The Art of Making Money - Jason Kersten [18]
Years later, Ed’s son, Gary, would find himself writing a small memoir about Ed’s, then posting it on an Internet blog devoted to Bridgeport memories:
Ed’s was a hangout for greasers, dopers, city workers, teenie boppers, blue-haired bingo ladies, cops, winos, gangsters, gangbangers, lonely old men, horny young men, college students, ex-cons, and families. You never knew what kind of crowd you’d see in there. We knew them all. We didn’t even try to remember all their names, so we gave most of them nicknames. I’m guessing that a lot of the nicknames were given because some people would rather no one knew their name. I knew people with names like: “Bloomers,” “Fallin’ Eddie,” “Pennsylvania Eddie,” “Bridgeport Eddie,” “Pete the Cop,” “Blonde Headed Sharon,” “Fuck Chuck,” “Mugsy,” “Crazy Charlie,” “Puerto Rican Sammy,” “Sarge,” “Large Marge,” “Cavey,” “Stormy Weather,” “Little Joe,” “Indian Joe,” “Billy Moon,” “Size Ten Mary,” “Mother Mary,” “Pollack Paul,” “Mr. T,” “Cono,” “Li’l Bit,” “Guy Guy,” “Big Mickey,” “Slick,” “Red,” and “Ronnie the Preacher.” Sometimes we just called them what they ordered every day, like “Boston with three sugars” or “Raisin toast no butter.”
Pete “da Vinci” was an easygoing Italian who usually perched by himself in a booth up front, across from the counter. At about five seven, he was short, but striking thanks to his deeply tanned skin, and eyes so yellow they were almost gold. He was in his mid-forties but looked much younger, and unlike most of Ed’s characters, who tended toward the blue collar, da Vinci had a bohemian air about him. His defining accessory was a black leather beanie. Unless he was asleep, in the shower, or at church, it sat on his head with the permanency of a tattoo.
Like all the other characters at Ed’s, da Vinci was not his real name. It’s a street name that Art later gave him because of his fondness for drawing and painting. “I liked him from the beginning,” says Art. “He had class. He didn’t curse, he didn’t raise his voice. But most importantly he treated my mom really well, better than any man ever did.”
Art first noticed him as a regular presence about two months after his mom starting working at Ed’s. He’d show up and Pete would be nursing a coffee, cracking jokes with Malinda. He had a naturally sunny disposition, and he’d see Art come in and shout, “Hey kid, how ya doin’ today!” and he always had a huge grin that went ear to ear. Art never once saw him complain about his life, and when Pete was around, Art could see in his mother shades of the happy-go-lucky country girl who had been cowed by abandonment, poverty, and a crippling mental disease. And after a few months, Art and Wensdae were no longer asking Malinda for spending cash. “There was just this point where he’d insist,” remembers Art. “We all knew my mom didn’t make any real money there, and he was just going to give it to her in tips anyway. So he’d lay a little cash on us, nothing big, nothing more than she would have given us.”
Pete’s stated occupation was that he was “in construction,” Bridgeport’s oldest and most ubiquitous occupation. It meant that he was either really in construction or a criminal—probably both. Da Vinci certainly didn’t dress like a foreman or crewman, and if he was overseeing some nearby development, then its dust never powdered his shoulder or interfered with his quality time at Ed’s. He drove a white Cadillac, and Art simply assumed that he had some kind of a racket going, but he could never glean what it was, and in Bridgeport you do not ask questions.
Criminal or not, da Vinci was generous and warm, and that was what Malinda noticed. After about four months, Pete was