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  Summers in Greenwood Lake were idyllic. Because of the cool breeze that emanated off the lake, most homes didn't even have air conditioning. The winters were cold, but even when the temperature dipped below zero, it felt warmer in Greenwood Lake than it did on frigid twenty degree days in New York City .

  Tony B's four-bedroom lakeside home was on the New York side of Jersey Avenue, two miles from the town of Greenwood Lake. In the back of his house, he had a dock where he kept his pontoon boat “The Ba Fongool.” Tony B loved going out on the lake to spend some quiet time with nature and for other important things to; like disposing of the bodies of people who were not too good to Tony B.

  Tony B's favorite time to take his boat out for a spin was after dark. When the moon shone on the lake, it was ideal for Tony B to dump a dead body, or two, which were weighed down with concrete blocks, so no one could realize the victims were dead for a long time, or maybe even never. Even though Greenwood Lake had been used as a mob burial ground since the 1920's, not one body deposited in its green waters had ever risen to the surface. It was as if Greenwood Lake had just swallowed them up whole.

  Tony B's home was built in the Roaring Twenties and had a secret room behind a phony wall in the basement, that he could access by pressing a hidden button behind a bookcase. This room had been used as a speakeasy during Prohibition, but in the 60's it was Tony B's war room, where he counted skim money from his Greenwood Lake bars and conducted meetings of his crew. This room was also sometimes used to straighten out a delinquent payer, or maybe a bartender who was acting like a he was Tony B's partner.

  Even though Tony B owned five bars in Greenwood Lake, he was never actually on the premises, except to collect his weekly cut. Each bar had a bartender/manager, who ran the joint and reported back to Tony B if there were any problems that needed to be straightened out. Whenever Tony B bounced around town, he followed mob commandment number one, concerning the ownership of anyplace where alcohol is served.

  NEVER DRINK IN YOUR OWN BAR.

  Drinking in your own bar was invariably bad for business. Get drunk in your own bar and people considered you weak. Get drunk in someone else's bar and they considered you a good sport.

  As for the bartenders, they couldn't drink in any bar they worked in either. If you let bartenders drink when they were off-duty in bar they worked in, their brother bartenders will serve them free drinks all night. One hand washes the other in the bartender business. That was OK on the face of it. But it was not OK, if all the hand washing was done with Tony B's booze.

  Then there was mob commandment number 2.

  NEVER HIRE A FEMALE BARTENDER.

  Invariably, male customers ogled the female bartenders, and sooner or later guys got into beefs over the broad, which usually initiated the destruction of Tony B's furniture, which was not good for Tony B's bottom line.

  Another reason not to hire skirts is very simple. Due to the laws of Mother Nature, when they got their monthly visit from “their friend,” they were useless for several days. When this happened, even if they did show up for work, they were mean and nasty and ready to chop off the head of anyone who even looked at them cross-eyed.

  Female bartenders aside, anyway you cut it, bartenders were born thieves. One way or another, they all instigated assorted types of chicanery, intended to take money out of Tony B's pockets. Their tricks were too numerous to count, but the bottom line in the bar business is that a little robbing is sometimes tolerated, but don't make yourself a partner with the cash register. Then very bad thing could happen to you. Permanent things.

  Take the case of Teddy Muldoon, a refugee from Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen, who made his home in Greenwood Lake. Teddy came with good references, so Tony B put him to work behind the stick of his Greenwood Lake gold mine — The Pink Pussycat. Teddy was real good with the customers and didn't have a strong pouring hand, which suited Tony B just fine.

  Soon, Tony B made Teddy his manager, in charge of ordering, scheduling, and the hiring and firing of the other thieving bartenders. During the summer months, Greenwood Lake was hopping every night of the week. During the other months, the weekends were the big moneymakers and some clubs closed Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, just to save money on the electricity.

  In the summer of 1960, Tony B noticed his weekly cut from the Pink Pussycat had dropped more than thirty percent from the summers of previous years.

  He confronted Teddy with this fact, to which Teddy replied, “Yeah, things are slower than last year. All these new bars popping up are cutting into everybody's bottom lines.”

