1971

VENOM TOOTH

"I'm entrusting you with a responsibility like no other, son."

"Yes, pa."

"I believe you capable, my boy. Others might not."

"Others don't know me."

Cesare laughed. "I think so."

Marco and Giorgio were holding one of the guys down by the arms while he was kicking his legs and spitting and snapping his jaw. Well, not his legs - one leg. The free leg, the one that Mikey didn't have under his boot on the verge of snapping.

The fellas were dressed in leathers or casuals; Marco in a green-and-yellow pattern sweater, Giorgio or Georgie or Jojo or whatever he wanted to be called in this leather jacket too big for his arms with the cuffs drooping, Fat Mikey in a seam-splitting tucked tight cardigan.

Sonny Forelli had unbuttoned his cream double breasted jacket and let it hang loose. Sonny Forelli had this ornate crimson silk shirt with this flared out collar and these pretty patterns dotting down, top to bottom. Sonny Forelli had these white loafers on that made him step extra delicate so they didn't get dirty.

Sonny Forelli brought the flat end of the crowbar straight into the poor guy's knee.

The poor guy screamed.

"Ay, woah! I think we're drawin' blood here, Sonny!"

"Ey, motherfucker! Motherfucker, ey!"

Guy kept screaming.

Giorgio, "Shut the fuck up!"

"Shut the fuck up, eggplant."

Guy on the floor grit his teeth, kept breathing through them deep-like. "Fuck you fucking wop fucking fuck fuck fucking guido-"

"Buddy, buddy!" Sonny knelt down. "What's got you down, huh? We're just talkin'! We're just fuckin' gentlemen!"

They'd emptied out one of the private rooms at Ristorante Ecoli and lit up the table with a candle and dimmed the lights for a reason Sonny couldn't discern. The place, the restaurant, was sacred. Men got made here. Sonny got made here a year ago. This arcane place which stood at the tip of Staunton Island like a castle.

Cesare Forelli had sunken cheeks. Brown pleated jacket. Wispy hair and black around thin eyes and bushy brows. Underboss was present; Cheem Basto with wax face and sweat beads like he was always fucking hot.

Coincidence: it was very hot.

"Do you understand," Cesare said, "the weight of the responsibility bestowed on you?"

"Of course."

"The rules of which you must abide?"

"Of course."

"No drugs? Respect? No undue violence or attention or none a' that? That kinda bullshit?"

"Pa," Sonny clasped Cesare's hands on the table, held tight. "Believe me. You won't regret this."

"These monkeys is cute, Sonny."

"Y'hear that?" Sonny slapped hostage. "Mikey thinks youse is funny."

"I said cute, not funny."

"See, you fellas is cute because you won't listen to simple instructions. We tell you to sit still and you don't."

"Fuck you…"

"And youse is funny," Sonny went on, "because you think you can deal on patches you've been told you don't run."

"Fuck you, wop."

"Precious."

This wasn't the only drug dealer they'd strung up. In the alley, right up in Aspatria, there were two other goons. All three were black guys, all three were early, mid-twenties at the biggest stretch. All jumpy young kids in their own leathers, with scruffy facial hair and frizzy 'fros and heroin.

Too much heroin. Here, any heroin was too much heroin.

The one Mike had a foot on was called Domino. Their 'pet moolie' in Hepburn Heights, as Franco called him, said his real name was Cornelius.

Speaking of Franco, he'd put a foot and the crowbar in one of the other guy's faces a long time ago. Him and Tommy were holding down the third on the trunk of their Oceanic.

"What did Levin tell you?"

"Levin don't mean shit. That's why he's talking to- auugugh!"

Mike kept twisting the boot into the open wound. "You niggers ain't fuckin' polite, is you."

Sonny kept it slow, "No dealin' on Levin's, on our, fuckin' patch."

"Fuck you!"

Sonny reeled back, braced, and punted Domino in the chin. Bloodspit saliva flew. "Take care of moolie here," turned tail and fucked off to the car.

Domino wasn't the leader but he was the biggest. Biggest boy was named Dicky, Benedict. Biggest boy purely symbolic - he had spectacles Tommy had crunched under bootheel a long time ago. Scrawny arms and a garish button-down.

Sonny approached.

Smacked Dicky in the head.

"Tommy," Sonny said.

"Yeah?"

"How's he holding?"

"I'm about ready to cut this prick loose."

