A Stone's Throw

Part 1

Michael Perez sat alone at the end of Packy’s bar, a dark, dingy dinosaur of a public house near the docks in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Except for him and Sam the bartender, it was empty on this spring afternoon. He was hunched over, uncomfortable in his Gucci black suit, and was swirling the rest of his amber colored whisky in a stout glass that had probably been used to celebrate the end of World War II. Sam was absent mindedly drying some beer steins, while his eyes flitted back and forth from the door to twisting gray rag.

“Expecting a crowd?” Michael voiced as Sam turned his attention to his sole customer, refilling his glass with Jameison.

“ Yup. You know everyone gonna come down here after the lunch at Monte’s , no? You came early. Didn’t wanna stay, I guess?”

“ Stayed as long as necessary, “ Michael answered, taking a long swig and then squinting his eyes as the liquid burned his throat.

"You and the old guy were close, I thought” ventured Sam carefully, knowing not to pry too much. Michael was not known to be a talker in these parts of town.

Michael closed his eyes

"Long day I imagine, huh Mike?" Sam said in sympathy

"You have no idea," Michael retorted.

"So how was it?"

"Like everyone in Brooklyn decided to pay their respects, Sam. No lie-standing room only. Out on the steps of Saint Joe's, around the corner, fucking everywhere."

Sam refilled the glass and took one himself. It was early not yet 1 0'clock and he knew his tough day was about to begin. The door flung open and the din of thirty or so long shoremen filtered in-low at first, then rising as the bar filled with black suits, palmade and Old Spice.

"In the back, guys. Ambrosio's delivered some cannollies". Sam shouted as he herded the crowd into the dining room in the back of the bar. Not so much a dining room;but a large room with a few mismatched tables and equally mismatched chairs and an illegal slot machine, sitting discretely in the corner. A large urn of coffee was noisily brewing.

Michael's attention was now drawn toward the door on the other end of the bar. A bright shaft of sunlight accosted the comfortable dim interior and the air was suddenly resplendent in dust motes as the men jocked for position in the narrow doorway. A groan escaped Michael as a huge figure appeared. No escaping now.

Tom Gallagher lumbered in and waved hello with his fat palm and sausage fingers and smiled a little too wide. He sidled up to Michael and boomed a greeting.

“Hey Mike! Will ya look at this showing, huh? Sam, give me a Bud will ya? It’s been one hell of a day. “ Sam placed a sweating brown bottle of Budweiser in front of Tom and retreated in the corner, and then ducked in the back.

“Some send off for Dante, huh? Geez, the flowers alone Mike-a fortune. The priest-Father, Father-what’s his name?”

“Nelson”

“Yeah, Nelson. That’s right. He done good. He said a lot of good things about Dante,. Like he knew him all his life.”

“He did, Tom”

“Really, no shit? Well anyway, the meal at Monte’s was great, right?”

Michael tuned Tom’s review of Dante Ricci’s funeral out. Tom was one of Mike’s least favorite people and he resented being stuck with him and having to make small talk. He thought instead of Dante, and his sons, and his life and how all this was going to change in a matter of days and he was hoping for some time alone before the entire population of the long shoreman union descended upon Packy’s.

Michael kept on eye out on who was coming in;that was his main job today. Who went to the church, who came back to toast, and who gave an envelope with a few Benjamins to cover the cost. The funeral of Dante Ricci was so cheap affair. The funeral of Dante Ricci was not something you missed. The funeral of Dante Ricci was a neighborhood event.

Tom Gallagher continued to yap. God, thought, Michael, how the hell did he ever get in with this crowd. Michael surveyed Tom, as he continued to describe the lunch at Monte’s to Sam. His stained shirt revealed everything he had eaten and was stretched beyond his amble girth; the buttons strained against the cheap polyester. The tacky cheap brown suit was shiny at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs. His dull beige striped tie was loosed at the collar and was too short. What did the kids say now, thought Michael? Yeah, Tom was a hot mess.

Tom’s only claim to fame in this neighborhood was that his parents, Maura and Joseph, owned the diner on the corner of Pioneer and Van Brunt. The Hook had been a mainstay in the nabe since 1947, when Joe Gallagher returned from the war and used his skills as the ship’s cook to open the establishment. Maura and Joe married soon after; she ran the register, Joe cooked and their 7 children at one time or another worked the counter and tables. The food did not keep the restaurant afloat; The Hook was a known drop for most of the criminal activity by the docks and things could easily disappear in the backroom and reappear in the front or disappear forever. A blind eye, a yellow envelope and curt nod and business was done. Tom was the youngest and still worked there and was a key player in the procurement of items from the shipyards although he was wanted more for his brawn than brain. He was tolerated because of Maura and Joe, who knew the art of the slip and what cops were on the take.

And Dante Ricci, the supervisor at the shipyard, was the mover and shaker of the supply chain. He wasn’t big crime but was respected none the less. And as union leader, his funeral cortage wrapped around Richards Street to Visitation Church. And he loved Michael.

“aint that right, Mike?”

Michael shook his head to clear the cobwebs and the drone of Tom’s voice and asked “What’s right?”

“Dante, he was never right after-you know-Nicky-that day. In the lot”

Michael grimaced, and asked for a third.

Installment 1