Confessions of a Vigilante

by Manuel Fernandez

  The man the public read about is an esoteric figure. His actions quantify a craven outcry, but after reading my mother’s journal, I found his character displays a side of human emotion, only the ones close to him comprehend.

  Entry after tireless entry, my mother rambles on about the affection she feels for her brother. His acts of kindness toward individuals not as well off as himself. His devotion to troubled teenagers proved heroic. He volunteered at an at-risk youth center in Hayward every Thursday and Saturday, without fail. I had a chance to go down to the youth center and speak to a few of the kids who knew him well. One kid in particular, Rodney, talked about how my uncle always checked up on him, asking if he’s keeping up his grades, lecturing, as to the dangers of getting involved with the wrong people. Rodney’s eyes began to tear up as he talked. At one point, he put his head down and said, “I loved him,” over and over.

  The kids at the center called him ‘Teddy Bear’ because of his large frame and even larger heart. My mother raved about his love for her. Their parents died in a plane crash when they were teenagers. Mark was the older of the two and took charge. He dropped out of school his senior year and went to work as a truck driver to support my mother and himself. He made sure she finished high school. He even worked a second job at McDonalds to put my mother through college, where she received a nursing degree with honors. He didn’t want her scraping by on minimum wage for the rest of her life. My mother never forgot the sacrifices her brother made so she could better herself. She felt bad she couldn’t help out more.

  Not long after my mother married her first husband, Bob, her and my uncle had a falling-out. For those of you who read the manuscripts, you understand the story. What you didn’t hear is the pain and suffering my mother endured every night she was estranged from her brother. She knew she was in the wrong but Bob had become similar to a drug she couldn’t put down. No matter how hard she tried, her addiction pushed her away from the people who cared for her. I wonder what might have been had they not drifted apart. Forgive me, but I am about to play ‘Monday morning quarterback’ It’s football vernacular I learned from my boyfriend. Monday morning quarterbacking is someone who criticizes or offers solutions to problems after the fact. That’s the best way to describe it. I believe, had there not been a falling out, both my uncle and mother would be alive today. I arrived to this superlative conclusion, not by tenacious fiction but a steadfast connection they shared. Yes, I recognize the evil side he possessed, if only temporary.

  Machiavelli once quoted, what I consider to be the bedrock of my uncle’s bipolar personality, something like: “Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience who you are.”

  The person who died a few days ago, in San Quentin Prison on a rainy night was lost. No urgency of motivation. Not the person my mother describes in her journal as a prankster, fun, gregarious.

  There are two types of people in this world. Dependent and Independent. In my opinion one must achieve both to activate a healthy lifestyle. Let me divulge the theory further. My uncle’s independency saved him and my mother from a trial of poverty. He is the type of individual who is dependent on loved ones. I don’t mean monetarily. When someone with so much love to offer has no one to give it to, that person becomes a victim of immutable circumstances. I’m sure my words will result in a flood of hate mail. Fine with me. It’s a free country.

  Please remember one thing. To comprehend an action one must explore the reason, not just the action if we are to find an answer. As a society, we sometimes view things as black and white, which is unrealistic. I’m not excusing Mark Jacob’s behavior, simply trying to comprehend the thought process. A well-rounded functioning community cannot be a replica of the wild west.

  The only thing I do these days is imagine. I imagine my mother and father dancing in heaven. My Aunt Kathy is there as well, enjoying the fun. I imagine my uncle sitting in a corner of an isolated room cradling Mario Cruz in his arms, saying, “I’m sorry, if I would have known you were my son, I wouldn’t have killed you.”

  Then God appears with bright hands, touching my uncle’s shoulders and says, “We are all brothers and sisters, sharing the same blood. Revenge doesn’t relieve suffering, it prolongs it.”

  This short story is a tribute to the late author George V. Higgins, who taught me the art of dialogue authenticity. I’m sure Mr. Higgins would have loathed and enjoyed our next contestant.

  The Imprisoned Don

  A real enemy smiles to your face while planning your demise behind your back...

  Stefano Ruggerio picked up the phone, and stared back at his son, Anthony, through the plexiglass window. Anthony’s eyes sagged from jet lag. The flight from New York to the Federal Prison in Springfield Illinois, twice a month, for the past three years, had taken its toll.

