Quagmire

By Joe Spano

A young Italian immigrant, from Detroit who with his fists, friends, and wits, wanted to live the good life. He yearned to "be somebody" and that meant getting the money to have and do the things to get respect, wine, women, and power.
Lucky was going to prove his worth and be respected, one way or another. It started with muscle, continued with guts, and persevered with brains. It brought him and the men he called friends, into a Detroit union and into power, where elections, strikes, work disputes and schemes were all necessary to get the job done. Wherever there is power and money, you can find booze, drugs, criminal activity, violence, organized crime and ultimately treachery, because Every Time He Gained Something, He Lost Something Else

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781728376943

Joe Spano

My uncle and his friends came into the union as enforcers against other unions, in the 50's and he worked his way up to become its leader and visionary in ‘67. I grew up in Metro Detroit and got into the union when he was elected and worked as a tradesman, then union rep and eventually supervision to totally support him, even to my chagrin. I saw and experienced the loyal union life and the seedy side of men, the industrial construction industry, and the mafia.

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2023 Joe Spano. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/09/2023

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7693-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7695-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7694-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900422

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

The first time the phone rang I was annoyed. Not annoyed enough to answer the thing and make it stop, but annoyed. The second time the phone rang I knew it was trouble. 7:30 in the morning, no one calls to tell you something good that early. I’d barely had time to make a pot of coffee before the phone rang for a third time. Taking a deep breath, I crossed myself and said a quick prayer that both my parents were still alive.

Hello, I answered, but it came out more like a question.

Joe, hey, it’s your dad. Hearing his voice, I knew at least one half of my prayer had been answered.

Everything okay, dad?

Something felt off. Normally, he’d launch into a series of questions that I’d come to refer to as the checklist: how’s the family, how you doing, how’s work. Always in that order. He took his role as head of what he called la famiglia seriously. When I was a kid, those duties were performed around the dinner table. As his kids grew up, the phone became his platform for ensuring the bonds of his loved ones remained strong. As a kid—well, let’s be honest, even as a young man—his constant questions annoyed the hell out of me. But now that I was a grown man with a family of my own, my irritation had turned to admiration and respect. I looked forward to those calls, knowing they were in limited supply. But the silence after our greeting made it clear that this was something different.

Dad, you still there?

Yeah, son, it’s good to hear your voice.

Great, as if an early morning phone call wasn’t a bad enough sign, now we had sentimentality and unwarranted nostalgia, too.

It’s good to hear you too, Dad. Is everything okay? You usually don’t call this early, especially on the weekend.

Of course, of course, nothing to worry about, didn’t mean to startle you. Yes, yes, everything is fine. Everything is going good. He paused and sighed into the receiver. Well, except I guess maybe there is one little thing that’s bothering me. Your uncle, you heard from him lately?

You couldn’t count all my uncles on one hand, but I knew right away which one he was talking about. There was only one my father’s brothers that my dad couldn’t handle. Uncle Lucky. I called him Uncle Doc. Dominick was his birth name, but just about everyone called him Lucky. You’ll understand why later.

I dunno, dad, I guess I talked with him a couple weeks ago. But if I’m being honest, I don’t think he’s got much use for me since I left the union. And I don’t think he’s been relying on family as much as he used to.

Joe, that’s just it. You hit the nail on the head, and that’s what’s got me so worried. When exactly did this uncle of yours forget that blood is thicker than water? I mean, outsiders, they can be useful, but only to a point. They’ll only take you so far. He let out a deep exhale, the kind that signaled he was shifting away from his ranting mode and into his reflective one. If your grandfather was still around, he’d set him straight, I’ll tell you that much.

I rolled my eyes, a little pissed off that he’d woken me up just to put me in the middle of a brothers’ quarrel. My dad was older than Uncle Lucky, but ever since Uncle Lucky became head of the Detroit Millwrights Union, it was like my dad and him were in a cold war over who was the head of our family. I didn’t really give a damn about it. So after a respectful amount of silence, I tried to appease him and pivot the conversation.

Of course, dad, I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee and relaxing into clichés, grandpa was one hell of a man. Last I knew, though, Uncle Lucky wasn’t in the business of taking advice from anyone, not even grandpa. So, lay it on me: what’d he do this time?

Well, he, uh, well, we can’t find him. I don’t know, he, uh, took off or something. No one knows. Just no one’s heard from him last couple days. You two, you were always close, I thought maybe he might have reached out to you.

