My Crime Fiction: "A Christmas Crime Story"

The below short story originally appeared in The Orchard Press Online Mystery Magazine in 2003:

A Christmas Crime Story 

By Paul Davis

To get in the true spirit of the Christmas holiday, some people go to church, some people go to the homes of family and friends, and some people go out and shop.

Me? I go to cop bars.

Cops are great storytellers. Perhaps its because they observe a segment of life that’s dramatic, tragic and funny. Perhaps its also because they spend so much time cruising on patrol that they’ve had the time to develop and hone their story-telling skills.

As a writer, I’ve talked to cops in station houses, in patrol cars, on the street and in bars. I’ve listened to their concerns, prideful boasts and sorrowful confessions. I’ve accompanied cops on patrol and witnessed them handle insane, intoxicated and incongruous citizens. I’ve observed how they console crime victims and their families. I’ve seen how they cope with the aftermath of criminal violence and man’s inhumanity to man. And I’ve come to appreciate their black humor, which like military humor, is a necessary safety valve to get them through the bad times.

I especially like to frequent cop bars during the holiday season and listen to cops at their very best. Some cops gather at bars after work to relax, drink and tell their stories. At this time of year, they are in very good spirits, a bit happier, a bit giddier and a bit more talkative.

Cops are generally in good spirits despite the fact that the holiday season is a busy one for them. It’s a sad commentary, but the holiday season is a peak time for crime.

Criminals certainly love the holiday season, but not for spiritual or sentimental reasons. It’s simply a time of grand opportunity. And criminals certainly don’t take a Christmas vacation. As joyous and hopeful people go out to worship, shop, dine and visit family and friends, criminal predators go out and pickpocket, shoplift, mug, steal and burglarize.

My recent columns in the local newspaper covered the annual Christmas crime spree and over the years I’ve reported on and chronicled a good number of crime stories during the holidays. I recall covering the story of a do-gooder delivering toys to needy families who was viciously assaulted and robbed. Another story concerned two kids playing with their Christmas gift, a paint ball gun, when an irate neighbor came out and shot them with a real gun.

One year while out on patrol with the cops, I came upon a young couple who had started out drinking and getting high for the holidays and ended up with one murdering the other. I once covered a story about a man with a car full of gifts who ran into a store for a pack of cigarettes. He came out to no car, no gifts and no Merry Christmas for him that year.

I’ve covered an assortment of other stories about armed robberies, thefts, purse snatchings and other crimes during the holidays as well.

Despite the crime and tragedies I’ve seen, I still love the Christmas season. I love the lights and decorations, the hustle and bustle and all of the trimmings. I love Christmas music and often sing along, although admittedly off-key.

This particular year, even more than others in the past, I was in very good spirits, having recently recovered from severe spine and nerve damage that crippled me and caused God-awful pain. I spent several months in the hospital and convalescing at home. I’ve suffered with a bad back for many years, dating back to my years as an amateur boxer and playing other sports, and as a young sailor working on a U.S. Navy tugboat and an aircraft carrier. The build-up of damage to my poor back finally took its toll and crippled me.

The doctors at the hospital ruled that I was not a surgical candidate, determining that any operation would be too risky. As I was deathly afraid of surgery, this diagnosis suited me fine. So they loaded me up with wonder drugs and placed me in physical therapy. The physical therapists, trained by Saddam Hussein’s secret police, I suspect, got me to my feet and ran me through a series of painful but ultimately beneficial exercises.

When I initially collapsed during the summer in my bedroom, I thought the searing pain in my groin and back was akin to being shot with a high-powered rifle. My wife called 911 and the Philadelphia Fire Department’s Rescue Paramedics rushed me to the hospital. Despite being in great pain, I managed to joke with the attending doctors and nurses that first night in the hospital.

This is the most painful day of my life, I told them - and I’ve been to Vietnam.

And I’m married.

And I have a teenage daughter.

