by Joe Bruno
He started down the steps to the basement, then turned around. “And another thing. I shot The Blade. Not you. Understand?”
She smiled. “The way you shoot, nobody's going to believe you shot him anyway.”
“Just do what I say. I was the shooter and don't you forget it.”
That said, he turned around and rushed down the steps to the basement. He stepped over The Blade's dead body and disappeared down into darkness.
Peggy Soo rushed down the steps to The Blade's body. She went through his pockets and found a huge roll of hundred dollar bills. She stuffed the roll into her bra, then sprinted up the stairs to her apartment. At the top of the steps, she peeked over the railing and spotted two policemen rushing into the building. She slipped into her apartment and doubled-locked the door behind her.
Peggy Soo stood breathing heavily, her back against the locked door.
Then she smiled, thought of Wayne Newton and sang in a whisper, “Danke Schoen, my darling Danke Schoen...”
CHAPTER 15
Two Different Worlds
It was a sunny, spring afternoon, when Junior stooped to pick up a large glob of dog poop with a paper towel. The poop was provided by a German Shepard named Brutus, a dog that had been willed to Junior by the estate of the dearly departed Billy the Blade. The Blade had no wife, no children and no blood relatives on this earth. So of course, when The Blade met his untimely death, he had no will either. When Junior found out The Blade had been whacked, he rushed to The Blade's Mulberry Street apartment, before the police could get there. He used the key The Blade had given him “just in case” and cleaned out all The Blade's worldly possessions.
The dog, of course, Junior found first, because as soon as he walked through the front door, Brutus jumped up, put his paws on Junior's shoulders and gave Junior's face a nice warm tongue bath, probably soon after Brutus had just licked his own balls and butt, because that's what his breath smelled like anyway.
Junior quickly found some jewelry hidden in a coffee can in the refrigerator, but finding hard cold cash was not an easy thing to do. After about twenty minutes of frantic searching, Junior finally hit paydirt. Twice.
First, he found a hidden safe, dug into the floor of the bedroom closet, hidden by about a dozen pairs of Georgio Brutini shoes. Now opening the safe was no problem for Junior, since his father had taught him safe-cracking 101 as soon as Junior was old enough to count to three. Other kids played with GI Joes or erector sets, but Tony B taught his son how to crack safes, in case this skill would come in handy some day. And now it did.
Junior only found five grand hidden in the safe, along with a few old snapshots of The Blade and Junior when they were half-in-the-bag in some seedy night club, which could be one of about a thousand they had partied in throughout the years. Junior knew there had to be more cash hidden someplace in the apartment, but with the police most likely making an appearance within the hour, Junior didn't have time to pillage the place completely.
Then he saw it. It was in the middle of a row of books, in a narrow bookcase, standing in a corner of the living room wall. The title was “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.” Every other book in the bookcase was a mob book.
“Honor Thy Father,” by Gay Telese.
“The Godfather,” by Mario Puzo.
“The Valachi Papers,” by Peter Maas.
“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare” was about as likely to be on Billy the Blade's bookshelf, as a book on “How to Teach Yourself Ballet in Three Easy Lessons.”
Junior snatched the book off the shelf and immediately became another twenty grand richer. The inside of the book had been surgically removed by a sharp blade and stacks of hundred dollar bills inserted in place of the pages. It looked like Billy the Blade had learned this trick from Louis J. Lombago, who was notorious for hiding his money in the manner.
Junior was about to leave, when Brutus started moaning and groaning, probably because he hadn't eaten in a few minutes. Junior could not bear to leave the dog alone in the apartment, knowing full well that after the cops found him, Brutus would certainly be destroyed, because who wanted a crap machine with the appetite of a gorilla anyway?
So Junior took Brutus under his wing and into his apartment, over the severe objections of his father Tony B.
“I ain't walking no fucking dog.” Tony B told Junior.
Junior shook his head. “Why with the dirty language all the time? Fuck this and fuck that. You really have got to stop your cursing.”
“OK, I'll try,” Tony B said. “How about this? I ain't walking no effin' dog. Period”
“Much better,” Junior said.
