Arnie Animal

 I heard it said in my South Philadelphia neighborhood that young Arnold Muller, aka “Arnie Animal,” was raised on a steady diet of wrought iron and hate.  

His father disappeared shortly after he was born in 1951 and his alcoholic and abusive mother regularly beat her only child, who was a huge boy, with an iron rod. In time, he ignored the abuse, the beatings, and the pain. 

Arnie Animal grew up to be a hulking, vicious and violent man. The South Philadelphia street corner boys at Dalton Street and Oregon Avenue, known as the D&O gang, spawned four generations of drug dealers, murderers and assorted criminals. The previous D&O generation used Arnie Animal as an enforcer and the current gang inherited him, although they had little use for the elderly and dimwitted hoodlum.    

The D&O gang, then and now, was tough enough, wild enough and violent enough to stand up to the local Cosa Nostra mob. They refused to pay the mob’s street tax on crime. The D&O also took on the notorious outlaw motorcycle gang called the Renegades. 

Over the years I covered some of the D&O's battles with the mob and outlaw bikers in my crime column in the local paper. 

And it seemed like I was about to write another D&O story after I received a call from Bob Williams, an FBI special agent that I knew well. He said he had a good story for me.

“It’s about Arnold Muller,” he said.

 “Arnie Animal?”

 “You know him?”

 “Yeah, I went to school with him back in the 1960s, and in the 1970s, I’d would see him at the bars and the late hour clubs. He was a drunk, a bad drunk. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Well,” the FBI agent said. “He’s dead.”

I was intrigued. Williams asked me if I would like to meet a gambler named Steve Alberti. Williams said that Alberti had a story about Muller that I would find interesting. A story, he said, that I would want to use in my column.

Although Alberti was in hiding, the FBI agent gave me his cell number. 

I called Alberti and we agreed to meet at a bar on Passyunk Avenue. Alberti, who was about 35, and tall and lean with dark hair and a hawk nose, walked up to greet me as I entered the darkened bar. He introduced himself and guided me to his table. I noticed that both of his eyes were blackened, and his lower lip was split. As we sat down, he asked me what I was drinking, and I ordered a vodka on the rocks. Alberti said he recognized me from the photo that accompanied my newspaper column. 

Although we were both from South Philly, I didn’t know the much younger man. But in conversation I came to learn that we knew a good number of people in common, including Arnie Animal. 

After quickly downing several drinks, Alberti told me he was leaving Philadelphia for Florida in a few days, because the local mob was looking to murder him. But before he left, he wanted to tell me the story about his encounters with Muller.  

 "When it comes to Arnie Animal, nothing would surprise me," I said.   

Muller and I went to Thomas Junior High School at the same time in the mid-1960s. I remember him as a hulking bully who terrorized most of the kids at the school. The kids bullied by Muller were what we then called “square” kids, as opposed to the cool corner boys we believe we were. I suppose those bullied kids would be called “nerds” today. 

Fortunately for me, Muller was a typical bully at Thomas, and he would pick on only those weaker than himself and those without tough friends. I was certainly weaker than Muller – he was built like a gorilla, nearly as strong as one, and I thought he smelled like one as well. 

But I was friends with some of the young tough guys from the D&O gang, especially my good friend Gerald “Big Jerry” Coppola. Big Jerry was about the same size as Muller, equally strong, and he was a genuine fearless tough guy. But unlike Muller, he was no bully. Muller was afraid of Big Jerry, so due to my friendship with him, Muller left me alone.    

The D&O street gang ran Thomas Junior High School in those days, and although Muller was generally disliked by the D&O hoodlums, they accepted him as a member due to his brute strength, fearsome reputation and fearsome looks. They used him to intimidate rivals. 

In my late teens while in the Navy, and later in my 20s, I was an amateur middleweight boxer, and I could take care of myself both in and out of the ring. But I was not a particularly tough young teenager during the years I attended Thomas Junior High School. Having earlier skipped a grade, I was younger and smaller than most of the other students at Thomas. 

I was a class clown at Thomas, and Big Jerry and the other D&O hoodlums thought I was funny. They all laughed at my jokes and sarcastic asides. And they roared with laughter when I called Muller “Mighty Joe Young.” At first Muller was complimented because of the “mighty” part, but then someone told him that Mighty Joe Young was an oversized gorilla in a movie. Muller was not amused.

Muller was shipped off to juvenile detention when we were both in the 9^th grade at Thomas, and I didn’t see or hear of him again until I came home from the Navy in the mid-1970s.

Alberti told me that last week Muller lost a lot of money to him at cards at a local mob clubhouse. Muller was not a good loser. He shouted out that Alberti was cheating, tossed the card table over, and grabbed Alberti’s left thumb, twisting it until it broke. 

“I didn’t have to cheat to beat Arnie Animal at cards,” Alberti explained to me. “He was a lousy poker player. The old guy was dumb as an ox.”  

After Muller broke Alberti’s thumb, Alberti hit Muller in the head with a beer bottle. The other gamblers in the club rushed over and broke up the fight. They pushed Muller out the door and told him to beat it. Then one of the gamblers took Alberti to the emergency room at the Methodist Hospital, where he was treated for a broken thumb, as well as arm and leg injuries. 

The following day, as Alberti was limping down the street supported by a cane, Muller jumped out of a car and charged him. Alberti laid the cane across Muller’s face a good three times, but Muller tore into him, punching him hard in the face and stomach. A storeowner who witnessed the beating through his storefront window came out of his shop with a .357 revolver with a four-inch barrel. Muller saw the huge gun and ran to his car and drove off.

That night Alberti went to see Tommy Rosetti, the Cosa Nostra soldier who ran the card game at the mob clubhouse. Alberti told the mobster about Muller attacking him again. Rosetti, angry that Muller had started a fight in the clubhouse and attacked one of his best players, and then attacked him again in public, reported the situation to his capo, or crew captain, at a neighborhood bar.