  The only problem with that line of reasoning was that Tony B's other four bars were doing just fine, like they had done every other year during the summer.

  Terry Muldoon knew about Tony B's other bars and should have known his explanation was weak. But an Irishman born in Hell's Kitchen didn't exactly possess the mental capabilities of Alfred Einstein, or whatever Mrs. Einstein's son's first name was anyway.

  “I smell a rat,” Tony B told Skinny Benny, who also owned a couple of Greenwood Lake bars.

  “I don't like rats,” Skinny Benny said. “They sneak in at night and eat all the food, especially the cheese.”

  Tony B was not as brain dead as his longtime friend, so he put a plan into motion to find out exactly how Teddy Muldoon was robbing Tony B blind. Tony B hired Patrick Casey, a retired New York City cop, whose private detective business' specialty was clocking bars for owners who were having unexplainable cash flow problems.

  Pat Casey visited the Pink Pussycat at different hours, on different days of the week, for more than a month. But he could not detect any one of the several tricks bartenders employ to finger their bosses' cash.

  Finally, Pat Casey set up a meet with Tony B to report on his progress. They sat in the hidden room in Tony B's basement and sipped from glass snifters of Remy Martin Louis XIII that had fallen off the back of a fat liquor truck.

  “I've been to your joint more than a dozen times and for the love of me I can spot a thing,” Pat Casey said.

  “That can't be,” Tony B said. “Someone is robbing my eyes out.”

  Pat Casey took a sip of Cognac. “I've clocked all the different bartenders, including Teddy Muldoon, and they're all operating on the up and up. I even had two of my guys visiting at different times on different days and they can't come up with anything either.”

  “That's impossible,” Tony B said. “You're missing something someplace.”

  “What could I be missing?” Pat Casey said. He took another sip from the snifter. “Your joint is packed every night and all the bartenders are playing square. Your three cash registers are clanging like crazy and I can't spot a damn thing.”

  A bell went off in Tony B's head. He took a sip of Remy. “Say that again.”

  Pay Casey downed the Remy and poured himself another. “I said, all your three registers are clanging like crazy. You should be making a mint.”

  Bingo!

  Tony B threw his glass snifter against the wall, spraying glass in all directions. “The Pink Pussycat has only two cash registers, only two freakin' cash registers.”

  A few days later, Tony B invited Teddy Muldoon to his house in Greenwood Lake for a barbecue in the back yard. Skinny Benny was there flipping steaks, shrimp, burgers and franks. Richie Ratface mixed the drinks. Bloody Marys. Pina Coladas. Mai Tai's. Boilermakers. Whatever drink Teddy Muldoon desired, he got. And he got plenty of them too.

  Muldoon also ate like a pig. Three steaks. Four hamburgers. Two pounds of shrimp and about a half a dozen franks. And why not? After all, it was Teddy Muldoon's going away party; his going-away-for-good party. So why not let the man enjoy himself one last time?

  And go away he did. Like Houdini disappearing from a locked coffin. Only Muldoon's coffin wasn't locked. In fact, it was spacious and quite wet.

  Tony B, with special help from Skinny Benny and Richie Ratface, took care of the initial festivities. Then the magic of “The Ba Fongool,” in conj
unction with the wide and deep expanse of Greenwood Lake, took care of the rest.

  Tony B figured there was no one less crooked bartender for the world to contend with. And nobody, except crooked bartenders, could complain about that.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ann O'Reilly

  In 1960, Tony B met the love of his life, Ann O'Reilly, a lovely Irish lass who was the librarian at the local Greenwood Lake library. Tony B was used to the Italian broads in Little Italy, who were a little rough around the edges, didn't hesitate to curse and would cut your throat like a man. Ann was different. Blond and built like Ginger Rogers, she had a sweet smile and a vocabulary an English teacher would admire. Tony B met Ann when he dropped into the Greenwood Lake library to pick up the biography of Al Capone for some light summer reading.

  It was love at first sight for Tony B. He had never met a girl like Ann before. So soft and sweet, always smiling. Not a bad thing in the world to say about anyone. Not like the bawdy cuginettes, strutting about Manhattan's Little Italy and Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. The kind of broads who were either snapping gum, puffing an unfiltered Camel, or cursing and spitting out of the sides of their mouths.

