Broken Jaws and Prostitutes

“We’re moving to California,” my mother said.

“We’re moving…AGAIN? I asked.

“It will be great! It’s California!

My mother often answered questions this way. Always a positive spin.
I sometimes compare my mother to Scarlett O’Hara. The entire fucking plantation could be burning down behind her and there is Peg, aka Scarlett, with her “fiddle dee dee, tomorrow’s another day” speech. She was also known to break into songs like “Pick Yourself Up” and “Put on a Happy Face.”

I wasn’t happy. I had friends and hot Cuban boyfriends, sandy beaches and a dock to sunbathe on, and over-21 nightclubs that would let my 15-year old-self in without an ID. But now we were moving. Again. At least it wasn’t back to New Haven, my dad’s hometown, again. But still…

I should have known something was brewing. My father was behind closed doors talking to my mother quite a bit in the last two weeks before the “We’re moving” announcement. Usually, my father was very vocal in the house — yelling in Italian about lost ballgames or lost gold and diamond rings or chains (yes he wore things like this) that he’d misplaced. But this time the house was strangely quiet.

There were some weird things happening. I overhead my mother telling my dad that she was harassed by some cops with my little sister in the car.

And then there’s Johnny Winter. My friend Debbie and I were on the VIP list, courtesy of my dad, to see the blues guitarist in concert. My dad often got my friends and I into nightclubs when bands we liked came into town. Everyone in Miami Beach knew my dad. This was usually a good thing, but this night was different. My dad dropped us off at the club early and Debbie and I went to sit on a bus bench to talk about boys and wait.

I looked pretty hot for a 15-year-old who could pass for 18; white leather jumpsuit, high heels, long sun streaked blonde hair split down the middle, frosted pink lipstick. Debbie, a tall, thin, Italian girl, was wearing a short sparkly dress with brown hair down to her waist and legs up to her neck. And then a police car pulled up.

“Get in the car,” the cop said.

I didn’t even notice the cops until I heard his voice.

“GET IN THE CAR!” he said again.

“What did we do? I asked.

In what felt like a milli-second, two Miami police officers had their hands on Debbie and me, grabbing us by our wrists and forcing us into the squad car’s back seat. They jumped in the front seat.

Debbie, who unlike me, came from an Italian family who resembled The Cleavers more than the Sopranos, was crying.

“Why are you doing this to us? We didn’t do anything. Let us go,” she pleaded.

I, however, did not do well with authority.

“You are going to be sorry for this. We did nothing. LET. US. GO. NOW!”
I said with force.

“You’re a couple of prostitutes, right? the smart ass cop said.

And then I said something I only used in times like this. Not that there had ever been a time like this, but if I were in any kind of trouble, this is what would come out of my mouth,

“Do you know who my dad is? I said.

The smart ass cop answered.

“Yeah, we know who your dad is. Tell him hello for us.”

He opened the door and let us out.

We watched Johnny Winter with a lump the size of a golfball in our throats. Debbie was shaken up by what had happened. I was shaken up at the thought of what my dad would do to these cops if he found out. My mother picked us up after the show ended. I told her on the way back home about the incident. She told my father. He screamed in Italian a lot, once again behind closed doors. And then I found out the truth.

Dad was in trouble. He broke the jaw of the chief of police a few days before. No one got in to see Sinatra who wasn’t invited. Not even the police. And no one called Frank, or my dad, a WOP. So he broke his jaw.