by S. W. Frank
A Mafioso wasn’t what most children aspire to be when they grow up.
A dark brow inclined, highlighting his fresh cut and the sharp tapered edges from the barber on the boulevard. “Yeah ahora, bonita.”
“The flattery isn’t flying with me. What’s going on?”
Yep, the no-nonsense chica went straight to the point.
He tried to lighten the moment. “I’m escaping a house full of women for male time.”
The caress to his wrist felt nice. He stood reticently as he awaited Selange to vocalize her thoughts.
“Yeah right. Just assure me you can’t delegate the important task to anybody trustworthy.”
Crap! That woman fucked with his mind.
“You’re trustworthy, but since you’re entertaining family, it seems I’m the only other person that can handle things right.”
She hugged his waist.
Did she laugh?
Yeah, he believed he heard the sound before she pressed her nose to his chest and then blow on his shirt. “Can you promise to be careful? You have a knack for getting your butt in trouble whenever we’re here.”
He did an air cross over her head. “I promise to keep my butt out of trouble.”
“I guess that’ll have to do.”
“Don’t worry babe, I’ll be back to give you a nice massage.”
“I can’t wait.” Then her eyes lit. “I’m having a real bad craving for a chocolate chip frappe that I saw on a commercial. Can you please bring me one...please hottie.”
“Now?”
“On your way in.”
“It might be real late.”
“You know it’s hard for me to sleep without your warmth. You’re my pillow.”
“Hell, I’ll buy you a soft cushion.”
“But, I love the hard one I have.”
“Okay.” He gave her a quick kiss and then slipped out the door before she gave him a grocery list when he hadn’t planned to go shopping.
“Chocolate chip frappe.” He mumbled while jogging down the steps to the sidewalk. “Where the hell am I supposed to find that mess late at night?”
“Stop talking to yourself!” The eldest Kaposi brother, James mocked in a Jersey brogue as he pushed off the door of a dark Ford. “I thought you said five minutes, that’s close to ten.” He looked Alfonzo up and down. “Do you have to look so damn spiffy every time I see you?”
Alfonzo snort. He owned a Ford. However, he hadn’t driven it since coming across an archive site that showed the carmaker with Hitler's photo hanging on his office wall. Apparently, the two had a love fest because Hitler had a photo of Ford and his automobile. Stuff like that, stuck in his head. Sadly, some of the country’s wealthiest people had profited on the misery or vices of others back in the day.
Alfonzo snickered. “Invest in quality and maybe you’ll realize what I’m wearing is plain.”
Alfonzo’s attire consisted of simple black slacks, a tan short sleeve V-neck Amelda designed shirt and clean underwear.
Amelda expanded to menswear.
His comfortable rubber soled shoes that completed the ensemble was a pair of Prada’s he had for years. The only thing spiffy in his opinion happened to be the leather watch with the platinum face. The timepiece set him back bricks. He doubted the brothers even recognized its worth.
Yeah, spiffy to a Kaposi is a clean T-shirt and a shave.
“Man get in the car,” Alfonzo shot back and then climbed in the front seat to wait for James to get in. Alfonzo twisted to greet the rear passengers. Someone cracked gum. “Que paso?”
“Nothing much. Hey, how are Lorenzo and Diane doing?”
Alfonzo shrugged. He then fastened his seatbelt. “They’re living. By the way, what’s up with that One, Two, Three crap you guys pulled on Lorenzo?”
“Ah, we were busting his chops. Trying to see if he fit in,” James offered as he buckled his seatbelt, and then started the engine.
“Yo, somebody remind me to pick up a chocolate chip frappe on my way back.”
They laughed.
“For the wifey?”
“Who else?”
“My wife had me running errands for food all the time when she was pregnant.”
Alfonzo squinted. Selange being pregnant never crossed his mind, but now that the dude mentioned it, he began to wonder.
“Or she’s ensuring you find your way home. Women are smart!” One of the brother’s commented.
“Yep, they sure are.” Alfonzo agreed as the car sped away from the brownstone.