Tony B was not finished. “You want the mutt, he's your responsibility. You walk him. You feed him. And if he eats the effin' furniture, you put an effin' bullet in his effin' head. Do ya hear me?”
Junior agreed to all his father's demands and when Brutus did eat a kitchen chair, on his first day in the apartment no less, Junior replaced it so fast with a duplicate from a furniture store owned by a friend, his father was none the wiser. Junior had seriously thought about buying a duplicate piece of furniture for every piece in the apartment and keeping them in storage, in case of an emergency, like Brutus getting hungry in the middle of the day when no one was home. Which in fact was what Junior finally did. It only set him back a few hundred bucks, because their apartment furniture was so cheap, Ralph Cramden would have been embarrassed.
On that fateful, sunny afternoon, Junior was strolling in Columbus Park with his new best friend Brutus on a leash, when Brutus spotted a female German Shepard being walked on a leash by a pretty young Chinese girl. They were right in front of the old Bayard Street Park House, which had been a dance hall dating back to the 1920's.
Brutus bolted forward so fast, he pulled the leash right out of Junior's hands.
The Chinese girl screamed and her dog immediately turned her butt toward Brutus. In seconds, Brutus had mounted the female German Shepard and they were doing the dirty dance of lust in the middle of the park. Fast and furious.
Junior sprinted toward the dogs and tried to pull Brutus off the female dog, but Brutus would have none of that. He turned his head and snapped at Junior, which Junior thought was the same thing he would do, if the situation were reversed
The Chinese girl was frantic. “Oh please stop them! Stop what your dog's doing to my poor Daisey Mae!”
Junior surveyed the situation and shook his head. “Lady, I don't know what to do. We might just have to wait till they're finished.”
“We can't do that,” she said. “I was just going to the vet's office to have her spayed. I got her yesterday at the ASPCA. She's a dog rescue. She might get pregnant!”
Junior tried pulling Brutus away again, but Brutus snapped at Junior twice, nicking Junior's hand and drawing blood. Junior backed off again. “Sorry lady, but he just won't let go!” He wiped the blood off his hand with a handkerchief.
“Why didn't you have your dog neutered?” she screamed at Junior.
Junior shrugged. “He's not my dog anyway. I just got him a few days ago. My friend, whose dog this was, died a sudden death. So I took in the dog so he wouldn't get destroyed.”
Suddenly both dogs started howling louder and spinning in circles.
“Oh, my God! He's going to get my poor Daisey Mae pregnant!” she yelled.
Suddenly, an old Chinese woman waddled fast out of a Chinese Restaurant on Mulberry Street, a bucket of water hanging from her right hand. She rushed into the park, reached the dogs and poured the entire contents of the bucket on Brutus' head.
Brutus yelped and shook violently. And like a cork propping out of a champagne bottle, he became dislodged from Daisey Mae.
The Chinese woman shook her fist at Brutus, who was now whimpering. “You bad dog!” Then she turned to Junior. “And you, you keepee your dog on leash, you moron!”
That said, the old Chinese lady rushed across the street, back to the restaurant and disapp
eared inside.
The Chinese girl bent down and petted Daisey Mae. “My poor Daisey Mae” She looked up at Junior. “I hope she's not pregnant.”
Junior pointed to his right leg and shoe. Both were saturated by a white gooey substance.
He leashed Brutus. “I don't think that's going to be a problem,”
“You think that's all of it?” she said.
“It's hard to believe it's not all of it. I think the old lady nailed him just in the nick of time.”
The Chinese girl stood up and offered Junior her hand. “My name is Lily Low.”
Junior grabbed her hand gently. “Junior. Junior Bentimova. “
They looked at each other quizzically.
“You're not related to Tony B Bentimova, are you?” she said.
Junior's shoulders slumped. “Unfortunately, he's my father.”
“Oh,” Lily said.
“You said your name is Lily Low. By any chance, are you related to Hung Far Low?”
Lily bowed her head. “Yes, unfortunately, he's my father.”
“Oh,” Junior said.
Lily put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
Junior smiled. “Hey, that doesn't mean we can't be friends, does it?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “No.”
“Good. But it might be a good idea not to tell our fathers that we're friends.”