Sonny did his best imitation of someone with charm - "You must'a really ticked pretty-boy off."

Eyes locked. Cesare warmed. "You are young, Santino."

Cheem cut, "We got a dozen fuckin' capable men. Fi'ty."

"I'm better than all of them," Sonny said.

"You ain't no rule breaker?"

"Never, Cosimo."

"You think being capo is a fuckin' joke, Sonny?"

"You need…" Cesare struggled for words. "Benevolence. You cannot seek war, you must seek peace. This duty, captain… and you were made-"

"I don't deal. I don't kill 'less they ask for it, 'less I get your permission. I'm respectful. I'm loyal. I earn good. I don't know what to tell you. Dad, pa, I fuckin' got this."

Cesare nodded. "Brash way of putting it."

"This thing of ours," Sonny said, "is about family. It's responsibility. Responsibility I can bear! You make me capo now, I'll do a better job running any crew than Nelly ever did. Believe me."

Tommy Vercetti was tall, guinea handsome. Dark hair and dark tan t-shirt with blue jeans, gold crucifix chain. Franco Forelli was a greasy fucker with a huge schnozz and nowhere hairline he still kept to combing.

"We killin' this fuckin' prick?"

"Is eggplant over there dead?"

Quick glance. The guy who got brained was still leaking on the floor.

"I dunno."

"Like the papers is gonna get mad over a couple a' dead niggers."

"Levin will," Sonny said.

This conversation was going down on top of the relaxing, harmonious wails of a captive struggling under the grip of two guineas. "Let me go let me go let me motherfucking go let me go!"

Franco ignored, "This is getting-," grunt, guy moved, "-getting fucking irritating. The coons should be doin' this shit, not us."

Tommy took initiative, "You stayin' outta Hepburn?"

"I go down there to fuck your mother greaseball fucking-" Franco clipped him on the head with an elbow.

"Be nice, spooky."

Tommy just sighed.

Sonny thought a moment. Thought hard. Looked back at Mike putting a boot into Domino's knee again. Gears turned in his head.

"Tommy."

"Yeah?"

"Him," pointed back, "or him?"

Nelly was in prison. Nelly ran one of the gruntwork blue collar crews, ran books, ran card games. Beat people. Killed people. He was capo. He was Cesare's brother in law. And he was a fucking idiot. They'd pulled strings, got the guy 5 instead of 25, but it wasn't a sure thing if he was getting out at all.

Sonny was now acting capo.

He got hugged. Got a hug from Cheem, got a hug and a pat on the back from his pops, got a couple congratulations from some of the wiseguys in the front. Some didn't. Some thought it was nepotism or a bad choice or blah blah blah, waste of time.

Cesare got the champagne.

There was a moment of celebration where all the guys gathered around and had their saluts and pat Sonny on the back, but Cesare wanted privacy.

What Ceez wants, Ceez gets.

An empty booth near the back of the restaurant with the champagne to themselves. Father and son.

"My boy," Cesare said. Ruffled Sonny's hair, laughed. "Oh, my boy."

"Thank you, pa."

"Family is more important than anything else, Sonny. Remember that. You're my boy."

"Yeah."

"I would've made one of my sons capo, no matter what. You know that, Sonny. But you… it does not matter if you're not the eldest. You're the most capable. Marco… he is a good boy. But a leader, no. Franco, no. You of all your brothers…"

"Thank you, pa."

"Family, my son. Family is all that counts. Nelly was not family, and look what happened."

The feeling sank in. That knowledge you're worth less than your blood. "Yes, pa."

"Family."

"It's all that counts," Sonny said. "All you can trust."

"The fuckin' ferry, man."

Sonny peeled off the main trio - Marky, Frankie, Tommy. Piled into the Oceanic, pulled outta' Staunton and let Giorgio and Mike dodder back to Little Italy. Guys all in the midst of recovery, cracking knuckles and taking breaths and rubbing sweat. The Forelli Brothers Three, sans their fourth and their cousin.

"Think I scuffed my shoes," Sonny groaned.

"Scuffin' shoe on jigaboo," Franco sang.

He was driving.

"We just messed some guys and your mind's on the shoes?"

"They're expensive fuckin' shoes, Tommy."

"Tommy," Marky added, "they're Italian suede."

"You brought Italian suede to rough up some guys. Come on."

