Night Work

CHAPTER 4

The Italian Pioneers Social Club was located on a quiet but accessible side street less than three blocks from the part of the city where Frank had grown up. The neighborhood hadn't changed at all in the six years since his departure, and many of the same people inhabited the streets, corners and alleys. During particularly hot times such as these, the area came to life in a vibrant and lusty way all its own. Children played in the street, rode their bicycles, skipped rope, tossed footballs or baseballs, formed pick-up basketball scrimmages on the local courts, and danced through the powerful spray of freshly de-capped fire hydrants. Older women leaned on windowsills, watching the festivities below, swapping stories and gossip with neighbors, while men, most clad in shorts and T-shirts, took up residence in plastic or metal lawn chairs they had strategically arranged in front of stoops and various establishments. The constant smell of fresh foods and pastries mixed with those normally associated with city life, and a feeling of security and trust unique to the neighborhood blanketed the area.

Although most of Frank's memories were pleasant, he never visited the neighborhood and generally went out of his way to avoid even passing through it. This was a place where time stood still – a fact that only helped to feed his often-manic desire to move forward with life. And since his parents had relocated four years prior to a nice but modest home in the nearby town of Acushnet, distancing himself from the streets he'd grown up on had become much easier.

Vincent parked directly in front of the club, an unassuming brick building with a single front entrance and a small dark window facing the street. Two men in their early twenties hung around near the door. "How's it going, fellas?"

"Good, Vin," the taller of the two said. "How you been?"

"Beautiful. Is Michael here yet?"

"Inside," the other man told him. "Nice ride. What'd that set you back?"

Vincent ignored the question and turned to Frank. "All set?"

Frank answered with a nod and followed him through the door. He'd been by this building thousands of times as a child, had seen people come and go at all hours of the day and night, but had never once stepped foot inside. Some of the kids in the neighborhood had gotten part-time jobs there serving drinks, parking cars, or helping out with whatever needed to be done, but Frank's father had always forbidden him to associate with that aspect of the community. As he moved into a cramped and dimly lit foyer, he couldn't help but wonder what his father would think of him now.

Illumination remained sparse as the lobby emptied into a larger main room. The walls were an odd tan color, the floor a basic industrial tile, and since there were no windows the only light was provided by hooded lamps suspended from the ceiling. Against the back wall sat a classic neon-faced jukebox in pristine condition, Vic Damone crooning through the large metallic speakers. The piece looked out of place – too ornate in such an otherwise drab setting. Several tables were scattered about; a few of them occupied by old men sipping coffee or playing cards. None of them looked up or acknowledged Vincent and Frank's arrival in any way. In an alcove at the rear of the building was a full kitchen where numerous mouth-watering smells were overshadowed by the predominant aroma of garlic.

A fat man dressed in slacks, suspenders that hung loosely at his sides and a T-shirt stretched to the brink of destruction over his enormous belly, stood peering into a pot of tomato sauce, looking as if he'd mistakenly dropped an item of value into it just seconds before. His face bore an expression of discomfort as perspiration trickled the length of his bloated cheeks. The few black strands of hair that remained on his head had been combed straight back over his sweaty dome, and his pencil-thin mustache seemed only to underscore the sag of an already immense nose.

"Hey," someone to Frank's right said. Two men sat at a table in the corner next to a small bar. Vincent approached them, greeting his brother Michael with a bright smile. They embraced as if they hadn't seen each other in months then turned their attention to Frank. "Mike, you remember Frank."

"Sure," he said, extending his hand. "Good to see you."

"How are you, Michael?" Frank nervously accepted the much larger man's hand. In a lightweight v-neck sweater and a pair of pleated slacks, it was the first time Frank had seen him in anything but a suit. "You're looking good."

Michael Santangelo was a taller, thinner version of his brother. He had the same thick hair, the same black eyes and a similar gait, but his nose was smaller and his chin less pronounced. "You're looking good yourself." He possessed a smile considerably more reserved than Vincent's. "How's the family?"

"Good, good."

The second man at the table, Gino Fratenzza, remained seated throughout. Dressed in a polo shirt, chinos, and an expensive pair of Reeboks, he looked more like a banker on his day off than the terror Frank knew him to be. His salt and pepper hair, slightly receded, was cut short and styled accordingly, and his striking ice-blue eyes contrasted nicely with his olive skin. He was lean but still powerfully built for a man in his early sixties, and his handsome features combined with his overall demeanor to form a nearly elegant presence.

