Gary Passeri worked the door at a club I was at in Chicago, a sketchy guy with the owners ear. Over 7 feet tall, late 50’s, clad in a leather jacket and shitty silver jewelry. In his head he’s early Brando but in reality he’s about as smooth as 5 o’clock shadow.
He used to shoot pool with the owner, got the door job as a favor. We knew him as a rat, he’d try and befriend us but we knew that behind closed doors he was letting the owner know all the wrong doings of the staff.
The problem was he’d always fuck it up, he never worked in a bar, he didn’t know the difference between bar staffs rights and wrongs. I over heard him rattling on that the floor manager wasn’t putting ice in the urinals. He went on about it for an hour. If ice in the pisser is your biggest worry you don’t know what you’re doing.
Passeri was married three times, three women, all currently deceased.
His first wife jumped head first into the Chicago river late one night; after drinking two (yes two) handles of ten-high whiskey. If the blast of the water or the drowning didn’t kill her, alcohol poisoning would have done the job.
Wife number two crashed her car head on into an oak tree driving 90mph on a 35mph side street, she had also had been drinking.
Wife number three was wise enough to realize the toxic environment she was living in with him, and left. Two days after the divorce regrettably she got hit by a bus crossing the street. The rumor was that she was on the phone with her therapists, forgot to look both ways.
Passeri took the term “lady killer”, literally.