THE JOEY CHEECHO STORY

Just like the Bob Dylan song, Fats said that he dreamed he saw Saint Augustine. Then he said to anyone who would listen, "Who's gonna give the credit, who? Who's gonna have the balls to admit that the Church was always right? Ain't nobody gonna, 'cause they're all full of shit, that's why. Their mouths should be washed out with holy water. Think about it, the Eastern bloc

--them Communist assholes--is finished. Those guys were supposed to rise above self-interest and build a new world, man investing in man.

"It was as stupid as all that liberal-tradition stuff--the same thing really. Those assholes were finished, too. All them humanists was nuttin' but assholes. What a dumb thing to think, the idea that man can save himself. But the Church always knew, it was always right--two thousand years of right! They knew that regular people were shit. That the regular guy wasn't nuttin' but a vicious prick with ears."

This was Fats' way of saying that the collapse of Communism and the Eastern bloc was not the triumph of capitalism but rather a moral victory for the Catholic Church. "This don't mean I got no compassion," Fats said, "that I got no interest in mankind. I do. The issue today is failure--a man's right to fail. But the Constitution of the United States don't say nuttin' about it. So who's gonna protect the losers? Who's gonna protect their right to fail?"

Dominic Mondia--everyone called him Fats--was anything but stupid. His outsider point of view was intentional, meant to stimulate and provoke. He said everything in a crude and vulgar manner because he wanted to entertain, to excite. "You gotta make those muddafuckers think," he told his bodyguard, Tony Boffo. Indeed, he looked more like a man who worked on the back end of a garbage truck than a man who grappled with ideas of choice, free will, and predestination. He was a short, chubby man with greying temples. Close friends said he looked like a hard-edged Lou Costello. For sixty years of age, he was energetic and fast-moving, constantly smoking a thick brown cigar and spitting out tiny pieces of its tip. Behind his dark sunglasses, his eyes danced. The art students at the Express Cafe loved listening to him, and so did even the beat cops who stopped in for a quick coffee. Yet, in the midst of all the laughs he created, in his own inner world, Fats was somber and serious. He stared into the eyes of all the people he talked to, especially the students, and tried to see if maybe just one of them had the potential to exercise free will.

Fats had watched as the psychology of the world turned upscale, how people who--as he put it--without two nickels to rub together, waiters, waitresses, service people, were now filled with upscale attitudes. "There ain't no more Indians, Tony, only chiefs. Everybody thinks that he's gotta be a winner. Where in the fuck are all the losers? It's the losers who build the world, Tony. They make it. You can't have no world if you ain't got no losers." Yet Fats knew that the losers were still out there, that perhaps they had all moved underground. The current culture was making them feel ashamed. The media praised and glorified winners, all at the expense, and to the detriment, of the losers. Losers were losing their identities, and perhaps their souls.

"How can you think like that, Fats?" Boffo said. "It don't make no sense. Look, look at all them beggars and bag people out there. There's enough losers for you to fill a city, and ain't none of 'em underground. They're standin' right there in front of us!"

"No, you don't get it, Tony. They ain't no losers. A good loser's still in the game and works at it. He's still in there sluggin' and tryin' to make it in the world. Them guys out there are quitters, give-up-ers. They're losers that got wise."

Tony Boffo didn't understand. He just couldn't see the difference between street people and real losers. Fats was at a loss to make his point, and then, as if through a miracle of destiny, a character named Joey Cheecho showed up. His real name was Joseph Francis Francisco. He was always and forever trying to get next to Fats, trying to borrow money from him. Boffo stood up, immediately blocking Cheecho's path.

"What the fuck you doin'?" Cheecho said. "I wanna see Fats, not you."

"Fats ain't seein' nobody, fuck face. Get outta here!"

"Tony," Fats said. "Take it easy!" And then in a very soft and paternal voice he said to Cheecho, "Later, Joey, later. Maybe we'll talk next week." Cheecho gave Boffo the finger and walked out.

Fats smiled. He was pleased that Cheecho had shown up at such a critical point in the conversation. "That's what I mean, Tony--that's a loser. It's guys like him that the world don't look out for no more."

Tony Boffo spit. "I don't get it, Fats. If the world starts lookin' out for guys like him, then this world ain't worth two cents no more."

