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Who Will Weep For Me
Who Will Weep For Me
Who Will Weep For Me
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Who Will Weep For Me

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Being half-Jewish half-Italian in 1950’s high school was unique for Massachusetts Medford High Schooler Michael Waxman. Both Italians and Jews shared clannish ethnic bonding from their strong sense of family and persecution as minorities. Waxman finds identity with his Jewish teenage friends through a Hebrew youth organization called the AZA while retaining his Italian upbringing lifestyle in Little Italy in South Medford. Any anti-Semitism by Italian teens is countered by Waxman’s friend and gangster classmate, Carli Santo. Surprisingly, Santo allies with Waxman and four of his Jewish friends while still nurturing his mob-like upbringing.
In parallel time, Boston Latin School honor student Edmund Sorelli lives in Italian East Boston with his blonde unwed nurse mother. Sorelli studies hard as an outlet for his sense of isolation and sense of non-family as his mother frequents bars, men and booze on Saturday nights. Rosaly Sorelli doesn’t know who Edmund’s father was and doesn’t care. She doesn’t understand her son’s anger and rage at her lifestyle and his sense of being different from his classmates. Sorelli vows to punish his mother and any girl at Boston Latin who behaves like her.
Since high school graduation, the five Medford High students who had bonded closely continue to meet on a monthly basis at the College Deli in Somerville, Massachusetts. Each member has chosen a career path in which three are still within the education process. Michael Waxman is now a third-year medical student at Boston University and shares graduate school stories and angst with his high school friend and third-year dental student, Wendell Golden. Melvin Slinger chose a legal direction and is finishing Harvard Law School.
Two of the group are already set in their adult livelihood. Carli Santo, the only non-Jew, had been in the auto-mechanical vocational high school program and apprenticed to a mob-connected chop-shop auto dealer and now has his own non-legal business. The female of the group, Deborah Sterling is a young nurse eight years out of high school still single and without romantic attachments.
Edmund Sorelli has left the Army Military Police with a trail of three murders in Europe–each victim a blonde young nurse. He laughs and scoffs at the futile efforts of the Boston Police and the FBI to profile and find him as he continues his quest to prevent women like his mother from duplicating his illegitimate-child status.
Life appears stable for all until Michael Waxman stares aghast at the projected slides of the 7th murder victim of the Boston Stocking killer during forensic pathology class. It’s Deborah Sterling. Waxman brings the news to an emergency meeting at the College Deli and from the gloom of grief comes a resolve to seek out and destroy their close friend’s murderer.
Mel Slinger uses his Harvard law school connection to obtain information about the Boston Stocking Killer while Carli Santo uses his mob connections to do the same. They set out to identify and trap Deb Sterling’s murderer ahead of the BPD and FBI who seem powerless to do so.

Peter Glassman

LanguageEnglish
Release dateDec 10, 2013
ISBN9781311106681
Who Will Weep For Me
Author

Peter Glassman

A retired physician, I received all my college degrees from Boston University–AB. MD, PhD. My doctoral thesis was my first literary experience of note. I spent most of my married and professional years on the east coast in Massachusetts, Connecticut and Delaware. As a baby boomer and retired physician I’m devoting my time to writing medical thrillers. My life as an author of fiction began in 2003 after several individuals consistently commented that my speeches delivered at Toastmasters International always captured the audience because they were presented as captivating stories regardless of the topic.“I should write a book” they all said. My wife encouraged me because she was sick of listening to me rehearsing my speeches.“What should I write about?” I asked of my supportive spouse.“Write about your patient from the Navy who brought back a bottle full of human eyes from Vietnam.”Thus began my medical thrillers starting with THE EYEMAN. The sequel, THE DUTY CREW, chronicles the last Christmas Day of the Vietnam War in a Northeast Naval hospital. Like all my novels true lifetime situations are interwoven with suspenseful and intriguing storylines. My other thrillers also have medical facts as a backdrop to the story line–THE HELIOS RAIN, THE MYOSIN FACTOR, COTTER and THE ADJUSTMENT CLINIC. A crime drama WHO WILL WEEP FOR ME was followed by a paranormal fantasy, THE DRUID STONE, about chemical warfare in today’s terrorist climate.MY NAME IS KEVIN provides an AA backdrop of an alcoholic recovery group to an ATM mugger and killer who uses AA meetings as a shelter. I created a series of short story memoirs in fiction form from my Navy service years in US NAVAL HOSPITAL.I live with my wife in San Antonio near my daughter and her family with four of my grandchildren. My first editor in 2003 told me to keep writing even if I’m not yet published. I devote 5-hours-a-day to my new books and promoting my completed ones. The rest of my retirement day is a balance of family, friends and spirituality.

