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You see the suit and the money. Jewels and all, and you think I ain’t got problems? That’s what you think brotha. Bein’a hitman ain’t a easy gig as ya think it ta be see. You gotta deal sometimes with some of the lowest scum this side’a the German border. ‘Guess you thinkin’ different now. Seein’ me floatin’ face up in this pool. Blood spreadin‘ like the legs of’a two dollar whore. Who’d ever thought I’d wind up here, eh. I sure wouldn’t’ve. That’s what I get for trustin’ that two-bit shamus. The dirty rat. If ya want’a hear how I got here stay awhile. I got no place to go fora’ minute. I’ll take ya back.
It all began on a Friday mornin’. See, I was on my way back to the restaurant/night club owned my boss, Michael Frezzeti. He was one of the under bosses that ran the rackets in this part’a town. Kallio was the name’a this one. It sat over a diner named Vito’s. I was ‘is new right hand man. I was comin’ back from the party they threw at the main house in the Bronx for me. I was drivin’ a brand new black Chrysler with white walled tires and leather interior. She drove like a dream. But the devil ‘bout the car. It wasn’t the main thing on my mind. I’d made it. I was the man. I.....was in. I was gettin’ respect now----power. The things a kid growin’ up in Brooklyn dreamt of. Not bein’ a poor shmuck like my old man. I was gonna be somebody.
Mr. Frezzeti called me back for some meetin’ he was ta have with some mouth piece for a guy Mr. Frezzeti had under his thumb. Why he gave this joker the time’a day is not my probl’m. I’d heard ‘bout this guy from some’a the others. He had some kinda pull with the La Cosa Nostra heads livin’ upstate. My friend Gesepi told me that he’s got the habit of not showin’ the right amount’a respect. But if he don’t show the proper respect when I’m there, I’ll make him swallow his teeth.
I pulled up to the curb across the street outside the diner. I hadn’t got my own spot yet in front (it’s just like them rich old bags at the Stork Club. Gettin’ your own parkin’ spot. ‘Cept ya take one’a our spots and you ain’t walkin’ away breathin’). The cars rode by here at very low speeds. People knew what this was.
They knew who owned it, and they knew if they drove any faster and made too much noise, they would’a got a visit from the ‘Postman’.
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