Gangster (28 page)

    Pudge had matured, softened with age. He was a rare gangster, one who never married or sought out the comforts of family. He enjoyed his life, the freedom and power it afforded him. His reputation in mob circles was still fierce and deadly enough that few dared challenge him. He was still quick to kill and just as quick to charm. He had grown into a favorite uncle who was warmly welcomed by those whose path he crossed.

    A favorite uncle who also happened to be a remorseless killer.

    Through the years, Angelo had shuttered his small world even tighter, limiting his contact to just a handful of those he trusted. He now reigned over an organized crime universe changing with the times, forced to confront younger members eager to embrace the lucrative allure of drugs. He knew only one way to calm such a desire. He and Pudge were the Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig of gangsters, still in the game years after most other players had either retired or died, and still sharp enough to lead their world in hits.

     *     *     *

GORILLA MONSOON HAD Johnny Valentine in a headlock, stomping his large foot on the ring mat each time he tightened his grip. The packed house inside Madison Square Garden booed Monsoon as he sneered at them, mocking Valentine's meager attempts to pin him. I was sitting in the center of the front row, facing the middle of the large ring, wedged in between Angelo and Pudge. I had a container of popcorn on my lap and a Coke in a paper cup next to my right foot.

    You think Monsoon's going to be able to take him? I asked them, keeping my eyes focused on the action above me.

    You talking about real life, then it's not even worth the question, Pudge said with a shrug. But inside of that ring up there, there's no way they're gonna let Monsoon leave here with his arm raised.

    I turned away from a vicious-sounding Monsoon body slam to the mat and looked at Pudge, Valentine flat on his back grimacing in pain. What do you mean? I asked. Are you saying the match is rigged?

    This is wrestling, little man, Pudge said. It's supposed to be rigged. They have it all worked out even before they slip on their trunks. Everybody's in on it, from the referees to the crowd.

    I looked around me at the nine thousand men, women and children, most of them standing up from their seats, screaming out words of encouragement to their favorite wrestler, booing when a move or a call didn't go their way, and then came back to Pudge. What about them? I asked him, pointing at the rows across from the ring. Do they all know, too?

    Everybody knows, Pudge said. And if they don't, they should.

    Doesn't that take away from the fun? I asked.

    Pudge shook his head, continuing with the life lesson, one that was similar in setting to the early schooling given them many years ago by Angus McQueen. Why should it? he asked. You still root for the good guys, boo the bad ones and go back home having had yourself a good time.

    I looked up and saw Johnny Valentine swing Gorilla Monsoon off the center ropes, then catch him, squeezing his arms around the much bigger man's waist, locking his fingers across his spine, forcing him to tilt his head back in pain. The house cheered its approval as Valentine's seemingly powerful hold forced Monsoon's knees to buckle and his lungs scream for air, his bulky arms hanging limply by his side. The referee lifted one of Monsoon's arms and watched as it fell back down like an airless balloon. He did it a second time with the same result. A third time would officially bring the match to an end.

    Looks like it's all over, I said, holding a handful of popcorn. The big guy looks like he's going to faint.

    It's too early for it to end, Angelo said with a casual indifference. They haven't given the crowd enough for their money yet. When they do, that's when it will be over.

    And then who'll win? I looked over at Angelo, the popcorn crammed into a corner of my mouth.

    He looked back at me, his eyes cold and distant. It doesn't matter who wins. If Valentine wins, the crowd goes home happy. If Monsoon wins they get upset. But by next week they're back rooting and yelling as loud as ever.

    That's the only thing that counts, Pudge added. That they come back every week.

    You can learn a lot about life by watching a wrestling match, Angelo said. Rigged or not. You got your good guys and your bad. You got those that are friends and those that are enemies. But then, the wrestler you think you can trust the most turns against you, betrays you to another group and leaves you out there by yourself. And all that does is make you want to come back looking for revenge. It's all there for you to see, Gabe. It might be buried under the theater of it, but if you look for it, you won't have too hard a time finding it.

