Rebel in the Back Seat
Return to Creative Writing
I was fifteen when my father stopped beating me. He stopped beating me the day he split my lip and knocked out two of my teeth. It was the day before I quit school and the day after I lost my virginity in the back seat of a 1938 Cadillac 60 Special parked at Cherry Beach.
Though the doll in the back seat of the Cadillac was my reward for some quick thinking at Garbo's, the speakeasy where I worked, the club owners, Sal and Enzo, had her first. Like most men, Sal and Enzo called women dolls or babes or lookers or numbers. While they took turns, I was supposed to sit in the front and keep my eyes peeled for cops--but mostly I peeped into the back seat through the rear view mirror because I wanted to know how to do what they expected me to do.
I wanted to be good so they wouldn't laugh at me, because when people laughed at me I sometimes lost my cool. And when I lost my cool, I'd fight anybody, any place, any time. Hey, whatcha gonna do? That's the way it was. It doesn't happen any more, not much anyway. Now that I'm older and greyer, I'm also a little wiser. Or so I'd like to think.
I sure wouldn't've fought Sal or Enzo, even if they had laughed at me. I may have been a dumb punk, but I wasn't stupid. I was tough, but they were vicious--especially Sal. Besides, considering that I was just a punk, they treated me with respect.
I was just a demon punk, right Pa?
I was twelve when Pa called me that--demon punk. Some ol' man I had. According to my brother, who I see maybe a couple times a year, Pa hasn't changed much, if any. I haven't seen Pa in almost forty years and I have no intention of seeing him again, not even at his funeral. Even though he'd be unable to spit in my face, I won't be there for him.
The last time I saw him, the day I left home, he was sitting at the kitchen table, his six-foot frame hunched over his big black Gideon Bible. He had a full head of thick black hair combed back in natural waves, with hints of grey scattered through like white caps. His elongated face was handsome in a hound-dog sort of way, if you can imagine a handsome hound dog.
Even if I had told him that I was leaving home he wouldn't've cared. I don't think he knew that I was alive. Sometimes I wonder if he knew that he was alive. I guess that's what old-time religion does to people--deadens them. Like booze or drugs, I suppose. What is it Marx said? Religion is the opiate of the masses. Something like that. I had to take a course about Marx and his economic theories as part of my night school education. That was after Sal and Enzo had gone legit, and they were tired of being ripped off by mange cake accountants who knew how to cook the books but not share the bounty.
As the manager of The Mad Monkey, a 50's-style airport-strip dance bar in Toronto that Sal and Enzo own, I mostly work behind the scenes now--balancing books, paying taxes and keeping the club up to snuff as far a health, fire and Liquor Control Board regulations are concerned. I still grease a few palms now and then to ensure occasional code violations are overlooked, but it's small stuff. Nothing like it was when I worked at Garbo's.
Sometimes, when one of The Mad Monkey's Arnold Schwarzenegger-like bouncers needs a night off, I work the door. If a young punk steps out of line, I still got what it takes to knock him back into line. But before I get physical with a patron, I do everything I can to reason with him, give him a chance to voluntarily join the queue, so to speak.
Sal and Enzo, they don't like fights now. It draws the heat. And it scares away the yuppie customers who think they can jive when they can barely shake their booty. Once in a while I give them a display of the real thing. When the spirit moves me. Yep, I still got what it takes. At least that's what Bernadette tells me. Only she ain't necessarily talking about my ability to keep preppie punks in line or jive like a dervish.
I didn't tell Sal and Enzo that I was taking correspondence courses and night school classes. They were doing OK and they hadn't even gone to high school. It was Bernadette's idea I should take them. She said I wasn't going to get by on my charm forever, excepting with her. She told me I could learn anything if I put my mind too it. I didn't believer her but it turned out that I had a thing for numbers--for making them line up neatly like toy soldiers and follow my instructions.
"We need somebody in the family to do this shit," Sal shouted one day. He was referring to the books. This was shortly after he opened his first club in '54, The Brown Jug, and shortly after firing his third bookkeeper that year. "I'm telling you, it doesn't add up the way the Bozo the Bookkeeper says it does," he said pointing to stacks of paper littering his desk. "We make money but how the fuck do I know where he squirreled it away?" He thumped his knuckles together. "We need somebody with brains to do this, so Enzo's out. And I'm the ideas guy, not a fucking paper pusher."
I sat down behind the desk and started to sort paper.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Come back tomorrow," I said.
"You're shitting me?"
