My father and Benny hung out in the same crowd when they grew up in the Bronx, but they didn’t become really close friends until they went into the service together. As soon as they came of age, which was a couple of years after Pearl Harbor, they enlisted in what used to be called the Army Air Forces, with the hope of becoming fighter pilots.
Blackie told me stories about his fly-boy days over India, but it turns out they were pure invention. When I went through the papers in the box I learned he never earned his wings. Benny filled in some blanks later. Turned out, neither of them even made it through preliminary flight training.
They began in a classification program at a base just outside Nashville, then shipped out to Maxwell Field for air cadet training. When Benny got into a scrape with a couple of infantry grunts at a local tavern, his Commanding Officer politely explained how the Army Air Corps was not looking for some hothead to be jockeying their expensive airplanes over Germany. Then he politely showed him the door. My father had his own problems, finding it a chore to keep up with the tedious classroom work that was far too much like school for his taste. He was more interested in dressing up in his clean, pressed uniform and chasing the local skirts, which led to some miserable scores when exam time rolled around. He received the bad news when the results were posted on the barracks wall. His name was, as Benny explained, below the line.
After washing out of aviation cadet training, they were both assigned to a ground support detail, stationed in India. Shipped off to a place called Chabua, Assam, they reported to a unit known as the India-China Division of the Air Transport Command. Blackie and Benny were not exactly in the thick of the fighting, unless someone can recall Hitler making a big putsch to seize Calcutta.
Blackie never rose above the rank of Private during his tour in India. According to the discharge records I found in the box, the most dangerous assignment he ever pulled was as Radio Operator, a position he applied for when he tired of training as an interpreter. That one really got me, the thought of my father as an interpreter in India. I wondered what he was interpreting and for whom.
Sometime in the summer of 1944, shortly after the D-Day invasion, Benny was sent off to Marseilles. My father was transferred there a few months later, joining his friend in the south of France. According to Blackie’s records, his military career took a substantial turn there. He and Benny were attached to a unit investigating sabotage, subversive activities and war crimes. Their specific assignment was to locate and recover valuable artifacts taken by the enemy during the Occupation.
My father never told me much about those last four months, but the one thing he brought back from the war, other than the pocketful of medals and ribbons I found in the box, was an oil painting of the countryside near a town called Gourdes in Provence. It’s nothing special, just a landscape that hung in our living room all through my childhood.
I was surprised the picture had any history at all. “I brought this back from France, from when I was in the service,” he told me when they were moving to their little house in Yonkers. Up to then, the painting was just one of those things that your parents have that you don’t bother to think about, like one of those old lamps I noticed in my mother’s living room.
I said, “You never told me about that.”
“I guess not,” he said. “Anyway, I want you to have it. Just promise you’ll never get rid of it.”
I promised, took it back to my apartment, and it’s been hanging in my bedroom ever since.
As for Benny, I think I mentioned that the last time I saw him was when Blackie died. He came to the wake and sat alone in the back of the funeral parlor, mourning in his private way. Other than my mother and sisters and me, I think he was the saddest person there.
My mother was not as touched about his sorrow as I was, mostly because she believed that Benny and the rest of my father’s cronies represented the worst part of Blackie’s life. She graciously thanked those who attended the services, but after that was done, she told me she never wanted to see any of them again. And we never did. Benny was the only one of Blackie’s friends who came to the church for the Requiem Mass and then to the cemetery, but after that he also disappeared from our lives.
My father had told me more than once that Benny was his best friend. He also said that Benny was a straight shooter, an important distinction according to Blackie. He believed that straight shooters always win in the end, and that they were the only guys you should ever trust. When I read the letter from my father telling me about his last Big Plan, I was glad it was Benny he pointed me to for help.
I remembered hearing that Benny and his wife had moved away a few years back, but Benny was not the kind of guy you were going to find in the phone book. This was before the internet age, where everyone is findable, so my options were limited. I knew my cousin Frank still had contact with Blackie’s old crowd, having entered the “life,” as they called it. He probably would know where Benny had settled, or at least have a way to find out. Since I had no such contacts, the only problem was the thought I might have to give Frank a call.
***
FIRST, I CONTACTED A FRIEND at the phone company. As I feared, she came up empty in her effort to find Benny, as did my second and third attempts to locate him.
It was becoming clear I was going to have to call Frank. I simply did not have another way to get to Benny and, after reading my father’s letter for the twentieth time, Benny was the person I had to speak with.
