Five Newark Boys E-Book

DONAHUE SILVIS

• Herausgeber: Donahue B. Silvis
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 384

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Five Newark Boys

Leseprobe

Contents

FIVE NEWARK BOYS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

THE END

FIVE NEWARK BOYS

by

DONAHUE B. SILVIS

[email protected]

239-455-5048

Copyright TXu 1-651-763

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages, in a review, to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal. The author grants the final approval for this literary material.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

The kitchen stove is attached to a kerosene heater in the living room of the second floor, three-bedroom cold water flat. Nine-year-old Carlo’s ongoing household job is to carry the five-gallon container of kerosene up from the basement to the apartment.

On his way back to the basement Carlo stops on the first-floor landing to watch and listen to the

pushcart vendors go up and down the cobblestone street. One is the ragman with his sad and lonely chant… “Rags, rags.” Another man will sharpen your knives and other utensils. Others hawk a variety of items. There’s the bleach man, who will refill your old bottle or rent you a new one for use in the laundry. And the umbrella repair man who’ll recondition your favorite umbrella right there on the spot. “Tripo, Tripo, Tripo,” sings the tripe man as his little wagon comes slowly down the street, selling sweetbreads and organ meats for delicacy dishes.

Open horse-drawn wagons with fruit and vegetables clip-clop down the street, their drivers singing out their special and unique songs to bring loyal customers to their doors. More men in horse-drawn covered wagons deliver milk and bakery goods door to door. Many of the residents in this area live in public housing. Vast sections consist of wooden tenements.

Carlo grew up, like other neighborhood kids, never knowing that there was any significant money problem in the world. Carlo didn’t notice when his dad sold the family’s old Ford Model T to pay bills because things at his Pop’s shoe repair shop had become worse. They are poor. That’s all he and the other kids know.

In the summer, the kids follow the horse-drawn ice wagons and grab small pieces of chipped ice that’s refreshing on a hot summer day. They play stickball and kick-the-can in vacant lots or at the city park. They make slingshots and play guns out of wood scraps and old rubber inner tubes. On hot days some of the fire hydrants were open, and the kids play and cool off in the pools made by the spray, nicknamed Italian swimming pools. They build bonfires to bake the potatoes they steal as they run past the front of the local grocery store. In the wintertime, they sled and skate at the city park. Some of the poorer kids hop slow-moving railroad coal cars and toss out small chunks of coal that they pick up later in tin buckets to help keep the old coal stove at home burning.

“Frankie, Frankie!” the young Carlo Cardoni yells as he runs to greet his buddy who’s standing with short, chubby Vinnie De Luca and Frankie’s older brother, Phil Fasino, in front of little Mike’s brown-shingled apartment house. Mike Mancuso is shirtless and standing on the small front porch. He’s a skinny, sickly-looking little guy.

“Hey, Mike, put on your baggy shirt today; we’ll get some pears at Seven Oaks on the way home from the park!” Frankie yells to him.

Seven Oaks is a wealthy neighborhood with large stately homes and plush manicured yards graced by fruit-bearing apple and pear trees. The boys often go there and fill their shirts with juicy yellow pears or red apples. They can easily carry four pounds of pears or apples in their baggy shirts. Their mothers never need to buy fruit, and they don’t discourage the boys from doing this. Neither do the people who live at Seven Oaks. Times are bad, and nobody cares about a few stolen apples or pears.

Mike puts on a baggy shirt and the boys run barefoot off to the local city park, about half a mile from their homes. Bare feet are standard during the summer months; Sundays the boys wear shoes. They play around at the old dirt park for a couple of hours and then decide to swipe some pears and go on home. They stop at Seven Oaks and fill their shirts with as many pears as they can carry. Everything’s going well. The dogs at Seven Oaks don’t bother them, and the two big Irish policemen in the patrol car just laugh at them when they deny picking pears, their shirts bulging with dozens of lumps.

The boys start down the street to where they live, skipping, running and having fun. As they pass a wooded area about five hundred yards from their homes, four teenage boys step out from behind tall bushes in a wooded lot and surround them. The boys are sixteen and seventeen years old.

“Where you kids going?” asks a kid in a blue plaid shirt.

“We’re just going home,” Carlo answers.

“You guys got any money?” a stocky boy asks.

Being the older of the young boys, Phil pipes up: “We don’t have any money, and if we did, we wouldn’t give it to you!”

A tall, red-haired boy slaps Phil across the head. “You little bastard, I’m going to teach you some manners.”

The boy grabs Phil by the back of his collar. Phil takes a swing at him but misses. The boy strikes Phil in the face, bloodying his nose, and then pushes him toward the wooded lot. Phil stumbles and falls to the ground. He looks up at the kid with the red hair who glares down at him. Phil notices his strange eyes; one’s brown, but the other is half brown and half blue.

