Bronx Noir

He eschewed a top coat on this brisk spring morning, took the stairs from his sixth-floor apartment to the spotless lobby, and headed west along sun-drenched Pelham Parkway. This was a pleasant residential neighborhood of modest homes and apartment buildings on treelined streets. In recent years most of the Italians were bailing for the suburbs. Those who remained were entrenched, mostly around his age or older, the type of person who was born, married, raised kids, and died in the same house. These were the people who waved, offered condolences for his recently departed wife, and sought counsel. Frank was a man who could bestow favors, solve problems, and put the occasional wayward husband back on the straight and narrow.

Today was no different than any other day. By the time he was approaching Arthur Avenue, he had spoken with over a dozen people, some whom he knew, others who dropped names. One elderly man actually kissed his pinky ring, a symbol of respect befitting a man of Frank’s stature. He kept a notepad with him so he could write reminders of phone numbers, people he promised to call, dates he intended to keep, as he strolled and counseled those who needed his help and advice.

Frank entered Arthur Avenue from 189^th Street. The avenue was jammed as usual. Tourists looking for a great meal in one of the area’s fine restaurants mingled with neighborhood wiseguys, mommies pushing strollers, and the occasional meter maid out to spoil everyone’s day.

Whereas he garnered deference and admiration among the older inhabitants of Pelham Parkway, here he felt the emotion go toward fear. Frank was recognized immediately by a group of young men who sported what he liked to call ninety-mile-an-hour haircuts and Mr. T starter sets of gold chains, barely hidden behind a uniform of billowing silk shirts jammed into tight jeans. They averted their eyes as he passed by them, some muttering, “How ya doing, Mr. B.?”

Without losing a step and not making eye contact, Frank shot back, “Don’t you fucking guys have jobs?” He got no reply, but hadn’t expected any.

Others in the know gave Frank a wide berth, the occasional tourist following suit and wondering just who the hell this guy was. Less than two blocks from the Roman Cave, Frank eyed the competition. Good restaurants the lot of them, but what the tourists didn’t know was that many of the established Italian eateries were now owned by Albanians who were passing themselves off as Italians. A lot of the local wiseguys had relocated a few years back because of an overzealous federal prosecutor named Rudy Giuliani who made it difficult for them to run their illegal gambling establishments. This left room for the Albanians to come in and take up the slack, their illegal profits funding new restaurants. But Frank hadn’t been scared off because he didn’t fear Giuliani or anyone else. People feared him, and from that fear came respect, even from a hotshot federal prosecutor with a bad comb-over. No one fucked with Frank Bernardo.

What the hell, Frank thought, more than enough for everybody, and lamented the passing of the old days. But there were still a few of the multi-generational joints left. Ameci’s, where the actor Joe Pesci once worked as a waiter until being discovered by Robert DeNiro, was still going strong. Fucking Pesci, Frank thought; guy makes it big and never comes back to the old neighborhood except to shoot a movie and leave in a limo. Another pussy.

A little further down the street Frank waved to the owner of the Full Moon, where Paul Newman ate while filming Fort Apache, the Bronx. It used to be called the Half Moon before they expanded. Frank figured maybe in a couple of more years when the Roman Cave was doing even better than it was now he’d buy the place next door (whether the owner was selling or not) and change the name to the Roman Coliseum.

He crossed the street by Mario’s Restaurant, thereby avoiding a bunch of Scarsdale mamalooks who wanted to chow down on some meatballs and spaghetti in the same place where Michael Corleone blew away two guys in a scene from The Godfather, and walked past the storefront where a lot of the action took place in A Bronx Tale. Yeah, Frank mused, the world’s a friggin’ stage.

The Roman Cave was gearing up for the lunch rush when Frank walked in. Two waiters were folding napkins and a porter was waxing the wooden floor with a power buffer. The restaurant was long and narrow, with two rooms, lighting dimmed to an intimate duskiness. The bartender, a neighborhood fixture named Cheech, was preparing his bank behind the mahogany, black leather—railed bar in the first room. He was wearing the prescribed uniform for the service staff: white shirt, solid red tie, both under a black vest that matched his pants. He smiled and waved with a fistful of cash.

“In early today, Mr. Bernardo.”

The restaurant’s staff were all men, mostly older neighborhood guys who had honed their skills in the finer restaurants in Manhattan, and were working toward their golden years in a joint closer to home. Frank nixed waitresses early on because he thought they detracted from the upscale theme of the place.

“Hey, Cheech. Got a meeting with Sonny. He in the back yet?” Frank stole a glance at himself in the gold- flecked mirror behind the bar. Looking sharp.

“Yeah, he got here about twenty minutes ago.”

Frank nodded. Next to a rat in the ranks he hated to be kept waiting the most, and his soldiers knew it. Sonny, a good kid, was always early. He breezed past the handful of tables in the barroom and through an alcove that led to the dining room.

Sonny Pescatore was seated at Frank’s personal table, which was situated in the rear of the dining room and far enough away from the other tables to avoid conversation being overheard. The walls were covered with red and silver wallpaper that Frank had imported from Italy, and each of the twenty-two tables was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth, folded linen napkins, sparkling glasses and utensils, and a footlong candle supported by a gleaming silver candlestick.

Sonny waved and Frank smiled. Sonny Pescatore, at forty years old, was Frank’s personal choice to replace him should the time ever come, though Frank was not entertaining thoughts of retirement, and Sonny knew it.

Sonny stood as Frank approached.

“Frank, how are you? You’re looking very fit.” He pulled a chair out for his captain and waited for Frank to sit down before he followed suit. There was no handshaking, a custom which didn’t fall into Mafia tradition.

Frank patted his stomach. “You watch what you eat, Sonny, get good exercise, and you keep a flat belly. You don’t see too many fat old people, you know?”

Sonny smiled, nodding. For ten minutes they made small talk, Sonny knowing that when Frank was good and ready he’d tell him why he had been summoned.

Finally Frank said, “Something’s gotta be done about Augie.”

Sonny looked confused. “Augie? Which Augie, Frank?”