The mob captain, Anthony “Tony Deuce” Licco, an obese 60-year-old with thick glasses who rarely rose from his claimed chair at the back of the bar, ordered a “sit down” with Alberti and Muller. He also asked Joey Pirro, the D&O crew boss, to attend the meeting.  Piro, a short muscular fireplug of a man, accompanied Muller to the sitdown.  

At the sitdown, Licco told Muller and Alberti that fights in the clubhouse were bad for business. Piro agreed. They drew unwanted attention to the club and the lucrative card games. After Licco and Piro heard both Muller and Alberti's side of the conflict, Piro spoke up and ordered Muller to lay off Alberti. He also told Muller to pay Alberti's medical bills. 

Two days after the sitdown Alberti entered the bar and saw Licco sitting in his chair like a king on a throne. Licco motioned him over.   

“Don’t worry about Arnie Animal no more,” Licco told Alberti. “He was put down by his own people like the mad dog he was.” 

Licco smiled and raised his glass of wine. 

Alberti was later visited by the FBI. The FBI agents informed him that they had captured Licco’s voice on a wiretap ordering Alberti’s murder. According to the wiretap recording, the Cosa Nostra capo and the D&O gang boss had struck a deal.

“Let’s whack em’ both,” the FBI recorded Licco as saying.

         

“I was scared,” Alberti said to me. “I went into hiding. Only the FBI had my number." 

Alberti said the FBI contacted him again and said that a D&O hoodlum named Billy Kelly, a beefy bar bouncer and D&O enforcer, had been arrested on drug trafficking charges. Kelly quickly flipped to the feds. Kelly told the FBI about how Piro led Arnie Animal to a meeting at a closed garage. 

As Muller sat down in a folding chair across from Piro, Kelly placed a rope around Muller’s neck and attempted to strangle him. Piro shot Muller in the chest with a 9mm Beretta. Muller, according to Kelly, “went nuts.”

Muller twisted out of the rope around his neck and shoved Kelly into a parked car. Muller then punched Piro, who fell to the floor as Kelly jumped on Muller's back.

“He fought like a wild animal,” Kelly told the FBI.

While Kelly and Muller fought, Piro got up from the floor, picked up his Beretta and fired two shots point-blank into Muller’s head. Muller dropped to the garage floor with a loud thud.

Kelly told the FBI he dumped Muller's body on a road in South Jersey, and the FBI agents went across the Walt Whitman bridge and recovered it.

Alberti said that Muller was unmarried and had no children or close relatives. He also lacked any true friends.  

“I doubt that Arnie Animal will be missed by anyone,” Alberti said. "Everyone knew he was a crazy violent prick."

Kelly agreed to become a cooperating witness, and he gave the FBI and the U.S. Attorney in Philadelphia a good bit of information about the D&O’s criminal activities. But the FBI agents were disappointed to discover that Alberti didn’t know much about the D&O’s drug trafficking operation, or anything major about the South Philly mob.

"I told them FBI guys that I was only a degenerate gambler. I don't know nothing about mob stuff."  

But based on the wiretap recording and Kelly's testimony, the FBI arrested Licco and Piro on murder and related charges. 

Alberti finished his drink, got up and shook my hand.

“I’m off to sunny Florida,” he said. 

© 2025 Paul Davis 

Mouth

 Mouth 

By Paul Davis 

I recently went for a haircut to a local barber shop located about four blocks from my home in South Philadelphia. 

The barber in residence was a young man and a good barber who had a mostly younger clientele. I happened to sit next to another old timer who, like me, missed the good old days when Frank and Sonny ran the shop. 

Originally from Sicily, Frank and Sonny Provenzano came to Philadelphia in 1955 and opened their barber shop in 1965. In the 1960s, when I frequented the shop as a teenager, and into the 70s, 80s and 90s, the Frank and Sonny’s barber shop had a congenial atmosphere akin to an old-fashioned taproom bar or a social club, minus the alcohol. Although the barbers put out bottles of scotch, vodka and sambuca during the Christmas and New Year season. The barber shop was authentically “South Philly.” 

The barber shop back then was always crowded, and on any given day, customers came and went after participating in the day’s running debate on sports or current events, moderated by the two barbers. The ongoing debate, often enlivened with abundant humor, made the long wait for a haircut enjoyable in the always crowded shop. 

Frank Provenzano, the older brother, was a short, balding, avuncular man who retained his Italian accent even after all his years in America. Sonny, who was some years younger than Frank, was short with curly black hair and possessed a sardonic wit that sometimes offended his customers. 

The two barbers supplemented their income by operating as bookmakers and loan sharks, and my crowd often made sport bets there and borrowed money from them when the bets didn’t work out. Like many of the young guys from my crowd, I thought of Frank and Sonny as my uncles rather than just my barbers. 

In the late 1970s, when I was in my late 20s and single, the shop was so busy that the two brothers brought in a pretty young girl to cut hair in the third chair they had in the barber shop. 

I recall one Saturday afternoon when the shop was standing room only. When it was my turn, the young girl waved me towards her chair. I told her that I would wait for Sonny. 

Although my short dark parted hair and my short trimmed dark beard was easy to cut, I was fussy and particular about who cut my hair. Not counting the four years I spent in the Navy, Frank and Sonny were the only barbers who had cut my hair since I was a kid. 

“Go ahead, let her cut your hair,” Sonny said. “She’s good.” 

Reluctantly, I agreed. 

I sat in her chair as she wrapped a long white sheet around my shoulders and placed a white strip around my neck. She then just stood there beside me as I sat in the elevated barber’s chair and looked at me with her head cocked to the right. She turned to Sonny in the middle chair. 

“I can’t cut his hair,” she said with an exasperated air. “He’s too good-looking.” 

