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 Looking from corner to corner he felt a sense of dread, but at the same time a feeling of adventure, as though when he’d stepped off the streetcar he’d stepped into a strange, foreign land. Even the air here smelled different…

“Ughhh!” He gasped as a pair of well-muscled arms encircled his waist from behind and lifted him off his feet.

Jewish peeeg!” whispered in his ear by a familiar, but much deeper voice.

“Frankie!” Trying to twist out of the vice-like grip, released, Mitchell turned around.

“Jesus, Mitchie, you look just like always, only ten feet taller!”

Feeling his smile fade, thinking, It’s Sal Diamond! Mitchell blinked his eyes. No! Forcing his smile back. It’s really Frankie who now looks like Sal Diamond.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

June 18, 1949

Frankie, Guido & Al

Frank Rizzo’s youthful appearance had drastically changed in the five years since the two friends had said goodbye at the train station in downtown Chicago. All of Frank’s features had…? Mitchell tried to put the changes into thought… Frank Rizzo’s features had hardened and…? dirtied. Frank’s face now appeared to be…? What? Chiseled out of white marble. His smooth skin and child-like features had given way to straight, hard, adult-like lines. His black hair was long and greasy and combed back with each comb stroke visibly etched in the sweeping growth that grew above and behind his ears, making a well-pronounced D.A. on the back of his head. He had a rash of blackheads above his eyebrows and across the bridge of his nose. There were clusters of small, white-headed pimples on either side of his lower lip. Frank’s hands, once well-scrubbed, now had a grimy look. Dirt was ingrained in the pores of his knuckles and his fingernails were half-mooned with grease. But the change that most amazed Mitchell was Frank’s body. Wearing tight Levi’s and a cotton undershirt, his arms and shoulders fairly bulged with muscle that shined as though coated with oil. It was the torso of an adult rather than that of a sixteen-year-old boy and, with the exception of the blackheads and pimples, it was as though Frank Rizzo had jumped from childhood to adulthood completely bypassing puberty.

Finding it hard to believe that this… man standing before him was really his friend, his smile still forced, “Frankie,” swallowing, “you look so, uh, different!”

Looking at him, “Mitchie,” the worried look that crossed his face was quickly replaced with a broad smile. “Come on, we can’t stand here grinnin’ at each other or people’ll start thinkin’ we’re a couple’a homos.”

‘Homos’?

Taking him by the elbow, Frank steered Mitchell across California Avenue. “I can’t wait till Gina see’s ya… ’J’ya bring the ring like I told’j’ya?”

“Yeah, I found it.” Taking the ring out of his pocket, he handed it to Frank, who looked at it a moment, then gave it back. “But I told’j’ya it don’t work, and still don’t know why you wanted me to bring it.”

Walking east on Sixty-third, “Mitchie, you gotta understand women!”

“Well, I ain’t had much opportunity till now, but what in the hell’s this busted ring got to do with understandin’ women?”

“Look, Gina’s had the hots for you ever since I told her ’bout you an’ it ain’t gonna be a problem to get her into the sack, but I want everything to go right, an’ you can’t treat a lady like a whore! That’s where the ring comes in. Understand?”

“No! I don’t understand what a busted ring’s got to do with treating a lady like a whore.”

“Mitchie, the damn ring don’t gotta work. But let’s say you’n’me’n’Gina’n’Lisa—Lisa’s my girl—are sittin’ ’round and I say to you: ‘Hey, Mitch, you bring your Captain Midnight ring? The one that shoots off all them shootin’ stars in a dark room!’ An’ you say to me, ‘Sure I brought it!’ An’ I say to you, ‘Gina would love to see it. Wouldn’t you, Gina?’ An’ she says to you, ‘Hey, Mitch, why don’t you show me your ring?’ An’ then the two of you get up an’ go into the bedroom. This way you’n’her go off to fuck, an’ she don’t have to feel like a whore… Capisce?”

The rational completely eluding Mitchell, “Capisce?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember anything I taught’j’ya?”

“Oh, yeah! Now I remember! Capisce! Understand!”

“Yeah, ya dumb Jew fart!”

“Oh, yeah! Well, you’re not so nishgafarelach either!”

“I’m not so nish-ga… huh?”

“Yeah!” Punching Frank on the shoulder, “See? You don’t know everything, you stupid wop!”

“What’s nisgha, uh,…. what you said mean?”

“Beats me, but whatever it is, you ain’t!” He laughed. “Or maybe,” remembering what he’d called him after their meeting with Skorupski, “maybe you are, you Dago tittie!”

