Dinner With The Mafia

“Just Susan!” she said through clenched teeth, as if she were telling a joke.

“Ok, 'Just Susan'. Do you, by chance, work for a lawyer? If so, maybe you could interrogate all of us! All kidding aside, let's give a round of applause to Miss Just Susan!”

While she kept staring into the empty space, Ben decided to motivate the audience.

“And your long, shapely legs?” He kneeled in front of her with his fingers imitating the lens of a camera focusing on her legs like a director and the small crowd broke into a pretty convincing applause.

“Ah, that's more like it. So, I was telling you about the day that I decided to get the courage to go meet my model. I knew my chances of getting into her studio were about the same as an eighty-year-old winning the New York marathon, but I decided to give it my best shot. I was convinced that I was going to meet her, and that she was the woman of my life, not just some adolescent fantasy. The next morning when I got up, I saw the horror of my face. A big, huge, gigantic abscess sat front and center on my forehead! There it was, standing out, staring at the world like a little Nazi.”

Ben gesticulated like a Latino while telling the story. “Panic hit me like the Titanic rapidly approaching the iceberg. I absolutely had to get rid of it, so I decided to pop it. In front of the mirror, I tried squeezing and pinching it with my fingers in the hopes that a fountain of yellow pus would break out.”

Disgust was displayed by most, except for one of the fat spectators, wearing a Texas cowboy hat, devouring a giant hamburger dripping with mayonnaise.

“After a few tries at destroying the little volcano, the only thing that exploded was the worst headache I've ever had in my life, adding to the fact that the boil was so red and irritated by my attempts at popping it, that my face looked like a tomato pizza pie. I decided to call a friend of mine who was a true expert in pimples; his nickname was Minefield. Anyway, he delivered… good ol' Minefield.”

Squeezing his throat with his fingers, he imitated the crackling voice of an obnoxious teenager. “Boil some water and rock salt, then take some cotton and wet it with the mixture and rub it on the pimple. It'll dry it right up. Bye.”

Ben waited a second for some applause, or at least a few smiles. Only Bill's growling could be heard, growing in intensity, like a rhinoceros getting ready to charge.

“So I did exactly like Minefield said. Except I didn't have a saucepan, so I had to use a big pot. I filled the pot, boiled the water and then brought it to cool on the balcony. Unfortunately, while I was carrying the pot of boiling water to the balcony, I tripped and the whole pot spilled out onto the street. All I could hear was the screaming and cursing from someone below, while I hid…”

Bill spit the cigar smoke from his mouth and got up from his chair. With a red-hot, angry face on the verge of a violent eruption, he yelled, “You! You! You filthy piece of shit! It was you! You ruined my life. I'm gonna kill you, I'm gonna skin you alive. I'm, I'm… come here, dammit!”

Beautiful Susan hid behind Ben, using him as a shield as soon as she saw the owner pick up one of the tables with one hand.

“Get outta the way, you stupid idiot. I'm gonna break this bastard's head open!”

“Please, calm down, Mr. Jerkoff. I think there's…,” begged Ben.

“Jercov! The name's Jercov! My father was from Yugoslavia. That was me screaming in pain from the street! That creep there ruined my life! Look at what he did!”

He set the table back down and took off his toupee, showing everyone his head, almost completely without skin, like a roasted and peeled red bell pepper… or more precisely, a gigantic male genital.

The sight of Bill's head triggered a chorus of disgusted exclamations from the spectators. “Now do you get why I gotta kill him?”

Shouting like a maniac, he cleared the path to the stage's stairs, while Ben frantically looked for an escape through the curtains that led backstage. But a pair of huge, possessed madmen, dressed like Tweedledee and Tweedledum from Alice in Wonderland, suddenly stepped in front of him, blocking his departure.

Bill jumped onto the stage with surprising agility, given his size, and with a satanic sneer, stood in front of poor Ben who was so terrorized that he ran to hide behind the girl.

It was Susan who grabbed the microphone, using it as an arm to ward off the three men who were moving in closer and closer. “Don't move or you'll be sorry!”

At first, caution made them slow down, then it backfired, egging them happily along.

“Thanks for the advice, honey. We're gonna use that contraption on and in your little friend.”

