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CHAPTER 20

  DEATH IS FOREVER

  Wilmington—13 Years Ago

  We had the funeral the next morning. The guys from the smoke shop really made me proud, driving their Caddies and Lincolns in the procession to the cemetery. Rosa insisted we take a different route home from the gravesite—to confuse the spirits. That was fine. It gave me time to think before everyone gathered at her house.

  Rosa had been cooking for two days. The rest of the neighborhood chipped in too, bringing foods of all types for the celebration. It seemed odd to celebrate someone’s death, but that’s what we did. At Italian funerals there was an unspoken hierarchy regarding the burden of entertainment. The primary job fell to those furthest from the deceased and moved forward in a downward scale. Friends were charged with telling humorous stories to keep the family laughing. After friends, the burden shifted to distant relatives, then to closer ones until it got all the way to the siblings. It was a magnificent, protective circle designed to keep the parents or the children of the deceased from feeling too much grief at once.

  Since I had no family, this burden fell onto my friends and Rosa. The problem was, there weren’t many funny stories about Pops. No one knew him well enough to have much to say; instead, they told tales of things I had done and talked about Pops’ reactions to them when I got caught. The stories made me laugh, and definitely helped. Mamma Rosa always said a pound of laughter cures ten pounds of grief. In hindsight, I think she might have understated it.

  AFTER THE FUNERAL I thought I’d have to move out of the house, but Rosa said Pops had an insurance policy. It turned out to be enough to pay off the house and give Rosa money to help take care of me. So I stayed at home, but pretty much lived with Tony. I wasn’t about to turn down Mamma Rosa’s cooking. Besides, Angie still came there twice a week, which made it convenient.

  For the next two years, I spent all my time with Angie. Tony still hung out with Bugs, Suit, Mick and Chinski, but for me there was only Angie. We were more than in love—we loved each other’s company. We went to the beach together, to dances, to the park. And when I wasn’t working, we went out on Saturday nights, sometimes just walking.

  One of my fondest memories was when we borrowed a car, hooked school and drove to Wildwood during a snowstorm. It was crazy, because the roads were bad, but Angie and I never had such fun. We walked the beach in the snow, waves crashing on the shore and us freezing our asses off. When we got too cold we’d go back to the car, turn on the heat and keep each other warm. Angie wanted to walk the boardwalk, so we did, letting the wind-blown snow sting our faces as we laughed and huddled together. Nothing was open; no one was there. It felt as if we were in one of those end-of-the-world movies, and we were the only two left.

  As we walked, I told Angie to close her eyes and pretend we could see the lights of the boardwalk. Soon we heard the pitchmen hawking their games and the screams of the people on the roller coaster. We even smelled the popcorn and pizza. We walked until we got too cold, then headed back. We made love in the car, then walked the beach one final time before leaving. It was a memory we would never forget.

  TWO WEEKS LATER, AS I was dressing to go to work, I heard a pounding on the door. It was Frankie’s sister. “Hey, Donna. What’s up?”

  She pushed in, nervous. “You’ve got to help them.”

  “Help who?”

  “Frankie. Tony. All of them.”

  I took her by the hand. “What’s going on?”

  “They’re fighting the Woodside gang. One of them was bothering me. I…” She started bawling.

  “Calm down. Tell me what you know.”

  “Frankie said he’d kill them all.” Donna held her hands to her face. “Oh, God, Nicky. He could get killed.”

  I laughed. “Donna, we’ve been in a lot of fights. He might get hurt, but he won’t get killed. Trust me.”

  “I’m not stupid, Nicky. These guys have guns!”

  My gut tightened. “How do you know that?”

  She shrank before me. Cried harder.

  I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “How do you know, Donna?”

  “I was with one of them. When Frankie caught me, I lied.” She grabbed my collar. “I saw the guns.”

  “Goddamnit.” Fuck me. Fuck me twice. “Where are they meeting?”

  “The clearing in the woods. Just past the ball field over the hill.”

  “Go home. I’ll take care of it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go home, Donna.”

  I ran to the smoke shop. Patsy Moresco was guarding the store as usual. “Hey, Patsy. Need to see Doggs.”

