NICKY
By PHILIP J. MORAN

New York Lawyer
December 1, 2008

Fat Johnny Frye and Little Jimmie Sansone were filling two of the eight stools in the front bar at Chianti’s. Fat Johnny, whose father’s Irish dominated his Mom’s Italian in terms of visage if not demeanor, was leaning forward in an attempt to finish his story. His bald forehead, which gave way to an improbably red fringe in back, glistened even in the bar’s dim light. His cheeks quivered as his story raced ahead. His enthusiasm made him, at least for the time he was sitting, seem taller than his 5’5”. Jimmie and Frank, Frank was part owner and stickman at the Restaurant, were trying to interrupt Fat Johnny’s torrent. It was their unspoken conspiracy to draw the usual grimaces and curses sure to follow when Fat lost his way. It was 3:30 in the afternoon and except for the Guatemalan cooks and a couple of waitresses cleaning up, lunch was over and the joint was empty. It would probably stay that way until the State Offices began discharging the drones after 4:00.

The story Fats was telling was the usual: good guys, bad guys and courts and lawyers. That Fats had told this story many times before detracted not at all from Fats vigor, nor his listeners interest. It’s not just Trenton. In this country, in these days, these topics reached and touched us all. Even before OJ: cops, crooks, crime and courts have dominated our news and monopolized our morality plays. But for Fat Johnny, Jimmie and Frank the Bartender, the focus was local, and most of the Good Fella’s, plenty of the cops and even a few of the victims were friends and acquaintances.

That neither Fats nor Jimmie had actual experience in the lower arts of larceny or the higher arts of white collar crime did little to diminish their claim to inside knowledge. This was Trenton. Lack of any actual knowledge was seldom a hindrance to a good story among old men, on a slow afternoon.

To a casual listener, the stories might seem disjointed, even non-sensical. In part that would be that for our three participants, the stories were often framed in old news and reminiscence, much of that told and re-told over the 20 years that this group had been sitting at this bar. The new “News” in today’s Trentonian, had their attention in proportion not to its intrinsic importance. This new News merited their discussion only in terms of its connection to the “old days”.

As Trenton had aged, it followed the usual pattern. Mexicans and Guatemalans supplanted Puerto Ricans and Blacks in restaurant kitchens. Black Americans replaced the Irish in the police department and at City Hall. Bloods and Crips became the organized families, displacing mob and Angels. Wheels of choice were now Escalades and Magnums, not DeVilles and Town Cars. The employers of choice had once been the mills and potteries. The employer of choice was now State Government. The entry employment had once been as “laborer”, now it was as counterperson at some fast food joint. Where once new immigrants started families and worked to get ahead. Now parents weren’t married, and struggled to just get by. Where once the most desperate stood on corners to sell apples or ask for help, now the most desperate lurked in alleys to shoot up and snort their way to relief. The better class, the doctors and lawyers, the accountants and managers of business no longer lived on West State nor Stuyvesant Avenue. They and their families were now esconced in suburban developments with names taken from Scottish Glens and Irish villages.

Of course, some things had stayed the same. Although protection and drugs and “hoes” and gambling came with new dialects, they kept the same old threats and guilty pleasures. The restaurants in the Chambersburg section still served great food, although more often beans and red sauce, not pasta and pomodoro. Rossi’s Bar and Grill was still on Washington and Morris and Pete Lorenzo’s Café was still across the street from the train station. The Mayor, now almost barricaded in City Hall, was still rumored to be connected, if the connection was to a different gang. The Governor was still in the State House, and still did not see the people on deli stoops and outside Bodegas, as he passed going back to his Princeton mansion. The City still had two daily newspapers. A tabloid which ran pictures of beautiful girls in slutty poses and that carried local stories of fires, crimes and rumor. And the Times, which ran rehashed stories of the nation and the world, mostly just lifted from the AP, shortened and regurgitated for the better class.

But for the three men gathered in Chianti’s, the focus was on none of this. That day, as for so many others, the focus was crime and the principals. The lead story in both papers was that Nicky Naples, aka “Nipples”, had been acquitted. As the three talked, they kept a collective eye on the door waiting for the Honorable Barrister Rigor Mortiss to stop in and give some insight into Nicky’s emancipation and the plans of Rigor’s partner to celebrate another victory.

For a few years now, Nipples had been the reigning minor Lord of the small part of the Philly mob holding sway in Trenton. Shortly after a change in what had been the familiar faces in the local FBI office, Nipples had been indiscrete. He had been around long enough. He should have known better. But he was captured on tape with one of those new undercover “feebees”, conspiring to purchase a few drums of ether. There was no good explanation of the need for ether, except of course as an essential in the production of crystal meth.

