“Why me?”
“Because I said so. Here.”
They stopped in front of a corner grocery store. Tommy said, “Go on. Buy me a Mars bar.”
Nicky went into the store, the greasy twenty clutched in his sweaty hand. A man was sitting behind the counter, reading Daily Racing Form. He didn't even look up. Nicky came back with a Mars bar and a roll of Life Savers.
The man glanced at the candy, said, “A dollar sixty, out of twenty,” and counted out a ten, a five, three ones and forty cents in change.
Nicky said, “Thanks,” and went outside.
Tommy wasn't there. Nicky held the change in his pocket, his head light, his heart pounding in his chest, and looked up and down the block. No Tommy. Nicky started walking toward the corner. Tommy stepped out of the shadows between two buildings.
“So? How'd it go?”
Nicky jumped. “What are you doing?”
“I was being your lookout,” Tommy said. “How'd it go? Did it work?”
“It worked fine.” Nicky handed him the Mars bar and the change.
Tommy said, “Beautiful!” and stuck the money in his pocket. “Let's go over a few blocks and try it again. Then we can go to a movie. We use a twenty to buy tickets. Then we use another twenty each to buy some popcorn or something. That's five twenties. We'll have fifty bucks in, like, less than an hour!”
They passed the next twenty at a deli. Nicky went in, bought two Cokes and got eighteen dollars in change. He and Tommy drank the sodas while they walked across town to the movie theater. The streets were busy. There were couples walking hand in hand, and groups of girls and boys walking together or standing around on stoops.
Two policemen stood talking on the corner. Nicky got nervous. What if there was a report about two boys passing counterfeit twenties? Would they be able to identify Nicky and Tommy? No. Just Nicky. He imagined the cops turning and shouting, “There he is!” He imagined running. The cops would shout, “Stop, in the name of the law!” or, “Stop, or I'll shoot!”
By the time they got to the corner, Nicky was trembling with fear. Tommy nodded at the policemen. “Howzit going?”
One cop turned and said, “Hiya, kid.”
Nicky almost fainted.
A few blocks on, Tommy said, “It's over here.” When they turned the corner, Nicky could see the marquee. It was all movies that he'd already seen. Tommy said, “Hey! They got Summer of the Living Night.”
Inside, Nicky slumped in his seat and watched the coming attractions without seeing. He was thinking about jails, and prisons, and the guy his uncle knew who went to prison and got shot to death in a robbery.
When the feature started, Tommy leaned over and said, “Who said crime doesn't pay? Fifty bucks in one hour! I'm saving up for BlackPlanet Two.”
“It's supposed to come out soon, right?” Nicky asked.
“For Christmas,” Tommy said confidently.
After the movie, Tommy and Nicky walked back to Bath Avenue. When they got to Nicky's street, Tommy said, “You're all right, Nicky. I wasn't sure, you being from Jersey and all. I thought you might chicken out.”
“I didn't chicken out. I went first.”
“You did good. And now you got twenty-five bucks to buy anything you want. We'll go back next week, and he'll give us another hundred, and we can make another fifty, right?”
“Right,” Nicky said, faint at the idea of having to go through all that again.
Tommy said, “You going to church in the morning?”
“Church? I don't think so,” Nicky said.
“C'mon. With your grandmother? You know she's going. I'll see you there.”
Tommy stuck a hand out, and they shook. Nicky said, “See ya,” and turned and ran down the block to his grandmother's apartment.
icky's grandmother woke him early the next morning. He checked the clock as she was leaving the room—seven-fifteen?—and jumped out of bed. He was halfway down the hall when he remembered it was Sunday.
His grandmother was drinking coffee in the kitchen. Nicky kissed her on the cheek and said, “Why are we up so early?”
“It's Sunday.”
“That's what I mean,” Nicky said. “Why are we up so early on Sunday?”
“Because we're going to eight o'clock mass and we're not going to be late. Go get your school clothes on and brush your teeth. And your hair.”
There were three old women waiting outside, cackling like birds, when Nicky and his grandmother went down the steps.
“This is my grandson, Nicky,” Tutti said.
“Good morning, Nicky,” the old birds sang.