Laughing, too, in a show of friendship, though he had to reach up to do it, Frank put his arm across Mitchell’s shoulder. Hesitating a moment, Mitchell put his arm across Frank’s shoulder, also, then, going a few steps further, both boys began to feel self-conscious and their arms fell to their sides. But together again, the years and the unaccustomed differences dissipated and each felt the warmth of their old friendship.

“Frankie…” Mitchell looked to his right. “I wasn’t sure till right now, but know what?” Without waiting for a reply, “I’ve missed you, a real lot!”

Looking to his left, “Yeah,” blinking his eyes, “me too, pal.”

Walking side by side, both boys quiet a few moments, “Where we goin’?” Mitchell asked.

“I got a couple’a things I gotta do for my old man, an’ I want him to meet you… There it is,” Frank said, proudly, “by the corner. See our sign?”

Sandwiched between a small savings and loan on the corner to the east, and a tailor shop to the west, "RIZZO & SON. FRESH PRODUCE" was written in gold, italic lettering on a comparatively clean, plate glass window.

Frank held the screen door open as they stepped inside to the accompaniment of a tinkling bell.

Wearing a green- and red-smeared white apron over a pair of denim overalls, a short, obese man with a thick patch of graying, black hair that fringed his otherwise totally bald head came from the rear of the store. “Frankie is’a good you come back! I’m’a’need’a you bring some orang’a’an’apple up’a the stairs.”

“Sure, Papa. You remember I hadda go meet my friend at the streetcar?”

“Sure, I remember!” Looking at Mitchell, he held his hand forward. “My Frankie, he’s’a tink his Papa’s stupid.”

“No I don’t, Papa… Papa, this is Mitchell.”

Taking the chafed hand into his, Mitchell shook hands with the older man. “I’m glad to meet you, Mister Rizzo.”

“Mitchie, it’ll take a few minutes to get the crates up from the cooler an’ it’s hot in here, so why don’t you go outside an’ wait for me. I won’t be too long, then we’ll go get somethin’ to eat, and by that time we can head over to the girls’. Oh, an’ by the way,” taking the canvas bag from Mitchell, “Papa’ll bring this home for you.”

“Thank you,” nodding to Mr. Rizzo. “Can I give you a hand, Frankie?”

“Nah, thanks, though. The stairs are kinda steep an’ Gina’d never forgive me if you fell an’ broke somethin’.” He winked. “An’ anyway, how’d you think I got these?” Frank flexed his right arm, causing the biceps to pop. “Go on, wait outside, I’ll be done in a couple’a minutes.”

“Guess I’ll see you at home then, Mr. Rizzo.”

“Sure. You have a good time wit’a my Frankie.”

Outside, standing a moment, he stretched. Noticing a nail and staple-studded telephone pole, he walked to it, leaned against it a moment, then, with his feet in the gutter, sitting on the curb, Mitchell rested his back against the dry, cracked wood. The warm sun feeling nice on his face, his eyes closed to the glare, the sunlight caused a pleasant red glow though his eyelids…

                                                                                        ****

Cooling the heat and darkening the glow beneath his eyelids, thinking it was Frank, opening his eyes Mitchell looked up, at two shadows silhouetted against the sun.

“Ai, she’s awake!”

“Yeah, I see that!”

Facing the sun, having to squint and shade his eyes in order to see their faces from his lower, sitting position, the two looming figures appeared to be huge.

Each had sideburns that trailed to below their cheekbones, and oil-slicked hair combed into sharp D.A.’s. Both faces were covered with pimples and scabs and scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured.

One of the faces was dark and thin, having a long, sharp, hawk-like nose, a slit of a mouth and crooked, tobacco stained teeth. Scraggly wisps of hair sparsely covered his thin upper lip and pointed jaw.

Thick and pasty colored, with the exception of eyebrows and sideburns, the other face was completely hairless. This one’s nose had been broken, possibly more than once, because it was discolored and lay somewhat flat above fat, saliva-coated lips.

Each wore oil-smeared undershirts that were dotted with holes as though sprayed with battery acid and greasy, tight fitting blue jeans held up by wide, steel studded, black leather belts.

Cigarettes dangling from their lips, the upward curling smoke causing both to squint and look, if at all possible, even more menacing.

“Hawk Nose” appeared to be about seventeen, and “Fat Lips” sixteen, or possibly seventeen, too.

