A Village Voice

by Brian Martin

  All the kids in the neighborhood knew about the store and they knew why their prices were so competitive. His mother had mentioned that they needed a new toaster. She heard they had some at the store and would go pick one up during the week. His dad objected and was quite strenuous about it. He thought his mother was about to get a lecture about the moral implications of purchasing hot toasters. The reality was that his dad was concerned about buying electrical goods from a store with a no returns policy. Brian asked her years later about the incident and she said that her friend, Marie, got her a membership and that she had explained that the merchandise for sale had not been obtained through any acts of violence. Apparently, in return for certain favors, the teamsters agreed to drive a certain number of trucks to designated warehouses where the drivers would even help unload the goods. Everyone got along just fine and all the goods were insured so it was not like anyone lost out. Marie knew because her brother-in-law worked at one of the warehouses. The arrangement was further confirmed by Mrs. Hegarty, whose son was in school with Brian. Her husband was a teamster and he often let his wife know so that she could tell her friends if something really good was going to show up at the store.

  Brian and his dad also passed a local barber shop. This was the closest barber shop to their apartment but when it was time to get a haircut his dad would actually pass this place to go to another one, about six blocks further away. When Brian was old enough to go by himself, he asked his mother if he could go to the closer one. She said his dad wouldn’t like it and he should go where he always went. He asked her what his dad had against the place. She suggested that he ask his father. When he asked him, his father said that they were all Italians in there. They didn’t speak good English and if he went in there for a haircut and didn’t speak Italian, he could come out bald. When he pressed the issue with his mother, she was more forth coming.

  Her friend Marie’s husband, Aldo (also a good friend of his dad), had gone in there one time for a haircut. The place had a few chairs and a phone booth near the back. Aldo was minding his own business getting his hair cut and a man comes in to use the phone. The man did not fully close the door of the booth and Aldo was in the last chair and he could hear the guy. The guy was speaking a Sicilian dialect from a very remote part of Sicily. The same part of Sicily Aldo’s family was from. It was a dialect Aldo had heard at home all his life. The man was talking about a debt that needed to get paid by the next day and when and where the guy would be who needed to be paid. Aldo had to pretend like he didn’t understand a word, he was worried that he would break out in a sweat, he couldn’t wait to get out of there. The next day a major figure in organized crime in the city departed this mortal coil. Aldo, being a good friend, explained to Brian’s dad that the recently departed had a lot of friends and those friends might pay a visit to the barbershop someday. If they did, things could get out of hand for innocent bystanders.

  Brian asked his dad one time if the Mafia was good for the neighborhood. His friend, Bobby’s dad had been down in Little Italy visiting a relative and he had been mugged just a few blocks away from their apartment. Some kid produced a knife and demanded that he hand over his wallet, which he did, no problem. He hadn’t lost much, forty bucks and a credit card that could be replaced. He mentioned it to his wife when he got home and apparently she took it a lot worse than he had. She called her sister who made another phone call and low and behold the very next evening they heard a knock on their apartment door. The father opened the door but left the chain on. Standing in the hallway was the mugger with the wallet and what sounded like a very sincere apology. Now Brian’s friend Bobby thought this was the coolest thing ever and evidence that the Mafia helped to control crime in their neighborhoods. His dad listened quietly to the story and agreed that it was good that Bobby’s father had gotten his wallet back but he did explain that the reason behind the Mafia was like the reason behind most things; it was all about money.

  He explained that while they might help with things like a stolen wallet and their presence might keep away certain undesirable elements, you might have a different view of them if you were a shop keeper or a restaurant owner in the neighborhood. These people had to pay protection and had to buy services from Mafia controlled firms, everything from window cleaning to linen supply. The company had to bear the extra cost or they could pass it on to the consumer, the ordinary person in the street. It was like a giant tax and someone had to pay it. His dad thought that taxes were high enough already without having to pay extra but he figured if it didn’t go to them it would go to someone else. So, the bottom line was that these guys, although they might do some good from time to time, were criminals, not Robin Hoods. The people he should respect and admire were the people who came to this country, the land of opportunity, and worked hard and made something of themselves, not the criminals who stole from others.

  For all that, he never heard his father go out his way to condemn them. He certainly did not agitate to clean up his union local like Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. He never liked the movie. He thought Rod Steiger was good, but he found Marlon Brando unconvincing as a tough guy. Like a lot of men on the waterfront, Sean saw the Mafia as a fact of life, part of the way things were. Brian knew that his dad played the numbers regularly and he knew that the Mafia ran that. For a fifty cent bet on three numbers you could win six hundred dollars. The winning numbers were the last three digits of the daily racetrack attendance which was published in the papers. Brian remembered the evening his father came home to their apartment with a brown paper bag full of money. He remembered watching his father counting it out on the kitchen table. To him, it looked like at least a thousand dollars. His mom was thrilled and had the money spent in her mind before Sean had finished counting it. Brian thought about making a joke and asking his dad if this was like a tax return, but for once in his life he kept his mouth shut. He was hoping if he showed the right amount of enthusiasm he might get a couple of new model airplanes out of it.

