Omertá
Vignette: Bambino di Meraviglia
1925, the ‘old Way place’, but then it was new and only just bought, and Donnie Way was a consigliere with a Scottish mother hidden away in a cozy Cape Cod in Maine and a skill with the accent of a Sicilian father he never knew. A baby boy in a long white gown sits on the big red rug in the living room and seems to have an intent inner conversation with the battered brown bear he holds – a relic from another time already, smelling of old under the soap and the mother’s perfume. He looks up when he hears the front door open, but quickly returns to Pookie, chewing it’s amber glass eye intently, a gesture of affection.
“...she’s in the bath.”
“Well that don’t matter, it’s not her I’m here for.” A big man in a suit, beery-smelling, crashes into the doorframe of the lounge and stares for a moment at the child in the centre of the floor, eyes glazed with a meanness burning in the small pupil, a pinhole camera view to the mind. “This your kid, right?”
“Come through here – no, Tony, this way.”
Instead he brings himself upright and takes a few slow strides towards the child, as if it is an animal he intends to catch with his bare hands. The child simply stares up at him, wide hazel eyes, bright brass buttons in a chocolate-box face. “You’re little Gerard, right? Little Gerry. Gerardo. Gerardo Way. C’Mere.”
Donald appears at the door. He is a square-shouldered, straight-backed, Victorian gentleman of a man, thin-nosed and wide-faced. He does not care to pause this time to stand at the door and make the room aware of his intensity of character and ambition as he usually does before entering a room. Instead, he strides forwards, taking Tony by the shoulders. “Come this way, Tony, we’ll get you another fuckin’ drink, hey, that what you want?”
Tony stands dumbfounded for a moment, gazing down at Gerard, before looking back up and over his shoulder like a man emerging from a basin of water. “This kid gonna be Don one day after you, hey? This kid gonna be a Soldato? Gonna kill people? Gonna kill the ladies, anyways, arent’cha little man?” Tony bends down and prods the child on his tiny nose, making him giggle. “Gonna kill ‘em with that smile.”
“Come on, Tony. What do you want with me?”
Tony sighs and puts his hands on his hips, turning around to face Don and appearing sober for a moment, until he begins to sway slightly back and forth. “I’ come to talk about your… your…” He glazes over again, and a strange expression comes onto his face, somewhere between horror and a relaxation of the muscles.
“Tony, don’t – “ Don steps out of the way in time for Tony to vomit on the white carpet casually, before stumping over to the sofa and sinking into it, belching a little. Gerard looks at the puddle of turpentine-smelling brown liquid, to the big man on the couch, and back to the puddle with expressionless awe.
“They’re gonna killya, Donnie… they’re gonna getya, and they’re gonna gut you like a fish and send ‘em to your Mama and say ‘That’s what we do to little men who get above their station.’”
“My… my station…” Donald Way stood with his hands on his hips above the stain in the carpet, frowning down at it as if he was studying his own reflection. “Who’s gonna get me?”
“Stoney’s getting the Blackwood mob… Boss don’t know about it. I don’t wanna tell him, Don, I don’t want Stoney to kill me! I wanted to tell you, so that you could get out. You’re never gonna be the Boss, Don. You’re never gonna be the Don. You’re justa half-Scottish errand boy who got a stroke a’ luck and ended up with the big guys –“
“You think this is luck?” Don rounds on Tony, stepping over the vomit to stand over him. Gerard senses his father’s anger and almost whines, but figures it is not directed at him when his back becomes fully turned against him. “You think I got where I am cossa luck, hey? I’ll tell you somethin’, Tony. I’ve been through hell to get this far. I’ve sacrificed everything – my safety, my family’s safety, my mother’s safety, my name, my morality, my status as an innocent man. It was luck that brought me into this thing, okay, even if at the start I thought it was a curse – but I’ve worked my ass off over the past ten years, y’hear? I am not here because I’m lucky.”
Don’s wife is stood in the doorway in a quilted red nightgown, her hair wrapped in a towel. “Honey?”