For the first 30 years of his mostly useless and quiet life, “Nipples” was known just as a guy that was always around. You’d see him slouching on a corner or leaning against a school wall. He might have a toothpick dangling from his full lips, or be running a comb through the oil slick topping his ears. He listened to the crude jokes the others told, and contrary to common belief, he understood most of them. But he didn’t seem to be of a mind to lead any stories. Mostly, Nicky was just always there, leaning or slouching, 6 foot tall, big boned, and just around.

Pretty much everybody knew that Nicky was connected. His mom was old Chambersburg. His Mom was Pussy Rizzo’s sister and Pussy ran the mob in Trenton. Not that Trenton had its own mob. Trenton was just 60 miles from the city and only 45 miles from Philly. Maybe it was that 15 mile distance, but Trenton since the days when Zookie ran the local cartage company and the Giambino’s had Yellow Cab, was a fiefdom of the Philly mob. In those days that meant the Bruno family, and somehow the Rizzo’s were Bruno’s.

But when his cousin was nailed leaving Chianti’s lunch and Nipple’s Uncle Pussy, was wounded in the same shooting, Nicky Nipples had come to prominence. This was the story Fats was retelling, pointing to the bullet scars on the bars wall, to make his point. The moral of Pussy’s story for Fats, was that routine kills, not just the spirit but the body. Pussy and his son had made every Wednesday, and Chianti’s “Posilippo Pulpo” special, too regular an event.

All of Trenton knew that Frankie Guanatano was the shooter. But Pussy had refused to allow the bullet in his back to be removed. When the bullet in his son, the late heir apparent, was examined, it was too mangled for forensic use. The State tried. They urged Pussy to cooperate, to assist in the prosecution of his son’s killer. Predictably, that song played off-key with Pussy’s tenor. They went to Court for a warrant to remove the lead from Pussy’s shoulder. But it was Pussy’s shoulder, and that didn’t fly. Eventually they got an Order prohibiting Pussy from disposing of that bullet without turning it over to the State. But long before that eventuality occurred, Frankie Guanatano was stale news.

It was at this point that Rigor walked in and the games began in earnest.

“He-e-ey Mister Rig, congratulations”, gleamed Frankie’s soft baritone. Little Jimmie Sansone, tried to get Rig up to speed on that days history lesson: “Fat Johnny was jes tellin us about how Nipples whacked Frankie Guanatano.” Rig smiled, held up a hand and turned to order the scotch/rocks Frankie Chianti was already pouring.

“Where’s your partner”, Johnny injected. Is “he comminin to celebrate teday”.

“Danny will be along within the hour, he had a few last minute things to wrap up and then he’s goin by the office to bring in the girls for a celebratory cocktail.”

“Hey Rig, I read in de paper about Danny’s closing. Did he really say that de State’s teorey was bad cause Nipples wasn’t dat smart?”

“Well Johnny, trust me it was a little more involved than that. Danny’s whole defense was based on the argument that the prosecutor, particularly that cop, DaVinci, was ambitious, and had not only exaggerated so much, but had crossed over and actually manufactured the evidence against Nicky.”

“It was one of those cases where the State tried to use so much evidence and every witness they had, so that there was inevitably inconsistencies. Danny just pounded on those inconsistencies to the point that the jury couldn’t figure out what to believe, so they threw up their hands and acquitted.”

“Yeah but I heard dat Nicky was mad dat Danny said he was stupid” answered Johnny.

“No, No, I’m telling you that’s not what Danny said, he was arguing that the State’s theory was too complex, that they were suggesting too much in the conspiracy count.”

“Well maybe, but I herd dat Nicky was mad.”

“Johnny, how mad can he be, if he got to walk outta the court, answered Frankie. This is what, the third time Danny got him a walk, how mad can he be. Anyway, I talked to Nicky earlier, he said he might come by to have a drink with Danny later.”

Little Jimmy followed up, “Nicky said that, he was gonna come by for a drink.” There was a puzzled expression on his round face. “Well den I guess hes OK wit it all.” He shrugged.

Rigor finished:“Yeah, part of the celebration, anyway he still owes Danny on the fee, you know Nicky is superstitious and likes to pay the last installment only when its all over, and even then he’ll want to bargain for a discount or get Danny to promise some other favor”

At that moment, the door opened. The two secretaries strolled in, Nanci laughing over her shoulder at something Kitty had just said. They were of similar size, both 5-2 or 3, and both size two’s. They differed in color, Kitty was blond and fair while Nanci was brunette and darker. They differed too in that while Kittys frame stretched her blouse and pulled at the buttons, Nanci was so thin and small as to let the fabric shift and slide with only the occasional defining ripple. But they were both obviously Trenton. They shared those most common Trenton girl characteristics: ready laughs, great mouths and just the right amount of too much eye make up.

