The pizzeria
The usuals were all there. Two-bit hoods huddled around racing forms, slips of papers bursting out of their pockets, fidgeting with cigarette cases laid out like so many dominoes across the round café tables. Phone boxes rang like they had the hiccups, and every time they did, somebody jumped.
In this town, you went for pizza when you needed something small, a slice of pepperoni or a little information. Big commerce took place at private clubs, in restaurants, in the comfort of somebody’s well-appointed home. But the little stuff, that came with a shaker of garlic powder.
“Can anybody tell me about some punk kid from New Orleans?” I announced as I walked into the room. I have always been straight with this set and they know I mean them no harm. But they also know I can make plenty of trouble if need be. It’s in everyone’s best interest to give me the information quickly, quietly, and let me turn right around before the ponies can make their first corner. By the nature of things, I was no good for business...I scared the customers. Many small timers are small because of nerves. On a whole, these fellas are nervous individuals. They get edgy, scared for stupid reasons, like a fishy looking cabbie or a dick in a trench asking them about a dead out of towner. The big difference between a real crook and a low-life is balls under fire. If I walk into a private club with the heavy hitters, I can stay as long as I don’t get annoying. They could have stolen the Eiffel Tower and stuck it in their backyard, but they’d still act casual, stroll around the club waving diamond rings and acting all “nothing to see here,” and “we got nothing to hide.” But the two-bits are always afraid someone is going to care about their three-dollar craps game or the small numbers racket they have on Twenty-third Street. The truth is both the cops and bosses don’t care about the little stuff—unless it gets in the way.
“So, I am going to ask again, does anyone have any information about some tall kid from down South? Had a broken nose? Was up here for business...maybe with one of you clowns?”
Jonny, the “proprietor” of the joint, heard my second request above the din and quickly ushered me into the back room. He made some room for us between unmarked boxes of booze and the mop tank.
“Why do you care about that kid? He is a nobody.”
“Some dame is looking for him and she decided to hire me to find him.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why is that?”
“Well if it is the stupid kid from New Orleans, he ain’t coming back to your lady. He had some trouble with one of those Marizanno boys.”
“So he came around?” Johnny nodded affirmative, and I shrugged. “That ain’t too bad. Bad would be if you’d never heard of him. I was just hired to find out what happened, not to return him breathing.” Johnny’s eyes darted from me to the shelf behind. He reached over my shoulder, pulled down a commercial sized bottle of olives, and offered me one. I plucked one out and continued. “I had a feeling this sap was too soft for New York. What happened?” I asked, sucking off the pit, “He tried to ply his wares on the wrong turf?”
“I thought you never cared about the why?”
“Yeah, just thought I could give the woman a reason.” I lift out another and dropped it on my tongue. “You know she is going to ask.”
Johnny turned, puckered his lips, and spit. The pit sailed five feet and landed with a ping! in the corner trash. “Tell her New York is a bitch.”
I thanked Johnny for his sagacious words, and made for the door. I had a body to find.
