Chapter 5: Coppers

Chapter 5: Coppers

CHAPTER 5

COPPERS

Wilmington—26 Years Ago

I

woke up happy on my sixth birthday. August first was the day I was born, but Mamma Rosa made me celebrate two birthdays—the day I was born, and the day Pops named me, just in case the saints mixed them up.

School was more than a month away so we had plenty of time to do things. Plenty of time to get into trouble, my father said. He was mostly right. Tony, Frankie, and I ran that neighborhood, at least in our minds. We were six, going on eight, and wishing we were ten.

Smoking cigarettes was old hat by now. It was one of the things we lived for. Anytime we were far enough away from home or the prying eyes of a neighbor, there were smokes dangling from the left side of our mouths. Had to be the left side too. I don’t know where that came from, but somebody we saw and admired must have done it that way.

I was still lying lazily in bed when the front door opened. I heard feet pounding up the stairs.

“Get your butt up, Nicky.” Tony came in, followed by Frankie.

Frankie’s real name was Mario, named after his mother’s father, but he didn’t like the way

Mario

sounded with

Donovan

so he went by his middle name. If we wanted to piss him off, we called him

Francis

. Worked every time.

“Christ’s sake, half the day’s gone,” Tony said. “Let’s go.”

I jumped out of bed, started dressing. “What’s the rush?”

“You guys are gonna help with cleaning.”

“You prick.” Frankie said, and wrestled him to the bed.

We all laughed, then ran up the hill toward Tony’s house. The hill we lived on was steep, not San Francisco steep, but the kind of hill that was great for stick-boat races in the gutters after a summer rain, or for catching rides on the bumpers of cars when it snowed. Anyway, we were kids and running up hills was fun.

“This better not take too long,” Frankie said.

“We’ll be done in no time.” When Tony opened the front door, the sweet smell of garlic hit me. I was hungry before the storm door banged shut.

“Good morning, Mamma Rosa.”

“What are you boys up to?” She shut off the upright vacuum and pulled a dust cloth from a pocket on her old plaid dress to wipe the end table.

“We’re helping Tony clean,” I said. A few steps later we were across the living room and into the dining room.

“Coffee is in the pot, Nicky. And taste my sauce. Tell me what you think.”

Mamma Rosa called it “sauce” like the Americans did. Many of the immigrants called it “gravy” or “ragu” and got insulted if you said sauce. It was one of the few American customs Mamma Rosa adopted early on, and

nothing

was more important to her than her sauce.

“I’ll taste it in a minute, Mamma.” Coffee was always brewing at Mamma Rosa’s house, and something was usually cooking. I thought it was the way

all

houses smelled—that wonderful aroma of coffee, and garlic, and red sauce. I poured a half cup of coffee and dipped my finger in the sauce. “

Perfetto,

Mamma.”

Mamma Rosa stopped cleaning to tend her spaghetti sauce. Every now and then, she wandered over to taste it, frowned, then added a pinch of garlic or a sprinkle of cheese. No matter how many times the recipe was tweaked, it seemed to need a pinch of something to make it

perfetto

.

“Nicky, taste this again.”

She hummed one of her favorite old Italian songs as she cooked. I never knew the names of them, doubted she did either, but they sounded good. I dipped my finger in and tasted the sauce. “

Perfetto,

” I said, and gave her a big hug.

Mamma Rosa treated me the same as her own kids. I remember her saying that raising me and Tony together was a blessing. To her, everything was either a blessing or a curse, and she embraced both with appropriate passion.

“It’s for your birthday. Not today, the other one.” She leaned against the stove and laughed. The way her belly shook made me smile. “Aren’t you glad I gave you two birthdays?”

“Sure am, Mamma Rosa. That’s one extra time I get your meatballs.”

Tony raced down the steps into the kitchen. “Ciao, Mamma. We’re done.”

“Where are you boys off to?”

“Try to find some work. Maybe stack boxes at the grocery store,” Tony called over his shoulder.

“Don’t spend all you earn.”

“We won’t,” Tony said.

We headed out the front door, down three worn concrete steps and across the yard, the smell of fresh-cut grass tickling my nose. Six more steps took us to the sidewalk.

Frankie acted nervous before we hit the next street. “I’m almost out of cigs.”

“Need to get some money,” Tony said.

I checked my pack. “I got two.”

“One,” said Frankie.

I gave both of them a hard glare. “I’m not stealing any.”

