The Great Ham & Egg Holdup

The waiters at the Waldorf-Astoria, the Stork, or even Maxim's, serve no greater variety of customers than the countermen at John's Diner on Fulton Street in Brooklyn. John's, as a matter of fact, has the edge--it stays open all night. But despite their deep, egg-spattered knowledge of human eccentricity, nobody in John's had the slightest inkling that a new and glorious page in the diner's history was about to be written when William ("The Laughing Bandit") Kampi lowered himself to a stool at 3:30 a.m. one morning last week and ordered spaghetti & meat balls with tomato sauce.

Bill the Bandit was a young fellow, 22 years old, with nice blond hair, and a yellow sport shirt. He was out on parole and he was polite; he leaned forward every time he took a bite, and it did not require a genius to see that he was doing so to keep the tomato sauce from dripping on his shirt. But all of a sudden he jumped up and left. When he came back he had a pistol in one hand and was herding before him six scared-looking men he had rounded up at the entrance to the IND subway. "Gentlemen," said Bill with a laugh, "be seated."

Like Breakfast with the Borgias. All sat down on stools with the air of men sinking into the electric chair. Bill tucked his pistol into his belt, hustled around behind the counter, chased the counterman and Morton Flicker, the owner's 20-year-old son, into a back room. Then Bill began dispensing hospitality. "Well, gentlemen," he cried, rubbing his hands as his astounded victims cringed, "what will it be? It's all on me. You only have to order." Nobody said a word. "Ham and eggs!" cried Bill. "In a moment, sir!" Soon he was cooking and serving ham and eggs. Most of his customers looked ill. A few even spoke up to say they didn't want any. It did them no good at all. Laughing Bill served them. They ate. More customers came in until there were 20 in all. Bill served them too. Milk, he decided, was the drink for everyone. He kept pouring it. The customers kept drinking it, eyes rolling as if they were downing hemlock.

A delivery man entered with a box of pies. What was the bill, asked Bill? Four dollars and ninety-five cents? He clanged open the register, and tossed the man five dollars. "Keep the nickel," he said. "Have some ham and eggs!" The pieman falteringly said: "Eggs maybe. But not ham. My faith forbids it." "You'll eat ham and like it!" cried Bill. The pieman closed his eyes, opened them and ate.

Just then sirens began to scream. A passerby, nonplussed by the strange goings-on in John's had called the cops. Since the diner sits on the border of three police districts, not one but seven squad cars converged on it. Laughing Bill did not turn a hair. He called the owner's son out of the back room and said, "Tell a good story. One I'll like." When cops came piling in with drawn guns, Bill beamed, the customers chewed hysterically and Morton Flicker explained that the trouble--just a fight between two drunks--was over. The cops departed.

The Yooma of It. Bill stayed for an hour. He opened the cash register, took out $70 and thrust it into his pockets. He gave away a series of presents--six dozen eggs to one sick-looking customer, a liverwurst to another, 30 slices of ham to a third. He poured himself a glass of milk and drained it. Then he finally strolled out and was gone. He was arrested in only a few hours--his automobile had no plates, and while this kept anyone from jotting down his license number, it made the car as conspicuous as a Brooklyn girl without lipstick.

Even after Bill was identified, however, John Flicker, the owner of the plundered diner, could not stop laughing long enough to get angry. "My sides ache," he said weakly, after all reports were in. "How I wish I coulda seen it. Wotta sense of yooma!"

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