Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (10 page)

“Where’sh your identification?”

“After I show you my shield, I’m going to kick your ass through that plate-glass window.”

He split. “Ladies, I’m sorry about this man disturbing you, I don’t think he’ll bother you anymore.”

A while later, the waiter come over and said the ladies would accept our drink. Well all right!

She fell out when she saw my white Lincoln what I was rolling around in at the time. She didn’t want me to drive her home but I insisted—then I found out why; she lived in the projects off 106th Street and Madison Avenue, a rose in spic Harlem. Them projects been low in income but high on beautiful girls. I got to hanging around the Gondolier and Sunlite bars on Madison and 104th to be near her. We snuck around a lot, I didn’t want everybody to know I was going serious with a young thing. She was only nineteen. Like all Latin chicks, she loved to dance. She had me dancing at the Chateau Madrid, Corso’s, the Ginza. I’d take her to the Garden to fights. I’d pick her up at her office and we’d go to dinner, like Forno’s for Spanish or Sal Anthony’s for Italian. Without realizing it, I got involved with the broad.
It got so we had to see each other every day, and I wasn’t even screwing her. I was worried about it, what the hell’s going on here? Like, I wasn’t myself; I don’t talk on the phone for nobody—but her, we’d talk for hours. I wasn’t snorting or even carrying a piece. Then I was thinking maybe I’m going to get married. Jesus. One day she talked me into meeting her family. Mistake. Her folks were all right—I came on with mucho
señora
and
señor
. But Tuta’s older brother Sigfrido was there. And he wasn’t buying no tickets off’n me. He looked at me like I was the devil himself. He had a grocery down the block and he knew my story from A to Z. This was a square who worked behind a counter sixteen hours a day—you know he was gonna love my ass. After he got through choking he called a family conference—I heard words like
delincuente, maton, droguero—
I eased out of the apartment. And even feeling relieved. This ain’t my bag. But a few days later, Tuta got to me; she was crying and saying that she wanted to give me a chance to explain. I told her, “I have been in trouble before but that’s because I was an orphan; I didn’t have no family to look out for me like you, so I was always getting blamed for everything because I had no one to stick up for me. On account of my record I can’t get a decent job, God knows I tried everything. So I turned to gambling and made a few dollars which I have invested in a bar—I lied to you when I told you I was in real estate because I knew you’d put me down for my past record. That’s where it’s at, Tuta. I’ve leveled with you—now you can believe in me or
believe the goddamn lies and rumors these jealous Puerto Ricans are gonna tell you.”

It was one of the best speeches I ever gave a broad and she dug it. Meanwhile, she was eating sirloin steaks and drinking champagne and sitting ringside—that helped. She came my way. Now we really had to sneak around.

Came a long weekend and Tuta told her family she was going with her girlfriends to the Spanish villas around Newburgh. We flew to Miami.
Qué
party! La Guillot, Manzanero were singing down there. Los Violines, Montmartre—the whole Cuban scene. Yeah, mother, I got to them drawers. Got my head bad too. I was really hung up on her. She knew she had me staggering behind her box. She demanded that we elope. I was groggy but not that groggy. I retaliated with, “I was married many years ago, as a minor, but I’m working on my divorce now. Then we’ll get married right away.” Ain’t no rug can lie better than me.

It was fab’lous honeymoon without benefit of clergy. But now it was time to pay my dues. We arrived Tuesday night looking tanned ’n terrific. I drove her up to 104th Street to let her cross the street by herself. I waited on the corner until she was out of sight, then I decided to go into the Gondolier for a taste. Sigfrido came in from my right. I had no piece—the first one hit me flush on the chest; I tried to grab him, but he put two more in my stomach. The guys from the Gondolier came running out. “Carlito’s dead,” “They killed Carlito,” people yelling. And I was going out. I was freezing, maybe I’m dead
already. I couldn’t see, but I could hear voices. I wanted to get up but couldn’t move. I remembered other guys dying on the streets of Harlem wanting to get up as if you couldn’t die standing up. The bulls—“Wait for an ambulance,” “Some dope pusher named Carlito, I know him,” “Sure punched his ticket.”

Then Cheo from the Gondolier said, “Don’t wait for no fucking ambulance—don’t leave him there—what about my fucking license? Carry him to the Flower Hospital—it’s only a block away.” Cheo saved my ass.

I was dying for two weeks, especially around early dawn I’d really fade, but I kept coming back. Them doctors like to croak me, but I survived just for spite. Like the bullet in my chest, they couldn’t find it. It’s still in there—I don’t bother him, he don’t bother me. In the evening, everybody would come in to see me, everybody but Tuta. They told me she and her whole family had checked out that same night. Figured I’d have the brother killed. No way. You know that chump had to be sore, peddling
bacalao
and
plátanos
in a store the size of a closet. And me with my pimp-car running off with his sister. Shit, he was smoking. Me, I ain’t no grudgeholder—if I had caught the dude early on, I’d a put a hurtin’ on him, but later on—what the hell? Fact is, Sigfrido did me a favor—I felt better every day, like I took a weight off. Always felt that way when I shook off a broad—don’t have to account to nobody—stay loose—if I’m busted don’t have to worry she’s cheating on you. My line of work, man only supposed to worry about one thing: staying out the Joint. Anything else is superfluid.

