The Dollop with Dave Anthony and Gareth Reynolds - 51 - Michael Malloy - Smollop

Episode Date: January 20, 2015

Comedians Dave Anthony and Gareth Reynolds examine booze lover Michael Malloy. SOURCES TOUR DATES REDBUBBLE MERCHPATREON

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different is it a historical American American history podcast I Dave Anthony each week read a story to my friend Gareth Reynolds who has no idea what the topic is about because he doesn't read. I do too. Dude! Do you want to look who to do? I'll do one buck. People say this is funny. Not Gary Gareth. Dave okay. Someone or something is tickling people. Is it for fun? And this is not going to come to tickle you Claude Kelly. Okay. You are queen fakie of made-up town. All hail Queen Shit of Liesville!

A bunch of religious virgins go to mingle. And do what? Fray! Hi Kavie. No! Has he done my friend? No! No! The year was 1873. Ah Jesus. Not good. The place was County Donagall, Ireland. Is it Donagall? Sure. Yeah look at me for that. Yes it's Donagall. Look at all your people from over there. Yeah it's Donagall. Michael Malloy was born into the world. Now we have no idea how he came to America or what he did in America for a long time. But there he lived in New York City in 1932. Okay.

So he's now an older. Yeah. He's put some years together. 40s 50s. Yeah. What's his name today? He is now remembered today as Mike the Durable or Iron Mike. Okay. Now he wasn't the smartest Irishman in the world. He wasn't bringing a lot of common sense to the table. But he was a tough son of a bitch. He had no friends and no family and no definitive birthday. We don't exactly know. So no actual trade that he applied. He wasn't a bricklayer. He wasn't part of a union. Okay. So we don't know a ton about this man. He was homeless. Okay. Living in New York City. Living the fucking life. Yeah. Yeah.

Right in high. It was during a you know a time in America. The final months of prohibition. Okay. This time period. Great time. But anybody could find a drink if they wanted in New York City during prohibition. The many speakeasies. Right. Swordfish. I don't know what just happened. It's password. Password. Swordfish. No. It's Halibut today. Damn it. The Great Depression had 25% of American population unemployed at this point. So he would occasionally pick up work as a street cleaner or a coffin polisher.

I know which one I'm after out of those two occupations. Coffin polisher? Shiner up there nice Molly. No, no, no. It's Maloy, sir. You don't want to embarrass the corpse when it gets inside the coffin. Oh, it's got to be shiny. I should be able to eat off of where the dead body was lying. And I'm going to. Go to steak and potatoes. Don't eat that right off the body. Oh, I'm eating off the thigh now. People are going to be so happy there's accidents. Yeah. And he was happy often to just be paid in alcohol instead of money for jobs.

Love that. Well, that's a great policy. It's a long term strategy. It is a long term strategy. And it's it's what I would call a little bit of a stereotype. Sure. Yeah. Sure. You can pay me a whiskey. No, you're not going to get you just give me my payment and my throat and I'll fuck right off. Fuck you. I'm going to fight with myself out in the alley. That's right. I'm going to punch me in the knickers. What's up? No fucking tip today, bitch. You ain't got a fucking tip today. The man Daily Mail described Michael Maloy as drunk all the time.

Part of the quote flotsam and jetsam in the swift current of underworld speakeas life. There was no longer responsible derelicts who stumbled through the last days of their lives in a continual haze of bowery smoke. Okay. So living it. Okay. Yeah. Just loving life. Right. Just living every day like it's your last in a bad way. Literally. Yeah. Literally every day like it's the last. Barfly. Yeah. He's Bukowski. Yeah. Okay. Without the writing. Right. With the coffin polishing instead. He often found himself in the speakeasy of a man named Tony Marino. Okay. The empty store looked dark with dusty wooden crates piled high behind the windows. Okay. But behind the crates was a sofa, four tables, a plywood bar along the back wall and a large supply of bootleg whiskey.