Close wasn’t the word I’d use to describe my relationship with my Uncle Lucky. Not anymore. Not since that day he called me into his office and asked me to start a fight with Harvey Hemming because he thought Harvey was rallying votes against him. His mafioso comrade Frankie Q at his side, arms crossed in his cashmere sweater, mouthful of bright cigarette, saying to me over and over again in that deep mumbly voice of his: do it for the family, Joe. Do it for the family.

No, we weren’t close no more. Lucky was nothing if not practical, and you only stayed close to him if you stayed useful to him. I got myself so worked up thinking about my dad calling me and Uncle Lucky close that I hardly even cared about the big word: disappeared.

Alright, well, just calm down, Dad. You haven’t talked to everyone. You don’t even know most of these guys he hangs around with now.

I was thinking about Frankie Q and about Eddie Balgoul, the leader of a bunch of Chaldean and Lebanese heavies my uncle had brought in—the Praetorian Guard, he’d taken to calling them. Probably my dad didn’t wanna know about them. And why get him more worked up than he already was. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Lucky to go on a quick weekend getaway without telling anyone.

What about Ralph, Dad?

Ralph’s the one who called me, Joe.

Ralph was Lucky’s right hand, at least he was before Frankie Q showed up on the scene. They’d grown up together, kicked ass together, broke into the union together. Ralph was gonna be my first call, and I figured that’s all it’d take to solve the mystery of the missing uncle.

Listen, you gotta understand this about my uncle, he wasn’t any ordinary man. Uncle Lucky was one part wrecking ball, another part pit bull, with a dash of Machiavelli thrown in. Guys like my uncle, no one gets the better of.

Joe, it’s the first Saturday of June.

It didn’t click at first. I’d been away from the union long enough to forget the significance of that date. The first Saturday of June was Election Day in the Millwright’s union. And while I didn’t have any doubt that Uncle Lucky would win, you’d think he’d at least show up to celebrate.

There was some turbulence, sure. I still spent enough time around the union guys to hear some shit. And don’t let them fool you, those guys were tough but they gossip like teenage girls at slumber party. I’d heard all kinds of things. Like that Eddie Balgoul, the head of the Praetorian Guard, was fed up with taking orders and was looking to make a move on Lucky. Or that Frankie Q had been directed by high-ranking members of the Detroit mafia to turn Lucky into their puppet, after all the ground they’d lost with the Teamsters. I’d even heard that Lucky had started working with the Feds—why the hell he’d be doing that, no one could say for sure. Repeating any of this to my dad wouldn’t calm him down one bit, so I decided to take a page out of ole’ Uncle Lucky’s playbook and just lie until I could figure out a truth that suited me better.

You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you that he and Ralph had some kind of falling out. Maybe Ralph was just using you to test the waters. Give me a little time, I’ll make some a few calls. I’ll let you know when I hear about him shacked up with some broad, and then you can go back to worrying about his soul rather than his life.

I thought he’d laugh at that, but not even a chuckle. Okay, Joe. You let me know. He paused. I’m just glad you’re okay.

My dad knew how disappointed I’d been about not being put in Lucky’s inner circle. Seemed like I was on the fast-track when I came in second place in the national millwright’s apprentice competition. Now, though, I think my dad was relieved that Uncle Lucky had kept me at a distance, maybe this call was as much about me as it was his brother. La famiglia, its shepherd looking after its sheep, black and white alike.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but one thing I knew is that my dad was good man, and I was gonna do anything I could to put him at ease about his brother. And that’s just what I was gonna do, after a few more hours of sleep. Once I got to the bottom of it, Uncle Lucky was gonna hear a few choice words that a nephew probably shouldn’t say to his uncle, but, then again, most nephews never had an uncle like Lucky.

CHAPTER 1

T URN IT UP, LUCKY, TURN it up! Ralph shouted over the cocktail of noise in the truck, equal parts struggling engine and radio static, with just a barely audible dash of Tony Martin crooning There’s no Tomorrow.

Don’t you think I would if I could, Ralphie. We’re pushing this ole heap’s speakers as it is.

We gotta get a better truck, Luck, you know, one with a radio that’s louder than the engine.

A better truck? We don’t even have this one except for when my dad has us running deliveries. Maybe buy yourself a bike, Ralph. I’m sure you could hear Tony just fine riding one of those.

Yeah, but then I’d need to buy a radio, too. That’s a lot of money, Luck.

Lucky swung the old truck off the dirt road and onto some clean pavement, and the engine groaned a little less in gratitude for its lessened burden.

Hey I can hear every other word now, things are looking up.

