As Rocky says: "Keep on punchin'!!!"...

 

YOU MIGHT GET BLOODIED UP, --- SURE, BUT YOU CAN DO IT!!!... AND, THEN, MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, YOU'LL FINALLY WIN!!!... 💪💪💪

It DID!!!...

 

My Unicorn Fist...

 

IT'S NOT MY MIDDLE FINGER. IT'S MY UNICORN FIST.

"The Murderous Muddle On Murray Hill," --- Chapter 9...

    

   Of course, I knew where we were going. And, I didn't care. Emilio was so hugely attractive to me I was like, you can do anything, just anything to me.  His apartment was on Mayfield Road, near Corbo's Dolceria or Bakery, where they made their fabulous signature cannoli, 

one of the small apartments that were above stores in the old brick buildings lining Little Italy. You got to it by going through a door, with a brass "10" nailed on it, between two of the stores. I saw locked mail slots for apartments "A" and "B," as soon as we went in. Emilio took my hand, leading me up a narrow and steep old stairs, stairs covered with cracked brown rubber treads. At the top of them was a short hallway barely lit by what was probably a twenty five watt bulb in the ceiling. On one side was a black painted door with a brass "A" nailed to it; on the other side was an identical door with a brass "B". Emilio opened "A" with his key. 

   "Come on," he said, pushing the door open.  It was deliciously cool inside, the air conditioner in the one window blasting away. I looked to Emilio. "Nice and comfortable."

   "Yeah," he said, "I just got it."

   The apartment was one room, with one window looking out to a fire escape. It was reasonably clean and neat, a double bed, a comforter on it, a sheet and two pillows, an old couch, an easy chair, a kitchen table and two chipped paint chairs, a Magnavox T.V., a small stove, and a refrigerator, a battered Coldspot, tall shelves with cans and boxes of food. There was a little table beside the bed with a phone and alarm clock on it and a dresser, a small bookcase crammed with books and magazines. A closet door was open, showing clothes on hangers. There was an old white sink and attached counter. A door was in the end of the room, the bathroom, I guess. The walls were green on top and beige below, the paint cracked and missing in spots, showing plaster. A round white glass light fixture was in the ceiling, a radiator along one wall. Emilio switched the light on. I hate overhead lights, the glare. No rugs on the old brown wood floor, but a little throw rug to roll up and shove against the crack at the bottom of the apartment door so the cold air wouldn't leak out, which Mike did.   

   "Make yourself ta home," Emilio said. "I ain't been here long. Ya want a coke?"

   "Sure." He got one from the refrigerator, and one for himself, flipped the tops off with a bottle opener left on the counter. He turned a radio on, The radio was small cream colored and roundish, the  song, "Only You," by the Platters, it was one of my favorite romantic ballads, such a tender, sensual song about a precious, special love. I usually got chills hearing it, even more so with Emilio here. 

   His eyes, my sister Carol would call them bedroom eyes. Emilio was on the couch; he patted it. "Ya look very uncomfortable "Why don't ya sit down?"   

   I shifted from one foot to the other, looking at my toes, holding the cold, sweating bottle of coke. My ma had warned and warned and warned me about getting in compromising situations with young men. She thought that all young guys would leap on any girl, if they could only get her alone. All young men were supposed to be like randy dogs. This was drilled and drilled so much into the heads of nice girls that no nice girl would even let a young guy lean her back; she would never, never, ever allow herself to be prone, NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER! So, naturally, I wouldn't go sit next to Emilio on his couch. I just stood in the middle of the room.

   Emilio screwed up his face, rolled his eyes, comically, to the ceiling. "Really, Maria, I ain't gonna jump your bones."

   "No?"

   "Naw, not unless you want it. Believe it or not, all guys ain't beasts."

   I smiled. "Yeah, I figured.' I came over, sat down, very gingerly, next to him, put the bottle on the floor. Coke bottles were shaped like women. He didn't even put his arm over the back of the couch. He took a swig of his coke. The song, --- about only you can make this change in me... True... You're my destiny...

   I leaned over, sweetly kissed his cheek. It was warm-cool and pleasantly hard, the wonderful feel of Mike's cheek always got to me. I kissed the side of his neck, much warmer than his cheek. I smiled. "What's the cologne?"

