by Albert Demeo
I continued to carry a concealed gun when I was with my mom or my sisters, and at night I patrolled the house with Major, armed. I moved quietly, and my sisters never heard me pass their bedroom doors. I knew that if someone broke in and I had to shoot, I would not miss. My father had shown me how the burglar alarm worked, and I checked the electrical contacts regularly. It took nearly an hour to check the windows in all three stories. He'd also showed me how to short circuit the system with a metal clip if I needed to get out undetected at night. I knew how to use the electronic scanning device, and I checked the house for bugs at least twice a day. The device was tiny, like a keyless entry system for a car, and I could sit down in the living room with my mother or sisters and scan the room without their ever seeing what I was doing.
I was worried about my mother. For the first time, as I wandered the house sleepless in the long nights, I saw my mother sitting alone in the darkness of our elegant living room. She would sit staring, her face filled with vacant sorrow, a drink in her hand. I had never known her to drink much alcohol, but in the suffocating fear of those endless nights, I watched in silence as she sipped the liquid like medication. Guilty for spying on her privacy, I would creep quietly back up the stairs into the darkness. As far as I know, she never noticed I was there.
Only months into puberty, I found myself with all the rights—and all the responsibilities—of a man and a soldier. As the world around me altered irrevocably, my psyche began to alter with it. From the time I was eight years old, fear had been the dominating principle of my existence. At the center of that fear was the knowledge that one day my dad would not come home. Yet when confronted with the possibility of that nightmare finally coming true, the terror mysteriously seemed to disappear. I was no longer conscious of anxiety, only of fierce, focused determination to keep my father alive. Like boys who go to war and are forced into manhood overnight, I no longer had the luxury of being afraid. Our lives were rapidly being reduced to simple survival. I felt very little emotion of any kind anymore. Instead I lived somewhere outside my body, my consciousness hovering nearby but never quite connecting, waiting for Friday when the phone would ring.
The call finally came. I had been extra careful on my trip to the phone booth, making three stops on the way and spending over two hours in side routes for a trip that usually took twenty minutes on my bike. My father was fine, he told me, holed up in a safe house with Cousin Joe in Manhattan. He needed a little more time to let his beard grow and make a few arrangements, but then we'd be leaving the country together for a little while. Meanwhile, he'd keep in touch once a week. How were my mother and sisters? They were fine, I told him. I had everything under control. He told me I'd better get home and told me the number for the next contact.
Things went on like this for over six weeks before I finally got the call I'd been waiting for. I was to tell my mother I'd be away with Dad for a couple of weeks. Then I was to pack some things in a garbage bag, sneak out the back of the house in the middle of the night, and swim across to meet him on the other side of the canal, near a cul de sac. “And Al?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Be careful, Son, you hear me?”
“Sure, Dad, I'll be careful.”
I wasn't frightened the night I swam the canal; I was relieved to finally be doing something. I missed my father desperately, and I was happier in hiding with him than at home without him. My father drove me to a safe house near Forty-Second Street in the city, where Cousin Joe was still hiding out. I almost laughed when I saw Joe. In an attempt to disguise himself, he had tried to dye his white hair red, but instead it had turned clown orange. He looked absolutely ridiculous. My father sent me to the drugstore with a list of hair-care products, and when I got back, Dad and I redyed Joe's hair ourselves. It didn't come out great, but at least people wouldn't point and laugh if they saw him. For the first few days we stayed inside most of the time, talking and watching TV while Joe cooked. A couple of mornings Dad and I walked down to the corner deli for breakfast, just to get out of the house for a while. My father wore dark glasses and a baseball cap, and with the new beard, even I barely recognized him. One afternoon we went to a matinee and saw Poltergeist, which had just come out that summer. Mostly, though, we just talked as Dad filled me in on the plan he was formulating.
