Once Again, One Johnny Rocco, More Or Less, Is Not Worth Dying For-With Robert Mitchum, Jane Russell and Gloria Graham’s “Macao” (1951) In Mind

As Told To Lance Lawrence by Frankie Devlin

Macao, starring Jane Russell, Gloria Grahame, Robert Mitchum, 1951

Frank McCloud, he of the U.S. Army officer corps and a fistful of serious medals slogging through hell-hole Europe during World War II said it best, said it best one night when we were in the Park Plaza Hotel in Boston trading shots of whiskey shortly after the war, maybe three years after, and he was trying to put his pre-war life back together, trying to get back in the publishing business but was meeting resistance at every level -“One Johnny Rocco, more or less, was not worth dying for.” Meaning he was fed up to his eyebrows with defending this and that, defending democracy when the old crap was just rising back up again after he thought the war had put an end to that. See Frank had run into Johnny Rocco, everybody back then knew Johnny ran every evil thing dope, gambling, numbers, high and low-end pornography, women doing everything possible with man, woman, beast and that was just the top of the iceberg, as the king-pin gangster boss out of Chi town, Chicago down in the Keys, down in Key Largo I think it was not Key West, when Johnny was doing some evil scheme to get back on top. When Frank told me that, that dust up he had with Johnny I was all ears. Despite his keen observation Frank went head to head with Johnny once Johnny made the fatal mistake of trying to mess with Frank’s woman. Under those circumstances all bets were off, all wisdom floated down the Gulf, as they should but Frank’s advice is still stand-up stuff.

Soldier Cocrane should have listened to those words, listened to his fellow ex-soldier it would have saved him a lot of grief. Soldier from the time he was a kid out of Brooklyn hustling milk money from young kids had been nothing but a two-bit grifter, a small-time operator who had been run out of the States. Some say it was over a woman, another man’s woman, in a bar, drinking, and that was that. He either killed the other guy, or so grievously wounded him that he died later in the hospital. Took the guy’s car, wallet and woman spent a few days running her to ground and when the news came in slipped out the back door one night with her tied to the bedposts. Here is where chance is a funny goddess, can play mean tricks. He decided to head west instead of east that sultry night when things got too hot on the news of the other guy’s death and Soldier decided he was built for love not cages.

Like every small time grifter, every two-bit operator who tried to horn in on a good thing that was already somebody else’s nut  Soldier got run out of a few places in the Orient too, the usual, Singapore, Hong Kong, Saigon so only one place was left-the sinkhole, lands’ end the colony of Macao in the days when that was something out of the Wild West in America. Late Chance Ranch some guy called it when he was writing a novel based on the place. Every illegal venture in the world, dope, gambling, women again being just the normal evil stuff and descending from there to deep hells with sadistic adventures the least of it. Let’s put it this way, the way that safe from harm novelist put it in one of the books he which he set in Macao-life was cheap, cheap and expendable.  Soldier had hopped the boat with about three bucks in his pocket, the clothes on his back-and an idea. An idea he would ask Vin Halloran to put him to work. Yes, that Vin Halloran, the American gangster who “owned” Macao, owned every Portuguese colonial official and cop worth owning and had everything tied up with a bow. 

There, maybe elsewhere too they mention his name in hushed tones. One hundred years from now their progeny will be speaking in hush tones about Vin, about the days when men were not afraid to get blood on their hands- or order the hit.                    

Not a bad idea on Soldier’s part since Macao was the end of the road. If he couldn’t score there he might as well have taken a ride in some sampan and put a hole in the bottom. He tried to move up in class, maybe be an enforcer, a hit man, a repo man for Vin. Made sense since Soldier was rugged enough, big broad shoulders, barren chest, good enough looks that no woman would throw him out of bed and so no public eyesore for Vin to bother about like some of the help whom he had to keep strictly for night alley night work. Except on the trip over from the mainland he met this Jane, Jane something but you know as well as I do it was alias so don’t worry about last names. A brassy buxom no holds barred dame, hell, lets’ call things by their right name, a tramp, any man’s woman, any man with some dough and a bottle maybe, or dope she looked the type. Without getting hung up on silly morality in those days, now too the last I heard, no decent dame was heading to Macao when Vin was running the show. Period. So, although she claimed to be a song bird, a canary, and did have one of those smoky voices she would have had a hard time getting her cabaret license in New York City. Especially when Billie was around. She was either going to some high-end whore-house Vin ran for Asian businessmen with a taste for the wild side or into the South China Sea. Maybe join Soldier in that holey sampan.            

Here’s the funny part, not so funny maybe but you never know what will twist a man’s mind. Vin went for her, went big, gave her a spot singing and a nice nest. Turned out she could sing a bit but even then she was nothing but bedrooms and booze. Worse, worse for her and maybe she would not have to bother with that sampan gag was this other dame, this Gloria something, again don’t worry about last names because when the smoke cleared she would have another one didn’t want Janie girl around her man. Period. The Soldier-Jane match-up was not made in heaven. No way.  

Back to Soldier and his dreams since this Jane would probably land on her back whatever happened. That good idea, that enforcer, gunsel, hit man idea went nowhere. Vin was not in the market for gringo enforcers since he had half the Tong Society on the payroll so Soldier was down on his heels. Vin gave him five bucks and the air. Then this sleaze-ball salesman, a guy he had almost met on the boat over, made Soldier a proposition, makes him a sub-salesman, no, independent contractor, I guess you would call it.  Except it would all turn out to be a ruse, bullshit. See he was really New York City cop who was on Vin’s trail because another NYC cop had been trying to bust Vin and would up down in some sinkhole for his efforts. Vin had started out in New York and the cops there were looking to clean up their cold files docket by bringing his in for the third degree. The problem for the coppers was that Vin was invincible in Macao in those days as long as he didn’t go into international waters, the three-mile limit. Smart guy, mostly, that Vin and maybe the locals were not wrong to whisper his name in their dreams after all.       

Dink salesman, Bill Bendix, or something like that although he used another name, names, conned Soldier into doing his legwork for some commission, a few thou which must have looked good to Soldier since was living off the cuff. The deal the Bendix put forward was to sell Vin a high-end diamond necklace cheap and Soldier would get his cut from that end. Except silly Billy forgot to say said necklace was already owned by one Vin Halloran who had been trying to sell the damn thing in Hong Kong where his agent fell down, copped a plea and gave the necklace up to get to some safe house in America.

