Firework Season


A few days later, Tony B found out something that made him angry, like a bull with his butt caught in a barbed wire fence.
It seemed that some jerk who worked at Tony’s Drugstore on Mulberry and Canal, thought it was a funny thing to put pinholes in the store’s condoms that neighborhood people bought at the counter in the back.
So now Tony B knew exactly why Ann had gotten pregnant and why Tony B’s life would undergo a drastic change, for about the next fifty freaking years, if Tony B was lucky to live that long.
The jerk’s name was Lenny the Lunkhead. Lenny was so dumb, he never got past the 4th grade at PS 130, a school so low in academic standards, a rock could graduate on time, with honors.
Lenny the Lunkhead (nobody knew his last name and nobody cared), spent his wretched life in a series of one insignificant job after another. The Lunkhead made the bulk of his yearly cash in the two month period before the 4th of July, when the streets of the 6th ward, all the way to the Holland Tunnel on west Canal Street, were one gigantic firework sale.
People from all over the tristate area rushed into the 6th Ward to buy fireworks for their 4th of July celebrations. Every block in the 6th Ward was manned by at least one runner, ages 10 up to social security age and older. Their job was to holler loud to every passing car, “Fireworks! Fireworks! Get your fireworks here!”
When the runner found a willing customer, he told them to pull over and park by the nearest hydrant. He would take their order and also take their money in advance, to make sure they stuck around. Then the runner would dash to the nearest drop area, usually a cellar, or a first floor apartment, or maybe even the trunk of a parked car, and give the fireworks order to the block boss, the man actually responsible for divvying out the fireworks. The block boss would fill the order, by placing the fireworks in a large paper shopping bag, which he handed to the runner.
The runner would dash back to the customer’s parked car and hand them the bag with the fireworks saying, “Quick get out of here fast. There’s cops all over the place.” Which indeed they were.
The truth about the cops was that they could care less about who was selling what, as long as they got their weekly cut, which they always did.
Every once in a blue moon, the police brass from uptown would order a firework crackdown in the 6th Ward. When this happened, the local 5th Precinct cops would round up the designated pinchees and load them into a Paddy Wagon for transport to the city prison called the Tombs. Every year, the people who took the pinch, were well taken care of by their associates, so in some ways it was a good thing for them. They got to stay off the streets and out the scorching heat for a few days, get three squares a day on the arm and still get paid as if they were in the street running the works.
The lucky runners were selected by the mob in advance to take the pinch.
It went down like this. The cops would send word to the mob, “Tomorrow one pm, have the guys you want pinched standing in front of 96 Mulberry.” And like clockwork, the next day at one pm, half a dozen cops, in riot gear, would descend upon the building with drawn handguns, like they were after Public Enemy Number 1. They were followed by an empty Paddy Wagon, which would not be empty for long.
Hoods with long criminal records, like Charlie Chickens, Waldo the Walrus and Pigeonhead, would be at the appointed area, all spruced up and ready to go. They were like kids going on a vacation upstate with the Fresh Air Fund.
The cops would go through the public act of cuffing them, but as soon as they were in the Paddy Wagon, the cops would take off the cuffs and give them ham and cheese sandwiches to eat later, while they were being processed at the Tombs, which was conveniently located around the corner on Baxter Street, smack in the middle of the 6th Ward firework sales extravaganza.
The trust between the fireworks runners and the customers, who paid for their stash in advance, was indeed a sacred thing. The block boss made sure all his runners understood that shorting a customer was not a great idea, because it could be very bad for business. If the word got around customers were getting screwed, the firework businesses, and it was a very profitable business for the mob indeed, would be in danger of extinction. And if a runner was caught shorting his customer, the runner would be in danger of extinction too.
None of this made any impression on Lenny the Lunkhead. Whenever he felt the urge, which usually meant after he had a bad night at Yonkers Raceway, after receiving the fireworks from his street boss, the Lunkhead would go to his own hidden drop area, usually the first floor apartment he shared with his grandmother on Hester St. There the Lunkhead would remove half the fireworks, fill the bottom of the bag with crumpled newspaper, then throw the other half of the fireworks on top of the newspaper .
The Lunkhead would then run to the customer’s car, hand them the shopping bag and yell, “Put this on the floor in the back seat, then scram. Don’t stop until you get to where you’re going. The streets are flooded with cops.”
After he had accumulated enough stash to carry in two huge shopping bags, The Lunkhead would take the subway to South Brooklyn and drop off the works with a cousin, who would would then sell them on the street, splitting the profits with Lenny the Lunkhead.
This went on for a few fireworks seasons, until The Lunkhead’s scheme just went blotto. One of the customers who he had shorted, just happened to be the cousin of one of the 5th Precinct cops on the take. The customer reported the shortage to his cop cousin and soon the Lunkhead was out of a job and minus a few front teeth to boot.
With The Lunkhead’s academic limitations, and the fact he was banned from doing anything even remotely connected to the mob, the Lunkhead got a job at Tony’s Drugstore at the corner of Mulberry and Canal. It was a combination luncheonette, soda fountain, with a full drug store in the back.
Lunkhead’s job at Tony’s was refilling the shelves with whatever and making a few chocolate, or vanilla eggs creams at the soda fountain up front. But the Lunkhead was soon relieved of his fountain duties and with good reason.
One day, mob captain Boots Latoure sauntered into Tony’s Drug Store. His gumada, a bleach blond named Cuddles, sat in his Caddy Convertible double-parked outside, with the top down. The thing was, Boots didn’t like to use rubbers when he performed the horizontal mambo, so Cuddles told him there was a new foam spermicide contraceptive called Emco, that would kill the little buggers before they got a chance to do any damage.
Boots never heard of Emco and Cuddles was too embarrassed to go inside Tony’s Drug store to ask for anything that would indicate she was engaging in sexual relations with half the neighborhood, which she certainly was.