Okay. Yeah, girl. Yeah, girl. Get it. Marino slept at night on the sofa. Okay. It sounds okay. The Bronx speakeasy kept Tony Marino from standing in bread lines, but not always. His clientele were not the top of the line people. Right. Sometimes they had no money to pay. Sometimes they drank and then revealed their empty pockets. Oh, sorry, Tony. Well, what are you going to do? Oh, shit. Look what happened here. I get paid in whiskey. Goes right through me pocket. So unfortunately, I can pay you in piss. How about that shit on your floor? There you go. That portions yours. That's for you, Tony.

So men will run up a tab. Right. Michael Malloy was considered to be the worst of the bunch. Okay. He showed up each morning at Marino's place and morning is a good time to show up and requested quote another morning's morning. If you don't mind another morning's morning. Yeah. Okay. That's his way of saying I need a drink. Right. Hello. Hello, sir. I'm alive. It would be great to go back to that time because you live all the slang. I'd be like, what does he mean? I know. What the fuck are you talking about? What does he say? Shut me up with another morning's morning. I'll have a morning's morning. Oh, my boy's a castle. You know that. I'm sorry. What's the fucking happening?

Oh, boy, I'll tell you what. If the wagon don't flip, I'll be inside tonight. Well, good lord. A board's coming out of me this evening, isn't it? Well, I've done chewing rocks. Time to go for a nap. I'm sorry. What is it? I'm going to ride a pack of fish. Right. Right. What is it? Okay. We're going to ride a pack of fish. Let's go or stay. What are we doing? What the fuck is happening? But for a while, Marino let Malloy drink on credit. But because he no longer paid his tabs, he had to pay in cash. Okay. Business said the saloon keeper to his friends is bad. All right.

One afternoon in July 1932, Francis Pasqua, Daniel Kreisberg and Tony Marino sat in Marino's drink hole and discussed Michael Malloy. Okay. Now, the reason they were discussing him is because he was laying passed out on the floor. Right. Sure. Which he often did. Right. You want to talk about that guy? Yeah. Oh, there he is. And this is before people were drawing penises on people. So this is a while ago. People should know. The prior year, Marino had befriended a homeless woman named Mabel Carson and convinced her to take out a $2,000 life insurance policy naming him as the beneficiary. Okay. Naming Marino as the beneficiary. Right. Okay.

Then one cold New York night, he forced fed her alcohol, stripped off her clothing, doused the sheets and mattress with ice water and pushed the bed beneath an open window. The medical examiner. When you say befriended. What do you mean? I mean, not in the best sense. Okay. Yeah. Yeah, befriended is probably not the best word. I don't know if this is a befriending. Yeah, more of the opposite of a friend. Hey, friend, die under this window. There you go, Pally. If you're homeless and someone wants you to take out a life insurance policy, they probably don't do it. Yeah, definitely. That's a red flag right here.

Okay, who gets the money? So what is it about my life that attracts you to it so much? You see his potential? You see something in me, mister? You think I'm going to go Harvard, mister? The medical examiner listed the cause of death as bronchial pneumonia and Marino collected the money without incident. That's a nice story. Who doesn't win in that tale? I can't think of anybody. Yeah, there's not a person who comes to mind. Now Pasqua was an undertaker by trade. Okay.

He looked at Malloy passed out and snoring on the floor and said, why don't you take out insurance on Malloy? And Marino was like, man, that's not a bad idea. And Pasqua said, look, I can take care of the rest. I'm an undertaker. I got this. Marino nodded. Iron Mike. Marino nodded and looked at the passed out Malloy. He looks all in. He ain't got much longer to live anyhow. He and Pasqua glanced over at Daniel Kreisberg, the 29 year old fruit vendor,

and father of three would later say he participated for the sake of his family. He nodded and the plan was in motion. So already the hands tipped when participated. So, okay, so let's murder this man. Yeah. Pasqua offered to do the legwork and paid an acquaintance to go with him to meetings with insurance agents. The acquaintance called himself Nicholas Mallory.

So I don't even know what. Yeah, I don't even think. It's close. Hey, my cousin's name is Dave Anthony and my name is Jeff Anthony. I'm Jeff Anthony. Okay. Thank you. And we want to take an insurance policy out on this homeless man.