A lanky kid in a Yankees tee shirt shoves Carlo to the ground next to Phil. The other boys push Vinnie, Frankie, and Mike into the woods next to Carlo and Phil.

“Empty your pockets. Let’s see what you’ve got,” demands the stocky kid with a crew cut.

“We ain’t got nothing,” says Mike.

The red-haired kid grabs Mike by the hair. “Shut up, pipsqueak.”

Mike struggles and pulls away. He starts to run, pears falling out of his baggy shirt and bouncing on the ground. The red-haired boy grabs him again and slaps him hard across the face. Frankie, Carlo, and Vinnie move to help Mike but held by the other teenagers. Mike tries to hit the boy, but the big kid wallops him with his fist. Little Mike’s knocked back into the trunk of a tree, banging his head, and falls head-first to the ground and into a pile of rocks.

He doesn’t move. The boys look down at Mike. He’s bleeding from a cut on his head, and blood’s coming out his ears. His body jerks for a few seconds and then is still. The stocky boy stares down at Mike and then looks up at his buddy with a frightened look on his face. The red-haired kid leans down and touches the motionless Mike.

“Oh, shit, now we’ve done it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The four teenagers take off, running. Carlo and Frankie go over to Mike. Phil rips off his shirt, pears falling to the ground, and wraps it around Mike’s head. Blood immediately soaks the faded blue shirt. They realize Mike’s severely hurt.

As Vinnie’s house is the closest, they send him to get help. He runs home as fast as his short legs will carry him. He tells his mom what’s happened, and she calls the police. Shortly afterward, the boys hear the wailing of sirens as a police car, and an ambulance arrives about the same time. The boys are distraught. They silently watch as the paramedics attend to little Mike. They see one of the paramedics shake his head “no.” It’s evident that their little friend is dead.

The boys are crying as the ambulance takes Mike’s body away. Sniffling, the four kids stare blankly at each other. Frankie and Carlo try to console each other by vowing always to stick together and never let anybody do something like this to them again. At the police station, they spend time answering questions and studying pictures of suspects, but they can’t identify any of the older boys.

The police never find the four kids responsible for little Mike’s death. It’s Carlo first taste of justice gone wrong.

CHAPTER 2

It’s now 1944, the world’s at war, but things are a little better financially in the neighborhood. Carlo’s parents moved out of the cold-water flat and are now living in a house on Lake Street. Most of his buddy’s moms are working in defense plants. Some of their dads were drafted and are in the Second World War. Others are working on the railroad or in other civil service-type jobs.

Carlo’s dad is exempt from the service as he’s blind in one eye from an accident years earlier at his shoe store. It happened while hammering tacks into the sole of a shoe he was repairing. A wayward tack flew up and hit him in the eye, causing permanent damage.

Frankie and Phil’s dad, Thomas Fasino, is known in the neighborhood as Big Tom. He stands six-feet-four and weighs two hundred and sixty pounds. He works for the railroad as a brakeman at the freight yard, riding the caboose all day as trains travel to the paper mills and the factories of steel and chemical companies. His job’s to hook and unhook the boxcars. It’s hard work, especially during the winter when they need to unfreeze the switches that enable them to hook up the cars. He has a classified job on the railroad, and it’s an essential part of the war effort, making him eligible for the draft.

Frankie’s learning the life of crime from his brother Phil, who’s also exempt from the military. Phil was born with one leg a bit shorter than the other, causing a slight limp. He’s four years older than Frankie and is doing jobs for Mr. Vigna, the man behind much of the crime in their area. He works in a barbershop on Twelfth Street, but the shop’s a front. At the back, down a long hallway, are desks where “bookies” take the neighborhood bets.

Frankie’s parents’ house is on Seventh Avenue across from the Branch Brook Park. The Rotunda swimming pool, where you can spend the day cooling off for only ten cents, is on the corner just a half a block down the street.

It’s a cloudy afternoon as Carlo walks up the front porch steps to Frankie’s house. He flops down next to his friend, who’s sitting on an old green glider with brown plastic seats. Frankie leans back as they gently sway back and forth, his porkpie hat pushed forward almost over his eyes.

“Carlo,” says Frankie, “Phil gave me a tip on something pretty sweet. So, I’ve got a little job planned for tonight, and you’re the only guy I can trust to do it with me.”

“What’re you up to now? What’s on your mind, Frankie?”

“I want you to help me rob old man Nardini’s Esso station tonight. We can make ourselves some pretty good bucks. Are you with me?”

Carlo turns toward Frankie. “Jeez, I don’t know. It’s risky. You know I’ve never done nothing like that.”