“Let’s go to Johnny’s and carry bags,” Tony said.

Frankie took a long drag on his last cigarette. “Nobody’s gonna pay us to carry bags.”

“Up those hills they will. Find us a couple of sweet old ladies, and

bam

—we got some bucks.”

We walked ten blocks to Johnny’s Meat Market, inconveniently situated halfway down one steep hill and at the bottom of another, ensuring that most everyone had to carry their groceries up a hill. For two hours we asked people if we could carry their grocery bags, hoping to earn tips. By mid-morning we earned enough for a pack of cigs, but only one.

“Screw this,” Frankie said. “Go get some, Nicky.”

The cigarettes were in racks above the checkout counters, too high for any of us to reach. “I’m not doing it.”

“I’ll do it,” Frankie said. “Get in position and make it something good.”

Tony and I went in and moved to the right while Frankie pretended to look at comic books. Tony bumped into a metal rack of canned beans. When the cashier came to help, Frankie jumped onto the counter and grabbed packs as fast as he could.

All of a sudden a customer yelled, “Hey, kid, get the hell off there.”

Frankie leapt off the counter and dodged a stack of magazines, but ran into the arms of Johnny, owner of the meat market. Frankie scrambled to get away, but Johnny had “butcher hands,” as we called them; there was no way Frankie was breaking his grip.

Frankie’s old man would kill him if he got caught, so instead of running, I rammed into Johnny’s side, breaking his hold on Frankie. We ran for the door but Johnny caught me, holding me like a vise.

I sat in the

chair at the cop station, scared shitless. Two cops had been grilling me for an hour. It was a hot, sticky day, and they had the windows closed, probably on purpose.

The tall cop, Moynihan, handed me a bottle of Coke. “Remember your name yet, kid?”

“I gotta pee.”

“Not until you tell us your name.”

“And who you were with,” the other cop said.

“Already told you. Wasn’t with anyone.”

The second cop, a young black guy, leaned down to look me in the eye. “Johnny said two other boys were with you, and one of them stole cigarettes. A customer said the same thing.” He smiled. “Nobody will get in trouble if you tell us what happened.”

“Two other dagos,” Moynihan said.

I looked up at his Irish-whiskey face and nose. “I know the kids you mean. I don’t know their names, but I think they were dirty micks.”

Moynihan reared back to smack me but his partner shook his head. He stepped in close and whispered, “Johnny said they were dark-haired and looked Italian. The one who stole the cigarettes had a birthmark on his neck.”

I stared at the black cop. “No offense to you, sir, but they must’ve been black Irish.” I turned to Moynihan after I said it. “I really gotta pee, bad.”

Moynihan sneered at me. “As soon as you tell us who you were with.” He laughed as he left the room.

I waited, then waited some more. I had to piss so bad it hurt. I stuck my hand down my pants and held my dick, squeezing it to stop from peeing. It helped at first, but soon got worse. I thought about telling them my name, but knew it would hurt Rosa. Besides, I couldn’t get Tony and Frankie in trouble.

Twenty minutes later they returned. Moynihan wore an are-you-ready-to-talk-kid smile. I gave him a screw-you smile in return. “Bring me any Coke?”

Moynihan looked around the room, checked under the table, then looked in the trash can where I’d pissed. “You little fuck.” He stretched across the table and slapped me, knocking me from the chair.

His partner grabbed him, but he shook it off. “Tommy, leave it alone.”

Moynihan yanked me up with one hand and slapped me again. “Little bastard.” He slammed me into the chair and shoved it into the table, squishing my gut. “You’ll tell us who you were with before you leave here, or I swear—”

By then I was crying, nose bleeding.

“That’s enough. I’m through with it,” the partner said.

The door to the interrogation room opened.

“Pops.” I pushed the chair back and ran, jumping into his arms.

My pops was a short, muscular man with a hooked nose and dark complexion. When he was angry he got a terrible, scary look in his eyes. He hugged me then set me down. He cleaned the trickle of blood from my lip, wiped my nose with a handkerchief from his back pocket then folded it and put it away. Moynihan turned his head when Pops glared at him. It was that day I realized how frightening Pops’ eyes were.

“Who are

you?

” the partner asked Pops.

Pops picked me up and headed for the door. As we were leaving I heard Moynihan whisper, “You know who that was?”

“No idea.”

“Dante Fusco.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t know why that scared them, and I didn’t care. I was glad to be going home.