The guy who lays down on the floor. Now wait, weren't you the guy that befriended that homeless woman that died? Oh yeah, my good friend Mabel. That's right, Mr. Anthony Mabel. Nicholas Mallory gave his occupation as a florist. It took Pasqua five months to secure three policy, all offering double indemnity on Nicholas Mallory's life. Wait, on Nicholas Mallory?

Yeah, on Iron Mike. Gotcha. Two, with Prudential Life Insurance Company, and one with Metropolitan Life Insurance Company. That's crazy that those are still functioning insurance companies. That's bad in its own way. Pasqua recruited Joseph Murphy, a bartender at Marino's, to identify the deceased as Michael Malloy and claim to be his next of kin and beneficiary.

If all went as planned, Pasqua and his cohorts would split $3,576. That's worth a murder. At that time, it was, it's about $54,000. So that's still, I know, there's a bunch of guys going out, so no one's getting much money. The number of men involved in the murder of Malloy increased. Two of Marino's regulars, petty criminals John McNally and Edward Tinier-Smith were in. Edward was nicknamed Tinier because he had an artificial ear,

although it was made out of wax. Oh Christ. Well, I can't go there, there's going to be a fire, right? My fucking ear will melt. Are there candles? Are there fucking, tell me, are there candles? I'm not going if there's candles. I told you dude, I can't go there if there's fire, bro.

My fucking ear will melt. I don't want to pay for another fucking ear. Jesus Christ, last time we went there was fire. Dude, I don't even know why you're paying for these ears, they're terrible. But it's a fucking, it's all I can afford, man. The dude making the wax ears like, this is fucking awesome. This guy's buying this shit. A wax ear.

What did I tell you? I told you not to go out this Sunday. I know. Sorry, I've tried to live my life for a day. It's 102 out. Just give me my new ear, asshole. Okay, yeah, but you're called drip of ear now. This one has a fucking wick in the middle of it.

I had to do it fast. God damn it. Don't light it. I'm not going to light the fucking ear. I'm not going to light the ear. Tough Tony Bastone and his sidekick, Joseph Maglione. Everybody has a sidekick. Also became part of the plot.

Everybody has a sidekick. Yeah, you're going to have a sidekick back then. I love that aspect. One night in December 1932, they all gathered at the Speakeasy to kill Michael Malloy. Regular hang. That's how it works. Malloy showed up and to his surprise and delight, Tony Marino granted him an open-ended tab saying, competition from other saloons had forced him to ease the rules.

Jesus. Okay, so here's the deal. There's a lot of saloons out there, so I'm going to give away booze. Oh, well, while this sounds a little too good to be true, I also love the sound of this situation. Therefore, pass me the fucking bottle, man. As soon as Malloy down to shot, Marino filled his glass. Malloy had been a hard drinker all his life, one witness said, and he drank on and on. He drank until Marino's arm got tired from holding the bottle.

Remarkably, Malloy's breathing remained steady. His skin retained its normal, ruddy tinge. And finally, he dragged his dirty sleeve across his mouth, thanked his host for the hospitality, and said he'd be back soon. Oh, that's awesome. His weight in whiskey. He's just straight, and he's like, wait. He's going to die now, right?

I'll see you tomorrow. Fuck. Lucky charms are buff. Well, I should probably fucking go. I'm fucking shit-faced, oh, yum. Thanks so much. I'm glad to hear about this newfound competition as well. Fucking, I'm coming up fucking winner on this one.

And he brought me out. I'm going to go vomit. Within 24 hours, he was back. This pattern went on for three straight days. Malloy would come in, drink nonstop for hours, and then exit. He only paused once to eat a complimentary sardine sandwich. Oh, god. Marino and the other potential murders were baffled.

On the fourth day, Malloy stumbled into the bar. Boy, he exclaimed, ain't I got a thirst? I got a thirst. I ain't I got a thirst. I ain't I got a thirst. Tough Tony suggested they should shoot Malloy in the head. You know what happened after that though, he'd go, well, I should probably turn in.

