Cent'Anni!

When George was still a teenager, he had decided to become an actor. He used to go over to the Astoria Film Studios in Queens and wait around in case some director needed extras. The studios had used him four or five times before he got his big break. He appeared in a supporting role as a Latin lover -- the Tango dancer who didn't get the girl -- in a late Astoria silent film.

Though George clearly had acting ability, he still needed a stable source of income between films. One of the cinematographers took a liking to George and suggested that the young man train as a projectionist. Just before he met Jennie, George found a union job with good money and benefits at a Brooklyn theater. With marriage and responsibilities, he put aside his dream of becoming the next Rudolph Valentino.

But George hadn't given up emoting entirely. Now certain that Sal Nuzzi had menaced Papa, George knew better than to accuse Sal directly. Instead, George decided that he would play the fox in sheep's clothing.

The obvious thing to do would be to appeal to the Nuzzi honore. Crooks though Dom and Paulie were, they had a certain standing in the community. His brothers wouldn't like it that Sal had threatened to carve up a sick, hard-working, bereaved old man. It made them look bad. Nevertheless, George couldn't go to them to complain about their brother.

It was essential, moreover -- for Papa's health and his own -- that Sal retain una bella figura, a good face, and not lose his temper. Taking the role of the submissive petitioner, George would ask Sal to talk to the fellow who had paid Papa a visit.

When he was in school, George had read somewhere -- maybe it was a Jack London story -- that in a fight between wolves, if the defeated one bares his throat, the victor will not attack him. With that thought, he approached the Nuzzi's lot on Elizabeth Street. As with wolves, so with men, George hoped. He nervously stretched his neck, opened his collar button, adjusted his tie and entered the shack.

Overdressed in a double-breasted navy suit, Sal was seated behind a desk going over invoices. His brothers insisted he keep the books of their coal and ice business up to date just in case the cops raided the place. Barely glancing up, Sal muttered, "Yeah, whadda ya want?"

George cleared his throat nervously. "Do you remember me, Sal?"

Finally giving his visitor his full attention, Sal squinted. Then he grinned.

"Jeez, is that you, George? What can I do ya for?"

George tried to seem unsure about how to begin. He began to stammer -- despite himself, as it were. "Years ago, your brothers told me to come see them if I ever needed a favor." He hesitated for a moment. "You probably don't know about it. You were in the hospital."

"What's on your mind, George? Name it."

"Yesterday some guy stopped at a cobbler's shop on Thompson Street and told the shoemaker that he had to pay protection money." George tried hard to sound respectful.

Sal sat back in his chair. His smile faded, and his steel-gray eyes became completely expressionless. Originally curious about what George would ask, he now just stared.

George cleared his throat. "The old man is my father-in-law, and last night he came home scared. He's got the falling sickness, and this past year, he's had armfuls of grief. His wife died eight months ago," George continued, "and he's trying to raise six kids." On behalf of Papa, George looked broken and forlorn. "The old man works twelve, fourteen hours a day. There's no extra money for protection, no extra money for anything."

Though George was putting on a grand act, every word he uttered about his father-in-law was true. "Like they say in the old country, 'La vecchiaia è una carogna,' Old age is a rotting bitch."

Sal was slow to respond. "And you think whoever was muscling the shoemaker was one of our guys?" he said watching George intently.

"No, I didn't say that," George stammered again and lowered his eyes, "but I thought you might be able to find out who it was and ask him to leave the old man alone."

"On Thompson Street? Just south of Houston? A shoemaker?" Sal's brow wrinkled. He looked as if he were trying to remember the shops over there.

"You and your brothers are known to take little men like my father-in-law under your wings. It's the duty of the strong. I wouldn't have come to bother you if your brothers hadn't said…"

"O.K., O.K. Your marker's good," Sal replied almost impatiently. "If you think it will help, I'll tell my brothers to put out the word the old guy's your father-in-law and a special friend of ours." He waved away George's mumbled words of gratitude and stood up. "Good to see ya." Sal patted George on the back and limping walked George to the door.

"Nobody will bother the shoemaker again. We're sorry for his trouble. You tell him for me that he's got protection from Sal Nuzzi and his brothers. You tell him he's covered for life."

Once around the corner and out of sight, George immediately dropped his crestfallen demeanor. He was ecstatic, doing a little tap dance right in the middle of the street. Overcome with self-congratulation, he only regretted that Jennie or Cecil B. De Mille couldn't have been there. It had been his finest performance.

Ming, George Raft couldn't have done better.