Sammy-Joe and Natural Causes

Back in one of the old days, that'd be somewhere in the 20's or 30's when the gangsters and hoodlums buzzed around Chicago as thick as the mosquitoes and blackflies in the North, there was an old fella. Well, he seemed old but he was only fifty-eight. Guess he'd lived such a rough and sordid life he looked like he was sixty-eight or maybe even seventy-eight. Well, it seems that the old, shriveled-up, grizzly-chinned wino Sammy-Joe had lived through so much as a kid that he'd developed a heavy case of immunity in his old. 'Cause that ole guy survived more hardships than most people could dream up.

You see, back in a former old day, when Sammy-Joe was a teenager or the like, that'd be way back in 1875 or '85, the street-sleeper was known as Moose-Leg Johnson and one of the toughest lumberjack dudes to come out of Northern Minnesota where the mosquitoes and blackflies were far thicker than the gangsters and hoodlums in the South Side of the Windy City anyday.

Well, One-Eye Jack was a Chicogo-neighborhood thug. He got his name when one day when he made a match-head-gunpowder bomb in a two-inch nut and bolt and it blew out his left peeper. His name before that

accident was Tino Marionelli. Well, the middle-aged Jack and his gang killed a priest who refused to shell out protection money from the weekly donations at St. Paul's where he presided and ole Sammy-Joe saw it. What One-Eye didn't know was that the derelict was so drunk he was seeing triple or quadruple because he'd guzzled a half-pint of anti-freeze topped by all the lighter fluid he could squeeze out of the piece of junk he'd found in the trash. But One-Eye saw that ole Sammy-Joe was lying on the sidewalk and the thug had no way of knowing the drunk really hadn't witnessed the killing, he just thought he had. So to keep things tidy and all loose ends tight, Jack gave the order to do away with the bum.

Well, since the ole geezer was already stiff as a board and to all intents and purposes probably wouldn't have lived through the night without the gangsters even touching him, they threw the half-dead man in the ice-filled river. Out of habit they wired a cement block to each foot. Even the boss approved of that touch. The problem was that tight ends sometimes have a way of unraveling in cold water, which is exactly what happened in this case, 'cause the very next night, right in front of One-Eye and his gorillas, who but the blurry-eyed witness sloshes into the bar and asks if he can have a drink, a boiled egg, and a pickle.

Naturally everyone concerned was very concerned, so they checked out the bar and everyone on the street to find how the old geezer got out of the river and undid his anklets by himself or if there was an accomplice. The hoodlums, you see, were convinced that Sammy-Joe couldn't have survived without someone's help, so that an accomplice must be wise to One-Eye Jack and his entire operation. Such is the way hoodlums thought back in those old days on the South Side of gangster-filled Chicago.

As long as Sammy-Joe was alive, the job wasn't done. To finish it and keep from getting caught red-handed, ole Jack tells his boys to lay off the

wino for the moment. When all eyes aren't on him they'll get him, and get him good, get him for once and for all. So at closing time, when everyone had gone but the booze-blind, bar-sponges, One-Eye has Mike the bartender put enough poison in the drunk's drink to kill a herd of elephants. And to be sure he bottoms out this time, this Mike pours the drinks down Sammy's gullet himself.

Needless to say, Sammy-Joe staggers out of Salvatore's Bar and Grill like he's shuffling down death row for the shock of his life. But the shock wasn't his, it was One-Eye Jack's and his gangsters two days later. Since nobody saw the wino for that long they were convinced the cocktails had done their job, so when ole Sammy-Joe stumbled back into the bar like he wanted a refill, everyone turned white like they'd seen a whole covey of ghosts.

Everyone who knows how they did things back in the 20's and 30's know that there was only one way to be sure a job got done and that was to do it yourself. So you know what this One-Eye Jack did? Not leave it up to his bumbling gorillas or the zealous bartender, but he pulled out his pistol and fired two rounds directly into the wino's wrinkled forehead in broad daylight. He did it in the alley where was confident no eyes could see.

What One-Eye didn't take into account was that there were more eyes than rats' and rummies' in the back alleys of South Side Chicago that evening as the two 38 slugs drove into the bum's brain. There was a little ole lady who wasn't afraid of anything, especially these foreign-named hoodlums who thought they owned the world, namely the one she lived in. Well, Jack was so pleased with his two, short-range, point-blank blasts that he paid no attention to ole Silvia as she ducked behind a trash can. That's right, Mr. Murder Unincorported just strutted back into Salvatore's like there was no tomorrow.

I tell you, the old days weren't like the young days, 'cause nowadays who'd listen to this ole biddy anyway? But ole Silvia was someone to be reckoned with, I tell you, no matter what day it was or is. She picked up the two casings that'd jerked out of One-Eye Jack's automatic and started to drag the body to the police. Well now, this whole incident is full of surprises, I tell you. 'Cause no sooner than she touched Sammy-Joe than the ole cuss opened his eyes and asked if he could have a couple of aspirins 'cause he had one doozy of a headache.

The next day, after fingerprints had been checked and round bandages administered to cover the bullet holes, who hobbles into Salvatore's Bar and Grill but ole Sammy-Joe himself, accompanied by Silvia, sixteen of Chicago's finest, plus the honorable Police Commissioner himself. And don't you just know that the entire establishment was surrounded by Tommy-Gun-toting cops just waiting for the gang inside to make a mistake so they could cut loose with their real-live toys?

Well sir, Jack was so shocked that he and his gang blurted without thinking.

"Why didn't da swim in da drink do him in?"

"I give him enough poison ta kill two elephant herds."

"I shot him two times directly in da head bone and I know dey weren't blanks 'cause I loaded em myself."

Oh, that night the Chicago police was a happy lot!

So how did he do it, this drunken bum from Chicago's South Side? How did he manage to keep from drowning and freezing, live through the poison, and especially two, point-blank 38 blasts? Well sir, in the real, REAL old days when they used to hang people, if the condemned man didn't die after three attempts, the law said either he was innocent or he was touched by the gods so he was free to walk the earth for the rest of his

life, even if he did do it with a pretty sore neck. Triple jeopardy, someone called it.

Anyway, everyone concerned concluded that ole Sammy-Joe lived through those three attempts just 'cause he was one sturdy old bugger. You know, a constitution that could take anything since it was born and bred on mosquitoes and blackflies so what's a few pests like One-Eye Jack and his cement-jungle gorillas? They couldn't come up with anything better. For that matter, no one else could either.

The great irony is that Sammy-Joe Johnson, formerly Moose Leg from Northern Minnesota, didn't drown, die of poisoning, or from gun shot wounds, or by any other thug-initiated method. He died by choking on a meatball. Right there in Salvatore's Bar and Grill. In front of Silvia, sixteen of Chicago's finest, plus the honorable Police Commissioner himself. The death certificate said he went by natural causes. Now, ain't that something?