I played chess for my best friend’s life at the Saint George Hotel. I would play a good game of chess with Putin and his gang. As President, I will make sure Trump goes to jail and does his time.
Above is me in 1971. I lived on Beacon Hill in this apartment building. I had unlimited guts. I took on the whole world.
In 1971 my attorney told those who refused to move out of our home on 40 Anderson Street, a four story building on Beacon Hill, to move to the top floor for our safety. I was in a legal battle with the brother-in-law of the head of Boston’s Mafia, and they were losing. This guy was a top-notch attorney. The owner of the grocery store down the street who liked me, said;
“They want their building back. They will hurt you.”
When I heard the door being kicked in on the main floor, I rushed downstairs to find the door to the old managers apartment knocked off its hinges. Then I heard the awful sound of the squatter’s three month old black lab having its throat cut. I shouted;
“Get out there!”
There was silence, and then this question;
“Are you the manager?”
“Yes! Get out!”
“You come in here!”
“We got something for you!” said the second voice.
When I refused, they came out carrying bloody knives. I stood my ground. Just them, Shaheb let out a long blast from his horn. He was on the steps with three of my neighbors. These demons folded their knives, walked passed me with smirks on their face, and were out the door. I rushed to find the puppy. I almost fainted when I saw its blood smeared on every wall. I went in search of her and found her body stuffed behind the toilet. I picked her up. She was still warm. I began to cry. I began to wipe her blood off the walls before her owners came home. When they did, I was still crying because it was my vanity, our vanity, that killed her. She was completely innocent. She didn’t have a clue about the battle for the building she lived in. She was happy. She was horrified by the cruelty inflicted on her. I will forever hear her cries.
We won our case. No one likes killers of puppies. Not ever the mob bosses. This is when Shaheb told me he was considering getting guns to fight for the building that was sold in auction to a family construction company who never made the changes they said they were. It took all the light I could muster to talk Shaheb out of a armed stand-off.
When Mafia Max opened the door I could see he was impressed that I had the guts to try to save my friend. He had heard from Neil, one of the owners of the Saint George Hotel I was a stand-up guy. Here was the proof. Anyone else would have slunk away.
The Saint George Hotel on 13th. near Broadway was my first home away from home. It was Max’s favorite hotel, a fact we did not know until we ran into him in the lobby. From here I went to work at Yale Trucking in Hell’s Kitchen where the Teamsters gave me the moniker ‘The California Kid’. Max took Tim O’Conner into a Irish Mafia bar here, and told him to stand behind him because there might be gun play. There was turf warfare going down at this time.
I looked like a tough guy out of central casting…
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