Body? What Body?

I was having lunch in Shank’s, a South Philly hole-in-the-wall where everybody goes from priests and politicians to gangsters to coaches and plumbers.

“What’s up, Cuz?” heavy hands land on my shoulders like bricks. I choke on my broccoli rabe and sausage. “Yo, Lou. Where have you been?” Laying a bear hug on this bear of a man.

“I’ve been around.” Lou’s kid brother, Peter, is married to my cousin, Gina.

“You look like you lost weight.”

“I get to the gym every now and then. Found a job yet?”

“Not yet. I want to make sure it’s the right job.”

“So, no offers?”

“Not even a nibble.”

“You want to make $50 tonight?”

“Who do you want dead?”

“No problem, he’s already dead. I’m working a wake at Nello’s Funeral Home on Ellsworth Street. The dead guy was important, I want to bring in a few extra men, like an honor guard, a sign of respect. Four hours, six to ten, and wear a jacket, please, he was a King.”

By day, Lou is a white-shirt-gold-bars Philadelphia School District Police Lieutenant. By night, Lou is a dedicated entrepreneur open to all sorts of arrangements. Lou bears a passing resemblance in looks, and when necessary, demeanor, to Mafia Boss, John Gotti.

Nello’s

Nello’s is a smaller funeral home off Broad Street that keeps a low profile compared to most South Philly funeral palaces.  Emilio Nello considers himself an artist, known for his deft handling of corpses who go out the hard way… fires, crashes, shootings, drownings, hangings, beatings, etc.

Emilio is a slight, silver haired homosexual who never came out of the closet because he never went in. After hours, Emilio is often seen cavorting about in a black cape with red satin lining.

It’s 6 pm and Lou is talking to some guys in the viewing room. “Michael, thanks for coming. That’s Sal, Anthony, Joe Babe, Frankie, Johnny Boy, and another Anthony. These two large gentlemen now joining us in the back of the room are Little Charlie and Super Mario. Their father was Big Charlie, a good friend, may he rest in peace, though that might prove challenging because Big Charley was not a peaceful man. Am I right, boys!”

Little Charley and Super Mario crack up. “The old man could get pissed off in a hurry.”

“Which often proved to be an asset in his line of work. Alright, pay attention. You six guys are here strictly for show. An honor guard. I want to show some strength, but I don’t want to threaten this group of mourners who can be touchy with the potential to be disruptive. If that should happen, you six guys wheel the coffin into the embalming room. Me, Little Charlie and Super Mario will handle the disruption.”

Joe Babe raises his hand, “Lou, these mourners, what are they Vikings or Cossacks or what?”

“You’re close with Cossacks, Babe. Tonight’s guests are Gypsies. Roma Gypsies to be specific. Not a funeral home for 100 fucking miles would touch a fucking Gypsy wake, especially one for a fucking Gypsy King. Gypsies from up and down the East Coast are coming. But you know, Nello, he don’t give a shit as long as he gets paid.”

“I never met a Gypsy,” says Johnny Boy.

“They’re alright. You just gotta let ‘em you know without banging them over the head with it. Look, you’re all nice guys, that’s why I picked you, I’m not looking for trouble, I don’t need any more tough guys besides me, Little Charlie and Super Mario.

“Remember, be courteous but don’t get too involved with these people, especially the women who are worse than the men. For safe keeping, I can put your wallets in Nello’s safe. There will be hundreds of Gypsies here tonight, I’m just saying.”

Also known as the Traveling People, Romani Gypsies are unique among peoples because they have never identified themselves with a territory; they have no tradition of a homeland from which their ancestors migrated, nor do they claim the right to national sovereignty in any of the lands where they reside. Rather, Romani identity is bound up with the ideal of freedom expressed, in part, in having no ties to a homeland. The ancestors of the Romani are an ethnic group of traditionally itinerant people who originated in Northern India but live worldwide, principally in Europe, coming to America in the mid-19th century.