“This is Mrs. Mascali, Mrs. Vitta and Mrs. Mazzone,” Grandma Tutti said. “Come on. We're late already.”
The four women gossiped all the way to church. Nicky trailed behind. At the corner, he heard a voice whisper, “Hey, Borelli!” He turned. Tommy was grinning at him.
“Hey, you crook,” Tommy said. “What's going on?”
“Church with Grandma,” Nicky said.
“Told you so,” Tommy said. “My mom's already there. She goes to the seven o'clock mass, and then gives me a beatin' if I don't show up for the eight o'clock.”
“You talk nice about your mother, Tomasino Ca-porelli,” Grandma Tutti said. “And don't think I can't hear you.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Borelli,” Tommy said.
Nicky leaned toward Tommy and said, “Tomasino? Your real name is Tomasino?”
“Make something out of it, and I'll kick you to the curb.”
He dashed off and disappeared.
Nicky had never been to regular mass. His parents sometimes went to a service at Christmas, or before a wedding, and almost always to the bright new Carring-ton Catholic Church, between the Carrington Country Club and Carrington Galleria.
This was different. This was St. Peter's, and it was like a cathedral. It was dark inside, and cool, and smelled like it was a thousand years old. Light streamed in through the dark blue stained glass. Jesus hung from every wall, crowned in thorns and agony. A pipe organ played from somewhere. Nicky's grandmother led him to a long wooden bench and they sat with her elderly friends.
Three rows forward, and over to the left, Nicky saw Donna. She was sitting with a woman wearing a hat. Donna whispered something to the woman, and the woman turned and stared at Nicky. Grandma Tutti waved, and the woman waved back.
Nicky said, “Who's that lady?”
“That's Carol Grimaldi,” Tutti said, “the one who's marrying Salvatore Carmenza. Sallie the Butcher, they call him.”
Nicky was stunned. His grandmother knew that Salvatore Carmenza was called Sallie the Butcher? Did she know what that meant? Was she in on the whole thing? Nicky's head spun. Was she some sort of mobster grandma, like Tony Soprano's mother, Livia? It didn't seem possible.
The service lasted about a week, even though it only took an hour. Nicky sat on the hard bench, wondering whether everyone in the room was as uncomfortable as he was. He tried not to stare at Donna the whole time—and failed.
Nicky followed his grandmother to the front of the church when it was all over. She stopped to say thank you to the priest. “This is my grandson, Nicholas,” she said. “Nicky, say hello to Father Michael.”
“Hello, Father.”
Outside, Tommy was standing with some kids Nicky recognized from his first day in Bensonhurst. Because Tommy was there, he went over to them.
“Hey,” he said.
The group turned to him.
One boy said, “Hey. It's the rich kid again.”
“How's it going, Richie Rich?”
“Hey, Tommy,” Nicky called out.
“Yeah. Hey.”
Nicky said, “You guys playing ball today?”
The first kid said, “Sure, Richie Rich. Bring your pom-poms. We need a cheerleader.”
The other kids laughed—all except Tommy. He stared at the ground.
Nicky said, “Very funny. I've seen you guys play, though. Not much to
cheer about.”
“Yo!” the first kid said. “Mr. Preppy-Prep has a smart mouth!” The kid stepped forward and gave Nicky a shove in the chest. “You looking for some trouble?”
Nicky stumbled back a step and said, “No.”
“I think you are.” The kid gave Nicky another shove.
Tommy stepped up and said, “Stop it, Gene.” He put his hand on the kid's shoulder. “Nicky's okay.”
“You know this guy?” Gene said.
“Yeah. He's okay,” Tommy said.
“Then I won't kill him—today,” Gene said. “Let's get outta here.”
Tommy followed Gene and the other kids. Nicky, his stomach sick and his face red, walked back over to his grandmother.
“What's wrong?” she asked. “You look terrible.”
“I'm just hungry, is all.”
“Come,” Tutti said. “We'll stop at Capaldi's on the way home, and then you can have breakfast.”
Tutti led the way again, with her three ancient pals. “We're going to Capaldi's,” she said to the ladies. “Come and have coffee at noon. I'll buy a little cake.”
