You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You by Robert J. Randisi Page B

stayed.” He looked at my father. “We stayed, Poppa.”
    “Oh, shut up,” my father said. “You all killed her. I don’t care about any of you. But you—”
    All of a sudden he drew back his fist and I knew I was going to take the hit for everybody. There was no way I’d ever hit him back, and why I didn’t think to block the blow is beyond me. But his fist never reached me because Jerry reached out and caught my father’s arm by the wrist. My old man tried to pull away, but Jerry was too strong.
    “You brought a hoodlum with you to attack our father?” my sister shrieked. “Tony! Tony!”
    She was yelling for her husband, my brother-in-law, but he was too much of a coward to come anywhere near Jerry. He stayed where he was across the room.
    No one else rushed forward, either. Jerry was just too imposing a figure.
    “Mr. G.?” he asked me. “Ya want I should snap it?”
    I didn’t know if he meant the wrist or the whole arm, but I didn’t want either. And truth be told, after my father berated me in front of the entire family—or half the family—I was kind of ticked at my mother all over again for all the times she never stood up to him. I didn’t particularly want to go up to her casket to see her.
    “No,” I told Jerry, “let him go.”
    He released my father’s wrist and the old man stepped back, rubbing it, warily regarding Jerry.
    “Get out, Eddie,” my brother said, “and take your hood with you.”
    “You want I should bust him up, Mr. G.?” Jerry asked, pointing at my brother, who shrank back as if he thought I was going to sic the big boy on him.
    I was tempted.
    “No, that’s okay, Jerry.”
    “Then why don’t we get outta here, Mr. G.?” Jerry suggested.
    “I’m with you, Jerry. Let’s go.”
    Under the watchful eye of everyone Jerry and I left.
    Out in the parking lot Jerry said, “Geez, Mr. G., I’m sorry.”
    “For what? You didn’t do anythin’.”
    “I made you come here,” Jerry said. “You’re right, those people are nuts.”
    “Yeah, they are,” I said. “They sure are.”
    The next day Jerry drove me to the cemetery at the very end of the procession of cars. I stood off to the side during the ceremony while he waited in the Caddy. Then I walked to the car. We were the first ones to drive away.
    To La Guardia, and back to Vegas.
    Back to my life.
    My Vegas, where the people tryin’ to kill you were the bad guys—not family.

Seventeen
    T HE TICKET CHANGE WENT smoothly. I slept through most of the flight, dreaming that I was in Coney Island with my brother, Danny, and Danny’s brother, Nick, my best friend. We were eating Nathan’s hot dogs. I woke up wondering why I hadn’t had Jerry drive me there before we left.
    I was walking through McCarran when I felt a heavy hand come down on my shoulder. It was a very familiar pressure.
    “Hey, Mr. G.,” Jerry said.
    “Where did you come from?”
    “Seven rows behind you.”
    “No, I mean—”
    “I know what ya mean, Mr. G.,” Jerry said. “I figured you could use some help on this one.”
    “On which one?”
    “Yer missin’ friend,” he said, “not to mention Marilyn Monroe.”
    “How the hell did I miss you on the plane?” I asked. The question was more for me than him.
    “You never looked,” he said. “And you slept most of the way. Come on, Mr. G. Did ya leave your car here?”
    “No,” I said, “we’ll have to take a cab.”
    He gave me a look I’ve seen on lots of puppies over the years.
    “You ain’t sorry ta see me, are ya?”
    “No, Jerry,” I said. “I’m not sorry to see you. Come on, we’re goin’ to the Sands first to get you a room.”
    “We ain’t stayin’ at your house?”
    “Naw,” I said, “I could never match your hospitality. This time, I’m gettin’ you a suite!”
    We arrived at the Sands and I got Jerry situated in a suite. I told him I didn’t need him because I was going to see Jack Entratter, so he figured he’d just take a shower and enjoy the