Hey, Now! What's That Sound?

I got to know Bill Morris, more often recognized as "Morris of  SELBYPIC," when I was a Police Beat reporter.  I would often see Bill in the newsroom, dressed in tennis whites and an ever-present floppy blue terry cloth hat, peddling his aerial photographs.  But the first time I had serious interaction with Bill was when a massive oil tanker went aground off of Port Tampa.  

It was a slow news day, Wednesday morning, July 26, 1972. I was making my morning check calls to various law enforcement agencies, including the control tower at Tampa International Airport and the U.S. Customs service.  My job was to cover any and all breaking stories, including disasters.  Calling from the "cop shop" at the police station, I dialed the number for the U.S. Coast Guard.  The duty officer kindly reported to me that they had an oil tanker barge aground just off the channel leading to Port Tampa.  This was the bulk port at the southwestern tip of the Interbay Peninsula in Tampa (the general cargo port was officially known as "The Port of Tampa" and was located much closer to town).  

When I heard a big barge was aground there, loaded with 268,000 gallons of highly explosive gasoline, I notified the City Desk at The Tampa Times.  The city editor was interested and wanted me to get a deadline story in, if possible.  Thinking big, I knew that the best story would be seen from the air.  

Page One -- In Time For Home-Delivery

My next call was to Morris.  "There's a large crude oil tanker aground in the channel leading to Port Tampa," I told him.  Without skipping a beat, Bill told me to meet him at the small, nearby airport on Davis Island where he kept his plane.  I had never flown with Bill, despite the many stories about him and his aerial acrobatics that circulated in newsrooms at both The Tampa Times and Tampa Tribune. 

It was a short drive to Peter O. Knight airport.  Bill had given me the number of his hangar, and it was easy to drive down the rows of planes inside corrugated steel structures. 

I can clearly remember pulling up to the hangar.  Bill had already pulled the plane, affectionately known as "Nancy," out of the hangar.  I pulled up in my car just to the side of the tarmac.  I was struck by the sight of some sort of door leaning against the wall.  Unconcerned, I greeted Bill and he ushered me into the front seat, on the left side of the plane. Bill's seat, on the right, had no door.  I said nothing as we taxied out of the hangar area and onto the north end of the north-south  runway.  Before I knew it, Bill was throttling up, ready for take-off.  Releasing the wheel brake, Nancy jumped forward, hurtling  down the runway and going airborne just as the runway ended at water of Tampa Bay. 

Because it was my first time flying in a small plane, I had no idea what to expect next.  Bill was on the radio, not only clearing his take-off with the authorities at Peter O. Knight, but he was soon speaking to military air traffic controllers in the tower at MacDill Air Force Base.  The conversation was along the lines of "I'm flying about six-feet above the waves off the end of the air force base runway," where Vietnam-era Phantom F-14s were often taking off.  Bill was a blood-brother of the Air Force guys, having served in the South Pacific during WWII.  They immediately cleared him fly under the end of the runway, since it was the most direct route to the grounded tanker.  Bill had regularly greased the wheels by sending the tower crew photos of the planes on the runway whenever he was allowed to overfly the base.  It was a special privilege, extended to Bill.  Because they respected him, completely. 

I was spellbound to be flying at that level, just above the whitecaps, looking at the tip of the AFB runway.  Before I could gather my thoughts or say anything, Bill pointed Nancy's nose skyward and started to make wide, spiraling circles to gain to gain altitude.  Up and up we went; the objects on the ground getting smaller and smaller.  In less than a minute we were high above the peninsula and looking directly down on the stricken ship. 

Once at the desired altitude, he promptly pushed the plane's throttle all the way in, cutting back to an idle.  Next, he heeled the Cessna all the way over to the right.  Reaching into the back bench seat Bill  grabbed the heavy, motor-driven, 2-1/4"-format Hasselblad camera.  Letting completely go of the plane's steering yoke, he slipped his hands into straps of the camera's machine-gun grips.

While the engine roar was replaced by an annoying, continuous "maaaaaap, maaaaaap, maaaaaap" sound, Bill was hanging out of the door, ripping off dozens of photographs. 

I did not know what the noise was, but I was anxious.  OK ... more than anxious as the plane glided silently (no engine roar) in a downward spiral.  With the deadline looming, there was precious time to be scared.  In one swift move, Bill tossed the 'Blad into the back seat, righted the plane, opened the throttle wide and headed back the way we came.   Once again, under the fighter jet flightpath and in sight of the Peter O. Knight runway, Nancy was anxious to get back to her hangar. 

Bill landed effortlessly, quickly taxiing to the hangar.  I was off to the newsroom to file my story while Bill was headed to his house where he would process the film in his darkroom.

The story of the grounded fuel tanker, complete with a spectacular aerial photograph, made it for the 11 a.m. home-delivery deadline  I could finally breathe easy.  It was only then, when I related my experience to fellow news reporters and photographers, that I found out what the bothersome noise was, coming from Nancy's dashboard.

"That's the stall-warning buzzer, Dane," they said.  There were laughs and rolling eyes.  The plane, with me and Bill in it, was simply falling slowly out of the sky -- and onto the front page of The Tampa Times. 

I Was The Mob's Newspaper Boy

When we moved to Tampa in January, 1960, we settled into Hyde Park, just off Howard and Bayshore.  Dad liked to call it Palma Ceia -- and it probably was, technically.  We rented a typical Florida bungalow with a large front porch at 1416 S. Moody Ave.  We were right behind Shepherd's Sports Cars, where Bella's Restaurant now stands.