So Boots Latoure moseyed up to the soda fountain where Lenny the Lunkhead was ostensibly reading Sports Illustrated, except Playboy Magazine, stuffed in side the sports magazine, was really the object of his attention.
Boots didn’t want anyone to know why he was there and wasn’t sure the drugstore sold Emco anyway, so he motioned for the Lenny the Lunkhead to come over.
He whispered into the Lunkhead’s ear, “You got any Emco in the back?”
Now what Boots and any normal human being would expect, was for the Lunkhead to go quietly into the back drug store section and ask his boss about the Emco.
Instead, the Lunkhead cupped both hands to his mouth and yelled towards the back of the store, “HEY TONY, YOU GOT ANY EMCO?”
With the Lunkhead yelling so loud, Boots ears felt like they were bleeding, and the entire neighborhood, including Cuddles sitting in the Caddy outside, knew Boots and Cuddles were planning to do some sexual experimentation in the near, or even immediate future.
As Boots was strangling Lenny the Lunkhead, so bad the Lunkhead’s eyes were hyper-extending from his skull, Tony the Druggist ran from the back of the store and used every ounce of his strength to extricate the Lunkhead’s throat from Boots’ death grip.
From that day on, the Lunkhead was banned to the back of the store, to refill the shelves, wash, the floors, dust the cabinets and do anything that didn’t include him being anywhere near the soda fountain up front.
This Lunkhead did not like this too much and he was hell bent on revenge. Only at first, he did not know exactly how to extract that revenge.
Tony’s Drugstore also did a brisk neighborhood business in condoms, which were not on the shelves, but in the back, behind the drug counter, under the cash register.
If someone wanted a pack of condoms, they had to pass the soda fountain, go the the back of the store and ask Tony the Druggist, in a nice soft voice, to give them a pack of Trojans, ribbed, lubricated, or maybe just plain. Tony the Druggist was the model of discretion and no one, but the customer and Tony the Druggist ever knew about the rubber transaction.
After a few weeks of being banished to the back of Tony’s Drug Store, the Lunkhead, now angry at the entire world, but especially at the people of the 6th ward, decided to get even in his own evil way. The condoms not behind the drug counter were kept in the secluded stock room in the back of the store. During breaks Larry would got back there, usually with a screw book of some sort, and play choke the chicken, with a lubricated rubber on his member, which made the task all the more pleasurable.
One day, the Lunkhead thought it would be a great idea, to remove the condoms from the boxes and put pin holes in them, with a safely pin he had secreted in his pocket. He did not stab every condom, but maybe one of every three boxes stacked on the shelf. Lunkhead was a gambler at heart and he wanted to give everyone at least a sporting chance.
The Lunkhead pin-holed the condoms for a few months, waiting patiently to hear the news about any surprise pregnancies in the neighborhood. Sure enough, the word began circulating that a few girls did get pregnant. Some were married. Some were not. But one thing for sure, in Little Italy no unmarried girl could ever be seen walking the streets with a belly as big as a balloon. Marriages were hastily planned and carried out, at Most Precious Blood Church on Baxter, at Transfiguration Church on Mott and as far north as old St. Patricks on Mulberry, near Houston.
The Lunkhead was also pleased to hear that the epidemic had spread into the 4th Ward, as St. Joseph’s and St James Churches also had a deluge of hastily arranged weddings. And not to be outdone by the Catholics, Protestant Mariners Temple on Oliver Street also did a brisk wedding business. And the Lunkhead was pleasantly surprised when he heard they were a spate of Jewish weddings at the old Chasam Sopher Synagogue down on Clinton Street.
The only thing that pissed off the Lunkhead a little, was that because of Lunkhead’s deeds, all these houses of worship were making a mint off the weddings and he could not avail himself of even a little taste of the cash.
Nobody was the wiser about Lunkhead’s shenanigans, until another co-worker at Tony’s Drugstore, Sammy Splash, caught the Lunkhead doing the dirty deed with his nasty old safety pin.
Sammy Splash was not rat, but he instantly recognized the ramifications of what Larry the Lunkhead was doing. Neighborhood girls were getting pregnant and even girls outside the neighborhood might get pot bellies too, if they were screwed by the Beau Brummells who had purchased their rubbers at Tony’s Drug Store.
So Sammy Splash did the right thing and reported Lunkhead’s heinous crime to the proper authorities, meaning the mob guys in the neighborhood, once of whom was Tony B.
When Tony B found out about Lunkhead and the safely pin, he put two and two together and came up with Ann O’Reilly’s pregnancy. This did not please Tony B not one bit.
One evening near dark, and in the pouring rain, Tony B and Skinny Benny waited in a stolen Buick outside Tony’s Drugstore near closing time. Finally the Lunkhead departed and he was apprehended by the two, then thrown in the back seat of the Buick. Tony B sat beside the Lunkhead in the back seat, a Colt 38 with a silencer in place, snuggly pressed against the Lunkhead’s ribs.
Skinny Benny did the driving and before long, they were on South Street, under the FDR Drive, near Market Slip. Skinny Benny parked the Buick with the engine running, sideways, up against the curb of the East River, which was flowing rapidly ten feet below street level.
Without saying a word, Tony B shot the Lunkhead in the side, but before he could put one in the Lunkhead’s half-a-brain, the Lunkhead flung open the back door and jumped into the East River.
Tony B and Skinny Benny sped out of the car and looked down into the dark waters below. All the could see was blood and bubbles, but no Lenny the Lunkhead. Thinking the drink had swallowed up the Lunkhead, Tony B and Skinny Benny absconded to Moochies Bar, on the corner of South and Market Slip, to celebrate their accomplishment.
To their surprise, about an hour later, as Tony B and Skinny Benny were about half sloshed themselves, Lenny the Lunkhead staggered through the front door of Moochies, soaking wet and holding his bloody side with both hands.
The Lunkhead screamed at the owner Moochie, who was tending bar. “Quick, call an ambulance. I’ve been shot.”
Moochie, a dour man, did not suffer fools too well. He looked up at Lunkhead and said, “There’s a pay phone in the back. Call them yourself.”
“I’m busted. Can I borrow a dime?” the Lunkhead said.
Just as Moochie was reaching into the register to get a dime, the Lunkhead spotted Tony B and Skinny Benny seated at the far end of the bar. Moochie turned around with the dime extended, but by then Lunkhead had already dashed from the bar, never to be seen again in the lower east side of Manhattan.

