Gangster (7 page)

    He should die for what he did to my boy, Paolino said.

     And then what will happen? Josephina said. You end up in prison and Angelo loses his father.

    At least then he would have a father he could respect, Paolino said.

    You are to do nothing, Josephina said. In time, revenge will be had. Only it will not be dealt from your hand.

    If not me, then who? Paolino asked. Josephina turned away and did not answer.

     *     *     *

WHO IS THIS man Ida wants me to meet? Angelo asked, the starch of the tight white shirt chafing against his neck.

    He is a boss, Josephina said. He has the power to help you.

    Help me do what?

    To not be like your father, Josephina said. Paolino is a weak man. And this is a country that gets strong off its weak. A man like McQueen will teach you the things you need to know.

    Papa teaches me things I need to know, Angelo said. Things he says will help turn me into a good man.

    You will be a good man, Angelo, Josephina said. But one who lives his own life in his own way. Not someone who must work until his body can no longer stand.

    Will this man love me the way Papa does? Angelo asked.

    You don't turn to a man like McQueen for love, Josephina said. But he will teach you about loyalty and such lessons bring with them a much heavier burden. Love enters and leaves when it wishes. Loyalty stays forever. And for you that means until the day McQueen dies or is no longer a boss.

    And then?

    And then we will see how well you have learned your lessons, Josephina said.

     *     *     *

GANGSTERS ALL THIRST for power and will do all they can to achieve and keep it. That is their real code, the only one they truly adhere to. Loyalty, faith, friendship are all tools used to keep control of the power. The need to grasp at the power is planted in them during their childhood years when, surrounded by poverty, they seek out the one who has risen above it all. In poor neighborhoods, especially in the early years of the twentieth century, the one who rose the highest and accumulated the greatest power was almost always a criminal. There was no romance to the notion of being a gangster, Mary said. Angelo would be the first to tell you that. It was just a refusal on his part to live his life at the mercy of men like Carl Banyon. Watching his father get kicked and be treated in such a heartless manner hurt Angelo much more than that cut from the razor. That was the deeper wound. The cut was merely a reminder of what he had seen. And what he needed to never forget.

     *     *     *

PUDGE TOSSED THE rubber ball against the side of the dark brick wall and caught it with one hand. Angelo sat off to the side, his back wedged between the rear entryway into the tenement building, his arms wrapped around his legs. Pudge bounced the ball on the cracked concrete, the shade from the heavy strands of laundry hanging off the thick clothesline boxing him into the cool shadows. I never set out to be your friend, Pudge said to Angelo. I only did it so Ida wouldn't have done to me what I did to you.

    I know, Pudge, Angelo said. Maybe soon she will let you out of it.

    Pudge shrugged and walked over toward Angelo, still bouncing the ball by his side. I don't think so, he said. I'm probably stuck with you for a while.

    I'm sorry, then, Angelo said, looking up at him.

    I was too, at the start, Pudge said. But to tell you the truth, you haven't been as big a pain in the ass as I figured you'd be.

    Angelo smiled. It has been good to have a friend, he said.

    When we go in to meet this guy McQueen, we're going to have to be more than that, Pudge said. If he's going to take us on, he's taking us as a team. And that's what it's gotta be, you and me, together. Won't work any other way.

     You can't always look out for me, Angelo said. And I cannot protect you the way you protect me.

    It's worked so far, Pudge said. Let's give it some more time. See how it plays out. He sat down across from Angelo, squeezing in on the other end of the entryway. Maybe you'll turn out to be tougher than all of us.

    I'm too scared to be tough, Angelo said. But I promise to always be your friend. And I will never betray you.

    Pudge stared over at Angelo and nodded. Same goes for me, he said. And for the kind of work we're about to get into, that might be all that we need.

     *     *     *

ANGELO AND PUDGE stood silent and at attention, watching as Angus McQueen finished a game of solitaire. He had small hands, nails neat and trimmed, and he flipped the cards over gently onto the top of the polished wood table. There was a smoldering cigarette tilted into an ashtray on his right and an empty cup of coffee to his left. He spoke without lifting his eyes from the cards.