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    Who Will Weep For Me - Peter Glassman

    Chapter 1

    Forensic Pathology came under the category of Legal Medicine. It was the only class Michael Waxman and the other third-year medical students never skipped. All case presentations were of patients who died in accidents, in bizarre circumstances or by suspected criminal acts. The tall, middle-age Boston City Hospital Medical Examiner entered the amphitheatre wearing his Texas-style hat and handed off the 35mm color slide carousel to the projectionist. Dr. Jonathan Kingsley was not from Texas. He just liked the hat. He also liked the response to his nude dead bodies presented in living color as he always said.

    First slide please. Dr. Kingsley spoke with a smile as the huge screen showed a naked shapely 28-year-old brunette lying on the metal autopsy table with her eyes closed in permanent sleep.

    The female students retracted in their seats. The male students were riveted to the screen.

    What is wrong with this patient? Kingsley’s voice boomed up the steep amphitheatre. He pointed to a gaping bespectacled student in the front row.

    She looks okay to me. I can’t see any pathology. There was laughter in the room.

    Are things so bad that a dead woman looks good to you? Kingsley lived for these moments. How ‘bout we turn the young lady over.

    The next slide showed the woman’s posterior profile. Kingsley pointed to the same front row student. If you take your eyes off her buttocks and look at the back of her head, you should see something abnormal.

    Gasps pervaded the room as all eyes were glued to the missing piece of skull which was replaced with a dark red amorphous mass of unidentifiable tissue.

    Kingsley grinned. The history accompanying this patient to the morgue was very illuminating. Her boyfriend stuck a pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger. He waited for their murmurs to stop. Some cases are not so easy. What might be the cause of death in this man?

    The huge screen showed a slightly bald man whose external injuries defied identifiable age. His face was swollen and football-shaped. The blackened eyes were closed and purple currant jelly clots were bulging from his nostrils. Kingsley adjusted his hat which he was never seen without–even on the television evening news. At first glance you might say his head trauma, probably from an auto accident, was the death causality here. He paused for their consideration and then boomed. And you would be wrong. He showed the next slide of the patient without clothes. The bruises over the rest of his body along with the deformed broken leg bones are signature wounds inflicted by unfriendly humans. Kingsley waited for the snickers to stop. And no, the cause of death was not directly related to the trauma caused by the baseball bat recovered at the scene. He flashed an x-ray of the patient’s skull. The small, bright white radio-opaque projectile resting just above his right interior orbit is a .25 caliber bullet.

    A fellow student whispered into Waxman’s ear, Michael, this is better than television or the movies.

    Quiet. He’ll single us out. Waxman shrunk down in his seat.

    Some patterns of homicidal life-termination are predictable and become a signature of the killer. You all know of the ongoing Boston Stocking Killer cases. The media calls him The Boston Strangler. The pictures you see in this room were not released to the press and anyone caught with a camera today will be immediately autopsied. He signaled for the next slide.

    This woman like all the others to follow was a young nurse - about your age. Kinglsey used a long bamboo pole as a pointer. Each victim was positioned with her legs in a birthing mode and a soda bottle or similar object protruding from the vagina.

    Gasps and sounds of shifting seat positions were audible as Kingsley continued. All were without clothes and this first victim, like the others, was asphyxiated by one leg of a pair of pantyhose knotted around the neck. Victim numbers two through six were similar. He went rapidly through the slides. Here is the most recent victim–number seven. I’ll point to the common elements.

    The unfortunate young nurse apparently let the killer in. As with the others, apartment entry was not forced. Kingsley continued to outline what was known about the murderer lurking in the Boston domain. He flashed a close-up of the nurse’s face.