A drop in the psyche can become a preoccupation.
Alfonzo’s mouth twisted from side to side.
Was Selange pregnant?
The bloodwork would’ve come back positive, right. He deliberated.
She underwent radiation. Wouldn’t that treatment be a contraindication?
Selange definitely wasn’t pregnant.
He scowled. Why had he allowed the fool to mess with his head? The last thing he needed was another worry. There’s a time he wanted a baseball team, but then reality struck when she had an ectopic pregnancy.
Sadly, his eyes moved slowly from the buildings and the nameless people crisscrossing the sidewalk to the moon.
The chalky white had an iridescent quality. Reaching high, falling short, hadn’t caused him to lower his expectations. Astronauts walked on that moon, but after a while, they had to return to earth. That’s where he stood, on the ground holding his dream, his wife and four kids.
The eyes that rivaled island oceans and the bluest sky lowered to his hands.
Yeah, on the ground, in front to take the bullets was where he chose to stand –con familia.
The love he had was enough.
• • • • • •
Ah, the sights of Brooklyn brought back memories. The avenues and streets flipped like pages in history. They had driven the FDR to the Brooklyn Bridge, passing some familiar spots; the court buildings, shopping center and Junior’s as they headed toward Kings Highway.
Alfonzo listened to the brothers debate stats on their favorite baseball players, who were better, likely to beat former records and stuff like most sports enthusiasts. He preferred soccer, but enjoyed the brotherly enthusiasm.
The Kaposi’s were distant relatives, in a sense. They were related to the deceased patriarch ‘Uncle D’s’ wife’s cousin’s sister’s nephews –some shit like that. Anyway, they were boisterous assholes but extremely efficient. Therefore, if they said they had a lead, they compiled more than one. They might hit a dead end or two but eventually, they’d hit the jackpot before the night concluded.
“How are your kids?” The driver inquired.
“Good.”
“Nico?”
“Living.”
“That motherfucker has ten lives,” the backseat passenger stated. “I swear.”
“Hmmm.” Alfonzo mumbled.
Is it true he’s retired?”
“Maybe,” Alfonzo replied, his eyes flickering as they passed mom and pop stores on every block with the old-fashioned tubular lights when they exited Kings Highway.
“I haven’t seen Geo in a minute. I believe he missed bachelorhood and offed his wife.”
The joke was in poor taste. However, Alfonzo let the failed attempt at humor fly by. If he corrected every insensitive ass he’d become a loquacious fool. He cracked the window, to feel the breeze and hear the soft hum of the wind.
They drove beneath an underpass on Glenwood Road where he snuffed a dude, a lifetime ago. He knifed that sucker for robbing Domingo and then thinking if he hid in another borough he’d never be found.
Estupido didn’t realize Brooklyn wasn’t considered skipping town.
Canarsie Plaza and the Brooklyn Terminal Market still hadn’t received a makeover. At Ralph and Foster Avenue, he recognized many of the collision repair shops. These were familiar streets where his sneakers often touched when he helped Tio out from time to time in the auto shop.
“Go pick up th
at starter from the auto supply shop,” Tio might say or, “Papito has a door for that Civic. Take the truck and bring it here, sobrino.”
Yeah, Tio taught him a lot.
They stopped at the Bruelelen Houses, a series of four story projects with factories for scenery up to Dewitt and a pitiful park on Louisiana and Georgia Avenues.
Rubio was a fool to leave the tropical scenery of Puerto Rico for pussy in squalor when he had some surrounded by palm trees, Alfonzo scoffed while waiting for James to return.
James appeared from the unlit walkway, chatting with a woman pushing a shopping cart filled with laundry.
She laughed in that doe eyed ‘oh you’re cute you dirty looking gringo,’ sort of way. Then there was an exchange of bills for information and James lingered to flirt, judging by the woman’s coquettish expression.
Alfonzo rubbed is nose. He was highly agitated that James wasted time when he wanted to take care of business and then go home to be with his wife.
When James finally entered the car, he was smug. “See, I can still hook the ladies.”
“With your nose?” A brother chortled.
