Gangster (32 page)

    I wouldn't complain too much, Angelo said. The older the cop, the better it is for us. Young cops want to go out and make a name for themselves. Best way for them to do that is to bring down either you, me or maybe both. Old cops just want to go home and put in enough time to cash a pension check. And the best way for that to happen is to stay away from trouble. Their mind is sitting on a condo down by the beach. It's not on the next boost you and me have planned.

    I sat back, happy to watch Angelo and Pudge link everything we saw on TV or in the movies straight back to the life they led, turning it all into yet another lesson for me to learn. I was now an accepted member of their family and with that came the burden of filling the void in my knowledge with their take on life and the honest, if skewered, view of the world they brought with them to even the most mundane of daily events. Angelo and Pudge boiled everything down to a basic scenario of black and white, right and wrong, profit and loss. They had fought off the challenges and survived and thrived for decades in a brutal business that was free of reasonable compromise and short on peaceful resolution. They did it by combining street savvy with a fearless determination that their will would not be thwarted, regardless of the odds and the opponent. They obeyed only a set number of structured commandments and never strayed far from those beliefs.

    Over time, their numerous lessons would eventually take hold and their strong theories would be very much a part of my thinking and way of looking at the life around me. I would become like them, a bona fide member of their small society. I knew that whatever path my life took, it would be determined by the formidable will of these two men I had come to see as parents. No other solution would be acceptable to them. They were not interested in raising just a son. Much like Ida the Goose and Angus McQueen before them, Angelo and Pudge were just looking to raise a gangster.

    And so, night after night, I would watch them, them, faces a blurry haze from the glow of the television set, close my eyes and smile. I was on the eve of my thirteenth birthday and I couldn't think of anything else I would much rather do than grow up and be one of them.

    Be a gangster.

     *     *     *

I GLANCED AT my watch and turned to Mary. I was thinking of heading back to my apartment, grab a shower and change into some fresh clothes. Maybe even take time to catch a smile from my kids and a kiss from my wife. Will you be here when I get back?

    'Yes, Mary said. I may leave for a bit to do the same, but I won't be gone long.

    He'll be okay, I said, looking down at Angelo as he slept in his bed, the green monitors blinking and beeping around him. The day nurses check on him every hour or so.

    Can he hear anything at all? Mary asked. Is he even aware that we're here, talking about him?

    The doctors say no, I said. They said his brain and body are barely functioning and that he's living moment to moment.

    And what do you say? Mary asked me with a sweet smile.

    I think he hears what he wants to hear and tunes out what doesn't interest him, I said. And I think he's happy that you and I are here together.

    But you still don't know where I fit in, Mary said.

    It just comes down to a question of time. Eventually you'll tell me everything you came here to tell me.

    That sounds more like Angelo talking than you, Mary said with a slight tilt of her head. As much as you may want to try and fight it, a lot of who and what he is has rubbed off on you.

    I'll pick up some soup and sandwiches for us on the way back, I said, ignoring her comment. I shouldn't be long. Two hours, three at the most.

    Take as long as you need, Mary said. I wouldn't mind having some time alone with him.

    I nodded and headed for the closed door. I turned to watch Mary walk over to Angelo's bedside and pull a chair closer to him. She sat down, rested a hand on top of his and stroked the side of his face with a gentle motion.

15

_____________________________

Fall, 1968

I WAS FOURTEEN years old when I was sent out on my first official job for Angelo and Pudge. It was a cash pickup at an actor's rented brownstone in the East Seventies. The actor was late on a cocaine payment to an uptown dealer who had given up on any chance he had of collecting his money, so he'd sold off the debt to Pudge, willing to take half as opposed to nothing.

    You heard of this guy before? Pudge asked me. I mean the name, it sound familiar to you?

    I've seen him in a few things, I said. He's in that big action movie that's out now. I don't like him all that much.

