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“What’d King Benny say?” Carol asked.

  “He didn’t say anything,” I said. “He walked back into his club and closed the door.”

  “We stole from everybody we liked,” Tommy said, finishing a mug of beer.

  “So what’s changed?” Carol asked, watching me pour her a fresh glass of wine.

  “We had enough cuts to make an album,” I said. “We ripped off Frankie Valli, Dion, Bobby Darin.”

  “The cream,” Carol said.

  “Only with us it was sour cream,” Tommy said.

  “Let’s do a song from our album,” Michael said, leaning across the table, smiling. “For Carol.”

  “Don’t you guys have to go out and shoot somebody?” Carol said, hiding her face in her hands.

  “We always got time for a song,” John said, standing and leaning against the wall.

  “You pick it, Mikey,” Tommy said, standing next to Johnny. “Nothin’ too slow. We wanna keep Carol on her toes.”

  “Let’s do ‘Walk Like a Man,’” Michael said. “Shakes does a good Valli on that one.”

  “Back us up,” I said to Carol, handing her two soupspoons. “Hit these against some glasses when I point.”

  “Not too loud,” Carol said, looking through the doorway behind her. “Some people might be eating.”

  “We sing better in men’s rooms,” Tommy said. “The walls there hold the sound.”

  “There’s one downstairs,” Carol said. “I’ll wait here.”

  “This is like the Beatles getting together again,” I said.

  Carol just snorted.

  The four of us huddled in a corner of the room, me in front. Michael, Tommy, and John each kept one hand on my shoulder, snapping their fingers to an imaginary beat. Carol sat back in her chair, looked at the four of us, and smiled.

  She clapped her hands as we started to sing “Walk Like a Man” in our best Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons voices.

  Then we all cupped a hand to an ear, fingers still snapping, and hit all the right a cappella notes.

  Carol stood on her chair and slapped the spoons against the side of her leg, mixing in with the beat.

  Three waiters stood in the doorway and joined in.

  Two diners standing behind them whistled their approval.

  The bartender drummed his hands against the counter and handed out free drinks to all.

  An elderly couple, in for a late-night espresso, wrapped their arms around each other and danced.

  It was our special night and we held it for as long as we could. It was something that belonged to us. A night that would be added to our long list of memories.

  It was our happy ending.

  And it was the last time we would ever be together again.

  24

  EARLY ON THE morning of March 16, 1984, John Reilly’s bloated body was found faceup in the hallway of a tenement on West 46th Street. His right hand held the neck of the bottle of lethal boiler-room gin that killed him. He had six dollars in the front pocket of his black leather coat and a ten-dollar bill in the flap of his hunter’s shirt. A .44-caliber bulldog nestled at the base of his spine and a stiletto switchblade was jammed inside his jeans.

  At the time of his death, he was a suspect in five unsolved homicides.

  He was two weeks past his thirty-second birthday.

  Thomas “Butter” Marcano died on July 26, 1985. His body was found in an empty cabin in upstate New York, five bullets shot into his head at close range. The body lay undiscovered for more than a week, the heat of summer and the gnashing of animals rushing its decay. There was little in the cabin beyond a dozen empty beer cans, two bottles of Dewar’s, and three fully loaded semiautomatics. There was a crucifix and a picture of St. Jude in the pocket of Butter’s crew-neck shirt.

  Thomas Marcano was thirty-three years old.

  Michael Sullivan lives in a small town in the English countryside, where he works part-time as a carpenter. On his infrequent visits to New York he has never returned to Hell’s Kitchen. He no longer practices law and has never married. He lives quietly and alone.

  He is forty-four years old.

  Carol Martinez still works for a social service agency and still lives in Hell’s Kitchen. She too has never married, but is a single mother supporting a growing twelve-year-old son. The boy, John Thomas Michael Martinez, loves to read and is called Shakes by his mother.

  Neighbors all say he has his mother’s smile and her dark olive eyes.

