1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Friendship and honor, I thought. Just like Tony says.

  I GOT UP AT eight. Showered and dressed, then went to Tony’s house. Arrangements had to be made for Pops. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I knew I’d have help. The smell of Rosa’s meatballs hit me as I climbed the steps to her house. I hated to think of something nice on a day like this, but Rosa’s spaghetti and meatballs seemed to help any situation. As I opened the screen door, I thought about Mamma Rosa. She had simple solutions for everything, and most of them had a root in food.

  Rosa blamed air conditioners for half of the woes of the world. Said they kept people inside, made them stop socializing. “Once you stop talking with your neighbors you find things wrong with them,” she said. “And if you keep the windows closed at night, people holler more at each other, or worse—at their kids. If half the neighborhood is listening, people will be more careful with their words.”

  Worst of all though, she blamed those vile air conditioners for blocking the sweet smell of food being prepared. There was something magical about the smell of sauce and garlic from a whole neighborhood, Rosa always said. Tony and I used to laugh about it all the time, but Mick disagreed. “That’s okay for you dagos; tomato sauce smells good. But over by my house all that’s getting cooked is potatoes. And let me tell you, potatoes smell like shit when they’re cooking.” We used to laugh our asses off about that.

  I stopped, took a final whiff of the sweet-smelling sauce, then walked in. “Morning, Mamma Rosa. Sure smells good in here.” Angie stood behind her, white-and-green apron covered in sauce. I didn’t think she would have been here this early.

  Rosa’s face lit up. She set the big wooden spoon down, the same versatile spoon that both stirred the sauce and beat our asses, and then she ran for me, arms open wide. She squeezed me a few more times than necessary, then shoved me toward the table and into a chair. “Sit, Nicky. You need breakfast.”

  As she stirred the sauce, she yelled upstairs. “Tony. Carlo. Get down here and have breakfast with Nicky.” She turned to Angie. “Make some espresso for the boys.”

  I jumped up from the table. “I can get that, Mamma—”

  The spoon wagged at me, and her eyes slapped me back into the chair. “Sit down. Angie will get it.” She brought a meatball over, skewered on a fork. “Taste this. See what you think.”

  As I nibbled on it, she kept talking. “I called Jimmy Maldonaddo.” She looked my way, made sure I saw her face. “He said to tell you how sorry he was. Said to tell you your father was a good man.”

  I nodded. Nobody had much to say about Pops when he was alive, but now people were coming out of the woodwork to sing his praises.

  “Jimmy will take care of everything,” Rosa said. The wake will be tomorrow night, and the funeral the next day. Father Dimitri will do the ceremony.” She looked at me again, but this time with business eyes. “He’ll be put next to your mother.”

  “Of course,” I said, but then the embarrassment hit. “Mamma Rosa, I…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t…how am I gonna bury Pops? I can’t pay for any of it.”

  She let her spoon fall into the sauce—a cardinal sin—and then she reached for me. “Nicky. Mio bambino. Don’t worry about things like that.”

  I pushed away. Looked into her eyes. “I can’t ignore it. Pops needs to be buried, and I’ve got nothing.”

  She smothered me in her arms. I felt her crying. “Don’t you worry, Little Nicky. I’ll take care of your Pops. A lot of people owe your Mamma Rosa favors. And it’s time they paid.”

  ROSA TOOK OFF HER apron, told Angie to finish the sauce, then went upstairs to dress. She put on her finest checkerboard dress, her best pair of nylons, and her black walking shoes. She grabbed her purse from the dining room table and walked up the street toward the funeral home. Dominic, her husband, had been sick for a long time and could no longer drive. It didn’t matter much; Rosa loved to walk. Before long she was knocking on Jimmy Maldonaddo’s side door.

  He greeted her warmly, but before he could say anything else she started in on him. “I won’t have Dante Fusco buried in shame. Nicky’s a good boy, and he needs to see his father buried right.” She wagged her finger at him as if it were her wooden spoon. “You owe me, Jimmy Maldonaddo.”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Rosa, please. Dante took care of everything before he went. Everything is paid for.”