  After a few more trips to the Greenwood Lake library, and after he ran out of mob books for Ann to find for him, Tony B asked her for a date. She accepted and Tony B was floating on air when he arrived at the door of her Greenwood Lake home.

  But not for long.

  Tony B didn't know it at the time, but the problem men had with dating Ann, was her loud, vulgar, Irish-bastard father, who was the Major of Greenwood Lake and loving every minute.

  Ryan O'Reilly drove a Daily News delivery truck for a living, and that being a union job, he was controlled by the friends of Tony B's. In truth, O'Reilly did not like Italians too much. He called them Guineas, Greaseballs, Dagos and Wops. And that was on the days he liked them.

  Wearing his best sharkskin suit and holding two dozen roses in his hand, Tony B knocked on the O'Reilly resident door. It was opened by a big, fat, tub of lard, whose immense figure blocked the entire entrance.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” Ryan O'Reilly said

  Tony B forced a smile. “I'm here to pick up your daughter, sir.”

  “My daughter? What is this? Some kind of sick joke?”

  That said, O'Reilly slammed the door in Tony B's face.

  Tony B could hear the Mick bastard scream from inside the house, “Oh Bejesus. What, in Paddy O'Leary's name is that greaseball doing at my front door?”

  The door soon opened and a pretty, middle-aged, blond woman appeared. She smiled at Tony B. “You must be Tony. I'm Ann's mother Betty. Please have a seat on the porch and my daughter will be out shortly.”

  Tony B sat on a wicker chair. “Thank you, ma'am.”

  “Can I get you some ice tea, or a soda?” Betty said.

  “No thanks, Ma'am.”

  Betty smiled. “I'll tell Ann you're outside waiting for her.”

  That said, she sashayed back inside the house and Tony B could not help but admire her fine rear end.

  A few minutes later, a stunning Ann O'Reilly walked out the front door.

  Thus, started their first date.

  Tony B didn't think it was a good idea to take a classy lady like Ann to one of the hot joints in Greenwood Lake. So he thought it would be a nice idea to take her to the Warwick Drive-In Movie, which was just on the other side of scenic Mt. Peter, on Route 17 A.

  Tony B was a little confused as to what the proper protocol would be on a first date with a class act like Ann. Most of the bimbos Tony dated in New York City would open their legs wide on a first date, as easy as opening a bottle of beer with a church key. But Ann was different, so Tony B decided to proceed with caution.

  They were at the Warwick Drive-In, sitting in Tony B's 1960 black Fleetwood Cadillac convertible, with the top up, watching Anatomy of a Murder starring James Stewart. The Caddy had red leather, bench seats in the front, and Tony B didn't know exactly how far he should slide over to the middle, without giving the impression he was trying to get fresh. So Tony B sat far left in the driver's seat, almost touching the driver's door, not to give the impression he was about to put on any moves.

  The speakers at the drive-in were hooked to poles jammed into the ground, with a removable speaker attached to either side of the pole. It was situated so that two cars could share one pole, with each having their own speaker. You removed the speaker from the pole, slid down your window a bit and hooked the speaker onto your window,

  After picking up a box of Bob Bon's, a large bucket of popcorn and two sodas at the drive-in refreshment stand, Tony B pulled the Caddy into a parking spot, halfway back from the screen, in the middle of the drive-in. He parked so that the speaker was by Ann's window, so that she could hear the movie more clearly. It was the right thing to do.

  Soon after, a small foreign car pulled up on the other side of the pole. The driver removed the other speaker and hooked it onto his window.

  Tony B and Ann watched the movie quietly, with nary a word passing between them. Which was kind of strange since they were not in a movie house, where speaking out loud was considered not good decorum. But when Tony B got nervous, he clammed up. Better to say nothing than to say the wrong thing, especially on the first date.

  The movie had a decent plot, and Tony B had a soft spot for the killer played by Ben Gazzara, an Italian paisan, born and bred on Manhattan's Lower East Side. In the movie, Gazzara's character is on trial for killing the creep who raped his wife, played by Lee Remick, who looked like the girl sitting next to Tony B.