  The rest of his features come from his father, John Reilly.

  Carol Martinez is forty-three years old.

  Father Robert Carillo is the monsignor of an upstate New York parish, where he still plays basketball every day. He keeps in touch with all his boys and is always there when needed.

  He prays every day for the boys he lost.

  Father Bobby is sixty years old.

  King Benny lives in a home for the elderly in Westchester County, miles from his Hell’s Kitchen kingdom. He still drinks strong coffee, hiding his stash from the duty nurses charged to his care. He still hates to talk and suffers from Italian Alzheimer’s. “I forget everything these days,” he says. “Everything except my enemies.”

  King Benny is seventy-eight years old.

  Fat Mancho suffered a mild stroke in the middle of August 1992. It left his right hand numb and blinded him in his right eye. He passed the bodega on to a nephew, but still takes half the profits. He divides his time between his three Hell’s Kitchen apartments and a new house in Queens.

  He still bets on stickball games.

  Fat Mancho is seventy-two years old.

  Sean Nokes was shot to death in a back booth in the Shamrock Pub on November 6, 1979. His killers have yet to be apprehended.

  Sean Nokes was thirty-seven years old at the time of his death.

  Adam Styler was fired from the New York Police Department on February 22, 1982, brought up on corruption and murder charges. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to a twelve-year prison term as part of a plea-bargain agreement. He served eight of those years in a maximum security prison. He was transferred to a minimum security facility only after a fourth attempt on his life left him paralyzed from the waist down. He was paroled in the spring of 1991 and now lives in a New Jersey suburb in a home for the disabled.

  Adam Styler is fifty years old.

  Henry Addison resigned from his job as community outreach director working for the mayor of the City of New York in the spring of 1980. He found work in a downtown investment banking firm. After six months of impressive earnings, he was in line for a promotion. On New Year’s Day, 1982, his body was found in a marsh off a La Guardia Airport runway. Autopsy reports indicated he was beaten and tortured to death.

  His killer or killers have never been found.

  Henry Addison was thirty-six years old.

  Ralph Ferguson’s wife filed for divorce soon after he testified at John and Tommy’s trial, gaining custody of their only child. He quit his job and fled the state, fearful of being brought up on multiple charges of child endangerment and rape. He eventually settled in California and, under another name, opened a hardware business. A second marriage ended when his wife was informed of her husband’s true identity and hidden past. The business closed after a fire gutted it in 1989. He now works as a shoe salesman in the San Francisco area. He lives alone, is heavily in debt, and has trouble sleeping at night.

  He was the man brought to me by King Benny in 1993 to beg my forgiveness. I lived for nearly a year afraid of his every move. He will live the rest of his days equally afraid of mine.

  Ralph Ferguson is forty-nine years old.

  In the fall of 1982, a board of inquiry impaneled by the New York State Department of Juvenile Justice looked into allegations of abuse at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. They were confronted by a list of forty-seven witnesses, including the parents of three boys who died under the care of the institution and a dozen guards who were witness to a variety of assaults. In a report condemning
all past and present directors of the Wilkinson Home for Boys, the board of inquiry called for a complete and total overhaul of the system and method of operations at the juvenile facility. A new warden was appointed and video cameras were installed on every block. Inmate privileges were extended and the hole was eliminated. Even the cells were freshly painted.

  Edward Goldenberg “Little Caesar” Robinson is serving a life sentence in a maximum security prison in upstate New York, convicted on charges of drug trafficking and murder in 1990. He will be eligible for parole in twenty-one years. He was never questioned in the murder of Henry Addison.

  Edward Goldenberg “Little Caesar” Robinson is fifty-one years old.

  Gregory “Marlboro” Wilson retired on a full pension and lives on a Pennsylvania farm. He spends his days reading books, writing letters to his children, and playing cards with friends. Every Christmas he gets two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes from a Sleeper who remembers.

  Gregory “Marlboro” Wilson is sixty-three years old.

