Suddenly, pointing towards the street, Sonny exclaimed, “Hey, look who’s here? I was wondering why the squirrels were running for cover!”
It was Ari Finkleman, and even though it was the middle of a scorching afternoon, he was wearing a three-piece suit more suited for Romeo and Juliet’s. As he stumbled over to the table, we all could see he was flying high, “How ya doin fellas?”
As always, Sonny would break his hump, “Say, where is the rest of the trio? You know, Moe and Curly; you fucken mamaluke?”
Ari ignored Sonny. Instead, his eyes were burning a hole through Carla, “Hey, sweetheart.” He then wagged his finger at her, “You promised.” I turned and gave her a look of concern. She squeezed me tighter. I was curious, “Carla, what did you promise him?”
“Fuck him; I don’t know what he’s talking about?” Her agitation said something else. Then Ari, nearly falling flat on his face, asked for a slice. Sonny had mercy on him and handed him one without saliva. Ari reached in his pocket and dumped some loose change, including a few tens, and twenties along with a vial of coke on the table as payment. He then turned and staggered off. We all looked at each other, this guy became not only dangerous to himself but more so for all the unsuspecting girls in our neighborhood.
Carla kept close to me. While no one else at the table noticed, she began rubbing the inside of my leg, making me forget about Ari. It felt incredible, and for a few moments, I was tempted to go off with her. But then I thought of Gia; there was no way I would chance losing her. I didn’t want to hurt Carla’s feelings; I had a love for her, and no matter what, I would always protect Carla.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall, lanky figure standing across the street and glaring at us. I turned to see it was Jon, the janitor at our high school. As I watched, I noticed a disturbing habit he had of continually reaching behind with his left hand and, while cocking his head sideways, tensely scratched the back of his neck.
Carla became frightened, “That guy creeps me out, he’s always following the girls into the bathroom. I swear he has a peephole somewhere to watch us!”
I glanced back; there was something ominous about him. More precisely, Jon Keaton Lee was downright scary! He was six foot four, in his fifties, and hailed from a backward town in Kentucky. Lee had an air about him, as though he was the product of incest. Jon seemed slow, but it was a dark slowness. He was like a snake covered with leaves.
As a teen, after joining the army, they stationed Lee at Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn’s only army base. The story goes; for attempting to rape another soldier’s daughter, he was dishonorably discharged. But because of lack of evidence, he wasn’t jailed. Soon after, his family disowned him, and with little reason to return to Kentucky, he became a Brooklynite.
Lee held the job at our high school for over fifteen uneventful years. He rented a one-room apartment over the video store in the neighborhood. As though Lee was hunting for something, I would see him around at night, lurking in the shadows. Lee not only creeped out Carla; he creeped us all out! I knew to keep my distance from him.
After a minute or two, Lee disappeared. I turned to Carla, “Sweetheart, I have to go by the gym and collect my purse.” Her eyes saddened, she flashed her luscious pout, “But Ant, I thought we could hang out this afternoon?” My God, how tempting. She offered an alternative, “Ant, are you going to the club tonight?”
“I’m not sure; it depends on how I feel later.”
She knew it was a lie, I rarely, if ever missed a Saturday night, but this was not about her tonight. I kissed her and everyone else goodbye, later we would all be together. We were always together. Everything we did was as a group, but for me to conquer the mountain, I needed to free myself from my friends.
*****
I was like a conquering Caesar returning to Rome for his tribute. Everybody halted their training and crowded around me, messing up my hair, patting me on the ass, and giving me the respect of a deserved fighter, who was on his way up. A growl came from behind me, “What da hell is going on here? Everyone back da work!” Izzy then grunted, those deep guttural noises of his could mean different things at various times, he barked, “Goddamn it, you’d think he’d won da title.” Translation; I pissed him off.
“Thanks, Izzy, you always know how to bring someone back down to earth like a lead balloon.”
I followed him to his office. It was at the farthest end of the gym, catty-cornered against an embankment of lofty windows. It was ancient, cramp, and disorganized. The only place to sit was on two broken-down chairs that used to grace the men’s room in the old Garden. Every inch was some tribute to the sport we both loved, along with an array of images of warriors long gone. He had dusty pictures of Benny Leonard, Abe Atwell, Joe Choynski, Maxie Rosenbloom, and Mushy Callahan, all tough in their right, all from the Lower Eastside and all Jewish. Their faces told enduring tales of men who fought and clawed every inch of the way to rise to attain fame. There were no fairy tales here.
(f)
His desk was altogether a different animal. Here in his office after hours, alone to the world, Izzy would smoke a stogie. He had a big glass ashtray from the old Stork Club with a weeks’ worth of butts, alongside was two dozen coke cans, all half empty. I just kept repeating to myself, character baby…character.
At times, Izzy felt the need to impart some of that ancient Five Points, Bowery Boys, Dead Rabbits wisdom on me, whether or not it was warranted. Why should today be any different? “Ya know kid, ya looked like shit last night. A better fighter would had taken ya apart.” He paused for a reaction; I wouldn’t give him the pleasure, so he forged on, “Not fa nothing, you have all da tools, and ya certainly have da heart, maybe too much! But it’s dat damn temper of yours; it’s goin to be your ruination.” He seemed to be running out of both breath and patience, “Oy vey, Du farkirtst mir di yorn!”
