Gangster

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Did anything like that ever happen to you?” I asked, following him out of the coop, the pigeons rushing past me in a mad rush to get at the seed.

  “That’s a question for Pudge to answer,” Angelo said. “He’s the ladies’ man, not me. I’m happy enough spending time with the birds and with Ida.”

  “What about your family?” I asked, realizing I was crossing into territory never before entered in our conversations. “Your wife and kids. Don’t you miss being with them?”

  Angelo closed and locked the pigeon coop and glared down at me for several interminable seconds. “I’ve learned not to miss anybody,” he said in as cold and distant a voice as I’d ever heard him use. “And I’ve also learned to never ask a question whose answer I didn’t need to know. I think it would be a smart move for you to start to learn to do the same.”

  Angelo turned his back on me and walked slowly over to the rooftop door and disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell. I leaned back against the pigeon coop and looked up to the sky. The sun was buried behind a mass of dark clouds and a light rain began to fall.

  16

  * * *

  Summer, 1970

  IT HAD BEEN two months since four students were killed by National Guardsmen at a noon rally at Kent State University in Ohio, protesting a war that no one claimed to want or understand. As I entered the middle of my high school years, the world around me seemed poised to explode. Student terrorists, backed by upper-middle-class money, were in Greenwich Village brownstones building makeshift bombs aimed at overthrowing a system they had grown to detest. Airlines were being hijacked at regular intervals from New York, Tel Aviv, and London, as scores of armed men and women argued with loud voices for peace as they left the bodies of the innocent in their wake. A U.S. Army lieutenant, William Calley, would soon stand trial for killing twenty civilians in My Lai, a place I never knew existed until I read the body count in the papers. And in New York City, as in the rest of America, a generation dedicated to free love and peace had latched onto the expensive and addictive taste of cocaine and were causing havoc in the silent circles of organized crime.

  Angelo and Pudge hated the turmoil, clashing as it did with the shuttered world they had so carefully built for themselves. They viewed with a cynical eye the words of peace that flowed so easily from the mouths of those who seemed bent on disruption. They were troubled by an unending war whose existence even they as gangsters could not justify. And they had no trust in the leaders of the time, looking past the soothing words and seeing a set of eyes eager to grasp for a power they claimed so much to disdain. “It was a tough time,” Angelo said. “For the country and for us. Usually, we do well in times of trouble. But not back then. It shook our business like no gang war ever could. Young people everywhere were giving the back of the hand to the rules of society. It was just as easy for young gangsters to ignore the rules of the mob. There were days when I began to believe this country was headed for a mass revolt. I don’t know what we would have had if something like that happened. And nothing good came of any of it. We’re still paying the price for the troubles those days brought.”

  During those years, I split my time between high school and preparing for a future as a gangster. I did my best to keep the two worlds separate, not knowing if I would be able to handle it if they collided. I attended a private school, was a good student, enjoyed History, French and English classes and kept my friendships to a minimum. School officials knew I lived with Angelo and Pudge and either one or both always made a point of showing up for functions and advisory meetings. I never missed having real parents. I don’t think anyone could have loved me as much as the two men who had given me a home. Angelo had passed on his love of reading to me and I constantly had a book in my hand. Thanks to Pudge, who devoured the daily papers and weekly newsmagazines, I would plow my way through the crime and sports sections. The teachers at school built a learning foundation based on the classics. I followed my own boyish instincts with the works of Alexandre Dumas, Jack London and Rafael Sabatini. Angelo and Pudge furthered my education through even more colorful stories. Through them, I learned all about the formation of Murder, Inc. and the murder at the Half-Moon Hotel. I knew how the mob owned certain fighters and weight divisions and cleared out their purses long before the matches were even fought. I read about the great baseball players of the past and was told how many of them had links to organized crime. I knew all about Willie Sutton and every bank he ever held up and Two-Gun Crawley and his famous Upper West Side hostage siege, which had been the basis for the James Cagney movie Angels with Dirty Faces.