“Tony’s been sick, sweetie, would you clean it up? I have to make a phone call.” With that he sweeps out into the hallway. Tony leans his head back on the back of the sofa and belches again, and Gerard gazes up at his mother, both of them looking to each other for any understanding of the situation.
“...she’s in the bath.”
“Well that don’t matter, it’s not her I’m here for.” A big man in a suit, beery-smelling, crashes into the doorframe of the lounge and stares for a moment at the child in the centre of the floor, eyes glazed with a meanness burning in the small pupil, a pinhole camera view to the mind. “This your kid, right?”
“Come through here – no, Tony, this way.”
Instead he brings himself upright and takes a few slow strides towards the child, as if it is an animal he intends to catch with his bare hands. The child simply stares up at him, wide hazel eyes, bright brass buttons in a chocolate-box face. “You’re little Gerard, right? Little Gerry. Gerardo. Gerardo Way. C’Mere.”
Donald appears at the door. He is a square-shouldered, straight-backed, Victorian gentleman of a man, thin-nosed and wide-faced. He does not care to pause this time to stand at the door and make the room aware of his intensity of character and ambition as he usually does before entering a room. Instead, he strides forwards, taking Tony by the shoulders. “Come this way, Tony, we’ll get you another fuckin’ drink, hey, that what you want?”
Tony stands dumbfounded for a moment, gazing down at Gerard, before looking back up and over his shoulder like a man emerging from a basin of water. “This kid gonna be Don one day after you, hey? This kid gonna be a Soldato? Gonna kill people? Gonna kill the ladies, anyways, arent’cha little man?” Tony bends down and prods the child on his tiny nose, making him giggle. “Gonna kill ‘em with that smile.”
“Come on, Tony. What do you want with me?”
Tony sighs and puts his hands on his hips, turning around to face Don and appearing sober for a moment, until he begins to sway slightly back and forth. “I’ come to talk about your… your…” He glazes over again, and a strange expression comes onto his face, somewhere between horror and a relaxation of the muscles.
“Tony, don’t – “ Don steps out of the way in time for Tony to vomit on the white carpet casually, before stumping over to the sofa and sinking into it, belching a little. Gerard looks at the puddle of turpentine-smelling brown liquid, to the big man on the couch, and back to the puddle with expressionless awe.
“They’re gonna killya, Donnie… they’re gonna getya, and they’re gonna gut you like a fish and send ‘em to your Mama and say ‘That’s what we do to little men who get above their station.’”
“My… my station…” Donald Way stood with his hands on his hips above the stain in the carpet, frowning down at it as if he was studying his own reflection. “Who’s gonna get me?”
“Stoney’s getting the Blackwood mob… Boss don’t know about it. I don’t wanna tell him, Don, I don’t want Stoney to kill me! I wanted to tell you, so that you could get out. You’re never gonna be the Boss, Don. You’re never gonna be the Don. You’re justa half-Scottish errand boy who got a stroke a’ luck and ended up with the big guys –“
“You think this is luck?” Don rounds on Tony, stepping over the vomit to stand over him. Gerard senses his father’s anger and almost whines, but figures it is not directed at him when his back becomes fully turned against him. “You think I got where I am cossa luck, hey? I’ll tell you somethin’, Tony. I’ve been through hell to get this far. I’ve sacrificed everything – my safety, my family’s safety, my mother’s safety, my name, my morality, my status as an innocent man. It was luck that brought me into this thing, okay, even if at the start I thought it was a curse – but I’ve worked my ass off over the past ten years, y’hear? I am not here because I’m lucky.”
Don’s wife is stood in the doorway in a quilted red nightgown, her hair wrapped in a towel. “Honey?”
“Tony’s been sick, sweetie, would you clean it up? I have to make a phone call.” With that he sweeps out into the hallway. Tony leans his head back on the back of the sofa and belches again, and Gerard gazes up at his mother, both of them looking to each other for any understanding of the situation.