  Rosa looked at him, then mumbled, “Where the hell did he get the money?” It puzzled her, but Rosa was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She moved on to the cemetery. She found the same situation every place she went. Dante had paid for the cemetery, the wake, the flowers, had even paid the priest.

  She walked home from the church, shaking her head as she came in the back door. She walked straight to Nicky. “Everything is taken care of.”

  “I don’t know how you did it, Mamma, but you know I appreciate it.”

  She grabbed a pot for coffee. “I didn’t do anything. Your father had it all taken care of.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how, Nicky, but he has everything paid for. You have no need to worry. He’ll have a nice funeral.”

  ROSA GOT ME TO Jimmy’s place early. I wanted to wait until the last minute, but she insisted. Tony and Bugs were with me. Suit, Mick and Chinski would be there any minute. I was glad to have them up front near me. I was going to sit with Rosa and Tony, but the rest of the guys would be in the row behind me. Rosa said it would be okay since they were going to be the pall bearers. I didn’t have any family so I asked them. I think they were honored. Tony’s brother Carlo was the sixth one.

  Jimmy Maldonaddo’s wakes were held in an old house on Union Street. It was actually two row houses that he had converted into a funeral home. The building sat at the middle of the block, right where the breezeway came in, allowing access to the back of the building. Five short steps led up to a small brick porch, then in another door to a waiting area. This is where the sign-in book would be, and where people gathered before going in to pay their respects.

  Bugs and Tony and I were standing near the back of the room, away from the casket. I stared down the hall and saw that a few people had formed a line in the waiting room. When I looked the other way, I saw Mamma Rosa pacing and praying on her rosary. “What’s the matter?” I asked Tony.

  “It’s a wake, Rat. You know how bad she is at anyone’s wake, but this is your pops.” Tony tugged on my sleeve. “You get everything? You know how damn superstitious Mamma is.”

  I checked the pocket inside my jacket. “Got ’em.”

  After a few more people gathered, Rosa came down the hall to get me. She waved Bugs and Tony away as if they were pests. “Go on. Take your seats.” She patted my back. “Are you ready?”

  I nodded. “Guess so, Mamma.”

  She squeezed my hand. “I’ll stand with you if you want.”

  “That would be good. I’d like that. Maybe Tony, too.”

  Her smile told me she approved. “He would be honored,” she said, but then her smile disappeared, and her brow furrowed as if a great burden had come upon her. “Did you remember the items for the coffin?”

  I patted my jacket pocket. “I’ve got them right here.”

  She held out trembling hands. “Let me see what you have.”

  I pulled out the picture of me when I was little, maybe five years old.

  Mamma Rosa closed her eyes, and shook her head slowly. I thought she was going to cry. “You were such a beautiful baby.”

  I waited, then handed her a more recent picture of me, then the picture of my mother. She held them as if they were treasures, nodding the whole time.

  “And the lighter?” she asked.

  I pulled out Pops’ favorite lighter. It was so old that the metal was worn at the edges, but it still worked. Pops was never one to give up on something just because it was old.

  Rosa seemed to be getting more nervous. “The cigarettes?”

  I took them o
ut of my jacket and gave them to Rosa. She felt the pack, looked inside. “There’s not more than a half a pack, is there?”

  “Only nine.” I almost laughed despite the occasion. Rosa was so superstitious. I still remember her words the first time I went to a wake with her. I asked why people were putting things in the coffin, and she looked around the room, then whispered to me.

  “When someone dies, even though we miss them, we don’t want their spirit coming back. So we put the things that they will need to be happy in the next life—pictures of their loved ones; their favorite lighter, half a pack of cigarettes—”

  I asked her why half a pack. Why not a whole one?