It was not easy to bring myself to ask Frank for anything, even something as simple as a phone number. Over time, he had become more like Blackie, something my father encouraged. Frank was now making his living in the same world Blackie had occupied, which meant our lives had moved further and further apart, until there was nothing left between us but family history. I suppose a therapist could spend ten years trying to convince me I was jealous of the attention and approval he received from my father for becoming a hoodlum, but what the hell would that get me?
Deciding there was no choice, I phoned Frank’s place in Florida, listened to the infuriatingly cheerful message on his answering machine, and left my number. I spent the rest of the evening reading through my father’s thirty-five-year-old short stories until I finally fell into an uneasy sleep. Very much a creature of habit, I still managed to wake up early and, as I got ready to go to the office, Frank called.
“Hey,” he greeted me, “I’m in New York, why the hell did you call me in Lauderdale?”
The better question was, Why would I have any idea where he was, since we hadn’t spoken in a couple of years? But his tone made it clear I was the moron for wasting a long-distance call down south, so all I could think of to say was, “You’re in the city?”
“Yeah, I’ve been here on business since Friday. Get up here all the time.”
I really didn’t want any more information than that about what he did, even if I was tempted to ask why I never heard from him if he was in town so often. I said, “I was wondering if you know where I could find Benny these days.”
“That’s it?” he asked with a forced laugh. “Don’t you want to know how I’ve been? No catching up on the family?”
“Sorry. How’ve you been?”
He ignored the question. “Benny, huh? Some sort of reunion I haven’t been invited to?”
“Not exactly. My mother’s moving down your way next month.”
“I heard. That’ll be great for her.”
“I hope so,” I said, not bothering to ask how he’d heard about my mother.
“What’s that got to do with Benny?” He laughed into the phone. “Your mother’s leaving town and you’re suddenly lonely for the old crew?”
“Updating my Christmas card list,” I said.
“Come on, cuz. What gives?”
I took a deep breath. “My mother was going through some things. Found a note from my father, said I should keep in touch with Benny. Made me feel bad I hadn’t talked to him for so long.”
Frank uttered a soft whistle. “A note from Blackie? After all these years? No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
He told me he’d find out where Benny had gone and get me the info, then asked me to meet him at Benson’s Steak House for lunch.
I was too busy wondering why I’d been stupid enough to mention anything about the letter to turn down his invitation.
Relationships can be strange.
After we hung up I stood in front of my bedroom closet, deciding what to wear.
I don’t normally get dressed up for work, not in the traditional sense of suits and ties. The advertising game is supposed to be a blend of business and art, so it’s important to keep one foot in each of those worlds so people know you’re into the program. You’ve got to look chic without appearing seedy. Successful but not corporate.
Today was different. I was going to see my cousin for lunch, and I wanted to look good. I realize that might sound odd, but I assumed Frank was making barrels of dough running whatever scam he was running at the time, and I didn’t want him to think I was some broken-down Working Stiff.
I will not get into the bell-bottom pants and colorful shirts we wore in those days, one of those embarrassing memories from the era. Be assured, I chose my best suit, which was a conservative navy blue, a white shirt and a fancy red tie with funny little blue characters on it. I think men look best in a navy blue suit with a white shirt and red tie—not counting tuxedos, of course, but a tuxedo for lunch would have been overkill.
After an uneventful morning in the office—I had no enthusiasm for work that day—I got to Benson’s just after one o’clock. I knew that Frank would be late, because that’s one of the many affectations of any Serious Guy. They’ve got to be late to prove they’re involved in some big action, something more important than arriving on time to meet you. I bet Frank shows up late for his first appointment of the day.
Back in the seventies, Benson’s was a Manhattan rendition of an old-fashioned saloon, with paneled walls and soft lights, the sort of place that’s tough to find anymore. I sat on one of the wooden stools at the large, square oak bar, said hello to the bartender and ordered Gibson on the rocks to keep me company. He served the drink in a heavy tumbler with small, crunchy cocktail onions and, by the time Frank breezed through the door, I’d made most of my way through that first cocktail.
On an empty stomach, except for the onions, I was feeling pretty good.
Frank looked all right, although he’d gained a few pounds since I’d last seen him. He and I were always the trim guys in the family, so it surprised me to see him filling out around the middle. He was still handsome, with dark hair and eyes like my father and uncle, but with better features than either of them, including a straight, smallish nose that he won in the gene pool from his mother’s side of the family. He had a deep Florida tan and a big, white-toothed smile that he used quite often, as if he just thought of a punch line to a joke he isn’t telling you.
