Bronx Noir

He’d never aspired to be anything higher than a captain, knowing how difficult it would be to control over a thousand soldiers as a boss. He was smart enough years ago to realize that this thing of theirs was soon going to get out of control with the passage of draconian federal laws designed to dump their ranks in jail with hundred-year sentences.

Frank Bernardo ruled with an iron hand. No one in his crew ever so much as walked down the same side of the street as a fed, let alone ratted against the family. To even mention a cop show on television brought a barrage of cursing from Frank that would make even the toughest soldier wince. Anyone caught discussing business on a telephone would be severely disciplined.

It was because of the no-phone-for-business rule that Frank found himself preparing for a face-to-face with one of his most trusted lieutenants, Sonny Pescatore. An infraction had been committed and they would meet at Frank’s restaurant on Arthur Avenue to discuss what to do about it, or more simply put, Frank would be issuing an edict and Sonny would be carrying it out.

Frank Bernardo walked to his restaurant, the Roman Cave, every day. It was a hike, a little more than a mile, but he wouldn’t give in to old age and worse, show his crew that he was getting soft. He’d been making the trek since he bought the joint years ago. Another benefit of the stroll was being able to meet and greet “citizens,” as people in his world referred to those who were not “friends” of theirs. Another tradition—and not bad for the ego.

He eschewed a top coat on this brisk spring morning, took the stairs from his sixth-floor apartment to the spotless lobby, and headed west along sun-drenched Pelham Parkway. This was a pleasant residential neighborhood of modest homes and apartment buildings on treelined streets. In recent years most of the Italians were bailing for the suburbs. Those who remained were entrenched, mostly around his age or older, the type of person who was born, married, raised kids, and died in the same house. These were the people who waved, offered condolences for his recently departed wife, and sought counsel. Frank was a man who could bestow favors, solve problems, and put the occasional wayward husband back on the straight and narrow.

Today was no different than any other day. By the time he was approaching Arthur Avenue, he had spoken with over a dozen people, some whom he knew, others who dropped names. One elderly man actually kissed his pinky ring, a symbol of respect befitting a man of Frank’s stature. He kept a notepad with him so he could write reminders of phone numbers, people he promised to call, dates he intended to keep, as he strolled and counseled those who needed his help and advice.

Frank entered Arthur Avenue from 189^th Street. The avenue was jammed as usual. Tourists looking for a great meal in one of the area’s fine restaurants mingled with neighborhood wiseguys, mommies pushing strollers, and the occasional meter maid out to spoil everyone’s day.

Whereas he garnered deference and admiration among the older inhabitants of Pelham Parkway, here he felt the emotion go toward fear. Frank was recognized immediately by a group of young men who sported what he liked to call ninety-mile-an-hour haircuts and Mr. T starter sets of gold chains, barely hidden behind a uniform of billowing silk shirts jammed into tight jeans. They averted their eyes as he passed by them, some muttering, “How ya doing, Mr. B.?”

Without losing a step and not making eye contact, Frank shot back, “Don’t you fucking guys have jobs?” He got no reply, but hadn’t expected any.

Others in the know gave Frank a wide berth, the occasional tourist following suit and wondering just who the hell this guy was. Less than two blocks from the Roman Cave, Frank eyed the competition. Good restaurants the lot of them, but what the tourists didn’t know was that many of the established Italian eateries were now owned by Albanians who were passing themselves off as Italians. A lot of the local wiseguys had relocated a few years back because of an overzealous federal prosecutor named Rudy Giuliani who made it difficult for them to run their illegal gambling establishments. This left room for the Albanians to come in and take up the slack, their illegal profits funding new restaurants. But Frank hadn’t been scared off because he didn’t fear Giuliani or anyone else. People feared him, and from that fear came respect, even from a hotshot federal prosecutor with a bad comb-over. No one fucked with Frank Bernardo.