I don't blame him for being incredulous. I worked the door most nights, mopped up during the day and ran a few other errands, shall we say, in between. I stayed up all night making the numbers dance to my beat and the next day the books were mine--after I showed Sal how money was bleeding like water through a sieve, and convinced him I could plug the leaks.
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Who'd a thunk it? That Sal and Enzo would be legit, at least as legit as any other business. That I'd be doing the books. That Bernadette and me would be together. That I'd feel so alive. So unlike my Pa.
Sure, he is still alive, but he's dead to me. He always seemed dead to me, until it came time to beat me. Then colour filled his cheeks and he moved like a man on a mission. He came alive at church, too, when he got filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke in tongues--except then he beat the devil out of himself. Sometimes he would punch his face with his ham-sized fists, or he would fall to the floor and kick and cry like a two-year old throwing a temper tantrum. It was good when he exhausted himself with the spirit because it usually meant that he wouldn't have the energy to beat me for at least a couple of days.
Everybody at the Pentecostal church worshipped my ol' man. They especially loved the way he confessed his sins. He was their star: the ex-Catholic, ex-alcoholic, ex-gambler who had accepted Christ as his personal saviour and had become a devout family man. The proof? He stopped drinking and gambling and had three more children after his conversion. Brining the kids in the family to five--me, three younger sisters, and our little brother.
Pa was so committed to wiping out sin, especially my sins, that he even called the cops on me for stealing my own money. Every week, see, I had to give him the paper route money I collected, as well as the money I earned on Saturdays delivering groceries for Nunzio's, the store that Sal and Enzo ran. Pa was lucky if he worked one or two days a week as a labourer; I was the oldest son and had to do my bit.
Pa gave half my money to Ma for groceries; the rest he used for church tithes. We were almost starving and he gave half my earnings to the fucking church. Christ Almighty!
If there was any money left after she bought food, Ma would put it what she called the rainy day jar that she kept locked in the empty China cabinet. The cabinet was empty because we'd pawned all our China.
My ol' man knew how much money I was supposed to collect each week, and how much I earned working at Nunzio's, so I couldn't keep a cent for myself. If I was short because a newspaper customer wasn't home or didn't have enough money to pay me, I'd have to pick purses, steal money from the collection plate at church, or short-change customers who shopped at Nunzio's. If I couldn't make up the difference, Pa would beat me for not giving him money I never got.
As it was, almost everything I did was grounds for a beating--come home late from school, speak at the supper table out of turn, forget to polish my shoes for church, play with the unbelievers--the kids on the street who didn't go to our church, which was almost every kid on the street.
Spare the rod and spoil the child. How often did I hear Pa mutter that before his belt buckle or his razor strap crashed over my hand or back?
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Sal and Enzo ran Nunzio's now that their father, Mr. Nunzio, had retired. At least he claimed to be retired. "I'm just here to shop," he'd say whenever he came into the store. Then he'd paw over vegetables, check shelves for dust and hang around the cash register greeting familiar customers. But he never told his sons what to do. At least not directly. A look here, a glance there, and they'd go scurrying into action, as if he had communicated with them telepathically.
Mostly what they did, when Mr. Nunzio wasn't around, was talk up the cashiers and pretty female customers--especially Enzo. Enzo was tall and wiry and fair-haired for an Italian. If it wasn't for his Roman nose, he could've passed himself off as a Swede. Sal was a year older than Enzo. He was short and stalky. His straight black hair was already beginning to thin at the top. His nose looked as if it had been busted half-a-dozen times, and it probably had been. And he had a three-inch scar--knife fight, rumour had it--across his right cheek.
Of course it had to be Sal who caught me swiping money from the till.
The store wasn't very busy and I offered to watch the till for Bernadette, the new cashier, so she could go into the back office with Enzo for a smoke. She was a tall, willowy redhead, who always wore loose flowered frocks that seemed to hang shapelessly from her shoulders. But she moved gracefully as a gazelle and when she sashayed by, her dress seemed to cling to her in all the right places. She never dolled up her face with make up like a lots of broads did. She didn't have to. She was what Enzo called a natural looker. Almost 18, she had just dropped out of high school because she couldn't do the math. "Baby-doll, you can make all the math mistakes you want here, as long as they're in our favour," I heard Enzo tell her when he hired her.
I was seventy-five cents short on my paper-route money. It was partly my fault. I had spent a quarter on smokes and comic books and I was unable to collect half a buck from my customers.