Frankie sits up and pushes his cap back on his head. “Aw, it’ll be a piece o’ cake. You’ll do fine.” He gives his buddy a friendly cuff on the side of the head.

“You know, Frankie, old man Nardini’s always telling people that he takes the money home at night. He says nobody’s going to get anything if they rob his station. He’s an ornery old cuss, so what’s there for us to rob?”

Frankie smiles at Carlo. “Ration food stamps and gas ration window stickers. Nardini only thinks about the cash. He forgets about the value of the food stamps and gas stickers that’s in the station. The word I get from Phil is that the old bastard’s crooked. He’s into the black marketing of stolen gas stickers. Phil says if we steal them, he’ll buy all we get.”

Carlo knows Frankie’s brother, Phil, has a record and hangs out with a pretty rough crowd, but their code of keeping their mouths shut kept Carlo from asking Frankie too much about him.

Carlo leans forward, putting his face in his large hands. “All right, Frankie. I'll go with you just this once.”

“Hey, that’s my buddy! We’ll make some easy dough.”

That night Frankie and Carlo break a back window at the Esso service station and enter by crawling over a greasy workbench. They look around and search through some old cabinets in the garage area. They go into the station’s office next and look in an old roll-top desk.

“I don’t see anything. Maybe Nardini took that stuff home too, Frankie.”

“Nah, I doubt it.”

Frankie spots a large cabinet painted black next to the wall in the corner. He checks it out, but it’s locked. “I bet the stuff’s in here.” He walks into the garage area and picks up a tire iron, then pries off the lock. It opens. Four overstuffed brown envelopes are on its shelves. He opens them and sees the food stamps and the stolen gas window stickers inside. “Here they are, Carlo,” he says, grinning.

He hands two of the envelopes to Carlo and sticks the other two in his shirt. “Let’s get out of here.”

They leave the station the way they came in, through the broken window.

Late the next morning, they meet with Frankie’s brother in an old abandoned warehouse. Phil counts the ration stamps and gas stickers.

“I knew that old fart was illegally dealing in these stolen stickers,” he says as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of rolled-up bills. He peels a few bills from the bankroll and hands them to Frankie. “You boys did a good job.”

Frankie looks at the bills Phil’s handed him. “Thanks, Phil. See ya later.”

The two boys walk up the street to Dan’s Pool Room and Hot dog Place. They sit down and order grilled hotdogs with meat sauce and Pepsis. After the waitress takes their order and leaves, Frankie pulls out the bills and counts what Phil’s given him.

“Wow! Three hundred dollars.”

“What?” Carlo’s eyes show surprise.

“Yeah, my brother gave us three-hundred bucks.” He counts out a hundred-and-fifty dollars and slides the bills across the table.

Carlo looks down at the money. “You’re giving me half of the money?”

“Sure. You’re my partner.”

“But Frankie didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did, buddy and partners split fifty-fifty.”

Carlo shakes his head. “Gee whiz!”

“Put that cash in your pocket. It’s yours.”

Carlo folds up the bills and shoves them in his pants pocket as the waitress brings their order.

“What are you gonna do with all that moolah?” Frankie asks with a mouthful of hotdog.

“Boy, I don’t know. My pop would shit if he knew I had it.” Carlo takes a big bite of his dog. “He’d probably take it from me.”

Frankie sips on his Pepsi. “Well, hide it and take a little when you need it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Thanks a lot.”

The two boys enjoy the feeling of their new wealth as they finish their lunch.

Carlo takes the money home and hides it in his room. Now he needs to figure some way to spend it without his parents noticing his extra cash. Carlo’s enjoying his junior year in high school. Its springtime and he’s doing reasonably well with his studies. But he excels at athletics. The high school baseball team’s playing some good ball. One of his teammates, a center fielder, is being watched closely by some of the major league scouts. And a few college coaches are keeping an eye on the school’s better players.

Shortly after the Esso station deal, Carlo’s high school team is scheduled to play an important ball game, and several scouts come to see the hotshot center fielder play ball. Carlo has an exceptionally day both in hitting and fielding. After the game, he’s called into the coach’s office.

After a friendly greeting, the coach introduces Carlo to Neil Young, a scout for the Phillies.

“Mr. Young wants to talk to you,” the coach says.

Carlo’s excited as he shakes the scout’s hand. “Hello, Mr. Young.” He senses what’s coming.

“I’m glad to meet you, Carlo. You played a good ball game out there today. Those two shots you hit would go out of any ballpark in the country. Do you think you’d like to play pro ball?”

“I never gave it much thought. Didn’t think I’d be good enough for the pros. I’ve still another year of high school left.”

“Mr. Young knows that, Carlo. That won’t matter. I’ve told him about you in the past, and he’s kept an eye on your progress.”

