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Thus went the prosperous career of Tony B.

He made enough money in the Fish Market to live a very


comfortable life. In 1961, when a new housing development called Chatham Green was build on Park
Row, Tony B got himself a nice two-bedroom, 12th floor apartment. He also bought a lakeside house in
Greenwood Lake, New York, 50 miles north of the George Washington Bridge. With it's mountains,
9-mile long Greenwood Lake (which was once called Long Pond) and snake-like roads, Greenwood
Lake was light years away in style from New York City.

The town of Greenwood Lake is located on the New York side of Jersey Avenue, which
connects New York and New Jersey. On the New Jersey of Jersey Avenue side sits the tiny town of
West Milford, which is the gateway for New Jersey residents to enter into New York State. The
separate drinking laws of the two states is what made Tony B a ton of money in the 1950's through the
1970's.

In New Jersey, the legal drinking age was 21. But the law in New York state lowered that age to
18. As a result, on Friday and Saturday nights, people from all parts of Northern New Jersey sped
through West Milford, down twisting Jersey Avenue, to New York to drink in one of the about 50
establishments within a five mile radius of Greenwood Lake, New York.

There was the Long Pond Inn, a motel/bar/restaurant, where prize fighters, from heavyweight
champions Rocky Marciano to Floyd Patterson came to train. The Club Car was another hot spot and
was known for showcasing new bands. In the early 60's, the rage was the Sterling Hotel/disco, which
featured topless dancers, which was not allowed in New York City at the time..

Greenwood Lake was quite frankly a gold mind for the New York City mob. Almost every
drinking establishment was owned by New York City mobsters and Tony B himself was sole owner of
five of them himself.

Tony spent the weekdays in NY city, but when the Fish Market closed from Friday morning
around 10 am, to around 10 pm Sunday night, Tony B sped off to the friendly confines of Greenwood
Lake to enjoy the weekend.

Summers in Greenwood Lake were idyllic. Because of the cool breeze that emanated off the
lake, most homes didn't have air conditioning. The winters were cold, but even when the temperature
dipped below zero, it felt warmer in Greenwood Lake, than during frigid 20 degree days in New York
City .

Tony B's four-bedroom lakeside home was smack on Jersey Avenue, two miles from the town
of Greenwood Lake. In the back of his house, he had a dock where he kept his pontoon boat -- the “Ba
Fongool.” Tony B loved going out on the lake to spend some quite time with nature. And for other
important things too.

After dark was Tony B's favorite time to take his boat out for a spin. Crickets chirped softy and
the waves gently massaged the sides of the boat. When the moon shone on the lake, it was the perfect
time for Tony B to dump the dead body, weighed down with concrete blocks, of anyone who had not
been too nice to Tony B. Even though Greenwood Lake had been used as a mob burial ground since
the 1920's, not one a body deposited in its green waters had ever risen to the surface. It was as if the
lake had just swallowed them up whole.

Tony B's home was built in the Roaring Twenties and had a secret room behind a phony wall in
the basement, that he could access by pressing a hidden button behind a bookcase. This room had been
used as a speakeasy during Prohibition, but in the 60's it was Tony B's war room, where he counted
skim money from his Greenwood Lake bars, and conducted meetings of his crew. The room was also
sometimes used to straighten out a delinquent payer, or maybe a bartender who was acting like a
partner.

Although Tony B owned five bars in Greenwood Lake, he was never actually on the premises,
except to collect his weekly cut. Each bar had a bartender/manager, who ran the joint and reported
back to Tony B if there where any problems that needed to be straightened out. Whenever Tony B
bounced around town, he followed mob commandment 1, concerning ownership of places where
alcohol is served; which is -- never drink in your own bar. .

As for the bartenders, they couldn't drink in the bar they worked in either. Both instances were
invariably bad for business. Get drunk in your own bar and people considered you weak. Get drunk in
someone else's bar and they consider you a good sport.

As for the bartenders, if you let them drink when they were off duty in a bar they worked in,
their brother bartenders would serve them free drinks all night. One hand washes the other in the
bartender business. That was OK on the face of it, but it was not OK, if all the hand washing was done
with Tony B's booze.

Then there was mob commandment number 2; never hire a broad as a bartender.

Invariably, the male customers ogled the female bartenders and sooner or latter guys got into
beefs over the broad, which usually initiated the destruction of Tony B's furniture, which was not good
for Tony B's bottom line.

Another reason not to hire skirts is very simple. Due to the laws of Mother Nature, when they
got their monthly visit from “their friend”, they were useless for several days. When this happened,
even if they did show up for work, they were mean and nasty and ready to chop off the head of anyone
who even looked at them cross-eyed.