    Ida tells me I should put you two boys to work, Angus said, studying the jack of spades in his hand. You agree with her?

    Pudge looked at Angelo, nodded, then turned back to McQueen. Yes, Pudge said. We're ready to work.

    At what? McQueen asked.

    We're up to doin' anything, Pudge said.

    McQueen picked up his cigarette and took a long pull on the wet tobacco. He looked up at the two boys, his eyes squinting from the swirling lines of smoke. Anything? he said. That covers a lot of territory.

    I'm not afraid, Pudge said. If that's what you're thinkin'.

    Well, I know you're not afraid of me, McQueen said, a small smile creeping across his face. He rested the cards facedown on the table and stubbed out the tip of the cigarette. Let me take some time and think on it, he said, pushing his chair back. See what I can find. It'll be runner's work at first. Nothing big and nothing that pays great.

    We ain't picky, Pudge said.

    You can't afford to be, McQueen answered.

    He walked around the table and stood next to Angelo, resting a hand on the thin boy's shoulder. I heard about your run-in with Banyon, he said. I hope it hurt.

    Angelo looked up at McQueen and nodded. Yes, he said. It hurt.

    Good, McQueen said. That means you made yourself an enemy. And if you're going to work for me you're going to have plenty of enemies.

    And don't count on having too many friends either, Ida the Goose said.

    You only need yourself one of those, Angus McQueen said, reaching into his vest and pulling out a fresh cigarette. A hundred enemies and one friend will make you a rich man in business. Any business.

    Pudge shrugged and pointed a thumb at Angelo. I got me no problems there, Pudge said. So long as I'm with him, I'll have more than my share of people who hate me.

    Angus McQueen lifted his head back and laughed. You're a lucky lad, then, he said. You haven't even started and already you're a step ahead.

    Might even die a rich man, Ida the Goose said, smiling. You play it right.

    Angelo glanced at Pudge. I will not let you die, he said through lips that barely moved.

    Thanks, Pudge said. I'll sleep better now.

    Ida the Goose and Angus McQueen exchanged a nod and a smile.

     *     *     *

PAOLINO STOOD KNEE-DEEP in the clear waters of City Island Bay, his pants rolled up to his thighs and his hands sifting through the bottom's soft sand. He looked up at Angelo sitting on the center plank of a rowboat and smiled. The boy, a half-filled bushel of clams resting between his legs, smiled back. The hot morning sun beat down on both of them.

    How many do we have so far? Paolino yelled across the short distance separating them.

    About fifty, Angelo called back. Maybe more.

    Paolino squinted up at the sun, its warm rays turning the pall of his white skin a bright shade of red. Three more hours, he said. By then, the basket will be full.

    Are all these clams for us? Angelo asked, his white T-shirt bunched up and hanging around his neck.

    As many as we can eat, Paolino said. The rest we give to the people in our building.

    Do you want your drink, Papa? Angelo asked, reaching for a bottle of red wine wrapped in cloth.

    Paolino rinsed his hands in the clear water and walked toward Angelo. The two of them had left lower Manhattan in the middle of the night and hitched a ride on a friend's milk wagon heading up to the Bronx to make its deliveries. They slept for most of the five-hour trip and stared out at the passing scenery during the rest of it. A gulf was developing between the boy and his father and Paolino felt powerless to prevent its expansion. The hours he spent with his now-eight-year-old son were too few to matter, stolen minutes jammed in between work and sleep. It was one more fault he could lay at the doorstep of his new homeland.

    Paolino had cursed Italy for the ease with which it submitted to the dark hands of organized crime. But now, here in New York, he saw greater dangers. The streets of lower Manhattan sucked up boys like his Angelo and thrust them into a sinister realm where their torn pockets would be lined with wads of easy money. At such a young age Angelo had already glimpsed an escape route from the cramped confines of his dead-end tenement life.

