Charley and Meyer

Joe Masseria sat at the table and lowered his face to a full plate of fettucine. It was slathered in butter and cream and covered in pecorino Romano cheese. He shoveled into his mouth with his usual sophistication. Joe the Boss resembled a pig in almost every particular. He ate like one. He grunted like one. Rutted like one. Thought like one. Consume, consume, eat, eat, that is mine… mine I tell you. Flecks of spittle and cream sauce flew through the air in hideous mist that covered the area near the porcine Boss of All Bosses.

Charley was repulsed. As usual when he ate with Joe the Boss. It was ordeal. Not as big an ordeal as being taken for a ride and beaten to within an inch of his life. But close. Charley slowly cut a piece of veal from his much more modest plate. A couple of pieces of veal picata and piece of broccoli and he was content. Joe the Boss always went for the whole cow. Or whole hog the fuckin’ pig. He was a cannibal that way.

In between slurping up pasta Joe would question his underboss. “So what happened with Brooklyn? This strunz Marazano is making moves I hear. He has Yale’s familia under his wing. I knew his clan back in Sicily. High hat. He thinks his shit don’t stink.” Joe put his face down for another enormous forkful of pasta. He had finished the bowl in less than five minutes. Motioned for more food. The waiter sprang to the table and took away the bowl and returned with a large bowl of mussels in garlic and oil. How he could mix the cream and the seafood baffled Luciano. His stomach turned again. It was an frequent occurrence when you ate with Joe.

“He is gonna be a problem Joe. He already is. He has a bunch of smart young gunsels with him. This kid Joe Bananas in particular. He looks like the brains of the operation. I hear he is one slick operator. His cousin the undertaker from Upstate is in cahoots with them too. Lucchese is nobody to sneeze at either. Say the word and we will take care of it.”

Joe sucked the meat out of a mussel and threw the discarded carcass into a bowl. “I donna care Charley. You been telling me this for months now. Wach you waiting for? You can take the stone outta my shoe. I don’t need to talk about it no more.” He patted his slobber covered chin delicately with a cloth napkin. “You know Piddu sezs you ain’t to be trusted. None of youse. Fransico. Alfonso. You all are finoches with your fancy clothes and whores. Like a shiny bottle that will break in the sun. Wach you think of that?”

“I think that old fuck is past it. He needs to stop jerking you off with that flipper he got. You got to think bigger Joe. There is much more money to be made in the booze. The stills and the beer ain’t enough for us. We can do a lot better. That mick up in Boston has some whiskey we can get. Cheap. I can lay it off on Madden on the West Side and we won’t even be out of pocket. It’s all gravy.”

“The Irish” Joe the Boss spit into his plate. “Fuck the Irish. You canna trust them. Jus the way you can’t trust that hebe you run around with. They gonna fuck you in the ass. But maybe so you like that. Piddu thinks so. I don’t wanna deal with nobody that ain’t Italian. On both sides. Blood. That’s all that counts Charley. Blood.”

Charley flushed red. It was not the first time Joe the Boss had humiliated him to his face. But maybe it should be the last. “Blood” Charley murmured. “Yeah Joe. Blood I got it. I’m gonna take care of it.”

Charley got up from the table and walked to the coat check. Got his hat and walked out the door. Joe the Boss watched him walk away. He was gonna have to check on this. He had a bad feeling. He almost always had a bad feeling. Maybe it was the cream over the garlic and oil and the fish. Maybe it was his gut talking to him. Either way he has to figure it out. He didn't want to get surprised.