Sonny frowned, Frank chuckled, and the other customers in the barber shop roared with laughter. The girl was soon let go by the brothers and she went to work at a nearby woman’s beauty salon. 

I was teased mercilessly both in the barber shop and elsewhere for some months after that. Friends would greet me with “Hey, Good-looking.” And a bartender and friend at our bar looked at my other friends when I walked in and said, “I can’t serve Paulie a drink. He’s too good-looking.” 

That got a big laugh at my expense.       

 When I wrote about the barber shop in the mid-1990s in my column in the local newspaper, I quoted Frank stating, “We are a friendly shop. Everybody is more of a friend than a customer. We have customers who have moved to New Jersey and other places far away, but they still come back here for a haircut. A lot of shops give them a haircut and throw them out. Our friends stay about talk about the salaries of ball players and such. This is an Italian neighborhood, although we have all kinds living here, and we all get along.” 

Thanks to their loyal, multi-generational following, the shop remained open for years even during the long hair days of the 1960s, when many other barber shops folded. 

Frank and Sonny always seemed to have a handful of oddball characters hanging around the shop. They would sweep up the hair from the floor and make coffee runs to a nearby delicatessen for the two barbers and any customers who also wanted coffee. But mostly the characters entertained the barbers and the customers with unintentional humor.    

One of their most entertaining and often annoying characters was Martin Alberto. 

Alberto was around 5’10, lean with dark wavey air and a permanent five o’clock dark shadow on his face. He was a minor criminal, into “this and that,” but he often spoke like he was a big shot mobster, even though everyone knew he certainly wasn’t.    

As he was a non-stop, speed-talker, known as a chiacchierone - a chatter box in Italian - Alberto was called “Marty Mouth,” Motor Mouth,” Mighty Mouth,” or simply “Mouth.” 

I recall one early evening when I entered the shop and Alberto was pacing up and down the shop and talking fast. Sonny had an older man I didn’t know in his chair and Frank had my friend Bob Longo in his chair. Frank and Bob were smirking as Alberto went on and on.     

“I know it ain’t right to do a cop,” Alberto said. “But I gotta tell ya this prick detective is getting on my last nerve. He’s always pulling me over when I’m driving around the neighborhood and questioning me right in front of everyone. He even pulled me into South Detectives and grilled me for an hour, but I didn’t fold. I didn’t tell him shit.” 

Alberto, voice high and fast, spoke of how this detective was pressing his luck by harassing him. 

“He don’t know who Marty Alberto is! I’m into some heavy shit right now, and this cop is crowding me. If I gotta go to the bosses and ask permission to whack this fucking cop, I will. And if they don’t give me the OK, I may whack his fucking fat ass anyway. I tell ya, I had it with this prick supercop.”            

Just then Frank pulled off the barber’s neck to knees white sheet and Alberto saw Bob Longo’s blue police uniform, badge and sidearm. 

Alberto was – for perhaps the first time in his life – speechless. 

Alberto turned quickly and bolted out the door as Bob Longo just shook his head and I, the two barbers and the other customers roared with laughter.

© 2025 Paul Davis 

'Officer Mack'

 Officer Mack

By Paul Davis

Back when I was a teenager in South Philly in the late 1960s, some of the boys on our corner at 13^th and Oregon Avenue hated cops. 

South Philadelphia is the hub of the Philadelphia-South Jersey Cosa Nostra organized crime family, and these teenagers were the sons and nephews of the mob guys. 

I recall that “Crazy Joe” Villotti, the nephew of a Cosa Nostra capo, or captain, refused to go with us and see the film Goldfinger. 

Villotti asked me, “Isn’t James Bond a cop?”   

“No,” I replied. “He’s a British secret agent, a cool spy of sorts.” 

“Yeah, he’s a fucking government guy, so I don’t want to watch the fuck.” 

But for most of the boys on the corner, like me, we saw that there were two types of cops. There were “cool” cops and “prick” cops. 

The cool cops were generally tough guys who could afford to be lenient and understanding at times, while the prick cops were weaker men who we believed made up for their feelings of inferiority by acting stern and officious at all times. 

Police Officer Thomas T. Mack was a prick cop. 

Mack, a short and muscular 30-year-old, began dating Marie Saccone, the attractive elder sister of Chick and Stevie Saccone, two of my friends on the corner. 

Their father was a mob associate and a big-time bookmaker and loan shark. But despite their father being an illegal gambler, Chick and Stevie didn’t hate cops the way Villotti and some others did. 

Mack asked to be transferred to the 3^rd Police District to be closer to Marie. He patrolled Oregon Avenue, a four-lane wide street and major thoroughfare in the predominantly Italian American neighborhood in South Philadelphia. 

He often stopped at JP’s Luncheonette at 13^th and Oregon Avenue for cigarettes and coffee. He would then come out and gab with Stevie, whom he treated like a younger brother. 

Chick would walk away, as he hated Mack. He hated Mack, not because he was a cop, but rather because he thought Mack was a phony and an asshole. 

Mack’s friendliness with Stevie and the other teenagers on the corner ended the day Marie dumped him. 

That very night he arrested Stevie and two other teenagers for drinking beer on the corner. And from that night on, Mack declared war on us. He harassed us nearly every night. We all hated Mack.

On a Mischief Night before Halloween, Mack pulled up on the corner and shouted through his open passenger window for us to get off the corner. 

“Yes, Sir,” we replied in unison. And in unison, a half dozen of us tossed a half dozen eggs at him through his passenger window. We then took off running but not before I saw the furious look on his face and his cap knocked sideways with egg yolk dripping down his face from the cap’s brim. 

I was laughing madly as I ran away from the corner. 

Mack went crazy and zoomed around the streets hunting us. I ran home after throwing my egg at him. My mother asked why I was home so early, and I told her I was tried and wanted to go to bed. 