I got a bit of a fucking headache. But that would obviously seem like murder. Murphy recommended another solution, changing Malloy's whiskey and gin with shots of wood alcohol. Oh, Jesus. Drinks containing just 4% wood alcohol would cause blindness. And by 1929, more than 50,000 people nationwide had died from the effects of impure alcohol.

They were not going to serve Malloy's shots tainted with wood alcohol, but straight wood alcohol. So 4% makes him go blind. So they're going to give him 100%. Right. So, I don't know, he flies? It doesn't happen. Kreisberg showed a rare bit of enthusiasm. Yeah, feed him wood alcohol cocktails and see what happens.

Ain't I got a thirst? Murphy brought a few 10 cent cans of wood alcohol at a nearby paint shop and carried them back in a brown paper bag. He served Malloy's shots of cheap whiskey to get him feeling good and then made the switch. The gang watched as Malloy down several shots and kept asking for more, displaying no physical symptoms. Ain't I got a thirst?

Other than his usual inebriation. Oh, my God. He didn't know that he was drinking wood alcohol, reported the New York Evening Post, and what he didn't know apparently didn't hurt him. He drank all the wood alcohol he was given and came back for more. Oh, did I tell you I can't die?

Ain't I got a thirst? Oh, jeez. I can't stop drinking the wood alcohol. I'm as drunk as an oak tree. And he came back night after night. What the fuck? He saddled up the bar. I can't drink wood alcohol as fast as Murphy could pour them.

He's just drinking poison. Over and over again. Oh, it's got a kick. Oh, boy. Who's someone that's not sitting right? My sardines aren't sitting right right now. Then one night Malloy finally crumpled to the floor. The gang fell silent staring at the jumbled heat by their feet.

They were knelt by Malloy's body, feeling the neck for a pulse and lowering his ear to the mouth. The man's breath was slow and labored. They decided to wait, watching the sluggish rise and fall of his chest any minute now. Finally, there was a long jagged breath. Malloy then began to snore. No, no.

Jesus. He awakened some hours later. He rubbed his eyes and said, Give me some of the old regular me lad. So, and he's not, I mean, it's not like he's drinking water in between these fucking sessions. It's all, he's drinking his poison. It's just wood alcohol.

It's fucking poison. He's just on a diet of poison and he keeps getting up and drinking more poison. The plot to kill Michael Malloy was becoming very expensive. They spent so much money on wood alcohol. The open bar tab, the cans of wood alcohol and the monthly insurance premiums started to add up. They're losing.

The net loss on their murder. Marino was getting worried that his speakeasy would go bankrupt. Tough Tony once again advocated some sort of violent death. But Pascua had another idea. Malloy had a well-known taste for seafood. Why not drop some oysters in denatured alcohol, let them soak for a few days and serve them while Malloy drank? I mean...

Quote, alcohol taken during a meal of oysters, Pascua was quoted as saying, will almost invariably cause acute indigestion for the oysters tend to remain preserved. So I'm assuming that causes some sort of horrible fucking stomach nightmare that you die from. Sure enough, Malloy ate them one by one, savoring each bite. Tony boy, am I glad I met you fellas. And he washed them all down with wood alcohol.

He's just eating poison, washing it down with poison. Marino, Pascua and the rest waited. But Malloy merely licked his fingers and belched. Like a cartoon. If there's ever been a human cartoon. Now the killing of Michael Malloy was becoming as much a battle of the wills as it was about money. Because there were so many people involved,

the amount of money each man would get was getting increasingly smaller. Murphy tried another plan next. He let a tin of sardines rot for several days. Mixed in some shrapnel and glass, slathered the concoction between pieces of bread and served Malloy the sandwich. Any minute they thought, the metal will start and glass will start slashing through his organs. Instead Malloy finished his tin sandwich and asked for another.

