The True Adventures of a Vagabond

By SA John J DePasquale CW3 (Ret)

The True Adventures of a Vagabond is the story of a young boy growing up in Brooklyn, N.Y. without a father and learning first hand street sense where nothing comes easy for survival in a big city and that would, curiously and eventually come in  handy in his street-smart career as a Special Agent. His early years unwittingly started the chain of lifes events that would lead him to many foreign countries and meeting some of the most powerful men in the world. The early years started with the stealing of a car, the engagement of his first wife who happen to be engaged to someone else at the time and who continue in a direction with more questions than answers and who, with everything going against a kid growing in one on the toughest parts of N.Y. in a urban environment, became on of the highest decorated Special Agents within his field of expertise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SA John J DePasquale CW3 (Ret)
• Release date: Sep 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393432289

Book preview

CHAPTER I

Brooklyn, The Early Years

I grew up in one of the toughest parts of South Brooklyn, New York in the 1950s and ‘60s and during my youth lived on the periphery of frauds, high profile robberies, and Mafia murders. Although never personally involved, I sat in on many conversations with friends whose fathers and uncles were connected to these crimes.

The experience of these conversations, it turned out, would influence many of my future decisions. My friends and I spoke freely of their anti-social behavior of the day, but all held the code of silence—nothing said within the group was ever said outside our cir­cle of friends; to do so meant you had to leave the country or change your name and move to New Jersey. At night we hung around on our block playing cards, pitching pennies or driving the taxies at the Checker Cab Company.

My family was poor and I grew up without the influence of a father figure. I was the oldest of five with two brothers and two sis­ters, all of whom I never really got to know. I was seven years older and we had three different fathers between all of us. The only one who stayed around long enough for any of us to get to know was the last one, Joe, whom my mother later married. More on him later. 

Unlike my friends and their families, we were always on welfare and never had any extra money and sometimes little food. I attended St Thomas Aquinas Catholic school and as tough as we all thought we were, the nuns were tougher; no one would ever think of laying a hand on any of them. The Nuns knew they had full authority, with no backlash from parents like today, to kick the shit out of us if we were unruly.

One of my teachers, Sister Mary, calling me the demon from hell who came to earth to haunt her, had a barber strap and at times she would beat the hell out of me, once for throwing a kid down about six steps during a fire drill, we were really friends and playing around and he never got hurt, and this was our normal behavior. Sis­ter Mary, who saw me push him down the stairs, had to be no more that five feet tall but was as tough as any of us. I got the strap that day.

St Thomas Aquinas School with Sister Mary to the right,

I’m in the rear with circle

Many times, I went to school with holes in my shoes because my mother could not afford a new pair. When I arrived home for lunch—I lived too close to the school to qualify for their lunch pro­gram—I had the old reliable peanut butter and raspberry jelly sand­wich. Weekends were always my favorite because my aunt Beatrice, my mothers sister, would come over to our house and we would always have a large Italian dinner with the whole family, with every­thing always home made.

Although I had several close friends and we all got along well, I was never accepted by their families because of my not having a father. Old beliefs are hard to forget. One neighbor used to call me the bastard child. He never did get over my mother refusing his advances. He always blamed me—I’m sure I had something to do with it—and one day, while I was sitting on the curb about ten feet behind his old black four door Chevrolet, he got into his car and backed up and tried to hit me. I know he saw me because he looked at me when he got into the drivers seat. I pushed myself back onto the sidewalk and the car missed me by inches.

I called him all sorts of names. That night someone mysteriously burned his car while it was parked in front of his house. Bad things happen to bad people.

For money, I worked at a corner convenience store and at night a few of my friends and I stole from cars in the neighborhood. One night we took four tires from a Buick that just had new tires put on. We hid them in my friend’s basement and attempted to sell them the next day one of the local Mafia Connected guys came over to us while we were sitting on the front stoop of my house and told us a story about someone stealing his tires the night before. He knew it was us, and it was made clear that he would surely like them back. Within two hours we had the tires back on the car and threw in a car wash. Would you believe, he gave us five dollars. The moral of the story we took to heart then—you do not steal from someone on the same street you live on and never, never from a connected mob guy.

For money, I worked at a corner convenience store and at night a few of my friends and I stole from cars in the neighborhood. One night we took four tires from a Buick that just had new tires put on. We hid them in my friend’s basement and attempted to sell them the next day. One of the local Mafia-connected guys came over to us and told us a story about someone stealing his tires the night before.

He knew it was us, and it was made clear that he would surely like them back. Within two hours we had the tires back on the car and threw in a car wash. Would you believe, he gave us five dollars. The moral of the story we took to heart then—you do not steal from someone on the same street you live on and never, never from a connected mob guy.