“I'm warning you! Don't make me…” Grabbing the mic like a baseball bat, she lassoed it by its cord, where it wrapped around one of the twins' ankle, tripping him over. The other guy tumbled and fell on the stage, flying into one of the tables, knocking over three drunken sailors. Furious over their wasted beers, the inebriated sailors tried to stand, rocking back and forth on their feet.

Then the microphone started whistling with ear-piercing feedback and everyone covered their ears in a desperate attempt to muffle the loud screeching, trying to mute the noise as Bill had picked up the mic and started bashing it.

The tension in the club gained more and more momentum every minute until an inevitable no-holds-barred brawl broke out. In all the confusion, it became obvious that any object was a potential weapon: bottles, chairs, tables, people, coins, ashtrays. During the hurricane that followed, an enormous bearded man with a patch over his left eye started yelping and crying. Someone had stepped on his ingrown toenail. His reaction was like a bull in a rodeo, ramming the cowboy wearing the Stetson, launching him across the room. The unlucky cowboy was a failing dwarf actor who had spiraled into big screen anonymity, but was still famous enough to land a guest spot in an occasional TV series. Both were lifted from the ground and flung right onto the stage where they collided with Bill, who saw the little man's landing just a second before the impact.

Ben saw a way out and decided to go for it. “Susan, we have to throw ourselves off the stage!”

She looked uneasy at Ben's idea. “What? Are you crazy? It's too high, we'll break our necks!”

But Ben knew that they had to seize the moment, otherwise it would be too late. “This is our only chance. I've got an idea. Trust me!”

He grabbed her by the waist and leaped, leaving her no choice but to jump with him.

They both ended up right on top of the potbellied drunkard who had passed out and relocated to the floor before the show had started. Even though Ben and Susan's crash landing didn't seem to disturb the catatonic conditions of the man, at least it absorbed the shock of the fall.

Ben recovered first and turned to Susan. “Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

She groaned about the sudden and inconsiderate action, but when she looked at where she was sitting, she jumped up, startled. “Oh my god! We've killed him!”

But the unconscious man responded to Susan's fear with a loud fart. While attempting to wave away the foul odor, Ben calmed Susan down. “Nah, don't worry about him. He's alive and kicking, but we've gotta get outta here if we don't want to be Bill's lunch!”

He pointed to one of the twins who was still trying to disentangle the microphone from his ankle, grabbed her by the arm and both ran out of the nightclub. The last thing they saw before they escaped outside into the commotion of humans, was their follower's risky imitation of their jump from the stage. The noise following their frenemies's leap sounded like bones cracking and loud screaming and cursing that confirmed that their pursuer had missed his mark.

Running and zig-zagging around several obstacles, this is how the fugitives were able to safely get away.

Chapter 2

731 Lexington Avenue: Bloomberg Tower

The backrest of the big, black, leather armchair was facing the entrance to the thirtieth-floor studio, offering a legendary and marvelous view. The highly technological glassed wall was remote controlled to allow the light to dim or shine as desired. Joe Santini’s favorite pastime was to fiddle with this gadget while tossing one of his customary mints around in his mouth, especially while his mind was occupied with his nephew, Benito. Or Ben, as he preferred to be called.

“You have to admit, he managed a pretty good escape, grabbing the girl and taking off like a jackrabbit right out the front door.”

The man speaking about Ben’s adventure was called Valerio Esposito. From a recently immigrated Italian family, he was part of the group called the “Observers”, who looked after the young man’s physical well-being, unbeknownst to him. Esposito, like a doctor, was available when necessary to administer the proper “therapy”.

“We need to take some cautionary act against that guy, just to make sure he won’t be interfering again. What did you say his name was? Jerkoff?”

“Jerkov. Bill Jercov. And I’ve already taken the liberty to prescribe a tranquilizer.”

Coincidentally, whenever Ben got involved in some kind of annoying trouble, Joe could feel a strange pain in his gut, a burning in his stomach like he was breathing embers of fire. He figured it was only frustration, attributing the cause to his addiction to the mints that he couldn’t get enough of. From a wood box on his desk, he took a cigar and lit it up in hopes that it would calm the unpleasant feeling.