“We haven’t won a pennant in a long time,” Mr. Young concedes. “We’re building now with new talent, young talent. We feel that we’re within four years of having a winning team. Maybe you can help us; maybe you can’t. Coach Griffin thinks you can, and so do I. What do you say? You want to take a chance with us?”

Carlo’s exuberance makes the Scout smile. “Wow! Yes, Mr. Young, I’ll be glad to play.”

Mr. Young hands Carlo some papers. “Good. Here’s a contract to play ball this summer at Greensboro. Take it home and discuss it with your parents. If they agree to it, have them sign the consent form. Come back here in two days, and we’ll get you signed up. You’re too young to sign without their consent.”

Carlo shakes hands with Mr. Young and Coach Griffin. “Thanks a lot.”

He’s beaming as he leaves the coach’s office and heads for home. Only a block from the school, he sees Frankie sitting at a booth at Don’s Luncheonette and Soda Shop. He waves to his friend as he enters.

“Frankie, you’ll never guess what happened to me today.” He sits down in the booth. “Wait till you hear—”

“Carlo, I’ve been looking for you. I got a little job to do for my brother. It’s a little risky, but it’ll be worth more money than the last job.”

“No, no, Frankie, you gotta hear what just happened. They want me to play pro ball.”

“What are you talking about?”

Carlo tells Frankie all about his meeting with Mr. Young and Coach Griffin.

“Yeah, that’s something,” Frankie says dismissively. “Carlo, you’re my partner. We can still do some jobs and make good money.”

“Don’t tell me about any jobs now. I can’t do it.”

Whatta ‘ya mean you can’t do it? You still can use some more cash.”

“No more jobs, Frankie. I don’t want to screw up this chance to play ball.” Carlo takes the papers from his pocket and shows them to Frankie. “I’ve got a contract here to play pro ball. We were lucky, Frankie, but I can’t risk getting into trouble now. I don’t want to mess up this opportunity. I sure hope you understand.”

Frankie looks at the contract. “Sure, Carlo, I understand.” They sit there in silence for a few moments. “Buddy, I wish you all the best.”

“We’ll still be good friends, though, won’t we, Frankie?”

“Hell, yes. We’ll always be the best of buddies. Just make sure I get tickets to the World Series.”

Carlo laughs. “You get the first ones.”

They leave the brightly colored soda shop, arms on each other’s shoulders.

Two days later Carlo’s back at school with his parents’ consent and eager to sign the baseball contract. The Scout and Coach Griffin are waiting for him in the coach’s office.

“I understand your folks don’t object to your playing ball. That’s great.” Mr. Young shakes Carlo’s meaty paw.

Carlo’s smile beams. “Why should they object? It’s like going to work.”

Mr. Young’s firm grip lingers. “That’s right, just a little more fun. I want you to stay in good shape over the summer, so you’ll have a good season next spring playing ball here at school. That will mean a lot to you when you graduate and play for us next summer.”

“No problem there, Mr. Young. I’m in such good shape by the time the football season ends in November that it carries me right through until spring.”

“Carlo, if you sign the contract, you can’t play football your senior year,” says Coach Griffin.

“That’s right, Carlo,” the scout says. “We can’t afford for you to be injured.”

“Hold on a minute. I’m a better football player than a baseball player. I’m playing football next fall. I can’t let the team or Coach Kower down. He said that I got a great chance of winning the most valuable trophy this year.”

Coach Griffin frowns. “You got to think about what you might be throwing away.”

“What am I throwing away? The contract says two hundred and fifty dollars a month. If I’m as good as Mr. Young says I am, maybe they’ll sign me next year.”

Mr. Young shrugs. “Maybe, but then we may not. We can only sign up so many players.”

Carlo shakes his head. “Thanks, Mr. Young, I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”

“Are you sure about this?” asks Coach Griffin.

“I’m sure, but I want to thank you, Mr. Young.”

“Okay, Carlo. I wish you success.”

They shake hands. Carlo leaves the office.

For the next two months and before the school year ends in June, life goes by quietly, except that Frankie and Carlo change their lifestyles with the money they made from the ration stamp deal.

During the summer break, on a sunny June afternoon, Carlo’s mom sends him to the neighborhood grocery store. His parents are “on the book” at this store, which means the grocer’s carrying them; he gets paid when the family has money. It’s a typical grocery and meat market with sawdust on the floor, shelves of groceries and bins with coffee beans, dried fruit, candy and other food items. The grocer’s also the butcher. He knows everyone by name and stands behind a counter in his stained white apron as Carlo enters the store.

“Louie, Ma wants her usual order of meat.”

“Sure, Carlo, I know just what cut she likes.”

