Brooklyn Story Read Free

funeral. Pamela, Tony’s mother and aging wannabe bombshell with multishaded dyed blond hair, sat erect in a dark, tight-fitting designer pantsuit. Philip, his father, wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt and his head was bowed between his hunched, slight shoulders. Tony’s fourteen-year-old chubby sister, Katrina, bobbed in her seat as if she was enjoying the spectacle. Vin Priganti, known to everyone in Bensonhurst as “the Son” of local mob boss Tino Priganti, fidgeted in a chair behind the Kroons. Vin took occasional beatings from his father’s heavy fists along with the wads of cash he slipped into his son’s hand. Vin ran the crew to which Tony and his friends belonged. Richie Sparto, a crew member and Tony’s best friend, sat alone three rows farther back.
    All of these people lived in the Brooklyn that stifled my dream. None had lifted a hand to help me. None cared if I made it across the bridge that stood a few blocks away from the courthouse. Truth be told, they probably preferred that I never tried or, even better, never thought to do so in the first place. In my own backyard, they were as far from me as the life on the other side of that bridge. They hadn’t seen me come into the courtroom, just as they had never seen who I was.
    The door beyond the jury box opened. All eyes were onTony’s stoic face as he was led by the bailiff to a chair at the defendant’s table, and he sat down without looking directly at anyone. Although his shoulders no longer stretched the silk material of his custom-tailored suit as they had when I first met him, I couldn’t help thinking that he was still much too good-looking for prison. But for a half-breed wannabe like Tony who honored
omerta
—the mafia code of silence—that was what he confronted as everyone looked on.
    I sighed, and remembered the days when Tony and I were an inseparable item and everyone on the street knew it. Days of discovery and promise, when I had had those different feelings about everything and when the excitement in Bensonhurst was as high as the girls’ teased hairdos …

August 1978
    â€œC’mon, Sam,” Janice said as she reached down and took my hand. “Sorry I’m late.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I said, rising from the stoop in front of the three-story apartment house where I lived on the top floor with my mother and grandmother. The building on Seventy-third Street was indistinguishable from the dozen others it was connected to on the long block, save for the fire escape that was affixed to the front of the structure instead of the rear and its arched entrance that reminded me of the stained-glass windows at Our Lady of Guadalupe and the Gothic towers of the Brooklyn Bridge.
    Like most multifamily residences in Bensonhurst, mine had a postage stamp–sized patch of grass in front, surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence that was tended by the old people, who provided meticulous care. Together with them, I cherished those strips of green and the few narrow-trunk trees, struggling to rise amid the concrete that lived and breathed and changed with the seasons.
    â€œIt’s a beautiful day to be outside,” Janice said.
    â€œThat, and getting away from my mother.”
    â€œSumthin’ happen?”
    â€œJust the usual.” I adjusted my red tube top and low-waistjeans and swept my long, raven hair behind my shoulders with my fingers. “Gave me a load of shit about my hair and what I’m wearin’,” I said. I glanced at the statue of the Blessed Mother that Mrs. Moretti, who lived on the first floor, had set upon the small lawn. Many neighbors and other Bensonhurst faithful did likewise with the icon of their choosing, and I always thought these icons watched over me when I walked by.
    â€œForget about it,” Janice said. “Let’s go have some fun.”
    I always have fun with Janice, I thought as we headed toward Eighteenth