All In The Famiglia
"Leave the Gun. Take the Cannoli." -Peter Clemenza from Mario Puzo's The Godfather
My life has not been boring. I have a habit of being on the edge of a chasm, only to walk across on a board that just fell from above, never knowing the risk I had taken. Mr. F@%king Magoo. I missed 9/11 by a day, boarding a plane the day before for a much safer, Montgomery, Alabama. I left Seattle the day before the WTO. I left Seattle the day before the last big earthquake. I always find such coincidence funny. Blessed? I don't know.
There are two other wild coincidences in my life that I think about a lot more. First, back when I was a freshman in high school--two of the guys I spent a lot of time with were Robert Huffman and Rey Baruso. We had a lot of fun together. We got into real mischief, but just that, nothing more. Rey, and his sister Reyna lived in a big house on the edge of the wood between Skyway and Bryn Mawr. Until their house was built, this was a place we played hide and seek, rode our BMX bikes and motorcycles. Its where I smoked my first joint a couple of days before 7th grade, when I ran into Sean Mitchell and John Reed (the coolest guy I ever met, never not in an immaculately clean white t-shirt, long dark hair that hit his shoulders and even keeled) and they jokingly offered me a hit. Time marches on, and instead of woods, now a bunch of 1980s split-levels littered the 3-acre spot that was once wood.
Going to Rey's was fun. His sister was hot, he was the epitome of cool, and his parents were never home. Inside their house were large portraits of his parents-oil painting-something I had never seen before in someone's house. I think Rey's mom had been a Filipina beauty queen (the sash gave it away) in Seattle--both Rey and Reyna were prettier than anyone else I knew--and his dad looked regal and tough in his portrait. It was always fun hanging out with the Baruso kids.
Huffman, Rey and I had hatched a plan, borne in a teenage brain trust the day before. Rey's dad was never home because he had two jobs. One was at Boeing--I have no idea what he did--but likely an engineer. His other job was as the President of the ILWU Cannery Union local. I learned this when I asked Rey why his father had case after case of Johnny Walker in his garage--unopened. He told me that he got it because he was the union president. I was a teenager, so that idea sounded as plausible as any other. When he then said his dad didn't even drink, we decided liberating a single bottle and heading off to the woods to drink it was the best plan ever.
So, when school was over, Huffman and I hurried over to Rey's house, looking forward to the ensuing mischief. Their house was just below the crest of a steep hill. For reasons I can't explain, I am certain we were coming from Skyway--possibly from Huffman's dad's house. We were almost giddy with excitement. Having never had scotch prior to this--I am not sure I would have been so excited if I knew what Walker tasted like--it is a taste I had not had an opportunity to acquire as of then. Anyway, we came down through the woods, and walked down the hill to Rey's house. There was a driveway to the right of the porch and you had to cross that driveway to get to the porch. As we walked into the driveway, we saw a car with 3 guys in it. It was a 1978 Gold Trans Am, complete with Phoenix on the hood and spoiler on the bat. I looked at the driver, and saw that he was giving me the worst stink-eye I have ever received in my life. We were determined, cocky and foolhardy little shits. Worse, I had no clue who these dudes were, and hadn't exactly lived a life that would have made me more wary. Anyway, we got to the door and knocked. We were goofin' off. No one answered the door. We kept pounding the door, shouting open up. There was no discussion by Robert and I about giving up. We had a plan, and we were both children of alcoholic/addicts, so this plan was fucking brillliant in our estimation. The dudes in the car were now ALL staring at us. Whatever, I thought. "Rey, open the door dude. We are here. Let's do this thing," I implored. No response. We looked at each other. Robert pounded on the door again. He was just about to hit the door a third time, when it cracked open. Rey looked at us and said in what I thought was an angry--but was in retrospect a frightened voice-"Go the fuck home you guys. Just leave. Get the fuck out of here. Now." Oh, the dick, I thought. What the fuck? We were stunned. He told us to fuck off again. Then he slammed the door shut. Robert and I walked home--we lived a couple blocks apart--disappointed and confused. I didn't see Rey again for a year.
It turns out that the guys in the Trans Am were Tony Dictado, leader of the filipino gang called the Tulisan, and two of his soldiers, Jimmie Ramil and Pompeyo Benito Guloy Jr. They were there waiting to be paid by Rey's dad, after the soldiers had gunned down two of Rey's dad's fellow union staffers at the Union Hall. Rey's dad had two motives--one, he wanted to protect the corruption in the union that they had reformed--so no kickbacks for assignments or gambling were going into Baruso's pockets, and more importantly, because they were fighting Ferdinand Marcos and that fascist regime in the Philippines. Turns out proof emerged that 
Stinkeye Guloy, TransAm driver, front, big hair Ramil, rear, was the front seat passenger.
money was paid on behalf of Marcos for the contract to whack Viernes and Domingo. The Nation magazine ran an article some time later noting that the morning of the murder Baruso Sr. was on the phone with then Secretary of State Al Haig for three hours. Weird, honestly to think a local union president would have anything of import to say for that long with anyone, let alone a presidential appointee in the line of succession. The coincidences get weirder, but maybe for another day. Rey and I never became friends again, much to my now disappointment. The kids were very good kids, and I believe (from ppl I know) they were shunned by the Filipino community in Seattle. Some years later I ran into the attorney who sued the Marcos' civilly for the murders and who got a multi-million dollar verdict from the jury (Gerry Spence was on the wrong side of that case, and I got to see him in action as well--as I attended the trial for many days).