    Paolino flipped his shirt over the side of the boat. The sun and sparkle of the water reminded him of an earlier tune, when his days were marked by long walks across green hills and fresh meadows and along tree-lined roads, herding his flock, his own future as clear to him as the overhead sky. That short period seemed galaxies removed from where he now stood. He felt as if he were in the middle of someone else's life, cruising by, honing in on the memories of a stranger.

    I do not remember the last time I was out in the sun, Paolino said. It feels good.

    How much longer will we stay? Angelo asked. His English was improving daily, deterred only by his occasional stutter and living among New York Italians, who found it much easier to speak in their  own tongue than to add the demands of a new one to their burdens.

    Milk wagon will be by to pick us up at four, Paolino said, taking the wine bottle from his son. As he swallowed the homemade brew, Paolino stared at the boy's face, the youthful features so much a carbon copy of his wife's that it made him wince. Why? You have someplace to go? he asked, wiping his chin and handing Angelo back the bottle.

    Pudge needs me, Angelo said.

    He needs you to do what? Paolino asked.

    I don't know, Angelo said.

    Listen to me, Angelo, Paolino said, a wet hand resting on top of the boy's knee. I know it is hard for you now. The way we live is not the best. But it will be better. Hard work will make it better. That is the only way I know and the only way I want to teach you.

    Angus McQueen does not work hard, Angelo said. And he lives better.

    Angus McQueen is a criminal, Paolino hissed, hatred for the man and his methods coloring his eyes. He's not good enough to work. He lives off my work. My sweat. He will show you a life that is wrong. A life filled with poison.

    He show me how to play cards, Angelo said.

    You are young still, Paolino said. When you are older, he will show you more than card games.

    Are you afraid of him? Angelo asked.

    I am afraid for you Paolino said. I know what harm these people bring. I saw it in Italy with my own eyes. I do not wish to see it happen here. Not again.

    Is that why you came to this country? Angelo asked, staring at the bushel of clams.

    I came for you, Paolino said. I wanted a better life for you than what we had in Italy. I cannot do that if you choose these other people over me.

    They are my friends, Angelo said, lifting his eyes to Paolino.

    But they are my enemies, Paolino said. If you stay with them, become a part of them, you cannot ever be a part of me.

    Angelo looked away, his eyes scanning the bay, his face soft and warm. I love you, Papa, he whispered. But I do not want to be like you.

    Paolino stared at his son's profile and fought back the urge to cry. He had always thought of Angelo as weak, ill-suited for the demands of a harsh country. He knew now that he was wrong. Behind his son's frail body there was hidden a hard core, one that would absorb all that it needed to survive.

    You will not be like me, Angelo, Paolino said, stroking the boy's head with a wet hand. You are too strong. There will be many fears to be faced in your life, but that will not be one of them.

    Angelo turned back to look at his father, the blazing sun directly above his head. You rest, Papa, he said. I will finish the clams.

    Angelo jumped into the water, took a few strides closer to land and spent the rest of the afternoon in the hunt for buried clams.

     *     *     *

JOSEPHINA AND ANGELO walked down the crowded street, the old woman's right hand at rest under the boy's left elbow. It was late afternoon on a summer's day and the streets were crammed with men coming home from jobs and women rushing to steamy apartments to begin preparing the evening meal. Angelo clutched a small paper bag filled with vine-ripe tomatoes and red onions to his chest. He and Pudge were working as part-time runners for Angus McQueen, making twice-weekly pickups and money drops in the back rooms of bars and diners. Angelo was paid two dollars a week and the weight of the money felt good in his pocket. It was his first taste of illegal money and he loved it.

    Money is the only reason anybody ever becomes a gangster, Pudge would often say, usually after a big meal. Everything else follows that. The money is the bait that draws you in. You don't believe me, then name one gangster worth his weight in vinegar who started out in life anything but dirt poor. The cars, the broads, the fancy digs, that all comes later, but it's the bite of cash that gets you hooked. Then, by the time you got enough socked away that you want out of the life, there's nowhere for you to go. Being a gangster is all you know and all you can be. And it's how you're gonna die. All of it off of that first dollar you made back when you were a kid.