My Crime Fiction: 'Butterfly'

The story below is Butterfly, which is Chapter One of Olongapo, a crime novel I hope to soon publish. 

Butterfly originally appeared in American Crime Magazine. 

Butterfly 

By Paul Davis 

I lived in what we considered a tough neighborhood in South Philadelphia when I was a teenager in the 1960s. I ran with a tough crowd on the mean streets of South Philly, but I would later discover that Olongapo in the early 1970s was a truly tough town. 

I recall an old Navy chief telling me and other young sailors on the USS Kitty Hawk about the notorious port city as the aircraft carrier sailed towards the Philippines in November of 1970. The chief, who had been around the world while serving many years in the U.S. Navy, told us that Olongapo was the wildest place he had ever seen.

 “Once you walk across the bridge over Shit River into Olongapo, you’ll be corrupted quickly by sexy bar girls, cheap booze, available drugs, and all sorts of crime,” the old chief said with a mischievous grin.

During the Vietnam War, Olongapo, the city located next to the massive U.S. Navy Base at Subic Bay in the Philippines, was like Dodge City, Las Vegas, and Sodom and Gomorrah all rolled into one. The U.S. Navy’s Seventh Fleet ships that operated off the coast of Vietnam during the war were frequent visitors to Subic Bay, as the naval base provided repairs and replenishment to the warships.

As the pent-up American sailors left the ships and swarmed into Olongapo, the city’s shadier elements were waiting. Sailors walked out of the naval base’s gate and crossed over the small bridge above the Olongapo River, called “Shit River” by the Americans due to its muddy brown color and pungent smell. Despite the filth and pollution, several small children on boats were willing to slip into the river and dive for the coins the sailors tossed from the bridge into the water. 

On the other side of the bridge was Olongapo’s main street, Magsaysay Drive. Known as the “Strip,” there was a seemingly endless line of bars, restaurants and hotels all lit up in colorful neon lights. The street was noisy and crowded with passing American sailors and Marines, street vendors, drug dealers, pickpockets, thieves, con artists, armed robbers and innocent-looking young shoeshine boys who were known to hold a razor against a sailor’s heel until he handed over his wallet.

Also on the crowded street were scores of young, attractive Filipinas enticing sailors to come into their bar with blown kisses, swaying hips, pushed out breasts, and shaking derrieres. Occasionally a girl would use strong-arm tactics, such as grabbing a young sailor by the arm and yanking him into the bar and announcing loudly that she had a “Cherry Boy” virgin. 

Crossing Magsaysay Drive was often a case of bravery or foolhardiness, as one could be hit by one of the ubiquitous “jeepneys,” Olongapo’s colorfully decorated minibuses that were converted from American jeeps abandoned after World War II.

The American dollar was like gold in the early 1970s, and one could spend a wild night in Olongapo drinking, eating, dancing, and staying in a hotel room with a local beauty for only about $20.

I was 18 years old when I first visited Olongapo in 1970. I was a cocky, street-smart South Philly kid, as well as a lean and muscular amateur middleweight boxer, so I was not intimidated by the barrage of sights, sounds and smells of this strange town like so many other young sailors who first experience it. I was also not fazed when a bar girl grabbed my arm outside of a bar and yanked me towards the bar’s entrance.

“You so young and handsome,” the pretty Filipina said as she tugged my arm.  “You Cherry Boy?” I pulled my arm loose from her grip and replied, “Not hardly.”

Thankfully, I had good friends on the aircraft carrier who had visited Olongapo during the Kitty Hawk’s previous combat cruise, and they warned me about the dangers and pitfalls, as well as the delights, of the notorious city. As an aspiring crime writer, Olongapo sounded like just the place for me.

All American servicemen were duly warned of the dangers when visiting Olongapo’s bars and other establishments. One rule pounded into the sailors by the older sailors was not to “Butterfly” in individual bars. To butterfly was to associate with two bar girls, called “Hostesses,” in any one bar. The bar girls were protective of their claimed sailors and the money they earned from the sailors buying them whisky (actually Coke) and champagne (actually 7-Up). The price of a drink for the girls was only about a buck, so the sailors didn’t mind paying this apparent scam. But the bar girls resented another bar girl poaching on their moneymakers.

When a sailor would butterfly, whether on his own initiative or by the encouragement of another bar girl, the aggrieved bar girl would often fly into a rage and attack the other bar girl, and sometimes the offending sailor. 

Even before I set foot in Olongapo, I heard the much-repeated cautionary tale about an American sailor who committed the offense and paid a dear price. The bar girl he had been seeing was so mad when he flirted with another bar girl that she attacked the girl on the dance floor. To the consternation of the bar’s manager and the utter delight of the American sailors, the two girls pulled hair, and kicked and punched each other. 

 The Filipino manager and his waiters pulled the two girls apart. The offended girl then went to her purse and pulled out her Batangas knife, a weapon more commonly known as a “Butterfly” knife. The knife had two handles with the sharp blade concealed in the groves of the handles. When flashed, flipped and fanned by someone who knew what they are doing, the butterfly knife was a most scary and deadly thing. 

 This bar girl knew how to use the butterfly knife and she charged the butterflying sailor and slit his throat as he sat in a chair. He died on the way to the base hospital.

 

On my first visit to Olongapo in early December of 1970, I went into one of the bars with some shipmates and met a pretty girl who sat with me as I bought her drinks. I had fun drinking and dancing with her, and we ended up in a hotel room for the night. I returned to the ship the following morning and we soon shoved off for our first “Yankee Station” line period in the Gulf of Tonkin in the South China Sea off the coast of Vietnam.   