Seward Park High School


Tired of all the Catholic nonsense, and not being able to steal any more wine from the church sacristy, Tony B decided to go to public high school, which was OK with Sally Boy, since public high school was free.
The required public high school for Little Italy residents was Seward Park High, at 350 Grand Street, between Ludlow and Essex, right in the middle of what the Italians called Jewtown, one of the nicer things they called the neighborhood.
When Tony B was a freshman at Seward Park, he had heard a couple of former Seward Park Jewish graduates had tried becoming actors, with no noticeable success as of yet.
Bernie Schwarz, who had changed his name to Tony Curtis, and Walter Matthau, which was his real name. Who the eff ever heard of them?
And really, a Jew called Tony Curtis? Baloney! Tony B. never heard of a Jew named Tony, not even in the Sunday comic strips.
Abe – sure. Aaron – absolutely. But Tony? You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.
Jewish actors? Are they serious?
Jews were cut out to be doctors, lawyers, bankers, jewelers, or any other racket when they can make big bucks, so that that could supply their wives with diamonds and furs and maybe get laid once a year, usually on early New Years Day, ten minutes after the bells.
And can you imagain Jews busting their balls to become starving actors? Fuhgeddaboudit! With no money, they’d never get laid!
So Bernie Schwarz and Walter Matthau, must be so freaking stupid, they can’t do anything else in this world, except become actors, which Tony B felt, took absolutely no talent whatsoever.
Trying to convince a local shylock you really can’t make this week’s payment on time, now that takes some real acting, that can’t be taught in any stupid acting school.
Growing up in Little Italy, Tony B had very little contact with Negroes, Ditzunes, Jungle Bunnies, Spades, Moolies, or whatever else you wanted to call them. Sure, you’d see a few Darkies once in a while in Little Italy, usually delivering beer or a side of beef to a butcher. But they were in and out and gone, before you even knew they had been there. Tony B felt the neighborhood was a hell of a lot better being that way. And so did everyone else in Little Italy.
But Seward Park High School was a different deal altogether.
Whether he liked it, or not, Tony B had to rubs elbow with the Moolies, day in and day out at Seward Park High, because they were all over the place, like roaches in a box of bread crumbs. Not to mention the Puerto Ricans, or the Spics, as Tony B liked to called them, who slid though the hallways, combing back their greasy black hair laced with Vitalis or maybe even Brylcreem – a little dab will do ya. Day after day, it was a constant fight to stay alive, in school and on the streets surrounding the school after classes were over.
Seward park High was basically divided into three gangs; the Negro Sportsman Gang, the Puerto Rican Dragons and the white Mayrose gang, made up of Jews, Micks and a few Dagos, who weren’t tough enough to hang out with the Italian mob in Little Italy.
Day after day, heads were cracked, and jibones of all races got knifed, hit with chains, or shot with hand-made zip guns, which were as reliable as submarines with screen doors. Jerks who got involved with boneheaded gangs, couldn’t afford to buy real guns, which were as easy to get on the streets as a dose of the crabs. These morons concocted fagese, single-shot guns, made with tubing used in coffee percolators, or radio antennas, strapped to a block of wood, with a rubber band used as the firing pin.
These piece-of-garbage-guns were more dangerous to the shooter then they were to the intended target. Because it was six to five even money that the zip gun would explode in the sucker’s hand who was doing the stupid shooting.
Tony B would have no part of these dopey gangs, basically because there was no money to be made hanging with these hardons. None of the gangs members would screw with Tony B, because word got around quick, Tony Boy was Sally Boy’s son, and nobody, black, white or whatever, wanted to wind up doing the doggie paddle, ten feet under the East River, with concrete blocks tied to their feet.

So in Seward Park High School, Tony B did the smart thing. Instead of immersing himself studying math, or the finer arts, he made his entrance into Organized Crime 101, by being the school’s number one (and only) bookmaker and shylock, under the protection of Sally Boy and his crew. Sally Boy had been promoted to Family Boss, a.k.a. Capo de tutti Capi, which meant in greaseball — Boss of All Bosses. As a result of his father’s exalted status, Tony B. had no problems with any of the rival Italian crews either, if they knew what was good for them.
It was simple in Seward Park High, you wanted to make a bet, you made it with Tony B. Need a few bucks to tie you over until you could make a decent score doing whatever, borrow the money from Tony B, at three points a week of course.
Tony B not only had the bookmaking and shylocking locked up in Seward Park High, but also in the surrounding neighborhood, which was made of of the same Moolies, Spics and Jews, Tony B had to rub elbows with in the school itself.
It was not only the students who partook of Tony Boy’s rackets, but some of the teachers as well, right on up to the principal. Thank God for that, otherwise Tony B. never would have graduated from high school on time, if he had graduated at all.
Take geometry teacher Mr. Goldstock for example. Tony B could calculate odds on bets in his head, as if he had an abacus for a brain.
Parlays. Round Robins. Teasers. Reverse bets. Exactas. Quinellas. No problem for Tony B.
But trigonometry. Geometry. Calculus. The square root of pie, times the circumference of Galileo’s testicles. No freaking way. Who gave a crap anyway?
Luckily for Tony B, Mr. Goldstock picked horses like Venus De Milo picked people’s pockets.
So when Mr. Goldstock got in the hole with Tony B. for 500 clams, Tony knocked the figure down to a manageable 50 bucks bucks a week forever, as long as Mr. Goldstock gave Tony B a “B” in sophomore geometry. Tony B figured, why get greedy and ask for an “A”, when a “B” looked just fine on his end-term report card. No reason to raise anyone’s eyebrows.
Tony B did the basically the same deal with his junior year French teacher, Henri Pouffette, who loved betting baseball, but didn’t know a stolen base from a crepe suzette. Rack up another “B” for Tony B in French.
And if anybody did question the validity of Tony B’s grades, he had an ace in the hole in Seward Park’s principal Herman Gluck.
Was Gluck a degenerate gambler? As far as Tony B knew, Mr. Gluck never placed a bet in his entire life.
But Mr. Gluck did have an obsession with picture books that graphically showed young boys having sex with other young boys, which Tony B quickly provided to his esteemed principle.
Luckily for Mr. Gluck, or maybe for Tony B, the rest of his teachers fell in line, giving Tony B passing grades, either out of respect, but most likely, out of fear.
This fear was most likely as a result of what happened to English teacher Manny Perez.
Tony B felt Mr. Perez was basically an educated Spic, who had a hardon for anyone one whose name ended in a vowel. Mr. Perez tortured Tony B and all of his Dago crew, with anything from nastily correcting their defective speech patterns, to questioning the validity of their parent’s marriage.
One day, after being the recipient of a tirade from Mr. Perez, on about how Tony B pronounced the word “oil”, Tony B decided he had had just about enough of Mr. Perez’ crap.
To Tony B, the correct pronunciation was “earl”, like, in “ give me some freakin’ spaghetti with garlic and earl.” But Ok. You say it your way and I’ll say it my way. Just don’t freakin’ embarrass me by calling me, in front of people no less, a “birdbrained Philistine.”
Tony B wasn’t exactly sure what the word “Philistine” meant, but birdbrained was not a good word to precede almost any word, that wasn’t associated with freakin’ birds.
So one day, Mr. Perez inexplicably disappeared from the face of the earth, for an entire week. When he finally appeared, he did so in the emergency room of Mount Sinai Hospital, with his head shaved, his eyebrows burnt off his face and no teeth in his mouth, except for one tooth in the middle of his erstwhile smile. The funny thing was, the emergency room doctor said it didn’t seem like Mr. Perez had suffered any major blows to the head, but instead his teeth had been pulled out one by one from his bloody mouth.
Fortunately, Mr. Perez’ legs and arms were in good working order, and after he absolutely refused to say anything about what had happened to him, he licked his wounds and walked out of the front door of the hospital under his own power.
Before you could say “Si Senor’, Mr. Perez mailed in his letter of resignation to Seward Park High and took the next flight out of Idlewild Airport to his native Puerto Rico, never to be heard from in the Continental United States again.
Rumors reached Mulberry Street, that Mr. Perez had retired from the teaching profession and had taken a government job as a census taker in a San Juan slum. Right where the bastard belonged.
So as luck would have it, Tony B graduated in the required 4 years, with a solid B average, which made his father Sally Boy very proud indeed.
Yet college would never be in Tony B’s future. In fact, college never was even in Tony B’s vocabulary, because as we shall see, Sally Boy already had his son’s future entirely mapped out.