Vin therefore took umbrage when Soldier presented the proposition. Threw him in irons, ready to throw him into the South China Sea with or without sampan if necessary. It is hard to read what this Jane was thinking, making she had had sweaty dreams, although who knows really but she switched sides. Queen Jane was giving up her kingdom with Vin for no known reason when she decided that she should share her fate with Soldier who was getting help from that blonde bundle of lust who was looking to get Jane the hell out of Macao. When the story came out later it seems that Vin was hard on his women like a lot of guys, like Johnny Rocco, hell, like Soldier with that fluff he killed that deadass guy over. Once Jane, and Gloria too, gave the drift on Vin and his sadistic habits, once Soldier claimed Jane for his own, that taboo messing with a guy’s woman is what tagged Vin for the undertaker, for the big step off. This is what I never figured about a smart guy like Vin though he decided to go to Hong Kong to get that freaking two-bit necklace (against his whole operation profits) stepping out of the three mile zone and easy bait for the international police once Soldier decided to drop the dime. That stoolie business got him maybe a new lease on life since the coppers were going to go to bat for him with the New York authorities. Got him feeling good about doing his good deed to save the world from bums like Vin, guys whom he too thought would vanish once the war cleaned up the world’s mess.  

Still Frank’s advice would have saved Soldier a lot of grief since two things happened after Vin went to sleep with the fishes. Gerry O’Leary, the rising American gangster out of Albany, New York moving up the food chain took over Vin’s operations, streamlined everything and made plenty of profitable changes like cutting the bribery payroll putting some poor Portuguese coppers on public relief or something.  And Jane decided she liked the idea of luxury on Macao better than being some housewife in the Bronx and dumped Soldier for Gerry. Yeah, Frank had it right, right as rain. (I heard later she was running that high end whorehouse for Asian businessmen with a taste for the wild side and Gloria was running the gambling tables. Jesus.)  

When Legendary Bank Robber Pretty James Preston Made The Bankers Squeal-And All The Women Sweat-With Bruce Willis, Billy Bob Thornton And Cate Blanchett’s “Bandits” (2001) In Mind-A Special Guest Commentary   

By Special Guest Scott Allen, contributing editor North Adamsville Ledger

Bandits, starring Cate Blanchett, Billy Bob Thornton, Bruce Willis, 2001  

The legendary Pretty James Preston, bank robber, solo bank robber, would have had the so-called “Sleep-over bandits,” Terry and Joe, a couple of cons, a couple of holy goofs really, masquerading as bank robbers in the film Bandits, for lunch and had time for a nap. And I am just the guy who knows that hard fact for after all I was the guy who put together the legend, wrote up Pretty James’ exploits right up until the end. See I was nothing but a young cub reporter, a clog in the back- room police beat death march for the heralded North Adamsville Ledger in the 1970s when Pretty James was robbing, arms in hand, every bank and department store not entombed in concrete around Eastern Massachusetts when I saw my chance for a by-line in maybe the Boston Globe, maybe television. anything but that stinking police backroom that smelled of stale coffee and staler donuts. My “in” was that I knew Pretty James in high school and once I connected with him, once he knew he could trust me as far as he could trust anybody I became essentially his publicity flak, his press agent to make that legend that he always craved deep down inside. Don’t get me wrong Pretty James wanted the dough, and plenty of it fast and easy but that legend business was never far below the surface when we would meet in downtown Boston across from the JFK Federal Building which he insisted on to put a thumb in the government’s eye just for kicks, because he could do the deed.   

(By the way Pretty James’ mode of operation, modus operandi okay, was always to show plenty of firepower when on a job. One night over beers at Shacky’s he told me that was the only thing, other than surprise, that will keep everybody afraid to breathe, including bank guards and department store security. Somehow he got some M-16s, AR-15s which are semi-automatic assault rifles they used in Vietnam where they were not worth crap, would jam up in the mud, and would go into with one in every hand. Although people still don’t believe it thinking I made it up as part of the Pretty James legend on an early job he did actually fire the guns, in the air, after he left the building just to prove that he was willing to do what was necessary to get the dough-easy or hard. For a long time, almost ten years he never had to do any more shooting, so he probably was right to “show the colors” early on. All I did was verify with a witness on the street that he had fired the weapons when I did my report on the action, nothing more.)              

In lots of ways touting Pretty James was a piece of cake, easy once he started consulting me, always theoretically to be sure, about what actions would draw some attention to him, what the world wanted from a lone gunman essentially in the days when bank robbing still had some cache. Pretty James had plenty of advantages-one being that he was a stone-cold bank robber whose instincts until the end were unerring, knew what would draw and what would not. Big granite-etched banks which in those days of symbolic show were pictures of safe harbors for a depositor’s money were prime targets. As the banking industry went suburban, went to cheapjack trailers and small storefronts they were not although as Pretty, lets’ just call him Pretty from here on in to save space since you know who I am talking about, kept telling me even I could stick-up, his term, half of them. When he decided to vary up his game and hit department stores he avoided the ones that had kids’ clothes and toys as too dangerous while, as will become apparent in a minute a women’s clothing store was the cat’s meow. Hell, some women, and I still have my notes and still have my disbelief would go shopping just to see if Pretty was going to hit their shopping spree place that day. As already noted, better unlike Terry and Joe who were something out of the late Jimmy Breslin’s The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight worked alone, didn’t have to deal with informers who got caught, sharing plans that might go awry-or the dough. Even better, from a commercial legend point of view and a newspaper’s as well Pretty went into the bank or store in broad daylight with no ruse just plenty of nerve and firepower. He could lead off the late edition or the 6 o’clock news and jump ratings. Best of all he really was “pretty” a wiry good- looking guy in the mold of the bad-ass biker criminal that Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy chased in 48 Hours so all the women would sweat over him, and in the real contact cases cover him and hide him out. I remember in high school girls who were supposed to be social butterflies, who were on the top of the totem pole, who wouldn’t dream of even noticing a low-rent biker were known to show up at Pretty house and get taken whatever way they wanted. You didn’t go to Pretty’s at midnight for anything else but to curl his toes. Sweet.

          

Sure, I will get to the two deadbeat amateur bank robbers Terry and Joe, along with their collective squeeze, their so-called hostage, Kate and how they took a page from the late George V. Higgins’ The Friends of Eddie Coyle caper that Jimmy Skaggs started way back when grabbing the bank manager and holding his or her family hostage while they brought the manager to his little bank and grabbed the cash-no sweat. The only thing they did, a variation if you will, was grab the bank personnel the night before. Big deal. But first let me explain how I worked my Pretty legend magic once I got his go ahead.

