"ONE WRONG TURN, AND DABLOONS WERE COMING OUT THE CEILING."

This is a bit of lore.  I have never told this story in my life publicly.  I've waited for years and years and years, from the comfort of knowing the details, just waiting for the majority of those involved, to have departed this earth before I ever opened my mouth.

August 14, 1975, Providence, Rhode Island.  Eight men began traveling in a van towards Hudson Fur Storage.  Allegedly, inside that van was Robert Dussault, Chucky Flynn, Joe Danese, Gerry Tillinghast, Ralph Byrnes, Jake Tarzian,  and John and Walter Ouimette.  The Hudson Storage facility was a commercial facility off Cranston street in west end of  Providence.   Inside this facility was 146 safe deposit boxes, each box being two feet wide and high, and four feet deep.

At 8:00 am, Dussault entered the building posing as a client.  He would pull out a .38 and order those inside into the office.  As he did that six others entered the facility.  They would try their hardest to drill into the boxes, but it wouldn't work, so they would use crowbars.  They would then dump the contents of these boxes into duffle bags.  They would escape with some $30 million dollars in gold bars, jewels, coins, and more.    Those involved would allege that Raymond Patriarca was behind the heist, but it would never be proven. Most of those involved got caught, but there were those who weren't, and that's what this article is about.

I don't want to get into who I am related to and not, it's just not for public consumption at this point.  Needless to say, before my dad died in 2004, he would tell me some pretty interesting stories about my family in Providence.  One story in particular, is quite interesting.   I don't want to reveal who he was with, because I am related to them, and I'm not going to dime out my family. It was I think it was 1976-or 1977.   He was riding with my relative in his box truck.  This person had a box truck, probably the best way to describe it, was like a smaller version of a ups truck.   My  relative was moving swag via the box truck.  Growing up, FOT's were a big thing.  Fell Of Truck.  Everything we got, seemed to have fallen off trucks.  In fact in the basement of my relative it was like fucking Macy's.  You needed a suit, you went down there, if nothing fit, you went to the "hot suit store."  As a kid I had no clue what those terms meant.  In that basement, you had ties, dress shirts, shoes.  You name it was down there.   Years later when this relative died, I went down to the basement, just to absorb the loss, and in the wine cellar, I'd find a quarter of a million dollars hidden in boxes in the back.

In any event, my dad was traveling with my relative to make "deliveries."  They were going down Smith street in Providence.  If anyone has ever driven down Smith street you know how that street is.  It's a bumpy ride at best, even all these years later.   My relative was speeding a bit, and trying to light his cigar when he hit a pothole.   As the truck slammed down and went back up, a panel in the trucks ceiling opened up, and coins began to fall out of the ceiling like a slot machine.  My father was getting pelted in the head with tons of coins.   My relative would pull over, shut off the engine, and just stared at my dad.  My dad would bend down and pick up a handful of gold coins.   He looked closer, and realized they weren't just any gold coins, but Spanish dabloons.  These type of coins didn't grow on trees.  My dad told me he looked up at my relative who just raised his eyebrows at him.

My dad knew right then and there, not to say a word.  He got up, and grabbed a few empty cigar boxes and they began to fill the boxes to the brim with gold coins.  My dad used some tape and coat hanger wires to tie the boxes down tight.  He then helped my relative hide them a bit better in the hidden panel in the ceiling. My dad then made sure the panel was tight.  He sat back in the jump seat, and my relative stared at him.  My dad knew they had been taken from somewhere but he knew enough to just mind his own business.

A few miles down the road, my relative tried to explain he won them in a card game, to which my father began laughing hysterically.   My relative asked what was so funny, and my father asked him a very smart but laughable question.   "Is that what your gonna tell the cops or the feds? Is that really what your gonna go with?"   The question was met with a grin and a laugh.  He then just leveled with my dad, "you remember the place that got hit, off Cranston?"   My father smirked, and it was left at that.  

When he told me the story, I wasn't shocked to be honest with you.  He told me a lot of stories that someday I will talk about, I just don't at this point because the time isn't right, but there will come a day, where I have some great photos, and stories I will unleash.  My father of all things wasn't the type of guy that repeated anything, but some things he told me the last few months of his life, just blew me away.  He would drop hints throughout my life, but I just didn't get it.  His last days, he talked fondly about my relatives, except my Uncle Cable Box, who he said would steal grass clippings if they were worth something.