No, another? Well it's crunchy but I like it. Do you like what you've done? It's got nice texture in the middle. Say can I have a little bit of poison to wash that down with? I can still see. The gang called an emergency conference. They couldn't understand what was happening. Marina suggested they ice Malloy down and leave him outside overnight

as he'd done with his previous murder. Let's just go back to the murder drawing board. That evening after Malloy drank until he passed out, Marino and Pascua put Malloy into a car, drove in silence to Crotona Park, and lugged the unconscious drunk through the snow. They put him on a park bench, stripped off his shirt, and dumped bottles of water on his chest and head.

Malloy never woke up. When Marino arrived at the speakeas the next day, he found Malloy in the basement, half frozen. Malloy had walked a half mile back, freezing temperatures, and persuaded Murphy to let him in. When he came to he complained of a, we chill. No, I thought he was dead.

I thought that was it. I thought you'd said he died. No, he just didn't wake up. Well, they're pouring water out. And he went back. He woke up later. He went back. That's where the booze is. I'm gonna weach you.

What? He had a little cold. I don't remember going out with that shirt on and falling in water and sleeping on the bench. Anyway. Your fellas are good to me. Your fellas are my best fucking friends. Could I have a sandwich and a drink?

February neared. Another insurance payment was due. John McNally said they should run Malloy over with a car. I mean, at this point, they're just like, he won't die. Tinier Smith was skeptical, but Marino, Pasqua, Murphy, and Kreisberg thought it was a decent plan.

John Magnleone offered the services of a cab driver friend named Harry Green, who's cut from the insurance money would be 150. I mean, they are. What are they gonna make a dollar? It always works when you bring in everybody. It never goes wrong. That night, after filling up Malloy with wood alcohol,

they all got into green scab. I mean, at this point, too, they're not counting on the wood alcohol to do anything. They're just like, it's cheaper. You'll drink this shit. They all got into Green's cab with a drunken Malloy lying across their feet. Green drove a few blocks and stopped.

Stone and Murphy dragged Malloy down the road and held them up crucifixion-style by his outstretched arms. Green gunned the engine and everyone braced. From the corner of his eye, Magnleone saw a quick flash of light. Stop! He yelled. The cab screeched to a halt. Green realized it had just been a woman

turning on the light in her room and gave the green light again. But Malloy managed to leap out of the way of the cab, not once, but twice. They fucking holding him. And then, at the last minute, they moved. And then he jumped out of the way. You saved my life back there.

On the third attempt, Green raced toward Malloy at 50 miles an hour and plowed into him. There were two thuds, one loud and one soft, one from the body hitting the hood and the other when the car, when the body hit the ground. For good measure, Green backed up over Malloy.

Jesus Christ. A passing car came and they took off, confident Malloy was finished. Confident Malloy was finished. Yeah, well, they hit him with a fucking car. I'm confident Malloy's finished. Yeah, I mean, Jesus Christ. It was Joseph Murphy who had been cast

as Nicholas Malloy's brother to call Morgz in hospitals in an attempt to locate his missing sibling. Okay. So the guy who says is... Right. Yeah.

Have you seen him? I love him so much. I love him so much. I think he might be in a hospital. Last time I saw him, he was drinking wood poison, eating shrapnel and running around in the streets like Jesus. And getting hit by a cab. Yeah. But no one had any information

and there were no reports of a fatal accident in the newspapers. Oh, boy. After five days, Pascal was plotting to kill another anonymous drunk. Jesus. Any anonymous drunk and pass him off as Nicholas Malloy,

that's who they said the... He was. Right. When the door to Marino's... So it doesn't even really matter who it is. No. They're just like...

They just need a body. It did become a bit of a redemption thing. Yeah. So after five days, the door to Marino's speakeasy swung open and in limped a battered binge, Michael Malloy. Shut the fuck up.

We're looking only slightly worse off than usual. I sure am dying for a drink, he said. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Malloy had an amazing... That's nice for a drink. You imagine when he walks in again, you're like, what the fuck?