Every reporter, hell, maybe everybody who can write more than a sentence or two knows that half, maybe more, of what you put out in print, in behalf of making a legend is pure bullshit, crap. Here is what most of those who can write don’t know though people, the great unwashed masses, lead such dull existences that they will believe almost all of what they read or heard about-if it makes them feel good, if they connect. Like I said I already had a running start with the women, young and old as it turned out because of Pretty’s looks to make the clincher though I needed the guys. I will say that Pretty, determined, single-minded Pretty, was hard on his women, those who protected him, and those who wanted to. I won’t say at this late date he was a “love them and leave them” guy but he surely was no hearts and flowers to the ladies guy, except that last gal, that Sally something and here I will be on safe ground not giving a last name because even a “simp” knows that once she blew town she changed that moniker more than once. Toward the end I would get letters from some disheartened women who tried to protect Pretty, hide him out and while none of them finked on him to the coppers they also didn’t think he was that great in the sack, seemed preoccupied with the next hit, the next target, what it would take to keep the trail hot. That is when I knew I would have to double-down on his reputation, advise him a little to get even more daring with his exploits.       

I played the old Robin Hood gag that writers have been using forever-taking from the rich and giving to the poor. What a laugh if you knew Pretty. Maybe he left a fifty- cent tip for some diner waitress he was looking to screw, looking to have play his flute as he called it, but the guy was nothing but a self-indulgent fool, would go through the dough living high off the hog at the Ritz for months at a time with a different woman, maybe two, every night, stuff like that. But giving dough away was not his thing, he told me so flat-out and I kind of knew from my own family that he hungered for a lot of things he didn’t have as kid. I made his giving a hundred here, two hundred there to his women like charity with a little twist of paying off the whole of Babylon thrown in. Pretty never paid for his women, never paid for sex and you can believe than, huh, take it to the bank. I had him giving dough to the families of those in “the projects” over in Adamsville where he grew up and also to the Sacred Heart Church where he went once, maybe twice as a kid. Pure gold, although don’t go to either location looking for examples of how much he gave to anybody. Zilch. Still an easy sell especially once he branched out into an occasional department store heist and people would be waiting in line, especially older women, older meaning then in their thirties, maybe with a couple of kids, a tired ass of a husband and a bleak future to see if he was going to show up and rob that place that day and maybe they would get some of his largesse.           

That is the public bullshit, the crap for public consumption but go back a bit to where I described Pretty as a stone-cold bank robber, a guy who robbed whatever he robbed in broad daylight, armed to the teeth and taking no prisoners as the saying goes. I don’t know if Pretty knew about Willie Sutton, an early famous bank robber who was credited with the observation when asked later about why he robbed banks-that is where the money is.  I never mentioned Willie or his observation you don’t crowd one legend with tales of another, especially if you are tasked with making the new guy’s up but Pretty went after the dough with something like that kind of concentration to get the dough. A few people, a few heroes who tried to stop him took the fall and early on I used the old gag that being a hero was for cops and professionals leave Pretty alone, get out alive. In the end though I couldn’t save him “rep” when on that last caper, the big Granite National Bank job over in Braintree he wasted four customers who tried to rush him after a silly bank guard who thought the bank’s money was his or something took a shot at him and Pretty unloaded. Ran into the streets, they say he was looking down the block, looking for that Sally who had his ride, or maybe that is the way I wrote it was gunned down in a hail of bullets. That Sally never did surface, never contacted me in any way to give her side of the story but I like to think for one fucking time in his too short life Pretty tried to protect somebody by taking those slugs without a murmur. Maybe that is why she never peeped to me. Never did get that Globe job though. Yeah, Pretty was a piece of work while he lasted.

Now to the holy goofs, the Sleepy Hollow Bandits or whatever they called themselves who have given me something to whale on courtesy of site manager Greg Green who took Seth Garth’s advice and hired me to do this one-shot special guest reviewer job. I didn’t know Seth then back when Pretty was tearing up the place but met him later when he mentioned that he had read everything I had written about Pretty being a hometown North Adamsville boy. He is the one who encouraged me to tell the tale about a real bank robber not some misplaced schoolboy antics which went out with Bonnie and Clyde. And I have but part of the deal was to tell what was seriously wrong with the legend these dopes Terry and Joe were trying to put together.

You already know about their stealing Jimmy Skaggs’ playbook move to ease the way on getting into the bank. That though was old even back in the 1970s because the coppers through an informer, the guy who sold Jimmy’s guys the guns, were able to wrap that caper up without a muss or fuss. The worst thing though was maybe the guys had heard of Willie Sutton, its hard to say because their first freaking bank robbery was done without plan, without thinking things through and Pretty would tell you, Willie too, you need a plan, plan, plan plan, especially if you are going to last for ten years like Pretty did without catching day one of jailtime. I won’t even go into the double-dipping, actually triple-dipping since they had a third guy as a driver to split the dough with. Pretty would have freaked big time on that shares stuff. He told me once he actually took a cab from a bank robbery scene in Stoughton, the car was across from the bank, he got in, where to and that was it. Gave the cabbie ten bucks and thought he was a great guy for doing so. His haul one hundred thou not bad for a day’s work minus that ten bucks. (I was always careful about how much the bank takes were since it was in the coppers and banks’ interest to jack up the take to make the “perp” look harder than he was and for the bank to grab some easy fed insurance money. I also took a skeptical eye to whatever Pretty said his haul was since in the interest of his legend he might jack up the heist price. On the Stoughton caper, for example, the take was fifty thou not one hundred so maybe that ten bucks to the cabbie really was big to Pretty)       

You know how hard Pretty was on his women, except maybe that last one, mainly us them to hide him out, fuck them and then move on, no strings around him, no revealing plans or ideas. The cardinal sin of these holy goofs, this Terry and Joe comedy act if you think about it was grabbing that weirdo Kate, not because she wasn’t a good-looking little redhead but because when you throw a woman in the mix you get nothing but trouble with a capital “T.” You know this Kate stirred both men, and she played them on that seesaw. Got them crazy for no good reason. Let me tell you what Pretty told me about the one time he thought about taking a woman along, some twist he met at a gin mill in New York while he was on “vacation.” She was maybe nineteen and build for trouble, big trouble if a guy let himself get involved with her. Well Pretty did for a while. Got hot as nails for her. Decided that he needed a look-out (probably what he expected Sally to do on that last doomed caper I don’t know since the last time I saw him was in a morgue) and so he brought the twist along. When showtime came she vanished, went long gone and the caper depended on that look-out job she was supposed to perform since this bank was across from a police station. He barely got out alive with twenty-five thou (actually ten and some change) and never went that route again. You know I could go on and on about these goofs, about Pretty but you can see by now that Pretty would have had them for lunch. Maybe dinner too.     