  “You look good,” said Stefano, his silver back hair slicked back. “What are you on? That new exercise thing I see on TV with them blondes…”

  “How you doin’ pop?” said Anthony.

  Stefano shrugged. “Doin’ 99 years plus two terms. Ain’t no sunshine comin’ my way kid.”

  Before Stefano Ruggerio received a life sentence for racketeering, and conspiracy to commit murder, the press followed him around as if he were the pope, sticking a microphone in his face while he walked Manhattan, dressed in his $3,000 suits and grumpy bodyguards by his side; hoping for a quote from the Mafia don. Tourists and fellow New York natives would come up to Stefano, seeking autographs, requesting to take pictures. Despite the warning from other bosses, Stefano gladly obliged his fans. To Stefano, being a gangster was something one shouldn’t run from, but embrace. “Fuck the Feds,” he would say, “Cocksuckers ain’t makin’ me hide.”

  Stefano had been the last link to the old timers. As a kid, he ran errands for the neighborhood don. Stefano survived ten assassination attempts and five stints in prison. He put in his time, paid his dues. The other families looked down on his flamboyancy but he didn’t care. He controlled the biggest Mafia family in the country: three hundred made members, twenty crews on the streets, and over three thousand soldiers and associates. When the hammer came down, Stefano took his punishment like a man and refused to rat anybody out, or take a plea deal from the government. After his trial, Stefano was shipped to a federal prison in Illinois to serve his time. On the plane, he looked out the window one last time at the Statue of Liberty, dying a little inside, knowing he would never return to the city he loved, alive. I used to run all this.

  One of the Marshalls escorting him on the plane, asked, “You ever regret the life you’ve chosen Mr. Ruggerio?”

  Stefano smiled that famous charming smile that made women drop to their knees. “Not one bit.”

  “But your best friend, guy you’ve known all your life, ratted you out to save his own ass. Another family tried to take you out, shot up your bar. Gotta feel betrayed.”

  “It ain’t about betrayal. It’s about being a man, standin’ up and takin’ a lickin’. These days everyone’s a tough guy until faced, with doin’ time. They sing like a school girl, then travel the country like that rat fuck, Hill, talking bad about the only people who ever gave a fuck about him. That ain’t a man. That’s a coward. Back in the days when Lucky set this thing up, you had guys that were men, stand-up guys. No fuckin’ way they’d ever think about talking to the government. Let me tell you a story. When Vito Genovese wanted to become boss, he sent Vincent Gigante, to kill Frank Costello. Gigante goes to Costello’s place, catches him coming outside, takes a shot at him. Costello survives. Some citizen sees Gigante running from the scene. Cops arrest him. At his trial the DA puts Costello on the stand, asks if the man who shot him is in the courtroom. Costello looks at Gigante then tells the DA, ‘No, the man who shot me isn’t in the courtroom.’ Now it ain’t like Costello didn’t know who Gigante was. He was Vito’s driver for Christ sake. Costello and Vito would meet once a week, Gigante was Vito’s driver. That’s a man. Guy gets shot but still won’t tell the cops who it w
as. These fucks nowadays, Fuckin’ pansies. They get pinched and reach for the phone, crying to the FBI. No honor.”

  Incarceration didn’t keep Stefano from running his organization. His brother, Gene, a capo in the family handled the day to day street stuff and was the go between for his brother.

  Loud cat calls rumbled through the prison visiting room. Two rows down, a woman with a slim build and long, curly black hair, slammed the telephone down and got up. She had tears in her eyes. Anthony turned away from his father, staring at the woman’s back end as she walked past him.

  “That’s all you need,” said Stefano, “more pussy leading you by the balls.”

  Anthony quickly focused back to his father, almost embarrassed. “Sorry pop, bars closed at home, you know what I mean? Been thirsty for a while.”

  “How the fuck do you think I feel? They got woman guards in here. On the outside, I wouldn’t give them a second glance, fuckin’ beer bellies, or they look like witches. But after six months in here they start lookin’ like Marilyn Monroe.”