I got a few laughs, which helped to lighten my pain, as I am a ham to the end. In addition to the fine medical professionals who cared for me, it was my wonderful wife and family - who were often the brunt of my jokes and asides – who helped me get through the worst time of my adult life.

Within the period of five months, I went from being bed-ridden in great pain, to twirling around the hospital halls in a wheelchair, to walking a few painful steps with a walker, to finally walking into a cop’s bar aided by a cane this fine Christmas season.

I’d recovered sufficiently enough to go out and stop by Johnny Drum’s Bar & Grill, a great little cop’s bar in South Philly. I had a lot to be thankful for this year and I visited Johnny’s place expecting to run into some lively characters that felt likewise.

I was somewhat disappointed to first encounter Sgt. John Snyder at the bar. Snyder was known as one mean cop. He was of average height, a bit stocky and had a large, pan-shaped head topped with thinning dark hair. He was an unhappy, gruff and miserable man. A cop once made the comment that Snyder "barked" rather than spoke.

I recall previous Christmas seasons when Snyder would be at the end of the bar by himself, miserly nursing his drink. In addition to being foul-tempered, Snyder was a notorious cheapskate.

"Merry Christmas, Ebenezer," I’d greet him in jest during those holiday visits. "Bah, humbug," he’d respond, playing along begrudgingly with my take on Charles Dickens’ classic holiday story, A Christmas Carol. I joked around, but in truth he was truly as mean-spirited as Dickens’s Ebenezer Scrooge.

Sgt. Snyder was widely known as "The Cop Who Busted Santa Claus." As the often-told story goes, Snyder pulled over a man dressed as Santa on Christmas Eve a few years back. Observing that the red-suited, false-bearded man was slightly inebriated, Snyder promptly placed him under arrest.

He slapped the handcuffs on the man and then had had his car towed. The tow truck took the car, despite the jolly old soul’s somewhat slurred pleas that his car – a modern-day sleigh - was full of toys destined for children at an orphanage. A crowd had gathered on the street and booed the police officer’s actions. He cursed them and threatened to lock them all up.

"And a Merry, Merry Christmas to you as well," one bystander sarcastically remarked.

More holiday-spirited police officials quickly released the man dressed as Santa. The man, outraged by his treatment, promptly called a TV station and told his story. The mayor, the police commissioner and other police brass were not happy with the lead news story run on Christmas Day. The national press picked up the story and this did not help Philadelphia’s image. "The Cop Who Busted Santa Claus" complemented an earlier story of Philadelphia sport fans pelting Santa with snowballs at a ball field.

A cop once told me that Snyder had him out walking on South Street on a very cold and windy Christmas Eve night. Snyder sternly ordered the beat cop not to hang out in a store, sucking up heat, coffee and merriment. Of course, the cop quickly escaped the bitter wind and cold and stepped into a shoe store for hot chocolate and conversation with the store owner and customers.

When the cop looked out through the store window and saw Snyder’s car roll down South Street, he stepped out and stood in front of the store, shivering. "Have you been hiding in a store?" Sgt. Snyder barked. "No, of course not" the cop told him. "Although it is really cold out here, Sarge."

Snyder placed his bare hand on the cop’s badge and found the metal to be nearly as warm as the hot chocolate in the beat cop’s stomach.

The chastened police officer told every cop, everybody, the story. "Do you believe it? The SOB chewed me out on Christmas Eve!"

There were also tales of Snyder locking up kids whose only crime was being merry. Sgt. Snyder was a one-man crime-fighting machine during the holiday season, targeting not thieves and crooks, but rather the people whose only crime was to be too joyous.

To his credit, he still talked to me despite the two negative stories I wrote about him in the past. One of my columns covered "The Cop Who Busted Santa Claus" and I wrote another that dealt with Snyder’s arrest of a honeymooning couple who were visiting the Italian Market. Their crime? The happy couple, who were married on Christmas Eve, asked the good sergeant to pose with them for a photo. He didn’t like their attitude and placed them under arrest for disorderly conduct.