In Search Of Heroes Of The Great American Hispanic Night-Mi Hombre Senor Zorro-The ‘Z’ Man Of My Youthful Dreams-Antonio Banderas’s “The Mask Of Zorro” (1998)-A 

Film Review

DVD Review

By Si Lannon

The Mask Of Zorro, starring Antonio Banderas, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Anthony Hopkins and assorted sleaze-ball Spanish dons and their senoras and senoritas, 1998

I have made no secret here or in private conversations that in my youth, my childhood really, I was crazy to watch the Zorro half hour on 1950s black and white television. For a reason that only a few people knew then, mostly family, and excluding my corner boys, some of who work for this publication, and whom I grew up with in the heavily working- class Irish and some Italian neighborhood of the Acre in North Adamsville a suburb south of Boston. I suppose every family has its family secrets, its skeletons in the closet like some looney grand aunty up in the batty attic, a brother, a hermano in home speak, who has spent more time in jail for various armed felonies than on the outside, that some cousin was in the vernacular of the day in our family at least was “different” meaning then a “fairy, fag” you know what I mean and today proudly LGBTQ, a young female relative who also in the code words of the day had to travel to “Aunt Emmy” for a while, meaning that she was pregnant out of wedlock and had to leave town to avoid family disgrace and dagger neighborhood dowager grandmother eyes probably never to come back.

In my family the deep dark secret which also reveals in passing why I loved Zorro as my youthful hero was that my mother was a Latina, Hispanic, you know from Mexico whose last name was Juarez, Bonita Juarez. No big deal right, now anyway although in the age of the long knives, in the age of Trump and all the animosities he has helped stir up, bring to the ugly surface of American life, that may no longer be true. But back then, back in 1950s growing up Irish-Italian Acre that was a no-no. The way around it devised by my parents was that sweet Bonita was “passed off” as Italian. An entirely respectable ethic designation in a town that drew Italians back around the turn off the 20^th century to work the granite quarries that dominated the topography of the landscape (that work died out with the exhaustion of the quarries to be replaced by a booming shipbuilding industries which by the 1950s has in their turn faded this time by off-shore outsourcing and eventual departure which explained a lot about the wanting habits of we corner boys in the 1950s while other working class towns were observing something of a golden age-also mainly gone now with globalization). While there were names, derogatory names, for Italians in some Irish working-class homes in the neighborhood there was enough intermixing to level things off.

Almost universally though since there were absolutely no Hispanic families in the whole town the normal terms of abuse applies-spics, wetbacks, braceros, and the like. My father could not stand for that and even his relatives in the neighborhood believed my mother was from Italy. She had come up to California from Mexico during World War II with her family to work the grape and melon fields and my father stationed at Fort Ord at the time met her at a USO dance and wooed her after that. Since Bonita’s English was halting she was forbidden to speak Spanish when others were around. The only way any corner boys knew that she was Spanish was in high school when in ninth grade my best friend Jack Callahan had been taking Spanish and had come to the house unannounced and heard her speaking that language and not Italian. Naturally asking what gives and I told him and from there to the rest of the guys who hung around Tonio’s Pizza Parlor. [In the interest of today’s seemingly compulsory transparency statement Jack Callahan has not only occasionally written in this publication but has been a substantial financial backer-Greg Green]

The corner boys when they found out since we were “brothers” today hermanos were pretty cool about the whole thing since she was my mother and that counted a lot even when we were at civil war with them, con madres. In general though it was not until many years later after Bonita passed away that people became aware of her nationality in a time when such things were more openly okay-even in the Acre.                    

Secrets aside I loved Zorro the same way my corner boys loved say white gringo good guys, avenging angels like Wyatt Earp or the Maverick boys from the television our main source outside of the movies for having characters we could identify with. Swashbuckling Zorro taking on all-comers, bad ass gringos especially but also batos locos paid soldiers and other scumbags and of course the oppressor hombres-the mainly Spanish dons who had the huge land grants from the Spanish kings when California was part of the fading Spanish Empire and later after formal independence and creation of a Mexican state who gouged the peasantry into the ground to maintain their freaking luxurious lifestyles. I would have to keep my devotion something of a secret although in general Zorro was a positive figure among the television-watching corner boys.

I was therefore very interested in doing this review of The Mask of Zorro when site manager Greg Green decided that enough was enough as Mexican Nationals, immigrants, citizens, hard-working peoples were being bashed for no good purpose by the Trump unleashed dark alt-right-Nazi-fascist-white nationalist cabal and had to be defended on all fronts including popular culture-including films. And in a very definitive way-beyond the obvious romance between Zorro, played by a youthful Antonio Banderas and his lovely senorita and soon to be marida and madre of his child, Elena, played by drop-dead beautiful Catherine Zeta-Jones-this film shows a heroic and honorable side of the Mexican saga-of cultural super-heroes among the oppressed peoples of the world. 

Here is the way the thing worked on this one although one can take the production to task for not have more Hispanics, Latinos, etc. in key roles like Elena, who could have worthily been played by Penelope Lopez, and certainly Zorro, the elder, played by venerable and ubiquitous high-toned Brit actor Anthony Hopkins could have had a better casting. The elder Zorro has a running battle in the Mexican independence struggle with the soon to be departed Spanish viceroy, a real bastard whose name is legion so no need to give him some human surname over the way the peasantry and others were treated by him. More importantly over the elder Zorro’s wife and daughter since that mal hombre viceroy was smitten by her. Eventually the bastard was the cause of the mother’s death and the elder Zorro’s imprisonment leaving the field clear for him to raise that daughter, Elena, when going back to Spain in comfort and culture.    

Then fast forward twenty year later and the bastard returned with Elena and with the idea of turning via those well-off land grant Dons California into an independent republic by stealth and cold hard cash to the Mexican leader Santa Ana, known as a villain in U.S. history via the Alamo and Jimmy Polk’s Mexican War adventure. The war guys like young Abe Lincoln and Henry David Thoreau couldn’t stomach. Enter a rejuvenated elder Zorro who nevertheless was too old to go mano a mano with the bastard and his hired thugs. Through serious trial and error he trained a new generation Zorro, played by Banderas, to lead the struggle against the returned kingpin oppressor and let the peasantry live off the their lands in some peace. Once our new Zorro finished his basic training he was off and running to woo the lovely Elena, tweak the bastard, fight a million sword fights, woo the lovely Elena, fight a few million more sword fights, and well you know the “and” part by now. A most satisfying film which only rekindled my love of the sacred youthful character-thanks young and old Zorro.         