“You’re sure that was a lady. Nowadays, there are dudes transitioning to women.” Al stated, serious as hell.
“Damn Al, you spoiled the moment.”
“Hey, I’m keeping you from falling in love so fast with ass, becoming a donkey and losing your pride, hombre.”
Everybody laughed, except James. Alfonzo believed he did have a chance at the woman. However, trekking into the projects as an outsider for a piece of pussy wasn’t safe or smart. Therefore, he killed the idea before it manifested.
“What did she say?” One of the backseat passengers asked James.
“She divulged that Rubio’s girl works at a club called Caribe-Beat in East New York as a hostess.”
“What kind of hosting?” Another brother chided. “Host Dick.”
Alfonzo snickered. Peripherally he noticed James had a crushed look. The dude must be hard up if he couldn’t get over one chick he just met –for real.
The vehicle rolled along, mingling in traffic. They were near Pennsylvania Avenue in Starrett City. The club was located on the other side of Linden in East New York.
The driver pulled alongside a row of stores. He was careful not to block the bus stop. Muffled Caribbean music permeated a one-story structure across the street, adjacent to a shuttered walk-up with a FOR RENT sign.
The soundproofing sucked. Alfonzo could hear the bass. Women in short dresses, slid across the sidewalk, laughing and tugging at their hemlines and then disappeared through the door.
Alfonzo frequented an ample amount of clubs to understand Ladies Night draws in the fellas.
“That’s a spot he frequents. We’ll sit here a while to see if he happens in or out.”
“I don’t have a while,” Alfonzo responded. He unhooked the seatbelt, promptly turned the blade case inside his trousers and then exited.
He waited for a gap in traffic and crossed the street. On a 12 by 12 sign affixed to the door, he read the highlighted entertainment:East Coast Rap Throwback - DJ B-Nyce, Ladies Free Until 11:00 p.m.
Yes, Ladies Night drew the males.
He checked over his shoulder to ensure the brothers hadn’t followed. They were underdressed and scruffy. He didn’t want anyone pegging them as undercover cops. White bread stands out among wheat.
He entered the doors, and the loud rap music slapped him in the face.
‘…From the public, who should’ve gave me the Pulitz,
Instead gave me their ass to kiss,
But you know me; thugging til the casket dips…’
He found himself in the usual small club blueprint, a vestibule with security, cashier, coat-check area, and a wide archway leading to the dancehall and bar.
The bouncer stopped Alfonzo’s progression. “I gotta’ search you first.” He waved the security wand over Alfonzo’s clothes and when it beeped, gestured for Alfonzo to hold up his shirt. The metal belt buckle with an A logo gleamed and security seemed satisfied an accessory was the culprit for the beep. He pointed Alfonzo in the direction of the cashier. “All right go in.”
“Gracias, hombre,” he replied and continued on, his ears absorbing the lyrics to a Brooklynite that made it out the ‘hood.
• • • • • •
‘…And all the success I received, I know you can’t believe,
I still love ‘em but they don’t love me…’
• • • • • •
Jay Z rapped real then. He wasn’t the most profound lyricist, but he had prolific moments.
Alfonzo paid the cover charge and entered the dusty dance hall smaller than his basement. He immediately peeped the EXIT sign illuminated against a back wall.
Casualties from a major fire uptown back in the day had killed nearly one hundred people at an unlicensed social club. Whenever he went clubbing, his mom reiterated to look for an exit. He listened, although she often called him hard headed.
He examined the party scene. The few dudes that were present were checking out the women. However, for the most part, they stuck near their homies, likely working up the courage to approach the scattered groups of women.
Most clubs don’t start hopping until late, unless it’s a lame spot. Alfonzo attended enough clubs to realize, a crappy DJ and shy patrons can kill a party.
The women ogled him thirstily as he strolled to the bar. Their feathered lashes flapped. Some likely considered him an urban Prince with a job. They probably didn’t spot the wedding ring; then again, they might not care. If they had inkling about the shit he did, they’d stay clear, fearful of becoming the next name on an obituary.