  Ann wore a tight black cashmere sweater, over a black cotton skirt, cut at the knee, and every so often Tony B would peek at her shapely legs from the corner of his eye.

  The movie ended and a second feature was about to start. It was called Night of the Giant Leeches. Tony B knew a few two-legged leeches of his own, but as soon as the first scene started, Ann let out a soft moan.

  “You like these kind of movies?” Tony B said.

  Ann shivered. “No. I actually hate them.”

  “Do you want to split?”

  “Yes, that would be a good idea.”

  Tony B started the car, put it in drive and pulled away from the parking spot, unfortunately before Ann could remove the speaker from her window.

  Tony B's Caddy moved barely twenty feet, when he heard, a loud crack and Ann screaming.

  Tony B glanced back to his right and saw that he had pulled the speaker pole right out of the ground, and in the process, had snapped the fogged window out of the small foreign car parked next to them, sending shards of glass flying in all directions.

  Tony B stepped on the accelerator and yelled to Ann, “Quick, unhook the speaker from the window!”

  She did just that, and Tony B screeched a wheelie to the left, swirling up the gravel. He glanced into his rear view mirror and spotted the driver of the foreign car darting out the driver's door, then falling flat on his face. The dope's pants were around his ankles and those not immersed in the Attack of the Giants Leeches, got a clear look at his skinny ass and embarrassing half-a-hardon.

  Tony B floored the Caddy, raced out of the Drive-In, sped over the Mt. Peter and didn't stop until he was safely back in Greenwood Lake.

  The Warwick Drive-In became the weekly Saturday night date for the two lovebirds. Instead of stopping at the Warwick's Drive-In's refreshment stand, Tony B stocked his car with treats from home, including beer and sometimes scotch, or brandy, which came in handy on the cold winter nights, when Tony B had to keep his car running, the heater on full blast, just to keep them from freezing to death.

  As the weeks and months passed, Tony B and Ann sat closer together in the front seat of the Caddy. Showing her the proper respect she deserved, Tony B limited his amorous attempts to no more than kissing and light petting. And an occasional hand exploration of her curvy body.

  Starting around the Christmas holidays of 1962, things took a turn for the better. It start
ed with Ann giving him an occasional hand job, because Tony B had convinced her, if she didn't relieve him in some way, he'd get a bad case of “blue balls,” which would render him bent over in terrible pain.

  One thing led to another and pretty soon it was time for the main event.

  Tony B always carried a rubber in his wallet, just in case. The Saturday before Christmas, while Norman Bates was going Psycho on the screen, and the temperature outside in Warwick was nearing zero, Tony B and Ann, rubber in place, consummated their relationship in the back seat of the Caddy. After the deed was done, Tony B removed the soggy rubber and flung it out the passenger’s side window.

  They watched the rest of the movie, and after Norman Bates dressed in his mother's clothes and a scraggly wig, tried to slice up a female motel guest and was thereby sent to the nuthouse, Tony B started the Caddy, left the Warwick Drive-In and headed back to Ann's Greenwood Lake home.

  He parked in her driveway, nose of the Caddy facing in.

  “Come inside,” Ann said. “My parents bought you a Christmas present.”

  Tony B cut the ignition, and he and Ann entered the front door of the O'Reilly residence. The living room was decorated in Early American, with a huge Christmas tree with presents under it propped up by the front bay window.

  Ann's mother Betty was radiant as ever. A forty-something fox with roving eyes, especially after she had imbibed a few martinis, which was almost every night. Tony B figured, a woman with a husband like Ryan O'Reilly, had to knock down a few on a regular basis just not to go crazy.

  “Oh Tony, so good to see you,” Betty said. She was holding an empty martini glass delicately by her right ear. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Tony B and Ann sat on the couch.

  “No thanks, ma'am,” Tony B said, “I'll be going in a few minutes.”

  “Oh don't be silly,” Betty said. “I was just about to refill mine, how about a small martini?”

  “Could you make it a scotch straight up instead?” Tony B said.

  “One scotch, neat, coming up,” Betty said. She turned to Ann. “Anything for you dear?”