A muscular older man with thick forearms and a relaxed smile walked up to the table carrying a blueberry pie. You're not gonna leave without having dessert, are you? He rested the pie on the center of the table and raised two fingers to a man sitting with his back to the bar. Tommy'll bring us over a couple of forks, he said. You should have at least a taste. It's a fresh pie. Just took it out of the oven.
I'm going to be late for dinner, I said, glancing down at the empty platter and soup bowl that was on the table.
Seems to me you just had your dinner, the man said, gently pushing back a chair with his foot and sitting down. And besides, if you're already late, the worst you can be is later. Tell you what? I'll even toss in a fresh cup of coffee, help you wash down the pie. Now I know nobody is gonna make you a better offer than that. At least not today they won't.
I smiled at him, pushed my chair closer to the edge of the table and sat back down. Tommy from the bar came over and handed him two forks. You want plates with that? he asked.
No, he said to Tommy, shaking his head. We're good as is.
He handed me one of the forks and looked down at the pie. Time to dig in, he said. And let's not be shy about it.
He cut at the pie with his fork, broke away a large chunk and jammed it into his mouth. He looked across the table and motioned for me to do the same, watching with approval as I repeated his move. Tommy came back, this time carrying a small tray that had a pot of coffee and two cups on it. He placed the tray next to the pie and walked back to his seat at the bar. The man lifted the hot pot by its black handle, filled the two cups and pushed one toward me. Milk and sugar are up by the bar, he said, leaning back in his chair. Go up and help yourself.
I've never had coffee before, I said. This is my first cup.
Then get used to drinking it black, the man said. The less you need in life, the better off you're gonna find yourself.
I sipped my coffee, the bitter taste coating my tongue and warming my throat, and watched as he drained his cup with three fast gulps. What do they call you? he asked, brushing the empty cup off to one side of the table.
My name's Gabe, I said, holding the cup away from my face.
Pudge, he said, thrusting a thick hand across the table for me to shake. Pudge Nichols.
I shook his hand and watched as my fingers disappeared inside his formidable grip. He was dressed in charcoal gray slacks and a black V-neck sweater, the collar of a crisp white T-shirt visible underneath. His thick hair was as white as fresh vanilla ice cream and he had a half-moon scar just below his left eye. He wore no jewelry and kept his watch around a belt loop on his pants. Pudge was sixty-one when we first met, but had the upper body of a ranking middleweight, his muscles flexing whether he was at rest or moving with graceful ease across a room.
Are you the owner? I speared another piece of pie and looked around at the well-kept bar.
I'm one of them. He leaned back against his chair, his hands flat on the surface of the table. The other one is the tall quiet guy who let you in to watch the game.
He never told me his name.
If that's something he wants you to know, Pudge said, then he'll be the one to tell you.
I should get going, I said, pushing my chair back. It's pretty dark out now and the people I live with might start to think that something happened to me.
You need somebody to walk home with you? Pudge stood next to me, his hands at rest by his side. Have them back up your story, just in case things start to look like they're gonna get out of hand?
Thanks anyway, I said, shaking my head. They won't care enough to be asking me lots of questions.
Does that bother you? Pudge asked as he walked with me toward the front door of the bar.
I stopped at the door and opened it, letting the cold autumn night air rush in and mix with the stale odors of the bar. I thought about what he'd asked, then turned back to look at him when I had the answer. Not yet, I said.
Pudge nodded at me and turned away, the door closing slowly behind him. I stood outside the bar for several minutes, my eyes closed, a smile on my lips, savoring the final seconds of a day I knew I would never forget. I then lifted the collar of my jacket, lowered my head and began the slow walk back to a place I knew I didn't belong.