Lucky laughed, not because it was funny, but because he liked the way Ralph wasn’t afraid to give him shit. Everybody else was. Ralph, though, Ralph knew how push Lucky just far enough. He knew when to stop, too. He’d keep an eye on the right side of Lucky’s lip: if he started to see it curling up, into that dog snarl of his, then he knew there was trouble coming. That’s why Ralph and the other boys in their crew took to jokingly calling him Mad Dog. But Lucky didn’t like jokes, not jokes at his expense anyway. He was what adults would call a brooding youth. Well, hold on, that’s not quite right. Rich kids brood. Poor kids, they just got a chip on their shoulder.

Now, it wasn’t like Lucky was so poor that he didn’t have food on the table. He lived on a farm after all, so that was never a problem. What he was was poor enough to know there was a whole lot of other stuff that he was missing out on.

Lucky dreamed about making his own fortune, and so I guess he thought maybe if he had people started calling him Lucky than he’d will his luck into existence. I think he got the name from that Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong song I’m Just a Lucky So and So. Then when Tony Martin did his version a few years later, Lucky would be playing it nonstop, moving the needle back over every time the song ended. Maybe he missed the point of the song, because Lucky was never satisfied with what he had. He always wanted more. More money, more power, more recognition.

Ralph thought back to that time a few months ago when Lucky pulled the truck over all the sudden, jumped out, and just started screaming about how he wasn’t gonna let himself be another nobody. The screams turned into sobs, before Lucky finally regained his composure and hopped back into the truck like nothing had even happened. Wiping away his tears, he looked Ralph dead in the eye and said, I’m gonna be somebody, Ralph. We’re gonna be somebodies.

There was never much time to dream about the details, though, not with his dad working him to the bone on the family farm. That’s why he looked forward to the days when his dad told him to make deliveries. Sure, the truck wasn’t as glamorous as the cars he imagined he’d be driving once was he was a success, but being in the car made him look at the world differently than being on the farm. Something about the open air, the freedom. Plus, he got to bring along a friend with him, and nine times out of ten that friend was Ralph. Ralph Cusamano was the smartest kid that Lucky knew, and when Lucky was with Ralph anything seemed possible. If Ralph could think it, Lucky could will it into existence.

They pulled up to Eastern Market to make their first delivery and both hopped out of the truck with an enthusiasm that had nothing to do with keeping on schedule. At that time in the 1950s, even on the outskirts of downtown, Detroit was bustling, all flash: new cars, shiny chrome, and men striding around in expensive suits. This was the Motor City, and its residents were proud to have made their own money. Sure as hell wasn’t New York City, and they didn’t want to it to be either. This was the Midwest, and its people did wealth big and vulgar, without any of that refinement bred in the gentry down east. Tacky, gaudy, call it what you will, but that was the kind of wealth Lucky wanted.

As Lucky, lost in thought, stared at a well-dressed man who he imagined had to be some kind of big shot auto exec, escorting a gorgeous woman into a Cadillac, he felt a shoulder crash into his back. Before he could even snarl back at him, the kid, probably a couple years older than Lucky and Ralph, yelled out at him.

Hey, watch where you’re going, you dirty wop!

Why don’t you just worry about where you’re walking, you stupid mick.

One good ethnic slur deserved another, Lucky figured. That got the kid’s attention, got that kid’s friends’ attention, too, all three of them. The kid was looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old, but Lucky didn’t care if he was twenty-six, he wasn’t gonna let some curly red-haired punk bump into him, let alone shit on him for being Italian. Unlike Ralph, they weren’t used to reading that snarl on Lucky’s face, so the group of four teens walked right up to Lucky and Ralph.

You little wops come here to serve us our food or something? Can’t see why else they’d you two out on the loose.

No sooner had the red-haired punk turned to take in his friends’ laughing approval than Lucky’s fist came crashing into his jaw.

Here we go, Ralph muttured to himself, adjusting his glasses, like that was what gave them that magic property that kept them from ever getting smashed up in these brawls.

Lucky pounced on the reeling redhead, planning to knock a few teeth out of his smart mouth. The other three ran towards Lucky, emboldened by their numbers advantage. They would have grabbed Lucky and stomped the hell out of him, but Ralph came rushing in like a linebacker, taking down two of the boys in a jumble. Lucky scrambled back up to his feet, leaving Red coughing on his own blood on the ground below him. Ralph was tied up with his two, so Lucky went after the last man standing. The two squared up, Lucky crouched down like Jake Lamotta, weaving back and forth, feinting a right hook before landing a left-handed jab right to the kid’s throat, leaving him gasping for breath. Ralph had regained his feet, readjusted his glasses, and then the two of them assumed the position that they had so many times before, back-to-back, ready to take on any newcomers.