  I am now forty years old, with a wife and two children. I love my wife and adore my son and daughter. My family has helped me escape from many of the pains of my past. But the haunting memories of childhood are always close at hand. My body is older than its years, and my mind is filled more with horror than with the pleasures of life. The dreams I have are still vivid, the nightmares painful, the fears steady. The nighttime hours always carry a sense of dread.

  I sometimes feel that the lucky Sleepers are the ones who died.

  They no longer have to live with the memories.

  They are free of the dreams.

  “Many’s the road I have walked upon

  Many’s the hour between dusk and dawn

  Many’s the time

  Many’s the mile

  I see it all now

  Through the eyes of a child.”

  —Van Morrison—

  “Take It Where You Find It”

  Epilogue Summer 1966

  REUBEN, A PUERTO Rican kid with dark, curly hair and tight gray slacks, the crease sharp enough to cut skin, was the favorite to win the contest and the $50 first prize. He stood in a corner of the gym, his back to the three-piece band, chewing gum, sneaking puffs on a Viceroy, waiting for the disc jockey onstage to signal a start to the school-sponsored Chubby Checker King Twister competition.

  “He looks good,” I said, staring over at Reuben. “He looks ready to win.”

  “He looks like he seen West Side Story a couple of times too many,” Johnny said.

  “He won’t figure you to be any good, Shakes,” Michael said. “Since he don’t know you.”

  “I don’t figure you to be any good neither,” Tommy said, putting an arm around my shoulder. “And I know you.”

  “He’s got you beat on the shoes,” John said. “He’s wearing those roach stompers. They’re good twist shoes. They got a light look, but good soles.”

  “Who are you, Thom McAn?” I asked. “The shoes I got are okay.”

  “Who else is in this?” Michael asked. “Outside of him.”

  “Three Irish guys from Forty-sixth Street,” Tommy said.

  “They any good?” I asked.

  “I hear they’re pretty stupid,” Tommy said.

  “Now you need to go to college to do the twist?” Michael asked.

  “They just signed on as a goof,” Tommy said. “Make each other laugh. These guys couldn’t get laid in a women’s prison.”

  “There’s that goofy kid from the pizza place,” I said. “I hear he signed up.”

  “I know him,” John said. “He’s got all those zits and that black shit on his teeth. I make sure he never touches any of my slices.”

  “Anybody else?” Michael asked.

  “That black kid who spits when he talks,” Tommy said. “The one whose father just got shot.”

  “They might give it to him just for that,” I said. “Start feelin’ sorry for him.”

  “Don’t worry, Shakes,” Michael said. “We see the vote goin’ that way, we’ll have somebody stab you.”

  “Not too deep,” I said. “I need this shirt for school.”

  “Just deep enough to win,” Michael said.

  The gym’s overhead lights were turned off, the spotlights shining on the center of the floor. Eighty or more kids surrounded the circle, many of the boys and girls holding hands, some sneaking soft kisses in the dark.

  “Will the twist contestants please enter the circle,” the disc jockey ordered from the stage, his jacket tight around his shoulders, his pants cuffed, white socks sagging below the ankles.

  “Go get ’em, Shakes,” Tommy said, patting me on the back.

  “Anybody gets close to us, we push,” John said. “Knock ’em off balance.”

  “We’ll be here waitin’ for you, Shakes,” Michael said. “Win or lose.”

  “We can’t let you go out there without a good-luck kiss,” Carol Martinez said, easing her way through the crowd to join our group. She was wearing a white dress with black shoes and white lace stockings. Her long, dark hair was done up in a ponytail.

  “You give it to him,” Michael said. “We already kissed him once today.”

  Carol put her arms around my neck and kissed me firmly on the lips.

  “Kiss or no kiss,” Tommy said, “we ain’t cuttin’ her in on the prize money.”

  “You’re nothin’ but heart,” John said.

