by Adam Pepper
“Are you sure they’re still there?”
“No, but I’m sure I have to check. I need help. I can’t do it alone.”
“Especially not in the shape you’re in.”
“So can I count on you?”
“You know you can.”
“Great. Later on. When everyone’s asleep.”
“Okay.”
“Come downstairs after dark. We’ll head over there.”
“You got it.”
* *
My mother wouldn’t stop fawning over me. I must have told her a thousand times that I was feeling better, but she wasn’t hearing it. She still wanted to spoon-feed me soup in bed; I insisted on eating dinner at the table. Still, I wasn’t convincing. All she had to do was watch me grimace with each chew of the sirloin she’d made to know I was full of shit. I was still in a good deal of pain. But I could function. Functioning through pain was one of my strong suits. When a donkey was motivated, he could plow a field no matter how sore his hoofs were. It’s genetics. Eventually, I faked sleep.
She peeked her head in my room at least four times as if I was an infant or something. I guess she was worried about me. Maybe she just had the sixth sense or something. After a while, the house went quiet. I think she finally fell asleep herself.
I slid out of bed and slowly dressed. I pulled my shirt gingerly over my head, then slid, one leg at a time into my jeans. Bending down to tie my shoes was no picnic; my ribs barked and my eyes got watery. I stopped to slowly catch my breath, then I finished tying my laces.
“I’m up to this,” I whispered to myself. I had to be.
The smell of dinner still permeated the house. I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was leftover steak on a plate wrapped in plastic. I picked it up and put it down on the counter. I found a plastic bag in a drawer and put the leftover steak into it, then put the dish in the sink.
I put on a jacket and stepped outside. It was a cold night with a chilly wind blowing as well. I pulled gloves from the pocket of my jacket and put them on along with a navy blue wool hat with a New York Yankee emblem.
Griffin shuffled down the steps, rubbing his hands together, a cloud of frosty air coming from his mouth.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Just on time. I knew I could count on you.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s not you. Scrubby is always late.”
“Well, I’m not Scrubby. Am I?”
I laughed. “Thank God for that. He’s the one who got me into this mess.”
“Okay. Let’s get you out of it.”
We walked up the back way to Tremont Avenue. It was dark, but we still wanted to avoid being seen by any passing cars. The side streets were quiet, but up on Tremont there were several bars opened along with the twenty-four-hour Shell station. We walked behind the high school which let us out on the far side to avoid the activity and stay out of the lights.
Once up on the main drag of the avenue, we looked both ways. No cars. No headlights. No action. The yellow and red lights from the Shell sign cast multicolored shadows, but that was the only light at this end of the block.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
We walked quickly across Tremont Avenue. But we didn’t run. We looked straight ahead. We hopped up on the curb and then darted quickly past the sidewalk and behind the storefront row where the jewelry store was. We walked down the alleyway and came out in a parking lot behind the stores. It was empty of cars and devoid of light. Nothing in sight but dumpsters and some trashcans.
I turned to Griffin and said, “Okay. Let’s make this quick. We’ll go straight down the alleyway then hop the small fence at the end. We’ll cut through the houses. Just hustle through the backyards, quickly and quietly.”
“Okay, Sean. You just lead the way.”
“I don’t want anyone to see us. But if you see headlights while we’re still on the roadway, don’t run. Got it?”
“Okay.”
“Let’s go.”
I led the way, jogging to the edge of the parking lot where the waist-high fence was. I hopped it and Griff was right behind me. We were on the road for all of two seconds, walking fast. Then I broke into a trot as we got into the backyard of the corner house. I ran through the yard, then hopped another small fence, then another.
We were in the yard next door to the house with the dog, and I slowed to catch my breath. Griff came up beside me. The lights were off and all the houses were quiet. I was expecting the dog to start barking at any second, but so far nothing. I took the plastic bag out of my pocket.
I turned to Griff and asked, “Okay, your choice. You want to distract the dog or run for the sack?”
