Brotherly Love

Chapter 1: Bookmaker

$5200 wasn’t a lot of money, but the fact that I’d let a dope fiend like Houser get behind more than a few hundred sure as hell showed weak judgment on my part. I got out of my truck, crossed the Street, and fell in behind him.

It couldn’t have been better. Sitting on the corner up ahead were Sonny Torra, a local wiseguy, and his son, Michael-fledgling wiseguy in training. They would witness the beating with a little careful timing, and word would quickly spread that John Houser of 2nd Street had been served up for his disrespect. Underworld justice.

Occasional situations like this were just part of the business. Sometimes you had to pick a few sour berries out of the basket. It was a question of keeping the system well oiled, of reminding certain people that an overdue dept to your bookie wasn’t the same as being late with the electric bill. Simple enough.

I closed on Houser to about six feet, matching his stride and pace, and waited for Sonny to notice us approaching. Sonny raised his head, tapped his boy, Michael, and pointed in our direction just as Houser turned. Perfect.

Houser didn’t hear anything. I was Ninja quiet. He turned because it was time to check his shadow, and when he saw me, his head shot up like a turtle from inside his jacket.

“Yo Blaze . . .” he said, stumbling sideways.

Now, I’m not a sadistic guy. I punch more to scare than to hurt. And when I punch some lowlife in the face, I’m fully aware that I could seriously damage him. That may sound a little overconfident, but it’s just a simple truth. It’s also the reason why professional boxers have to contact whatever state they call home and register their hands as lethal weapons.

All those fights and barroom brawls that go on and on in the movies are entirely unrealistic. If you hit somebody flush, utilizing leverage, proper extension of the arm, and rotation of the body, they go down and stay down. If you’re trying to hurt someone and know what you’re doing, a punch is like a bullet—one well-placed should do the job.

Just as Houser saw me and said my name, I took two quick steps forward and hit him with a straight right hand. The contact was flush—high on the cheek, just below the eye. Had I aimed a little higher, I would have fractured his orbit bone—a little lower would have meant a broken jaw and maybe a couple of missing teeth. This way, he’d just feel the pain of it and have a nice shiner to remind himself, when he looked in the mirror for the next two weeks, just how stupid he was. Would he learn from his experience? No.

Another good thing about landing a punch on this part of the face is that the cheek is fleshy and soft, so you don’t hurt your hand. Also, if the mouth is open, it makes a distinct, hollow, popping noise—like a loud clap—awesome dramatic effect.

If you’ve ever seen a bird fall from the sky after being shot, you know precisely how Houser went down. His head took a little bounce off the pavement—Sonny Torra and his boy stood up to watch the show.

“AAAHHHHH, Fuck man!!” he managed to scream.

I didn’t hit him too hard because I needed him conscious. But I also wanted him to stay on the ground. This way we could have a little chat. So, while he was still lying on his back, cupping his face with his hands, I reached down and grabbed his foot, lifting it level with my chest, and then twisted it, pretty violently, 180 degrees. His body popped off the ground like a fish on the deck of a boat, and he flipped onto his stomach, screaming again—only this time, a whole lot louder.

The trick here is not to rotate the ankle so far that you end up fracturing it. Unless that’s your intention, in which case it’s most effective. I was looking for a couple of strained ligaments—maybe a torn tendon. With practice, you get a feel for it.

Houser wasn’t going anywhere for a while now, so I picked his box of Marlboro’s and lighter off the sidewalk, sat down on some steps a few feet away, and lit one up. I’m not a big smoker, but sometimes the situation just calls for it.

“You broke my fucking leg, man, Jesus Christ!!” he whaled. Sonny Torra was walking toward us. It was an Italian street thing. He had to make the gesture to offer some assistance even though it was pretty evident that I didn’t need any. I waited to wave him off because I wanted him close enough to overhear some of the dialogue.

“It’s your ankle, not your leg,” I told Houser, keeping my voice grim. “And it’s not broken, smacked ass. But if you want, I could take another crack at it.”

“I was gonna call you today, I swear . . . SHIT!!”

I couldn’t help but wonder how many times, in the last twenty years, I’d heard those exact words.

“Nine weeks, Johnny Boy. Nine weeks I’ve been looking for you, calling your house, talking to your scumbag friends. I even talked to your mother. You know she’s very disappointed in how you turned out.”