In truth, Fats was retired and bored, and his dilemma was not the boredom that retirement brings, but rather guilt. The losers of the world had made him rich. He was a retired bookmaker and loan-investment broker. During the early Seventies, he had had a vision. He had seen the future. He had seen the time when the government--as he put it--would be taking over the rackets, his rackets: horse racing, numbers, and loans.

"The day of the two-dollar bet is over," he had told his son Vince. "The government's movin' in, gonna take over the little guy's action. The big dough's gonna shift over into sports. If we're gonna survive, we gotta move up, start servicing professional people. So you're gonna go to school, get a business degree, be a broker. Because one way or the other, we're goin' downtown."

During the Eighties, Fats' vision had been fully realized. The government had indeed taken over. It controlled numbers, horse racing, and even gambling parlors. And Fats owned a seat on every major and minor commodity exchange in Chicago. His brokers were brokers in name only, upscale gangsters with the GQ look. His customers were the cream of America's crop--young, educated, powerful. They wagered thousands on sports, especially basketball. Fats had prospered, serving his little near South Side gang well. He was even smart enough to know that he didn't fit into the world of suits and ties, and in 1988 he retired, turning his operation over to his son Vince, and watched it from the sidelines.

And even though he had done the right thing--survived--he was ashamed, because just like the current culture, he had condemned--turned his back, too, so to speak--on the two-dollar bet. He had turned his back on the losers, the very people who had made him rich, the very people who had built the nation and now made it possible for people like him to live well.

Now, every day was the same for Fats. Tony Boffo picked him up at eight, and they had coffee at the Greek's. At noon, it was Chinese food at Chin's, and after that it was coffee, all day long, at the Express Cafe in the South Loop. He felt close to his operation there--not so isolated. To ease his guilt, he started reading St. Augustine and learned that God had predestined the majority of mankind to be losers. This gave him comfort, and he didn't feel so bad. But as he read on, the Saint told him that even though most men were predestined to be losers, God still had given them his only son, Jesus.

"See, Tony," Fats said, "Jesus is sort of like a losers' safety net. Even though God screwed the little guy, he wanted that their failures should be supported, or at least comforted. Now you got the TV people makin' gods outta sports figures, and praising winners all the time--big-money people. Everything is backwards, confused. The losers got no one that they can count on anymore." Tony Boffo was never quite sure if Fats was kidding him or not--whether he was serious or just going nuts. And even though Fats' thinking abilities were legend, Boffo began to worry.

As far as losers go, Joey Cheecho's abilities were legend. No one who ever knew him would dispute how hard he had worked at it. In his very own family, Cheecho wasn't trusted. His mother locked away items of value when he showed up for a visit. He lost lucrative city jobs for attempting to blackmail fellow workers. He was always engaged in one scheme or another to steal something from someone. In short, he was enthralled with and swept away by the image of the gangster, and worked very hard at duplicating this image in himself, of bringing it into the real world. What others saw as blatant stupidity on his part was intentional and deliberate. Cheecho always got caught. He wanted to get caught. He planted implicating pieces of evidence that led directly back to him. It was his way of proving to the world that he was a gangster. He cut a scar into his face in hopes that everyone would call him Scarface. In truth, it did enhance his already dark and sinister features. He was tall and lean, and had straight, slicked-back hair and thick, black eyebrows that joined at the top of his nose. "Look," the old Italian ladies used to say, "here comes the lizard."

When Fats finally met with Cheecho, the old gangster saw that the Nineties had not been easy for Joey. Cheecho was literally run down at the heels. The Las Vegas look was dying on him. He was only 35, yet the modern world had hurtled past him. His face was worn, tired, bitter. He existed on petty theft, shoplifting, and parked-car break-ins. Fats knew that if he didn't help Cheecho, he would end up in the streets with all the quitters. Fats' heart poured out to him. He embraced Cheecho's hand as if he were the prodigal son come home. The teachings of St. Augustine filled Fats' heart, and he remembered his conversations with Father Dino, a parish priest. "Dominic," the Father said, "I can-a no save-a the world, but if-a I can-a just a-save a one. Then I do a good for God."

"How can I help you, Joey?" Fats said.

"I need dough for my operation," Cheecho said.

"What kinda dough, Joey?" Fats said.