Frankie Chianti straightened up and talked over the welcomes and greetings: “Ladies, what can I get you?”

Although there were seats at the other end of the bar, Fat Johnny and Jimmie, stood and pulled out their stools for the girls. As Frankie, pulled together their gin and tonics, the girls wiggled up to the bar and pulled down the hems of their skirts. Fat Johnny offered the obvious: “Weez was talkin about Nicky and da trial”.

Nanci perked up: “Was ya talkin about Danny’s suit, I told ‘im to wear the Blue suit for the closin.” “No” answered Johnny, “we was focusin on the strategy of the case, and Rigor was fillin us in.” Nanci looked dubious: “Well I guess that’s important too”.

Rig picked up: “Danny always figures that if the trial goes long enough, and the Prosecutor, especially a young Prosecutor falls into the trap of trying to fit every piece of evidence, good, bad and indifferent into his case, Danny will find a way to work it out.

Danny calls it the Young Prosecutors Disease, Young Prosecutors seem to believe either that if the Police gave it to them it must be important, or, if they got it and use it and they fail, at least no one will second guess them for not using it. Either way, they just can’t help themselves.”

“But I don’t see how that hooks up with calling Nicky stupid”; answered Fat Johnny.

Rig was quick: “I already told you Danny never said that Nicky was stupid.”

“Look Fat, try and understand this. The Feds had Nicky on tape and on film working a deal to buy two 55 gallon drums of ether. The only use of ether that anyone knows that is legal, is in those spray cans you shoot into your carburetor to get the engine started in the Winter.

Now Nicky’s got a new Caddy. It’s the middle of July. There is no way Danny can argue to the Jury, that Nicky needs two drums of ether to get his car started next January. Danny needs to change the issue, he’s not going to try to answer a question like “Why would Nicky need to buy that Ether?” There is no good answer to that question. He’s not going to try to tell the jury that Nicky’s a rocket scientist who’s experimenting with this ether. No one looking at Nicky and listening to Nicky on that tape is ever going to believe that.

The answer for Danny is to ask another question, to make the jury ask themselves, Why would anyone in their right mind ask a guy that looks like a little Fed agent (remember the Agent comes to Court in his best brown polyester Sears suit) How do I buy barrels of Ether?

So Danny asks: “What did this guy say that we are not hearing?’ After Danny asks the questions often enough, he then plants the doubt: “Maybe this feebie is just taking advantage of this dim wit to advance his career and build his statistics.”

At this point Fat Johnny tried to interject his insight: “So Danny called Nicky a dim-wit?”

Rig started choking and had to reach for the glass of water that Frankie had anticipated his needing.

At this point Nanci returned to the subject that interested her: “I bet Nicky Nipples was Happy to see that Danny wore the Blue suit, Danny always wins when he wears that suit.” When none of the party seemed inclined to follow that fashion lead, Nanci turned to other issues in her World. “Say I wonder how Nicky got that nickname anyway?”

Fat Johnny was so happy to see the conversation returning to the niceties of Trenton history that he presumed to know. He almost tumbled from his seat rising to answer. “It’s a long story Missie, he got the name when he was a kid at Junior Two.”

“No, No , No”, interrupted Jimmie. “Nicky never went to Junior Two, he was from Anderson Street, Anderson Street goes to Junior Three,he got that nickname when he was a kid on Anderson Street.

Fat Johnny almost stood up reacting to this challenge. It took a minute until we all realized that Kittie had squealed another answer. “Its account hees got maximum-moo-moo-moollarys.”

The room was silent. Kittie realized everyone was waiting for her to explain. So she did. “Well a long time ago, before I was with Carl, I went out with Nicky.”

Rig’s right eyebrow lurched up as Kittie sat back. After a pause, Rig managed to gasp: “and that means?”

“OOOh, Nicky’s got big tits, he like even straps them down under his shirt.”

Everyone turned to their drinks or seemed to be looking at the floor. It took a while before Nanci started laughing. Once that water broke, we were all in danger of hurting ourselves. Just when it had started to quiet, Nanci blurted out: “What cup size?” and we were again convulsed.

