Gangster (34 page)

    I wanted to say so much more to her, I said to Angelo. I wish I had. I just didn't want to hurt her feelings.

    What more was there for you to say? Angelo asked me. Nothing would have made her go against her father's wishes. She's been brought up well, how could she betray his respect?

    I still could have told her some things, I said, leaning down heavily on the mop, trying to clean out all the corners of the coop. Not so much to change her mind but maybe to help open her eyes a little bit.

    Angelo walked over to the coop, reached up above my head and turned off the radio. Open her eyes to what? he asked.

    That Little League field for one thing. I rested the mop against a pole and looked at him. You know, where her father coaches the kids every Saturday? Well, I could have told her that there wouldn't be a field there for him to coach on if you and Pudge hadn't put up the cash and built it.

    And they would have said we did it with money that wasn't ours. Money we took from the pockets of the poor. They'll always find a reason not to accept us, Gabe. And they're right. That's just something you're going to have to learn to live with.

    It was only a dance, I said, walking toward the ledge to pick up the hose. It wasn't as if I asked her to marry me.

    To you, it was only a dance, Angelo said. To the girl's father it was the start of something that he couldn't allow. He's an honest man and he would never run the risk of crossing the line into our end. He knows who we are and what we do, and wants nothing to do with any of it, either for himself or for his family.

    But I see men like her father all the time, I said, spraying water into the coop, washing down the soap and the dirt. They're always nice to you and Pudge on the street. They make it their business to stop and ask how you're feeling and wish you well. And I see them come into the bar and ask for your help to get them out of some jam they're in. If they don't want anything to do with us, then why do they do that?

    Nothing we do for them is done for free, Angelo said. They know that the minute they walk into the bar, even before they ask. They have to pay if they want that favor to be done, with money or service. I'm not the first person they come to for help. I'm the last, and I cost them the most.

    So if it's all going their way, then they don't want anything to do with us. I dropped the hose and reached for a broom in the corner, resting against the side of the roof door. But the second there's any kind of trouble they can't get out of on their own, they forget all about what horrible people we are and come running in and beg for our help. If it was up to me, knowing how they really feel, they could come in and cry all they want. They wouldn't get the right time.

    You don't go into the rackets to make friends, Angelo said, looking up at a cloudy sky, watching his pigeon flock circle the edges of the West Side piers. You go into it to make money. If you want people to think nice thoughts when your name's mentioned, be a priest.

    I swept the last of the water out of the coop, watching as it ran down the roof toward a rusty drain pipe. I left the dry rags downstairs, I said. You want me to bring something to drink on my way back up?

    For yourself, if you like, Angelo said. I'm good the way I am.

    I nodded and opened the door leading back into the building. As I made my way down the old wooden steps, one hand on the rickety railing, I went over what Angelo had just finished telling me. I was not troubled by what I had learned. I had grown used to being alone and keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself. I had long ago learned to be my best source of counsel and realized that aside from Angelo, Pudge and, to a lesser extent, Nico, it would be best to continue that practice for the rest of my life. Such a skill had been nurtured during my early years as a foster child, when there was no other solution but to stay silent and pretend not to hear the words clearly aimed in my direction. It would prove to be the perfect start to living my life inside the darkness and silences of a gangster's home.

    I realized I was the perfect child for Angelo and Pudge.

    I would never betray the trust they placed in me nor speak to anyone outside their scope about anything beyond what needed to be discussed. The incident with Maddy and her father only helped to reinforce and solidify the belief that I was part of a powerful and feared group of men. They did not care about being liked by those around them, were not concerned with the trappings of family, and had little regard for an American value system they had long ago learned to scorn and exploit. They were wealthy men who did not flaunt their money nor seek to make the climb up the rung to a higher class. They solved their problems with warnings and with violence and initiated any business takeovers with guns and force. They were an ingrained part of twentieth-century America, their hands wrapped around every form of commerce, legal or not, yet they operated openly and freely.

