Jerome Charyn - Bronx Noir

“In early today, Mr. Bernardo.”

The restaurant’s staff were all men, mostly older neighborhood guys who had honed their skills in the finer restaurants in Manhattan, and were working toward their golden years in a joint closer to home. Frank nixed waitresses early on because he thought they detracted from the upscale theme of the place.

“Hey, Cheech. Got a meeting with Sonny. He in the back yet?” Frank stole a glance at himself in the gold-flecked mirror behind the bar. Looking sharp.

“Yeah, he got here about twenty minutes ago.”

Frank nodded. Next to a rat in the ranks he hated to be kept waiting the most, and his soldiers knew it. Sonny, a good kid, was always early. He breezed past the handful of tables in the barroom and through an alcove that led to the dining room.

Sonny Pescatore was seated at Frank’s personal table, which was situated in the rear of the dining room and far enough away from the other tables to avoid conversation being overheard. The walls were covered with red and silver wallpaper that Frank had imported from Italy, and each of the twenty-two tables was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth, folded linen napkins, sparkling glasses and utensils, and a footlong candle supported by a gleaming silver candlestick.

Sonny waved and Frank smiled. Sonny Pescatore, at forty years old, was Frank’s personal choice to replace him should the time ever come, though Frank was not entertaining thoughts of retirement, and Sonny knew it.

Sonny stood as Frank approached.

“Frank, how are you? You’re looking very fit.” He pulled a chair out for his captain and waited for Frank to sit down before he followed suit. There was no handshaking, a custom which didn’t fall into Mafia tradition.

Frank patted his stomach. “You watch what you eat, Sonny, get good exercise, and you keep a flat belly. You don’t see too many fat old people, you know?”

Sonny smiled, nodding. For ten minutes they made small talk, Sonny knowing that when Frank was good and ready he’d tell him why he had been summoned.

Finally Frank said, “Something’s gotta be done about Augie.”

Sonny looked confused. “Augie? Which Augie, Frank?”

Frank stared at his lieutenant. The kid was sharply dressed in a dark gray pinstriped suit and a floral tie, and he imagined his shoes were brushed to a high shine. One thing Frank demanded was that his crew dress well anytime business was being conducted; this meant suits, not sport coats, and the first person to grow a mustache would have each hair gouged out with a dull knife. Men in La Cosa Nostra were clean-shaven as a matter of tradition.

But as sharp as Sonny was, sometimes he didn’t think.

“Augie Pisano,” Frank said. “We got only one Augie.”

“Hey, sorry, Frank. Coupla new guys we got working the terminal, thought we had another Augie in there somewhere.”

“Well, we don’t,” Frank said. “Keep up, kid. This is your crew.”

“Okay, okay. So what’s the beef?”

“The beef is, Sonny, that I called Augie last week for a sitdown and he didn’t show. No fucking phone call, no nothing. He had me down here playing with myself for over an hour.” Frank’s hands were white-knuckled on the tablecloth, which wasn’t missed by Sonny. “So this is why he’s gotta go. I called him and he didn’t come. He’s a dead man.”

“Frank,” Sonny said, leaning closer conspiratorially, “no disrespect, but maybe we should give Augie a pass. He’s a good guy, good earner.”

Frank waved a hand. “Fuck him. I hear he’s also talking subversive about me. You hear anything about him talking subversive?”

Sonny shook his head. “No, Frank. It’d be my job to know that. My ear’s to the ground, always is. I don’t hear nothing about Augie talking subversive.”

“Kid, listen to me. Remember Joey DiChicco? Remember I said a few years back that I thought he was talking to the feds? Remember that? Was I right or was I right?”

“Yeah, Frank, you were right.”

“You’re goddamn straight I was right. If you hadn’ta clipped him we’d be having this conversation in friggin’ jail.”

Sonny held up his hands. “Hey, when you’re right you’re right, boss.”

A waiter passed through the dining room and breezed into the kitchen. They waited less than a minute until he came back out carrying a case of Scotch, disappearing toward the bar before they resumed their conversation.

“Okay, so maybe he ain’t talking to the feds, but he’s sayin’ things behind my back, about the way I’m runnin’ this crew. That’s talkin’ subversive. I want you to take care of the problem. Do the Bronx Park thing like we did with that asshole Petey. Bury the prick next to Petey; they can bullshit together about how fuckin’ stupid they are.” Frank chuckled. “That fuckin’ Petey. He knew he was gonna die and all he wanted was that we didn’t plant him without his shoes. What an asshole.” Frank sat silent for a moment. “I granted him his last wish. If they ever find him, he’ll be wearing a pair of alligators.”

Sonny swallowed. “You’re all heart, boss.”

Frank leaned across the table, his eyes cold and piercing. “Listen, kid, watch your mouth. I brought you into this crew and I can have you taken out. You know what I mean?” Disrespect. He hated it.

Sonny let out the breath he’d been holding for what seemed like an hour. “Sorry, Frank. It won’t happen again.”

Frank examined a well-manicured hand. “Ah, it’s okay. Let’s eat.”

They ate a leisurely lunch of sautéed eggplant, washed down by a twenty-year-old bottle of Chianti Classico. Frank reminisced about his crew’s greatest hits (“and I ain’t talkin’ about the friggin’ Top Forty here”), while Sonny nodded in deference to his boss. Shortly after they had finished several cups of espresso and an equal number of cannoli, the Roman Cave opened for business and the lunch crowd surged in. As a handful of tourists mingled with neighborhood people and waited to be seated, Frank dismissed his lieutenant.

“Too many ears here now,” he said as he gripped Sonny’s shoulder. “Do what you gotta do and call me when it’s done. You should be callin’ me sooner than later, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Sonny stood up. “Understood.” He nodded and turned, leaving Frank to savor the dregs of his espresso.

Sonny Pescatore stood on the sidewalk, a hand reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, dragged deeply, and surveyed the street. Halfway down the block, parked in a bus stop, a shiny black Chrysler 300 with tinted windows flashed its headlights. Sonny smiled, took another pull on his cigarette before flipping it into the gutter, and walked toward the car.

The front passenger door cracked an inch and Sonny grabbed the handle and slid onto the front leather seat. The driver looked at Sonny through tinted glasses.

“How’d it go?”

Sonny shrugged. “Like we expected. Fucking shame.”

The man nodded. “Who does he want whacked this time?”

Sonny smirked. “You’re not gonna believe this. Augie Pisano.”

The man’s eyes widened noticeably under the shades. “You gotta be shittin’ me. Doesn’t he know Augie’s been dead since what… 1988?”

“Eighty-seven,” Sonny corrected. “And Frank oughta know, he clipped him.”

“Jesus,” the man said, “is he that far gone?”

“I’ll tell you how far gone he is. We sat in that friggin’ shithole for an hour and he was convinced he was at his old table in the Cave.”

The man turned away from Sonny and stared across the street at the McDonald’s from which Sonny had emerged. He shook his head. “I heard about people who have this shit, but never knew nobody who actually had it.”