  “He’s gone for the night.”

  I pounded my fist on the counter. “Fuck.”

  Patsy waddled over, put his big thick arm around me. “What’s wrong, Rat?”

  “Bugs and them are in trouble. They’re fighting Woodside, and I heard they’ve got guns.”

  Patsy squeezed my shoulder with his meaty hands. He looked about the shop, then leaned in close and whispered. “Tell you what, Little Nicky. I’ll take care of you, but know this—your mouth’s a fuckin’ trap, you hear?” His look bored through me. I nodded, not knowing what to expect.

  He reached behind his pants, pulled out a .22, cleaned it off and handed it to me like it was poison. “I don’t give a fuck if this gun kills the president. Far as I’m concerned, I never seen this fuckin’ gun. Never heard of this fuckin’ gun. Don’t ever want to hear of, or see, this fuckin’ gun.” He grabbed my cheeks and made me stare straight at him. “You got me?”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Patsy. I won’t forget this.” As I started for the door, he hollered.

  “That’s wrong already. I want you to forget this.”

  Patsy’s warning hit home. I got that sick feeling in my gut that Sister Thomas always told us about. I wanted to toss that gun and go find Angie…but my friends were in trouble. “You got it, Patsy. Gotta go.”

  AS I RAN, I played the scene over in my mind. Bugs was going to be filled with rage and ready to kill someone. Bugs was a lethal combination—the fight of the Irish and the vengeance of the Sicilians. To top it off, I think he took the bottled-up frustration from his home life and took it out on whoever he fought. Once he got to that point, nothing could stop him short of knocking him out. And he’d probably be the one to start things off.

  Chinski I hadn’t known as long, but I knew him enough to know he would be scared shitless. I’d be surprised if he didn’t piss his pants by the time they got within ten feet of Woodside. But when it came down to it, he’d fight. We could always count on Chinski for that, and, like a lot of the polacks, he could take more than a few punches.

  An image of Mick crossed my mind. That crazy Irishman would be right there with Bugs, itching for the fight no matter who might get hurt. He had gotten so used to fighting his older brothers at home that fighting kids his own age seemed like a cakewalk. Mick was a wild one, and he didn’t care what the weapons were. He fought with his mouth, his hands, or anything he happened to pick up.

  I was halfway across the ball field, cutting through a game in progress, when I thought of Paulie. He was a brute. Like a lot of big guys, his nature was to be nice, but push him over the line—and no one could tell what that was—and he was unstoppable. Tony was the only one he listened to when he got like that. Paulie would pick the guy who looked to be the most dangerous and go after them. And once Paulie got started there was going to be big damage.

  That left only Tony. But saying “only Tony” did him an injustice. He was the most dangerous guy in a ten-block radius. It didn’t matter if it was a gang fight or a one-on-one; absolutely nobody wanted to fight him. He’d be the first one into battle, even before Bugs. That thought spurred me to run faster. Mamma Rosa would never forgive me if something happened to Tony.

  As I crested the hill the scene came into focus. Ten of the Woodside gang stood against five of us. Six now, I thought, and pushed harder. By the time I arrived, things had
become disturbingly clear—Bugs was fighting two guys, one of whom had a chain. Bugs’ head was bleeding badly.

  Mick, armed with a half a cue stick in each hand, was fending off two of them. As I moved into earshot I heard the crack of bone when he struck one of them on the head—a small wiry boy about our age. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like Bobby Lewis, a kid we went to school with. Blood ran down his face. He went down, wailing.

  Chinski and Suit were fighting back-to-back, holding their own against three guys, but both showing wounds—Chinksi on his left arm and Suit on his side, blood staining his shirt. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the guy who ruined his shirt; Suit would probably kill him.

  “About time you got here!” Tony yelled.

  The sound of his voice brought me back into it, as if I’d never left. “Hang on.” I wrapped my left arm with my shirt to protect against knives, then jumped in with Tony, who was fighting three guys. He held a chain in his right hand and the butt end of a cue stick in his left. Good combination, even against knives—especially against knives. With a knife, a person had to get in close, and somebody good with a cue or a chain wouldn’t let that happen. Tony was good. He whacked a guy in the head just as I joined him, but a Woodside kid darted in and cut him on the right side. Tony yelled, stepping back. The other guy dropped his blade. I picked it up, poised to fight, blade in hand.