The bulls from the two-three was up to see me regular. First time I was a complainant.

“They was three muggers, hofficer. Mean, too. Didn’t give me a chance to hand over my money. A man cannot walk in the streets ’cause Lindsay has tied your hands—a regular ghetto here in the two-three, I’m moving up to Simpson Street where a man is safe.”

“You always been a wise cock-sucker, Carlito—that’s why they perforated your ass. Listen, if it was up to me they coulda buried you, but we got these reports and we gotta have a description of the assailants—now quit fucking around!”

“Well, your honor, the assailants looked colored, but they might have been dark Italians or even that other group you got around here. In the dark,
todos los gatos son negros
. Don’t get mad at me, officer, all I saw was bang, bang, bang. I wouldn’t want to make no mistake, I know what it is to be framed by your house.”

“Aw, you wise—!”

“Don’t mess with Hoppy, pres, I’m a sick man.” Man, would I break their hole!

Last time I heard, Tuta got married down in P.R. I dug her, I can’t deny it, but my way is still best. Loose. But
un clavo saca otro
, and pretty soon I was cruising around with this bandit from Brooklyn. Uweee, you devil. I got back into the groove real quick-like. They was robbing me in my disco joint but I was getting plenty of pussy out of there.

The horse was riding high. But getting harder to come by. What with the government and the stool pigeons a lot
of heavyweights was getting put away. The heat was on something fierce. But all the better for the guys that really knew what’s happening. That’s money, baby, money. Be a fool to walk away from that. Myself, I’m down for the action anytime, and I don’t want to hear this ol’ bullshit about the little kids in the schoolyard. The only ones dealing with the little kids is the little kids themselves, and if people want to get high, that’s their lookout. Shit, if they ain’t on junk, they’ll be on wine or some other shit. They can’t cope—shame on them. I’m short-timing in this world and any way I get by is okay with me. I only know one way—my way, like the song. Frank’ll tell you.

About that time, Rocco had a baptismal affair for his new baby boy at his house out on the north shore. Me and Earl drove over to pay our respects. Reggie came too—seem like Rocco told Earl to bring his kid brother, Reggie, along. With Earl pulling out I guess Rocco wants to make sure Reggie can step in without no hitch. It was an afternoon affair on Rocco’s big lawn, catered, very nice. There was some heavy people there, including Rocco’s uncle, Dominick Cocozza. Cocozza ranked Amadeo, so for the first time I seen Amadeo not acting like an animal. Cocozza would talk and Amadeo would “Yeah, Dom” and “Right, Dom.” Amadeo told Cocozza what a great guy Rocco was and what a great moneymaker he was for the outfit. He also said he had his son Paul moved in two houses down so that some of Rocco’s smarts could rub off on Paul. Everybody was drinking and feeling pretty good. Cocozza told Earl, “My nephew’s
told me what a great help you been to him uptown, that your word is good. A man’s word must be sacred. Not like these punks and stool pigeons coming up.
Combinazione
, that’s the ticket, we work together; you make money, we make money. Let’s drink to that.” Everybody was drinking except Amadeo and Reggie.

Rocco pulled me over to a corner. “You remember Sixto Davila?”

“Yeah, Rock, quarter-key man from the Bronx, up in Prospect. He was at the El when we was there.”

“Right. While you were away we tried to help him— he was always crying, gimme a break, Rocco, so I gave him a break—a heavy number. He dealt the goodies, but being a garbage can he showed his hand on the first deal—glommed the money and he took off to Europe. I didn’t say anything because Petey A gets excited and I made up the money. Now I don’t believe in hurting a guy over money, most of the time you’re getting off cheap. But I have a man in Madrid and this Sixto has gotten to him and he’s giving my man a big play. I say Sixto is a beater and a beater is the next thing to a rat. I say he’s stooling for Interpol.”

“Which does what for me?”

“You’re going to Spain, Carlito!”

“I ain’t no hit man, Rocco, why not Nacho?”

“A Cuban has trouble getting in and out; and besides, this is not a cowboy job. You get next to him, get his guard down; the hit will come from somewhere else. This is important, Charles.”

“Whatever you say, Rocco.”

“Vinnie will be around to see you tomorrow with the details.”