Tales Of The Lakota Queen-The Time Navajo Jack Caught The Westbound Train 

By Seth Garth

Hi, Ace of Diamonds here, my on the bum moniker, real name Jim Mahoney. I just got the word a few days ago that the near-legendary master hobo Navajo Jack (sorry, never knew his last name, or his real last name the reason which will become obvious below) had caught the West-bound train. That is hobo-bum-tramp speak for passing away, dying. How I know that expression I gathered from first- hand experience when I was on the bum back in the 1970s after my first divorce which got  a big hand from my  drug and money problems which the “ex” couldn’t deal with any longer after I spent the mortgage payment one month on an few ounces of nose candy, of sweet cousin cocaine and she threw me out or I took off depending at this far remove on whose story you want to believe. At the time we were living in Oakland out in California (funny to say these days because we couldn’t afford upscale San Francisco and now Oakland is getting beyond reach for the same kind of people as us back then). I was also in hock to about fifteen other people so I decided to scram, to head out on the road, to go underground really, to go to a place where repo men, dunners and a couple of guys with turned up out of joint noses who worked from a drug dealer I was in hock to big time, and the United States Post Office couldn’t find me with the three dollars in my pocket and a green small backpack with all my worldly possessions in it.

Yeah, the big idea was to go to a place where nobody cared about I.D, about what your past was about or your last address. Of course never having been on the bum before I wasn’t sure where to go. That is not exactly right I had been thrown out of the family house a few times as a young kid when my mother couldn’t handle what she called “one more disgrace” but that was kid’s stuff. Then I would go to the church for refuge but having lost the faith, having lapsed as they say in the Catholic Church that was the last place I wanted to go, especially in unknown California. I headed to the Sallies, to the Salvation Army where if you gave them a “story” they would put you up for a few days. That is exactly what I did once I saw that almost any hard luck story would do. They just wanted a story to cover themselves that you would go the straight and narrow, be contrite. At least while you were under their protection. So I headed to the Mission District, told my story and got my three days and three squares.

That is where I first met Boston Brownie whose first name I do know but will keep quiet about just in case anybody is looking for him for any reason. Still despite time and sunnier days I still remember the rules. Most of which he taught me that first Sally experience. Brownie had confused me when he introduced himself since I thought he was from Boston although he was really from Albany and was using Boston as a cover. I had told him that I was from Riverdale not far from Boston and he told he had slept near the Sudbury River not far from my growing up home one time when he was East. That was the night he told me never tell to say where you were really from, or your name, since you never knew who might cut your throat for that information, meaning if somebody was looking for you they would have a source to go to. I went by the moniker Vegas Vick until one night out in a jungle camp south of Westminster in Southern California while playing five-card stud with Saw Mill Jefferson I kept drawing the Ace of Diamonds and thereafter was christened Ace of Diamonds.  

In any case after our stay, my stay was up at the Sallies me and Brownie decided or rather he decided and I went along to hit the road. By the way it was Brownie who clued me in to the fact that at the Sallies as long as you were sober, or appeared sober, could get extensions of your stay especially if you had an earnest story and demeanor. (When I found those “later and sunnier times” anytime, now even, the Sallies sent a request for donations I would ante up so there is some kind of equity in this transaction between us even if they are unaware of the connection.) I wound up staying about two week, kept sober, got some day labor money and paid close attention when Brownie would tell me various hustles like where to get free lunches on the church soup line circuit, some clothes beyond my crusted old stuff and how to hit the church social welfare circuit to get five, ten, twenty dollars to “get on your feet” with a half decent sob story. 

I didn’t have to embellish mine much since that divorce, the drugs and a general line of patter about a new start got me over the line. The only thing that Brownie yelled at me about was that day labor work which he said was beneath his dignity, his dignity as a hobo. That was when he gave me the word on the differences, recognized differences among the road brethren, between the low-level bum who basically refused to work living almost exclusively on hand-outs, the tramp who would work any kind of job from dishwasher to fruit-picker mainly to keep himself in wine and cigarettes and the kings of the hill, the hoboes who kept the hobo jungles in order and who only worked when there was some worthwhile job, not cheapjack day labor. Anybody, or almost anybody, was welcome at least for a while in any hobo camp but that hierarchy as I would come to see definitely existed.     

I had read Jack Kerouac’s On The Road as a younger man and so I was kind of thrilled that we would be heading out on what I thought was the hitchhike road. Maybe meet some females looking for male companionship, maybe not. (The curse of the hitchhike road then whenever I chanced to travel that way when too far from the freight tracks was not the later mass murderer roaming the highways looking for easy victims but what we called the “perverts” guys who were cruising looking for other guys, homosexuals, who if you said no would dump you off the side of the road like I was one time out in Winnemucca in the Nevadas.) That hitchhike stuff was crazy Brownie laughed the only way to travel was on the freights where you could make better time avoid lots of road hassle and local on the look-out cops (although overall the railroad bulls, cops were more of a hassle than any civilian cops except when trying to sleep in their parks or places like that.) Brownie’s plan was to head south since this was late September when we started and as you headed East if you went through the Rockies you could run into snow and cold weather trouble as early as early October.  We went south to L.A. on a Union Pacific spur then headed East on the grand old Southern Pacific. That first trip out I would have bet everything I had that hitchhiking was better but I will admit Brownie was right that to get where you are going that freight system is the way to go.

As I have already mentioned along the various railroad tracks that crisscross the country there are hobo camps, jungles, where the brethren can find kindred, a safe flop and a not fit for everybody meal at least. The camp at Gallup, New Mexico was where I met the legendary Navajo Jack who Brownie kept telling me about and hoped would be at Gallup when we arrived. Naturally the stories about so-called legendary guys on the road center on survival prowess, beating back the bulls and cops and the ability to jump any freight that comes your way. Nothing big by real world standards but big in that world. Navajo had that reputation but also one as a guy who would not think twice about cutting another guy if he crossed him or crossed some young kid (more likely tried to rape the kid) or crossed some friend. But mainly the legend was about his ability to run the rails, to see that mystical starlight on the rails. When I did get to meet him I was all ears to what he had to say. (Brownie and he had traveled together when both were younger, when Navajo was working the freights trying to get out of the fucking Dakotas and that reservation life.)

But enough about me and my travels which in the hobo-tramp-bum road book were rather short (even including the hitchhike trail) since once I headed East that last time and settled in Boston for real and opened up a small print shop, got remarried and took on those sunnier days I went off the road. Navajo never did as I would hear occasionally from Brownie (when he finally went off the road after almost getting a leg severed trying to jump a freight that was moving too fast for him).          

This time that I found out about Navajo Jack’s demise  I had run into Boston Brownie in the Boston Common as I occasionally do when I am downtown for some reason and noticed that he was sitting on a bench that I have seen him sit on a million times over the years. Since the days when he stopped trying to catch freight trains because he just couldn’t do it anymore. (I had given up that mode of transportation many years before that and had gone back to the nine to five grind which proved easier than being on the bum-most hobos, bums, tramps would disagree and who is to fault them.) Sometimes I would stop and give him a ten-er or whatever I had in my pocket and talk for a while. Sometime not either because I was in that nine to five rush or because he was in his cups, his high wino heaven moment.