I needed money or I was in for a beating, so I decided to help myself to some cash from the till. Only I forgot something. When I hit the No Sale button to open the cash register, the damn thing rang. Hoping nobody heard the register ring, I grabbed a deuce and slammed shut the cash drawer.
Considering there were no customers in the store when the cash register rang, it shouldn't've surprised me to see Sal strolling up to the front of the store. He nodded at me. "Whaddaya got in your pockets, Daniel?" he asked as he approached the register. He clenched his fists and punched his knuckles together so that they made a hollow thump sound.
I could feel the back of my neck heat up. "Hey, Sal. Nothing special."
"Hey, Daniel, you wanna show me nothing special?"
What could I do? I emptied my pockets and put my smokes and the deuce on the counter. I reached for the No Sale key so I could return the money to the till.
"Nah, nah, nah. Don't be in such a hurry," Sal said. "You wouldn't take my money if you didn't need it, right?" I nodded. "So whaddaya need it for?"
"I owe my ol' man."
"No disrespect, but he's mean sonuva, your ol' man, ain't he?" I nodded and smiled, proud that Sal knew Pa's reputation. "A bible-thumping sonuva, ain't he?"
I clenched my teeth together. "So?"
"It's strange, that's all, an Italian bible-thumper," Sal said. "He used to be a good customer at our other place. My father remembers him well." Sal moved closer to me. The purple scar on his cheek pulsed. "He thump you as much as he thumps his bible?"
"Hey, he's my ol' man."
"Yeah." Sal rubbed his knuckles together. "Keep the deuce, Daniel. Pay him what you owe him. I don't want you getting' beat up over a couple of bucks."
I palmed the deuce and shoved it in my pocket thinking it was the easiest two bucks I had ever scored. Sal looked at me and punched his knuckles together. Thump.
"Next Saturday," he said, "you owe me a fiver or I'll make any beating your ol' man ever gave you look like a tickling."
My mouth went dry.
"Understood?" he asked.
I nodded.
Sal meandered down the produce aisle, inspecting the tomatoes and heads of lettuce as he went.
By Friday night I had no extra cash, let alone five dollars. But I had a plan.
I escaped from the prayer service at our church by climbing out the washroom window. While my folks prayed, I raced home. The china cupboard lock was easy to pick. The tough part was trying to lock it again after I had picked it. When I realized I couldn't cover up my theft, I tried to make it look like a real robbery. I punched out the front door window so that it would seem like a crook had busted into the house. I should've wrapped my fist in something first because the glass shredded my knuckles.
All I got for my effort was a pocket full of change--maybe three dollars. I raced back to church hoping I could swipe two bucks from the collection plate. But I didn't have a chance to put my plan into action. Pa was waiting in the washroom as I climbed in through the window. In his hand he held his belt, the thick leather one with a solid horse-head brass buckle.
As if beating me with it wasn't enough, he punched and slapped me as he dragged me home. My brother and three sisters crowded around my mother, holding her skirt, as she walked several paces behind Pa without saying a word.
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She's dead now, my mother. Died a couple of years ago. I wanted to go to her funeral, but he was there. So I didn't go.
I wanted him to die before her because there were questions I wanted to ask her. I couldn't do it with him around. Hell, I don't know if I could've asked her even if he had gone first. Or if she could've answered me.
She never once tried, not once, to rescue me. I doubt that she could have. He beat her too, and sometimes the other kids. Mostly quick harsh slaps to the head, kicks in the ass. That kind of thing. I wanted to know what we had done to deserve it. I know we hadn't done anything. I know he was the one who was fucked up. But I wanted to know anyway. What did we do to deserve this? Why didn't she try?
Maybe I'm making excuses for not asking her. Maybe I already know the answer: there are no answers. Maybe I should ask him. But what can a dead man tell you? They can't even lie. And he's dead to me.
And me? Maybe, just maybe, I turned out OK in spite of it all. To spite it all.
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It didn't take Pa long to figure out that I had busted the window and broken into the cupboard while I was AWOL from church. I expected the razor strap, but for once he was almost cool. Mind you, already my nose was bleeding, my eyes were puffy and I could feel horse-head welts rising on my back.
"You just a punk. A demon punk," Pa said. "A hood. You gonna be nothing. You worth nothing. Niente, Daniel. You friends are hoods. You not even worth beating any more."
Then he called the cops.
I didn't figure a kid could be tried for stealing his own paper route money, but I was. Because my ol' man didn't post bail, I spent a week in a Don Jail holding cell until my trial.
Then he testified against me, my pa did.