"Five thousand," Cheecho said.

"What kinda operation, Joey?"

"A big one."

"You talkin' goods?" Fats said.

"The best," Cheecho answered.

"What kinda stuff, electronic?"

"Yeah," Cheecho said, "state-of-the-art stuff."

"You got a warehouse, a truck and stuff?"

"That's why I need the money," Cheecho said.

Joey Cheecho's story was flimsy and threadbare, but Fats didn't question it. And Cheecho was just as astounded as Boffo when Fats counted out five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. Cheecho hadn't expected anything. He had really only stopped in to talk, to feel like a gangster. Maybe Fats would give him a hundred or two, but five thousand?

"Mudda-fucka, mudda-fucka," Cheecho said to himself as he stood in an alley and looked into the envelope. He couldn't get over it. His hands and knees trembled. "Mudda-fucka, mudda-fucka!" he repeated over and over again. Suddenly, in a reversal that can only be described as classic Cheecho, he was seized by a feeling of deep remorse and extreme self-loathing. "Stupid motherfucker! Joey, stupid mother fucker!" he said to himself. "You shoulda asked for ten thousand, you dumb asshole!"

But later that night, after he calmed down, Cheecho again felt excited, alive and invigorated. He sang "Mack the Knife" to himself as he donned a thick 14-carat gold chain and an elegantly woven Cuppolone hat. He was going to Division Street, Chicago's night-club district. "Let the good times roll!" he shouted at the bar. Women flocked to him. He handed out a phony phone number and told people to call him if they needed a favor, and if they had money to invest, he promised to cut them in for a piece of the action. "I'm Italian!" he shouted. "I'm Italian!" This was his explanation for everything. This meant that he was for real--that he was a gangster.

After weeks of Joey's high living went by and Fats saw no return on his investment, Fats began sending Cheecho a series of typed and unsigned religious notes, quoting directly from St. Augustine and urging Cheecho to pay up. Cheecho thought the notes were crazy, and he told Boffo to tell Fats that his suppliers were screwing him, and that he'd pay the moment the screwing ended.

After Fats received this last response from Cheecho, he lit a candle to Saint Michael and prayed to St. Augustine for guidance. He prayed for some hours into the night and finally heard a voice. "What sort of reasoning is it, Dominic," the voice said, "to make pain a proof of death? Is it not rather a sign of life? Whoever suffers lives!" Fats lit incense and inhaled the fumes. Shortly thereafter, he had a vision. He saw his precious St. Augustine. "Tell me, Father, tell me," Fats said, "show me the way."

"Their flesh does not die, Dominic," the vision answered, "and their fire shall not be quenched, for it is better to enter into life maimed than to go into gehenna, into the unquenchable fire, with two good hands and feet." Then Fats understood.

* * *

Cheecho was flat broke and long past due on his loan. All his extensions had expired, all his excuses were bankrupt. As he ran through an industrial wasteland just north of Chinatown, the feeling of excitement again gripped him. It was terror mixed with exhilaration. He was in the midst of his very own gangster drama, and he loved it. Fats, Boffo, and two other men were in hot pursuit. Boffo had a baseball bat, but Fats made him throw it away. "This ain't no act of vengeance," he shouted. "We're here to help the man!" This statement confused Boffo. He did not understand.

Hard as Cheecho ran, he was running into a dead end, a ten-foot-tall concrete railroad embankment. He reached it, looked up, punched it, kicked it, spat upon it, and then turned to face Fats, almost as if he were a gunfighter, but he didn't have a gun.

"I ain't sayin' nothing!" Cheecho shouted. "Do what you're gonna do, Fats, but I ain't sayin' nothin'!"

"Gag this motherfucker!" Fats said.

Boffo and the others grabbed Cheecho and kicked his legs out from under him. "Pin him down!" Fats ordered. "Hold him down good and tight! Nick, get his legs! Sonny, you sit on him!"

Still, they had trouble holding Cheecho. Boffo stood up and smashed his heel down into Cheecho's face. Blood squirted up from his nose. This settled him down, rendered him semi-conscious. Then Fats went to work. He had a plastic bag filled with 12-inch sticks and strips of nylon cloth. He was going to make tourniquets. He tied one, very, very tight, above each of Cheecho's knees and below each of his wrists. "Tight, guys, tight," he said, puffing. "Hold him tight."