    They were hated by the law enforcement community and tolerated by the public. In many ways, they ruled the country they had come to think of as their own. I was now an accepted part of their world and, for that, I was glad.

    We always knew how people really felt about us, Pudge once said to me. It's not like anybody tries to keep it a secret. We just didn't care, one way or the other. We didn't want to be liked by them anyway. That's one of the reasons we became gangsters in the first place. When we got to this country, they were the ones holding all the jobs, the money, the power to get things done and, believe me, not one of them went out of their way to share, especially not with anybody fresh off an immigrant ship. So we made a play for the power and did whatever we had to do to hold on to it. And they hated us for doing that. They'll never want anything to do with us. If they need a favor they'll take it. They want to do business, they'll work it out. But that's as far as it goes. Don't let anybody tell you different. The door that leads into their world will always be locked and bolted to people like us. Always.

     *     *     *

I WAS CARRYING a bucket full of dry rags in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other when I stepped back onto the rooftop. I looked around for Angelo and finally spotted him sitting on the ledge, his legs stretched out, his face tilted up to the sky and his eyes closed to the warming sun. He looked at ease with himself and at peace with his surroundings. I put the bucket down and started to dry off the stalls in the wet coop, sipping my coffee as I worked. I went about my job quietly, comfortable with the silence that was around me, broken only by the occasional wail of a siren or a car horn honking seven stories below. I liked being in the coops with Angelo and enjoyed being allowed to share in the caring of the birds. He always seemed to me to be much more relaxed around his pigeons and his dogs than he was in the company of people. Like most men in his profession, he put more trust in the behavior pattern of animals than he did in another human being's word. On his rooftop, his flock of birds flying overhead, Angelo Vestieri could close his eyes and allow his mind to drift off and explore the wells of his memories. He did not need to be a gangster in their presence, his body always on the alert for a slight or the first sign of a betrayal. On his roof, he could let down his shield and take refuge from the battle.

    I had finished drying the coop and was filling the feed tins with seed and water. I glanced down and saw Angelo's shadow behind me. I'm just about done here, I said.

    Good. He looked up again as the flock was swooping in, circling the tenements in a tight pattern. They should be coming down in a few minutes.

    They've been out for a long time, I said, following the birds in their flight. They must like it better when it's cold.

    You're good with them. Angelo walked into the coop, reached down into the feed bucket and began to help me fill the tins. And they've responded well to you. The same is true for Ida. I think now she likes you better than she does me. That's a good sign. It's harder to get an animal to trust you than it is to get a man to do the same. Animals are smarter, they can sense if you're out to do them harm. A man has to get hurt a few times before he learns. If then.

    It doesn't take much to make them happy, I said. A clean place to live, regular food and a little attention. You treat them fair and they'll do the same back. They'll like you based only on that, not on who you are, where you live and who you live with.

    Not like that girl's father. Angelo stepped out of the coop as the pigeons came in as a group, roosting and cooing on the outside of the cages. He's more like most of the people you'll meet. They decide that they know all they need to know about you before they even sit across the table. More times than not, that kind of thinking works to your advantage. Sometimes, like with you and the girl, you end up being hurt. But, with time, it passes.

    Did anything like that ever happen to you? I asked, following him out of the coop, the pigeons rushing past me in a mad rush to get at the seed.

    That's a question for Pudge to answer, Angelo said. He's the ladies' man, not me. I'm happy enough spending time with the birds and with Ida.

    What about your family? I asked, realizing I was crossing into territory never before entered in our conversations. Your wife and kids. Don't you miss being with them?

    Angelo closed and locked the pigeon coop and glared down at me for several interminable seconds. I've learned not to miss anybody, he said in as cold and distant a voice as I'd ever heard him use. And I've also learned to never ask a question whose answer I didn't need to know. I think it would be a smart move for you to start to learn to do the same.

