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24 SOUTHERN SENIOR MAGAZINE | Winter 2018 - 2019 By Ernest J. Theriot s a child, I always wanted to be Italian. Can you imagine my feeling when my father told me “you can never be an Italian!” Italians are so cool, tan skin, dark hair, wore fedoras, and expensive clothes, I thought and nobody messed with them. Angie’s father always had a roll of bills in his pocket, tightly held together with a rubber band. He worked evening and slept most of the morning. Sometimes Angie would get his bankroll of money, I would hold it, my fingers circuitously enveloping the money, my fingers never touching my thump. Wrapped in a particular fashion, we never tried to un-roll the bills. His mother caught us once, her face ashen, in uncertain terms, we were never to do that again “you Cabeesh?” (you understand?) “I Cabeesh!” (I understand!) As a teenager I worked for Mr. Angelo, I delivered cigars for him. I was to carry a box of cigars to Mr. Santos grocery, once a week, with instructions "you no tella nobody, you no open da box, “Cabeesh?" I shook my head yes. After Santos received the box, he would wave me off or give me a cigar box to return to Mr. Angelo. I made $5.00 a week until my Dad found out, he made me quit. When I told Mr. Angelo, he said: “it's alright, you listen to you, papa!” We had an old mustachioed Italian man in our neighborhood. He would sit on his steps most of the day, always in a bad mood. He was afflicted with Hydrocele testis, giving him a frightening, grotesque appearance, I would cross the street never passing close to him. An odd thing would happen on occasion to the old man, he would get accosted by one of the neighbor- hood men, but never my Dad. They would yell at him “who killa da chief?” This phrase would infuriate the old Italian, and he’d release a string of profanities at his tormentor and then go inside. We moved away and now and then I would think of that old Italian, never dwelling long on it. About 1985 I was reading the “History of the New Orleans Police Department.” The first big city police chief killed was, N.O. Police Chief David C. Hennessey. At the time New A Orleans was the South's largest city with a port second only to New York. On October 15, 1889, at 11:30 pm, after a late night meeting, Hennessey was ambushed, near his home on Basin Street. The story goes, his last words were “the Dagoes got me” others say the assassins used sawed-off shotguns a weapon the Mafia was known to use. He died the next morning at Charity Hospital. New Orleans was indeed a melting pot, with the influx from the potato famine and members of the “Black Hand” of Italy. Prejudice and Politics was the order of the day. The usual suspects are rounded up, ten in all, are charged with murder. A special Grand Jury indicted nine more as accessories before the fact. Before the trial, the newspapers pronounced them all guilty. On March 16 the jury verdict was in: six of the of the accused is found not guilty with a miss trial for three. The Politicians began rallying the citizens for justice. A vigilante committee went to work; Parish prison was taken over, nine Italians were killed, shot to death. Two were taken from the jail and hanged from a lamp post for the public to see. Some articles say: that six Italians are hanging from lamp poles. Some of the Italians lynched were still Italian citizens. The Italian government filed a claim of indemnity; their families received thousands of dollars. In the Metairie cemetery, a monument stands of Hollowell granite 26 feet tall, on a three-step pedestal. The top step bears a single name “Hennessey,“ above the name on the column is a facsimile the chief’s badge and the coat of arms of Louisiana. The monument can be seen from Canal Street as it dead ends, into the cemetery. To this day no one knows “Who Killa da Chief!” PREMIER GROUP Each Office is Independently Owned & Operated 1605 Hwy 11 North Ste A • Picayune, MS | Toll Free 877-736-2945 DOWNSIZING? Call 601-798-3399 www.homefinderofpicayune.com www.remax.com S WHO KILLA DA CHIEF