  Rosa said some people put whole packs in, but she felt if you did that, the spirit might think there was an endless supply and come back for more. If they saw only half a pack, they would know they got all there was. She then added that she had never seen a spirit come back when only half a pack was put in.

  I reached over and hugged her. She was a saint. “We better get in line.”

  She motioned for Tony to join us. “And don’t forget to save your items until last,” she said as we formed the line at the casket. I tried not to look at Pops as we passed. I had some time alone with him earlier, and there would be a chance afterward.

  Just as they were about to let people in, Rosa left me and hurried to the front room, grabbing Angela on her way. Rosa ushered her past the waiting line and brought her to the front.

  Angie paid her respects, taking time to say her prayers, then she placed a picture of us at a school dance in his pocket. Tears were already building inside me. I didn’t know how I was going to last the night. She hugged me, then Rosa and Tony, then took a seat with Bugs. There weren’t many people, not compared to a lot of the wakes in our area. Most of the ones that showed up were the parents and brothers and sisters of my friends. Mick’s whole family came, so that was eleven right there. Tony whispered that the only reason they came was to have Rosa’s food at the gathering afterwards. He might have been right, but that was a small price to pay. Having a lot of people at the wake was a symbol of pride. It meant the person was respected. After about half an hour, the line was down to nothing. I thought we were going to wrap it up. It was a little embarrassing not having many people there.

  Just as I was thinking that, the front door opened and in walked The Face with Tommie Tucks and Pockets. They came in, knelt in front of the casket and said their prayers, then offered condolences. They each put something in his casket, but I didn’t see what. While they were in line talking to Rosa, Doggs and Paulie Shoes came in.

  I thought the floor might have groaned when Patsy the Whale showed up, and Nicky the Nose was there, hanging on to his coattails as if he were a lapdog. Charlie Knuckles came in with a guy named Monk, and Jimmy the Gem grabbed the door behind them before it closed. And they kept coming: Johnny Handsome, Ralph the Angel, Sammy Smiles, Lefty, Bobby Glasses, Four Fingers Joey, and more. My tears dried and my heart swelled. This was respect. The whole neighborhood showed up. Everybody who was anybody had come to see my Pops.

  We waited about ten minutes after everyone had passed. Rosa said it was time for me to visit with Pops. As I moved toward him I heard footsteps coming across the hardwood floor. I turned to see Sister Mary Thomas, rosary in hand, walking toward me. She grabbed hold of me and hugged. Wouldn’t let go.

  “I’m so sorry, Nicky.”

  I thought I heard tears in her voice. Maybe I did, but I couldn’t be sure. She went to the casket right away, knelt and started praying. She must have said as many prayers as everyone else combined, the way she flipped through those rosary beads. Guess with all of that practice it gets easier. When she finally stood, she bent over Pops and laid something in the coffin, just inside his coat.

  I thanked her, then Rosa did. After that it was time for me. I was tempted to see what she had put in there, but that wouldn’t have been right. I said some prayers. Laid the pictures in there with him. Put the lighter by his right hand, then the smokes by his left. He always smoked with his left hand. After that, I looked around to make sure nobody was close, then I leaned in and sang him the lullaby he used to sing to me when I was little.

  CHAPTER 19

  THOUGHTS OF DEATH

  Brooklyn—Current Day

  Frankie pulled down the street to his apartment, finding a parking spot half a block down. He noticed Alex on the steps when he went by, so he stopped at the store and got him a Heath bar, Alex’s favorite. He was a great kid, with a personality that went into high gear the moment anyone talked to him.

  “Hey, Ace, how’s it going?” Frankie had given him the name from their time spent playing cards in Frankie’s apartment while his mother was “busy.”

  Alex raised a weak hand to wave. Frankie tossed him the candy from about ten feet away, like he always did. Alex missed it.

  “Whoa, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right, well, let me know if I can do anything.”

  “Yeah.”