Capaldi's was a bakery on the next block. Despite the early hour, there was a line of women waiting outside.
“It's always busy on Sunday morning,” Tutti explained. “Mr. Capaldi bakes on Saturday night. He's the only one who has fresh pastries on a Sunday morning. You can get a bear claw or a cannoli or something.”
Capaldi himself was standing inside, dressed in a beautifully tailored suit and fine Italian shoes.
Nicky said, “How come he's all dressed up?”
“He likes to look nice,” Grandma Tutti said.
“Is he so rich, from being a baker?”
“He has a little side business,” Grandma Tutti said. “But no one talks about it.”
Back at the apartment, Tutti said, “You get changed and come help me in the kitchen while we eat breakfast. I'm making eggplant parmigiana and a chicken.”
Tutti was reading the paper when Nicky came back dressed in his jeans and T-shirt. She clucked her tongue and said, “Augusto Perontino. Dead. He and I were exactly the same age. So handsome! I used to think if I hadn't met your grandfather—well!”
The picture in the paper showed a dapper man in an overcoat and a fedora. He was seventy-four. He was survived by about six hundred people.
“He had a lot of children, and a lot of grandchildren,” Nicky said. “Fifteen grandchildren. Six greatgrandchildren.”
“He was a lucky man,” Tutti said. “Me, with two sons, I have only one grandchild. You better hurry, if I'm going to have any great-grandchildren. Maybe you and that Donna, eh?”
Nicky stared at his grandmother.
“What?” she said. “Don't I have eyes in my head? I saw you, in church.”
After breakfast, Nicky took the newspaper into the family room. It was the same news they got in Carrington. The president. The economy. The ball games. And lots of crimes. Nicky liked reading about the crimes. He looked for stories that had something to do with Bensonhurst. There weren't any. Until the next to the last page.
Under the headline “Cops Foil Payroll Robbery,” there was a story about a heist gone wrong. Undercover police officers, acting on an informant's tip, had staked out a meatpacking firm on Bayshore. Heavily armed thieves overpowered the firm's security staff early Saturday and escaped with more than $150,000 in payroll money. The undercover officers gave chase. One of the thieves was killed in the ensuing gun battle. One was taken into custody. Three men escaped. Police recovered all the payroll money.
There were no pictures. Nicky didn't need any. He could easily imagine his uncle Frankie lying dead on the floor of some rancid meatpacking plant, or arrested by plainclothes police officers while Charlie Cement or Oscar the Undertaker lay bleeding to death at his feet. Which three escaped? Was Frankie one of them?
For the first time in his life, Nicky closed his eyes and prayed. “Please don't let anything bad happen to Uncle Frankie. Amen.”
Grandma Tutti's old-lady pals were starting to arrive. Nicky kissed his grandmother goodbye and said, “I'm going out to play for a while.”
Mr. Moretti was sitting on the stoop. Nicky tried to skip by, but the old man caught him by the ankle and said, “Nicholas Borelli the Second! Stop! Do you know where they put the noisy dog?”
“No, sir.”
“In the barking lot. Do you know why the pony had a sore throat?”
“No, sir.”
“He was a little horse. Do you know how many Italians—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Moretti. I have to go.”
Tommy and a group of boys Nicky didn't recognize were playing stickball on the corner. Nicky wandered up slowly. He didn't want to appear too eager. He didn't want to play, even. He wasn't very good at sports. But he didn't want to be left out, either.
When Tommy saw Nicky, he said, “Yo! Here's our outfield. C'mere.”
Nicky jogged over. Tommy said, “Guys, this is Nicky. He's Frankie Borelli's nephew. Don't screw around with him, or you're dead, right?”
A couple of the kids laughed nervously.
“All right,” Tommy said. “Nicky, you're outfield. Anything comes your way, catch it in the air. If you can't catch it in the air, throw it to first base. You gotta throw it to the base to get the batter out. Got it?”
Nicky took up a position in the middle of the street, about twenty feet behind the guy playing second base. Tommy was the pitcher. Two other kids stood next to parked cars that were supposed to be first base and third base. A kid with bright red hair was the batter. He swung a short length of broomstick like he was going to chop the ball to bits.