Fid Big Fat Fanny Fast–Chapter One


Mock Duck surveyed the task at hand. And it was a huge task indeed. Mock Duck, all five-foot one inch, and 120 pounds of him, was next in line to be the Mayor Of Chinatown in New York City. But his boss Hung Far Low presently held that position, and was not likely to die soon, unless somebody caused him him die. And that’s where Big Fat Fanny would come in handy.
Word had reached Mock Duck that Big Fat Fanny, in addition to whacking people for Tony B, sometimes did freelance work on the side. So Muck Duk had now put himself in the position to pay Big Fat Fanny in advance, in inches, — five inches to be exact, for work to be done later, that he would then pay her for in cold hard cash. That is, if he could persuade all six-foot, six- inches and 660 pounds of her, to take the job.
As fate would have it, Mock Duck was now prone on top of Big Fat Fanny, in her Mulberry Street apartment, trying to figure out how, in the Great Wall of China’s name, he was going to penetrate her, when her entryway was hidden by over six hundred pounds of ripe, rolling blubber.
Mock Duck aimed his manhood towards where he estimated Big Fat Fanny’s prize would be, and thrust inward.
Nothing. It was like pounding his pud into a huge marshmallow.
Mock Duck plunged forward again. Still with no success.
After about a half dozen futile attempts, Mock Duck felt he slipped into something.
“Am I in?” he said.
Big Fat Fanny blew a huge pink bubblegum bubble, popped it, then rolled her gorgeous green eyes. “No, you’re not in. Move over two inches to the left.”
Mock Duck slithered over to the left and made another stab at it.
Big Fat Fanny blew and popped another bubble. “No, you moron. My left. Not your left.”
Mock Duck slithered a few inches the other way and jabbed again. “Am I in now?”
She rolled her eyes. “Get off me. I have an idea.”
Like he was sliding down a ski jump, Mock Duck slipped off Big Fat Fanny and steadied himself on shaky legs.
Big Fat Fanny rolled herself off the side of the bed. She stood tall and very wide.
With her bleached-blond, beehive hairdo piled high on her head, Big Fat Fanny looked like a cartoon character on steroids. To put things in perspective, one of her giant breasts was approximately the size of Mock Duck’s chest. Expanded.
Big Fat Fanny blew, then popped another bubble. “Now do what I say and we’ll get the show on the road.”
“Anything for you, doll,” Mock Duck said.
Big Fat Fanny pointed a fat forefinger at the bed.
“Lie down on your back,” she said
Mock Duck stared at the bed like it was filled with hot coals. “You want me to lie down on my back?”
Big Fat Fanny rolled her sweet eyes and smiled. “That’s right hon. Do what I say and I’ll take you right up to heaven.”
Mock Duk gulped. “Ok. But how about a couple of stops along the way.”
“Just do what I say,” she said
Mock Duck positioned his back onto the bed, like he was laying into his coffin. “I’m so ready. What’s the plan?”
“Leave it to me,” Big Fat Fanny said.
Mock Duck squirmed. “What choice do I have?”
She smiled brightly. “None. Now close your eyes.”
Mock Duck felt his heart beat faster. “Close my eyes?”
“Yes, Dearie,” she said, blowing and popping another bubble. “Close them tight. I’ll tell you when to open them.”
Mock Duck closed his eyes, praying it was not the last time he would be able do so.
Big Fat Fanny backed off the bed, one slow step at a time, until her rear end touched the far wall.
Then like a sprinter pushing off the blocks, she surged forward, then jumped.
Mock Duck’s eyes opened an instant before Big Fat Fanny belly-flopped right onto his chest, pancaking him tight into the box spring and effing mattress.
Big Fat Fanny heard bones cracking. Then a faint whistle emanated from Mock Duck’s lips, like air escaping from a punctured balloon.
His eyes rolled in his head. Then stopped, staring straight up at Big Fat Fanny.
Big Fat Fanny, blew a bubble, popped it, then put her ear to Mock Duck’s heart. She heard a faint beat.
The Chinaman bastard was still alive.
Smoke coming from her ears like an angry bull, Big Fat Fanny rushed back to the wall. She pushed off with her right hand, sprang forward and pounced on Mock Duck’s chest again. Blood spilled from his mouth and nose and he made a gurgling sound like he was drowning.
Face to face with her flattened foe, Big Fat Fanny pushed down hard with all her 660 pound might, grabbing both sides of the bed for additional leverage.
More bones cracked. Mock Duck’s face turned white and blood oozed from his ears.
Big Fat Fanny pushed down harder and screamed, “Die, you Chinaman bastard!”
Mock Duck’s tired eyes implored. Then realizing mercy was not forthcoming, Mock Duck summoned his last bit of strength and spit a wad of blood into Big Fat Fanny’s face.
She screamed like a hyena, then wiped the blood from her face. “That’s it! Now you made me mad.”
She rolled off the side of the bed, turned her back on Mock Duck and slowly paced a few feet away. More angry than the last time someone else got the last meatball on the dinning room table, she put herself in slow reverse and when her back reached the bed, she flopped backwards, not on Mock Duck’s chest, but in a sitting position onto his face.
Mock Duck’s nose was now tucked tightly into the crack of Big Fat Fanny’s butt, which was not a pretty sight, especially from Mock Duck’s point of view.
Big Fat Fanny rocked slowly back and forth, blowing and popping bubble after bubble.
Sensing the kill was near, she pushed her rear end down with all her mammoth strength, on Mock Duck’s face.
Almost bored, Big Fat Fanny stared at the clock on the wall. She inhaled and blew a huge bubble, then waited until the second hand circled the clock twice.
Figuring the deed was now done, she burst the bubble, which was now the size of her head, and slowly extracted her rear end off Mock Duck’s face.
To say Mock Duck had a shit-eating grin on his face was not far from the truth. But the simple fact was, Mock Duck was indeed now dead.
Big Fat Fanny picked up the phone and dialed her friendly neighborhood carting company. The two men who showed up were the size of National Football League interior lineman.
After greasing their palms with a few thousand scarolas, the two men carted Mock Duck over to the local morgue.
The wet one in the East River.
All in all, it was just another day at the office for Big Fat Fanny.