  Each contestant was placed under one of the six spotlights, the circle large enough to give us all room to dance. I was sandwiched between the kid from the pizza parlor and one of the Irish guys from 46th, still in his St. Agnes school uniform. Reuben was across from me, a relaxed look on his face, a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth. The tall black kid, the best-dressed of the group, was the only one who looked nervous.

  “C’mon, everybody!” the disc jockey shouted in a poor Chubby Checker imitation. “Clap your hands, we’re gonna do the twist and it goes like this.”

  Chubby Checker’s joyful voice boomed out of the faulty sound system and we began to twist, cheered on by the screams and cries of our friends in the crowd. We all kept it simple at the start, except for the three Irish guys, who tossed in spins and whirls to impress the audience.

  It was an easy contest to lose. If you fell, missed your motion, or stopped twisting, you were automatically bounced. Barring that, the disc jockey, the designated twist judge, walked among the dancers and tapped out those he felt were not up to the demands of the dance.

  It would take less than twenty minutes to declare a winner.

  The Irish kid in the St. Agnes uniform was the first out, losing his balance on a one-knee twist. One of his friends followed soon after, trying to do a foot and hand move that backfired.

  “They’re Irish,” Tommy said, laughing and nudging Michael. “Just like you.”

  “They’re stupid too,” Michael said. “Just like you.”

  By the third go-around I was getting winded, sweat coming off my face and back, the heat of the spotlights and the constant movement causing the faces around me to blur. Reuben kept his pace steady, his eyes on me, every so often flashing a smile to show he was in the game and breathing easy.

  By the end of “Twistin’ U.S.A.” the kid from the pizza parlor grabbed his side, stopped dancing, and walked out of the circle. A short girl reached toward him, put her arms around his waist, and kissed his cheek.

  “You see that?” John asked with a look of disgust. “She kissed him on the zits.”

  “A connect-the-dot face has a girlfriend and I go to movies alone,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “Is that fair?”

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  Reuben was moving faster now, shaking down lower, twisting his body till his knees seemed to be waxing the floor. The toothpick was still in his mouth and a sneer had replaced the smile, his confidence building with every beat.

  The black kid was all sweat and little style, his legs starting to cramp, the overhead lig
hts bothering him more with each move. He was favoring his right knee, wincing whenever he went down on it.

  The disc jockey, hands folded behind his back, walked over and whispered something in his ear. The black kid looked at him and nodded. He stopped dancing and limped off the floor.

  “Poor guy,” Carol said. “His knee must be really bad.”

  “His father takin’ a bullet meant nothin’,” Tommy said.

  “You gotta have somebody die to catch a break in this contest,” John said.

  It was now down to three dancers.

  I figured I had enough left in me for five more good minutes. Any more, and they could use the fifty dollars to bury me. Reuben looked like he could twist all night, with or without the music.

  “Let’s hear it for these guys that are left,” the disc jockey shouted. “The twisting kings of New York City.”

  The Irish kid stopped dancing to applaud along with the crowd and was forced to leave the contest.

  “That guy’s dumber than a plant,” Johnny said.

  “The deejay?” Tommy asked. “Or the Irish kid?”

  “Both,” Michael said.

  “All right, boys, let’s see what you got,” the disc jockey said to me and Reuben. “You’re the only ones left.”

  I was soaked through with sweat, my shirt sticking to my chest and back, my hair matted to my face. My jeans were loose and the sweat around my waist made them looser. Even my shoes were starting to slip on the gym floor.

  I had a few moves left and started to use them, twisting down on one knee, leaving the free leg up. Through the darkness, my end of the crowd reacted with applause and whistles.

  I moved as low to the ground as I could, still twisting, then planted my hands between my legs, did a split, and brought them back up to twist position.

  “That’s it,” Tommy said. “That’s what you gotta show ’em. They eat that Fred Astaire shit up.”

  “The Puerto Rican has to make his move now,” Michael said. “Or take the loss.”

  “What happens if he swallows that toothpick?” John asked.

  “We win,” Michael said.

  Reuben made his move, but it was the wrong one.