Brothers, Boyfriends & Other Criminal Minds Read online

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  For my two beautifully minded brothers,

  Mark and Adam,

  with love

  Three murderers live on my block—two on opposite corners like a pair of bookends, and one right across the street from my house. Not the crazed, ax-wielding kind you might see in horror flicks, but genteel killers who go about business in Armani suits and Gucci shoes, their victims disappearing without a trace. This probably sounds creepy, and you might even wonder if I'm afraid for my life, but up until now I've always felt safe. That's because these men are members of La Cosa Nostra, This Thing of Ours. Most people call them Mafia.

  When I was eight years old my family moved a whopping two and a half miles from our apartment in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to a modest house in the pristine section of Dyker Heights, home of the Colombo and Bonanno crime families. While my dad had reservations about rubbing shoulders with the locals, he was drawn to the quiet neighborhood, and my mother, who had a thing about dirt, was thrilled to have her own garden, where she grew tulips and tomatoes.

  What I liked most was that I'd finally gotten my own room, complete with purple shag carpeting and a plastic Barbie vanity set. Outside there were lots of kids to play with, and I never thought much about the men who drove around in fancy Cadillacs, flashing gold chains and chest hair. They were just part of the scenery. And if I ever had the good fortune of being invited to one of their kids' birthday parties, there were sure to be pony rides, magicians, live bands, and homemade gelato.

  As I got older, I realized that the Mafia presence had other benefits. Because they kept out petty criminals, you didn't have to worry about getting mugged or having your stereo stolen or your ten-speed bike jacked from your garage. However, along with these perks, there were certain rules you had to follow. Such as, never say the word “Mafia” (according to them, the organization does not exist), never ask a rich kid what his father does for a living, and if you're a non-Sicilian teenage boy, never ever date a connected guy's daughter.

  So when I discovered that Matt, my sixteen-year-old, blond-haired, blue-eyed moron of a brother, was in love with Bettina Bocceli, daughter of Colombo's capo, I knew there was going to be trouble. Matt might have been the tormentor of my life, but I didn't exactly want to find him on the bottom of the East River wearing a pair of cement shoes.

  It was the last week in August 1977 when I found out about Matt's fatal attraction. School would be starting in ten days, and even though I would technically be a freshman, I'd be spending another sorry year at P.S. 201, the public junior high that went up to ninth grade. The morning was hot and muggy, and since my mother didn't believe in air-conditioning, I'd woken up in a fine layer of sweat. Thankfully, Al Pacino and Cat Stevens were there to greet me. I was still trying to decide which poster to buy for my third wall—a toss-up between the Russian ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov and the Grateful Dead skull-and-crossbones logo, although I figured the latter might cause my parents to call in a priest for my exorcism. And we're not even Catholic.

  The house was quiet, which meant my mom had already left for work at the hospital, my dad was putzing in the garage, and my two brothers, Matt and Sammy, were still asleep. After showering, I dressed in my usual— bell-bottom Lee's, T-shirt, and Earth shoes—and tiptoed downstairs for breakfast. My mother was on this new health-food kick, so instead of Cheerios, I chipped a few teeth on a bowl of Grape Nuts, grabbed my book, and headed outside.

  I'd been reading a collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories, and right now I was up to “The Masque of the Red Death.” After a few pages I decided it was even better than “The Tell-Tale Heart,” but just when I was getting to the really gruesome part where little drops of blood begin oozing from the pores of some unsuspecting victim, I heard the steady bonk, bonk, bonk of a basketball.

  I looked up and saw Matt's friend, Little Joe. With a flick of his wrist he lifted the ball and spun it on one finger. “Hi, April, is Matt home?”