The man smiles as he walks over to his large butcher block sitting out in the open and accessible to all the patrons. Most of them stand by the table watching as he cuts the meat to make sure they’re getting the best cut.

Frankie enters the store as Carlo watches his order being sliced up. “I went over to your house, and your ma told me you were here. Come outside. I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, just a second.”

Carlo waits while Louie finishes cutting the meat, then wraps it up in a sheet of white paper and ties it with a piece of string he cuts from a big ball that hangs from the ceiling.

“There you go, young man.”

Carlo takes the package, thanks, Louie and the two boys walk out of the store.

“What’s up, Frankie?”

“Last night my brother told me his friend that manages the Empire Burlesque Theatre downtown is looking to hire two boys to help the candy pitchman.”

Carlo grins, “The Burlesque Theatre?”

“Yeah, and I know we’ll get the job. It doesn’t pay much, but jeez, Carlo, we’ll get to see all those famous strippers.”

“What’s the job? What do we do?”

“Well, I went with Phil last night, and during intermissions, the candy pitchman comes down to the front of the theater and gives a pitch about the candy, which he calls ‘delectable confections.’ He then suggests that possibly inside the boxes of candy is a prize. He waves a five- or ten-dollar bill or a piece of jewelry to entice the people to buy. Then we run up and down the aisles selling the candy and taking people’s money.”

“And we get paid to do that?”

Frankie winks. “Sure, plus get to stay and watch the girls and the comedians.”

“When do we start?”

“We need to get down to the theater now if we want the job.”

“What’s the hold-up, Frankie?”

The boys laugh, then they go to Carlo’s house to drop off the meat and head toward the Empire Theater. Thirty minutes later they’re hired and shown around the theater. Carlo can’t believe the size of the place. Altogether, there are about eight hundred seats. Most are on the first floor, but also many in the balcony, which stretches along both sides of the building to bring the upstairs patrons down close to the stage.

“Christ, we’re going to be running our asses off in this place,” Carlo says.

Frankie lightly jabs Carlo in the ribs. “Yeah, but we’re going to be looking at a lot of bare asses, too.”

Over the next couple of months, they have a super good time. Besides watching all the beautiful strippers, like Lili St. Cyr, they get to see some of the best gags and skits by top comedians and sidekicks in the business. One of their favorites is Jackie Gleason, a stand-up comic, and master of ceremonies.

It’s the middle of summer 1944. The war’s still raging overseas, and many of the graduating seniors are enlisting for military service. Frankie and Carlo, however, are having the time of their lives.

Carmen “Tiny” Tatonie, another high school boy, is working with them at the Empire Theater. Tiny’s a big kid for his seventeen years. He’s as easygoing as he is large. He stands six-three and is a bulky two-hundred-forty pound. The three of them form a genuine friendship. Besides working, they spend much of their free time together, usually hanging out at the New Dreamland Arena. It’s America’s newest and largest roller-skating rink, with a floating rotunda floor.

They eye the girls at the soda fountain. The owner, Vic Brown, runs a tight ship and a strict dress code. For the men, it’s “All gentlemen must wear a tie with a dress shirt or Polo shirts that are clean and not too extreme.” The boys opt for the latter. Royal blue is their choice of color for Polo shirts. Dungarees and overalls are strictly forbidden, so tan pants complete their wardrobe. It becomes their uniform for the summer.

As they walk to work at the Empire, they stroll down Broadway to eat a fifteen-cent hotdog from Broadway Tom’s pushcart by the Branch Brook Park. Or on their way to the Rotunda pool for a ten-cent dip. Or go to Nellie’s for some excellent lemon ice on a hot day. People smile and say, “There go the Blue Boys.” It’s a reference to the boys’ tan pants and bright blue shirts.

Running the candy up and down the aisles at the Burlesque Theatre results in lots of fringe benefits. Getting to go backstage and meet the comics and straight men is a hoot. The comics try out their routines, gags, and jokes on the boys, so they always have new material and jokes for their buddies and girlfriends. It makes the trio very popular, and they take full advantage of it, especially with the girls. Meeting and getting to know the strippers is a special treat, too.

Some of the younger strippers are fascinated with the boys. When Frankie’s brother Phil and his friends throw a party, the strippers and the three boys were there. Good-looking Frankie’s the one that most often comes out on top, though Carlo and Tiny sometimes get lucky.

Carlo’s the first to leave the Empire Theatre, as he needs to join the high school football team for late-summer practice. Soon it’s time for the “Blue Boys” to go back for their senior year. The school year starts the Monday after Labor Day.

Coach Kower team is one of the best groups of athletes in the school’s history. The team has a great summer practice and opens the season with a twenty-point win over one of their main rivals. For Carlo, things couldn’t be better. Everything’s great at school and home. The team continues to win. It’s one of the best teams in the state. They end up winning nine out of ten games for the year and gain state recognition.

