Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  He felt a certain responsibility for us. He made sure we had “meat for the lad”. He would come by in the evening, a couple of times a week, ostensibly to just “check on us, make sure we were doing okay”, and he never failed to drop something off to help tide us over. Usually it was the cheap stuff. You know, deli meats, bologna, some ham, chicken, maybe pork. Sometimes he would come around and bring ham hocks or neck bones and Mom would make stew or season a pot of slow-cooked beans.

  We did not eat meat at every meal. That was not the norm back then. You had meat at one meal, usually dinner. Breakfast was porridge, a hot cereal not too different from oatmeal or cream of wheat. Lunch was usually a sandwich, or a hunk of hard bread and some cheese, something like that. Hard bread was sort of like what you would call a baguette now, or a Shepherd’s bread. Nowadays it is considered gourmet or artisan. When I was a kid, it was just what we had.

  Mom never remarried, even though she was quite a bit younger than Dad. She was quite the looker, and she had her suitors. But she showed little interest in speeding into another marriage. She did what she could with the sewing income, but once Brennerman died, the sewing money was simply not enough.

  I was not a particularly gifted student. English, History, that sort of stuff I could handle, because a lot of it you could do at your own pace with the book right beside you. But science ate my lunch, and math completely baffled me. Which is ironic, considering how I make my living. My grades were passable; nothing to write home about.

  By age fourteen, school held less and less appeal for me. Teen years are rough even in the best of circumstances. I had no vision for my future. I was growing wild as a weed, and did not have the heavy hand of a father figure in my life.

  Other than my mother, I did not feel particularly connected to other people. I was friendly enough to other boys and girls, and they were friendly enough back. But I was an acquaintance only. I was not their friend, nor were they friends of mine. I was okay with that.

  Now, my Mother was a good and decent woman. And I knew she loved me. But there was an emptiness in her after my father died that never got filled again. Not in this world, at least. It was always there behind her eyes, underneath the surface. Even when she smiled or laughed, there was a note of sadness in it. I recognized it for what it was. That sense of emptiness and bleakness of future eventually permeated the entire apartment.

  To her credit, she always stressed the importance of school, of getting an education. But I personally thought it a waste of time. Part of that whole bleakness of future thing. It seeped in, a slow and insidious disease, trickled down into my soul, and sat there.

  And festered.

  Everywhere I went, everything I saw took on that same bleakness and hopelessness. The beauty of this world faded; vibrant colors dulled and muted until everything became desaturated.

  I felt a duty, an obligation to my mother. I was tired of seeing my mother’s hands red and inflamed from hours of work, her fingers bruised or bloodied. So I started cutting class to look for a job.

  There was a small grocer a couple of blocks from our apartment. It was not much more than a fruit and produce stand, all cheap wooden tables, apple boxes, and half-bushel baskets underneath a canvas tarp on the sidewalk. They had a small store inside, just two or three aisles of sundries, dry goods, that kind of thing. And as it happened, it was on the way to school.

  So one afternoon, I bolted at lunchtime. I ran like hell. Legs churning, arms pumping, absolutely terrified a teacher, or truant officer might see me. Truancy was a serious thing back then. Infractions carried serious repercussions. I hid behind an old maple tree, catching my breath, hands on my knees, chest heaving, certain that I would be caught and punished.

  Well, lo and behold, nothing happened. No footsteps thudding my way, no angry shouts. I had ditched school. A whole new world with new and endless possibilities had opened up. I could do whatever I wanted to do. I wanted to go get a job.

  I walked the rest of the way, not nervous at all. I guess I should have been, but I was not. The thought that the grocer would say “No” never really occurred to me. Even at that age, failure was simply not an option for me.

  It was the afternoon when I got there. The guy who owned the place, Mr. Davidson, stood by an old steel produce scale weighing out zucchini squash for Ms. Di Novi. Once they were done, he asked me how he could help me. I told him I was looking for work. He asked me how old I was, if I was in school. I told him the truth. He asked me why I thought I needed a job.