  It was easy to join the fight. My friends were in trouble and I had to help. Our code demanded it. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t scared. I thought about what Mick and some of the others always said about me not being scared of anything. It wasn’t true. I did get scared; I just didn’t show it.

  When I joined the fight, it distracted the guys Tony was fighting. Two of them turned toward me, so Tony moved against the one on the far right, hitting him with the cue, then wrapping the chain around his hand and pummeling his face. Blood poured from the guy’s nose. He backed up quickly, letting Tony move against one of the two I faced. I positioned myself on Tony’s weak side and faced two Woodside guys, staring into their eyes. The first one Tony hit with the cue stayed out, crawling away to safety. Now the second guy was out too. The odds were getting close to even. We liked that. As I moved in to strike the guy in front of me, I heard Bugs yell.

  “Gun!”

  The sound of a shot slammed my ears. The fear I had controlled until now raced through my veins. I gripped my blade tight to keep from losing it, and looked to Bugs, praying he was okay. I ran toward Bugs and Mick, ignoring the Woodside guys. Nobody seemed hurt. I thanked God for that. Just then a second shot went off. Mick went down, the side of his face exploding with blood and flesh. Some of it hit me. I wanted to run, hide, get it off me. Instead, I screamed. “Mick!”

  I ran toward him. The Woodside guy turned, aiming his gun at Bugs. I saw fear on Bugs’ face. “Run, Bugs!”

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out Patsy’s .22. The hard steel felt cold in my hand. It felt…different. Not like a knife or a cue. The gun had a dangerous, powerful feel.

  I took quick aim and fired. Once. Twice. Then again. The second shot hit him in the face, dropping him. And before I knew what was going on, I turned and fired three more times, hitting one more of them in the arm. They ran.

  Tony grabbed my arm, tugging me away. “Let’s go, Nicky. We can’t stay here.”

  Chinski ran.

  Mick lay bleeding at my feet. “Mick!” I screamed, and knelt next to him.

  Bugs, Paulie, and Tony joined me. Mick had a hole in his face, and blood poured from his mouth. We checked his pulse and heartbeat. He was real bad. I used my shirt to wipe his face, closed my eyes, and started giving him mouth-to-mouth. The taste of his blood made me want to throw up, but I focused on helping Mick, praying I was doing it right.

  Help me save him, God. Please?

  “Gotta get him to a hospital,” Bugs said.

  Paulie was crying. “I’m going to call an ambulance. Keep Mick alive.”

  Sirens wailed in the background.

  “Cops,” Tony said. “We gotta go.”

  I turned my head to the side, spit blood. “We can’t leave him.”

  “He’s dead,” Tony said. “You’ll get caught.”

  I looked up at Tony, certain that my eyes reflected what I felt. If I hadn’t been so concerned about Mick, I’d have gotten up and beaten his ass. “He’s one of us.”

  “Don’t you fuckin’ rat,” Tony said, then grabbed Bugs. “Let’s go.”

  Bugs was caught in a half-step, one foot ready to follow Tony, the other planted, intent on waiting it out with me. I never hated Tony more than that moment. As far as I was concerned Tony and I were done. “Go on, Bugs. I got it.”

  I tried reviving Mick, and I put pressure on his face to stop the bleeding, but it wasn’t working. The more I tried, the more I prayed. Guilt overwhelmed me. Maybe God would have listened if I’d lived a better life.

  The sirens drew closer, only about a block away. I wanted to run, get the hell out of there before the cops came. Then I felt Mick grab my hand. “You’re gonna make it,” I said, holding back tears.

  Mick moved his head to the side. “Tell my mom.”

  My throat closed up, but I kept breathing air into Mick. When the ambulance came down the street, I almost ran, telling myself there was nothing more I could do. But I looked at Mick—blood covering his face, his deep blue eyes crying, and pleading with me. As long as I live I will never forget that look in his eyes; it was sorry, and sad, but mostly it was empty. Earlier I had wished I was a doctor so I could save him. Right now I would have traded that for being a priest. I think Mick wanted to confess. I felt for him, thinking how scared he must be.

