Mobster's Angel (Mobster Series) (3 page)

“No, thank you,
” I decline gracefully.

In the corner, by
a building in the backyard, there’s a more rambunctious group. They’re playing quarters. A drinking game in this environment seems tacky.

“Dude, you cheated!” I hear Joey’s voice.
Brice steers us towards them.

Joey stands up. I see him tower over every one sitting
around him. His face is twisted in irritation and his fists are clenched.
Oh no!

“Did not!” A voice slurs.

We walk faster towards the scene. I look at the table. Clarissa is sitting with a bunch of drinks laid out in front of her.

“Don’t Joey. If he has to cheat to win, he’s not worth it,” Clarissa says
, putting a hand on Joey.

I know Joey’s look all too well.
  He’s wearing the Italian-Mafia-Death-Glare-New-Jersey-Style-Special. Not exactly a designer brand, but one could say it’s the brand of the Mafia. They all do it - Antonio, Vito, Joey…

Thwack!

It happens so abruptly that I don’t think most people see it. Joey punches the guy like lightning with one swoop. Fast. Quick.  The cheater slumps in the chair, out cold. Joey sits back down.

“Next,” he says
, like nothing happened.

Brice leaves me and goes over to Joey quietly. Everyone is slightly stunned. Brice leans down and speaks into Joey’s ear.

The whole cheating thing must have been bad because it takes a lot to rile Joey. He has a lot of self-control, unlike Vito. Vito probably would have hit the guy sooner. And harder.

“He deserved it,” Joey says softly. Clarissa’s eyes are glossy
, but she still appears to be quite sober.

Without any uproar or disturbance, everyone disperses from the table, leaving the cheater,
collapsed and unconscious, in the chair... alone.

Clarissa and Joey walk with Brice and me. We approach the food table silently. None of us speak
. Joey needs to calm down.  The best way for that to happen is just leave him alone for a while. Brice is not happy - his face is marred with angry lines. Clarissa picks up some weird wonton looking thing and nibbles on it hesitantly. The corners of her mouth give away that she’s more amused than Brice.

We
’re all silent for the moment. Then Clarissa looks at me, and we both burst out laughing.
Who did that guy think he was? 
He was stupid for messing with Joey, that’s for sure. Clarissa grew up in a casino with a Mob boss for a father. Gambling and drinking games are her specialty. She can crush anyone who challenges her. She sees this stuff all the time.

Joey grabs Clarissa around the neck playfully and kneads her head with his knuckles.

“What am I going to do with you?” he jokes. They both laugh.

J
oey and Clarissa are two peas in a pod. Carlo is Clarissa’s actual brother, but he has to help his father run the casino and be a “mobster.” Carlo’s responsibilities run deep into the Chicago underground.

Brice turns to me. He takes my hand, and I flinch. Holding onto his arm like we are a couple
was torture enough.

“Can I show you the guest house?” Brice offers.

“She’s not going in there,” Joey says coarsely.

I look at Joey
, surprised and thankful. I don’t want to spend another second with this guy. Actually, I’m ready to leave.

“Oh,” Brice says taken back. “Okay. Why don’t we all have a seat over here?”

“I’m going to say hi to a couple of people over there,” Clarissa tosses out to us, not the least bit interested in sitting with Brice.

“Stay out of trouble,” Joey warns.

Clarissa winks at him and bounces away.

We
’re not even situated in our seats when a bunch of girls come over to get Brice’s attention. Relief washes over me.

“Where’s the ladies room?” a perky bleach blonde asks him.

“Go through the living room towards the kitchen. First door on your right.”

“Can you show us?” she whines. “Please.” Miss Perky actually bats her eyelashes at him.

Please show them. Please show them.

Brice gets up and excuses him
self in a very gentlemanly manner, like a good Senator’s son. I let the breath whoosh out of me. I can only take him for so long. He thinks his family’s status and money cover up his sliminess. I see right through him, and I don’t trust him.

T
rusting has been an issue for me throughout the past year.   I always trusted people and was comfortable around them. I always thought the best of people. But that was before. I guess I was just naive and stupid then. What I’ve learned and seen has changed me. It’s caused me to lose a part of myself. I know now what lives underneath the skin of people. They can be cold, cruel, and heartless. I don't ever want to go through what I experienced again.

For months I was in a solitary abyss, floating in blac
kness. There was no color to anything. The world had lost is splendor. My brain needed time to digest what my soul rejected - harsh reality. Every time I replay the ugliness in my mind I feel idiotic in my ignorance. Feelings of foolishness, betrayal, and loss consume me. In a way, I think I’ve been grieving over the past few months. Doc. Howie never used the word grief, but that’s what it feels like - like someone died.

“Earth to Erin... Come in Erin...” Joey’s voice punctures through my thoughts. “Where did you go?” he asks
, laughing.

“Stop it. I didn’t go anywhere.”

Joey’s face loses the jovial light that typically enshrouds him.

“You... just... You scare m
e when you space out like that,” he says very carefully.

“I’m fine.” I smile
. I’m so well practiced at it. I wish I could pat myself on the back. “I’m getting tired, that’s all. Can’t I get tired like everyone else?” I shoot at him cockily.

“Of course.”
He reaches out and pats my forearm. “You can be anything you want to be.” Joey refers to Clarissa and me as “his girls,” really we’re his “charges” while we are here. He’s probably one of the few people in my life that I trust. Joey has never lied to me or given me a false sense of anything. He is genuinely nice and lays everything out on the table.

“Are you ready to head out then?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“I
’ll go wrestle Clarissa to the door,” he states.