“Not a good idea at all.”
“How about we walk around Columbus Park, just to chat?” Junior said.
“How about you bring your dog home and I'll bring my dog home. Then we'll meet someplace for coffee?” she said.
“Good idea, but maybe we should meet outside of the neighborhood. Just to be safe.”
“OK. There's a coffee shop on John Street, just off Pearl. Know where it is?”
“No, but I'll find it,” he said. “Meet you there, in say, an hour?”
“An hour is fine.”
And that chance meeting between two people on a sunny, spring day in Columbus Park changed the dynamics of the entire neighborhood for generations to come.
*****
Nicky Knuckles had been laying low since the death of his good old pal Billy the Blade. It didn't take a genius to figure out Nicky was involved with the death of Norman Chung, and wary of being whacked by the Chinese gangs, he took a small one-bedroom apartment on Sullivan Street in the West Village.
Since someone whacked Billy the Blade, there had been an all-points bulletin, issued by Tony B, to kill Yuan Dum Fuk on sight. Bosses like Tony B and Hung Far Low were off limits for the time being, so it was the underlings of the two big shots who were now laying low and hoping for a rival to make a mistake, so that they could do the whacking themselves.
All hitters on both sides were scared to death, except for Junior, who walked around the neighborhood like he didn't have a care in the world. Nicky felt that maybe Junior thought he was bulletproof, or maybe he was just plain crazy. Nicky put a greater value on own his life than Junior did. If Junior or Tony B needed his services, they would call the neat new mobile phone Nicky carried with him that Tony B had given all his crew members. Otherwise, Nicky would stay in his cozy apartment, having everything delivered, from groceries, to pizza, to booze from the corner liquor store. And when he got the urge, Nicky called an escort service to provide him with female companionship, which usually lasted less than ten minutes, then they were out the door.
Bing. Bang. Spurt. Ten-four, over and out.
It was 10 pm and Nicky Knuckles was getting restless. There were plenty of bars in the Village. Some gay. Some not so gay. And some loaded with loony, artistic broads just looking to get laid.
Nicky put on a blond wig and coved it with a black beret. He stuck on a false mustache and donned a trench coat, which made him look like Inspector Clouseau on a bad day. He grabbed his new Motorola DynaTak mobile phone and stuck it in the inside pocket of his trench coat. The DynaTak was the first mobile phone that didn't need a suitcase-sized contraption to go with it and was ten times better than having a beeper.
Nicky exited the apartment building, hoping to score a decent looking broad, or maybe one not so decent looking. As horny as Nicky was and because he had run out of cash for hookers, it didn't make that much a difference to him what they looked like anyway.
Nicky made the rounds of the Village bars, walking west of Sixth Avenue, where he would most likely not be seen by someone from the old neighborhood. Not knowing which bar was gay and which were not gay, forced Nicky to enter most places with one hand held absently behind him, like he was symbolically protecting his back door.
If Nicky saw a nice broad in the joint, he'd order a scotch and soda and sit next to her. Then he'd spend the next twenty minutes or so trying to talk sense to some wackadoosie, who wanted to babble about Camus, Sartre and Jack Kerouac, while Nicky just wanted to get laid.
Nicky barhopped west, until he hit the corner of West and Christopher Street. Sitting on the corner was a huge bar, with about a million freaking fags milling outside, wearing leather outfits and cowboy hats. Nickey remembered this was the bar a few years back that some lunatic in a passing car shot a fruitcake into swish cheese. Nickey recalled not only did one fag get killed, but a few others took shots in the ass and not the ones they wanted there in the first place.
Nicky sprinted past the bar and turned north on West Street. He heard there was a new swinging bar in that area with plenty of hot chicks, but he didn't know exactly where it was located. He made a turn on West 10 Street and saw a huge parking lot filled with trailers that had been unhooked from trucks. Nicky had heard all about these trailers, which were dotted all over the lower west side. The cops called them Daisey Chains, because inside these abandoned trailers, groups of homos hooked themselves in circular chains, penis to mouth and so forth, until the circle was completed.
