WORDS FOR SALE - Short Story of the Month (Bad Lite)

Scotti made his way through Washington Square Park, checking out the NYU girls in their tight jeans. The smell of spring was in the air and he was feeling good, really good. Better than he remembered feeling in his entire life. And yet, as he turned down Sullivan Street, he felt a gripping sensation deep in his belly. The last time he’d been absent from the Sullivan Street club he’d been doing a stretch upstate. That time they greeted him with open arms, like he’d passed an important initiation rite. This was different.

‘What are they gonna think?’

It had been a long time since the boys had set eyes on him, a very long time. Most of the guys hadn’t seen him for almost a year, not since he came out of the hospital. He’d seen Joey, but that was at Christmas. A lot can change between December and May. He’d changed a great deal and he wasn’t sure what they’d think of the ‘new’ Scotti.

Billy Joel’s New York State of Mind poured out of the open kitchen door at Googie’s on the corner. Not much had changed on the old block, a new Billy Joel song, but not much else. The storefronts and doorways hadn’t changed a bit. Scotti paused outside Lilly’s Laundromat and knocked on the glass panel in the door.

“Hold your horses. Where’s the fire…” Lilly called out as she made her way passed the row of industrial sized washers and dryers toward the door. “Who’s…. Scotti, is that you? Boy you look great. Like Burt Reynolds or… Come and give old Lilly a hug.”

Lilly wrapped her arms around him in a friendly embrace, planting kisses on both his cheeks. He’d known her most of his life. She was only a few years ahead of him in school but had always seemed so much older.

Lilly had married an older guy, an electrician in the union, who’d spent more time during their marriage dying than living. She’d been waiting tables at a diner just to keep a roof over their heads. Once she was widowed, the boys from the Club had stepped in and helped her set up her business on Sullivan Street. Her crucifix pressed against his chest. Lilly always wore it. If she ever questioned her fate as a childless widow, it was in the privacy of a confessional.

“Lilly it’s great to see you. Angela sends her love.”

“She’s at home with the kiddies?”

“Nah, at Macy’s with her mom. The kids are all in school now. Even the baby’s not a baby anymore.”

“We all get older. Well, maybe not you. You look like a new man.”

“That heart attack was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Scotti said it exactly as he’d practiced. “Made me stop and take a look at my life.”

“And you decided to become a gorgeous hunk for your loving wife?”

Scotti smiled.

“So you’re good now?” Lilly sounded concerned.

“Really good, never better. I want to live to see my kids grow up. I want to dance and my daughter’s wedding. I was on my way to an early grave, but now I’m OK.”

“You here to see the boys at the Club?”

Scotti nodded.

“Been a while since they seen ya?”

“A real long time.”

“Vincenzo was there for coffee yesterday, but I ain’t seen him this morning, not yet. Could be uptown.”

Scotti shrugged. Lilly called the Capo by his given name. It showed just how comfortable she was with her connections. It also reminded Scotti of his place in the scheme of things. You didn’t mess with Vincent The Chin. He was a Capo on the way up. Her reference to “uptown” was to the Capo’s mistress, another thing that Lilly could allude to but that Scotti would keep to himself.

“I’m gonna meet Angela and her mom later. They’ve got the car and we’ll drive out to the Island together.”

“Probably loading it up with new clothes.”

Scotti shrugged again, somehow unable to respond in kind. The old banter eluded him. He wanted to blend into the dark paneled wall. This wasn’t his world anymore.

“Let me run to the back and get my watch,” Lilly said. “I’ll go with you and get Ricco to make me a café corretto. I think they’ll all need a shot of something strong when they see you. Risen from the dead, that’s what you are, risen but all new and improved — like laundry detergent.”

Lilly’s watch had a diamond-studded bezel. If anyone questioned how a widow doing laundry in the neighborhood could afford a diamond watch, they were outsiders.

“Like it?” Lilly pushed the watch up to Scotti’s face to admire. “I gave the old one to my mom when the boys gave me this for Christmas.”

“It’s great. How’s your mom doing?”

“Same as ever. Wants an audience with the Pope. Keeps at Father Gigante, asking him to help.”

“She move up to the Bronx?”

“No way, mom just wants an audience, not some kinda crap, low income housing.”

