Nick Palma, Once and Future King

A black limo with tinted windows pulled up on Washington Street in Hempstead. Two burly men, dressed in black shirts and slacks, got out of the vehicle and headed for the front door of a small run-down house. Their arrival was observed by two Englishmen crammed inside a Mini Cooper, parked further along the road.

The buzz of excitement around the start of the new school year had worn off. For Nick Palma, a Senior at Hempstead High, widely considered a nobody, it was a just another fall afternoon, the intermission between the drag of school and the drab of his evening shift at McDonald’s. His fellow Seniors were playing football or soccer, or were at band practice, whereas he was at home alone in the living room, playing an online video game. Nick pummeled an RPG noobie with flaming fireballs, then there was a loud knock at the door.

His mother was on dayshift at the hospital, his sister, Candy, was at a “study date” with her latest crush. Nick was racking up record points on the game by ganking up on the noob, so the interruption was annoying. It was probably the landlord; his mother was always late paying the bills, a regular monthly drama since his father’s disappearance.

The second rap on the door made the house shake. Nick dropped the game console and felt a surge of rage, “stress hormones” according to his mother, “it’ll give you zits,” said his sister. He felt like punching the wall, but the last time he’d done that, at school, he’d been hit back with detention and a home visit from the School Resource Officer. Perhaps it was the SRO, again! Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone? School was a problem, work was a problem, home was a problem. So many problems.

Nick opened the door and froze. Standing in front of him were two towers of menace. 

“Nicky Palamara?” said the man on the right, who was wearing wraparound shades that made it impossible to make out his intent from what remained of his big square-shaped head. The second man, a steroidal man whose bald head rippled with its own walnut musculature, was studying a photo held in his fist, comparing it to Nick. The man nodded affirmatively, “it’s him”. 

On the other side of the road, camped out in the Mini, the two Englishmen, Lionel Blythe-Worthington and Ray Kray, watched the two American goons and the Palma boy. Howzat and RayKray, their monikers back at MI6 HQ, were an unlikely duo: Howzat, tall and lean, was a bookish man who dressed in well-tailored suits; RayKray, an ugly, pasty-faced bruiser was dressed in a bright blue Adidas leisure suit that barely made the stretch around his beer belly. Odd fellows, but they were alike in their ruthless dedication to His Majesty’s Secret Service.

“The two Vinnies have made contact with the once and future”, said Howzat.

Back at the house, Nick tried to shut the door, but a size 13 loafer got in the way.

“There must be some kind of mistake”, said Nick. 

“No mistake, Nicky”, said walnut head, “My name’s Vinny, by the way”. 

“And I’m Vinny too” said the man in shades.

“We’re the two Vinnies,” they said in unison. It was part of a double act that typically sent shopkeepers into a blind panic and to the cash register.

“Look Nicky…”

“Nick.”

“Look Nicky, we’re here with good news for you and your Ma,” said Shadey Vinnie with, revealing a gold incisor with his smile.

“You’ve come to the wrong house. My name is Nick Palma”

Walnut Vinnie handed Nick an envelope. “Here Nicky, leave this for your Ma, it’s a present from the Don. She’ll understand. Nick peaked at the wad of hundred-dollar bills.

“We’re making you an offer you can’t refuse”, said Shadey Vinny.

“It’s a joke”, said the Walnut Vinny, laughing.

Then the two Vinnies told him something that rocked Nick’s world. He left the envelope of money on the kitchen table and followed the two men out to the limo. Nick’s Father was alive.

Sibylla shouted loudly from the battlement parapet atop the castle, “William, quick, the sword, run, hide.” Through the notched crenel, she watched King Henry’s army burst through the city gates, flooding the streets with armored knights carrying the tricolor of the Holy Roman Empire. The battle was lost, Palermo would fall. 

William, boy-king of Sicily, ran into the great hall where the sword, a gift to his father, from Richard the Lionheart, hung above the fireplace. William grabbed Excalibur with both hands and fled.

Fear and cunning his only guides, pursued by the terrible sounds of battle, William ran toward the harbor, he was soon trapped in a narrow alley by bloodthirsty knights. William ducked into a shadowy gap between two ancient hovels and thrust Excalibur hilt-deep into a fissure in the rock. He was grabbed by both arms, dragged backwards, and lost consciousness.

The tenement building in Little Italy doubled up as a club house. Don Enzo Stromboli, and his cousin, Father Ignatius, were presiding over a meeting of the Capos in a Blood-and-Holy-Water meeting in the second-floor dining room that overlooked Elizabeth Street. They were eagerly waiting for the two Vinnies to deliver the Palamara boy from Long Island. At the window, a lookout man was surveilling the early-evening activities down on the street. 

Father Ignatius, telling the gathered men a story, pointed to a small pile of antique manuscripts that lay on the dining room table, “souvenirs” that Johnny D. had liberated from the Vatican library. 