In those days, I probably wasn't getting an allowance.  At age 12, I needed a small amount of cash for french fries at the drugstore soda fountain next to Bern's, or magazines about go-carts from the small general merchandise store on Howard and Morrison, where Hugo's now stands.

My bright idea was to shine shoes outside of the drugstore.  Somehow my Dad got wind of this and, without actually quashing my entrepreneurial spirit, he diverted my attention by making me a shoe polish box with a "sole" pattern on top where one would place their shoe during a shine.  I can remember Dad using a small hatchet to rough out the pattern.

But I still longed for spending money.  Somehow -- I'm not sure -- I must have noticed an adult dropping off bundles of newspapers at the nearby Lil' General store.  Kids on bikes would then come by and pick up their bundles and, after banding or folding the afternoon Tampa Times, would throw them on their paper route.  I imagine I approached the man and asked if I, too, could throw a newspaper route.

I was in luck and was granted a small paper route covering Morrison and Jetton, from Howard west to just across MacDill Avenue.  I can't remember the number of houses I had on my route; I wasn't going to get rich, that's for sure.  But I took over the route gladly, and performed my first duties as a newspaper man.

Throwing a paper route was actually a lot of work.  You had to pick up the bundle and lug it home in a canvas bag wound around the handlebars of your bike.  Fortunately for me, Dad had bought me a beautiful, used Schwinn "cruiser" with a wonderful, wide leather seat, a "springer" front end to absorb shocks and nice fat tires.  It had fine, broad handlebars, perfect for hanging the bag of newspapers.

The trick to throwing a paper route, as any kid with a route can tell you, is knowing how to fold the paper in thirds, so that it was flat.  Although we had rubber bands, we rarely use them.  You see, and nicely folded flat newspaper would sail when thrown.  And when you threw it just right you could calculate for the curve, or arc, that it was going to make in the air before landing just right on the front porch step.  Of course, any miscalculation of this trajectory meant the paper would likely land in the bushes on either side of the front door, making it necessary to stop the bike, get off, retrieve the paper and place it correctly on the stoop.

After a few months of throwing the paper route, I must have become fairly accomplished at landing the paper in the right location most of the time.  And, remember, this was done from a moving bike while steering with one hand.  Performing this complicated set of actions with impunity meant a smooth run of the route -- smooth enough to get me home before Dad arrived from work.  The evening family dinner would proceed on time.

I guess it wasn't long after taking over the route that my route manager approached me one day and told me that one house in particular on Morrison needed special attention.  It was a stately home, one of the larger houses in the well-appointed section of New Suburb Beautiful.  It was the only house, as I recall, that had two-story, tall white colonial pillars.  The red brick also set it apart from all the others since clay for bricks was hard to come by in sandy Florida.

Located on the corner of Morrison and Forest, I was now required to take a detour down the side street, turn up the driveway crowded by tall hedges on either side, ride my bike up to the small back porch and dismount.  I would, I was told, take the newspaper, open the screen door, and place it on the sill before closing the screen door.



Well, this would clearly be a disruption to the my well-defined path of travel.  I didn't want to do this.  Nobody else on my route made such demands.  I mean, I had high-powered lawyers, judges and doctors on my route.  Who, exactly, was this person that was intent on making my life miserable?

To add insult to injury, this particular customer was what we paperboys called a "pre-pay."  OK, sure.  I didn't have to knock on the front door and try to collect a month's worth of subscription money.  But that also meant that I would not be getting any face-time in order to secure a sweet tip for going through all that trouble.

"No," I told my manager.  "I'm not going to do it."  I could feel myself getting flushed.  "Why should I have to do that for just one customer?"  It was my paper route and I was damned well going to throw it the way I wanted.

After our little conversation, I'm sure I did not place the paper inside the backdoor as instructed.  And so, the next day -- as I sat on the porch of my house folding papers prior to throwing the route -- the manager pulls up in front and gets out of his car.

"Is your Dad home?" he asks as he comes up the sidewalk.  Apparently Dad had come home early from his job down on Tampa's waterfront, because I went back in the house to get him.  Dad and the route manager disappeared back in the house for a few minutes.  I don't remember even being worried as to why the manager wanted to talk to my Dad.  I hadn't done anything wrong, right?

Then they both came out to the porch.  The route manager told me that, in no uncertain terms, I would have to place that paper in the back of that house -- or someone else was going to be throwing my route.  Dad was silent.  I looked to him for support but he was oddly non-committal.  I felt the tears welling up as I told my manager that there was no benefit to me in performing these extraordinary tasks.  I was mad.  But it was to no avail.  I wanted to keep my paper route and the financial freedom it gave to me.  So I swallowed my pride.  And agreed.

We didn't stay long on Moody Avenue.  We eventually moved to another rental a block away from Grady Elementary off Henderson.  I attended Wilson through 8th grade, riding the bus each way every day.  But my paper route days were finished.

Many years later I learned that the red-brick colonial house on the corner was the home of reputed mob boss Henry Trafficante -- and it all became clear.  There was no way Henry was going to walk out into his front yard to retrieve a newspaper.  No way.  And it probably didn't take much to convince my route manager that another form of delivery would be necessary.

As a reporter for The Tampa Times many years later, I got to see Henry escorted into the federal courthouse, charged with some infraction that I'm sure he was never convicted of.  But it was then, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that I realized "I was the mob's newspaper boy."