Sarah came by one day to ask for advice. She had come to the right
place. I was always willing to give advice, especially when unsolicited.
On the other hand, I didn’t know Sarah that well, and when
I heard the seriousness of her problem, I wondered why she had come
to me. I suggested she go to a lawyer or the police, but she said
that was out of the question. I owed Sarah for a couple favors and
didn’t have the heart to just tell her I had no idea what
she should do.
Against my better judgment I started thinking about who I knew that
could advise her in a situation like hers. She sat waiting, looking
nervous and miserable. Then I thought of Angelo. He was the obvious
choice. If anyone knew how to solve Sarah’s dilemma, Angelo
would.
 Cianci
Street—Paterson, New Jersey’s answer to New York’s
Little Italy—was a short cross street just a block from Paterson’s
main shopping area. There were three bars, three Italian social
clubs, one Italian restaurant, and my martial arts school. Angelo
owned a go-go bar on Cianci, which featured a girl in a skimpy outfit
who danced on a stage behind the bar.
Angelo’s bar was called Roma. I went there looking for him
early that evening. There were already a few customers, Italian,
Latino, Irish and Black factory workers having a beer after work
before going home for supper. A bored dancer was shuffling around
on the stage to Nancy Sinatra’s “These boots were made
for walking” but she wasn’t keeping up with Nancy. Nobody
paid much attention to her.
At the end of the bar a lawyer I knew and a cop were having a drink
together. I considered going over and telling them Sarah’s
story but thought better of it. Instead I sat by myself sipping
a cold beer, while words like “accessory” and “accomplice”
were swimming through my head, as I worried about the direction
Angelo’s advice might take.
* * * *
The first time I met Angelo he wandered into my school one afternoon
while I was sweeping the floor. He was a stocky good-looking man
with big pale blue eyes and olive skin. We shook hands as he introduced
himself. He made small talk about the weather and having seen me
around. I wondered what he wanted.
My students were all young blacks and Hispanics with an occasional
token white kid. No Italians. They seemed to have other ideas about
self-defense. After a couple minutes Angelo got to the point.
“My doctor says I got a problem with my ticker,” he
told me, patting his chest. “The doc says I need some exercise.
I think the thing you do with your hands,” he continued, making
chopping motions with one hand, “is kinda cute. I figure,
you show me a couple of moves, and I get some exercise.”
* * * * *
I don’t remember Angelo taking many classes, but he built
me three shower stalls, which gave his ticker plenty exercise. I
walked into school one day and found a line of guys in aprons and
waiter’s jackets, each holding $30, my monthly rate for martial
arts classes back then. They didn’t seem happy about it. I
had a sneaking suspicion Angelo had something to do with this. I
asked one of the guys where he worked, and sure enough, the answer
was “Mi Casa”, an Italian restaurant in Montclair owned
by Angelo.
“I don’t need this shit, I got a gun,” I overheard
one of the waiters grumble as I turned away. They didn’t take
many classes either.
 I
was just getting ready to leave when Angelo came through the door,
sat next to me and said, “I need advice.”
“You do?” I said. “That’s strange.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Nevermind, what kind of advice?”
“It’s right up your alley, I know you’ll know
just what to do.”
“Ok,” I said, thinking how weird this was.
Angelo hesitated, one hand in the air, frowning. Then he began.
“There’s this punk at the Italian circle, you know the
Italian circle?”
“The two story round cement place with no windows and the
Italian flag over the door?”
“That’s the place,” Angelo confirmed. “Well,
there’s this punk who hangs out there, thinks he’s a
bad ass. He keeps leaning on this old waiter who serves the espresso.
Has a jones on for him for some reason. The waiter is a nice old
guy, gotta be 80 years old. The members are afraid of his loud mouth
or they don’t give a shit. Now you know, with my heart, I
can’t get into it with him, but I got a plan. I’m gonna
call him out, tell him we’ll take it outside. I’ll motion
for him to go first. When he gets to the door I’ll punch him
and push him down the stairs, follow him down, and finish him with
my feet. It will be over in a flash, I won’t even be out of
breath.” He pauses, giving me time to digest his plan. Then
he says, “Where?”
“Where what?” I ask.
“Where do I punch him?”
I sit there stupidly, the karate expert. He waves his hand in an
encouraging motion, his eyebrows raised.
“The kidney,” I blurt out, wishing I hadn’t.
“I knew it,” he says triumphantly, patting me on the
shoulder.
“So what’s up with you?”
* * * * *
I had explained Sarah’s situation to Angelo and he told me
to bring her along to a barbecue he was having at his house in Montclair.
He would talk to her then.
Angelo’s house in the suburbs was a big rambling place with
a pool, a big back yard, half of which was a tomato garden. Decks
stretched the length of the house on both the ground and second
floors. There were forty to fifty guests, a bunch of kids, lots
of food. And big coolers full of beer.
I had wandered out to the end of the second floor deck and wound
up sitting with one of Angelo’s daughters. I was watching
Sarah below playing with some kids by the pool. With a bang, a door
slid open at the far end of the deck. I looked up and saw Angelo
striding towards me with a pistol in his hand.
“Shit,” I thought, “I’m just talking to
her.” I heard his daughter say in an exasperated voice, “Oh
daddy.” Angelo walked right past us to the deck’s rail,
raised his gun, and started firing into his tomato garden.
 “It’s
the gophers,” explained his daughter. “He hates them,”
she tells me, gazing at her father, “Someday a neighbor is
going to complain, then there will be big trouble.”
I wondered, big trouble for who? Angelo, the neighbor or the police?
When Angelo ran out of ammunition he turned to me and said, “Ok,
get your friend and meet me in my office.”
There was a sitting area in front of Angelo’s big cluttered
desk. We settled into a comfortable sofa and Angelo sat across from
us in a cushy chair big enough for two. He asked Sarah to repeat
what I had told him.
She and her husband were in the process of getting a divorce. Early
on in the marriage her husband had borrowed $100,000 from her mother
to start a bookstore. Not just any bookstore, but the Starbucks
of bookstores. By now it had grown in to a chain worth millions.
Her husband began his version of an out of court divorce settlement
by putting a gun to Sarah’s head and telling her that, number
one, he had paid back mom with interest, and number two, he would
blow her brains out before he would let her get any of his bookstore
empire. She wanted to know what she should do.
Angelo listened without interruption, nodded when she was finished,
and told her the following.
“In my experience, when someone is going to kill a particular
individual, they don’t tell them ahead of time. It generally
comes as a big surprise. This not telling the victim ahead of time,
it’s like a rule. Your husband is an intelligent man. I don’t
think he would break this rule. There are people who could take
care of your problem for you, but I do not think this is necessary.”
Then he smiled a small smile and said, “I’m sorry for
your troubles, let’s go get some barbecue.”
This story happened more than 20 years ago. Thinking back to those
days I cannot remember seeing Sarah again after our meeting with
Angelo.
Maybe she was embarrassed about divulging this very private part
of her life. Maybe that’s why she had come to me in the first
place, because I knew none of her friends or family.
Or maybe Angelo was wrong.
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