“Palermo fell, King Henry claimed Sicily for the Holy Roman Empire, and young William was imprisoned in Germany”. 

“Where he got his eyes gouged out”, said Giorgio Chiello, a rodent-like man, with relish.

Father Ignatius shivered with distaste, “William survived, escaped from Germany and returned to Sicily under the name of Tancredi Palamara, and lived out his life on the hills near Palermo as a goat farmer”.

Don Enzo’s took up the story, “and eight hundred years later, his descendent, a peasant called Palamara arrives in the United States, a huddled friggin mass.” Don Enzo transitioned between pomp to profane with ease. 

“What’s this got to do with the garbage business?” said Jimmy Fabio, who was following the story with difficulty.

“Well, this Palamara fella gets processed through Ellis Island as one ‘Joseph Palma’… great grandfather of our boy from Hempstead”.

“Nicholas Palma is the same blood as King friggin Tancredi, and rightful owner of the sword that Jimmy D’s men discovered hidden in a crack in a wall in the Via Dolore in Palermo”, said Father Ignatius.

Jimmy D was a study in stoicism, but inside he was bursting with pride; for sure, he’d get a promotion.

“This kid’s the King of Merry Old England”, said Don Enzo to his stunned audience.

“Can’t we just blow up the alleyway?” said Jimmy Fabio, for whom explosives were the trade equivalent of duct tape, “it’s easier to bring the sword to the boy, than the other way around”.

Enzo loved his nephew Jimmy, but the young Capo’s addiction to explosives was alarming.

“Have you ever heard of the Sword in the Stone, Jimmy?” said Father Ignatius.

“Yeah, Father, I took the kids to Disneyland last year and Jimmy Junior bust a blood vessel yanking at the fucking magic sword”.

Don Enzo winced at the memory: Jimmy roughed up Mickey and Minnie and the Don paid off the Orlando Chief of Police to spring his Capo from the jailhouse.

“If this Nicholas Palma boy can pull the sword out of the stone, we’ll know we’ve got the right boy and the right sword”, said Father Ignatius.

“Less messy, no collateral damage,” said Don Enzo.

“What about the boy’s father?” said Johnny D.

“Rogue”, said Don Enzo, “we’re following his moves in Palermo”.

It was dark outside and the music of night life in Little Italy could be heard in a moment of quiet.

“I still think we should use explosives,” said Jimmy.

The two Vinnies and Nicky were heading Westbound on the Long Island Expressway when the Manhattan skyline sparkled into view. Nick was in the plus back seat of the limo, struggling to understand the news: his no-good father was alive.

“Are you messing with me?” said Nick.

“Nah, Nicky. Your old man is alive and kicking. You’ll probably meet him in a few days.

“It’s a crying shame, ain’t if Vinnie, the way some fathers don’t comprehend their responsibilities”

“A crying shame, Vinnie”

The two Vinnies regaled Nick with stories about goodfellas and bad cops, about cheap eats and hot girls. 

“You got a girl, Nicky?” said Walnut Vinnie.

Nick didn’t have a girlfriend but wished he did. Mostly, the girls at school seemed sorry for him. 

“No worries, we’ll set you up with a date!” said Shadey Vinnie in the driving seat. The Vinnies both laughed, and Walnut Vinnie reached around from the passenger seat and gave Nick a friendly slap on the knee.

“Why are you taking me to visit this Mr. Stromboli?’, asked Nick.

“Nicky, we’d have to kill you if we told you”, said the Vinnies.

RayKray and Howzat, the British secret agents, followed the limo toward the mid-town tunnel. 

“Seven bleeding bucks. Got any cash?” asked RayKray, holding out his palm for the toll fare. 

Howzat, in the passenger seat, never carried change, nor credit cards or any kind of identification. His only accessories were a Sig Sauer P226, which he carried in his shoulder holster, and an encrypted cellphone, over which he was updating their controller back in London.

“Fuck it,” said RayKray, waving at the ticket booth collector. The Mini’s glove compartment was jammed with parking tickets and traffic violations. Ignoring them was one of the perks of diplomatic protection.

They tailed the limo through the tunnel and down Second Avenue.

“They’re here with the kid,” said the lookout man as the two Vinnies emerged with Nick from the limo. Taxi cabs and Ubers were inching along the street, the restaurants were busy, two odd-looking men got out of a Mini cooper, parked illegally, a drop-dead gorgeous girl in a low-cut blouse weaved past them and the lookout man watched on hips sway back and forth, back and forth.

Nick Palma, standing like an exhibit in the dining room, was about five foot ten, black haired, thin and wiry. His face was pale and pimply, and he had dandruff. He also wore thick-rimmed glasses, behind which there were a pair of anxious brown eyes.

