Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (4 page)

“What about me, Earl, what about me?”

“You gonna be my man with the Ricans, Chappie— they ain’t nothing but niggers turned inside out.”

Rocco was from another garage—but a boss-type. Tall, lean, with light hair, he didn’t look like no eye-talian
to me. And he didn’t give you the wise-guy jive. He was mobbed up with the Pleasant Avenue outfit. But his uncle was a made-guy, a lieutenant with the Mulberry Street crew—a heavy hitter—so like you knew that Rocco was marked. He couldn’t miss, he was a down cat, and he was connected. Rocco didn’t talk with no
dese
and
dose;
he spoke nice and soft—like dignity—but he wasn’t no punk. Word was he had already iced some greaseball in the Bronx whose bail had dropped too low. The only thing wrong with Rocco was his love life; he had this thing for a P.R. chick, which in those days was unheard of, so like his uncle kept him in the boondocks—but I knew he’d work it out. Like I say, he was a natural bosstype.

The three of us used to pal out. They’d rap and I’d listen.

“Earl, I’m out of the doghouse, so I’ll be moving downtown—you know where to reach me. I’m not promising you guys anything, but if I get a shot then I’m dealing you in. We may connect once in a year, or even five years—in the meantime I don’t even know if you guys are alive. We meet, we deal, good-bye. Now I’m not talking Harlem shit, I’m talking kilos, up to ten thou a kilo. On my okay you’re going to get stuff on consignment at the beginning. You cross me, I’m dead, because I’m responsible for you—but you know you go right behind me. I’m moving up; you guys can move with me or stay in the shithouse hustling quarters.”

“I’m your man, Rocco.”

“Deal me in, Rocco.”

It’s hard to explain, but when you’re doing time with a man you can read him faster than when you’re on the street. He can’t hide behind his rep or his clothes—shit like that don’t work inside. Inside, all you got is mostly yourself. Like Earl used to say, yo’ hole and yo’ soul is buck neck-id in the Joint. So that’s how come three cats from different alleys got close and stayed close for twenty years. The time was ripe, was overdue—but that don’t mean nothin’ if the right people ain’t on the scene. Me and Earl was the right people, and we was ready. We needed a break. Rocco—Rocco had the inside rail from before, what with his uncle, Dominick Cocozza, who was a boss. But he saw their thing had to open up—open up or it was gonna bust open.

So he brought us in out of the rain. He didn’t do it overnight,’specially for me; I was still a cowboy for years yet. But I knew he knew I was stand-up, and later than sooner he would cut me loose into the big bucks. Earl first, then me. Rocco was the icebreaker and he done the right thing. And it took balls, because there was fool wops that couldn’t see it—no put grits, rice, and beans in the pasta. Prejudiced old fucks like Rocco’s boss, Pete Amadeo (
maldita sea su madre
), who thought they could sit inside the one tent with a whole bunch of Indians like me and Earl runnin’ around outside bare-ass in the cold. Not to forget the hole the feds was diggin’ under the floor.

Sick—some of them guys is sick too. You take Amadeo—a/k/a Petey A. One night at the Copa—this is when Tom Jones was at his peak. All the wise guys ’n dolls was jammed in—place was hysteria. Broads
throwin’ their keys, their drawers even, at Jones. Pete says to this button-guy with him,

“He’s a fuckin’ nigger. All this noise over a fuckin’ nigger.”

“No, Pete, you got it wrong—he’s English.”

“I say he’s a fuckin’ nigger, awright?”

“Eh, yeah, you’re right, Pete—lookit the way he dances.”

We split from the El in the order we came in. First Rocco, then Earl, then me. I hit Harlem like Sonny hit Floyd.

2

T
HE FIFTIES CAME IN STRONG FOR ME
. L
IKE DANCE-CRAZY
. The St. Nick’s Arena, the Manhattan Center, the Caborojeño, Broadway Casino—seems like everybody was dancing their ass off. The tigers would go to the Cabo and the BC, the down P.R.’s would go to the Palladium. The Manhattan Center would be the place for Easter, maybe six bands followed by a riot where 3 or 4 guys would be thrown off the balcony. One Easter was maybe two hundred cats rumbling, tables crashing, bottles flying, and in the middle of this Noro Morales on the bandstand, “Pliz, we all Puerto Rican pipples, no fight….” I laughed so hard I could hardly swing my chair.

The bands were hot—Machito, Puente, Rodriguez, Curbelo, Marcelino Guerra, they was all gigging.