But this year, as I approached him at the bar, I saw that Snyder was clearly a changed man. Over a few drinks, he told me why.

A day earlier the gruff sergeant responded to the call of a residential burglary. The victim told the responding officers that among the stolen valuables were his military awards and other mementos of the Iraq War. He told Snyder that he had just returned from Iraq as a medically discharged soldier due to combat wounds.

"Who’d steal this stuff?" he asked Snyder. "Who would steal children’s toys at Christmas?"

The burglars stole the gift-wrapped presents from under the Christmas tree. The young former soldier was saddened by the loss of his gifts to his wife and children. He said he was not insured and he could not afford to buy new gifts. Snyder, the well-known mean, jaded and cynical cop, was truly touched by this young veteran who had just returned from war.

Snyder felt empathy for someone for the first time in many years. He thought back to his own return from Vietnam so many years before. He recalled how he then yearned to become a cop. He also yearned to marry his high school sweetheart and to have kids with her. He accomplished all that he set out to do, and now, in the midst of a crime scene, he wondered why it had all soured for him.

He marriage suffered from his penny-pinching, his chronic petty complaints, and his foul temper. His wife finally drew up the courage to throw him out of the house one night after he came home drunk, mean and violent. He would never hit her or the kids, he assured me, but he often gave the inanimate objects in the house a real good beating.

The kids, grown now and on their own, rarely spoke to him. He thought of them as he watched the veteran’s children. The sight of these kids, sitting close together on the couch, perhaps wondering if the crooks would come back, if Santa were coming now, or whether Jesus still loved them, broke Snyder’s heart.

Snyder made the rounds of the local veteran’s organizations the next day and told the story of the veteran who had been victimized. He collected a good bit of money from the veterans, from his fellow police officers and he personally donated a large sum himself. Having secured the list of stolen items from South Detectives, he ventured to the stores and purchased nearly all of the stolen items.

He also called his wife, sweet-talked her, told her he was a changed man and asked her to accompany him when, like Santa Claus, he would deliver the replacement gifts to the veteran and his family.

He was truly beaming as he told me this Christmas crime story. I had never seen him smile before.

He told me how the veteran’s kids were so happy they cried. The veteran was embarrassed, but thankful. Snyder explained that his fellow veterans and the local cops wanted to help him and his family.

By helping the veteran, Snyder recalled the true meaning of Christmas. He felt the joy of giving and of goodness and loving - even in a cruel and sometimes evil world.

"I have to run," he said, finishing up his story and beer, "I’m celebrating Christmas with my wife, my kids and all of my grand kids."

Before he left, Snyder, to everyone’s astonishment but mine, bought a round for the house.

"Merry Christmas to one and all," he barked.

© 2003 By Paul Davis 

My Crime Fiction: "The Small Timer"

The below short story, my first published short story, originally appeared in The Orchard Press Online Mystery Magazine in 2002:

The Small Timer

By Paul Davis

The shooting victims were discovered at 9 o'clock that night in an old warehouse along the Delaware River in South Philadelphia.

I had been on a "ride-along" with a Philadelphia police sergeant when his car radio alerted us to the triple homicide. The sergeant, Bill Francini, was the subject of a column that I was writing for the local paper. Not wearing a seat belt, I braced myself as Francini raced for the river.

Arriving at the crime scene some ten minutes later, Francini pulled into a vacant space among a dozen hastily parked police vehicles. Francini ushered me around to the side of the warehouse bay, where I would not be violating the official crime scene, yet I could observe Philly’s finest do their work.

Francini called out to his lieutenant and introduced me. The lieutenant looked at me sharply, perhaps placing me from the photo that ran with my column, and then simply nodded. He took his sergeant by the arm and they entered the warehouse. From my vantage point I was able to see the three dead men in the center of the warehouse bay. All were dressed casually. A short, elderly man lay crumpled with his squat legs twisted under his torso. A snarl appeared to be etched across his face and a gunshot wound was visible just above his right ear.