    Is that why you guys come to the matches? I asked, taking a sip from my cup of Coke.

    We got our lessons from a different ring, Pudge said. If there's anything that needs to be learned here tonight, it's you who's got to learn it.

    You can choose and be like the people that are sitting around us, Angelo said, his hand placed gently on my knee. Now, if that's the direction you go in, then you only need to treat tonight for what it is, a little bit of fun, a break in your routine. But if you decide to come away from it with something more than another night out, then pay attention to what you see. It may come in handy one day or it may not. Either way, you make the time spent work in your favor and not against.

    I turned away from Angelo and looked up to watch Johnny Valentine put a neck grip on Gorilla Monsoon and, after several minutes of cries and groans, force him into submission and bring the match to an end. The audience erupted into wild cheers as Valentine strutted around the ring, his arms raised to the lights above. Pudge nudged an elbow against my side, leaned over and shouted into my ear. I'll give you better than even money the two of them are having dinner together after they leave here tonight.

    What if somebody sees them? I asked. Won't they get into any trouble?

    For having dinner with a friend? That day ever comes around then we'll all be in big trouble.

    I smiled at Pudge then turned to look at Angelo but all I saw was an empty seat. Don't worry, Pudge said, sensing the question I was about to ask. Angelo's not one for crowds. He'll be at the restaurant when we get there.

    Which restaurant are we going to? I asked as I took

    Pudge's hand in mine and followed him down a ramp that led out of the arena.

    There's only one kind of cooking that goes down easy after sitting through two solid hours of wrestling. Pudge made a right past the ramp and out through a set of double doors. And that's Chinese. How's that sound to you?

    It sounds great, I said, walking at twice my normal pace in order to keep up with Pudge's accelerated speed. Well, I don't really know how it sounds. I've never eaten Chinese food.

    It looks to me like we got to take you from the top to the bottom, little man. Pudge turned his head toward me as we both stood on the corner of Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue. Try and make up for lost time and teach you everything you need to know. Does that sound like a good deal to you?

    Yes, I said and then I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his neck. It was the first time in my entire life I had ever hugged anybody, let alone a man, and I never wanted to let him go.

    Pudge returned the hug and then lifted me off my feet and carried me the rest of the way to the restaurant, keeping me safe and warm, shielding me from the cold harsh winter winds.

     *     *     *

GANGSTERS FEAR LEADING a normal life and do all they can to denigrate such an existence. They are constantly pitting their chosen lifestyle up against that of a working man and must walk away from such discussions needing to feel superior. They find themselves compelled to justify, in the simplest of terms, the reasons they are career criminals and they willingly color the truth in order to reach a conclusion that bends in their favor. They do this with all that they see and hear, coating it with the brush of a harsh lesson in order to give weight to the reality of their world.

    That is why treating me to a night of wrestling meant more to Angelo and Pudge than a few hours of fun. It was a way to illustrate to me how life really functions, that someone perceived as being good can easily shift toward evil and that no one should be trusted beyond the moment. They would impose such lessons on me throughout my childhood years, regardless of where we went or what we would see together.

    Find me any gangster and keep in mind he doesn't know shit about the theater, but he'll tell you that his all-time favorite play is Death of a Salesman Pudge told me that as we were sitting through yet another production. Now, I know it's a lot of other people's favorite play, too. But they like it for the writing or maybe for the acting. Gangsters don't care about any of that. Instead, what we walk away with after watching it, is how living the decent life and following all the rules and working hard every day of your life in the end does nothing but screw you and leave you for dead. Willy Loman is every gangster's biggest fear. He lived his whole life for nothing but empty pockets and then his only way out was to wrap a car around a tree trunk and hope the insurance company came through with the cash. If that's what an honest man can hope to get at the end of the road, then you can have it and keep it all, with interest.