    That's good on all counts, Pudge said. You and Nico aren't going to see him to do a breakdown on his acting. You'll be there to pick up the cash he owes. Now, he's Hollywood and used to getting most things for free. Angelo and me ain't Hollywood and we're used to getting what's owed us. So, something's gotta change and we're way too old to start now. Nico will be there to make sure he doesn't give you more than a little lip when you go to collect.

    What do I do? I asked.

    You be polite at all times and never get angry, no matter what he says to your face, Pudge said. Leave the heavy work to Nico, he'll know what to do if it comes down to that. You're there to take the cash, put it in your pocket and leave.

    What if he doesn't have it on him? I asked. Not many people have twenty-one hundred dollars lying around the house.

    Then it's gonna be a bad night all around, Pudge said, standing to leave. We'll be outta cash and he'll be outta luck. No winners anywhere in the circle.

    I won't let you down, I said.

    It never crossed my mind you would. There's a folder about this bum up on your bed. Look it over before you leave. The more you know about your target, the more it keeps you in control. Be ready to go when Nico comes to get you.

    What should I wear? My face turned beet red and I hoped the question didn't come out sounding as stupid as it felt.

    Pudge came walking over toward me. He put both his large hands on my two shoulders, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, the smile on his face as wide as I'd ever seen it. You don't think the blue jean, T-shirt and sneaker look is gonna be enough to make him shit his pants? he asked. And before I could answer, There's some new clothes for you, on your bed, next to the folder. Wear those. It won't make him respect you any more than he's going to, but at least you'll look the part. This actor's gonna be laughing when he sees you. You go in like a kid, then he's got no reason to be scared. You go in like a man who wants his pockets filled with money that's owed him, you'd be surprised how fast that sense of humor disappears. A good gangster, no matter how young, old, tall or short he might be, always runs the room. Always.

    Pudge's smile was long gone and he held that look on me for several seconds. Then he turned and walked quietly out of the room. I sat down on the soft upholstered couch and closed my eyes, trying to drown out the muted sounds rafting up from the crowded bar below. Above me, the floorboards creaked as I heard Pudge walk across his room and turn on the record player. He slid a Benny Goodman album on the turntable, rested the needle on the third cut, Sing, Sing, Sing, and turned the volume on high, knowing I was downstairs and wanting me to hear it. I sat back on the couch and smiled, my eyes still closed as I listened to Gene Krupa's ground-swelling drum solo mix in with Goodman's magical clarinet. Almost every career criminal I've ever met has a song of choice they play before they go out on a job. It is an important part of their ritual. Sing, Sing, Sing was Pudge's favorite song and it could always be heard blasting out of his stereo system whenever he and Angelo needed to attend to a crucial and often deadly piece of business. By playing it now, he was confirming the importance of my first job and his confidence that I would not fail in my task. It was also a way of handing his song down to me.

    From now on, it would be what I would play whenever I prepared to head out to help quench a gangster's insatiable thirst for blood and money.

     *     *     *

THE ACTOR, THIN, pale and shirtless, sat forward on a leather chair, slapped his hands together and laughed just like Pudge said he would. He was facing a glass coffee table, its top covered with coke spoons and empty silver tins. He was wearing dirty jeans and white socks, a pair of Dingo boots tossed casually off in one corner of the well-decorated main room. Nico stood in a far corner, his hands folded across his waist, staring silently at the back of the actor's head.

    Tell me again why you're here. the actor said.

    I stared down at him, his blue eyes glazed and trying to focus in on me, his hands shaking as they reached for a half-filled bottle of red wine. Like I told you, you're twenty-one hundred down from the drugs you bought and you need to pay it off, I said. Tonight. To me.

    The actor put down the bottle, kicked his head back and let out a loud laugh. That's what the fuck I thought you said, he shouted, nearly choking on the mouthful of red wine he had just swallowed. You see, when I'm in New York, I get my coke from Charley Figueroa. I don't get it from some midget dressed for a funeral. You hear what I'm saying, shithead?