That day though Brownie was coherent, and I had money in my pocket, so I sat down next to him and talked a bit. That is when he mentioned that he had heard from somebody else that Navajo had passed away, hell, some things, some terms die hard, had caught that West-bound train. Brownie didn’t know exactly how Jack ended although it was on the bum, on the road since the party who informed Brownie said Navajo had passed some place in Illinois on the Lakota Queen and had been found one morning face down a short distance from the tracks near a hobo “jungle” and somebody had called the coppers to get him out of there. (“Hobo jungle” a place usually a short distance from the side of a railroad track, or under a bridge, along a river bank if there no train tracks where the travelling people as they say in Ireland can find kindred, find some food, some hellbroth stew usually no culinary expert could cook up,  some warmth of the eternal fire some protection of sorts from railroad “bull,” railroad cops, or local cops as long as they decided  not to bust the operation up and, maybe, some camaraderie although that sometimes could be iffy as I knew from first-hand experience when old-timers did not welcome young guys into their club.)    

Well at least Navajo didn’t die in his bed, didn’t die in his native South Dakota a place from which he was always running away from. Died running the Lakota Queen which is the name Navajo gave to every train he ever hopped a ride whether it was the Washington and Ohio, Union Pacific or Southern Pacific. Needless to say it was never an Amtrak passenger train every true hobo scorned out of hand. That running away something that I could relate too then, maybe now too on full moon nights when I get a craving for being on the road, for being free from the nine to five drag that I would bitch and moan to Brownie about when he was not in his cups. The times I talked to Navajo we would always start with -where you running away from this time. Funny Navajo didn’t even want to carry his name, his traditions at a time when I knew him American Indians were becoming “Native Americans” and later “Indigenous peoples” for despite his moniker he was half Lakota, half white if you can fathom that.  

Yeah Navajo Jack was Lakota Sioux and I think he said Welsh, but he hated that former fact, hated that he had grown up on a dingy South Dakota reservation just as I had grown up in that Riverdale mill town about forty miles west of Boston. Told me he had tried out various names Hopi Hank, Raging Apache and the like but after going through Navajo country somebody had tagged him with the name and it stuck. Funny though from the first day, or rather night I met him out in Gallup, New Mexico, out at the hobo jungle right outside of town not far from the Southern Pacific tracks he called every train the Lakota Queen, so who knows what was going through his mind at any given time about running away from his past. A lot of guys had names for the freights, usually after some love that had faded long ago or had been run away from and regretted. I always thought Navajo was running the same thoughts in his head when he rode every train west or east. Some squaw his term, some Phoebe Snow we called it around some flame-flickered campfire.     

Navajo was maybe ten, fifteen years older than I was. Had been on the bum, been on the road for maybe ten years then, had been on that road every since he got out of the service, out of the Army after hell-hole duty in Vietnam which he said he would never get over, not about the killing but about the lies the government, the white man’s government had told him via the recruiting sergeant about what was going on over there. Made sure he didn’t put down roots anywhere, left no forwarding address for nothing nowhere the way he said it. I always liked being around Navajo, he got me out of a few jams, kicked my ass a few times when he let the whiskey get to him, but always will be in my book one of the royalty of the road, of the hobo kingdom.

Funny, as I left Brownie that forlorn day when I found out about Navajo I almost said that he had “cashed his check.” I stopped myself when Brownie gave me a   wicked look and then said, “sorry Navajo that you wound up catching that West-bound freight.” Brownie smiled as if to say that he now knew that I would always remember the rules of the road. 

Armies Of The Night, Oops, Armies Of The Day- The October 21, 2018 Women’s March On The Pentagon-Another Sam Eaton And Ralph Morris Story From The Archives

By Frank Jackman

Ralph Morris and Sam Eaton have never been skimpy about doing things for the cause, the cause for them some peace in this wicked old world, some end to the endless wars their county, their America is embroiled in, leading to wicked out of whack U.S. military budgets that are wasteful and wanton. It was not always like that for this pair-they were as patriotic as any other 1960s citizen having in Ralph’s case served in the U.S. Army in Vietnam during the hellish times in 1967 and 1968. Sam Eaton not thinking much about the war since he had a serious childhood leg deformation and therefore was militarily unfit had his sad epiphany when his best friend Jeff Mullins had sent him a letter begging him that if anything happened to him in Vietnam to tell everybody who would listen to oppose the damn war against peasants who were fighting for their land and independence and we had no rationale quarrel with them.

Ralph had come back from Vietnam without any illusions about what he had done, what he had watched others do to people he had no quarrel with and Jeff Mullins had not returned from the war. This unlikely pairing despite both being from serious working-class backgrounds and hence tight in some matters met in the field of fire down in Washington, D.C. on May 1971 where they “met” in Robert Kennedy Stadium  not for a professional game but having been rounded up  in a police sweep on the streets when they were among thousands who had decided to up the ante and try to shut down the government if it would not shut down the war. Those were desperate times for anti-war advocates, Ralph ha gone down there with a contingent from Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) from the Albany area. The area where he grew up and Sam had come down with a cohort of radicals from Cambridge near where he grew up in Carver (at one time the cranberry bog capital of the world he would tell everybody who would listen.      

That meeting, better meeting of the minds would last until this day through thick and thin. Both men had raised families and that had curtailed their activities somewhat over the years. They would not meet sometimes for extended periods of time but they always felt a bond that time and distance would not, could not break. Ralph had joined Veterans for Peace in the early part of the 21^st century and Sam had joined as an associate so a lot of the events they went to were under the black and white dove-etched flags of that organization. As they had come of retirement age, Ralph turning over the high end electronics business his father had started to his youngest son and Sam’s his printing business over to a trusted employee they had become if anything more active as the times demanded their efforts what with endless wars, bloated military budgets and cuts in necessary social programs rocking the country well beyond even the most egregious acts of the Vietnam War governments. Ralph would make Sam laugh when he suggested that they buy a condo in Washington they were down there so much lately back in June around the Poor Peoples Campaign.

That endless war, endless increase in the military budgets and the endless cuts in social programs (and add in general boorishness of the governments of late) made them prime subjects for any event that would highlight those issues. During the summer of 2018 they had seen during one march or other an advertisement calling for a women’s march on the Pentagon in October. Actually the exact days of the 1967 actions, October 20^th and 21^st. The call issued by antiwar activist Cindy Sheehan. The combination of the name Cindy Sheehan and March of the Pentagon sent flashes through their minds. Cindy Sheehan whatever her subsequent trajectory, not all for the better, earned a lot of “street cred,” an important characteristic to them when she almost single-handedly revived the peace movement, the anti-Iraq opposition when that war turned into another long-term American military quagmire when she “camped out” down at George W. Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas back in 2005-2006 looking for answers to one question-why was her son killed in Iraq when there was no rational reason to have gone into that benighted country in the first place since there were no weapons of mass destruction on the premises. That got a lot of peace activists, including Ralph and Sam, back on track after a period of quiescence after the invasion was started despite mass opposition. No, forget “back on track” shamed them back onto the streets. Her name alone was enough for them to make plans.  