   "Lime soap."

   "Nice."

   He grinned. His eyes narrowed, a corner of his mouth went up. "So, ya wanna give me a hickey?

  That was really, really the wrong thing to say! My backbone stiffened immediately. "Jeez, Maria, ya look like a little scared rabbit. Ain't you got no sense of humor about sex?"

   There, he'd said the horrific forbidden word, --- SEX, --- SEX-SEX-SEX! The word, SEX, and all words pertaining to or describing the sex act were NEVER, EVER, EVER spoken in our house!  I was really, really on guard now. I was shaking a little, too excited.   He leaned over, turned my head toward him with just his fingertips, kissed my lips. My lips automatically relaxed and I sort of melted, slumped. He caught me around the waist, before I could hardly think, I was lying back on the couch, Emilio's face over me. I watched his shining blue eyes slowly close; I closed mine too, as he kissed me again. I shoved my hands into his hair, of course. 

   I knew what was going to happen, unless, I stopped it NOW. But, I didn't want to stop it. This was the exact point at which I stopped all kissing of boys before. Of course, those guys didn't excite me like Emilio Leone. The song, --- She was his dream come true, his one and only you-ooo-ooo-ooo.

   The disco jockey's voice came on. He was telling listeners Prell Shampoo, that really soapy emerald green shampoo, would make your hair radiant.  Now, he was talking about the Everly Brother's tune, "Bye-Bye, Love". Emilio deftly untied the silk scarf around my neck. His lips slid down my throat, kissed the hollow. Bye, love... Bye, happiness... Hello to loneliness... Gonna die...

   Emilio's warm agile fingers were under my yellow t shirt. They went up my back. I didn't care; I didn't care what direction this was going. Emilio was the only guy who'd lit a fire in me. Compared to Mike other guys seemed like dull, awkward goofballs. Sooo... Why not? WHY THE HELL NOT? But, I was supposed to be a good little Catholic girl, and good little Catholic girls always save "it" till marriage.

Many of their mothers tell them nothing about sex; I mean absolutely nothing. ("Keep your legs together! If you're violated you know your brothers and cousins will have to kill the boy!") And, that's so good girls on the Hill can be shocked out of their sweet lily-white minds when they find out from their, maybe, just as dopey husbands what's really real on their wedding nights. Probably, plenty enough to make some women hate sex forever. Especially, if their husbands did the "Wham, bam, thank you, M a'am," roll-over-and-fall-asleep kind of boring routine sex, with no playing around beforehand. But, yeah, most good girls in my neighborhood and good boys, too, learn about sex from their friends. Natch, it's that way in a lot of places, practically worldwide.    

   Ummm... Yeah, well, there was that hot scandal about Jill Mahoney and Jimmy Parelli. They were The Big Romantic Couple of the whole school.

They seemed to be so much in love, I mean, true love. I remember at the Sweetheart Dance Jill dancing with her arms around Jimmy's neck, dressed in a raspberry colored strapless chiffon gown with many fluffy petticoats under it, all her beautiful wavy light brown hair flowing down her back, a blissful expression in her pretty eyes, his hands at her tiny waist. Then, Jill got pregnant. This was something that just wasn't acceptable, no-no-no because Jill surely wasn't a whore, or even a slut. It was considered to be such a disgrace when Jill got knocked up that her dad quit his job and the Mahoneys moved to Chicago, where no one knew them. I suppose Jill and Jimmy got married, to make an honest woman out of her. Still, my ma held Jill up to me as a pitiful example of a good girl gone wrong because she let a boy get fresh with her. Ma warned and warned me I could end up married way too soon to the wrong kind of boy, or worse, finishing school disgraced in a home for unwed mothers!    

    Jerry Lee Lewis was singing about great balls of fire. (Jerry was probably pretty peculiar. I heard he married his very young teenage cousin.) Jerry's wild piano playing was sounding in our ears when I grabbed the edge of Emilio's t shirt and ripped it over his head in one quick motion. That stopped our making out, as I almost gasped. Really, I think I did gasp, a little, because Emilio's upper body was totally, absolutely perfect. Muscular without being bulky like Charles Atlas, the famous body builder, the curves of him were graceful. Fine golden hair grew in a "T" shape over his pects. Across his pects, about an inch above his small, round nipples, was a fine line, a scar, extending from one of his armpits to the other. I ran a fingertip over it.

