TEEN DREAMERS PART THREE:
THE TEEN MOBSTERS

Silvio Dante, although he did jobs and hung around with Paulie Gualtieri, was not part of the DiMeo family. Any money he collected, any errands he ran would just be credited to Paulie, with not a word of recognition to him. Such details didn't matter to Dante. All he was after was something to brag about to the teen gang.

The 'gang', if it could be called that, was a group of acne-riddled punk thugs in their teens and early twenties. Dante at 17 was not the youngest - but then, he wasn't the oldest. That honor fell to Jackie Aprile, who was fast approaching his 23rd birthday. As the oldest he had automatically assumed the role of leader, and it was a part he seemed born to play.

However, some had been dissatisfied with Jackie's rule. They had broken off and formed an opposing factor under Jackie's brother, Richie Aprile. Richie had proven to be a singularly disasterous, narsissic leader. The splinter cell had booted him out on his ass, drifted leaderless, then disbanded. Richie begged to be let back in the original gang, but Jackie wouldn't hear of it. "You ran out on us once." He said. "Why should I let you back in?"

"For fuck's sake Jack, I'm your brother."

"That's still no excuse." They were squaring up for a good old-fashioned fistfight when Dante pulled them apart. He was a little guy - 5'9 and skinny as a lat - but he could end any fight in progress with just a few words. "Guys, knock it off." He said.

Watching this with some amusement was the tonsarilly challenged Ralphie Cifaretto. For some unknown reason his hair had begun falling out in his mid-teens and at 19 he was now almost completely bald. He always wore a hat, and was planning to buy a wig with the money he made selling stolen cigarettes on street corners.

It was now six months since Anthony had witnessed a most brutal crime. His father had cut off Mr Satriale's pinky for faliure to pay off his gambling debt. Johnny had explained the reasoning behind it, had made it seem like something that happened every day in his line of work. Maybe it did. Despite that, Anthony had hit the floor that very night after a panic attack. Four stitches later Anthony had vowed to stay away from the life his father led. His resolve was beginning to waver.

School had never held much interest for him. Teachers drilled facts into him and he spewed them back out. There was no interest in the individual pupils. They were just there, like the desks or the blackboard. Teachers were chosen for their ability to strike the fear of God into young minds, not their PR abilities.

Anthony's stitches were a source of speculation for everyone. The kids said he had had a run in with some local heavies. The teachers said his father must have hit him with the buckle when he was giving him a good belting. Anthony wasn't going to tell anyone that he had 'fainted' over a joint of pork and hit his head on the table. He just said he cut himself on a piece of glass.

In science class, the teacher was teaching 'human reproduction'. While the rest of the class sniggered, he stared unseeingly at the board. Those two in the maltshop. They were well dressed, obviously with a lot of cash to throw around. His own father and uncle earned enough money to pay the wages of a small army. Both their himes were filled with the trappings of wealth. Livia was alwayd dressed in the height of fashion, her hair neatly styled. A life of crime had its perks.

"Mr Soprano?" The teacher's voice brought him back.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Could you repeat what I just said?"

"No ma'am."

"That's because you weren't listening, isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I though as much. Go stand at the back of the room. I'll see you after class." Anthony made his sullen way to the back. Life was so unfair to him sometimes.