Like wrestlers, Boffo and the others pressed Cheecho down. Fats took a deep breath and took out a gun, placing it firmly against Cheecho's right knee. Boffo smiled. Fats fired. Cheecho jerked, moaned, had a spasm, his eyes popped, and he passed out. Quickly and calmly, Fats shot the other knee, and then the palm of each hand, one, two. He exhaled and relaxed.

"Look how good those tourniquets are workin'," Fats observed. "Look how there ain't hardly no blood. You guys move quick now and wrap him in the sheets. We gotta get him into the trunk of the car."

From the time the first bullet had entered Cheecho's knee to the time they dumped him at the back door of the hospital emergency room, less than ten minutes had elapsed.

From the very beginning, Tony Boffo had always wondered why Fats didn't simply pay Joey Cheecho five thousand dollars to break his knee caps, instead of Fats' playing games with Cheecho the way did; but as the Joey Cheecho story unfolded, Boffo began to understand.

The media had a field day with the Cheecho story. The tourniquets did it, igniting all the curiosity. Were they put there before or after the shooting? Did Joseph Francis DeBolognia perhaps have a guardian angel? It was plain for all to see: he had survived an obvious assassination plot. The public was hungry to know, was hungry for news. Cheecho was unconscious for more than 72 hours. Headlines and rumors were flying. Cheecho was placed under police protection. The media kept a bedside vigil. "No relatives have yet come forward," a newsman reported. "Compelling questions remain unanswered, and unless he wakes up, we may never get the answers." As the newsman ended, the camera zoomed in on Cheecho's sleeping face.

Finally Cheecho woke up. His room was jammed with reporters, doctors, and police. He looked around him, at his body bandaged and in traction. He sneered, etching an arrogant scowl on his face. Everyone waited with baited breath for him to speak. A doctor asked if he was all right. The silence hung thick, became awkward. A police captain approached him, starting to say something. Suddenly, Cheecho exploded:

"I ain't saying nothing! You hear me, I ain't saying nothing! I want a lawyer! Someone get me a lawyer!"

A million questions were forthcoming. Whats, whys, and hows ran rampant. The doctors had to clear the room. Reporters were running to get their stories in. Cheecho the whole time shouted for a lawyer. The evening news went wild with the footage. Cheecho was being described as a crime lord, a young Turk of sorts, whose bold takeover bid of the near South Side mob had been thwarted. The public ate it up, hook, line, and sinker. And the longer Cheecho held his silence, the wilder the stories grew. One anonymous tip linked him to a New York crime family. Another said that Cheecho was known as Joey the Shark in Vegas, a high roller and a deadly hitman. Finally, people who knew him came forward, people who had witnessed his life of petty and pathetic crime, and instead of denying him, rather corroborated all the preposterous stories. "What the fuck you think," Cheecho told a Time reporter, "you're dealin' with a marble shooter or somethin'?"

Paradoxically, Fats had to cripple Cheecho to give his life shape and form, twist and distort him, to give his life meaning. Cheecho would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair with only partial use of his hands. Yet, for the first time in his life, he was happy, at peace with himself. For the first time in his life, he was respected. Every day he buzzed through his neighborhood in a motorized wheelchair, dark sunglasses on and his Cuppolone hat pushed down over his forehead. "Joey, Joey!" people called to him. He waved, chatted, told stories. Finally, his reputation was etched in stone. St. Martin's Press offered him a book deal, giving him a $50,000 advance for the soon-to-be-released The Joey Cheecho Story. Fats collected in full on his loan, with 100% interest due to late charges. Everyone was happy.

"See, Tony," Fats explained, "a man's life is untenable" (he actually used this word) "if he ain't got no lie to live by."

"Un-what-able?" Boffo responded.

"Everybody's got a lie, dummy, all except for a chosen few, and this lie thing ain't a bad thing, because a man can't live a happy life without one, and you can't have no world--no organized society--without it. But in my day, the lies were smaller. Cheaper, too. You could afford them. It was stuff like the family, a car, the work ethic, and self-sacrifice and things. But today it's the lie of the hero, the lie of greatness. Now I ask you, Tony, in all sincerity, and in the name of God, how in the hell can the world afford such high-priced lies?"

FIN