Sleepers

This is a true story about friendship that runs deeper than blood.

This is my story and that of the only three friends in my life who truly mattered.

Two of them were killers who never made it past the age of 30.

The other is a non-practicing attorney living with the pain of his past,

too afraid to let it go, never confronting its horror.

I'm the only one who can speak for them, and the children we were.

My three friends and I were inseparable,

happy and content to live in the closed world of Hell's Kitchen.

The West Side streets of Manhattan were our private playground,

a cement kingdom where we felt ourselves to be nothing less than absolute rulers.

Hell's Kitchen was populated by an uneasy blend

of Irish, Italian, Puerto Rican, and Eastern European laborers.

Hard men living hard lives.

We lived in railroad apartments inside red brick tenements.

Few mothers worked and all had trouble with the men they married.

Shut the fuck up!

l buried one fucking wife, l could bury another one.

Domestic violence was a cottage industry in Hell's Kitchen,

yet there was no divorce and few separations.

The will of the Church was forceful.

For a marriage to end, someone usually had to die.

Yet, despite the harshness of life,

Hell's Kitchen offered the kids on its streets a safety net

enjoyed by few other neighborhoods.

Crimes against people of the neighborhood were not permitted.

When they did occur, the punishment doled out was severe,

and in some cases, final.

A drug dealer from an uptown neighborhood

moved heroin into Hell's Kitchen.

A packet killed the 12-year-old son of a Puerto Rican numbers runner.

It was the last packet the dealer ever sold.

Hell's Kitchen was a place of innocence ruled by corruption.

My friends and I spent lots of time inside Holy Angels.

We each served as altar boys.

Everyone wanted to work funeral masses since the funeral included a $3 fee.

And more if you looked sufficiently somber.

There was an active competition between the four of us

to come up with the best and boldest prank.

Two weeks into the new school year,

I found the nuns' clacker in the school hallway

and I was ready for the big leagues.

In church, it was used to alert the girls

as to when they should stand, sit, kneel, and genuflect,

all based on the number of times the clacker was pressed.

In my pocket, it was cause for havoc.

You will be defenders of the faith, you will be soldiers of Christ,

and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

lt's going to be a great day, and your parents will be proud of you.

When you were baptized, godparents made promises for you.

Now, you're going to confirm those promises.

Let me have the clacker.

-What clacker? -Now.

Let everyone rise.

Let us pray.

Nuns are such easy targets.

John and I spent more time in church than the others.

We were the only two of the group to consider entering the priesthood.

We were intrigued by the powers a priest was given.

A secret world of betrayal and deceit

where people openly admitted dark misdeeds and vile indiscretions.

Confession was better than any book we could get

or any movie we could see because the sins were real,

committed by people we knew.

The temptation to be part of that was far too great to resist.

lf we get caught, they'll burn us.

What if our mothers are out there?

What if we end up hearing their confessions?

What if we hear something worse?

Like what?

Like a murder. What if somebody cops to a murder?

Relax. All we've got to do is sit back, listen, and remember not to laugh.

Seconds later, our booth comes to life.

l sleep with married men.

Men with families.

ln the morning, l tell myself it's the last time, but it never is.

Yes?

You see, l'm pregnant.

The father?

Take a number.

What are you going to do?

l know what you want me to do. And l know what l should do.

l just don't know what l'm gonna do.

Look, l gotta go.

Thanks for listening, fellas. l really appreciate it.

l know you'll keep it to yourselves.

She knew.

Yeah, she knew.

Why do you think she told us all that?

l don't know. l guess she had to tell somebody.

Father Robert Carillo was a longshoreman's son

who was as comfortable sitting in a back-alley saloon

as he was standing at the altar during High Mass.

He had toyed with a life of petty crime before finding his calling.

He was a friend. A friend who just happened to be a priest.

You know what that crap does to your body?

Come on, Father, it beats smoking. And it's cheaper, too.

Maybe. So, what do you hear? Anything?

No, nothing.

l hear you're interested in becoming a priest.

Who says?