Fight Big Fat Fanny Fast – Dave’s Corner


It was 4 am, and a tipsy Nicky Knuckles sat in a booth facing the front door of Dave’s Corner, situated on the corner of Broadway and Canal. He was sipping coffee between sniffles, he had gotten as a result of all the coke he had shoved up his nose earlier that night.
Dave’s Corner had been a New York City legend for years. Besides 24-hour inside seating, Dave’s Corner had an outside service counter on the Broadway side that serviced late night drunks and cabbies looking for a bite to eat before, or after they went on duty.
Nicky heard the front door open and in walked Tony B, Junior and Skinny Benny, all three half in the bag themselves. Nicky waved them over to his booth.
“Slide over, I’m sitting next to you,” Junior said.
Nicky did as he was told. Tony B sat opposite Nicky and Skinny Benny sat next to Tony B.
A young, pretty black waitress, with a rack big enough to serve dinner on, came over to their table. She was wearing an hearing aide in one ear and she spoke louder than normal. “Menus, Gentlemen?”
“Nah, no menus,” Tony B said. “We’re stuffed from before. Just bring us coffee and keep filling up our cups.”
“Yes gentlemen,” the waitress said. She smiled and sashayed toward the kitchen in the back.
Four sets of eyes followed the rotation of her rear end, until she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Madone, what a pair of jugs on that Tutsoon,” Nicky said.
Junior nudged Nicky with a sharp elbow. “Don’t be cabbadost. The poor girl’s half deaf.”
“Yeah,” Tony B said. “You’re acting stounad. Show some manners around here.”
Skinny Benny shrugged his shoulders. “But she does have some knockout body.”
Tony B put his forefinger to his lips. “Shush, she on the way.”
The waitress, carrying a huge tray, stopped at their table. She placed a cup of coffee in front of each of the four men. Then she put a large pot of coffee and a sugar shaker in the middle of the table. “Will there be anything else, gentlemen?”
Nickey smiled. “How do you know we’re gentlemen?”
The waitress smiled. “Because I have a big gun in the back, in case you aren’t gentlemen.”
That said, she did an about-face and headed back to the kitchen, as four sets of eyes followed her again.
Tony B took a sip of coffee. “Alright, let’s get down to business.” He stared right into Nicky’s eyes. “Tell Skinny here what you saw in the Village.”
Nicky looked timidly at Skinny Benny. “Look. I don’t like being a rat or nothin’, but what I saw had to be reported.”
Skinny Benny’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
Nicky wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “I was walking on Greenwich Street two nights ago. I was looking for this bar that I heard had some hot chicks always there. Looking to get made and laid.” He smiled like a loon. “You know what I mean.”
“Forget the broads,” Tony B said. “Get to the main point.”
“So I’m walking past this parking lot on Greenwich Street,” Nickey said. “When the back of this daisy-train trailer pops open and out jumps Crappy, holding hands with a blond twink, maybe about twenty years old.”
Skinny Benny leaned across the table and stuck his forefinger in Nicky’s chest. “You know what you’re sayin’ here, right? Bad things could happen to good people, if you’re freakin’ wrong about this.”
Nickey sniffled. “I know what I saw. I ain’t blind and I ain’t stupid.”
Tony B said, “One out of two ain’t bad.”
Junior grabbed Nicky’s arm and squeezed. “Nicky, you’re high right now. And I know you must have been high two nights ago. So think very carefully. Are you sure it was Crappy you saw? Not someone who looks like Crappy?”
“Nobody looks like Crappy,” Nicky said. “It was him alright.”
“I don’t believe this junkie bastard,” Skinny Benny said. “Crappy is no homo. This kid must have had hallucinations.”
Tony B turned to Junior. “What do you think we should do?”
Junior took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know what we should do. I wasn’t there with Nicky when he saw, or he thinks he saw Crappy. I think we need further evidence before we act.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Tony B said. “I say we get Louis J. Lombago into the act. He has a few private dicks he works with. Let them tail Crappy for a while. A week, or two at most. If they find out Crappy had been sucking the wrong thing, then we gotta put this degenerate dog down. Nobody can be trusted who goes down on the pole. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Skinny Benny said.
“Now that we are all gathered here, there’s something else we have to discuss,” Tony B said. “There was an attempt on Junior’s life by some Chinks in Columbus Park. We have to do something about that, or they’ll be banging us up the ass forever.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Skinny Benny said. “I’m getting tired of being pushed out of our own neighborhood by those slanty-eyed bastards.”
“I believe you have to cut off the head of a lion to make sure he’s dead,” Tony B said. “So that means Hung Far Low has got to go.”
“Why don’t we just whack that dumb bastard and the girl who tried to kill me?” Junior said. “Maybe we can negotiate some kind of truce with Hung Far Low after that. That way we can avoid an all out war.”
“I don’t know,” Tony B said. “The key is Hung Far Low. We erase him, our problem goes away. There’s nobody else in charge. Without Hung Far Low, the gook gangs will run around like a Chinese fire drill in a hurricane. We kill the Chinese Bonnie and Clyde, we still gotta deal with Hung Far Low.”
“I’m with Tony B,” Skinny Benny said. “Let’s kill the fat bastard Hung Far Low.”
Nicky Knuckles wiped his brow with a napkin. “Well I think……..”
Tony B cut him off in mid sentence, “Who gives a crap what you think? You’re just here to shut the fuck up.”
“Look Dad, think over what I just said,” Junior said. “Nobody wants an all-out war. Then we’ll have the cops up our ass and all our monkey-making projects will ground to a halt. It’s a lose-lose proposition for us.”
Tony B took a sip of coffee. “OK, let me think it over.” He stuck his forefinger close to Nicky’s nose. “But I want that dumb bastard Yuan Dum Fuk dead. Capeesh?”
“No problem,” Nicky said. “I’ll take care of him.”
“And I want the ugly Chinese broad, with the flat nose and big boobs, dead too. Understand?”
“Leave it to me. That Chink broad’s dead too,” Nicky said.
Tony B snapped his finger for the waitress. She sashayed over to the table. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
Tony B pointed to Nicky Knuckles. “No, just give the check to this guy and we’re done.”
She added up a few numbers, handed the check to Nicky, then headed back to the kitchen.
Four sets of eyes, etc., etc, etc……………………………
“And leave her a big tip,” Tony B told Nicky.
Nicky covered the check with a ten dollar bill.
“Cheap bastard,” Tony B said. “Leave the broad a twenty.”
“For four cups of lousy coffee?” Nicky said.
“That’s right,”Tony B said. “The girl’s gotta earn. And she’s half deaf to boot.”
Nicky replaced the ten spot with a twenty dollar bill.
The four men got up from the booth and exited Dave’s Corner.
The waitress went back to the table. She snatched the check and the twenty dollar bill and stuffed them into the front pocket of her apron. Then she picked up the cups, sugar shaker and the coffee pot and put them on a tray.
Back in the kitchen, the waitress unscrewed the top of the sugar shaker. There was a tiny microphone attacked to the inside top of the shaker. She spoke into it, “Got all that Sergeant Molloy?”
Through her “hearing aid” she heard Sergeant Molloy say, “Yes Detective Jackson. Loud and clear. Ten four. Over and out.”