Griff made a funny face. Griff had a heart of gold, and he wore his emotions on his sleeve at all times. In another lifetime, Griff could be a pope or Mother freakin’ Theresa. But in this life, he was just another punk kid from the Throggs Neck section of the Bronx.
“You tell me, Sean. I don’t know.”
My ribs were killing me. The backs of both my legs were still pretty sore. My elbow was absolutely shot. But still, I didn’t have the heart to send Griff in there with the dog.
I handed him the bag and said, “See if you can distract the dog with the steak.”
“You think it will work?”
“Probably not, but it’s worth a shot. I’m gonna run around to the front of the house. Give me about thirty seconds, then whistle and see if you can draw the dog to you.”
“Okay, Sean. I’ll try my best.”
“I know you will.”
I jogged around the side of the lot to the front of the house. Each side of the street was filled with parked cars, but the street was quiet. I quickly walked out on the street and then onto the bordering property. Once to the backyard, I stopped.
Then I heard the dog bark. I leaped up and over the fence and ran to the back of the property. I saw Griff standing up on the edge of the fence and the dog jumping up at him while barking and growling fiercely.
Griff threw a piece of steak at the dog as I ran past. The dog sensed me and ran right at me, ignoring the steak completely.
“Come here, boy,” Griff called feebly.
The race was on, and I beat the dog to the house. I bent down and shimmied in, turning my shoulders sideways to fit my body into the house. I couldn’t see a thing inside but it smelled like a soggy mutt. I felt around with my palms and tried to face downwards but my midsection became twisted up and lodged in the opening. The pressure on my hips was excruciating and cut right into my sore ribs.
I heard fierce growling and then felt a pinch at my leg. The dog was at my feet. His steamy breath blew on the back of my leg, then he bit in, hard. Snot blew right out of my nose, and tears welled in my eyes.
Griff was behind me, yelling at the dog. “Come here, boy. I’ve got steak.” He was trying to sound inviting, talking in a high-pitched, childlike tone. But his voice was laced with panic.
Finally, I felt it. The tips of my fingers rubbed the bumpy burlap of the sack. I had to stretch for it. The sack was just out of reach.
“Here, boy.”
The dog let go of my leg. I heard him turn on Griff. Then I heard Griff yell. My sides screamed out in agony as I squeezed into the house a bit further and extended my arms. Somehow I had just enough clearance to stretch out fully and grab the sack with my fingertips and rake it into my body.
As I tried to shimmy out, my sides got stuck. I pushed off hard with my arms and this time it was my elbow screaming. I wiggled against the sides of the opening, sucking in like a runway model. My body came free, and I quickly backed out of the doghouse.
The house lights came on, and then outside lights came up just seconds after. The dog was on top of Griff. There was awful howling, coming from Griff, not the dog.
I ran at them and jumped on the dog. The sack fell to the side. The dog turned his attention to me, and went at my throat but struck my shoulder inst
ead.
“The sack,” I yelled. “Grab it.”
I somehow managed to cup the dog’s mouth with my hands and hang on as he shook ferociously. His paws had my shoulders pinned.
Griff kicked the dog, and the animal fell to the side. Griff reached down and helped me up.
“I got it,” he said, showing me the sack.
We both bolted for the fence. The dog got back on its feet and gave chase. Griff beat me to the fence, and quickly hopped up and over. The homeowner opened his door and shouted something, which distracted his dog for just a second.
A second was more than enough time for me, and I followed Griff to the other side of the fence.
“Come on. Hurry,” I said and we ran down the road.
There was no safe cover to run for. We had no choice but to make a beeline for Tremont Avenue, right out in the open. Griff led the way, his legs in better shape than mine.
We reached the avenue and saw headlights beaming down the block. Were they from a cop car? Odds were in favor of it. Who else was out cruising at this hour? We slowed down and stopped walking, standing behind some hedges that separated the residential area from the main drag.
