1
“What a buncha dopes,”
sneered Joe Scalzo, staring out at the holiday shoppers along Eighty-Sixth
Street. “Every year they wait till the last possible second. You’d think they
woulda smartened up a bit by now.” He hung the CLOSED sign in the front window
and locked the door.
“Don’t worry,” said Jasmine, folding a pair of fake
leather pants, “I’ll take your mind off them. I’ll distract you.”
He turned and winked at the young sales girl. In a moment
they’d be going into the stockroom, where Jasmine would receive what Joe liked
to call her “weekly bonus”.
Suddenly there was a bang on the door. Scalzo leaped back
from the surprise. It was the woman who had fallen in love with a fringed, red
leather jacket earlier that day. She nearly shed tears when Joe told her they
did not accept credit cards, but then vowed to return with $300 cash. Joe did
not believe her. Now her pale fleshy face was right there in front of him,
steaming up the glass. A meaty fist clutching a mess of crumpled bills came
into view. “I have money!” yelled the red donut-hole mouth. Grumbling, Joe
opened the door.
“I HAVE MONEY!” she announced again upon entering.
He
turned toward the rack, only to find Jasmine already standing beside him with
the jacket. The girl smiled, her lazy eye gazing warmly into the distance just
above his right shoulder. She handed him the merchandise.
“This is a real beauty,” he told the woman. “I showed you
where the only problem is, right here under the arm where no one can see.
That’s it. Otherwise this baby is pure perfection.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It is real Dolce Gabana?”
He showed her the label.
“How much?”
“I told you. Three-hundred.”
“I have two-forty,” she wheezed.
Joe thought for a moment. “OK, two-forty. But no return, no
receipt.”
She handed over the cash and he casually slipped it into
his pocket. He offered a shopping bag, but she insisted on wearing the jacket
now. After struggling to pull it over a thick wool sweater with imitation fur
collar, the woman’s pudgy face glowed with satisfaction. She left the boutique
resembling a very happy overripe tomato.
Joe Scalzo quickly locked the front door and followed the
thick, hip-swaying sales girl into the musty stockroom. After a few perfunctory
kisses he laid her down on some cardboard beside the irregular handbags and the
irregular bikinis. It was all over very quickly.
When it was all over the poor, insecure high school
senior gazed up lovingly into her boss’s dull brown eyes. She did not know what
it was about him that made her go all warm inside. He was not handsome. His mug
bore that dim, perplexed expression of someone straining over a Find-A-Word
puzzle. Yet Jasmine continued to dream of one day becoming his girl. She never
considered Scalzo’s live-in girlfriend and two young daughters when she
entertained this fantasy; she pushed them to the back of her teenaged mind,
obscured them, the same way she pulled down her curly brown hair to obscure her
lazy eye from the world.
“Baby,” she whispered, “when is it going to be just us?”
“Soon,” he
muttered, “soon.”
A few minutes later she was in a cab and headed home to
Sunset Park.
Leaning up against the counter, Joe carefully read the
register tape and counted the day’s profits. Everything matched. It had been an
excellent day, the boutique made over two-thousand dollars. The bosses would
never miss that cash he’d just pocketed for the leather jacket. So with a brown
paper bag containing profits and register tape, and twelve twenties folded
neatly in his pocket, Joe Scalzo shut the lights and pulled the gates down on
the Castellamare Boutique. Then he got into his old Mercury Monarch and headed
to the cafe to report to his superior.
It
was a year ago this month that Joseph Scalzo first got into bed with the mob.
After profuse volunteering he was finally assigned an errand by his
girlfriend’s cousin Angelo, the Ferrante Family’s top hitman. The task--to
drive a dozen handguns from West Virginia up to New York--went off without a
hitch. As a result he was handed numerous other small jobs over the course of
the year, which he performed with zeal. Fueled by these minor achievements,
Scalzo now dreamed of climbing the mob ladder, of becoming a made man within La
Cosa Nostra. And in his girl’s cousin, a highly respected soldier, he saw a
potential sponsor for membership. But every time Joe broached the subject he
was brushed off, told that the books have not been opened in years, there is no
telling when the family will be accepting new members. In the meantime he was
entrusted with Castellamare.