    Oh, my God. No. Waxman stood up. No. It can’t be.

    What’s the matter up there? Kingsley resented interruptions.

    I know her. Oh, My God. When did this happen?

    I regret the shock of this scene, young man. He signaled to shut the projector off. It happened two-days ago.

    Waxman ran up the stairs and left the amphitheatre. He had to meet with the others.

    Chapter 2

    A lightning flash illuminated the red granite plaque as the rain machine-gunned the building walls. Although the letters had been buffed by the elements over the decades, the Mallory Institute for Pathology name stood out as a portent of gloom. It was otherwise known as the Boston City Hospital Morgue. Carli Santo had been here last night to scope out the watchman’s routine. He again followed 5-minutes behind the night watchman who systematically punched his clock. True to his routine the stooped security hireling entered the last section of the Mallory building. The sign on the frosted window read Forensic Records. The watchman turned on the lights, looked around and punched his clock. The lights went out and the stooped watchman went outside into the thunderstorm and entered the laboratory building.

    Santo picked the aged door lock easily. The next security check would be in two hours. He had plenty of time. Michael had drawn him the layout from his attendance at the legal medicine classes. He remembered Michael’s distress when they met at the College Deli in Somerville’s Ball Square.

    Why the emergency meeting Michael? Carli asked.

    Michael Waxman thought he could stomach a lot as a third-year medical student but when he saw victim number seven he lost it. He had not been prepared for the Boston Stocking cases to include someone he knew–someone he knew very well. He couldn’t erase the scene. Her eyes bulged with tiny hemorrhages in the once white sclera. The nude body with knees up, spread apart and facing the apartment entry door was a nightmare refusing to leave his mind. And a Coke bottle–my God it was sick.

    How long has it been since Deb called any of us? Waxman’s eyes were glistening.

    A week. Why? Wendell Golden was a third-year dental student at Tufts.

    Waxman wiped his face with a paper napkin as the tears came. I saw her yesterday–on a projected pathology slide. He choked back more tears. Everyone in the amphitheatre was looking at her–like that.

    Like what? Melvin Slinger was in his last year at Harvard Law.

    Santo reached over the booth’s table and grabbed Waxman’s forearm. C’mon Michael, what happened?

    Deb was the Boston Stocking Killer’s seventh victim. The tears flowed freely now.

    His friends pushed their beers aside as silence gripped them like witnessing a sudden auto collision.

    Golden spoke first. When did they find her? We have to call her home. What about the funeral? She’s Jewish. She has to be buried within 24-hours.

    They won’t release the body until after the autopsy and the crime scene is secured. But you’re right. We have to call right now, Slinger added.

    Santo wiped a tear. How close are they to finding this killer? Did they say anything about it Michael?

    Yes. They’re clueless. The only thing they know is all the victims were young blond nurses, living alone and were murdered by the same person in the same way. Waxman banged his fist on the table. We can’t have people see her like I saw her in school. We have to get those classroom slides and forensic pictures removed from her file.

    They all agreed and looked at Santo.

    Ha. Me, right? I’m the one who doesn’t go to college. Santo pushed back in the booth and twisted the napkin at his place setting.

    They continued to stare at Santo.

    He looked at each face. You’re right. I’m the one who’s experienced with B & E. Michael, tell me where the files are and where I get the slides from the ME’s teaching projector.

    ˜

    Santo used his narrow-beam penlight and found the file cabinet easily. The file was secured with a Master padlock affixed to a long metal slat the length of the cabinet. The lock opened without any damage or tell-tale marks. He found the file–Case #7. His pulse quickened. Should I open it? I have to. Santo opened the file. His surgical gloves contained the sweat from his hands. Tears began to well up as he looked at the photographs. He quickly put them in his plastic bag along with the negatives. He left only the cover police report.

    The ME’s office was off the right corner of the forensic file room. He flashed his light beam around. The room was cluttered with boxes of carousels preloaded with 35mm slides. Santo rooted around the room for 15-minutes. Where the hell is the Boston Stocking Killer carousel? His eyes settled on the ME’s desk. All but one drawer was locked. There it was. He shined his penlight through each slide to send an image against the wall and found Case #7. He added the slides to his plastic bag and relocked the desk.

