Drummer for the Mob

We had just crawled off the bandstand and headed to the bar, when the bulb flashed over the door.  Jerry the doorman, all five foot four of him, pushed out of his chair and slid the panel, just like in the movies.  Jerry wore a rug that looked like it was sewn out of matted pubic hair and sported clusters of gold on his fingers with their polished, manicured nails and around his scrawny neck, giving him the vibe of a miniature Frank Sinatra.  In this place, Old Blue Eyes was god.  Jerry looked like Frank Zappa’s deceased uncle.

As Jerry greeted the blonde whom he obviously recognized, I glanced across the bar and there was something that didn’t seem quite right.  She didn’t look like she was out for a good time.  In fact, she looked pissed as hell, and she was staring hard at the mope standing next to me.  That’s when she reached into her purse and extracted an impressive silver 357 magnum and pointed it directly at Mr. Mope. 

“Holy fuck,” he muttered to no one in particular and then dove under the bar.  Having earned a college degree in communications and being relatively quick on the uptake, I got a sense of what this lady was going to try to communicate to Mr. Mope, and I likewise dove for cover, rapido.  That’s when the cacca hit the fan.  Bar stools and glasses were toppled as ladies and gentlemen alike flew in all directions.  I waited for the explosion, but it never happened.

 Our man, Jerry, more agile than he looked, grabbed blondie’s arm and almost yanked it from her shoulder.  And with one seemingly effortless move, he tossed her and her purse, sans 357, down the steep flight of stairs leading up to the club.  I came to learn that pitching miscreants down these stairs from time to time was a sort of Horizon sport that ESPN would probably never cover.

One of the fascinating things about the Horizon was that weird events and sundry passion plays like this erupted occasionally but were quickly shrugged off and forgotten by the crowd.  It was like some cocaine-fueled maestro was spinning up psychedelic vignettes to keep the resident nutsos entertained.  Shiny things attracted this bunch.

* * *

One particularly weird night an extremely inebriated, very large man made his wobbly appearance at the Horizon and proceeded to spoil for a fight.  He flicked a cigarette butt at one guy and got no response.  He intentionally bumped another at the bar and again got no response. Then he turned and leaned into a short, modestly built Italian-American everyone knew as Jimmy D.  This time he got a response.  Jimmy D proceeded to beat the fuck out of this guy.  I mean he administered an ass-kicking the likes of which I had never witnessed.  I myself had to admire the speed, rhythm and dexterity he employed to kick this guy’s ass, as he beat out a cadence on his skull. 

To the crowd’s amazement he topped off his routine with a piece d’ resistance that remains with me to this day:  he slid this guy like a slab of beef across the dance floor and thrust his head through the base of the jukebox that was programmed mostly with Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits.  Old Blues Eyes never missed a note of Strangers in the Night as this guy’s skull came to rest inside the Wurlitizer, bleeding profusely from various orifices.  Guess what happened next?  If you said “stairs toss,” you are dead on.

That’s not quite the end of our little story. Everything gets back to normal, if you could call what went on at the Horizon “normal.”  The Nite Lites were near the tail end of our final set.  It was around 5:15 a.m. and the place was still cranking, when the light over the door once again flashed.  Old Jerry opens the door quickly, as a blue rush of Pittsburgh’s finest file in with the asshole, who a few hours ago did the jukebox boogie with his skull, leading the charge.  Looking like he just crawled out of an Egyptian sarcophagus, his head was swathed in bandages. He and the law were looking for Jimmy D, who had conveniently disappeared.      

They shut us down for the rest of the weekend, but next week it was after-hours business as usual.  As for jukebox man, I understand he was visited by a couple of Horizon employees a few days later, and suffice it to say he never graced the club again with his surly presence.

* * *

The Horizon attracted all stripes of people, from syndicate bosses and soldiers to penny ante drug dealers, massage parlor owners and ordinary fun-seekers.  On any given night or morning you could spot a well known local politico, educator and even an occasional police lieutenant. The bulk of the early hours trade, though, was just your average Pittsburgh “yinzer,” looking for action, whether its gambling, drugs, sex or just a couple of drinks and a meal.  The band played all of the current hits for their dancing, listening or snorting pleasure.  When we played, the dance floor was packed asshole to elbow.