"Mr. Fratenzza," Vincent said fondly as they shook hands, "you look terrific."

He smiled, revealing a set of capped teeth. "It's good to see you, Vincent."

Vincent moved aside, put a hand on Frank's shoulder. "I'd like you to meet Frank Ponte."

"Hello, Frank."

They shook hands. Fratenzza's palm was soft, his grip firm but not aggressive. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Sit down," Michael told them.

Fratenzza smiled at Vincent. "I see you're still working out."

"Sure, now and then."

"Just be careful not to take it too far. You don't want to wind up looking like one of those freaks. I can't understand how anyone finds that attractive."

"Now they got broads doing it too," Michael chimed in. "Have you seen this? Freakin' disgusting. There was a bunch of them on TV just the other night. I swear to God some of them had dicks. They looked like guys in eye makeup and bikinis, for Christ's sake."

Fratenzza motioned to the man stirring the tomato sauce in the kitchen. "Now there's a perfect example of a guy who took the whole workout thing too far. He never knows when to take a day off from the gym, this one."

"A regular Mr. Universe," Michael chuckled.

Vic DeNicco wiped sweat from his brow with a paper napkin and smiled. "Sure, sure. Pick on the fat man."

"How you been, Vic?" Vincent asked.

"Hungry."

"You're amazing. You never seem to gain a pound. You been right at that four, five hundred mark since I was a kid."

"Hey, blow me."

"Like I got all day to look for that little thing."

"Kiss my ass then."

"Spit and gimme a clue."

"Lick my brown eye, homo."

Vincent turned to the others at the table. "I'd have to roll him in flour and look for the fucking wet spot."

Everyone laughed, including Vic, who pointed a stubby finger at Vincent and waddled closer to the table. "I ain't seen this little prick in what – four or five months – and already he's breaking my balls?"

Michael looked at Fratenzza. "You shouldn't let him talk to you like that, Gino." Again, the room filled with laughter. Vic, laughing harder and louder than anyone, headed back to the kitchen.

Once they had all settled down Fratenzza leaned back a bit in his chair and crossed his legs. "It's good to see young people laughing and having a good time," he said smoothly. "I enjoy being around people who don't take everything so seriously. These days everyone's too easily offended. We've lost the ability to laugh at ourselves."

A sudden vision of this placid man pinning a woman to the ground and severing her ear with a knife flooded Frank's mind. He ignored it.

"You're absolutely right," Michael said. "That's why having somebody like Vic to laugh at is so important."

Fratenzza sipped espresso from a small cup while the others chuckled. When they had finished he'd dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and looked directly at Frank. "Vic's been with me for a lot of years, even longer than Michael. He's loyal – do anything in the world for me – and never has a gripe. In twenty-some years as friends I don't ever remember hearing him complain. Making fun of him has become something of a tradition around here, and as with everything else, he takes it all in stride. But let me tell you something: Men like Vic are hard to find."

Frank nodded, unsure of what to say.

"He's a good egg," Michael agreed.

"Tell me about yourself, Frank," Fratenzza said.

"What would you like to know?"

His face hinted at a smile. "Good answer."

"I'm originally from the neighborhood. I've known Vincent and Michael since junior high school."

"Is your father alive?"

"Yes."

"What's his name?"

"Joseph."

Fratenzza thought for a moment. "Joseph Ponte doesn't ring a bell. Do I know him, Frank?"

"I don't believe so."

Frank suspected Fratenzza already knew the answers to the questions he was asking, and was putting him through the process for reasons that had little to do with ascertaining accurate responses to such mundane inquiries.

"What does your father do for work?"

"He's a teacher at Saint Mary's in Fall River. He and my mother moved out of the neighborhood a few years back."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"Not yet."

Fratenzza nodded, deeming the reply acceptable. "I always like to see young men attempting a better life. Too many youngsters are lazy today. We've got an entire generation of people convinced the world owes them a living. Between MTV, the ridiculous clothes kids wear today and that horrible rap music they listen to – which isn't even music to begin with – their brains are rotting. It's a shame."