“Ok, Izzy, that was deep, but what the fuck did that all mean?”
“You’re killing me! You will be da death of me!”
He realized he needed to tone things down, “Look, kid, ya can’t allow your emotions to get da better of you.”
Even when he spoke to me harshly, I knew deep down he loved me, and as always, he was right. He could always cut right to the quick and expose my most glaring weaknesses. Yet being a great trainer also meant you needed to be a master manipulator; you had to know when to pet, and when to bite. He turned and unwrapped a paper plate full of potato knishes he brought from Yonah Shimmel’s as a peace offering. I came to realize Jews, like the Italians, tried to cure everything with food, although when Izzy offered me chopped liver, I wanted to gag.
He cut one knish open and slathered it with mustard, he slid the plate over and continued, “Kid, I got to give ya a lot of credit. You’re making quite the name for yourself.” He popped open a bottle of Manhattan Special and handed it to me, “Your legs are too short, ya ass is too big, ya got flat feet, and ya damn balance…well, enough about ya balance.” He licked the mustard off his fingers, “But in a lot of ways you’re like me. We come from nothing; we’re like mushrooms, ya know wha’d I mean?”
(Mushrooms, where was he going with this?)
(I guess this will be more deep shit.)
“Do ya know how mushrooms grow?” I certainly did not. “Well, they grow them in manure. In other words, mushrooms come from shit just like we do.” Being thought of as a philosopher seemed to enthuse Izzy to no end. He chuckled as he continued his philosophy lesson, “Do you see, we’re just like mushrooms, we come from nothing. A pile of shit!”
He was giddy! How can you follow a soliloquy like that? The Greeks had Socrates, the English had Shakespeare, and Brooklyn had Izzy. I stood and kissed him, “See you on Monday, Izzy.” As I bounded down the steep stairwell, I shook my
head in amusement; this was the world, according to Izzy Moischel. God, how I loved him so.
Chapter 7
Bosoms And Bottoms
“How long is Pop going to continue with this?” I looked over to my mother for some response; she sighed and just shrugged. I felt for my brother. Although he wouldn’t say it, I knew Sal was desperate for our father’s acceptance.
Seconds later, Sal came bounding down the stairs, causing my mother to holler, “Oh, take it easy, the stairs are only made of wood!”
Sal and I were enjoying a plate of cavatelli before heading off on another midnight adventure. We each had a tablecloth tied around our neck; getting tomato sauce on our shirts would be a disaster of epic proportions. Sal asked for weeks if he could tag along with me. I thought it would be great fun; I had a girl I wanted to introduce to him. Angie Rizzo had a crush on Sal for years, but her clear attempts went unnoticed by my unobservant older brother.
We took my brothers’ car, I knew how crazy it was on 86th Street on Saturday night, and without telling my brother the obvious, I didn’t want my Monte Carlo to get scratched.
The four corners of 18th Avenue and 86th held groups of girls and guys holding court; all decked out in their disco best. Girls swaddled in taut leather pants, matching halter tops and the ever-present choker. Guys attempted to match the female’s flamboyancy by leaving home all decked out in their Friday night special; white polyester pants and black shirts opened to the navel along with the ever-important gold!
Young men attempted to dazzle the opposite sex with thick gold chains that suspended an array of crosses, medals, and horns. Those who were tagged as hairless-wonders warranted more 18-carat on their chest to hide their shortage of a manly mane. These effervescent couples were preparing to enter euphoria.
Caesar, who was standing sentinel at the door, patted me on the back, “Hey champ! How’s it hanging?” This mountain of muscle waved us right on in; it was good to be the king! We squeezed our way up the narrow staircase. As many couples were shoving their way up to the club, couples were pushing their way back down, desperately trying to get to the back seat of their cars for a quick session of summer love.
As we neared the top of the stairs, we were met by a myriad of vibrant colors thrown off by the swirling strobes, billows of white smoke, and luscious music predictive of things to come later in the evening.
Sal was beaming; he had been here only once on an early Thursday evening for the annual meeting of the Long Island Contractor’s Association. “Holy shit, Ant, it didn’t look like this the last time I was here.”
“It never looks like this in the daytime.” I then flashed a devilish look, “Us vampires only come out in the dark.”
It drew my attention to the center of the dance floor. Danny Pooch was spinning I’ve Found Love to a whirling mass of bosoms and bottoms, all bumping and grinding under the spinning psychedelic lights. It wasn’t yet the witching hour, but the place was already under a spell.
Angie Rizzo spotted the two of us and came running over. She couldn’t hide her anxiousness, “Hey Ant, congratulations.” She leaned and kissed me on the cheek. I grabbed her by the elbow and brought her within shouting range. “Angie, let me introduce you to my brother, Sal.” Her eyes were gleaming; I now had them both by the arm and yelled over the music, “I don’t want to see the two of you for the rest of the evening.” She was aglow. I grabbed Sal’s ear, “Don’t try too hard. She really likes you, just be yourself.” He kissed me on the cheek, and the two danced off into a sea of young bodies.