Find Big Fat Fanny Fast – The Russian Baths


 

A naked Tony B sat and hunched over in the sauna, at the Russian Baths on 10th Street in the East Village. Sitting with him and also naked were Junior, Shorty Stitchhead and Bobby the Beak. They sat around a huge rock-walled furnace, which was filled with 20,000 pounds of intensely heated rocks. This furnace raised the temperature in the room to a sweltering 120 degrees freaking Fahrenheit.

Sprinkled around the room were men of various shapes, sizes and nationalities. Every second or so, someone would grab one of the many buckets in the room, fill it with cold water from a rubber hose and dump it over their heads. This procedure was repeated by each person in the room, approximately every thirty seconds. Otherwise, they would fry to death and that would not be a good thing for Tony B and his boys.

The fact that all the people in the room were naked and could hardly hide a recording device, plus the fact that no one else in the room could listen into their conversation while they were dumping buckets of water over their heads twice a minute, made this the perfect place for Tony B to discuss business.

“Mannaggia, I wish we were here on one of the Bath House’s coed days,” Bobby the Beak said. “Imagine being in this room with a bunch of naked broads.” He dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.

“Don’t be stupid, “Junior said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “On coed days, both men and woman have to wear bathing suits in here.”

Bobby the Beak dumped another bucket of water on his head. “Even that’s way better than sittin’ in a room with a bunch of naked guys.”

Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Not if you’re Liberace, it ain’t.”

Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Let’s cut the bull, we’re here to discuss business.”

“My father’s right,” Junior said. “Now listen up. This is important.” He dumped a bucket of water on his head.

Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “The word on the streets is that the Chinese have declared all out war on the Italians. Now that means we gotta declare war too.”

Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “So you want us to start taking out the Triangle gang members right away?”

Junior dumped a bucket of water on his head. “You mean Triads, not Triangle.”

Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Triangles, Triads, Trick or Treat. The point is, do you want us to start immediately shooting the Chinamen son-of-a-bitches?”

“No, I did not say for anyone to start shooting anyone,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “I want you all to be on the lookout. But don’t shoot anyone, unless you get a direct order from me. Understood?”

“Then how’s that declaring all-out war on the Chinks?”Bobby the Beak said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “I thought all-out war was when you shoot the enemy on sight.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “I want you guys to spread the word out on the street. Tell all our guys I’m declaring all-out war on the Chinks. But no shooting until I give the word. No stabbings. No stranglings. No nothing. Get it?”

Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “So you’re declaring all-out war on the Chinks, but you don’t want us to kill anybody yet.”

“Exactly,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “But I want the word to get out to everyone. So that when I’m ready to give the order, everyone is ready to react.”

Bobby the Beak dumped a bucket of water on his head. “I don’t get it. Either we’re at war with the Chinks or we ain’t.”

“Listen guys, this is pretty simple, “Junior said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “We’re declaring war on the Chinese gangs, but nobody gets hurt until the time is right. Nobody lifts a finger until then. Got it?”

“I think so,” Shorty Stitchhead said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “We’re at war with the Chinks, but it’s a peaceful kinda war where nobody gets killed. At least not right away.”

“That’s close enough,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “But make sure the word gets out to everybody. I want everyone in the 4th and 6th Wards and everyone in the Village to know we’re at war with the Chinks. Spread the word out to Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx too. Just in case.”

Short Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “What about Staten Island?”

“There’s no Chinks in Staten Island,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head.

Bobby the Beak dumped a bucket of water on his head. “The boss is right. Staten Island is all Italian, with a few Moolies here and there.”
Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Now let’s get outta here and jump into the cold plunge. The cold plunge opens up the pores. Gets rid of all the toxins in your body.” He got up and headed for the door.

Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “How cold is the cold plunge?”

Junior dumped a bucket of water on his head, then stood up. “Fifty degrees. You’ll feel like a new man.” He headed towards the door.

“Fifty degrees! Madone!” Bobby the Beak said. “I’ll be freezing my balls out there, just to get rid of a few toxins, of which I never knew I had anyway.” He dumped a bucket of water on his head. Then he stood up and headed towards the door.

Short Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Screw you guys, I’m staying here.”

Junior turned around. He headed back to Shorty Stitchhead, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go. We’re all going in the cold plunge.”

Shorty Stitchhead sat back down and grabbed a bucket. Junior grabbed the same bucket and a tug of war began, which Junior easily won. He threw down the bucket, put his hands under Shorty Stitchhead armpits and lifted him to his feet.

“We’re outta here,” Junior said.

“I rather keep my toxins,” Short Stitchhead said.

“You have no choice in the matter,” Junior said. “My father wants a healthy crew. So this is what you gotta do. Capice?

They headed towards the door.

“Life sucks anyway,” Shorty Stitchhead said. “A few toxins more or less won’t make much of a difference.”

Junior smiled. “Tell it to my father.” He opened the door and pushed Shorty Stitchhead through it. “In the cold plunge.”

Find Big Fat Fanny Fast – Dinner at Forlinis


 

Charlie “Crappy” Crappola sat alone at his favorite table at Forlini’s Restaurant, on Baxter Street, 50 feet south of Canal Street. Forlini’s is right around the corner from New York City’s Criminal Courts Buildings and down the block from the City Prison, ominously call “The Tombs.”

In the last generation, there has been a mass exodus of neighborhood Italians to places like Brooklyn, Queens, Long Island, Staten Island and unfortunately, Rikers Island and other prisons located in the continental United States. Not to mention various graves, some in cemeteries and some in places unknown, beneath the ground, in various rivers and streams, or compacted in cars.

Forlini’s clientele now consisted almost entirely of people associated with the criminal courts buildings in the immediate neighborhood. Ninety percent of Forlini’s customers are judges, lawyers, district attorneys, court officers, court workers and what Crappy called rat-bastard cops. Wiseguys and their associates avoided Forlini’s like the plague, not wanting to be under the same roof with those whose life’s mission was to put them permanently in prison.

Crappy’s table was next to the cash register, to the immediate left of the restaurant entrance. From this vantage point he could see everyone as they entered, before they could see him. Which just might one day save Crappy’s life.

Baxter Street is one block west of Mulberry, where all the wiseguys hang out to discuss whose legs deserved to be broken and who they should make soon disappear off the face of the earth. Be that as it may, Forlini’s was the perfect place for Crappy to meet someone in “the life” without the treacherous scumbags around the corner knowing about it.

