The Verdict -- Robert Gardner

I spent most of my youth either working at or dancing in the

Rendezvous Ballroom, first at its modest beginning as a small dance floor

located at the site of what later became the Balboa Theater, and later at

its block-long dance floor stretching from Harding Street to Palm Avenue

along the oceanfront in Balboa.

There, we had great bands, some famous, some not so famous. I have

long since forgotten just which band was playing at the Rendezvous when

Vido Musso arrived on the scene, saxophone in hand, dead broke. Soon

after he arrived, though, he got a regular gig, and we struck up a

friendship.

One evening, he and I were walking along the oceanfront boardwalk in

Balboa. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered around a couple of men who were

fighting. Well, this is not exactly accurate. One guy -- very big -- was

fighting. The other -- not so big -- was taking a beating. The crowd

loved it, the same crowd that enjoyed watching lions eating Christians in

the Roman Coliseum.

The man taking the beating was Micky Walker, a nice guy from Orange.

Mickey’s folks owned a stretch of dust bowl farmland in Missouri. Denuded

of top soil, the land was worthless until oil just happened to be

discovered. So Micky overnight became a millionaire, his family moved to

California and, to invest his money, he built the Balboa Inn.

At this point, however, he was just getting beaten to a pulp, and the

crowd, loving blood, was having a ball watching it. All but Vido Musso.

To my amazement, since Vido wasn’t that big himself, he waded into the

melee.

He jerked the big guy off poor Micky and said, “You want to fight,

fight me.”

The big guy took one look at Vido, who wasn’t even as big as Micky,

grinned, and went at him whereupon Vido administered a classic beating to

him.

When his opponent lay unconscious on the ground, Vido signaled to me

and we continued our stroll.

I was in shock. I said, “Vido, first of all, you’re a musician. Your

hands are your livelihood. Second, the guy was bigger than you.”

Vido shrugged. “Where I come from,” he said, “you learn early. You

either win your fight, or you die.”

That seemed a little dramatic. I asked, “Where do you come from,

Vido?”

He grinned. “Sicily.”

I looked back to where his victim was being helped to his feet. The

guy didn’t know it, but he probably got off easy.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge. His

column runs Tuesdays.