Gangster (38 page)

17

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Fall, 1970

ANGELO WAITED THREE months before he made his first move in the war.

    In that span of time, his crew took heavy hits, attacked from all sides by the combined forces of Little Ricky Carson, Pablito Munestro and, to a lesser extent, Richie Scarafmo and the Red Barons. The initial meetings mutually agreed upon by all parties had resolved nothing and only further heightened the tensions that existed between the crews.

    The three attacking gangs were wreaking havoc on Angelo and Pudge's profit margins. Weekly earnings were down by half and the younger members of the gang were starting to panic, listening with eager ears to outside overtures. While his rivals slammed his business with a gleeful and fearless abandon, Angelo went about his daily routine, never straying far from the bar and his long afternoon walks with both me and Ida trailing close behind, defiantly daring anyone to attack in the open.

    Pudge, meanwhile, busied himself working the streets, keeping up the crew members' morale and assuring concerned parties that all was not lost. But Pudge was much less patient than Angelo and his nerves were starting to fray. He was eager for the action to begin. Angelo would be willing to wait until he was close to death for his opening, Pudge told me over those long, frustrating days. I gotta admit that sometimes it gets to me, sitting around, watching our body count add up, losing as much money as we are and doing nothing about it.

    A lot of times, too long can get to be too late, Nico complained. They're already saying he's lost the stomach for the fight, that he doesn't care enough to protect what belongs to the crew. The talk on the street is that he's never been weaker.

    Those are nice words for me to hear. Pudge smiled for one of the few times during that period. That makes me think maybe he really knows how to win this damn war.

    I've never seen him like this before, I said. It's almost like he's not even with us, he's so distant. Sometimes it's scary to be around him.

    Angelo puts the moves in place in his mind before he makes them on the street, Pudge explained. It's what's always worked for him. It's just that now we're up against the kinds of crews we've never seen before. They make up their rules on the fly and don't look too far beyond the win. That's their big advantage going into all this. Unless we do a total wipeout, they can't help but come out with a gain.

    Whatever happens, I hope it happens soon, Nico said with a shake of his head. I'm down to less than forty men in the Bronx and half of the Queens crew is laying low. These guys are looking to gun down anybody even close to us. If Angelo doesn't make his move before too much longer, he's not gonna have any turf left to defend.

    Pudge poured himself a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. They've taken their shots at everybody in our crew, he said as he walked out of the room. Everybody except me and Angelo. We can walk down an empty street unarmed and nobody ever dares come near us.

    You're no threat to them without a crew backing you up, Nico said. They eliminate them, they eliminate you.

    Maybe that's it, Pudge said. Or maybe there's a little part of them that's still too scared to make a full play. And if that holds to be true, then we got them by the short hairs.

    I hope that's not the whole plan, I said. That's the plan for now, Pudge said.

     *     *     *

TONY MESH STEPPED over a thick pile of shoveled snow and cleared a path to get to the driver's side of his four-door Plymouth. He was wearing a coffee-colored army jacket, tan pants, L.L.Bean rubber-soled boots and a rain-soaked Yankees cap. A cigarette hung off the center of his mouth. He opened the door, scraping its bottom against ice and slush, and hopped in behind the wheel. He tossed the cigarette into the middle of the street and slammed the door shut. He blew warm air into his cupped hands and looked around at the empty boulevard, still reeling from a long night of snow. He checked the time on his Three Stooges wristwatch and smiled, knowing he was less than an hour away from the big tune.

    He had been Richie Scarafino's main muscle these past three months as they had both cut a slow carve through Angelo and Pudge's aging crew. Now, finally, they were making the direct move against the two top gangsters, something Mesh had been pining for since the start of the one-sided war.

    Believe me when I tell you they don't have the stomach for it anymore, Mesh said to Scarafino as they sat in the back of a cousin's restaurant off the Brooklyn waterfront, in the flush hours of their early planning stage. They got way too much money to care and too little time left in their lives to waste it fighting with us.

    I wish I had a pocketful of nickels for every time I heard that Bones Vestieri and Pudge Nichols were ready for the dirt farm, Scarafino said.