We spent Christmas on Yankee Station, but we pulled back into Subic Bay on December 31st, New Year's Eve. Not everyone was glad to see us. The American sailors stationed on the base and on smaller ships hated when an aircraft carrier pulled into port. With the carrier’s 4, 700 men going ashore with money in their pockets and eager for action, the city’s inhabitants went all out to receive them. 

In a case of reverse butterflying, two sailors stationed on the base at Subic Bay resented the Kitty Hawk’s sailors taking over the city on that first night in port. One base sailor was truly angry, as his regular girl at the bar ignored him and cuddled up to a young Kitty Hawk sailor. The base sailor got drunk along with his pal and when the girl went to the restroom, the two base sailors pounced on the Kitty Hawk sailor. They beat him to the floor and one of the two assailants broke a bottle of beer over his head. 

The Kitty Hawk sailor was beaten unconscious before other sailors and the Filipino waiters could break it up. The Philippine police and the U.S. Navy Shore Patrol rushed into the bar and took hold of the two base sailors. The Kitty Hawk sailor was gravely injured, and he was taken by two Shore Patrol petty officers to the base hospital. The two base sailors were released by the Philippine police into the custody of two other Shore Patrol petty officers and a junior officer. The Shore Patrol petty officers handcuffed the pair and escorted them to the base, where they were charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder by civilian Naval Investigative Service (NIS) special agents.

 

The story of the assault on the Kitty Hawk sailor spread quickly all over Olongapo. I heard the story from another sailor as I sat in the Starlight bar with two of my shipmates from the Kitty Hawk’s Communications Radio (CR) Division. Dino Ingemi was a solid six-footer with thinning dark hair. He was an outgoing and funny guy from the Bronx, and everyone in the division liked him. Mike Hunt was also a popular guy. He was a brawny, laid-back Californian whose light brown hair, ski nose and easygoing manner belied his background as an outlaw biker prior to enlisting in the Navy to avoid being drafted into the Army. Both Ingemi and Hunt were Olongapo veterans, having visited the wild city the year before during Kitty Hawk’s previous combat cruise. 

 As I was half-Italian on my mother’s side and I grew up in a predominantly Italian American South Philadelphia neighborhood, I called Dino Ingemi my paisan. 

"Just another fun night in Olongapo, Paul," my paison said. "That kind of shit won't happen here at the Starlight."

The Filipino band at the Starlight had everyone jumping and dancing to their renditions of popular American songs of the time. The Filipino musicians were incredible mimics, sounding like Sly and the Family Stone with one song, the Four Tops with another, and then went on to sound eerily like the Beatles in yet another number. 

We were all dressed in “civies,” as sailors called civilian clothes, and I was wearing a short-sleeved tan and black Italian knit shirt and black slacks. I was something of a clotheshorse, and I differed from most of the other sailors, who were usually clad simply in tie-dyed t-shirts and jeans. Thankfully, the then-chief of naval operations, Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, the enlisted man’s hero, allowed sailors to go ashore in civies rather than in uniform.

We sat at a table drinking bottles of San Miguel, the local beer, when I was approached by Linda Divita, a slim, pretty girl who swayed around me to the music and then pulled me up from my chair to dance with her.  Linda had long dark hair and long lovely legs beneath her short black dress. The low cut of her dress afforded one the view of her mostly exposed small breasts.

 Dino Ingemi approved.  

“She’s got a great ass and cute little tits,” Ingemi said to me when we finally sat back down. I nodded in agreement as Ingemi was smacked on the arm by Marlena Abadiano, the pretty girl he had been seeing since he first visited Olongapo the year before. 

Dino Ingemi was very social and made friends easily. He had become close with the Starlight manager, Samuel Rosalita, during the previous cruise. Rosalita joined us at our table and laughed and drank with us. He gave me his business card and another card that read “Welcome to the Starlight: Charming A-Go-Go dancers, Beautiful Ladies and Outstanding Combos.”

I mentioned to Ingemi that Rosalita looked like the entertainer Sammy Davis Jr, and Ingemi began to call him “Sammy,” much to the manager’s delight. Rosalita chuckled and shook his head at everything Ingemi said.  

 

I had a fun night drinking and dancing with Linda that New Year's Eve at the Starlight, and when the bar closed, I took her to a nearby hotel. I was drunk and worried that the girl would steal my money when I fell asleep, so when she was in the bathroom, I looked for a place to hide my slim black leather wallet that held my Navy ID and my cash. I looked up at the light fixture mounted on the ceiling six feet above me. Thinking I was clever, I tossed my wallet up onto the glass fixture underneath the light bulb.

Linda came out of the bathroom and threw her arms around me and laughed crazily. She was loopy drunk, but she was wild, sexy and fun in bed with me right up until the moment she passed out in my arms. In the morning, I could not wake her. I knew she was alive, as she moaned and muttered, but she would not move from her face down position on the bed. I found a handful of “Red Devils,” a barbiturate, on the bedside table next to her purse. I didn’t know how many of the pills she took, but I was concerned.

I dressed her and left the room. Rosalita’s business card did not have a telephone number on it, so I went to the front desk and I slipped five dollars to one of the clerks and asked him to go and get the Starlight manager.  