  No young man could ever ask for a better education.

  I longed for nothing. Prime tickets to Broadway shows, concerts and sporting events were mine for the asking. In a decade when most teenagers were in tattered jeans and dyed shirts and chose to wear their hair long, I wore imported Italian jackets, polo shirts and had my hair razor cut fresh every week. I was being raised apart from my generation, viewing what was going on around me as spectator rather than participant. While the teenagers whose faces I scanned on the evening news attended peace rallies or walks for women’s rights, I went to the racetrack with Angelo and Pudge and came home with a tan and my pockets filled with winnings. As young men burned their draft cards and women tossed their bras into the trash, I went out with Nico and collected overdue money from those with limited choices on where to draw the cash to feed expensive habits.

  I’ve always looked back at those years with warmth and fondness. I was living during a period of America’s greatest political and social upheaval and I was at my happiest. I had found my peace by embracing the life of a young gangster. It was easy for me to think of myself in those terms, but, in truth, I was still a decade removed from the real possibility of joining the life. I was allowed glimpses into the dark world and was able to enjoy the perks it offered, all of it meant to make it attractive and alluring. But I was never put in the position where I was forced to make the moves of a gangster, decide a man’s fate, be there at the fatal moment when bullet was put to bone. I had been spared that for a later time, when I knew there could be no turning back and when I lacked no other choice. Occasionally, I would allow myself to think of my life in those terms. It was the only time I felt any fear.

  • • •

  THE DECADE-LONG PEACE that had existed for Angelo and Pudge was rapidly coming to an end. New ethnic gangs were rising up to challenge the authority of the old order and, fueled by the massive income generated by the drug business, were both well-armed and well-financed. A two-hundred-fifty-member black crew based in the Brooklyn flatlands and led by Little Ricky Carson, a twenty-three-year-old one-time college football all-American, was taking in close to $100,000 a week in pure profit from their street-corner coke business. They called themselves the KKK, the Kool Knight Killers. In the late spring, they had formed an alliance with Pablito Munestro and his three-hundred-strong Colombian ring that was working out of Washington Heights in upper Manhattan, both groups looking to stretch their turf and their wallets. Hispanic gangs were making a move on the streets of the Bronx and a renegade band of Italians, the Red Barons, wanted to make the borough of Queens their private drug playground.

  Within the ranks of their own crew, Angelo and Pudge could sense the seeds of discontent. The whiff of large amounts of drug money waiting to be made was proving to be too strong to ignore, especially for the younger members who were still a few years removed from earning top gang dollars. Angelo and Pudge were both aware that the drug trade could no longer be ignored. In the spring of 1947, they had suggested to the gangster’s ruling body, the National Commission, that a penalty of death be issued to any member caught working in the trade. The request was voted down.

  “Nobody was going to go for it,” Pudge said to me. “We knew it even before we put it on the table. A gangster will walk away from a lot of things and he’ll kill for the dumbest of reasons. But he’s never gonna walk away from money and he’d ne
ver kill anything or anybody that could bring it to him. Everybody sitting at that table knew that sooner or later they would be in the drug business. And they would either get very rich or they would live in a jail block for fifty years, no parole. To them, that was a chance worth taking.”

  • • •

  BY THE SUMMER of 1970, Angelo, at sixty-four, and Pudge, sixty-seven, began preparations for their sixth and final gang war together. Even at this late date, we lived without any telephones, since both believed them to be a gangster’s worst enemy. “Point out a gangster who likes to talk on the phone,” Angelo would often say, “and the odds are good that you’ll be pointing inside a prison cell.”

  A portion of the work was done on the streets, utilizing a rotation of pay phones located on corners all within a ten-block radius of the bar. Angelo and Pudge never made any of the calls themselves, and when either Nico or I was asked to make one, the conversation never made much sense to anyone but the person at the other end. The bulk of the plan was being slowly implemented in the string of rooms above the bar. There, the two of them would sit through many a night and bring to life the maneuvers that would ultimately lead to someone’s death.