If it became too dangerous for him to remain in the United States, he needed a place he could escape to permanently. He didn't want to go any place that required a passport, because a false passport meant federal prison if he got caught. The most practical choice was the Bahamas. He had already gotten a false Italian birth certificate and three American ID's in different names to travel with; he would establish another identity in the islands. I would need false identities as well, for I would not be able to travel back and forth to see him under my own name. He laid out three sets of identification for me on the coffee table in the safe house, each consisting of a driver's license, a birth certificate, and a credit card. If the travel reservations were made with cash instead of a credit card, he pointed out, it would look suspicious. The cover had to be as complete as possible. The birthdays on all three of mine were my real birthday, but the year was different. I had to seem old enough to travel alone. It seemed funny that I had three driver's licenses, but I couldn't use any of them to drive. I didn't even know how. Dad told me to memorize the information for all three identities until I could use them flawlessly, without appearing to think about what I was saying. We would be leaving for the islands in just a few days.
He also told me what to pack. I was to bring all the things any kid would bring on a vacation in the Bahamas, including my swim gear and a couple of books that looked like assigned summer reading. He had also gotten me a copy of Penthouse to put in my carry-on where the customs officials would be certain to find it. That way they would be so distracted by the photos that they wouldn't pay much attention to me.
Dad had booked us on separate flights to make certain no one connected us. His left eight hours before mine; a few hours after he took off, I checked my baggage and then sat around La Guardia, reading magazines and eating junk food like a typical teenager on vacation. I wondered if Uncle Vinny still worked there. Those trips there with Dad seemed like several lifetimes ago.
My flight was uneventful, and when I landed a few hours later, I took a cab to the hotel as my father had instructed me. I already knew what room he was booked in. The hotel was on the beach. The scenery was breathtaking, turquoise waves rolling onto a crystal beach, and the luxury hotel had every amenity, but we weren't there to enjoy ourselves. This was serious business. Dad made a couple of calls, and early the next morning we rented a car and drove to the department of vital statistics downtown. A man was waiting for us in an office there. We went inside, and I watched my father count one thousand dollars into his hand. Ten minutes later we left with a new Bahamian identity for my father, complete with a genuine birth certificate. It was that simple.
The next few days were spent driving around, acquainting ourselves with the area, looking at houses to rent. I needed to be able to find my father without asking around too much if he moved there. We also needed a cover in case anyone wondered what we were doing there, so my father signed me up for scuba lessons. I was already an accomplished swimmer, but after several days of diving, I earned my scuba diving certification. If anyone asked me how I had spent my time, I would have an answer for them.
Our last night there, we went down to the beach at sunset. I would be leaving for home early the next morning, since school started in a week; my father would take a later flight. If word on the street indicated it was safe enough, my father would come home. If not, I knew what to do. We sat on the sand side by side, gazing out to sea. The ocean turned from gold to bloodred, painting a path of liquid sunlight to the glowing orb sinking beneath the horizon. It was so beautiful, it made my throat catch. I looked over at my father, who sat in silence next to me, blind to the overpowering beauty all around us. I wondered if we wo
uld ever be there together again. The next morning, I left for New York and the beginning of the eighth grade. My mother never knew where I had been.
A month later my father came home. Anthony and Joey came back from California. I never did find out what they were doing there. Cousin Joe moved from the safe house back into his apartment in Brooklyn, though Dad never took me to the Gemini anymore. He didn't think it was safe. For a while, life seemed to resume its normal rhythm. As I settled into the eighth grade, I continued to behave in public like any other Long Island teenager, doing my homework and going to the movies. My real life remained private, a secret only my father and I shared. I was rapidly becoming a skilled, effortless liar. All the secrets I had to hide from the world, all the strategies I needed to mask with my schoolboy appearance, all the things I couldn't tell my mother—these things formed a disguise as effective as anything my father kept in the trunk of his car. The most frightening thing about this elaborate double life was that it was beginning to seem normal to me. I was coming to understand my father's ability to keep his worlds separate. Unlike criminals, however, I was deeply uncomfortable with the continual need for duplicity. I carried an ever-present load of anxiety like other kids carried their backpacks.
