St. Lucy’s Church in the Bronx had a grotto. It was a catacomb-like structure located across from the church. Lots of candles, and a few crypts seemingly chiseled right out of the blue gray stone. It was a dark and somber place. A kid’s first impression was that of going through a haunted cave. Later in life, it became a cool place to take a girl and, with the help of a buddy, get her to jump into your arms when he sprang out at the two of you from the shadows. Still later in life, it became a place of solitude and reverence or, as in Bill’s case today, a place to light a candle to remember his Irish grandparents who both had their funerals here.
Peter’s funeral had been a high mass. One of the guys from the neighborhood, Arnie, who was always an altar boy and hanging around the church when they were growing up, sang the hymns and “Ave Maria” from the balcony. An older, grey-haired woman played the church organ accompanying him. After the service, Arnie came over to Bill and introduced his wife and kids. She was neat and petite and had what used to be called beauty parlor hair. The kids were cute, and all together they made a great family picture for any Christmas card. Bill liked the idea that Arnie turned out well: a family man, all around good guy and citizen. Somehow, it gave him a good feeling about many other things, including his own family-in-progress.
Seeing Peter’s parents was hard. When he and Johnny ‘No’, had sleepovers, Anna Remo made ravioli and meatballs or lasagna or mineste. He loved having dinner at the Remo’s. It was Johnny and Pete’s mom who gave him his first taste of demitasse, making Bill feel like one of the grown ups. Anna Remo hugged him and spoke through sobs. “Peter talked of you all the time. He would always watch you when you were doing the football. He’d say, ‘There’s that Billy the Kid.’ That’s what he called you-Billy the Kid. Then when you went with the President, he would always tell everybody how you and his little brother Johnny were friends. Thank you for coming here for my sons. Peter would be so happy to know you were here.”
“He knows, Mrs. Remo. He’s up there seeing all of us right now.”
“You think so?”
“I know it, Mrs. Remo.”
“You’re a good boy, William. You always were. How’s your mother?”
“She and Dad are fine, living out on Long Island. They do some traveling and Dad’s always ready to go fishing.”
“You tell her Anna said hello and that she should come around the old neighborhood sometime for coffee.”
“I’ll tell her, Mrs. Remo.”
The funeral procession rolled down Bronxwood Avenue. Bill saw that the White Castle was still going strong, the lumberyard was gone, and Gino’s restaurant was now an IHOP. Somebody, probably a Haitian family, took over Paul Manelo’s house and now there were baby blue shutters, a large Virgin Mary, and plastic flowers in window boxes. It was pretty, but stuck out like a family in Easter Sunday clothes at Orchard Beach in July. They slowed the procession when they passed Peter’s house on Matthews Avenue then down Burke Avenue to White Plains Road; then it made a left onto Gunhill Road and headed to Woodlawn Cemetery.
At the gravesite, Bill was looking out across the cemetery. In the distance was the elevated train running down White Plains Road. That reminded him of the reason Peter and Bill knew each other. It went back to the day Bill’s dad came into school for “what’s your father do for a living” day. Many of the dads who showed up were truck drivers like Pete’s dad, storeowners, a few cops, firemen, mailmen, Con Ed workers. Eddie’s dad was an elevator mechanic. When Peter, a train freak, heard that Bill’s dad was a subway engineer, he latched right on. Peter eventually got the senior Hiccock to allow him to “front end” the entire trip from Woodlawn in the Bronx to Utica Avenue in Brooklyn. To Peter, it was as if Bill’s dad was Mickey Mantle.
Peter, however, never got to watch the Yankee games, or the Mick, from the tin shed at the end of the 161st street el platform as Joey and Bill did. Most of the guys who worked for the T.A. scheduled the shed for one of their kids on game days. All the engineers and conductors would keep an eye on ‘em like surrogate fathers peering from each passing train. The token booth clerk would check on them every half hour or so just for good measure. By the time Billy was old enough to enjoy this perk, Peter was in his room a lot, building stuff and almost burning down the house. In fact, while the other guys were going to Orchard Beach or horseback riding on Pelham Parkway, Peter apparently got a job working at NBC. That was why nobody ever saw him.
Bill’s train of thought, triggered by the number 2 train, stopped when Johnny Remo, Peter’s brother, and Bill’s childhood pal, came over and gave him a big bro-hug and thanked him for coming.
“Billy Hiccock, It’s been too long.”
“Too long, Johnny, too long.”
“We know how busy you are. It really means a lot to us to have someone like you here.” He was shorter than Peter, tight-cropped razor haircut in a Frank Sinatra, circa 1970’s way. He was a mass of muscle and wore a gold pinky ring. He talked like an ironworker, mainly because he was one.
“Whoa, John, I ain’t someone like me,” Bill said. “I’m someone like you; we both grew up here, and Peter and you and all the guys know me like nobody else does.”
“No Billy, you were smart. Always were, you work with your head, not your back like us stiffs.”
“Paycheck’s a paycheck, Johnny.”
“No. Well, just the same, thank you, and thank you for being there for Peter. He was all excited about seeing you last month.”
“John, I got to tell ya, I wasn’t much help to him. In fact, there was nothing I could help him with.”
“No, hey, Billy, you gave him time. You listened; you did what a friend does. Towards the end, Peter didn’t have too many friends, you know what I mean?”
“He was driven to…”
“No, no, he was obsessed. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what killed him,” John said turning to the coffin now lowered into the grave.
“Have you found out…well maybe this isn’t a good time to talk about this.”
“No, Bill you are right, later. You coming to the house after this?”
Bill checked his watch; he had a 4:30 out of LaGuardia back to Reagan. “Sure, I got time.”
“No, we’ll talk then. I got something I want to show you.”
?§?
David had been a cop in Haifa before taking on the security detail of the West Bank. His responsibility was for the safety and peace of Palestinians and Jews living side by side. There were flare-ups and occurrences that would be shocking in places of other demographics and geographics, but against the centuries-old rivalries of two peoples positioned in close proximity, these schisms just passed as any other day in this once proud prize of Israeli land. So the reported death of Hamir al-dashabi, a truck driver for an Israeli MRI manufacturer was little more than a footnote in the homicide log for that day.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“On behalf of the bank, welcome Mr. Rashani,” loan officer, David Wasserman said as he rose and shook the hand of Commercial Bank’s newest customer. “And thank you very much for your business.”
“I am sure this will be a long and fruitful relationship. We have many movies to make here in America and, hopefully soon, a TV series,” Rashani said.
“Good, good, we like to hear that.”
“Yes, your state’s new tax incentives are a long time coming. Our investors are very happy we are shooting in New York State.”
“Our bank lobbied hard to get the Governor and the State Assembly to offer these incentives and, may I just say, Mr. Rashani, you are living proof that these incentives are good for New York. Please don’t hesitate to call me personally if there is any further way we can help you.” Wasserman stood and earnestly reached out to shake the man’s hand.
“Actually, in about three months, I might want to bring some new investors to the city. Perhaps you could be in attendance and show them what a good job you and the bank are doing for us.” Rashani emphasized the lie he
