Frankie “Sticky Fingers” Carrollo was not a man prone to groveling. He hadn’t been one since he was 16, when his father had grabbed him ‘round the collar and knocked him around on account of he had stolen his gold Timex to show off to some girls. He could still remember the way the watch shined in the florescent lights of his kitchen, swinging back and forth like a pendulum at the end of his father’s gorilla fist. The watch was buried with Frankie’s father now, as was his tolerance of falling to the feet of another man. Some circumstances though, called for a suspension of personal rules.
Everyone knew Big Vic Giacconne was the meanest boss the Mob had ever seen. He was also the youngest, though anyone with a handful of sense knew better than to mention it. Small in stature but crueler than a full grown man, he was a loose canon; prone to mood swings. Frankie once witnessed him personally clip two bullets into the knees of a man who had simply misplaced some stolen merchandise. He’d been a good man, too: just not good enough for Big Vic.
Frankie was not a man prone to groveling, no. But as soon as he’d gotten the call alerting him that the boss wanted to speak with him all one on one personal-like that very same morning, well, he was prepared to spit in his own mother’s eye if it meant avoiding getting “taken care of”. Which is why when he found himself standing in the living room of Big Vic himself, stuck between the boss’s bodyguard and the door, he prostrated his arms with all the friendly camaraderie of a man trying not to get killed.
“Stretch, buddy! Good to see ya.”
Stretch, the bodyguard in question, was a big lug of a man, almost six feet tall and seemingly just as wide. There was a time when Frankie would have called him a friend, even a brother. Now, standing between Frankie and the doorway, Stretch offered him nothing friendlier than his bared teeth. He extended one of his trunk-like arms to catch Frankie on the shoulder.
“You shouldn’t be here Frank. You know the Boss doesn’t like his shows bein interrupted.”
Frankie knew better than to try and knock his hand away, so he leaned his weight against it to get in Stretch’s face and smiled as banally as he could muster. “I’m here on account of him invitin’ me, so how’s about we just ask the big man himself, okay?”
Over Stretch’s shoulder Frankie could make out the back of Big Vic’s infamous La-Z-Boy, his dark hair just poking over the top of the chair. His attention seemed to be glued to some sugary jingle happening on the TV, and though he made no motion to look behind him, his voice carried clearly across the room when he spoke.
“Fingers, come have a seat next to me.”
Frankie smiled again at Stretch, who scowled and moved out of his way. There were actually no other seats for Frankie to take, but rather than point this out to Big Vic he awkwardly folded his legs under himself and sat down on the rug.
The TV changed from commercials back to the television program it had been showing. On the screen Elmer Fudd was trying to shoot Bugs Bunny. Frankie tried to follow along with the plot, but his eyes kept bouncing back to the flickering light playing off Big Vic’s rounded cheeks. His expression was unreadable.
Big Vic held up a single finger. “Watch this.”
Frankie forced his eyes back to the screen. Elmur Fudd got caught in his own rabbit trap and began to scream. Bugs Bunny gave a simpering smile to the audience and ate a carrot in the self-satisfied way only a cartoon rabbit can. Frankie’s hands were very sweaty.
“That’s some good stuff.” Big Vic’s voice was mild. “What do you think, Fingers?”
“That crazy rabbit always gets the best of him.” Big Vic’s head rose and fell in one slow nod. “But the stupid old man keeps trying. Tell me, do you know anything about loyalty, Fingers?”
Frankly alarmed by how often Big Vic was saying his name, Frankie nodded. “Yeah, course I do.”
“Would you consider yourself loyal to me?”
Another nod, this time more frantic. “You know I am.”
“You know, loyalty and trust. Those are the two most important things in a family.”
This seemed like the sort of thing Frankie shouldn’t reply to. He kept his eyes on Big Vic’s chubby, steeped fingers.
“That and knowin’ that no one in your family would ever steal from ya.”
Frankie, against his own best interest, sat a little straighter. “S-steal? Boss?”
Big Vic, turned his eyes from the TV for the first time to look at Frankie. “If you’re so loyal to me Fingers, then where’s my Gameboy advance?”
With a great flurry of motion, Big Vic stood up in the La-Z-Boy, all ten years of him towering over Frankie. Flecks of spit flew through the gaps of his missing teeth as he screamed, “I said where’s my Gameboy! I know you took it!”
Frankie recoiled. “I didn’t, Boss! Why would I?”
“I saw you looking at it! I know you want one!”
“Why would I want your Gameboy? I’m not a child—.” Frankie bit down on his own tongue so hard he tasted blood. “…No, Boss, I didn’t mean…”
But it was too late, Big Vic’s face, already pink with outrage, flushed darker. Frankie watched in horror as tears began to well up in his eyes.
“Oh, Boss, please…Don’t… Don’t cry…”
Stretch was there suddenly, holding a blanket and a box of tissues. “Discipline him!” Big Vic wailed as Stretch began to cocoon him in the blanket. “I want him dead, Stretch! He’s so– He’s so mean!”
Stretch turned on Frankie, who shook his head furiously. “Come on, Boss, it wasn’t me! I’m sorry! I’m real sorry about what I said, but–!” Stretch’s colossal hand came down and struck him hard, just on his eye, sending him sprawling backwards across the floor. As he lay there, dazed, head ringing, he vaguely understood the shape of Stretch leaning over and pulling him upwards. His last view of Big Vic was the blurry heartbroken heap of him, bundled in a blanket, face shiny with tears.
“You may have though you could get past me, Frankie Carrollo!” Frankie’s ears were full of the boy’s sobbing, his furious prepubescent voice. “But I’m the rabbit, Fingers! I’m always the rabbit!”