Father Ignatius, instigator of the big scheme, was disappointed.

“I thought he’d be bigger, more… charismatic,” said Father Ignatius, “are you sure you got the right boy, Vinny?” 

The two Vinnies nodded, “calls his self, Nicky” said Walnut Vinny.

“Nick, not Nicky,” said Nick, uselessly.

“Well, it’s going to give them WASPs a nasty shock,” said Don Enzo, “bowing and scraping to an Italian passant.”

The mobsters were talking about Nick like he wasn’t there, but Don Enzo seemed attentive, even protective, but a man with a face like a rodent, lurking in the corner, gave Nick the willies. 

“His Royal Highness, Nicky the first! Once and future king of jolly old England”, said Johnny D, ingratiating himself with the Don.

This was getting very weird; Nick was contemplating escape. His mom was probably worried, and his supervisor at McDonald’s was probably pissed. Then again, he’d have to give back the money, and he might not meet his father. It was weird, but it was also exciting.  

“Listen kid, we’ve got a proposition for you”, said Don Enzo, “have you ever been to the old country?”

Nick had been to Delray Beach to visit his aunt. Hot and sweaty, tacky and ugly, crammed with old folk; he hated Florida. He’d prefer to be stuck in boring Hempstead forever.

“Not Florida”, said Enzo, “Sicily.”

Nick had never been out of the USA.

“He’ll need a passport, some clothes, bags, credit cards and cash,” said Enzo, clicking his fingers.

“On it boss” said Johnny D, slipping out of the room.

“And someone make sure his mother is informed. There’s nothing more dangerous than an angry mother”.

Nick wondered what this could mean. Was his mother in on this too? 

“Erm, Don Enzo, I really appreciate the attention, but I think there’s been some kind of mistake? said Nick.

It did seem that way. The only thing going for the boy was his honesty.

“Listen Nicky, have you ever felt like you were destined for more important things?” said Don Enzo

In truth, no, Nick had never felt the call of destiny. Yes, he expected to graduate from High School, and yes, he expected to get a job, buy a car, find his own apartment, maybe meet a girl, grow a beard, eat Sushi one day. If this was his destiny, it didn’t seem very important.

Father Ignatius was worried. Perhaps he’d made a mistake, perhaps the souvenirs were forgeries and Johnny D got duped? The boy was obviously a loser.

Don Enzo was a good judge of boys and men, identifying talent early, cultivating loyalty with ease. As a child, his nephew Jimmy had been a feckless bully; he was feckless no more. Giorgio “the rat” the cunning street urchin was a feared lieutenant, and the two Vinnies were bumbling idiots, always had been, always would be, but they put the fear of God into everyone. Sometimes, though, you have to work with the hand you are dealt. The King of Spades seemed more like the Two of Clubs.  

Down on the sidewalk, MI6-man, RayKray was shuffling back and forth in the street, getting antsy.

“You look like a football hooligan”, said Howzat.

“And you look like a blooming undertaker,” said RayKray.

Suddenly, the second-floor lights of the tenement building dimmed.

“The meeting must be over,” said RayKray, “You sure they want the boy, dead or alive? It seems a bit bleeding heartless… and sloppy”

“Just following orders,” said Howzat, twitchy, anxious. 

Just following orders? There was no way Howzat could kill a kid. It wasn’t cricket.

“They must think this kid’s the one?” said RayKray, skeptically. The notion that this innocent boy had a claim to the throne seemed preposterous. 

“According to HQ, this is the once and future” Howzat released the holster catch so that he had easy access to the gun. The mission had the green light, “Once and Future” was the code.

The two Vinnies stepped out onto the sidewalk, one to either side of the street-side door; they were scanning the street. Out stepped the Don, his arm draped over the boy’s shoulders. They were followed by a priest, and a handful of Capos. Howzat was a skilled marksman who could take out one or two of the mobsters from a distance of thirty yards, but not half a dozen. 

 “Too sloppy,” said Howzat dropping his hand by his side. 

It was dark, warm October evening. Nick’s senses were overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of Little Italy.

“Tomorrow you’ll fly to Italy, first class. Thursday, you’ll be in Naples, and you can visit with your old man,” said the Don, "and next week, you'll have your date with destiny in Sicily".

Nick’s felt like Jim Hawkins, the innkeeper’s son in Treasure Island III video game. 

“but you’re staying with the family tonight. I hope you like home-cooked Italian food.”

Nick watched two odd-looking men get into a parked Mini Cooper. One was so tall that he could scarcely get his head inside the car, and the other was so fat that he struggled to squeeze into the driver’s seat. 

“What about my supervisor at McDonald’s?” said Nick, “what about school?” There were many loose ends.

“Fuhgeddaboudit,” said Don Enzo.

Don Enzo was good at making problems disappear.