons that he recognized or recognized him, he moved swiftly, not stopping to chat, towards the last booth in the diner, the unofficial headquarters of the B&C Gang.
“Hey,” was the greeting he received collectively from his cohorts as he slid into the red imitation leather booth, shoving the menu aside in the process.
Ginny, a fixture at ‘The El,” pushed up her beehive hairdo and applied a fresh coat of red lipstick to her thin lips, all the while watching Irish Mike make his “I own this turf” entrance into the diner. Gliding past Ginny, Mike caught her eye and winked. Ginny returned the gesture with a nod of her head and a motion toward the coffee pot she was holding in her hand. The favored waitress of Mike and his associates stood behind the counter until Mike reached the booth and sat down. Once seated, she came over with Irish Mike’s favorite brew while intuitively recognizing that this gathering was not a social one and that the booth occupants were most likely up to no good. Waiting till Mike settled in, Ginny approached the now fully occupied booth carrying Mike’s preferred drink of choice. “Black,” the slightly overweight waitress stated as she placed a cup of the hot liquid in front of him, before carefully retreating out of supposed earshot.
Mike lifted the brew with both hands, blew cold air from his breath across the hot java, waited a few seconds for it to cool off then with great anticipation started sipping his fourth of a five cup a day addiction; purposely ignoring his four associates who were eager to find out why he called this last minute meeting. A quick glance by Mike around the booth reinforced why each participant had a seat at the table. This was the leadership council of one of the largest gangs in Philly. Starting with Finn, head of security, he was six feet four inches tall and was responsible for recruiting and overseeing the muscle when needed. Liam, Mike’s younger brother, could always be counted on to think independently and quickly in case there was a problem. Tim, a cousin of Mike’s on his father’s side, was the numbers guy and the gang’s accountant. He supposedly kept the books in his head. Then there was Tommy, the resident comedian. His quick wit and gallows humor were in direct contrast to his real role within the organization, a cutthroat killer. Tommy, who had no scruples, was the one guy that Mike could count on if things went south, either verbally or physically.
All waited for Mike to speak, knowing that there was no advantage to rushing him. He’d talked when he was ready.
Mike finally put down his cup and began. “Our cousin Joey is a reserve at Marist, and they’re playing at the Palestra tonight. I have four tickets for the game...”
Liam was the first to speak, interrupting Mike. “I hate basketball. You know that” his voice trailing off, not wanting to directly confront his older brother for long.
But as soon as Liam finished his thought, Mike put up his right hand, stopping anyone else from talking. “We’ve come under increased scrutiny by the cops, so we’ll take the El at Erie and Torresdale to the game, and get off at 34th street, and then we'll catch the first game of the doubleheader, the game Joey is playing in. After the game, we’ll meet the Devils on their home turf and talk some business. They’ve been selling reefers and some other shit in West Philly, and they’ve been making a lot of money. They want to expand their territory, but they don’t want to compete with us. In a nutshell, they want to supply us, and I agreed to a deal, depending on the quality of the shit they are supplying. Shorty and I agreed that both sides show up for the meet clean.”
The most pugnacious of the group, Finn looked at Mike, shook his head, and said through clenched teeth I don’t want to work with niggers. Yesterday, I was in Center City at Wanamaker's, and I saw a white guy with a black chick, two college students prancing around the department store. If the place wasn’t crowded and I wasn’t with my Mom, I would’ve decked the two of them.”
Not hesitating for a second, Tommy replied tongue in cheek, “Really, my guess is, if you could, you would have tried to deck the white candy ass male, and then if successful, and that’s a big if then you would have run away with that female jiga boo. Of course, that is if your Mommy wasn’t with you.”
Finn started to reach across the table for Tommy, amongst the laughter of his fellow running mates. After several attempts to grab the wiry, bobbing, and weaving Tommy, Finn’s efforts proved futile, so he sat back in his booth and just glared at him from across the table. Waiting till the laughter subsided, Finn addressed the group while looking directly at Tommy. “ Have your fun, have your fun, but if any of those Devils show up with a white girl, I swear to God, I’ll break some heads.”
Mike held out both hands, palms down, in a gesture to calm things down. “Look, we made a lot of money off of burglaries, but it’s getting harder and harder to pull off, both in the city and the suburbs. It’s also becoming more difficult to fence the stuff at a decent profit. We need to branch out; let's meet the Devils and check the quality of their stuff. ”And with that, Mike threw back the last of his coffee, left a twenty on the table, and got up from the booth. Taking a step in the direction towards the diner's exit, he looked over his right shoulder, stopped, and turned around to face those still seated, and in a don’t fuck with me voice said, “We meet at six o’clock at the Frankford El stop. Don’t be late.”