MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Oath

Wilmington—21 Years Ago

My eleventh birthday was the best of my life. Pops took off from work and invited Tony and Frankie to see the Phillies play. We smoked a whole pack of cigarettes before noon, knowing we’d be dry the rest of the day. An hour later we piled into the car with Pops. It was August-hot, but despite that, and the fact that our team didn’t win, we had a great time. Not only did we get to go to the ball game, but we celebrated my birthday dinner the next night at Tony’s house. Mamma Rosa made my favorite meal of meatballs and spaghetti. Nothing fancy, just the most delicious damn meatballs in the world and homemade pasta. When I thought I’d died from pleasure, Rosa brought out a plate of sfogliatelle—shell-shaped pastries stuffed with ricotta cheese. The sfogliatelle took this from the best meal to one made in heaven. I stuffed until my stomach hurt. It was a great way to kick off August.

I was no longer just Nicky; I was “Nicky the Rat.” The name Doggs gave me stuck, much to my dismay. Names were like that; they either stuck, or they didn’t. Frankie was hanging out more at Tony’s house, swearing he couldn’t stand to be in the same block with his father. He never told us about the beatings, but we saw the marks on his back when we went swimming. We spent most nights in Tony’s basement playing pool. The table was nice, but the basement floor wasn’t level, front and back sloping toward a drain in the middle. And the steps were always in the way, forcing the use of a short cue that made us feel like dwarfs.

Tony was kicking Frankie’s ass at nine-ball, winning all his cigarettes. While he did that, I played with a spider that lived in the rafter supports just above the old oil tank, a 250-gallon metal behemoth that sat in the corner, covered in soot and stinking like a factory. The other guys teased me about the spider, but they knew better than to kill it. She was mine. 

By early March we’d saved enough money to make a deal with old-man Burczinski to rent his garage down off Broom Street. There was a line of row-houses with a hill behind them and a string of detached garages below. Must have been thirty garages, all covered by a flat roof. We sealed the deal with Burczinski then collected junk furniture to put in our hangout.

A few weeks later, a kid named Tommy McDermott joined our group. He was what we called “Black Irish.” He looked more Italian than Irish, but that’s where it stopped. Tommy thought beef stew was the best meal in the world. If it was, he was the luckiest guy in the world, because that’s what the McDermotts served five days a week. The other two days were pot luck, but no matter what, potatoes accompanied the meal. 

The McDermotts had nine kids: six boys and three girls, and the half that weren’t rail-thin were just plain skinny. Tommy’s dad was a fireman, probably because he couldn’t make it as a cop. There was an old joke in the neighborhood that held more truth than not—Mick kids grew up to be either priests or cops, and dagos grew up to be priests or gangsters. With a few exceptions, they weren’t far off. 

Tommy came into the group almost by accident. I was stealing cigarettes from Johnny’s store and, as I ran out, Johnny hot on my heels, I passed Tommy. I shot him a glare, as if to say, “Don’t you dare rat us out.” 

It took me ten blocks to ditch old Johnny. Probably because he got winded going up the steep part of the hill on Maryland Avenue. That son-of-a-bitch could run for an old shit. After that, I took a roundabout way back to the hangout, careful when I entered in case the cops had gotten wind.

Frankie let me in, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Where you been, Nicky?” 

“Nobody came?”

“No, why?”

“That McDermott kid saw me get the cigs. Johnny chased me for half a mile. Maybe more.” I looked around, peeked outside. “Thought the mick might have ratted us.”