    He called the College Deli number. The thunder and lightning had diminished but the rain still pummeled the phone booth. It sounded like a baby rattle in the confined space. Claude Shapiro, the owner, answered the phone.

    Yeah, Carli, they’re here. Who do you want to talk to? Claude went to the booth. Michael it’s for you.

    Waxman came back to the booth. Slinger and Golden looked at him with anticipation. It’s done. He got everything. We’ll meet him at my house–my parents are out.

    ˜

    Waxman, Slinger, Golden and Santo were in Waxman’s garage. The car was outside. They looked at the small black trash bag.

    Does anyone want to look at this stuff? Slinger stared at the plastic holder containing the desecration of their lifelong friend.

    I had to look to make sure I had everything. Santo’s eyes glistened.

    You had to Carli. Golden and the others nodded agreement.

    Waxman lit a candle and handed it to Golden. Burn the bag. Burn everything. We want to remember Deborah like she always was.

    Yeah. Golden set the bag afire on the garage floor.

    They watched the plastic curl to a residue and the files and slides turn to ash. They would always remember Deb was one of them–one of their best friends. Never as Case #7.

    ˜

    The next day they met at the Ball Square College Deli on Saturday afternoon. Ball Square was in Somerville, right near Medford where they all grew up. It was 20-minutes from Boston and still served as an ideal meeting place for them. Before graduate school they got together almost every Saturday night instead of just once a month now. An afternoon conference was unusual but it was needed.

    Early today, hey guys? Claude set their beers down and left their booth. His College Deli was an institution with the Tufts College crowd which was a mile away across the Medford-Somerville border

    Slinger spoke first. We have to do something about what happened to Deborah.

    What can we do? The police haven’t found the bastard who’s killing the nurses. Waxman reiterated his forensic class update by the ME.

    So what happens when they catch him? Golden paused. He get’s life in prison, right Mel. You’re the lawyer.

    One more year and after I pass the bar I’ll be a real lawyer. Slinger looked at his friends. You’re right, though. The guy who did this to Deb will live rent free and get free food for the rest of his life if he’s caught.

    Santo put his beer mug down. Unless… He gestured with his mug.

    Unless what? the other three asked.

    Unless we have a plan. We have to vow to make sure this bastard pays for what he did to her. Santo sat back.

    Remember, we don’t even know who ‘he’ is. Waxman slammed his fist on the table.

    Calm down, Michael. The police will get him eventually. When they do, he’ll go through a long process of jury selection and court trial. Slinger paused. He’ll be vulnerable when they take him in and out of the courtroom and back and forth to jail. He’ll still be a target if he makes it to prison.

    You thinking of a sniper take-out? Santo stared at Slinger.

    It’s one possibility. I’m just saying, we have time to work out all the possibilities so when they catch his ass, we’ll be ready.

    Okay. Let’s keep it on our agenda for our monthly Saturday night meetings. Golden looked at his watch. Deb’s wake is scheduled in an hour. Tomorrow’s the funeral.

    Okay. Let’s go. Santo pushed his unfinished beer away and got up with the others.

    ˜

    The parking lot at Shotbloom’s Funeral parlor was almost full. The falling colored leaves seemed to weep and add to the solemn atmosphere. Golden parked his Buick in the extended back lot and they went in the back entrance. Several people they didn’t know gave a somber nod. Golden led the way using his large frame as a wedge to maneuver to the open casket after they signed the visitor book. Deborah’s mother and father were standing by open folding chairs. Mrs. Sterling clutched a white handkerchief. Golden, Slinger, Waxman and Santo were side-by-side looking at Deborah Sterling’s pretty face with their closed eyes. The mortician had shaded her eyelids light lavender. Michael focused on her eyelids. How did he know she used the lavender color?

    The four young men looked at their friend from childhood with bowed heads.

    Can you please move along? I have to get back to my office. A voice in Santo’s ear had an edge to it.

    Santo turned to the man about his age in a gray business suit. He said nothing. His eyes locked onto the suit’s eyes.

    C’mon, willya. I got things to do.

    Go away now or you’ll have your own box to lie in. Santo’s growl was felt as well as heard by the man.

    "Wha…?