Officer Frank Grant was a cool cop. We never would have thrown eggs at him. 

Grant stopped into JP’s nearly every night for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Grant, a tall, gangly man in his late 20s, told funny stories to the owners of JPs and us. 

I recall him telling a story about a drug raid on an abandoned house in the 3^rd District. 

The district captain saw white powder that lay on a sheet of brown paper on the floor in the corner. He wet his index finger and dipped his finger in the powder and tasted it on the tip of his tongue. 

“Is this heroin,” he asked.

He again dipped his finger in the powder and tasted it.

“Is this heroin,” he again asked.     

One of the officers told the commanding officer, “Captain, I think it’s rat poison.”

The captain froze for a moment and then told the officer to drive him to the hospital.

Like many cops I’ve known over the years, Grant was a fine storyteller. When years later I read and enjoyed Joseph Wambaugh, the LAPD detective sergeant who became the best-selling author of The New Centurions, The Choir Boys, and other classic cop novels and nonfiction books about cops, I often thought of Grant. 

Another thing that endeared us to Grant was that he hated Officer Mack and often mocked him. 

One night as I sat alone with Grant at JP’s counter, I told the officer that although my Uncle Bill was a police captain, and my father, a WWII Navy chief and Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) frogman, was a strict law & order man, I hated Officer Mack. 

Grant laughed and said most of the 3^rd District cops also hated Mack.       

Although we had some tough guys on 13th and Oregon, like my older brother Eddie, Joe Villotti and the Saccone brothers, we were more of a party corner, as we hosted various crews of pretty girls that hung out with us 

But the street gang blocks away at the corner of Dalton Street and Oregon Avenue, called the “D&O,” was a crazy crew of violent, drug dealing teenage hoodlums. 

The D&O street gang hated Officer Mack even more than we did. Like us, Mack rousted the D&O teenagers for no reason other than hating them. True, they were hoodlums, but Mack often went overboard, roughing them up after handcuffing them. He then threw them out of his patrol car without even bothering to arrest them.

I suspect that because he was rejected by a beautiful Italian woman, Mack hated Italians. He called the D&O boys and the 13^th & Oregon Avenue teenagers “dagos” and “wops.”

But the D&O teenagers fought back.

I heard Mack went batshit crazy when he drove down Oregon Avenue and saw that the D&O boys had spray painted on the side of a building in very large letters, “OFFICER MACK BLOWS.”

The painted message was the talk of the 3^rd District cops. Mack was widely mocked by his fellow officers.  

One night Officer Mack pulled up to 13^th & Oregon, jumped out of his car, leaving the driver’s car door open and the patrol car running. He dashed into JP’s and shouted to the dozen or guys and girls on the corner, “Be off this fucking corner by the time I come out, or I’ll lock up all you up.”

I saw his patrol car door open and the car running, so I seized the day and jumped into the driver’s seat and took off. I drove across Oregon Avenue and jumped the curb of Marconi’s Park. 

I looked for, but could not find, the siren. As I drove through the park wildly, I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw Mack running and shouting like a crazy man across Oregon Avenue, his service revolver held up into the air.  

I put on the brakes halfway into the park and jumped out running. I ran right into the beefy arms of a Fairmount Park Police Officer, who twisted me around and handcuffed me. He held me for Mack. 

Mack came up huffing and placed his service revolver back in the holster. He took out his “sap,” a short steel rod covered in black leather, and he slapped the sap across my knees. 

The pain was awful, but the worst thing was that I could not clutch my aching knees, as my hands were handcuffed behind my back. I leaned down as the Park cop held me.  

The Park cop asked Mack if he wanted to arrest me, and Mack said no. 

“Do me a favor and drive the kid down to the river and let the punk walk back home.”  

I had to walk from the river on Delaware Avenue and Front Street back up to 13^th and Oregon with swollen and throbbing knees. 

But it was worth it, as I was the talk of the corner that night and Thomas Junior High School the next day. Everyone thought I was a cool guy. The wild hoodlums from the D&O slapped me on the back and called me a “crazy motherfucker,” which was a high compliment from them.

Grant came to JP's the following night and told me that I was lucky that Mack didn’t arrest me or shoot me. He said that Mack was probably hoping no other cops would hear that a teenager stole his car.

But the Park cop hated Mack and he called a friend at the 3^rd District and told him the story. The cop in turn told all of his fellow 3^rd District officers. Mack was ridiculed once again.         

Some months later, Officer Grant came into JP's and told me that Mack was fired for beating the son of a South Philly councilman. According to Grant, Mack cuffed the Italian American politician’s teenage son and beat him as he held him against the side of the patrol car. 

The son was a what we called a “square” kid, and what the adults called a “nice Italian boy.” He was a good student who didn’t drink beer or smoke pot on the corner with us. 

We didn’t know why Mack singled him out. Mack handcuffed him and threw him against the side of the patrol car. He slapped the teenager in the face repeatedly and delivered a severe punch to the teenager’s stomach. 

The noise and flashing lights on the patrol car drew the attention of several neighbors who called 911 and reported the brutal treatment of the teenager. 

The councilman called the captain, who then ordered an investigation. Mack was subsequently fired. He also faced assault charges from the District Attorney’s office.

“Good riddance,” Grant said.

I laughed and said, “So even in South Philly, there’s some justice. 

'Byrne's Sitdown'

Byrne’s Sitdown 

By Paul Davis 

I was sitting in a booth at the Penrose Diner in South Philadelphia waiting for a friend to join me for lunch. 

I was drinking a cup of Penrose’s good coffee and looking out the window to see if my friend had arrived when I received a text on my phone that he could not make it. 

Not wanting to hog a booth by myself, I started to pick up my coffee and move to the counter when someone said my name. I looked up and saw Fred Byrne. 