On paper it was owned by the Alzheimer’s-ridden uncle of
a local Cosa Nostra associate, but for all practical purposes the boutique
belonged to the Ferrante Family. They christened the tiny clothing store--tucked
between a Korean beauty parlor and a Chinese takeout--after Castellamare del
Golfo, a sunny town in western Sicily named for its most prominent feature, a
castle by the sea. The boutique’s merchandise, consisting solely of irregular
clothing and accessories for women, was regularly rerouted to Bensonhurst as it
arrived on the waterfront from Indonesia. And since most of the dock’s foremen
had been on the Ferrante payroll for as long as they could recall, the scheme
went over beautifully. Naturally, newcomer Scalzo was not given full charge of
the store. Managerial duties were split with a venerable soldier named Anthony
(Little Tony) Assante. After thirty-five years, three wars, and over a decade
served in federal prisons, Little Tony was finally going to be put on the
shelf. But before being granted retirement Assante was assigned one final task:
to work in the boutique for a while and keep a watchful eye over the dealings
of Joe Scalzo.
2
Standing conspicuously on a
residential corner in Dyker Heights, Cafe Abruzzi sported large spotless
windows that welcomed passersby to glance inside at the five elderly gentlemen
who sat innocently playing cards, reading the Italian newspaper Oggi, and drinking espresso from dainty
white cups. The decor was modest. On the walls were a framed map of Italy, some
photos of Italian soccer teams, and an amateurish oil painting of the
crucifixion. Behind the counter sat an old-school Brooklyn gal, all big hair
and nails, snapping her gum into the phone. Scalzo smiled, pointed to a closed
back door and raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “Is he in there?” She nodded.
He knocked, announced himself, and the voice from beyond bid him to enter.
The small cramped office was not as brightly lit as the
rest of the cafe. Shelves lining the walls were piled with cartons of sugar,
plastic cups, and coffee machine filters. In the middle of the shadowy room was
a desk which was way too large for its surroundings. Its surface was a mess of
pads, pens and newspaper. A cigarette burned away in an ashtray. Seated behind
this disarray was a swarthy fellow in a white dress shirt who had a large mouth
which made him resemble a horse. Joe smiled and the man smiled and they shook
hands. Then Joe placed the brown paper bag on the desk.
“How’s it going?” asked horse face.
“Great, Mr. Mazza, great,” said Joe respectfully. “Lotta
profits this week.”
He opened the bag, glanced inside, then smiled
approvingly. “How much?”
“A little over two grand.”
“Receipts all in order?”
“Perfect order, Mr. Mazza.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“You know, a lady came in Tuesday to return something and
when Tony asked for a receipt she said you never gave her one.”
“Really?”
Assuming a fatherly tone he said, “Listen kid, you gotta
make sure you keep perfect records, do everything by the book here. There’s a
lotta eyes on you right now. You don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about
you. I want you to succeed at this. Angelo wants you to succeed.”
Joe put on his shame face. “I know Mr. Mazza. I musta
been daydreaming or something. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” He handed Scalzo an envelope containing $250, his
weekly wages. Then he stood and put on his coat. “Cause I got big plans for you
Joe. Take a walk with me. I wanna talk serious with you about something.”
The two walked out into the winter night. A light snow
had begun to coat the ground like a sprinkle of confectioners’ sugar on a
zeppole. Joe held a large black umbrella over his boss as they began their
stroll around the block. He knew that what Mazza had to say was of the utmost
importance; otherwise they never would have come out into the wet cold, beyond
the range of electronic listening devices, which Mazza was always wary of.
They walked silently for some time past houses blinking
with blue and red Christmas lights. Then after a cautious backward glance the
mobster spoke in a near whisper, “I want you to do a piece of work for me. Are
you willing to do that?”