     *     *     *

I WALKED our of my last class of the day, my book bag filled to capacity, eager to get out and meet Pudge at the pizzeria around the corner from the school. It was near the end of my second month as a transfer student at St. Dominick's at Thirty-first Street where my foster parents had placed me, hoping a parochial education would do more for me than a public one. While I had adjusted to the heavier workload and the stricter rules imposed by the Catholic Brothers who taught us, I still had no real friends, keeping a safe distance from the others in my grade. I never knew when I would have to move again and did not want to risk becoming part of any group I would have to be torn away from, despite the many assurances I got from Pudge that this would be my last stop. My stubborn stance didn't seem to pose much of a problem, though, since the others students still did their best to avoid me. By now, I had spent enough time alone that I had grown comfortable in the role, content to watch from a distance the friendly antics that went on between the other kids around me. My background was well known to the students and teachers in my grade. There are few secrets that can be kept from the peering eyes and acute ears of a tenement landscape, and mine was no exception. By staying silent and keeping to myself, I simply gave them all a little less to talk about, knowing that would only further fuel their curiosity.

     *     *     *

I SLAMMED DOWN on the iron bar and opened the red wood door that led out to the street. My foot touched the top step when a hand reached out and pushed me forward, causing me to lose my balance and drop my book bag. I caught myself with one hand on the railing, the other scraping against the center of a concrete step. I looked up and saw a circle of boys standing above me, all smiling and waiting for me to get back to my feet.

    Which one of you pushed me? I asked, wiping the blood off my hand on the knee of my pants.

    A pudgy kid with an oval face and thick red hair flipped a toothpick from his mouth and walked down a step. You're looking at him, orphan boy, he said, standing with his feet square apart, his closed hands at his side. I saw that you were in a hurry so I thought that maybe I'd help speed you along.

    The cluster behind him laughed and snorted their approval, while a skinny Hispanic kid gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder. The pudgy boy's name was Michael Cannera and I had seen him a few times in the playground during lunch and recess, and I was in a religion class with him, but we had never exchanged a word. He seemed the leader of his pack and was always pounced upon by the Brothers who were quick to dole out their brand of punishment with a leather hand belt. He was on the hunt for a fight, more out of pleasure than any sense of dominance or threat to his little domain. I had seen him in a few of his street-corner battles, usually matched up against smaller kids, and he always came out of the scrap bloodied but a winner. I also noticed that regardless of who he was up against, his back was covered by at least three of his buddies, ready to jump in if asked. As I looked at him glowering down at me, I knew I was nothing more to him than a convenient target.

    He already had one advantage over me even before any punches were thrown. I was a state-sponsored foster child and as such had to be on my best behavior, both in the home I was sent to live in and at the school I attended. A street fight, especially one on school grounds, was sure to be brought to someone's attention, and that could easily earn me a ticket out to a state home.

    It's not a problem, I said, as I leaned down to pick up my book bag. I wasn't looking to get in anybody's way.

    Michael walked down two steps closer to me, his face locked in a tight sneer. Only a punk would turn his back and walk from this, he said. Is that what you are, orphan boy? That must be what happens when you gotta go and pay somebody to make believe they're your parents.

    Why don't you go and look for trouble somewhere else? I said, lifting my bag and turning my back. You're not gonna find any here.

    I don't let anybody tell me what to do, he snarled, running with full force down the remaining three steps. Especially no little punk ass orphan boy.

    He landed square against the center of my back, the blow pushing the air out of my lungs and causing me to lose the grip on my bag. I landed face first on the sidewalk, Michael leaning against my shoulders, his weight holding me down, his fists landing blows across my neck and head. I lifted my head and tried to regain my focus, tasting the thin lines of blood that were dripping into my mouth from a slash under my eye. My bag and books were scattered off to my right, one of them resting flat on its spine, its pages flapping open in the wind. I stretched out my hand and reached for the nearest one, a thick geography text resting on its side, up against the base of a thin tree surrounded by a dry patch of dirt. My upper body was burning from the storm of punches pounding down on it. I closed my eyes and grabbed for the book, gripping my fingers around its pages, using my free hand as a balance.