Brooklyn Story

by Suzanne Corso

  “Who said you could get up?” barked a nurse who had come up behind me.

  “No … one … was … around,” I said as I turned to her. “I really … didn’t know …”

  The nurse eyed me up and down. “As long as you’re here, get your clothes on and check out, then,” she said, and brushed by me. “We’ll see you out front.”

  I got dressed and shuffled like a piece of cattle to the elevator and went down to the main floor. As I took a sheet of recovery instructions from the receptionist, Janice ran up to hug me. I couldn’t look her in the eye.

  It was still raining when we got outside and we pushed through the boisterous crowd of protesters that castigated me with screams of baby-killer and murderer. If Janice hadn’t been with me, I would have collapsed in tears right there on the sidewalk.

  As soon as we were out of sight down the street, I fell into her arms, sobbing.

  When I got home, I stood, sopping wet, in the hallway, and was grateful for the rain that had drenched my hair and plastered it on my wet face. It disguised my swollen eyes.

  “Is that you, Samelah?” Grandma called out from the kitchen.

  “Yeah, it’s me. I’m soaked.”

  Grandma came out of the kitchen and hugged me. “Oy vey! Go change, bubelah,” she said as she squeezed me in her arms. I could have burst into tears, but took strength from Grandma as she let go of me. “You’ll catch your death.”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s been in bed all day.” Thank God for small favors, I thought. “I need to get some rest, too, Grandma,” I said without looking her in the eye. I took off my wet jacket and headed for my room. “I’m beat.”

  “I love you, Sam,” Grandma said.

  “I love you, too, Grandma,” I said over my shoulder.

  I closed my bedroom door, got out of my wet clothes, and crawled into bed. I clutched the red beads of the rosary with which I’d taught myself to pray by reading a pamphlet when I was a little girl. As I held them to my chest, I wished that I were still that innocent child.

  I then prayed for the forgiveness that Father Rinaldi said would be there for me. But, what if?

  My body recovered over the ensuing weeks, but my mind couldn’t escape the ravage at the abortion clinic and the added torment from losing sight of my dreams. I made more detours and more purposeful visits to Father Rinaldi’s church, said more fervent prayers to the Blessed Mother, and lit more candles with the hope that She would still light the way for me.

  Memories of my sins dulled over the summer but I knew their sting would never disappear. I intended to keep them locked away until I had acquired the perspective to sort them out on the page. Constant reminders of my past, however, thwarted me as I attempted to distance myself from it.

  My clients at Danni’s salon evoked Bensonhurst in their dress and in their speech. The ladies prattled on about the kind of men and the kind of things I yearned to forget. Headlines in the Daily News and its regular “Gangster” series titillated readers with graphic coverage of the goings-on that had been all too real to me. I could no longer ignore that paper with the large, bold type that screamed to me as I walked past newsstands.

  The paper found its way onto my stack of reading material in my room and we found ourselves talking about it there or on the “tar beach” atop my apartment house while we tanned. Janice and I pored over the pages that described people and places we knew and wanted to forget. We couldn’t avoid picking at the scabs of wounds that hadn’t healed nor at our visible and invisible scars. One in particular that I just couldn’t get over kept circling inside my head. The rumors, the thoughts of what really did happen that day at Sommer Bank.

  Janice told me all that she had heard. And I wrote it all into a story …

  Sommer Bank, the building with the double glass doors, was located in the center of Bensonhurst, across from the outdoor meat market. Tony chugged back his black espresso in a paper cup, unaccustomed to stirring in the morning unless he was still up from the night before. With each sip of coffee, he fantasized a future in which he held all the cards. It would be his world, his way, with enviable wealth and women throwing themselves at him.

  It all felt great except for a hole, right in the middle of his chest. I was supposed to be there to enjoy the products of his labor, his illegal labor, but I was gone now. “Screw her!” he thought to himself. I was too impatient. All he wanted was to sow some wild oats before he settled down with me, but I had blown it. Well, there were plenty of other fish in the sea, beautiful fish who would get to share the spoils of his most impressive robbery to date. I guess he always had the robbing in him. After all, his father had done a stint in jail, so why not let history repeat itself? Pamela was no help anyway. In fact, she just cheered on Tony’s actions. God even seemed to help at times. Who would have thought that amazing family at Christmas was all a farce, all a sham, all off a truck?