   "Some guys grabbed me one night. They tried to scare me."   

   "Did that work?"

   "Not very well."

   I laid my palm on the patch of that downy gold hair directly over his heart and there was a continuing fine line of more downy hair until it went to his navel and disappeared into his low-riding jeans. I stroked that sexy line, ran my fingers over his velvety, taut belly. The skin shivered a little as I did that. And, I felt shaky and at the same time excited and strong as I thought of what that low patch of hair surrounded. 

   His eyes were soft as they closed again, kissing me, deeper, deeper, deeper. He was biting my lips; I bit his too. I slid my hands up his back. He snapped my bra open, which felt good because my bra was feeling too tight, with my breasts aching. It was a Maidenform bra. I thought it made my breasts look really pointy, which was the style, like stacked movies stars Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell. And, then my t shirt was off, bra too; Emilio threw them against the wall. Our skin on skin, warm silk, I WAS GONE-GONE-GONE. There was no stopping this now.

   Mike kissed my collarbone, my chest, caressed and suckled my breasts, mumbled something about "lovely," and then, then, it was like a flash, clothes flying, we were both completely naked, lying lengthwise on the couch. He was kissing me all over, even licking; I did the same to him. I wanted him so, so, so bad. I FELT MINDLESS. I arched my back, trembling. I dug my fingernails into Emilio, probably scratching him, wrapped my legs around his hips, his lean hips. I noticed his trim waist was even slightly indented. His chest, pects so well developed there was even a little dip between them where his heart was, and then the beautiful swell of them on either side. I expected him to be athletically built, but... Yes, yes, he was an extremely gorgeous young stud, a lover like any woman would want. 

   I began moaning as he rubbed me fast and continuously down there. Oh, God, it felt so good! His skilled fingers were sending me to heaven, --- once, then, again. Urrgh, --- again! I think I called out his name. I was soaking wet and he was getting ready to enter me. He was balanced on his forearms above me, a strange, rap and yet, sweet look on his handsome face. He began suckling my breasts again, harder, harder. I came once more, just from the strong pressure of his mouth, sucking, the fourth time! He was teasing me with the tip of him, rubbing it against my wetness. I could feel myself coming, --- again! I did. Then... I grasped my lower lip in my teeth. YES-YES-YES, I THOUGHT! DO IT, DO IT, DO IT! PLEASE, PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! Oh, it was hurting a little now, hurting more,  pressure pain. But, I didn't care. I wanted him inside me. He stopped. NOOOOOOOOO!

   He let me go, flopped back on the couch. The radio, --- the song was "The Great Pretender"... He was pretending that he was doing well... He seemed to be, but he wasn't, you see... Emilio was panting, fast and hard. He looked over at me, wide eyed, blinked. His long lashes came down on his cheeks. The loss of  his incredibly beautiful powerful, hard, warm body was like I'd been thrown suddenly against a brick wall.

   His deep voice, a bit hoarse, whispering,  "I didn't expect ya to be a virgin."

   I was, sure, I guess, unreasonably angry, hot-furious mad as hell. "WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH IT?'

   "Everything."

   "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?"

   He leaned over, kissed my forehead. He ran his fingertips from my temple to my chin. "Your first time should be with somebody ya love very, very much."

   "Oh, so, you're great old Father Wisdom, now, you jerk, you creep, you ass, you bastard, you rotten son-of-a-bitch!"

   "No, I just figure..."

   "You figure what, what,WHAT?"

   He looked a little sad. "Nothin'."  He stood, walked across the room, clicked the radio off. "Put on your clothes, Maria. I'm taking ya home."

   I crossed my arms over my breasts, stuck out my lower lip, "I want a shower first!"

   "Me too. There's fresh towels in the bathroom on the shelf."

   I felt like a corked bottle, ready to explode, steaming, nasty and mean. I was so uncool; I'd embarrassed myself at being caught as a silly little virgin. And, I was humiliated, thinking that I wasn't near gorgeous and desirable enough for Emilio to lose himself in passion and plow ahead, regardless of my, uh, hampered sexual state. I put my hands on my hips leaned forward, like a snake ready to strike him. "I suppose now you don't want to make out with me in the future?" 

