Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (7 page)

Barking and growling—keep a stone face and a tight asshole—jump stink in a minute: they heard you was bad now you got to show ’em. What for? You slack up and they’ll throw a mattress over your head. Ask some young blood from the sticks who goes upstate on some check forgery. I seen some had to have thirteen stitches in their asshole and I seen some jump off their rack with a towel wrapped around their neck ’cause some con was in love
with them and they couldn’t do nothin’ about it—warden ain’t gonna help you, hacks ain’t gonna help you.

It can get nasty in there. Was a stool up there, black dude, rattin’ his own people out. They caught him in the kitchen; couldn’t hide the body. They cut him into little pieces, then they ground the pieces. There was a nigger in the salad that night. Nobody knowed the difference.

Then you got them little Gem blades that the guys hold in a handkerchief; don’t let them corner you in the shower stall, you naked—splice you into spaghetti. That’s regular, nobody say a word.

And don’t be carryin’ no bad habits over into the jailhouse. Had a thief stole an apple in the mess hall from the wrong guy. Guy put a wooden stake through his Adam’s apple. I saw the thief spinnin’ around trying to pull the stake out. He was all by himself. He didn’t make it.

There’s some rotten motherfuckers in there—I can take the food or the hacks, it’s them criminals in there I can’t stand. Like when you’re short-timin’, waitin’ on your parole, the cons will provoke you to fight—make you blow your parole. Nasty people.

Yeah, Your Honor, check out that probation report real good—not all the kids you put in is ready for the Joint. Yeah, some of these lil’ ol’ boys you put in here is baby lambs and you put them in the same cage with a grizzly bear doing consecutive thirty-year bits. Rough in there, Your Honor—so like if you read the report in a hurry, read it again, ’cause you are fucking with a man’s life. In America, God is dead; you the only one we got left, Your Honor—you a God. When you walk in we stand
up, when you walk out we stand up. You say who lives and you say who dies—you got no boss and you can change the rules as the game goes along. So check out them lightweights good before you bury them. Now guys like me, you can deal with, ’cause I’ll spit in your eye, Your Honor. I’ll get to your D.A. or your cops or even to you. I may be on your hook but I’m slippin’ and slidin’ and one hitch and I’m gone—shit, I’ll take you all on and I’ll still come out on top!

I was all right in the Joint. My man Colorado was doing a deuce, and he had a little click waiting for me when I got up there. So like at chowtime Colorado is rappin’ to the boys how bad I am—Carlito did this and Carlito did that. One dude, Zuzu, ain’t impressed. “Aw, man, who wants to hear that shit?” Zuzu was bad, but he wasn’t ready—hot soup bowl right into his face. Left hook, overhand right, then a couple kicks to the chest while he was down. Zuzu said we was only playing, but they gave me thirty days in the hole. Solder the door, motherfuckers, I don’t need no bread, no water, no mail, no bed, no nothin’—Carlito is bad, ya hear, bad!

Back in population I stayed clean, worked out every day, did some reading, a lot of rapping. I seen guys go in can’t read or write, come out talking Shakespeare. If you don’t know nothin’, the Joint is a great place—me, I had all my smarts long before.

T
HE WORD CAME DOWN
. E
ARLY SIXTIES: THE GOVERNMENT
was building the first big narco conspiracy cases—get
them guineas, said Bobby, and they was got. Vito, Lilo, Big John, Chin, everybody went down. And the feds skinned the cats anyway they could—like with Vito— he only spoke to himself in the mirror in a Neapolitan dialect that not even an Italian could understand; meanwhile, the government has him dealing with a junkie P.R. from the Bronx—who they jiving? But like they cleaned Nelson up, gave him voice lessons, a good script, and the dude came on like James Cagney. Vito got fifteen— he must have loved P.R.’s after that.

The word came down hard on Tommy Dunphy. The cons was out in the yard. Spooks, wops, P.R.’s, everybody on their own turf. I was jivin’ around with the Latinos, they was bangin’ on the skins as usual, timbales, conga and bongos—like a regular fuckin’ band. This walyo type come over to me. He looked like Marc Lawrence, pinched-in, pock-marked puss. Croaky voice—somebody once told me it’s because of the water in Italy, but I think it’s from always talkin’ in a whisper, like when you scheme. Anyway he says,

“Carlito?”

“Known by that name.”

“Rocco got somethin’ for ya.”

We split off from my click and walk across the yard.