Stooping, pinching, painfully twisting the flesh of Mitchell’s left cheek, “Ain’t she pretty!” Hawk Nose said through clenched teeth. “Who are ya? An’ what the fuck ya doin’ here, sittin’ on my curb?”

“Stan’up when my friend’s talkin’ to ya, ya prick, ya!” Grabbing Mitchell by the front of his shirt, Fat Lips yanked him onto his feet. “Jesus Christ, Look’a’dat! Ain’t she a big one!”

“Yeah!” Hawk Nose said, “That’s how I like my broads, big’n’pretty. Ya know what? Ya look like a fuckin’ fairy! Are ya? Are ya some kinda fuckin’ homo fairy?” Shouting, “Well, are ya?”

Terrified, “N-no,” emphatically shaking his head negatively.

“Ya ain’t, eh! Well I think ya are! What’s your fuckin’ name, ya fuckin’ fairy?”

The color drained from his face, his knees weak, Mitchell all but hung by the material of his shirt, bunched in Fat Lips’ fist.

Speaking softly, Hawk Nose said, “Ya gotta at least know ya fuckin’ name, fairy!” Slapping him on the cheek, “Your name!” Then slapping him harder.

Hardly noticing his stinging cheek, he stammered, “M-m…”

“I know!” Fat Lips said. “His name’s Mama!” He laughed. “Hi ya, Mama! How ya doin’, Mama?” Reaching with his other hand, he grabbed Mitchell by the crotch of his pants. “My, ain’t Mama got a nice pussy!” Laughing, pulling him even closer by both his shirt and the crotch of his pants, leaning into Mitchell’s face, drawing deeply on the cigarette, Fat Lips exhaled a double stream of smoke through his flattened nostrils.

Choking on the smoke, Mitchell instinctively attempted to pull away.

“Hey, Mama, when I talk to ya, don’t ya be tryin’ to move away; it ain’t polite.” Pulling him inward again, “Come on, tell my pal here,” cocking his head towards Hawk Nose, “What’s your fuckin’ name?”

“M-M…”

“Again with the Mama!” Fat Lips shook Mitchell by the shirt bunched in his fist, causing his head to whip back and forth.

“Mitchell!” he said desperately. “My name’s Mitchell.”

“‘Mitchell’! See, that wasn’t so fuckin’ hard.” Releasing the shirt with a shove, Fat Lips pushed Mitchell against the telephone pole, where he cracked the back of his head and elbow.

“Ya know what, Al?” Hawk Nose said. “Mitchell’s a kike name! I think this here guy’s a kike.” Poking his finger into his chest, “Are ya, Mitchell? Are ya a Jew, Mitchell? A kike, Mitchell? A fuckin’, sheeny bastard, Mitchell?” Emphasizing each question with increasingly hard, sharp digs of his finger. “What the fuck ya don’ here sittin’ on my street, ya fuckin’ kike, son-of-a-bitch?”

Reaching to Mitchell’s throat, using his forefinger, Al flipped the silver chain hanging around his neck out from under the collar of his shirt. “What’s this fuckin’ thing?”

Trembling with fear, Mitchell looked over his shoulder, towards the Rizzo store, Come on, Frankie! Please come on, Frankie! praying that Frank or his father would come out.

“Ain’t no one here gonna help ya! Look at me when I talk to ya!” Looking at his friend, Al snickered. “Know what, Guido? I think you’re right! I think this here prick’s a fuckin’ Jew!”

Taking the chain from Al’s hand, Guido asked, “What’s this here thing?” lifting the oblong silver object that hung at the end of the chain. When he didn’t answer, Guido yanked the chain, causing it to cut into Mitchell’s neck. Glancing at Al, “This pussy don’t like to talk! Ya know what it looks like to me, Al? It looks like a half a crucifix. Ya!” Yanking the chain again, snapping Mitchell’s head closer to his, “I think it’s a cross what lost its arms. What is it? Wha’d’ya call this here fuckin’ Jew thing?”

“A, uh, m-m…”

Al laughed. “Mitchie, is that all ya kikes know how to say? Mama! Mama!” he imitated in a high, falsetto voice.

Becoming tired of the game, “Stop with the fuckin’ mama,” Guido snarled, “an’ tell us what ya call this here fuckin’ thing!”

“It, uh, it’s a m-mezzuza.”

“A what?” Al laughed. “What’d’ya call it?”

“A, uh, mezzuza.”

“A mezuzziz?” Laughing. “What the fuck’s a mezuzziz?”

Tugging on the chain again, closing his other hand into a fist, Guido brought it up and back…

Closing his eyes, Mitchell tensed his body…