Tony looked at Sal incredulously, “Why? Don’t you like laying bricks?” By my brother’s look, he wasn’t finding any humor in my uncle. This had become my fight now, so before my brother could open his mouth, I answered, “No, he wants to be a cop.” Tony’s eyes widened, “And your father knows.” I nodded my head. Tony’s voice elevated a few octaves, “Where is your father now?” My mother pointed to the backyard with the aid of her ladle. Tony panicked, “Madonna, I better get out of here. Rosa, sorry, can I get the soup to go?” I just shook my head in disbelief; the intimidation my father wielded over the entire family was mind-boggling. Suddenly, the top of his head passing under the kitchen window caused a fright; Saverio was coming in from the garden. Tony scurried back to his token booth with a slice of bread and a Chinese takeout container of soup under his arm. My brother gingerly put the chair back at its rightful place at the table and scurried up the stairs, hiding behind his bedroom door. Little protection that would provide him, but I wondered if he couldn’t handle my father, how was he going to deal with the criminals and deviants of the city?
Well, at least I got his problem off my chest and now could sleep comfortably tonight. I called Vito and told him I would pick him up at seven-forty-five. If SHE were there tonight, I wouldn’t miss my chance.
*****
The headlines of the Daily News at once grabbed my attention;
.44-Cal Slayer Kills Girl, Beau
At that moment, it didn’t concern me much. This sick bastard was killing young men and women as they went about loving each other. He’d sneak up on them as they sat in their cars and shoot them with no warning. What a cowardly thing to do, but these murders were in Queens and the Bronx. He didn’t have the guts to come to Brooklyn!
*****
Saturday night in every disco in Brooklyn was a big event, like the first game of a world series. Every young cugine and cuginette was dressed to the “9’s” and prepared themselves to show the opposite sex their best moves. Dancing was the name of the game, and your ability, or lack of, defined the nightly strikeouts, walks, and batting averages.
Now mind you, in any disco, you had the “haves,” “the have-nots,” “the hell-no’s,” and “the wannabes.” Now pay close attention and see what category you fall into. The haves were those who had it going on. They moved effortlessly across the dance floor, and no matter what piece of crap the DJ was spinning, they had the moves to make the ladies take notice. I, of course, fell into that category. Now we move on to the have-nots. You all have witnessed a few of those poor schnooks at one time or another. Those are the people who never leave the dance floor at a wedding, full of herky-jerky moves and look more like they’re having an epileptic fit than any resemblance to dancing. I give them credit, they make themselves look foolish with enthusiasm, but more times than not, girls are huddled together, pointing and giggling at their retarded moves. Ok, now for the hell-no’s, not much explanation needed here. These are the people who, despite repeated invitations to join the dance floor, always refuse. You know, you see girls tugging at their arms, trying as hard as they can to drag them out and make them look like total fools. Hence the tag; hell-no. Now we come to the last group, and the name may throw you. Many of these guys could dance very well, they usually had it going on, but there’s one significant distinction, these guys wanted to get noticed, but not by the opposite sex. No, they were not faggots, these guys wanted to get the attention of wiseguys, desperate to become part of a crew. These were the minor leagues of gangsterdom, supposedly the toughest of the tough, raring to commit a crime at the drop of a hat.
Now you may say to yourself, what does that have to do with dancing? Wiseguys had many rules, and quite a few of them had little reasoning behind them. First, wiseguys were supposed to be clean-shaven (not sure why). Second, never lie to one another (at least don’t confess to it). Third, they never admitted going down on a girl (they all did it). Lastly, never, ever, dance in public (except at their daughter’s wedding) (give me a break!). The wannabes were usually huddled in corners, drinking straight liquor (exhibiting how tough they were), leaning over one another in deep discussion (more than likely checking out some girl’s ass like the rest of us). Often, they were the ones that began the violent melee’s that occurred more often than not.
*****
As Vito and I entered Romeo’s, I scanned the floor for her. Caesar Romano, the head bouncer nodded to me, Hey Anthony, how are you tonight?”
