It was a perfect day to sell books, cloudy, barely a breeze. I thank the folks who purchased. Here's an excerpt from an unpublished novel, Present and Past. It's set in the late '80's. I intended it as a sort of lost generation story.
Suddenly conversation at the bar ceased. The sound of the television was prevalent. Freddie turned from the set and looked toward the en trance, where a burly, mustachioed man in a chic leather jacket had paused, seemingly for effect. A black tote covered his bald ing head. Soon he strode toward the end of the bar and ordered scotch on the rocks. His gold chains and rings glistened in the dim light. Although all eyes were upon him, he seemed oblivious of the attention. Freddie sensed trouble.
"Dom aroun'?" said the hulk, clenching a cigarette between yellowed teeth, lighting it emphatically and tossing his head back as he took a long drag.
"Can I help you?"
"No. If he's here, I wanna see 'im. If he ain't, I'll wait."
Smoke had issued from his mouth at each word.
"Whom shall I say is calling?"
"None of your business."
From the look on his face, Dominick seemed to know exactly what was in store. The brute gave him an earful. Freddie listen ed without being obvious, fascinated by the man's speech and mannerisms, which were stereotypical of the Brooklyn wise guy. Rarely did a night pass when he didn't observe something interesting. There wasn’t a more ideal setting for an aspiring actor, or any artist, than a bar. He'd learned much and longed to use it.
"I heard you dropped a dime on me," said the brute, pantomim ing the depositing of a coin into the slot of a pay phone.
He towered over Dominick, who was short and stocky.
Tim approached Freddie discreetly. "Believe this guy?" he said softly, chuckling.
"Somebody should tell 'im phone calls've gone up to a quarter."
Freddie suppressed a laugh. "'Dropped a quarter on me' does n't have the same ring."
There was no doubt in his mind that a lack of levity was his major weakness as an actor as well as human being. He viewed things, even comedy, seriously. He supposed this was why he en joyed the company of characters. He envied the quick of wit, at times even those who were vulgar.
"Dom's scared," he said, suddenly concerned. "He isn't in debt to a loan shark, is he?"
Tim shrugged. "I haven’t heard anything. I remember this jerk. He useta come in with Mario Santucci. I bet Mario sent 'im in to pay Dom back for bustin' his balls about his tab the other night. I think he's only tryin' to throw a scare into 'im."
The man persisted, repeating the phrase about the dime, which Dominick, exasperated, again denied. Freddie, certain there would be nothing further of note to observe, decided to intervene.
"Excuse me, Dom. We're low on vodka. Is there any in the back?"
Dominick stared dumbly a moment. "Yeah, sure," he said, sudden ly realizing the out he'd been given.
He hurried to the rear.
Freddie lowered his head as a smile crossed his face. If the brute had had any sense at all he'd have realized how bad Dominick's acting had been. Freddie refilled the glass.
"That's on me."
He was not surprised that no thanks came forth.
Debbie brought out the vodka. The brute's face brightened. He whispered something to her and leered. She left without acknow ledging him.
"Oh," he called out, "c'mere, doll-face."
Freddie resisted the urge to break the bottle over the brute's head. If he did that, he would have to kill him or be killed himself. He swallowed his pride and left Debbie's honor undefended. He was ashamed. He thought the world of her.
Dominick did not return. The brute remained, elbow propped on the bar. He faced the rear, craned his neck occasion ally, apparently searching for Debbie. The other patrons allowed him adequate space. No one engaged him in conversation. Freddie also kept his distance, hoping he would grow bored and leave. With business slow, the hulking presence was obtrusive. Freddie did n't mind it being slow occasionally, although it affected tips. It allowed him to observe and converse with the regulars. Al though he had a quiet nature, he often felt the need to talk at work, as he was usually alone at home.
