Murder Incorporated
Or the time my godfather took me for a ride I’ve never forgotten.
My Aunt Connie and Uncle Joe were my godparents. When I was a boy in the 1960s, being godparents was an honorable designation and being a godson meant special privileges and attention. Aunt Connie and Uncle Joe treated me like gold by doting over me and praising me when my family made our Sunday visit pilgrimages to their home in Astoria, Queens.
My godmother, a seamstress, was one of my father’s eleven siblings and had a warm smile and kind eyes. I instantly felt comfortable with her mellow personality. However, rugged faced uncle Joe was a mystery to me. He talked little, and I didn’t know what he did for a living. All my other uncles spoke openly about their professions. Why didn’t Uncle Joe?
When my family visited my aunt and uncle’s house in Astoria, Queens, NY on Sunday afternoons, they entertained us at the downstairs level of their brick house. However, my godfather stayed somewhere else in the house until he made an appearance half-way through the visit.
“How ya doin?” He would say when he made his rounds.
Then my dad would walk up to him, shake his hand, then take his seat back at the cozy coffee and pastry table. Next, my mom would greet him with a warm kiss on the cheek. After the adult greetings, my godfather approached the kids.
“How ya doin?” Uncle Joe said to us kids. My three siblings and I froze and shuffled our feet. Then, the godfather would walk behind me and squeeze the back of my neck. I assumed this to be a special godfather to godson greeting, so I accepted the pain with honor. I suppose a goddaughter would receive a hug. I got an iron grip of death squeeze.
“And you.”
He said to me as he applied his special method of affection to my neck.
“How ya doin?”
Being an Italian American niece or nephew brought with it various pinches, crushing hugs, and wet sloppy kisses on our faces, but the neck vice was disconcerting.
What if he applies the squeeze to the front of my neck?
My heart started beating fast, but thankfully I could breathe freely. I looked at my mom and dad for help. They were smiling, and I imagined their thoughts.
“Oh good, Joe is choking Johnny. Now we don’t have to.”
The godfather let go, turned to his wife, and said, “I’m goin’ out.” My Aunt nodded. Us kids sighed relief at not to have to answer the How ya doin question. I sighed relief at escaping without having to wear a neck brace to school the next day. I wondered where Uncle Joe went. I knew better than to ask. The children could attempt to answer questions directed at us but could never ask them. I thought he was up to something nefarious.
Where is he going on a Sunday?
No one worked on Sunday in the 1960s. Everything was closed. Hmm.
As I drowned my angst by consuming a second and third cannoli, I thought about the time I sat with my dad to watch a movie called Murder Incorporated. We watched on a nineteen-inch black-and-white TV with a rabbit ear antenna. One side of which was broken and held together with a piece of black electrical tape.
The film had mobsters, guns, and, of course, murder. I saw men in the film dressed like Uncle Joe, going for a ride to complete their tasks. My heart raced at the revelation it could be Murder Incorporated that employed my Uncle Joe! So, I made it a point to lie low the next time we saw him.
When Joe returned, he made his rounds again. He issued his finger lock again and said, “How ya doin?” As if something changed since he left. Perhaps he saw the cannoli cream on my lips and the chocolate eclair residue on my chin and he thought he could assess my sugar levels with his fingertips. I answered like a Murder Incorporated character, hoping he’d ease up on the neck tension. My creaky pre-pubescent voice blurted with as much confidence as I could muster, “Nothin doin.”
My godfather sounded impressed. “Nothin doin, huh?” Then he squeezed harder. I tried not to wince, but my eyes welled up with tears from the shooting pain in my stretched neck tendons.
“What’s da matta?”
My resolve disintegrated, and I spoke in a crying whisper.
“Nothin.”
“Come with me,” he said, then winked at my parents, who exhibited powdered sugar smiles. I figured Uncle Joe would take me to the warehouse where they made people talk before putting a bullet in them. My mom and dad were going to sacrifice me to save the other kids.
“I’m takin’ Johnny for a ride,” Uncle Joe said to my parents to confirm my assessment. They nodded and continued to dunk their biscotti in espresso. My brother and two sisters stared, then gave me a sad farewell wave. I felt a lump in my throat and knew I’d start bawling, which would cause my brother to tease me, so I opted to walk the last mile out the door with dignity.
“Let’s go,” he said, while I said a Hail Mary prayer. I boosted myself up and into Uncle Joe’s jet-black Ford LTD and sunk into my red leather bucket seat, then strained to look over the wood paneled dashboard. The godfather slid an 8-track tape into an opening, and Frank Sinatra began crooning. If I were going that day, I would go in style.
After my uncle parked, he opened my door and said, “Come wit me, this won’t hoit a bit.” I sheepishly followed him as I rattled off more prayers to myself. Then he knocked on a heavy glass door with a closed sign on it. Someone turned a key from the inside, and Uncle Joe swung open the door and guided me inside. The room was partially lit. Was it a funeral home? I guessed he would whack me, then embalm me, then call my parents and siblings to come pay their respects.
I looked up at him, ready to protest. Then he said, “Pick out whatever you want.” Then he turned and spoke.
“Vito, give the kid a chocolate egg cream.”
Vito, another Murder Incorporated character, nodded. My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I saw shelves filled with glimmering glass candy jars. A huge crystal-clear glass counter in front of me contained rows of gum, lifesavers, and candy bars.
“Here’s a bag, fill it,” the godfather said as if we were robbing a bank.
“I’ll be right back.”
Then he disappeared through a pair of black curtains and into a back room, perhaps to load his thirty-eight. Food has always been my escape drug of choice, and the rush of oxytocin at the site of all that candy temporarily soothed my phobia of an untimely death. I pointed at Milky Ways, Mounds Bars, Almond Joys, and Nestles Crunches. Vito threw candy bars into my bag, then slid an egg cream at me. In a tall glass, it had two straws, with whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and a cherry on top.
I drew on the straw and savored the cool, sweet chocolate flavor. As far as I was concerned, I already died and went to heaven.
Then Vito said, “So, you’re Joey’s godson, huh?”
I nodded my head. Vito rolled up his sleeves while nodding his head. I expected his next words to be “Where do ya want it, kid? I’ll make it fast.” My eyes teared up. The candy is my last meal, I said to myself. Uncle Joe’s in the back running numbers while Vito does the dirty work. I was about to plead for mercy when Vito smiled a yellow-toothed smile and said, “Any friend ah Joey’s is a friend-a-mine.”
He pointed to a chair across from the counter. I grabbed my egg cream and candy bag and sauntered over to the solid wooden seat. My feet dangled over the floor. I put my face into my bag of candy to inhale the healing aroma. Then I reveled in being a kid in a murder incorporated candy store.
John Passadino is a writer/producer/director/actor in the New York metropolitan area. He performed improv and stand-up comedy in NY then founded two long running sketch and improv groups called Them Again and SEE Saw Comedy. John wrote and acted in countless sketches for these groups. Later, NY theaters produced several of his plays. Lazy Bee Scripts is John’s home for his best theatrical work. In addition, he published two short story collections, a book of poems — available on Amazon. He looks forward to continuing development of new and interesting material for all platforms. You can find his links at https://johnpwrites.com
