I started toward Dara to say hello but Janice held me back. “Not yet,” she said. “You know how Dara flaunts it and I want you to meet Tony on your own.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked as we walked on. “Aren’t we hot enough?” We laughed and then stopped at a booth that had a large punch bowl filled with deep pink–colored liquid on its counter. Lyrics to a Rolling Stones song wafted through the streets:
Brown Sugar, how come you taste so good? (A-ha)
Brown Sugar, just like a young girl should
Rick Romano, a friend of Janice’s dad, ladled the alcoholic concoction into small paper cups, fifty cents a drink. Janice leaned forward, her cleavage a couple of inches above the wood counter. “How about some for us, Mr. Romano?” she asked with a teasing edge to her voice. “We won’t tell.”
“She’s fourteen,” Mr. Romano said after glancing at me, and after his eyes had traveled from Janice’s chest to her eyes.
“Fifteen,” Janice said. “Goin’ on sixteen.”
“Still too young,” Mr. Romano said.
“C’mon,” Janice pleaded, batting her eyes. Mr. Romano looked around and then slipped two half-filled cups to Janice. “I don’ want no trouble. Youse be cool ’boudit,” he said.
“Are we ever anything but?” Janice said, and giggled as she handed me a cup. “Bottoms up,” she said, and gulped down most of her drink. Janice laughed as I sipped mine and then she finished the last of her punch. She leaned across the counter toward Mr. Romano and tried to talk him out of one more. I wandered back to the coin-toss booth and watched a neighborhood guy named Angelo as he tried to win a zebra for his timid girl. I thought I’d seen them both around but couldn’t quite place where or when. Angelo tossed coin after coin that ricocheted off the ashtrays onto the wood floor of the booth. He cursed each time he lost and then pulled another nickel from his pocket. I finished my punch and considered my appetite while I watched.
What I really had a taste for was a Papa Tucci calzone, the best in town, but I didn’t have enough money for one. Come to think of it, steamed clams in broth with drawn butter sounded even better. Papa Tucci made that, too. Someday, I thought, when I was a successful author, my friends and I would dine at Mama Leone’s in Manhattan—the second location after the one on Coney Island, the famous amusement area that had seen better days—whenever we felt like it, order whatever we wanted, and I would pick up the tab without having to consider how much it was.
By the time Angelo had dropped a couple of dollars in nickels with no results, he had gotten so agitated that Rose Gallo asked him to leave. “You’re drunk, Angelo,” she said. “What would your mother say? She worked hard all her life. Go run a hose over your head and come back when you’re sober enough to see straight.”
Angelo stared at her for a moment as his face turned deep red. “What the fuck did you say to me?” he thundered.
His girlfriend grabbed his arm. “C’mon, baby,” she whispered. “Let’s just go.”
Angelo shoved her with both hands and sent her stumbling backward to the sidewalk. A man rushed to pick her up. “Look what you did, you asshole,” he said.
Angelo got in the man’s face. “Mind your own business,” he gritted. The man let go of the girl and clenched his fists. I had seen this kind of thing many times before in school and in the neighborhood. It always started with something trivial and always ended in bruised egos and bodies.
“Break it up, you two,” a strong voice that came from behind them commanded. A tall, blond, muscular young man appeared, clutched one of their arms with his massive hands, and separated the two would-be combatants. He stood with legs planted in his tight-fitting Adidas jogging outfit, looked from one to the other, and then whispered something that only they could hear. After hesitating, the two men shook hands for a moment without much enthusiasm. “Now go take a walk,” the blond man said to Angelo. Angelo grabbed his girlfriend and took off down the block muttering to himself.
I felt as though my breath had been taken from me the moment I saw that dashing young man. It was out of a movie. He had a look, a way, an aura. He was Steve McQueen, only live and in person. I stared in awe at this blond hero who had just broken up a confrontation with a simple whisper. What had he said to these men, I wondered, and who was he, anyway?