The judge didn't even ask why I swiped my money, not that I would've said anything. I was found guilty of break and enter and theft under one hundred dollars and sentenced to three months in the Guelph Reformatory for Juvenile Delinquents. Of course, I didn't tell anybody that I was glad to be going to the reformatory. The way I figured it, Pa wouldn't get to beat me for three months and Sal would have to wait until I got out of jail before I could pay him back his fiver.
The reformatory, for the first couple of days, was pretty decent. I ate better there that I did at home. The other juveniles pretty much left me alone. There were a few comments during meals--"hey wop", "spaghetti breath"--shit like that. Nothing I couldn't shrug off. I ignored everybody I was in with, especially the dumb punks who wanted me to join their gangs. I just wanted to take it easy and do my time.
Taking it easy ended as soon as I was assigned my work duty. From sunrise to sunset, six days a week, I was given the privilege of working in a ditch, turning big rocks into little rocks with a sledgehammer that weighed as much as I did. When I had a large enough pile of crushed rocks, I shovelled them out of the ditch. A guy patrolling the length of the ditch shovelled the crushed stones into a wheelbarrow and dumped them some place, God knows where and I didn't care.
About three weeks into my sentence, the guy with the wheelbarrow, Donny his name was, pissed me off. I had just finished shovelling up a load of crushed stone and was drinking water out of my water bucket when I felt something sharp hit my back. It was a shovel-full of stones. Donny was shovelling my stones on me.
Donny was a punk who led a gang in the reformatory and was one of the jerks I had turned my back on.
"Hey," I shouted. "Screw off."
"Fuck you, wop," Donny said. He tossed another load of stones over me. "Fucking, smelly wop." Then he laughed.
I leapt up out of the ditch, sledgehammer in hand, and bashed him across the knee before he could stop laughing. He dropped his shovel and crumpled. If I had just jumped back into my ditch I might've gotten away with it. But no, I had to go lose my cool and start kicking and bashing him.
A guard jumped me from behind and wrapped his billy club around my throat. I elbowed him in the ribs and would've broken his hold if another guard hadn't jammed his club into my gut, knocking the wind outta me and knocking me out.
I came to in a dark room. My guts ached. Above me, a fan whirled. The air felt chilly on my back. As my head cleared, I realized that I was naked and chained face-first to a damp wall.
There was no trial. Nobody asked me why I had fought Donny. I don't know how many guards there were in the room, but I do know that they all took turns. Before they whipped me, they made sure I got a good look at their thick leather strap. It was about six-feet long and the last couple feet, the part that connected with my back and ass, had a series of dime-sized holes punched in it. It looked like a long, thick slice of Swiss cheese.
The holes, it turned out, kind of leeched on skin when the strap made contact, then ripped at it as the strap was whipped away from my flesh.
I discovered something with that beating. My pain threshold. And I discovered that by crossing it, rather than fighting it, guards could tears lumps of flesh off my bare buttocks and I didn't have to feel a thing. Of course, it took almost thirty lashes before I realized this, that I should cross it not fight it. Shortly after I crossed the threshold and stopped screaming, the beating ended.
The whipping was severe enough that I got to spend three weeks in the infirmary. On purpose, I didn't eat hardly anything while I healed. When I got sent back to my cell I was too weak to crush rocks. So, I got put on kitchen patrol. I ate like a king and kept my nose clean for the rest of my sentence.
I didn't keep my nose clean out of fear or because I had suddenly become a goody-two-shoes. I kept my nose clean because of the only visitor I had while I was in the reformatory. And it wasn't my ol' man, or my mother. It was Sal. He dropped in after I got out of the infirmary. I acted cool about seeing him as we sat across from each other and talked through the wire mesh that separated delinquents from visitors.
"So how they treating ya?" he asked.
"Okay, I guess."
"That's not what the grapevine says."
"So? There's been a few misunderstandings. Nothing I couldn't handle."
Sal looked at me for a moment, lightly rapping his knuckles together. "I understand the guards almost did you in."
I shrugged and waited for him to start talking about the money I owed him.
"Listen," he said, "just 'cause you got a record now doesn't mean you don't got a job when you get outta here." I scratched the back of my neck, where wounds were still healing. "But you gotta keep your nose clean if you wanna get outta here." He rubbed the scar on his cheek. "You don't keep your nose clean, they'll keep you here a lot longer than you care to stay."
"No matter what, there's something I gotta do before I get outta here."
"Do what you gotta do," Sal said. "Just don't be stupid about it." And with that bit of advice, he left.