Within no more than a minute, Danny and Nicky could be heard talking as they entered the Bar. There was some tension in Danny’s voice. I figured that the subject was the fee. Trailing behind was Nicky’s driver and syncophant du jour “Marty Bags”.

Nicky and Danny tried to stand outside the door to finish their conversation. It wasn’t possible. This was their moment of triumph and of course, everyone else claimed to share in it. Nicky and Danny turned and acknowledged the crowd, augmented now by the Italian members of the kitchen and wait staff. Happy Hour was starting and more revelers, those released from their hourly ties to the State and now needing adult conversation, and those just looking for Danny and Nicky, were rolling through and stopping at the Bar. Frankie Chianti couldn’t stop smiling as he worked the sticks, poured wine, greeted customers and made the register ring. Over the next hour, twixt congratulations and rounds, nothing really got done.

Nicky and Bags stood in the alcove just off the bar. That spot let Nicky see across the barroom and into the main dining room. Bags, smaller than Nicky and squeezed behind and craned to see and be seen while he feigned boredom. The space gave Nicky room to receive the regular line of well wishers and favor seekers who came over to whisper to the big man.

For the next hour or so Fat Johnnie and Little Jimmie took turns looking over at Nicky and than whispering. They were laughing and elbowing each other. Nicky was watching them. His face never changed. He didn’t smile, nor frown, but over that hour his dark eyes seemed to grow darker.

Nicky turned and whispered to Bags. They both looked at Jimmie and Johnnie, then Nicky whispered more.

Bags slithered through the crowd and over to the bar. He took a position behind Johnnie’s stool and leaned in. He grumbled: “Wass-a-matter wid you two funny guys. Wadge youse mamalukas laughin ‘bout.” At the same time he forced Jimmie’s stool against the bar. Jimmie spilled his drink.

Jimmie reacted and started to rise and push back. But Johnnie put his hand on his leg and Jimmie thought better of that. He tried to relax and Johnnie tried to settle the issue. “Nuttin. We was laufin at nuttin, anyways.”

Bags pushed harder. “Well youse better stop it, it ain’t healty to be laufin at nuttin anyways.

Rig who was still at the bar whispered to be cool, and Bags looked him up and down before he slid back to Nicky’s side. Johnnie and Jimmie didn’t look back at Nicky again. For the moment they concentrated on their drinks. Jimmie’s face was flushed down to his gold chains. Rig seemed puzzled, he hadn’t been aware of Jimmie and Johnnie still chewing on Nicky’s issue.

Frankie who had seen the encounter from behind the bar, brought Jimmie a new drink.

That area of the bar was colder now, and a short while later, Nicky made to leave and Danny signaled Frankie to get a table in the back dining room.

Just before Nicky led Bags out the door, Danny stumbled into the coat room. Nicky slipped Danny an inch thick envelope. There wasn’t any counting, but from Danny’s grin of welcome, it was clear that Mr. Green had entered the room. Rigor was watching just outside the door, and after Nicky left, Danny passed him the envelope for safe keeping. Given the time and Danny’s serious commitment to celebrating victories, this was more sensible of Danny than most would expect.

Danny moved over near the girls, while Rigor returned to the bar between Fat Johhnie and Tony Willie who had just cadged a seat. Tony Willie, actually the Cops and Courts Reporter for the local tabloid, had also arrived and would be in attendance for the balance of the evening.

Tony smiled: Good move Rig, in his mood you’d expect Danny and Mr. Green to quickly part, although not the way you just collected the profits. Rig smiled a welcome, and turned to Jimmie and Johnnie. At that point Frankie came over with Tony’s drink and Rig asked about the shoving and Bags.

Jimmie still hot, pushed in to answer: “Bags is nuthin. He’s just a gofer with nuthin goin except Nicky’s shadaa.”

“Jimmie you caused the problem, you too talking and laughin like a couple of Mulians. Whats wrong with you.”

Jimmie came back at Frank: “Hes nuthin, didn’t Nicky break his nose last year. Didn' he?”

“Yeah he broke his nose but he broke it for not waitin for orders and poundin that little Mulian for starting his own string wid out getting permission. All dat proves is - it idn’t smart to not wait for Nicky.”

At that moment Bags came back into the bar, and Rig ended the discussion, sotto voce: “Not smart, and never healthy”.

Frankie had set up the big table in the back room. By now the crowd around Danny was ten or eleven of the regulars, counting the rest of the office and a couple or three more Trenton girls. I couldn’t be sure but during the processional back to the Table, it looked like Danny’s hand was on Kittie’s rear. Rig didn’t look too happy with this. In any event once all were all seated. It was Danny and Rig and Kittie and Tony at the far end of the table.