Scalzo tried to mask the trembling in his voice. “I would
be honored. I been hoping for a long time to get the chance to prove myself.”
“Good. You’ll work with Angelo. He’ll show you the right
way to do things.”
“Who are we gonna...?”
He waited until they had passed an old woman watching her
poodle piss against a tree. “Jimmy, the sheet metal worker.”
Scalzo repressed a gasp of surprise. He had grown up with
Jimmy, there was history between them. Not good history. Like Scalzo, Jimmy was
an associate of The Family. Joe did not know exactly what he did, aside from
the fact that it had to do with the sheet metal worker’s union. He wondered why
Jimmy was slated to be knocked off, but knew better than to ask.
“Consider it done, Mr. Mazza.”
“Good. Go home, have a nice dinner with your family - how
is your family?”
“They’re fine, thanks.”
“When are you gonna marry that girl?”
“Soon, Mr. Mazza, soon.”
“I better be invited to the wedding!” He patted Joe on
the back. “Anyway, go spend some time with your family. (I don’t gotta tell you
don’t say nothing to no one.) Angelo will call your cell phone around midnight.
This is gonna look real good for you, Joe”
“Thank you, Mr. Mazza. I won’t disappoint you.”
They shook hands and parted. Joe chain-smoked Newport
Lights and strangled his steering wheel all the way back to Bensonhurst.
*
The apartment was in its
usual state. Stuffed animals and plastic playsets, old TV Guides and crowded
ashtrays, dirty napkins and dead remotes--all swirled together in the great
vacuum of disarray that was Joe’s living room. At the center of this madness
was Nicole, his six-year-old. She was stretched out on the hardwood floor in
her pink and blue pajamas, intently braiding the hair of a naked Indian doll.
Joe watched her for a moment before walking over to the aluminum mini-tree on
the coffee table and adjusting the red plastic star on top. He plugged in the
lights and the tree began to blink.
“Get off the cold floor,” he said, “and put some socks
on.”
“You gonna be here this Christmas?” asked Nicole.
“Just go put some socks on, and don’t get smart with me.”
Scalzo then followed Lisa’s baritone babbling into the
kitchen, where he found her cradling the infant in one arm, and closing the
refrigerator door with the other. The cordless phone was clinched securely
between her head and shoulder. Seven years with Joe did not wear well with the
woman. She was forty pounds overweight, disheveled, and hadn’t bleached her
mustache since Nicole’s fifth birthday.
“Your daughter’s in there with no socks on,” he barked.
“Did you know that?”
Lisa continued yapping, so Joe wrenched the phone from
her and hung it up. “Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you! You hear
me?”
She stood there with the baby in her arm, mouth slightly
agape, as if still trying to grasp exactly what had just taken place. Then her
face tightened.
“How dare you do that to me!” she yelled.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth and make some dinner,” he
said, “instead of bullshitting on the phone all day while the house falls to
pieces.”
“I would have made dinner if there was any food. But you
don’t give me any money to go shopping.”
Joe pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off two twenties and tossed them on the kitchen table.
“Wow!” went Lisa, “forty dollars! That’ll get us a long
way.”
“That’s not good enough for you?” he growled. “My money’s
not good enough for you?”
Nicole, clutching a doll beneath her arm, entered the
kitchen as her mother screamed.
“Why don’t you take your lousy forty dollars and go spend
it on one of your bimbos like you do every other goddamn week. You act like a
real tough guy with me, but you’re not even man enough to take care of your
kids. Go ahead. Go meet your stock girl--you think I don’t know about
her?--take her out on the town while your two daughters sit here and starve.”
The harsh truth of these words was too much. Blindly,
thoughtlessly, Joe rushed forward and wrapped his hands around Lisa’s neck,
slammed her up against the wall and squeezed. Her eyes bulged, her face grew
bright red. In one arm she continued to hold the crying child, with the other
she struggled vainly to free herself.
Little Nicole was screaming as loud as she could. She did
this not so much from fear but because she knew it would bring her father back
to his senses, make him recall that the last time this had happened he was led
away in handcuffs.