I took care of my brother’s love life; it was now time for mine. We arrived later than usual, I wanted Gia to be there first, but as I scanned the room, there was no sight of her. At the end of the bar, my eyes caught sight of Louie Baldassari; his head hung low over a rocks glass full of straight vodka he had been nursing for an hour. It appeared like he already had enough to make trouble a certainty.
I became distracted by people coming over to congratulate me on my victory. I labored hard for such kudos, but instead of relishing the well-wishes, I was desperate to find Gia. My eyes then caught sight of her by the entrance of the women’s powder room. She was flawless; her hair was teased and glimmering. I could see from across the dance floor how vibrant her eyes were; they were as mesmerizing as a glorious sunrise. Her alluring glossy lips were lusciously pouty, and her body, my God, her body could cause wars.
When her eyes fell upon me, she came all aglow. She waved and began to approach me. As she did, from her right, Louie flew off his barstool, knocking over a slew of people along the way, and grabbed her violently by the arm. Connected or not, I saw red! I charged like a bull, and just as his eyes turned to see me coming, I fired the most potent weapon in my arsenal. The missile I launched hit him square in the face, and before he hit the floor, the left side of his face blew-up, and a burst of crimson fluid splattered the floor around him. He crumbled into a pile of flesh and bone and didn’t move a muscle.
A panic ensued! Caesar, with the rest of his merry band of bouncers, ran towards us from every direction. So did Louie’s friends!
That night, Louie was hanging with a crew of heavy-hitters, two of whom were close to becoming made men (kind of like graduating from college), and not surprisingly, took exception to my actions! One of the larger of his cohorts, who was bald as a cue ball and had no neck, growled at me, “Who the fuck do you think you are putting your hands on our friend?”
Before responding, I glanced down at the floor, Louie still hadn’t moved, and it seemed like no one cared to check. I could hear Izzy in my ear whispering, patience, my boy. Don’t lose your temper…
“Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck is he (I made a point of pointing towards the pile of flesh on the club floor) to put his hands on that girl?”
Their answer felt like a spear being plunged through my heart, “Listen, fuck-face, that’s his girlfriend!”
Louie’s girlfriend? My God! I was blindsided and left speechless! What could I say? Although, in the world of normalcy,
(Not to mention the Marquis of Queensberry Rules)
(I never knew what that meant, but it always sounded damn important) it still didn’t give him the freedom to grab her the way he did. Yet in this mob-controlled world of Bensonhurst, it gave him all the rights he required.
Meanwhile, someone told Sal I was the center of this melee. He came rushing to my rescue! He looked down at Louie, who was still motionless, “Oh, boy! Ant, this is not good. Did someone check if he’s breathing?”
Jo-Jo Restelli, the senior of the crew and the hoodlum with the most juice, glanced at his fallen comrade, “Breathing?” Half-heartedly he shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know, but I think somebody better call an ambulance.” He then turned to the rest of his borgata, “Come-on fellas, let’s get out of here before the bulls arrive!” With that, they ran for the door, leaving their injured ally behind.
I knew that was sound advice, who needed to spend the weekend in a holding cell in the 62nd Precinct? I turned to find Gia, but she was nowhere to be found. “Sal, did you see Gia?”
No, maybe she left with Jo-Jo.” I felt wounded; I came to her rescue without a single thought for my well-being; how could she leave?
We struggled to flee, along with the rest of the club. As we reached the street, a vast crowd of teens running in any and every direction met us. Through all the hysteria, I could see a battalion of police cars en masse rolling down 86th Street, lights flashing and sirens ablaze. Somebody was going to get locked up, and it wasn’t going to be me!
Though Sal was about to become a bonafide police officer, that slippery street sense in him switched on. He yanked me by the arm, “Come on, let's get out of here.” As we turned onto 18th Avenue, we passed an Army Recruitm
ent office, and from behind a hand grabbed me and pulled me into its doorway. Startled, my first reaction was to strike, but two teary pools of emotions placed me in a trance. She would never leave without me, “Ant, I’m so sorry for all the trouble.”
“Gia, are you ok, did you get hurt?”
“No, baby, he didn’t hurt me.”
“That’s good.” There was then an awkward moment of silence, “Soooo…that guy Louie is your boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend! I broke up with him months ago, but he doesn’t want to take no for an answer!”
Even with such drama unfolding, we both realized the strength of the bond between us. It was forged the moment we laid eyes on each other. The two of us could see it within each other, and although we never felt it before in our young lives, we both recognized it. We were meant to be together.
“Ant, he’s crazy.”
The enormous ego in me retorted, “I’m not afraid of him!” But deep down, I was. He had a reputation of never backing down, which often meant resorting to any means possible (It was the “any means possible” that worried me). Teenage emotions are some of the most turbulent storms imaginable; wild, fierce, and at times, perfect. I could only imagine how Brooklyn’s favorite weatherman Tex Antoine would describe the forecast in the coming days for these two star-crossed lovers?
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 7