Janice hurried to my side and squeezed my elbow. “See what I mean?” she cooed with excitement. “Didn’t I tell ya? Was I lyin’ about this guy, or what?”
“That’s Tony Kroon?” I asked.
“Kroon,” Janice said. “Better not get his name wrong. That’ll really piss him off. I mean it.”
“I won’t,” I said quietly. Ever, I added to myself as I looked Tony Kroon over. He was well built and slim with soft, blond hair—no grease—and a pair of deep blue eyes that could stop traffic. Or at least a street fight or two. His arms were long and muscled, his hands were wide with thick fingers, and his waist was thin. Tony Kroon would definitely be my choice for the Hunk of the Year award.
“What’s with the blond hair?” I whispered to Janice.
“I already told ya. His Dad is Dutch. His mom is Italian. He came out pretty good, don’tya think? Imagine running your fingers through that hair!”
“Mm-hmm,” I agreed, mesmerized by this uncommonly good-looking man with the unwavering self-confidence. As if this were all a dream, Hot Chocolate sang out on the PA system,
I believe in miracles,
Where you from, you sexy thing?
No one was supposed to be that handsome, I thought. And he was a half-breed like I was, I thought, and wondered how that got in his way and made his life chaotic at times, like it did mine. He’d already had to move to a new neighborhood because of his nationality, I remembered.
My own household had been hopelessly divided since my Jewish mother had converted to Catholicism to rebel against my grandmother, as she had by taking an Italian-Catholic husband and giving me a Christian name. The problem was, although my father was never religious and didn’t live with us, and Mom wasn’t observant, either, my Christian upbringing had made Grandma Ruth clutch her Star of David around her neck and pray in Hebrew—for the rest of her life. My mother wore the crucifix. Sometimes I would wear both to keep the peace, along with my Blessed Mother.
The battle was on each and every day.
Maybe Janice was right, I thought. Maybe Tony and I were meant for each other. I was going to find out about that real soon, as the blond young man with the glowing aura swaggered toward where Janice and I were standing.
“Howya doin’?” Tony asked Janice after eying me up and down.
“Good, Tone. Real good.” Janice was almost stuttering. “We saw what ya did. Pretty impressive.”
“Ah, it was nuttin’.”
“But ya was so cool, Tony,” Janice said. She couldn’t stop fawning over him, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “Right, Sam?” Janice asked. I just nodded.
Tony gave the expression “drop-dead gorgeous” a whole new meaning. I really could understand how a girl could forget herself, even a girl who was going steady with a guy she said she loved. Tony looked at me with probing eyes as Janice made the introductions. “Tony, this is my best friend, Samantha Bonti. Sam, Tony Kroon.”
I put out my hand. “How do you do?” I asked.
Tony laughed and shook my hand. “So formal,” he said. He didn’t take his eyes off me. “She’s a real kick, Janice.”
Janice looked pleased with herself. “I told ya she was sumthin’,” she said.
Tony didn’t respond to Janice. “Where ya from?” he asked me.
“The neighborhood. Coupla blocks from here.”
“Nice, quiet area,” Tony said.
“Where you from?” I asked.
“Around. We just moved, but this is still where I hang out. It’s friendlier.”
“It wasn’t so friendly a few minutes ago, Tone,” Janice said. “That is, until you showed up.”
Tony ignored Janice once more and
kept his attention on me. “Whatcha doin’ out here tonight?” he asked.
“Nuthin’,” I responded without hesitation. A girl needed to be a little bit mysterious; I remembered Grandma had told me that.
“Ya wanna walk wid me, Samantha Bonti?”
I stopped myself from looking as flattered as I felt. I knew better than to let on how attracted I was. Especially with this guy. Heaven only knew what I could do with someone like him. “Well, that sounds okay,” I said, “but I gotta meet up with Janice later.”
Tony waved his hand. “Forget about her,” he said. “I’m here now.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “Ya got a guy?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Good,” he said. “Unless you’re some kind of lesbian or sumthin’. I mean, ’cause ya don’ have a guy.”