The main joint was the Palladium on 53rd Street and Broadway; the owner was a Jew named Max, but if you looked around you knew he had friends. All the help was
wops. The bouncers were somethin’ else—real class. Like some
jíbaro
would throw a right hand; they’d catch his fist in midair, lift him off his feet, his little shoes kicking in the air, rush him to the back door parallel to the ground like a torpedo; a bouncer had the door ready— he’s gone, head-first down a flight of concrete steps. The dancers wouldn’t even break stride.

But the house wouldn’t fuck with the wise-guys. We brought in the bread, drank J & B, had the sharp broads. Lots of dressing in those days—dark suits, roll collars, skinny silk ties, short hair—dap as a Russian pimp. Fridays was our night. All the hustlers were there—l03rd Street, 106th, 107th, 111th, 116th—Mario, Guajiro, Toñin, Cano. Everybody was cool—except maybe if the Viceroys and the Turbens was there on the same night. I would back out then because I was tight with both clicks and couldn’t take sides when they’d get it on.

I always had my table with my own crew, Tato and Victor Lopez, Lalin, Monkey, Colorado—salty motherfuckers all. I was the main man. None of us was too smart then, but my hands were the best and in them days there was still duking with the fists, at least among the spics. We was small-timing in them days—thievery, nickel bags, and strong arm.

The broads were all over; we’d team up mostly with whores. Who else is going to snort coke with you in an after-hours joint or see you go for a yard when your bread is down? My old lady then was India from 113th Street; she was underage and her mother was going to lock me
up, but after the kid was born we was okay. She was the most beautiful
mulata
uptown but she had this thing about being white—kept talking about the kid having good hair. P.R.’s used to make a big thing about hair in them days—this guy’s got good hair, this guy bad, this guy suspicious hair. Me, I never gave a fuck—guess I was ahead of my time.

Mainly India was good people, but she was just a kid and very wacky. Like we’d be comin’ out of a restaurant with some people and she’d jump on my back— “Carlito, carry me piggyback.” ’Ey, I was already a mature cat—done time—respected. India’s mother didn’t go for me; I was a thug. Meanwhile, I know for a fact the old lady used to turn tricks in her day—had a fine body just like the daughter. All them “India” broads got fine bodies. Anyway, we didn’t last long. The two of them and the baby, a girl, Prudencia (that was the grandmother’s name), ended up in Florida with some Air Force guy India married. She had some shape, India did—like a guitar. You knew someday she was gonna turn into a bull fiddle, but in the meantime—some good strummin’, Jack. Believe that.

Wednesdays was celebrity night at the Palladium— all the showbiz and Jews doing cha-cha-cha-one-two-three, Marlon Brando sit in on conga (couldn’t play to save his ass), out-of-town people—shit like that—all into Latin music. I say that put the spics on the map; we wasn’t all behind them little glass panes at Horn & Hardart. Yeah, like a P.R. pot washer could dance up a storm at
the Palladium and walk out some fine out-of-town fox. Yeah, the old P was all right. Had a hell of a run too. The forties, the fifties, right up to the early sixties. Then some lame was puffing on a joint one night, got next to a kitty and said she had to take a poke. In them days mari-geewana was a big deal. The broad blew up, ran downtown and put the squeal on the Palladium to her boss, an assistant D.A. name of Kuh who was already into being one of Hogan’s main honchos. So now you got shoo-fly checking out the P and first thing down is a pimp name of Umberto beating up on two of his whores. And what does they see the house do? Throw the broads down the stairs and buy Umberto a drink. This is an outrage, say Mr. Kuh. And the great Palladium raid was on. ’Cept that by that time all the heavy people knew it was coming off—yeah, stool pigeons fly in both directions. So like, block all the exits, blow all the lights—“Everybody freeze!” By the time they got the lights back on, all the guns, knives, and dope was on the floor and the bulls was running around trying to match up whozis with whatzis. It was a jive raid but it blew the liquor license and the old P went under. Damn shame. Somebody always gotta mess up a good thing.

M
IDWAY UP THE FIFTIES
, E
ARL
B
ASSEY SENT WORD HE
wanted a meet with me. I’d run into Earl from time to time; I knew he was big in policy up in black Harlem. Sunday night at the Copa: I knew right away we was connected. So the wops are cutting loose; they been hogging
it all to themselves—finally giving the natives a break. I got myself all dolled up and went down—big night at the Copa. The boys was all in their tiers, according to rank. Cigars, white-on-white, pinkie rings—the broads, roamin’ noses, with hair teased like brillo. Every table like a little click, with the boss playing his crew like he had a baton—he laughs, they laugh, he gets up, they get up.

