20.
Eddie Mazzeo was only thirteen when he quit school, and joined the mafia. His uncle, Frankie Fingers, ran black bag and coin.
Uncle Frank was the big bop. Super daddy-o. Plugged in, living large. Bucks, broads, high-sheen suits. Creeped the streets in a black Caddy. White walls, fender skirts. Shark fins, pearl steering wheel. Staff car strut.
Eddie worked the drops. He also helped Uncle Frankie swipe a pinky, with a diamond to go. Held the guy down while Fingers squeezed the clippers.
A warehouse in the meat packing district. This would be the only stop, barring a payment problem, that Frankie would go alone. This time, Frankie returned with a package. He climbed behind the wheel, and stuffed a paper bag into the glove box.
Frankie cranked the Caddy. He put his hand on the column shifter, and stopped.
"We got an important stop. I want you to meet somebody,"
Frankie said.
"Who’s dat?" Eddie asked.
"This guy. He’s wit' us."
"Let’s go," Eddie said. Frankie pulled out.
"This day may never come, but you gotta understand how we do things around here. I want you to see this, ’cause if it ain’t for you, I gotta know now," Frankie kept one eye on Eddie, and the other on the road.
"What a you want me to do?" Eddie asked.
"Nothing. You’re a smart kid, Eddie. I want you to meet this guy, and observe. Don’t speak unless spoken to."
"I could do dat."
"This guy we goin’ to see, is doin’ something’ really important. We gotta take this package to him so he could do the job." Eddie understood. Frankie wheeled it uptown. He pulled curbside by a diner. They slid into a booth. Frankie shook hands with a guy named Gino.
"I’d like you to meet my nephew," Frankie told Gino.
"Hey Eddie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I heard a lot about you." Gino extended his hand, Eddie shook what seemed like a catcher’s mitt. Gino had a psycho rep. Hatchet man special. He was known to chop guys up, and exterminate by any means possible. He was actually a pleasant guy, Eddie thought, even if his eyes were pulled from Dracula during a hold up.
"I understand you have something for me?" Gino asked.
"It’s in the glove box."
"I appreciate that Frankie," Gino said. He slipped Frankie a padded envelope, and eyeballed Eddie.
"Nice to meet you Eddie." Eddie shook Gino’s hand once more. Gino split, and they listened to the Caddy door open and shut. A waitress showed up, and they ordered.
Chicago Bob had to go, and the bosses thumbed Gino to pull the snuff. On the night of the hit, Eddie rode shotgun in Frankie Finger’s black Caddy. They wheeled to pick up Gino. They rode east, towards the Chelsea Hotel.
The plan: As Frankie hovered by the hotel’s entrance, Eddie would hop out. Gino would ride shotgun, Frankie would skim the street. Eddie would enter the hotel, wait ten minutes, then slip into a café. He'd wait for Frankie to scoop him up after the whack.
Frankie tilted the Caddy towards the hotel. No sign of Gino.
Frankie kept going, and made their second drive-by. Another lap.
Another. Frankie got out, and hit a phone booth. He horned the inner circle. A pissed voice.
"He ain’t here, Joey," said Frankie.
"Where are you?"
"Chelsea," Frankie answered.
"All right, hang on a minute." Frankie waited. Joey stammered. The boss stewed.
"All right…, you there?"
"Yeah, I’m with ya," Frankie said.
"Go to this address. It’s where Gino’s holed up." Frankie bolted the booth, hopped back into the Caddy, and peeled ass. He found a hydrant, and idled the Caddy.
"If you have to move it, move it," he told Eddie. Eddie slid behind the wheel. Ten minutes later, he returned.
"We gotta fuckin’ problem," Frankie said, as he swung the Caddy back into the street.
"What’s up?" Eddie asked.
"They whacked Gino." Frankie blew down a few more blocks, and found another pay phone. He dimed Joey. More pissed voices.
Frankie returned to the Caddy, and spit Eddie the info. The boss put the family on red alert.
