The Arab is Going to Kill Vince

         Philadelphia is a city of ethnic neighborhoods. Each with its own culture and problems and political power base. The 39th City Ward in South Philadelphia is one of the most densely populated and diverse political battlegrounds in America with multiple tribes fighting and scheming for their slice of the patronage pie: Irish, Black, Lebanese, Jewish, and the front running Italians led by the Darth Vader of Pennsylvania politics, the boy wonder from the Democratic 39th Ward…Vince.

         The irony, and this story has more than its share, is that Numero Uno is but half Italian. Vince’s Irish mother, determined to keep her only child off the mean streets of South Philly sent him to private schools, then to Villanova, Temple Law, and Wharton at U of P.

         Vince got the political bug early. He is smarter and more ruthless than most other politicians of his generation. A skilled and unrelenting political infighter, he was playing chess while everyone else played checkers. Vince followed the money, was elected to the Pennsylvania State Senate, and became one of the most powerful and feared figures in Pennsylvania politics.

         Vince’s father started a neighborhood savings & loan association, holding hundreds of mortgages across South Philly. Vince turned his father’s enterprise into a legitimate bank with influence. Along the way, Vince picks up the mortgage on JP’s life. He held the paper on JP’s Broad Street house, on JP’s mother’s house, and most important, Vince held the paper on the land upon which sits an odd marriage of commerce, JP King of the Cleaners commercial dry-cleaning plant and the JP Catering Hall, home of the 39th Democratic Ward.

         I was tending bar that night. It was two weeks before the November elections and there was the usual discontent between in the 39th. Vince was having difficulty with the Lebanese faction led by the Arab, a wily and emotional street fighter. The Arab is smart, while in the Army, he was a reporter for the Stars & Stripes newspaper. In South Philly, the Arab is a tough guy who surrounds himself with tough guys. Philadelphia politics are personal.

Both tribes are meeting at JPs over a few drinks to ‘bury the hatchet’ before the election. JP stays clear of these things: he didn’t get along with the Arab and the less he saw of Vince the better. JP prefers the cleaners at the other end of the building.

         The Arab arrives first with about seven or eight guys dressed in leisure suits and a jump suit or two. “Shots and beers on the 39th,” I announce in my best bartender’s voice.

         “It’s about time youse sprung for something,” says Moses, a swarthy dude in a red jump suit who looked as if he rode in on a camel.

         After a couple of rounds, the Lebanese are growing restless They smoke Turkish cigarettes, and the smoke is harsh and irritating.

         Vince, wearing a blue blazer, blue Oxford shirt with a red and navy Penn stripe tie, arrives 30 minutes late with his entourage.

 “Drinks on the 39th,” I say again.

         “It’s about time youse sprung for something,” repeats the camel jockey.

         “What’s that supposed to mean?” says a Vince guy downing a double Jack, no chaser.

         “Let me handle this,” says the Arab. “What Moses means, is you guys in the 39th don’t go for shit. You want it all for yourselves. You throw us a few crumbs around elections, and we’re supposed to kiss your asses in gratitude. Not this time.”

         Vince walks up to the Arab, invading the larger man’s space. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. That’s no way to start a meeting. I came here in good faith, to bury the hatchet, to elect Democrats. Why are you so pissed off?

         “Because we’re tired of getting pissed on.”

         “This is no way to bury the hatchet, gentlemen.”

         “How about I bury a hatchet in your fucking head,” says the Arab.

         “Fuck you,” hisses Vince.

Moses clocks the Vince guy closest to him. It was on. Punching. Kicking. Biting. Gouging. It blew up so fast. In the middle of the melee, the Arab pins Vince to the ground, strangling him. Vince is turning colors. I jump over the bar and run up front where JP is bagging clothes.

         “They’re fighting in the bar! The Arab is choking Vince!! He’s turning blue!!!

         JP looks at me as if I had just given tomorrow’s weather report. He takes a drag on his cigar. “The Arab’s a lot bigger than Vince. He probably could kill him. But if I save Vince’s life, that counts for a lot. A killing could be bad for business, or maybe not. I always got along better with his father.”

         “Make up your fucking mind. The Arab is going to fucking kill Vince.”

The fat man grunts like a rhino, bites tightly on his cigar and charges through the dry-cleaning plant past the steaming presses and sweating black pressers through the catering kitchen and into the bar where Vince, almost comatose, is still under the Arab. JP hits the Arab with a 250-pound body block sending him halfway back to Lebanon.

         “Look what you did to my bar. Get out, all of you. Get the out.”

Every man in the fight knew all about JP. The ‘bury the hatchet’ meeting is quickly adjourned. The dazed Arab needs help getting out the door. A Vince guy loosens Vince’s Penn tie and stands him up.

         “You ok, Vince?”

         “Yeah, yeah. Was that you, Joe?”

         “He could’ve hurt you.”

         “I think those were his intentions.”

         “Vince, what about my bar, it’s a mess.”

         “Send me the bill.”

         And that’s how I saved Vince’s life. Both Vince and the Arab would serve time in federal prison for political corruption. JP worked until he died. And me, these past 15 years I have shared a wonderful life with one of Vince’s ex-wives, the best one. 

That’s irony. Or karma. Or both.