FOR THE NEXT several weeks, I made it a point to walk past the bar on my way home from school each afternoon. I stood on the opposite corner and tried my best not to be noticed, content to watch the quiet comings and goings of bar activity. I was hooked after just that one memorable afternoon. In a youthful imagination charged by living most of my life in isolation, the importance of that day took on a greater significance than it would have for another boy who came to it from a more normal background. It was the first time I had been treated as an equal by any adult. Instead of entering into a strange place as an intruder, I was made to feel wanted as well as welcomed. Such feelings are a rare treat for a foster child. I had lived my life as an outsider, forced to look at my limited view of the world through other people's windows. I was too young to know it at the time, but gangsters live their life pretty much in the same manner. The only difference is that they choose to close off the outside world, content to live within the spaces they have designated as their own. And they very seldom allow a civilian a peek through the glass. For one brief and glorious afternoon, I had been allowed such a peek.
I had been leaning against the lamppost for over an hour when the first drops of rain began to fall. I looked up at the dark clouds overhead and, after taking one final look at the bar, turned to leave. I was walking alongside a row of parked cars, my head down, dreading yet another dreary night that lay ahead, an uncomfortable evening of stolen glances, heavy sighs and forced chatter between myself and my foster parents. With the rain coming down harder, wetting through the shoulders of my windbreaker, I knew my time with my new family would be a short one and that eventually my fear of living in an orphanage would become a reality. I walked past the red taillights of a black Lincoln Continental, the lines of water running down the sides of the trunk and rear fenders giving it a glow, reflected in the glare of an all-night diner across the way. I was about to come up to the driver's side door when it swung open, blocking my path.
I stopped and turned to look inside, the car's interior lights illuminating the face of the tall man behind the wheel, casting him in half shadows, but not enough that I didn't recognize him. He was the same man who had led me into the bar that day to eat a meal and see a baseball game. He looked up at me, one leg outside of the car, his foot hugging the edge of the curb. His eyes were the color of night and his hands were resting on the bottom of the steering wheel as he watched the water run down my face and the sides of my neck.
If you're going to spend most of your time on the street, an umbrella wouldn't be that bad of an idea, he said.
I don't mind the rain all that much, I said. And anyway, I don't live too far from here.
He eased his leg back inside the car. In that case, I don't need to offer you a ride.
I shook my head. You never did tell me your name, I said. That day you let me into your bar.
You never asked for it. His eyes scanned the rearview mirror for any visible activity behind him. If you had, I would have told you to call me Angelo.
If I don't move soon, I might drown out here. And I'm getting the inside of your car wet, which can't be making you too happy.
It's not my car, he said, ignoring the water dripping off the top of the door onto the interior. But before you go, I want you to do something for me.
What? I leaned in closer to better hear his low voice against the sound of the rain.
Tell the people you live with that you'll be home very late Monday night. Tell them you'll be out with me and for them not to worry.
He slammed the door shut and kicked over the engine. He flicked on the headlights and pulled out of the parking spot, his tires denting the center of the flowing curbside puddles. I watched the car brake at the corner, make a sharp right and disappear from sight. I was soaked through from head to socks and had begun to shiver. I walked down the four quiet, poorly lit streets back to my foster parent's apartment building, giving up the losing battle to shield myself from the downpour. I knew that when I got inside, the lights would be out and they would both be locked silently behind their closed bedroom door. There would be a cold meal waiting for me on the small kitchen table and maybe a hand towel draped over the back of a chair. I would take off my clothes in the hall and leave them there in a wet heap, so as not to have a heavy water trail follow me through the apartment. I'd lock the door behind me, rush into my room in the rear and jump into bed, drying my body and trying to get warm as I huddled under a double layer of thin white sheet and thick quilt blanket.
I also knew that on this night, I would fall asleep with a smile on my face.
MOST GANGSTERS NEVER live long enough to see retirement or prison, and if they're lucky, they don't see the bullets that seal their early doom. But the ones who were smarter and more brutal were often the ones to live long enough to see the late-day sun. Carlo Sandulli ruled his New York crew until his death from a heart ailment at eighty-five. In his entire life he never once used a telephone and stayed clear of the modern-day habit of doing business out of social clubs, which were under the vigilant eye of federal agents. Giacamo Vandini gave orders through nods and hand gestures, the death of an enemy decided by the flipping of a palm. Chicago crime legend Jerry Maccadro ruled with a Roman fist until his mid-eighties, defiant to his final breath. It takes a lot to make it to old age in the rackets, Angelo said. You need good luck when it comes to your health and you have to be smart about how you go about your life. You also have to make sure all your enemies end up in cemeteries. The older you get, the deadlier you have to be and you use age to your advantage. You make it a strength. Most of us are more dangerous the longer we live. If we didn't care about dying when we were young, we're not going to be too concerned about it when we have two feet in our own grave.
