This story is like all others of this series, tossing you into new wellsprings of your imagination, leaving you just short of going under for the third time. Dive in.

Many of you know about my move to Cleveland in the early 60’s, teaming with Specs Howard to begin the fabled Martin and Howard Show. What is not generally known is that no sooner had I arrived with loins girded to do battle with the vaunted WHK, than my new station, KYW, went on strike. Imagine the shock of going on the air for a few dazzling days, then being told that we had to vacate the studio in favor of a management replacement talent while Westinghouse did battle with AFTRA, our union.

One day, Specs and I were in the spacious state of the art studio at KYW, the next we were cast out on the street sporting signs about how unfair Westinghouse was to organized labor. That was not true in our case because we had robbed the store. However, part of the act is to walk the line when your union goes on strike. I didn’t even know the issues., but assumed they had something to do with the members desire for more money and an improvement in working conditions.

Our own bad experience with AFTRA had to do with a vain attempt to do away with an archaic NBC network contract, in force since NBC had owned KYW years prior. Specs and I employed a door through which all manner of crazies entered, did their bit, and departed after spouting off what we hoped was a hilarious punch line. It was insane that KYW was still operating under a union contract that stipulated the use of a real live sounds effects man opening and closing a door in our studio during the show.

Each morning, he sat with us at the ready to open a two square foot door, then would stand by while our character did the bit, then slam it when the character supposedly had exited. It was unusually grim for us because the man had a flatulence problem.

We made the best of it because we had been informed in no uncertain terms that this was the deal and we would have to live with it until the NBC contract expired in four years. We had requested the use of a “cart” door SFX with a pulsed open and close in it. Instead we got a man whom we alerted for the door a few times each morning. Otherwise, he would sit in the corner working a cross word puzzle and farting until the call to duty, in effect putting the fart before the cart.

Our opinion of the union was that they were supposed to be on our side and to make decisions that were in the best interests of us two working stiffs. Their reaction to such a selfish demand was for us to shut up and to stop trying to do a union brother out of a gig.

Then came the strike. Specs and I were assigned the afternoon shift to walk the picket line. There was a dozen or so KYW/union buddies walking with us in a closed oval circle at the front of the massive KYW building.

It was Fall, and to us, that didn’t mean the turning of leaves and all the other romantic stuff you hear about Fall. in Ohio. KYW was a few blocks from Lake Erie across which was a straight shot to the Arctic Circle from which blisteringly cold winds whipped up with nothing to stop them as they skimmed across the Lake till they reached us at the very spot where we were picketing.

Suddenly, we had company. A long black limo pulled up and out stepped as menacing a bunch as you will see outside of The Sopranos. Five men wrapped in long cashmere coats emerged, but such finery did not soften their bristling demeanor. One of the striking KYW staff men walked up and ominously mouthed, “The Teamsters have arrived.”

Specs recognized the man in the lead, a short guy with a pork pie hat that draped over his big shoulders, his eyes glaring like burning coals “That’s Babe Triscaro. He runs the Teamsters. We’ve got trouble.” They were aimed our way.

Nowhere to run. They huddled around us cutting off our escape. The other four moved in on us while Triscaro flashed his first smile. “I recognize you,“ I said in my most disarming manner. ”You’re Babe Triscaro.”

I stuck out my hand, and felt his slide into mine with a steely grip that felt like I was shaking hands with a large wrench. “And you guys are Martin and Howard. My kids listen to you. Me, too. You guys are funny.You make me laugh.” Triscaro’s pronouncement eased the tension, causing the men who were crowding us to give us a little extra air.

Triscaro spoke like you would expect a Teamster to speak.” We’re here as union brothers to support the AFTRA union and to see that you get what is coming to you.” I smiled and assured him that we had just arrived and….”

It was then that one of the men peeled off from the group and bumped into one of the secretaries assigned to bring coffee, tea, doughnuts and sandwiches to the management types who were inside filling the air with music and no adlibs. I got a look at the woman he had jostled to the ground, spilling a tea kettle all over herself and moaning with pain from the scalding tea. His victim was our own secretary, Mandy, a chronically pleasant and well-to-do woman who had taken work with us so she could keep busy.

Without thinking, I lashed out at the bully, and sucker punched him. He reeled back from a throat chop and a left cross to his button. I had had high success with that combination in the honky tonks of Galveston and later in the Merchant Marine. My adversaries usually stumbled and collapsed into a heap for a minute or so while I stood over them asking them if they wanted more. Not this time. This guy’s eyes glazed for a second, then he focused on me, grinned crazily, like I had given him the excuse to mutilate me. There was no doubt where this fight was going.

An invisible signal from Triscaro backed him off. One second he was in killer mode, the next he was my buddy. Triscaro laughed and set the mood for the next few minutes. He said,” That took guts, Martin.” I like you. Tony here is a former #3 amateur light heavy in the country. Relax. I want to talk to you guys.”

Specs and I were too concerned for Mandy to engage Triscaro in light banter. I started to help her up, but Tony, rushed to her side to haul her up off the concrete. She was in her early 40’s with a trim body and a hand bedecked with a large diamond ring.

She was still sitting in a heap of doughnuts and sandwiches., the pot of spilt coffee and the tea kettle on the ground. Mandy then came up with one of the best spontaneous one liners under pressure I have ever heard. Looking up at Tony, she said smiling., “Is this where the phrase ‘ass over tea kettle’ came from?” That broke the tension. We all howled. Tony scooped her up in a tight embrace. Mandy didn’t try to get away.

Triscaro grew solemn. He motioned to Specs and me to join him on the edge of the group “This shows you how things can get out of hand.” He said. “I came here just to check things out and to show my support for the union cause, but you can see what happened to a beautiful woman getting dumped, all because she was carrying food to the strike breakers”

I been thinkin’. Things are only going to get worse. We can’t allow any more food to go into the building. But there is a way out of this and you guys can help if you are willing.” Specs and I nodded tentatively. “I’m listening,” said Specs warily, like if the idea involved violence, you’ve got the wrong guys.

Triscaro kept talking. “The management guy we’re supposed to be dealing with is in the building, right?

We nodded.

“Okay,” he said,” I want you two to go in there and deliver a message.”

I started to protest, “We’ll have no part of violence,” I told him. “I hate violence. My Aunt Bess shot herself only last week and…”

Triscaro was all sympathy. :Did she kill herself?

“Naw,. but.… well, she was in the hospital and she was depressed about her health and asked a nurse where her heart was. She was going to shoot herself, but the nurse didn’t know that, so she told her, ‘It’s right underneath your left nipple.’ So my aunt went home and shot herself.”

Did she kill herself? asked Triscaro, like the perfect straight man..

“No. She shot herself in the left knee.”

Specs mouthed a rim shot. “Da da boom.”

There was a short collective silence with all eyes toward Triscaro. He exploded into a cascade of laughs. His Italian chorus joined in.

“She shot herself in the left knee. I have to remember that one.”

“See?” he said to the others. “I told you these guys are funny.”

Then his face abruptly morphed into the scowl we always knew he was holding in reserve for the right moment which apparently had arrived..

“Okay,” he said in his command voice, a raspy growl, “This is what I want you guys to do.”

Next week: Martin and Howard join the mob. What’s next? The Baci di morte?