Po
Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
La
Pura Vida
Or
Time
To Go
The headline would read “New Orleans Oldest Working Pot
Dealer Turns Himself In!” and indeed he will. Whitey Jackson, age eighty-four,
will take his walker into police headquarters and explain to the Desk Sergeant
that he needs to make a statement to the narcotics officers, the DEA and
especially to detective Bobby Phelps. The Sergeant would explain that detective
Phelps had retired years ago and could he (the sergeant) help him (Whitey)?
“I’m here to turn myself in, I’ve been dealing in New
Orleans for almost seventy years and it’s time that you caught me; I figured
I’d tell Bobby first as he’s the one that’s been trying to nail me. Here I am. Lock
me up. What’s for dinner?”
Two smiling plainclothes cops will escort Whitey to an
interrogation room and have him sit down, get him a glass of water and “Now
tell us… what’s this all about?”
“Well”, Whitey says “I’ve been to the IRS to turn myself
in for tax evasion and they said that until I prove I was actually making money
that they couldn’t charge me with having not paid taxes; what I really want to
do is go to a Federal facility, it’s much nicer than State, you know. I got
names.”
It’s true, Whitey had been ‘selling vegetables’ since
High School, never filed taxes, made a good living, supported a couple of
families and some of his friends through hard times; it was well known that if
things got tough, you could always reach out to Whitey. He drank smooth gin and
always tipped well, but was never flashy. He used to have an old four door
white Crown Vic that he’d take trips to Texas border towns with, he said it
looked so much like an undercover cop’s car that no one dared pull him over, he
especially liked Laredo and across the border in Nuevo Laredo with its dirt
streets, seedy bars and easy women. Sometimes he moved ‘freight’.
But times had gotten tough in the last dozen years, old
contacts had gotten older, suppliers became unreliable, some jailed or gone out
of business, it was more difficult to get ‘product’ across the borders and
prices increased with inflation; he could have diversified, but he was against
‘hard stuff’ and mind blowing substances were iffy in quality and result. No:
‘Mary Jane was her name and connecting her with people was his game’.
He fell on hard times. His landlord had passed and the
landlord’s kids had kicked him out of an apartment that he had for forty years,
he had to sell his cameras (a dear but expensive hobby), downsize (a word he
hated) and move to smaller quarters. He had no savings. He got a minimum from
Social Security and qualified for Medicare and other forms of geezer ‘on the
dole’ incomes. He had never had an occupation other than his dealings and had
no marketable skills. His health was failing and he had just one plan ‘B’, turn
himself in and become a ward of the state.
Some friends got him into an ‘assisted living’ facility, which
was a postage size room with an alcove kitchen and a bathroom the size of a foot
locker, it was vermin infested and mildewed, but it was close to the French
Quarter and fit his budget.
He wasn’t used to being broke and he missed his old
hangouts, he remembered the old days and sitting in coffee houses for hours
espousing wit, witticisms and philosophy with high likeminded miscreants. He
enjoyed opera and jazz and for the life of him couldn’t understand ‘woke’ music
and he hated rock and roll. He was used to the easy life, strolling around New
Orleans like a king, anticipating the arrival of ‘vegetables’ after he retired
his car and taking his time leafing through his book of names to ascertain who
had not scored for a reasonable period of time; he’d make a quick call on his
burner phone and set up meets, pass a good time and a package and head out into
the humidity toward another watering hole and possibly another exchange of
goods and services.
It all came to a head when he took a fall in the hallway
of his facility, He had hit his head, limped back to his room and lay on the
floor bleeding for almost two days until one of his friends got worried and
came to check on him. He was in the hospital for about a week and had a lot of
time to think, “Time for pan B”, he decided.
Whitey made the headlines; it was a slow news week. It
was a slow court week as well and he was charged, booked and let go on his own
recognizance; he wasn’t considered a flight risk. He promised names, dates and
places of half the city including society swells, bankers, politicos, real
estate brokers and high priced Madams; it would never come to charges but it
would make great gossip which was something New Orleans ate for breakfast.
Then Whitey disappeared. Theories and conjectures flew.
The Mob? Some guilty big shot? All anyone knew is that one night a long black limousine
pulled up outside his building and Whitey was whisked away.
Six months later, Slick Willie showed me a copy of a
photo of some old dude on a beach (skinny legs and all) with a hand written message;
finally, news of Whitey was circulating. Slick said he got his copy from The
Dodger who got it from Princess Diana via Lady Blue, Sonny Duprey, Raspberry
Mahogany, and a few dozen others. It read:
“Dear Folks, On the lam in the Papaya Republic with old
friends, the grass certainly is greener and free. Love W.
P.S.
If the phone’s not ringing, that’s me not calling.”