“You’re pals with Tommy Dunphy, right, Carlito?”

“Yeah, we’re aces.”

“He goes.”

“Coño!
Wait awhile—what’s this?”

“Wadda you want from me, details? I don’t wanna
know from nothin’. My people tell me to tell you Rocco said so-and-so. Check it out. You in or you out?”

“Okay, okay. But, Jesus, gimme a clue.”

“Tommy and two other kids, brothers, handled a contract in Boston. The brothers got popped—they’re giving Tommy up. The boss that ordered the hit says Tommy got to be taken out, save him the trouble of going wrong which is only a matter of time with the job busted open,
capisce
?”

“Je-sus, Tommy gotta be washed on a just-in-case.”

“Wadda you want from me? I don’t need this. I don’t even work for Rocco or Petey A.”

“All right. I’ll take care of business.”

“Ciao
.’Ey, Carlito, how can you stand that shit?”

“What choice I got? Rocco’s my man.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean that racket from them fuckin’ bongo players. Meeng!”

I was shook up—he was one of my main men, tough Irish kid from the West Side docks, good club fighter. We used to rap about being stand-up guys surrounded by rats. Bad news—I shoulda known then that I didn’t fit in. But Rocco was counting on me, so I started scheming to get to Tommy—but I liked the guy, he was a down cat. So now I was sweating, kept putting the job off; some Mafioso I was gonna be. Lotta tough wops never get made ’cause they can’t hurt people they ain’t mad at. Ain’t easy.

But got to be. Colorado had a shank he kept in a soap bar—piece of metal honed down. I caught Tommy on the ball field—caught him from behind, I didn’t want to see
his face—slit his throat from ear to ear; he fell on his back gagging on his own blood. I quit the scene without turning back, but I knew his eyes had to be asking Why? But he didn’t go out. That night they brought a bunch of us into the hospital where he was laid out like Christ on the cross, pipes and tubes in and out of him. He was wheezing and gurgling terrible.

“Tommy, you can’t make it—don’t let them get away with it, you can still talk from the grave—we’ll talk for you; you know you’re dying—pick out the cock-sucker.”

They brought us one by one to the side of the bed. He fixed his eyes on me like they was gonna pop out of his head.

“Tommy, for God’s sake, just nod your head up and down—we know it’s him; Tommy, you’re a Christian lad—make your peace with God; don’t let this bastard get away with this—give us a sign.”

Tommy rolled his head—left, right, left, right. Negative. Captain Shea, there’s your dyin’ declaration. The rattling in his throat was getting fierce. I couldn’t look at Tommy; I had tears in my eyes—fuckin’ wops—my nerves were going—got to make a move.

“Shea, you Irish motherfucker, you trying to frame me.”

Shea threw me a sucker right-hand which I caught on my chin—I laid down and let them carry me out. You almost had me that night, Shea, but you blew your cool.

That was a bad night—only time I ever doubted myself—what am I doing, where am I going? All that head-shrinker jive that fucks a man up—start asking questions and they got you, they into your skull. No way, Carlito;
don’t let them get to your skull. You a natural-born hustler with iron balls—get the money and when they step up knock ’em down, that’s all there is to it. If you start thinking and wording, then they got you, ’cause they can outthink you and outword you; then you rolling with their dice—like
society
and
humanity
and all them other
t’s
that been trying to fuck you—no good. So you wronged a dude; how many times you been wronged? So he stood up—ain’t he supposed to, he’s a
hodedor
, ain’t he? Get out my face.

In the morning I was all right. Tommy was all right, too—he recovered. Then he went back to court on some motion. They put up a big bail for him and gave him a big party.

“Tommy, there was a roundtable just before you come out and Mr. A said you done the right thing—so we’re gonna move you up; you’re gonna go back on the piers but with six runners turning over to you—no more unloading bananas, you stay clean. So tomorrow you run over to Leighton’s, ask for Mel, tell him Mr. A sent you, get yourself five outfits—the works, look like a boss—
madon
—a donkey boss—Don Tomasino Dunferino—
uomo di onore
. Ha!”

They buried him in a lime pit. The suit had no labels but had to go for three yard easy.

Tommy, you went to your grave thinking, “That crazy Carlito tried to kill me—for no reason, spics are like that.” You chump, if you had any smarts you’d have pieced it together, but they dry-humped you with a couple of quarters—you was a nickel-and-dime hustler, Tommy, but you was a good boy.