    Santo’s right hand grabbed the man’s groin. Now. Santo increased his pressure on the man’s scrotum.

    Okay. The voice was a meek guttural surrender.

    Golden moved to greet and hug Mrs. Sterling.

    Oh, boys. She cried as they formed in front and gave her hugs, regrets and tears. Why did this happen?

    We don’t know Mrs. Sterling, Slinger replied.

    They shook hands with Deborah’s father and each handshake was converted to a hug and pat on his shoulder.

    Can you boys come by sometime. The Mrs. needs all the support I can muster. Mr. Sterling was a lawyer built like an aging linebacker.

    Of course. Golden answered. He led his friends back to the car where they sat in silence for a few minutes.

    Who was the pushy guy that left? Slinger turned to Santo sitting in the backseat next to him.

    I recognized him from a picture Deb showed us a few months ago. He’s an intern at St. Elizabeth’s where she worked. She dated him a few times. Santo told him of the man’s hasty departure.

    The jerk came here as an obligatory gesture as an old boyfriend? You think he could be the ‘Stocking Killer’? Waxman was in the right front seat.

    I doubt it. Deb told me he was gay. She went out with him when he needed a female escort. Do you remember his name? Slinger took out a small notepad.

    Jackson Halloran. Santo buckled into his seat.

    Halloran? I thought Deb was strictly kosher, Golden said.

    Hey. We all dated her and I’m not Jewish. Santo was a little loud.

    We’re different. We knew her from high school. She was like a sister or something between a sister and girlfriend. Waxman faced front again.

    Yeah, high school. I wish we could go back and relive those years, Santo sighed.

    Yeah. The rest agreed.

    ˜

    Edmund Sorelli read the Boston Globe headline on the three-day-old newspaper. Victim number seven. He spoke out in the seclusion and privacy of his East Boston apartment. He usually spoke to his image in the mirror and envisioned a response from his mirror-twin. Why count? Do they think someone is trying to set a record? Those bitches are not the angels-of-mercy from the movies. Those kinds of nurses are whores with credentials and a license to degrade and kill people they call patients. They’re all like the young whore nurse who calls herself my mother. Almost every weekend she picked someone up at the bar and brought him home. Some nurse–some mother. They don’t deserve to live and defile their once noble profession. What do they expect when they lure guys into their dens of lust and perversion? Now they won’t become mothers and produce unwanted kids.

    Sorelli paced the floor with the newspaper and then threw it onto the living room coffee table. He put on his security guard uniform and looked at the work schedule taped to his refrigerator. Next week I’m assigned to an apartment complex near the Robert Breck Brigham hospital. Good. It’s on a hill looking over the other hospitals. His security guard agency contracted to apartment buildings near all the medical centers.

    Massachusetts 1955-1958

    Chapter 3

    Michael Waxman was nervous on his first day at Medford High School. He checked his face and hair one last time. The black curly locks on his head defied any part. His favorite Italian Uncle Stush had the same head of hair. Good. No zits today. I wonder if the kids at the bus stop will speak to me.

    Waxman’s family had moved from Somerville, the adjacent town. He wouldn’t know any of the students carried over from the 9th grade of his Somerville Junior High school since there weren’t any who moved to Medford. The summer had been one of adaptation to the South Medford house and trying to socialize with a few kids in the neighborhood. Today, he waited at the bus stop with about a dozen other students. Waxman noticed a large teenager staring at him. The boy came over.

    You live on the corner of Walton Street, right? The muscular teen wore a tight blue t-shirt and black chinos. A plain red crucifix tattoo was on the kid’s left forearm. He pointed at Waxman with his comb. I seen you around the park down the street.

    We moved in three-months ago. It’s my grandfather’s house. We live in the first floor.

    I know the old guy. Pistacci, right? I knew the kids who lived there before. They were okay especially Frank and Betty.

    They’re my cousins. They moved to Stoneham.

    So what’s your name?

    Michael. Michael Waxman. What’s yours?

    Carli Santo. How come you’re not Italian? This is South Medford–Little Italy.

    My father married Elizabeth Pistacci–my mother.

    That you I hear playing the accordion?

    Yeah, my grandfather got me into the accordion a few years ago.

