Carlito's Way: Rise to Power Read Online Free PDF

boss-type. Tall, lean, with light hair, he didn’t look like no eye-talianto me. And he didn’t give you the wise-guy jive. He was mobbed up with the Pleasant Avenue outfit. But his uncle was a made-guy, a lieutenant with the Mulberry Street crew—a heavy hitter—so like you knew that Rocco was marked. He couldn’t miss, he was a down cat, and he was connected. Rocco didn’t talk with no dese and dose; he spoke nice and soft—like dignity—but he wasn’t no punk. Word was he had already iced some greaseball in the Bronx whose bail had dropped too low. The only thing wrong with Rocco was his love life; he had this thing for a P.R. chick, which in those days was unheard of, so like his uncle kept him in the boondocks—but I knew he’d work it out. Like I say, he was a natural bosstype.
    The three of us used to pal out. They’d rap and I’d listen.
    “Earl, I’m out of the doghouse, so I’ll be moving downtown—you know where to reach me. I’m not promising you guys anything, but if I get a shot then I’m dealing you in. We may connect once in a year, or even five years—in the meantime I don’t even know if you guys are alive. We meet, we deal, good-bye. Now I’m not talking Harlem shit, I’m talking kilos, up to ten thou a kilo. On my okay you’re going to get stuff on consignment at the beginning. You cross me, I’m dead, because I’m responsible for you—but you know you go right behind me. I’m moving up; you guys can move with me or stay in the shithouse hustling quarters.”
    “I’m your man, Rocco.”
    “Deal me in, Rocco.”
    It’s hard to explain, but when you’re doing time with a man you can read him faster than when you’re on the street. He can’t hide behind his rep or his clothes—shit like that don’t work inside. Inside, all you got is mostly yourself. Like Earl used to say, yo’ hole and yo’ soul is buck neck-id in the Joint. So that’s how come three cats from different alleys got close and stayed close for twenty years. The time was ripe, was overdue—but that don’t mean nothin’ if the right people ain’t on the scene. Me and Earl was the right people, and we was ready. We needed a break. Rocco—Rocco had the inside rail from before, what with his uncle, Dominick Cocozza, who was a boss. But he saw their thing had to open up—open up or it was gonna bust open.
    So he brought us in out of the rain. He didn’t do it overnight,’specially for me; I was still a cowboy for years yet. But I knew he knew I was stand-up, and later than sooner he would cut me loose into the big bucks. Earl first, then me. Rocco was the icebreaker and he done the right thing. And it took balls, because there was fool wops that couldn’t see it—no put grits, rice, and beans in the pasta. Prejudiced old fucks like Rocco’s boss, Pete Amadeo ( maldita sea su madre ), who thought they could sit inside the one tent with a whole bunch of Indians like me and Earl runnin’ around outside bare-ass in the cold. Not to forget the hole the feds was diggin’ under the floor.
    Sick—some of them guys is sick too. You take Amadeo—a/k/a Petey A. One night at the Copa—this is when Tom Jones was at his peak. All the wise guys ’n dolls was jammed in—place was hysteria. Broadsthrowin’ their keys, their drawers even, at Jones. Pete says to this button-guy with him,
    “He’s a fuckin’ nigger. All this noise over a fuckin’ nigger.”
    “No, Pete, you got it wrong—he’s English.”
    “I say he’s a fuckin’ nigger, awright?”
    “Eh, yeah, you’re right, Pete—lookit the way he dances.”
    We split from the El in the order we came in. First Rocco, then Earl, then me. I hit Harlem like Sonny hit Floyd.

2
    T HE FIFTIES CAME IN STRONG FOR ME . L IKE DANCE-CRAZY . The St. Nick’s Arena, the Manhattan Center, the Caborojeño, Broadway Casino—seems like everybody was dancing their ass off. The tigers would go to the Cabo and the BC, the down P.R.’s would go to the Palladium.