Word is you want to get the feel of a confessional booth.

l don't know what you're talking about.

You don't?

Maybe l got the wrong information.

l guess you did.

l'll see you later tonight.

What's tonight?

l gotta drop some books and magazines off

for the elderly and disabled in the neighborhood.

-Your mother said you'd love to help. -l bet she did.

Shakes, l don't want you getting into any trouble.

Come on, Father. You know l never do.

That's all l wish for you and your friends.

-That's it? -Nothing else. l swear, that's it.

A priest shouldn't swear.

And kids shouldn't listen to other people's confessions.

-l'll see you tonight. -All right, see you.

Michael was the most sexually experienced of our group,

which meant he kissed a girl on more than one occasion.

But his real love was Carol Martinez.

Hell's Kitchen's half-breed, half-Puerto Rican, half-Irish,

she was raised by her father, her mother having died at childbirth.

Carol stayed pretty much to herself, but was always comfortable in our company.

We could always count on Carol to stand sentry on the first night of the Ice Capades.

While crowds lined the front of the Garden waiting to see the skaters perform,

we each had one eye in a hole,

watching two dozen beautiful and nearly-naked women

get into their skaters' outfits.

This is what heaven must be about.

(GlGGLlNG) My God.

-Carol, you want to take a look? -Like it's something l haven't seen.

You're so lucky.

She's so beautiful.

l could die now, and l wouldn't be sad.

When my friends and I were young,

Hell's Kitchen was run by a man named King Benny.

When he was young, King Benny was a hitman for Lucky Luciano.

Lucky Luciano did a lot of good for this country during World War ll.

But you ain't gonna read about it in any fucking history book.

There was talk King Benny was the shooter of Mad Dog Coll,

that prick on West 23rd Street. He ran bootleg with Dutch Schultz

and he opened up a couple of clubs with Tough Tony Anastasia.

l was 14 when l first heard about him.

The story goes, as a kid, he wasn't much of anything.

He always got the shit kicked out of him in street fights.

And then, one day, who the fuck knows why,

some lrish guy, about 25 years old,

he takes King Benny and he flings him down a flight of stairs.

King Benny breaks all his teeth in the front. You know what King Benny does?

He waits.

He waits eight years to get even with that prick.

He walks into a public bath house.

The guy's soaking in the tub.

King Benny takes out his front teeth, he lays them down on the sink.

Then he looks over at the guy and he says,

"When I look in the mirror, I see your face."

Then he pulls out a gun

and he shoots the guy twice in each leg.

Then he says to the guy,

"Now when you take a bath, you'll see mine."

No one ever fucked with King Benny after that.

Revenge.

Can l talk to you for a minute?

l'd like to work for you. Help you out, whatever you need.

-You're the butcher's kid, am l right? -Yeah.

-What kind of a job are you looking for? -Whatever, it doesn't matter.

lt doesn't matter?

Everybody says this is the place to come for jobs.

Who is everybody?

-People from the neighborhood. -Them.

Let me ask you, what the fuck do they know?

They know you got jobs.

Sorry l wasted your time.

Hold on a sec.

Yeah?

Come back tomorrow if you want to work.

-What time tomorrow? -Any time.

-You'll be here? -l'm always here.

My first job for King Benny paid $25 a week

and ate up only 40 minutes of my time.

In the dark club room, one guy would hand me a crumpled paper bag

and direct me to one of the two local police precincts for delivery.

It was a perfect way to handle payouts.

Come on, let's go. Right here.

Let's see what kind of cash you got in that bag.

You gotta be nuts. You know who you're taking off?

Yeah, we know, and we're scared shitless.

Give me the fucking bag!

-What you do there? Answer me! Relax.

They stopped me and took my money.

You took the money from the boy?

-The money they took is in the bag. -Let me have it.

-Fuck you! -Yeah?

-How about now? -All right, take it easy.

You're not smart anymore. This make you stupid?

Let me have the bag.

-Now, go. What about them?

-You care? -No.

Then go! Run!

I need somebody with me. What if the old guy hadn't shown?