How I Survived the Baltimore Waterfront Gang

By Patrick H. Moore, September 23, 2022

Another life, another era. So long ago I sometimes wonder if it actually happened. But I know it did. You see I wrote down the DeSoto’s license plate number.

It was very green in Maryland. The thundered bellowed and the lightning flashed and I was drenched standing by the roadside in my jeans and tee shirt armed only with my canvas flight bag. I was at an intersection in Hagerstown, Maryland on my way to California. It was 9:30 pm and I was hitchhiking because that’s how I got around back in those pre-historic days. I was traveling light — $4.79, two tee shirts, one extra pair of jeans and a copy of Lord of the Flies.

The rain stopped and the air had that incredible post-storm fresh quality. Traffic was heavy and I stuck out my thumb and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. A long, low-slung dark grey DeSoto pulled over.

First rule of the road – you should always look before you jump into a stranger’s car. You never know who or what might be waiting inside. But I didn’t. A very large man opened the rear passenger door and got out. “Hello, friend. Jump in. We’re goin’ north a ways.”

Perfecto. I was headed to Breezewood, PA where the Maryland highway intersects with Interstate 80, the great toll road that crosses the breadbasket as you head west. So I jumped inside and looked around.

It didn’t take long. I knew I’d screwed up. To my right the large man, a monster, 6’5”, 280 pounds of pure muscle – to my left his alter ego – a stout mean-faced woman who spit attitude with every breath. She and Muscles hated each other. For the next four hours they pissed and moaned and bitched at each other. I was stuck in the middle – their words like body blows bouncing off my skinny frame.

But Meanie and Muscles were not my Number One and Number Two problems. My real problems were riding in the front seat. I don’t know if you’ve ever met a true classic old-school white boy gang leader riding shotgun, chiseled in a white tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to hold his Marlboro package, with his hot blonde baby doll in the hump seat, draped all over him talkin’ tough and dirty – a real smokin’ mama – crass, blue-eyed hoodlum girl.

The crime boss’s name was Sal and he was pissed. It turned out that the Maryland State Fair, which is held in Hagerstown each year, was in session and Sal and his crew of geniuses had spent the day scouring the fairgrounds, plotting and planning and scheming to rip people off. It was just my bad luck that the crew had struck out all day long. Nothing, the big goose egg, no dinero and now they were broke and hungry and pissed-off and ready to grab whoever came along and that whoever just happened to be me.

But I didn’t learn any of this till later on. At first all I knew was that I had some very colorful traveling companions including the driver who sounded intelligent and who couldn’t have weighed more than 120 pounds soaking wet. He was a helluva driver though as I was to learn later on.

At first, although Muscle and Meanie were chattering like magpies in the back seat, there was only ominous silence coming from the front seat. Maybe they were sizing me up, maybe they were thinking, I’m not sure what they were doing. An ominous silence can creep you out even with people you know fairly well.

But then after about 15 minutes as we drove north along the highway heading into green nowhere, Sal started talking to me. He asked me where I was from and where I was going.

“California,” I answered trying to keep things light. “I’m from San Francisco and I’m headed back there.” I’d learned in my travels that it was always a good idea to tell people I was from San Francisco even though it was a lie (I was actually from Palo Alto) because the City had undeniable cachet, and generally when people learned I was from there, they thought I mattered at least slightly.

“Never been there. Heard it’s a badass town.”

That confused me. I’d heard The City referred to in lots of different ways but never as “badass.”

“Where are you guys from?”

“Baltimore, baby,” said Sal’s woman, speaking for the first time. “I’m Cherry. This is Sal,” pointing toward her main man, “and this is Lefty,” pointing toward the driver. “We’re from the waterfront. You wanna beer?”

I hesitated. I was 17 and had hardly ever drank a beer. Other than weed, I was a pretty clean-cut kid.

When I didn’t answer Cherry reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a black revolver and started waving it around. “I said, you wanna beer?”

Muscles nudged me hard in the ribs. “Better have a beer, kid, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll have a beer.”

“I thought you would,” said Cherry. “Gertie, give the man a beer.” She put the pistol back in the glove compartment.

Meanie AKA Gertie produced a can of Ballentine from a small cooler wedged between her feet and mine. Fortunately, the interior of the DeSoto was plenty roomy and we weren’t terribly crowded.

“So what d’ya do out there in that badass city?” said Sal. He had one of those hoarse voices that I associate with people who don’t talk that much.

I don’t where I got the idea to adopt a devil-may-care persona but it was probably a good thing I did. “Fuck off mostly,” I said. “Dropped out of high school. Old man wants me to get a job.”

“What’s your old man do?” said Lefty.

“He’s an undertaker,” I said. I still don’t know where these lies were coming from. My old man was a mid-level manager in the Stanford University computer department.

“No shit,” said Sal. “I heard those guys get real stanky.”