“Hey Caesar, how ya doin?” I glanced around, “Is Gia here yet?”
“Not yet, my man.” He patted me on the back and leaning over, whispered in my ear, “Lucky guy.”
The usual cast of characters already took their spots according to an implicit pecking order. I was desperate to see her; I wasn’t the type to rehearse my first lines in front of a mirror. I would wing it. Finkleman was at a table with a girl who wasn’t yet young enough to drink, it was early in the evening, and he already was begging. Just next to him, I noticed one of those wannabes glaring at me. His eyes were piercing, as though he wanted to do me great bodily harm. Louie Baldassari hung around a treacherous Cassaro crew out of Red Hook since he was in diapers. He was quick with his hands and known as an up-and-comer, and that had nothing to do with boxing. Guys like this were the most dangerous; he was known to be short-tempered and often unhinged. In a one-on-one street fight, I would murder him, but this type of hoodlum would come back from a beating with a knife or a gun.
I turned my eyes away from his glare; it wasn’t out of cowardice; I didn’t want him to think I was accepting his challenge. I wondered silently to myself if there was a problem.
Patting me on the shoulder, Vito jolted me from my momentary stupor, “I will grab us a table.” My mind flipped through a rogues’ gallery of Louie’s friends, to see if I could recall any previous ill dealings with them. Dilemmas with these guys could never be swept under the rug, they would fester, and a small problem could come back and kill you. Often you don’t see these types of issues coming; they could be an imperceptible slight or just inadvertently bumping into him on the way to the men’s room, that’s all it took. I shook it off; I must be imagining it. But as I was soon to discover, there was a problem, and this one came right out of left field.
Life in the club was carefree, and so was the loving. Vito found a table on the edge of the balcony overlooking the dance floor for us, and before I could sit, someone grabbed my arm. “You promised me the last time I saw you, and I’m not letting you off the hook.” The sultry voice was that of a twenty-six-year-old divorcee named Gina Romano, she was Caesar’s cousin, and at six foot four and a runner-up in the Mr. Universe contest, Caesar was her guardian without peer. Gina’s round, sexy ass dislodged that hostile image of Louie's mug. She yanked me onto the dance floor and handed me a drink to share with her. Although I wasn’t supposed to drink, I couldn’t refuse her. She was beyond beautiful, voluptuous, and ready for action, but she was not the type of woman I could take home. Gina had a year-old daughter who was back home with her mother. She was stranded in a dead-end job, working for a bail bondsman, and Saturday nights at the club offered her a glimpse at what was and what could have been. Hey, she could still dream.
The DJ switched the tempo by putting on a slower, sensual melody, and when the sultry tune of ‘If You Leave Me Now' resonated, Gina and I were in an erotic body lock. As we embraced, I took the drink out of her hand and awkwardly dropped it on the nearest table.
And if you leave me now, you'll take away the very heart of me
I want to say it was breezy, sensual, and loving, but it was not. Before the intense emotion of the track ended, our embrace became raw and lewd. Most of the club watched as we groped each other. Vito snuck upon us, “Listen you two, I think you better get a room.” That’s precisely what we did, and she ravaged me in a way as
I never encountered before! And ladies and gentlemen, I loved every moment. All young men needed such a woman to show them what sex could be because at the end of the day, most of us hadn’t a clue.
Chapter 4
A Flick Of A Match
The trials and tribulations of being a teenager, those tender rebellious years are chock full of such intense euphoria and acute torment. I felt like someone trapped me on a runaway roller coaster and couldn’t get off. Wake up with the perpetual woody and a conquering attitude. By noon, waves of anxiety and apprehension replaced it. Then, by bedtime, that woody returned with a vengeance and was served with a stiff cocktail of exasperation and an unimaginable need to relieve oneself. Funny thing, I overheard my mother the other day whining about the “change” to my Aunt Angie. I never heard such things. She rambled on, listing all the horrible feelings she was experiencing. “Angie, I’m going nuts, I feel hot flashes in the morning when I wake and lie in bed at night on fire again!” She raged on to say how she felt anxious all day long, and often she couldn’t sleep at night. Anxiety was a common theme. Wow, I thought, it is like being a teenager, I feel the same damn way! Holy Mother of God, when I get older, am I going to endure this all over again?
