The Ghost of Silk City

Gianni comes to my fights, but don’t fix them. I took a few dives, like he said I would. But I got a good record. I’m paying for a car and a second-floor apartment in a row-house. Diving keeps a roof over my head. I’m muscled-up now after roofing. It’s different muscle. I don’t even train hard and I’m dropping tomato cans in a round or two. I’m nineteen. Can’t get a real shot at anything that’s gonna pay though. Then out of the blue, Paul Cavaliere comes to me and says, “You want a big one?” “I’ll take what I can get,” I tell him. “Madison Square Garden. You’ll get your head beat in. You interested?” “Better than climbing ladders,” I tell him. I take a week off from roofing. I’m in the gym every day and I ain’t wore-out from swinging a hot mop before training. I been a sparring partner for the pros and now I give them hell. I took beatings before. Now I drop two pros in three days. Gianni gets wind I’m fighting at the Garden. He’s gotta make a buck. That’s his way. “You’re fightin’ Willie Epps,” he says, “He hits like a fucking mule kicks and he’s fast. Can you stay on your feet for six rounds?” “I can keep my feet. So long as I don’t have to dive,” I says. I ain’t diving at the fucking Garden. “Win or walk out standing,” Gianni says. “Then what?” I says. I don’t lower my eyes. “Say what you mean, kid. I don’t like games,” he says. “I do this and you make a buck. I get a beating. I want a job that puts me in better finances, Gianni. Even with my last name being Irish,” I says. “Christ. You was scraping bubble gum off busted shoes and now you’re a negotiator all of a sudden! Tell me you can’t go six and that’s it. Tell me you can and I’ll have a payday for you. But don’t try to make terms, kid. Big as your balls are, that’s a fool’s game.” “I ain’t scared of nobody, sir. Not even you. But I respect you. That should be worth something. If it ain’t, maybe somebody else can use me. I know the Brunos run a book. I got a shotgun, now. That’s worth something.” I say these things and Gianni’s eyes get fixed. I know I gotta stare back. It’s uncomfortable but I pretend it ain’t. I don’t know how to break the quiet. It’s better to leave it. Scared people like to make noise when they’re nervous. I keep my trap shut. I wait it out. “Can you go six?” he asks me. “Yeah,” I says. “You go six and we’ll talk.” Two days before the fight, Gus and this prick Jay Provenzano come to the gym. I’m sparring and looking at those two at the same time. I catch more punches than I should and Paul calls time. He sees what I see. Greasers ain’t supposed to be in the gym. Makes the fights look set-up. There’s an agreement about that. This is bad and he knows it. “Wash up, kid. We gotta take a ride,” Gus says. “Unless you got better places to be.” That last line tells me everything. I was good with Gianni until I mentioned going over to the Brunos. To Gianni that was an insult. A breach of loyalty. And now I gotta figure out what it’s gonna cost me. I mention the Brunos, but I don’t tell you why it’s important. See, Italy is a country, sure, but it ain’t like they all get along and wave one flag. It’s regional. Sicilians and Umbrians don’t even speak proper Italian, they got a language their own. All the regions do. You got your Calabrese, Napolitano, Abruzzese, Veneto, all looking sideways at each other, especially the Sicilians, because Sicily and Sardinia are like their own country. Gianni’s people are Sicilian. That’s your history lesson. And that’s why I shouldn’t have said nothing about working for the Brunos. Now I got Gus sitting next to me and the prick, Jay Provenzano, sitting behind me. Jay’s a two-bit bagman with a big mouth. He’s leaning against the back of my seat. I guess he figures he’s intimidating me. “Relax Jay,” I tell him. “Your breath is all garlic.” Gus gets a smirk but he don’t say nothing. “I’m relaxed, Mick,” he says. “Maybe you should be nervous though.” He’s grinning and bobbing his head like he just won something. I stay quiet. Arguing with a moron makes you both look stupid. In the first basement of Gianni’s club there’s guys sitting around sipping espressos. The club is just a spot under an Italian bakery with two basements, three exits. Back in the old days they made a deep basement to store coal, then the regular basement for the boiler. Above that a kitchen, or in this case, a bakery. This bakery didn’t bake no more. Pastries were brought in from another joint. The coffee was legit. A sign in the window said “closed” and if the club was busy, a guy out front let you know it personal. The room goes quiet. Everybody sips their espressos. Except Gianni and an old-timer he’s sitting with. “This the kid with the big balls?” the old-timer says. Gianni jerks his head toward the staircase. Me, Gus and Jay head down the steps. Gus pulls a string and the light goes on. There’s two folding chairs down there, and an old cast-iron bathtub. The old-timer says sit and I do. Then he points at Jay’s chest and says, “You too.” Jay goes white as a ghost. “This is a friend of mine,” Gianni says. “He’s an accountant now. Used to bust heads, now he crunches numbers for me. I prefer to keep the smart people doing smart things.” The guy is about seventy and he wears a hat that’s brown with a blue band and a tie that matches the band but he ain’t got a jacket on. He says, “I do the numbers, boys. We have four couriers. You two included. I know the other two are clean, but one of you, maybe both, are clipping cash. Over the last year, it’s three-thousand missing,” he says. Gus says, “I gotta cuff you.” I get hooked. Jay squirms and says he’s clean. “It’s gotta be the Irish,” Jay says. Gus cuffs him anyway. “Provenzano,” the accountant says, “I knew your grandfather. He was a good man. How about you?” “I wouldn’t take money from nobody didn’t owe me. You’re asking the wrong guy! You need to ask him!” Jay whines like the coward he is. “I didn’t ask you about money. I said your grandfather was a good guy. How about you?” “I’m a good guy,” Jay says. “You can trust me. I’m trustworthy.” “Now I’m asking you if you took the cash. Go ahead and answer.” “I already said I wouldn’t take no money that wasn’t owed me. I’m honest that way. I swear it,” he says. All the idiot had to say was no. Instead, he rambles like a fool. “You trust a blue-eyed Irish over me? How can you trust a Mick over a friend’s grandson?” The old man looks at me a full minute. I don’t say shit. “Big Balls,” he says. “You Irish?” “I ain’t Irish,” I says. “What’s your last name?” “Cox.” “You got some nerve saying you ain’t Irish with blue eyes and a name like that,” he says. “I say you just lied to me.” “You can say what you want. My father’s Sicilian-Calabrese. My mother’s Trentino, northern. Where I got blue eyes. Ellis Island butchered our name. Micks don’t name their sons Gaspar.” “No shit? You take the money, Gaspar?” “You got your answer before I come in here,” I says. “You want me to beg and cry like that bum, I’m gonna disappoint you. I took nothing, that’s all I got to say.” The accountant pauses, then nods to Gus. Gus uncuffs me. He puts a .38 in my hand. Jay whimpers and begs, but I gotta cross this bridge. It’s a one-way trip. Gianni says, “You wanted a raise? Give Jay three grand worth.”