Brooklyn Story Read Free Page A

Avenue and the bustling retail district in the heart of Bensonhurst. Janice and I went to all the new movies and visited the local pastry shops and pizzerias on a regular basis, where we were often served at no charge. I used to think it was because we were two young girls, but I came to understand that there was another reason for the way we were treated. Janice’s father, Rocco Caputo, owned Cue Ball, the pool hall above a row of stores on Eighteenth Avenue, and the bar downstairs named after him. Mr. Caputo was well respected in the community, particularly by those who mattered most—Italians connected with the mob. I never asked my friend for any details about her father’s connections, and she never offered.
    Janice treated me as an equal even though she was three years older and in a different league than I was. She shopped all along the avenue at stores run by women who were connected to mobsters or dated one or wanted to date one. Janice’s boyfriend, Richie, bought her the kinds of things I could only stare at through display windows. She lived in a private corner residence far away from Eighteenth Avenue and the elevated subway line known as the N train on New Keiser Avenue. I loved going to her house and hanging out in her large bedroom with all its frilly appointments. I felt safer there than I did in my own home.
    Janice and I seldom included other girlfriends in our gettogethers. We weren’t standoffish, but we felt most were petty,competitive, and jealous, and we preferred not to bother with them. On occasion, we did go to parties in nice homes or joined the groups who gathered at Outer Skates, the local rink, where macho Italian boys rented skates for the girls. Those times were enjoyable but they paled in comparison to those when Janice and I were alone together. We were at ease with each other, shared everything without reservation, and couldn’t be closer if we had been sisters.
    â€œHow do ya feel about summer bein’ almost over?” Janice asked as we walked.
    â€œThe sooner I get back to school, the sooner I’ll graduate,” I said.
    â€œCan’t wait to get across that bridge, huh?”
    â€œNothing’s changed,” I said.
    Janice turned toward me without breaking stride. “We’ll see about that.”
    We made our way past the well-kept homes all along my quiet block. I couldn’t help thinking that very little had changed in the neighborhood across a few generations. Janice and I knew that, just like in the rest of Bensonhurst, most front doors would be unlocked and they and the windows that were open would remain that way at night. Italians in this neighborhood had nothing to fear because the local mobsters enforced their own code and thieves stayed out of the area. If they knew what was good for them, they plied their trade elsewhere.
    Most residents had no direct involvement with the Mafia, but they knew about everything it did and subscribed on occasion to its services, especially gambling and hot merchandise at can’t-say-no prices. Residents benefited from the Mafia’s unofficial law and order and were grateful for it every day. It protected their families, which were everything to them, and protected their way of life of hard work and simple pleasures.
    Janice and I reached Eighteenth Avenue and RandyCrawford’s “Street Life” played in my mind as we joined the throng strolling on the sidewalks:
    You dress you walk you talk
You’re who you think you are
    I knew who I was, I thought, and who I was going to be someday. Someone very different from the girl who had to walk past every store because she had no money and lowered her head with shame whenever she saw a proprietor because of a mother who was known for shoplifting and a dissolute life. I cringed as I recalled, as I often did in the retail district, the humiliation of being caught by Mr. Conti with a bottle of shampoo that my mother had forced me to