   He raised his eyebrows, big pause. "Yeah. That's right."

   "What? Not even parking some place in my family's Pontiac, if I can ever get it? SHIT! WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? NO MAKING OUT AT ALL?"

   "I'm saying, I need to think about that. Fuckin' hell, I need a drink. An', not a coke." He reached under the bed, bringing out a bottle of Jim Beam.

   "You're not going to get drunk and then ride a bike?"

   "Not drunk. Just a few swigs." He smirked. "Don't flatter yaself."

   '"YOU WANT A KNUCKLE SANDWICH!," I screamed at him. I socked hard him in the stomach. He doubled over. Looked up at me. "Damn, Maria, what the hell was that for? Ya wanna sign up for Fight Night?"

   "NO, YOU FOOL!"

   I saw the look in his eyes, as he slowly straightened. And, that look that told me, --- I would never hurt you; why did you hurt me? Or, was it my imagination? (But, he certainly would have hurt me, if he hadn't stopped. That sort of thing couldn't be helped. It was so sexy too. Dammit, dammit, dammit.) Now, I was so, so, so mad at him! I positively hated the zany way he spun my head around! I suspected that he'd always plunge me into the depths and send me to the heights. How dare he be so tempting? 

   He was just standing there nude, completely at ease. There was a light flush high on his strong cheekbones; his lips were rosy, looking swollen; his hair was mussed and hanging over his forehead. He looked heart-breakingly handsome. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck, wanted him to toss me over his shoulder and carry me to the bed and dump me on it, caveman style. I wanted his hands on my breasts, his hands on me everywhere. I wanted him to do me to the point of me practically dying! And, it was even more annoying that I realized he would be totally capable of doing just that, and that I would absolutely let him again and again and again and AGAIN! OH, DAMN-DAMN-DAMN!

   I put my nose in the air, squared my shoulders and strutted past him, snotty as hell, into the bathroom. He'd been staring at my breasts, good, really good! I slammed the door violently, flipped the light switch. Half the tiles on the floor weren't there, a slightly rusty medicine cabinet with a mirror, stained sink, a bottle of after shave, light blue terry cloth robe hanging from a hook in the back of the door, shower and old stained bathtub with a clear plastic shower curtain. Ha, of course clear, it figured! I put one of the towels on the toilet seat, surprised that it was down. I stepped into the shower, drew the curtain. Soap-on-a-rope was hanging from the shower head. I took it off, smelled it, citrusy, --- the lime soap. There was a bottle of Breck shampoo and Tame Creme Rinse on the tub floor. I preferred that he had knots in his hair so I could run my fingers through them, to untangle them. Whatever was I thinking? I was crazy-wild mad at him, yes? Arrrh! But, I liked that Emilio took good care of himself, even spoiled himself a little, in subtle ways. He was interesting guy. Uh, duh!. No shit, Maria! But, I wouldn't be surprised if he never called you again! Why should he? You keep being a zero whenever you're with him, you dopey, dopey childish idiot! It would serve me right if I lost him over this fucking, fucking stupidity!  

   When I came out of the shower, wearing just a towel, the radio was on again. Frank Sinatra was singing "Ebb Tide,"... He was at peace in the web of her LOVE!  Now, why did that magnificent romantic song have to be playing NOW? Damn. Emilio was sitting on the couch. He looked up at me with sad eyes. I walked to him arrogantly, pulled off my towel, threw it on the floor. Completely naked, damp from the shower, I picked up my clothes, got dressed slowly and in a very flirty way a foot from him, while he watched. I knew I was being a teasing bitch, --- good!  

     

--- Copyright by Antoinette Beard/Sorelle Sucere 2021.

    

Ain't that the truth...

 

***LIFE CAN CHANGE JUST LIKE THAT... THE THING TO DO IS TO KEEP MOVING FORWARD, NO MATTER WHAT.

A goddess-woman...

 

Be a lion...

 

Hopelessly in love...

 

Exceptionally BEAUTIFUL car...

 

The Murderous Muddle On Murray Hill, --- Chapter 8...

