June 5th1969
"See you at the club later tonight, Cupid?" Will Grant, affectionately called Private by friends blushed slightly as he stepped into his car.
"Sorry, Private," the girl replied, "I'd love to come with you, but my advisor's promised to help me with my speech."
"It doesn't have to be perfect, you've won the prize." Private continued to plead.
"I've won the goddamn Grant criminology prize, of course it has to be perfect," Cupid looked down into the puppy dog eyes that normally would convince her to do anything, "Private, I have to give this speech in front of the whole university, and your uncle…"
"Uncle K'walski won't mind."
"Between you and me, he scares the heck out of me. I really don't want to mess up."
"Are you sure I can't convince you to come?"
"Look, it's sweet of you to me to invite me, but… Well, I'll see you in class tomorrow."
With that a very disheartened Private climbed into the bright red sports car Kowalski had bought him for his sixteenth birthday, and sped off in the direction of the Copacabana nightclub where he would be meeting his best friend Manfridi and a friend of his, Johnson.
"You can take the night off, Jenkins," Private called down from his room.
"Are you quite sure, sir?" the butler questioned, standing at the foot of the grand staircase.
"Yes, I don't think uncle Kowalski's going to be back before tomorrow," Private called back, "Where did he say he'd gone?"
"Chicago, sir."
"Chicago?" there was a pause as Private digested this, "Did he go there to see uncle Rico?"
Immediately Private regretted asking this particular question, almost as much as Jenkins seemed unwilling to answer. His uncle Rico was one of a few taboo subjects, along with the identity of his mother. In fact, he'd only ever seen the man once when he was very young. He'd arrived at the mansion, and the only reason Private had paid any notice was that when Jenkins went to answer the door Kowalski had sent him away and answered himself. Almost immediately, the two men had begun to argue, something about penguins, and a few seconds later the man left.
"I don't think I am at liberty to discuss that, sir." Jenkins answered cautiously, and had Private not been in his room, he would have seen the cautious way in which the butler glanced around before answering, "Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes Jenkins. That will be all." Private answered. His gloomy mood continued until he opened his wardrobe, and pushed aside the sombre suits that hid the outfit. At this the boy grinned like a child, as he admired it. He knew he'd get quite the shouting at if Kowalski were to see him, along with a speech who's central point would be: "If your father lived to see the way you dress these days he'd have slapped you into next month". Somehow Kowalski always found out if he was up to something, like "dressing like one of those damn hippies" even if he was miles away from New York. To Private and many other people Kowalski had not only eyes in the back of his head, but covering every inch of the planet. Well, he could try.
Having clad the attire, Private cautiously checked that Jenkins was busy with his Spinoza in the pantry, before quietly sneaking out the door and back towards the car.
"Watch where you're driving, buster!" the pedestrian shouted as he picked himself up from the ground, where he'd only just dived clear of being run over.
"Hey, you!" the nearby officer shouted, blowing his whistle, "Pull over!" Private did as he was instructed watching as the officer ran up to the car, "I don't know if you're blind or somethin' but that was a red light!"
"Why, is that a problem, officer?" Private questioned with honest innocence.
"Is that a problem, officer?" the man mocked, "Show me your license kid, that is, if you even have one."
"Alright." Private handed over the required registration. Suddenly the officer's expression changed. Private was kind of expecting that. It always happened when he told people his name.
"Sorry Mr Grant," the officer stuttered, white as a sheet, "You go on and have a nice day."
"So what do you think of New York, Johnson?" Manfredi asked shouting over the music being blasted from the speakers. Manfridi had picked up the habit of calling friends by their last names when he was in England. The man opposite him, whom he'd called Johnson, looked up from his drink.
"It's pretty big," Johnson replied, "I guess it seems normal to you 'cause you've lived here since you were a kid."
"I suppose you do get used to it," Manfridi looked at his watch, "Private's late." He looked back at Johnson, who was staring across the bar at a woman dressed in a faux grass skirt with a red bodice, of an old fashioned cut. She had long brown hair, starting to grey, pinned up and decorated with faded yellow feathers. She looked in her late forties, her body very much abused by constant drinking, but it was obvious that in her youth she was beautiful. She was drunk out of her mind, though she still managed to remain about as graceful as was possible when that drunk.
"Who's she?" Johnson asked. The unusual clothing had caught his attention. She was dressed like one of the old showgirls that used to perform at the 'Cabana back in the fifties.
Immediately the smile on Manfridi's face was replaced with a look of pity.
"That's Lola. She used to work here," Manfredi replied, "It's actually a bit of a sad story."
"Is that why she's…?" Johnson made a motion like he was drinking from a bottle. Manfridi nodded.
"Yeah, rumour is that she's been like that since the incident."
"What's 'the incident'?" Johnson asked. Manfridi looked at him incredulously.
"You haven't heard the story?"
"I got off the plane last week."
