Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  I was just a kid, making deliveries now, no big deal. I was kind of like a mascot. It was a good time for me. Well, I thought it was. But the die had already been cast. I would not remain a kid forever. Eventually they would bring me in on bigger, more dangerous jobs. Things that damaged and destroyed property. Things that scared people. Hurt people.

  Killed people.

  Eventually, they demanded I take on responsibility and do a man’s job. And when that time came, I did.

  Being connected to Gino had its perks. Nobody bothered me. Everyone was nice to my Mom. And if one of the local merchants tried to stiff me on the tributes or give me hard time because I was just a kid, I had Gino’s guys in my corner. Believe me, anyone who tried pushing me around never did it twice.

  In the beginning, they sheltered me from the real violence. I knew it was going on, of course, I never saw it. The slapping around of the working girls if they got mouthy. The beatings dished out to deadbeats that owed them money. Or the murders of anyone who betrayed them.

  I thought folks were showing me respect. In truth, they feared Gino, but I could not make that distinction. I just enjoyed the attention. In fact, I came to expect it. Even at seventeen, I had no problem “reminding” some shopkeeper of who I worked for if I felt I had been slighted.

  Funny thing about human nature, that slippery slope we can all slide down. I’m talking about the insidious nature of sin. It starts out innocent. Innocuous. And once you get used to it, get accustomed to crossing the line, the line ceases to exist.

  And so it was with me.

  Before long, I was spending all my time with Gino and the guys. I was making more money, wearing suits and ties just like the rest of the guys. I stayed out late every night, much to my mother’s chagrin. I did not carry a gun, but I had a straight razor in my pocket. Gino approved. He felt a young man like me needed a little something extra to protect himself.

  My mother was constantly on me about them being a bad influence on me. She was right, but I did not want to hear it. I spent less and less time at home. My fall of that year, 1907, I was living in a small room in the back of Gino’s club. Broke my mother’s heart when I moved out.

  Things were never the same between us.

  The room itself was nothing special. It smelled of onions. Small, metal spring bed frame, thin, lumpy, uncomfortable mattress. A beat up and scarred wooden three-drawer dresser squatted against a wall. A lavatory mounted in a corner provided me a place to wash up and shave. Floorboards creaked even under my moderate weight. Like I said, just a room.

  It was my first home as a man.

  One day late in the fall of 1908, this storeowner, an old guy named Scarpaccio, refused to pay. He said he was tired of paying for “protection” he did not need. I reminded him who Gino Vinetti was. He said he did not care. He was not afraid.

  I was flummoxed. In all the time I had been collecting, no one had ever simply refused. Oh, a few had grumbled, complained, and talked trash, but in the end, they paid. I understood. They had to talk tough so they could still have some self respect as men. I would always say thank you, I was always polite, always respectful to them.

  I reminded Mr. Scarpaccio of his arrangement with Mr. Vinetti. The old man cursed Gino, cursed me, then he spat vehemently on the floor between us. An ultimate insult at the time.

  I took a breath, straightened by coat. I told him that Mr. Vinetti would be very disappointed, and I bid him good day. He replied that I was no longer welcome in his store, and that he was sure my mother was ashamed of me, and that she probably regretted having conceived me.

  I usually reminded folks I was Gino’s gentle side. The other men in his crew were the wrecking ball. They could deal with me, or with them. Their choice. But I decided right then and there, Scarpaccio no longer had a choice.

  Later that night, few of Gino’s boys paid him a visit. Old man Scarpaccio opened the door and immediately, three burly Italian guys in suits slammed him up against the wall and held him there. Terrified, he knew better than to scream. The third guy, Thomas, the one who never really liked me too much, opened up a razor blade. Waved it in front of Scarpaccio’s nose. Told him he had heard about how he had “talked tough to the kid” earlier in the day, and did not want to pay. Then Thomas reminded him that one way or the other, everyone paid. Then he stepped to one side, turned his head towards the open door. Scarpaccio’s gaze followed his.

