Gangster

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Those are workhorses, to help pull the wine carts into town,” Frederico said, gently stroking Annarella’s mane. “This is a champion and will give him a whole line of champions. This one they all can ride with pride.”

  “Don Frederico’s right on the money,” Nico said, admiring the horse from a distance, looking at her legs and muscular front. “If it were up to me, I would have picked up two. One for here and one for the States.”

  “I didn’t know you liked to ride,” I said to Nico, letting Annarella rub her nose against my back.

  “I’ve never been on one in my life,” Nico said. “I let others ride. Like jockeys at the track. A horse like this can bring in millions.”

  “Her millions will be earned in the pleasure she will bring to the Pasquas,” Frederico said. “You have done well here in such a short time. You have taken to your lessons like a serious young man and have learned to respect our ways. I pray they stay with you for the rest of your life. If they do, I will feel as if I have completed my task.”

  I walked over to Don Frederico and embraced him, kissing him respectfully on both cheeks. “I won’t ever forget you,” I said. “Or this place. I’ll always remember my days here in your company.”

  “Then we are both honored,” Don Frederico said as he lowered his head, took Annarella’s reins and led her back inside her stall.

  • • •

  THE DINNER WAS nearing its end, as a final glass of Strega was poured for the table.

  “Go now, young man,” Eduardo said to me after I had downed the bitter drink. “Your time among the old is at an end. I’m sure Anna waits for you, and if she truly is her father’s daughter she does so without patience.”

  “Thank you.” I eased myself casually out of the large room that was just down the hall from the dining area.

  “Non ce di che,” Eduardo Pasqua said with a slight tilt of his head.

  “Can I ask one small favor?” I said, reaching for the doorknob. “It would mean a lot to me if you said yes.”

  “Then ask,” Eduardo said. “And I will do my all to see that it is done.”

  “Can I let Anna take the palomino out for her first ride?”

  Eduardo Pasqua looked at me for several long moments, then slowly nodded his head. “She will like that,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “And I will like it even more.”

  That night, under the smiling glow of a full moon, Anna Pasqua rode the palomino up and down a sand strip on an empty beach of a small vacation island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. I sat on the cool sand, my hands folded against my knees, and watched her glide gently past me. The wind stretched her long hair out like a full-blown sail, her hands were loose on the reigns, the splash of the water rose up and wet her dress and the sides of her bare legs. She rode bareback, occasionally leaning over to whisper words that only the horse could hear. In those moments, nothing else mattered and no other place existed. Despite the chill of the night air, my face and arms were warm to the touch and a calm washed over my body.

  It was a night I never wanted to see end.

  • • •

  MY PEACE WAS shattered the next morning. I turned in bed, my face warmed by the early sunlight. I opened my eyes and saw Don Frederico sitting on a wooden chair, his back to me, looking out at the sea lapping gently against the wet sand. “Get dressed and meet me on the terrace,” he said, as soon as he heard me stir.

  He walked with silent footsteps out of the room and onto the patio. I raced to do as he asked, tossing on a polo shirt and a clean pair of jeans. “What’s wrong?” I stood in front of him, the rising sun washing over the cool tiles of the small terrace outside my room.

  “There was an attempt made on Angelo’s life,” Frederico said. His eyes gave weight to his anger. “He was betrayed by one of his own.”

  “Is he okay?” I could feel my hands and legs shake as I spoke.

  “Angelo is a man with many lives. He was shot at twice, both bullets missed.”

  “Who was behind it?” I asked, stepping closer to the old man.

  “I do not know the name of the man who shot at him,” Frederico said. “I only know who it was that ordered it done.”

  I put my hands on Don Frederico’s wrists and held them, helping to brace myself against the rolling shock of emotions I felt. “Who?”

  “Nico,” Frederico said.

  • • •

  “IT DIDN’T MAKE any sense,” I told Mary, walking alongside her down the hospital corridor. “I had just spent all these weeks learning lessons about honor and loyalty and friendship and then I find out someone Angelo and I both trusted tries to have him killed.”

