Union-busting for the Mob Part II

 7:00 A.M. next morning, Gloria, my mom, fixed me a soft-boiled egg and toast for breakfast. (My first day on a new job.) My father was already on the docks—he’d kill me if he knew I what I was up to. I stuffed something preposterous—Moby Dick or Troilus and Criseyde into my back pocket. A knot of men had gathered in front of Monte’s smoking, sipping coffee from plastic cups. Skinny, wiry, jumpy guys looking either dangerous or stupid. Wannabes from outside the neighborhood, low-level thugs looking to make a day’s pay, settle a gambling debt or impress a wise guy. They flicked their cigarettes and stared at me—walrus mustache and longish hair—suspiciously.
I knew I wouldn’t be unloading cases of pineapple juice. I’d drawn an ethical line in my head about how much criminality I was willing to engage in for $40—though I hadn’t considered how to keep that line in front of me. I’d decided moving truckloads of stolen merchandise around New York City was an acceptable risk.
This was a world before The Godfather, Mean Streets, Donnie Brasco, et.al., exalted organized crime and romantic violence. To me, gangsters seemed great role models: adults who encouraged you to drink, smoke, watch dirty movies, who gave you the keys to their new Caddies and Lincolns, didn’t give a shit if you had a driver’s license, got drunk, gambled, fought, hung out with celebrities, flashed thick wads of money and flashier women. Shot off gigantic firework displays and allowed kids to build enormous bonfires in the middle of the street on Election Day, burning up all the phone lines in the neighborhood, then joined us in throwing eggs at responding firefighters. Our pastor, Father Mario, could often be found in Monte’s or the Capri Club with the bookies; many a time, I’d watched cops from the 76th Precinct on Union St. use patrol cars as taxis to ferry gangsters from Third Avenue to a bookie joint on Fifth and Carroll next to the funeral parlor (now reanimated as Café Moutarde). I’d seen cops walk out of the clubs stuffing brown bags of money into their uniform blouses.
In short, I was either naïve or way ahead of life’s curve.
Forty-five minutes later, McIntosh drove up. The grim, hulking figure from the night before was gone. This Apple was manic, jocular, dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer and a yachting cap with gold braid on the visor. No one questioned this fashion statement.
He circled his finger. Everyone got in their cars.
“Mustache,” he said to me. “Ride with us.”