Pudge had matured, softened with age. He was a rare gangster, one who never married or sought out the comforts of family. He enjoyed his life, the freedom and power it afforded him. His reputation in mob circles was still fierce and deadly enough that few dared challenge him. He was still quick to kill and just as quick to charm. He had grown into a favorite uncle who was warmly welcomed by those whose path he crossed.
A favorite uncle who also happened to be a remorseless killer.
Through the years, Angelo had shuttered his small world even tighter, limiting his contact to just a handful of those he trusted. He now reigned over an organized crime universe changing with the times, forced to confront younger members eager to embrace the lucrative allure of drugs. He knew only one way to calm such a desire. He and Pudge were the Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig of gangsters, still in the game years after most other players had either retired or died, and still sharp enough to lead their world in hits.
GORILLA MONSOON HAD Johnny Valentine in a headlock, stomping his large foot on the ring mat each time he tightened his grip. The packed house inside Madison Square Garden booed Monsoon as he sneered at them, mocking Valentine's meager attempts to pin him. I was sitting in the center of the front row, facing the middle of the large ring, wedged in between Angelo and Pudge. I had a container of popcorn on my lap and a Coke in a paper cup next to my right foot.
You think Monsoon's going to be able to take him? I asked them, keeping my eyes focused on the action above me.
You talking about real life, then it's not even worth the question, Pudge said with a shrug. But inside of that ring up there, there's no way they're gonna let Monsoon leave here with his arm raised.
I turned away from a vicious-sounding Monsoon body slam to the mat and looked at Pudge, Valentine flat on his back grimacing in pain. What do you mean? I asked. Are you saying the match is rigged?
This is wrestling, little man, Pudge said. It's supposed to be rigged. They have it all worked out even before they slip on their trunks. Everybody's in on it, from the referees to the crowd.
I looked around me at the nine thousand men, women and children, most of them standing up from their seats, screaming out words of encouragement to their favorite wrestler, booing when a move or a call didn't go their way, and then came back to Pudge. What about them? I asked him, pointing at the rows across from the ring. Do they all know, too?
Everybody knows, Pudge said. And if they don't, they should.
Doesn't that take away from the fun? I asked.
Pudge shook his head, continuing with the life lesson, one that was similar in setting to the early schooling given them many years ago by Angus McQueen. Why should it? he asked. You still root for the good guys, boo the bad ones and go back home having had yourself a good time.
I looked up and saw Johnny Valentine swing Gorilla Monsoon off the center ropes, then catch him, squeezing his arms around the much bigger man's waist, locking his fingers across his spine, forcing him to tilt his head back in pain. The house cheered its approval as Valentine's seemingly powerful hold forced Monsoon's knees to buckle and his lungs scream for air, his bulky arms hanging limply by his side. The referee lifted one of Monsoon's arms and watched as it fell back down like an airless balloon. He did it a second time with the same result. A third time would officially bring the match to an end.
Looks like it's all over, I said, holding a handful of popcorn. The big guy looks like he's going to faint.
It's too early for it to end, Angelo said with a casual indifference. They haven't given the crowd enough for their money yet. When they do, that's when it will be over.
And then who'll win? I looked over at Angelo, the popcorn crammed into a corner of my mouth.
He looked back at me, his eyes cold and distant. It doesn't matter who wins. If Valentine wins, the crowd goes home happy. If Monsoon wins they get upset. But by next week they're back rooting and yelling as loud as ever.
That's the only thing that counts, Pudge added. That they come back every week.