I hope Clarissa isn’t too disappointed that we didn’t party all night here at the
Mansion de Brice
. I’ll make it up to her when Joey takes us to Club Ruin. Without Brice hanging on me, I can keep my game face on longer.

The alley by the docks over by the old mattress factory is just as I remember it. I haven’t been here in ages. I kind of grew out of coming here. Or maybe I just have more important things to do now. I used to live for Friday Night Fights, and I used take in a shit load of money. John,
Baby Ticks,
runs the racket. Sometimes even Tonio and his Pop would come with me. They make a cut off this joint whether they show up or not. Every Monday, Donny - the knife- head enforcer - comes to collect from Baby for the Friday Night Fights.

It
’s kind of a sick tradition that has been going on for generations. It’s moved around over the years, but for the last ten it has been in this rundown warehouse.

I kick a rusty can across the asphalt while walking down the narrow alley
. The hood of my sweatshirt scratches against the side of my face. The closer I get, the easier it is to hear the yelling of spectators watching men beat the shit out of each other. I knock four times in rapid succession and the door squeaks open a crack.

“Yeah,” Dolly says
, deadpan. Dolly is a man, and a big one.

“It’s me, Dolly,” I say.

“Vito! My boy!” The door opens wide and the toothless grin of Dolly assaults me. “Where’ve you been? The Delisi’s keepin’ yous busy?” He pats me warmly on the back.

“A little. How’s it runnin’ tonight?”

“Eh! No one is good as yous. Baby is gonna go oobatz when he sees you! Get down there and show’em how it’s done!”

I shake Dolly’s hand and add a
hard pat on his shoulder.

“I will. I need it.”

I take the cement steps down, down, and down into the decrepit cellar of the warehouse. Giant unprotected hundred watt light bulbs with exposed wires swing from the ceiling. Thick cigarette and cigar smoke hangs eerily in the air against the lights. A sea of dark heads of hair move just below the haze.

A view of people in a haphazard circle becomes clearer as I walk pas
t the bathrooms. Men huddle inside, betting, layering their gambling. At the makeshift bar, I buy a beer. I lean against the splintered wood and suck down the entire glass.

“Eh! It’s Vito!” Someone yells and a bunch of guys from the neighborhood swarm around me.

“Hey,” I say back.

“We
’ve missed yous,” Ty Santo says, another fighter. He’s good, I’ve fought him before.

The broad guy next to him sizes me up, smiles and reaches out to shake my hand.

“Hey, I’m Mike.”

“Hi Mike,” I return
, shaking his hand back.

“Heard a lot about you,” he adds.

I get a slap on the back from a few guys milling about in the must and smoke, taking my attention away from Ty and Mike.  Great guys I knew growing up when I spent every Friday here learning the ropes and how to fight.

I don’t get a chance to catch up with the guys because one of Baby’s enforcers comes up to me.

“Baby would like to speak with you,” the enforcer says properly.

“Sure.
” I place my beer glass on the table. “See ya later.”

I walk over to the “office
,” which is a pile of old wooden crates stacked for a desk off to the side of the main room.  This place is a seedy dump.

Baby is sitting behind it with a stogie hanging out of his mouth. His bottom lip is swollen and gray
. It falls forward unnaturally, exposing the fleshy inside of his lip. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him without a stogie. He talks with it in his mouth.

“You here to play or watch?” he asks while organizing a pile of
fifty’s.

“I’ll play.”

Baby looks up and meets my eyes, his glance eager with greed.

“Good boy. You’re up in
ten.”

Hollering kicks up as two men enter the ad
-hoc fighting ring. I peer over the crowd. My adrenaline pumps as I wait for them to start hitting. No gloves and no rules. Knock ‘em out, you win. Simple, easy…well, for me, anyway.

The first punch is thrown. It
’s a good one, solid, on the jaw. I get engrossed in the sick tap dance of two men beating the shit out of each other.  These guys appear evenly matched.  Neither one can get a leg up on the other.  Fists roar through the dirty air, slamming hard on flesh.

I
drag my attention away to warm up for my own fight. I toss my sweatshirt into a corner and begin bouncing on the balls of my feet to loosen up my muscles. It feels good to be in this hell hole- it’s nostalgic and familiar. I’m good at this. I grew up with it. I throw some jabs into the air and rev myself up.

Ty comes over
to help me get ready. He rubs my shoulders, and then  pounds his knuckles across my shoulder blades. 

“Vito Rossi! Against Jacko Palmeiri!” Baby yells over the din of shouts.

“Go!” Ty yells.  “Rip this guy a new one!”  I nod.

I’ve never fought this guy Jacko before. He must be new.

I stride confidently to the ring. I swing my arms back and forth, stretching them out, and pace the floor to regain the feel.  I can feel the same greasy slime that has always been here.

A
guy about the same size as me steps into the ring. In fact, he could pass for a brother or first cousin. Tall, dark brown hair, built. And he’s looking as serious as shit right now. We pace, sizing each other up, formulating our plans of attack.

“You don’t look so tough!” Jacko spits at me. “The way they talk about
you in this shit-pit makes you sound like a fuckin’ legend! I’m gonna wipe this dirty floor with your ass!” He points his nubby finger in my chest.

Trash talking! Really
?! That’s a first.

“
Whatever, Jack-O! I don’t like to dance so can we fuckin’ get this show....”
Whack!
I punch him in the mouth and finish my sentence. “on the road, asshole!” He reels backwards from my hit.

Stupid-ass!
Never focus on words. Only movements.

I don’t give him a chance to re
cover. I thrust and send another face punch dead center.

Nose. Br
oken.

B
lood pours from his nostrils. I straddle him and punch fast, 1.2.3…in the stomach. I get up and move back.