Manny Bossman’s small, family delicatessen cupped the corner of a southern Bronx street, its plate windows wearing the neatly hand-painted logo ‘The Boss Man’s Deli’ faced north and east, onto the jungle.
That street corner sat on the edge of Crack Alley, one of the worst neighbourhoods in the Bronx; by night it belonged to the winos, bag ladies, junkies and crazies who dragged themselves out of their holes with the setting of the sun.
It cultivated its own stink, too, like so many other street corners abandoned by night to the lowlife; the odour of forest green garbage sacks split by grubbing claws; the odour of boxes, bottles and cans strung out through the gaping holes; the odour of piss and puke.
It was a bad place to live, even before his beloved Thelma had been taken up to Jehovah. Only nostalgia and guilt kept the street corner store open during the darkest days; memories of Thelma, of their two children, Jesse and Katarina, and now the grandchildren, Rosie and Stephen. In both, Manny saw the familiar spirit of his wife. Her ghost, it seemed, refused to rest; and guilt that he had fallen asleep and somehow allowed his neighbourhood to slip so low.
In the last hour of daylight, before closing up for the night, Manny Bossman shuffled about the gas-lit store, sliced salami, pastrami and liverwurst for tomorrow, wiped down spotless counters and stainless slicers, and polished the long strip mirror that ran the length of the back wall.
Three streets away, in St. Malachi's, Carlos Lamenzo made his excuses to Father Joseph D’Angelo, flimsy as they were, and made to leave.
As always, he paused between the Narthex and the Nave, dipped two fingers into the font, his reflection shimmering in the cool blue of the marble basin, crossed himself hurriedly with holy water and bowed his head before the flickering flames of the half dozen votive candles and spotlight illuminated crucifix above the alter.
He dashed out into the smells of Hart Street, his own heart racing as he skirted the litter-strewn edge of Castle Hill Park and ducked back into the mire of Castle Hill Avenue.
Barbis and the others were waiting for him outside the entrance to the subway. The gravolent attar of Henry Barbis’ cheap cologne hung heavily in the July air. The boarded-up houses along this particular stretch of slum-land all looked similarly dreary. The streetlamp outside the station was off, the bulb shattered and not replaced. The curtains of the houses on either side of the station were drawn. It was that time, when people stopped peering out between the drapes to check on the aimlessly milling kids. A couple of doors down a dog growled, but the four men ignored it, waiting for Barbis’ lead.
As if to some silent signal, he began walking unhurriedly toward the darkened alley traversing Cicero and Caesar, the big man’s abnormally crooked gait trailing his two-tone spats across the concrete sidewalk. The others moved cautiously behind him.
“What’s he up to?” Lamenzo whispered to the Bantam-sized Latino at his side, meaning their self-elected leader.
Jimmy Ortega looked at him, his usually playful eyes unreadable in the gloom, and shrugged his butterfly shoulders. “Prick reckons he’s got himself a line into Rodriguez,” his voice, coated with a Spanish accent, whispered back. Ortega smiled crookedly. “Seems like he’s willing to put some bigger business our way if we do okay tonight. No fuck ups and maybe he’ll even let us in on a crack house run.”
“Yeah? You’re not shittin’ me, are ya?”
“Why the fuck would I, man?”
“Shit, he’s gotta be out of his fuckin’ head mixing up with a motherfucker like Tony Rodriguez.”
“Too fuckin’ right, my man. But he reckons the shit’s worth it.”
“How ‘bout you?”
“Me?” Ortega seemed genuinely amused by the thought. “What the fuck’s it matter what I think? You think ol’ Henry’d listen to what I think?” The young Chicano sneered and spat into the gutter.
“Where we goin’ then?”
“Gotta put the squeeze on some old Jewboy, seems like he’s not coughin’ up the insurance on time and Rodriguez is gettin’ real pissed with him.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, no shit… Just like the fuckin’ movies huh?”
“Just like the fuckin’ movies,” Lamenzo agreed.
Barbis had slipped out of the alley, drawing the others with him like flies. The houses along this side of Caesar all looked the same, terraced and semi-detached row houses, unremarkable houses lived in by unremarkable people.
People like Manny Bossman.
The old man’s street corner delicatessen stood in darkness, the only light the spectral black and white glow of the television set coming through the glass of one of the small upper windows.