  

   I'd been crying. My sweet little cat Thomasina was with me, her fur even wet with my tears. She kept purring, trying to make me feel better. I scratched her under her chin. But, now I was just plain pissed off, listening to Peggy Lee singing "Fever," the forty-five record going round and round on my cheap little record player.  "Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care... When you put your arms around me I get a fever that's so hard to bear... You give me fever, fever when you hold me tight, fever in the morning, fever all through the night... Fever, till you sizzle... What a lovely way to burn... What a lovely way to burn... What a lovely way to burn!" (No doubt beautiful platinum blond Peggy knew what she was talking about. She'd probably given a lot of guys the "fever".)

  

   I threw my arms above my head; they hit the wall. I turned on my side. I was on my bed again, and Carol was gone as usual, taking the car. It seemed lately she always got to it before I did. I seldom went anywhere; I walked to work. Yvonne had a new guy, Jerry Simonetti, and she was spending a lot of time with him. And, I was doing, what? Yeah, and Rhoda, my friend I worked with at Maxxie's,  was totally right. Mike Leone was a gorgeous young stud and he had looked at me like I was a juicy peach. Now, thoughts of Mike were giving me the "fever," bad, bad, bad fever, just exactly like Peggy Lee said.

    The phone rang downstairs, the only phone we had. I raced down to answer it, jumped at it. "Hello," I breathed into the receiver. 

   I'd just had this feeling, and I was right. Mike's voice came to me. "Hey, Anita, it's Mike Leone."

   "How did you get my number?"

   "Tina had it." Sure, I'd lived in our house all my life and our phone number had never changed.

   "Ya wanna go for a ride?"

   I tried to sound casual. "Okay."

   "Pick ya up in half an hour."

   Not much time, I charged up the stairs, into the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, smoothed some medicated cream on my face while it was still wet to moisturize my skin. I ran into the bedroom, applied some cream deodorant, dug through the top dresser drawer, pulling out a snug yellow t shirt. I put on a pair of red shorts, Bobby socks, red sneakers, a charm bracelet. I tied a yellow and white silk scarf around my neck. I fluffed out my hair; then, put a band on it, making it into a ponytail for the bike ride. I puffed on some Angel powder; I loved the clean sweet smell!  And, I wetted the mascara cake with spit, swiped my lashes with the tiny brush, some creamy and shiny shocking pink lipstick from my elegant jeweled Futurama lipstick case,

a couple of dabs of Evening In Paris cologne under my ears, in the hollow of my throat and at my wrists. I pursed my lips, blinked my eyes, watching myself in the dresser mirror. Good enough. I grabbed my shoulder purse, actually one of those tan bullet cases that you can get at the Army surplus store; it was a fad to carry them as a purse and scratch your name and other stuff into the hard leather with a pin.   

   I raced downstairs to the porch, just in time to see Mike round the corner on his Harley. He wore a plain white t shirt and jeans, his motorcycle boots. Around each wrist were black leather straps, very cool. He came up the porch, grinning. There was a cut over his eye and a purplish bruise, turning a little green and yellow.

   He saw me looking at it. "Boxin'," he said, "but, I won.

   I raised my eyebrows. "The other guy?"

   He was still smiling. "Worse than me."

   

   

    "Ya got somethin' against the sport?"

   "No," I said.

   I shrugged. "Easy money," he added. "Ya ready?"

    "Yeah."

   "Ya look absolutely great, by the way, cute as hell," His fine pink lips were a fraction of an inch from the side of my neck. I could feel the warmth coming from them. I froze, but he did nothing. I remembered with a thrill that shot through my whole body the feel of his warm hard cheek against mine when we danced that one dance in the high school gym during lunch hour. "You smell nice, sweet an' clean," His breath on my skin. 

   "Thanks," I said. He smelled good too,so good, citrus-y.

   We got on the bike, zoomed off. I didn't even ask him where we were going. I didn't care. I was a good enough rider to only rest my hands lightly on the sides of Mike's waist, but instead I hugged him, my arms around him. We pulled up to a restaurant that looked new. Over the door was a sign in bright blue letters, --- "Vic's". 

   "My friend Vic D'amico finally got enough bucks together ta open and he told me he had a pizza oven, so I said,  'I'll bring my girl by'."