Her plan worked. Scalzo soon released his grip and
watched his girlfriend slide down the wall. She sat crumpled on the kitchen
floor, at once trying to catch her breath and make sure that her three-year-old
was all right. As Nicole ran to her mother’s aid Scalzo rushed past them into
the bedroom. There he retrieved his 9-mm handgun from the dresser drawer,
shoved it into his waistband, and stormed out of the apartment into the
Brooklyn night.
3
Without giving any thought
to what had just taken place Joe hopped into his Monarch, turned on the radio
and drove to Club BN, a little hole-in-the-wall strip joint located in the
shadowy gloom beneath the el on New Utrecht Avenue. The establishment, named
for its proximity to the station where the “B” and “N” train lines intersected,
was run by one Three Finger Mike, and frequented almost entirely by those who
were, like Scalzo, in “that life”.
It was still early so there wasn’t much going on. A
reggae song played as a lanky, blank-faced girl slowly gyrated for a train conductor
who sat alongside the stage. Nodding to the bouncer, Joe handed his leather
jacket to the coat-check girl and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a Jack and
Coke and watched the robot make a living. It was clear from her
movements that she had potential but was bored, and probably conserving energy
for the evening ahead. Her thirtyish face was pretty in a prematurely worn sort
of way and there were stretch marks on her light brown belly. Joe fleetingly wondered
how many kids she had waiting at home.
The night wore on. A platinum blonde whom Three
Finger Mike introduced only as Lexus took to the stage. Her act was cold,
rehearsed. She clearly lacked the other’s natural ability, but was younger and
more pleasing to the eye. A few men, some associated with the Transit
Authority, others with that other authority, now sat alongside the stage. Joe,
however, remained at the bar, chain-smoking Newport Lights and drinking one
Jack and Coke after another. His eyes seemed to remain fixed on the blonde,
but if one were to observe him closely it would be clear that he was not
actually watching the dancer at all, but rather looking through her. There were far graver matters on his mind.
James Galante, or Jimmy Sheet Metal as he was now known,
was going to stop breathing tonight. Good for him, the bastard. He’d made Joe’s
stay in St. Francis of Assisi parochial school feel like an eight year stretch
on Riker’s. Eight years of bullying and insults, threats and humiliation. Of
watching his back on the staircase and running home after school. Eight years
and seven bloody noses, four black eyes, countless swollen lips. And for what?
Because Jimmy was a big strong kid and Joe was a shrimp. Because Jimmy was
popular and had nice clothes and lived in a big house, and Joe was a poor
nobody with holes in his sneakers. In short, because Jimmy Galante needed a
victim, and little Joseph Scalzo fit the bill to a T. And then, as if all that
weren’t enough, he had to go and steal Denise. Sweet, beautiful Denise. Joe’s
first love, lured away by money and stature, used and abused like a $2 whore,
then dumped on the corner for the next punk with a nice tattoo and daddy’s car
keys in his pocket. She was never the same after that. Pride, self-respect,
something had been stripped from her after those few weeks with Jimmy Galante,
and it had been a steady decline ever since. Now she was the single mother of
two mulatto infants, twins, and her welfare checks just about covered the
payments on the local coke dealer’s new Mustang. Sweet, beautiful Denise....
The coat-check girl was strutting by. Joe hadn’t noticed
it before, but with her curly brown hair and soft dark eyes she bore a strong
resemblance to his old sweetheart.
Without thinking he grabbed her by the arm and snatched a
twenty off the bar. “Gimme a lap dance,” he slurred.
She grimaced and tried to free herself. “I’m coat-check.
I don’t do lap dances.”
Joe did not reply. He just held the girl’s arm tightly
and gazed into her eyes. His own eyes were glazed from too much whiskey and
years of longing. A flood of old memories raced before him. He no longer saw
the coat-check girl squirming in his grip.
“Let her go.”