Barbis stopped, tilting his head upwards until the television’s glow touched his scowling features. The knife he drew from his belt was about eight inches long, serrated along a single edge, and wickedly sharp.
Lamenzo didn’t hurry to catch up; instead he loitered around the entrance onto the street, kicking unconsciously at the forest of municipal garbage sacks lining the gutter, spilling chicken bones and potato peel with his feet.
Eddie Morreno and Jimmy Ortega moved up to stand side by side at Barbis’ shoulder, their eyes echoing his, lifting to join his in a curb side vigil.
“Time for work, boys.” Barbis purred, a coarse crack from his bruised knuckles punctuating each short word.
Morreno took his cue. Edging past the still grinning Barbis, he tried the main door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. “S’locked,” he grumbled, needlessly stating the obvious as he stepped back from the door.
Barbis’ pencil thin lips twisted into a wry smile as he nodded to Ortega. “Around the side, Jimmy.”
“No problem,” Ortega agreed, squatting down and pulling a knife of his own from a hidden boot-sheath. The little Chicano disappeared around the side of the building.
Lamenzo walked forward, careful not to make a sound, until he drew level with Barbis and Morreno. “What’re we gonna do to the old guy?”
“Just rough him up a bit, Carlos. You know the deal. Rodriguez wants him frightened and we’re frightening.” Barbis answered softly.
“There’s not gonna be no blood is there, Henry? I’ve got to be back to help Father Joe with the evening service, remember.”
“No blood, I promise you, Carlos,” Barbis breathed in his ear. “No blood.”
Hidden until the last moment by shadow, Jimmy Ortega made his way back to the others. “There’s a metal fire escape around the back,” he whispered, breathing hard. “Only goes as far as the second floor, but there’s a fly-window up there that shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“What are we waiting for?” Lamenzo asked dryly.
The four men moved cautiously along the narrow walkway until Ortega gestured for them to stop. “This is it,” he whispered, pointing at the peeling face of an oddly colourless gate. “Just watch the step, ‘kay?”
If before they were quiet, crossing the killing ground between the colourless gate and the fire escape at the rear of The Boss Man’s Deli, they were church mice.
A rusted garbage bin stood close by, under the swinging legs of the escape’s ladder, at least eight feet above. Eddie Morreno pushed it aside with his foot, ignoring the protesting screech of metal as it grated against the chipped concrete of the yard. He smiled broadly and squatted down, clasping his hands together to form a stirrup.
“Would you be so kind as to do the honours?” Barbis whispered to Ortega, nodding down at the kneeling shadow of Eddie Morreno.
“My pleasure.” Jimmy Ortega put his foot on the helping hands and allowed himself to be boosted up until his questing fingers snagged on the first rung of the metal ladder, then pulled himself up until his swinging feet caught the base of that first precious rung. He danced up the remaining rungs until he emerged on the narrow, rusting platform, from where he could reach the small fly-window he had talked about. Without waiting to be told, Ortega slid the thin blade of his knife into the frame of the window, working the point up and down carefully until the window latch finally came loose. He nudged it gently with the side of his clenched fist, popping it open.
Ortega paused for a moment, listening, and then swung himself inside.
The sounds of a distant television crept down the bare flight of stairs, reaching his ears as he lowered himself down onto the boards. He stood on the darkened stairs, waiting for the others to join him.
Lamenzo was first, Barbis next, Morreno last, manoeuvring with remarkable dexterity for a man of his size. He clambered through the window as Ortega made to move a step further toward the dimly phosphorescent landing. He too could hear the sounds coming from above.
Henry Barbis chewed on his bottom lip, contemplating the savagery of the next move, his expression of confusion gradually melting into a broad grin of satisfaction. He looked at Ortega and nodded, gesturing silently towards the faint light.
Lamenzo made to give way, letting both Barbis and Morreno step passed him.
Both men paused on the landing, Barbis looking left, Morreno right, ignoring the ribbon of grey light seeping under the nearest door. Jimmy Ortega reached for the handle of the door.
It opened soundlessly, the blue-white light trapped within slithering out to wash over Ortega’s Latino features. The musical call of the television was louder now, droning and muttering, occasionally breathing a whisper of song.
It was playing to itself.
The old man was asleep in his chair.