  Tony sat in the car with Vin, who sipped his own coffee, quietly watching the empty street begin to stir with activity. It was 9:30 a.m. and the locals were opening their storefronts on a Friday morning, all a bit weary from the week but not discouraged. Friday was always more hopeful for the Bensonhurst store owners, since the weekend was near and the customers spent more money right after they got paid. It was the best day for commerce, everyone agreed, and Vin and Tony sat in the car, watching the vendors chatting and comparing neighborhood stories while they opened their doors and washed down the sidewalks.

  “We got it together, Tone,” said Vin. “Right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Tony. “I still think we could have used Richie’s help, though.”

  “You know my dad won’t let me work with him anymore. We’ve been over this again and again. He’s out. Nothin’ personal. He’s part of another family. Just concentrate. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Tony, reviewing what was about to happen. The old blue Oldsmobile in which they sat had been payment to Vin for a debt owed, and as run-down and ugly as it looked, it was the perfect getaway car since it was built for speed.

  Those bastards should watch the gambling, thought Vin, with no conscience about taking the car from people he’d known his whole life. What did they think, that he’d overlook what they owed after a bad poker night? Nothing doin’, Vin had warned the guys on his drug corners. If they gambled their debts away and they wanted to keep their arms and legs, they better have trading material. That was the way things were, the way things had always been in the Priganti clan.

  “That teller, the Spanish chick, leaves at ten fifteen for her coffee break,” Vin said, going over their plan out loud. “It’s only that one other woman teller and Thatcher.”

  He was referring to the security guard, Frederico Thatcher, a white-haired man in his sixties wearing a brass badge. He was too old to be of any danger to them, and even though he carried a gun, no one had ever seen him use it. He was practically a fixture at the bank and the guys had no plans to hurt him—unless he got in their way. A gentle shove or two would show him they meant business and it would be all theirs after that.

  Tony grabbed hold of the ski mask he was hiding under the seat. Vin kept talking: “In and out in eleven minutes. Leave the car running. Did you remove the plates? I forgot to look.”

  “Done,” said Tony. For him, this was the culmination of years of working with Vin and courting his family. He thought back to the jobs he had done, the drug corner pickups, the beatings that he’d given people at the request of Tino. It had been hard at first; he’d had to go against his own grain. But soon enough, he’d become anesthetized to the blood and screams of his victims. It was all about an eye for an eye. It had not been easy work getting into the good graces of the Prigantis but he had accomplished it.

  Vin smirked. “Who expects a break-in in the middle of the morning?” he said. “This’ll really get some press.” He started going over the plan again.

  Vin’s voice was like a drone in Tony’s ear right now. He wasn’t really listenin
g because they had gone over this, time and again. Now, in a few minutes, his life was about to change as he and Vin got to split the LaCocca take that was way beyond their wildest dreams. And if all went well, it would only be the beginning …

  Tony put on his black ski mask and gloves with unsteady hands. He and Vin emerged from the car at exactly 10:18, three minutes after they saw the Spanish teller leave her post. Tony felt for his gun. It was tucked snugly into his belt, making him feel secure. Who needed a girlfriend when a gun could open the door to women and wealth all over the world? Tony looked over at Vin, his partner in crime. It was ironic that Vin, not as smart or as good-looking as Tony, was calling the shots. It was all about where a guy was born, how much money he had at his disposal, and who his friends were. Life wasn’t fair but Tony had done the best he could with what he had and it had made him stronger. Now, if all went according to plan, he was about to get the big reward.

