It always gets a little weird around All Hallows’ Eve. Something happens at the end of October that puts me on edge. I can’t help it. I’m not just talking about the creepy movies or carved jack-o’-lanterns with those glowing eyes or monstrous children whose identities are hidden by costumes demanding treats. I’m referring to a certain atmospheric change that occurs from remembering the dead.
You see, death is something I’m quite familiar with.
How did this happen? For starters, I grew up with some pretty shady characters. Teenage misadventures led to our first few illegal ventures, which opened up a whole world of opportunity, depending on how far one was willing to go. As time passed, these same shady homeboys either found legitimate ways of putting food on the table or became full-fledged criminals.
I took to crime like a whore takes to dick.
When I was thirteen years old, a group of us broke into a Catholic school. It wasn’t any sort of hate crime. Hell, most of us were Catholics. It was more about opportunity and having fun than anything else. Preparing to break in and enter, I didn’t really think it through and figured, fuck it, hanging out with the older kids while doing something daring was pretty damn exciting.
Being the youngest and the skinniest, my job was to go in through a window and then open the door for the others. Step by anxious step, I’ll never forget that sheer adrenaline rush of being alone in the dark, not just trespassing, but trespassing on God.
Moving quietly, sneakers barely touching the floor, I gained strength with each passing step, as well as more street cred with my pals. By the time I finally made it out of that classroom and down a dimly lit hall to let my friends in, I was no longer a kid.
Once inside, a stocky kid named Tommy D’Angelo, who two years later would go on to play defensive tackle for a local community college, started giving us orders. If it was up to me, I probably would have just run around a little and pulled a fire alarm, but Tommy had a plan.
Our first destination was the custodian’s office. Once we had the custodian’s keys to all of the classrooms, we were golden.
Breaking into a joint is like a scavenger hunt with time working against you. The longer you’re in, the higher the risk, but the guy with his head in the game has purpose. He wants to snatch something valuable like those balance weighing scales in the science classes that you can sell to drug dealers. The guy with no focus wants to take sports equipment, which is pretty stupid, because all the basketballs have the school’s name written on them in thick Magic Marker.
I was just happy to be there…until the cops showed up.
We heard the police car, its brakes screeching to a halt as it pulled into the parking lot. Because of where the car was, going out the way we came in was no longer an option.
Time to make a run for it.
Sneakers hauling ass, we raced toward an exit at the far end of the school. As freedom approached, I saw the first police officer nab Tommy. Our unofficial leader was in the process of being handcuffed…but when the cop saw an even larger teen, he let go of Tommy and pounced on this other kid named Bobby.
This all happened right in front of me; I was wide eyed and trying my best not to freak out. I was in way over my head. This was major league, and I probably would have run into the Tommy/police officer/Bobby pile-up if a kid named Anthony had not grabbed me by the collar.
You know how some kids just ain’t right in the head? If Anthony Marcantonio, aka Tony Mark, was a dog, you would put him down. Even before crossing the line into some rather nefarious activities, his dark eyes had no soul. I have no idea what it was like in his household, but whatever happened behind those closed doors that made him this way, I don’t want to know.
As far back as his sophomore year, Tony Mark had a plan. The teenage delinquent was going to enlist in the Marine Corps after high school (assuming he graduated) so he could learn about weapons and communication devices and killing people. After serving his country, he intended to become a full-fledged mobster and run a crew.
Back in the dark hallway, I’m trying my best not to scream or piss myself when Tony Mark grabs me. And he didn’t just grab me, he saved me from the super-aggressive cop doing karate moves on Bobby, who was now facedown in handcuffs.
“Follow me!”
Tony didn’t have to tell me twice. Full speed, we ran past the arresting officer and down the hall to another exit. I was ready to sprint back to the safety of our neighborhood when Tony Mark had something else to say.
“Say a prayer.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I mean, I may have been only thirteen, with peach fuzz on my balls, but I understood irony—this nutjob who just finished robbing a Catholic school was now asking God for protection from the law.
We bowed our heads and asked the patron Saint of fuck-if-I-know to look over us—then ran as fast as we could.
When I reached my apartment, I locked myself in my bedroom and nervously looked out the window, waiting for the inevitable. Sure enough, about two hours later several police cars pulled in front of our buildings and, one by one, the kids who had been inside the school emerged in handcuffs.
When the police knocked on my door, I had to quickly explain to my suspicious father what was happening.
THWAPP!
I’d been spanked before but never punched in the face by my father.
That was the last time I ever got arrested.
Far from Scared Straight, I just became more proficient in antisocial behavior. The fact that crime is “bad” is never lost on the criminal. You either get good at it or you go to prison. It’s pretty much a personal choice and, yes, environment has a lot do with it. If I had grown up in a neighborhood where most of the kids went on to college, who knows what I may have applied my smarts toward.