I rolled in at four in the morning. Regardless, my mother awoke me at nine am! In the Marino household, it was mandatory on Sunday we all share both breakfast and dinner together, my father insisted on it. It was part of being a family. At the table, they expected us to exchange our experiences, share our problems, and receive counseling from the head of the household. The only issue, on that glorious morning, the boss of the family was hovering over his breakfast like an inmate guarding his food. Advice, counseling? He was angry at Sal, and since he wouldn’t utter a word, neither could we.
You will notice as you listen to my story that we Italians live by a lot of rules. Prime example, my father forbids me from training on Sunday’s. Although he wasn’t a church-going type of guy, he was quietly pious. I began noticing it after his sister passed. Whenever he drove by a church, he made the sign of the cross. I never witnessed him read a book, but next to his leather chair was a copy of; When we die, is there life ever after? I also saw my Aunt’s funeral card on the dashboard of his truck. We always said grace before meals, but now he took a second or two longer to plead for further deliverance. He knew he needed a lot of help, and maybe it was time for Our Blessed Mother to intercede (that’s who heard most of his complaints). His were pleas to help him deal with Sal, to keep me safe in the ring, to cope with the difficulties that came with owning his own business, and more than likely, urgent prayers to keep his family safe from the invisible threats that lurked outside our very front door.
Rosa was tending to the Sunday gravy while cleaning away the plates from breakfast. My beloved mother was calmly the rock that my father leaned on for support. I knew that behind closed doors, she enabled him to vent his woes, and with a tender touch, a gentle kiss on the cheek, she provided him all the comfort and strength he needed to confront the world the following day.
I spent the bulk of that beautiful afternoon, bouncing a spaldeen off my front stoop, just passing the time and daydreaming about her! Suddenly, from down the street, I saw my cousin Angela, likely coming to borrow something from my mother, we were better than the A&P. I looked again and saw she was stumbling. I dropped the ball and rushed towards her. Angela was the happy-go-lucky young girl who had a perpetual skip in her step. She was like the sister I never had, not ever missing any of my fights, and adored coming to the club with me on weekends. Yet delight was now replaced with anguish and sorrow. She cried hysterically.
At first, I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. “Angela, what is it? Tell me, who touched you?” She struggled to compose herself for a moment, a second that would change my life forever.
“It’s my father; he’s dead…they killed him!”
“Uncle Tony? No! This is just some kind of sick joke?”
But no! It was true!
At first, I was in denial. How could life be that cruel? Then, darkness unfolded, strangling my veins. I began to endure actual physical pain; my heart ached like never before. It pounded against the walls of my chest so loudly, my hearing became obstructed, Angela kept speaking, but her words seemed muffled. That pain was replaced with overwhelming anguish and disbelief. My Uncle Tony? No…not him. Don’t tell me…Please, not him!
I carried her into our front parlor, where the family surrounded her. By now, Eyewitness News had cameras at the train station where my uncle’s token booth was. I jumped up and ran the four blocks in seconds; I had to be there.
There was a familiar line of yellow tape that stopped anyone from going up the stairs to the station. I peered up to Tony’s token booth; it was full of firefighters with disturbed looks upon their faces. They encountered nothing like this before. I then noticed a strange odor, but not the familiar scent of fire. As I focused, it hit me; I knew that smell; it was gasoline!