    Angelo turned his back on me and walked slowly over to the rooftop door and disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell. I leaned back against the pigeon coop and looked up to the sky. The sun was buried behind a mass of dark clouds and a light rain began to fall.

16

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Summer, 1970

IT HAD BEEN two months since four students were killed by National Guardsmen at a noon rally at Kent State University in Ohio, protesting a war that no one claimed to want or understand. As I entered the middle of my high school years, the world around me seemed poised to explode. Student terrorists, backed by upper-middle-class money, were in Greenwich Village brownstones building makeshift bombs aimed at overthrowing a system they had grown to detest. Airlines were being hijacked at regular intervals from New York, Tel Aviv, and London, as scores of armed men and women argued with loud voices for peace as they left the bodies of the innocent in their wake. A U.S. Army lieutenant, William Calley, would soon stand trial for killing twenty civilians in My Lai, a place I never knew existed until I read the body count in the papers. And in New York City, as in the rest of America, a generation dedicated to free love and peace had latched onto the expensive and addictive taste of cocaine and were causing havoc in the silent circles of organized crime.

    Angelo and Pudge hated the turmoil, clashing as it did with the shuttered world they had so carefully built for themselves. They viewed with a cynical eye the words of peace that flowed so easily from the mouths of those who seemed bent on disruption. They were troubled by an unending war whose existence even they as gangsters could not justify. And they had no trust in the leaders of the time, looking past the soothing words and seeing a set of eyes eager to grasp for a power they claimed so much to disdain. It was a tough time, Angelo said. For the country and for us. Usually, we do well in times of trouble. But not back then. It shook our business like no gang war ever could. Young people everywhere were giving the back of the hand to the rules of society. It was just as easy for young gangsters to ignore the rules of the mob. There were days when I began to believe this country was headed for a mass revolt. I don't know what we would have had if something like that happened. And nothing good came of any of it. We're still paying the price for the troubles those days brought.

    During those years, I split my time between high school and preparing for a future as a gangster. I did my best to keep the two worlds separate, not knowing if I would be able to handle it if they collided. I attended a private school, was a good student, enjoyed History, French and English classes and kept my friendships to a minimum. School officials knew I lived with Angelo and Pudge and either one or both always made a point of showing up for functions and advisory meetings. I never missed having real parents. I don't think anyone could have loved me as much as the two men who had given me a home. Angelo had passed on his love of reading to me and I constantly had a book in my hand. Thanks to Pudge, who devoured the daily papers and weekly newsmagazines, I would plow my way through the crime and sports sections. The teachers at school built a learning foundation based on the classics. I followed my own boyish instincts with the works of Alexandre Dumas, Jack London and Rafael Sabatini. Angelo and Pudge furthered my education through even more colorful stories. Through them, I learned all about the formation of Murder, Inc. and the murder at the Half-Moon Hotel. I knew how the mob owned certain fighters and weight divisions and cleared out their purses long before the matches were even fought. I read about the great baseball players of the past and was told how many of them had links to organized crime. I knew all about Willie Sutton and every bank he ever held up and Two-Gun Crawley and his famous Upper West Side hostage siege, which had been the basis for the James Cagney movie Angels with Dirty Faces.

    No young man could ever ask for a better education.

    I longed for nothing. Prime tickets to Broadway shows, concerts and sporting events were mine for the asking. In a decade when most teenagers were in tattered jeans and dyed shirts and chose to wear their hair long, I wore imported Italian jackets, polo shirts and had my hair razor cut fresh every week. I was being raised apart from my generation, viewing what was going on around me as spectator rather than participant. While the teenagers whose faces I scanned on the evening news attended peace rallies or walks for women's rights, I went to the racetrack with Angelo and Pudge and came home with a tan and my pockets filled with winnings. As young men burned their draft cards and women tossed their bras into the trash, I went out with Nico and collected overdue money from those with limited choices on where to draw the cash to feed expensive habits.