“Hey cuz,” he said as I stood to greet him. He wrapped me in a bear hug, then took me by the shoulders and held me at arms length, giving me the once over. “Nice suit,” he said “but where’d you get that tie? Looks like you’re going to assembly in grade school.”
I shook my head slightly. “Good to see you too,” I told him as I sat back down on my stool.
He was dressed in a white silk shirt left open at the neck, dark trousers and a pair of expensive loafers that had cost some reptile its life. He had a cotton sweater hanging off his shoulders, just like in GQ. “Let’s have a drink,” he said.
“I’m already working on one.”
“You been here long?”
“Nah,” I said, looking at the large glass that was empty but for the remaining ice. “I was just thirsty.”
Frank smiled again. I don’t think I’ve seen him laugh since he was seventeen or so, but he smiled like crazy.
He ordered a Chivas on the rocks. I sucked the last of the vodka from the ice cubes and asked for another.
“It’s really great to see you,” he said.
I believed him. I tend to do that a lot in life, believe what people say. It gets me into all kinds of trouble.
“How’s your dad?” I asked. Aunt Mary had died a couple of years before and the last time I saw Uncle Vincent was at her funeral. It occurred to me that was the last time I’d seen Frank.
“Good,” he told me. “He’s good.” Our drinks were served, he picked up his scotch and said, “Salud.”
We touched glasses and tasted our drinks. Then we spent a while going through the family roster, comparing notes on how our sisters were doing, sharing the gossip we’d heard about various aunts, uncles and cousins, just generally catching up.
An old friend once warned me that “catching up” is the death knell of a relationship. When all you’ve got to talk about is how other people are doing, it means you have nothing in common anymore. It happens a lot when someone moves away, then tries to keep in touch, and those telephone discussions are the worst. You’re each trying to think of things to tell the other, instead of saying what you really feel. Something like “You know Hank, you’re not actually a part of my life anymore and I’m not a part of yours. What do you say we eighty-six this crap, and if you’re in town some time we’ll get together and see a ballgame or get drunk or something, okay?”
“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Frank asked me.
“Sure, I’m listening. Just got a little distracted, that’s all.”
“The letter, eh? Let’s see it.”
“The letter?” I gave him one of those bobble head doll nods, as if once I started I might not be able to stop. “It was just a note.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“I didn’t bring it.”
“You didn’t bring it?”
Don’t you hate it when people repeat what you’ve just said as a way of expressing their disbelief? It’s so demeaning. Especially when you’re lying.
“No, I didn’t bring it,” I said, then stared down at the little ivory colored onions in my glass, as if I should be embarrassed about not having the letter with me.
“I thought you were going to let me read it.” He actually managed to sound hurt, although I knew—even well into my second drink—that I never said anything about letting him read it.
“I told you what it said about Benny. Kind of cryptic, actually,” although why I added that last bit of information I’ll never know. Alcohol can be a sonuvabitch.
“You see. It’s cryptic. That’s why I’ve got to read it if I’m going to be able to help.”
Another thing I knew I hadn’t said, was that I wanted his help. All I wanted was to find Benny. Still, I was the one who had opened the door. “You know how my father sometimes talked about a big deal?” I shrugged, as if it wasn’t really important. “Just wondering if he ever said anything to you, about money he stashed away or anything like that?” I know, I know, I should have kept my mouth shut. Mr. Smirnoff and I couldn’t help ourselves.
Frank smiled a genuine smile, which was rare for him. I think he ought to try it more often, swap it for that studied grin he favors, the one he probably uses when he’s about to sell you a car with the odometer turned back. “Blackie always had something on the back burner. You know that.”
I nodded.
“You remember the night of my sister’s wedding?”
“When you took that swing at him?”
“Forget that,” Frank said as he waved that thought away. “I’m talking about later that night. When we went to Jonesy’s.”
“Of course I remember.”
Frank pushed out his lower lip. “He was talking a big deal that night.”
I shrugged. “He did that a lot.”
“He did, but that night was different.”
”Different how?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember, at the end, how Benny kept trying to shut him up?”
I had not remembered that, not until he reminded me, not until he and I relived that night together.
***
AFTER THE BRAWL AT LENA’S WEDDING, after my father crashed through the window and the four of us ended up standing in the driveway drinking scotch—my father, Frank, the bridegroom Ray and me—we eventually climbed into Frank’s car and drove to Jonesy’s Bar.