  Little Joe wasn't really little; he was just shorter than Matt's other friend, Big Joe. Since just about everyone in our neighborhood was both Italian and Catholic, Joseph was a popular name. Anyway, I liked him because he was different from the rest of Matt's friends—he had manners and always called me April. The others referred to me as Ape, Chimp, Monk, or Monkey—Matt's ingenious nicknames. Little Joe was also the reason why I knew so much inside information about the Mafiosi in our neighborhood. Because the members took the vow of Omerta, or silence, not much gossip flew around the streets, but Little Joe had an uncle who was connected, so whenever he whispered to Matt about his uncle's criminal associates, I eavesdropped.

  I jabbed my thumb in the direction of our front door, which was slightly ajar. “Yep. If Matt's awake he's probably right there, flexing.” Every morning Matt lifted weights in front of the big mirror hanging in our foyer; that way he could fall in love with himself on a daily basis.

  Little Joe gave me a knowing look and let the ball drop to his hand. “Hey, Schwarzenegger!” he called. “What are you doing in there, kissing your reflection?” He winked at me, and the two of us laughed. It was one of those rare moments when I felt like I was a part of Matt's world instead of just some pain-in-the-butt sister.

  Turned out I was right. Matt flung open the door, and there he stood, bare-chested, breathing heavily, his forearms snaked with veins. “You bozos are just jealous,” he said, squeezing his right bicep and making it dance.

  Little Joe moaned and threw him the basketball. “Come on, Arrrrnold,” he said with what I assumed was an Austrian accent. “Enough pumping iron. Give yourself one last smooch and let's play ball. The guys are waitin' for us at the park.”

  Matt grinned and slipped him the middle finger (a sign of affection among his peers) before going inside to get his shirt. Meanwhile, Little Joe looked at me and cocked his head. “Hey, wait a minute. I knew something was missing. Where's Brandi?”

  If you listened very carefully you could hear “Shake Your Booty” by KC and the Sunshine Band piping from my so-called best friend Brandi's basement laundry vent in the house next door. She'd been invited to a dance by some Catholic-school boy named Walter, and for the past week I'd been helping her practice the New York Hustle (a fate worse than death). It was all she could talk about, so yesterday when I'd finally told her that she was seriously getting on my nerves, she'd marched into her house and slammed the door. Fine with me. Besides, who in their right mind would go on a date with a guy named Walter?

  I dog-eared the page I was on and rolled my eyes toward Brandi's house. “She's in her basement, shaking her booty. She's got this big date next Friday. A dance at Xavierian High School.”

  “Really?” Little Joe stood there with his jaw hanging open. Brandi and I were fourteen, just two years younger than Little Joe and Matt, but they seemed to think of us as being eternally ten and a half. He rubbed his chin. “A date with a guy from Xa-fairy-land, huh?”

  This was another one of Matt's creative nicknames. Xavierian was a boys' high school, taught by a brotherhood of priests, so Matt assumed that any guy who attended was a fairy. “Yep,” I said. “And get this, his name is Walter.”

 
For some reason, Little Joe didn't think this was as funny as I did. “So,” he said, “how about you, aren't you going?”

  Little Joe knew very well that high school dances meant disco music, and disco music was against my religion. “Me? No.”

  He started to laugh. “Oh, that's right, I almost forgot, you don't shake your booty. But you know, pretty soon, guys are gonna be asking you out. Don't tell Matt I said this, but you're getting pretty cute, and you've got that blond hair….”

  Immediately my cheeks began to burn. One of the curses of having Scandinavian ancestors was that my skin was so transparent that when I blushed my whole face glowed. If this wasn't bad enough, I also had a mouthful of braces, laced with those darling little rubber bands, so it was hard to feel confident. Usually I was better off with my head in a book.

  Before Little Joe could continue this embarrassing conversation, Matt returned, chugging an orange soda. He tossed a can to Little Joe but of course didn't offer me one. I almost said something about sugar being a major cause of pimples, but I held my tongue. Whenever Matt's friends were around, he went from annoying to beastly in two seconds flat. “So, whatcha reading now, Chimp?”

  Matt didn't deserve an answer, but since Little Joe was there, I decided to impress him with my fine literary taste. Slowly, I raised the book off my lap, revealing the jacket.