Female bartenders aside, anyway you cut it, bartenders are born thieves. One way or another,
they all instigated assorted types of chicanery, intended to take money out of Tony B's pockets. Their
tricks were too numerous to count, but the bottom line in the bar business is that a little robbing is
sometimes tolerated, but please don't make yourself a partner on the cash register. Then bad thing
could happen to you.

Take the case of Teddy Muldoon, a refugee from Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen, who made his
home in Greenwood Lake. Teddy came with good references and Tony B put him to work behind the
stick of his Greenwood Lake gold mine ---- The Pink Pussycat. Teddy was real good with the
customers and didn't have a strong pouring hand, which suited Tony B just fine.

Soon, Tony B made Teddy his manager, in charge of ordering, scheduling, and the hiring and
firing of the other thieving bartenders. During the summer months, Greenwood Lake was hopping
every night of the week. During the other months, the weekends were the moneymakers and some
clubs closed Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, just to save on electricity.

In the summer of 1960, Tony B noticed his weekly cut from the Pink Pussycat had dropped
more than 30 percent from the summers of previous years.
He confronted Teddy with this fact, to which Teddy replied, “Yeah, things are slower than last
year. All these new bars popping up are cutting into everyone's bottom lines.”

The only problem with that line of reasoning was that Tony B's other four bars were doing just
fine. Like they had done every other year.

Terry Muldoon knew about Tony B's other bars and should have know his explanation was
weak. But an Irishman born in Hell's Kitchen didn't exactly possess the mental capabilities of Alfred
Einstein, or whatever Mrs. Einstein's son's first name actually was.

“I smell a rat,” Tony B told Skinny Benny, who also owned a couple of Greenwood Lake bars.

“I don't like rats,” Skinny Benny said. “They sneak in at night and eat all the food. Especially
the cheese.”

Tony B was not as brain dead as his longtime friend, so he put a plan into place to find out
exactly how Teddy Muldoon was robbing Tony B blind. Tony B hired Patrick Casey, a retired New
York City cop, whose private detective business' specialty was clocking bars, for owners who were
having inexplicable cash flow problems.

Pat Casey visited the Pink Pussycat at different hours, on different days of the week, for more
than a month. But he could not detect any one of the several tricks bartenders employ to finger their
bosses' cash.

Finally, Pat Casey set up a meet with Tony B to report on his progress. They sat in the hidden
room in Tony B's house and sipped from snifters of Remy Martin Louis XIII, that had fallen off the
back of a fat liquor truck.

“I've been to your joint more than a dozen times and for the love of me I can spot a thing,” Pat
Casey said.

“That can't be,” Tony B said. “Someone is robbing my eyes out.”

Pat Casey said, “I've clocked all the different bartenders, including Teddy Muldoon, and they're
all operating on the up and up. I even had two of my guys visiting at different times on different days,
and they can't come up with anything either.”

“Impossible,” Tony B said. “You're missing something.”

“What could I be missing?” Pat Casey said. He took another sip from the snifter. “Your joint is
packed every night and all the bartenders are playing square. Your three cash registers are clanging like
crazy and I can't spot a damn thing.”

A bell went off in Tony B's head. He took a sip of Remy. “Say that again.”

Pay Casey downed the Remy and poured himself another drink. “I said, all your three registers
are clanging like crazy. You should be making a mint.”

Bingo!
Tony B threw his snifter against the wall. “The Pink Pussycat has only two cash registers. Only
two freakin' cash registers.”

A few days later, Tony B invited Teddy Muldoon to his house in Greenwood Lake for a
barbecue in the back yard. Skinny Benny was there flipping steaks, shrimp, burgers and franks. Richie
Ratface mixed the drinks.

Bloody Mary's. Pina Coladas. Mai Tai's. Boilermakers .

Whatever drink Teddy Muldoon desired, he got. And plenty of them too.

Muldoon ate like a pig. Three steaks. Four hamburgers. Two pounds of shrimp and about a half
a dozen franks. And why not? After all, it was Muldoon's going away party; going-away-for-good
party. So why not let the man enjoy himself one last time?

And go away he did. Like Houdini disappearing from a locked coffin. Only Muldoon's coffin
wasn't locked. In fact, it was quite wet.

Tony B, with special help from Skinny Benny and Richie Ratface, took care of the initial
festivities. Then the magic of the “Ba Fongool”, in conjunction with the wide and deep expanse of
Greenwood Lake, took it from there.

Tony B figured, now there was one less crooked bartender for the world to worry about. And
nobody could complain about that.