BLACK AIN'T BLACK
By Vanessa S. Telaro
 

I think that I should put a wager on myself. I should play stakes and lay down all the cash that I ever sucked out
and bid it on my own self. No bookie. No loss. Just me and the emptiness of this space.

Should I kill myself or not? Am I gonna get clipped or not? The outcome of things wouldn't matter 'cause I'm
dead even before having hit the ground. Will I die here today or blow up with my car some other time? Like I
said, it doesn't matter how I die 'cause I'm dead as of now - right now. I'm a dead man standing that's killin'
some time. Believe me, I know when dead means dead. I've been dead since I put Lane out last week. 

It's so damn hot in this desert, but what did I expect? It's a freakin' desert. I can't stand here anymore. Sweat,
silence and the scorching sun are the only things going on, and also the memories gushin' out of my head as if
yesterday never really faded. I'm surprised that I'm not dead already 'cause of this goddamn heat. If only I could
get a massive heart attack now like my father and cousin Danny had, it would be so much easier for me,
instead of standing here with a gun. 

I used to have a love affair with this piece 'cause it used to be my luck charm. I got promoted 'cause of this .38
revolver in my hand. It got a little stale or whatever over the years, but hell, it served me good. So it's both the
gun itself that matters and the accuracy of the hand that makes a hit successful. I liked it 'cause it's not too big
and 'cause it never jammed on me unless the cartridge was shitty. I hardly ever used a magnum since it's too
big and not accurate anyway. I used an ice pick once for a hit of mine, which I don't recommend, but I never
used knives, blowtorches or hatchets of any sort. An old friend of mine used a clamp once, which must have
been hell for the guy whose head went in there. 

Whenever I killed someone, I always made sure that it didn't look like an accident. I buried or drowned the
weapon when I had to, but I didn't try hidin' the blood. I was traditional when it came to killin' so I'll never be
known for my creativity.

I'm gonna do this. My Rolex says it's one o'seven right now, but I'll shoot a bullet at three. The head is the best
place 'cause it gives you no time to think. Either that or I'll be melted by then from standin' on this cliff. I'm sure
that Lane's guys are still after me but they can't know where I'm now 'cause they lost my trail I think. They had to
have lost me 'cause it's almost an hour thatwell, wherever the hell they are, I hope they'll find me dead if they
ever get here. There's no one else out in this canyon but me. About me dyin', it's not options that are missin':
Cliff, gun, heat suffocation. God I need a cig.

My bloodstock is criminal so don't ask me about morals 'cause I do have them in my own way. I had talent in
what I did, but I still had to earn my life and the commodities that went with it. I have regrets yes. I killed a civilian
by mistake once. She appeared out of nowhere on the sidewalk where the son of a bitch that I was supposed to
shoot was. I got his arm but he ran off. Anyway, the civilian was hot, could have been a good fuck and girlfriend
or even pal, but I struck and gunned her down by mistake. She really shouldn't have been there. My conscience
burned for a minute when I saw her blood leavin' streaks on the sidewalk but there was no time for tears
especially when some of my associates were droppin' like flies 'round me. But in my line of work, there's no
place for sensitive guys; if you don't give yourself to a crime family, you can't climb up. 

Around the time I shot the civilian, the wars were pretty bad, almost like the Bonanno Wars for God's sake.
Everything was climaxin' for a while; if Capone saw that war, he would have thought it a Valentine's Day
massacre revival. 

I just worked so damn hard. I'm made since a couple of years, but I had to send men to their early graves for it; I
got about ten hits under my belt. I almost became acting underboss, but that's when things went wrong. To be
made, you have to kill more than one man. More importantly, you have to kill who ever deserves it. I never
whacked anyone without gettin' permission for the hits I did. And you got to serve around, earn money for some
people and earn trust from the guys above you, but there's always back stabbers. The way I see it is this: No
matter how many oaths soldiers take, you get burned either way. It's kind of the dead if you do, dead if you don't
philosophy. 

I was a kleptomaniac when I was a kid. In my teen years, I swiped goods especially jewelry, car parts and liquor
from ports many times on dockyards in Staten Island and sometimes near Hell's gate. 