  Matt made a face. “Jeez, what's with all the morbid crap lately?”

  I sighed. Matt's idea of a good book was the latest issue of Sports Illustrated or, if he wanted to take it up a notch, the biography of basketball star Dr. Julius Erving. “It's not morbid,” I said. “It's deep … mystical … symbolic. Things you wouldn't understand.”

  Little Joe whistled. “Oooo, nice one, April.”

  Matt shot him a look and chugged more soda. When he was finished he let out a huge belch without even saying, “Excuse me.” “Yeah, right, Ape, kind of like those Alfred Hitchcock stories you were reading last week. Real deep.”

  Before I could respond, Matt tossed the basketball back to Little Joe and slid down the banister. Along the way, he said, “Hey, Joe, is she gonna be there today?”

  This caught my attention. Since when did Matt know any shes?

  I lowered my head, pretending to be completely absorbed in the story. Luckily, Matt's right shoelace came undone, and as he sat down to tie it, I listened carefully.

  “Come on, Matt,” Little Joe said, “I already told you, this is not a good idea. You don't get it, they treat those girls like nuns. Lock ‘em up and throw away the key.”

  Matt stood up. There was a strange expression on his face—a mixture of defiance and desperation. It was the way he looked when his basketball team was down by ten points, with only one minute left in the game. “Listen, Joe,” he said, “I don't care. I just need to see her.”

  Little Joe raised his arms in surrender. “All right, all right. I'm pretty sure she'll be there, okay? Happy?”

  Matt exhaled loudly. “Thanks, Joe, I owe you one.”

  Little Joe shook his head. “Nah, you don't owe me nothin'. But I'm telling you, Matt, you better be careful.”

  At that moment Brandi's curtains shifted, and as Matt and Little Joe began walking down the street, I wished I could have been a fly buzzing around their heads. Instead I was the lone chimp in our family, reader of morbid stories, and best friend to the Disco Queen of Dyker Heights.

  The mobsters on our street were about as different as three cold-blooded killers could be. Francesco “Frankie the Crunch” Consiglione, who lived on the corner of Eleventh, was a quiet guy who generally kept to himself. He dressed more modestly than the others, always in black, went to Mass every Friday, and had a big statue of St. Christopher in his yard. His nickname stemmed from his car-crunching business, which, when you think about it, is a good line of work to be in when you're disposing of dead bodies on a regular basis.

  Vincent “Gorgeous Vinny” Persico, who lived on the corner of Twelfth, owned a restaurant in Little Italy known for its veal scaloppini and small room in the back where uncooperative wiseguys sometimes got whacked. He also claimed to be in the “entertainment industry” and had recently purchased a discothèque in Bay Ridge. He was friendly, flamboyant, and handsome, I suppose (hence the nickname), and his favorite pastime was admiring him self in the side-view mirror while waxing his Coupe de Ville.

  But the most elusive of the three was the man who lived right across the street from us—Salvatore “Soft Sal” Luciano. Little Joe guessed that he was either a hit man, a bodyguard, or possibly consigliere—advisor—to the Big Boss, Joe Colombo. However, the thing that set him apart was this: unlike his colleagues who had several gangster-in-training sons, Soft Sal had only one child—an innocent fourteen-year-old boy named Larry.

  Now, as I sat on the porch waiting for Brandi to make her grand appearance, Larry barged out his front door wielding a set of drumsticks. He'd cranked up his favorite album, The Who by Numbers, and was whacking out a crazy rhythm on the garbage cans lined up in front of his house. Normally I didn't mind, but today it felt like rocks in my head.

  Larry was—different, I guess you could say—but he had decent taste in music, and every Tuesday and Friday when the trash went out he became Keith Moon, the drummer for the Who. His father, who spared no expense, had recently bought him this amazing five-piece drum set that he played in the basement, but sometimes Larry liked an audience. Anyway, it was a good thing Matt wasn't around because he would have said something like “Hey, Ape, why don't you get your kazoo? The two of you retards could jam together.” Which tells you a lot about Matt's basic character and warped sense of humor.