"It's the niggers." Michael sighed. "They're the problem. You got white kids running around trying to be black. I mean, Christ, you can't turn on the TV or the radio without having nigger after nigger jammed down your throat, you know? It's fucking ridiculous. Seen an NBA game lately? Good luck finding even one white guy on the court. Ten percent of the goddamn country and we let them run the place."

"I have a lot of respect for the colored," Fratenzza said evenly. "You've got girls who already have two or three kids by the time they're fourteen, fifteen years old. They sit home and watch TV while the government pays for everything. You think that's stupid? You got kids who don't even graduate high school walking down to the corner welfare office for checks every month – teenagers who've already figured out how to milk the system – they never work a day in their lives. That doesn't sound too stupid to me. The stupid one's the kid who goes to some sucker job for minimum wage when he can get it for free. No, I respect the colored. I don't want them living next door to me, don't misunderstand, I'm only saying they're not as stupid as people make them out to be, and at the rate they're having kids it won't be long before they're the majority. Then you better pray they never get organized."

"They're too busy shooting each other and selling drugs in their own communities to be a threat to anyone else," Michael scoffed.

"Michael, you're terribly racist."

"Fuck them."

Frank tried to mask his discomfort. Unfortunately racism was always a potential part of any neighborhood, but he had not been raised that way and didn't share the bigoted views being tossed about so effortlessly. In normal company, had anyone said anything like that he would have spoken up immediately and vehemently. But this time he sat silently and let their hatred spew freely like the palpable thing it was.

Fratenzza laughed lightly; turned to Vincent and Frank. "Let me tell you something. You can spend your lives working and sweating so somebody else can get rich, or you can put the same effort and dedication into making yourselves successful. I've never understood why anybody would want someone else to reap the rewards of their labor – it makes no sense to me."

"That's exactly why we want to make this move," Vincent said quickly. "It's an opportunity to get inside a business that's nearly impossible for outsiders to break into. With the right financial backing I really believe Frank and I can make a go of this."

"Why wrestling?" Fratenzza asked.

"There's a lot of money to be made," Frank explained, gaining confidence in his ability to contribute. "With the right people involved."

Vincent let his forearms rest on the table between them. "Right now everything is run by the old guard. I think we can bring a fresh perspective to the business."

"The only reason I ask is because several good businesses exist for two enterprising young men like yourselves. Dry cleaning, for example, is a tremendous avenue. Liquor stores are another. When was the last time you saw one of them go out of business? Michael's involved with both types of operations, he can tell you how profitable they can be."

"I've suggested several ventures I could help them with," Michael explained. "Businesses more mainstream in nature. But their only interest is in promotions."

Fratenzza nodded thoughtfully. "I know nothing about the wrestling business myself, of course, but I'm sure you and Frank have given this a great deal of thought. If you're prepared, and Michael's kind enough to help you get started, I see no reason why you shouldn't go ahead with your plans."

"Thank you." Vincent smiled.

Fratenzza's eyes shifted back to Frank. "I'm happy to offer you advice and friendship, but unfortunately I'm not in a position to help financially. I've had only modest success in business myself, you understand."

At least on paper, that statement was true. His oceanfront homes in Rhode Island and Florida were in his wife's name. All three of his cars were leases obtained for free through one of several dealerships he was involved with, and again listed in his wife's name. Although he owned an enormous amount of local commercial real estate, it too was listed in other names or under the umbrella of dummy corporations that could never be traced back to him. The only thing Fratenzza admitted ownership of was a modest cigarette and coffee vending machine business. As far as the IRS was concerned, he earned between thirty and forty thousand dollars a year. No one knew for sure how much he was actually worth, but between his legitimate businesses and his sizable take from all the loan shaking, bookmaking, protection, and drug trafficking in southeastern Massachusetts and parts of Rhode Island, Gino Fratenzza was a millionaire several times over.

He'd run the area for years, and in what were known as "Fratenzza neighborhoods" life was good. In the community where Frank had grown up everyone knew that Fratenzza and his associates were in charge. Everyone knew they took money from local businesses for protection; operated as shylocks and bookmakers, and involved themselves in all sorts of sordid and illegal activities, only no one cared, because while these men terrorized other people in other places, in their own neighborhoods things could not have been safer. No drugs were sold in the neighborhood; no one worried about being mugged or raped; shootings and street gang warfare happened elsewhere. Fratenzza ran neighborhoods where old women could walk the street after dark without fear, and young children could play without being bothered or threatened. On those rare occasions when something negative did occur, those responsible for breaking the rules were dealt with harshly, and Fratenzza's men made sure everyone either heard about the punishments or witnessed them firsthand.