I could never sit in a classroom and be like the others. I always stared at my watch and prayed that I'd get more
work from Berardi, a fifty-year old money launderer and guy with a bad rep but that treated me good most of the
time, except when he totally lost his temper a couple of times. He always gave me more of the pie than he owed
me. I got little jobs like that for a while. I made friends with bookmakers and placed bets on spreads day in and
day out. I rarely hung around people exactly my age. Most of my pals were telephone worker retirees,
bootleggers, hookers, bar owners and bartenders and so many other guys. I often hung around apartments
where special phone lines were put in so that we could communicate with all sorts of guys that could increase
our chances of gainin' profits from our investments. Nearly every time I stepped into apartments, some guy was
wiring something. 

I'm tellin' you, I made up to a thousand or more a week sometimes even before I turned twenty. What a
milestone that was for me. And sometimes when the cash was really lousy, I plummeted down so hard that it
made me wanna look for a real job, but then again no, 'cause the work I had was fulfillin' for me. Got thrills for it.
Got loads off of it. Got loot for it. It made me use my brains and lose faith in luck. I had to scrap Berardi 'cause
he kept me doin' small work all the time.

After ditchin' Berardi, I took a crime break for a while. I played around like other teens and moved to the Bronx. I
didn't know which crime direction I wanted to head into so I just stayed an empty suit until I got hired for a hit. It
was Sloppy Joe who gave me a chance. I gotta hand it to him for that. He even let me stay at his nephew's
place and put the word blade in my name: Renzo "Blade" Storelli. I guess he saw somethin' in me besides the
zits on my face. I helped him once by squealin' on an informant that turned out to be his brother in law. He
became dead meat a week later. Anyway, Sloppy had balls - that's for sure. He was a huge fuck with little holes
in his face and he always sported these neck chains from Italy that probably meant a whole deal to him. He was
cool and all about dignity. He gave me my lucky break. I mean he had his share of shit 'cause a bunch of Turks
set his hotels and clubs on fire down in Miami but he was admired by me that's for sure. He had two daughters
and a wife that he went great lengths for. I tried goin' for one of his daughters but she had a guy in her life
already. I don't think Joe would have liked that anyway. On a different note, I don't know but his clubs had the
nicest broads. It was paradise whenever I lounged there after a piece of work I finished off. I drank whiskey and
highballs and stared at tight asses until I dozed off. 

Things really started movin' for me at nineteen or twenty, I can't remember exactly. The first guy I killed for
Sloppy also turned out to be the first man I ever killed. I hadn't even slept with a girl then even if I got head once,
but I killed a guy, and it felt so empowerin'; that's when I knew for sure that if my life was worth anything, it was to
climb up the crime ladder. I still remember the gun smoke. Yeah I do, even in this damn desert. The smell kind of
reminded me of an autumn fire. I hold to that time 'cause there's nothing like a first time, that's why. 

It's really too bad about Joe though. I mean I knew that he was eventually gonna die but not in the way he did. He
became like a father to me until he got sliced like prosciutto about five years ago in September. 

I was good at what I did. I always followed the rules up until I iced Lane. I never pulled the trigger on or near
church ground. I never killed in front of the dead man's family. I never killed a fed or attorney. Never killed them
inside of their houses. Never let my guard down. I've known some rats in my life and some good and bad
wheels, but Guido "Cigs" Cassani, one of Lane's guys, was the biggest shit head I've ever known. He was
twenty-five when he got shot by Lane himself. Guido doublecrossed Lane so many times and he was way too
ahead of himself. I told him countless times that he should start pickin' a casket if he continued the way he did.
Unlucky for him, he never got a chance. His mother did it for him. Hardly anyone gets to pick their caskets
anyway 'cause they most likely won't have the time.

All this brings me to Lita. We had some wild times and she was the hottest thing to have come along since
Raquel Welch. She was almost five years older than I was but I didn't care 'cause I loved her. I was willin' to give
up a lot for her. Retire early maybe. Move to Monaco, Florence, who knows? There were so many women in my
life and Lita to me was it. There was Terri too. Very nice girl with the nicest brown eyes that reminded me of
chocolate mousse every time. Terri had it all together. We had some wild times and I liked her a lot. Every thing
was all right except that I didn't love her. It was too much about school and art with her. I like art mind you, God I
do. I love opera and paintings but it just felt like she lived in a bubble sometimes. But Lita was just captivatin'.
She was a well-balanced broad. She had a bit of everything in her and that's exactly what I needed. I miss her.
She had the nicest smile that haunts you. 