  Tony walked through the front door, turned to face Thatcher, and before he could reach for his gun, Tony whacked him on the head with the butt of his own gun. Blood started to squirt from the poor old guy’s head. Tony looked down to see it all over his shirt; that sure annoyed him—after all, it was designer studs. Thatcher went down and didn’t move as Vin rushed into the bank. The process had begun. It was only a matter of a few minutes and it would be all over …

  Tony grabbed his reward as well, the gun from Thatcher’s holster. He still didn’t move. Tony touched the man on the throat. No pulse. Jesus Christ! Was Thatcher dead? Tony couldn’t stop to deal with it right now as he shouted to the seven or eight customers in the bank, “Everybody get on the floor and stay there until we leave. Or else!” No one but Tony knew that Thatcher wasn’t breathing, and he would not be telling Vin until they were on their way out of there, richer for their trouble. Collateral damage was not something on which they had counted but what was done was done.

  People cowered in the corners of the bank, terrified of the men in ski masks who just knocked down sweet old Mr. Thatcher. Everybody liked Thatcher, he was a relic in the neighborhood. Tony and Vin approached the teller on duty, a young, skinny woman who had just gotten this job about a month prior. Her forehead was sweating and she looked like she was about to become hysterical. Tony pointed his gun at her chest.

  “You keep it together or I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?” Tony demanded.

  She nodded. Her ponytail bounced at the back of her head.

  “Good,” he said. “Now load the money into that bag. Fuck up or touch the alarm and you’re dead. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  She filled the bag with the cash in her drawer and walked slowly to the next station as Tony instructed her. She took whatever cash was in that drawer and continued with all the teller’s stations. They had just loaded up with hundreds and Tony practically salivated at the money. But what about Thatcher? He put it out of his mind for the moment.

  Vin stood behind Tony, his gun on the terrified people. He stopped a moment to wave at the security camera and then he shot it. Glass fell to the floor and people screamed in fear. “Shut up or I’ll turn this gun on you,” he threatened, the adrenaline making him feel indestructible. Why had they waited so long to rob a bank? Vin wondered. It made all their other petty crimes pale in comparison. A guy could get used to this …

  The sound of cop car sirens sounded in the distance as Vin and Tony were driving away in their getaway car with their take. They frantically made their way to Tony’s house, where of course Pamela was waiting with bated breath to find out how much shopping she could do this week. She sat fondling the gun in diamonds that hung from her neck on a thick gold chain. A gift she had given to herself when Tony started to make money. I mean, who wears a gun in diamonds around her neck? What does that mean? Who was this woman? What was she thinking?

  Tony and Vin entered around back. Katrina and Pamela sat at the kitchen table. Katrina was busy filing her nails. “What, did ya kill somebody?”

  Tony looked at his sister with disgust.

  Tony dumped a bag of stolen money onto the table. Katrina dropped her nail file and grabbed onto the money. Pamela threw her hands into the air, “Oh, my God! Look at yous! What happened?”

  A dumbfounded Vin replied, “Mrs. Kroon …”

  Pamela jumped into action; after all, this was the moment she’d lived for. “Never mind, not now! All that blood, Tony! Jesus! Give me those clothes. We gotta get rid of them.”

  Pamela moved abruptly about the house. “Come on. What are you, stupid? We can’t waste time. Katrina, get me a T-shirt from the laundry room.”

  Katrina rolled her eyes and went to get it. Tony removed his bloodstained shirt and gave it to Pamela. Pamela cut it into small pieces and threw it down the sink disposal.

  She’d done this before.

  Moments later Katrina threw Tony a T-shirt. “You boys better go and clean your hands, since you’ve been playing with guns. Get the Ajax! It’ll remove the gunpowder.”

  Pamela looked at Tony with cold eyes and started to give harsh orders. “Fuck! All right, let’s all stay calm. Look, Tony, this place will be swarming with cops in no time. I want you to put that car in the garage and take mine. You hear me, Vin?”

  Vin nodded his head yes. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Tony kissed his mother on the cheek and the boys exited through the back.

  They assumed that someone had tripped the alarm and the cops had been on their tail ever since they left the bank. No sooner did they get in the car than the cops were on their tail.

  Tony stared at Vin, who seemed to have lost his mind, as he kept his gun out and cocked by his side. Several cops flew onto Vin’s car, took him out, and struggled Vin to the ground. Tony stood there, allowing himself to be pushed to the ground beside Vin. They did not look at each other. In a flash, the handcuffs were on, and the light caught the silver as Tony was led to the police car. He was no longer in control of what would happen next.

