Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Armando
“Armando.” Rocco pats the barber chair. “Right here, sir.” I disengage from the gathering of Made men who fill the old-time barber shop with cigar smoke while they talk over each other in loud voices.
The walls are a drab off-white and crammed floor to ceiling with framed photographs from the days when the shop was a speakeasy.
Wood paneling, a bay window, old fold out chairs and a magazine rack brings me back to a time I cherished.
Each man is dressed in a tailored suit and tie, his hair slicked back, mustache and beard perfectly trimmed and groomed.
Rocco’s barbershop is an oasis of the familiar in a world that has become otherwise unfamiliar.
My body’s stiff and jerky as I drop into the seat. Every step I take in my old shoes is like a goddamn out-of-body experience.
Coming to this place is an out-of-body experience.
Everything’s exactly the same, yet it feels so fucking different.
I used to love Friday afternoons in this little shop.
The pleasure of Rocco’s warm towels wrapped around my face.
Feeling like a king while the old man attended to me with the guys all hanging around shooting the shit.
I loved hanging with the big boys. So proud I’d made lieutenant and got to play with the heavy hitters.
I was on the top of the world then. Top of my game.
I had the girl. The money. And a glorified position in the Outfit.
I felt alive. Powerful. There was so much possibility dancing before me.
Only thing different now is the girl. But I got over Grace the day she called and told me she was moving in with Emilio. So why the fuck can’t I find any pleasure?
Arturo, Don Pachino’s right hand man, gives me a scrutinizing look through a billow of smoke. “You don’t look comfortable, Mando. Hard to trust someone with a blade close to your throat after sleeping behind bars?”
Flashbacks of when someone actually was foolish enough to try to attack me in prison come flooding in. I had pissed off the wrong person, but he didn’t know how lethal I could be. He made the mistake of underestimating me, and he paid for it.
“Don Pachino’s been in the business for a long time, Mando.
He knows how to pick his men. You have a reputation for being loyal and careful, which is why he trusts you.
” He pauses and then continues with, “But more than that, he knows you won’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to make sure the job gets done.
You just need to keep your head in the game.
Don’t fuck it up again because you allow that darkness in.
You know what I mean. Fight it off, son. ”
I nod and force a smile. “I’m good Arturo. Nothing to worry about.”
I take a moment to survey the room. It's still filled with the same faces. Familiar ones. Ones who have seen me through thick and thin.
But something is off. I feel it in the air. Tension. Skepticism. A lack of trust that never seemed to be there before.
I understand why. I was in prison for a long time, and while I had the support of the Outfit on the inside, there was still some distance kept.
Regardless of what they said, I know they viewed me as a liability.
There was always a chance I’d rat to save my ass.
They also knew I couldn’t help them if I was behind bars, so they acted as though I didn’t exist.
Now I’m back, and I feel the sizzle of awkwardness in my veins. They don’t know me anymore, and I don’t know them. We are strangers to one another.
“You know,” Arturo begins, “It’s not too late to try and make things right again.”
I furrow my brow in confusion. Make what right? What the hell was he talking about? Make Grace come back? Make the don forget I ever went to prison? Make my incarceration disappear?
Arturo continues, “The don loves you. We all do. You were born for this, Mando. You’re the best of the best. And you should never forget that. You’re still young, you can make it back to the top. Everyone knows it.”
I close my eyes, feeling the warmth from the hot towels against my face.
I feel the sharpness of the blades against my throat, a reminder that I’m still here.
Alive and breathing. As much as it pains me to admit it, I know Arturo is right.
I clawed my way back from the bottom and am still standing.
As long as I’m alive, I can make it to the top.
But at the same time, I’ve been grounded by the don himself. Ordered to keep my nose clean.
The pull of good and evil is strong. The devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other is now my reality.
It takes all my effort to twist a smile onto my face. It’s probably more of a grimace.
Arturo’s statement brings an awkward pause in conversation.
It’s mostly the oldtimers today with only me, Marco and Leo representing the younger generation.
I suspect someone told Emilio to stay away out of respect for me today.
Probably Marco. He looks after me like a second brother.
I’d do the same for him if the tables were turned.
“I’ll bet that shave is gonna feel good, right kid?” one of them says.
“You wet your dick yet?” Angel, another oldtimer, asks. “ Madonna, when I got out, I picked up a girl at the strip club and banged her all night long. For three nights! ” His boom of laughter is joined by several of the other guys’.
I go tense although I don’t know why I’m defensive. Because the thought of fucking doesn’t get the slightest rise out of me? Because life gets zero rise out of me?
Arturo’s still watching me, though. Whatever he sees, I try to hide it.
“You’re not broken up over that girl of yours, are you? The one who’s with Emilio now?”
“Nah,” I say immediately.
Even if I were, I wouldn’t let it show.
Don Pachino warned me: no bullshit with Emilio. Guess I know who ranks higher these days.
Emilio is his sister’s kid. I’m just his wife’s sister’s kid.
Rocco slathers me with more shaving cream. The smell triggers all the old memories but none of the pleasure I used to feel sitting in this chair.
I’m a fucking ghost back to haunt his former life. I can’t actually touch it. Can’t actually taste it. Definitely can’t feel a goddamn thing. My life’s turned to shades of grey. Or maybe it’s still in color but with one of those grainy filters that makes the images dull and cold.
Rocco moves the razor across my skin expertly. I wish Arturo hadn’t brought it up because now all I can think about is how easy it would be for him to slice my jugular.
Would he do it? I used to be so secure in my bond with La Famiglia . The guys in this room could be trusted with my life. We were loyal to each other, to the Outfit. Everyone else, we locked out.
Now I don’t trust any of them. And Rocco’s not in the family.
He’s just an Italian small business owner who benefits from our patronage.
He might hate all our guts. I used to think he treated us like royalty because he loved having us here.
He liked the tips and the business. But who knows?
Maybe he’s just scared like everybody else.
Maybe he’s collecting information, waiting for a moment to rat us all out.
Or maybe I’m in a paranoid mind-fuck I need to escape from.
The shave ends, and I view my image in the mirror. My jaw is smooth, but I look like a fucking corpse. Stone-faced. Dead eyes. Rotted out heart.
I stand and pay.
Arturo calls out when I head straight for the door. “You’re not gonna hang around? What? You got something better to do?”
“Damn straight. He’s gotta find a girl to exercise that dick of his,” Angel chortles.
“Yeah,” I agree. “That.”
Marco and Leo watch me, seeing more than I wanna show. “You don’t need a ride?” Marco asks. He drove me here.
“Nah, I’m good.” I just want to be alone. Get the hell outta here. I lift my hand to them all and walk out.
Fanculo , that was painful. Even the simplest acts of living are like kneeling on sand now.
I gotta figure out how to wake the fuck up.