Nicky picked up his pace and headed toward Greenwich Street, when the back of one of the trailers opened and out jumped Fat Charlie Crappola, followed by a blond twink half Crappy's age and a quarter Crappy's size.
Crappy didn't see Nicky, but Nicky sure saw Crappy. How could he miss him? He was four hundred pounds and counting, for Christ's sake.
Nickey put his head down, picked up his pace and slipped into the doorway of the nearest tenement. With a clear view of Crappy and the twink, he pulled out his DynaTak and dialed the number he wanted. A voice answered.
“Junior, you wouldn't believe what I just saw,” Nickey said.
And then he told him.
“Find Big Fat Fanny fast,” Nicky said. “I'll follow Crappy and we can do him in for good tonight.”
“No, my father has to make the call on this,” Junior said. “He's the boss. I'll set up a meeting as soon as possible and he'll decide exactly what has to be done.”
*****
Yuan Dum Fuk climbed the stairs at 33 Mott Street to Peggy Soo's second floor apartment. For the past few weeks, things had gone pretty good for Yuan Dum Fuk. He had been given the proper respect for taking care of Billy the Blade, even though Peggy Soo had been the real shooter. Since then, Hung Far Low had been real nice to him, even financing his trip to Las Vegas with Peggy Soo and giving them ten grand to gamble, which he blew on the first night. The rest of the trip was watching Peggy Soo sucking his wang and listening to Wayne Newton. Sometimes at the same time.
Yuan Dum Fuck knocked on the door. Peggy Soo opened it and he walked inside.
He was shocked to see Hung Far Low sitting wide on the living room couch. He was munching on a tray of egg rolls, which was sitting on the coffee table in front of him.
“Hey boss. What are you doing here?” Yuan Dum Fuk said.
“I'm eating egg rolls, what does it look like I'm doing?” Hung Far Low said.
“Yeah, but why here in my girlfriend's apartment?”
Peggy Soo took a napkin and wiped bits of egg roll off Hung Far Low's chin. She turned to Yuan Dum Fuk. “You know, you ask too many freaking questions.”
“Sit down, the both of you,” Hung Far Low said. “I'm here to talk business.”
Yuan Dun Fuk sat in an armchair across from his boss, while Peggy Soo sat on the couch, snuggled next to Hung Far Low.
Hung Far Low took an egg roll out of his mouth just far enough to talk. “The first and most important thing is, nobody is to mention I was here eating egg rolls to anyone. Especially to my daughter.”
“Why is that so important?” Yuan Dun Fuk said.
Peggy Soo shot Yuan Dun Fuk the evil eye. “You with those questions again.”
Hung Far Low chomped down on an egg roll. “No that's alright Peggy Soo. This question I will answer, but it will be the last question I will answer.” He stared bullets at Yuan Dum Fuk. “You understand?”
Yuan Dum Fuk squirmed in his seat. “Yes boss.”
“My daughter Lily thinks I'm on the Atkins Diet. That means no egg rolls. No dumplings. Nothing with carbohydrates?”
“No fried rice?” Yuan Dum Fuk said.
Hung Far Low grunted. “No more questions, I said.”
Yuan Dun Fuk lowered his eyes. “Yes boss.”
Hung Far Low continued. “My daughter cooks for me at home. Beef. Pork. Chicken. With green Chinese vegetables. Bland shit like that. Tastes no freaking good. When she's not looking, I give it to our new dog Daisey Mae.”
“You have new dog boss?” Yuan Dum Fuk said. “I didn't even know you had old dog.”
Peggy Soo stood up and pointed a chubby finger at Yuan Dum Fuk. “The boss said no more freaking questions.”
“That was not a question” Yuan Dum Fuk said. “That was a statement.”
“No more statements either,” she said.
Hung Far Low kept rambling. “So I can't even go to a public restaurant to eat, because my daughter has eyes everywhere. So I come here. Peggy Soo orders me what I want, from where I want and I eat it here.”
Yuan Dum Fuk still looked puzzled. “But are you losing weight? If you don't lose weight, Lily will know something's wrong.”
Peggy Soo pulled a pistol from her jeans pocket. He stood up and pointed it at Yuan Dum Fuk's forehead. “You are one dumb bastard.”