  The sirens got closer. I glanced over my shoulder and saw them coming over the hill. I got up on one knee, ready to run. Mick squeezed my hand, and his eyes…his eyes… I got down beside him again. No way I was leaving him to die alone. Even with only a snowball’s chance in hell of saving him, I had to try. I took a deep breath and started in again. Hold on, Mick. Please?

  I heard the footsteps approaching, then felt the hands on my shoulders, lifting me from him.

  “Stand aside,” somebody said. They checked him out, then scooped Mick onto a stretcher. Before they got to the ambulance, the one checking him was shaking his head.

  When I turned to look behind me, two cops were there. One had his gun drawn. “Hands behind your back,” he said. The other one cuffed me before I said a word.

  On my way to the station, I cried. The Mick is dead. Who’s gonna tell his mom?

  CHAPTER 21

  CONFINEMENT

  It was Sunday, the day after the fight, and they still had me locked up. I told the cops I wasn’t talking until I got a lawyer, then I used my one call. By the time Mamma Rosa showed up, they had all but convicted me. Three of the Woodside guys had been hauled in, but they weren’t talking. I shot one dead and the other guy took a shot to the arm. I told them what happened. It would have gone better if I had just shot the guy who got Mick, because the other guy had no gun.

  Rosa cried. Angie did, too, when she got there. I told her not to worry, and before she left, I gave her a pack of matches. “Put these in Mick’s casket.” She looked at me funny. “He’ll understand.”

  Mick had stolen enough lighters to open up a store, but he was always asking people for a light. Now he’d have one if he needed it.

  WITHIN A FEW WEEKS, they processed me and sent me to trial, and then the judge for sentencing. When the gavel slammed down, seven years came with it. I almost shit.

  Seven years.

  My public defender mouthpiece grabbed my arm, but I shook him off. “Seven years? Jesus Christ. They started it.”

  The gavel hit again. The judge added thirty days for contempt.

  “Shut up or you’ll get more,” the lawyer whispered to me.

  I struggled, but I managed to keep my mouth shut. Angie ran to me, crying, but the bailiff held her back. Mamma Rosa, too. I was allowed a quick hug
before they took me away.

  “See you soon,” I said, with more than a little pleading hanging on each word.

  AT FIRST, THE WORST thing about prison was missing Mick’s funeral. After a while, that was a distant worry. I found out quickly that the cops sent word ahead of me that my nickname was “The Rat.” First thing I learned in prison was that the guys didn’t stop to ask how you got the name; they just kicked your ass. I could have killed Doggs for giving me that name. It cost me three days in the prison hospital.

  Fortunately I never got back-doored. They were going to do it once, but I was saved by Teddy ‘The Tank’ Moresco. He was Whale’s brother, and he was as big as Patsy. With Tank’s protection, the beatings stopped. I ended up with a nasty scar above my right eye, but that was a small price to pay.

  After the next few weeks, I reflected on what were the worst things. I didn’t mind the clothes or the shoes. Didn’t even mind the isolation. Hell, I’d lived with Pops all my life and he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. What I did miss, though, was the food. This was the worst food I’d ever eaten in my life, even worse than Mick’s house. I winced as I thought it.

  Mick. Dead now. The thought made me more serious than ever to do my time and get out. It made me look at things differently, too, and once I’d done that, I soon grew used to my new surroundings. I even came close to forgiving Tony for what he’d done that night at Woodside, leaving the Mick like he did.

  The prison was about fifty miles from home. Not so far when driving, but Rosa had never bothered to get a license, forcing her to rely on Tony, who always seemed to be too busy with one thing or another to bring her to visit me. Despite that, she managed to get there twice in the first two months, using a combination of buses and favors called in from friends. I begged her to stay home. Her legs were getting older than she was, so even walking to the bus stop was too much.

  “Just write,” I told her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  “As long as I can put one foot in front of the other, I’ll be here.” She said it with such conviction that it made me realize Rosa could do anything she wanted. It pissed me off even more that Tony didn’t bring her.