Colombia Presbyterian Medical Center

Dr. Newman was looking over the new patient’s medical chart.

“Nasal septum, mouth, both legs and your right arm broken. Well, for a simple fall, you’re sure a mess.”

The patient, in a state of confusion, partly due to the painkillers, was desperately attempting to open his mouth to show the empty spaces between his teeth.

“Ah, I see. Also missing an upper molar and an incisor. All right, we’ll get you fixed up in no time, Mr… Jerkoff?!”

The doctor walked off with a smug smile on his face, followed by two gorgeous nurses while Bill whispered, “Je… rko… v!”

Clearly, Bill’s feeble attempt at correcting his last name was useless. The patient’s file had already been completed with the insulting wrong name.

Bloomberg Tower

Joe appeared satisfied, rotating his armchair back around, deeming to look his visitors straight in the eye.

“Well done, good job. Now, where is my nephew? Is he still with the girl?”

Esposito answered confidently, pleased with a job well done, “Yes. They’re together right now. Near 6th Avenue at that restaurant called The Italian Affair.”

The Italian Affair Restaurant

Ben and Susan were still a little rattled from their experience; they caught their breaths while sipping their wine at an elegantly set table. Between the two, Ben was the one most shaken up by the events of the evening.

“I still can’t believe what happened! It was absurd, incredible. I had a funny feeling about that job. I should have listened to my sixth sense…something wasn’t right about it. I should have turned around and run the other way as soon as I set foot in that place.”

Susan looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Well, I’ve got to say, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what kind of club it is! I only took the job because if I don’t have the money by the end of the month, I won’t be able to pay my rent and I’ll be on the street. But you? Why the hell did you accept? You don’t look you fit in with those kind of people. Or like you’re hard up for money, seeing as the way you’re dressed.”

Ben, embarrassed, looked down at his clothes, awkwardly trying to hide the Emporio Armani signature.

“Oh ya. I mean no! I’m not a loser or a convict or anything like that, but I’m not a millionaire either. My uncle got me a great deal for the suit from some relatives from Italy. But gee, now that you mention it, you’re out of a job because of me.”

“No, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault. I don’t think I could have stood it much longer there, anyway. Tonight was the perfect occasion to get away from those perverts who kept trying to feel me up.”

Ben felt lucky to have always had a family who was there for him no matter what, helping him out in every way.

“But now how are you going to pay the rent? I mean, have you got someone to help you? Your mom or dad, a relative, a boyfriend…?”

He casually threw the question out there, just to ascertain her status, while he swigged his wine to hide the fact.

“I’ve never had a real family, and regarding men…ugh, forget it!”

Red flags were waving in Ben’s mind, which made him curious to find out more. “In what way…do you mean you, and men…you don’t like…?”

He had always thought of himself as open-minded to the idea of a lesbian friend, but in all honesty, if it were true, it would have shattered a few of his fantasies he’d already had about Susan.

“Are you asking me if I like women? Well, what would be wrong with that? You like women, don’t you?”

He blushed for even bringing up the subject. Pushing his chair back, he sat up straight and tried to wipe the look of a predator off his face.

“Ya, I’ve always wondered how women do it.”

Susan burst out laughing, and Ben realized that he was way off the mark.

“You fell…hook, line and sinker!” Even if she couldn’t stop laughing, she did her best to control herself.

“You mean to tell me that you were pulling my leg?” Although relieved that she wasn’t into women, he was pretty shocked at the idea of being made fun of by someone he barely knew.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Plus I wanted to break up some of the tension. Are you ok now?”

She tilted her head and nibbling at a piece of bread, kept looking mischievously at him. That gesture, apparently insignificant, was extremely seductive to Ben. It went straight to his heart and tied him to her forever.

“Ya, thanks. It’s usually me who has to contrive ways to make other people laugh.”

The waiter brought their steamy first courses. For Ben, bucatini ‘all’amatriciana’ and for Susan, homemade fettuccine with pancetta and asparagus. While Ben rubbed his hands together in front of his plate, Susan’s stared, open-mouthed at hers.

“Wow! Except for pizza and spaghetti, can you believe that this is the first time I’ve ever tasted real Italian food?”

