Silk Stockings - 3

A Valentine for the Nick of Time

In the nick of time, in the nick of crime. My nickname is Nick - but only my mother calls me Niccolo, with an appropriate Sicilian burble - without the accents, as is required by the state. It was one nine hundred and fifty-seven where my tale started. It was evening, by The Tam - a saloon that eventually had all of its locations closed because of messy accounting - in the days' glowing lights lit up the darkness. In these days they were illegal. I was getting out of my Chevrolet 1954 Bel Air, painted maroon, which is not my fault. It was rounded in every swerve. I was alone except for a Colt .357 Magnum in a side holster, back in the days when I used to carry firearms. Of course, but of course, I was in a charcoal suit, the used to cut suits much better then, with a matching fedora - which was the way all men with style were dressed.

Parking across the street, I weaved through the oncoming traffic of big, bloated cars - it would be some time before traffic lights were enforced in Boston. This was still late '57, and I had been moved up in the squire-archy of the office - that is Cosa Nostra to you from New York City. No 'la', because that comes from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, a thoroughly Anglo institution. If you looked at my driver's license, you would think me far too young, but my face would have told you differently – it was snarly in a low-key kind of way. I was one of the youngest 'made men' after a little affair at the midpoint of my short life. And I have to say, I was enjoying every minute of it. Of course, most of the time it was just being able to threaten someone and imagine that you had deep black eyes that you would imagine they would remember forever - all of the young made men were kind of foolish in those days.

It was a long road to where I ended up, and this, though I did not know what, was one of the large steps in that direction. The Giants and Dodgers moved to California, and the rest of the nation realized that the United States stretched from coast to coast. Stoneham of the Giants had just made the official move - and there were only really 2 sports in the national consciousness, baseball, and boxing, and the difference was that boxing could rely on a participant hitting the canvas with every engagement.

After running across the street, I went into the Tam with its blaring lights, decorated inside with its red-and-black abstract carpet and a hook full of coats from guys who did not want to yet go home. As a force of habit – that my mama taught me, the hat, width its wide brim flourishing, tip towards the hostess, The Tam used to have at least one female on every night's staff, just in case.

 “Excuse me, could I see the owner? He should be expecting me.” Polite to a fault – she was not going to be harassed. But she was surprised by me – evidently, she had been warned about me and was in a slight quandary, she both needed to get the boss, and he did to keep an eye on things done here. Which meant that she had to stall for a few minutes until reliable help arrived. Most of the people on the floor were not reliable.

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Just tell him that Nick is here, he will know what to do.”

She looked down at her station, and pretended to be straining things - but it was just to gain a few minutes. But I waited, because I had no place to go, and the next person on my list would also be holding them off. The girl was young and I remember a face like that. Delicate in feature. I tried to make conversation. “What’s your name?”

She turned around but answered anyway in a flat tone of voice: “Maria.”

Finally, she saw out of the corner of her eye someone she could leave the floor to and motioned me down a darkened corridor. Now in movie pictures or lurid dime novels, this would be the setup for some ultra-violence. The notes from the speakers would go dark, or the descriptions would become menacing. At the time, I looked in both directions sure that someone would grab me from behind - but it was not. Yet.

We reached the door at the other side of the hallway, it was wooden and scratched in places, though I did not know how. She knocked 3 times and in a little while called out. Gradually the door opened up, to reveal a chaotic small office, with mounds of accounting stacked everyplace - there was even a pile next to the doorway, which I had to dodge.

 “You're Nick, please sit down.” The voice came from a fat man, and not one completely well-dressed, he had a large face with short black speckled with white hair, and large eyes which bulged out incongruously. Then, he waved for the woman to disappear, and he watched as her wide hips - and exposed shoulders - made a timely disappearance. This was back in the days where a woman's figure was as important as doing her job.

“You know why I’m here, the accountant we sent over could not make heads or tails over your excuse for not receiving your payment.”

“I have an explanation for that, the accounting here - is complex.”

“That does not mean a great deal to my employer. Larger establishments make their payment on time, and he does not see any reason for you to be any different.”

“I just need a little bit more time to straighten out books.”

“That would have sufficed the last time someone called knocking. I am here to do things a little bit differently.”

“I just a little more time.”