"Anyway the story goes like this: Lola was the star of the show back in the fifties. She fell in love with this guy, Timmy or something. He was the bartender here. Anyway, one day one of the Penguins turned up at the place…"
"Penguins?" A man behind him interrupted. Manfridi turned around.
"Hey, Private. Private, this is Johnson," Manfridi introduced, "Johnson, this is William Grant."
"Call me Private." The newcomer offered, extending his hand. For a moment Johnson paused, as indeed his demeanour had changed at the mention of the name.
"Nice to meet you," the two men shook hands, Johnson beginning to relax, "Are you English or something?" Johnson asked, noticing the accent.
"No, me and Manfridi spent a couple of years at boarding school there. I picked up the accent and, well people liked it, so I kept it. So what were you two talking about?"
"The incident." Manfridi replied.
"Oh, yeah. I heard you mention something. The Penguins was it? Weren't they a band?"
"No I meant the gang." Manfridi corrected in a quieter voice. Private's brow furrowed.
"I actually don't know much about them." Private had read the occasional newspaper article, but Kowalski disapproved of him reading about them.
"Well, I was just about to explain to Johnson. Like I said the Penguins are a gang. More like The Gang. New York's never seen anything like them."
"I knew that." Johnson replied.
"Anyway, back in the fifties, one of them came in here, and started to hit on Lola. Well, that didn't sit well with her boyfriend. There was a fight or something, and he ended up being shot. The penguin wasn't even asked for a statement, the police brushed it off as self-defence. Yeah right."
"Wow, harsh." Private muttered. Johnson looked at him sideways as if this was some kind of hypocritical remark. Manfridi immediately began to shake his head, prompting Johnson to change his expression before Private looked up.
"Well, they say she gets a manila envelope from Chicago every year with $50,000 in it. Still, some consolation prize."
"But money doesn't do nothin' for Lola but drink," Private turned around. It was the bar tender who'd spoken, "She's never been the same since that day, and we've all been doin' all we can for her." The bartender was a fairly short, slightly heavy man. He had grey hair, that was once black, and wore a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, "Worked here thirty years, and I've never seen anything like what happened."
"You were there?" Private asked.
"You bet I was. It was about… Hm… just under 15 years ago? Yes, I was the choreographer back then. Anyway, it was just like your friend said, but the bartenders name was Tony, not Timmy. Nice fellow."
"Can you tell me about the Penguins?" Private asked with barely disguised enthusiasm.
"Well…" he looked about cautiously, "The Penguins turned up about thirty years ago, seemingly out of nowhere. All we knew, was they used to be some kind of Special Forces team. Anyway, they took over this town like wildfire. They still own it…"
"Good golly is that…" Johnson whispered before Manfridi could silence him, only seconds before Private felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.
"That's enough, Maurice." Kowalski ordered.
"Sorry sir, I didn't mean…" Maurice stuttered backing off to serve another customer.
"Private," as immediately as the man's attention shifted, "if your father had lived to see the way you kids dress these days …"
"I know, he would have slapped me into next month," Private interrupted. Kowalski stared at him for a few seconds. Private never interrupted him. In fact, on the boy's face was an expression he had never seen before except on the boy's father, one of fierce determination, as well as reckless disregard for all else, "I always wondered why people always do as you say." This wasn't the first time Private had enquired about the Penguins only to be blocked by Kowalski. He wasn't going to allow this to end similarly.
"Private…" Kowalski warned. Maurice turned around, with a similar fire in his eyes.
"The boy has a right to know what happened to 'im." Maurice looked Kowalski in the eye. Kowalski continued the cold glare he was well known for making several of the other customers shrink back, but Maurice did not relent.
Kowalski sighed.
"Well, I guess you're old enough to know, or at least work it out."
Kowalski led Private to a table near the back of the room. He wasn't afraid of anyone overhearing them. No one would dare try and record them. He then asked with deadly seriousness:
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes, already." Private snapped.
"Alright," Kowalski seemed almost unsure of how he should begin, "You were wondering who the Penguins are. Well, I can tell you first hand, since I'm one of them, well, the only one left," Private turned white as a sheet. Maybe he didn't want to know, "To answer your second query, though you have probably guessed based on my previous statement, people always listen to me because I can have them killed, or ruined if I'm so much as annoyed with them," Kowalski searched Private's expression, though it was by no means hidden how he was taking the news, "You've undoubtedly wondered why you were spontaneously sent off to England with Manfredi, it was because a business rival was trying to get to me through you. I had no choice but to send you away." There was something in his tone that told Private he wasn't joking.
"How… that's horrible…" Private stuttered. He could think of no other word in his vocabulary to describe this. Kowalski however, seemed to have paused, as if considering an angle that had previously never occurred to him.
"I guess I am pretty horrible." Kowalski replied, as if accepting an improbable result from an experiment, "Well, I'll start from the beginning."