Show Time

Nello’s is mobbed. I’ve never seen so many people who look so much alike, all dressed to kill, decked in gold and silver and diamonds, with dark eyes and dark hair on dark faces of chiseled cheek bones and noses. The women are exotic and erotic and toxic, and the men are wary and hairy and scary. Gypsies are survivors, forever marching to their own drummer.

The Turkish tobacco the Gypsies prefer casts a blue, ghostly haze across the room, hovering over the Gypsy King’s body. Wakes are generally reserved affairs, mourners talking quietly, silently weeping. Gypsies mourn differently than you and I. They are loud, rapidly talking and yelling over one another. Everyone brings their own alcohol; then there’s the three violinists playing gypsy torch songs while the hard drinking mourners sing and dance. They want to roast a pig on the sidewalk, but Lou puts a stop to that.

“Check the bathrooms every 15 minutes, I don’t want anybody doing any hard shit in there,” says Lou, making himself visible just enough. Little Charlie and Super Mario are planted like two giant sequoias on opposite sides of the room. We nice guys mingle.

Our dead guest of honor, the Gypsy King is short and fat with pudgy cheeks, sporting a gold Rolex, four diamond rings, a diamond horseshoe tie pin and diamond ear studs, accenting his black chalk stripe suit with a red sapphire lapel rose, topped by a black fedora sprouting a red feather. Emilio Nello is an artist.

As many ancient tribes before them, the Roma Gypsy send their departed off to the promised land with treasure to help pave their way to happiness. They blanket the King’s body under chains and jewelry of gold, silver and precious stones, cash, multiple pistols, knives and brass knuckles, a bottle of absinthe, packs of Turkish cigarettes, even a mandolin. The Gypsy King is good to go.

Lou assembles his troops. “Pay attention. Start informing the mourners that the show ends in 30 minutes. Once the room is cleared, you guys take the King back to the embalming room. Mario, someone is going to ask to make a last farewell, just let two in.”

We move the King’s body. Super Mario admits a woman and a young man into the room. Lou is waiting. The woman’s black hair is streaked with gray, she is carrying a large leather Hermes handbag. The young man appears earnest yet delicate. “Where’s Stosh, the guy I made the arrangements with.”

“Stosh has left the building. This is my Aunt Lenora, the King’s sister. She and her brother did not end things well in life, she once tried to kill him with poison. She would like to make peace with him, in death, in private, naturally.” Then looking past

Lou, the young Gypsy asks, “Where’s the King’s body?

“Body? What body? I don’t see no body,” Lou says to the young Gypsy. “Any of you guys see a body?”

“What body?”

“I didn’t see no body.”

“Nope.

“Tell me, when Stosh left the building did he happen to leave you with $5000 for the cost of the funeral,” says Lou, extending a heavy hand to the young Gypsy, palm up.

“He left it with me,” says Aunt Lenora, reaching into her Hermes bag and handing Lou an envelope. 

Lou smiles, “You won’t be I insulted if I count it?”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“I count better alone. Please step outside while we’ll see if we can locate the body in question.”

The Gypsies comply. “Guard the fort, Mario, I’ll look for the King.” After a minute, maybe two alone with the King’s treasure casket, Lou wheels the body back into place. “We’ll leave you and your brother alone to make amends. Please, try not to take too long, I don’t want to get into overtime.”

We wait for Aunt Lenora outside Nello’s.

“How did it go?” 

“My brother was the most receptive he’s ever been.”

“Nello’s thanks you for your patronage.”

“Oh, the casket will be sealed, correct?”

“Absolutely, Stosh said it was a Roma Gypsy tradition.”

The treasures that were the King’s ticket to Gypsy Paradise were all gone right down to the red feather in his fedora. “They would’ve gotten his gold teeth if Nello hadn’t gotten them first. What a night. Nice job, gentlemen. Mike, you can add that you worked a gypsy funeral to your job resume.” Lou hands out crisp $50 bills.