  I told him the truth.

  Davidson knew my Mom, of course. He knew our situation. He told me he would let me work two hours a day after school, and four hours on Saturday, from eight until noon. He’d pay me cash money every Saturday, ten cents an hour. I was going to make a dollar forty a week.

  Don’t laugh. A buck forty was decent money for a kid back then. With the extra money, we’d be able to eat better, maybe save up and get some better clothes.

  I asked if I could start right then. He smiled, and told me to start the next day, after school. That right now I should go home and tell my Mom. Grinning ear to ear, I turned to go home.

  He stopped me dead in my tracks. He gave me a stern look, pointed his finger at me, and said if I ever skipped school again, he would fire me on the spot.

  I nodded my head. I knew he meant it.

  Then I took off running again, just as fast as I could. I ran the remaining two blocks so fast it seemed like time had compressed in on itself. By the time I got to the third floor landing, I should have been practically prostrate with exhaustion, but I somehow managed to stagger down the hallway and to our apartment.

  My Mom was sitting to the right, about seven feet inside the door. It was just a big room with a living area defined by an ancient and uncomfortable settee and a couple of scarred wooden chairs that had seen better days. She always sat there in the late afternoon, taking advantage of the sunlight streaming in.

  She was hemming a set of curtains for the front window of the deli around the corner when I come barging in, sweaty, clothes soaked, ready to keel over in a dead faint. I was so out of breath I could not speak.

  Naturally, she was alarmed, thought I was scared or in trouble. She jumped up from her seat, dropping her curtains to the floor. She demanded to know what was going on, why I was in such a state, and why I was home so early from school.

  When I finally had enough air in my lungs, I told her about getting hired by Mr. Davidson. At first she could not believe it. I think she was as stunned that he hired me as the fact I took it upon myself to ask.

  So anyway, I went to work. Davidson was true to his word. He paid me a dollar forty every Saturday afternoon, in cash from his own pocket.

  Mom had made it clear if I did not keep my grades up, she would make me quit. I knew she was not fooling around. So I did my homework at night on the big dinner table after Mom and I ate. She would clear away the dishes, and I would wipe down the table. Then I would get to work.

  Weeks went by. Then months. Winter passed. Summer was coming. Davidson offered me two dollars a week if I could work for him all day every day in the summer. Of course, I said yes.

  Mr. Davidson added to my responsibilities. I was designated the delivery boy. So I spent a lot of time lugging groceries and bags of fruits and vegetables around, pulling a small cart behind me. But I loved having a job, loved having money in my pocket. “Two nickels to rub together”, my mom called it.

  I gained upper body strength lifting all those bushel baskets of produce, bending and stooping, hauling that damn cart all over half of Hoboken.

  One of the places I delivered to was a small “private club” on the corner of twelfth and Elm. Yes, one of “those places”. You know. Old-world Mafioso. The real thing. They played cards outside, or stood around smoking, always not too far away from the entrance. After a few deliveries, they knew me by sight. Whenever I came along, they would all smile and wave. They would say, “Hi, Eddie!”, or, “Hey Lit
tle Man!”.

  Now, no one called me Eddie. Not even my Mom. I was Edward. But I knew these guys, all dressed in dark suits, slicked back hair, and greasy smiles, would take kindly to being corrected. Calling me Eddie was their way of including me. In their minds, they were being friendly.

  Gino Vinetti ran all the rackets in that part of Hoboken. He loan sharked, booked numbers, ran girls, you name it. The cops knew, but they were on the payroll. They weren’t going to do anything.

  One sweltering August afternoon, Mr. Davidson stopped me, looking very serious. He handed me a small package, about three and a half inches by about seven inches, the size of money printed prior to 1929. It was maybe a half-inch thick.

  I knew what was wrapped up in the layer of butcher paper. I got nervous. He told me to put it in the bottom of the basket so no one could see it, and to hand the money to Mr. Vinetti himself.

  No one else.

  So now I wasn’t just a delivery boy. I was now a bagman. And just like that, my brief but disastrous criminal career had begun.