   "I'm your girl now?" I frowned.

   He opened the glass door for me, smiling. "Ya wanna be?"

   His eyes, those sensational blue eyes. I hardly knew what I was saying. "Sure." What the hell was I doing?

   Mike nodded, quick as a flash, kissed my lips, his own slightly open. A thrill went through me, from the roots of my hair to my, uh, snatch. Mike put his arm around my waist; he was still holding the door, a toothy grin, I was Mike's girl. If we were in high school it would be said we were going steady and Mike would give me his class ring, which I'd wear around my neck, but he was no longer in school. We walked in Vic's; the cool air hit us, a window air conditioner! Our house was not air conditioned, no part of it, as many places weren't. We only had fans to take care of the summer heat and we spent a lot of time on the front porch on some days. The crummy, rickety little fan in my and Carol's room didn't do shit to cool it.  We sat down at a table that had a red and white checkered plastic tablecloth, like they all did.

   A waitress came over. "We ain't even got menus printed up yet. But, we got burgers, fries, hot dogs, and pizza." Mike said, "If I promised to write postcards ta the cookin' section of the 'Cleveland News,' or the 'Press' Vic said I could have a free pizza."

   The waitress took her pencil from behind her ear, brought her little green order pad out of her apron pocket. You Mike Leone?"

   "Yeah,"

   "Vic told me you'd be coming by and what you looked like. "Okay, what do you want on your pizza?"

   "What can we have?"

   The waitress frowned. "See, we just opened two days ago, so this is a very new thing. Vic's Uncle Bruno was in Rome last summer and he ordered a pie,  a pizza. It came with fresh tomato,  red sauce, chopped garlic and melted cheese, but Vic thinks we should offer customers other stuff, so we got sausage, onions, peppers, fresh oregano and basil, three kinds of cheese,  Provolone, Romano, Parmesan." 

   Mike gazed at me. "All that, okay, Anita?"

   "Sure. Cool."

   "What do you want to drink?," the waitress asked. 

   "Seven-up," I answered. "You have cherry syrup?"

   "Yeah, you want some in your Seven-up?

   "Yeah,"'

   Mike took my hand in his. "Make it two," His hand was warm, dry, the palm smooth, but hard. His hand was much bigger than mine, but I have small hands. I liked the way fine hair grew sparsely along the muscled length of his forearm; the hair was golden. That forearm. It almost looked crooked because of the swell of muscle above and below it. I liked looking at it probably as much as he liked looking at the swell of my breasts. He turned my hand over, put it up to his mouth. His eyes closed, the lashes. He placed a kiss in the center of my palm, breathed warm on it. Then, he bit the mound of flesh under my thumb.

   "Stop it!," I said. "Your teeth are sharp!"

   He narrowed his eyes, playfully. "All the better to eat ya with!"

  The big bad wolf, I wasn't amused. "I ain't no Little Red Riding Hood! Stop making fucking love to my hand!" Dammit, I wanted to slap him.

   His eyes widened. "Okay, okay. Hey, I was just havin' fun. An', I'm a guy."

   "I noticed." My eyes narrowed. Bring it on, I thought, bring it on. Even if I am your girl, I ain't no little piece of pink fluff to toy with and throw aside! And, ho-ho, believe me, I DID notice he was a guy!   

   His shoulders moved up, then down, rolled. My girly hormones were surging. His deep voice got very quiet, was even softer than usual, almost a whisper. I leaned forward. "Uh, really, seriously, Anita, maybe ya should know a little about me."

   "I do." I was still partly on guard.

   "Naw, naw, ya don't,"

   "I know you're from New York."

   "Right."

   "Brooklyn, Bensonhurst." 

   "Yeah, sure, we lived there. But, mostly, we lived in Manhattan, in shitty Hell's Kitchen. I was born in Hell's Kitchen, not in a hospital, at home. My ma named me after the warrior angel in the Bible, the Archangel Michael."

   "Oh." 

   "Yeah, but, nobody, but nobody would really wanna live in the westside of midtown Manhattan, in Hell's Kitchen. Madison Square Garden is there, but it's a lot different going to a sports event than living there." I didn't say anything. "Would ya wanna live in a place that was so miserable your parents got a big dog 

so's he could guard your baby brother at night so the fuckin' rats don't chew his little fingers off?"