  I walked inside. Cool, mean, angry. In control. I looked at Scarpaccio, glanced at the men as I unhurriedly crossed the floor. I nodded to Thomas as I went by. His lip twisted upwards slightly at one corner of his mouth.

  I kicked Scarpaccio so hard in the balls I lifted him off the floor. Even the guys holding him winced. All the color left the old man’s face. His knees buckled. He fell to the floor with a solid thump. He lay there on his side, curled into a fetal position.

  I stepped back and kicked him in the face. The sole of my shoe split his lip open and knocked out two teeth. It knocked his head back and ricocheted it off the wall. Hell, even Thomas was shocked. He took a half step back. I lifted my foot up and stomped the side of Scarpaccio’s head, bouncing it off the floor. By this time, he is crying and wailing like a lost child.

  Thomas stepped forward, reached out to take my arm. I threw a glare at him that stopped him in his tracks. I kicked Scarpaccio’s arms out of the way, and I straddled his torso, settled my weight. Then I punched him. Hard. Once, twice, three times, four. Blood spattered on my clothes, across my shirt, across my tie, across my face.

  And I told him, calmly, matter-of-factly, to never disrespect me, or Gino Vinetti. He nodded. And I told him to never, ever talk about my mother ever again. He was forbidden from even mentioning her name. Not just in my presence, but in anyone’s. And that if I ever heard that he had so much as mentioned her name to anyone, even in polite conversation, I was going to come back, to his house, with these men, and kick him in the face until I kicked him to death. I would leave him drowning in a pool of blood and snot in his own kitchen.

  There was a deathly silence as I let this concept sink in. Thomas and the boys were awestruck. A cat screeched out back in the alley. Inside that room, you could have heard a pin drop.

  My blood still up, I glanced up at them with hard eyes, challenging them. They had never seen me like this. None of them were about to challenge me that night. Not even Thomas.

  Scarpaccio was still spitting blood and teeth out his mouth, trying hard not to choke to death right in front of us. I smiled, kneeled down, and asked him gently if he understood. I gave him permission to nod if that was all he could do.

  He nodded.

  I asked him if he doubted my sincerity.

  He shook his head.

  Satisfied, I stood up. I straightened my bloodied tie. I unbuttoned my spattered coat and smoothed my ruined shirt, tucking it in around the waist. I adjusted my rumpled coat, buttoned it back up – which was the style back then – and pulled my shirtsleeves down at the cuff underneath.

  I looked at the men, asked them if they had a problem with what had gone on here? They all shook their heads.

  No, kid. No problem.

  I made to walk away, then I spun around with such speed no one saw it coming. I kicked Scarpaccio in the gut so Goddamned hard it moved his entire body across the floorboards.

  Then I spat in his mangled face.

  I told him I would be coming by the next day for his payment. And it had better be fucking ready. And it had better all fucking be there. Every penny. Capice?

  I turned and stalked out without waiting for a response, tolerating no interference, and without speaking another word to anyone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Things changed after that. Word got around what happened. Everyone in the neighborhood looked at me differently when I strolled down the sidewalk. Gino’s boys no longer treated me like a kid. By making such a brutal example of Scarpaccio, I had just sent a message. Not only to the neighborhood, but to the rest of Gin
o’s boys. Do not mess with me. And the message to Gino himself was, I have potential. I have ambition. I know how to make things happen.

  Gino was impressed. Scarpaccio had the money ready prior to noon the next day. He could hardly look at me. And he Goddamn sure never gave me any more trouble.

  Ever.

  Mr. Vinetti counseled me that violence should only be used as a last resort, but that if violence had to be used, it had to brutal, bloody, and public. Violence had to be a reminder; it had to send a message, just as I had done. He said he would rethink my place within the hierarchy of the gang. And of course, that is precisely what it was - a gang. An ongoing criminal enterprise, as your police brethren call it.

  And boy, was I ever about find out the hard way about that.