The chicas were perhaps in their late twenties, maybe thirties. There were a handful of attractive women; overall, it was an okay crowd.
He ordered rum and coke at the bar, paid, and leaned his elbows on the counter, checking out the people as he waited.
The woman seated to his right received a signal by her freckle face girlfriend to look his way. He observed her friend do a double take and then she pushed out her breasts.
“You smell nice,” she said to Alfonzo with a smile.
She was a heavy smoker judging by the stale cigarette smell emitting from her hair. He saw her eyes descend to his rings.
“Gracias chica. You look good.” Alfonzo complimented, and then he nodded at the mixologist when his drink arrived.
Alfonzo sipped on the liquid warmth.
He didn’t want to offend the women by offering to buy their drinks. The modern women were feminists, found sexism in things men consider mannerly, proclaim not to need a man, and then cry where are all the good men. Besides, he wasn’t there to pick up chicas. He finished off the rum, and signaled for another.
The females on side of him behaved like teenagers. They must’ve thought he was deaf or they sucked at whispering.
“He has a wedding ring on Julissa.”
“So, unless he tells you he’s married, go for it,”
“No. He aint paying me no mind.”
“He said you look good...go for it...shit or I will. Look at his fine ass…you see his eyes…”
Alfonzo smirked inwardly. Thank goodness, Selange wasn’t around.
He ignored the girly banter to scan the clusters of partygoers for a glimpse of Anita’s spawn. Rubio wasn’t there unless his scrawny ass gained forty pounds, grew tall or became darker brown.
The DJ mixed a Tupac, Biggie joint and excited voices rose. There were couples on the floor, moving to the lyrical flow.
He swallowed rum, heard the change-up and stepped back from the bar to dance to the sound of an uptown Puerto Rican.
Everybody at home understood not to mess with Alfonzo when he listened to anything by Pun.
“Ooh, Puerto Rico,
El día e mi suerte,
Te lo juro por mi gente,
Te juro que un dia llegara,
We always knew we’d make it,
We still made it to the top…’
Alfonzo sang along, dancing as if he was alone in a salsa club. The promise of a good time must’ve enticed the women off the stool because he found himself in the center of the women.
The DJ mixed in another of his favorites by the rapper.
‘You can catch me in the cherry red 1-50…
Drunk pissy, tryin’ to cruise through the avenue…’
“That’s my shit right there!” he said, grinning at the memories of his youth. In his heart was that kid in love with music because songs told stories that were relatable. There was a song for every emotion, and the joyous ones were the triumphs after painful struggles.
Big Pun rapped his experience as a Latino in the ‘hood, but what he loved was the dude’s cultural pride, his work ethic and the catchy hooks with an island feel. The dude wanted to provide for his family. Sadly, the artist died but his legacy survived.
Alfonzo sang, “In the Big Apple, where it’s quick to get your shit tackled.”
The women smiled good-naturedly while looking at his feet. They were disharmonious with his rhythm, which elicited his grin. When raised in homes where music is a daily part of the day, floating on rhythms becomes a natural sway.
The freckle-faced chica wanted to grind on his thigh. She took hold of his waist and the sexual invite wasn’t missed. But he had years of practice nipping meaningless shit in the bud.
A dance doesn’t conclude with a lay, unless his wife was the seductress.
He removed her hand. He intended to stay faithful, and reserved the caressing and shit for his numero uno bebe.
The lyricist spit a sobering phase.
‘You aint fuckin’ my wife, takin’ my life, and if you hating just walk on by, all you haters walk on by…’
Then he spotted the motherfucker Rubio entering.
Alfonzo hugged the girl with cigarillo hair, and put his cheek to her ear to avoid being spotted when Rubio passed on his way to the bar.
“Thanks for the dance Mami,” he whispered. “Come walk me to the door.”
He held her, close. They were a couple exiting that Rubio never noticed.
At the coat-check area, Alfonzo peeled off some bills and put it in her palm. “I gotta go. My wife, wants ice cream, but I want you to take this and pay for your own drinks. Feel me?”