I mean, this guy is actually Jesus. Malloy had an amazing story to tell. What he could remember of it anyway. He recalled the taste of whiskey, the cold slap of night air, and he said, he recalled the taste of whiskey, the cold slap of night air,

the glare of rushing lights, then blackness. Next thing he knew, he woke up in a warm bed at Fordham Hospital and wanted only to get back to the bar. Because I wanted to tell you guys I was alright. A police officer had come by moments after the gang sped off and called an ambulance.

Then, on February 21, 1933, two of the men rented a room in an old boarding house and once Malloy was once again good and drunk, they hauled him there, connected a hose to the gas light fixture and ran it into Malloy's mouth. What into his mouth? Carbon monoxide flowed into his body

and killed, finally, old Mike the Durable. In his mouth, I think that's pretty much game over. But the genius murder trust didn't know that carbon monoxide pushes oxygen out of the bloodstream and forms a bond with blood that is 200 times more powerful than that of oxygen. Inducing chemical suffocation. Dr. Frank Manzela, a shady doctor and a friend of Pascua's,

filed a funny death certificate citing pneumonia as the cause. They had the body buried quickly and went to collect their payout. The gang received only $800 from the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company. Murphy and Marino each spent their share on new suits. Pascua arrived at the Prudential office, confident he would collect the money from the other two policies, but the agent surprised him with a question. When could I see the body?

Pascua replied that he had already been buried. The story of Iron Mike was too good of a secret to keep. Members of the gang began telling others about the amazing tale. I mean, how could you not? Like, if you commit a murder, you're like, I'm not going to tell you, but this is the craziest murder ever. You didn't commit a murder. No, you killed the saint. Saint whiskey? Yeah.

The story started circulating in other bars, making its way around other card games until the Bronx police picked up the rumors and skeptically, at first, began an investigation. City forensic scientists exhumed the body and even though this was several months after the death. And he sat up and goes, Oh, I've got a weird taste in my mouth.

Oh, jeez, I can use something for my mouth. It ain't risky. Oh, I've never been those thirsty in my years. I've got a touch of the death. And he's a skeleton. Even though this was several months after the death, by that time, researchers knew that carbon monoxide was not only efficient but durable,

tainting a body for weeks after death. Laboratory analysis easily found lethal levels of carbon monoxide in the remains of old Mike Malloy. And it turned out the genius murder trust had made a mistake having a corrupt doctor sign the death certificate. He spilled his guts. As did the cab driver.

They both made deals and testified for the prosecution. Frank Pascua, Tony Merino, Daniel Kreisberg, and Joseph Murphy were tried and convicted of first degree murder. Wow. They all went to the electric chair in the summer of 1934. A reporter for the now vanished New York Daily Mirror recorded the execution.

The quee of the dynamo, 2,000 volts and 10 amperes. The ripsaw current that tears went apart. Three shocks. It was the state's toast to old Mike the Durable. Wow. Fuck. Right? Yeah.

It's sad when he dies. It is sad when he dies. You don't expect this man to die. No. When they're saying that they pumped in full carbon monoxide, you're like, I'll be all right. Yeah. He'll be all right.

Yeah. They'll be like, finally he's dead. Four days later, he'll just come in and be like, Don't lie to match around me every time I breathe. It's a flame. Anyway. Anyway. Can I have some wood booze?

There's the tap still open then. Are you still in a competitive atmosphere? Where to stay alive, you have to keep giving me wood booze. And shrapnel sandwiches. Oh, I like the wood booze you're serving here now. It's quite good. He's just drinking from a bottle that says poison. Put fucking hair on your chest, boy.

I'll put hair on your chest. Give me some more razor blades to chomp on. Oh, I was so lovely. I love this chewing gum. Oh, it's nice. Cutting right through my fucking teeth, it is. Jesus Christ, what's wrong with people? Oh, that's a great one.

Yeah. Yeah, it's phenomenal. That's great. I just can't die. You're a goddamn hero. You're a goddamn hero. That's awesome. I don't teach you to try to poison an Irishman with booze.

Just fucking luck. It's like trying to drown a fish with water. He's just swimming. He loves it. Fuck. All right. All right. Well played.

Well played. Well played. Thank you for watching.