Thieving Weasels Page 11

  “Listen, Sonny,” my mother whispered as she slipped the real bracelet into my jeans. “The guards are going to grab me, but I want you to keep on running. Don’t stop until you get away, then find a pay phone and call Grandpa Patsy. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m scared, Mama.”

  “I know you are, baby. Just do what I said and everything will be okay. Quick, what’s Grandpa Patsy’s phone number?”

  “555-7396.”

  “Good.” She squeezed my arm and said, “Here come the security guards. Are you going to be a big boy for Mama?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Trying’s not good enough. Here they are. Now RUN!”

  She set me down, and I raced for the door. As I pulled it open, I looked back and saw two beefy security guards knock my mother to the ground and twist her arms behind her back. I was terrified, but I did exactly as I was told. I ran, and ran, and kept on running until I found a Burger King and scrambled inside. I pulled out the emergency quarter hidden in my shoe, climbed on a pile of booster seats, and dialed the only telephone number I knew by heart.

  But somehow I blew it. I’m not sure if I got the number wrong, or if my little fingers were shaking so badly I pressed the wrong button by accident. All I know is that the person who answered the phone wasn’t Grandpa Patsy, and I hung up.

  Now what am I supposed to do? I wondered. I had no other money, my mother was in custody, and there was a stolen bracelet in my pants. I thought about sneaking up on some old lady and stealing her pocketbook, but even old ladies were bigger than me. Think, I told myself. There has to be something you can do. Then I remembered the fountain back at the mall. Not only was it filled with hundreds of dimes and quarters, but it was right across from the Mrs. Field’s cookie stand. I could scoop up some change, call Grandpa Patsy, and still have money left over for a cookie. It was the first plan I had ever thought of, and I felt like a criminal mastermind.

  Or I did until my plan backfired. I don’t know what happened, but one moment I was reaching for a big juicy quarter, and the next I was falling headfirst into the fountain. The water tasted like oven cleaner, and my eyes burned like someone had doused them with chili powder. It was easily the worst thing that had ever happened to me, and by the time I crawled out of the fountain two mall cops were waiting for me.

  “Where’s your mother, little boy?” the first one asked.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to tell them, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was four years old, drenched, alone, and scared.

  “Macy’s,” I whimpered.

  The police were there when I arrived and when they pulled the gold bracelet from my jeans I thought they were going to kiss me. Talk about perfect timing, they were about to release my mother for lack of evidence, but thanks to me, they now had everything they needed to arrest us for shoplifting. Or at least arrest my mother, because you can’t arrest a four-year-old—although that didn’t stop them from slapping handcuffs on my wrists and marching me out the door where a photographer for Newsday was waiting to capture my shame for the next day’s paper. Our next stop was the Seventh Precinct where my mother was charged with Petit Larceny, and I got to play Go Fish with a lady detective because the cops didn’t know what else to do with me.

  Aunt Marie had to bail us out because Uncle Wonderful was in prison for mail fraud and Grandpa Patsy was highly allergic to police stations. But Grandpa Patsy was there when we got home, and he was nice enough to hold me down while my mother spanked me until her hand went numb.

  “You stupid shit!” she shrieked. “You stupid little shit!”

  “This is for your own good, Skipper,” Grandpa Patsy whispered in my ear. “Nobody likes a rat, and the sooner you learn that the better. Now say it.”

  “Nobody likes a rat!” I cried.

  “Again.”

  “Nobody. Likes. A. Rat.”

  “Good. Now never forget it.”

  20

  MR. DENUNSIO’S IDEA TO ACCESS FAT NICKY’S HOUSE VIA the canals was a good one. Nobody would be expecting that. A boat? Maybe. But a lone swimmer on an icy December night? Not in a million years. Still, the plan was not without its challenges. First off, I’d have to find a wet suit in December. Not totally impossible, but the selection would be limited, and I’d have to pay for it with cash. I’d also need a car and a gun, but my biggest problem was finding a partner. Vinny was the obvious choice, the main reason being I didn’t know anyone else. The Vinster wasn’t the smartest criminal on the South Shore, but with his shaved head, tattoos, and nervous eyes he certainly looked the part. Roy didn’t want him involved with the job for some reason, but I didn’t care. I needed a warm body, and Vinny was available.

  I called him to hang out, and he arrived five minutes early. Always a good sign. Our first stop was a liquor store where Vinny bought a pint of Jack Daniel’s, and I got a half pint of Jägermeister because I’d heard guys at school talking about it. I didn’t plan on drinking any, but I figured it would make me look more like an adult when I asked Vinny to do the job. Neither of us felt like going to a bar, and there weren’t any good movies playing, so we drove around until we wound up at an indoor mini golf in Deer Park. Vinny inhaled most of his Jack Daniel’s on the way, and by the time we finished the third hole his bottle was empty.

  “You want a hit of this?” I asked, holding out my Jägermeister. “It’s not bad in a cough-syrupy kind of way.”

  Vinny shook his head.

  I slipped the bottle in my pocket and, as I lined up my shot, it occurred to me that Vinny hadn’t said a word since we had arrived.

