Robert Randisi - You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Danny was quiet. He knew my mom when we were kids.

“Eddie, I’m sorry … who called?”

“My sister.”

“You talked to her?”

“Not yet. I’m gonna call her … well, probably when I hang up on you.”

“This is a bummer, man. You and your family …”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Look, if you’re gonna be in New York you want me to follow Marilyn all the way home?”

“That’ll cost,” I said. “A plane ticket, someplace to stay for a few days …”

“That’s okay,” Danny said.

“I’ll bill ya.” I hesitated, then said, “You know what? Yeah, okay, do it. Keep a close eye on her. I’m afraid she’s drinkin’, or worse.”

“Drugs?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, Eddie,” Danny said. “I got your back, man.”

“I know you do, Danny. You always do.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

After I hung up on Danny I made the call I’d been dreading since yesterday.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Angie.”

I could hear my sister catch her breath. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I got your message.”

“I wasn’t sure-I didn’t think you’d call.”

“Why’d you call me, then?”

Angie hesitated, then said, “She was your mother, too.”

“Yeah,” I said. “When did she die?”

“Yesterday. I called right aw-as soon as I could.”

“When’s the wake?”

“The next two nights,” she said. “Then we’ll bury her on Thursday.”

Two nights. Great.

“You’re not comin’, are you?” she asked.

“Again,” I said, “if you don’t want me to come, why did you call?”

She became impatient with me, sounded like the sister I remembered.

“I was just tryin’ to do the right thing, Eddie.”

“Did you tell him you called me?”

“Hell, no,” she said. “I didn’t tell nobody, not even Tony.”

Tony was her husband, my asshole brother-in-law. My family was always such a cliche.

“Not Joey?” My brother, another a-hole.

“No.”

“Okay, Ang,” I said.

“That’s all you gotta say?”

“Yeah, right now,” I said. “Thanks for lettin’ me know.”

“You wanna know what she died of?”

“Sure.”

“Cancer,” my sister said. “It ate her up.”

I rubbed my forehead. My father would say she died of a broken heart, and it was my fault. See what I mean? Cliche. An Italian family is an Italian family.

“I’ll see you, Ang,” I said.

“Are you comin’-” she started to say, but I hung up.

Talking with my sister had been … unsettling. Unpleasant, even, but then it always had been. Same with the rest of my family. That’s what happens when you’re the only sane member.

But I still had to go back and for that I needed a plane ticket. Trying to get a ticket to fly the same day would cost an arm and a leg. I needed help getting one on the cheap, especially since Danny had probably already blown a wad, and was going to bill me for it.

I went to the Sands, waved at Jack’s girl in passing and entered his office.

“Eddie-”

“I need your help, Jack. I’ve got to fly to New York today.”

“Not in the chopper-”

“No, I don’t need the chopper, I need a plane ticket-a cheap plane ticket. So could you pick up the phone and do what you do?”

“Do what I do?”

“You know, that Entratter stuff you do. Exert your influence, bully people … whatever.”

“Bully people?”

“Yeah, you bully people, Jack … sometimes.”

He stared at me, then said, “Yeah, you’re right.” He picked up the phone. “When do you wanna leave?”

Jack let me make one call before I left to go to McCarran to catch my flight.

Luckily, they had flights going to New York almost every hour. I had packed a light bag that morning and carried it with me when I got to La Guardia.

My ride was waiting at the terminal. He hadn’t been hard to spot. He was wearing a black-and-white checkerboard sports jacket, black slacks, a white shirt and a matching checked tie. The tops of his black shoes also had checks on them.

“Hey, Mr. G.,” Jerry greeted me.

“Thanks for pickin’ me up, Jerry.”

“What’re friends for? Lemme get that.” He took my bag. “My car’s this way.”

As I followed him I realized this was the first time he’d ever referred to us as friends. It was nice, but I still wasn’t sure he wouldn’t whack me in a minute on Frank Sinatra or MoMo Giancana’s say-so.

A snazzy-looking ‘59 Caddy was parked in a No Parking Zone. I didn’t bother asking how he got away with that.

“Nice car,” I said.

“Thanks, but it ain’t as nice as yours.” He dumped my bag in the backseat.

Mine was a ‘53 in mint condition, a replacement for my ‘52 that had been blown up with me inside. But that story’s been told.

“Where to, Mr. G.?”

Where to stay? I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I don’t know yet, Jerry. Let’s just drive.”

“Sure thing.”

As he blew through traffic, getting out of the airport, he asked, “What brings you to New York, Mr. G.? You didn’t say on the phone.”

“A funeral, Jerry.”

“Whose?”

“My mother’s.”

“Aw, geez, Mr. G. Sorry.”

“Hey, Jerry.”

“Yeah?”

“Since we’re friends, and we’ve known each other two years now, do you think you could start callin’ me Eddie?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I dunno, Mr. G. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Okay, big guy,” I said. “You do that.”

We approached the highway as he asked, “Can you tell me if we’re goin’ to Manhattan or Brooklyn?”

“The funeral’s in Brooklyn, but I’m still not sure where I’m stayin’.”

“You ain’t stayin’ with your family?”

“Noooo,” I said, very definitely.

“Okay, then,” he said, taking the ramp to Brooklyn, “yer stayin’ with me.”

“Hey, Jerry, you don’t have to do-”

Cutting me off, he said, “It gives us someplace ta go, and you can change yer mind later if ya want. Besides, I got plenty of room.”

“Okay, Jerry, thanks.”

“And how about we get a pizza on the way?” he asked. “Bet you ain’t had Brooklyn pizza in years.”

“Jerry,” I said, “that sounds like a damn good idea.”

We stopped off for pizza and a couple of six-packs of Ballantine beer, then drove to Jerry’s apartment, which was in Sheepshead Bay.

We parked in a carport behind the building and went up a flight of stairs.

“I got the whole top floor,” he said, as he unlocked the door. “You can smell the water from here, and you can see the bay from the roof. It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

Sheepshead Bay was home to fishing boats that went out every morning and came back every evening with their catch, as well as shops and restaurants that depended on the fishing. I’d spent a lot of time there as a teenager, and enjoyed many meals in Lundy’s, a Brooklyn landmark that seated as many as 2,400 people, as well as Randazzo’s Clam Bar, the best place for clams in Brooklyn.

We entered through the kitchen, put the pizza and beer down on a yellow Formica-topped table.

“It ain’t fancy,” Jerry said. “Just a living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, but it’s enough for me.”

“I don’t want to crowd you, Jerry …”

“I got a big sofa, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “You don’t mind sleepin’ on it, you ain’t gonna crowd me.”

He retrieved two mismatched plates from a cabinet, set them on the table, and opened both pizza boxes. One was plain cheese, the way I liked it, the other pepperoni, for Jerry. We sat, popped the tops on some beers, and dug in. Jerry was right, it had been years since I’d had Brooklyn pizza. It was even better than I remembered.