The tail reported in. Two Caddies and a Lincoln guarded a bistro entrance. Guys in sharp suits, fedoras and wool overcoats stuffed the autos. A few chain-smoked on the curb. His date was a capo’s niece. A packed house with a jazz band, and a platoon of muscle. Whacks go down, whacks get jammed. This one, madone, really spiked the sauce.
Frankie fingered the pearl wheel. Eddie pined for the paper bag. Frankie took a deep breath. Eddie wanted to pump pills.
Frankie’s thoughts ran deep. Eddie wanted to make his bones.
The boss was desperate. Frankie passed the piece.
Eddie slipped through an alley, and entered through the kitchen. He mugged a bus boys duds off a rack. He checked the chamber, cocked the piece, and stuffed steel in his white dinner jacket. Eddie palmed the kitchen doors, hitting a dark, smoky joint. Tables topped with lanterns. A jazz band decked in tiger-stripe tuxedos aped Blues Walk on a kidney-shaped stage.
Eddie eyeballed the place, spotting Chicago Bob. A guy in a honey-mustard jacket hooked his arm.
"Hey," the waiter said.
"Yeah?" Eddie asked.
"Garlic bread. Table twelve." Eddie ignored, prowling the smoky crowd. He dipped in. The date, a blonde bee hive named Vicky. Bob cranked the lingo, lighting up the hot broad. Bob angled a bus boy. White dinner jacket, black slacks hovered close by. Too close. Get lost you little shit bird, can’t you see I’m workin’?
"Which one a you’s wanted da clams?" Eddie asked.
"Nobody ordered any clams,' Bob looked up, pissed.
"Sure about that?" Eddie said.
"Yeah, you got the wrong table. Get lost kid," Bob brushed Eddie off, back to the blonde delivery. Vicky caught another move.
"Bob," she said. The kid didn’t beat it. Chi-boy zoomed blonde tail. A small hand dug into the hot jacket. Blondie’s eyes swelled. Chicago Bob swiveled, half-looking.
"Hey, I told you to….," said Bob. Eddie squeezed. Vicky screamed. Bullets decked Chicago Bob. Gun smoke brewed.
Waiters dropped their trays, diners hit the floor. The drummer ditched Blues Walk, and dove behind the curtains. Eddie dropped the piece, and ran out the front door.
He pin-balled cashmere walls. Eyes like Gino’s pierced him.
Burly arms reached, hugging air. Eddie ran. One of the goons shouted something. The posse pardoned Eddie, and blitzed the bistro.
Eddie leaped into Uncle Frankie’s ride, and they were gone.
The New York papers dug it. The Bus Boy Trigger. Dailies flew off the racks. The public demanded more. Bulldog editions went wild.
Mister big survived the bullets, bouncing back to Chi-town.
Bosses called the kid‘s number. He sat in the backseat of a capo’s ride. They wheeled him downtown. He squeezed into corner booths, and back rooms. Finger rocks, sharkskin, diced English. Laughter. Castro cigars.
"That was a good thing you did in there." Said a capo.
"I thought you’s was gonna send me to Chicago," the kid said.
"What the hell for?"
"Don’t ya’s want me to finish da job?" Eddie asked. The capo busted a gut. His buddy choked his cigar smoke. One night, prowling with Uncle Frankie, they talked.
"You know why they like you?" asked Frankie.
"I got balls?"
"That’s beside the point, ‘cause it goes wit’ out sayin’."
"What is it, then?"
"You show initiative."
"What’s that?"
"Means you go outta the way to do the right things. The bosses, they like that. One day, they gonna open up the books, an’ straighten you out. Believe me, they gonna make you Eddie."
"They needed that guy outta the way, so I took care of him."
"That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You took initiative. Initiative--
it’s what it’s all about."
Eddie Mazzeo was fourteen when he made his bones. The name stuck, and he drilled two more gangsters before he hit fifteen. Those two weren’t as lucky as Chicago Bob.