Stain [H.S] - Major Editing

35

"Not too good," he looked at me over the rim of his mug, "Harry did tell you that he and I are..." he nodded his head for emphasis, "did he?"

I shrugged. "He told me what I needed to know."

"Good, 'cause I want to tell you something about New York."

"Go for it."

He hopped up and sat on the counter. "Well, as you know, Mafia business is pretty damn nasty. Those McGregor guys over there, they've been through hell and back. We survive because we trust one another. The secret here is to never rat on your friends and always keep your mouth shut. That's the golden rule. That's what makes us proper gangsters. Real ones. The ones with class."

"But, as I walked around New York," he continued, eyes now distant and cold, "I've realized that things have drastically changed for the worst. I mean, nowadays kids born in the 90s think they're gangsters if they carry a little pocket knife, sag their pants down low, and rob people for just a couple of bucks. Complete fuckheads. The real gangsters are cold-blooded, and black hearted. Completely fucked up in the head. Scary, but true. A few have short tempers, but most of them are very quiet. You don't hear about them much anymore because they've become smarter, they don't talk or say much. They secretly control everything...just behind the scenes. This new generation of gangsters – these kids, these road pricks – they're giving us a bad name, you know what I mean?"

I nodded. I really liked how his classic Brooklyn accent became more and more distinct as he spoke. He actually sounded like a character from The Sopranos or something. Didn't know if he was faking it or not though.

"I don't want to, scare you or anything," he said seriously. "It's just very important for me to tell you the difference between Louis Tomlinson's men and ours. There's a thick line between fuckheads and mentally deranged animals. We care about our families, the brethren, the crew; they don't care about anything at all."

I nodded again.

He grinned. "You're taking this remarkably well. I'm impressed."

"Oh I'm used to the scary stuff," I said. But really, I felt sick inside. My stomach was going to roll over and come out my throat.

We were silent for a while. I could hear the gutters outside the window overflowing.

Jeff hopped off the counter in one graceful move. "Remember when I told you Morrison's a good man? God, I was so wrong!"

"We all were," I said and he looked at me; there was a strange softness in his eyes that I would never forget.

"Well, if you don't have any questions then I'll-"

"How did you and Harry meet?" I asked him suddenly.

He was taken aback a bit. He took a moment to regain himself. After clearing his throat he said, "We met in Prague. We both studied economics. Took us a long time to realize that we were both of the blood. We were formally introduced during one of the Family meetings. It was really awkward, knowing that your classmate's a Mafioso. It's a small world we live in."

I nodded. "This is all bloodline stuff, right? Passed down from generation to generation? Like, if your uncles and grandfathers are city gangsters then you have to be one too?"

"Sorta'. My forefathers were city gangsters but I wasn't officially a made man until I was twenty four. See, you have to prove yourself worthy in order to be considered. You have to be of Italian descent, you have to be faithful, independent, rich, and most of all, you have to be tightlipped. Silent as a church mouse pissing on cotton. If anything, this is what sets us apart from those morons."