  In all my time living with them, I had never before seen them with this much focus, their body language never relaxed, even their moments of silence carrying an edge. “You get ready for war the same way a fighter gets ready for a championship match,” Pudge told me one night as we were taking Ida on one of her long walks. “You gotta have your mind and body in top shape. Now, it’s been a long time since either me or Angelo have had to get down in the street and fight for what we believe belongs to us. And we’re going up against opponents we don’t know too well and haven’t seen too much of. That’s why the training and the preparation have to be just right. We can’t leave any openings, no room for mistakes. In the ring, that’s what gets you knocked out. In our game, it’s what gets you left for dead.”

  • • •

  ANGELO SAT AT the kitchen table, his back to an open window, a bowl filled with pasta and peas cooling in front of him, and poured himself a large glass of bottled milk. Pudge sat across from him and nibbled on a breadstick, his broiled veal chop and potato dinner shoved casually to one side, a thick stack of papers filled with names and affiliations replacing it amid the knives, forks and wineglasses. I sat next to Nico on the other side of the table, both of us cutting into a steak pizzaiola platter.

  “Just when you think you’ve learned all the names of the new crews that are out there, a dozen fresh ones pop up,” Pudge said, shaking his head and running a pencil down the list. “They can’t keep it straight among themselves. How the hell are we supposed to do it?”

  “The money trail will lead you to the boss.” Angelo glanced down at his untouched pasta dinner. “That part never changes.”

  “Still, we’ve never gone up against gangs like this before,” Pudge said. “This guy Little Ricky shoots a pregnant woman in the head in a disco because she steps on his new boots. Leaves her for dead and keeps right on dancing. That’s not killing for business. That’s doing it because you like it. You go after a guy like that, you gotta hit him quick. Especially at our age.”

  “It’s the dope inside him that makes him think he’s brave and can’t be touched,” Angelo said. “It also makes him stupid, and that’s where we look for our opening and we make the age difference work to our benefit. Let him think we’re old and feeble.”

  “He wouldn’t be half-wrong,” Pudge said, putting his pencil down. “I haven’t held my gun in ten years, let alone shot at somebody. These days I feel more like Chester than Matt Dillon. But what the hell does it matter anyway? Any of these guys we put to sleep ends up replaced by someone just the same. It’s like Vietnam for us to get into this. The more of them you kill, the more of them you gotta fight.”

  “You could walk away from it,” I said, not knowing if it was proper for me to speak or not. “It’s not like you need the money. And I’ve heard you both say how you don’t like the way the business is turning. Maybe now would be a good time to get out.”

  “This isn’t like any other corporation that’s out there,” Pudge said. “There’s no pension plan, no stock options, no bonus. In this business, the only buyout you get comes with a pair of bullets. Besides, I haven’t had any action for some time and I miss it.”

  “What would you have us do instead?” Angelo asked. “If we were to walk away from it.”

  “Whatever you end up doing, it’d be better than getting killed by one of these people.” I wasn’t backing down from my position. These were the two men who raised me and loved me and I didn’t want to see either one end up in puddles of their own blood, their photos splashed across every tabloid for weary commuters to stare at while sipping their morning coffee.

  “I guess you’re not picking us in the pool to win, then,” Pudge said, a thick hunk of veal hanging off his fork.

  “I don’t want to see you die.”

  Angelo rested one of his hands on top of mine. “We can’t walk away and retire to a little villa in Italy. Every day we’d be there, we’d know that we turned our backs on our way of life. Over time, that would be a much harder death than any bullet could ever bring. I know that’s not how you’d want to see us die either.”

  I looked to Nico for support. “Sometimes the best way to go into a fight is thinking you can’t win it,” he said, glancing over at Angelo. “That’s what helps give you the edge. Somebody a lot smarter than me told me that just before we went into the last war we weren’t supposed to win.”