“Paul, you eating alone? Can I join you?” Byrne said. 

“Sure. I was waiting for a friend, but he just texted me that he can’t make it.” 

Byrne, a stocky man with gray hair, was about 70 years old. He was a retired hardware store manager that I met at a cigar dinner some years ago. He recognized me from my photo that accompanied my crime column in the local newspaper, and he introduced himself. 

As we smoked our fine cigars, we spoke of our military service during the Vietnam War. Byrne had been a Marine at Da Nang and I had been a sailor on an aircraft carrier. 

I liked him and I gave him my card that had my telephone number and email address on it. He wrote his telephone number and email address on a piece of notepaper and handed it to me. But for whatever reason we never contacted each other. 

The waitress stopped by our table and Byrne and I ordered lunch. Byrne had a copy of the Philadelphia Daily News, a newspaper I used to write for, and he showed me an article on the murder of John “Johnny Boy” Grillo, a local mobster who had just been released from federal prison. He had been shot multiple times and died on the street. 

“I read that online this morning,” I said. “I didn’t know him, but I knew his father Dom some years back. I heard the kid was nothing like his father.” 

“I knew them both,” Byrne said. “I knew the father from the neighborhood, but only to say hello to. I knew he was a mob guy, but he was always polite. I knew the kid as he was a friend of my daughter’s. 

“Want to hear a story about my “Sitdown” with Dom over his kid?” 

“Sure,” I replied. 

I didn’t pull out my notebook or small tape recorder, as I didn’t yet know if he was telling me this story for my crime column, and I didn’t want him to shut him down by asking just yet. 

“Well, it wasn’t a formal sitdown, as I wasn’t a member of the mob. Hell, I’m not even Italian. But like I says, Johnny Boy was a friend of my daughter when they was teenagers." 

Our lunch orders arrived and as we ate, Byrne went on to tell me about the time he was returning to his South Philly rowhome years ago when his daughter was a teenager. He was accompanied by his friend Mike Fratelli, a Philly detective. 

Byrne’s daughter and wife and gone to the New Jersey shore and were staying at his in-law’s summer home. Byrne had remained in South Philadelphia as he had to work at the hardware store where he was the manager. He met Fratelli, and they had a couple of beers at their favorite corner taproom. 

They walked from the bar to Byrne’s house and when they got there, Fratelli saw that one of the basement windows and been pushed in. Lights were on in the basement, and they heard music. 

"Your family is down the shore, right?” Fratelli asked. 

“Yeah.”

“Give me your house keys and you stay here,” Fratelli said. 

Fratelli took the keys, drew his firearm, ran up the steps to the front door and let himself in. 

Byrne bent down and looked in the busted basement window and saw about four or five teenage boys and girls drinking his liquor from his basement bar and dancing to the music from his radio. 

Byrne, who had a license to carry a firearm as he handled money at his store, drew his 9mm Beretta and pointed it at the group in his basement. 

“Get the hell out of my house, you punks,” Byrne yelled. 

“Fuck you,” one of the boys said. 

Byrne fired a round into his basement wall away from the teenagers as a warning shot. The teenagers ran up the basement stairs in fright and straight into the arms of Fratelli. Fratelli herded the teenagers out the front door and onto the sidewalk. 

“We thought you were all at the shore,” one of the girls said. “We just broke in as a goof. We weren’t going to steal anything.” 

“I know you. You’re Janice, my daughter’s friend,” Byrne said. “What the heck do you think you all were doing?” 

One of the boys, a big and husky teenager, rushed Byrne and pushed him up against the  wall. Byrne slapped the teenager across the back of his head and face with his Beretta. The kid fell to the sidewalk bleeding. 

“You killed Johnny Boy,” Janice cried out. 

The kid stood up and placed his hand on the back of his head. Byrne told the teenagers to get lost. He told them to never see his daughter again. 

“That kid was Dom Grillo’s kid,” Fratelli said as the teenagers walked away. 

“He shouldn’t have broken into my house.” 

The following evening, Janice and her father visited Byrne. The father apologized for his daughter’s behavior and pleaded with Byrne to not have his teenage daughter arrested. Byrne told the man he did not plan to press charges. 

The father thanked Byrne and assured him that his daughter would be punished. 

The two men shook hands as Janice looked down in shame and embarrassment. 

While at work the next day, a hoodlum strolled into his hardware store and approached Byrne. Byrne’s hand reached behind his back to the holster that held his Beretta. 

The man smiled and said that Dom Grillo wanted to buy him a drink at the Oregon Avenue bar that night at eight o’clock. 

“Tell Dom I’ll be there.”

Promptly at eight, Byrne walked into the dimly lit bar with Fratelli. They began to walk to the back of the bar where Dom Grillo was sitting with his son. 

A young hoodlum stepped in the way and asked if they were armed. 

“Hell, yeah. I got two guns on me,” Byrne said. “And I’m a Marine, so I know how to use ‘em.” 

“I’m a cop, so you know I’m packing,” Fratelli said. 

“Let ‘em through,” Dom Grillo said. 

Grillo, a rugged and gruff man in his 60s, was a captain, or capo, in the Philadelphia Cosa Nostra organized crime family. He controlled illegal gambling and loan sharking in the neighborhood. But having faced the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese soldiers in close-quarter combat, Byrne was not intimidated by Grillo or any other gangster.

 “Sit down,” Grillo offered. 

Byrne and Fratelli sat down across from Grillo and his son, whose face and head were bandaged. 

“I see you brought Mike the cop with you,” Grillo said. 

“Yeah, he’s my friend and he was with me when we caught your son and the other kids in my house.” 

“And you felt you had to pistol-whip my son because he broke into your house.” 

“He attacked me. So yeah, I was defending myself. I could have shot him.” 

“This true?” Grillo asked Fratelli. 