In the winter, about two or three o’clock in the morning, we’d go to the local bakery and into the cellar where they made all of the doughnuts and cakes for that day. For a few cents each, we bought doughnuts right out of the oven. My favorite was always a plain crumb cake, still hot with powdered sugar. We would all buy several each and go to Duffy’s Funeral Parlor where Bobby the hunchback worked as an embalmer.

Bobby had a small lump on his back and was kind of strange, dressing in colorful outfits and walked in a daze as if he was sniffing some of the fluids he was using on the bodies. Bobby had no friends except for us, if that is what you wanted to call us. He never hung out with us but we liked going into the cellar where he worked and messed with him by sneaking into the cellar and pretending we were going to beat him up. We never did, but apparently he loved us looking for him.

The cellar was a warm place where we could eat our doughnuts which we shared with Bobby, He liked the cherry custard filled doughnuts, and sometimes we would throw the doughnuts at him and he would try to catch them in his mouth so his face was always full of cream and jelly. There was always a body being worked on and Bobby wouldn’t let us near it, but we were curious.

We started opening the few coffins that were in the basement. These were empty, but then— WOW!—we found Bobby lying in one of the coffins. That was creepy enough, but the really creepy part was that there was a female body in there with him. She had to be in her fifties, with a lot of makeup and ruby red lipstick and a red dress. Bobby was just lying there, squeezed in on his side, alongside the body, trying to hide from us. Little did Bobby know that all this scared the shit out of us and we all ran home leaving all our doughnuts. We never returned to mess with Bobby again.

––––––––

My first dog, a German Shepard named Lady, she died six months after I got her of Distemper, never had the money to get the shots she needed

TAXIS, START YOUR ENGINES

Another one of our pastimes was when several of us, all about fourteen, would drive the taxi cabs in the parking lot of the Checker Cab Taxi company on 6th street and 4th Avenue, the same block where most of us lived. My friends, Jimmy Mush, Crazy Frankie, and myself (they called me T bone because I was so skinny) drove the taxis at night, the rest of our friends riding as passengers. We had sev­eral keys each for the cars in case we lost one or they were taken away by the bigger kids who were sixteen and seventeen.

It took us hours of practice to learn to drive the cars that had clutches and column shifts; and as if it wasn’t tough enough, none of us could see above the steering wheel and out the front windshield without sitting on pillows or boxes, Jimmy Mush sat on his shoe shine box. I had a big pillow, while crazy Frankie sat on a wooden milk carton. Of course all of these were later confiscated by the police after we ran away. They could never catch us, since we knew all of the exits through the fences and over the roofs.

We caused thousands of dollars in damages and the Taxi Com­pany tried everything, including hiring off-duty policemen. We just waited until the policeman went off duty and then we’d drive. At one point they hired the biggest mechanic I had ever seen, a German who didn’t speak much English, to work the night shift. One night Jimmy, Frankie and I were each driving a car, and suddenly the German came running out. Verdamnt! he yelled. Schwein!, Dummkoffs! Stop it or I call police! We just kept circling the five-acre parking lot where they kept the cars, driving around the German in circles. He tried throwing rocks at us, but all he did was damage the taxis he was trying to protect.

One day he came too close to Crazy Frankie and he was almost run over. Murderer! he yelled, shaking his fist as he retreated back into the garage, where we knew he would call the police. We were naturally gone by the time they arrived. But we later got back at him. That night we started a fire in one of the 55-gallon drums they used as trash cans. After the fire department, police department and a few of his supervisors came and went, the German never came back to work. I was kind of sorry to see him go because he was the only one that chased us, which just added to the excitement.

It seemed hopeless for the Checker Cab Taxi Company. No one wanted to work the night shift because it was too dangerous. Then they hired Chico, a mechanic who was an Italian. Chico, a book-maker, seeing an opportunity, transferred to the 6th street Checker Cab garage, a prime location for his bookmaking where he took bets on horse races and numbers from the local race track. It was a great opportunity, with very little oversight from manage­ment, for him to take bets from the hundred or so taxi drivers. Chico was lucky. No other mechanic wanted to work there because of all the danger they faced at night from a gang of kids. The only problem Chico had, of course, was us. And we were a huge prob­lem. When drivers came to pick up their taxis for their shift they’d find candy wrappers and damage, mostly broken tail lights from our crashing into each other, so they couldn’t work. Since the cars were all assigned to specific drivers and no other cars were avail­able for the assigned drivers, they’d lose a day’s work. The old say­ing, If you can’t beat ’them, join them, worked wonders for Chico, because he had a plan. Chico knew who was driving the cars, so instead of trying to fight us he gave me a job gassing up the taxis as they came in from their nightly shifts. There was also work cleaning out the cars for the drivers, who in turn gave me tips. I believe he gave me the job because I was the only kid without a father, so I could stay out late without a father calling me home. My mother knew where I was and was all right with it, after all, I was making money and not bothering her.

