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

The Manhattan Center would be the place for Easter, maybe six bands followed by a riot where 3 or 4 guys would be thrown off the balcony. One Easter was maybe two hundred cats rumbling, tables crashing, bottles flying, and in the middle of this Noro Morales on the bandstand, “Pliz, we all Puerto Rican pipples, no fight….” I laughed so hard I could hardly swing my chair.
    The bands were hot—Machito, Puente, Rodriguez, Curbelo, Marcelino Guerra, they was all gigging.
    The main joint was the Palladium on 53rd Street and Broadway; the owner was a Jew named Max, but if you looked around you knew he had friends. All the help waswops. The bouncers were somethin’ else—real class. Like some jíbaro would throw a right hand; they’d catch his fist in midair, lift him off his feet, his little shoes kicking in the air, rush him to the back door parallel to the ground like a torpedo; a bouncer had the door ready— he’s gone, head-first down a flight of concrete steps. The dancers wouldn’t even break stride.
    But the house wouldn’t fuck with the wise-guys. We brought in the bread, drank J & B, had the sharp broads. Lots of dressing in those days—dark suits, roll collars, skinny silk ties, short hair—dap as a Russian pimp. Fridays was our night. All the hustlers were there—l03rd Street, 106th, 107th, 111th, 116th—Mario, Guajiro, Toñin, Cano. Everybody was cool—except maybe if the Viceroys and the Turbens was there on the same night. I would back out then because I was tight with both clicks and couldn’t take sides when they’d get it on.
    I always had my table with my own crew, Tato and Victor Lopez, Lalin, Monkey, Colorado—salty motherfuckers all. I was the main man. None of us was too smart then, but my hands were the best and in them days there was still duking with the fists, at least among the spics. We was small-timing in them days—thievery, nickel bags, and strong arm.
    The broads were all over; we’d team up mostly with whores. Who else is going to snort coke with you in an after-hours joint or see you go for a yard when your bread is down? My old lady then was India from 113th Street; she was underage and her mother was going to lock meup, but after the kid was born we was okay. She was the most beautiful mulata uptown but she had this thing about being white—kept talking about the kid having good hair. P.R.’s used to make a big thing about hair in them days—this guy’s got good hair, this guy bad, this guy suspicious hair. Me, I never gave a fuck—guess I was ahead of my time.
    Mainly India was good people, but she was just a kid and very wacky. Like we’d be comin’ out of a restaurant with some people and she’d jump on my back— “Carlito, carry me piggyback.” ’Ey, I was already a mature cat—done time—respected. India’s mother didn’t go for me; I was a thug. Meanwhile, I know for a fact the old lady used to turn tricks in her day—had a fine body just like the daughter. All them “India” broads got fine bodies. Anyway, we didn’t last long. The two of them and the baby, a girl, Prudencia (that was the grandmother’s name), ended up in Florida with some Air Force guy India married. She had some shape, India did—like a guitar. You knew someday she was gonna turn into a bull fiddle, but in the meantime—some good strummin’, Jack. Believe that.
    Wednesdays was celebrity night at the Palladium— all the showbiz and Jews doing cha-cha-cha-one-two-three, Marlon Brando sit in on conga (couldn’t play to save his ass), out-of-town people—shit like that—all into Latin music. I say that put the spics on the map; we wasn’t all behind them little glass panes at Horn & Hardart. Yeah, like a P.R. pot washer could dance up a storm atthe Palladium and walk out some fine out-of-town fox. Yeah, the old P was all right. Had a hell of a run too. The forties, the fifties, right up to the early sixties. Then some lame was puffing on a joint one night, got next to a