As for the menu, Forlini’s was famous for its fine Chicken Gropallo chicken with artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, black olives, mushrooms, and white wine sauce, served on top of fettuccine; the people’s favorite Scarparelli, for one or for two — diced chicken, sausage, filet mignon, bell peppers, mushrooms, scallions, garlic and white wine sauce. And the immortal Involtini di Gamberi — rolled shrimp, stuffed with prosciutto, cheese and mushrooms and white wine sauce.

Crappy, who weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 pounds, had just ordered all three of Forlini’s specialty dishes as his main course, after first knocking down two Hot Antipasta Platters of Clams, Shrimps, Stuffed Mushrooms, Sauteed Eggplant and Artichoke Hearts Arreganata.

Of course, all three main courses came with either a side of spaghetti, or a side of escarole. Crappy, daintily watching his weight, had opted for only two side orders of spaghetti and one side of escarole, just to be on the safe side.

The busboy removed the finished Hot Antipasto plates, as the waiter refilled Crappy’s wine class with red vino from a large carafe of the house red, which was just fine indeed and a hell of a lot cheaper than any wine Forlini’s served in bottles.

Minutes later, just as the waiter was placing the three main course on the table, Crappy noticed Skinny Benny slide though the front door of the restaurant. Skinny Benny spotted Crappy and Crappy waved him over to the table.

“Sit down,” Crappy said.

Skinny Benny did. The waiter quickly set anther place setting in front of him and poured a Skinny Benny a glass of red.

“Would you like to order something, sir?” the waiter said.

Skinny Benny surveyed the food on the table. “Are you kidding? Where would you put the food anyway? On my lap? There’s enough food on this table to feed a battalion.”

The waiter shrugged, then left the table.

Crappy started eating with a vengeance. He spoke with his mouth full, but did so with such expertise, only a few a morsels of food got spewed on Skinny Benny’s face.

“Dig in and shut your face,” Crappy said. “If we need more food, I’ll order more food. They have a great Golden Brown Chicken I forgot to order anyway.”

Skinny Benny shook his head. “Na, I just ate an order of beef and oyster sauce over at 16 Mott.”

Crappy looked up with fork in hand and disgust on his face. “Why do you eat that Chink crap anyway? You’re putting money in their pockets.”

“So what?”

Crappy put his fork down. “So what? Look around you. This restaurant is packed, but not a Chinaman in sight. You never see those slanty-eyed bastards in an Italian restaurant. Like they’re afraid that we’ll make some money off their skinny asses.”

“Hung Far Low doesn’t have a skinny ass,” Skinny Benny said. “His ass is almost as big as yours.”

“Very funny,” Crappy said. “If you don’t want to eat, then shut up till I’m finished.”

Twenty minutes later, without Skinny Benny touching a crumb, nary a drop of food was left on the table. The busboy removed the empty plates, as the waiter refilled the wine glasses.

“Any desserts sir?” the waiter said.

“Later. Let me digest my food first,” Crappy said.

The waiter left the table.

“Digest your food?” Skinny Benny said. “You ate so fast, you probably didn’t even taste your food.”

Crappy belched into his cupped hand.

“Salute,” Skinny Benny said.

Crappy brushed the right sleeve of his shirt across his mouth. “Thank you, now let’s get down to business.”

For the past two years or so, Crappy and Skinny Benny had been the two top captains for Tony B. Each had over 50 men working under them, robbing banks, knocking over trucks, doing jewelry heists, and running the loan sharking and bookmaking operations. Of all of the money made on the streets by these men, fifth percent was kicked upstairs. Minus whatever was robbed by the street crooks in the first place.

Of this fifty percent, half went up to Tony B, and Crappy and Skinny Benny split the other half. This was not such a great deal for them, but this was the way business had been done by the mob in America since forever.

Now all of a sudden, Tony B, the greedy bastard that he was, wanted more. He wanted thirty percent of the fifty percent being kicked up from the streets. And if that was not enough on any given week to satisfy his hunger, Tony B said he wanted a flat fifty grand a week, no questions asked.

“This crap has got to stop,” Crappy said. “I’m starting to pull the hair out of my head.”

“I guess he needs the extra money to feed his girlfriend, Big Fat Fanny,” Skinny Benny said. “She does eat a lot of food. Even more than you do.”

“I don’t give a damn about Big Fat Fanny. Let Tony B buy a ranch, with five thousand head of cattle to feed her, for all I give a damn.”

Skinny Benny took a sip of wine. “Then there’s the pasta she eats to consider. I hear she can knock down five pounds of pasta in one sitting. With another five pounds of sausage and five pounds of meatballs on the side. And then she has the nerve to want to eat dinner.”

“Freakin’ amazing. I can eat and I can’t even come close to what that fat bastard shoves down her throat.”

“But she does have a pretty face. And in her own way, she very sexy.”

“Sexy? You gotta be freaking kidding me. She looks like King Kong in a dress. She’s probably got a bigger schlong than King Kong too.

“But don’t forget, she’s only 22 years old. Tony B’s 50. Not many old guys like him can get a young broad like her.”

“She’s not a broad,” Crappy said. “She’s an entire harem. Two harems maybe.”

Skinny Benny snickered.“A battalion of harems.”

The waiter came over to the table. He checked the carafe and it was empty. “More wine sir?”

“Nah,” Crappy said. “Bring over a bottle of Sambuca and a couple of cannolis.

The waiter turned to Skinny Benny. “And you, sir?”

“A double Remy, straight up. In one of those large sniffers.”

“You mean snifters, sir,” the waiter said.

Skinny Benny looked annoyed. “Yeah snifters, sniffers, whatever. Just bring the double Remy in a glass.”

“Yes sir,” the waiter said. He adjusted the small vase of flowers in the middle of the table, then left.

Crappy leaned over the table and whispered. “The main thing is, Tony B has got to go. He’s financially choking us to death.”

“But he’s been my friend my whole life,” Skinny Benny said. “I can’t just kill the man.”

“That’s why you have to be the one to do the piece of work. He trusts you. You’re the only one who can get close enough to him to do the job.”

“Let me think about it,” Skinny Benny said.

Crappy leaned over the table and whispered again. “You can think about it all you want, but you’ll come to the same conclusion I have. Tony B has got to go.”

The waiter came over with the drinks and the desserts. Then he left.

Skinny Benny took a sip from the snifter. “Maybe you’re right. Tony B has become too greedy.”

Crappy and Skinny Benny spent the next half hour or so figuring out the best way to get rid of Tony B. Then Crappy paid the bill in cash, leaving a generous 10 percent tip and the two men exited the restaurant.

As the busboys were taking the dishes away, the waiter took the cash and the small vase of flowers off the table.

He went into the men’s room and locked himself in a stall. He removed a small wireless microphone from the vase and put it in his pants pocket.