  Anthony closed his eyes, shaking his head. “That girl got an ass you could wear as a hat.”

  Stefano laughed. “Welcome to married life, my boy. No more fuckin’ like wild teenagers. Once, maybe twice a month. And that’s if you throw in a piece of jewelry or somethin’. You got anything on the side?”

  “Na,” said Anthony, “I couldn’t do that to Karen.”

  “Do what? You’re a man, you got needs, fuck are you supposed to do, jackoff in your garage to that Hilton broad or them porno movies?”

  “You ever feel bad about cheatin’ on ma?” asked Anthony. He stared at Stefano as if he were a stranger. Gone was the muscular build that made him frightened of his father, growing up. Anthony noticed a sea of wrinkles overtaking his father’s face. His hands were frail, dirty. His stomach stuck out, beer belly style. The man who once dressed in $3,000 dollar suits and made a point of getting a manicure every week, was fading before his eyes. But one thing that remained, was that voice. The voice of defiance. The voice every man, who ever came across Stefano Ruggerio, feared.

  Stefano leaned forward, wagging his finger. “Your motha is a good woman, but a man has his needs. Ain’t no shame in that. I had rules, my friend. I kept the other broads away. Your motha knew but what the fuck could she do? You and she, and your brotha and sista, came before any broad; but I couldn’t just sit at home, watching fuckin’ Jeopardy. I needed that rush. Somethin’ new. I was never gonna leave your motha for some dame. A real man don’t leave his family for some ass. Fuckin’ disgrace. It’s a form of masturbation; dem broads don’t mean nothin’ to me. I just got my rocks off. I remember this one broad from Greenwich Village. Fuckin’ sassy rich. Good fuck but the stupid bitch kept going off about how she was gonna leave her husband and I should leave my wife. She was married to some Wall Street schmuck or some shit. I told her,

  ‘What the fuck? You smokin’ crack? All’s you is, is a fuck to me.’ Told her like that. She starts acting crazy. Says, she gonna tell my wife. I crack her across the face to straighten her out. Fuckin’ woman. Gotta set ‘em straight. Anyway, I heard something disturbing.”

  “What’d you hear?” said Anthony.

  “I hear my grandson’s having trouble in school,” said Stefano. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

  “Where’d you hear that?” said Anthony. His eyes shifted to the carving of a crown on the wooden table.

  “Your motha. Talked to her last week. She’s cryin’, talkin’ about some kid is giving Anthony Jr. a bad time cause of his grandfather. Is that true?”

  “We’re handling it pop.” Anthony said.

  “Who’s we?” asked Stefano.

  A prison guard came up from behind Stefano and placed a small carton of milk in front of him. “Thanks Larry,” said Stefano. The guard nodded and moved along.

  “Karen and I are tryin’ to handle this thing right,” said Anthony.

  “Right? What about that little brat’s father, heard he started poppin’ off at the mouth, saying how Anthony Jr’s family’s a bunch of crooks, low lives. Is that right?” Stefano opened up the milk carton and took a sip.

  “I talked to the father,” said Anthony.

  Stefano leaned in, the knuckles on his hands turned white as the grip on the jail house phone tightened. “Yeah, you talked to the father? ‘Cause if I was out, I’d take that cocksuckers eyes and mail ‘em to his kids, have the Brooklyn crew, Jimmy, Billy, take him for a ride.”

  “Come on, pop, I can’t go down that road,” said Anthony.

  Stefano shook his head. The disappointment he had for his son was written all over his face. “I heard the wife gets on the phone and starts acting tough, right?”

  “Wasn’t like that.” Anthony softly banged his hand on the table. He hated when his father went off on one of his tirades.

  “What are you, a fuckin’ retard? Did she or did she not? There’s no in between. Yes or no?” asked Stefano.

  “Sure,” said Anthony.

  “OK, what you tell her is this: You want to act like a tough guy I’ll beat you down like one, you and your fuckin’ rat bastard of a husband. You want your husband to disappear, you want your son to have his balls cut off and mailed to you? Is that where we’re goin’ here? You don’t have to say it, get Gene to have someone say it. I know you don’t do that shit, that’s one of the reasons I never wanted you in this life. You and youse brother. Both of youse got you motha’s soft side. I’m not sayin’ that’s a bad thing, but you don’t want to be like Charlie Burkes kid.”