Snapping out of his reveries, Scalzo looked up to find
the bouncer like a brick wall beside him. He shook his head a bit to bring
himself back to reality, then released the girl. She rushed away rubbing her
thin white arm, which bore a bright red hand print where he’d held her.
“You gotta leave,” the bouncer said.
Joe didn’t argue.
As he stumbled to his car Angelo called on the cell
phone, instructing him to stay put. Shortly afterwards a Ford Explorer rounded
the corner and Joe hopped in.
“How you feel?” Angelo wanted to know.
“Great.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. What’s the plan?”
Angelo lit a cigarette. The man was about forty-five,
stocky, with hands that could crush coconuts. His face was flattened, like a
boxer’s. It was a shrewd, dangerous face.
“All right,” he said. “I told him about this candy store
in Canarsie. Flimsy lock on the back door. No alarm. There’s three brand new
games--you know, arcade games--in this place. We slip in, load up the truck,
drive away. I know a guy in Queens that’ll give us a grand each for them. Got
that?”
Joe nodded.
“OK. In reality a friend of mine owns this place and he’s
letting us take care of our business there. We’ll go down the basement, I’ll
have the kid bend over to pick up one of the games, then I’ll finish him.
Simple.”
“What about me?”
“You’re my eyes and ears. I’m gonna be too busy to worry
about nosey old broads walking their dogs and shit like that. That’s all up to
you. I’m gonna be counting on you. Afterwards we’ll get rid of the kid, clean
up, and that’ll be that. Questions?”
Joe fidgeted slightly in his seat. “You think this will
get me in? I mean when they open the books again?”
Angelo took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled with
obvious agitation. “The only thing on our minds right now should be the job we
gotta do. If you got no questions about that then I’d like to go and get this
over with.”
Joe remained silent.
4
It was midnight and the snow
was falling heavily when they picked up Jimmy Sheet Metal in front of a small
nameless bar on the west side of Kings Highway. Joe had not seen Galante in
over a year. The cocky swagger, the phony grin, nothing had changed. Scalzo
felt all the old pangs of hatred and jealousy as he watched his target strut
confidently toward the Explorer.
“Yo!” Joe fake smiled.
“Yo!” went the other, sliding into the back seat.
They shook hands. Jimmy reeked of alcohol.
“I hear you’re doing all right for yourself,” Joe said,
trying to mask the resentment in his voice.
“I wish it was true,” came the somber reply.
Uncomfortable silence reigned for the next minute. Jimmy took a deep breath,
exhaled, and the stink of alcohol filled the vehicle. “My father passed six
months ago,” he sighed.
“Sorry - ”
“Bastard left us with fifty grand in gambling debts. And
now my mother just got diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Aw, Christ.”
“If I don’t start pulling in some real cash she’s gonna
die in the poor house.”
“You make an easy grand tonight, you give that to your
mother,” put in Angelo.
“I need to be making that every night,” said Jimmy, “the
way they been breathing down my neck.”
“Who was your father betting with?”
“Little Tony.”
“I work with him,” said Joe. “I’ll talk to him, maybe we
can arrange something.”
“Thank you,” said Jimmy in a tone that was truly sincere.
“Thanks a lot.”
Joe knew he wouldn’t be speaking to Little Tony; he was
in no position to approach his superior with such matters. Besides, the order
was in, Jimmy was going to be knocked off tonight anyway. Yet upon hearing the
heartfelt gratitude in his old classmate’s voice a strange feeling hit Joe. For
the first time in his life he got a glimpse of what it really meant to be a man
of consequence within the mob. To decide someone else’s fate with a word, just
like a modern day Caesar. He sat there in a sort of devout silence, enthralled.
Jimmy Sheet Metal cleared his throat. “Joe,” he said, “I
wanna apologize.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For all my bullshit when we were kids.
For Denise. Especially for Denise. It sounds crazy, but after my father died
something clicked inside me, and I realized what a prick I’ve been my whole
life. I mean, when my time comes I don’t wanna be remembered just for all the
bad I did, the way people remember him. I want people to think of some good
things too. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you - anything at all
- you let me know. All right?”