  Tony had killed Thatcher. He couldn’t believe it. Murder was not in the plans, but apparently he had hit the elderly man with the butt of his gun in such a way that Thatcher had died on impact. Nothing had gone right, and when he heard how they’d gotten caught, he wanted to kick himself, but he figured Tino Priganti would take care of that.

  No one had tripped the alarm. The cops had been waiting, tipped off by a big-busted woman named Nancy, a woman Tony had screwed a few times who turned out to be an undercover cop. He had a loose tongue on one of those nights, mentioning something about the bank job. He thought he hadn’t been specific, but he wasn’t really sure. When a girl gave a blowjob like Nancy did, it was easy to forget exactly what you said and didn’t say. Besides, she acted so excited and conspiratorial. How was he supposed to know she was wearing a goddamned wire? Tony had gotten too cocky for his own good, and now both he and Vin were about to pay the price.

  Tino paid the bail money for Vin and Tony, and now he was giving Tony hell. “First, you hit an old man in the head so hard, he dies on you,” he admonished his son’s best friend. “Thatcher has been a friend of this family for years. I can’t believe you were so fucking stupid! If you can’t keep your mouth shut, then you better keep your zipper up, you idiot. You’re ruining our family.” Tino smacked Tony and Vin each across the face. Then he called a family meeting.

  What happened next sealed Tony’s fate. Vin was ushered into the meeting room. They slammed the doors shut behind him, right in Tony’s face. Blood was thicker than water, Tony had always known that, and he sat outside the door, isolated and miserable. There was no chance for him now, as he waited until the door opened again. Vin left the room and walked straight past Tony without a glance. Tony knew he was screwed, with no money and no one to vouch for him.

  It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

  But now he had killed someone.

  He was trying to keep his legendary cool, but inside he was hot as steaming lava. He had always bel
ieved that his loyalty would pay off, that Priganti would help him out and protect him. But when he saw the witness list for his upcoming trial, he seethed inside, mostly at himself. Fucking Nancy, the woman with the big tits who went all the way with him on the first date, was a mole. A rat. She was his enemy, not his friend, and because of his dick, he had been duped. How could he have been so stupid? he asked himself over and over. Tino was right to shove him out, even though the death of Thatcher was a mistake.

  Tony had abandoned his best friend, Richie, for Vin, who was a higher-up and offered Tony big payoffs. But getting caught red-handed was more payoff than he’d dreamed. Richie had always been smarter than Vin, and Tony had an urge to call him and apologize, but he thought better of it. Why should Richie bother with him now? He’d walked out on his friend, and now he was nothing more than a bank robber and a murderer, facing a stiff prison sentence along with everything else.

  “It’s fuckin’ unbelievable, Sam.” Janice finished her story. She settled into her woven-plastic-tubes lounge chair and closed her eyes. “Ta think that wuz our life.” Switching from the bank to the current headline gave me a headache full of fear and disappointment. The current headline burned into my eyes again.

  DJ’s mutilated body had been found in a Dumpster. “Will we ever be able to leave it behind?” I asked. Will it ever rub off? I wondered as I reached for the mixture of baby and olive oils and massaged it into my exposed skin.

  “That poor DJ,” Janice sighed. “They offed him jus’ becuz he wuz a fag.”

  “You think Vin and his crew had anything to do with it?”

  “I doubt Richie did,” Janice said. “He’s in enough trouble already.” Richie Sparto had been linked in a previous exposé to the drug dealer’s murder; the slugs that had been removed from Richie had matched the dealer’s gun. “I don’ know if he’ll beat that rap,” Janice finished.

  I wondered how much involvement Tony had had with that execution, and the one where they found Sal and Joe riddled with bullets in the front seat of a Cadillac that had been splashed across the pages of the News. I’d seen his name in the stories as a “person of interest” in those awful crimes. I couldn’t imagine that; I had known of his contraband exploits, and he had been violent with me, but murder? I shuddered in the warm sun and hoped it would stop my skin from crawling.