The second victim had been a big and heavy man. I’m no little guy, but this guy was truly big. He lay face up and stretched out across the ground. He died with a dumbfounded expression on his face, just below the large wound on his forehead. The third victim sat in an upright position against a wooden crate. Like the other two, he had a gunshot wound to the head. His face retained a goofy grin that looked familiar to me.

I heard one of the crime scene investigators from South Detectives tell the newly arrived homicide detective that an anonymous caller had dialed 911 and reported the shooting. The scene looked like a professional execution, organized crime style, so the detectives called the city's organized crime intelligence squad and asked for someone to come and help ID the bodies.

When a detective named McCollum from the squad arrived some 15 minutes later, he quickly walked among the three bodies, sidestepping the spent shell casings and blood puddles. He immediately identified the short, older man - the one the detectives with their usual black humor had nicknamed "Grouchy" - as James "Jimmy First Nickel" Martin. Martin was a known associate of the local mob in his capacity as a receiver of stolen goods.

McCollum identified the second victim, nicknamed "Dopey," as Joey Aurelio, a strong-arm enforcer for Martin. The third victim, nicknamed "Happy," was dismissed as some small timer, as McCollum, the organized crime expert, had never seen him before.

"Hey, McCollum," one of the detectives shouted, "This guy should be happy – he’s still alive!"

A month later I entered the Federal Building in Center City Philadelphia and rode the elevator up to the 8th floor. I stood before the FBI’s receptionist, who was securely housed behind a sheet of protective glass. I told her that I had an appointment with Special Agent Frank Kaplan. I had come to interview Kaplan’s protected witness, Harry Sullivan - a.k.a. "Happy."

I had been granted an exclusive interview with the sole survivor of the warehouse murders, who was now a star witness for the prosecution in the upcoming federal trial of Francis "Frankie Raven" Ravelli, a particularly vicious mob captain of a particularly vicious crew of thieves, extortionists and hit men.

Sullivan had granted me an interview, as he liked my column on the warehouse murders and we knew each other from the old neighborhood.

I had joined the Navy on my 17th birthday and traveled to Southeast Asia about the same time the 20-year-old Sullivan was heading to state prison for the first of his many periods of incarceration. Years later, I would see him at neighborhood bars and clubs and he would play the criminal insider, feeding me tips for my column. He liked to show me off to his cronies.

He was quite impressed with the notion that I had become a writer. Of course, the only other writers he knew were number writers.

Kaplan came out to the reception area and directed me to a vacant office where I saw Sullivan sitting at a conference table. Sullivan’s head was adorned with a turban bandage and he used a cane to navigate his way back to his chair after he stood and came forward to shake my hand. I sat on the other side of the table, laid my tape recorder down and took out my notebook and pen. I threw out some obligatory questions about his health and his family before I launched into asking him a series of questions about the events that led up to the warehouse murders.

Harry Sullivan was a small time thief. He was in his early 50s, slightly built with a drawn, pock-mocked face that was framed with longish, unruly and scruffy blond hair. Despite his looks and his profession, he was not a drug addict. Sullivan barely managed to make a proper living from his small time stealing and he often had to supplement his illicit income with a straight job. Despite his failure, he yearned to be an arch-criminal, like Willie Sutton the old bank robber.

Sullivan wanted to be respected.

Sullivan’s graduation to the big time came on the day he happened to witness a head-on collision between a Volvo and a city trash truck. The driver of the Volvo was killed instantly and the city workers were unhurt but badly shaken. Sullivan was one of the first to come to the aid of the Volvo driver, but seeing that he was beyond it all, Sullivan's criminal instincts kicked in and he lifted the man’s brown leather satchel from the front passenger seat.

Sullivan slipped away and sprinted the two city blocks to his apartment. Once there, alone in his kitchen, Sullivan broke the lock on the satchel and dropped the contents on the kitchen table. He cried gleefully at the sight of the assortment of diamonds spread across his table. The accident victim must have been a diamond salesman or courier.