“No. I’m just real picky,” I said.
“Good,” Tony said again. “Me, too.”
“Don’t you have a girl already?” I asked.
“None that matters,” Tony said, and he narrowed his eyes toward Janice. She stepped back.
“Hey,” I protested. “I came with Janice.”
“She don’ mind. Do ya, Janice?” Tony asked without looking back at her.
“’Course not, Tone,” Janice said. “I gotta go find Richie, anyhow,” she added, trailing off in the opposite direction.
Tony and I walked side by side and made our way through the crowd. A thin brunette wearing less than was decent waved at Tony and shot me a dirty look. What the hell had I done? I wondered. I was just walking with the guy. The neighborhood was full of that kind of girl who always gave another pretty girl a look, as if it wasn’t fair that she would have the local hot guy on her arm. Well, if he wasn’t already taken, then honey, why aren’t you with him? I thought. From the looks of things, Tony was available, but the truth at that moment was I did not even know for sure if I wanted him. I would go with the flow and wait for it to unfold like Grandma had taught me. Tony ignored the brunette while I smiled and looked straight ahead. “I came with Janice, you know,” I repeated, somewhat uncomfortable walking beside this outrageously handsome man who was getting looks of admiration from women of all ages every step of the way.
“Fuhgeddaboudit,” he said. “I’ll make sure ya get home okay. You can count on me.”
“How do I know that?”
“You saw what I did wid dem guys. Janice sure was impressed.”
“So what’d you say to them?” I asked. “’Cause I never saw two guys so upset who shook hands so fast.”
“It was nuttin’.”
“Had to be sumthin’.”
Tony smiled. “I just told them if they laid a hand on each other, dey’d hafta answer ta Vin Priganti.” I knew nobody wanted to be on “The Son”,’s bad side.
Tony pointed to a couple up ahead at another punch stand. “Hey, there he is, wid Dara. How do ya like dat for timin’?” Tony waved to Vin and shouted, “Hey, Vin. How’s it hangin’?”
Vin turned toward Tony. “Hey man,” he said, grabbing at his crotch. “Hangin’ low.” His crudity turned me off, as when other Brooklyn Boys acted that way, but Dara held Vin’s other arm close to her. “Seeya later, right?” Vin asked, his dimpled chin visible from fifteen feet away. “’Bout that thing.” Tony nodded as we passed the couple. “Later,” he said.
I was curious and wanted to know what “that thing” was, but I knew better than to ask. All the Brooklyn guys liked to strut around like peacocks and act tough. Was it just an act? I wondered. There was something different about Tony and I just could not put my feel around it, but I just knew it in my gut, as I concentrated on the warmth I felt on my right side, where he was walking beside me. With his Nordic looks, he was practically a god compared to the other neighborhood guys, I thought. I wasn’t sure why, but my body felt tingly, uncomfortable in a needy sort of way, and I had trouble getting any words out.
Tony, however, had no trouble speaking at all. “That Dara,” he said, shaking his head.
“What about her?” I asked.
“I don’ know. She’s really been around. What I’m tryin’ ta say is, she ain’t no virgin.”
“Yeah? How do you know? You dated her?”
“Fuck no. I like my women real pretty and, well … innocent.”
“She might still be a virgin,” I said.
“Tell me another one,” Tony said, laughing. He stopped walking and looked at me. “Ya don’ really think that, do ya?” I knew all about Dara’s history. Everyone did.
I pursed my lips and then shook my head. “Not really,” I replied. “But it isn’t her fault.”
“Whose fault is it, the boogeyman?” Tony asked, laughing again. I couldn’t help chuckling at his crack but felt sad about a girl who was like so many others in Bensonhurst.
“Dara had it pretty bad when she was a kid,” I said.
“Well, anyways,” Tony continued, “she ain’t like you. Right?”
“She’s pretty enough.”