  “Who Phil?” said Anthony, looking away, annoyed at where this conversation was heading.

  “Na, the one with the earring. Fuckin’ cross, like that baseball player wears.”

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah, you don’t want to be like him. They found the prick in the back of a car in Queens, sucking some doctor’s dick, fuckin’ disgrace. Poor Charlie can’t even show his face in the neighborhood.”

  “Come on, pop, I ain’t no punk but I gotta teach my kids they can’t solve their problems with their fists.”

  Stefano shifted his weight forward. His index finger stabbed the table. “Listen… Listen, you tell that lady and her husband, ‘you want me to tell my father? He ain’t no diplomat, you’ll find your whole fuckin’ family cut up in pieces, in a hefty bag, delivered to your doorstep. Is that what you want?’ Guaranteed she gets down on her knees and blows you. The husband, probably too.”

  “You can’t go that route with these people,” said Anthony, “they’re upstanding members of the community. They got family members on every fuckin’ committee in town.”

  “Do you hear yourself? That’s your fuckin’ motha’s side talkin’. Let me tell you somethin’, when I was your age and some wise-ass said something about my sons, my wife, forget about it, I fucked his world up. Me and your uncle put em’ in the hospital, let ‘em think about their actions, bet they don’t talk that shit no more. I never let the school handle it, what am I? A rat? Fuck you, I take care of my family, that’s what a man does. Don’t matter where they from.”

  Anthony bowed his eyes, shaking his head. “People already think we’re like some kind of ruthless family.”

  “Look at me,” said Stefano. He banged on the glass.

  Anthony’s eyes found Stefano.

  “What you’re talking about is treason my friend. I didn’t raise you to be no fuckin’ sissy. Your motha might have, but no son of mine is gonna run.”

  “I’m not runnin’ pop. I just don’t want this thing to turn into a big mess,” said Anthony.

  “Let me tell you somethin’. All day long people come up to me in here like I’m the fuckin’ President, you know why? Respect. What’s this lady’s name, and the husband?”

  “Russo,” said Anthony.

  “Do you think anybody says, ‘Don’t fuck with Russo?’ No, the cocksucker is irrelevant, ain’t nobody lookin’ for him. When you mention the name Russo, pe
ople look at you like what the fuck? Who’s that? But when they hear Ruggerio, they think respect, that’s what you gotta teach your sons.”

  “Jesus Christ, pop, this ain’t the Roman empire days.”

  “Let me finish. See you got all these fuckin’ jungle bunnies running around, ‘Hey yo, this’, I mean what the fuck is that? Now, you say this whole thing started because that Russo cunt heard Anthony Jr. say Nigga. Am I right?” asked Stefano.

  “Karen gotta call from the mother.” Anthony said.

  “OK, OK, so the motha starts wettin’ her panties, but in the same breath, calls my family: criminals, scumbags?”

  “She didn’t quite say that, but yeah,” said Anthony.

  “Comparing the two ain’t the same. It’s an honor to be Stefano Ruggerio’s grandson, son, but you let some slimy suburban cunt who thinks she’s fuckin’ civil rights cocksucker walk all over you. What did Karen say? Why don’t she crack that bitch in the face?”

  “She was angry, but…” said Anthony.

  “Angry? Fuck that get you? Everybody’s got a cause these days. Let me tell you somethin’, if her husband fucked her right, she wouldn’t worry about that.”

  “Karen wanted to take a baseball bat to the women’s head,” said Anthony.

  “Good!! See, your wife ain’t no follower. That’s the problem today, all these people are waitin’ for somebody else to tell them their purpose. Your purpose? Fuck you, go out and find your purpose. I didn’t wait for nobody to tell me to jump. I took. Understand? I started from nothin’. My father worked twelve hour days but the bum spent every dime at the tracks, on booze. He didn’t care about his family. Go fend for yourself, so I did. I robbed to feed my brothers and sisters. I don’t feel bad. I did what I had to do. Ain’t no food fallin’ out of the sky. We didn’t have welfare like they do now.