OCTOBER 9, 2023 – My initial encounter with Jimmy Rizzo occurred on impulse by Cliff.
“There’s a guy you should meet,” Cliff said to me after ending a business call while I was in his office. “He’s a director of Bayonne Bank, which has branches all over the place, but he happens to have his office in the one across the street. His name is Jimmy Rizzo, and he lives in Rutherford; owns property all over, including the bank here, and he’s a member of the borough’s building committee, so he could be an important person for you to get to know.”
“How do you know him?”
“I’ve done a bunch of promotional work for the bank, and we’ve worked together on borough events.” Cliff then stood up and made for the door. “Come on. Let’s see if he’s in his office right now.”
I followed Cliff into the bank, where he greeted tellers and bankers and they responded warmly and spontaneously. “Is Jimmy in?” he asked as he ducked his head into the office of the branch manager.
“Yes he is, Cliff,” she said.
At the back of a hallway leading behind the retail action in the front of the bank, we reached a closed door. Cliff knocked lightly, hesitated a moment, then opened the door a few inches. Peering around Cliff I could see a man on the phone at his desk. He waved us in and gestured emphatically for us to settle in on a couple of comfortable chairs.
Waving his free hand and arm about in the air, “Jimmy” was speaking Italian a mile a minute. I didn’t need Cliff to tell me, “this ain’t Minnesota.” While Jimmy’s melodious Italian was threatening to crescendo into Nessun Dorma, I suppressed my rising internal laughter by looking at the wide range of books, autographed photos and other mementoes that filled his spacious and well-furnished office.
“Si, si, si,” said Jimmy, as he looked at Cliff and me, rolled his eyes, and made circles with his index finger pointed at his temple. We had to guess who the Italian speaker on the other end of the call might be. After a few moments of listening, Jimmy let forth another burst of Italian conveying what sounded like an unshakable opinion, concluding with, “Grazie, grazie, si . . . okay, ciao!” He ended the call abruptly.
The feisty “Jimmy,” short and solid, moved quickly around his desk and greeted Cliff enthusiastically.
“Jimmy,” said Cliff, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Holman’s nephew, Eric Nilsson from Minnesota.”
Jimmy grabbed my hand, shook it with conviction, and with abundant vigor welcomed me to his well-appointed lair. He then took a seat between Cliff and me for an affable exchange.
“Tell me, Eric, how’s your uncle doing?”
I didn’t know how much he knew, so to play it safe I played it close. “He seems to be holding his own,” I said.
“Good, good, good. I used to see him walking the sidewalk outside his properties, and I noticed he was slowing down.”
“Yeah, well, he’s 94—actually still 93; he’ll be 94 in a couple of months, but he’s the only person of his vintage I know who likes to go around telling people he’s older than he actually is. Just yesterday Cliff and I were visiting him at CareOne assisted living up in Paramus, and he was all proud of the fact that he was 94. At lunch he made sure all the staff people in the dining room knew he was 94, and when I reminded him he was still only 93, he said, ‘If you reach 93 like I have, you have the right to use the age you’ll be on your next birthday.’ That’s his logic anyway.”
Jimmy laughed.
In the 15 or 20 minutes that followed, he learned much about me and I about him. He’d once worked for Société Générale, the same bank where Byron joined straight out of college, and had made his career as a bond trader at CitiBank before venturing out on his own as the local real estate baron and banker. One of his hobbies was collecting books autographed by their authors and another was collecting autographed photos of Jimmy’s favorite athletes. Many of the books and all the photos were on prominent display in his office.
Jimmy was a trustee of the local library and very interested in Rutherford history. He was particularly fascinated by the Holmans—my great-grandfather and grandfather and their contributions to the life of the borough. To Jimmy’s delight I informed him that Grandpa once owned the very building we were in and that Jimmy now owned.
At the approach of noon, Jimmy apologized that he’d have to get on his way for a lunch meeting. Before we left Jimmy’s office, however, he and Cliff talked about the three of us reconvening for an early dinner at Il Villagio in nearby Carlstadt.
As we crossed Park Avenue back to Fun Ghoul, Cliff told me dinner with Jimmy was not to be missed.
“You really have to see Jimmy holding court over at Il Villagio. I swear, it’s a sight you won’t see back in Minnesota.”
Jimmy “holding court”—in Italian, I wondered—at a New Jersey Italian restaurant? I couldn’t wait. Only Cliff would be my conduit for such an opportunity.