  In addition to my weekly collections, Gino put me in charge of collecting from the local nightclubs. I was still living in that converted storeroom off the kitchen at Gino’s headquarters, but I was moving up. Before he sent me out, he called me, Thomas, Aldo to a meeting. He declared me a man, and a full member of the crew. Aldo grinned approvingly. Thomas did not. Then Gino declared I was now in charge of collections from the bars and nightclubs he owned, ran, or extorted money from.

  Thomas bristled. The nightclubs had been his gig. It was bad enough I was being promoted, but he was being demoted at the same time. He asked Gino why the job was being taken away from him.

  Gino understood Thomas had a legitimate gripe. So he told Thomas the terrible truth. It was because even at just eighteen years old, I had shown more initiative, more daring, and more decision-making ability in dealing with Scarpaccio, than Thomas had shown in years. Thomas was a good man, but he was a born follower, not a leader. He was destined to always be a foot soldier, nothing more.

  Thomas grimaced with anger at Gino, and hatred towards me. I thought just for an instant, he was going to pull his gun and start blasting away. I think he thought about it. But he understood the Life, and said nothing more. I knew a new battle line had been drawn. Thomas would never accept me in this new role, would never take orders from me no matter what Gino said.

  This was a problem.

  Maybe Thomas always saw me as a potential threat. Maybe he knew he could never control me, all the back to that first time I came by, and was ready to hit him rather than give the money to him.

  Maybe he envied my youth. Thomas was in his mid-thirties and had nothing to show for it. No home, no wife, no children. Gino did not pay that well, and Thomas spent money as fast as he earned it. He had no savings, no nest egg, no retirement, nothing to call his own.

  Then again, some people hate for no reason.

  Gino declared the new arrangement effective immediately. My first collection would be that night. After we had left the table, Aldo pulled me aside and told me that he would keep Thomas in line. I had my doubts about that, but I was grateful for the help.

  I went back to my room. I buffed out my shoes, washed my face. I picked up the straight razor lying on the sink, stared at myself in the mirror. I knew Thomas would turn on me the first chance he got. He would simply not be there when I needed him, or worse, he would take me out himself. So I took the folded razor, slid it into my coat pocket. Not much defense against Thomas’s gun, but if I could get close enough… well, you can guess the rest.

  There I was, certain of betrayal, preparing for war. I was hardly old enough to shave, and I already thought like a gangster. I dressed like a gangster. I acted like a gangster. I plotted like a gangster. I coveted power and money like a gangster.

  The mistake was I actually thought I was a gangster.

  The first few weeks went smoothly enough. Thomas gritted his teeth and did what he was told. But I never trusted him to have my back. Some of the nightclub owners showed surprise at the shift in power, but never said anything about it. These were not poor, extorted shopkeepers. No, these men were corrupt themselves, gangsters of their own accord. Some were tied to the New York boys, some to Chicago. They understood paying a small tribute to the local Don was simply good business. It was showing respect.

  Back then, there were rules. And I mean, real rules. Everyone followed them. No one killed each other over a measly two percent of gross. They just charged more for the drinks and the food. It is not like now where street hoodlums slaughter each other over ten bucks and a pair of sneakers, or shoot a ten year old because she’s playing in the wrong playground.

  One of the places we collected from was a run-down gin joint located in the part of town where black people congregated. Typical place for the time. Dimly lit, small tables, rickety chairs, wooden flooring, tiny stage in one corner, just enough room for a couple of musicians against the walls and one singer out front. Bumpy, the owner, tended bar so he could keep an eye on things. He wanted to make sure people had a good time, so they’d come back and keep the money flowing. He also wanted to make sure no one was starting trouble, and of course, he wanted his cut of any less than legal goings on. Lastly, tending bar, he could make sure his employees weren’t cheating him.

  We collected from Bumpy every week, near the end of the night on Saturdays. So we always got there when the place was winding down. We always entered quietly through a side entrance, walked directly to the bar. Bumpy would always ask us if we wanted anything, compliments of the house. We would always thank him and decline, and simply ask for our package. He would always have it with him, slide it to us across the bar. We would take it, pocket it, thank him, and walk out. Usually took about three minutes, start to finish. In, out.