My second-last day in the slammer, I did what I had to do. I prepared a bowl of hot-oil soup for Donny.
He limped through the dinner line just as he had been limping since I smashed his knee. He shoved his food tray towards me as contemptuously as always. "Soup, wop," he said. "Dish it out, asshole." He looked around for approval, and laughed.
Although the soup bowl burned my fingers, I picked it up and poured it down his chest. He screamed and hit the floor on one side of the counter, but I screamed louder and hit the floor on the other. By time the guards got to us, I was bleeding from a gash in my arm and there was a bloodstained shiv on Donny's tray.
"He knifed me. The fucking bastard knifed me," I screamed as blood ran from my wound.
Nobody asked me any questions. It was obvious. Donny had tried to gain revenge on my last day in the joint because I had busted up his knee. I had protected myself by dumping hot soup on him. Self-defence. A couple of guards even patted me on the back, which still ached.
The next day, before I was set free, I was given a bus ticket to Toronto and seven dollars in wages that I had earned by crushing rocks and serving food. I sold the ticket at the bus depot in Guelph and hitchhiked to Toronto.
The first place I went was Nunzio's.
Enzo was leaning on the front counter talking with Bernadette, who was chewing gum and popping bubbles and still managing to laugh at whatever the heck he was whispering in her ear. She waved, smiled and winked at me, and popped a bubble, all in one motion.
"Sal's in the back," Enzo said matter-of-factly, as if I was reporting for a normal shift at the shop.
I knocked on the office door. Sal grunted. I walked in and placed five dollars on his desk. When he looked up I laid a deuce on top of the five. "Interest for late payment," I said. "Square?"
Sal scooped up the money. "Hot soup," he said. "Clever. Maybe we can use ya to do more than deliver groceries. Whaddaya say?"
I shrugged. "Whatever."
"Just one thing." I knew what was coming. "You don't ever steal from a Nunzio again. Or you're fucked. Tu capisce?"
So the Nunzio brothers took me on as an employee in their other operation--a place that had nothing to do with fruits and vegetables: Garbo's, an after-hours drinking, gambling and dancing establishment they ran on weekends out of an abandoned warehouse in the east end, near Cherry Beach.
I was hired as their parking lot attendant--their look out, their first line of defence. As patrons pulled into the parking lot behind the warehouse, I greeted them and lit their cigarettes. If they were invited guests, they gave me the password and I accompanied them around the side of the warehouse to the concealed entrance. If I they were new customers or if I thought they might be cops or some other undesirables, I asked them politely to wait and then I got Frankie, the doorman, to check things out.
Since the Nunzio brothers had paid off the politicians and cops, the most difficult thing I had to do was convince my ol' man, who was back into beating me for fun and entertainment, that I had a legit job on Friday and Saturday nights.
Sal paid me five bucks for working a weekend. I told Pa I could earn four bucks on the weekend by cleaning out stalls at the abattoir. My father was angry that I would miss Friday night church services but, after slapping me around and telling me that my soul was doomed to go to hell, the thought of an extra four dollars a week won out.
Besides working as a weekend lookout, I now also delivered groceries after school. Because of the time I had spent in the reformatory, I had fallen far behind in my schoolwork. I was a lousy student to begin with--fourteen years old and in grade six. I didn't care. I was bored with education. Besides, the education I got working for Sal was far more interesting than anything taught in school.
With Sal, I learned that a guy could really strut his stuff if he had a flask in his pocket, a cigarette in one hand and a great-looking doll on his arm. I also learned how to drive because I had to retrieve cars for Garbo's regulars at the end of the night, which was usually the beginning of the day. I drove some sharp-looking automobili--a McLaughlin-Buick, a Vauxhall Boattailed Speedster, a Lincoln Zephyr, the first car I saw without running boards, a Chrysler Imperial and even a Cadillac V-16 Fleetwood Roadster.
Nobody questioned me when they handed me their keys. I mean it didn't even occur to anybody that I couldn't drive--so it didn't occur to me that I couldn't either. Mind you, when Sal saw me that first evening chug to a stop in front of the warehouse in an Oldsmobile F-31 convertible, he took it upon himself to give me a few lessons.
Each night, after all the guests had arrived, Sal let me hang out in the club. Watching his patrons, I learned how to hold a cigarette between my thumb and index finger, squinting as I took a deep drag then exhaled two blue streams of smoke through my nose. I learned how to win money shooting craps and playing black jack. And I learned how to drink gin.
