Bronx Noir

“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.”

Two women in their twenties sashayed by, short skirts clinging tightly to their rock-hard asses. Sonny followed them with his eyes until they turned the corner.

“Your Aunt Connie gets it,” Sonny said, “my Uncle Bennie, no problem; they can’t hurt us. But Frankie was shootin’ off his mouth about guys we had whacked for the last twenty years. He can hurt us.”

“That shit he remembers; that he wears the same friggin’ dirty sweatsuit every day, that he forgets.”