Free Gangster by Lorenzo Carcaterra

work hard, Angelo said. And he lives better.
        Angus McQueen is a criminal, Paolino hissed, hatred for the man and his methods coloring his eyes. He's not good enough to work. He lives off my work. My sweat. He will show you a life that is wrong. A life filled with poison.
        He show me how to play cards, Angelo said.
        You are young still, Paolino said. When you are older, he will show you more than card games.
        Are you afraid of him? Angelo asked.
        I am afraid for you Paolino said. I know what harm these people bring. I saw it in Italy with my own eyes. I do not wish to see it happen here. Not again.
        Is that why you came to this country? Angelo asked, staring at the bushel of clams.
        I came for you, Paolino said. I wanted a better life for you than what we had in Italy. I cannot do that if you choose these other people over me.
        They are my friends, Angelo said, lifting his eyes to Paolino.
        But they are my enemies, Paolino said. If you stay with them, become a part of them, you cannot ever be a part of me.
        Angelo looked away, his eyes scanning the bay, his face soft and warm. I love you, Papa, he whispered. But I do not want to be like you.
        Paolino stared at his son's profile and fought back the urge to cry. He had always thought of Angelo as weak, ill-suited for the demands of a harsh country. He knew now that he was wrong. Behind his son's frail body there was hidden a hard core, one that would absorb all that it needed to survive.
        You will not be like me, Angelo, Paolino said, stroking the boy's head with a wet hand. You are too strong. There will be many fears to be faced in your life, but that will not be one of them.
        Angelo turned back to look at his father, the blazing sun directly above his head. You rest, Papa, he said. I will finish the clams.
        Angelo jumped into the water, took a few strides closer to land and spent the rest of the afternoon in the hunt for buried clams.
       
         *     *     *
       
    JOSEPHINA AND ANGELO walked down the crowded street, the old woman's right hand at rest under the boy's left elbow. It was late afternoon on a summer's day and the streets were crammed with men coming home from jobs and women rushing to steamy apartments to begin preparing the evening meal. Angelo clutched a small paper bag filled with vine-ripe tomatoes and red onions to his chest. He and Pudge were working as part-time runners for Angus McQueen, making twice-weekly pickups and money drops in the back rooms of bars and diners. Angelo was paid two dollars a week and the weight of the money felt good in his pocket. It was his first taste of illegal money and he loved it.
        Money is the only reason anybody ever becomes a gangster, Pudge would often say, usually after a big meal. Everything else follows that. The money is the bait that draws you in. You don't believe me, then name one gangster worth his weight in vinegar who started out in life anything but dirt poor. The cars, the broads, the fancy digs, that all comes later, but it's the bite of cash that gets you hooked. Then, by the time you got enough socked away that you want out of the life, there's nowhere for you to go. Being a gangster is all you know and all you can be. And it's how you're gonna die. All of it off of that first dollar you made back when you were a kid.
        I would like to buy you something, Angelo said, looking up at Josephina. A gift.
        What is there that I need? the old woman said with a shrug. We have our food for tonight and fresh milk for the morning. Save your money. Don't make it fly away as soon as it lands in your hands.
        Angelo looked at the passing stands, their wooden crates packed full with watered-down fresh fruit and vegetables, rows of fish and meat resting on huge slabs of ice next to them. As they turned a corner, he spotted a small man in a wool sweater, roasting chestnuts over the lid