Carpooling with Carlos, Ch. 15

While bikers and their babes, hoodlums and ho’s were partying at the Newport Motel in Morgan City, Thomas Messina was at his parent’s home in Patterson, enjoying several days away from his job of driving Carlos Marcello to his many businesses throughout the state. Going home, staying in his old room was always a welcomed reprieve for the young Messina. The grownup world of mysterious meetings in places he knew his mother would not approve of, was starting to take a toll on the young man who had only been out of high school a few years.

Saturday morning, Thomas and his dad were up early, heading out to enjoy one of their favorite father and son pastimes. Fishing. 

The duo left their home at 6 am on Saturday morning, pulling their old aluminum boat across Rizzo bridge, taking an immediate right once they hit the gravel road that separated the sugar cane fields and the river. Messina’s dad drove another 100 yards and took another right-hand turn where he pulled up to the boat landing. 

While the elder Messina prepared to launch their boat, Thomas walked through a few feet of brush and trees and came out into an area known locally as the Shell Pile. This informal moniker came simply because this open space next to the Lower Atchafalaya River was a dumping ground of shells and sand, taken from barges by a crane with a large gravel bucket. Thomas reflected on the many days when he was a young kid, trying to climb these giant hills with his friends. His mind was filled with fond memories of playing a game of ‘king of the hill’ that often resulted in falls and many scrapes and scratches, but nothing serious enough to stop playing.

“Thomas, let’s go,” his dad called out.

“Coming,” Thomas yelled back, letting the memories of days gone by dissipate and float over the foggy river.

After a morning of fishing and an afternoon nap, Thomas and his family loaded up the family sedan and drove west crossing the Atchafalaya River into Morgan City, pulling into the parking lot of a recently opened Mexican restaurant. Carmen Izaguirre, a young restauranteur, had opened her Cantini and named it in honor of her hometown of Tampico, Mexico. Known for their incredible burritos and warm salsa and chips, the place was almost always packed but worth the wait. This was a perfect end to a perfect day for the Messina family.

Following a couple more days of catching up and hanging out with friends, Thomas was reclining in his dad’s favorite chair when the family phone began to ring. Before he even answered the phone, he knew that Marcello or someone in his organization would be on the other end of the line.

“Hello,” he answered but was immediately filled with dread when he heard the caller’s voice. 

“Messina, I need you go to Morgan City,” Marcello said, not asking but informing.

The crime boss explained to Messina about some problems that were happening in Morgan City at the Newport Motel that needed to be checked out. See what you can find out but don’t get involved, the boss told Messina. “Talk to Guarisco’s kid nephew and then drive back to Metairie. I’ll see you tonight.”

With that one short phone call, Thomas was back at work. An hour later he was closing in on the Newport Motel, nervously looking for a place to park his car. Seeing movement and activity in and around the motel, he knew bad things were going to take place if friends of Marcello got involved. Young Messina stood outside of his car, unable to believe what he was seeing and hearing.

The sound of two chopper motorcycles racing back and forth across the motel parking lot was deafening. Two burly, leather-clad men turned their bikes around and before starting off again, revved their engines over and over, letting the pulsing vibrations echo off the walls of the motel. Each time the bikers revved their motorcycles, the raucous crowd of spectators released their own painful yells and cheers. 

A group of choppers were lined up outside several rooms, their owners straddling the low-riding machines, smoking pot and drinking from cans of Jax Beer. The bikes with their lowered suspensions, extended front forks may have symbolized the counterculture of the day, but the attitude and rebellious nature of the bikers was an ‘in your face, spit in your eye, we don’t care about law and order’ arrogance that was not only scary, but dangerous.

Messina noticed the areas closest to the restaurant and the gambling room held just one car. Lacking cars and customers meant there wasn’t any money going to the mob. This is not going to end well, Messina said to himself. Turning his focus away from the mayhem, Messina made his way to the motel office to find the young manager.

Thomas Messina was near the motel door when he saw movement through the side window of the office. He stopped in front of a newspaper stand and pretended to read the headlines of that day’s edition of The Daily Review. Messina was alarmed to see one of the bikers holding Guarisco’s nephew at gunpoint, yelling at the scared young man to hand over the money that was in the cash register. There wasn’t enough time to drive to Metairie and report in. Messina needed to find a pay phone and immediately call his boss. Without drawing attention to the men inside the office, he turned around and quickly walked away.

Looking across the highway, Messina saw a payphone attached to the outside of the 5^th Quarter Lounge. Making sure he could cross the road safely; Messina waited for a few cars to pass and then ran directly to the payphone to make the call.

Thomas had made dozens of collect calls to the Town and Country Motel where Marcello kept an office. It was always a surprise to discover who would answer the call and accept the charges. This time, one of Marcello’s lieutenants answered and informed Messina that the boss had left town. Panic began to fill the young driver’s chest as he wondered how he was going to get the message to Marcello. A message that suddenly was life or death when Messina thought about Guarisco’s nephew and the biker back in the motel office.

“Oh man, that’s not good. I really need to speak to Mr. Marcello. There’s some bad stuff going down at the Newport in Morgan City.”

“Well kid, the good news is a friend called the boss 10 minutes after he called you and told him what was going down in MC,” the lieutenant said. “The bad news, at least for those renegade bikers, is someone is going to get hurt.”

“But there’s a lot of bikers, what’s Mr. Marcello and a few guys going to do? They can’t take on these guys.”

“Kid, you have a lot to learn. The boss has lots of friends. Some in high places, some in low places,” referring to people high up in government, police departments, local businesses. But in low places, Thomas knew that Marcello had plenty of bad actors, law breakers and your everyday thug that he could call upon to do his dirty work.

“I’d advise you to be gone from Brashear City as soon as you can,” the long-time Marcello enforcer said while also referencing Morgan City’s original town name.