  When I arrived at the club, the guys outside stepped closer to see what I had in the cart. They grabbed whatever they wanted from the paper bag I had put aside just for them. That way they did not steal from paying customers.

  I informed them I had a special delivery for Mr. Vinetti. When they asked me what it was, I showed them.

  One of the guys, Thomas, a real psychopath among criminals, reached out his hand, offered to deliver it for me. I took a half-step back. I was told to hand this over to Mr. Vinetti and no one else. Thomas told me to quit kidding around. I looked him dead in the eye and told him I was not kidding. I was not handing the envelope over to anyone but Mr. Vinetti, and if anyone tried to take it, I would punch him in the mouth.

  Thomas face clouded with anger. Dark eyes turned mean. Real fast. He took a step forward. I took a step back. I clenched my fist and eyed the point of his chin.

  Now I had been in a few fistfights at school. Back then, a bloody nose or a black eye was no big deal. It was a normal part of growing up. But I knew if I hit Thomas, he would beat me senseless. But there was no way he was getting that envelope from me without a fight.

  Milo, an aging Sicilian with the physique of a fireplug, put his arm across Thomas’ chest, told him to take it easy. I was just following orders, doing what I was told.

  Thomas glanced at Milo, then back at me. After a second, Thomas relaxed, took a step back, and lit a cigarette. Just like that, my first run-in with Thomas was over.

  It would not be my last.

  Milo shouldered the door open. Lots of natural light streamed in from the windows. Ceiling fans overhead, placed about ten feet apart, spun lazily, stirring the air. Not that it did much good.

  We moved further inside. A cook wearing a dingy T-shirt pushed his massive belly through a swinging kitchen door. Milo nodded, hoisted the basket up onto the counter. The cook grabbed the basket without a word, swung around and pushed back through the door into the kitchen beyond. The door swung closed and he disappeared from my view as Milo wiped sweat off his brow.

  The heat was getting to Milo.

  As for me, my heart was pounding inside my chest. I knew I had stepped into a completely different world. A world of hard men and harsh rules. Of illegal conduct, and fast money. Of cheap women and hot lead. A world of back room deals, back alley politics, influence peddling, illegal money, ill-gotten gains. A world where brutality was expected, respect was commanded, loyalty rewarded, and betrayal got you killed. A gangster’s world.

  And it excited me.

  Milo looked over his shoulder at me, then nodded towards the rear of the place. I looked past him. The big booths in the back, for all the best customers. The most important clients. The private conversations.

  Sunlight streamed through the west-facing window, all golden straw across the black and white tiled floor. I remember, seeing the particles of dust, the dirt and silt from outside, dancing on the air as it wafted in from the alley.

  Gino Vinetti was the epitome of Old World Mobster. Older than Milo and much smarter, he sat alone in the best booth in the house. His coat hung on a wooden hook nearby. Even though he was inside, he still wore his hat, a fedora that matched his gray suit. Sitting in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up past his hairy wrists, he puffed on a cigar while he counted a pile of money.

  Gino – and no one, and I mean NO ONE called him Gino back then; he was Mr. Vinetti, or Don Vinetti – looked up as we approached. Milo stood a little straighter, then spoke formally, and with much deference. I stood behind Milo, and a bit to the right. I wanted to see as well as hear what was happening. Milo introduced me, that I worked for Davidson the produce grocer, and I had been entrusted to make a delivery to Don Vinetti.

  Gino nodded his acknowledgement, took the cigar out of his mouth, and tilted his head a bit to get a better look at me. I put my shoulders back and tried to stick my chest out, you know, stood up straight and all that. Just like my Mom had told me all my life. He said he knew me, had known my father. He added that he had not seen me around with the other kids for a while.

  I glanced at Milo, whose face told me nothing. I cleared my throat and spoke up. I told him that I had been working after to school, and doing my homework at night after dinner, which did not leave much time for play. Now that summer was here, I was working full time for Mr. Davidson.