By the time I graduated from the eighth grade at the end of the year, my transformation into a junior wiseguy was nearly complete. As a graduation gift, my father gave me a platinum watch ringed with diamonds exactly like his own. It was a symbolic gesture as much as a gift. The watch was totally inappropriate for a boy of fourteen; it was a rich man's watch, a symbol of success and of power.
The saving grace of that year, and of all the years since then, came in the form of two guys named Tommy and Nick.
Nick came into my life one afternoon as I crossed the school grounds on my way home. Nick was a tall, burly kid with a big heart and a tendency to get into fights, and that day he was hopelessly outnumbered. Five kids had jumped him, and seeing him swinging gallantly at the ring of boys around him, I jumped in to help. I barely knew him, but I knew an unfair fight when I saw one, and I came to his defense. I was still short for my age but strong and skilled; and between the two of us, Nick and I sent the others running. From that day on, we remained fast friends. Nick was kind, loyal, and warm hearted. He didn't care what my father did for a living, and he didn't ask. I was just his friend Al. For the first time, in and out of school, I knew someone had my back. It felt good.
Tommy became part of my life the summer before the ninth grade. Tommy's family lived down the street from us. I knew Tommy's younger sister from school, and one afternoon she invited me over to swim. I walked with her out to the pool, and there was this tousle-haired blond guy sitting in a pool of blood on the deck. He had cut his foot working on their boat. Tommy was older than I was, but we hit it off immediately. We talked and joked for a while and ended up taking the boat out into the canal. Tommy knew who my father was; everyone in the neighborhood knew. He just didn't care. He was more interested in swimming and girls and sneaking some beer down to the dock on a hot summer evening. Tommy told me he'd hang out with the Wop if I'd hang out with the Kraut. It sounded like a deal to me. I took him home to dinner one night, and once he'd tasted my mother's cooking, he practically moved in. Between my pretty sisters and my mother's food, he was at our house more than I was. When I had to go away with my father, Tommy volunteered to “hang out and keep an eye on things.” That meant flirting with Debra and making sure my mother never had to wrap up any leftovers.
When most people say they would never have survived without their friends, they don't mean it literally. I do. I would never have survived, physically or psychologically, without Tommy and Nick. They became the brothers I never had, and I knew they would die for me if necessary, just as I would for them. They made my life survivable.
My father knew that. The first time he met Tommy, he said that Tommy would be my friend for life. In an atmosphere of continual fear and betrayal, my father told me I could trust Tommy. Tommy was one of the few people my father allowed into the family on a regular basis during those years. He never talked business in front of Tommy, of course, and Tommy never asked me a single question about my father's business or my occasional disappearing act. When my father's crew came over on business, Tommy would vanish up the stairs or head home. On sunny days my father would sometimes take Tommy and Nick with us out on the boat. We would dive and fish or just lie in the warm sun. On the boat with Tommy and Nick, life seemed almost normal.
I knew some of the kids at school whispered about where my family's money really came from, but no one ever said anything to me. I did well in my classes because my father remained a stickler about homework and school participation. Even when he needed my help, he would wait for a weekend or vacation before involving me. I was never allowed to cut class. It was a strict family rule. My little sister never missed a day of school, ever, from kindergarten to college. I enrolled in Regents' classes in ninth grade, the college-track classes on Long Island. My father talked to me constantly about the importance of going to college. He'd never had the opportunity, for he'd had to start supporting his mother and Uncle Joe when he was still in high school, but he didn't want that kind of life for me. As soon as the family was safe and he could find a way out, I was to have nothing more to do with the Mob. I was going to be a doctor or maybe a stockbroker, whatever I wanted, just so it was something I could be proud of. He made me promise that, whatever happened to him, I would finish college. I promised.