"He's got a point," Frankie said. "You shouldn't a' wasted good shoes on some uptown moolies."

"That's not what I meant-"

"Then what'd you mean Tommy?"

Blink. "I-"

"You ain't tellin' me you like 'em?"

"They ain't half bad."

"They're fuckin' animals," Franco went. "I'd put 'em in chairs I could."

"C'mon."

"They fuck like rabbits," Frank sighed. "Lotta' them is rapist-birthin' machines, all they do is fuck fuck fuck. I ain't losin' sleep over no dead niggers. You give them a fuckin' hand they bite ya'."

"Frank."

"You give 'em food they'll sell it for a quick buck! Human fuckin' garbage."

"You're a scumbag, Frank."

"Like youse is so much better, Tom. Catholic goddamn guilt over here."

"Screw you."

"Can't say fuck, Tommy boy?"

Marco chimed in, "No-swear-Tommy don't fuckin' cuss none."

"Your daddy gonna hit you you don't say you wanna suck moolie cock? You wanna suck moolie cock, Tommy?"

Tommy didn't say anything. Sonny looked, saw him seething, red faced.

Franco didn't stop. "And then you got these niggers in black leather, these fuckin' commies, and what, they ain't terrorists? Technicalities and fucking laws and all this bullshit. They got it great. Get handouts from the government so they can rob ya' and kill ya'. You wanna go help niggers, be my guest, but I say put them and their fucking kids-"

Sonny put his hand on Franco's shoulder. "Frank."

"What?"

"Stop."

"You sidin' with him now?"

"I'm sidin' with the one that ain't gonna blow this deal. Or get our necks cut."

"I can take 'em."

"I ain't. Don't screw this. We go in there you start pulling this shit, you think Levin's buying?"

Frank just snorted.

"If there's one thing the mulignans know best," Marco said, "it's movin' weight."

"I get it, I get it. Madon'. None a' them in the car now, is there?"

There weren't, but they weren't too far.

Hepburn Heights had been, at one point, been mostly Jewish. That was a long time ago, 1920's long time ago, then the jobs cleared out along with the white people and the factories, the housing projects dwindled and redlining set in. It was largely minority now, mostly Latino and black. No home loans and no healthcare coverage and no nothing. Thugs on the streets always giving whitey bad looks.

Under Rothwell Station there were a couple stores. Bodegas, take-out joints, barbers.

One barber stood out.

Car drove into the alley behind the stores, rolled up nearby the rear exits and made sure to check the address number above the doors.

Sonny, "Stop."

Franco, "We here?"

Marco, "We here."

It wasn't Levin's headquarters but he ran stuff out the shop - a little small time bookies, betting on football and boxing and whatnot. Clean Cuts, name nothing fancy but it didn't have to be.

Oceanic stopped. Sonny got out, put up two fingers as a signal, approached the door.

Knock, knock, knock. Pause. Knock.

Door-slat flipped open - eyes on Sonny. A nod. Slat shut.

Sonny turned, the guys already out the car. "You guys behave," got nods and groans from the fellas who crossed arms and tried to look tough. Got Sonny toe-tapping, waiting.

Door opened.

Levin was tall, moustache and mutton-chops and half-rough afro. Chinchilla jacket over a white turtleneck, black slacks. In his stead, some big fucker in a mustard sweater with the pectorals peaking out, no hair aside from the eyebrows. Levin paused, lips curled, looked Sonny down. "Nice get-up, 'sides the red."

"Think that means we did what we needed to do."

"Blood could entail a lotta' things, my man. Got kids 'round the block would rough theyselves up, say they did the job, get paid, and the guys'd still be on my patches. Scratchless."

"'S'what you get when you dealin' with children."

"Weren't much older than you."

Sonny snorted, smoothed his hair, "We got proof."

"You said that. Blood."

"Somethin' a little less… euh, fakeable. You know."

"Oh, to take the word of a brother such as myself. It is duly appreciated, Sonny. My 'pinion, a lot can or cannot be fabricated; but I'd like to see you try."

"Yeah, whatever."

Levin snickered. "That was me askin' you to show me."

Paused. "Right. Yea'. Come on."

They turned, went down the alley, past the guys leaning on the car. Markie and Frankie giving these looks, these pissed off looks. Frankie by the rear of the car with his hand on the hood like he didn't want to lose it.

"Tommy, you take care a' the package?"

