the ancient, fat nurse.
Dr. Goldberg peeked from behind the nurse's right shoulder. “Mr. Bentimova, I have good news for you. You are the proud father of a bouncing baby boy.”
That said, the doctor rushed from the room, leaving Tony B alone with the nurse, who reminded Tony B of the nuns who used to crack his knuckles with a ruler, at good old Transfiguration Grammar School at 29 Mott Street.
“When can I see my son?” Tony B asked.
“Soon, Mr. Bentimova,” the nurse said. “First someone has to see you.”
The door of the father's waiting room opened and a tall, matronly-like hag, who looked more like a man, entered the room. She was holding a clipboard.
“Mr. Bentimova, I'm from accounting,” the woman said. “I'm here to discuss the payment of your bill.”
“Don't worry about the bill, “Tony B said. “I'm a member of the United Seafood Workers Union. Local 359. I'm fully covered.”
Tony B pulled out his wallet, found what he wanted, and handed his union membership card to the hag.
She copied down the information, then said, “Thank you Mr. Bentimova.” Then she did an abrupt about-face and exited the room, like she couldn't leave fast enough.
The ancient, fat nurse opened the door to leave. Tony B grabbed her arm. “When can I see my son?”
“Soon Mr. Bentimova,” she said. “A doctor will be here in a few minutes to assist you.” Then she exited the room too.
Tony B sat down and fumed.
A few minutes later, a tall elderly doctor, with an angular face and a nose the size and color of an apple, entered the room. He had the demeanor of a funeral director and Tony B soon found out why. The doctor was followed by a half dozen of New York's Finest.
Tony B stood up from the chair and put up his hands up in the air. “What is this? A bust?”
The doctor folded his arms in front of him.
“No, Mr. Bentimova,” the doctor said. “The police officers are here at my request.”
“So what's the problem?” Tony B said. “When can I see my son?”
“Soon, Mr. Bentimova,” the doctor said. His face remained impassive. As did the police officer's faces who were standing behind the doctor like they were ready to bum-rush a mountain of jelly donuts. “But first I have some bad news. Unfortunately, your wife passed away during childbirth.” The doctor paused. “I'm sorry. We tried to save her, but there was nothing we could do.”
Tony B felt the room spinning. Suddenly, he shrieked and lunged forward, surrounding the doctor's throat with both hands and squeezing so hard the doctor's eyeballs looked like they were ready to pop from his head. Six angry cops sprung forward.
In seconds, the lights went out for Tony B.
CHAPTER 12
Junior Bentimova – 1985
Tony Bentimova Jr., called Junior by everyone in the Lower East Side, knocked on the 6 th floor apartment door, in the K Building of Knickerbocker Village, a 1400-family, state-subsidized housing complex, located on Monroe Street, one block north of the East River and directly between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.
Knickerbocker Village consisted of one set of six roof-connected and cellar-connected buildings, and one set of six cellar-connected and five roof-connected buildings, surrounding two courtyards. The K Building at 18 Monroe is the shorter building and not connected by roof to the other five buildings in its courtyard. This was good news for Junior, since his present prey could not escape by running up to the roof and down the elevator of another building. There was two seventy five-foot ladders running from the K building's roof to the roofs of the adjoining buildings four floors above. But even a monkey would be dead if he tried to escape by climbing those steep ladders in a rush, with someone chasing with a nasty weapon.
Just in case, Junior had two of his trusted pals, Nicky Knuckles and Billy the Blade, situated respectively on the ground floor of the K building by the elevator, and on the roof. Even though
Dr. Goldberg peeked from behind the nurse's right shoulder. “Mr. Bentimova, I have good news for you. You are the proud father of a bouncing baby boy.”
That said, the doctor rushed from the room, leaving Tony B alone with the nurse, who reminded Tony B of the nuns who used to crack his knuckles with a ruler, at good old Transfiguration Grammar School at 29 Mott Street.
“When can I see my son?” Tony B asked.
“Soon, Mr. Bentimova,” the nurse said. “First someone has to see you.”
The door of the father's waiting room opened and a tall, matronly-like hag, who looked more like a man, entered the room. She was holding a clipboard.
“Mr. Bentimova, I'm from accounting,” the woman said. “I'm here to discuss the payment of your bill.”
“Don't worry about the bill, “Tony B said. “I'm a member of the United Seafood Workers Union. Local 359. I'm fully covered.”
Tony B pulled out his wallet, found what he wanted, and handed his union membership card to the hag.
She copied down the information, then said, “Thank you Mr. Bentimova.” Then she did an abrupt about-face and exited the room, like she couldn't leave fast enough.
The ancient, fat nurse opened the door to leave. Tony B grabbed her arm. “When can I see my son?”
“Soon Mr. Bentimova,” she said. “A doctor will be here in a few minutes to assist you.” Then she exited the room too.
Tony B sat down and fumed.
A few minutes later, a tall elderly doctor, with an angular face and a nose the size and color of an apple, entered the room. He had the demeanor of a funeral director and Tony B soon found out why. The doctor was followed by a half dozen of New York's Finest.
Tony B stood up from the chair and put up his hands up in the air. “What is this? A bust?”
The doctor folded his arms in front of him.
“No, Mr. Bentimova,” the doctor said. “The police officers are here at my request.”
“So what's the problem?” Tony B said. “When can I see my son?”
“Soon, Mr. Bentimova,” the doctor said. His face remained impassive. As did the police officer's faces who were standing behind the doctor like they were ready to bum-rush a mountain of jelly donuts. “But first I have some bad news. Unfortunately, your wife passed away during childbirth.” The doctor paused. “I'm sorry. We tried to save her, but there was nothing we could do.”
Tony B felt the room spinning. Suddenly, he shrieked and lunged forward, surrounding the doctor's throat with both hands and squeezing so hard the doctor's eyeballs looked like they were ready to pop from his head. Six angry cops sprung forward.
In seconds, the lights went out for Tony B.
CHAPTER 12
Junior Bentimova – 1985
Tony Bentimova Jr., called Junior by everyone in the Lower East Side, knocked on the 6 th floor apartment door, in the K Building of Knickerbocker Village, a 1400-family, state-subsidized housing complex, located on Monroe Street, one block north of the East River and directly between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.
Knickerbocker Village consisted of one set of six roof-connected and cellar-connected buildings, and one set of six cellar-connected and five roof-connected buildings, surrounding two courtyards. The K Building at 18 Monroe is the shorter building and not connected by roof to the other five buildings in its courtyard. This was good news for Junior, since his present prey could not escape by running up to the roof and down the elevator of another building. There was two seventy five-foot ladders running from the K building's roof to the roofs of the adjoining buildings four floors above. But even a monkey would be dead if he tried to escape by climbing those steep ladders in a rush, with someone chasing with a nasty weapon.
Just in case, Junior had two of his trusted pals, Nicky Knuckles and Billy the Blade, situated respectively on the ground floor of the K building by the elevator, and on the roof. Even though
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