Jonesy’s was a gin mill near Greenwood Lake, without tables, booths, menus or any other pretense about the singular reason for its existence, which was the sale of booze. It consisted of one long, narrow room, dominated by an oak bar with a worn, scarred top and a solid brass rail that runs just a few inches off the floor where you could rest your feet while you sit there getting loaded. There was a row of stools with shiny metal legs and round, red vinyl seats that spin all the way around if you had interest in facing this way or that. Behind the bar were shelves stocked with bottles of liquor. Not fancy cognacs or single barrel scotches like they feature in upscale places nowadays. Just scotch, rye, bourbon, vodka, an assortment of domestic beers. Behind the bottles was a large mirror, nothing etched or ornate, just an old looking glass that left you to stare at yourself, if that was your pleasure.
The room was paneled in dark, rough-hewn wood, the kind that looked like they forgot to plane it down, very Adirondacks, and just the right touch to complement the view through the large windows, where you could see the lake sitting quietly beyond a stand of tall old trees.
The bartender, Gus, was a burly guy who must have been in his mid-forties when I first met him, but who always looked around sixty and likely still does. He was the only bartender I had ever seen at Jonesy’s. Gus had a receding hairline, broad shoulders and a large tattoo on his left arm that proclaimed his service with the 102nd Airborne. I think he liked us, my cousins and me, because we enjoyed his stories, and because most of his other customers were older and burned out and never seemed to say much of anything, except “I’ll have another, Gus.”
By the time we got to Jonesy’s that night it was nearly eleven and there were only four other people at the bar. As we came in, Gus greeted my cousin by name.
“Hiya,” Frank replied happily, then extended his hand. “Gooda see ya, Gus.”
Gus shook his hand.
“Gus, you know my cousin.”
He asked how I was doing, and I told him I was fine.
“And you know Ray,” Frank said.
“Sure,” Gus said. “How are ya?”
“Married,” the young bridegroom muttered, followed by a short burp.
“What’s that?”
“He’s married,” Frank interpreted. “Married my sister Lena this afternoon.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
Not allowing the obvious to go unspoken, Gus asked, “Shouldn’t you be with the bride?”
“Married,” Ray croaked.
My father, who had been quiet up to then, stepped forward. “Am I nobody here?”
“Sorry,” Frank said. “Gus, this is my favorite uncle. Best guy in the whole world, my Uncle Blackie.”
“I thought maybe you forgot me,” my father said.
“Blackie?” Gus inquired politely.
“That’s right,” my father told him. “Blackie.” Then, just to be sure there was no mistake about it, he said “Blackie” again, and asked if anyone had a problem with that.
Gus shook his head. “You Vincent’s brother?”
“You know my brother Vincent?”
“Sure. Good guy.”
“Good guy? Great guy,” Blackie said, wringing three syllables out of the word “great,” like Tony the Tiger. “Greatest brother in the whole fucken world.” He accompanied that proclamation with a sideward thrust of his right hand that caught Ray flush on the side of the head and almost knocked him to the floor. Frank helped his new brother-in-law regain his balance, as my father said, “Sorry, kid. I think you need a cocktail.”
Gus could see that none of us needed a cocktail, but he probably figured there was no way we were going to be able to find our way back to the car, let alone drive it. “What’ll you have?” he asked.
My father ordered scotch for all of us, Johnnie Walker Black Label of course, then turned to survey the length of bar. The other four men were seated, quietly enjoying their drinks. Blackie called out to them. “You guys know my brother, Vincent Rinaldi?”
The closest of the four looked up from his shot glass. “Sure, I know him.”
Blackie pushed away from the bar and strode purposefully toward the man. Standing over him, he said, “Is he the greatest guy in the world or what?”
The man had the look of a pipe-fitter or mason—thick arms, thick neck and a jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in a couple of days. He was wearing a heavy, blue flannel shirt and the mottled look of intoxication. If he had been a trifle less inebriated, he might have just agreed with my father and gone on drinking. Instead, he said, “Vincent’s a right guy, but the best guy in the world? Come on pal. Gimme a break.”
“Give you a break? Is that what you want?” Blackie wasn’t in the mood to give him a break. Instead, he pulled a revolver from somewhere inside his sport coat and held it where the man could get a close look at it. “I’ll give you a break. I’ll break you so many times you’ll look like you went through a fucken wood chipper.”
As soon as Gus saw the gun he said, “Hey, hey, Blackie, let’s put that away. We don’t want any trouble here.”
