I Woke Next to the Corpse by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

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that he may have been an early consultant for Luchino Visconti and Fritz Lang. Before I speak of Tony (Toro) Calabrese himself, I want to speak of Vincenzo, who Toro brought me in contact with.

The neighborhood had its share of organized crime members, though the status addended to those activities resulted in an absurd plethora of claimants. Probably on the first and undoubtedly on the second. As with more or less most everything, including semi-everything; those of significance don’t jaw about it and those of no significance do. ........ Rather incessantly.

No big thing with the mob; as if you don’t renege on some money/promise kind of deal with them, you may just as well be discussing gardeners with your accountant neighbor in Teaneck.

It’s the hangers-on who would have you believe that they are at the heights that you have to be a little careful with.

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Vincenzo was one of those guys who always flashed a wad with the only one C-note on the outside, and could tell you of the skinny dope about last night’s break-in today after it was reported in the dailies; even if you didn’t ask. Like Tony (Toro) Calabrese, he also lived on 18th Street between Avenue C and the Boulevard with his parents. Unlike fifteen year old Tony (Toro) Calabrese, he was 40+ at a time when the mama’s boy whiney excuse had not yet been invented. It’s hard to be precise when half the hair on one’s head has relocated to one’s back and what remains is long, stringy, and no fan of Tolkien’s youth oriented “The Hobbit” and

“The Lord of the Rings.”

Indeed, had someone used the words “Middle Earth” in the early forties, those within luckless earshot would have thought it to be a reference to some obscure sci-fi comic book headlined by a super complainer able to spew “gender issues” in a single blurb.

It was truly un-intended, but in re-reading the immediately prior, I apologize for appearing to have done a self-serving imitation of Nostradamus. Some repetitions are truly un-avoidable.

Tony (Toro) Calabrese knew Vincenzo somewhat, and often when we were walking on Avenue C we’d run into him. He was always hurriedly off on some time constrained secret mission, but could

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un-graciously afford to spend the better part of an hour with us impressionable snot admirers.

It’s impossible for me to recall the details of the conversations, but beyond vague, though lengthy allusions to yesterday’s news and the important, nefarious, secret mission Vincenzo was hurrying off to he’d conclude our badinage by flashing his wad of hidden Washingtons, and ask if we needed any more “protection” or tax exempted cigarettes.

For those uninitiated you might be thinking that Vincenzo was an asshole. And you’d be cooking with gas. But you’d be wrong too if you didn’t treat him with the utmost seriousness and respect, as Vincenzo had nothing to lose. Skipping a few other steps and possibilities, if you dissed him he’d smack you some kind of way; maybe even going back home to get the baseball bat from his garlick necklaced mother to do so.

If you just think about it a second, you’ll see the simplicity of the logic. Primarily, Vincenzo would like to be respected like a “made man,” but if you are inclined toward some silly bourgeois notion of truth, he would in the absence of being made, like nothing better than to be arrested and make the news for having fucked you up. He’ll be away from his nagging Italian mother for a change and assault and battery carries more status

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in the pen than being a little mama’s boy who runs the lunchmeat slicing machine over at Mario’s on 24th Street does in the neighborhood.

“Cut some from this sausage here, boy. Half a pound of the fresh liverwurst. Hehehe.” So Toro and I always acted appropriately around Vincenzo, and when he departed he said; “Hey; you guys ever need anything you know who to talk to,” and we’d thank him profusely with a terse and bowing genuflection for his generosity. It wasn’t until we got half a block away and out of his sight that we’d crack up.

There really isn’t much to the story of Tony (Toro) Calabrese and me. We shared an interest in sports and ways to rig a card game. After I’d have a few bucks in my pocket, I’d go off asking girls for dates, my accumulation seldom depleted. He’d go off on a mission to become the oldest stickball player in the schoolyard. Despite periodic success, complete dream realization was deferred until his early twenties. Familiarity always breeds contempt.

As an adult, Toro Calabrese was a cold eyed, hatchet faced man, as short as a late, postage due, partial payment and as hard as the manager of the loan office. His neat, well-kept puss looked as if it has been shaved within the hour, the nostrils of his

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hooked beezer the only sign of semi-facial hair. He wore well-pressed suits and there was always a black pearl in his tie. He had the nervous fingers of a man with an agitated brain on a mission. He looked ready for a fight.

The bright red 1940 Ford All Steel Street Rod was so red it made orange look yellow. The garish entry was a customized muscle car driven by another resident of Toro’s block, Squale (pronounced skwal-ay). You could always hear it coming from ten hovels away.

Though I’d seen it before, one day I was sitting with Toro on his steps, going over last minute plans for the fixed card game soon to begin there, when it drove by.

Totally within character insofar as I understood it, I said something derisive about the car and its driver, which I can no longer recall. Since we were always goofing on someone or something, I was Christopher Columbused when he seemed to get

“defensive.” In a gravely serious voice, he informed me that Squale was a made man. Therefore I was 90% sure that he was kidding me.

There weren’t many Mafia movies yet, and if I had seen any of them I must not have been paying much attention, as I had not previously heard the term “made man.” I thought that Toro was saying “maid man,” and followed up with some unremembered

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comment about gay servitude I considered to be consistent with the unusually bright car color. Even if I remembered it, it would not be stated here in fear of rejection on the grounds of gender insensitivity.

Tony (Toro) Calabrese then educated me as to how much of a big deal that was before the card game broke out. I believed him as Squale never tried to sell me any un-taxed cigarettes. In fact he never even spoke to me and just continued to go on gunning

“big broad red,” until someone else unaware of Squale’s importance came out on their front porch to yell; “Get that fuckin’ shit out of here, WAP! ...... Marone.”

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