“Yeah but you get used to it.” Then just as quickly as it had started, the conversation ceased except for Muscles and Gertie who kept on bitching at each other as if it was their sole and only purpose for living. Cherry wrapped her arms around Sal’s neck and started nibbling at his ear. I wasn’t very experienced with women and had the aberrant thought that I wished she was nibbling at my ear. Wisely, I kept it to myself.

For the next ten minutes I sipped the Ballentine which tasted like cat piss and wondered what was going to happen next. For some reason I wasn’t that worried even though I knew I should be.

Lefty suddenly hung a hard right burning rubber and we proceeded down a blacktop county road. Then we turned onto a sand-and-gravel road and were subsumed by a huge blackness illuminated only by the DeSoto’s headlights. For the first time I realized that the windshield was heavily splattered with all manner of insect life.

We drove and bumped along and then turned onto an even narrower dirt road. Finally, Lefty pulled off into what might have been a cow pasture only there weren’t any cows. I knew I should have been scared shitless but I wasn’t. Instead, I just felt basic fear – a round ball lodged in my gut that seemed stuck there.

Everybody got out of the car and as Mark Twain would have said in Huckleberry Finn “stretched and gaped” and generally looked tired and worn-out. Then the crew wandered off in separate directions into the bushes to answer the call of nature leaving me temporarily alone. I had a bad urge to grab the pistol out of the glove compartment. I even took two steps toward the door. Something stopped me. I’m sure it was the right decision. I was only 17 and my life would have changed forever if I’d reached for that gun…

I sat down on an old log and waited. The crew straggled back and cracked open some Ballentines. Muscles handed me one. It didn’t taste as bad the second time around. I noticed Sal and Cherry had wandered off again. As if he’d read my mind, Lefty came over and winked. “They’re doin’ the nasty in the bushes. She’s got pants so hot they’d scorch your fingers.”

I nodded and stood up. He was about five inches shorter than me – haunted deep brown eyes. I had the feeling terrible things had happened to him somewhere along the line.

Then it was time for target practice.

Muscles set up three untouched Ballentine cans on a tree stump about fifty feet from where we were gathered. By now Cherry and Sal had staggered out of bushes. She pulled the revolver out of the glove compartment and handed it to Lefty who attached a crudely-fashioned silencer.

Everybody except me took turns firing. I was not asked to take part but at least no one was shooting at me. I just tried to stay out of the way. Lefty was by far the best shot – Gertie the worst. Cherry was better than Sal. Muscles took one shot and sat down like he couldn’t be bothered. Finally, Lefty had whacked all three cans. Then it was time to roll.

Lefty turned the car around in the cow pasture and we all got in. I figured it was about 1 am. Although it had felt like it took a long time getting off the highway and bumping our way to the cow pasture, it seemed we were back on it in no time. Maybe Lefty took a different route or maybe by this point I was losing my grip.

Again, the weighty silence fell. I realized that it was time – something had to give and I was right. Sal was the one who addressed me:

“Kid,” he said, “Look, we’re broke. How much you got?’

“Wow,” I said, “Not much.”

“How much?”

“About five bucks.”

There was a long silence. “All right,” said Sal finally, “hand it the fuck over.”

“Sure.” I took out my wallet and emptied it of ones. I also scrunched down in the pocket of my jeans and emptied out the coins. Cherry leaned over the front seat and cupped her hands. I gave her everything I had. Then the thought struck me. “Listen, guys. Since I’ve given you all my coin, maybe you could drive me up to Breezewood. From there I should be able to get to Wisconsin pretty easily. I’ve got people there who will keep me from starving.”

Nobody answered. Nobody seemed to care. Cherry turned on the radio. It was Jimi Hendrix playing “Purple Haze” followed by Peter and Gordon warbling about Lady Godiva. Lefty just kept driving. We were headed north. I knew I had a fighting chance.

And that’s how it worked out. Maybe the crew thought Pennsylvania would prove to be a greener pasture. It seemed like we were going awfully fast. At one point I managed to glance at the speedometer. It was maxed. 120 mph. I wondered if the old DeSoto could actually go that fast or if the needle was broken. I still wonder to this day.

As we approached Breezewood, Sal spoke up:

“Good thing you gave us your money, kid. We picked up this asshole a couple weeks ago. Fancy prick––nice clothes, expensive ass haircut, couple of real leather suitcases. We told him to give us his money and he said he didn’t have any. We knew he was lying so we took him out into the hills. We took him off for everything. Including his clothes. Left him there naked in a cow pasture.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think it was necessary.

Then we hit Breezewood. For the third time that night Muscles got out of the car. I followed suit. “Bye, kid,” he said. No one else said anything. I knew they had worries of their own.

“Bye,” I said. Muscles got back in the car. They drove away. I wondered where they were going and who their next victim would be. Then I walked over to the turnpike entrance and started hitching. I didn’t have to wait long. A brand new Mustang pulled up. A single driver, a G.I. from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I got in and we pulled away. It was a nice car.