I went back to the room and saw that Linda was still out. About a half hour later, there was a knock on the door. Rosalita came in, accompanied by one of his waiters and an older woman who was the Mama-San for the bar. Rosalita thanked me for contacting him and then looked at Linda on the bed. He cursed her in Tagalog. The two men lifted Linda and took her out of the room. After they left, I looked up at the ceiling light and tried to retrieve my wallet, but it was beyond my reach. I went down to the front desk and asked the clerks for a ladder. They looked puzzled. I returned to my room with two Filipinos and a ladder in tow. They stood in the doorway in amazement as I climbed the ladder and retrieved my wallet.

I gave each of the hotel clerks a five-dollar bill for their trouble as I was leaving the hotel room. The two Filipinos took the money as they laughed uncontrollably.

“Fuck you,” I said to them, although I had to laugh along with them.

Back at the carrier, I took a shower, ate lunch in the galley and then I took a nap in my rack. When I awoke, I took another shower and changed into a black dress shirt and light gray slacks. I met up with Hunt and Ingemi and we all headed out to Olongapo and the Starlight. We took a table and Marlena came over with Hunt’s girl Carmelina and sat with us. I was thankful that I didn’t see Linda. Rosalita came over to the table with a waiter armed with a tray of San Miguel beers. 

Marlena whispered into Ingemi’s ear, and he nodded. Marlena got up and left the table. She returned to our table with a beautiful girl that she introduced to us as her sister, Zeny Abadiano.

Zeny had long, raven hair with bangs cut just above her dark, sultry eyes. She had a pretty face and an alluring figure. At 5’ 11,’ I towered over her five-foot stature when we danced. In addition to her being an exotic beauty, Zeny was sexy, smart and funny. I was drawn to her immediately.

And I forgot all about Linda. 

 

After the bar closed, Ingemi, Hunt and I took the girls to a nearby hotel. In my hotel room, I took Zeny in my arms, unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. I told her she was beautiful as I kissed her madly, and we fell across the bed. 

A couple of hours later, I heard a pounding on the door. I jumped up and retrieved my pocketknife from under the pillow. I heard Linda on the other side of the door. 

“Paul! Paul! Open up!” I heard her holler. “I want to talk to you!” 

Zeny pulled the sheet over her head and giggled. “Oh, you think this is funny?”  I told Linda to go away.

“Paul, open up. I want to talk to you!” Linda said in a screeching and blood-curdling voice. Of course, I didn’t open the door. I then heard what I presumed were hotel employees arguing with Linda in Tagalog, and thankfully the voices outside the door finally ceased. 

“So, you think a crazy, drugged girl coming to the room was funny,” I said to Zeny as I took her once again in my arms.  

 

I was awakened in the morning by a pounding on the door. Not again, I thought. But then I heard Ingemi’s voice. I hollered out to Ingemi that I would be ready in a half hour. I took a shower with Zeny and afterwards I sat in a chair, and she stood in front of me nude and dried my hair with a towel. She took my pocket comb and    combed my short, dark brown hair, carefully parting it on the left side. I pulled her wonderfully luscious body towards me and hugged her.

I met Ingemi and Hunt outside of the hotel and we grabbed a jeepney and headed back to the ship.

Later that evening, Ingemi and I returned to the Starlight.

Zeny and Marlena were waiting for us and the four of us took a table. Rosalita waved to us and motioned to a waiter, who quickly came over with San Miguel beers. While we were drinking at the table, Linda suddenly appeared by my side. Zeny grabbed my arm and snuggled up close to me. Linda was clearly angry and deranged. 

“You butterfly, you motherfucker!” 

“Get the fuck out of here,” I replied calmly, tilting my head slightly to the right while trying to sound like a South Philly half-a-hoodlum.

“I get you good, motherfucker,” Linda said with a snarl.  

Rosalita rushed over to the table and spoke harshly in Tagalog to Linda. She spat on the table and walked away. Rosalita apologized and left us. Zeny and Marlena were unfazed, and Ingemi was laughing uncontrollably. Linda sat at a nearby table with some poor sailor and began cursing me loudly in English and Tagalog.  

“She crazy,” Zeny said, kissing me to further anger Linda. 

Linda then began to fling lit cigarettes at us. Then she threw a beer bottle that hit our table. Ingemi, who was no longer laughing, got up and walked over to Rosalita. Rosalita listened briefly to Ingemi and then marched over to Linda, and he must have told her in no uncertain terms to cut it out. 

We resumed drinking, dancing, and having fun and I tried to ignore Linda. A while later I got up to go to the men’s room, which was on the other side of a wall that separated the bar from the rest rooms, the kitchen, and storerooms. When I came out of the men’s room, I encountered Linda in my path. 

“You butterfly me, you son a bitch,” Linda hissed. “I kill you.” 

From behind her back, Linda produced a Butterfly knife and began to twirl it in front of me. As she flashed and fanned the knife in a menacing fashion, I threw a short right punch that hit her square in the face. She went down, her nose and teeth bloody, and she lay motionless on the floor. 

Rosalita and two waiters rushed in, and my immediate thought was that I would have to fight them all. But Rosalita cursed Linda, who lay unconscious. The two waiters picked up Linda and took her away. 

Rosalita apologized profusely to me, and I walked back to the table and told everyone what happened. 

 

From then on, whenever the carrier visited Subic Bay, I went to the Starlight and stayed with Zeny. 

I never again saw Linda, and no one ever said what had become of her.

And I never asked.  