    You sound good. You can do me a favor. He looked at the orange bus tracking the overhead twin power lines with its two slim metal poles. Here comes the bus. I sit next to Rosa Dipoli so I’ll talk to you later.

    What kind of favor?

    I’ll talk to you later. Santo pushed his way to the head of the line and leaped into the bus. He went to the back and stared at a boy sitting next to a black-haired nubile teen. The boy looked up and jumped out of the seat. Santo stared at him as he went forward looking for another place to sit.

    Hi, Carli. Rosa smiled and shook her shoulders which shimmied her ample developing chest.

    Who was that?

    No one. He was sitting there when I got on the bus.

    Waxman couldn’t find a seat and grabbed onto a vertical rail. He looked around the bus and made eye contact with Santo. He waved and nodded to him.

    Well… who’s the new guy?

    Betty Pistacci’s cousin. They moved into her house when her family moved to Stoneham.

    You’ll have to introduce me.

    Santo smiled and grabbed her lower jaw swinging it toward him. He planted a kiss flush on her lips. Maybe. After I get to know him better.

    ˜

    Waxman found his homeroom and sat at the seat labeled with his name on a 3-by-5 file card. The teacher called the role from her list. All the names started with S and went to Z. Half the names were Italian. He looked at his course schedule and when the bell rang he headed to the third floor of the south wing. A pretty blond about his height shuffled up to him.

    Hi. I’m Deborah Sterling. You’re new. I’m in your homeroom. Are you college course?

    Yes. I moved from Somerville in June.

    Where do you live?

    Walton Street.

    Where?

    South Medford–near Tufts Park and Tufts College.

    South Medford? That’s Little Italy.

    Where are you from?

    West Medford. You have a Jewish name.

    I’m Jewish. He smiled and was enjoying her conversation.

    Me too. I mean most of us in West Medford are Jewish. How come you’re out with the Italians?

    My mother was Italian. I live in one of my Italian grandfather’s houses.

    Where are your Jewish relatives?

    Revere.

    Oh. I know some girls from Revere–from BBG.

    What’s BBG?

    What’s BBG? I know girls from the Somerville BBG. It’s the B’nai Brith Girls–a Jewish sorority for high schoolers.

    We never really stressed the Jewish side of the family–other than going to the Temple occasionally. Most of my relatives are Italian.

    Aren’t you going to join AZA?

    What’s AZA?

    The boys’ fraternity. Oops. Here we are - geometry. I’ll talk to you later.

    ˜

    Waxman went to his next class without Deborah Sterling. She renewed relations with other classmates who she hadn’t seen much during the summer. He listened to their talk about how much they grew and changed. He laughed at how the girls looked each other over checking out bust development and asking about having periods and who dated who at camp or whatever. He was glad he walked alone. Just before lunch Waxman went to his locker and stashed some books. As he closed the locker Sterling appeared with a muscular teen.

    Hey Michael, this is Wendell Golden. He’s in the college course and he’s one of us.

    One of us?

    Jewish. I told him about you. I have to run to lunch and meet some of the other girls. Bye.

    Golden held out his hand. Wendell Golden. Call me Dell. Never call me Wendy.

    Deborah told me about something called AZZ and BBG. They walked slowly to the lunchroom.

    Everyone calls her Deb. AZA not AZZ. We meet every Sunday morning in a converted garage behind the Temple. Golden patted his pushed back dark brown hair. Every hair was in place.

    What’s AZA stand for?

    It stands for the Hebrew letters Aleph Zadik Aleph. It started out as a Jewish youth organization in Nebraska in 1922. There are about 45 of us from sophomores to seniors. It’s like a fraternity. I’m a pledge–all sophomores and new guys are pledges. The only way to learn about it is to experience it. You’re invited this Sunday as my guest. We can be pledges together. My friend Bibsy will drive us–he’s a senior.

    They could hear the din of the eating, animated students as they approached the corridor with the lunchroom sign arrow pointing to their right.

    Hey. What do we have here? Two Jew boys. A dark-complexion student wearing a lavender silk roll-collar shirt and white-saddle-stitched black pants signaled his two cronies to face Waxman and Golden.