* * *

I
N THE
J
OINT, YOU STAY UP-TO-DATE ON EVERYTHING—THINGS
you wouldn’t know on the street you know right away inside. Whose old lady ain’t putting the horns on who. Who’s teamed up with who. What crew brought in fifty keys. Who is double-crossing who. Hoodlums gossip worse than whores.

Myself, I didn’t want to know if one of my old ladies was cheating on me—’cause then you got to take an attitude, then where’s your packages and your visits? So I told these mothers, don’t be telling me nothin’ about my women. But you gonna find out anyway—like somebody’s old lady be visiting and you know she’s tight with your broad. “Hey, how’s my old lady doing?” Real whorelike, she’ll bow her head and bite her lip—“Don’t ask me, man, it ain’t none of my business what she’s doing.” Yeah, you get the message. I told all my broads when I split, “You’re on your own—don’t be saying how you gonna wait and all that bullshit. I ain’t waiting on you!” But they still come upstate to see you; they know you’re short-timing and the bread is still there—jive bitches. Lots of them drive up to the Joint with their new stud wearing your clothes and driving your car. Kiss you right on the lips too—make you a cock-sucker by proxy. Me, when I go in I don’t want to know from nothin’.

S
O, LIKE
I
PAID MY DUES TO SOCIETY AND AM READY TO
take my lawful place. Shee-it, now I’m really gonna double up, deal with both hands; got to catch up, make
up for that lost time—that’s what drives the penologists and parole guys nuts. The criminal mind, it is a bitch. “Yes, Mr. Dunleavy, I feel that I am ready to take my lawful place in society. I realize now that I’ve been trying to punish my mother for making me out of wedlock.”

Or like, “The man been on m’neck all m’life, but ah know now y’caint beat the man head-on with a pistol in yo’ hand—you got to get yo’self a gig, make that bread, then split on out the ghetto—and thas’ what I’m gonna do.”

Or like, “I believe, genulmens, that if you give me parole, I’ll make good this time. The therapy sessions have shown me what I got is a ethnic identity problem— yeah, ethnic identity—in other words, my people are P.R.’s—but I’m born here in the city and I resent that and there’s a crisis. Then I get guilt feelings ’cause I’m putting down my own people and that’s another crisis—and like that. But that’s all straightened out now; I found myself and I’m ready to get that job and work hard.”

Bullshit. The cons are jiving the man, but the man is jiving the cons. We know what they want to hear. And if you ain’t got the mental, there’s always a con to feed you your lines, somebody got a paper on it; they got habeas corpses, coram nobis, appellate division, Court of Appeals, clemency, commutation, copulation—you name it, they got a brief on it. Full of shit most of the time, but just enough to keep you hanging when they get lucky. Around ’61 the Mapp case came down—all the cons went ape, everybody writing papers, and the jailhouse lawyers were ridin’ high talking all that jive about searching and seizing illegal evidence. The possession cases—
dope and guns—started getting thrown out. Shit, everybody gonna get out ’cept me.

That cock-sucker Steinhardt of Four-Two-Oh Broadway railroaded me up here. Didn’t I get searched and seized? Why didn’t he make a motion to suppress me? Why did Mapp have to come after me? Why wasn’t it Brigante? These are the questions I wrote to him. And I reported his ass to the bar association as uncompetent counsel. And I told them how I was innocent (which I believed myself by now) and that the goddamn lawyer had defrauded me into pleading guilty. I didn’t know I pleaded guilty on account of I’m a P.R. and my English ain’t that good and the day of the plea I was sick with a fever plus headaches plus the lawyer guaranteed me probation plus the probation report told a bunch of lies— I’ll fix your Jew ass, Mr. Steinhardt.

But my writ wasn’t worth a shit and they threw it out. That’s me, always behind,
como los huevos del perro
. Everybody gets the word but me—everybody gets the edge but me—I got to do everything the hard way, never no break. Every favor I take I got to pay double. Uphill all the way—but I’ll get even with all these motherfuckers. I’m going out of this Joint
embalao
. I’m gonna tear up that street.

4

S
O
I
DID THREE AND CHANGE.
T
HE STREET, MAN, THE
street. You still hit the bricks shaky, very shaky. Like you want to see people, but you don’t want to. You got it all doped out in the Joint what you gonna do the first day you’re out, the second, but when you come out, you like freeze up, like you’re scared but you don’t know of what. So you hang ’round your crib a lot, waiting for something to happen. Didn’t take long.