Carlo receives promises of scholarship offers from various small colleges. He’s amazed at the many opportunities to go to college. It’s unbelievable to him, a poor kid getting his choice of schools, a scholarship and a guarantee of extra spending money. Carlo now feels he was right to give up the baseball contract and his short life of crime.

The system is working, treating him with respect.

He’s been looking forward to the football awards banquet. The big night’s here and Carlo rushes home from school to get ready for the football banquet. Tonight’s his night; he feels it. He arrives at the gym early. Tables and chairs and streamers with the school’s colors are strung out across the ceiling and walls. He waits for the players and parents to arrive. He hardly can contain himself. He is alone. His parents aren’t coming. They never do, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even have a date. Tonight, is his night, and he won’t share it with anyone.

The dinner and the speeches seem never to end. Finally, it’s the award for the most valuable player. It’s a trophy that’s three feet high with a bronzed football player in the Heisman stance. He daydreams how great it will look in his bedroom. Someday he’ll show it to his kids, and they’ll know, too, what he accomplished, and that he was treated right.

Coach Kower stands up at the head table. The flash of cameras going off adds to the festive atmosphere. “I now want to announce this year’s winner of the most valuable player award.”

He raises the trophy. Everyone whistles and cheers. “It gives me great pleasure to present this trophy.” The coach pauses for a few seconds. “The winner is Albert Latalli.”

Carlo’s shocked. “What happened?” he whispers. “This is not right!” He wonders where his night went. What about him? He was supposed to win the trophy.

He looks around the room. Some of his teammates look back at him. He can tell they are also surprised. Embarrassed, he looks down at his hands, fingers laced on the tabletop. His applause if weak but he joins the crowd. He’s still stunned. Thoughts race through his mind. What’s gone wrong with the system? Al Latalli is a good guy, but he’s not the best athlete. He’s always been given everything he wanted. Al’s dad’s an influential man in town, but he, Carlo Cardoni, is the star athlete. Everyone knows that.

Carlo’s one of the first to leave the banquet room. Starting down the hallway, he hears Coach Kower call after him. He doesn’t want to stop. Carlo feels cheated out of what should be his. He turns to face the coach who quickly catches up with him.

“Carlo, I’m sorry. That was your trophy.”

“Then why didn’t I get it?”

“You’ve got to understand. Al’s dad’s an important man in town, and he wanted it this way. He puts big money into the athletic program. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, my ass!” shouts Carlo as he glares at the coach.

A long pause follows the outburst as the two men stare at each other. Carlo crosses and uncrosses his arms, fists clenched. He wants to punch the coach.

“C’mon, Carlo, let’s go for a walk and talk about your scholarships.”

“Coach, I gave up a professional baseball contract to play football. I told Coach Griffin I didn’t want to let you down, and now you’ve let me down. No, you cheated me!” He grits his teeth and his eyes narrow, squinting at the coach. “I’ll tell you now; you can forget about scholarships because I’ll never play football for any school ever again. Mr. Latalli bought you. You’re not Coach Kower; you’re Coach Coward! You screwed me, and I’ll never let some candy-ass coach do that to me again.”

Carlo turns and runs out of the building, tears welling up in his eyes.

For the remainder of the school year, Carlo works on his studies and in the spring plays on the school’s baseball team, but his heart isn’t into either. He tries to contact Mr. Young about the pro ball contract, but Mr. Young never answers him. Carlo’s heartbroken. All his aspirations and hopes dashed.

CHAPTER 3

Phil, a made guy, moves up in the organization under the tutelage of Mr. Vigna. Frankie’s getting in on a few smaller jobs. He buys an older Ford pickup truck, soups up the engine, puts in new dark blue upholstery and spray-painted it powder blue.

In June, after the boys, graduate, Frankie knows what he’s going to be doing. However, since Carlo lost out on the baseball contract and going to college to play football is out of the question, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He and Frankie, now with plenty of idle time, start hanging out together a lot more.

On a warm afternoon, he walks downtown to meet Frankie at the Seventh Avenue barbershop. When he enters, he sees Frankie sitting in the barber chair. He flops down in one of the metal red-cushioned chairs and looks up at his friend. “Hey, Frankie, why don’t you get a flat-top like mine?”

Frankie makes a face, “No way.”

“It’ll make you look tough.” Carlo laughs and flexes his muscles.

“Frankie would have a heart attack if I cut off his long, wavy black hair,” chuckles the barber.

“Yeah, he wants to be a pretty boy,” nods Carlo as he picks up a June issue of Look magazine with the cover of General George Patton, the decorated leader of the U.S. Armed Forces and thumbs through the pages.