You can learn a lot about life by watching a wrestling match, Angelo said. Rigged or not. You got your good guys and your bad. You got those that are friends and those that are enemies. But then, the wrestler you think you can trust the most turns against you, betrays you to another group and leaves you out there by yourself. And all that does is make you want to come back looking for revenge. It's all there for you to see, Gabe. It might be buried under the theater of it, but if you look for it, you won't have too hard a time finding it.
Is that why you guys come to the matches? I asked, taking a sip from my cup of Coke.
We got our lessons from a different ring, Pudge said. If there's anything that needs to be learned here tonight, it's you who's got to learn it.
You can choose and be like the people that are sitting around us, Angelo said, his hand placed gently on my knee. Now, if that's the direction you go in, then you only need to treat tonight for what it is, a little bit of fun, a break in your routine. But if you decide to come away from it with something more than another night out, then pay attention to what you see. It may come in handy one day or it may not. Either way, you make the time spent work in your favor and not against.
I turned away from Angelo and looked up to watch Johnny Valentine put a neck grip on Gorilla Monsoon and, after several minutes of cries and groans, force him into submission and bring the match to an end. The audience erupted into wild cheers as Valentine strutted around the ring, his arms raised to the lights above. Pudge nudged an elbow against my side, leaned over and shouted into my ear. I'll give you better than even money the two of them are having dinner together after they leave here tonight.
What if somebody sees them? I asked. Won't they get into any trouble?
For having dinner with a friend? That day ever comes around then we'll all be in big trouble.
I smiled at Pudge then turned to look at Angelo but all I saw was an empty seat. Don't worry, Pudge said, sensing the question I was about to ask. Angelo's not one for crowds. He'll be at the restaurant when we get there.
Which restaurant are we going to? I asked as I took Pudge's hand in mine and followed him down a ramp that led out of the arena.
There's only one kind of cooking that goes down easy after sitting through two solid hours of wrestling. Pudge made a right past the ramp and out through a set of double doors. And that's Chinese. How's that sound to you?
It sounds great, I said, walking at twice my normal pace in order to keep up with Pudge's accelerated speed. Well, I don't really know how it sounds. I've never eaten Chinese food.
It looks to me like we got to take you from the top to the bottom, little man. Pudge turned his head toward me as we both stood on the corner of Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue. Try and make up for lost time and teach you everything you need to know. Does that sound like a good deal to you?
Yes, I said and then I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his neck. It was the first time in my entire life I had ever hugged anybody, let alone a man, and I never wanted to let him go.
Pudge returned the hug and then lifted me off my feet and carried me the rest of the way to the restaurant, keeping me safe and warm, shielding me from the cold harsh winter winds.
GANGSTERS FEAR LEADING a normal life and do all they can to denigrate such an existence. They are constantly pitting their chosen lifestyle up against that of a working man and must walk away from such discussions needing to feel superior. They find themselves compelled to justify, in the simplest of terms, the reasons they are career criminals and they willingly color the truth in order to reach a conclusion that bends in their favor. They do this with all that they see and hear, coating it with the brush of a harsh lesson in order to give weight to the reality of their world.
That is why treating me to a night of wrestling meant more to Angelo and Pudge than a few hours of fun. It was a way to illustrate to me how life really functions, that someone perceived as being good can easily shift toward evil and that no one should be trusted beyond the moment. They would impose such lessons on me throughout my childhood years, regardless of where we went or what we would see together.
Find me any gangster and keep in mind he doesn't know shit about the theater, but he'll tell you that his all-time favorite play is Death of a Salesman Pudge told me that as we were sitting through yet another production. Now, I know it's a lot of other people's favorite play, too. But they like it for the writing or maybe for the acting. Gangsters don't care about any of that. Instead, what we walk away with after watching it, is how living the decent life and following all the rules and working hard every day of your life in the end does nothing but screw you and leave you for dead. Willy Loman is every gangster's biggest fear. He lived his whole life for nothing but empty pockets and then his only way out was to wrap a car around a tree trunk and hope the insurance company came through with the cash. If that's what an honest man can hope to get at the end of the road, then you can have it and keep it all, with interest.