Lita and I were like the back and forth type. We never just went out for five years straight; actually, that would
have been a miracle. She told me I was too young for her and I had to prove myself to her many times. Every
three years about, we'd start goin' out again. This went on for years. She had boyfriends and I had other
girlfriends and stuff. Then we'd meet in restaurants and I kept fallin' back in love with her every time. She'd
whisper words like "you missed me" and I just felt like proposin' marriage on the spot. 

I met her on the night of my twenty-sixth birthday. She wore this slinky red outfit that set me on fire. She looked
exactly like Jacklyn Smith without the Charlie's Angels feather hair. I knew that Lita had a coke problem back in
the early eighties when I had one too but she quit after havin' her son. He wasn't my son but I liked the kid and I
didn't give a damn 'cause I intended on marryin' her.

Lita wound up marryin' Jimmy "Elvis" Lane, a high street boss in San Francisco. He's as good as dead now.
His narcotic and prostitution operations ran across several states and I never trusted the shithead. An informant
told me that he wanted me dead even before what he did to Lita. I still don't know how and why she married the
son of a bitch; what went through her head when she stepped inside that church. She had so much goin' for her
through my eyes, and she married that shithead. If anythin's a sin, that was. She came back to me when she
realized he was an asshole. She wanted to divorce him 'cause he beat her when she was pregnant with her
second kid, which was his first. I tried tellin' her that she couldn't divorce the guy but she didn't see the danger.
She had a plan. 

"Baby, I can't do this anymore. Ryan's doin' bad in school. I started snorting again," Lita said.

"Ah geez, you can't divorce him. Only unless he's dead," I said.

"I don't care! You understand me, I don't care! I want out of this phony marriage. I know he screws Clara."

We both lit cigs. She didn't wanna smoke 'cause of her baby, but she couldn't help herself, and I felt like kissin'
her but something held me back. We were at bad points in our lives, but I promised to be with her. 

"After the baby, I'm movin' to Melbourne. Come with me please," she asked me with little tears leakin' out of her
eyes.

I thought about her proposition hard. "I'm gonna marry you. If it's Melbourne so be it, the place is fuckin'
paradise." I was honest 'cause I was sure that I loved her. I put things on the line for me and for her, but in my
head, I just didn't care anymore. I put both of us at risk and she put me at risk with that plan of hers. 

Her father was Australian so she'd know a few people in Melbourne. I suggested we go to New Orleans but I
had a bad feeling 'bout that place. Both of us were gonna pull massive stunts. We almost did until I found Lita
dead on the floor of her condo in North Miami. 

I knew that Lane did it; I know believe me. I got evidence to substantiate me, but the most important thing in this
is my gut. So I knew I had to wipe him out. I knew I had to spill his guts out and I had a plan on how to do it. I
almost drank myself to death one night 'cause I couldn't take the stress of thinkin' over and over, but I didn't die
because I had to kill him first. I completely lost it and if Joe had been alive, he would have told me to take it
easy, but I couldn't. 

Last week, I met up with Ed, a friend of mine. He was well respected in the narcotics league and he was getting'
up there, but he wanted to remain a free lancer, independent of factions. He knew what went on most of time in
families, but because he wasn't exactly a wiseguy, he couldn't know about all internal affairs. For God's sakes,
he even kept his moustache and that's against regulation. Actually, I admired the guy 'cause he kept getting'
contracts. He was a sleeper guy who had nothing to lose. He knew what he was doing, more than I did
sometimes. 

The night we met, I skipped a sit down and that's the biggest crime 'cause it's like missin' your grandmother's
calzones. For the first time, at the smoked meat joint we went to, I couldn't finish my food and everything had an
aftertaste. Everything mixed with a pile of nerves has an aftertaste. 

I took a bite and lit a cig. Ed watched me with his fish eyes. "Listen to me. Put that fuckin' stick down," Ed said.
He grabbed my cig and snuffed it out in the tray. He wore so much cologne that night and he had no reason for it
really 'cause he just met up with me and nobody else.

"Why the hell did you do that for?" I asked.

"It's not makin' you talk." He scratched his moustache.

I calmed down for a minute; that surprised me considerin' the pile of shit that I was in. "How's the hotel comin'
along?"

"Zeiman's givin' a hand. He owns a quatah. I warned him to only do what he should do and not try anythin'. That
guy's gotta head I tell ya. I told him to remembah that I ain't a dickhead. Now, the only thing I gotta see is if he
remembaz," He swilled from his beer bottle like he was nervous about somethin' too. The thing with wiseguys or
hitmen is that pretty often, we have somethin' up our sleeves and when we don't, they still think we do.