“I got robbed, man! Last week me and my brother were down the casinos—we tried to score some H, and these moolies robbed us, man. I swear—they got like three grand!”

“No kiddin? Damn—I hope nobody got hurt.”

“I swear! It’s the truth!” he yelled.

Sonny was a few steps away. I put up a hand for him to stop and flashed a weary grin.

“Well, guess what, Houser? I don’t give a shit what happened to you and your scumbag brother—if you both got robbed or like to get naked and fuck each other. You owe me money. I did your sorry ass a favor—extended your line after you begged and pleaded, and then you fucked me. Now, why . . . WHY would you want to do all that?”

“I swear I was gonna come and see ya,” he whimpered. “You’ll get all the money plus the juice.”

“You’re a lying prick who can’t be trusted, and I oughta put you in the ground,” I told him, taking a drag off his cigarette. “You know what kills me about scumbags like you? When you win, you come running with a cocky smirk and your dirty palm out, and you get paid. But when you lose, I gotta hunt you down—waste my time driving the streets and talking to other jerkoffs who I find out are looking for ya too. Like now I gotta wait in line to get fucking paid.”

I let him rock himself for a few seconds. He did a little moaning, but it was mostly an act.

“Hey Houser, you ever heard the name Sal Bennizio?” I asked him.

For the first time since being dropped to the hard concrete, he looked straight at me like he forgot all about the pain in his throbbing face and ankle.

“Yeah, so,” he said, trying to sound unimpressed.

Salvatore, “The Axe” Bennizio, was one of the biggest local gangsters around. He was the son of Billy Bennizio. During the Rizzo years, Billy was an underboss controlling city-wide gambling and loan sharking.

When Sal was eighteen years old, he secured his nickname by killing a guy with a hatchet and did a nine-year stretch at Merion. Most people don’t realize that you can get away with less than ten years for murder with good behavior and if your conviction did not include premeditation. Something to think about.

After Sal was paroled, he assumed his position as Billy’s successor and took control of gambling and narcotics from 2nd to 9th Street and from Fitzwater south to Reed. As he had a reputation for being ruthless but often lacked sound judgment, his territory was relatively small pending proof of self-control and an ounce of wisdom the mob hoped he might have gained in the pen.

Not exactly helping him build a more stable reputation, Sal was a primary suspect in burning down a house where one of his rivals, Nicky Benza, was presumably sleeping. Nicky wasn’t home that night, but his wife and two kids were. All three died in the fire, and before Nicky could retaliate, they pulled him from the Delaware River, an electrical cord wrapped around his neck. I didn’t personally figure Sal would ever see his 30th birthday as the savage ones never last, but for now, my throwing his name around was helpful.

“I work for Sal, you jerk off,” I said, ducking my head as a police van cruised by. Luckily, you couldn’t see Houser’s body from the Street because it was blocked by a Lincoln Town Car. “Don’t you know that? I could just hand this whole mess over to him and his match-happy friends. How bout I give him a call cause I’m not sure he has your mother’s address. What’d ya think?”

“No,” he said. I could just barely make out the word. John had curled himself up in the fetal position.

Sonny turned, having heard enough, and was walking back to his stoop.

Just then, my cell phone rang. Houser’s lips parted, and his eyes popped open as if the call might be from Saint Jude with a request for his pardon. I took my phone out and glanced at the caller ID. Area code 310. LA?

I flipped it open. Houser looked optimistic. “Yo,” I said.

“Blazey, baby!”

“Joseph!”

“Get the crew together! Joseph’s coming home!”

“Moving home?” I said, startled but thrilled by the idea.

“One step at a time, but I got a lot to tell you.”

“Hold on a second,” I said.

I moved the phone slightly away from my face but purposely didn’t cover the mouthpiece. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Joey Maletesta was my closest friend—the brother I never had, and I knew how much he’d love to hear the live-action.

“What’d ya got on ya right now?” I barked at John.

“I don’t know—like two or three hundred.”

I snapped my fingers, “Give it the fuck up.”

He leaned to the side so he could get his hand into his front pocket and pulled out a big ball of crumpled-up bills. He was just starting to unravel the mess when I got up off the step and snatched the whole thing out of his hand.

“Need a minute here, Joseph,” I said into my cell. “Got a wad of filthy paper needs countin.”