When his shift was over, the waiter went outside to the entrance of the building directly over Forlini’s Restaurant. He entered the building, climbed to the second floor, walked down a long corridor and knocked on the last door.

A man opened the door and the waiter handed him the microphone.

“Well, Officer Russo, I think we heard some very interesting conversation,” the man said to the waiter, who was in fact an undercover cop. “And I have it all down on tape.”

“I couldn’t hear too much, Sergeant Molloy,” Officer Russo said. “I was too busy feeding that fat bastard’s face.”

“Oh, but I heard a lot. Stuff I’m sure our Captain would love hearing.”

“So you’re turning in the tapes to our superiors?You might be able to get a big payday elsewhere.”

“Of course I’ll turn the tapes into our bosses. But after I make a copy,” Sergeant Molly said. “And don’t worry Officer Russo. If something comes out of this, you have some cash coming to you.”

Find Big Fat Fanny Fast – Greenwood Lake Part 3


 

The Warwick Drive-In became the weekly Saturday night date for Tony B and Ann. Instead of stopping at the Warwick’s Drive-In’s refreshment stand, Tony B started stocking his car with treats from home, including beer, and sometimes scotch, or brandy, which came in handy on the cold winter nights, when Tony B had to keep his car running, with his heater on his heater full blast, just to keep them from freezing.

As the weeks and months went on, Tony B and Ann sat closer together in the front seat of the Caddy. Showing her the respect he deserved, Tony B limited his amorous attempts to no more than kissing and light petting. And an occasion feel up of her curvy body.

But starting around the Christmas holidays of 1960, things took a turn for the better. It started with Ann giving him an occasional hand job, because Tony B convinced her, if she didn’t relieve him in some way, he’d get a bad case of the “blue balls”, which would render him bent over in terrible pain.

One thing led to another and pretty soon it was time for the main event.

Tony B always carried a rubber in his wallet, just in case. The Saturday before Christmas, while Norman Bates, the proprietor of the Bates Motel, was going Psycho on the big screen and the temperature outside in Warwick was nearing zero degrees, Tony B and Ann, rubber in place, consummated the relationship in the back seat of the Caddy. After the deed was done, Tony B removed the soggy rubber and flung it out the passenger side window.

They watched the rest of the movie, and after Norman Bates, dressed in his mother’s clothes and a scraggly wig, tried to slice up a female guest and was thereby sent to the nuthouse, Tony B started the Caddy, left the Warwick Drive-In and headed back to Ann’s Greenwood Lake home.

He parked in her home driveway, nose of the Caddy facing in.

“Come inside” Ann said. “My parents bought you a Christmas present.”

Tony B cut the ignition and he and Ann entered the front door of the O’Reilly residence. The living room was decorated in Early American, with a huge Christmas tree, with presents under it, propped up in front the front bay window.

Ann’s mother Betty was radiant as ever. A forty-something fox, with roving eyes, especially after she had imbibed a few martinis, which was almost every night. Tony B figured, a woman with an husband like Ryan O’Reilly, had to knock down a few regularly, just not to go crazy.

“Oh Tony, so good to see you,” Betty said. She was holding an empty martini glass delicately near her right ear. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Tony and Ann sat on the couch.

“No thanks, ma’am,” Tony B said, “I have to be going in a few minutes.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” Betty said. “I was just about to refill mine. How about a small martini?”

“Could you make it a scotch, straight up, instead?” Tony B said.

“One scotch, neat, coming up.” Betty said. She turned to Ann. “Anything for you dear?”

“No mom, I’m fine,” Ann said

Betty did an unsteady about-face and disappeared into the kitchen.

Tony B and Ann sat on the couch and she snuggled her head on his shoulder.

“Mom’s a little tight,” Ann said.

“I’d be tight too, if I woke up every morning next to your father,” Tony B said.

Ann returned with two drinks and handed Tony B the scotch.

“I propose a toast,” Betty said.

She raided her glass. Tony B did the same.

“To you and my daughter,” Betty said.

“Salute’,” Tony said, and he watched in amazement as Betty downed her martini in one gigantic gulp.

Ann got up off the couch and went to the Christmas tree. She bent down, extracted a present from the bunch and handed it to Tony B.

“This is from my parents,” Ann said. “I’ll give you yours from me on Christmas day.”

Tony B was in the process of ripping off the Christmas wrapping paper, when the front door bolted open and Ryan O’Reilly burst through the front door.

He stared at Tony B with murder in his eyes.

“Come here you!” he said. “You have some explaining to do.”

Tony B stood tall. “What’s the problem?”

O’Reilly busted over, grabbed Tony B’s arm and squeezed. “Come outside and I’ll show you.”

He pushed Tony B towards the front door.

Tony B wanted to sucker punch this bastard so bad, but he took a deep breath, then headed out the front door, with O’Reilly and the two females following.

Tony B stood by the driver’s door of his Caddy. “Well, what is it?”

O’Reilly strode around the back of the Caddy to the passengers side. He motioned to Tony B with his forefinger. “Wrong side of the car. Come over here.”

Tony B obeyed, and when he saw what was making O’Reilly angry, he almost swallowed his tongue.

There it was, the spent rubber Tony B had used at the Warwick Drive-In, frozen stuck on the passenger side of the car, back panel, near the trunk.

Tony B felt sweat running down the back of his neck, even though it was near zero degrees. “I swear to God, I don’t know how it got there,”

Ann rushed around the side of the car. When she saw the rubber, she gasped and to stifle a scream, she held her right hand to her mouth. Betty followed her, but when she saw what all the commotion was about, her mouth formed a slight smile.

O’Reilly’s face had now turned beet red. Tony B knew it wasn’t from the cold.

“I’m listening,” O’Reilly said.

Tony B took a deap breath. “It must be Skinny Benny, or Richie Ratface. They live a few blocks from here. They must have followed me and planted it.”

The veins bulged in O’Reilly’s neck. “They planted a used rubber on your car? And who do you think they used the rubber on?”

Tony B forced himself to finger the frozen rubber. “This is just frozen milk on the rubber. Here, touch it. See for yourself.”

O’Reilly scrunched up his mouth, “Touch it? What are you, some kind of a nut? I’m not going to touch it.”

Betty marched up to the rubber and dipped her forefinger into the frozen goo. She put her finger to her mouth, licked it, smiled and said, “It’s milk alright. Some kind of joke to play on the holy days.”

Tony B stared indignantly at O’Reilly. “See, I told you it was milk.”

Without saying other word, Tony B got into the car, started the engine, backed out of the driveway and sped out of there, burning rubber (but not that rubber) on the icy street.

From that point on, Tony B knew he had an ally in Betty O’Reilly. And he couldn’t help but get a little hard at the thought of his girlfriend’s mother, licking his come off her forefinger so cheerfully.