© 2022 Paul Davis 

 

Note: You can read other chapters via the below links: 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: The Old Huk

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San

Paul Davis On Crime: A Look Back At Life Aboard An Aircraft Carrier During The Vietnam War: 'The Compartment Cleaner'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Hit The Head' 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'  

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The City of Bizarre Happenings'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Refrigerator Thieves'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Go Forth, Goforth'

My Crime Fiction: 'The Old Huk'

The below story is Chapter Four of a crime thriller that I hope to publish this year. 

The character of Salvatore Lorino was introduced in Chapter Two. You can link to Chapter Two and other chapters below.  

The below chapter originally appeared in American Crime Magazine.

You can read the story below:

The Old Huk

By Paul Davis 

When the USS Kitty Hawk returned to Subic Bay for repairs and replenishment, Lorino went aboard. He reported to sick bay, where he handled over his medical records from the Subic Bay base hospital to the ship’s doctor. He was examined by the doctor, and he determined that Lorino was fit enough for a return to duty. 

He then walked back to the deck division and handed over the doctor’s report to his chief. The chief, who liked Lorino, said he was glad to have him back aboard. 

“The watch bill has already been posted,” the chief said. “So go hit the beach and enjoy liberty in Olongapo.” 

“Thanks, chief,” Lorino said. 

“Unless you’re tired of Olongapo…” the chief said with a grin.

“Nah, chief. I love Olongapo.”  

“We all do, son.”   

Before Lorino shoved off, he hunted down Winston. He found Winston lounging in the Deck Department’s berthing compartment. Winston was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Coke. “Hey, welcome back,” Winston said. 

Winston laid down his Coke can on the deck and got up from his chair. He took Lorino by the arm and went to his rack in the middle of a three-tier stack of bunks. He lifted the mattress and the lid to the locker underneath his mattress and pulled out the meth in the paper bag. 

Lorino made Winston a junior partner in his new shabu venture As Lorino’s immediate supervisor, Winston agreed to assign him to nonexistent tasks, which allowed Lorino to wander freely about the ship and sell the meth. 

Lorino laid in his rack beneath Winston’s and pulled the gray curtain shut across the rack for privacy. He filled small plastic bags with the meth. He then got up and traversed about the carrier from the galley to the bridge and sold the bags of meth to a good number of enlisted sailors who wanted to be up and “wired” on meth as they drank, danced, and partied with the bar girls in Olongapo. Lorino quickly sold all of the meth and he turned a good profit. He gave Winston a small percentage of the profits. 

Lorino and Winston left the carrier that evening and walked into Olongapo to buy more shabu. They entered the Americano and walked up to the bar. 

“Hey, Chief,” Lorino called out to Walker who was at the other end of the bar. “Can we get a couple of San Miguels over here?” 

Walker laughed and brought over two bottles of beer. He called over a short, muscular Filipino with a round face. The Filipino was clad in a cowboy hat, a leather vest over a t-shirt, tight jeans and cowboy boots. 

“This is Cearro Valle, my bouncer,” Walker said as they all shook hands. “We call him “Duke,” like John Wayne the cowboy movie star.”   

 Valle grinned. “Howdy, pardner,” he said with a high pitch voice and a thick Filipino accent, which made the Americans laugh. 

“Duke, Duke, do your John Wayne impression,” Walker said. 

“Well, listen and listen good, Pilgrim,” Valle said as he pulled his cowboy hat down just above his eyes. 

Everyone laughed. It was the worst John Wayne impression Lorino had ever heard, but it was the funniest. Walker slapped the short bouncer on the back. 

“I love this guy.” 

As they were laughing at Valle’s John Wayne impression at the bar, a sailor and a Marine began punching and grappling with each other on the dance floor. The other servicemen and bar girls moved back as tables and chairs were knocked over by the two fighters. Lorino thought Valle less a comical figure when he saw the bouncer break up the fight. 

Valle easily pulled the two drunk servicemen apart. The two Americans looked down on the much shorter Valle and began throwing punches again. Valle kicked the sailor behind his left knee and the sailor fell to the floor. Valle threw his open right hand at the Marine’s throat, and he too fell to the floor. 

Valle reached down and grabbed both Americans in a head lock under each of his muscled arms. Speaking softly to them, he dragged the two kicking and screaming servicemen to the bar’s door and tossed them out into the street. 

The sailor and the Marine resumed fighting in the street until petty officers from the Navy shore patrol pulled up to the bar. They hopped out of their jeep and broke the two servicemen apart and placed them in handcuffs. The two inebriated combatants were tossed into a jeep and taken back to the Subic Bay base. 

After things settled down in the bar, Lorino pulled Walker aside and asked him if he could buy more shabu. 

“I was hoping you’d come back in,” Walker said. “I told “the Old Huk” about you and he wants to meet you. 

“Who? The Hook?” 

“The Old Huk, pronounced hook, but spelled H-U-K,” Walker explained. 

“Camama is the big boss around here. He was impressed with your beat-down of the two cops and the shooting of Reeinald. He wants to meet you.” 

Walker told Winston to stay at the bar and he beckoned a girl to come over to keep the petty officer company. He told Lorino to follow him and the two walked out of the Americano and into the hotel next door to the bar. They walked past the reception desk, and Walker knocked on the door of a back room. 

Walker and Lorino entered the back room and Lorino saw two Filipinos sitting on a couch. Walker introduced Lorino to Amado Camama, a small, elderly, and wizened man, who wore a white Barong Tagalog shirt with detailed embroidery and a mandarin collar. 