Almost didn’t make that trip. Got pinched—me and this guy, Chángui—and while I was on a mission for mercy, mind you. My ol’ buddy Lino, the barber, was dyin’ in the Mount Sinai—doctors said he was terminal. I used to see him regular, he didn’t want for nothin’. Lino had looked out for me when I was a kid. Anyway, he asks me for a favor. Seem his son, Felino Jr., known as Junior (no fuckin’ good), was doin’ a lot of scratchin’ and eatin’ a lot of jelly rolls. Lino was suspectin’ he was on junk. Now I follow the golden rule about mindin’ m’own business, but what the hell—I owed Lino. So me and this guy Chángui go lookin’ for Junior. We find out that he was scorin’ out of a Bickford’s on 145th Street and Broadway. He didn’t wanna come out the joint, so we dragged him outside, put him against a building, and give him a few smacks. Then we tried to reason with him. I told him if his father was a barber without no schoolin’ he could be a doctor if he had some schoolin’; he said he was in a trade school, Machine and Metal Trades on 96th Street. Wise cock-sucker. Then be a fuckin’ dentist, and I gave him another rap. I read him the riot law—if I find out you’re using hard shit I’m gonna pull your tongue out yo’ass, etc.

About this time, four detectives come out of an unmarked car with their cannons out.
Puñeta
. Me and Chángui get tossed up against the wall. They chased Junior. They got our pistols and they got eight yard I had in
my pocket. This is after 4
A.M
., ’cause the crowd from the Caborojeño Club upstairs had already let out. The bulls take me and Chángui down to Riverside Park. Ain’t no precinct in there, so I know we gonna settle out of court. Moldy-puss was the main bull of the four, he said,

“Watcha names, punks?”

“I’m Inspector Moran, this is Lieutenant Chángui.”

“I’ll bust your ass, Brigante. I know you—what the hell are you doin’ this far up in a cheap shakedown?”

“We were just tryin’ to straighten the kid out for his father.”

“Oh, I see, juvenile aid work, eh? Your ass. We gotcha for assault and possession of loaded guns. How do you like them onions?”

“The kid won’t sign no complaint, and this was an illegal search—we weren’t committin’ no crime. Bust won’t stick.”

“You fuckin’ hump—we went to question you, you stumbled, fell against me. I felt the bulge on your hip. Gotcha. Right, guys?”

I know when I’m in an over-the-weight match.

“Officer, that eight hundred ain’t mine. S’pose we split down the middle. That’ll give you guys a hundred a piece, right? Everybody wins.”

“Wrong. You are a cheap cock-sucker, Brigante; you’re lucky you’re dealin’ with me. Beat it.”

They kept the guns too. Mother-hoppers. I got back to Lino next day and told him what he wanted to hear, that the kid was only sniffin’, not skin-poppin’, and that he was straightened out. The kid was straight like a
fishhook. Can’t do nothin’ with a
tecato
. Lalin’s kid brother, Narciso—forty-dollar-a-day habit—jab himself in the cock and in the neck. Once, Lalin knocked his teeth out—didn’t do no good. From the whole army of junkies marchin’ around Harlem I ain’t seen but two guys walk away from the spike.

It didn’t matter Lino none—them doctors finally terminaled him.
Adiós, buena gente, descanse en paz
.

I would have gone for the funeral, but he had insurance. I put some bread on Lino’s widow, Doña Mercedes. It didn’t take Junior long to put Doña Mercedes in the box next to Lino. I cried at that funeral; she was a lady.

Don’t look at me. I never put no needle in nobody’s arm. How many Juniors have I tried to straighten out? Shit, I’m just gettin’ by myself. Plenty bites been taken outa my ass—lucky I got a rhino hide and a concrete skull. Else my ass would be grass now too.

6

V
IVA ESPAÑA
!
M
ADRID, A CLASS TOWN
. R
IGHT AWAY
I liked it. Clean, big boulevards. Everybody’s a square, no angling. Almost everybody; Don Jorge Betancourt, Rocco’s man, came by my hotel the first night I was in town. An older guy, European-type cat—like a head-waiter, very dignified, with a heavy theta sound I had to get used to. I never heard that kind of Spanish in the Barrio. But we got to rapping pretty good. I told him this had to be wham-bam-thank you Ma’m because I had to get back to New York. We put on a terrific feed that night, then we went bouncing around the
tablaos
. Fantasticlooking heads—Gypsies. This might be fun. Second joint we hit we run into Sixto. The joint was shaped like a cave, with a lot of Gypsies singing and dancing. Don Jorge spotted him first—“He is here, on the left near the stage; his man is with him.” Sure enough, there was Sixto Davila yelling “
Olé tu madre
” with the best of them like a regular
Gallego
—jive Puerto Rican. We were cool, didn’t look his way. Sure enough, a bucket of champagne
arrived, compliments of
el señor
in the corner. He come over. I threw my arms around him. “Sixto, my man! You look terrific, put on some good weight. The hell you doing in Spain, I thought you was in the Joint?”