We both were breathing heavily. Griff looked at me, not speaking but waiting to be told what to do. If we walked across the street, and it was a cop car, he’d see us. If we waited and it wasn’t a cop car, well it was only a matter of time before a cop car did come.
Had the homeowner called the cops? Most likely, right? We had to make a call and there wasn’t much time to think.
“Just be casual.”
I took the lead, and walked out from behind the hedges and onto Tremont Avenue. The headlights from the car shined brightly, right on us. I could hear the car idling.
“Sean? Do we run?”
“Just be casual.”
The car didn’t move. It just sat idling on the other side of Tremont. We kept walking.
“We’re walking right at him,” Griff said.
“How else are we going to get home?”
“Sean, this is crazy.”
“Be calm. Maybe the guy didn’t call the cops.”
“How can I be calm?”
“If the guy called the cops, he wouldn’t be sitting here. He’d be looking for us.”
“You sure?”
“I think we’re okay. Just keep walking.”
We walked across the avenue at a casual pace. If we moved fast, the cop would surely take notice. The car continued to idle, the headlights on, the car still facing outwards from a small parking lot in front of the Korean dry cleaners.
It seemed to take forever, the slow walk across the avenue. I looked to my left and saw some people leaving Smiley’s Bar and get into a car.
The cop put his car in gear and drove over to check them out. We started walking faster.
“Let’s go,” I said, and we broke into a trot, then ran all the way home.
Chapter Eight
* * *
Mama Libardi’s Cucina is an Italian restaurant on the southeastern most point of Tremont Avenue. It’s seen better days. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tear it down and put up a Burger King soon. But back then, Mama Libardi’s Cucina served great Italian food and was one of the hottest spots in the neighborhood.
I have no idea who Mama Libardi was. Or if she even existed, for that matter. It could have been a made-up name, or perhaps named after someone’s grandmother somewhere. I’m sure there was a story behind it, but no one ever told it to me. All I knew was Mama Libardi’s Cucina was Don Mario’s joint. I’m not sure if Mario Torretta actually owned the place or what. I kind of doubt his name was on the deed. But either way, the Cucina was Mario’s joint. There were two things everyone in the neighborhood knew about the Cucina. One: that it served the best clams casino in town (but shitty pizza). And two: that it was Don Mario’s joint. Mario being, of course, the most powerful man in the neighborhood.
So when Vinny stopped by my house that morning and told me to meet him at the Cucina around lunchtime, he didn’t have to tell me anything more. It was clear. I should clean myself up, put on my Sunday, going-to-mass suit and bring the sack of jewelry to the Cucina.
Vinny didn’t tell me all that. He didn’t need to. I did exactly what he wanted, and I brought one other thing with me: Griff. Griff came through for me when I needed him, so he deserved to be there. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Don Mario, but I felt Griff should come along. If there were spoils to split, Griff deserved a piece. Of course, if Mario was pissed off, then it was possible I was putting Griff in harm’s way, which certainly wasn’t my intention. But it was worth the risk. Griff didn’t want to be left out.
We called a cab and had it drop us off in front of the restaurant. We could have walked, but it was classier to step out of a cab. Not to mention, I was still pretty sore and didn’t really want to walk it. But mainly, I wanted Mario and his crew to take me seriously. No one takes two nineteen-year-old kids on foot seriously, even if they are wearing their finest Sunday suits.
The restaurant was a standalone structure, which was pretty rare for our neighborhood. Dark wood covered the outside and gave it a look that to us was just the most elegant thing you’d ever see.
We walked in through the front entranceway. There was a podium and a pretty hostess standing behind it.
“Hi, welcome to Mama Libardi’s,” she said.
“Is Vinny here?” I asked.
“Sure. He’s at the bar.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at her, and so did Griff. Then we walked past and through a small hallway with a coatroom and restrooms which let out into a bigger room. The entire far side of the room was the bar. The rest of the room was the main dining area. There were maybe fifteen tables, with only about three being used at the time. Lunch was always slow; the Cucina was a dinner place.