There were people surveying the scene, some excited by the action, others merely rolling their eyes. In those days, it was just boys being boys. With no one left to fight and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Lucky grabbed a potato from his discarded crate, bent down towards Red and shoved the potato in the kid’s bloodied mouth. Yeah, that’s right, we came to bring you your food. Isn’t that what they say about them micks, Ralphie, they love potatoes?

Hey you goddamn little hooligans! An adult’s voice finally entered the fray. One of you responsible for this hunk of junk blocking the door?

Fighting a group of eighteen year olds didn’t scare Lucky, but an adult—and an important looking one like this—that did phase him. That old truck wasn’t much, but it was about all Lucky’s family had, and something about this guy told Lucky he was the kind of person with the power to screw things up for them with that truck. Him and Ralph weren’t sure if the guy was really upset about the truck, or if he was pissed about the fight and using the truck to make a point. But as good Catholic boys, they knew one thing for sure: they’d done something wrong and with sin often followed swift and severe punishment. Ralph nudged Lucky, who shot a look a back at Ralph, and then looked back towards the man, head lowered in a gesture of what he hoped looked like contrition.

It’s mine. I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to leave it there. The delivery should’ve only taken a minute.

"Should’ve, huh? Didn’t account for the time it would take to beat the living daylights out of a couple of Irish boys, huh?

That scared them. Maybe he was one of the boy’s dads, maybe he was just Irish himself and he didn’t like seeing his people getting smacked around by a couple of Italians. Whatever he was, the guy looked tough. He was lean but muscular, with a malevolent look in his eyes. Lucky had been in enough fights to know by looking in the guy’s eyes how threatening they were.

Mister, I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that. They…they started it: shoving us, calling us names.

And they were older than us anyway, Ralph suddenly chimed in. Only thing we really hurt was their pride.

The man hadn’t so much as blinked since he’d started interrogating them. So let me get this straight. It was those poor dumb Irish boys fault for starting a fight and thinking they’d come out on top. And you two, you’re just two humble and innocent fellas. The man took a deep breath and stared into the sky, the reluctant Italian instruments of justice. That all sound about right to you?

Neither of them was sure how to respond to that, and Lucky started to mentally gear up for another fight. Who cared how big and strong this guy looked; Lucky had gotten the snot kicked out of him by much older guys before. Better to take a beating than to lose the family’s truck.

But Ralph, ever the shrewd mediator spoke up. Yes, mister, something like that. Just as serious and unflinching as their interrogator.

At that, the man finally burst out laughing. This one, he said, pointing at Lucky, he looked like he was about ready to tear my head off. And you, something like that, he said, in an exaggerated imitation of Ralph, adjusting the glasses and everything. You boys are too much, too goddamn much. I like you two, his laugh trailed off, but you still better get your asses in gear and move that goddamn truck."

I’ll move it right now, sir, and we’re really sorry for wasting your time. Lucky was still on his best behavior because who the hell knew what this guy was gonna do next.

"I’m busting your chops, kid. Ease up. Move it, don’t move, I could care less. Not even my door. Now, what I am interested in is what you got in the bed of that truck. You know, I’ve been thinking about getting a new produce guy. This guy I got now, it’s the same shit with him every goddamn time. He can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that I got things to do, like another job, and I don’t got time to be picking up after his mess. You boys might be what I could use. You seem—what’s the word I’m looking for—self-sufficient. What do you think, could you squeeze another delivery into your busy schedules?"

Well, I’d have to check with my dad, but I can tell you that we never turn down new business. Not ever. And whatever problems you had with your last guy, you won’t have any of that with us. You ask around this neighborhood, mister, they’ll tell ya, you can trust the Spinas.

That’s all well and good, kid. And no disrespect to your old man, but I need an answer now. So, what do you say, can you do it or can’t you? Believe me, I can look around the neighborhood and find myself another guy.

Lucky hesitated for a moment. His dad would smack him for turning down new business. He let the scenario play out in his head. What, are you some sort of secret millionaire I don’t know about? Turning down money. Smack, to the back of his head. It’s just, I didn’t wanna do it without asking you, pop. Be a go-getter, Dominick, smack, now hard on the cheek. This is America, Dominick, no one gives you anything unless you take it." Smack, a little lighter on the other cheek now, then forcefully grabbing both cheeks until Lucky looked him in the eye. A go-getter, he’d say, like he was performing hypnotism.

But then Lucky imagined what it’d be like if he told his dad he took on business without asking him first. What, you think you’re the big man of the family now, huh? The smacks would come in rapid succession. What, this guy you’re working for he’s some kind of big shot, you take orders from him now. Smack. You’re old man, he’s not good enough for you, huh? Smack. Yeah, he’d get more abuse for going behind his dad’s back, but he knew his dad would be happy about the money, no matter what he said or did to Lucky. He’d look at him differently. He’d yell at Lucky but he’d say to his brothers, see, why can’t you be more like your baby brother, Dominick, you don’t see him waiting around for things to be handed to him. He’s a go-getter, that’s what he is.