The Capo’s brother, Louis, was a priest, former City Councilman and a rising star in the tenants’ rights movement, with low income housing programs in the Bronx. But he was still a member of the family and publicly stated, at every opportunity, that the Mafia was an invention of the media used by the authorities to tar the reputation of Italian-Americans. He was a hero on Sullivan Street.

Lilly scoffed at the thought of being the recipient of a government or charitable program, but the boys had made her their personal project. She had the storefront next to the club and an apartment above it. Not luxurious, not at all, but a home to call her own and a business, too. Add to that her diamonds and an occasional trip to Florida or the Jersey shore and Lilly thought life was good — backbreaking work and all.

Scotti wondered what Lilly would make of how he lived now. The meditation, green tea, yoga in the morning, Tai Chi in the afternoon, mung bean sprouts, brown rice, filtered water and clean air. She grabbed a pack of Marlboro lights from the top of the dryer and pulled the door shut behind him. There was no need to double bolt it. No one broke into Lilly’s Laundry. Scotti took a deep breath: in one, two, three, four and out one, two, three and four. It was time to dive into the deep end. He followed Lilly as she pushed the door open.

The clubhouse was ‘known’ hangout. No business was discussed inside its walls. The Capo would simply take you for a walk around the neighborhood and during these casual strolls you’d get your instructions. It was a simple, and effective, way to evade the NYPD and FBI listening devices.

Scotti used to laugh at the thought of a few oversized FBI agents in dark suits, crammed into the back of a van listening to the boys talk and hearing about Lilly’s mom’s desire to meet the Pope and how it was a shame that Chinatown was overtaking Little Italy and making the quest for an authentic cannolli that much harder.

There was one time, not long before his heart attack, when Scotti was present for a passionate debate. The subject was ‘chocolate cannollis.’ All the boys present conceded that they were less-than-authentic, but the question of whether they were a worthy innovation or a sweet disaster, caused a heated exchange. He wondered what the Feds made of that.

Did they conclude that it was chocolate cannollis was a code for something nefarious? The Feds were fools, worse than the NYPD. All the things he’d done and the most they’d gotten him for was a stupid smash and grab and that was simply because he’d been sloppy. He was doing a routine enforcement, just reminding a jewelry storeowner that the payment on his loan was overdue. A passerby reported the incident and, as it was his daughter’s birthday and he had not gotten around to buying her a present, he pocketed a bracelet suitable for a ten-year-old. It was the bracelet that put him away.

He’d never been sloppy after that and he’d crawled his way up the organization receiving praise at every step for his careful attitude and attention to detail. If he hadn’t had the heart attack he might have been moving up still, but things were in flux now. There were decisions to be made, fates decided. Scotti wasn’t sure how he fit into the scheme of things anymore.

Inside the Club it was as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed at all. Ricco was there by the espresso machine while Tony, Lucca, Little Mike and Fat Mike were playing poker.

“Scotti, wow! I wouldn’t have known ya. Like a new man! Or half the man you were.” Little Mike stood up from the game and wrapped Scotti in a bear hug. “I can almost get my arms around you twice.”

Little Mike was in no way a small man. He was simply shorter and a little less stout than Fat Mike. He smelled of cigarettes and coffee. Scotti felt himself pulling out the hug, but made he managed to relax.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Scotti concentrated on smiling. It was good to see the guys, but it was also strange. The air was stale with smoke and, with his newly attuned nose, he detected the lovely aroma of almost burnt espresso beans. It had been almost a year since he’d had a cup of real coffee.

Breathe. Just breathe.

“Ricco, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know. Same old same old, not complaining, just explaining.”

Ricco hadn’t changed a bit. A cigarette hung from his skinny grey lips. It bounced up and down as he spoke.

“Lemme make you a doppio.”

Ricco poured a generous shot of cognac into Lilly’s coffee.

“Nah, had my coffee at home. Got something cold to drink?” Scotti tried to cover.

He could feel the heat and smoke rising to his face. Ricco reached into the refrigerator and held up two cans.

“I’ll take that ginger ale,” Scotti stated.

At least it didn’t have caffeine. He pulled the tab and then held the cold can against this soft inner side of his wrist. He felt the cool blood circulating through his veins.

“All that carbonation so early in the day. You trying get an ulcer?”