"Anyway, so tell me what's up with ya. Why'ja call me fo?" he asked. 

"Lita's dead." I looked at the barman shakin' bottles and whippin' somethin' up.

"Jesus Christ," he said while puttin' his sandwich down. I grabbed the toothpick that held the bread together and
broke it in half, violently. 

"Yeah." I put my head down. I pictured that perfect face of hers with her long hair with waves.

"I ain't getting' a good feelin' 'bout this." He put his sandwich down and didn't take a bite from it since. 

"Who did it? Lane?" he asked. My pals and I rarely ask how a person is iced. We simply ask who did it and
most of the time, we already know.

I lowered my voice, but I didn't cry. "Don't mention his fuckin' name! He's out man. He's gonna furget he was eva
born." I ripped my napkin in half. 

"You're fuckin' dead if you do somethin'. He has those fat guys around the whole day." Ed's mouth dropped as if
Marilyn Monroe had come back from the dead especially for him and flashed him. 

"Listen, your only job here is to shut up. See what we're doin' now? Well it never ever happened. I had to borrow
another car for seein' you, Ed."

"Son of a bitch. You sayin' we could be tailed?" he raged while looking around him every second.

"No impossible."

"So why my here?"

"To tell ya what I'm gonna do, I need backup."

"Sorry man. There's no way. I can't take that sorta job."

"I don't need you to shoot him. I need you to set him up," I explained to him, knowing ahead of time what to
expect.

"Depends Renzo."

"It's gonna be a one man operation."

"What ya want me to do?" he proposed.

"Just tell me when he's not surrounded, that's all I need."

He nodded his head and looked down. "Ok, I'll see what I can do."

Lane was a big enough man to be surrounded by bodyguards now, especially since he got promoted to the
rank he had. The important thing for me was to get him alone. I just wanted him dead. The biggest disgrace on
earth was gonna be dead and that made me so happy that I didn't care if I died myself. Ed helped out like I
knew he would. And if he had squealed on me like rats do, I would have shredded him. He turned out to be
clean though. And if I were a boss, I would have recruited him that's for sure 'cause he's clever at what he does. I
know that Ed's not in deep shit now 'cause my gut feeling tells me he ain't. He helped me and nobody will ever
find out. I gave him ninety grand for what he did for me. I basically gave him all my cash.

You know how I got Lane? In his hotel. It's the best place you know why? 'Cause bodyguards are not gonna stay
and watch people fuck. I still wound up being a sissy 'cause I couldn't kill the girl he was with. I put a fake
mustache on though, so maybe she might not 'a recognized me but I'm dead anyway. I used a silencer to kill him
­ gottta love those things. I pulled the trigger more than seven times, don't remember exactly. 

I'm standin' here on this cliff gettin' tired of thinkin'. I can't stop thinkin' of everythin': I'm thirty-one and my parents
are dead. My brother lives in Rome with his slut wife Nicoletta. He still doesn't think she's a slut; that's why she
screwed me. I'm gonna get the last laugh on this one. God that guy doesn't have a sharp brain to figure things
out. Well, of course I don't blame her for not havin' told him we slept together or he'd probably leave her. They're
good now; they're settled in Rome. They got a kid who's two or something. 

It's just so hot. Let me remove this watch and my neck chain. I got this chain in Jersey in my rookie
days after being paid for a hit; well actually I got paid before that piece of work. I'll just throw them down the cliff
'cause they'll be up to no good anyway. It's almost three so I think I should just do it now. Big deal if it isn't three.
Dead is dead and nobody knows about this. God will know exactly the time when I'll be dead. It's not doctors
and people like that who know exactly when you die. It's God. He must see people dyin' every minute of every
day. He's probably got people of all ages and things like that waitin' in line for him. But how does he do to see
so many people? I won't know what to tell him 'cause I'm pretty sure he exists. 

I hear the sound of a car. Four guys get out. 

"Hell you could have picked a better place than this," Lane's cousin, Vic, says. 

"Why, what's a betta place?" I answer.

"Fuck it Renzo. The good thing is you chose it." He's pullin' his piece out slowly like he has all the time in the
world. I knew he was armed anyway.

We look at each other for a while and then I'm gone. Silence and dusty air.

There's honor in some things and stupidity in everything else.