and
confronted him. He'd admitted that yes, he was seeing someone
else, and then, as gently as he could, he'd suggested it was best
they stopped seeing each other.
She'd screamed, sulked, and several weeks later taken up with
Max—who couldn't believe his luck, because Tina was the
prettiest girl in school. Also the most virtuous. No sex before
marriage—Michael could vouch for that .
Perhaps if she'd been a little more forthcoming in that
department, they might have stayed together.
Max had asked him if he minded. "Go ahead," he'd said
magnanimously.
Privately he considered it a revenge move on Tina's part. She
couldn't have him, so she'd go with his best friend to try and make
him jealous.
News flash: it wasn't working.
He met regularly with Polly. Even though she was almost twenty-one
and he was only seventeen, they spent many a sweaty night in the back
of the local movie house, where he found he was able to perform some
of his best work.
Sometimes Polly's girlfriend Sandi lent them her apartment. Those
were the best of nights. And there was always the hotel, although Max
no longer worked there, so paying for a room wasn't something he
wanted to do too often.
Polly freely admitted that she still saw her steady boyfriend,
Cyril, which didn't bother Michael at all. They both knew they were
in it for the sex—and as long as the sex was hot, why should it
concern him?
Things were pretty good all around. He worked hard, hung out with
his friends, and Polly was there whenever he needed sex which was
most of the time. He certainly had nothing to complain about.
One day two men sauntered into the shop. The shortest man put up
the closed sign and hovered by the door, while the other man came
over to Michael, leaned his elbows on the counter, and said, "Hey,
you. Hear you're runnin' plenty of business here."
"Maybe," Michael said, recognizing the man as a known wiseguy.
"It's your lucky day," the man said, scratching his chin. "'Cause
I'm here to make things run even smoother."
"How's that?"
"How's that?" the man repeated. "Well, sonny, you'll pay us a
little somethin' every week, and for that you ain't gonna be
bothered."
"Bothered by what?" he asked.
"Don't act dumb," the man said irritably. "You know who I'm
representin' here."
It occurred to Michael that he could stand up to them—that
is, until he remembered what had happened to several other store
owners in the area who had resisted paying protection. He thought
about the smashed windows in the bar next door. The fire in the dry
cleaners. And old Mr. Cartright from the pawnshop getting beaten up.
The rumor on the street was that all the stores were now paying.
"I guess we can work something out," he said slowly.
"Smart," the man said, picking up a pack of cigarettes from the
counter and breaking the seal. "My boss likes smart ones who don't
give him no trouble."
"Who's your boss?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he
already knew.
"Ain't that a stupid question," the man said, shaking out a
cigarette.
"Vito Giovanni," Michael blurted out. "An' I'd like to meet
him."
"A punk like you?" the man said, snorting his amusement. "Forget
it."
But he didn't forget it, and a few weeks later when he and Polly
were snogging in the back of the movie house while the previews
played, he was excited to observe the entrance of Vito Giovanni,
surrounded by several henchmen and his brassy blond wife.
He quickly shoved Polly's hand out of his crotch. "Quit it," he
said tersely.
"What's the matter?" she asked, quite put out.
"You see that guy sittin' over there?" he said, leaning forward to
get a better look. "That's Mr. Big."
"Mr. Big ?" she sneered. "What does that mean?"
"He's the man who runs this neighborhood."
"What is he—the mayor or something?"
"No," Michael said impatiently. "He's Vito Giovanni."
At last she got it. "The mob guy?" she asked curiously, her
interest piqued.
"Not so much a mob guy as a man who does things his way,"
confronted him. He'd admitted that yes, he was seeing someone
else, and then, as gently as he could, he'd suggested it was best
they stopped seeing each other.
She'd screamed, sulked, and several weeks later taken up with
Max—who couldn't believe his luck, because Tina was the
prettiest girl in school. Also the most virtuous. No sex before
marriage—Michael could vouch for that .
Perhaps if she'd been a little more forthcoming in that
department, they might have stayed together.
Max had asked him if he minded. "Go ahead," he'd said
magnanimously.
Privately he considered it a revenge move on Tina's part. She
couldn't have him, so she'd go with his best friend to try and make
him jealous.
News flash: it wasn't working.
He met regularly with Polly. Even though she was almost twenty-one
and he was only seventeen, they spent many a sweaty night in the back
of the local movie house, where he found he was able to perform some
of his best work.
Sometimes Polly's girlfriend Sandi lent them her apartment. Those
were the best of nights. And there was always the hotel, although Max
no longer worked there, so paying for a room wasn't something he
wanted to do too often.
Polly freely admitted that she still saw her steady boyfriend,
Cyril, which didn't bother Michael at all. They both knew they were
in it for the sex—and as long as the sex was hot, why should it
concern him?
Things were pretty good all around. He worked hard, hung out with
his friends, and Polly was there whenever he needed sex which was
most of the time. He certainly had nothing to complain about.
One day two men sauntered into the shop. The shortest man put up
the closed sign and hovered by the door, while the other man came
over to Michael, leaned his elbows on the counter, and said, "Hey,
you. Hear you're runnin' plenty of business here."
"Maybe," Michael said, recognizing the man as a known wiseguy.
"It's your lucky day," the man said, scratching his chin. "'Cause
I'm here to make things run even smoother."
"How's that?"
"How's that?" the man repeated. "Well, sonny, you'll pay us a
little somethin' every week, and for that you ain't gonna be
bothered."
"Bothered by what?" he asked.
"Don't act dumb," the man said irritably. "You know who I'm
representin' here."
It occurred to Michael that he could stand up to them—that
is, until he remembered what had happened to several other store
owners in the area who had resisted paying protection. He thought
about the smashed windows in the bar next door. The fire in the dry
cleaners. And old Mr. Cartright from the pawnshop getting beaten up.
The rumor on the street was that all the stores were now paying.
"I guess we can work something out," he said slowly.
"Smart," the man said, picking up a pack of cigarettes from the
counter and breaking the seal. "My boss likes smart ones who don't
give him no trouble."
"Who's your boss?" he asked, although he was pretty sure he
already knew.
"Ain't that a stupid question," the man said, shaking out a
cigarette.
"Vito Giovanni," Michael blurted out. "An' I'd like to meet
him."
"A punk like you?" the man said, snorting his amusement. "Forget
it."
But he didn't forget it, and a few weeks later when he and Polly
were snogging in the back of the movie house while the previews
played, he was excited to observe the entrance of Vito Giovanni,
surrounded by several henchmen and his brassy blond wife.
He quickly shoved Polly's hand out of his crotch. "Quit it," he
said tersely.
"What's the matter?" she asked, quite put out.
"You see that guy sittin' over there?" he said, leaning forward to
get a better look. "That's Mr. Big."
"Mr. Big ?" she sneered. "What does that mean?"
"He's the man who runs this neighborhood."
"What is he—the mayor or something?"
"No," Michael said impatiently. "He's Vito Giovanni."
At last she got it. "The mob guy?" she asked curiously, her
interest piqued.
"Not so much a mob guy as a man who does things his way,"
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