Joey Gallo's Lament

Joey and Bobby B were smoking cigarettes when the kid came out of the station with his father. The two gangsters watched as they turned left and walked down Union toward Henry St. Ryan stood across the street on the stoop of the precinct watching them with his arms folded and his fedora low over his caveman forehead. If they followed them Ryan was sure to follow them. Looked at each other and simultaneously threw the smoked out butt on the floor and turned right to walk toward Columbia St.

“Why the fuck is the kid talking to the cops” Joey asked. “I thought he was gonna keep his mouths shut. Fuck.”  “Kelly the cop is his cousin or some shit. Maybe he called him to find out what he knows. By the way what the fuck does he know” asked Bobby B as he adjusted his bell bottoms. He had to dress young to fit in with the kids he sold drugs too down by the college bars.

“What are you a fuckin comedian you jerkoff” growled Joey. “You know the plumbers kid right? He came out just before and his old man walked in with the Kelly’s so maybe that was what it was about. I want you to go by Scuzzi’s tonight and talk to Flynn. Tell him I will owe him one. Don’t fuck this up Bobby.” “No Joe don’t worry. I will find out what the fuck is going on. I promise.”

They walked over the bridge over the Gowanus Expressway at Union that was one of the links between the two parts of the neighborhood. The focus used to be Columbia Street and the docks that were the lifeblood of the Italian community. They moved there in waves to find the gold that was thrown in the streets. There was no gold. There was a chance to make a life. The tough thrived. The stubborn endured. The weak died. Sooner rather than later. Life went on regardless.

The docks were an endless source of bounty. The commerce of America ran through the streets. The longshoreman had a racket. The racketeer’s controlled it. They would take the crates and drop them off the side of the ship onto the dock. The coopers would get the barrels and crates to repair. They would take out the contents and fill the crate with rocks. They would bind it up with metal hoops and send it on it’s way. They didn’t know that they were robbed until it went out to Kansas or Ohio or wherever the hell they were shipping it. Meanwhile the contents would find their way to the neighborhood to be peddled ten cents to the dollar. Dresses. Watches. Now in the sixties it was TV’s and electronics. Tape recorders. Jap shit from some guy called Sony or Sonny or something.

Joey had started out as one of those kids peddling that shit. He would rip off a bunch of bananas from a shipment or a case of grapes and sell it down Henry St. to the rich people in Brooklyn Heights. Now he was above that. He got a taste of some of the money. Occasionally he was called in to run a bigger heist if there was something they specifically targeted. Not so much anymore. He wasn’t getting any of the cream. Old Man Profaci had a hand in that. Or at least that is what Larry thought. But it could have been Tough Tony who put the kibosh on it. After all Joey and the Barbershop quartet had killed his brother under the towel while he was taking a shave at the hotel barbershop. Everybody knew who was involved. Or at least guessed. That could have gotten him blackballed just as fast.

They crossed over Columbia and turned left to go to the President St clubhouse. There were no pushcarts. Many of the businesses that had thrived there were thinking of moving up to Court St. The hub of the neighborhood had changed somehow. It was no longer the docks. Maybe that was overstating it. It was just that people wanted to move up to Court St. They were talking about putting another bank on Court St. For the longest time the only bank had been First National City on Union St between Hicks and Columbia. Everybody in the neighborhood cashed their checks there. The kids from Sacred Hearts put their dollars in their Christmas Club every month. If they moved it up to Court St it would be one more knife in the heart.

It seemed that everything on this side of the highway was becoming the wrong side of the tracks. The Gallo’s had a lot to do with that. Their violent and criminal ways had beaten down too many people. The Pad let them do what they wanted because the cops wouldn’t fuck with their own rice bowl. But the people on the other side of the highway just seemed a little classier. New people had moved in. Lawyers. Doctors. Teachers. The brownstones had attracted them. It was far from the trendy neighborhood it would become. But the process had started. The Gallo’s could smell it. It made them uneasy.

Joey was the only one who didn’t care. He was still the King. Or at least the Prince. He felt that way and he would damned if he wouldn’t act that way. Nobody was gonna stand in his way. Not old man Profaci. Not the Snake and the other capos. Not the fuckin Mick cop’s like Kelly and Ryan. He had to make his move now.

Joey turned to Bobby B as he opened the door to club. “Remember don’t fuck this up you chooch. I want to know what the kid was doing there. Don’t you do anything stupid. Just get me the info and come right back and tell me. Or Larry if I ain’t here.” Joey looked at him even more intently. It was his crazy face. It almost made Bobby shit. “Don’t fuck this up.” He walked in the door and it slammed behind.

Bobby B just stood there and exhaled for a minute. He shakily took out a Camel and lit it and sucked in the smoke. He better not fuck it up. It would be his ass.