Dance orchestras played the club and I learned how to do the Rumba, the Lindy Hop, the Shag and the Big Apple with some of the most beautiful babes in Toronto. Dancing real close, I learned that a doll could smell as pretty as she looked. All I wanted to do was lean over and bury my face deep into cleavage and inhale the sweet scents. Of course, I never did this. But that didn't stop me from wanting.
I even danced with Bernadette at least once a night when Enzo would let her step out from behind the bar where she was chatting up patrons, pouring long drinks and earning big tips. Bernadette didn't wear her shapeless frocks when she worked the bar. She dressed to the nines in a long slinky silver outfit with a narrow neckline that plunged to her navel, revealing, remarkably, almost nothing even as it tantalized so.
Never did I tell anybody about how hard I got when I danced. And man, could I dance. Couples parted and let me sweep the floor with the babe I had in my arms. When the music ended, people would applaud and the doll would always flash a big smile. Her man would slip me a couple of bucks for making his gal look so fine on the floor.
Sal called me a demon, a dancing demon. And slapped my back playfully when he said it.
We often had guest conductors visit Garbo's. Sometimes George Hooey would drop by after playing the Beaches Masonic Temple or Bert Niosi would appear after his stint at the Palais Royale. A couple of times Trump Davidson came in all the way from the Palace Pier. Even, I swear to God, Luigi Romanelli, the conductor of the Romanelli Dance Orchestra at the King Edward Hotel, paid the occasional visit to our little establishment. He sat with Mr. Nunzio and other important guests at the VIP table close to the dance floor.
The first night that Luigi Romanelli made an appearance, Sal called me over to the bar. "Daniel," he said, "do you see the distinguished-looking gentleman in the sharp tuxedo sitting beside my father?" I nodded. Sal counted out five hundred dollar bills and tucked them into an envelope. "Give him this and say to him real nice, 'Mr. Romanelli, sir, it would be a pleasure to hear you play your violin tonight.' Got that?"
Mr. Romanelli barely glanced at me as I handed him the envelope and repeated what Sal had said. But he took the envelope and slipped it into a pocket. As I turned to leave, Mr. Nunzio said to me: "Hey, Daniel, salute your Pa for me. Say that I miss him. And that the babes miss him even more." Everybody at the table laughed, even Mr. Romanelli. I blushed and slipped away.
An hour later, Luigi Romanelli got up and the room went dead silent. The dancing, drinking and gambling stopped. He only played one song. But for the first time in my life, I prayed. I prayed that the song would never end. The music was so intoxicating that it made me forget about the scent of babes and caused shivers to run up and down my spine. When the song was over, Mr. Romanelli simply nodded once and took his seat as people applauded furiously, a few of them--real pizzani--wiping tears from their eyes.
I didn't know the name of the song he played that night, but I knew it well enough four years later when I heard him play Michele Novaro's L'Inno di Mameli again, at my wedding. The Second World War was not yet over, but we all knew that Italy would soon have to sign an armistice. Already people were murmuring that L'Inno di Mameli would be declared the national anthem, after Mussolini was exorcised and a new republic created.
It was a gift from Sal, having Mr. Romanelli play at my wedding. This time, I had tears in my eyes. Because of the music, because of Bernadette, because of the wedding. Because my mother was not there. A few months later, I cried again when Luigi Romanelli, only 57, passed away.
Watching Mr. Romanelli at the club accept, yet barely acknowledge the adulation, I learned that you don't have to make a lot of noise about the things you are good at, you just gotta do it. And the next Friday, I learned that I could do things well without making a lot of noise about it too.
All the regulars had arrived at the warehouse and I was heading towards the entrance, looking forward to a night of dancing, when a black Buick pulled into the parking lot. There was something about the car that caught my attention--maybe the fact that it had hardly any chrome. And there was something about the four guys who stepped out of the car that made me uneasy. I mean, I'd seen guys with one, two or three babes on their arms before, but I'd never seen four guys without at least a couple of babes between them.
There was also something about their clothes that made me think they hadn't come to gamble, drink and dance. The cheap cut of the cloth and the wrinkles in their pants where there should've been tight creases gave it away. Even their fedoras looked wrong. And they weren't smoking cigarettes or tippling from hip flasks.
They looked around queerly, as if they were hoping nobody would greet them. So I greeted them. "Evening gents," I said. "How may I help you?" I think what ultimately gave them away, even though they used the right password, was their disrespect.
"Hey punk," one of them said to me, "I understand you got a sale on turnips."
He laughed. But I kept my cool. Although turnips was the password, I wasn't bringing these jerks to the door. "You know what it's like. I gotta check the price of turnips first."
