Nickles And Dimes

Setting: Mid 1920’s
Location: Brooklyn, mainly the neighborhood of Bensonhurst
Tone: Past-Tense

“There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

This is typically how it went. It was Brooklyn. There was murder, rape, assault, theft, and extortion. Even though most of us were from Dyker Heights we stayed in Bensonhurst. Nobody really gave us any problems, mostly because they knew who we were. This was our neighborhood and nobody could ever take that away from us. The Jews took up about half of the population and even though they had their little gangs they knew deep down we ran this fucking neighborhood.

Most of us were 2nd generation. We were the soldiers, the ones that carried out the orders. The ones above us were the ones that came from Italy. None of us were made men yet, but because we were in the organization by either family or friends, we basically had a license to do whatever we wanted. But we kept ourselves straight. We didn’t fuck around on our girlfriends or wives and we didn’t fuck around with the drugs. That was for whoever lived out in Manhattan. We didn’t want that shit around here.

It was business as usual this time of year and business was booming. They say that there’s no business like show business. They are wrong. Fall was creeping up on us and it was coming in a hurry. The leaves were changing on the trees and the cracks in the sidewalks were loosening up. It was getting darker earlier. Everything was turning gray.

For the sake of storytelling, I’m going to leave all of my personal business out of this. Who I am, the location of my birth, my marital status, and the possibility of my parole aren’t relevant to this. Don’t get nosey.

These fucking speakeasies were popping up everywhere. It was starting to get a little out of hand, but we were doing a pretty good job of keeping the profits in our pockets. Our speakeasies and blind pigs were exactly that: ours. As a soldier, my basic responsibilities were to go the speakeasies and get the money that they owed us. Why did they owe us money? Because we owned the neighborhood and if there was money to be made, we were going to be making it. If the owner gave us trouble, then we gave him trouble, and the owners typically obliged because they don’t like our trouble. It was that easy.

Was it violent? Yes, at times. I didn’t really give a shit, though. That was how it was. I wasn’t trying to change the world. Who the fuck was I? I was a foot soldier doing my job. If you look down on us then you are not only a hypocrite, but you are denying yourselves basic instincts needed to survive. Every man born into this world has three traits that are inherent. Fight, fuck, and eat. The “Napoleon Complex” is not limited to small men. We all have it. We have a burning desire be the alpha dog. The weak will not survive. I was not going to be weak.

Stop. Rest. Intermission. Concession.

[Break]

Resume.

I was dying to be something that I wasn‘t. I was dying to be something more than I already was. I made good money. I supported my family. What’s next? Sun, cradle, moon, hearse? That can’t be right. But I don’t know what’s right.

If you ever thought that coming to this city was a good idea, then you are wrong. It’s so bleak and colorless. The sky, the buildings, the streets, the people… they are all gray. I’ve watched this city ruin good people. Innocence is a vice. I’m not even so sure that anything innocent exists in this societal black hole. We tried to act like we were saints, which in itself made us sinners. We justified our actions with the thought process that even though what we were doing was a moral injustice, it was okay because our actions were culturally accepted. I used to have a defense but now I don’t.

The specifics are not important. I don’t remember the date. I met some friends at a diner on 18th Avenue. We then went to meet with some of the made men. One of them told me that a guy on the Boulevard had recently opened up his own blind pig. The Boulevard was our area and he was trying to make money. We don’t get fucked. Myself and two others were instructed to pay this man a little visit and, hopefully, work out a deal with him. We drove. I rode in the back.

We arrived at the location, went inside, asked for the owner, and found him. We convinced him to sit down for a brief meeting. He was stubborn. The job was so predictable sometimes. The three of us were pretty seasoned veterans just waiting for our chance to accept more responsibility which meant more money, more privileges, and more glamour. The owners of these fucking places barely had anything to offer us anyway. If there was any extra money to be made it was nickels and dimes.

Since he didn’t want to co-operate we took him outside. We started roughing him up a little bit. Nothing serious had happened yet. Yet. A pedestrian walked by and asked us what was going on. I turned around and said, “There’s nothing to see here. Keep it fucking moving.”

“What?”

“I said keep it fucking moving.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

“Either you can shut the fuck up and keep walking, or you can go next. What’s it going to be?”

The pedestrian left. I’m not sure if they ever called the police or not.

Shortly after the pedestrian walked away we continued to extort the owner. We had beaten him pretty good. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots. My partners were dead. The owner and I were still alive. I think the third shot ran astray. I helped the owner get to his feet and he began thanking me. I did not speak to him. I searched through his pockets and took his money. He had exactly 45 cents in nickels and dimes. I looked at the change in disgust. I studied the coins. My face was imprinted on every coin. The years were foreign. I didn’t know what to say or think. The man shot me with a nickel plated .380. I stopped on a dime. I looked up at him from the ground and he ran away.

A wise man once told me that you should believe none of what you read and half of what you see. And there’s nothing to see here, so keep it fucking moving.

WW