Gangster by Lorenzo Carcaterra Page A

steam to rise from the hard ground.
        Angelo looked at Banyon and smiled when he saw a hint of recognition in his face. He gave a quick glance to the other men in the circle and stopped when he saw his father, Paolino, standing among them. Pudge was the first to reach the group, his hands inside his pants pockets, a slight smile on his face.
        If you're lookin' for your school, it's up the other street, Banyon said, easing his way into the front of the group, facing down Pudge, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into a puddle inches from his feet.
        McQueen sent us, Pudge said, loud enough for all to hear.
        What's the limey been doing? Banyon shouted with half a laugh. Liftin his crew outta cribs? He leaned over, poised to spit another line of tobacco, this one aimed even closer to Pudge.
        That's a bad habit to have, Pudge said, opening his jacket to show the gun jammed in his waistband.
        Banyon looked first at the gun, then in the boy's eyes. He had been around long enough to know when intentions were real. Whatever fear, if any, Pudge Nichols had was buried deep inside a harsh exterior and far from any man's gaze. Banyon swallowed and took a step back.
        Nothing changes, Angelo said. Instead of paying you every week, they pay us.
        Is that how McQueen wants it? Banyon said, walking over to Angelo, his temper at idle, his hands balled into fists of frustration.
        It's how we want it, Angelo said, running a hand over the scar above his eye.
        I ran this pier for almost ten years, Banyon said, a degree of resignation in his voice. And I ran it good, too. My crews always sent the ships out on time.
        You ran it with your mouth, Angelo said with disdain, looking past Banyon and catching his father's hard gaze. You just sat back and watched other men sweat out the work. But even that wasn't enough for you.
        I can run it for you the same way, Banyon said, looking from Angelo to Pudge, sweat running down the sides of his face. Or any other way you like.
        I don't think so, Pudge said, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the gun barrel jutting out from his pants pocket.
        You work the hole, Angelo said, stepping up closer to Banyon. With the rest of the men.
        You can't put me in with the dagos, Banyon said, lowering his voice, his eyes shifting from Angelo's face to the hand on Pudge's gun. They hate my guts. They'll leave me for dead the first chance they get.
        So will we, Angelo said in a harsh and distant voice that lifted him past his tender age.
        Where do you keep the key to the doors? Pudge asked Banyon.
        In my pocket, Banyon said, patting his shirt softly, the arrogance floating out of his body.
        Then you better open them and let the men get to work, Angelo said. And you either lead them in or deal with us out here.
        Whichever way you go, make it quick, Pudge said. That ship needs to be loaded and my guess is it ain't gonna do it alone.
        Angelo and Pudge stood their ground and stared hard at a defeated Banyon. The dwarfed dock boss took in a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his face, nodded and turned away, leading the workers toward the pier doors and a full day of work. They followed in a tight group, eager to extract their revenge for a decade's worth of torment.
        All except for Paolino, who stood in his place and stared at his son.
        Anything wrong, Papa? Angelo asked.
        You take money from me now, too? Paolino asked. Just like all the rest.
        You can keep your salary, Papa, Angelo said, his voice returning to its normal tones. Your payoff's covered.
        Covered by who? Paolino asked. You?
        Yes, Angelo said. By me.
        Paolino reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two crumpled dollar bills. He tossed them into a puddle by Angelo's feet.
        I pay my dirty money now! Paolino said, his voice filled with rage and hatred. And I pay