    They're getting hit from three sides, Richie. Tony Mesh slapped a palm on the white-clothed table for emphasis. This ain't no one-on-one goomba war like they've been used to fighting. This is three crews, all packing large, looking to do nothing but kill. Against that, they can't win. I don't think any of the big-time crews could. They're going to get hit like they're in the middle of Pearl Harbor.

    Yo, professor, try not to forget who ended up winning that fight, Richie said, taking a sip of espresso. Look, let the Colombians and the smokes go their own way. We stick to my plan. We hit the outside of their crew and work our way in, the way we've been doing. So far, not a peep from either Vestieri or Nichols. So if we keep going, when you do go out to whack them, you'll face a lot less muscle than we could've faced. And if, like you say, they've both lost their taste for the action, then the takedown becomes an in-and-out job, with us still ending up with a large chunk of the business.

    I'll work it any way you want, Richie, Tony Mesh said with a resigned shrug. I'm just looking to get us up to the top rung at a faster clip.

    Richie Scarafino leaned across the table and put an arm around Tony's wide shoulders. And I love you for it, he said. But let's climb that ladder one step at a time. Trust me, we do that and we'll enjoy it a whole lot more.

     *     *     *

THE HOMELESS MAN standing alongside the idle Plymouth shook Tony Mesh out of his thoughts and brought him back to the moment. He was holding a black cup, his face buried under dirty rags and a wool cap. His hands were stained dark with dirt and oil, and he was wearing a soiled pair of pants that were held up by half a belt and a long roll of thick cord. His feet were covered by torn desert boots, their soles wrapped in tinfoil.

    He rapped on Tony Mesh's window with two cracked knuckles and held his empty cup against the glass. Whatever you can spare, he mumbled.

    Tony Mesh rolled down the window and peered up at the homeless man, his short-fuse temper already set to go. How about you find an empty lot and curl up until you freeze? Tony Mesh said to him.

    The homeless man kept his head down, slowly shifting one of his hands to an inside pocket of his torn navy pea coat. Just trying to make it through the day, pal, he said, his head still down, voice even lower. Not looking for trouble, just a warm spot in my stomach.

    All you're gonna get out of this spot is a hard kick in the ass, Tony Mesh said sullenly. He pulled a fresh cigarette from his shut pocket and pounded it against the steering wheel. Now go take yourself a long walk before I stop being so nice.

    You got an extra one of those? the homeless man asked, standing up against the door, his back blocking the sideview mirror.

    Tony Mesh looked at the homeless man, shook his head and opened the driver's side door. You don't have to worry about the cold weather killing you, he said as he stepped out of the car and stood inches from the homeless man's face. You don't get away from my car, I'll kill you. He unzipped his army jacket and showed the homeless man the .38 special he kept on a hip holster.

    The homeless man shoved Tony Mesh up against his car, keeping his hand inside his jacket pocket. Tony Mesh's eyes searched the homeless man's face, surprised at his strength, unable to break the hold, his back crammed along the panel next to the open door. The homeless man pulled his free hand out of his navy pea coat and came out holding a fully loaded .9mm. He jammed the nozzle of the handgun under Mesh's rib cage, his eyes suddenly alive, shedding the street drunk's downcast demeanor and replacing it with an assassin's confidence.

    The homeless man waited as Tony Mesh's hand slid out of his jacket. He then held the cup he was holding up to Mesh's face. Are you crazy? Mesh asked, staring down at the half-filled cup. I'm not gonna drink what's in there.

    You can drink or you can bleed, the homeless man said.

    Tony Mesh looked with eager eyes up and down the wide avenue, the streets still empty, the stores not yet open. The homeless man moved closer, shoving the barrel of the gun harder against Tony Mesh's body, smiling when he saw the lines of sweat forming along the sides of his face and neck. I'm not drinking poison, Mesh said, his right eye twitching, his upper lip trembling.