  “Then I want to help,” I said. “If you’re going into this, I want to be a part of it, too.”

  “You’re at this table,” Angelo said. “That already makes you a part of it.”

  “But you get no taste of the action.” Pudge jabbed the sharp end of his fork at me. “You’re not ready for that yet.”

  “Were you ready the first time?” I asked with a hint of teenage defiance.

  “The decision for us had already been made,” Angelo said. “It was what we were expected to do. You have other choices in front of you and there’s still time before you need to decide.”

  “We didn’t have a choice when we were kids and we don’t have a choice now that we’re old men,” Pudge said. “We have to fight. But you don’t need to come into this end of it, at least not now. And keeping you out keeps you safe.”

  “When will I be ready?” I asked, looking across at both of them.

  “That’s something you’ll know even before we do,” Angelo said. “But until then, sit back, listen and learn. These are lessons that are only taught once.”

  “This kid that runs the Red Barons asked to meet with us,” Pudge said, finishing off his veal chop and getting back to the business at hand. “He says his crew will take out the Colombians for us, in return for a cut of our real estate action.”

  “What’s his name?” Angelo asked, sipping his milk, his eyes still on me. “This gang boss of theirs.”

  “Richie Scarafino,” Pudge said. “Nico’s having a folder worked up on him. But what we don’t know about him we can guess and probably be right.”

  “I’ll have it done no later than tomorrow,” Nico said. “But don’t expect to find too much in it. He hasn’t been around that long; he’s just a few years older than Gabe here. He comes from a working family and at the start he used some of their money to fund his own crew.”

  “He learned his tough from watching movies and television,” Angelo said. “This kid’s about as Italian as a Waldorf salad. He’s never seen a real fight, just street-corner bully action. Those Colombians are born with the tough and they’ll kill any of the Red Barons that don’t run from it.”

  “So what do we tell him at the meet?” Pudge asked. He tossed the veal chop bone across the room and watched as Ida scooped it up then got on all fours to gnaw away.

  Angelo pushed his chair back and stood, the cool breeze coming off the open window hitting
his back. “We agree to give him ten percent of our real estate business with a five-million-dollar cap,” Angelo said. “And then we tell him to go out there and fight the Colombians.”

  “What if he gets lucky and beats them?” Pudge asked. “Then we’re out five million and stuck with a partner we don’t need or want.”

  “He’s already out of luck, Pudge,” Angelo said. “He’s up against us.”

  • • •

  THIS WAS GOING to be a war over the future direction of organized crime, and every one of those roads led to the drug trade. Cocaine and heroin were the new hot commodity and every young gangster on the street was looking to carve out a piece of the lucrative action. The older bosses, including Angelo and Pudge, had held the line for years, content to earn their money off what they knew best and felt were the most secure forms of crime—loan sharking, extortion, prostitution, hijacking and gambling. To them, the drug business remained a fierce unknown, much as Prohibition had been to an earlier generation of gang leaders. “Look, gangsters are a consumer’s best friend,” Pudge said. “We’ve always looked to make our money off of what people want but know they can’t have. It used to be booze. Then it was gambling. Now it’s drugs. We have to change as the demand changes, just like any other business. We had no problem with that. It was just a long time between cookouts for me and Ang, and in the back of our minds, we both wondered if we were up to it. These new guys played hard, like we did. To beat them, we had to be harder and smarter. It’s a tough thing to be both for your whole life.”

  The new gangs threatening old-line mob authority were deadlier than any of the groups I saw on television professing to want to overthrow the establishment. They were quick to kill and cared little for the rules that had lasted for decades. They were from different ethnic backgrounds and looked to rise up the ranks fast, indifferent to the fact that they were not welcomed into the ordered environment of organized crime. “In that sense,” Angelo said, “they were a lot like we were many years ago.”