A strange happenstance to be sure. But, wait, there's more. This weird thing happened earlier. My grandfather on my mom's side was named James Bolin, born in St. Paul Minnesota in 1911. James E. Bolin if you ever get the hankering to do research. My mom and my uncle hated his guts. They both believe he murdered their mother--given that my uncle found him mom on her bed with a pillow over her face--which seemed to have impeded her breathing and brought her life to an abrupt end back in 1967. Given how corrupt much of Seattle was at the time, (more on the 100 years of vice and corruption in Seattle) and how connected my grandfather was--I am sure he never feared going to jail. Besides him being a murderer, besides being what I suspect was a bigamist (he had 4 kids in Spokane of which the internet is aware) he raped my mother--I learned in documents I came across shortly after her death. He was a power broker in Minnesota, according to one story I read in a newspaper, responsible for Hubert Humphrey's political rise--I kid you not. Governor Evans appointed him to the state board of fisheries, he served as the head of the Kelso Chamber of Commerce and then eventually ran the Washington Trawlers Assn--a consortium that set fish prices down in Portland, Oregon--I don't know why Portland--although it likely had something to do with Big Jim Evans, the head of organized crime in Oregon and a close friend of Seattle Teamster founder Dave Beck and Frank Colacurcio Jr. He ran a social service agency in Minnesota despite not having a degree of which I am aware and also was a Capt. in the Army Air Force during WWII. Almost enough background on the sonofabitch.
The first story I was ever told about my grandfather, who I never met, was about a brilliant con he figured out in the early 1930s. I have admired it, not even grudgingly, since I first heard it. I don't know exactly the scheme, but the balls he had to have to pull this off were remarkable. It seems, if I haven't mentioned it before, that Jim was an inveterate gambler. Like any gambler, he hated to lose. Like some gamblers he liked to bet big. The problem was those two things would limit your ability to be a gambler for long. So, he concocted a plan. He searched pawn shops until he found a class ring from Columbia University. He purchased the ring, and then went around to small rural newspapers offering to be the sports reporter for them. He was hired east of the mountains, somewhere around the Okanogan, Methow Valley. He wanted the job because he could get the sports information before other people did back then. He could place bets with bookies on races that had already been decided--it just hadn't been reported. I mean, it feels like a victimless crime unless you are the bookmaker.
The second story I heard needs a little preamble of sorts. I had a friend, let's call him Steve. Steve was a great kid. He lived in Lakeridge, then a middle class enclave next to us poor working stiffs in Bryn Mawr. We had become friends, and he invited me one night to go do something with him, although for the life of me I don't recall what. I was in 7th grade at the time, and had to ask my mom for permission to go with Steve. Now Steve had a lot of vowels in his last name. A lot. I guess it meant he was Italian. There were lots of Italian kids in the neighborhood, given the history of mining, logging and truck farming that drew them to the South end of the lake. Anyway, so I asked my mom if I could go to whatever event it was with Steve---but I used his full name, because I had more than one friend named Steve. When I uttered his last name, the blood visibly left my mom's face. She had a lot of questions, some of them strange. What does his father do, she asked me? He runs the foreign body shop in Skyway, I told her. She didn't say anything for a minute or two as she gathered her thoughts. Then she told me the following:
My grandfather was the bag man for the Colacurcio family in the 50s and 
Frank Sr. with new penal graduates.
1960s--he would deliver money in a brown paper bag to politicians in Olympia--this state was a hotbed of corruption back then as was Seattle. The Colacurcios controlled the cigarette machine, jukebox and pinball concessions in Washington. They paid a lot of money to politicians to keep it that way. One day, on the way to Olympia, Jim stopped at Longacres with a lot of money. A lot. of. money. He had gotten a tip--a hot tip. He placed all the money on that horse to win. It didn't. Normally, this would mean his life story would be a short story with a moral-don't steal from the mob if you don't wanna wear cement shoes. Instead, that night, my father spirited him to the Greyhound bus station--and he wasn't seen again for years. Somehow, he got back in the good graces of the family--at least for a time, because they sent him down to run the Trawlers Association.
To the point, my mom was freaking out. She said I could go, but could never mention my grandfather to Steve. I didn't. I truly didn't. Ever. I even had Steve's sister's daughter house sit for me a few years ago, and had ample opportunities to tell his sister the story, but didn't. I found an article in the Seattle Times--one of many about my grandfather--all anodyne save this one: A guy was charged with trying to bribe legislators and he blamed it on my grandfather. That was before Evans appointed him to the fishing commission, so I suppose the juice he had helped.
I also read today that Jim Evans, the Portland Kingpen, Colacurcio and Dave Beck (who my grandfather worked for and with in the laundry truck 
Buried Next to My Grandmother--Why?
days (and I suspect neither was doing laundry) had some sort of dealings going on between them and worked together to commit their deeds, so having my grandfather--who I imagine was like a Frank Fox figure from Pulp Fiction (a fixer) in Portland worked for all of them.
If he were living, I'd kill him just for hurting my mom let alone killing my grandmother. No one that was alive then and knew the players and that I have spoken to doubts the truth of that accusation.
He and I became widows around the same age--and my sister says I have his smile. FML.
Sometimes I marvel at how crazy my childhood was, but given all I know about my mother's rearing and childhood--I'd say I was blessed.
Oh, and by the way, Steve's dad ran Talent's West, a "modeling" company 
which staffed the Colacurcio strip clubs--one of which gave rise to Strippergate. He is also responsible for the illegal campaign donation scandal back in the early 2000--related to former Lake City Rick's Strip Club parking lot expansion (owned by the Colacurcios) He was the equivalent, I am guessing, of the capo regime of an east coat crime family. The night his mom picked us up, she was driving a brand new Cadillac. Go figure. Also, Steve and his sisters were some of the best people I have ever known, each kind, smart, and good natured.
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