My father tried hard to keep my daily life as normal as possible. For the most part, he seemed to be succeeding. At school I was a model student, always on time and prepared. I spent breaks and lunch times with Tommy and Nick. Tommy had a car, so we went off campus at lunch breaks to Burger King or Taco Bell, sometimes bringing a carload of classmates with us. When I was in town, I went to Saturday afternoon football games in the fall and to pool parties in warm weather. I had plenty of friends, from all groups, but there was one difference. Except for Tommy and Nick, I never brought them home. All of my socializing took place at school or at someone else's house. People thought of me as the comedian of the group. I still cracked jokes like I had when I was in elementary school. I couldn't have looked more carefree or well adjusted, but even in the middle of a party, I felt like I wasn't really there. One night I found myself standing by a friend's pool, laughing and joking about his idiot history teacher, yet all the time my mind a million miles away. I was always wondering if my father was safe, if there would be a message for me when I got home, if something bad had happened. No matter how many people surrounded me, I felt separate from them, like a spotlight isolating a singer on a stage. It was like pretending to be a teenager, for how could I take the outcome of a football game seriously when our family's life was at stake—literally. Being a high school student was my cover, not my reality.
My father still took me camping when he could, but even these father–son outings were being steadily transformed into survival lessons. Dad gave me his old copy of the Boy Scout handbook and told me to study it carefully. If we had to hide out in the woods, he told me, knowing how to survive outdoors without supplies would be essential. Trips upstate together became opportunities to put what I read into practice. The key lesson in these outings was “use what you have and make use of what you find.” On one trip we ran out of both food and water, and it took longer than my father expected to reach a source of fresh water. We had been walking nearly all day when we came across a well near a cabin deep in the woods. The well's cover had a padlock to keep animals from getting into it. After several futile attempts to open it, my father pulled out his handgun and shot the lock off. “Use what you have, Al,” he told me. If that meant using a revolver instead of a bucket to get water, then you used the revolver.
By the end of freshman year, with my father gone more and more of the time, it became my responsibility to do cash collections in his absence. For the most part, it was little different from a paper route a
fter school. My father simply took me around, introduced me to his loan customers, and said, “This is my son, Albert. He'll be picking up your payments when I'm out of town.” And I would. The customers weren't underworld types; they were salesmen, shop owners, and mechanics. I would stop by their places of business on a Friday afternoon, pick up a paper bag or an envelope, thank them, and take the money home. I never even counted it. Customers observed a certain honor system based on a mixture of intimidation and respect. Nobody wanted to cheat the Mob.
Since I was still too young for a real driver's license, Tommy drove me on these errands. He had a pretty good idea what was going on, and eventually I confided bits and pieces to him. I even gave him a nickname befitting his new status: “Tommy Wheels,” my driver, just as Freddy was my father's driver. I don't know what Tommy's parents would have said if they'd known what he was doing, but we were teenagers, and to Tommy it was all a lark. What was the big deal about dropping me off at the drugstore and circling the block to pick me up a few minutes later? The only danger he saw was boredom. One afternoon he got a bright idea to liven things up a bit, and against my better judgment, I went along with him.
I was due to make the weekly collection from Joe the barber, and I knew it would be a challenge. Joe was a deadbeat in every sense of the word. A chronic gambler, Joe had gambled away the money his family needed for his daughter's surgery. Sitting in the barber's chair one day, my father overheard Joe's wife crying as she told her husband he'd just lost the money for an operation their daughter needed. Joe knew my father only as a customer in those days, but overhearing the conversation, my father asked Joe how much the surgery would cost. Joe told him, and my father handed the money over on the spot. Joe thanked him profusely and solemnly promised to keep to the payment schedule they agreed on. His daughter had the surgery, and for a while Joe stuck to the bargain. As his daughter improved, however, Joe gradually slipped back into his old ways and began gambling away the payments he'd promised my father. My father disliked Joe and had contempt for him because of the way he treated his wife and kids. He told Joe he'd better not catch him gambling again. In spite of warnings, Joe continued to shortchange my dad week after week.
