Santa Maria & the Goombah

Chapter VI

The Moschowitz Caper

Was Angelo’s impotency psychosomatic? Whether it was or not, this deficiency fed a green-eyed monster that raised its ugly head whenever Angelo caught any man sweet-talking his Maria. No matter how innocent or casual was the relationship, Angelo saw more. Normally a gentle giant, this massive man could quickly transform into a knee-cracking goombah, it was in his blood. The Italians have a word for this need to inflict severe bodily harm. They call it—I malanimo.

“This Moschowitz, he say nice things to my Maria—But why? To take some improprio vantaggio—improper advantage, of her innocenza,” and as Angelo chewed on the peddler’s possible motives, his eyes narrowed with mal-intent. “Questo mondo—This world, is full of diavoli! an’ Maria, she no understand such things.” His eyes narrow with keen suspicion. “I gonna keep one eye on this silver-tongue-Jake- Moschowitz wise-guy.”

In his impotence-breed insecurity—fermenting out of his inability to service his wife—Angelo tried to compensate by expressing his love in his appetite for her food, but deep within he knew he was failing his Maria. His only solution was, as he saw it,”I gotta elimino lo competizione—eliminate the competition.”

In his days as the Figurelli white-goods-and-religious-relic peddler, Jake Moschowitz brought to Maria’s door many of her dearly-cherished symbols of her faith that now adorn her very Catholic home and, because of this and more, to Maria, Jake was a cherished friend.

They spent many a long and quiet afternoon in Maria’s kitchen, the two of them alone in conversation, sometimes for hours; Maria often becoming spellbound by Jake’s worldly tales and by the depth of his hazel-blue eyes, and then there was always that bit of juicy neighborhood gossip; and when their talks, skirting sex, grew intent and their bodies close, perhaps too close for mere friends, Jake Moschowitz, knowing well the Figurelli reputation, would shout to himself, “Are you crazy! This is the wife of the Big Bear! You can’t let it happen.”

The trouble was sweet-talking Jake Moschowitz had this thing, this mischievous penchant for playing with fire, and especially when the fire was an Italian mobster’s wife. It excited him so. These wives were the cream of sexuality, and not only good lookers and built—built just like what Jake loved—but too, getting back to business, they had wads of dough to buy his white goods and relics, and price was never a factor.

The story he told these women, about his gimp, and how he got it from a bout with polio, was strictly a sympathy ploy to get him in the front door—

The story was true as far as he told it. What Jake didn’t tell was his bout with polio was with Antonio Polio, an Eastside goombah who caught him doing his wife. And it wasn’t really a bout—Jake didn’t make the first round. It was all over with one baseball bat crack to his left kneecap—that’s how sweet-talkin’ Jake got his gimp.

And now in courting Angelo’s saintly lady, Jake is also courting a brother to his lonely left-leg gimp.