Sam, the reader and writer of the pair, although Ralph had plenty of ideas in his own right and on those occasions would do himself proud with whatever “think piece” he would put together, had been indifferent to the anti-war movement as mentioned before in 1967 and of course Ralph had been in Vietnam then so neither for their respective reasons had been involved in the original march on the Pentagon that year. Sam had actually later read Norman Mailer’s account of his part the action, his self-serving part in the award-winning Armies of the Night and despite some of Mailer’s over the top language in explaining the course of events had at that point wished he had been part of the action which included many acts of civil disobedience when got those, including Mailer himself,  a taste of federal or local justice. (This “later” after Sam had, and Ralph too their own fair share of arrest for acts of non-violent civil disobedience.)

When the pair discussed the up-coming action they knew, given the marginal condition of the active anti-war/peace movement that there would be no literati like Mailer, Dwight MacDonald from Partisan Review and a fistful of other writerly types. No glitterati like William Sloane Coffin and Doc Spock, they of draft resistance fame for which they would stand trial. And no known heavy politicos like Allan Ginsberg OMing the building to the mist of mind, Abbie Hoffman “levitating” the place or even left-liberal types and if things of late ran true to form despite a deluge of press releases no mainstream press (although they knew from Boston/Albany/New York City/ Washington D.C. experience there would be plenty of student journalists sent by their professors to hone their skills on the cheap to people talking to like Ralph and Sam who had learned that talking “to the kids” would hone their own interviewing skills at least giving some pithy line worthy of the mainstream press-if they had bothered to show up. The long and short of it was that this pair were pumped to go do battle against Moloch on its terms and see what came of it.

Only to be for one of the few times in their long and sometimes lonely anti-war careers disappointed or rather perplexed at what had been so promising but which was by any standard a bust. There would be no blame placed, although some scuttlebutt placed blame on the lack of organization, lack of a united front with other peace and social action groups beyond Ms. Sheehan’s name, lack of proper publicity and lack of dramatic effect. Both men had come down by plane from Boston, gone were the days when they would think nothing of the ten hour drive from either Albany or Boston, think nothing of having to go through or around bitch New York City traffic, think nothing of sleeping on church floors sleeping bag in hand, think nothing of the gruel provided for food, thinking nothing of no sleep for three days running of necessary. But poor bladders, poor eyesight, poor energy levels and a little sense that bourgeois flight was not so bad for the soul after all that had made that previous mode of travel outmoded. Even the million bus rides were out for those same reasons.

The plan of action was for the “masses” to meet at Pentagon City Metro stop which Sam knew from previous trips down was the perfect place to meet to head to the Pentagon a mile or two away. But that meeting spot should have also rung bells in their ears because no way would the place take a mass march. And it didn’t since perhaps three or four hundred, at the outside five, people showed up before the noon starting time (which for one of the few times in anti-war march history actually did go off around that time-both men thinking that fact amazing). (By Sam’s count there between police and military far more of them than demonstrators which is a sad commentary on the state of the peace movement as refracted trough this event. The march route was fairly short by Washington march standards but the route, the Sunday-driven route, meant that there would be nothing but empty parking lots that ring the building to greet the crowd. In the event the march ended at the North Parking lot and the dwindling crowd ( a “choir” crowd so once the march was completed there was drift since the line-up of speakers and performers in the vast empty parking lot, mercifully though with a sizable number of port-a- johns for the AARP-worthy crowd was not enough to hold those who had heard it all before) heard what they expected to hear from anti-warrior veterans and performers.

If this was to be the jump-off to a new revived anti-war movement like the 1967 Pentagon march had been this did not go down well with two long-time activists. If this was that start-please have mercy.  They left the place late that afternoon scratching their heads searching for answers-no doubt about that hard fact          

Once Again On The Legend-Busting Trail-This Time One Don Juan-With Errol Flynn’s The Adventures Of Don Juan (1948) In Mind-A Film Review-Of Sorts  

DVD Review

BY Will Bradley

The Adventures of Don Juan, starring Errol Flynn, Vivica Lindsfor, 1948

[Seth Garth reminded me recently that in this journalism business, this writing for publication, you have to find some niche, some “hook” as he said not only for the piece itself but for you to gain recognition for some particular aspect of the realm of ideas. It seems that as of late I am becoming the “go-to” guy to debunk or clarify various legends that have come down to us and which get accepted fairly easily by those who thrill to legends, myths and religious expressions. Greg Green has given me the “green light” to pursue this work as he believes that this looks like my niche- and my “ticket” to a by-line. So be it. W.B.]      

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Apparently I am the debunker-in chief of various legends and other signs of humankind’s inability to get past legends, myths and other religious expressions for explanation of the ton of stuff even now we don’t know, whether consciously or not, the unknown. At least I hold that position at this publication it seems after having to take fellow writer Lance Lawrence to task for telling the tale about Johnny Cielo, the so-called legendary aviator whom he touted based on the memories of some rum-dum he met in a bar in Miami who led him by the nose maybe for just a few drinks when he was hard-up for a story. You can see my retort in the archives here for September 30, 2018. (Lance was on the bum after busting up on a big drug cartel story when the informants never showed up probably re-thinking their options in the light of their probably fates if they were exposed. In any case Lance was hungry for copy having been on the sidelines for a while with a threat of losing his by-line if he didn’t come up with something. I have been there myself although I don’t have a by-line yet but may get one in this goddam cutthroat business at Lance’s expense.)

I have a certain history on this subject of fake legends having exposed a modern- day so-called Robin Hood from around where I grew up by the name of Pretty James Preston (real name except the “Pretty” since he was very good-looking even in his police mug and had more than one gal swooning over him, and protecting him with hide-outs and alibis) whose claim to fame was that he robbed banks and other places where hard cash was located like department stores in those days in the time-honored tradition except alone and in  broad daylight. Of course it is easy to break the legend of modern day figures since there is a fair amount of paper trail involved. In James’ case he had been touted by his voluntary press agent Scott Allan who worked as a reporter for the North Adamsville Ledger who had known Pretty as a young man, as a schoolboy, and who was also tired of the dead-beat police beat for the newspaper and so got carried away with his reportage. Let Pretty James off the hook and let him become some later day Robin Hood based on what had been his leaving a fifty-cent tip for some sullen waitress who he had an eye on, maybe didn’t jackroll some old guy when cash was tight and who didn’t pistol whip some poor bank clerk. His exploits like paying rent for those who lived in “the projects” where he grew up, sending milk and food to elementary school kids and sending dough along to Sacred Heart parish was all hooey, all made-up bullshit. By the way this has nothing to do with his so-called legend but the real Pretty Boy blew away four bank customers for no good reason except they were in the way on his last caper before going down in a hail of bullets. Even Scott Allan couldn’t pretty up Pretty Boy on that one.   