They boys laughed. Drank their coffees. Smoked their cigarettes. Told him he looked great. Asked after Angela and the kids. And smiled. Scotti told them he felt great. That Angela was happy to have him back in shape. That the kids were growing like weeds and that his doctors said he was doing well. He asked about their wives, or mothers or girl friends, as appropriate. He didn’t say a thing that the Feds would like to hear, nor did he say a word that would indicate he was out of sorts with the rules of the game. On the surface, at least, he was back in the fold and all was well.

“You going to the Y or something?” Fat Mike asked. “You look so tight and all.”

“Yeah, I’m working out all the time, running, keeping in shape.” Scotti replied. He wasn’t about to add that it was a vegetarian diet and two hours of yoga a day that had flattened his gut; the running was just icing on the cake.

“Wouldn’t kill you to go lift weights,” Ricco said to Fat Mike.

“You know for a fact that I got a bum knee and a bad back,” Fat Mike said. “Can’t aggravate my back with heavy lifting.”

“Just lifting yourself is a big job. And look at Scotti here, he was no light weight way back then.”

“You were almost as big as me,” Fat Mike turned his attention to Scotti. “Amazing, truly amazing. Like a miracle, like you were transformed. You lost forty maybe fifty pounds?”

Scotti pointed his thumb up.

“Sixty? Wow. You take them diet pills?”

“Nope, no diet pills.” Scotti replied. He didn’t like the way Fat Mike and Ricco were looking at him. Breathe. He pressed the can against that spot where the blood runs closest to the skin. It felt good. It steadied him.

He finally took a swig from the can, gulping the sticky, sweet soda. It was awful, and yet the sugar awakened something in him. He didn’t want them to think he wasn’t one of them anymore. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smoke or drink or gamble or… he couldn’t think of a vice he still enjoyed. He wasn’t sure if he could become one of them again.

Of course, he didn’t know what he’d do instead. It wasn’t like he’d gone to college or put aside money to start a legit business. And it wasn’t as if it was possible to retire. You just didn’t do that. You were in for life and that was that. It had always been that way and he’d signed up for life when he was just a kid. He’d barely finished high school. It wasn’t like he had options. He could have become a priest or joined the Army. His mom had wanted a priest in the family and his dad would have been proud of a soldier, but neither option had made any sense to an eighteen-year-old Scotti. He’d always followed the boys, so he followed them once again.

He took another swig of the ginger ale. He didn’t even let the kids drink soda at home. Angela had to hide her Diet Pepsi in the basement. He didn’t want any chemicals or massive amounts of sugar going into his kids. It was bad enough that they’d spent the first part of their lives inundated with saturated fats and overloaded with sugar, he wasn’t going to perpetrate his own mistakes a minute further. The next generation would be healthy. Angela was doing her best, with vegetarian lasagnas and fruit for dessert, but it was a struggle. The kids wanted Pop Tarts and Frosted Flakes for breakfast. He got up early and made them oat bran cereal with almonds and raisins or banana yogurt muffins.

All caught up with the boys, Scotti sat with a copy of yesterday’s Daily News. Lilly went back to her store, getting him to promise not to be a stranger before she went back to folding other people’s laundry.

Would Angela be doing that? Would she be doing that all day, every day if I’d died?

Breathe.

He focused on the sports pages. It was too early in the season to be alarmed by a few early losses but Scotti tried to concentrate on the Yankees, to fill the empty space in his head with concrete numbers.

“Ya think Catfish Hunter is worth the six hundred grand?” Ricco asked him.

“I dunno, Steinbrenner thinks so,” Scotti replied. “Hey, is any ball player worth that kind of dough?”

“Got me.”

The phone rang and Scotti watched Ricco’s face. He listened for a while, a long while and then he said: “You’ll never guess who had the guts to show his face here? Nah… Scotti. Looks like a million bucks and thinks the Yanks are shelling out too much for Catfish Hunter. Sure. I’ll send your regards.”

“Wanna take a little walk? I gotta get some cigarettes.”

“Sure Ricco,” Scotti replied, although there was a full pack in Ricco’s shirt pocket and another in the pocket of the jacket he pulled on as they closed the club’s door behind them.

Breathe.

Ricco was taking him for a walk. The last time he’d taken a guy for a walk it was with Pinhead Pinella. Pinhead was still missing. Scotti had done the job, got it done quick and clean and then, on the way home, he’d collapsed. He’d stopped to pick up dinner for Angela and the kids and he’d dropped like a rock with the bag of fresh mozzarella and prosciutto in his hands.