Commotion arose as a laughing, pale, dark-haired man entered. The pall immediately lifted from the place. Cries of "Tony!" spread. Smiles broke out on the faces of the patrons who greet ed him. He shook hands with the men and kissed the cheeks of the women, and finally settled beside the brute, who’d glanced past his shoulder briefly and resumed facing the rear. Tony pre tended to stumble, bumped into him, and excused himself. The brute turned, smirked and regained his pose without a word. Tony winked at Freddie, tossed his head in the direction of the hulk, and laughed.
"What’ll it be?"
"A rusty nail," said Tony, dropping a twenty on the bar. "And gimme the good stuff, none of that crap from the speed rack. I know how you bartenders are."
“Hustling, like you. What's your latest scam?"
Tony ignored the query and turned his attention to the hulk. He made faces at the broad back and pretended to slap the thick neck, desisting abruptly and striking a pose of innocence as his target turned.
"You know Louie Nails from Sixty-fifth Street?" he said. "Louie
Zanzelone, I mean."
The brute stared at him with the imperiousness a nobleman might have shown a peasant who’d addressed him familiarly.
"No, it ain't you," said Tony. "I thought you were somebody else. Louie's bigger than you. He works out."
Freddie nearly choked suppressing laughter.
"Maybe I should get a hat like that. I'm goin' bald too." He tilted his head, showing its crown. "Give 'im a drink, Fred. What's that?" He picked up the glass and sniffed the contents. "Black? Give 'im a double. I like a guy who knows 'is scotch."
Freddie ground his teeth, looked away.
The brute, who apparently wasn't sure if the man he dwarfed was a flake or so stupid as to dare make a fool of him, remained silent as Tony addressed him. Besides, at the rate at which the little man spoke it would have been impossible to get in a word edgewise. It soon became obvious that he craved escape, and some how Tony kept him at bay. He rattled on, searching for a link between them, dropping the name of every wise guy he knew, some too ridiculous to be genuine, such as Frankie "Fool Around" and Joey "Jumper Cables." His words were punctuated with energetic gesticulations of arms, eyes and torso, and the waving of an ever-present cigarette.
"You gotta go?" he said, seizing the hulk's bicep as the lat ter tried to step away. "Yeah, go 'head." And he went on a few minutes more. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Joe."
"Joe what?"
"Sparo."
"Sparo? You mean like 'shoot' in Italian? You're Joey 'Shoot'?" He shook his hand vigorously in mid air. "I heard a lot about you."
Sparo lowered his head, as if modest about his notoriety. Tony offered a handshake.
"Anthony DiBenedetto, or Tony 'Brajole.'"
He grabbed his crotch. Freddie stepped away, pretending to cough. Sparo shot him a hard look that indicated he'd caught on.
"I knew I seen you before. It's good to be quiet about who you know." He put a finger to his lips. "It keeps you atta trouble."
Finally Spa.ro walked away.
"Nice talkin' to you," said Tony, then, quietly: "you dirty...." He turned to Freddie. "How much he leave you? A buck? Figures, the cheap bastid."
"Your performance was payment enough, Mister Trani," said Freddie, depositing the bill into a mixing cup. "Or is it Mister DiBenedetto''"
"Good, no? Was he pissed? I hope so. 'Sparo,' my ass. His real name's Branco. He's Santucci's bitch, a real wise ass. I saw 'im beat the piss atta some poor slob for nothin' one night outside the Brown Derby. The guy bumped into 'im by accident or somethin’. The poor guy was about fifty, too. He didn't have a chance. This jerk-off’ll end up with a bullet in his head some day, mark my words. He's a moron."
"Why'd you stick your neck out like that?"
"'cause he makes me sick. He wouldn't do nothin' in here with all these witnesses aroun'. He's the type who only goes after little guys or guys with their backs turned. He'd be the first one to run if things got hot. That's why he's nobody."
"Do you know every wise guy in Brooklyn?"
He shrugged. "These parts. I make it my business. You never know when it might come in handy."
Visit Vic’s sites:
Vic’s Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic’s Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic’s Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic’s 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic’s 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic’s Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f
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