Before the menus were produced, plates of appetizers came out family style. Joey and Vinnie, the chefs were right behind to chat and accept thanks for getting us off. Danny ordered a couple of bottles of red and a few more of the house Pinot Grigio, and the rest of the group tuckered in. The dining room was normally quieter, but tonight with everyone high on the win and the wine, you could hardly hear. Tony was trying for something inside that he could use for the late edition. He laughed when he heard of Kittie’s insight, but that story wouldn’t be making even the Trentonian. But as Tony had basically sat the whole trial there wasn’t much that Danny could offer.

Tony, as born to the inquisition as any Benedictine, turned to Rigor and picked up an old conversation: I know you and Danny met in Law School, how’d that happen?

We met the first day of Law School. I had just gotten out of the army, I don’t know, maybe a week before that day. Anyway, My hair was still short and I think Danny recognized the GI issue glasses. Anyway, it was 1972 and Danny was just out too, although longer than me. After the first lecture he walked over and just came up to me and the first thing out of his mouth was something like: “Hey with that hair you must be just outaa the army, me too, but I ain’t gonna cut my hair again until it touches my ass.”

We ended up sitting next to each other for every class that first year. We both liked to sit in the back and Danny was always cutting up those guys sitting up front. Danny was as quick and as funny then as now, and we’ve been friends ever since.

Tony just leaned back and smiled. You could see the wheels spinning as he filed that small bit away. Tony continued: “I can’t imagine Danny with long hair, Every Wednesday he’s not in trial you’ll find him on Warren Street listening to Joey Sylvester’s clippers and comedy.”

Mentioning Trenton’s favorite barber made Rigor smile and maybe a bit less cautious talking with a reporter. Anyway, as the food came, and the volume at the table declined, Rig and Tony settled in for a long round of stories and tall tales of those first years Danny and Rig were together.

It was after 12:00 before the party finally broke up. Kittie pulled back and left with Nancy. Trenton girls are often smarter than Trenton boys want to hope. Tony and Rig left together but lingered in the parking lot with promises to continue the discussion, tell more stories, the next time. Tony, as was his usual practice, probably left to stop by the paper before he went to bed. When they left, the only two still in the bar were Danny and Frankie sharing a last call before calling it quits. No different than a dozen other late nights, there’d be more stories tomorrow and all knew they’d be laughing again over Kittie’s revelation.

We were all wrong on that score. Funny no one called me. I didn’t know anything was up until later that day. I hear Rig was called by the alarm company who said that there was an entry into the office. Of course, he went in. He told us later that it was a little after four when he got to the office. Danny’s cousin Vinnie, the cop, was there. There were two other cars. As Rigor walked over, he joked to Vinnie,: “big turn out for a break-in.” But Vinnie didn’t smile. He just told Rig that Danny was dead. Rig figured that Danny was in the office and started in. But Vinnie stopped him and said no, that Danny was in the lot behind Chianti’s

What? Why? Was all Rig could say. He looked smaller and older than a minute before the news.

“We don’t know, but I’ll take you over.”

So they both got in Vinnie’s Ford and drove over to Chianti’s.

It was going to be light in another hour and a half, but they were setting up floodlights. A few of the neighbors were hanging around but none of our crowd.

He was just lying there. A dark stain under his head reflected the lights. His jacket was pulled back and the inside breast pockets pulled out. You could see the white lining. It was crazy. Rig asked: why do they use white for the pockets and not the same lining as everywhere else? I don’t know what he was thinking.

One of the Detectives came over to Danny’s cousin: “Sorry Captain, we’re gonna process the scene now.” Vinnie asked if it was a robbery, but the Detective didn’t answer in front of Rig. Later we learned that Danny’s wallet and watch were untouched.

Anyway, it was a heck of a wake. Most of Trenton seemed to be there. Not just the semi-professional mourners, the Sheriff and other politicians who came to every funeral of note. But all kinds and all sides stepped up to the coffin. Danny had no real enemies. Sure there were some cops and Feebies he ruffled, and they were always bitching about his being on the dark side. But both sides were there. There were lots of flowers. Nicky sent a big horseshoe arrangement with a ribbon and “Good Luck”. The flowers looked a little wilted.

As for the whack: nobody was ever charged. The cops couldn’t see a motive.

Jimmie and Johnnie still tell the story. They figure it was some eggplant or druggie who panicked and ran. That happens a lot in that neighborhood now.

Nicky? Well he was still around, at least for a few more years. He got done by some disappointed wanna-be. But that’s another tale.

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