Were these to be his last steps?

Breathe.

They walked out into the fresh air. Scotti felt better already. If these were to be his last steps on earth, at least he wasn’t breathing second hand smoke.

“Cousin wants to see you?” Ricco didn’t waste any time. “Cousin’s got a job for you.”

Scotti nodded.

“You ready to go back to work? No more heart attacks on Mulberry Street?”

“No more heart attacks, anywhere.”

Cousin was another associate of the Chin. He was a high roller in Vegas who ran some illegal games in New York, taking a chunk of the business away from the Chinese.

“It’s a job, but not so usual…” Ricco’s last words hung in the air.

“Everyone knows I don’t do no women or…”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that, nothing like that at all.” Ricco laughed. It was a hoarse, scratchy sound, the sound of sandpaper on rusty porch furniture in the suburbs on a Sunday afternoon. “It’s an uptown thing.”

“OK, an uptown thing.”

Ricco paused dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and ground it under his heel. He immediately pulled the pack out of his pocket and offered one to Scotti who shook his head. Scotti noticed the missing tax stamp. Bringing cheap cigarettes up from North Carolina and Virginia was big business and it made the crew popular with the locals. A pack of cigarettes was cheap if you bought it at any of the stores within a ten-block radius. Scotti had made a few runs, but that was early on. It was a waste of his skills.

“So there’s this guy, this uptown business guy. He stepped out of line a few too many times and now he’s got a problem. We gotta make an example of him, an example to his big uptown business guy friends. Kinda remind them that we ain’t characters in no movie, that this is all real…”

“OK, a reminder.”

“No, an example. He’s got to be visible, bloodied and visible. Ya see there are some associates, his associates need to know what happens when ya step out on your business partners. They gotta know that we’re serious men, men with honor and not some kinda joke.”

Scotti nodded.

“Now as they say stuff about round pegs and square holes, not fitting together.”

Scotti resisted the temptation to rearrange Ricco’s statement so that it actually made sense. He just nodded.

“This guy, he’s like a gym rat, a regular Jack Lalanne going to a fancy hotel gym every day. Ain’t none of us look quite right there, but you…”

Ricco didn’t need to finish his sentence. Scotti knew what was expected of him. His new and improved look, his health and spirit and smoke-free clothing made him perfect for the assignment. He’d blend in. Buy a day pass at the health club, maybe even take a yoga class or a steam. Give a reminder and leave the remind-ee in the locker room or shower, leave him to be found by another gym rat. Scotti’d be in and out before the other club members noticed him.

But could he do it? Could he step back and reconnect with that part of himself that took orders and beat the crap out of deserving idiots who’d tried to screw the boss? Could he kill the next one? Dump a body and go home to tofu meatballs on whole-wheat spaghetti for dinner? He’d done it before, when the meatballs were made from his mother’s recipe with pork and veal. But could he do it again? Could he do it now, now after he’d made so many changes in his life?

He was a new person. He’d shed much more than sixty pounds. He’d shed all his old habits and was no longer one of the boys. But who had he become?

“So ya see how great this is. With all the new stuff going down, ya gonna be the man…” Ricco rambled on. Scotti was only half listening. Part of his brain was repeating, ‘you don’t belong here anymore’ like a meditation mantra.

“Scotti it’s a new day, new business, the guys that can’t change ‘ill be left behind. But you and me, we’ll be the ones to see it and…” Ricco continued.

That was it. He was the new vanguard, the new man for the new and improved organization. The families had always changed with the times, found new markets and rode the waves of politics and economics, whether it was bootlegged booze during prohibition or tax free cigarettes down the street at the corner smoke shop right here and now in 1977, change was always important. And yet so many of the boys were stuck. They were stuck in the traditions and customs, the bad habits and the limited visions. He had been like them but he was a changed man.

There was a purpose, a reason, a way for him to move ahead with his life. Angela would be very happy. She was tired of having him around the house grousing about additives in the kids’ food. He could get back to work and still stay the man he’d become. He could really make something of himself. Become an important guy, a Capo or who knows… The sky’s the limit.

Life was good and the air was fresh as long as he wasn’t down wind of Ricco.