Gangster by Lorenzo Carcaterra Page B

eat, Papa? Angelo asked.
        Twenty minutes, Paolino said. Sometimes more if the ships are close to loaded.
        They sat on two crates, their backs to a redbrick wall, the crowded pier spread out in front of them. The food rested on white handkerchiefs by their feet, the hot midday sun warmed their faces. What is in the ships? Angelo asked.
        Different kinds of fruit, some days rice, Paolino said, finishing the last bite of cheese. Cured meats when the weather is cold. They always come in full and they always go away empty.
        Do you get to keep any of what's on the ship, Papa? Angelo asked.
        He's lucky he gets to keep his job.
        The voice came from behind Angelo and he saw the giant shadow lurking over him, obscuring the sun. Angelo and Paolino turned together and stared up at the man. Angelo cast a quick glance toward his father and saw a look of fright cross his face.
        Hate to put a break to the family picnic, the man said. But there's work waitin' to be done.
        The man was tall and muscular, with a full head of dark hair and eyebrows thick as hedges. He squinted when he talked, more out of habit than avoidance of the sun. He held an unlit cigar in one hand and had a grappling hook hanging off his shoulder.
        I have ten more minutes, Paolino said.
        You have what I say you have, the man said. Now get up off your ass and move.
        Paolino looked at Angelo, his face a mask of embarrassment, forced a smile and stood up. Stay and eat your fruit, he said to the boy. I see you tonight when I finish.
        He leaned over and kissed Angelo, holding the boy close to him for a few seconds. C'mon, c'mon, the man behind them said. It ain't like you're off to fight a war. Put a step in it.
        Paolino grabbed his handkerchief from the ground, rubbed the top of Angelo's head, then started a slow walk toward the open doors of the pier. The man jammed the cigar into his mouth and took a short run toward Paolino. He stopped and reared up his leg, the bulk of his heavy work boot landing square in the center of Paolino's back. When I say move, I mean move, the man snarled. That don't fit right with you, then you can take your ass to another pier.
        Angelo stood, his fists closed, his eyes lit with rage, but said nothing. He watched his father face the man and then look back over at him. Paolino's face was pale and empty, a man resigned to his plight. Angelo's was beet red and trembling, angry over his inability to do anything but watch his father be bullied.
        They both watched Paolino disappear into the mouth of the pier. The man shoved Angelo with an open palm. Clean up this mess, he said. And get the hell out of here.
        Angelo glared up at him. What is your name? he said.
        Forget my name, the man said. We ain't ever gonna be friends. Now clean up the mess and get the hell outta here.
        What is your name? Angelo asked again, taking two short steps closer to the man.
        You're gonna get yourself hurt, kid, the man said, his words clipped and angry. Now do what I told you before it's too late.
        I want to know your name, Angelo said.
        The man lifted his hand and smacked Angelo hard across his face, leaving finger marks in his wake. He grabbed the boy by the shirt collar and lifted him off his feet, their faces separated by inches. My name's Carl, the man snarled.
        Carl Banyon. And in case you ever start to forget it, this will help you remember.
        Banyon pulled a straight razor from his back pocket and snapped it open. He saw Angelo's eyes widen at the sight of the blade and he smiled. You can cry if you want, Banyon said. I won't care.
        Angelo saw the blur of the razor and felt its sting. The warmth of his own blood soon flowed down the side of his face, pouring out of the four-inch gash Banyon had opened just above his right eye.
        Angelo turned and grabbed his handkerchief from the ground and put it