Walker introduced Lorino to Jackie Sicat, a young skinny career criminal with long black hair. Sicat wore flashy “mod” clothing from the 1960s and large sunglasses. Lorino’s first thought was that Sicat was trying too hard to appear as a tough guy gangster. He knew wannabe guys like this who posed as gangsters in South Philly. Lorino instantly respected the Old Huk, but he disliked Sicat on first sight. 

Sicat took a long drag on his cigarette and then told Lorino that the boss, who sat there impassively, liked his style. Reeinald Bulan, who was a Camama gang competitor, was confined to a wheelchair due to Lorino shooting him. 

“Those two cops you beat up work for us now,” Sicat said. “They no bother you no more, and you no bother them. Understand?” 

“Yeah, sure” Lorino replied. 

“You deal with the chief, and you only buy shabu with us. No one else,” Sicat said. “Got it?” 

“I got it,” Lorino said. 

They all shook hands and Walker and Lorino left the room. 

Back at the Americano, Walker told Lorino about Camama and Sicat. 

Walker explained to Lorino that Amado Camama, known in Olongapo as “the Old Huk,” was the leader of the Camama gang. The gang controlled most of the crime in Olongapo. They were into drug trafficking, extortion, black marketeering, and other crimes. Camama was both feared and respected. 

Walker said that Camama grew up in a rural village and joined the Hukbalahap, the Communist guerillas who fought the Japanese after they invaded and occupied the Philippines during World War II. Often armed only with a Bolo knife, Camama was an effective assassin. 

“What’s a Bolo knife,” Lorino asked Walker. 

Walker explained that the Bolo was a long knife with a curved blade that was similar to a machete and was a common tool, as well as a weapon, in the Philippines. 

Walker said that during World War II, Camama was sent out by the Communist guerilla group to murder selected Japanese soldiers, villagers who defied the Communists, and rival guerillas that were led and organized by Americans.   

After the war, Camama became a leader with the Hukbong Mapagpalaya ng Bayan, the Communist People’s Liberation Army, known as the Huks, who fought the Philippine Government. 

After the Huks were defeated by the Philippine government, with help from the United States, a fellow Huk guerilla named Oscar Sicat, who grew up in Olongapo, brought Camama back to the city with him. The two former Huks became feared armed robbers, and they later expanded their strongarm criminal activity and became a prominent organized crime group in Olongapo.     

The two gang leaders later had a falling out and Sicat’s teenage son Jackie sided with Camama against his own father. He volunteered to set up his father for Camama. When the elder Sicat met his son at a bar, Camama came out from the back of the bar and attacked his former partner in crime with a razor-sharp Bolo knife. The son sat there quietly as his father was hacked to death. 

Jackie Sicat rose in the Camama gang and became the Old Huk’s chief lieutenant. Camama, Walker told Lorino, was intelligent, prone to violence, good with a gun and a Bolo knife, and was totally ruthless. This skill set served Camama well as a Huk communist guerilla, and it served him well as he transitioned into a criminal gang boss. 

Lorino, Winston and a bar girl named Marie sat at a table, drinking and listening to the Americano’s country & western band. Marie, a perky, cherubic young woman, hugged Winston and giggled. Walker sat down at the table and called his wife over. He spoke into her ear. She smiled and walked away. She returned briefly with a tall, beautiful girl in tow. 

“This is Jade,” the mama-san said to Lorino. “She like you big-time.” 

“Oh, yeah? You wanna drink?” Lorino said as he pushed out a chair for the bar girl. 

Jade, dressed in a tight light blue dress, had long dark hair and an innocent pretty face, although she was a veteran hostess. She sat down next to Lorino as the mama-san called over a waiter. The waiter came over with beers for Walker and Lorino and a glass of whiskey for the girl. 

“I love you, no bullshit,” Jade said with a throaty laugh as she snuggled up to Lorino.

Her use of the oft repeated Olongapo bar girl phrase that Americans got a kick out of, made Lorino, Winston and Walker laugh.     

“Hey Jade,” Lorino said. “Like the Beatles’ song.” 

 “That was Hey Jude, Winston said. 

Lorino shrugged. “What’s the difference?” 

Although most young American sailors went wild over the pretty Filipinas in Olongapo, Lorino was more interested in business. He pursued his business opportunities rather than the company of bar girls. But now that he had secured a meth connection and began his drug dealing enterprise on the Kitty Hawk, he felt he could at last relax and have some fun with a bar girl. 

Later that evening, Lorino saw Sicat enter the bar with an entourage of four other Filipino gangsters. He’s acting like royalty, or a Cosa Nostra capo, Lorino thought to himself. The chief rushed up to Sicat and guided him and his cronies to a table at the rear of the bar. Walker hailed a waiter, and motioned to his wife, the mama-san, who was already rounding up girls to sit with Sicat and his associates. 

Lorino’s dislike for Sicat grew as he watched the little crime prince act like a big shot, a pezzonovante. He smiled to himself as he thought about smacking Sicat and knocking his sunglasses clear off his face. 

An hour or so later, a short and wiry Filipino police officer in uniform entered the bar, followed by the biggest Filipino Lorino had ever seen. The Filipino cops headed for Sicat’s table. 

“Who are they?” Lorino asked Walker. 

“That’s an Olongapo cop, Lieutenant Colonel Cesar Rosa and his sergeant,” Walker told Lorino. “Rosa’s the worst kind of cop – fucking honest.” 