  “It would be hard enough for a grown man to understand,” Mary said. “It’s harder on a seventeen-year-old boy.”

  “I was living in a world that doesn’t allow you to stay young for very long,” I said. “I was a kid in the middle of my first summer love when I had to make an adult decision on whether Nico lived or died.”

  “You could have waited until you and Nico were back in America,” Mary said. “Then have Angelo deal with it.”

  “That wasn’t part of their plan,” I said. “I had to handle the job on Nico. It was one more lesson I needed to learn.”

  “You could have said no, Gabe,” Mary said, stopping next to a water fountain, bending down to take a long drink. “You could have always said no.”

  “I didn’t know any other way but to say yes. It was how I’d been taught. How I’d been raised. There wasn’t any choice in the matter.”

  “There’s always choice,” Mary said with defiance. “Especially when someone’s life is being decided on. Did you ever think for a moment that you were wrong? That Nico was only part of an even bigger plan that had been designed to keep you where they wanted you kept?”

  “Yes,” I said, staring back at her. “But I wasn’t sure, at least not enough to hold back from what I was asked to do.”

  “That’s the decision of a gangster, Gabe,” Mary said. “Not a boy.”

  “I had to be both,” I said and turned away from Mary, walking slowly back to Angelo’s room.

  • • •

  NICO CAME OUT of the trattoria and stepped into the early morning rain. He was holding a coffee in one hand and a panini in the other. A red Fiat was in the alley next to the trattoria, parked front end first, rear wheels lodged up against a small curb. Don Frederico sat with two of his men in a rowboat moored to the pier, directly across the street.

  “You told me once you were never cut out to be a boss,” I said to him as I stepped around the front of the trattoria. “What changed?”

  “I don’t see anything that’s changed,” Nico said, tossing the bread to the side of the street. “You and me, we’re both still in Italy and, back home, Angelo’s still the boss. It all looks the same to me.”

  I put my hand into the pocket of my black raincoat and felt for the gun there. “You could have made the move yourself,” I said. “Gone up against him on your own, instead of sitting here and sending out somebody who botched the job. That’s the move a real boss would have made.”

  “Is that what they let you think you are now?” Nico asked, lighting a cigarette. “A boss? Or is that something you came up with all by yourself?”

  “I thought we were good friends, Nico,” I said.

  “I work in a business that doesn’t allow for friends,” Nico said in a sharp tone. “Add that to the lessons the old man taught you. When you go into this as a way of life, then nobody’s your friend. And I mean nobody.”

  I took a deep breath and swallowed hard, sweaty fingers gripping the gun in my pocket. Nico let the cigarette drop from his mouth and ran a hand into the open flap of his jacket. I reached to pull the gun out of my pocket, my hand shaking, heavy sweat mixing with drops of rain running down the front of my face. Nico could have had me at any time, there was no question about it, but he hesitated. His eyes never left mine and his .38 came out much slower than it should have.
I heard the first bullet land, saw Nico fall to one leg, and I knew I was shaking too hard to have fired it. I looked to my right and saw one of the men from Don Frederico’s boat, a rifle in his hand, firing round after round into Nico’s body.

  I walked over to Nico and lifted back his head. His eyes were blurry and a thin line of blood flowed out of a corner of his mouth. I didn’t have to ask the question. All I had to do was look at him and he answered it for me.

  “I’m too old to start killing kids,” were his final words.

  I stepped away from his body, turned and walked across the street. I got back into the rowboat and sat next to Don Frederico. I watched as the gunman dragged Nico’s body from the front of the trattoria and into the alley, lifted him and tossed him inside the front seat of the red Fiat. Don Frederico turned to the man rowing the boat and nodded. The man rested the oars against his knees and picked up a black homing device with a green button in the center. He pressed down on the button and turned his head away from the dock.