I WALKED our of my last class of the day, my book bag filled to capacity, eager to get out and meet Pudge at the pizzeria around the corner from the school. It was near the end of my second month as a transfer student at St. Dominick's at Thirty-first Street where my foster parents had placed me, hoping a parochial education would do more for me than a public one. While I had adjusted to the heavier workload and the stricter rules imposed by the Catholic Brothers who taught us, I still had no real friends, keeping a safe distance from the others in my grade. I never knew when I would have to move again and did not want to risk becoming part of any group I would have to be torn away from, despite the many assurances I got from Pudge that this would be my last stop. My stubborn stance didn't seem to pose much of a problem, though, since the others students still did their best to avoid me. By now, I had spent enough time alone that I had grown comfortable in the role, content to watch from a distance the friendly antics that went on between the other kids around me. My background was well known to the students and teachers in my grade. There are few secrets that can be kept from the peering eyes and acute ears of a tenement landscape, and mine was no exception. By staying silent and keeping to myself, I simply gave them all a little less to talk about, knowing that would only further fuel their curiosity.
I SLAMMED DOWN on the iron bar and opened the red wood door that led out to the street. My foot touched the top step when a hand reached out and pushed me forward, causing me to lose my balance and drop my book bag. I caught myself with one hand on the railing, the other scraping against the center of a concrete step. I looked up and saw a circle of boys standing above me, all smiling and waiting for me to get back to my feet.
Which one of you pushed me? I asked, wiping the blood off my hand on the knee of my pants.
A pudgy kid with an oval face and thick red hair flipped a toothpick from his mouth and walked down a step. You're looking at him, orphan boy, he said, standing with his feet square apart, his closed hands at his side. I saw that you were in a hurry so I thought that maybe I'd help speed you along.
The cluster behind him laughed and snorted their approval, while a skinny Hispanic kid gave him a gentle nudge on the shoulder. The pudgy boy's name was Michael Cannera and I had seen him a few times in the playground during lunch and recess, and I was in a religion class with him, but we had never exchanged a word. He seemed the leader of his pack and was always pounced upon by the Brothers who were quick to dole out their brand of punishment with a leather hand belt. He was on the hunt for a fight, more out of pleasure than any sense of dominance or threat to his little domain. I had seen him in a few of his street-corner battles, usually matched up against smaller kids, and he always came out of the scrap bloodied but a winner. I also noticed that regardless of who he was up against, his back was covered by at least three of his buddies, ready to jump in if asked. As I looked at him glowering down at me, I knew I was nothing more to him than a convenient target.
He already had one advantage over me even before any punches were thrown. I was a state-sponsored foster child and as such had to be on my best behavior, both in the home I was sent to live in and at the school I attended. A street fight, especially one on school grounds, was sure to be brought to someone's attention, and that could easily earn me a ticket out to a state home.
It's not a problem, I said, as I leaned down to pick up my book bag. I wasn't looking to get in anybody's way.
Michael walked down two steps closer to me, his face locked in a tight sneer. Only a punk would turn his back and walk from this, he said. Is that what you are, orphan boy? That must be what happens when you gotta go and pay somebody to make believe they're your parents.
Why don't you go and look for trouble somewhere else? I said, lifting my bag and turning my back. You're not gonna find any here.
I don't let anybody tell me what to do, he snarled, running with full force down the remaining three steps. Especially no little punk ass orphan boy.
He landed square against the center of my back, the blow pushing the air out of my lungs and causing me to lose the grip on my bag. I landed face first on the sidewalk, Michael leaning against my shoulders, his weight holding me down, his fists landing blows across my neck and head. I lifted my head and tried to regain my focus, tasting the thin lines of blood that were dripping into my mouth from a slash under my eye. My bag and books were scattered off to my right, one of them resting flat on its spine, its pages flapping open in the wind. I stretched out my hand and reached for the nearest one, a thick geography text resting on its side, up against the base of a thin tree surrounded by a dry patch of dirt. My upper body was burning from the storm of punches pounding down on it. I closed my eyes and grabbed for the book, gripping my fingers around its pages, using my free hand as a balance.