“You need a trim?” asks Frankie.

“No, I got a haircut a little over a week ago.” Carlo tosses the magazine down and looks around the shop at the thirty or forty shaving mugs on the long shelf behind the three barber chairs.

“Boy, that’s a real variety of nice mugs,” he says to the barber.

The barber smiles, “Yeah, most of my regulars who come in here for a shave and haircut have their mug.”

Carlo picks up a copy of Life magazine and starts flipping through the pages. Most of the pictures are of the war that’s raging overseas.

The barber finishes cutting Frankie’s hair and removes the black-and-white striped apron.

“Hey, Carlo, let’s take a walk. There’s some stuff I want to talk to you about.” Frankie pays the barber, and Carlo lays down the magazine. They stroll down Seventh Avenue. “Are you still thinking about joining the Air Force?”

“I don’t know. I think I’ll play it by ear for a while.”

“We’re finished with school. We’re free as the birds now.” They walk along in silence for a few seconds. “Carlo, how about joining me in doing some jobs this summer? We can make some money doing stuff for Phil.”

Carlo thinks for a moment. “Sure, why not? Everything I wanted turned to shit.”

“Maybe we could make some bucks and spend a little fun time on the Jersey coast at the beach.” Frankie pokes him lightly on the shoulder.

“That sounds good to me.”

“Okay then. How about we get some beer?”

“Frankie, I don’t have a fake I.D.”

“I mean tomorrow night. I got a job we can do.”

“Tomorrow night? What job?”

“Mario, a guy from school, is working this summer at Budweiser loading and unloading kegs and cases of beer.”

“And?”

“And he told me there’s a small door, a four-foot square, at the back of the building. The door’s about eight feet above the ground. The beer trucks back up to the door, and they load the beer kegs on a conveyor that goes from the cooler room to the small door.”

“So where are you going with this?”

“Mario told me sometimes they forget to latch this door. They realize it the next day, but so far they’ve been lucky. No one’s ever gotten into the building and stolen any beer. So let’s be the first.”

“What are we going to do—check the door every night?”

“No, we do it the easy way. Mario says he’ll unlatch the door before he leaves work. Chances are no one will check it. They’re always busy.”

“So what’s in it for him?”

“He says if we get some of the beer, he wants a keg for himself. That’s all.”

“Do you think it’s safe?”

“It’s dark at the back of the building. There are no lights. I checked it out. It should be a piece of cake.” He hesitates. “We can load the beer into the back of my truck.”

“Sounds okay, maybe we should call Tiny if we’re going to be lifting heavy kegs.”

“Good thinking. We could use Tiny’s muscle.”

Frankie calls Mario and arranges for him to leave the keg door unlatched the next night. Then he calls Tiny.

The following night they pull in behind the building and back the truck up to the keg door.

Carlo gets out of the pickup and climbs into the bed of the truck, reaches up and pulls on the small door. It opens. He taps on the back window of the truck and gives the thumbs-up. Frankie cuts the engine. He and Tiny get out and jump up into the truck bed alongside Carlo.

Frankie takes charge. “Tiny, we’ll go inside and hand the beer out to you; you’re stronger and can handle it better off the conveyor,” Frankie and Carlo enter through the keg door and into the cooler room.

It only takes about eight minutes for them to carry a dozen cold cases of beer and five of the smaller kegs up to the conveyor and for Tiny to set them in the back of the pickup.

Frankie laughs, “There, that ought to hold us for a while.”

They cover the beer with an old canvas tarp, then get into the pickup and drive a few blocks to DeNoia’s store where they buy twenty loose cigarettes for a penny each. Using the pay phone, they call Mario and arrange to meet him at the high school football field, as it’s dark and secluded. When they get to the field, they open three bottles of the cold beer, light up one of their penny cigarettes and wait.

Later, after meeting with Mario and giving him his share, the three of them head over to Frankie’s house and park next to his parents’ run-down wooden garage where six rows of grape vines form an alcove at the side. Underneath the alcove, there’s a small, unpainted wooden picnic table and two brown-stained Adirondack chairs.

“My parents’ little private shaded rest area,” Frankie murmurs.

Many years ago, the exterior of the garage was painted white, but now it’s pretty much bare wood; the wavy glass windows caked with years of dirt. Frankie struggles with the rusty-hinged door, which finally swings open. Inside it is full of junk: old rusty, broken-down bicycles, car parts and dirty brown cardboard boxes for storage. The smell of dust and stale air makes the boys cough. The boys leave six bottles of beer in the truck and stash the rest, well-hidden, in the unused garage. They drive off, drinking a beer each, and head for the roller-skating rink. A few days later they sell most of the beer and divvy up the money.