“Yeah. We got some of those pricks in South Philly too.” 

Lorino initially thought the cops were there to collect bribes, but he chuckled to himself as he saw Sicat visibly upset as Rosa pointed his finger in the gang leader’s face. Rosa spoke harshly to him in Tagalog.

“Some big shot gangster,” Lorino scoffed. “Afraid of a cop, even if the cop is a pint-sized Frank Rizzo.” 

Lorino saw the puzzled look on Walker’s face. 

“Rizzo. He’s a big, tough son of a bitch South Philly cop who’s now the police commissoner of Philadelphia,” Lorino explained.        

As the bar was closing, Walker gave Lorino a key to a room in the Old Huk’s hotel next door to the Americano. Arm-in-arm, Lorino and Jade staggered to the hotel. He waved to the desk clerks in the hotel lobby, and they waved back. Lorino and Jade took the stairs to the second floor and to the room that the chief arranged for him. Once in the room, Lorino took Jade in his arms and pulled off her dress. They kissed and laid across the bed. 

In the morning, Lorino was famished. He wanted an American breakfast of bacon and eggs. Jade took him to a small cafe, and she ordered for the two them in Tagalog. Lorino sipped his hot coffee as the waiter laid down two plates. 

"What the fuck is this?"

“It’s Sinangag. It’s good. Eat it.” 

Lorino obeyed and dug in. Jade was right. Lorino loved the fried rice, scrambled eggs and garlic. 

After their fine meal, Lorino and Jade returned to the hotel room and laid about, smoking, drinking and having sex. Later that evening, Lorino and Jade left the hotel and went to the Americano, where they joined Winston and Belinda at a table.     

While Lorino, Jade, Winston and Belinda were drinking at the table, a Filipino walked into the bar and strode up to Walker, who was behind the bar. He spoke briefly to Walker and then turned around and walked out of the bar. Walker called Lorino over to the bar. 

“Let’s take a ride.” 

Walker and Lorino left the bar and saw a jeepney with Camama, Sicat and a short muscular bodyguard sitting in it. Walker and Lorino piled in the jeepney.

The jeepney drove from the Americano to a series of shacks located against the Olongapo River. They all climbed out of the jeepney and walked to the back of a shack where three Filipinos were waiting. The back was lit dimly from the lights from the shack. Two of the Filipinos held handguns and the third Filipino, a small and slim young man, stood there shaking and crying. 

Sicat brought out an old metal folding chair that had “Property of U.S. Navy” stenciled in black on the back. He opened the chair and Camama down and faced the crying man. Walker pulled Lorino back a bit and advised him to say and do nothing. 

The visibly upset Filipino began speaking in rapid Tagalog as Camama sat there with a grim face. The frightened Filipino then let out a forced laugh. 

“Remy is a dope,” Walker said in a whisper to Lorino. “His ass is on the line, and he just told a stupid joke.” 

Lorino noticed that no one laughed. 

Camama nodded and one of the Filipinos with a handgun stepped up behind Remy and shot him in the back of the head. He fell to his knees and then fell forward, his face splashing into the mud. Camama turned his head and looked directly at Lorino. 

“Now that is funny,” the Old Huk said in English. 

One of the Filipinos gunmen carried out an ice cooler from the shack and set it on the ground, not far from the dead body. The cooler, like the folding chair, had “Property of U.S. Navy” stenciled in black on it. The Filipino opened the cooler and handed out bottles of San Miguel. Lorino took one and Walker grabbed two for himself. 

“Remy tried to go over to Bulan’s gang,” Walker explained. “The Old Huk didn’t like that. This is how he shows his displeasure.” 

“Yeah, I got the point,” Lorino replied. 

Back at the Americano, Walker put his arm around Lorino as they stood at the bar. 

“You done good,” Walker said. “You didn’t react at all. The old Huk liked that.”

“I seen guys whacked before in South Philly,” Lorino replied and shrugged. “No biggy.” 

“You got a future with us, boy,” Walker said beaming with delight.

© 2023 By Paul Davis 

 

 

Note: You can read other chapters via the below links:

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter One: Butterfly

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San

Paul Davis On Crime: A Look Back At Life Aboard An Aircraft Carrier During The Vietnam War: 'The Compartment Cleaner'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Hit The Head'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The City of Bizarre Happenings'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Refrigerator Thieves'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Go Forth, Goforth'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Manila 71'

                                                                                                

My Crime Fiction: 'Villotti'

Below is my crime fiction short story Villotti.  

The story originally appeared in American Crime Magazine. 

Villotti

By Paul Davis

 Joseph Villotti was called “Crazy Joe” back in the late-1960s in South Philadelphia for a very good reason. He was criminally insane.

 Joe Villotti was insanely sadistic. He was insanely manipulative. He was insanely violent.

Villotti was 6’2”, lean and muscular with a rough face and dark brown hair. He had a raspy voice and a madman’s laugh. He reminded me of a somewhat thinner version of the actor Marlon Brando in the film On the Waterfront. (See above photo of Brando).

In South Philadelphia back in the late-1960s Crazy Joe Vilotti was legendary. Everyone in South Philly at the time had a Villotti story. I had several, including one story that I recently recounted. I wrote of the time that I witnessed Villotti murder a hoodlum in 1968 in a dispute over drugs.    