Later, after he calmed down, he placed his haul into a large paper shopping bag and walked three blocks to Jimmy First Nickel’s appliance store. Even though Martin had a reputation of being somewhat tight with his money – hence the nickname that indicated he retained the first nickel he ever earned – Sullivan knew that he was mobbed-up and he was the man to see.

Martin was sitting behind the counter, talking to his much younger and pretty girlfriend Gloria when Sullivan walked in. He handed Martin the bag and told him how he came to be in possession of the diamonds. Martin, a short, heavy man in his 70s, breathed hard as he rose from his chair and came around the counter to lock the door and hang the closed sign.

Martin ran his hand through the sparse gray strands of hair that were slicked back across his head as he looked into the bag. Sullivan stood there feeling awkward, smiling a goofy smile at the strikingly beautiful, dark-haired girl. She returned his smile with a cold look of boredom.

"I’m impressed Harry," Martin said. "This is some piece of work here. Lemme make a call and see if I can unload it tonight."

Martin mumbled into the phone for a few minutes and then announced that he had arranged a meeting with "the Man." Sullivan felt a surge of the perverse pride of a professional thief, but he was also felt fearful of entering the world of big-time crime.

"I don’t know, Jimmy," Sullivan whined. "I think its better wit you as the go-between."

"Harry, this is the big time! There must be $100,000 in this bag," Martin exclaimed. "The Man wants to meet you personally."

A few hours, a few beers later, Martin and Sullivan drove in silence to a riverside warehouse. Inside, Martin introduced Sullivan to a large man named Joey, who lumbered towards them, his hand placed on a gun in the waistband of his slacks. Sullivan knew instantly that this was no major league buyer. He knew that Martin had gotten a bone crusher to help steal his diamonds.

In desperation, assuming Joey had planned to kill him, Sullivan scooped a handful of the diamonds from the bag and flung them towards Joey’s face. Sullivan then dove for some stacked crates half-heartily, fully expecting to be shot and killed.

The blast sounded like heavy artillery in the open warehouse bay. Sullivan, surprised not to be dead, scampered up and saw that Joey was stretched out. He also saw two young dark guys, neat dressers, who looked like a hundred guys Sullivan knew from the bars and clubs of South Philly.

One held a large semi-automatic handgun, a Beretta, Sullivan guessed. The other held a shotgun, which was now trained on Martin. Getting a better look, he realized that the one with the Beretta was Frankie Raven.

Ignoring Sullivan on the ground, Ravelli smiled cruelly as he held his Beretta to Martin’s head.

"We’re your life-long partners, Jimmy. Didja think ya could cut us out of this deal?"

"No, no, please," Martin cried. "I was jes introducing a couple of guys, its small time."

"That’s not what Gloria told me, ya fuckin’ weasel," Ravelli said as he fired into Martin’s head.

Martin dropped like a hangman’s weight bag. Ravelli then walked slowly with a South Philly strut to where Sullivan rested against a crate.

"I know you. You’re a small timer from Donny’s bar," Ravelli said.

"I’m no small timer," Sullivan scoffed. "This was my job."

"When you’re right, you’re right," Ravelli said coolly. He shrugged, lifted the Beretta and then pulled the trigger.

Kaplan brought us another refill of coffee just as we were finishing up the interview. Sullivan sat in his chair puffing on one of a long string of cigarettes that he had smoked while telling his story to me.

"You know why I really want to testify against Ravelli?" Sullivan asked.

"Well, for starters, I would think his shooting you," I said in response. "And I know Frankie, he will certainly finish the job if given the opportunity."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. But I really want to get up in court and put that bastard away," Sullivan said. "I want him and everybody else to know that I’m no small timer."

Frankie Raven received a life sentence. Quote the judge, Frankie Raven, nevermore. Sullivan was booked into the federal witness protection program and was moved out west somewhere.