    The homeless man tossed the cup over Tony Mesh's shoulder and watched it land and spill across the Plymouth's front seat, a thin line of blue liquid flowing out and dripping onto the brown rug. The homeless man stared into Tony Mesh's eyes and leaned into him, pinning his arms at his side. Then, with a professional calm, he pumped three slugs into the center of Mesh's erect body, each shot causing the younger man's head to tilt back. He held Mesh in place until he saw the blood run down the sides of his mouth and his eyes begin to flutter and drift, the soft coat of tears masking the drain of his life. The homeless man checked the street for pedestrians, then stepped aside to gently place Tony Mesh back inside his car, positioning his hands on the steering wheel and leaning his head back against the leather rest. He reached across his body, picked up the discarded cup and brought it up to the dying gangster's lips. He poured what remained of the poison liquid down Tony Mesh's throat and threw the cup back down to the car floor. This way you get the best of both, he said.

    The homeless man slammed the door shut and started a slow shuffle walk up the avenue, leaving behind Angelo Vestieri's first victim of his last war.

     *     *     *

IT WAS HALFWAY through the five o'clock mass when I looked away from the altar and saw Angelo sitting in a back row of the church. There were no more than thirty other faces sitting in the high-ceilinged cathedral, most of them elderly, their rosary beads wrapped around trembling hands. I was working the mass alone, serving as altar boy to Father Ted Donovan, a middle-aged priest who brought a driving passion to both his sermons and the Sunday afternoon touch football games that were organized for the kids of St. Dominick's parish. I rang the bells and bowed my head, wondering why Angelo was there. I had been an altar boy since my grammar school years and this was the first time I had seen him at one of my masses. As with most gangsters, he had little regard for the demands the Catholic faith made on how their subjects chose to live their lives.

    They were in the rackets centuries before the first gangster was even born, he once said to me, dismissing the very notion of religion with a slight wave of his hand. They got a big-time money operation going and the perfect cover. Who better to partner up with than God?

    They do a lot for the poor, I said, watching him pour hot milk into a large cup.

    They give them a warm place to sit for one hour a week, he said, looking up at me as he poured. And even for that, they expect some coins in the basket. To me, that's not help. That's taking advantage. They do the same thing to the poor that we do, except the interest rates they charge aren't as high. You want to go inside a church and say a few prayers, don't look to me to stop you. But don't be fooled. It's a business, just as cold as ours.

    I had always found comfort inside a church, seeking my silent refuge across its empty pews. I would light a daily candle to St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and, ironically, cops as well, and would, on occasion, walk the stations of the cross, retracing the steps of Christ leading to the crucifixion. But mostly, I would sit in a back row, taking in the familiar smells, watching the sun slant through the decorated windows, and allow my mind to wander and rest. It was the place I sought out when the delicate balance of my life would prove too difficult to bear. It was not so much peace I sought as an escape. Inside the dark walls and high ceilings of St. Dominick's, there were no gang wars that needed to be fought and there were no high school pressures that had to be faced. There were just quiet moments where life stayed still and allowed me the luxury of catching up to it.

    I slid in the back pew alongside Angelo and sat facing the main altar. He patted me on the leg and nodded. You did good up there, he said. From what little I understand of it.

    There's not much to it, I said. If you can sit and kneel, you can pretty much handle the job.

    I'm sending you to Italy for the summer, he said, his eyes looking up at the large wooden cross hanging down from the center of the church. Soon as you're done with school.

    I looked away from the altar and turned to face him. Why? I asked, raising my voice slightly. I can't leave you in the middle of...

    I stopped myself from saying anything further. But Angelo continued my thought, speaking quietly but leaving no room for argument.

    The war will be at an end long before we see summer. One way or the other. But either way, you're going to Italy.

    I know I'm not much of a help, I said.

    You're going to learn more about our way of life, he said. That way, maybe one day, you'll be a bigger help.

    I sat back, took a deep breath and realized what Angelo was telling me. I was being sent to Italy to be further schooled in the gangster ways, and I knew, even then, that if I boarded that plane, my life would be set on its path and any say I would have in its outcome would be tossed aside. I would be in too deep, be too ingrained in their ways to want to seek out any other. All that was needed was for me to take that one final step and earn the missing degree in my criminal education.