Mikey looked at that wad of cash, then put it back in his pocket with a little smile on his face. I could see he was happy to be getting out of Little Italy. He was always a sensitive type. When we were young, he didn’t like the way the family was, the way you had to read between the lines. My dad, Dominic—Mikey’s uncle—he used to tell me the lines were bullshit and the truth was between them. When we were young, we didn’t ever get a direct answer to a direct question. Most questions we didn’t get an answer to at all. I got it back then that there were two worlds. One was where I lived every day, and it was okay. Women pretty much ran it. The other one was the real world, though—and I got that I might get to know it slowly, over years and years, and maybe not completely, ever. The men’s world. It wasn’t talked about directly when me and Mikey were young.
So, for example, Pop went up to Attica on a trumped-up rap, but we—his own kids—didn’t know what the rap was. Or one of the Maglione cousins went missing one day, and no one ever saw him or talked about him again. Or Nick, the playboy great-uncle that always had the custom suits and all those beautiful women hanging on him, well, one day we heard that someone had stuffed one of his suits with fish to make it look like Nick was inside, then arranged the suit on the sidewalk outside his favorite seafood restaurant, and no one ever saw him again, either. Shit like that would make Mikey bug-eyed and pale, send him into hiding in his room.
Me? It made me want to be a part of it.
With Mikey gone, I moved up. Found I could service the vending machines faster without him and his everything-had-to-be-perfect attitude. Which left me spare time for my girlfriends and for me and Pop’s side business, which was selling Italian wines to Manhattan restaurants. We had some people back home that could get us the cases for less than other importers, so we kept our prices down and delivered good product. There was also some creativity regarding the labels, but not so anybody would know, except for the occasional pain-in-the ass connoisseur, but those types were never any trouble. Also stuffed in the crates of wine, we got knock-off watches and purses still actually made in Italy back then, so perfect you couldn’t tell ’em from the real thing. We moved tons of that counterfeit stuff into New York, month after month. This wasn’t the crap you saw on the street; this was the crap you’d pay full retail for in a Midtown store.
Mikey called me almost every week. He wasn’t having any luck with the music. He had a waitress he was shacking up with, the singer in his band. He told me he overheard her and the other guitar player talking one night and realized they were just keeping him around for his money. Made me want to fly out right that second, choke those two punks for taking advantage of my little cousin, but you know, I was just as mad at Mikey for letting them do it. See? Another one of those things he just never got: don’t let anybody push you around. You push first. You push harder. This is not a playground, never was.
He tells me how he’s trying to write songs and learn his craft, but how you can go into any coffee shop or bar on Sunset and every waitress there can write and sing, and they know all the music producers by first name, and the guy slapping the burgers is a friend of Frank Zappa, and Zappa’s gonna produce his first album, and how amazing it was to be in a city where everybody had talent.
Then one night he calls late, I mean four in the morning late for me, and he’s drunk and talking about this party he went to and this songwriter who played piano and sang that night. Warren something. Mikey tells me how he realized he had no talent and nothing to say, so why is he doing this to himself? He sounded relieved. He sounded almost happy.
Two weeks later, he was back in Little Italy.
Of course, I pretty much ignore him, because you don’t leave your family, then come back and loaf around like you own the place. Sure, his mom and pop and sisters fall all over him. The neighborhood, they seem to think he’s a hero, back home from some big adventure. He’d cut the girly hair and gained some weight, so maybe he looked a little better, but to me he was still the same gutless pretty boy he always was.
My old man and his old man tell us to get an apartment together now that Mikey was ready to pledge himself to the family again, maybe actually learn the business. It was a decent place on Mulberry, four floors up and a small view of the bridge. It had bedrooms at opposite ends of a living room and kitchen, like it was built for people who don’t like each other, the way I didn’t like Mikey. He was family, though. And I was stuck with him.
I had girls coming over from the hour we got the keys, but Mikey was workin’ hard to get into the pants of an old family friend, Regina Strogola; okay-looking, a tough chick who usually got what she wanted. You ask me, he was too good to her right from the start.
One night I’m done with this girl, third time for me and she’s still feeling it, so we have a talk, and I go out where Mikey’s watching TV in the living room. I leave the bedroom door open. He and I look back at the girl in my bed, and she’s got one of those inviting looks on her face. A blonde, of course, hair spread all over my black satin pillow.
“All yours, you want some,” I tell Mikey.
“Gina’s on her way.”
“So?”
“You know.”
“You don’t know nothin’. We got some work to do later tonight.”
“When?”
“When you’re done with Gina,” I say. “So, don’t take too long.”
I drove my Impala. We crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and went into Queens. It was a hot night, and my air conditioner was shot.