    I shot a glance toward Nico and he shrugged his massive shoulders, eager to move forward and do some damage. I pulled a key from my black Perry Ellis jacket and showed it to the actor. I didn't ring the bell to get in here, I said. I used this key that I got from Charley Figueroa. But that's not all he gave me. He also gave me your drug debt. That's the twenty-one hundred I've been talking about. Now, just so you know the full story, I'm supposed to leave the key here and take the cash with me.

    Would you settle for an autograph and a kick in the ass? the actor said, still laughing, turning around to glance at Nico, seeming to notice him for the first time.

    No, sir, I said. Just the money. Once I have that, there's no need for you and me to ever see each other again.

    I figure you to be about fourteen, maybe fifteen, tops, he said. Now, I've handed the kind of money you're asking for to girls your age, but at least I got to fuck them first. So why don't you get the fuck out of here, the both of you, before I stop finding this whole bit funny.

    The actor leaned over the coffee table, picked up a razor and pieced together a line of coke from the residue spread across its top. He placed his nose right on the glass and inhaled, a grunt and a cough mixed in with the final snort. He wiped the base of his nose with his hand and looked back up at me. I know he don't talk, the actor said, jerking a thumb toward Nico. But I know you both can hear. The actor stood in the center of the room, his hands cupped around his mouth. I'm gonna go take a short nap, he screamed. When I come back out and see your faces still here, I'm going to kick some fucking guinea ass!

    He turned and headed for the rear bedroom, walking with an unsteady gait. I looked at Nico and nodded. I glanced around me, past the clothes and empty food containers strewn throughout the expensive room and found an empty dining-table chair. I pulled it out, turned it toward Nico and the actor and sat down. I wasn't at all nervous. Instead, I remember an incredible rush of excitement flowing through me, the power

    I had over the situation burying any fear. I knew that violence would be inevitable, the actor would allow no other resolution to occur, and I was oddly comfortable with all of it. Though such a feeling surprised me, it also pleased me. For now I knew that if the gangster life was the path my life would lead me down, I could live with its results.

    That fuckin' Charley, the actor mumbled to himself. Selling me out to some little punk kid.

    You can sleep all you want, I said. We'll be here and we'll stay here. Until we get what we came to get.

    The actor turned and came walking toward me, his temper lit beyond excess by the cocaine floating through his system. He stood over me, staring down, his blue eyes blazing with anger, his hands bunched into fists, his thin, hairless chest heaving up and down. Who the fuck are you talking to that way? he screamed at me. Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?

    You're a bad actor with a bad habit, I said, fighting to keep my voice calm, the back of my black button-down shirt soaked with sweat. But that doesn't mean anything to me. The money does.

    The actor took several deep breaths, his eyes bulged out so far they looked as if they would pop. He was blinking furiously and rubbing his hands against the sides of his dirty jeans. He bit down hard on his lower lip, cracking the skin and drawing blood as he leaned in closer, a foul mix of cocaine sweat and body odor causing me to flinch. He lifted his hand up and brought it down against my face, slapping me with the length of his fingers, the blow stinging and causing my left eye to tear. I looked up at him and saw a man long past the point of reason, running now on drug-fueled adrenaline. I don't let nobody talk to me that way! he shouted. Nobody! You hear that, you little motherfucker! You hear that?

    He lifted his hand again, ready to strike me with another blow. Nico caught the hand as it came down, inches from my face. The actor looked up at him and gritted his teeth. Do I have to kick your ass now, too? he said.

    Yes. Nico spoke his first words of the day, still clutching the man's hand. Before you start, let me just get a few things out of the way.

    Like what, asshole? the actor said.

    Like your hands, Nico said.

    He lifted the actor's wrist back and with the slightest of tugs, snapped the bone. The sound was like that of a shoe stepping down on a twig. The actor screamed out in pain and fell to his knees, his head bent down against his chest, tears rushing down his face. Nico lifted a foot and rested it against the actor's neck for leverage and then took each finger in his hand and cracked it like a fortune cookie. He let go of the mangled hand, its fingers bent and broken, and watched it fall to the carpeted floor like a dead weight, the actor lying there, moaning out in pain.