“Really? I have a hard time not eating it; in the traditional Italian family, cuisine is very important. So, ‘buon appetito’. I hope you enjoy it.”

At first, Susan found it a little difficult to twist the fettuccine around her fork, but then got the hang of it and started emanating sounds of rapture with every bite. The people dining at the nearby tables thought it was rather funny, while the owner of the restaurant was delighted.

When Susan had cleaned her plate, Ben offered her a taste of his bucatini and she didn’t hesitate.

“This food is amazing! Now I understand your parents!”

A cloud of nostalgia passed through Ben’s thoughts. “Actually, my Uncle Carmine raised me, along with my other uncles. My mother died giving birth to me. And my father, well, I only have a few memories of him. He was out for a walk and found himself in the middle of a shootout and was hit by a random bullet when I was just two-years-old. The greatest thing that I inherited from him was my vocation. He was a comedian, a great comedian. I think he would have made it big, if only he’d had the time.”

“So, in a way, you’re trying to break into the business to honor him?”

“Well, in part, yes. But mostly it’s for me. I truly love this work and I know he would have understood and supported me. Unlike my uncles…”

Ben wanted to talk about himself, but was worried about boring Susan, so he tried prompting her with incomplete sentences to see if she was really interested.

“Your relatives aren’t happy with what you do? So, do they want you to do something else?” asked Susan.

“They’d like me to do something a little more traditional. Like Uncle Johnny, who’s the manager of a company that deals with insurance.”

Ward’s Island Bridge

Two hulking men on the bridge had their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. One of the men’s biceps were so flexed, that the material of his shirt was on the verge of ripping.

“Damn you! I told you I should have got one size bigger!”

“What are you talking about? You tried it on a month ago at the shop and it fit perfectly. It isn’t my fault if you work out so much at the gym.”

The two of them, having what would have been a normal conversation in different circumstances, were actually swinging a passed out man upside down by the ankles over the side of the bridge.

“If this creep ruins my shirt, I swear I’ll let him drop like a rock!”

Johnny Greco, sick and tired of listening to the two men argue, threw down his cigarette butt. “You guys wanna shut up? And you don’t drop anybody without my permission, otherwise you get a nice little hole in your forehead, understood? This fuckin’ Chinese is worth his weight in gold, and I’d rather have the crisp banknotes than a useless cadaver!”

The man, intimidated, apologized immediately for his arrogant comment. “Sorry, Boss. I was just sayin’. Ten minutes now we been holding this fish who’s fainted and won’t wake up.”

Johnny looked over the bridge to see for himself and realized they were right. “All right, I’ll take care of this chickenshit.”

He unzipped his pants and started pissing over the bridge right into the poor man’s face, who instantly came to his senses, spluttering and gurgling.

“Well, well! Good morning! So what’s your decision? You want our insurance policy, or not?”

The poor wretch realized where he was and terrorized, started screaming. “Yes! Yes! I want it! I want it!”

Johnny smiled pleasantly for a job well done, lighting another cigarette to celebrate and seal the deal.

“Did you hear that guys? We have a new client. Pull him up before he shits in his own face.

The Italian Affair Restaurant

Ben listed all of the respectable occupations of his uncles as he had been told by them.

“…and my Uncle Frank works in finance, in banking.”

Somewhere in Manhattan: in a basement

Frank Colombo was silently and calmly examining the banknotes delivered by Bart Wilson, who was fauning for approval. “So, Boss? How does it look?”

Bart was more than satisfied with his work, but had to wait for the final word that only his boss could give. He had been working day and night for months; it was a question of principle more than anything.

“The paper is good quality, pleasing to the touch. The edges aren’t too soft, either and the color is pretty clear…”

The dark circles under Bart’s eyes lit up with pride while he tried to point out further details. “We also improved the loss of color on the seal.”

Frank picked up a piece of paper and held it under the banknote, then with his fingernail, he started scratching the seal. He then examined the paper and didn’t see any loss of color. He repeated the operation with a dull pencil and still didn’t see any loss of color. In one more attempt, he rubbed it harder to get a faint result. It looked like a job well-done…except for one tiny detail.

With the magnifying glass, he scrutinized the serial numbers.

“We’re still not there yet.”