With my new job, I couldn’t let my friends drive while I was working, so I invited them into the garage when it was slow and we all played cards with Chico. Meanwhile, Chico became well respected by the drivers at the taxi company. Not only were damages way down—though not eliminated because we still drove on Chico’s day off—there were no complaints from the drivers. I also made extra money running numbers for Chico, and, not surprisingly, when some­one won they gave me a big tip.

As for Joe, my mother’s live-in boyfriend, we never got along and we used to fight to the point I would throw whatever was in arm’s reach; sometimes knives. I never hit him but he got the message. And not only that, I ran a lot faster than him and he could never catch me. Sometimes the fights were so bad I had to sleep at my Aunt’s house, even though her husband, Harry, hated all of us, calling us freeload­ers because of my mother’s welfare status.

My stay at my Aunt’s house was always short, and when Joe calmed down I went back home. I told Chico about my problems with Joe. Chico was a tough son of a bitch. He had twenty brothers and sisters and would fight anyone. Chico said that he would talk with Joe to see what the problem was. I have no idea what Chico said, but I was never bothered again. After that when Joe saw me he would always go the other way.

Chico lasted about three or four years and was transferred when one of his supervisors found out about his bookmaking. They sent him to another garage, and that was the last we saw of Chico. We all missed him, though I missed him most especially since he was like the father I never had.

DESTINATION FLORIDA

By age sixteen, with Chico gone, I no longer worked at the Taxi garage and we no longer drove the cars at night. We were getting older. Also, after the new owners placed a full time armed watchman on duty, we lost all incentives. Meanwhile, I knew that if I stayed in New York I’d wind up like some of my friends who lived in the neigh­borhood: dead, in jail, or addicted to drugs. I had to find another job and save some money. I wanted to leave Brooklyn and move to another part of the United States. I just didn’t know where. When you live in New York, all you hear is how beautiful Florida is. So I fig­ured, why not Florida.

I’d started working as a gas station attendant in the neighbor­hood filling up cars at an Esso Station (later Exxon), cleaning win­dows, checking oil, and filling tires with air. I didn’t make much in salary or tips (people in Brooklyn were cheap), so to speed up my savings plan, while working the night shift, I used to turn back the numbers on the pump’s meter to show less gas sold at the end of that night. I then kept the difference, which was between twenty-five and fifty dollars a night. So much for winding up dead or in jail. I was on an express train to Rikers Island jail in New York.

Everything was going good until the station ran out of gaso­line because of inaccurate meter readings. They could not prove who it was, but they had their suspicions. I had to get out of town soon before they could prove I was the one turning back numbers.

Luckily it was in the spring. I didn’t want to run into snow on the Turnpike so it was a good time to leave New York. I wanted to drive to Florida but didn’t have enough money saved to buy a car and make the trip so I stole the gas station owner’s car, an old 1952 black four door Pontiac with the stick shift on the column. I had plenty of experience with stick shifts. I was moving closer to that train to Rikers. I had no map but figured that if I followed all of the signs south I would come to Florida eventually, and after I found Interstate 95 it was all downhill. All I had to do was follow the signs. I-95 was easy to drive on and I was making good time, lis­tening to the radio and seeing parts of the U.S. I’ve never seen before. Everything was going great until the right rear tire went flat. I was in the middle of nowhere.

No problem, I knew there was a spare in the trunk so I started jacking the rear of the car up and taking off the lug nuts. I didn’t know the State Highway Patrol cruised the turnpike for such emer­gencies until a patrolman pulled alongside to assist. He was a big fel­low and real polite, unlike the police then in New York who would have had me up against the trunk of the car, conducting a search. The patrolman asked me if he could help and I told him I had a spare and I would be on the road again in ten minutes. I continued changing the tire and when I finished he asked for my license and registration. I tried to play it cool even though I had just stolen a car and was prob­ably wanted in Brooklyn for the larceny. The car was never reported stolen but because I had no driver’s license or registration, the State Trooper took me into custody and I was placed in confinement and processed. The car was towed and later picked up by the owner who never pressed charges against me.

I lucked out, because of my age, sixteen. And the fact, to my surprise, that the owner did not press charges. They called my mother and had her pick me up from the detention center in New Jersey, just off the Turnpike. My mother never had a driver’s license in her life, so she had to rely on her live-in boyfriend, Joe (whom she later mar­ried), to drive her to pick me up.

I stayed in the detention facility all that day, the following day, and only on the afternoon of the third day did my mother and Joe arrive to pick me up. Now, being with Joe was never my finest moment. We fought every time we were together, due to an apparent mutual agreement— he hated me and I hated him.

Obviously, I did not want to return to Brooklyn, and listen to a lot