“Yeah,” Fratelli asked. 

Grillo turned his head and faced his son. 

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” 

"This crazy guy threatened us with a gun, so I rushed him and …” 

“Shut up now.” Grillo ordered. “You broke into the man’s house. He had the right to shoot you. Perhaps he should have.” 

Johnny Boy Grillo sat back and remained quiet. 

“I’m truly sorry for my boy’s rash and stupid behavior, and I’m grateful that you didn’t shoot him. I hear you are a decent man, and I hear you was a Marine, so I respect you.

 “Let me pay for the damage to your home,” Grillo said. 

“I manage a hardware store, so the repairs got done. I don’t need or want any money.” 

Grillo rose and shook Byrne’s hand. 

“After this, Johnny Boy still went on to be a pain in the ass to his father, even after the boy joined the mob,” Byrne said as the Penrose busboy cleared away our dishes. “He was always mouthing off to people and making trouble for his father. 

"I think the old man was glad that Johnny Boy was put in prison. Old Dom got to spend his last years not worrying about his brash and stupid son.” 

Byrne added that he was not surprised that someone shot and killed Johnny Boy Grillo the minute he walked out of prison.  

“Apparently, he didn’t get the kind of homecoming he expected,” I said. 

© 2023 Paul Davis 

Butterfly

Butterfly is the first chapter of a crime thriller I hope to publish this year.

Butterfly 

By Paul Davis 

I lived in what we considered a tough neighborhood in South Philadelphia when I was a teenager in the 1960s. I ran with a tough crowd on the mean streets of South Philly, but I would later discover that Olongapo in the early 1970s was a truly tough town. 

I recall an old Navy chief telling me and other young sailors on the USS Kitty Hawk about the notorious port city as the aircraft carrier sailed towards the Philippines in November of 1970. The chief, who had been around the world while serving many years in the U.S. Navy, told us that Olongapo was the wildest place he had ever seen.

 “Once you walk across the bridge over Shit River into Olongapo, you’ll be corrupted quickly by sexy bar girls, cheap booze, available drugs, and all sorts of crime,” the old chief said with a mischievous grin.

During the Vietnam War, Olongapo, the city located next to the massive U.S. Navy Base at Subic Bay in the Philippines, was like Dodge City, Las Vegas, and Sodom and Gomorrah all rolled into one. The U.S. Navy’s Seventh Fleet ships that operated off the coast of Vietnam during the war were frequent visitors to Subic Bay, as the naval base provided repairs and replenishment to the warships.

As the pent-up American sailors left the ships and swarmed into Olongapo, the city’s shadier elements were waiting. Sailors walked out of the naval base’s gate and crossed over the small bridge above the Olongapo River, called “Shit River” by the Americans due to its muddy brown color and pungent smell. Despite the filth and pollution, several small children on boats were willing to slip into the river and dive for the coins the sailors tossed from the bridge into the water. 

On the other side of the bridge was Olongapo’s main street, Magsaysay Drive. Known as the “Strip,” there was a seemingly endless line of bars, restaurants and hotels all lit up in colorful neon lights. The street was noisy and crowded with passing American sailors and Marines, street vendors, drug dealers, pickpockets, thieves, con artists, armed robbers and innocent-looking young shoeshine boys who were known to hold a razor against a sailor’s heel until he handed over his wallet.

Also on the crowded street were scores of young, attractive Filipinas enticing sailors to come into their bar with blown kisses, swaying hips, pushed out breasts, and shaking derrieres. Occasionally a girl would use strong-arm tactics, such as grabbing a young sailor by the arm and yanking him into the bar and announcing loudly that she had a “Cherry Boy” virgin. 

Crossing Magsaysay Drive was often a case of bravery or foolhardiness, as one could be hit by one of the ubiquitous “jeepneys,” Olongapo’s colorfully decorated minibuses that were converted from American jeeps abandoned after World War II.

The American dollar was like gold in the early 1970s, and one could spend a wild night in Olongapo drinking, eating, dancing, and staying in a hotel room with a local beauty for only about $20.

I was 18 years old when I first visited Olongapo in 1970. I was a cocky, street-smart South Philly kid, as well as a lean and muscular amateur middleweight boxer, so I was not intimidated by the barrage of sights, sounds and smells of this strange town like so many other young sailors who first experience it. I was also not fazed when a bar girl grabbed my arm outside of a bar and yanked me towards the bar’s entrance.

“You so young and handsome,” the pretty Filipina said as she tugged my arm.  “You Cherry Boy?” I pulled my arm loose from her grip and replied, “Not hardly.”

Thankfully, I had good friends on the aircraft carrier who had visited Olongapo during the Kitty Hawk’s previous combat cruise, and they warned me about the dangers and pitfalls, as well as the delights, of the notorious city. As an aspiring crime writer, Olongapo sounded like just the place for me.

All American servicemen were duly warned of the dangers when visiting Olongapo’s bars and other establishments. One rule pounded into the sailors by the older sailors was not to “Butterfly” in individual bars. To butterfly was to associate with two bar girls, called “Hostesses,” in any one bar. The bar girls were protective of their claimed sailors and the money they earned from the sailors buying them whisky (actually Coke) and champagne (actually 7-Up). The price of a drink for the girls was only about a buck, so the sailors didn’t mind paying this apparent scam. But the bar girls resented another bar girl poaching on their moneymakers.

When a sailor would butterfly, whether on his own initiative or by the encouragement of another bar girl, the aggrieved bar girl would often fly into a rage and attack the other bar girl, and sometimes the offending sailor. 

Even before I set foot in Olongapo, I heard the much-repeated cautionary tale about an American sailor who committed the offense and paid a dear price. The bar girl he had been seeing was so mad when he flirted with another bar girl that she attacked the girl on the dance floor. To the consternation of the bar’s manager and the utter delight of the American sailors, the two girls pulled hair, and kicked and punched each other. 