Later that week, Carlo is at the young men’s social club on Mt. Prospect Avenue. He’s by himself and shooting pool on one of the green, felt pool tables.

Frankie walks in and greets his buddy. “Hey, if it isn’t Carlo, the pool shark,” he says breezily.

He stands to watch until Carlo sinks the final ball, then nods toward the door. “Let’s go outside for a minute. I need to talk to you.” He heads out the door, and Carlo follows him. They both pull a cigarette out of their shirt pocket and light up.

“I got another good deal,” Frankie tells him, a sly grin appearing on his face and a mischievous twinkle showing in his eyes.

“Another one?” smiles Carlo.

“Yeah, you know that last little job we did; it went pretty good, right?” As Carlo nods, Frankie adds, “Well, my brother Phil has a truckload of spark plugs his guys stole up in New York, and he wants to know if we can help him get rid of them. He says if we can move them for between twenty-five and twenty-eight cents apiece, we’ll make some big bucks. I think we can do that. Phil knows you used to work part-time at the Texaco station. What do you say?”

Carlo is hesitant. “Yeah, I know Pete at the station pretty well, but I don’t know---”

“Come on; you liked the money last time, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I want to do this kind of stuff anymore. We’ve been lucky so far.”

“Hey buddy, you can do it. It’s easy money. We don’t even need to touch the plugs.” He puts his arm around Carlo’s shoulders and hugs him.

“Well, okay, Frankie, let me see what I can do. I’ll give Pete a call.”

“Great. I’ll talk to you later. I gotta meet with Phil.” He has a swagger in his gait as he walks down the street.

Pete, the owner of the Texaco station, is a wheeler-dealer. He owns a service station, an auto parts store and the main liquor store in town. Pete’s a big bulky man with bushy red hair and a beard to match. He’s known around town as a guy who likes to make a quick buck, and he’s not too particular how. Carlo thinks he might go for this deal. The following day, Carlo calls Pete and arranges to meet him later in the day at the service station. Then he calls Frankie. They agree to meet at Dons Luncheonette down the street from the gas station.

Frankie’s beaming as Carlo walks into Dons. “Nice going buddy! Now just close the deal!”

“I’ll do my best,” says a grinning Carlo.

“I know you will. I’ll be here waiting for you. Good luck.” Frankie pats Carlo on the back as he ambles off for the Texaco station.

As Carlo enters the station, he sees Pete sitting at his desk in the small office in the back. Pete looks up and waves for him to come in.

“Hey, Pete, it’s good to see ya.”

“Carlo, it’s good to see you too. Shut the door, will you? What’s on your mind? You want to come back to work for me?”

Pete remains seated as Carlo leans across the desk to shake his large hand and then sits down in a grease-stained, red cloth chair.

“No, but I’ve got something that might be a good deal for you. Interested?”

“Maybe, what is it?”

“Me and my buddy are connected with some guys who have a lot of new spark plugs they want to unload. Do you think you can use them? There’s a whole truckload.”

He lays one of the spark plugs on Pete’s messy desk. Pete picks up the plug and looks it over.

“Top brand, pretty good, spark plugs are hard to come by now. Where’d a young guy like you get a truckload of plugs?”

Come on, Pete, you know I can’t tell you that. But the guys I know got ‘em. They knew I used to work here at the station. If you can use the plugs, you’ll make some good money.”

“You say there’s a truckload?”

“Yeah.”

“How many there are?”

“About eight thousand and packaged individually.”

“Wow. That’s a bunch.”

He picks up a pencil and starts writing down numbers on a piece of scrap paper on his desk. Finally, he looks up. “Sure, I could use them. I’ve got some friends who need plugs, too. What’s the price you want for all of them?”

“Pete, we can let them for thirty cents apiece.”

“Ah, that’s way too much.” He tosses the plug in the air and catches it, then looks across the desk at Carlo. “I’ll give you twenty-four.”

“That’ll never fly with these guys, Pete. I think they might take twenty-eight cents.”

Pete winces and looks at the numbers he’s written down. “I’ll go to twenty-six.”

Carlo is quietly thinking. “That won’t work. They know what they want for them. How about we split the difference, and you take them all. You know you’re going to make a good profit.” He smiles as he looks across the desk.

Pete rolls the spark plug in his hand. He will make money at that price, and he knows Carlo’s aware of what’s a fair price. He contemplates Carlo. “You’re a tough negotiator for a young pup, but okay, twenty-seven cents.” He grins. “Arrange to put them in the basement at my liquor store. I’ll pay cash on delivery.”

“It’s a deal. I’ll make the arrangements.” Carlo shakes Pete’s hand and walks out with a broad smile on his face. He’s excited as he hurries back to Don’s to let Frankie know he’d sold them.

“Holy shit, you did it, Carlo!”