Wiseguy

by Nicholas Pileggi

At that point I had been writing about organized-crime figures for most of my career as a journalist and had gotten bored with the egomaniacal ravings of illiterate hoods masquerading as benevolent Godfathers.

It was just that stuff that was stolen always tasted better than anything bought.

Jimmy could corrupt a saint.

He said bribing cops was like feeding elephants at the zoo. ‘All you need is peanuts.’

You got no business? Fuck you, pay me. You had a fire? Fuck you, pay me. The place got hit by lightning and World War Three started in the lounge? Fuck you, pay me.

I was terrified. It was the guy who had been bad, but I was ashamed.

Henry had done so well with the religious instructions that we had a nice Jewish wedding. Even my grandmother was almost happy.

But the kid apparently couldn’t believe he would ever get killed. The dead ones never did.

He was the kind of guy who was being so tough he managed to find a bootleg hooch to drink thirty years after Prohibition.

Finally we left our suitcases there and went to the Colombia Restaurant, in Ybor City, the old Cuban section of town, where Casey and his cousin turned out to be local celebrities.