Late Monday afternoon, four days following a tropical depression that left South Louisiana soggy, sore and broken in a few places,
a light blue paneled Ford Econoline pulled to a stop behind Benny’s Bar off 4th Street in Marrero, La. Despite its proximity to the urban core of New Orleans, this blue-collar enclave that US Highway 90 split down the middle felt as different from the city as some redneck fiddle player and the Boston Symphony Orchestra.
In sharp, stenciled black letters on the driver’s side of the van were the words “Gator Boys Handyman Services.” Just below the company name read the phrase, “No job too large or small. Just give us a call!”, and on the rear of the van below the two tinted windows that sat side by side on each door were the words, “Free quotes, just call 504-328-5095.” If any potential customer actually tried to reach the Gator Boys at the number listed on the van, the caller would be greeted by a non-stop ring.
On the passenger side of the van were two doors that opened in the center and swung outward. Each door had a small window at the top but both windows had been painted black on the inside, preventing eyes from peering into the cargo area. Had the van been used by a professional handyman, the tools of his trade would have filled shelves against the metal walls—boxes of nails, screws and scraps of lumber leftover from the last job would be scattered on the stainless steel, 18-gauge sheet metal floor. Instead, the smooth steel held 4 large metal rings that had been welded in place.
A customized iron partition had also been welded inside the vehicle, separating the cab from the bulkhead. A sliding metal window 2-inches-wide by 6 inches long was the only opening in the iron barrier. From the inside of the van, the window was reminiscent of the window in a 1920’s era speakeasy. Unfortunately, cold beer, gambling and pretty call girls were not waiting on the other side of the sliding peep hole.
Two men wearing battleship gray coveralls and matching red caps exited the van. Petey, the driver and the taller of the two men, closed his door and walked around the rear of the van to wait for his partner. Sal, blessed with a body that was nearly as wide as it was tall, slid out of his bucket seat until his short legs made contact with the gravel below. His exit from the Econoline may have been slow but once he made contact with the ground, he quickly met up with Petey behind the van. Both men casually walked to the entrance of the bar as if they were two hard-working men ready to forget a long day of sawing and hammering with the help of cold beer from the tap.
A normal collection of trucks, vans and beat up sedans shared the parking lot with cigarette butts, broken beer bottles and pot holes in desperate need of a wheel barrow load of oyster shells. Of the dozen or so vehicles keeping vigil behind the bar, all but one had a Louisiana license plate. The lone out of state license plate was attached to the bumper of a white Ford pickup truck. The truck, like the Econoline van that had recently eased into the parking lot, also displayed brightly painted information about a business—a roofing company showcasing work done at affordable prices and beckoned customers to call a number with a 937-area code. It would be highly probable that no one in Benny’s Bar on 4th Street in Marrero, La. knew this particular commercial truck was from Dayton, Ohio. No one but two men wearing battleship gray coveralls with matching red caps who were now slipping inside the cool interior of the neighborhood institution that smelled of stale beer, cheap perfume, cigarettes and greasy hamburgers.
Benny’s was one of the few structures in Marrero where the lights were on and window air conditioners were cooling off its interior. Many businesses were still waiting on the electric company to restore power following the storm, but businesses with the right connections seemed to always come back online first. Even more coincidental was the connection between the businesses and the three pinball machines, four slot machines and a fancy jukebox that had found a home inside. The connection of course being, Carlos Marcello.
As Petey and Sal let their eyes transition from bright sunshine to dimly lit florescent bulbs, they took note of the three men playing a game of 9-ball at a worn Brunswick pool table. As the three men drank their beers, Hank Williams’ was singing about crawfish pie and file’ gumbo thanks to someone playing song E-4, “Jambalaya”, on the Wurlitzer Classic 2000 vinyl jukebox. The 45 was spinning around on the turntable behind glass that gave customers an up front and personal view of the inner-workings of the brightly lit box.
It wasn’t difficult to recognize the roofers standing around the pool table, sipping their suds and making bets on the game. Having grown up four blocks from Benny’s, Petey knew every man and woman in the place. This was the late afternoon crowd of barflies and drunks who were here most days, sipping Taaka Vodka and Dixie beer, smoking cheap, unfiltered cigarettes and wondering why every day around this same time how they ended up in this smoke-filled, hole-in-the wall tavern. Such was their destination in an uneventful life of shared misery, pain and often times, bad luck.
With one head nod, a couple of grunts and one hello from the other patrons, Petey and Sal acknowledged the local drinkers as they eased to the end of the bar and ordered two draft beers from Benny. Sal dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and then both men slid away from the scarred wooden counter and sat at a high-top table where they could see the pool tables and the entrance to the dive bar.
“You positive it’s them,” Sal asked Petey as his sudsy draft beer covered his mouth. Pete responded by lifting his mug in the same manner and replied, “We know everyone in here and those three are the odd boys out. Plus, the roofing company truck outside in the lot is the one we were told to look for.”
The Marcello’s boys didn’t have to wait long before the roofers finished their last pool game and slowly drained the rest of their beers. One of the three headed to the men’s room while the other two pulled out packs of cigarettes and headed outside to smoke while waiting on their friend to finish in the restroom. Sal headed outside while Petey grabbed their two beer mugs and brought them to the bar. Petey chatted for a few moments with Benny, then headed outside to meet his partner. By the time the third man had moved outside to join the other two men, Sal was standing beside the roofer’s truck and smoking a cigarette like he didn’t have a care in the world. Casually but efficiently, Petey picked up his pace and walked toward the Econoline van, unlocked the door, eased into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Sal pushed off the passenger side door of the roofing truck as the three roofers drew closer, warily taking in Sal’s fireplug shaped body that didn’t appear to be going anywhere. “Hey boys, how’s the roofing business these days?” Sal asked, not really expecting a reply.
No answer came as the men drew close together anticipating trouble may be ahead but hoping that three versus one may be all the intimidation needed to move the short, squatty man along. As their attention was on Sal, Petey had eased the van behind the threesome, placed the gear shift into park and quickly exited the van. Before the men had realized Petey was behind them, he had already opened the side cargo doors of the van.
The sound of a door opening behind them registered and the men from Ohio turned around quickly to inspect the danger they felt coming up on their backside. Suddenly forgetting about Sal to look at Petey, Sal eased his Colt Diamondback revolver from his waistband where he had it hidden under his shirt. The all-too-familiar sound of the gun’s hammer being clicked into place brought their attention back around to Sal. To their dismay, the three out of town guests realized they were boxed in between their own truck, a beat-up Ford Fairlane, an Econoline van and a fireplug holding a pistol.
“Well boys, I think we are about to take a ride and find out how the roofing business is doing after all,” a smiling Sal said as he motioned for the men to back up slowly toward the waiting van.
Pinball & Preachers 