  Frankie started up the steps then stopped. He knew exactly what was wrong. Alex’s mother was all but a whore and she chased that poor boy outside every time a new boyfriend came by. He pictured Alex’s face, his runny nose, and realized his own life was not that goddamn important. He went back outside, sat next to Alex and watched the cars go by.

  After about a minute, Alex looked at him for the third time. “What’s up, FD? Why you sittin’ here?”

  “I felt like shit too. Thought I’d join you.”

  Alex shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Cold?”

  He shrugged again.

  Frankie took off his coat and wrapped it around Alex, then lit a smoke.

  “You got one of them smokes for me?”

  Frankie almost snapped at him, but caught himself. Alex didn’t need to hear more shit today. Frankie handed him a smoke and offered him a light from his own cigarette.

  “Thanks, FD.”

  They sat in silence while they smoked, then Frankie started talking, almost to himself. “I knew a guy growing up who had a mom like yours. When he was little he thought she was the best damn person in the world…” The silence lingered as he stared across the street at nothing.

  Alex looked at him. “Then what?”

  “Then he found out she had a lot of boyfriends.”

  “Like my mom?”

  “Yeah, I guess sort of like that, except his mom was married.”

  Alex straightened up, pulled the coat tighter around him. “Did the dad know?”

  A gust of winter air rushed down the street; Frankie shivered. He put his arm around Alex. “Yeah, he knew.”

  “That’s shit,” Alex said. “What’d he do to her?”

  Frankie crushed out his smoke, didn’t answer. After a few seconds, Alex asked again. “Hey, FD, what’d he do?”

  “He took it out on us,” Frankie said.

  Alex handed him the last of his cigarette, almost to the filter now. Frankie took a long drag then handed it back. “How about I cook dinner for us?”

  Alex took off the coat and handed it to Frankie. “You got a deal. I’m hungry.”

  Frankie cooked dinner then they watched an old movie. Alex had gotten to like the old black-and-whites from watching so many with Frankie. When he laughed it reminded Frankie of the old days, when he and Nicky and Tony used to laugh so much.

  After a while, Alex’s mother came looking for him. She always knew where to find him if he wasn’t on the stoop. She was polite, and she showed the proper amount of concern. And she was embarrassed, unable to meet Frankie’s glare, but Frankie knew she would do the same thing next week and the week after that. He almost said something to her; instead, he said good night to Alex and said he’d see him tomorrow.

  It was too late to work, so Frankie listened to music then went to bed, hoping to get a good night’s rest.

  Nino Tortella’s mutilated face kept popping into Frankie’s he
ad, waking him from what could have been a good sleep. He sat up, drank water from a bottle he kept on the nightstand, actually a folding table he got at the garage sale along with the Bogart picture, then turned the lights on. There was no reason to turn the lights on other than to try to wash the image of Nino from his mind. This can’t be Nicky. He wouldn’t do that to someone.

  He told himself that but he didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to face the tough decisions that would follow if it was true. After all, Nicky had saved his ass a lot of times—saved his life at Woodside. As Frankie thought about it, he remembered how scared he was that night. It was never easy going to a gang fight. As kids they pumped themselves up as they walked toward the scene, but that was all for show, to keep each other from turning and running. Once you were there, pride kept you, but the fear only got worse.

  Frankie remembered his stomach roiling, the sick feeling he got like he would throw up, and how, in the end, he was able to channel it all into hatred for the Woodside guys. All of that fear focused inside a raging youth wielding a chain and a club.

  He took another sip from the bottle, wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost five. Not a good time to be trying to go back to sleep, but sure as shit not a good time to get up, either. He thought about death a lot since Woodside. After that he no longer wanted his father to die. Not even his mother. When Frankie faced death that first time it changed his perspective on things. A lot.

  Frankie leaned back, sucked hard on a smoke. He could still hear that gunshot as if he were right there. He remembered turning, seeing somebody go down, then seeing the guy turn the gun toward him, all in slow motion. He thought he was going to die that night, and he didn’t like it one bit. I would have died if not for Nicky.