“Sure,” Joe muttered, a little uncomfortably. “Thanks.”
“We’re here,” said Angelo, driving slowly down a narrow
alley which opened into a dark, weedy lot. The hulking masses of two abandoned
sedans, both set on cinder blocks, stood there in the falling snow. Surrounding
buildings enclosed the small space like a courtyard.
After the Explorer was backed up to the rear of the store
the three men exited the vehicle. With a light shoulder check Angelo knocked
open the back door.
It was dark in there, black. Holding a lighter out in
front of him, the hitman led the way down a creaking flight of stairs into the
musty basement. He turned on the light. There were cases of soda, a
refrigerator, wooden skids piled atop one another, and over in the far corner,
the three arcade games.
“I’m gonna go get a dolly from the truck so we can wheel
them to the stairs,” he said. “Then we’re gonna have to carry them up.” He lit
a cigarette and disappeared.
“Wanna play a game?” suggested Jimmy.
“Sure, just like old times.”
The metal worker crouched down, plugged in Mortal Combat,
dropped in two quarters, and the first fierce crunching chords of the
soundtrack filled the room.
They stood side by side, manipulating the muscle-bound
warriors as best they could. (It had been a few years since either of them had
played a video game.) They worked the joysticks and buttons furiously -
punching, kicking, flipping in the air. It was a close battle, but in the end
Jimmy Sheet Metal was the victor.
“One more,” said Joe, eager to even the score. He dropped
his own change into the machine this time.
And they fought. Their violent movements had the game
rocking to and fro. Joe felt the old rush, like when he was sixteen hanging in
the back of the candy store with his boys.
He won.
“Good game,” went Jimmy. “But let’s make it best of
three.”
Jimmy dropped two more quarters into the game, and as he
did Joe Scalzo remembered exactly why they were there. His knees went weak. He
suddenly felt for James Galante, forgave all of his injustices. He no longer
wanted him dead.
The game began. As Joe played he desperately tried to
think of some way to prevent the assassination of his old nemesis. Maybe, just
maybe I could warn him, tell him to jet before it’s too late. While the
warriors battled he whispered urgently:
“You should get out of here - quick!”
“Why, so you could kick my ass? What are you, botz?”
“I’m serious. He’s gonna kill you!”
Jimmy laughed incredulously. “No, I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna be the champ!”
There came a creaking sound from the staircase. Angelo
was on his way down. Joe’s mind raced but he was at a loss. For a fleeting
instant he even considered shooting the man. No, that was insanity. All he
could do now was act natural and hope for some window to present itself.
Final round. He could feel Angelo’s ominous presence
behind him now, watching. The battle was down to the wire, each warrior
clinging to the last of his energy. The game shook and rumbled. Hands pounded
buttons, joysticks were nearly ripped from their sockets. The heavy crunching
chords climbed toward crescendo. Roundhouse uppercut jab. Footsweep sidekick
jab. Front kick footsweep jab. Uppercut jab jab -
And Joe Scalzo was triumphant.
“You won,” Jimmy grumbled.
“Yeah, I won!” beamed Joe, reveling for a moment in this
victory so long overdue.
Then Angelo raised the silencer-equipped .38 caliber
pistol and squeezed the trigger. The body of Joseph Scalzo folded to the
concrete floor.
“Well, that’s that,” went Jimmy.
Angelo didn’t answer. He was too busy wrapping a towel
around the dead man’s spurting head.
“How long was he skimming the register?”
“Couple months, at least.”
“He lives with your cousin, right?”
“Not no more.”
“Does she know?”
The assassin glanced meaningfully at his apprentice.
“She’s never gonna know. Now go get
that tarp from the truck. Paper towels are under the seat. Make sure you wipe
the brains off that screen before we leave.”
Galante paused by the stairs. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What.”
“You think this’ll look good for me? I mean, when they
open the books again?”
“Go get the tarp,” said Angelo, “that should be the only
thing on your mind right now.”