   Yeah," Mike went on, "he was a real, real good pooch. His name was Beano. We gave him to the old lady who lived downstairs before we moved here. She just loved that dog too and she wanted protection too, after her husband died. Me tellin' ya that about the rats you can imagine how it was."

   

   "Ain't that the truth. 

"Yeah, a bad neighborhood, not just the gangs, hard ta live there an' grow up normal, makes people very angry, see?"

    "Mmmm... Cleveland has slums too, Scovill, Woodland Avenue.

The Hough area, uh, Superior and Euclid Avenue, between East 55th and East 105th. It used to be where affluent families lived, the Houghs, who own Hough Bakeries, and the Severance family, who funded Severance Hall, where there's fancy concerts. But, now it's probably one of the most dangerous parts of Cleveland, and there's Collinwood. They're all powder kegs, waiting to explode."

   "I don't think they're as bad as New York. Detroit's bad."

   "I don't know. I've never lived in New York, or Detroit."

   "Chicago's bad. All slum neighborhoods are bad. Maybe New York's just bigger.

So, ya might say I learned how to box the hard way. Hey, it was be good defending yourself or get creamed, ya know?."

   "Didn't you have an older brother, uh, to sort of, uh, protect you?"

   He shook his head. "Naw, I was the protection in the family. I saved my sisters Tina an' Diane from gettin' raped."

   "You did?"

   He nodded. "That's how I got this scar on my arm. I blocked a knife when I beat some guys to a pulp." 

   "Dead?"

   "I dunno. We left. I'll hurt people to stay alive an' so's my family can stay alive too." He shrugged, "Diane sewed me up." 

   "You didn't go to a hospital, right?" "Right, you don't never go to no hospital for a knife or gun wound. Not unless it seems like you're gonna be D.O.A.  It's like you finked if you go to a hospital because hospitals make reports an' that brings cops. An', cop snoopin' brings vendettas from gangs."

      Parli Italiano?"

    He grinned. "Si, molto bene. Italian was always spoken at home. A vendetta è molto soddisfacente."

   "Revenge is, uh, very satisfying." Mob shit fascinates me. You know, not just fists and knives, but rumors of really bad, bad beatings with blackjacks, brass knuckles, with a garden hose, and Tommy guns, garroting, and torturing people with a blow torch, cutting them up in little pieces to be buried in shallow holes or dumping them in a ditch on a lonely road or in the woods, or even out to sea for the fishes to eat. They get rubbed out. Nobody ever sees them again. If you think I'm being dramatic you are an idiot, "done deals," as my pa called them. A corner of Mike's mouth went up. "Porta rispettu a lu locu unni stai."

   "Sicilian."

   "Yeah, it's an old proverb my nonna, my Nonna Tuccia, my nonna on my dad's side, used to say, --- "'Don't go castin' no dirt into the well that gives you water'. Or, I've heard it said, --- Don't shit where you eat. My ma's people are from Northern Italy, in the Aosta Valley. Maybe why I'm blond. Half my family is blond. My Nonna Anna and my Nonno Carlo Endrizzi, on my ma's side, spoke German and French too. They're dead, died way before I was born. Most people think all Italians have black hair. There are plenty of blond Italians, from the Alpine parts of Italy."

   "Right."

   Well, yeah. In the neighborhood we had Satin's Sons,  the Young Lions, the Blue Devils, you  don't wanna anger them gangs too much. It's bad enough what I did, but I had ta. I took some vicious crap from dumb scums for a while.

   He shrugged, "I was the only one in the family with muscle, besides my tough ol' pa. My pa is is sixty an' he's still the strongest man I've ever seen; he's about my size. When he was in his prime at forty five he could bench press three hundred an' fifty  pounds."

  "How much can you bench press?"

  "About two hundred  an' eighty five pounds, now, maybe more later."

  "Two hundred and eighty five pounds," I said. That sounded like a lot to me.

