Joey Gallo's Lament

I finally reached the club on President St. Joe Jelly and Sammy the Syrian were sitting outside on folding chairs smoking guinea stinkers and sipping espresso laced with anisette.

“What the fuck do you want kid?” Jelly growled. “You can’t come in here. You ain’t even a fucking wop.”

You might wonder how a two bit gangster would know who a little pischer like me was but that is how the neighborhood was in those days. Everybody knew everybody. He knew my Uncle V from the docks and he knew my Dad from the neighborhood. So it was no big deal. My Mom’s family was from Sackett St and my Grand Aunt owned  the vegetable store where Joe Jelly first learned to steal apples.

“I gotz to see Albert” I sputtered. “Joey gave me this bag and said I could only give to Albert.”

“Give to me you little prick. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t want to get Joey pissed off. Do you want to get Joey pissed off?”

Sammy piped up. “He’s got a point Jelly.”

“Fuck. Wait here.” Jelly hiked his pants up over his gut and walked into the club.

“You got balls kid. Jelly ain’t killed anything lately and it don’t matter that you a kid. It won’t be the first time.” He laughed to himself. And started scratching his ball. He only had one. Or at least that was the rumor.

I almost peed myself. He had to be kidding. But who knows with an half an A-Rab. They were inscrutable. Or maybe that was the Chinamen. Anyway I was scared. I just didn’t know just how scared I had to be.

Alls I wanted was a fucking panele sandwich.