A deliveryman who had lured a young girl into the back of his truck and then molested her was castrated and dismembered alive, the remains of his body then dumped at the edge of the neighborhood for the police to collect. A man who had stolen money from the local church had had his arm removed below the elbow and was made to volunteer as an evening custodian at the rectory for the remainder of his life. Two teenagers from the south end of the city who had sold drugs in Fratenzza's protected territory were executed, both shot in the back of the head and left on display on the same local playground where they had attempted to conduct business only hours before. By most Fratenzza and his men were viewed as heroes instead of gangsters, something that made the daily operation of their businesses that much easier.

Michael Santangelo was the second in command beneath Fratenzza in the local area. His father, John, had grown up with Fratenzza and had been a close confidante and business associate for many years. When Michael was eighteen and Vincent just twelve, their father was sent to prison for multiple counts of tax evasion and racketeering. It was common knowledge that he had taken the fall for Fratenzza and several others and because of this his family was well provided for.

Three months into his ten-year sentence, John Santangelo was stabbed to death in what was termed a "dispute between inmates". Fratenzza helped John's wife and two sons move from Rhode Island to New Bedford, and set her up with enough money to continue to enjoy the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. A few years later she remarried and moved to Florida. Fratenzza gave Michael an apartment where he and Vincent could live and put him on the payroll.

Michael began his career in the muscle end of the business. Although he was young, he was fiercely loyal to Fratenzza and quickly earned a reputation for being one of the bloodier, more dangerous enforcers in his stable. As the years came and went, Michael's responsibilities grew, and he eventually ended up working as private bodyguard to Fratenzza. Some time later he was given small interests in some of the loan-sharking, bookmaking, protection, narcotics, and money laundering operations. When he demonstrated a flair for business and began generating enormous profits, others above him were systematically removed, and soon Michael was running an area that included a piece of the profit from the region's enormous fishing industry, liquor stores, car dealerships, dry cleaners, nightclubs, vending routes, and even the sale of paper goods and concessions to local hotels and restaurants. Eventually, Michael took over all ventures under Gino Fratenzza's control, and was recognized by those in positions of power in Boston, Providence, and beyond, as his eventual successor.

"You're advice and friendship is more than enough," Vincent said. "Obviously, Frank and I can learn a lot from you."

Fratenzza smiled warmly. "You and Michael are like sons to me, you know that."

"You've always been good to me, and I appreciate it."

Fratenzza shifted his eyes between Vincent and Frank as he spoke. "It's important to remember who your friends are," he said softly, his face showing no expression. "Real friends never let anything or anyone come between them. Not money, not women – nothing. And of course no real friendship can ever be a one-way street."

"Of course," Vincent said.

Fratenzza looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. "Vic, have Dave get my car." He turned back to the table. "I'd love to stay and visit but I've got a full day planned with the wife. I wish you boys nothing but the best."

After another round of handshakes Michael walked Fratenzza to the door. "That's it, Vin?" Frank asked in a whisper.

"That's it. I told you, it's just a formality."

"Now that I've met him, Fratenzza's not what I expected."

"These guys never are."

Michael returned to the table. "That went well."

"When can we get this thing rolling?" Vincent asked.

"Come by the office tomorrow and I'll take care of it," he said. "Just make sure you guys do the right thing, all right?"

Vincent rolled his eyes. "Come on, Mike, don't bust my balls."

"All I need is some sort of steady payment. If youse run into a problem, come to me and we'll work it out."

"I understand," Frank assured him.

Vincent folded his thick forearms across his chest and winked at his brother. "We'll have the vig paid in no time. Don't worry about it."

Michael's face looked as if it had been set in stone. "I'm not worried."

Frank felt a sudden chill and forced himself to smile. From the kitchen, Vic DeNicco announced that lunch was served and Michael invited them to stay.

Frank was relieved when Vincent politely declined. He couldn't have eaten a bite if there had been a gun to his head. And in a way, there was.