I also recall when I was walking down Oregon Avenue in South Philly when I was 15 in 1968. Villotti, who was 19 at the time, pulled his car to the curb and offered me a ride.

“Thanks, Joe, but I like to walk and my house is only two blocks away.”

Villotti, well known for not taking no for an answer, yelled, “Get in, for fuck’s sake. I’ll drive you.”

I got in the car. Villotti swung out onto Oregon Avenue and sped past a red light and headed west. I heard the police sirens behind us and then I saw two police cars swing across the four-lane avenue and block Villotti’s car.

Two additional police cars came up behind Villotti and blocked him from backing up. A plainclothes detective rushed up on the driver’s side and stuck a .38 snub nose revolver in Villotti’s face.

“Keep your hands on the fucking wheel, Joe,” the detective said. “Don’t fucking make a move.”

I was struck by the familiarity of the detective addressing Villotti by his first name.

A second detective opened my passenger side door and pointed his firearm at me.

“No, no,” Villotti said to the detective. “He’s just a kid I picked up.”

The detective looked hard at me and then said, “Get lost, kid.”

I got out of the car as Villotti was yanked out of the car and handcuffed. I walked away as fast as I could.

Back at JP’s luncheonette on 13^th and Oregon, I told everyone the story. There were several theories about why Villotti would stop and pick me up while he was being chased by the police. One was he picked me up thinking that having a passenger might throw the police off from identifying his car. Another theory was that Villotti was plain nuts.

 

Villotti was a member of the Dalton Street and Oregon Avenue street corner gang back then. The teenage street corner gang, known as the “D&O,” was a notorious and troublesome group, well known to the police and other street corner gangs in South Philadelphia.

The street corner crowd at 13^th and Oregon Avenue was not a large or tough group like the D&O and other notorious South Philly street corner gangs, although we had a handful of very tough guys like my older brother Eddie and the Sarcone brothers, Chickie and Stevie. We were known more as a party corner as we always had a crew of local pretty girls who hung out with us.

JP’s luncheonette was located on the corner of 13^th and Oregon Avenue, and we drank coffee and soda and ate cheesesteaks and hoagies in the five booths and at the counter.

We were three block west of the D&O gang’s hangout at George’s Luncheonette. We were friendly with the D&O teenagers as we all went to school together and we freely mixed at the teenage dances.

Villotti began hanging out with us more and more in 1968 as he had worn out his welcome at the D&O. He had a beef with Billy Russo, aka “Samson,” as the teenager was a big, tough guy. Russo was also, by all accounts, a nice guy. Russo objected to Villotti picking on a skinny guy and he confronted Villotti. The two big guys squared off in the Thomas Junior High schoolyard. Russo hit Villotti so hard that Villotti went down. Other D&O guys broke up the fight.

Later, as Russo left his house and walked towards Oregon Avenue, Villotti was waiting with a baseball bat. Villotti repeatedly cracked Russo with the bat and Russo fell to his knees in pain. Villotti continued to strike Russo until several men pulled him away.

Russo was hospitalized with several broken bones and a concussion. Most of the D&O teenagers took Russo’s side as he was a popular guy, but no one confronted Villotti. But Villotti sensed he needed a break from the D&O gang, so he began to hang out with us.

Lucky us.

Villotti was sadistic and a bully with a warped sense of humor. Thankfully, he never picked on me as he was afraid of my older brother Eddie.

Although Villotti was “bat shit” crazy, he was sane enough to know that he could not beat my brother, and Villotti knew that Eddie was a lot tougher than Samson Russo.  

Villotti came to spend more time with us after his beating of Russo and his involvement in a romantic triangle. A teenage girl named Jennifer broke up with a D&O guy named Butchie and she began seeing Eddie Dano. Eddie Dano was a good-looking young guy, and girls liked him, but he was a fool for love.

He would date a girl, quickly fall in love with her, and he would go into debt buying the girl an expensive ring. Inevitability, the new girl would grow tired of Dano’s rapt attention and she would drop him. We called Dano “Captain Cute,” and we called his big tan Buick the “Cutemobile,” a take on Batman’s “Batmobile.”

Butchie complained to Villotti about Dano “stealing” his girl. Villotti talked a group of D&O guys into going up to 13^th and Oregon and beating the shit out of this guy “Eddie.” There were three guys named Eddie on 13^th and Oregon Avenue. There was Eddie Dano, Eddie Pellegrini, and my older brother, Eddie Davis.  

My brother Eddie was three and a half years older than me, the average age of the 13th and Oregon Ave crowd. At 15, I was the baby of the crowd. Eddie had stopped hanging with us on the corner in 1968, as he had graduated to hanging out with our “old heads,” the previous generation of guys who were then in their mid-20s and went clubbing throughout the city. My brother was also seeing a girl named Frannie whom he would later marry.

One of the D&O guys held a grudge against my brother from a few years prior when we all went to the South Philly Boys Club. At 6’3,” lean with an athletic built, with long, strong arms and legs, Eddie was a star basketball player. He was also a genuine tough guy, but he was no bully. In fact, he was the champion of the bullied, as he often came to their defense. He never bullied anyone but me, his little brother.

While during a basketball game at the Boys Club, Jason “Jay” Gianni and his older brother Mark doubled-teamed an opposing player and beat him to the court’s floor. My brother stepped in, pulled the Gianni brothers off the guy and he offered to fight both of the brothers at the same time. The Ginanni brothers walked away.