After two hours of poring through and organizing papers in UB’s office of “the beautiful mind” and subsequently meeting with a realtor about what needed to be done to ready 42 Lincoln for rental, I rejoined Cliff for the short drive to Il Villagio. Two smartly uniformed valets let us out of Cliff’s SUV and one whisked the big black vehicle away. In front of us was the impressive glass and marble entryway of the favorite hangout of local movers and shakers. It was a showcase of the shinier side of “New Jersey Italianate.”
Inside the spacious bar we found Jimmy seated at the far end imbibing in a glass of sparkling water, enhanced with a lemon slice expertly placed on the rim. He greeted us as if we hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. We talked for a while, touching on politics and the economy. Jimmy was well informed and not shy about his opinions. I stuck to asking open ended questions.
As Cliff had promised, after another 10 or 15 minutes, the “line-up” began to form—people paying homage to the man who appeared to be the biggest local mover and shaker of all. One by one they greeted Jimmy, and each in the growing queue exhibited unusual patience, I thought, for the honor of kissing the ring. Cliff and I sat to the side of Jimmy, and I was impressed, if not surprised, that Cliff knew everyone in line. With perfectly executed social judiciousness, Cliff introduced me to people he thought most suitable to make my acquaintance.
Cliff also informed me furtively of the name, station and status of many other individuals. “Three people down,” he’d say in a low voice out of the corner of his mouth, “is the chairman of the Bergen County Republicans . . . The woman two down from him is the former Mayor of Rutherford, a Democrat and big supporter of Hillary Clinton; the two people in between are council members—both Democrats; the guy after the former Mayor, he’s president of a bank over in Teaneck; and the woman behind him works for the schools in Arlington . . .” And so on.
I couldn’t believe the scene that was unfolding before my eyes and ears. What impressed me most about it was that nearly every exchange between Jimmy and “his people” involved some mention of their common involvement in one local charity or another. “That was a great gala the other night!” I’d hear; and “We need to get [so-and-so and so-and-so] on board for next month’s membership drive”; and “I think we’re doing really well with our fund-raising push for those disabled kids.”
As the “court session” wound down, we were joined by Marco Napolini (not his real name), a close, life-long friend of Jimmy; a teacher and, as our discussion soon revealed, a progressive Democrat. The ensuing repast was authentic and exquisite, but the details were obscured by the remarkable nature of our spirited conversation. It was almost wholly devoted to politics. Especially after the first glass of wine, we each became more expressive of our individual views—Jimmy and Cliff lining up as Republicans; Marco and I as the Democrats. What struck me about our debate, however, was that despite the ardency of the positions we advanced or defended, we remained in perfectly good cheer throughout the discussion. I couldn’t remember having experienced an exchange of opposing political views in a setting of such cordiality. At one juncture I felt compelled to express this observation.
“Time-out,” I said, putting down my knife and fork and making a “T” with my hands. “I just have to say something to the three of you.” At once, the lively exchange went silent.
“However closely we hold to our respective positions; no matter how vigorously we express them, for me the great take-away from this conversation is that in the course of having it, our mutual friendship and respect have increased. Now, I ask, how can the four of us go forth and replicate this kind of exchange across the body politic of the whole damn country?”
“Hear, hear!” said Jimmy spontaneously, as Marco, Cliff, and I joined in the toast to our camaraderie.
It was an experience I wouldn’t forget and one that I often recall when tempted to allow less noble sentiments influence my opinion of people whose party color is different from mine.
On the ride to the bus stop for my shuttle back to Manhattan for my overnight stay, Cliff and I reminisced about the extraordinary evening. When I asked Cliff about his autographed photo with Trump, which image hung on his office wall, he laughed. “I have to support Trump,” he said.
“Why?” I said, incredulously.
“If he gets elected, guess who will get hired to do the main inaugural party?”
It was a rhetorical question, I knew. For a number of years Cliff had been hired by the Trump organization to put on Christmas parties, and the good work he’d done has led to other Trump-related events at Bedminster. Why shouldn’t he expect to be retained for a inaugural party?
“That’s right,” Cliff continued. “Good ol’ Cliff here![1]”
You can’t make this stuff up, I told myself aboard the bus from Rutherford’s Union Square to Port Authority Terminal on 42nd Street in the city of Trump Tower. None of it. Not Jimmy Rizzo, not Il Villagio, not Cliff Witmyer . . . not my inheritance—as it was apparently unfolding.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] As Cliff was to learn, however, in Trump’s book, loyalty was a one-way street. Cliff didn’t get the job. As soon as Trump launched his “stop the steal” campaign, Cliff called me to say, “I’ve gotta admit: the better guy won.” I’d been on Cliff’s case for several years. I respected him for his change of heart.