As he wished, Sullivan received his moment of glory, his 15 minutes of fame. But I had to laugh when I spied what my editor placed over my column about the trial.

"Small Timer Testifies Against Mob Boss."

© 2002 By Paul Davis  

My Crime Fiction: "Stick 'Em Down"

The below short story originally appeared in The Orchard Press Online Mystery Magazine in 2009:

Stick ‘Em Down 

By Paul Davis

My late father enjoyed the repeated telling of old, corny jokes to his children. I in turn often told the same old jokes repeatedly to my children.

One of the old jokes was about an armed robber who confronted a man in an alley and said “Stick ‘em down.”

“Don’t you mean stick ‘em up?” the would-be-victim asked the robber as he raised his hands.

“Don’t confuse me,” the armed robber said. “This is my first job.”

I thought of this old joke as a friend told me about a rather inept trio of armed robbers who attempted to rob his bar.

Frank Tamburro owned and operated a corner taproom in South Philly. Tall, lean, with a beer belly from tasting too much of his own product, Tamburro was an outgoing and jovial barkeep in the old tradition of neighborhood taprooms or “tapies.” His bar had a small dining room in the back where they served great food. Accompanied by my wife and friends, I often went there to drink, eat, listen to music and gab.

I was leaning on the bar and sipping a vodka on the rocks when Tamburro came up to me and said he had to tell me about what happened in the bar the day before. He thought I might want to use the story in my crime column in the local paper.  

Tamburro said there were only a half-dozen customers in the bar on a Thursday night when two guys came in just before closing time at two. Tamburro described the first man to the police as a young white guy, about 25, who wore a blue baseball cap with the peak turned sideways, a long white t-shirt, worn-out jeans and white sneakers. He entered the bar sheepishly, sat at the bar and quietly ordered a beer.

Less than a minute later, a young black guy came in. He was wearing an outfit identical to the white guy at the bar. Instead of sitting at the bar or taking a seat at one of the tables, the black guy stood at the bar entrance with his arms folded across his chest.

“We were all looking at this odd couple, wondering what the fuck they were up to, when the white guy pulled out this big, silver revolver and turned it sideways - you know, like the gangbangers do in the movies - and screamed he was holding up the joint,” Tamburro recalled.

The man at the door also brandished a gun. Slanting the large black automatic, the man pointed it towards the people at the tables.

“We were sort of shocked, you know, because we’d never been robbed before,” Tamburro explained. “Poor Ginny, my bartender, was told to open the cash register by the white guy, but she was so scared she couldn’t open the damn thing.”

The armed robber didn’t believe her and he shouted threats at her.

“Ginny was pounding away at the cash register, trying to get it open, and she looked like she was playing a fuckin’ piano,” Tamburro said, laughing at the memory of the scene.

The white robber fired off a shot over the bartender’s head and she screamed, fainted and fell to the floor behind the bar. Tamburro threw his hands up and ran behind the bar, saying he would open the register and hand over the money.

One of the customers sitting at a table and watching the crime go down was a 72-year-old bookmaker named Joe Marrone. He didn’t fear the young man waving the gun wildly, as Marrone ran in tough gambling circles all of his life and he was a veteran of a half-dozen mob wars.

After the shot went off, Marrone bolted out of his chair, picked up another chair, and hurled it at the shooter. The shooter collapsed when the chair hit him across the back. Marrone rushed up to the young man and began kicking and stomping him. The gun flew across the floor. Several of the young guys pounced on the robber at the door, punching and kicking him. He dropped his gun and tried to scramble out the door.

Despite the severe beating the two robbers received, they were able to get out the door and run towards their getaway car, which was double-parked outside the bar. When the driver of the getaway car saw his two partners being pursued by a small, angry mob, he gunned the car and took off in a lurch down the small street, sideswiping several parked cars as he sped away. The two robbers ran frantically after the car, as Tamburro and his customers stood on the sidewalk laughing.

“They was like the Three fuckin’ Stooges!” Tamburro said.