“So I sez to him….”

“
Madon’
, Fonso, you got some pair of balls….”

“He’s a fuckin’
cafone…
.”

I don’t see a black face in the whole joint. I go back upstairs to the lounge and order a drink. I ain’t there five minutes when there’s a big commotion coming up from downstairs. This little blond guy is raising hell—he’s got three or four guys with him, spitters all—the maitre d’ is pleading, “Please Joey, please!”

“I wanna see this Jew cocksucker right here and now!”

This little Jew comes off the bar.

“What’s the trouble, Joey?”

“What’s the trouble? What kind of ratjoint is this that I got to sit in the back—I don’t rate around here? Where’s my respect?”

“Joey, please—there’s been a mixup with the tables, we’ll straighten it out—”

By this time, this Joey guy is stone-white in the face. He whips out an automatic and starts banging it on top of the bar—splinters flying—he’s screaming, “I’m gonna shylock this joint, I am in—starting next week you’re turning over to me—you hear, you Jew bastard?”

“Whatever you say, Joey, whatever you say.” The Jew was cool, ice water. Sweat was coming down my spine; other people’s beefs always scare me more than my own. I never seen such a show of
cojones;
there was a hundred guys frozen there—half of them had to be packing.

Then they were gone. About that time Earl came in— clean as always. He had with him a high-yaller chick that wouldn’t quit. Uuwee!

I was still shook up. I told him this wop Joey, from Brooklyn, had terrorized the joint. Earl said, “He be bad as ten sacks of motherfuckers, but he ain’t coming back next week; he’s crazy, but he ain’t that crazy.”

This guy comes over and says to us, “You’re Mr. Fabrizi’s guests?” Well all right!

Rocco, you sombitch, I knew you was heavy in the mambo when I saw that table right down on the floor. Some mobbed-up Jew comedian was on the floor and every joke was played to some capo at ringside, like “Sonny this” and “Sonny that.” I knew enough not to want to know who these guys were, but I was impressed—heavy, heavy.

About this time, slipping and sliding, Mr. Rocco Fabrizi. He looked like money—tiny cuff links, tiny watch, shoulders just right on the suit. Rimless glasses in them days, warm smile—the guy could get to you.

“Did you marry her?”

“Yes, Charles, I am now a Puerto Rican by proxy.”

We were bullshitting awhile about upstate when Earl sent his broad upstairs.

“Let’s hear the deal.”

“Charles, there’s a West Indian guy named Etienne uptown who’s got a nice little policy bank going for many years. This guy is right next to Earl here. But lately we feel he’s loosening up, getting old. Now there are some boys up there eyeballing old Etienne and they are ready to bite. What we need is somebody to prop old Etienne up for a while, keep the wolves at bay and then when things are ripe ease him out to pasture. Earl says you’re the man.”

“That’s great and I can handle it, but why not take the old fart out right now?”

“No good; Etienne has run a good bank since the thirties. People trust him; you can’t remove him overnight— this will be done our way.”

“Whatever you guys say.”

So now me and my boys were riding shotgun for old Etienne. We’d wake him up and put him to bed. He took a liking to me, and we’d rap in Spanish; he was a Haitian but he spoke Spanish, English, and French. That smart old geezer owned buildings, dry cleaning stores, groceries, you name it. But policy was his game—he was a genius at that. He knew all the dream books by heart, the Chinaman in the
Daily News;
he knew just when to lay off on certain numbers—it’s like he would sense a heavy hit coming—like the plate numbers on a car in the newspaper or in a plane crash. He would start his own rumors about a special number being fixed for the controllers to hit—all his own bullshit—but he was always cooking; he’d stake people who needed money, helped
a whole lot of people and he always paid his hits, no hedging. I learned a lot from him, old Etienne.

Right away I started earning my keep. The old man had the hots for some barmaid in the Heights in a joint called Carl’s Corner. He dug that young poontang—even though at his age I knew he was shooting blanks. So like I was downtown in a bar when I get a call from this guy Snipe—“Carlito, they got Mr. Etienne in the back of a short in front of Carl’s.”

“Cops?”

“Club members, with a sawed-off shotgun in his face; they want twenty large right away.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Maso the bartender loaned me this army .45, plus I had my own .32 Beretta automatic. I cocked both pieces and jumped in a cab. I got off at 149th and Broadway—they was double-parked in front of the joint, first in line facing uptown. I come from behind on the outside; I shove both automatics through the rear window, right in this guy’s face—two spades, one shotgun, the old man between them.