Bart’s world came crashing down on him. He started stuttering, “W-w-we…we’re…still not there yet?”

“The serial numbers, see? They’re still not perfectly aligned. The rest is passable, not perfect, but pretty good. Now get back to work. I want a final result by the end of the week.”

“Sure, Boss. Consider it done.”

Staggering away from sheer exhaustion, Bart headed back to the drawing board.

The Italian Affair Restaurant

“They’d even be happy if I went to work at Uncle Carmine’s restaurant.”

The waiter then brought the second course to their table. “Here you are. Beef braised in Barolo wine with porcini mushrooms for the signorina. And seared lamb cooked on embers for you, sir. The roasted potatoes are on the house.”

“Thank you so much and send our compliments to Mario. Everything is exquisite, as usual.”

The waiter didn’t leave without first winking at Ben in reference to Susan’s beauty and choice of food. If she noticed, she didn’t show it.

“On one hand though, you’re lucky. I mean, whatever happens, you’re always covered.”

Ben felt his chest swell a bit. “Yes, it really has its advantages. It means I can dedicate all my time to my passion. I should say, though, that I’ve been pretty lucky since childhood. I remember the time, when I was ten-years-old, an encyclopedia salesman knocked on the door and gave me a beautiful new soccer ball, just to promote his books. It was the exact same ball that a neighborhood kid had stolen from me just a few hours before.

Twenty years ago

The doorbell echoed throughout the house.

“Ben! Someone’s at the door. Can you answer it?”

With eyes red and swollen from crying, little Ben did as his uncle asked and answered the door. Standing in front of him was a hunched over man with a beat-up face. He took off his hat and greeted the boy with a forced smile that was missing three or four teeth.

“Hello‘fere, young man. I’m a falefman for the Academic American Enfyclopedia.”

Skeptical and unsure, Ben stared at the man.

“I waf paffing frough your neighborhood to prefent my bookf and to give a prefent to the good boyf. Are you a good boy?”

Unsure of what the man in front of him was saying exactly, Ben understood perfectly the universal word “present”, and nodded his head.

“Well, then thif if for you!” The man, who was hiding his hand behind his back, presented Ben with a beautiful new soccer ball. Ben’s sad and desolate expression immediately transformed into joy and happiness.

“Wow! Is it really mine? It’s exactly like the ball that son-of-a-bitch Jim stole from me!”

The man’s upper lip trembled slightly, but he managed not to fall completely apart.

“Yef, fon. It’f a prefent for you! I have to be on my way now. Pleafe fay hello to your uncle for me.”

In silence, the man left the way he arrived, leaving Ben happy, but puzzled by the man’s parting words.

“Look! Look what some strange man gave me!”

The Italian Affair Restaurant

“When I say it like that, it seems silly. But believe me, that’s just one example of many random incidents that sound like I'm making them up. Every time something bad happened, some kind of karma would intervene and turn the situation around in my favor.”

Susan listened to everything, but not in awe like most people would have. Ben appreciated this aspect of her personality; the way she accentuated her positive opinion of him as if he were someone special.

“Yeah! Like the scales of justice. C’mon, tell me more. Just one more story to satisfy my hope that there is a God.”

Ben smiled pleasantly and stalled for time wiping his mouth with his napkin, while trying to think of another interesting and original story.

“I remember when I was sixteen and had just got my drivers’ license. I had worked all summer in a fast-food joint to save up for my first car. With that money, I bought an olive green ’77 Buick. It wasn’t the hottest car, but that was all I could afford and the salesman guaranteed that it was good for several thousand more miles. I remember how excited I was to have something that was all mine, that I had earned with hard work. I felt like an adult. Then about an hour later, I felt like a complete idiot. While I was driving, the engine started smoking and then the car took its last breath…and broke down. I went home with my tail between my legs. I was so mad, especially at myself, for letting someone rip me off like that. I didn’t sleep a wink that night.”

“So I guess you went back to the salesman the next day.”

“You bet! But the dealership told me that the salesman had quit and anyway, the title in my name was nontransferable to a different car.”

“Outrageous! You were swindled,” said Susan, shocked.

“Yep. And the worst part was that I couldn’t do anything about it. The proof was in the paperwork.”