They waved me off and leaned back against their Buick while I went to tell the doorman that four cops were in the lot. When I told him what had gone on, he got irritated. "They gave you the password. You're supposed to bring them to the door."
"Get Sal," I said.
"Sal'll kill you if you're jerking around customers."
"That's his call."
Frankie shook his head, but he got Sal.
"They gave you the password, Daniel," Sal said when I told him about the four guys in the Buick.
"If you want, I'll bring them to the door."
"Whatcha tell them?"
"I told them I had to check on the price of the turnips." I could feel the back of my neck heat up because suddenly my answer seemed pretty stupid.
Sal smiled. "Check 'em out, Frankie," he said to the doorman. "You stay with me, Daniel."
Frankie returned a few minutes later. "Shit, Sal, they're cops if I've ever seen cops. But they're staying put, just like Daniel told them to do."
Sal lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "They only sent four cops to raid Salvatore Nunzio? I don't know if I should be thankful or insulted. Tell everybody we're closing down tonight. Tell them to be cool-like and to go to their cars as if nothing unusual has happened. If anybody's arrested, I guarantee bail." Sal punched his knuckles together. Thump. "We need some kind of diversion, Frankie. Something to keep those coppers busy."
"Yeah, but what?"
I figured that if I explained to Sal what I was about to do he would've locked me in the warehouse. So I just scooted away, snuck through the parking lot and crept up behind the Buick where I could hear the cops mumbling irritably as guests made their way to their cars. After a brief conversation, the cops headed towards the club entrance and I slipped into the front seat of their car. The keys were in the ignition, in case they needed to make a quick get-away. I started the engine, turned on the headlights and headed straight for the cops. If they hadn't tumbled out of my way, I would've run them down.
I made a sharp U-Turn, almost picking off one as he scrambled for safety, and drove out of the parking lot. In the rear view mirror, I could see them chasing after me, all Keystone-Cops like. I turned of the lights, motored down a dark laneway and I ditched the car. I climbed a fire escape and hid on a factory roof until I heard the cops, muttering and cursing, drive away. After a short wait, I climbed down from the roof and walked home.
I showed up the next day at the grocery store not sure what to expect. Enzo was helping a young lady choose tomatoes. "These are firm and ripe and very sweet," he was saying. When he saw me, he winked, shook his head and said, "Sal's in the back room."
I knocked on the door. Sal grunted and I walked in. He looked up from a pile of papers on his desk and scratched his nose. "Have a seat," he said, motioning vaguely at a chair. "You know we gotta close for a bit, until we figure out whose palms need greasing. You can work all the hours you want here. When we open the club again, you're gonna work the door."
"Me?"
"You see anybody else in the room?"
I scratched the back of my neck.
"Here," Sal said handing me an envelope. "And don't share a cent of it with your ol' man."
I shoved it in my shirt pocket.
"There's one other thing," Sal said. "But you gotta meet me and Enzo here tomorrow night at eight."
I hesitated. Tomorrow was Sunday. That meant I would have to sneak out of the church service.
"Well?" Sal said.
"I'll be here."
I met them the next evening in the laneway behind the store. Sal rolled down the window of his Cadillac. "Get in the front," he said. Enzo was in the back with Bernadette. We drove to Cherry Beach.
"You realize this is an honour," Sal said as he parked the car. "It's gonna make us blood brothers, Daniel, only closer. I'm going out for a smoke. You be the look out," he said, but he adjusted the rear-view mirror so I could see Enzo and Bernadette reflected in it.
Bernadette hitched up her skirt and Enzo got on top of her. He moved back and forth and grunted after a few minutes. Then he left the car and Sal took his place. After Sal grunted, he said, "Come get your honour, Daniel." He left and I climbed into the back seat.
Bernadette was lying on her back, her skirt barely covering her smooth thighs. She unbuttoned my pants, tugged down my zipper and massaged my crotch. My pecker went harder than my pa's brass buckle. I leaned forward and rubbed her breasts through her silky blouse. She felt so soft; her perfume smelled like toffee.
"You feel like music?" I stammered, thinking I could reach the radio in the front and find a big band station.
"Music?" she said as she pulled my pants down over my hips. She smiled, helped me off with my shirt and gently ran her long red nails up and down my back. I shivered. She kissed me and slipped her tongue between my lips. I almost choked.
"They said it was your first time. I wasn't sure."
"It's not," I said defensively.
"Everybody has a first time," she said as she slipped off my underwear. "Take it slow. You'll be fine."