Standing at the bar was Vinny, Scrubby Mike and a large man in a gray suit and purple shirt along with puffy hair that stood up high and curved over like a wave about to break in the tide; I’d never met him personally but both me and Griff knew who he was: Tommy Gunnelli, also known as Tommy Guns. He didn’t usually need a gun, as he was strong enough to break most guys with his bare hands. But that didn’t mean he didn’t use a gun when necessary.
Tommy Guns was legendary. Just standing at the same bar with him felt amazing. I guess some kids grow up wishing they could have a drink with a great football player or famous rock star, but where I came from, these guys were the heroes.
“Hey, kid,” Vinny said. “Come on over.” Vinny waved me over. He was smiling. So far so good. “Shamrock, I want you to meet Tommy.”
Tommy reached out his hand, and I shook it. His handshake was every bit as firm as I anticipated. The man was solid as a rock.
“Oh,” I said. “This is Griff.”
“Sure,” Vinny said to me, then he turned to Tommy and said, “Griff’s a good kid.”
Tommy nodded, then took a slug from his glass.
“You guys want a drink?” Vinny asked, while waving over the bartender.
“I’m good,” I said.
“Oh, come on, have a drink with us, kid,” Scrubby Mike said. “One drink won’t kill you.”
“I’ll have a beer,” Griff said.
“That’s it!” Vinny said. “At least there’s one real man here.”
The bartender came over. She was young, barely old enough to drink herself. She had long, straight, brown hair and a smile that could melt most guys in a second. I liked her, but I wasn’t hot for her like the other men were.
“Get this kid a beer and a seltzer or something for the little fag,” Vinny said to her. “And get me another Seven and Seven.”
“Okay, Vinny,” she said with a smile. She walked over to the far side of the bar and started mixing the drinks when a girl walked into the restaurant. She walked over to the bartender.
There was something about her. I mean instantly she struck me. It wasn’t that she was a thousand times prettier than th
e bartender. They were both attractive girls. But there was just something about her. I can’t put it into words. She walked in with a strut. She was wearing trendy clothes and fancy sunglasses pulled up above her forehead, but that wasn’t what impressed me. She carried a handbag strapped across her shoulder that I’m sure cost more than my whole wardrobe, but that wasn’t it either. She had dark brown hair with blond highlights and just a tiny wave in it, not curly but certainly not straight. She turned towards me, and I saw gigantic brown eyes that were to die for. But what she did next is what really floored me.
She smiled.
Sounds simple, I know. But that was it. It took all of two seconds. I looked at her. She looked at me. We made eye contact. And she smiled, a soft, genuine smile with no strings attached to it.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I blinked and came back down to Earth.
“What are you looking at?” It was Vinny.
“Nuthin’.”
“Do you know who that is?”
I didn’t, but Scrubby Mike answered the question. “That’s Nicole. My cousin.”
“Oh,” I said.
“The boss’s daughter,” Vinny said firmly.
I nodded. “Okay. Okay. I heard you.”
The bartender came over with the drinks, and before we could take a sip, a man appeared from a back hallway. He was in his late forties and dressed from head to toe in designer clothing: tight jeans that no one over forty should ever wear, a button-up shirt that shined with glitter, a polished black belt, polished black shoes. All with tags and brand names on them.
That was Gucci Mike, Mario’s right-hand man. The second most powerful man in my neighborhood.
Gucci Mike walked over and said to Vinny, “Let’s go. Mario’s ready for you and the kid.”
Vinny looked at Griff and said, “You wait here. Enjoy your beer. Tommy’ll keep you company.”
Tommy nodded and said, “Sure thing, Vinny.”
Vinny turned to me and said, “Come on, Shamrock.”
Gucci Mike walked towards the back hallway. Vinny followed. I looked over at Griff.
“It’s okay. Go,” Griff said.
Scrubby Mike looked at me with sideways eyes and his lips curled up on the edges. I’m sure he was about to make a snotty wisecrack, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I walked quickly to catch up with Vinny and then slowed and followed his pace.