Like I said modern-day legends are easier to bust than the old hoary ones like Robin Hood and the subject of this piece one Don Juan, or maybe not “one” since my investigations to be detailed below point to multiple sightings-and sighings. Take Lance’s fatal pitch on behalf of Johnny Cielo. He egged on the legend created by a drunken sot met one hard-scrabble night in a gin mill in Miami after falling down on another more important piece when his people didn’t show. His source Billy just unwound on him, probably gaining steam as the evening wore on and they both got drunker. Lance made the cardinal error, strangely not uncommon in this damn cutthroat business and which I had to my own regret did one time as well, of not checking sources, of not seeing what was myth and what was true if anything.       

In a capsule Johnny Cielo’s legend centered on two key points-his “affair” with 1930s and 1940s Hollywood glamour queen and World War II G.I. wet dream pin-up girl Rita Haywood who allegedly in a period when she was not seen around Hollywood for a while before marrying the Aga Khan had followed Johnny down to Central America, to Barranca after he had run out of options in the States (had had a no-no reputation for drug smuggling). Never happened, and Lance should have seen that from minute one, and bells should have rung, rung loudly. What really happened beside Johnny probably like every other red-blooded guy at the time having Rita’s photo in his locker, that is about how close he came to her, was he brought some tramp, some bar girl or whorehouse denizen met who knows where who was beautiful and looked like Rita and Johnny promoted her as the real deal. The other later long after he ditched “Rita” legend was that he had run guns to Fidel and his guys in the Sierra Madres in the late 1950s and had fallen into the deep blue sea in the Caribbean on some mission. Reality: Johnny had ditched his plane and passengers while he was doing his real job of ferrying tourists between Key West and Naples down in Florida. See where things get out of hand.          

As I said previously breaking down old-time legends, here the Robin Hood legend from the12th century is a much tougher matter.  Really a thankless task since even with all kinds of at least circumstantial evidence the vast majority of humankind will still take the legend as good coin. Still if one can one has to set the record as straight as possible. The big storyline on this Robin Hood, or whatever his name was since he worked under many aliases in his business, he “robbed from the rich and gave to the poor.” Pure fantasy both before and after King Richard’s return and grant of land and other goodies which according to church and manor records made him one of the richest and greediest men in England. The records tell it all on the after side and Robin would not be the first to go from decent guy to bum of the month as he aged and grew fatter in many ways but he early side is more problematic. The only official record is Friar Tuck’s monastery record which shows one Robert Woodson, Hood’s real name, giving the equivalent of two buck to the place. Not exactly a big hand out considering he is estimated to have robbed every wealthy traveler who dared to come within twenty miles of his Sherwood Forest base of operations.

Okay on to today’s balloon bursting. The busting of the Don Juan legend. First off try as I might I could find no listing for one Don Juan de la Marca, the name of the person the legend goes under. The Spanish in that period kept excellent records, remember these were the guys who ran the Inquisition and recorded every goddam sound cried out in terror and pain so that made me think that maybe he was working under another name or that there were several Don Juans, not improbable. The story goes, at least the cinematic story, that he was a caddish love them and leave them guy galivanting around Europe, leaving his seed, until his home country queen knocked him for a loop (for a while) and he became something of a Spanish patriot against the likes of the mysterious and sinister Duke of Lorca who had the King’s ear and kept the Queen at bay. Enter Don Juan into the lists in defense of Queen and realm. Don Juan allegedly was a great swordsman (of the steel kind not of the kind the prurient reader might think) and was said to have been permitted to run the academy at court producing young swordsmen defenders of the realm. Through that connection he was able to rouse the better elements and make short work of the Duke and his paid mercenaries. Putting country above self, Don Juan who was supposedly a lover of the Queen, platonic of course, left the court shortly thereafter rather than tempting the Queen in some senseless love affair. Off to other romantic conquests. 

Reality hits one in the face hard on this one since it involved some coerced confessions from young women who were not very world wary or wise. As mentioned earlier there is no record of a Don Juan de la Marca which after exhaustive research now makes sense because the whole legend was a hoax, a figment of the imagination of a bunch of young women who would probably swear to this day they had been ravished by-somebody. Seemingly it all started at the Convent of Saint Mary’s (English translation) in rural Cordoba. The young women there, boarders, were not headed for the nunnery but were being farmed off by their parents for reasons ranging from keeping them out of temptation’s way to getting rid of unwanted witnesses to their debaucheries.

A very curious lot of mainly teenage girls with time on their hands and many dreamy moments. According to the accounts from the investigation team, the Inquisition boys, one girl, Dona Maria, spied a lightly-bearded slender young man crossing a field and called out to him. He answered and went away, only to show up again a day later walking that same field. Same call out, same walk away. Truth: the young man on closer inspection was a lout, a youth with warts and all so as he approached the convent Dona Maria screamed out she had been ravished by the lad. She needed some back-up for her bogus accusations and enlisted some of her convent mates into claiming the young bearded lad had ravished them as well. That was how the rumor got started and the hysterics began as young girls and women in similar isolated desperately hormonal situations, not always in cloistered convents, started clamoring the same set of lies about this long gone and who knows what happened to him youth. The long and short of it was that every Tom, Dick and Harry (English translations) used that bit as his calling card among his friends that they were the Don Juan figures even if they were not from Cordoba, or Spain for that matter. Whoever claimed to be saving the Queen at court from the intrigues of Don Lorca is just another holy goof impostor, a con man. You heard it hear for all the good it will for those many young women today who have their imaginations tweaked by a good-looking guy.

[Postscript: one of my fellow reporters at another publication whose name I will not mention but who is known to take particular pleasure in skewering her fellow reviewers has taken me to task for not checking the Spanish Court Record Almanac where I would find one Don Juan de la Marco’s name prominently described as master of the sword (again of the steel variety) and as having been given various awards for bravery. A look at this ancient dusty book does show such a name but if that hard-pressed fellow reporter had read further to the man’s age of sixty-two she might have saved herself some embarrassment trying to skewer me in this cutthroat business. Moreover, Madame Reviewer might have put her eyeglasses on to find that the person listed was not only sixty-two years of age but the name listed was Don Juan de la Marlo, a very different person, and no threat to that youthful lightly-bearded youth crossing some forlorn field of some young maiden’s sex-starved imagination legend. W.B.]