THE ROBBER

It felt good shoving Muzzy down a flight of stairs.

It was really out of character for me; I've always been a pacifist.  But he fuckin' had it comin'.  It was just like in the movies.  No one said shit.  The other scalpers new that Muzzy was a piece of shit who robbed people so much his other nickname was "The Robber" (pronounced, "The Robbah").

A typical situation would be like this:  Back in the day, we'd all be workin' the Patriots down at Sullivan Stadium.  The Pats sucked so bad back then, that we would pick up thirty dollar end-zones for ten bucks and sell them for twenty.  The Pats only drew twenty-thirty thousand in those days, but so many people came to tailgate and buy the cheap tickets, that we could all make seven or eight hundred on a Sunday afternoon, so long as the cops (Mostly Mass State Troopers) didn't hassle us, which they rarely did because they had no clue how much money we were making.  One "Statey" said to me once, "You guys must not do to well with the Pats, huh?"

I'd shrug.  What am I gonna do?  Tell him we're absolutely killing it?

Anyway, back to that low-life, Muzzy.  So there was this one State Trooper who worked undercover busting us back in those days.  His name was Dave Pare and he was a pretty stand-up guy.  He busted me three times in one summer, all by the book.  I invited him to one of my weddings and he did not attend, but as a present, he got the prosecutor to give me a walk (no fine, no guilty finding).  Also, he pretty much stopped arresting me after that.  He'd break my balls of course...stop me on the street, pull tickets out of my pockets and whatnot.
"Where's your probable cause, Trooper?" I'd ask him.
"You being here is probable cause."
He'd smack me on the head with my tickets, stick them back in my pocket and tell me to screw.

So one day, Trooper Pare is on the fucking warpath.  He just starts hookin' guys up left and right.  He's got Troopers on horseback, motorcycles, bicycles helping him.  They rounded up all of the usual suspects put us in a big-ass paddy-wagon and tell us none of us will make another dollar until he's got Muzzy in custody.

Now, everyone will say they never rat, but all I know is that within an hour of Trooper Pare cutting us loose, Muzzy was in cuffs and everything went back to business as usual.

Fact is, the kid is a fucking menace and he brings all kinds of heat and no one wants that.  Whenever he finally gets pinched and does a few years, there is an audible exhale emanating from the collective lungs of the scalping community in Boston.

So, back to the where, when, why and how I came to be physically throwing Joey Ferarra, aka "Muzzy" down the stairs at the "T" stop, outside a David Bowie concert at the Orpheum Theater in Boston in the Winter of 199?....

I had never met the kid or heard about his rep as I was new to the street.  I'd been introduced to most of the Boston guys by Leo, who had vouched for me and knew absolutely everybody and was respected by all.  Between that and me scoring 64 seats in the first three rows of Paul McCartney, I made my mark early and had a reputation as being a stand-up guy who didn't cause trouble and could be trusted.  It was also known that I had a solid crew of 8-10 kids who would always be the first in line outside a ticket outlet when there was a big onsale.  I'd usually drop off two kids at four or five different machines (Ticketron or Ticketmaster machines - usually at a record store or theater in those days) in remote areas so as not to draw too much attention.  They were loyal and dedicated and I treated them like they were family.  I'd drop them off at night with envelopes full of cash and pick them up after the onsale which was just what I had done the morning I first heard of Muzzy.

I picked up my kids from several Ticketmaster locations in southern Maine.  We had all been successful.  I had about thirty tickets to The Grateful Dead concert that was going to be held at Sullivan Stadium.  I had left my girlfriend, Mary Helen, with another six kids at Bostix near Fanuil Hall in Boston.  I gave her a couple of dimes figuring she could send everyone through the line twice.  I was on 95 south north of Portland when she paged me.  I pulled over and called her on a pay phone.  She was crying and talking fast.

"I don't know his name but I know you would recognize him.  He knows you.  Why would he do it if he knows you?  He said he knew a guy.  He said there was no way we would all get through the line again before the show sold out.  He asked me where you were and I told him you were in Maine.  I gave him the money and he went in the door and never came out."

Eight hundred bucks.  She had gone through the line and spent about twelve hundred and was following my instructions and waiting in line again when a guy approached her and told her he had a friend in the Boston Garden box office (mind you, this show was in Sullivan Stadium) which was a few hundred yards away.  He told her she could come alone.  His friend would handle everything.  Mary Helen GAVE HIM EIGHT HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS and watched him talk to a guy at the Bruins box office - a conversation about anything but Grateful Dead tickets.  Then Muzzy goes through a door, flashes the "One minute" sign to MH and he's off to the crack dealer.

I was screaming in my head, "You stupid fucking cunt!"

But I just said, "It's alright, baby.  Everyone makes mistakes.  You got a good number of tickets.  We'll get through this.  I'll find out who this guy is and take care of it.

At the time, I did not know his name and the only description MH could give is that he was white and had a "rotten tooth".

I got back in the car and drove back to Lawrence, hitting the roof numerous times while shouting, "You stupid fucking cunt!" repeatedly, at full volume.

The next day, I contacted Keith Sullivan.  Keith wore many hats.  Father, Husband, Ticket Broker.  But Keith was mostly known for being one of the biggest bookmakers in Charlestown.  He was a big, imposing figure who not many people would fuck with, although I did hear he had had some trouble with Whitey Bulger's crew, years ago because he wasn't kicking up to them, but you didn't hear it from me.  Anyway, Keith and I had a close mutual friend and he always treated me well.  There were a couple of times when my crew and his crew crossed paths and Keith could have told me to fuck myself and have his crew run mine over, but he didn't.  He was always fair with me and he was smart.  And...no one did any dirt without Keith knowing who had done it and what the dirt was.

I told him about MH getting robbed and Keith gave me the guy's name before I could finish.  "That's Muzzy.  Joey Ferrara.  You want me to have one of my guys pick him up for you so's you can give him a beatin'?"
I told Keith I just wanted my money back and he told me that Muzzy was a junkbox who mostly smoked crack and that my money was most likely smoked up by now.  Keith wouldn't have anything to do with the police and he told me as much, but seeing as how it was my girl who got robbed and not me, he said that if she went to the police on her own and told them the story, they would know who she was talking about.

I left it up to MH and she chose to press charges, but first I wanted to see if I could extract some cash from The Robbah.  So a few days later, I showed up posing as a vic (ticket customer) at the Orpheum.  I spotted Muzzy right away.

I was wearing a wig and some sunglasses and walked right past all the other scalpers.  Not one of them recognized me. (I have done this on numerous occasions when I was persona-non-grata at a venue and worked, undetected alongside guys who have known me many years :)  I asked Muzzy in a not-that-great Cockney accent what seats he had.  When he took them out to show me, I grabbed him by the lapel and through him down a flight of stairs that went down to the T-station.  At the bottom landing, he jumped to his feet and produced the smallest knife I had ever seen and threatened to cut me with it, though he did not ascend.

"I want my fucking money by tomorrow, or Mary Helen's going to press charges."

I strode off feeling enraged and exhilarated leaving behind my wide-eyed colleagues and witnesses who hurried to forget what they had seen.