  The explosion rocked the alley, sending the red Fiat hurtling into the air and landing back down with a flaming thud. The glass from the trattoria shattered and cascaded out onto the street. We were about twenty feet from shore and I closed my eyes to the heat of the blast. I dropped the gun into the bottom of the boat and sat silently next to Don Frederico.

  “Gennaro will take you to the airport,” he finally said to me as we neared the shore. “You should have more than enough time.” Then he pointed toward a dark blue Mercedes that was waiting for us. “Your suitcase is in the trunk. The tickets are on the backseat. Flight seven-eighteen, scheduled to depart at noon.”

  “I will miss you,” I said.

  “We will live in each other’s memories.” Don Frederico gave me a warm embrace. “Both happy and sad ones.”

  I rubbed my hands across my face, my shirt wet from the rain and the sea, my fingers smelling of dried blood. I turned away from the old man and looked out at the passing Neapolitan scenery, at a place and a people I had come to love in such a short time.

  I would see neither of them ever again.

  • • •

  I WAS NOW well prepared to be a career criminal. I had the proper training and a natural feel for the business. I had a respect for the old-liners like Angelo and Don Frederico. I had been a witness to both murder and betrayal and had my appetite whetted for acts of revenge.

  I just didn’t have the stomach for any of it.

  I didn’t want my life to be a lonely and sinister one, where even the closest of friends could overnight turn into an enemy who needed to be eliminated. If I went the way Angelo had paved, I would earn millions, but would never be allowed to taste the happiness and enjoyment such wealth often brings. I would rule over a dark world, a place where treachery and deceit would be at my side and never know the simple pleasures of an ordinary life.

  It was during that nine-hour flight back to New York that I decided I wanted to live my days far removed from the evil realm of the criminal. I had to walk away from both the life and from Angelo. I didn’t know how he would react, or if I could muster the courage to confront him and tell him how I felt. I was good enough to be a gangster, that I knew. I just didn’t know if I was tough enough to tell Angelo that I didn’t want to be one.

  I tried to sleep but was too restless. I didn’t touch any of the food. I stared out the small window at the wide ocean that passed under the wings and vowed not to be swayed by Angelo’s forceful personality, and to have the conviction to follow my decision to its natural end. I knew he would give me time to recover from all that had happened in Italy. But I also knew that each day that I allowed to pass would ensnare me deeper into his web and make my escape a much more difficult one.

  In the midst of my thoughts, I remembered back to when I was eleven and sick with a severe respiratory infection. My fever capped out at 105 degrees and no number of blankets could keep me warm. It was on one of those nights that Angelo came into my room, tossed an electric blanket on top of a mountain of quilts and laid down next to me. He rubbed a cool towel against my forehead and rested a hot water bottle on my chest. He whispered the words to an old Italian ballad, “Parle me d’amore, Mariu,” in my ear until I had fallen asleep. He stayed by my side until the fever broke.

  That was the Angelo few were ever allowed to see. The Angelo I would never fear and always love. The Angelo I needed to find in order to tell him what was in my heart. I sat back and shut my eyes, waiting out the slow descent into JFK and the return to what I had once embraced as a normal life.

  • • •

  ANGELO SAT ON the edge of a garden chair and let his fishing line hang loose off his left hand, the early-morning sun warming his face and neck. I stood behind him with my back against a wooden mast, the small boat floating free in the middle of Long Island Sound. I had been home for three weeks and this was our first time alone together. The anxiety and unease I felt after Nico’s death and my abrupt departure from Italy had not yet vanished. In less than a month I was set to enter college, at a university within walking distance of the bar. I was eager for that day to arrive, seeing it as my first big step toward distancing myself from the criminal world. Angelo viewed my decision to attend college with indifference. He would have preferred not to have to wait another four years before I could begin working full-time by his side. But he also knew that a crime boss with a combination of street knowledge and a degree could prove to be a most lethal weapon to have at his disposal. And so, he stayed silent on the matter.