   "Yeah, an', I worked ta keep that muscle too, make it more. Ya always have to or ya'll lose it, for sure. It was natural I fall into boxin', ya see?" he frowned. "Phil, like I said, ain't no protection. He was never strong, thin as a fuckin' pencil. He got those diseases kids get when they can't eat proper; we all sorta did. But, the rest of us kids got over them. Phil never did, don't know why. He had, still has a very weak chest, a hollow chest.  And, there was always filth, no matter how hard ya try to keep clean yourself an' the place clean. My Nonna Tuccia died of the T.B. It got into her kidneys, wrecked them so they just didn't work no more."

   "I didn't know T.B. could do that."

   "It can. My Nonno Ludo, Nonna Tuccia's husband, on my pa's side of the family, died five years before her. I hated him. He was alcoholic, a miserable mean ass drunk. Nonno Ludo was the big reason why our family never had any money. He stole it. We all tried to keep him from doing that, but Nonno Ludo always found it. Then, he'd drink it away or gamble it away. He'd bet on anything. Nonno Ludo was why we had to live in such a shithole of an apartment, because some places in Hell's Kitchen are much worse than others. Still, my pa wouldn't throw my crumb-bum Nonno Ludo out. Family is family, no matter how awful they are. My Nonna Tuccia used to tell me how when Nonno Ludo was younger he used to beat and beat on her, put his cigarettes out on her an' my pa, until one day, when my pa was about fourteen, he told Nonno Ludo that he ain't never gonna hurt Nonna Tuccia or him again, because if he did my pa would lay him out flat."  

   "And, did he?"

   "Naw, Nonno Ludo just turned around an' left, went to the crummy bar he almost lived in to get plastered. He was one funkin' cowardly piece of shit. He was plenty old when him and Nonna Tuccia came to live with us. I was glad when he died."

  "It was a lot nicer at home without my nasty asshole Nonno Ludo.  But, then Phil got real, real sick. We thought he'd die of the T.B. too, but no. My pa was makin' more money. Still, it wasn't never enough. My pa didn't want to work himself to death like so many others did on the docks. So, my folks was exhausted an' desperate to get outa New York City, an' a friend said he knew a guy my pa could work for, so we left for Cleveland."

   Our drinks came and our pizza, smelling so wonderful. Mike took one of the plates, put a slice on it and offered it to me. Yum! It was practically the most delicious thing I'd ever eaten, not to slam my nonna's great cooking a bit. 

   The table we were sitting at was so little and now, looking over at Mike, looking close, there were those very, very fine scars on his face, around his eyes, on his cheekbones, and that one eyelid that was just a fraction lower than the other. He was strong and tough. I loved shape of his mouth. It's upper lip truly was a "cupid's bow," exactly curved like an archer's bow, even having the tiniest upward turning at the ends like a archery bow. Sometimes, he moved it in a tough guy way, --- "New Yawk" and "New Joy-see," --- ya know?  I remembered that he wanted a wife. Me.

   I squinted across the very small table. I grabbed his face, pulled him to me, kissed him, tenderly, then, with passion, hard, harder. His lips parted; he kissed back, again, again. Our teeth clanked together. I shoved my hands into his hair, massaged his scalp, that lively curling blond hair, his little mustache tickling! We broke it off, with the sound of smooching lips, the surprise in his eyes, he was breathing fast. A couple more minutes, we would have toppled the chairs and table and been rolling around on the floor. 

   He grinned. "Whoa, hot damn, Anita!"

   I smiled back. "How's your heart?"

   "Beatin' fast like a son-of-a-bitch."

   I saw new respect in Mike's eyes. "Ya want dessert?," he asked.

   "No, I think I  just had it, --- Babe."

  "Oh, no, no, no, you ain't! And, I like it when you call me Babe."

   "Get used to it. A lot more is coming." I brushed my fingertips across his cheek. He grabbed them, kissed them. his eyes sparkling. 

    Then, he threw his head back and laughed. "Damned straight! Kissin' an' other things, lots an' lotsa other things, --- Tiger!" 

   I grinned. "Tiger?'

   He grinned back. "Unless, ya like 'Tigress' better."

   "It ain't got the same ring to it."

   The waitress looked over at us, shrugged, like she'd seen it all plenty of times before. She was busy filling squeeze mustard and ketchup bottles.

    

 --- Copyright by Antoinette Beard/Sorelle Sucere 2021.