Warren Murphy - Mob Psychology

"Fuggin' brakes must be broke," said Carmine, dropping his revolver and rowing like mad. The fishing smack veered off and hove to.

"Need a hand?" the captain called. He was swathed in a yellow slicker and floppy hat that made him look like a refugee from a soup commercial.

"I'm lost," Carmine said, planting a foot on the dropped revolver so it wouldn't be seen.

"Come aboard."

This meant that Carmine had to row to the fishing boat, which caused him to mutter, "Who fuggin' died and made you admiral?" under his breath.

A brine-soaked rope was lowered. Carmine kept sliding down. Finally he tied it around his waist and said, "Just fuggin' haul me up, okay?"

The fishing-smack crew obliged. When Carmine got to the deck, he pulled his revolver out from under his shirttail and stuck it in the captain's startled, element-seamed face.

"This is a heist, admiral," he announced.

"I'm a captain."

"Fine. I hereby appoint myself admiral of this tub. Everybody make like Popeye the fuggin' Sailor Man and jump into the rowboat. This is my tub now."

Since fishermen usually carry no weapons, the crew did as they were told.

Carmine left them bobbing in his wake. He spun the heavy wheel toward land, grinning from ear to ear.

He lost the grin about the time Far Rockaway came into view and his foot couldn't find the brake.

"Mannaggia la cornata!" he screamed, remembering a favorite saying of his father's. He was hazy on the meaning, but it seemed to fit the occasion.

The fishing smack piled into a dock, and both colliding objects splintered and groaned terribly.

But not as much as Carmine Imbruglia. He jumped into the water, hoping that like Ivory soap, he would naturally float. When he didn't, he threshed and struggled until he felt the cold silty sea bottom. It was only three feet down.

"Fuggin' sumbidges," Carmine complained as he trudged toward shore. "They musta took the brake pedal with them."

There remained the problem of the cargo.

It took all the rest of that day, and half the night. But Carmine was able to get most of the glassy-eyed cod out of the hold and to shore. A rented U-Haul got it home, where he lined the fish up in his cool basement on endless sheets of waxed paper. This time he left the furnace off.

The next morning he hosed the fishy corpses down to get the sand and muck out of their gills, and after selecting the best specimens for himself, hastily peddled them to every area restaurant he could find. Carmine made a cool seven hundred dollars and change.

Only then did he truck the rest to Don Pietro.

"This is all?" asked Don Peitro, peering into the back of the U-Haul.

"I already took my cut," Carmine explained. "So it wouldn't spoil like last time."

"Next time, you do not do this," Don Pietro warned.

"Next time," said Carmine, "I hope it's a boat they keep up. Would you believe it? Fuggin' thing had no brakes."

Carmine Imbruglia rushed home that day. He had finally made a good payday. He felt good. He felt flush. He squandered an entire dime on the evening Post.

The headline, when he read it, made him want to throw up: "FOOD POISONING OUTBREAK IN AREA RESTAURANTS. Tainted Fish Blamed."

Eyes popping, Carmine read the lead paragraph. Then he did throw up. Into the wadded-up copy of the Post.

He never did finish the paper. Or go home.

Carmine hastily changed trains and doubled back.

They were carrying Don Pietro out of his office on a stretcher when he pounded up Mott Street, panting and sweating.

"What happened?" Carmine asked, hunkering down behind two little old ladies in black scarves on the outskirts of the gathering crowd.

"Poor Don Pietro. They say it is food poisoning."

"I'm dead," Carmine croaked, white-faced.

One of the old women clucked sympathetically. "Did you eat the bad fish too?"

"I'm thinkin' about it."

Don Pietro was rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital, deep in a coma. Weeks passed. Then months. Carmine had lammed for Tampa, since Florida was open territory. He survived by playing the ponies.

After almost a year, he squandered a slug and called his wife from a pay phone at Hialeah.

"Am I still hot?" he asked, low-voiced.

"The don says you can come back. All is forgiven," she told him.

"How much are they paying you to lie to me, Camilla?"

"Nothing. I had you declared dead and cashed in your insurance. I don't need your money or you."

"My own wife, setting me up. I don't fuggin' believe it."

"Then don't. Don Pietro is still in a coma. Don Fiavorante is in charge now. He says he owes you big."

"The truth?"

"The truth, so help me God, Carmine."

"Warm up the bed, baby," Carmine said happily. "Pappa's comin' home."

"Warm your own bed. If you're moving back, I'm moving out of town. And taking the kids with me."

"I ain't payin' child support if you do," Carmine warned.

"Then don't. "

Carmine paused. "How much did the insurance company pay you, anyway?" he asked suspiciously.

"One hundred and forty thousand. And after fifteen years married to you, let me tell you, I earned every red cent."

"Goddamm it! I want my fuggin' cut!"

"Not a chance. Good-bye!"

The line clicked in his ear as Carmine Imbruglia heard the roar of the racetrack crowd as the fifth race ended.

Carmine grabbed a passing bettor.

"How'd Bronze Savage do, pal?"

"Broke her legs."

"I hope that fuggin' nag ends up as glue," Carmine muttered.

"That's no way to talk about an unfortunate animal."

"I was referring to my fuggin' wife, thank you," grumbled Carmine Imbruglia. "This is what I get for marrying a broad from Jersey. I should have listened to my sainted mother, may she rest in peace."

Little Italy had changed since Carmine Imbruglia had skipped town. It had shrunk. Chinatown had practically swallowed it whole. Still, the street smells were the same. The fresh baked bread, the sauces, and the pastries that hung sweet and heavy in the warm air enveloped him like a fragrant fog of welcome.

"Ahh, heaven," said Carmine Imbruglia. He felt his life poised before a turn for the better. At age fifty-seven he was about to embark on a fresh start. Maybe even make capo regime one day.

Carmine walked into the Neighborhood Improvement Association. Two unfamiliar men came out to greet him.

"How're yous guys doin'?" he asked guardedly.

"Who're you?" one growled.

"Don't yous guys know me? I'm Cadillac."

"Cadillac?" they said, tensing. One fingered his sport-coat buttons close to the bulge of his shoulder holster.

"Carmine Imbruglia."

One of the goons called over his shoulder, "Hey, boss, Fuggin's here!"

Carmine's expression collapsed like a brick wall before a wrecking ball. He forced a smile onto his brutish face as the rounded brown shape that was Don Fiavorante Pubescio stepped out of the familiar black walnut alcove wearing a white shirt open to his bronzed sternum and revealing gleaming fat ropes of gold chains.

"Fuggin!" cried Don Fiavorante. "It is so good to see you!"

Carmine allowed himself to be gathered up into a fatherly bear hug, patting the big soft man on the back as his cheeks accepted the capo's dry lips and he returned the gesture of respect in turn.

"Come, come, sit with me. How has Florida been?"

"Hot."

"Not as hot as Brownsville, am I not correct, Fuggin? I am given to understand that it is to you I owe my good fortune."

As they sat, the waiter poured some kind of sweet-scented tea into a cup before Don Fiavorante. The service was repeated for Carmine.

Carmine Imbruglia could not help but wrinkle his nose at it all. Don Fiavorante looked as California as a cheap Hollywood producer. Carmine had expected as much. But tea?

"Drink up," said Don Fiavorante. "It is good. My personal physician, he insists that I drink tea. This is ginseng."