Accounts of what happened to the body diverge––cremation at a local funeral parlor, crushing into 50-gallon oil drums at a New Jersey dump, burial under Giants Stadium, road fill for one interstate highway or another, and the like. Most likely he was killed shortly after leaving the Machus parking lot.
None of the many theories about what happened to Jimmy Hoffa after he got picked up include the possibility that he’s alive and living on some remote island in the South Pacific. What happens next is a matter of conjecture, of inference-a collision between unimpeachable data such as phone calls, the unreliability of witness testimony, and fish-delivery times. And Jimmy Hoffa was there, left, and never came back. We do know several things for certain: there’s a real world out there, a real asphalt parking lot, a real phone booth, and a real Machus Red Fox (now called Andiamo).
Kennedy at the Valachi hearings on labor racketeering in 1963. What compelled Hoffa to continue to pace around the sweltering asphalt outside the Machus Red Fox? Was he hoping to get high-level Mafia approval of his attempts to regain control of the Teamsters? Attorney General Robert Kennedy and President John F. There is a weird discrepancy about whether the meeting was set for 2:00 or 2:30, but the uncertainty simply contributes to the argument that something strange was going on: Hoffa’s friends and family were incredulous that he would wait any amount of time he was known to be extremely punctual and intolerant of those who weren’t. But when he discovered that Linteau had already left for lunch elsewhere, he grew “very loud and was obviously upset,” Goldsmith reports, and “his eyes were in a rage.” Hoffa arrived at Linteau’s place around 1:30 P.M., perhaps thinking that Linteau would join him for the meeting. At a get-together at Hoffa’s house the previous weekend, Hoffa had told Linteau that he had arranged to meet with Giacalone at 2:00 P.M. on Wednesday, July 30, but did not tell him what the meeting was about. Let’s return to what was apparently Jimmy Hoffa’s last day.Įarlier that afternoon, Hoffa drove his dark-green Pontiac Grand Ville to Airport Limousine Services, a transportation company run by his old Teamster buddy Louis Linteau. One thing that pretty much everyone agrees on is that a frozen salmon was involved. So much has been written, filmed, and speculated about what exactly happened to Hoffa-most recently in Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman and Jack Goldsmith’s In Hoffa’s Shadow: A Stepfather, a Disappearance in Detroit, and My Search for the Truth-yet the mystery endures. They also had a dress code: jacket and tie.īut Hoffa, in his short sleeves, never tried it. In addition to the famed salad offerings, they had a healthy selection of meats, ground and otherwise. “MACHUS is a name synonymous with sumptuous foods and pastries in the Birmingham-Bloomfield,” boasts an old menu I found online. The Machus Red Fox is a restaurant located in a busy shopping plaza at the intersection of Telegraph Road and West Maple, just north of 14 Mile Road. One item reads, “TG 230 Wed 14 Mile Tel Fox Rest Maple Road.” “TG” are the initials of Tony Giacalone, “Tony Jack,” a captain in the Detroit Mafia. It’s an itinerary or, if you like, a to-do list. (Can you be a labor boss without massive forearms?) Back at Hoffa’s home on Square Lake, a note is taped to a lampshade on his desk. In short sleeves-better to display his massive forearms. Jimmy Hoffa is pacing up and down in the parking lot of the Machus Red Fox. July 30, 1975, is an incredibly hot and humid day-90 degrees, the high forecast in the Detroit morning newspapers. Stories can be best defined by the fetish objects that inhabit them. Perhaps the only route to truth is by way of falsehood. (And was the frozen salmon a red herring?)
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