  But there was this singer there. Beautiful young girl, skin a caramel brown, high cheekbones, tumbling black hair, sultry voice. Usually performed in a dark blue sequined dress. Plunging neckline.

  Smokey, is the only way to describe her.

  Her name was Danae. Danae Jefferson. I see by your reaction you know the name. Now you are starting to piece it together.

  Danae was about twenty then, rumored to be a direct descendant of the union between Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings. Danae was your great, great Grandmother, Reggie.

  And I loved her. So very much.

  Bumpy introduced us. The band was between sets. The men had gone out back. She leaned at the bar and drank sarsaparilla. Danae did not drink alcohol. She said it would affect her singing voice.

  We talked a bit. I was nervous because she was so beautiful. But she was a sweet girl, well mannered, very polite. She knew I was tongue-tied in front of her. She thought it was cute. She was charming, and put me at ease. I told her I had enjoyed her singing, what I had heard of it. She told me I should come in on a night when I was not working, and take in a whole set

  Well, I did just that. I ventured out one night, alone mind you, into Bumpy’s club on a Wednesday. I enjoyed her set. All the neighborhood gangsters knew who I was. More importantly, they knew who backed me. They did not like me coming around, but they had to tolerate it.

  I had been coming to Bumpy’s for a while. They had gotten used to me by then. But eyes were still glued to me whenever Danae came over to my table in between sets.

  It was all quite innocent at first, I assure you. Right from the start, we both seemed to see past the color of our skin. I was interested in what she had to say. She was quite intelligent, you see. She read newspapers every day, trying to educate herself in all kinds of subjects. See, she had never gotten past the eighth grade. It bothered her, made her feel less.

  But there were angry murmurs throughout the club. You know what I mean. The talk was immediately that I was using her, getting a little taste of brown sugar, all that nonsense. A lot of that stuff went on back then, mind you. White men going out, leaving their wives at home, then coming over to the far side of town, sampling some foreign flesh. I can understand why folks thought I was doing the same thing.

  But I swear to you, I always had nothing but the most honorable of intentions towards her. There was nothing illicit going on between us those first few encounters at the club. Well. Not at that
point, at any rate.

  Hey, do not look at me like that. I told you, I was in love with her. We finally started sneaking away from our respective groups of friends and acquaintances after about four months of small talk and flirtation.

  We became romantically involved, which was a much bigger deal back then than it is today. Nowadays, an interracial couple is no big deal. Back then, it was not only considered immoral and wrong, it was actually against the law. You ran the risk of beatings, lashings, and lynching. People got killed or castrated over this kind of thing when I was a young man.

  But we were young and in love. We did not worry about such things. We knew we were unique, and that our love was a love that had never been experienced by anyone else, ever, anywhere, in the history of the world. We would find a way to fly in the face of convention, and find a way to be together, forever, until the end of time. We told ourselves that as we stole precious moments and even more precious hours, in cheap rented rooms accessed through back alleyways, consummating our love.

  You’re looking at me like that again. I told you she was your great great Grandmother. And that I am your great great Grandfather. We did not accomplish that feat via immaculate conception.

  Of course, no matter what precautions we took, no matter how careful we were, the truth got out. It always does, does it not? Word got back to Gino Vinetti regarding Danae’s and my torrid affair. Quite frankly, he did not care. As long as I was taking care of business for him, he would not interfere.

  So things went on as they did for several months. There was a lot of resentment among Bumpy’s crowd. Danae endured terrible ridicule and harassment. Sometimes she would be crying from the hurtful insults and taunts when I saw her. I offered, on more than one occasion, to “take care of the situation”. But she knew what I was, knew what my definition of “taking care of business” meant. So she always told me no, she would deal with it. She always got a certain look to her face when she had made up her mind about something. I learned to recognize that look and to just shut up, because nothing I said would change her mind.