  He asked me to step closer so he could get a look at me. I did what I was told. He held out his hand, palm facing upwards. I dutifully placed the package in his hand, taking care to do it right. His eyes followed the envelope from my hand to his. Then his eyes shifted back to me. I pulled my hand back, then let my arm fall to my side. He sat back, very much in control. He pocketed the money without counting it in front of me.

  He told me that he knew my mother, had spoken to her a few times when they had passed each other on the street, that kind of thing, that he had known her since before my father died. He was sorry that Dad had “passed on” as he put it, and then he crossed himself, like it was rote or reflexive, done without thinking.

  Don Vinetti looked directly at me and asked if I knew what was in the package. I simply replied, money. He asked if I knew how much money was in it. When I told him no, he asked me, why not, had I not peeked inside? When I shook my head no, he seemed to like that.

  Finally, he nodded, and I knew the meeting was over. The tension in the room dissipated rapidly. He flipped a quarter at me across the table. Without me even thinking about it, my shoulder moved, my arm extended, my hand shot out, and I caught the coin in the air.

  He smiled again and told me, nice reflexes. He told me that it was my tip, and to keep it. Now, a quarter was not much in the grand scheme of things, not even back then. But it did have spending power. I thanked him, and he told me to “not be a stranger”.

  I said yes sir, then turned around and made for the front door. Milo fell in behind me. But even with him there, blocking a direct path and line of sight between Gino and me, I could feel those eyes watching me, searing through me with laser-sharp intensity. Seeing how I would handle myself in his presence, at least until I could get out the door.

  Would I continue to move along, like it was just another stop along my route, just another piece of business in a day filled with different pieces of business? Or would I lose my cool, trip, fall, otherwise betray my age, my awkwardness, my nervousness?

  As I slowed down near the closed front door, Milo opened the door for me. I looked up at him, and told me with a knowing grin that he would “see me around”.

  If I had known then what I know now. I would not have walked out of that “Private Club” that day. I would have run. As fast as I could. Like all the demons of Hell were after me.

  One morning a few weeks after, Mr. Davidson told me to go directly to Mr. Vinetti’s club. From now on, I would work for Gino. Mr. Davidson told me not to worry, he would drop by my apartment and square things with my Mom. I would be making more money working for M
r. Vinetti than he could afford to pay me. What I did not know at the time is that Davidson got paid money as consideration for losing an employee.

  Gino and the boys started me on the ground floor -- running all their errands. I delivered laundry to the cleaners. I picked up their tribute money, brought it back. As it turned out, Mr. Davidson was just the tip of the iceberg.

  When people in the neighborhood had a problem, needed money, had a disagreement; they didn’t go to the banks. They didn’t go to the cops. They either handled it themselves or they went to Gino. Like they would have back in the old country. Gino loaned money, blessed weddings, meted out punishment, settled spats before they became disputes, and settled disputes before they became blood feuds.

  But then were his other businesses: illegal booze, drugs, gambling, and prostitution. Whiskey and whores. Lots of money then. Just like now. Money made from the weakness of some, and the misery of others.

  And Gino was the parasite that profited from it all.

  Word got around that I worked for Gino. Boys that used to give me a hard time smiled and waved whenever they saw me, or gave me a wide berth and left me alone. When I would go around to pick up the merchants’ tributes, many of them wanted me to make sure that I relayed “their best to Mister Vinetti”. The pharmacist at our local drugstore would sometimes let me have a free seltzer water. The fellow that ran the mercantile would sometimes let me take a gumball or a piece of licorice.

  Mom and I had meat every night at dinner, cold sodas for the hot days, and we could finally afford better clothes, better shoes. Mom was even able to take it easy with the sewing, ease up a little. She was getting older by then, and her hands were starting to give her problems. I wanted her to rest.

  Mom did not like me working for Gino. Not one bit. She knew very well what Gino Vinetti was. She was not naïve to the ways of the world. She knew how things worked, that extreme violence could erupt at any time and for any reason, without warning. Because back then, just as much as now, violence was simply a way of life.