The Law of Second Chances

12

New York City, September 1966

Johnny was bigger, stronger, and faster when the next football season rolled around. He worked out for weeks before the start of practice; he even stopped smoking. He took his cue on that from Frankie, who was one of the few guys in the neighborhood who didn’t smoke. Johnny hoped like hell Frankie didn’t stop drinking beer.

Ever since he’d become a member of the Lexingtons, his status in the neighborhood had changed. Johnny wasn’t just an obscure punk anymore-he was one of the guys. And he was part of everything they did, whether it was playing cards at Frankie’s on Friday night, going to Rockaway Beach for the weekend during the summer, or stealing cases of beer from the basement of Fellino’s Market-Mikey had figured out a way to slip through the basement bars. One night they took two cases out and stored them up at Frankie’s apartment.

The next day Sonny Fellino, the owner’s son, a twenty-something-year-old who was big and tough as nails, lined four of them up against the wall in front of the store and grilled them-Johnny and Mikey, Norman Martin and Frankie. Sonny was sure they were the thieves.

“You guys are gonna tell me who did it!” Sonny was yelling at the top of his lungs. “And if it was one of youse and you tell me right now, I’ll go easy on you.”

Nobody believed a word of it. Sonny was a bully. He wore a tight white T-shirt with his Marlboros stuck inside his rolled-up right sleeve. His hair was greased up and combed straight back except for the front, which fell over into his eyes. Admitting to anything was going to get you beaten unmercifully, and then you’d become Sonny’s slave at Fellino’s until he decided the debt had been paid.

They all held tough, however, and Sonny let them go-all except Johnny. Sonny knew he’d never get anything out of Frankie. Hell, Frankie might give him a run for his money if he tried. Same with Mikey-he was young, but he had a reputation of never backing down from anyone. Norman had two older brothers, and Sonny did not want to mess with them. That left Johnny-the weak link.

“C’mere, Johnny, I wanna talk to you,” Sonny said as he motioned him to come away from the wall. Johnny watched the others walk away, each one catching his eye and giving him a look that told him what would happen if he ever talked. He was between a rock and a hard place. He decided he needed to give Sonny something.

“You know who did it, don’t you, Johnny?” Sonny said, his left arm around Johnny’s shoulder. He was so close Johnny could smell his body odor. Johnny knew he would have to make his story good.

“Yeah, I do, Sonny. I mean, I wasn’t involved last night or nothing. Neither were the other guys. I should have told you this when it happened. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Told me what?” Sonny asked impatiently. He was in the mood to beat somebody’s ass, not to talk.

“I saw Billy Reynolds checking out your cellar the other day.”

Johnny instinctively knew that a good story had to have some truth to it, and he had come up with a beauty. Billy Reynolds was the local junkie. Heroin had not yet hit the neighborhood like it eventually would, and Billy stuck out like a sore thumb.

It was not uncommon to see Billy, wild-eyed, walking down the street in the middle of the day carrying a TV he’d stolen or a window fan he’d probably taken right out of somebody’s window. Billy used to go to the local pizza shop on Lexington Avenue, pull wads of jewelry out of his pockets that he’d stolen from who knows where, and try to sell it to Rocco, the owner. Rocco would take a piece of jewelry and ask Billy how much, Billy would start at some outrageous price, and Rocco would have him down to pennies in minutes. Johnny and Mikey were often there to witness the negotiation. It was fun to watch, but it was sad too. Billy stole from the neighborhood, and Rocco and others stole from Billy.

One of those “others” was Sonny. Billy often included Fellino’s on his rounds to sell his goods, and Sonny had bought a TV from him once, among other things. Johnny’s story had struck just the right note of believability with Sonny.

“That was some quick thinking,” Frankie told Johnny after he’d described what happened. “Mikey, you were right. Johnny is the Mayor of Lexington Avenue. A mayor’s gotta think on his feet. Only a mayor could come up with a tale like that.”

Johnny and Mikey had recently secured jobs as ushers at St. Francis, the local Catholic Church. Father Burke, the pastor, had dubbed Mikey the Mayor of Lexington Avenue because, as he told Mikey’s mother, Mikey knew more people than he did, even though he had the pulpit. Mikey, in turn, had passed the moniker on to Johnny, telling him that a mayor was smart and knew how to run things and that the description fit Johnny more than himself. The nickname hadn’t caught on in the neighborhood yet. Johnny’s story to Sonny gave it fresh legs.

Something else happened that third week of practice that changed the course of the season. Some boys from north of the unofficial Ninety-sixth Street boundary line came to join the team. There were eight of them: one white guy, one Puerto Rican, and six blacks.

Johnny never knew for sure how they ever found out there was a team called the Lexingtons that practiced in Central Park, but he had his suspicions. Frankie O’Connor lived in that neighborhood, and Frankie made a point of walking up and shaking hands with each one of these new guys. It was a message to everybody else. The coach had to be in on it, too, because the new guys were on the team from the moment they arrived.

Johnny would soon find out why.