Born Into The Mob

Robert Fogle                                                                           1995 words

115 Hemlock Hill Rd.

Boone, North Carolina 28607

(828) 264-5714

BORN INTO THE MOB

(A short story about someone tending to their garden.)

Author

Bob Fogle

           For nineteen-years now, I’ve not told a soul I am the son of Dominick Graza, the narcissistic vicious mob boss who once controlled a fair sized chunk of Chicago’s organized crime. I walked out of that life in search of a new one when I was twenty-four years old.

           A made Mafia member in my old man’s ‘Family’ I pledged to live by the gun and the knife and to die by the gun and the knife. There is neither mention nor clause anywhere relating to a twenty-year retirement plan, this vow is for life.   

           Walking away those nineteen-years ago marked me for death among any of the multiple crime families across the country. They would all know I went off the grid, so I’ve been cautious in forming close relationships and have used three aliases requiring some very expensive identification.

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          The old man is now long gone, died of lead poisoning, and I’ll follow him within six months. The cancer has eaten my lungs, but I have made peace with my Lord and will accept whatever the future brings.

           I was reminded yesterday of an incident that took place when I was twelve-years-old. This came to mind as I watched my neighbor tending his garden.

           Perhaps not necessarily a proud memory, consider though the circumstances of a boy growing up around the Mafia. This story was akin to hitting my first home run. Proud or not, this was a highlight of my younger years.

           Back in that day we lived in a huge house on a triple sized lot in a fancy neighborhood. The old man wanted prestige and thought a show of affluence would be his ticket to acceptance. His ruthlessness as a mob boss meant he was a success; as a citizen, he was considered scum and as a husband and father, he was a total disaster.

           His greatest fan was Dominick Graza, himself. Those who knew him only by name hated the name, while those from whom he extorted money feared and hated him. This man, who placed himself higher than others, in reality was a complete human failure.

           Neighbors turned their backs when Mom drove by, neighborhood kids were banned from speaking to me; you would think we were the ‘Hitler’ family.

           The incident about which I speak took place in the back yard of the grandiose house where Mom and I lived. There I tended a little garden Mom and I planted in the spring.

           We never had a private moment. Mob soldiers patrolled the property, two of them, twenty-four hours a day working twelve-hour shifts. They were to be protection against

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other mobsters seeking revenge on us, or so the old man thought. Someone was always out to get him, according to him.

           Personally, I always believed he should be more concerned that someone might burn down his prized material possession. One of the ‘Family’ rarely seen at the house though was Pop, I knew his soldiers personally much better than him.

           The event I’m about to recount actually happened and you are the very first to hear the story, a good example why I claim to have grown up in the mob.

           I got to know most of the old man’s soldiers when they’d show up at our house, 24/7. Mom said they were there to watch after us and she did not like any of them.

           This is a good time to mention the old man didn’t live in the house with us, a rare visitor he stayed at the ‘Family’ compound. The assigned soldiers patrolled the property on foot, made security check in calls to their superior, or just sat rocking on the front or back porch swings. During the winter, they spent their shifts in a car, heater on full and the radio blaring.

           Each of them carried a gun worn where people would see them. Sometimes they roamed around with shotguns. Neighborhood kids would sneak past the house in the edge of the woods on the other side of the street talking and pointing at their guns. Most of their parents drove around the block rather than pass the house.

           A loner in school, other than Mom, the guards were my sole source of community. Some of them would try to teach me things they declared I needed to learn for shortly it would be  my turn to join the mob.

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           One of them tried to teach me to drink Vino wine, smoke, and cuss. I knew him as,  “Big Dom,” and he enjoyed cuffing me with the inside of his fist if I refused to drink the Vino. He’d say my Pop told him to do what it took to make me a man.

           There was a different one who tried to play ball with me a couple ties. He’d pitch and I batted, then I had to chase every ball I hit. Most of the time he lasted ten minutes then had to sit, sweat dripping off his face, and hacking up phlegm.

              I might have been a kid but I gave them my form of payback when I felt they needed it. I dropped balloons loaded with dyed water from my bedroom window on them as they patrolled around the house. The next time around they must have determined my bedroom side of the house no longer needed safeguarding. Now it appeared suddenly the middle of the side yard needed protecting.

           Having provided the background, now is the time to tell you about my most inspired and favorite idea.

           One warm summer morning, without a lengthy explanation, I discovered a thin layer of vegetable oil on a porch step was virtually invisible over the glossy white paint. It came to me in an instant; a brilliant, sure to gain respect trap, with the bonus of personal payback. I coated the middle of the three porch steps with vegetable oil.