She hitched her skirt over her hips, pulled me down on top of her and guided me inside. I kissed her and stuck my tongue deep into her mouth as I began to move back and forth like I had seen Enzo and Sal do.
"It's good, Daniel," Bernadette whispered. She tugged at my hair and I moved a little faster. "Slow. Slow," she said, so I geared down. She scratched my back with her nails and started bucking her hips to greet my slow, smooth thrusts. Suddenly, I was fighting for breath and losing the battle. I rocked harder and faster and harder until . . . . If Bernadette hadn't buried my head deep in her bosom, I suspect that my screams might've attracted the cops.
I didn't join Sal and Enzo outside. I stayed in the back seat until they must've noticed that the car had stopped rocking. I vaguely remember the engine turning over. Bernadette continued to hold my face against her breasts.
"Sal," she said. "Take Daniel and me to my place."
"Christ, Enzo," Sal snickered, "you're gonna have to break in a new cashier."
I spent the night with her and lost my breath several more times. Each time she held me tighter and moaned louder as I got lost in the pleasure of her soft touch and sweet scent.
In the morning, as I dressed, she stroked the back of my neck with her red nails. "Do I get to see you again?" she asked. I shrugged. But even then, I knew the answer.
The sun had been up for several hours as I headed home. I forgot that I had skipped church or that I was supposed to go to school. I was too busy thinking about Bernadette when I should've been thinking about my ol' man.
As I stepped over the threshold and through the front door, Pa caught me flush across my mouth with his brass buckle. The force of the blow split my lip, knocked out two teeth and drove me back against the wall.
Twirling his belt over his head, my ol' man came at me. "You just a punk, Daniel. A demon punk. A hood. Worthless." His cheeks were blood red. His eyes were charged.
I reached up and grabbed his wrist before he could strike me again. I seized his other hand as he attempted to punch at me. I leaned my full weight into him, twisted him around and pinned him against the wall. He tried to kick me in the crotch, but I pinned his legs by pressing my knees against his shins.
We stood there in the hallway, face to face, like two giants who had wrestled each other to a draw. I didn't know that I was almost as tall as my ol' man. He had always seemed to tower over me.
Trying to break free of my hold, he grunted and pushed against me. I had him pinned firmly. He couldn't budge me. I refused let him move. He jerked his arms repeatedly but I kept him restrained, up against the wall.
Then he spit at me and laughed.
With both hands I grabbed hold of the fist that held the belt. He punched at my ribs with his free hand but I ignored his blows. I bent his wrist forward and pushed down on his hand with the full force of my might.
It was an ugly sound, the breaking of my father's bones.
The belt slipped from his hand. The buckle hit the floor with a clunk. I stepped back from him. He kept his gaze fixed on me as I picked up his strap and held it over him. "È finito," I said. "È finito."
A noise in the hall distracted me. My mother stood at the end of the hallway. She watched silently, as if waiting for David to slay Goliath. I flung the strap at the front door, turned my back on him and went to my room. I slept for the rest of the day and through the night. The next morning, I quit school and started working full time for Sal and Enzo. I left home a few months later and moved in with Bernadette. Until I left home, Pa often glared at me but he never spoke to me. Once, he waved his cast at me. I stood my ground, stared at him nonchalantly, and he backed down.
There was always something to do for Sal. A palm to grease, a punk to put in his place. I did things I'm not proud of. But over time, as we gradually became more legitimate, there was less of that kind of thing to do. Through it all I remained faithful to Bernadette. I never once lost my cool with her. And I didn't dance with any other women. There was no need to. Considering that I was just a punk when she met me, she treated me with respect. And I returned the favour, treating her with the dignity she deserved.
It's what Sal and Enzo, in their way, gave me too. Dignity and respect.
That's something my mother deserved, but never got. Something my great, big, hulking old man of a father, hooked on religion, could never give anyone. Not even himself. I guess that's why I don't need to talk to him now. I understand that what he couldn't give himself, he couldn't give others. I don't know why he was that way, but he was that way.
That was the way he was. And I know, I can feel it somewhere deep inside, that I could have been like him. But I'm not. And the rest of it? It just doesn't matter. The rest of it just doesn't matter.
Of course on nights when it does matter, there's Bernadette. She's there to wrap me in her arms as I cry myself to sleep on the nights when the rest of it matters. And somehow I wake up knowing that I'm doing all right, for a demon punk. That I have what it takes. That in spite of it all, Bernadette and I, we still have what it takes.
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