Then Nicky noticed Nutty. He was dressed up like an umpire, with the striped shirt, the black pants and a baseball cap. He even had a whistle, which he blew at intervals that had nothing to do with the ball game.
Tommy said, “All right. Batter up.” He bounced the ball toward the plate. The redheaded kid smacked at it with the broomstick and missed. Tommy cackled at him and said, “Strike one.” He bounced the ball again. This time the redheaded kid sent the ball sailing toward third base—and right through the open window of a parked Cadillac.
The second baseman turned to Nicky and said, “Oh, man. That's Little Johnny Vegas' Cadillac.”
Nutty blew his whistle. Tommy said, “Inside a parked car doesn't count. You can play it over.”
The redhead got a hit. Tommy caught the ball and made an out, and it was his team's turn to hit. When he got up to bat, Tommy smacked a ball straight down the middle of the street. Tommy rounded the bases like he had won the World Series. The next batter got out, and Tommy's team returned to the field.
The redhead took his position at the plate again. Tommy bounced the ball toward him and got a strike. The redhead swung hard at the next ball, and it shot off the broomstick, straight over Tommy's head, and straight toward Nicky.
He didn't panic. He stuck his hands up. He took two quick steps backward. The ball was getting close. It was moving really fast. Nicky took two more steps back. A car horn sounded. The ball was in his hands. Everything went black.
Nicky woke up slowly. He heard voices. His eyes swam. He was staring at the sky. Nutty was looking down at him. A voice off to the side was saying, “He just kept coming! I was stopped! You saw I was stopped!”
Then Tommy was kneeling beside him. He said, “You okay, Nicky?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Nicky felt his hands. The ball was still there. “Did I get him out?”
“Listen to this guy!” Tommy said. “What an athlete!”
Tommy helped him to his feet. Nicky's legs felt rubbery. He dropped the ball and wobbled a little. Tommy held his arm until he could stand right. Nicky said, “Maybe I shouldn't play anymore.”
“No kidding,” Tommy said. “I'll walk you home.”
The redhead, when Nicky passed, said, “Nice catch, man.”
Tommy ran
g the bell and pushed open the door of Grandma Tutti's apartment. Nicky went up the stairs, unsteady, with his friend behind him. In the kitchen, Nicky's grandmother and her old-lady friends were sitting with their coffee and cake. Tutti stood up and said, “Here's my grandson,” and then rushed to his side. “For God's sake, what happened?”
“He's okay,” Tommy said. “He had a little accident.”
“An accident! Tommy Caporelli, if I find out you've hurt my grandson, I'll—”
“It's not like that,” Nicky said. “We were playing ball and I ran into a car.”
“Come and sit. Maria! Get some ice. Where does it hurt?”
The old women fussed over him. Tommy gave Nicky a big wink and then was gone. Someone got Nicky a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. The ice pack went on his head. He kept saying, “I'm fine, honest.” The old women chattered in Italian.
Fifteen minutes later, the bell rang. Grandma Tutti sent one of the other ladies to the door. Nicky heard the voice from the street again.
“I was stopped! He kept coming backwards! Mrs. Borelli, you have to believe me!”
“You gotta tell Frankie I didn't do nothing,” the man said. “The car was stopped! I didn't even know the kid was your grandson!”
“It's all right, Angelo,” Grandma Tutti told him. “The boy's fine.”
“I hardly touched him! But you gotta tell Frankie it wasn't my fault.”
“All right, already,” Grandma Tutti said. “Out!”
Dinner was delicious. After the events of the day, though—church, the shove he'd gotten from Gene, the scary news story about the payroll robbery, the heroic stickball catch and then the automobile accident— Nicky had no appetite. He nibbled. He could feel his grandmother watching him. She said to him, “You look sad. Do you miss your parents?”
He felt too tired to explain himself. So he said, “Yeah. I guess so.”
After Nicky had taken the trash can out to the curb, and his grandmother had done the dishes, she said, “I picked up our pictures from the cemetery. Go get the big red photo album from the den.”
Grandma Tutti had the pictures out when he got back. She said, “Which is the best one?”
Welcome to the Family Page 5