My father turned to Gus and told him to keep his hands on the bar. Then he asked, “Why do bartenders always say “I don’t want any trouble here?” You look like a smart guy, Gus, but that’s a dumb thing to say. Think about it. Where the fuck do you want trouble?” Blackie gave everyone a moment to consider that. Then he said, “There’s not gonna be any trouble, just everybody take it easy.”
Taking it easy was apparently no problem for the three men seated further down the bar, who were so potted they didn’t even know there was anything to be troubled about. Ray had passed out by now, face down on the oak countertop. Frank and I were just standing there, watching.
The man seated in front of my father, the one who had the nerve to suggest that my uncle wasn’t the greatest guy in the world, was staring at the barrel of the gun. When Blackie waved it closer to his nose, the man began to urinate down his leg, the pale liquid dripping onto the floor for everyone to hear in the momentary silence. “Look buddy,” he began to say in a frightened voice, but my father cut him off.
“Shut the fuck up, all right?”
The man nodded.
“You don’t think too much of my brother, eh?”
“I, uh, I didn’t say that.”
“I told you to shut up,” my father snapped at him. “Because I’m gonna tell you something about my brother.” Brandishing the pistol for emphasis, he began pacing the length of the room. “Lemme tell ya what kinda brother Vincent’s been to me, all right?”
Frank tried to say something, but my father cut him off. “You started this, you weaselly little fuck. You think I forgot that?”
I had the sense to keep my mouth shut, at least for now.
Working hard to sound as friendly as if two old pals running into each other on the street. Gus said, “Hey, Blackie. Why don’t we call Vincent and get him down here? Before someone gets hurt, all right? How’s that for an idea, huh Blackie?”
My father stopped, thought it over and seemed to like the idea. Then his mouth curled into a vicious sneer. “Very good, Gus, you’re a smart boy. You figure I’m so stinkin’ drunk I’m gonna let you pick up that phone and calla cops, right? Come on, Gus.” Blackie started laughing. “I like you, Gus. You’re a smart boy.” He turned to Frank. “Call your father. Tell him to come over. Alone,” he added, snarling the last word for emphasis.
So that’s what Frank did. He picked up the bar phone and dialed his father’s number, told him the situation and asked him to come over.
There’s so much more I could tell you about my Uncle Vincent, but for now it’s enough to say that on the night of his daughter’s wedding, when he received a call from his son informing him that his brother was striding up and down Jonesy’s Bar, waving a pistol and extolling the many virtues of Vincent Rinaldi, the said Vincent Rinaldi did not jump in his car, drive over and take my father home. No, while my father paced up and down the room, regaling the group with tiresome stories of his childhood, his days in the military and all the family history that’s never interesting to a stranger unless he’s demented, my uncle responded to the call by hanging up and then calling Benny.
You might wonder why Benny wasn’t there already, why he wasn’t invited to Lena’s wedding since he knew the whole family and had been Blackie’s best friend dating all the way back to the Second World War. There is no way for me to be sure, but maybe it was tough enough for my Uncle Vincent to retain his brother’s title of Best Guy in the World without unnecessary competition.
Whatever reasons he had for not inviting Benny to his daughter’s wedding, it didn’t stop Uncle Vincent from phoning Benny to say that Blackie was in a jam. And Benny, being Benny, got out of bed, threw some cold water on his face, pulled on his clothes and drove up from the city to get my father before things got any uglier.
By the time Benny and my uncle made their way into Jonesy’s, almost an hour later, Blackie had become less a lethal threat than a crashing bore. Everyone in the place was sick of hearing about Vincent and Blackie, so my father turned to the claim that he was sitting on the biggest deal since the building of the Suez Canal.
He and Benny.
“We’re gonna have more dough than I’ll know what to do with,” he proclaimed.
Frank started to say something but, after the earlier dustup I grabbed my cousin by the arm and quietly convinced him to shut the hell up.
While Blackie went on about all the money he was going to have, he ordered round after round of drinks for everyone. Everyone, that is except for Ray, who remained face down on the wooden bar, snoring loudly out of his mouth and into his own nose. The other customers downed the free booze as Blackie continued his sentinel’s pace, up and down the length of the narrow room, the revolver a prop now, while Gus the bartender kept a watchful eye to gauge when the soliloquy might wind down enough for him to talk my father into giving up the gun.