And now Jay Gianni saw a way to get back at my brother, believing the Eddie that Villotti wanted to have beaten up was my brother.

That night Eddie Dano was warned that the D&O guys were coming for him. So he downed several barbiturates, stating, “When they beat the shit outta me, I won’t feel a thing.”   

I stood out on the corner leaning on my brother’s parked car. I was amused by Dano, who had trouble standing. Also on the corner was “Mikey Head” Tabone.

I saw Jay Gianni and four guys walking up Oregon Avenue. One of the guys in the group was my good friend Alex Agnello, whom I’ve known since junior high school. He walked up to me and said hello.

Gianni and the others seemed to ignore Dano, who leaned against the wall. Just then, my brother Eddie appeared on the corner of Iseminger Street, and he turned and was heading towards his car.

“There he is!” Gianni shouted as he and three others ran towards my brother. I grabbed Alex by his jacket, and he grabbed me as we grappled against my brother’s car.

My brother saw Gianni and the others run towards him and he put up his hands and punched Gianni in the face, knocking the hoodlum to the concrete. The other three hoodlums started to swing at my brother and he hit back, knocking each one down with a single punch. The fight was quickly over and Gianni rose from the payment, bloody and bruised, saying in a shaky voice, “We’re going to get, you son of a bitch!”

“Come and get me now,” my brother replied as the other hoodlums rose with black eyes and bloody noses.

Gianni repeated the threat as he and the others walked away quickly and headed back to Dalton Street. Alex and I let each other go and he too headed back to Dalton Street.

Tabone, who had run into the luncheonette when the fighting started, now came out.

“I went in to get a butcher knife,” Tabone explained as he tried to catch his breath.

My brother just shook his head in disbelief.

I explained quickly to my brother that the D&O guys were after Eddie Dano and not him. My brother just shook his head and drove away.

The next morning, I sat in JP’s drinking a cup of coffee before heading to the South Philadelphia High School, known locally as “Southern.” I was telling my good friend Chickie Sarcone about the fight when my brother walked in. He stopped in before going to work for the Electric Company as he wanted to see Chickie. Sarcone, like my brother, was a genuine tough guy who was respected by the D&O.

“Make sure no one bothers my brother,” he said to Chickie.

“No one will.”

“Thanks.”

That night Villotti and a big fat guy came into JP’s. Thankfully, Dano wasn’t there, as he would have had a heart attack. Villotti sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. A minute or two later, my brother stopped in to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Villotti jumped up and explained to my brother that the previous night had been a misunderstanding and that he was sorry. He said he told Gianni and the other D&O guys that Eddie Davis was not to be bothered anymore.

My brother shrugged as he placed coins in the cigarette machine and extracted his pack of cigarettes.

“It’s all over,” my brother said.

Villotti laughed. “Yeah, it’s over. I heard you knocked down Jay and his boys all by yourself. Good for you.”

Villotti put out his hand to shake, and my brother shook his hand, and then walked out the door.

 

But it was not quite over for Villotti.

The next day after school I went to the Oregon Diner with Eddie Dano and Harry “Bud” Keitel, also known as “Bud the Dud.”

After we ate our cheeseburgers and French fries, we got into Dano’s big Buick and started to pull out of the diner’s parking lot. It was a warm day, so we had all of the car windows down. Suddenly, Villotti rushed up to the driver’s window and punched Dano in the face. Another guy appeared on the passenger side and punched Keitel in the face. A third guy opened the back door, and he was about to strike me with a tire iron when Villotti grabbed the tire iron and said, “No, he’s a good kid. I know his brother.”

Villotti and his friends walked off. Dano slumped over and held his broken nose. Keitel held a handkerchief to his bloody teeth. After a few minutes, Dano was able to drive and we headed back to 13^th and Oregon Avenue. No one spoke of what happened.   

Afterwards, Villotti acted like nothing had happened and he began to hang out with us, especially since my brother no longer came around. Villotti was abusive, cheated at cards, stole, and borrowed money from the guys and never paid them back. No one even asked Villotti to pay them back. They were usually glad that he was picking on a new victim. For those who were immune to Villotti’s bullying, like Chickie Sarcone and I, Villotti was a funny guy.         

Later that summer, as we were driving in Bud’s car on the way to Belmar Lake in South Jersey, Villotti saw a hippie hitchhiker on the side of the road. He ordered Bud to stop the car, pull over, and pick up the hippie. Bud was confused, but he pulled over.

Villotti opened the car door and the hippie with long, stringy blonde hair and a big, goofy grin, bent over and began to climb into the back seat, face first. Sitting next to Villotti in the back seat, I saw Villotti hit the grinning hippie square in the face and the hippie’s head reared back and his body followed, collapsing on the side of the road.

“Go, go, go!” Villotti ordered Bud and Bud sped off.

Looking back, this was a cruel and heartless act, and I felt bad for the hitchhiker. But at the time, we all felt this was a spontaneous and outrageous act, and we roared with laughter.

Villotti had that effect on us.  

Villotti was arrested for attempted murder, and he was sentenced to prison in 1973. A heroin addict, he contracted AIDS in prison, and he died there in 1975.

Even after all these years, whenever two old school South Philly corner boys get together, they will invariably tell Villotti stories.

This was mine.

© 2026 Paul Davis             

 Note: You can read my previous story about Joe Villotti, The Seventh Street Shooting, via the link below:

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Seventh Street Shooting'

And you can also read my other crime fiction short stories via the link below:  

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction Stories