  Later on, as an idealistic teenager, he was surprised when his father did not show any enthusiasm for the Knapp Commission that had been set up to investigate police corruption. His father’s take was that a bunch of low level cops would get in a lot of trouble and that instead of investigating them, a commission should be set up to investigate corrupt politicians who made deals with the fat cat developers to destroy the city and line their own pockets with the taxpayers’ money. He also had the Irishman’s dislike for informers of any kind. His view was that the famous whistle-blower Serpico should have been a prosecutor, or should have chosen some other line of work. “You don’t walk among people, break bread with them and then rat them out…” his father had once said.

  Chapter Four

  New York, 1955

  Jim Flanagan was having a good day. He was on his way to see his old man. He liked to stop by at least once a week and check in. Pop lived in the same apartment on Morton Street that he and his brothers had grown up in as kids. His brothers, Gerry and Joseph, also had apartments in the same building so Pop had plenty of family around but Jim liked to keep in close touch all the same. He loved and admired his old man and he knew that the old guy really enjoyed hearing what he called ‘the news’ from Jim. As if the old man lived in a monastery and Jim would come to visit him with news of the outside world. In a way, maybe, it was kind of like that.

  Pop was a retired longshoreman and Gerry and Joe both worked on the docks. They all lived in the same apartment building and didn’t really leave the neighborhood all that often. Jim was the adventurer, he had traveled in all five boroughs. He went to nightclubs around the city, he went to the races and, of course, to the fights. Jim had boxed in the Golden Gloves and had done pretty well. He had lost only on a split decision. Everyone thought he was robbed and that someone had got to the judges. Jim blamed himself for the loss. He should have knocked the kid down. That is what he did, get in close and knock them down, right or left, he could do either. Despite the fact that
he did not win the championship, he was approached by a professional manager and he was persuaded to try a professional fight. Things had gone well and he was four and oh, with three knockouts. He was making some money and spending it as fast as he could make it.

  That day, Jim was looking forward to telling Pop about a party he had been at out at a mansion on Long Island, champagne, great food, great looking women. The guy had servants. It was like something from the Great Gatsby, one of his old man’s favorite books. Jim had read Gatsby but didn’t really get it. The guy was a schmuck who had everything and blew it all over a dizzy broad who didn’t know what she wanted. Anyway, he was debating on just how much of the party story he should tell. They had all wound up naked in the guy’s pool at three in the morning and this might be just a bit too much information for his old man. Just then, Jim saw his dad flying out of the door of his apartment building and landing in the street. A very large and very angry looking black man followed him out of the door and stood over him.

  Reuben Johnson had been having a lousy day. He delivered furniture for a living and it was damn hard work lugging furniture up the stairs of apartment buildings. The store he worked for sold cheap furniture to working class people who did not live in fancy apartment buildings with elevator service. The job was tough enough on its best day, when he had his regular partner Nate. Nate had taken a day off to visit his mom who had just had an operation. Nate’s cousin Louie was filling in. Louie could drive the van, but he was about a hundred and ten pounds dripping wet and couldn’t lift furniture worth a damn. He kept losing his grip and having to put the damn thing down, making everything take twice as long. Reuben was afraid that they were going to damage something or that Louie would let go of one of the heavy sofas and it would come crashing back at him and do some permanent damage. Reuben was a strong man, six-two, two-forty but hauling these old sofas up five or six flights of stairs was a two man job and he was operating today with a man and a boy. Not even a bright boy, the son of a bitch had real trouble with the simplest directions. Right, left, up, down, god damn they were not building god damn rocket ships. They were on their fourth delivery of the day and he was weary. Another large sofa to the third floor. They had just started the first flight of steps when surprise, surprise, Louie lost his grip and they had to set her down after the first three steps. Just then Reuben heard a voice behind them.

  “Listen, lads, that looks like it might take a while. I live right there on the first floor and I was wondering if I might squeeze around you.”

  On a good day Reuben might have considered this, but this wasn’t a good day. They were late and if they stopped and let everyone go past he would not get home till midnight. He chose to ignore the request and shouted at Louie to lift on three. He heard the voice behind him again.

  “Ah now, lads, I’ll only be a second.” He felt someone move around him to his left, so he swung the sofa to his left and blocked the man’s path.

  Dan Flanagan was not a particularly hot-headed man but he drew the line at being hit with a sofa in his own hallway. Especially after the polite way in which he had addressed these gentleman. His mother’s side of the family were Quinlans and they were famously hot-tempered so when one of the family lost his temper he would say, “Everything was fine and then the blood of the Quinlans rose within me.” At that moment, the blood of the Quinlans rose within him and he called out to the large man he saw before him.

  “Put that down now, you ignorant bastard, and come down here and I’ll put manners on you.”