           My mark, Big Dom, was a constant porch swing sitter. This happened to be the one who was always cuffing me with his fist. He normally spent the morning on the front porch swing taking sips from a bottle in a paper bag. By 11am, he’d be climbing the rear porch stairs towards the swing. This is where the sipping turned to serious drinking. By the end

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of the shift, he needed help to get to the car. Due to his years of seniority over all the other soldiers they let him slide.

           Not to miss any action, after coating the stairs step I started working in the little garden, which provided a front row seat for this main event.

           It seemed I waited forever for him to come wandering around from the front. Suddenly, here he comes bouncing off the corner of the house in an attempt to make the turn. I could barely contain myself watching his heavy belly jiggling, while with one hand he made a valiant attempt to keep his pants from slipping down.

           Stumbling to a position directly in front of the porch steps it looked as if he was going to go right on past, but stopped, nearly falling.

           Turning to the steps and wobbling he reached to a back pocket and pulled out his bottle, now minus the paper bag. After a healthy swig, he dropped the cap in a poorly coordinated attempt to screw it on, watching it bounce off the first step and into the grass.

           Thinking it was now time for another cigarette; he managed to get the box out, flipped open the lid, and watched several pour out hitting and rolling off the same step.

           I’m beginning to question if he can get one step up before dark. But, he managed to grab the railing, lean on it and steady himself, light a cigarette and took a whopper of a drag, followed by what sounded like a fatal hacking and coughing spell.

           Finally, after making every effort to ruin his own health he raised his left foot and it landed on the first step. Holding to the railing, he brought the right foot up and planted it causing the wooden step to sound, and sag, like it might collapse.

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           He swung his head around and looked at me, and I realized I’d begun cheering him on. Turning back to his purpose he huffed, coughed, and drug out another cigarette to replace the one he’d just dropped. A patient wait would now be required as he went through the routine; long pull on the bottle, deep drag on the cigarette, ending with the hacking and coughing.

           There seemed nothing was left that could prolong the act of simply putting his left foot on the second step, the veggie oil step. That is barring the possibility the first step didn’t cave in.

           Holding my breath, here came the money scene. Grasping the railing, he grunted loudly as he lifted his left foot and placed it on the slippery step. Lifting his right leg was like firing the gun. This took him off balance enough that the right foot never made it and the left foot slipped off the step behind him.

           Big Dom was perfection, it looked as if he’d practiced this for weeks. His belly hit the third step accompanied nearly simultaneously with his chin slamming against the very edge of the porch. He grunted once then relaxed not moving, his arms at his side.

           My celebration brought the other guard who could not wake him or roll him over. He had to make a call and fifteen minutes later two guys show up backing a truck into the back yard.

           The first thing he did when they got out was talk real quiet like to them while pointing at me. Whatever the outcome for Big Dom, it looked as if the credit, or blame, was now mine.

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           The most extraordinary scene I could imagine, and hadn’t planned, now revealed itself. I could see Mom behind the sliding glass door with her hand over her mouth and smiling.  

           When the three of them rolled Dom over, something was very wrong with his mouth. It looked like his jaw might fall off if he kept trying to howl. I declared this, “Big Dom’s belly flop.”

           If anything could come near this production, it had to be watching three men attempt to load Dom in the bed of the truck. I’d heard he weighed three-hundred-seventy-five pounds. He was so flabby the guys looked like they were trying to pick up jello. Mom was still watching and nearly hysterical with laughter.

           I’m glad to report Dom survived but thereafter wrote notes, which was difficult due to a third grade education in Sicily.

           I expected payback, not from Dom, but the old man. He came the next day while I was hiding in my room. Mom must have told him where I was and soon the door busted open. One look at him and I knew I was dead. He ordered me to sit down on the bed as he took the desk chair, my life was about to end at twelve years of age.

           “Son!”

           He had never called me son. This was going to hurt.

           “Yesterday yous put one my best men in da hospital. He be in critical condition in, de ICU right now. Yous need to know this, son.”

           There he goes again with, “Son,” I’m a goner.”

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           “Yous know I ain’t good at speeches. Just needed to let yous know yous gained my highest respect. Da others be afraid to come here now.” That was it, he got up and walked out to his limo and off he went.

           This may seem a callous story to some, and if it does remember, you’ve not lived in the underworld of crime and violence. There, respect is all-important. It is gained by fear; the more one is feared the more they’re respected. In the real world, respect is the result of integrity.