Just then, Sonny and Vito, along with a large group of my friends, surrounded me. Sonny was one of the sharpest operators in the neighborhood. His father, Umberto Benvolio, had more affairs with lonely housewives than either side will admit. I fought back my emotions as I peered at this close-knit gathering of companions, “Does anyone know what happened?” Sonny wrapped his arm around me, “Ant, it was the fuckin Spics. They came down from the Bronx to rob your uncle’s token booth.” He hugged me tighter to add his inner strength to mine. What he told me next was incomprehensible; “You know how your Uncle Tony was, as tough as they come. When he refused to give them the money, they poured gasoline into his booth with a gas can, blocked the door so he couldn’t get out and set it on fire."
As I struggled to picture the horrific scene, the pain was excruciating. I couldn’t, in my worst nightmares, comprehend the biting heat, the feeling of being hopelessly trapped. It was one thing to face death alone, but not like that. How could people be so cruel? So heartless? And for what, a few measly dollars. Was that all a person’s life was worth; a handful of subway tokens? I buried my face into Sonny’s shoulder and sobbed. I felt such anguish for my uncle, how much he must have suffered. They wouldn’t have done that to a dog in the street, but they murdered Tony so savagely. Brutal. Callous. Satisfying. Empty. Pointless. Excessive. Mean spirited.
A sudden overwhelming rage bested my sorrow. I wanted revenge. Savage. Spiteful. Bloodthirsty. Unforgiving. A dish best served frightfully cold.
I wiped my face, my friends saw the fierceness in my appearance, and Vito seethed, “Ant, we can’t let these spic bastards get away with this.” My other friends chimed in, “We’ll get those motherfuckers for you, they will suffer for what they did to Tony.”
Right then, we were morphing, from a neighborhood group of happy-go-lucky teenagers to becoming a lethal mob. Our collective hatred was growing into an out-of-control feeding frenzy, an affliction of our souls. It was the swelling of veins in our neck ready to explode, the rushing of blood to our heads, and saying and doing things you would instead leave unsaid.
Our rage was rudely interrupted; it was Danny Gallo, the boss of the neighborhood. His mere presence threw a bucket of sobering icy water over all of us. He hovered like a wounded lion with his fierce crew framing the background. He looked up at the el and took in the unusual odor of gasoline. Even he, with so much blood on his hands, found it hard to comprehend. He already knew who did it. Angelo reached over and whispered in his ear, “You want me to reach out to our friends on Pleasant Avenue?” He nodded in approval. That nod signaled the beginning of retribution. He then walked over and kindly grasped my shoulder. With a scowl on his face, he muttered under his breath, “Not in our neighborhood.” He then gazed up again at my uncle’s station and shook his head in disbelief and repeated, but this time for all to hear, “Not in my neighborhood.”
Those few words became our anthem, and it said it all. This was Gallo’s neighborhood, and he would defend his own. This tragedy was a challenge to his supremacy. I felt his rage; it was contained, but palatable, not visible to an outsider, outwardly disguised, but we sensed it. Gallo was immoral, yet he was ours, a homegrown evil. He would not allow this to happen to one of his own. I looked at him, “Thank you.” What a shallow, meaningless thing to say. He nodded, “Go home and be with your family. They need you now.”
*****
I fought my way onto the porch of my uncle’s house; it seemed like most of Bensonhurst was there. His fellow transit workers, neighborhood people, along with friends and family, crammed into his modest home to support his injured loved ones. I never experienced such grief before. Every memory played like a blaring tune in my head, repeating itself for what seemed like forever. Tony was such a joyous, happy man. I never took the time to appreciate him. Everyone he encountered adored him. He was a clown, a paradox to my father. Despite that, these two brothers-in-law were more like real brothers than some blood siblings. They loved one another.
I didn’t relish facing my aunt; she was holed-up in the kitchen; the women of the family held her up. I heard her wailing as she aimlessly rocked her body back and forth in a chair, “Tony, my Tony. How can this be?” Did these criminals ever think for a second what pain and anguish would result from their actions? Was it necessary? Family and friends would be forever damaged; it would affect generations to come, all by a callous flick of a match. I realized that such tumultuous and agonizing occurrences often occur by such small but inhuman actions.
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 4