  Reuben called on Louie to move back and they let the sofa down. He turned to face the man and saw that he was just an old guy. An old guy with a big mouth. Just then the old guy took a wild swing at him, Reuben blocked the punch and out of instinct shoved the guy back. The old guy went flying out the door. Reuben followed him to see if he was okay, stupid old bastard. Before he could say a word to the old man, he heard someone running toward them. He turned just in time to feel a sharp pain in his solar plexus. He was doubled over and the wind was knocked out of him, then it felt as if someone hit him on the jaw with an anvil; his knees buckled and he went down to the pavement. He was not out but his head was spinning. He heard his attacker calling on him to get up, he heard Louie pleading that it was all mistake and that they didn’t want no trouble. He heard the crazy old man saying that he was alright and to come away and then he passed out.

  Across the street, Vincenzo Marsiglio was playing cards with his cousin Mike and a few friends. They sometimes sat outside Mike’s garage, played cards, had a glass of wine, and watched what he liked to call the passing parade that was New York City. Today the parade had been particularly entertaining. They had seen an old guy fly out the door of an apartment building across the street, they had seen a large black guy come out after the man. They had seen a young guy run up and deck the black guy with two very professional looking punches. They were remarking on the young man’s skill, when Mike informed them that he was Jim Flanagan from the neighborhood and that he had gone professional. Vincenzo was a man who believed that opportunity was all around and that in order to be successful you just had to recognize it when it came knocking. He went inside and dialed some friends of his down on McDougal Street.

  Louie had bundled Reuben into the van and they had driven away, leaving the sofa undelivered. Jim and one of their neighbors got it into Mrs. Delany’s apartment. She was a tiny woman who lived alone. They were wondering why the hell she needed such a large sofa. She said that she wanted to have something she could stretch out on to take a nap in the afternoon and that going back to bed in the afternoon was depressing.

  Later on, Jim was having a cup of tea with his father and was just about to launch into his Long Island party story when they heard a knock on the door. It seems that some busybody had called the police to report a fight in the street, and the police had come to take statements. They didn’t say anything about an arrest, they just needed the facts for now.

  About a week later, Jim had just finished training when his manager walked in and said that a friend of his, Al DiGeorgio, would like to have a word. Jim knew who DiGeorgio was and who he was connected with. He figured he was going to be approached to throw a fight for money. He figured this might happen sooner or later, but he was surprised they were coming at him so soon. His trainer introduced them and left the locker room. Al DiGeorgio was medium height, medium build, he had no distinguishing features. He wore a dark suit, a conservative hat and tie. He looked just like a million other guys you would pass in the street. A very difficult man to pick out in a line up.

  “I have seen you fight and you are pretty good, hell of a punch for a welter weight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Listen, I have a proposal for you.” Jim began to shake his head.

  “No, no, wait until you hear me out. You had some trouble a week or so ago. You decked some guy that was bothering your father. Good for you, I say, but the thing is the guy wound up in hospital with a fractured jaw. The police have made inquiries and they know that you are a professional fighter. Right or wrong, a professional fighter beats a guy in the street and sends him to hospital, that guy is going to lose his license and he might even be charged with a serious crime. Me, I think that is a shame and I think there is a better solution. The black guy keeps his wired mouth shut, the police forget about their notes, the boxer gets to keep boxing but he doesn’t box in the ring no more, he boxes for me. The pay is good, the work is steady and if you had stayed in the ring you would have ended up working for me or one of my friends anyway. I know you probably want some time to think, but really, there is nothing much to think about. Come by McDougal Street tomorrow and ask for me about seven O’clock. We can go get something to eat.”

  Chapter Five

  New York, 1987

  Other than at the occasional family function, Brian did not see much of his Uncle Jim as he was growing up. He had gone on to do what was expected of him, graduate high school and college and get
a ‘white collar’ job. Out of the ten cousins on his father’s side, seven went to college. They had a surgeon, a nurse, and a CPA among them. He had chosen a rewarding career in the financial services industry. One of his cousins (one who did not go to college) was also in financial services more or less. His cousin, Mike, had followed his father (Brian’s Uncle Jim) into the debt resolution side of the industry. His cousin had inherited Jim’s fine physique and looked for all the world like Sylvester Stallone, only taller.

  The whole damn nightmare, Brian found himself in, started one day as he was heading out for lunch and saw his cousin Mike coming up the street. After the ritual hand shake and hug, “How you doing?” kind of thing, Mike leaned in and told him that his Uncle Jim was waiting around the corner in the car and would like to see him. Brian was going to make a joke about being ‘sent for’, but he really wasn’t that close to Mike and he wasn’t sure how he would take it. So he followed him around the corner and saw his Uncle Jim sitting in the passenger seat of his Cadillac. Mike opened the rear door for Brian and then got behind the wheel. Uncle Jim turned around and shook hands (no room for a hug), told Brian he was looking good and got straight to the point.

  “Listen, kid (all his nieces and nephews were ‘kid’, Brian always had the feeling that Jim never really had all their names straight), I need to talk to you about some family things, it’s important. I thought we might take a walk around the park.”

  They made polite chit chat on the short drive up to Central Park. Now, of course, Brian’s antennae were up. He couldn’t think of what this might be about. Maybe the brothers had fallen out over something and Jim wanted him to be a peace emissary. Mike let them out at the Plaza and Jim told him to be back there in half an hour.