  “What’s the matter, buddy?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Vinny said, hugging himself. “It just feels wrong not having Roy with us.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing myself.”

  “It’s just so messed up. One minute Roy’s driving around like any other night, and the next minute Jackie’s dead. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, why him? Why not you, or me, or the man in the moon?”

  “You got me. I guess that’s why people go to church. It’s the only thing there is to explain all the crazy stuff in the world.”

  Vinny nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t buying my two sentence summary of the Religion and Popular Culture class I’d taken that fall. Not that I blamed him. One of the worst things about being a criminal is you never get to feel that God is on your side. That said, every weasel I knew relied on some kind of routine or good luck charm to help keep them out of jail. Grandpa Patsy was the worst. Not only did he go to church every week to dip his lucky Irish shilling in holy water, but he never wore purple on a job, and refused to talk business during Lent—although that never stopped him from calling his bookie ten times a day to check the point spread.

  Like so many things with my family, this drove me totally insane. I mean, what was the point of going to church on Sunday if you planned on robbing the poor box on Monday? My mother, naturally, had an explanation for this.

  “You have to understand something, Sonny,” she said one afternoon as we walked out of a dry cleaner with another customer’s clothing. “God sees what we’re doing, and even though He’s not a hundred percent happy with it, He forgives us as long as we don’t steal from the wrong kind of people. Take these clothes for example. Do you think God would let us take them if He didn’t want us to? I mean really, what kind of woman buys a four-hundred-dollar ball gown that needs to be dry cleaned every time she wears it?”

  “A woman with a lot of money?”

  “Exactly. And like it says in the Bible, rich people and camels never get into heaven.”

  “I’m glad to see all those years in Catholic school paid off,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Hey!” someone behind Vinny and me shouted. “Are you guys gonna play golf, or what?”

  We turned around, and a guy in a Celtics jacket was standi
ng on the next green with his girlfriend.

  “Give us a break,” Vinny shouted back. “We’re having a serious discussion here!”

  “Then let us play through.”

  Vinny looked down at his ball and kicked it to the end of the green. “There. Does that make you happy?”

  “What a dickhead,” the girlfriend said.

  “What was that?” Vinny growled.

  “You heard what I said.”

  Vinny pointed his golf club at the guy and said, “I’d put that dog on a shorter leash if I were you, pal.”

  I grabbed Vinny’s arm. “Yo, chill.”

  “Screw you,” the guy said.

  Vinny laughed. “Screw me? Screw you! Step over here, and I’ll pound every tooth out of your mouth.”

  The guy barreled toward us and when he got within striking distance Vinny swung his club at him. He missed by a mile, and before he could take another swing the guy punched him in the stomach. Vinny’s legs went out from under him and he fell to the ground coughing.

  “Asshole,” the girlfriend said as they marched past us to the next green.

  I squatted down next to Vinny. “You okay, man?”

  “I could use a hit of that Jägermeister, if you don’t mind.”

  I handed him the bottle, and he guzzled down the entire thing.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? It’s the best idea I’ve had all day,” he said as he jumped up, ran to the next green, and slipped his golf club across the guy’s throat.

  “There,” Vinny shouted, squeezing the club as hard as he could. “How does that feel? Huh? Huh?”

  The girlfriend screamed and dug her fingernails into Vinny’s forearm. “Stop it! You’re killing him!”

  I ran to the green and pulled the club out of Vinny’s hands. The guy fell to the ground, and Vinny put his heel on the guy’s neck.

  “One word,” Vinny hissed. “One word and I’ll make you a quadriplegic.”

  The guy remained silent, and Vinny lifted his foot.

  “Pussy,” he said with a grin.

  Someone turned off the music, and I looked up to see everyone at the golf course staring at us. People were reaching for their cell phones, and I figured it was only a matter of seconds before they began posting our pictures online.

  “C’mon, Vin,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Sure thing, Skip.”

  I had Vinny drop me off at home, which was kind of stupid considering how drunk he was, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away from the guy. The moment he drove away, however, I remembered the buses to Shady Oaks had stopped running for the night. Yes, I could have called a cab, but Vinny’s rampage had unnerved me and all I wanted to do was crawl under my Star Wars sheets and call Claire.

  Which was exactly what I did. We talked deep into the night, and when we were done I took a couple of silly selfies and texted them to her. As I dozed off it occurred to me why Roy didn’t want Vinny involved in the Mr. DeNunsio job, and I couldn’t have agreed with him more because the last thing you need on any job—real or pretend—is a psychopath for a wingman.

  • • •

  “Where the hell were you last night?” Mr. DeNunsio hissed when I walked in his room the following evening.

  “It’s a little hard to explain,” I said, stopping in my tracks.

  “No, it’s not. You were supposed to be here and you weren’t. See? Easy peasy.”

  I stared at Mr. DeNunsio, and my mind flashed to my compromised morals, family psycho drama, and Vinny almost strangling that guy with his golf club. I didn’t want or ask for any of it, but I was doing my best to hold it all together, and now I was getting grief for it. It was time to take a stand.