  As Larry crooned loudly, thumping the big metal cans, Brandi stepped onto her porch, her long brown hair forming a veil around her face. All we needed now was a little violin music to complete the scene. Ignoring me, she sat down, shook a bottle of nail polish, and began stuffing cotton balls between her toes. Meanwhile, Larry took a break from his drum solo. Since Brandi and I were normally inseparable, he glanced back and forth between me and Brandi like something was terribly out of place. “It's okay, Larry!” I called. “Just keep playing!”

  Unfortunately, I knew what I had to do. Go over there and apologize. It would calm Larry down, but I also figured having Brandi with me at the park was the only viable way I could spy on Matt. Of course, I could take my five-year-old brother, Sammy, along, but with my luck, Dominick, the guy I'd had a crush on for the past year but who didn't know I was alive, would probably be there, strumming his guitar, surrounded by all his friends. It would be the ultimate sign of lameness to arrive at the park alone, carting around my kid brother. Besides, the thought of watching Sammy run through the sprinklers with his peewee buddies while I had no one to talk to was pretty depressing.

  I took a deep breath, set down my book, and walked slowly to Brandi's house. The whole time, Larry was silent, clutching his drumsticks, anxiously waiting for his world to return to order. When I finally sat beside Brandi, Larry let out a huge sigh of relief and smashed a garbage lid with newfound fervor.

  As I suspected, Brandi was doing a pathetic job on her toes. Each nail was a mess of lavender clumps and air bubbles. “Here, let me do it,” I said. Without arguing, she plunked her foot onto my lap and handed me the brush and bottle. As I salvaged her pedicure, I said, “Listen, I'm sorry for what I said about Walter, okay?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you always say his name like that?”

  “Like what?” I asked innocently, smoothing out the polish on her pinky toe.

  “Like he's the biggest dork on earth. You don't even know him.”

  “Well, neither do you.” Brandi couldn't argue that one. Walter was the nephew of the godson of Brandi's mother's friend, or something ridiculous like that. They'd been introduced at her cousin's First Communion, and two weeks later, he'd called and asked her to the dance.

  “Are you jealous, April? Is that it?”

  I looked at her and laughed. “No. Wh
y would I be jealous?”

  “My mother thinks you are.”

  I almost dropped the bottle. “Your mother? You actually talked to your mother about this?” That was the thing about Brandi. She believed that her parents, whose favorite pastime was watching reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show, were a wellspring of teenage wisdom and knowledge.

  “Yes, I did. And she had a very good suggestion. As it turns out, Walter has a friend who doesn't have a date. You could go with him.”

  “Oh, just like that? I could go with him?”

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  The nail brush snagged a piece of cotton. I pulled out the lavender threads, rolled them into tiny balls, and flicked them onto the sidewalk. “No thanks.”

  “Come on, April, why not?”

  I sighed and squinted down the street. Larry had moved on to the neighbor's trash, but he was watching the two of us from the corner of his eye. His favorite song, “Squeeze Box,” was playing now. I cupped one hand around my mouth and called, “Everything's fine, Larry! Keep it up! You sound great!”

  Brandi tapped me on the knee. “You're avoiding my question.”

  “I'm not going on a blind date, okay? Think about it, the guy's probably desperate. Besides, people should have a few meaningful conversations before they go out.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, kind of like you and Dominick, huh?”

  Brandi was an expert at rubbing salt into a wound. “Shut up.”

  She poked me in the ribs. “Think about it, you could get to know Walter's friend.”

  I peered at her, wondering why she wouldn't give up, and suddenly her eyes began shifting in all directions. Nervously, she cracked a few knuckles. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Don't tell me …”

  “Um … well”—she winced—”you might be getting a phone call tonight.”