 The Filipino manager and his waiters pulled the two girls apart. The offended girl then went to her purse and pulled out her Batangas knife, a weapon more commonly known as a “Butterfly” knife. The knife had two handles with the sharp blade concealed in the groves of the handles. When flashed, flipped and fanned by someone who knew what they are doing, the butterfly knife was a most scary and deadly thing. 

 This bar girl knew how to use the butterfly knife and she charged the butterflying sailor and slit his throat as he sat in a chair. He died on the way to the base hospital.

 

On my first visit to Olongapo in early December of 1970, I went into one of the bars with some shipmates and met a pretty girl who sat with me as I bought her drinks. I had fun drinking and dancing with her, and we ended up in a hotel room for the night. I returned to the ship the following morning and we soon shoved off for our first “Yankee Station” line period in the Gulf of Tonkin in the South China Sea off the coast of Vietnam.   

We spent Christmas on Yankee Station, but we pulled back into Subic Bay on December 31st, New Year's Eve. Not everyone was glad to see us. The American sailors stationed on the base and on smaller ships hated when an aircraft carrier pulled into port. With the carrier’s 4, 700 men going ashore with money in their pockets and eager for action, the city’s inhabitants went all out to receive them. 

In a case of reverse butterflying, two sailors stationed on the base at Subic Bay resented the Kitty Hawk’s sailors taking over the city on that first night in port. One base sailor was truly angry, as his regular girl at the bar ignored him and cuddled up to a young Kitty Hawk sailor. The base sailor got drunk along with his pal and when the girl went to the restroom, the two base sailors pounced on the Kitty Hawk sailor. They beat him to the floor and one of the two assailants broke a bottle of beer over his head. 

The Kitty Hawk sailor was beaten unconscious before other sailors and the Filipino waiters could break it up. The Philippine police and the U.S. Navy Shore Patrol rushed into the bar and took hold of the two base sailors. The Kitty Hawk sailor was gravely injured, and he was taken by two Shore Patrol petty officers to the base hospital. The two base sailors were released by the Philippine police into the custody of two other Shore Patrol petty officers and a junior officer. The Shore Patrol petty officers handcuffed the pair and escorted them to the base, where they were charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder by civilian Naval Investigative Service (NIS) special agents.

 

The story of the assault on the Kitty Hawk sailor spread quickly all over Olongapo. I heard the story from another sailor as I sat in the Starlight bar with two of my shipmates from the Kitty Hawk’s Communications Radio (CR) Division, Dino Ingemi, a solid six-footer with thinning dark hair, who was an outgoing and funny guy from the Bronx, and Mike Hunt, a brawny, laid-back Californian whose light brown hair, ski nose and easygoing manner belied his background as an outlaw biker prior to enlisting in the Navy to avoid being drafted into the Army. Both Ingemi and Hunt were Olongapo veterans, having visited the wild city the year before during Kitty Hawk’s previous combat cruise. 

 As I was half-Italian on my mother’s side and I grew up in a predominantly Italian American South Philadelphia neighborhood, I called Dino Ingemi my paisan. “Just another fun night in Olongapo, Paul,” my paisan said. “That kind of shit won’t happen here at the Starlight.”

The Filipino band at the Starlight had everyone jumping and dancing to their renditions of popular American songs of the time. The Filipino musicians were incredible mimics, sounding like Sly and the Family Stone with one song, the Four Tops with another, and then went on to sound eerily like the Beatles in yet another number. 

We were all dressed in “civies,” as sailors called civilian clothes, and I was wearing a short-sleeved tan and black Italian knit shirt and black slacks. I was something of a clotheshorse, and I differed from most of the other sailors, who were usually clad simply in tie-dyed t-shirts and jeans. Thankfully, the then-chief of naval operations, Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, the enlisted man’s hero, allowed sailors to go ashore in civies rather than in uniform.

We sat at a table drinking bottles of San Miguel, the local beer, when I was approached by Linda Divita, a slim, pretty girl who swayed around me to the music and then pulled me up from my chair to dance with her.  Linda had long dark hair and long lovely legs beneath her short black dress. The low cut of her dress afforded one the view of her mostly exposed small breasts.

 Dino Ingemi approved.  

“She’s got a great ass and cute little tits,” Ingemi said to me when we finally sat back down. I nodded in agreement as Ingemi was smacked on the arm by Marlena Abadiano, the pretty girl he had been seeing since he first visited Olongapo the year before. 

Dino Ingemi was very social and made friends easily. He had become close with the Starlight manager, Samuel Rosalita, during the previous cruise. Rosalita joined us at our table and laughed and drank with us. He gave me his business card and another card that read “Welcome to the Starlight: Charming A-Go-Go dancers, Beautiful Ladies and Outstanding Combos.”

I mentioned to Ingemi that Rosalita looked like the entertainer Sammy Davis Jr, and Ingemi began to call him “Sammy,” much to the manager’s delight. Rosalita chuckled and shook his head at everything Ingemi said.  

I had a fun night drinking and dancing with Linda that New Year's Eve at the Starlight, and when the bar closed, I took her to a nearby hotel. I was drunk and worried that the girl would steal my money when I fell asleep, so when she was in the bathroom, I looked for a place to hide my slim black leather wallet that held my Navy ID and my cash. I looked up at the light fixture mounted on the ceiling six feet above me. Thinking I was clever, I tossed my wallet up onto the glass fixture underneath the light bulb.

Linda came out of the bathroom and threw her arms around me and laughed crazily. She was loopy drunk, but she was wild, sexy and fun in bed with me right up until the moment she passed out in my arms. In the morning, I could not wake her. I knew she was alive, as she moaned and muttered, but she would not move from her face down position on the bed. I found a handful of “Red Devils,” a barbiturate, on the bedside table next to her purse. I didn’t know how many of the pills she took, but I was concerned.

