Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

law. He hated punks and when he saw a bunch of young rowdies making a disturbance

on a street corner at night, disturbing passersby, he took quick and decisive action. He

employed a physical strength that was truly extraordinary, which he himself did not fully

appreciate.

One night in Central Park West he jumped out of the patrol car and lined up six punks

in black silk jackets. His partner remained in the driver's seat, not wanting to get

involved, knowing Neri. The six boys, all in their late teens, had been stopping people

and asking them for cigarettes in a youthfully menacing way but not doing anyone any

real physical harm. They had also teased girls going by with a sexual gesture more

French than American.

Neri lined them up against the stone wall that closed off Central Park from Eighth

Avenue. It was twilight, but Neri carried his favorite weapon, a huge flashlight. He never

bothered drawing his gun; it was never necessary. His face when he was angry was so

brutally menacing, combined with his uniform, that the usual punks were cowed. These

were no exception.

Neri asked the first youth in the black silk jacket, "What's your name?" The kid

answered with an Irish name. Neri told him, "Get off the street. I see you again tonight,

I'll crucify you." He motioned with his flashlight and the youth walked quickly away. Neri

followed the same procedure with the next two boys. He let them walk off. But the fourth

boy gave an Italian name and smiled at Neri as if to claim some sort of kinship. Neri was

unmistakably of Italian descent. Neri looked at this youth for a moment and asked

superfluously, "You Italian?" The boy grinned confidently.

Neri hit him a stunning blow on the forehead with his flashlight. The boy dropped to

his knees. The skin and flesh of his forehead had cracked open and blood poured down

his face. But it was strictly a flesh wound. Neri said to him harshly, "You son of a bitch,

you're a disgrace to the Italians. You give us all a bad name. Get on your feet." He gave

the youth a kick in the side, not gentle, not too hard. "Get home and stay off the street.

Don't ever let me catch you wearing that jacket again either. I'll send you to the hospital.

Now get home. You're lucky I'm not your father."

Neri didn't bother with the other two punks. He just booted their asses down the

Avenue, telling them he didn't want them on the street that night.

In such encounters all was done so quickly that there was no time for a crowd to

gather or for someone to protest his actions. Neri would get into the patrol car and his

partner would zoom it away. Of course once in a while there would be a real hard case

who wanted to fight and might even pull a knife. These were truly unfortunate people.

Neri would, with awesome, quick ferocity, beat them bloody and throw them into the

227

patrol car. They would be put under arrest and charged with assaulting an officer. But

usually their case would have to wait until they were discharged from the hospital.

Eventually Neri was transferred to the beat that held the United Nations building area,

mainly because he had not shown his precinct sergeant the proper respect. The United

Nations people with their diplomatic immunity parked their limousines all over the

streets without regard to police regulations. Neri complained to the precinct and was

told not to make waves, to just ignore it. But one night there was a whole side street that

was impassable because of the carelessly parked autos. It was after midnight, so Neri

took his huge flashlight from the patrol cat and went down the street smashing

windshields to smithereens. It was not easy, even for high-ranking diplomats, to get the

windshields repaired in less than a few days. Protests poured into the police precinct

station house demanding protection against this vandalism. After a week of windshield

smashing the truth gradually hit somebody about what was actually happening and

Albert Neri was transferred to Harlem.

One Sunday shortly afterward, Neri took his wife to visit his widowed sister in Brooklyn.

Albert Neri had the fierce protective affection for his sister common to all Sicilians and

he always visited her at least once every couple of months to make sure she was all

right. She was much older than he was and had a son who was twenty. This son,

Thomas, without a father's hand, was giving trouble. He had gotten into a few minor

scrapes, was running a little wild. Neri had once used his contacts on the police force to

keep the youth from being charged with larceny. On that occasion he had kept his anger

in check but had given his nephew warning. "Tommy, you make my sister cry over you

and I'll straighten you out myself." It was intended as a friendly pally-uncle warning, not

really as a threat. But even though Tommy was the toughest kid in that tough Brooklyn

neighborhood, he was afraid of his Uncle Al.

On this particular visit Tommy had come in very late Saturday night and was still

sleeping in his room. His mother went to wake him, telling him to get dressed so that he