What it boils down to in life is a hustle. Whether it’s a legitimate hustle or a street hustle, everyone is hustling. If the economy is hurting, those hustles tend to be more out in the open because people are more desperate and hungry. For me, I tried several different hustles with various degrees of success before I finally found my calling.
Because of ethnicity, I was never going to be offered the same opportunities as some of my childhood buddies. It was nothing to be resentful over, but the Italians had their thing and they kept it for themselves. That didn’t mean they didn’t want to do business with me, especially since I’d proven myself over the years. It just meant there was a ceiling as to how high I could climb, and for the rest of my life I would always be taking orders from the likes of Tony Mark.
I suppose there are times when my job could be seen as, well, appealing. I set my own hours, got plenty of days off, and received payment on delivery. But like any other gig, this one has its ups and downs. The people I associate with are far from trustworthy, and there’s always the law to contend with.
If they knew what I did, most people would have been mortified with how I earn my living. I understand that. Again, criminality is not lost on the perpetrator. But before anyone gets too judgmental, they should understand that people get what they got coming to them. What certain people do to fuck up—from being the wrong guy’s competition on a construction bid to having an affair with the wrong lady to being too rich in the wrong circle of sharks—is not my concern.
After being honorably discharged from the Marines, Tony Mark came back to the old neighborhood and steadily rose through the criminal ranks. It seemed that everybody, even the local cops, knew he was in deep, but as long as he wasn’t caught in the act, people turned a blind eye. Maybe that’s what you get for serving your country? Or maybe people just knew better than to cross this crazy bastard. Whatever the case, Tony went from a two-bit hoodlum to a pretty influential man in a relatively short amount of time.
The make-or-break moment came when one of Tony’s bosses wanted a problem taken care of. With everything riding on the line, Tony Mark brought me along for backup and for my professionalism; he never forgot how I handled myself that night. His first professional hit was also mine. The difference is, that was the last time he actually pulled the trigger. From that night on, whenever somebody needed something dirty done, I became Tony’s subcontractor.
Felonious activities bond people unlike any other occupation. It’s not some sort of Semper Fi or taking-one-for-the-team kind of thing. It’s more like a bad marriage with no divorce option. Tony Mark knew that if I ever got arrested, I had enough dirt on him and his associates to take down the entire organization. By the same token, I fully understood that if I ever opened my mouth, my father, my sister, and her kids would have their names crossed out of the phone book.
Like any business, the object is to run efficiently and maximize profits. For me that meant if a certain opportunity presented itself—like the guy I’m taking care of runs a “cash only” business and I can get my hands on some of that free money—then I’d be foolish not to break off some.
Same with jewelry.
Some electronics.
Even clothing.
Toward the end of summer, Tony Mark contacted me about a problem that needed immediate attention. See, there was this trespasser named Raul whose encroachment on already claimed turf was doing financial damage to one of Tony’s respected associates. To make matters worse, when Tony and a few of the boys paid this nobody a visit about respecting boundaries, Raul remained defiant—which meant he had to go.
I trailed this lowlife dirtbag for three weeks, learning his patterns and routine. Once I’d gathered enough intel, I made an informed assessment as to how and where to make my move. In this line of work, one doesn’t get second chances or do-overs. One fuckup and game over.
Breaking into Raul’s apartment proved pretty easy. When you’ve been doing this sort of thing for as long as I have, all the locks in the world don’t mean shit. Once inside, I selected a strategic location where I’d wait.
A spot where he wouldn’t see me coming.
The sound of keys turning locks signaled that shit was about to get heavy. Still as a statue, I listened for additional voices, and when I didn’t hear any, that meant my target was alone. If someone had been with him, they, too, would have met their maker.
The door opened and closed.
Without a worry in the world, Raul turned to lock the locks. His back was to me when two silenced bullets from a .22-caliber pistol grafittied the front door in drippy red.
The body fell heavy, and for a split-second all of the oxygen in the room seemed to go away. But that was impossible. I was still breathing, right? Raul was the person gasping his last few breaths, not me. Then, in a flash, everything went back to how it was supposed to be and I could breathe again.
As I watched Raul expire with crimson pooling out of the two holes in his skull, another thought crossed my mind: The silk, purple, and gold suit this stiff was wearing had to be worth a few thousand dollars.
Before he ruined it, I had to get him out of it.
Dead people don’t always cooperate, but this prick offered little resistance. It’s almost as if he wanted to be free of his fancy duds. As far as I could tell, no evidence had gotten on the flashy attire, and that would earn me a nice bonus.
After dragging the underwear-and-socks-clad corpse into the bathroom, I cased the rest of the joint. Turns out he owned a decent amount of 24k gold jewelry as well as three more high-end suits.