I wrote about the botched armed robbery in my newspaper column. I later ventured to the police station at 24th & Wolf Streets, which housed the 1st Police District and South Detectives. I went there to meet and interview the detective who was handling the armed robbery as I planned to write a follow-up column.

Ernie Pine was a veteran detective. He was a short, burly, tough-looking black cop, but he was calm, soft-spoken and had a keen sense of humor.

Pine said he believed the three men who held up Tamburro’s bar were the same armed robbers who were engaged in a wild crime spree across South Philadelphia. They held up several bars and stores over the course of a three-week period. Had they not been heavily armed and nearly killed a man in one of their robberies, the trio would be amusing.

“We’ve identified the trio of armed robbers,” Pine told me as I sat next to his desk. “Two of them are John and Joseph Allen, twin brothers with a long history of robbery and other violent crimes, even though they are only 26 years old. John Allen was only recently released from prison.”

Pine said the third bad guy was identified as William O’Brian, another young knucklehead with a long arrest record.

“Together they have an IQ of about 50,” Pine said, laughing softly. “We have warrants out for the three of them.”

Pine described O’Brian as a white “wanna-be-gangsta.” O’Brian grew up poor and dumb and he teamed up with the black Allen brothers before the three of them dropped out of high school.

Although I didn’t know O’Brian, I knew nitwits like him. They acted, dressed and spoke more street-black than the black street guys themselves. Although these clueless kids thought they were accepted, most of the black kids thought of them as fools.

So did Pine, who chuckled and said “Dopey white boys like O’Brian are a bit of pay-back for slavery and years and years of racial discrimination.”

The Allen brothers, who were not too bright either, according to Pine, were amused by O’Brian and they took him under their criminal wing.

Pine told me about some of the robberies they believed the trio committed. They hit several bars and fast-food restaurants, mostly scoring small amounts of cash, which they quickly blew on drugs.

They also attempted to rob a drug store the day after their beat-down at Tamburro’s bar. They were stuffing money and allergy and cold medicine into a large brown bag when a patrol officer in uniform happened to walk into the drug store. One of the Allen brothers barreled out the door, shoving the cop aside and leaving O’Brian holding the bag - literally.

O’Brian turned his gun sideways and fired two shots at the cop. Naturally, he missed. But his wayward shot hit an unfortunate 68-year-old customer.

O’Brian dashed out the door with the cop in hot pursuit. O’Brian attempted to dive into the open car window and onto the back seat of the getaway car - just like they do in the movies - but his head hit the top of the car door and he fell violently back into the street, blood gushing down from his head.

One of the Allen brothers laid down a wild field of fire from the front passenger seat and the cop took cover behind some parked cars. Allen grabbed O’Brian and the car took off, dragging the bloodied robber alongside the fast-moving car.

The cop called the crime incident in and then he recovered the paper bag with the cash and the drugs from the street. The police found the getaway car illegally parked five blocks from the drug store. As they suspected, the detectives learned that the car had been stolen that morning.

Pine said they had a task force working the trio and they had stake-out units covering stores and bars the armed robbers might hit in the future. Pine told me that he would be in touch if anything broke on the case.


A few days later I received a call from Detective Pine.

“We got ‘em,” Pine said.

I met Pine at Tamburro’s bar. I sat next to Pine at the bar and he told me that John Allen, apparently the smartest of the three, came forward and offered to turn himself in. He said he was willing to lead the police to his brother and O’Brian, providing he could get a deal for a lesser prison sentence. Pine said Allen did not want to return to prison for a long period, so he was willing to give up his twin brother and his childhood friend.

“We moved in on Allen and O’Brian, who were laid up in this shithole house and we took them without a struggle,” Pine explained. “O’Brian was passed out from his head injury and Allen was so high he could not keep his eyes open. They came along nice and quiet.”

In celebration of the arrest of the armed robbers, Tamburro set up drinks on the house.

“Here’s to dumb criminals.” Pine said as he raised his glass.

© 2009 Paul Davis