Lucky made a compromise. We’ll do it, sir. But I’m going to talk to my dad about, you know, about the prices and all that.

The man smiled and jokingly said. You run a hard bargain, kid. Alright, you gotta deal. Now the man stepped closer to Lucky, close enough that Lucky could smell alcohol on his breath, or maybe it was just on his clothes. Now, I’m sure this produce of yours has got some kind of set price or whatever. It’s a commodity, I get all that. But let me tell you this, boy: if you come back to me with some kind of over-charging hustle for a sack of potatoes, you’re gonna have me to answer to me. And, let me tell you, I ain’t the kind of freckle faced little shit you two are used to dealing with, you understand me?

Yes, of course, mister. You ask around, the Spinas are honest.

Okay, then, next week, Monday morning. The Shangri-La, you boys know where that is?

Lucky and Ralph looked at each other and shook their heads.

That’s alright, you just ask around the neighborhood. I dunno if they’ll tell you it’s honest, but they’ll know where it is. He stuck out his hand. Bob Lang, boys.

Lucky and Ralph both returned his handshake, doing their best not to flinch when Bob’s muscular hands clamped down on theirs. Lucky, huh, what were your parents a couple of degenerate gamblers or something, Bob said, laughing to himself.

It’s just a nickname, Ralph offered, missing the sarcasm.

I’m sure there’s a story, Bob returned, suddenly sounding reflective. And if there’s not yet, maybe you can make one up after the fact. We’ll see, huh?

Bob nodded his goodbye to them and walked away, just in time for the guy they were supposed to be making a delivery for to run over to them yelling. Or maybe he was waiting for Bob to leave before he did it.

Your father is going to be hearing about this from me, son, the guy barked. I’d smack you around myself, but I don’t want to step on your old man’s toes.

Lucky knew his dad wouldn’t be happy about hearing from an angry customer, but he knew bringing in a new customer would offset his anger just a little.

Come on, Ralph. We gotta get a move on. We wasted too much time on those punks, and now we’re gonna be late for all of our deliveries.

"Yeah, you know, Luck, I was kind of wondering what was taking you so long. I handled mine all right."

Ralph, I’ll handle you right now if you don’t hurry up and get in the truck.

Okay, okay, but just try to drive slow so we can listen to the radio, huh?

CHAPTER 2

L UCKY WAS RIGHT ABOUT HIS dad being pissed off about the late deliveries, but he was surprised that his dad was only one smack mad , and even that smack felt like his dad was just going through the motions. No more late deliveries, you hear me? I hear from one more of my customers about late delivery, and you’ll be done driving the truck into the city. What about I get one of your brothers to make those deliveries, huh? Have them deliver to this big shot Bob Lang of yours, too.

So that was that, Bob Lang was Lucky’s customer now.

This Shangri-La of Bob’s always seemed to be in constant need of something—usually potatoes—so before Lucky knew it, he was trying to get there just about every day. With each delivery, Lucky hoped he’d run into Bob, that Bob would tuck him under his arm or give him a playful punch to the shoulder and tell him you’re doing good, kid. But the rare times that he did run into him, Bob was usually too busy to talk, and a polite smile or a quick joke was the most that Lucky could get out of him. Lucky hung on every word and every look from Bob, which was strange because Bob wasn’t the kind of man that Lucky usually admired. Bob didn’t wear fancy suits, didn’t surround himself with beautiful women, didn’t drive a shiny new car. On appearances, Bob only seemed like a slightly more successful version of Lucky’s dad. Difference was, no one talked to Lucky’s dad the way people talked to Bob. Lucky quickly noticed that people would react to Bob just one of two ways: either they’d put on a big fake smile or they’d come to him shoulders hunched and eyes doing everything they could to avoid Bob’s.

That was how Lucky could tell that Bob was someone important.

Bob became the main attraction of Lucky’s trips to downtown Detroit, but he still found himself drawn to those men in fancy suits and freshly-shined shoes. Forget second-hand, almost everything Lucky had was third or fourth-hand, passed down from one brother to the next, patched and mended until it no longer served its purpose. Lucky dreamed of wearing fresh-pressed suits, driving around in cars that hadn’t been dented or scratched up from dirt roads or from accidents, signaling to everyone that they were too poor to get them fixed. Confidence could only get you so far, Lucky had already decided. Yeah,