"Hey, as much as I could. Heavy as hell."

Levin smiled. "I have a feeling I know what this'll be."

Three were at the back now, Frankie on the whip still leaning. Looked at Sonny, blew out the nose, got off.

"Moses, check the trunk."

Baldy nodded, moved for it. Was reaching when Frankie put his hands up, too close for comfort, "Watch it, tough guy."

"Watch him, tough guy," Levin went, wry as he could.

Moses chuckled. Franco fumed.

Trunk sprang open.

Sonny had always said that you gotta keep some rugs in the back just in case. Today was just in case. Dicky rolled up in what looked like burlap with about a dozen bruises and cuts and all kinds of red leaking out. Luckily, none of that was gonna was gonna ruin the interior. Just needed to replace the burlap.

"The other two?"

"Both went bye-bye, Levin."

"Charmin' as ever. Not what I wanted, but you got it done. He dead?"

"Nope. You can wake him if you want."

Levin snickered again, "Sure. Moses."

Moses nodded. Clapped the kid's ears 'til he jolted - "Huh?! Huh?! What?! Huh?!"

"Brother, brother."

"Guinea fucks! Guinea wop fucks!"

"Settle down, settle down. It's your good friend Levin."

"My fuckin' arms, man, my fuckin' arms!"

"Shhh…" Put his finger right up to the lips. "Quiet."

Dicky had these bugged out eyes, didn't help he needed glasses. Blind. Was shaking - shaking outta pain, or something else.

"Told you you'd get along," Sonny said.

"That's sweet. You enjoy yourself with my associates?"

"Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom."

Levin turned to Sonny. "He has no idea how much that hurts."

Got Moses laughing again.

"Train's due now, ain't it, Sonny?"

"I don't take the train."

"I know what time the train comes. You can hear it on the rails a mile away. City's gotta fix the cars."

"City can't fix a broken pipe. City can't build a tunnel. You think they can fix a train?"

Levin smiled. "I have faith."

This uncomfortable pause. Levin reached for his pockets, dipped his hand into the jacket.

Pulled out a .357. Sonny whistled, "That is a piece."

"You hear that?"

He did. He heard train grinding on the elevated tracks. Getting nearer.

Nearer.

"Goodnight, Dicky."

Nearer.

Near.

Bang.

Train slowed. It was like the shot never happened. Smoke rose. Train went quiet.

The gun was back in the jacket. A hole was in Dicky's head.

"Moses, would you mind disposing of our friend?"

Moses nodded, went for the door, but got stopped: hand on his shoulder. "Gorilla don't touch my fuckin' whip."

"Excuse me?"

"It's okay, Moses," Levin said. "Franco, I'm sure you and my friend here are open to doing the job."

Frank shot a look at Sonny. Sonny shrugged.

"Sure," Frank said. "Okay."

Franco clopped off, went to the car-door with these shadows under the eyes and his hands to himself, brushed past Tommy on the way giving him a look. Sonny just stared, the staring interrupted.

Levin pat him on the shoulder. "I got someone you might wanna meet."

Back room of the barber was fitted out with a couple TVs, all off. A lot of papers and a lot of notebooks and clipboards, big table in the middle. A bunch of Levin's goons, would be taking score. But no games on means no games are on. Levin lead him and Marco and Tommy inside, got the other two comfortable. Offered refreshments - "We got waters, soda, that kinda shit." Tommy said sure, Marco said no.

Among the black guys, there were two more whites. A little older than Sonny, but not by much - this one guy in a half decent suit with a chain around the neck. A mustache, slicked back hair. Other guy had stubble, oily hair, leather jacket.

"You're Neapolitan, right, Sonny?"

"Yeah. Naples, Genoa, whateva'. That's us Forellis."

"Right. These two are Sicillian."

Sonny looked 'em up, looked 'em down. "Familiar."

"Should be," went mustache.

Levin kept smiling that same old smile, "He," he said, pointing to clean shaven, "is Ennio. Earl."

Earl nodded, "Eitha', or." Offered a hand, Sonny shook.

"And he," Levin moved onto mustache, "is Salvatore. Leones."

Sonny looked. Weary. Salvatore did the same, sized him up.

Offered his hand.

Sonny paused.

He shook.

"Giuseppe's son?"

"Hell ta' Giuseppe." Salvatore grinned. "That bullshit… it don't come here."

Sonny grinned back.