    What do you want Ganelli? Why don’t you go eat with your friends from South Medford? Golden tightened his muscular arms. He looked at Waxman’s lanky frame and flashed back to Ganelli.

    I think you two should pay the admission fee to the lunchroom. It’s fifty cents apiece for Jew boys. Ganelli signaled his two pals to complete an arc facing Golden and Waxman.

    You’re gonna have to take it from us and the first one near me gets a broken nose which will cost more than fifty-cents to fix. Golden squared off facing Ganelli.

    Maybe we should pay them and get on with lunch. Waxman looked at the other two facing him. Two on me and one on Golden. Fuck this.

    No. I’m gonna like rearranging your face Ganelli. It’ll be worth a few lumps.

    Ganelli looked at his cronies. Petro, you take the new guy. Two of us can smoosh the Golden Jew Boy.

    I think not. A deep voice boomed as Santo turned the corner and ran into them.

    Stay out of this Carli. Ganelli pointed with his right index finger.

    Santo stared at Ganelli with his clenched fists on his hips. I think not.

    You siding with the Jew boys? Ganelli began perspiring.

    Hey, you meet Michael? He lives down the street from me. He’s Frankie Pistacci’s cousin. And Dell here works out with me at the gym. They’re my friends. You pick a fight with my friends and you pick a fight with me. Santo moved next to Golden.

    Okay. It’s three-against-three now. Golden took a step closer to Ganelli.

    Ganelli saw his two buddies start to look around and twitch with uncertainty. Okay. Okay. I won’t forget this Santo.

    I know you won’t. Santo moved in front of Golden and brought his fist square onto Ganelli’s nose. A slight crack was followed by a gush of bright red blood. Go down to the school nurse and report a fire-door rammed you in the face. He turned to Waxman and Golden. Let me know if they bother you again. They give Italians like me a bad image.

    Waxman and Golden headed to the lunchroom.

    Hey Michael, you owe me two favors now, Santo yelled and disappeared down a side corridor.

    Two favors? You know Carli Santo?

    I live near him. I don’t know about any favors.

    Just watch out. You don’t want or need to be beholden to those wops. That’s why we have AZA. Do you know why Santo smashed Ganelli’s nose? Golden grabbed a food tray from the stack.

    No.

    Because if he didn’t, the AZA would retaliate against those greaseballs. He didn’t want to start a war. Santo is a good guy to have on your side.

    Waxman moved down the food line. How long is the AZA meeting on Sunday morning?

    We meet from nine to twelve. The BBG meets in the afternoon. You know what BBG stands for?

    Deb told me–B’nai Brith Girls.

    In AZA we call them the Big Bad Girls–BBG.

    ˜

    Edmund Sorelli loved school because it was much better than home. He did well in school and going to Boston Latin High School was a dream come true. He tiptoed to the bathroom, showered and dressed in the school uniform. The uniform was another thing he liked. He became like every other boy. He cleaned the two sets of clothes himself as well as doing the rest of the laundry. He tied a Windsor knot on the blue and red-striped necktie and peeked into his mother’s room. Her nurse uniform was hung on the door. A seal-like snore from the man in his mother’s bed covered any noise he was making. Sorelli had seen this guy before. Maybe two-months ago. He wasn’t a bad guy but his mother treated him like shit. She treated every man like shit. She treats me like shit–the fucking whore.

    Chapter 4

    The week was a whirlwind of activity for Waxman. He didn’t know anyone and everything was new. In Somerville, he lived on Cedar Street which was a long street with square identical three-family homes on both sides–except for the White Flag Laundry across the street from his house. He knew almost everyone on the street and no one seemed to differentiate Italians from Irish or Jews–except for his father. Julius Waxman not only planted ethnic labels on everyone, he added a slurring phrase to each one.

    The Pinskis look dumpy just like all Pollocks–they’re slobs. Mr. Waxman would throw the comment out as he watched Charlie Pinski leave Waxman’s house to go home for supper. He wouldn’t say anything when Charlie was in the house. He did the same with Waxman’s good friend Dickie Zapato upstairs on the second floor. Dickie’s a selfish guinea. Those Italians are all fungoolas.

    Waxman asked for a fungoola definition and got, They’re gangsters and fuck-ups.

    "Watch your mouth.

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