When I saw the rest of Raul’s wardrobe, I got a little pissed at myself for wasting valuable time taking the purple-and-gold suit off him, but since I had put in the effort, I might as well take it. I loaded up a plastic garbage bag with soon-to-be-pawned items and used his keys to lock the door on my way out.
A few weeks before October 31, Halloween season took over the city. The chill in the air was more than just autumn; this was the time of year when the spirits became more active. Raised a Catholic, I never lost sight that November 1 commemorates All Saints’ Day, a holy day of obligation. All Saints’ Day is when the Saints in Heaven and the good Catholics of this world share the strongest bond.
It’s also the one day I feel least comfortable doing what I do.
Actually, October is my least favorite month. Everywhere a person looks there’s a window with a jack-o’-lantern or a storefront that’s now decorated into a cemetery. Witches, black cats, and ghouls lurked out in the open. No matter the channel, the TV showed countless horror movies. Some of these horrific scenes hit a little too close to home.
All Saints’ Day was approaching.
Two days before Halloween, my phone rang. I was expecting to be offered another contract, so Tony Mark blew my mind when he invited me to a party.
“One of the bosses has a pretty festive ol’ lady, and this year she’s insisting on throwing a Halloween bash.”
I really didn’t want to go, but I knew better than to offend Tony Mark or his boss.
“And yes, it’s a costume party.”
“I don’t have a costume,” I explained.
“Good thing you have some time to get one, right?”
“But—”
“No buts about it. This very important individual, who happens to look after both of us, is having a get-together. You should be grateful that he even extended you an invitation.”
I knew he was right.
“What are you gonna wear?” I asked, hoping to come up with some ideas for my costume.
“It’s a surprise. And don’t even think about wearing one of those stupid T-shirts that say cheap-ass costume or something cheesy like that. Don’t embarrass yourself or me.”
Click.
Needing an outfit, I felt more stressed-out about trying to find the right costume than I did on my last job. Making ghosts was something I knew how to do. Dressing up like one, not so much. And what if someone else had the same costume and they were higher up the criminal ladder? Would it be viewed as disrespectful to have the same costume? Should I get two costumes just in case?
The Kirkebrann Costume Shoppe in the heart of the city was a godsend when it came to solving my costume-party problems. Having been in business since the mid-thirties, this costume shop had something for everyone. The German lady behind the counter was extremely helpful, making sure my selection fit perfectly. Not only did she hook me up, by the time I left Kirkebrann’s, I was kind of looking forward to the mobster masquerade.
On Halloween night, several local bars sponsored something that over the past few years had become a local tradition—a “zombie pub crawl.” Basically, a bunch of people looking to have a good time get dressed up like the walking dead and make their way from one bar to another. These slow-moving tipsy zombies take over every sidewalk on their route, and if you happen to get in their way they growl and gnash their teeth.
You know, good clean cannibalistic fun.
With darkness blanketing the city, the night of the costume party landed on the same night as the zombie crawl. Looking out my window, I could tell that some of the older residents did not appreciate the undead shenanigans taking place. Truth be told, I could have done without it myself.
I put my costume on and waited for Tony Mark to call.
Knock, knock.
Half expecting some silly-ass zombie fucker to be standing there groaning for candy, I made my way to the door with a bit of an attitude.
“Who’s there?”
“Bitch, who the fuck do ya think it is?”
I immediately recognized the voice and reached for the door.
Unlocking the lock, all of the oxygen in my chest evaporated. Feeling like I’d been punched in the jaw, my head began to spin and my vision dimmed. My shaky knees wobbled but did not buckle. Then in a flash everything went back to how it was supposed to be and my lungs knew what to do.
“Trick or treat.”
Less than a foot away, Tony Mark looked like someone who had just stepped out from a 1970s time machine. Next-level funky, Tony appeared regal with his chest puffed out, dressed in a full-fledged pimp outfit. The gold rope chains, gaudy rings, and ridiculous grills covering his teeth made for great accessories, but the purple-and-gold silk suit that I had taken off Raul was too damn much to just be a coincidence.
The pimp flashed a golden grin that was more than a friend approving of my full-length, professional-quality, grim reaper costume. It was a giveaway that this dirty motherfucker had something up his sleeve.
If you think about it, and trust me, I have, the irony of this situation was almost laughable. On one level, the man standing in front of me was indeed my pimp, and I embodied Death. But what Tony Mark didn’t know was that hidden underneath my black reaper cloak I had my favorite pistol just in case a not-so-friendly ghost knocked on my door and wanted to take me to a shallow grave disguised as a Halloween party.
Remembering when we were much younger, I told him something that he once said to me as my hand raised the gun.
Something Tony said that night we broke into the Catholic school that stayed with me for my entire life.
Something that was often the last words my victims heard.
“Say a prayer.”