Killer

chapter 3
1965

Word’s out about Ernie Arlosi hitting a Trifecta at Suffolk Downs the other day, and we figure he should be happy to spread the wealth and kick some of his winnings over to us to keep him and his store in one piece. The dumb bastard ends up trying to put up a fight and I have to rap him a few times in the mouth with a piece of pipe while Steve and Joey smash up one of his freezers before he pays up. It was so fucking unnecessary, but some guys are just stupid that way. So we leave him with his mouth a bloody mess, and his store not much better. It all could’ve just gone down so easily, but he made his choice. Not that I care one way or the other.

The next day I’m by myself walking down Centennial Avenue when a silver Caddy rolls up next to me. Even before the window slides down I have a good idea whose car it is, and who’s going to be sitting in the passenger seat. Sure enough it’s Vincent DiGrassi. I don’t recognize the muscle behind the wheel or the other wiseguy sitting in the backseat, but DiGrassi I recognize. Everyone knows he’s Salvatore Lombard’s right-hand man.

With his eyes DiGrassi motions for me to get in. I don’t have a choice in the matter, but even if I did, I still would’ve gotten in there. The wiseguy in back gives me a cold stare as I join him. Neither DiGrassi nor the driver bother looking at me. The car takes off, driving straight down Centennial Avenue until it reaches Revere Beach Boulevard, then takes a right, goes through the rotary and on to Winthrop Parkway. The car keeps driving until it reaches a small battered-looking Colonial a few blocks from the ocean. We’re on a dead-end street, no neighbors in sight, and close enough to one of the runways at Logan Airport where the noise of the planes taking off is deafening. We all get out of the car. As isolated as the place is, I doubt anybody sees us. The two wiseguys crowd me and hustle me into the house. DiGrassi tails behind.

They take me into the basement. Nobody’s talking. The house shakes for a half a minute with the rumbling of a plane taking off. One of the wiseguys picks up a sword – the type a samurai might use – and unsheathes it. While he runs his thumb over the blade, he grins at me. It’s a nasty grin, kind of like he’s telling me how much he hopes he gets to hack me up with that sword. I don’t pay him any attention. I don’t pay any of them any attention.

DiGrassi speaks to me for the first time. He has a tenor’s voice. Smooth, melodic, it makes me think of my pop’s old records, the ones he used to play every Sunday. The voice doesn’t fit DiGrassi’s thick body and craggy, badly scarred face. He calls me punk, asks me how old I am. I tell him my name’s Lenny March, not punk.

The wiseguy holding the sword hits me with its hilt in the stomach. I don’t show any reaction to it. I think I surprise DiGrassi by not doubling over. At least, his right eyebrow arches for a second.

“I didn’t ask you for your name, asshole,” he says. “I know your fucking name. Ernie Arlosi knows your fucking name. How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“How the fuck d’you get so shitbrained dumb in only twenty years?” he asks.

I can’t help smiling. The words coming out of his mouth just don’t match his high tenor’s voice. The other wiseguy hits me in the mouth hard enough to loosen teeth. I taste blood, but I don’t show any reaction other than that little smile of mine.

DiGrassi moves his face so it’s inches from mine, so when he yells a spray of spit hits me. “You know who the fuck I am?”

“Yeah.”

“You know who I work for?”

I nod.

“So how come you’re so fucking stupid that you’re going to beat up and rob a childhood friend of Mr Lombard’s?”

I don’t bother saying anything. I had no idea about it. I just thought Arlosi was some fat fuck in the neighborhood who shot his mouth off too much. DiGrassi moves his face an inch or too closer and roars at me that he wants to know who the other two fucks were who were with me. I stare back at him, still with the quarter-inch grin on my lips. I’m not going to tell him shit.

He backs away and his two thugs go to work. Every time they knock me down, I get back up on my feet. I don’t show them shit. Nothing in my eyes, nothing in my expression. If this is the way it’s going to end, so be it. Fuck them is all I can think.

A loud booming noise echoes in the basement. DiGrassi has pulled out a bigass gun and has blown a hole in the wall. His two thugs back away from me, and he fires three more shots into the same wall, then comes forward pressing the red-hot gun muzzle against my cheek, burning me. “I’ve had it with your bullshit,” he yells, more spit flying into my face. “You give me those names now or I blow a fucking hole through your skull!”

I say nothing. I meet his stare, my own eyes dead. A snarl comes over his thick lips and he pulls the trigger.

Click.

The gun must’ve only had four bullets, and DiGrassi used them when he shot into the wall. He’s grinning at me now, his two wiseguys laughing softly.

“The fucking balls on this,” he tells his two wiseguys. “Not even a flinch.” He looks me over, his grin growing wider. “Didn’t piss his pants, and it don’t smell like he crapped them either.”

“A tough one,” one of the wiseguys says.

DiGrassi nods, then tells me that my two buddies gave me up. “Each of them, less than five minutes, I swear to God. Don’t worry, though, both those fuckers got worse beatings than you got.”

So I realize what this is all about. An initiation, to see what I’m made of. And I passed. Still, I ask him what the fuck he wants with me, my voice not quite right given how swollen my mouth and jaw is, and how pissed I am at Steve and Joey. DiGrassi puts a meaty arm around my shoulder, looks at me with something close to respect.

“Kid, you did good,” he says. “You showed real stones, and just as important, you ain’t a rat. We can use someone like you. I want you to call me in a week after you’ve gotten a chance to clean up and get those bumps and bruises healed up, and we’ll see if we can work something out.”

He digs into his pocket and gives me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. I nod, put the paper away. He’s appraising me, frowning slightly.

“March, what type of name is that?” he asks.

“My pop’s family name was Marcusi. He changed it to March.”

“Why the fuck’d he do that?”

I don’t know the answer so I don’t bother saying anything. DiGrassi’s giving me a harder look, his frown growing deeper.

“You ain’t full-blooded Italian, are you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, my mom’s family came over from Germany.”

“She at least Catholic?”

I again shake my head.

“Ah, fuck it,” he says. “I wish you were full-blooded, but we can still use someone like you. Give me a call.”

I tell him I will.