  “You know what else is easy peasy?” I said under my breath. “Telling you to kiss my butt. If you don’t like what I’m doing go find somebody else to kill Fat Nicky for you.” I turned and headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute!” he said. “Get back here.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why should I listen to a single word you say?”

  Mr. DeNunsio reeled in his anger and said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Grab a seat and we can talk this thing through.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “I’d rather stand.”

  “Suit yourself, but let me ask you a question. What if somebody from Shady Oaks saw you last night? Yeah, I know it’s a long shot, but stranger things have happened. Wouldn’t they have wondered, even a little bit, why you were out messing around when you should have been at work?”

  “Maybe,” I said with a shrug.

  “You’re damned straight they’d wonder, and that’s all it takes. It might seem like nothing right now, but let me tell you how it works. You add up ten little nothings and pretty soon you got one big something that lands your ass in jail. And if that happens, there are two other things you gotta remember. The first is that if you get caught, prison is the least of your worries. Twenty years in a jumpsuit is nothing compared to what the pasta eaters would do if they found out you killed one of their own. They wouldn’t think twice about killing your mother and feeding your uncle his cojones for breakfast. And the other thing is, if they get you, they get me. And I don’t wanna get got. You hear me?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He reached into his nightstand and pulled out the anisette. “You wanna drink?”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Still playing the hard ass, huh?”

  “No,” I said. “I honestly don’t like it.”

  “Fair enough.” He poured himself a drink and said, “And just so you know the kind of people we’re dealing with here, let me tell you a little story. You know who Rudy Giuliani is, right?”

  “The mayor from 9/11?”

  “That’s him, but before that he ran the US Attorney’s office in New York. He and his storm troopers had a major hard-on for the mob, and they invested a ton of time looking for people to help them bust it open. They needed guys who were high up in the ranks, but who didn’t have any real power of their own. Guys like me. One day they hauled me in and laid it out. They had all the evidence needed to nail me with an extortion rap, and I was looking at four, maybe five years in prison. Then they made me an offer: If I testified against Fat Nicky, they’d drop the charges and give me and my family a new identity. If I didn’t, it was jail. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to their crap, but after a while I started to believe them. If they had their act together, I might have gotten away clean, but Nicky got off on a loophole and never even spent a night in jail.”

  Mr. DeNunsio sniffed back a tear then pulled out his inhaler and lit a cigarette. “Three years and two months later I was at work when the phone rang. It was the police calling to say there’d been an accident, and my entire family had been blown to pieces. They said it was a gas leak, but I knew different. It was Fat Nicky’s way of making me suffer for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s insane,” I whispered.

  “Insane or not, that’s what these guys do when you cross them.” He emptied his glass and said, “So, consider yourself warned. And the next time you feel like doing something stupid just remember you could get us all killed. Capisce?”

  I looked straight at him and did my best not to blink. “Capisce.”

  21

  DR. BRAUNSTEIN INTERCEPTED ME A FEW HOURS LATER ON my way home from work. I’d been avoiding my mother’s doctor for days because I didn’t want to hear how it was all my fault that she had tried to kill herself. I also didn’t know what kind of lies she had been telling him in her therapy sessions, and I didn’t want to get our stories crossed. That said, my real reason for avoiding Dr. Braunstein was less complex: I was afraid of psychiatrists. To me, they were like brain police who could look into your head and see your darkest secrets. And f
or a guy whose life was built on a foundation of lies, that kind of scrutiny was terrifying.

  Growing up, the worst thing about moving around so much was visiting the school psychiatrist every time I enrolled in a new district. At first, I made up all kinds of crazy stories like how I was part Navajo and that my father was killed in Iraq. But this strategy backfired big time, and I was rewarded for my creativity with even more trips to the school psychiatrist. After that, I learned that the best way to work the system was to tell the psychiatrists exactly what they wanted to hear.

  Except here’s the deal. Deep down, I wanted to tell them the truth. Because even in grade school I felt ashamed of who I was. I mean, what kind of family rents a hotel room for a week, visits every library within a twenty-mile radius, and applies for fake library cards so they can steal every DVD in town? Want to know what kind of family does that? Mine, of course. And the older I got the more frustrated I became by the sheer stupidity of my day-to-day existence. Take that little DVD caper, for example. How much money do you think we got for those DVDs? Three, maybe four bucks a pop depending on their condition. Subtract from that the money for the hotel, gas, and fake IDs, and we probably cleared less than ten bucks on the whole operation. Think about it. An entire town loses their DVD collection, and we made less than the cost of a single DVD. It was lunacy, absolute lunacy, and the fact that I couldn’t tell anyone about it made me feel powerless and alone.

  “You have a minute, Skip?”

  I looked up and Dr. Braunstein was climbing out of a beat-up Outback in the parking lot.

  “I was hoping to catch the S21 bus before rush hour gets crazy,” I said, immediately regretting my use of the word “crazy” within a hundred yards of a psychiatrist.

  “This will only take a minute,” he said. “Walk with me.”