I dressed her and left the room. Rosalita’s business card did not have a telephone number on it, so I went to the front desk and I slipped five dollars to one of the clerks and asked him to go and get the Starlight manager.  

I went back to the room and saw that Linda was still out. About a half hour later, there was a knock on the door. Rosalita came in, accompanied by one of his waiters and an older woman who was the Mama-San for the bar. Rosalita thanked me for contacting him and then looked at Linda on the bed. He cursed her in Tagalog. The two men lifted Linda and took her out of the room. After they left, I looked up at the ceiling light and tried to retrieve my wallet, but it was beyond my reach. I went down to the front desk and asked the clerks for a ladder. They looked puzzled. I returned to my room with two Filipinos and a ladder in tow. They stood in the doorway in amazement as I climbed the ladder and retrieved my wallet.

I gave each of the hotel clerks a five-dollar bill for their trouble as I was leaving the hotel room. The two Filipinos took the money as they laughed uncontrollably.

“Fuck you,” I said to them, although I had to laugh along with them.

Back at the carrier, I took a shower, ate lunch in the galley and then I took a nap in my rack. When I awoke, I took another shower and changed into a black dress shirt and light gray slacks. I met up with Hunt and Ingemi and we all headed out to Olongapo and the Starlight. We took a table and Marlena came over with Hunt’s girl Carmelina and sat with us. I was thankful that I didn’t see Linda. Rosalita came over to the table with a waiter armed with a tray of San Miguel beers. 

Marlena whispered into Ingemi’s ear, and he nodded. Marlena got up and left the table. She returned to our table with a beautiful girl that she introduced to us as her sister, Zeny Abadiano.

Zeny had long, raven hair with bangs cut just above her dark, sultry eyes. She had a pretty face and an alluring figure. At 5’ 11,’ I towered over her five-foot stature when we danced. In addition to her being an exotic beauty, Zeny was sexy, smart and funny. I was drawn to her immediately.

And I forgot all about Linda. 

 

After the bar closed, Ingemi, Hunt and I took the girls to a nearby hotel. In my hotel room, I took Zeny in my arms, unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. I told her she was beautiful as I kissed her madly, and we fell across the bed. 

A couple of hours later, I heard a pounding on the door. I jumped up and retrieved my pocketknife from under the pillow. I heard Linda on the other side of the door. 

“Paul! Paul! Open up!” I heard her holler. “I want to talk to you!” 

Zeny pulled the sheet over her head and giggled. “Oh, you think this is funny?”  I told Linda to go away.

“Paul, open up. I want to talk to you!” Linda said in a screeching and blood-curdling voice. Of course, I didn’t open the door. I then heard what I presumed were hotel employees arguing with Linda in Tagalog, and thankfully the voices outside the door finally ceased. 

“So, you think a crazy, drugged girl coming to the room was funny,” I said to Zeny as I took her once again in my arms.  

 

I was awakened in the morning by a pounding on the door. Not again, I thought. But then I heard Ingemi’s voice. I hollered out to Ingemi that I would be ready in a half hour. I took a shower with Zeny and afterwards I sat in a chair, and she stood in front of me nude and dried my hair with a towel. She took my pocket comb and    combed my short, dark brown hair, carefully parting it on the left side. I pulled her wonderfully luscious body towards me and hugged her.

I met Ingemi and Hunt outside of the hotel and we grabbed a jeepney and headed back to the ship.

Later that evening, Ingemi and I returned to the Starlight.

Zeny and Marlena were waiting for us and the four of us took a table. Rosalita waved to us and motioned to a waiter, who quickly came over with San Miguel beers. While we were drinking at the table, Linda suddenly appeared by my side. Zeny grabbed my arm and snuggled up close to me. Linda was clearly angry and deranged. 

“You butterfly, you motherfucker!” 

“Get the fuck out of here,” I replied calmly, tilting my head slightly to the right while trying to sound like a South Philly half-a-hoodlum.

“I get you good, motherfucker,” Linda said with a snarl.  

Rosalita rushed over to the table and spoke harshly in Tagalog to Linda. She spat on the table and walked away. Rosalita apologized and left us. Zeny and Marlena were unfazed, and Ingemi was laughing uncontrollably. Linda sat at a nearby table with some poor sailor and began cursing me loudly in English and Tagalog.  

“She crazy,” Zeny said, kissing me to further anger Linda. 

Linda then began to fling lit cigarettes at us. Then she threw a beer bottle that hit our table. Ingemi, who was no longer laughing, got up and walked over to Rosalita. Rosalita listened briefly to Ingemi and then marched over to Linda, and he must have told her in no uncertain terms to cut it out. 

We resumed drinking, dancing, and having fun and I tried to ignore Linda. A while later I got up to go to the men’s room, which was on the other side of a wall that separated the bar from the rest rooms, the kitchen, and storerooms. When I came out of the men’s room, I encountered Linda in my path. 

“You butterfly me, you son a bitch,” Linda hissed. “I kill you.” 

From behind her back, Linda produced a Butterfly knife and began to twirl it in front of me. As she flashed and fanned the knife in a menacing fashion, I threw a short right punch that hit her square in the face. She went down, her nose and teeth bloody, and she lay motionless on the floor. Rosalita and two waiters rushed in, and my immediate thought was that I would have to fight them all. But Rosalita cursed Linda, who lay unconscious, and he kicked her twice. The two waiters picked up Linda and took her away. 

Rosalita apologized profusely to me, and I walked back to the table and told everyone what happened. 

 

From then on, whenever the carrier visited Subic Bay, I went to the Starlight and stayed with Zeny. 

I never again saw Linda, and no one ever said what had become of her.

And I never asked.  

© 2022 By Paul Davis