  During those weeks, I kept my own company, choosing to take long walks after my evening meal, turning down frequent requests to go to movies, ball games or the theater. I was in a transition period and sought my comfort in the silent moments such a time afforded. Angelo kept his distance, allowing me as much free ground as I needed. I could feel his eyes on me whenever I walked through the bar. Occasionally, we would look at each other and nod, quick furtive glances meant to convey understanding and concern. He knew Nico’s death bothered me and that my time in Italy had changed me, but not entirely in the ways he had hoped. I was heading down a new path and needed to navigate my way through its waters alone. A boy’s teenage years can be difficult ones. Mine were made more so, weighted down as I was with the additional burden of attempting to free myself from the addiction of the gangster life.

  He stood in the middle of my room, a few feet from my desk, hands in his pockets, hidden by the shadows. As usual, I saw him long before I heard him, looked up, then checked the clock next to my lamp. “Everything okay?” I asked, my eyes eager for more sleep, tired from hours spent reading and watching television.

  “Good as it’s ever going to be,” Angelo said.

  “It’s almost two,” I said. “Not even Ida would want to be walked this late.”

  “I put some clothes on your bureau. Wash up and put them on. I’ll be waiting outside in the car.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked, as he turned to leave the room.

  “I thought we’d pick up something for dinner,” he said.

  • • •

  “I DIDN’T KNOW you liked to fish.” I looked out at the emptiness of Long Island Sound. “You never mentioned it before.”

  “I’ve never done it before. What little I’ve done so far, I hate.”

  “So why are we out here? This boat’s packed with new fishing poles, gear and enough worms to last a year.”

  “We need time to talk,” Angelo said, dropping the fishing line at his feet. “And the little I know about fishing is that it’s quiet.”

  “Talk about what?” I was suddenly defensive.

  “About you,” Angelo said. “And about what happened to you and Nico in Naples.”

  “You know everything there is to know.”

  “But you don’t. Or at least you’re not sure. And I don’t want that to boil up inside you like it seems to be doing.”

  “There isn’t anything I need to know,” I said with a shrug.
/>   “You need to learn how to live with what happened.”

  I reached into a packed cooler and pulled out a can of Coke and a quart of milk. I handed Angelo the milk and sat on the wood planks, popping open the soda.

  “It was me he wanted dead,” Angelo said. “Not you.”

  “I couldn’t kill him,” I answered. “Even knowing what they said he tried to do, I still couldn’t do it.”

  “That’s because you didn’t believe the hit on me was for real. And you still don’t.”

  “How do you survive it?” I asked suddenly, leaning closer to him. “How do you go through every day alone, knowing there’s nobody you can talk to, nobody you can really ever trust. How do you do that and not go crazy?”

  “I don’t think about it.” Angelo looked off into the distance. “Not any of it.”

  “And what do you think about if not that?”

  “I think about Isabella,” he said. It was the first time I had ever heard him mention her by name. “She’s alive to me, even after all these years. She keeps me happy, inside, in places where no one can see.”

  “If she had lived . . .” I started. He had opened the door and I was eager to enter and ask as many questions about her as he would allow. But now that I had the opportunity, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to ask. As always, however, Angelo knew.

  “I would have been a better man if she had lived,” Angelo said, a soft break to his voice, “but not as good a gangster.”

  “How long did it take for you to work that out?” I asked.

  “I’m still working it out. She’s the only piece of me that’s alive. Nobody else sees it. Nobody else knows it. But I see it and I feel it. Every day I can touch that part of her that’s in me. Some days she’s clearer than others. You’ve been around me long enough to tell when my days are dark.”

  I nodded and glanced past him at the waves hitting the side of the boat. “Did it help taking care of the ones who shot her?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You feel good that they’re dead, but they’re just triggers without faces. And it’s not killing you’re looking for. It’s keeping alive what you once had in your arms.”