“That’s him,” Bianci said, as he leaned over the steering wheel of his truck and stared at the man crossing the street. The man he was referring to looked a hundred pounds soaking wet, if that. He stumbled through the crosswalk, scratching his arms profusely barely making it to the other end of the street.
There was no way this man was who Bianci claimed he was.
“Are you sure you got the right guy?” I asked, staring in disbelief at the junkie roaming the streets desperate for his next fix and tried to picture Anthony’s wife with him.
“Oh, that’s him,” Bianci confirmed. “Adrianna, showed me pictures of him when they were together, you can’t even imagine the difference,” he muttered. “Luca resembles him,” he said, lifting his eyes to mine as he spoke of his son. Bianci wasn’t the biological father of Adrianna’s son, no, Vinny, the crackpot on the corner owned that honor.
Not too long after the kid was born, fresh out of rehab, Vinny tried to hit Adrianna up for money. Bianci threw the guy a beating and in the end Vinny didn’t take a dime from Adrianna. He signed his rights over to her and told her his son was better off without him. It was men like Vinny that made the choice easy for men like me to want to keep the streets of New York clean. Vinny was a man controlled by temptation, a good guy who had created a beautiful boy, but instead of being a father to his kid he chose drugs. There are people in this world who can’t fight against temptation, people who surrender their lives to it.
It worked out because Anthony loves Luca. He is his son in every way it counts. But as a man who buried a child, I couldn’t understand how a man willingly gives up the chance to hold his son and guide him through life. How was it that a man could hand over his son just to get high? The world was fucked. We were fucked. And people like Jimmy were the reason.
“Let’s go,” Bianci announced, turning off the car and reaching for the door handle. We climbed out of his SUV and made our way to Vinny. The closer we moved toward him, the harsher the reality of who Vinny had become stared us in the face. Vinny’s eyes latched with Anthony’s, widening in fear as what little color he had left, drained from his face. He moved to run, but I was quicker and blocked his escape.
“I just want to talk, Vinny,” Anthony said, reaching for him.
“I stayed away, I swear,” Vinny whined, as I hooked my arm through his and brought him against my side.
“I know, I know. Come on, we’re going for a drive,” Anthony informed him, taking hold of his other arm. Together we escorted him back to Anthony’s truck. We pushed him into the back seat and I slid in beside him, pulling my gun from the back of my pants and aiming it at his head.
“What the fuck?” Vinny cried, staring into the rearview mirror as Anthony climbed into the front seat and lifted his eyes to meet his in the reflection.
“The man pointing the gun to your head is hanging on by a thread. He will not hesitate to shoot you. You’ll be dead before I can ask him not to, so listen close and give me what I need,” Anthony warned, and I pressed the barrel of my gun forcefully to his temple, for extra emphasis.
“I gave you everything I had, man, there’s nothing left,” Vinny said.
“Shut up and listen to what he has to say,” I bit out, hitting the locks on the door with my free hand. Anthony reached over the console and pulled an envelope from his glove box before twisting his body around so he was face to face with Vinny.
“There’s twenty thousand in there,” he stated. “It’s not much but it can change your life. It can get you a warm bed and hot meal. It can get you clean clothes and put you on the path to a better life. It’s enough money to carry you while you get yourself clean,” Bianci continued. “Give me something good to tell Luca when he asks about his real dad,” Anthony pressed on.
“Real cute kid,” I added, hating I was using a man’s kid as bait.
“Do you have a picture of him?” Vinny asked.
Bianci grabbed his phone off the passenger seat, his fingers quick to retrieve a photo of the boy both men obviously loved, and turned the screen to show Vinny. He took the phone, staring into the eyes of the child he created and smiled down at the photo, his eyes glistening with tears. I exchanged a look with Bianci, hating that we were playing with this man’s emotions and using his kid as leverage.
“I need you to organize a meeting with your dealer,” Anthony began.
“I can’t,” he said, handing him back his phone. “He wants me dead. I owe him a lot of money,” he explained.
“How much money?”
“Fifteen grand,” he revealed.