“The legend—Blaze Santore—out collecting duckets,” Joey said, and I could hear him chuckle. “Seriously, is the guy still on his feet, or did you Kung Fu his ass?”

“He’s on the ground—face is starting to swell—walking could be painful for a while. Other than that, he’ll be alright.”

“And what about his dignity, Blaze? Do you think that’s still intact?”

I got a cold chill when Joey asked me that question. I didn’t mind hitting a guy so much if I thought they deserved it, but the idea of stripping any man of his dignity made me feel shitty.

“I’m afraid that was long gone before I got to him,” I said, hoping that were true—that Houser’s lesson might spare him future trouble down the road—not accelerate his path to the bottom. “Hold on, Joseph.”

“Let me hear, let me hear!” he shouted.

Joey, the screenwriter—always on the lookout for more grist for his mill.

I sorted—counted—then looked down at John Houser.

“Listen up, genius,” I told him. “You got $335 here. I’m gonna consider this extra juice that has absolutely nothing to do with the $4000 you fuckin lost or the $1200 you racked up running wild for three weeks. This $335 is strictly an aggravation fee, and if your sorry-ass doesn’t come up with my $5200 on Friday, I swear to God, John Houser, this whole situation is out of my hands. It’ll be between you, your fagot brother and my friend Sal. Oh, and a couple of his barnburner boys. Seriously, does your mother still live at 462 south 2nd? Two in from the corner, right? I mean—just so they torch the right house.”

“Salvy the Axe! Salvy the Axe!” I heard Joey chanting in my ear.

“What goes through your fuckin pea brain, Houser? Everybody pays. You PAY your fuckin debts! It’s how the system works. Did somebody put a gun to your head and force you to bet – force you to be stupid?”

While getting his lecture, Houser had managed to drag himself over to the Lincoln. He was leaning against the rear door now, both legs folded and turned to the side, his head hung forward. I cringed because he looked like a man who’d just fallen out of a wheelchair.

“Let me explain how it all goes down,” I said, shaking off any sympathy. “It’s complicated, so pay attention. You see, my clients pay me—I pay Sal—Sal pays his boss, and that guy gives a big fat envelope to some city official who turns around and pads a few cops. It would all be perfect except we got one problem. Guess who that is, Houser? Do you like fuckin up the whole system? You sayin you’re better than us?”

“No! I was gonna take care of it, Blaze. I was gonna . . .”

“Yeah? And when was that, Houser? On your time? When you got around to it? You pay when it’s fuckin due! You don’t make the rules. You follow-em. Got it?”

“I got it,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Here’s the new deal, fuck-up. And this is your last chance to take care of your mess. I won’t call you or spend one more minute of my time hunting you like a dog. YOU call me on Friday, and I’ll arrange for a pick-up. Think you can remember that—keep it all straight in that fucked-up head-a-yours?”

His mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but I cut him off. I was on autopilot.

“Shut Up!” I told him. “Just shut the hell up and get out of my sight. I’m already sick-a-lookin at ya.”

He rolled slowly onto his hands and knees and then made it awkwardly to his feet. It took almost a full minute. Finally, he stood but had to steady himself against the Lincoln before hobbling off toward Fitzwater Street. It was hard to tell how much of it was an act. I called after him, “Try some ice on that ankle!”

“How’s the guy’s brother involved?” Joey asked when I got back on the phone.

“He’s not really, but you missed what he told me earlier. That fuckin mook admitted to being down in Atlantic City with his brother. Can you believe that shit? This Irish prick’s into me for five dimes, and he figures he’ll go play the slots. He told me they got robbed for three grand while trying to cop heroin!”

“He actually said that?”

“Those words exactly.”

“Why the fagot reference?”

“Christ. I don’t know Joseph. It’s tough to always be politically correct out here on the Street. Okay? I’m just pissed off, and I figured he’d be stupid enough to take that as an insult—like I was calling his mother a whore.”

“Probably thinks it’s even worse.”

“Exactly. Anyway, I know you taught me better than that, so if it makes you happy, I meant no offense to the gay population and especially to all my gay clients who, by the way, pay on time. Okay?”

Joey laughed and reminded me that we were living in the age of specialization, so I might want to consider an All-Gay clientele. I walked back to my truck.

© Max Calder