“You will have time; you just have to pay for it. Every week I will come back and add 5% to what you owe - as well as the amount that will be due. My employer is not unreasonable.” Well, he was – if you were doing something legitimate, you would go to a bank.

And with that, my hand reached for the door.

“Wait – I know your boss does not pick up the loot at night.”

 “What is that to you?”

 “It will be here at 7 A.M.”

“Not good enough.”

“There's some extra for you.”

“How much extra?” I didn't trust an Irishman, borrowing from us – though probably I was a bit coarser with my thoughts at the time. He named a figure, and I accepted.

On the way out, the hostess touched my hand. “Meet me 2 hours after close.”

“Where?”

 “At the Old Howard.”

My eyes became beady: “That theater is closed.” The Howard was shut down, the burlesque's head gotten to risqué - and the vice squad finally snuck a camera in and filmed 3 of the girls with less than acceptable garb. And that was saying something. The theater was closed, and the building, with its gable Gothic spire, stood there.

“Trust me. Don't drive an automobile – walk.”

It was obvious from my face that I did trust her. The door headed out to the warm air and street noise.

After driving around to my other - appointments, I parked the car well into the North End and just got a cannoli at Mike's - that's Michael Mercogliano - on Hannover St. - they were the best at that time, and then waited for the time when I was supposed to meet in Scollay Square – passing by the Imperial Café where I first got on 60 glasses of beer. Shaking off the powdered sugar one last time.

When approaching the shell of a theater, it seemed to me that no one was inside, but then this was usual. There were no lights on, and even the street lamps were dimmed by that point in time. But then I saw motion and quietly moved my way to the back of the building. There was a certain determination to the person's walk – a mission, however, a mission which was going to be intercepted. This was clearly what the woman was going to show me - some sort of people being smuggled in, and I would guess from Ireland, to work in the local beerhalls. It was discreet, quiet - and for the price of a couple of officers on patrol – cheap.

Going around behind him, and making as little reverberations as was necessary, again he came creeping up to him until he was near the back entrance. The sound of his breathing was a kind of rasp - I would make a note of it. Then he turned himself away and in the middle of the street paved a truck into place, it was backwards and the doors were opened. At this point, almost 2 dozen people were disgorged and immediately trooped their way to the back entrance. They were silent and moved two by two, with their heads slightly lowered and several covered them over with their coat. It was a motley collection of riffraff, who were being condemned to work unpleasant hours in unpleasant ways.

Behind a stone pillar, I thought my form was hidden, but apparently not well enough - one of the movers pointed in the general direction and immediately yelled out “Boys, look over there.”

Immediately, and I do mean immediately, several eyes had spotted me, and before the flight had taken me, one of them had bounded and caught me, holding fast.

“Well, what do we have here?” Then he turned back to the other two men: “Get the rest of the people out, we'll deal with him afterwards.” The two set to work, competence that there would be a show afterwards.

He shot a glance at me – and his face turned ugliness itself. A few minutes later the two other men came up.

“We going to do with him. Shoot him, chief?” There was an eager look on his face.

“Get out the rope. String him on the street - and run him over. Less fuss that way.” It was clear that he saw something in my complexion.

Struggling though I was, they put one group on either hand or had two men hold me there while the 3rd got in the truck. The leader started the engine, and then the lights came on and he squealed for all it was worth.

The calling then grew tighter, and I surely must have said a few words – but whether it was in English, Italian, or Maledizione was debatable. However, something caught the corner of my vision - and returned and saw the man and slider figure wrestling. This was enough for me to pull away from the pinioning and get out of the way of the truck. It was at this point that another figure came around the corner, shining a flashlight. This almost certainly was a policeman, who had heard the truck. At this point, the 2 men jumped onto the truck, and the truck disappeared - with the door still open.

At this point, I too disappeared into the darkness, as the policeman went over to the door to see what inside the closed theater was. I did note in tomorrow's newspaper that she was not arrested. But I never did my eyes past her face until later.

It was then at 7 AM that I arrived at The Tam, to collect what was owed. Surprisingly, the owner counted out the money, though with a glare in his eye.

But there was something wrong with this line of work for me. I had just seen people being to be corralled to work in other people's establishments, and it was not pretty. While I was a made man, there was nothing pleasant about what could happen to me. I thought of this when I took out the picture of the woman in my pocket – the woman had saved me in the nick of time.