The pace of his punches was slowing down, his energy sapped by his explosive assault. I could feel him rocking back on his heels, one hand grabbing the crook of my collar and lifting my head off the ground. He was breathing hard and heavy, his mouth swallowing gulps of cold, fresh air. I leaned forward on my right shoulder and tightened my grip around the book. I turned and swung it against the side of the boy's pudgy face. I caught him flush on the ear, the edge of the book catching a corner of his eye, and sent him tumbling off my back and onto the sidewalk, where he landed on his side. I rose to my knees and began to throw my own punches against the boy's face and chest. One hard blow caught the center of his nose, sending a wide spray of blood flying onto my shirt and face. I reached down to my right and picked up the geography book and brought it down hard against the boy's nose and mouth. I didn't stop until the flat of the pages were lined red with his blood.
I tossed the book to the ground and got to my feet. My back and shoulders burned and were weighed down with pain. I stood over him, watching as he ran his fingers across the front of his face, his nose red and clogged, blood running out of the corners of his mouth.
Is this what you wanted? I asked him, surprised at how quickly my own violent instincts had surfaced. I turned away just to make sure none of his friends were looking to make a move against me. They were all where I had last seen them, on the top steps of the school exit, huddled together, the eager smiles wiped from their faces. Is it what you and your pals expected to see?
He spit out a mouthful of blood and glared up at me. This has got a long way to go till it ends, he said.
I was breathing fast and shaking with anger. It had gone past the bleeding pudgy boy and his crew of friends. My rage was no longer only directed their way. It was now aimed at all those anonymous faces in all those hallways of all the schools I had ever attended. The ones who pointed at me and whispered words I pretended not to hear. I was a marked child and a focus for their scorn. Many of them came from homes where violence behind closed doors was commonplace. A few were the children of divorce, distanced from one parent because of hatred and discord. A few more were illegitimate but were able to dodge freely past the stigma that often came attached to such births. I was the foster child tossed into their poor puddle and was forced to bear the hatred and fear such a position imposed. Foster children are seldom welcomed into working-class neighborhoods by other kids. They are seen as oddities and threats, not to be trusted and never to be liked. It is why so many foster parents try and keep it a secret. We are not taken in because we are loved or needed. We are taken in because we come with a monthly check attached to our names.
I released all the anger that had built inside me through all those years as I kicked Michael, ripping into his sides and back with the full force of both legs. My black shoes found their mark with each swing, the round tips cracking against bone or bending into rolls of flesh. No! I shouted down at him after each kick had landed. It ends here! It ends now!
I heard his friends come down the school steps, walking together, watching as their once brazen leader tried to crawl away and hide in a safe corner, next to a row of garbage cans. I continued to kick at him, the pent-up venom spewing out of me in one rush of pure, unrestrained violence. My body was washed down in a chilled sweat, as a small crowd of pas-sersby stood around me, having stopped to stare, mumble and gawk at the bloody scene that was taking place. I landed a solid kick just under his rib cage and heard him grunt and cough, a bloody trail marking the path he had crawled from the sidewalk to the edge of the school building. I reared back, primed to land another hard blow, when a thick arm grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off my feet and away from the boy.
You won your fight, little man, Pudge said into my ear. Why don't we just leave it at that?
I turned to look at him and nodded, watching the sweat drip from my forehead down onto the sleeve of his jacket. I didn't go looking for it, Pudge, I said. They'll probably go and tell the Brothers otherwise, but I wasn't the one that got it started.
Pudge released his grip on me and walked over toward the kids gathered on the school steps, slowly looking at each of their faces. Pick up your friend and take him to a place where he can get cleaned up, he told them. If it were me in your spot, I would make sure it was a place that knows how to stay quiet about this kind of business. The less anybody knows about what happened here, the more it'll look good for all of you.