When the door to the bar opened, letting in a gust of cold night air, Blackie spun around, not quite leveling the pistol at the intruders, but certainly waving it in their general direction.
“Lower the gun, Blackie,” his friend said in a composed but firm voice.
My father took a moment, then said, “Benny! Vinny! Hey everybody, it’s my brother and my best pal.”
It was a fucking Norman Rockwell homecoming.
The faces of the four strangers at the bar wore mixed expressions of curiosity and relief. Perhaps the lunatic with the gun would be subdued, or at least they would shut him up long enough for them to get out of there and go home.
Throwing his arms into the air, my father said, “Benny, you sonuvagun. What the hell are you doing here?”
Benny was shorter than my father, a cherubic guy with a round face, very little hair, a dark complexion and an easy-going manner belied only by his reptilian gaze. He stepped toward my father, taking him by the shoulders and staring into his bloodshot eyes. “What am I doing here? I was in the mother lovin’ neighborhood and I decided to stop by.” Benny, unlike my father, almost never cursed. Mother lovin’ was a strong statement coming from him. “Whadda you think I’m doin’ here?”
My father stared at him blankly, as if it might be a trick question.
“Gimme the gun,” Benny said and, without waiting to debate the request, deftly pulled the revolver from my father’s hand and shoved it into his own coat pocket. “Now siddown and tell me what this is all about.”
Benny led my father to a stool and sat him down beside the sleeping Ray. Blackie asked Gus for a drink and Benny gave the bartender a nod. As Gus poured yet another scotch, Blackie said, “They don’t believe me, Benny. They don’t believe we got the biggest deal in the world right here.” He held out an unsteady hand and pointed to his own palm. “Right here. Blood money is what we’ve got. Go ahead. Tell ‘em. Tell ‘em the truth.”
“Do me a favor,” Benny said. “Shut up, okay? I’m sure you’ve already done enough talking tonight.”
The man at the bar who knew my uncle clearly agreed. Figuring it was safe now, he stood up and said to my uncle, “Vincent, okay for me to go?”
Uncle Vincent had remained near the door, his posture stiff, his expression a mask of restrained anger. He hadn’t even noticed the guy until then. “Joe, yeah, sure,” he said. “Sorry about all this.”
Joe got to his feet with some difficulty. “Your brother’s an interesting guy,” he said.
“Yeah. He sure is.”
Joe cautiously made his way past my father and headed out the door, but the other three strangers sat right where they were, willing to wait for whatever would happen next. Free drinks are hard to come by that hour of the night.
“Hey,” Gus the bartender called out to them. “Show’s over. We’re all clearing out.”
Benny agreed. “We got a tab here? Any damage done?”
Gus managed a short laugh. “Damage? Only thing that got shot was my nerves.”
Benny said, “No trouble, then.” Gus told him what was owed and Benny pulled out some large bills and paid three or four times the amount. Then he helped Blackie to his feet and led him toward the door, where my uncle was waiting.
When they came face to face, Vincent said, “Jesus Christ, John. I live around here, you understand that? Isn’t it enough that you ruined my daughter’s wedding and broke my goddamned kitchen window? I have to face these people. They’re my neighbors, for Chrissake.”
Blackie stared at his brother for a moment, his eyes struggling to focus. Then he turned back to the three strangers who were trying to make it to their feet. “Look guys, this is him. My brother Vincent. Best fucken brother in the whole damn world.” None of the three men said a word, probably less afraid of Blackie pulling out another pistol than making another speech.
Blackie returned his uneven gaze to his brother. “You see, Vinny? You don’t have to worry. They don’t even know who the fuck you are.” Then he turned to the bar. “You’re a good egg Gus. A good egg. You put up with me tonight, right Gus? Hold on.” Blackie staggered over and carefully placed several more bills on the wooden counter.
Gus said, “Hey, you don’t have to do that Blackie.”
“I do,” my father said, his head moving slowly up and down. “Sure I do.” Then he steadied himself. “You coulda called a cop. Coulda taken a run at me. But you clocked it right.” When he turned to leave, Benny grabbed hold of his arm, helping him to stay aloft.
“Hey Benny, tell everyone. Tell ‘em we got the world by the tail. Tell ‘em Benny. Tell ‘em about our deal.”
“Shut up,” Benny said, “let’s just get outta here.”
Blackie thought it over, then said, “Right, right, let’s get outta here.” As he made his way to the door again, he reached out and gave my uncle one last little slap on the cheek. “Best fucken brother in the world,” he said, then he and Benny were gone.