“I meant the innocent part. You are innocent, aren’t ya?” Tony asked. It was none of his business and I didn’t respond. He seemed to sense the truth, anyway, and changed the subject. “Janice tells me you’re a half-breed, huh?”
“Like Cher. My mom is Jewish and my dad is Sicilian.”
“I don’ know ’im.”
“Join the club. I don’t, either. He left when I was born.”
“Aw, jeez,” Tony said. “What kind of a Sicilian man leaves his kid? Sorry.” His sympathy seemed genuine, but I didn’t really know this guy, I thought. Janice knew him, though, didn’t she? Didn’t that stand for something? Richie was a regular in the Bensonhurst crowd, and according to Janice, he’d taken to the Dutchman right away. Tony’s association with the Prigantis wasn’t the best of things, but I knew the way it was for the wannabe Bensonhurst guys. It didn’t seem fair to hold it against Tony, and there didn’t seem to be any reason not to enjoy the interest he was showing in me.
“Your mom has a tough go of it, huh?” he asked.
“She manages to get by.”
“What about you?” Tony asked.
“I’m like everyone else. Goin’ to school and hangin’ out.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“And what, exactly, have you heard?”
“Not a lot. Just that you’re different, is all.”
I looked into his eyes. “Maybe.”
“Ya sure look different. Not a lot of makeup or teased hair,” Tony said. “I like that.” A warmth rose in my body. “What about you?” Tony asked. “What do ya like?” His blond hair and blue eyes had my head spinning.
“I like the way you look, too,” I said.
“No, I mean what do ya like to do? Besides hangin’ out.”
“Stuff.”
“What kinda stuff?” I wasn’t sure I should tell him about my aspirations. Anyone who wanted more than the pastimes and cliques that Bensonhurst offered wasn’t looked upon favorably. But I figured if he couldn’t handle it I might as well find out sooner rather than later. “I like to write,” I said.
“Really,” Tony said, and pondered that for a moment. “What about?”
“Anything in my life,” I said. Tony reached for my hand and it felt comfortable, natural, in his.
“Well, ya can write about me now,” he said. His eyes continued to stir my insides. “So, Samantha Bonti, you wanna walk some more with me?”
I loved the way he said my full name. “Okay,” I agreed.
We sidled through the crowd and Tony exchanged slaps to the shoulder or slight nods with the men he knew. We stopped at a few game booths and then Tony bought Papa Tucci calzones for us. I wish I could’ve taken some home for Grandma. We talked some more while we ate, standing across from the kiddie rides at the entrance to the next block.
“Ya like kids, Tony?” I asked.
“Wid da right woman, sure.”
When we finished the calzones, Tony took my hand again to walk up the avenue
. “I’ll get you a cannoli or an Italian ice later,” he said.
“I’d like that.”
“I’m sure you’ll like a lotta things,” Tony said. “Wait here a sec.” He walked over to a whirligig to help a young mother take her twins off the ride. The woman kept her eyes on Tony as she strapped the children into a stroller while he ambled back to where I stood.
“The hero comes to the rescue again,” I said. Tony smiled broadly and put his arm over my shoulders as we started off again, serenaded by cries of glee from children on the amusement rides. I looked at all their happy faces and sang quietly along with the Beatles, who warbled from every loudspeaker,
Ooh, did I tell you I need you ev’ry single day of my life?
Got to get you into my life …
“The kids are sure having a lot of fun, aren’t they?” I asked Tony.
“Everyone can have their fun here,” he said. I certainly could, I thought.
When we reached the next corner Tony led me into a side street. He stopped next to a parked van and nudged me up against it before pressing his body into mine. “I need ta tell ya sumthin’,” Tony whispered. That had happened so fast my mind was spinning. Who is this person? I wondered. I don’t even know him and yet I allowed myself to be taken by his charm, his persistence, his … way! I looked into his eyes, which were so close to me I could hardly breathe. I felt perspiration form on my forehead.
Brooklyn Story Page 4