The Men in Mercer Street

The Collection

The next evening, Frankie and I were back at the Social Club by six.

This time, we weren't wondering if Salvatore would have another envelope waiting for us. We'd already learned that the work wasn't going to be difficult enough to complain about, but it wasn't going to be free either.

Joey was waiting near the back door.

"Come on."

Frankie looked at me. "No hello?"

Joey glanced over his shoulder. "You want a hello?"

"No."

"Then come on."

We followed him outside.

A dark blue 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass was parked at the curb. Joey got behind the wheel, and Frankie took the passenger seat. I climbed into the back.

As soon as we pulled away, I asked, "Where are we going?"

Joey looked at me through the rearview mirror.

"Collecting."

"How much?"

"Eight hundred dollars."

Frankie whistled.

"That's a lot more than forty dollars."

Joey didn't answer.

Then we drove out. Eight hundred dollars sounded like serious money to me. It was more than my father probably took home in weeks from the barbershop.

I wondered what kind of person could owe that much.

We drove for about ten minutes before turning into a neighborhood of small houses and narrow driveways. Joey parked outside a two-story brick house with a green front door.

Frankie looked at it.

"That's where the guy lives?"

"Looks like it."

Joey turned off the engine.

"Stay close."

We got out.

I expected Joey to kick the door in. Instead, he walked up the steps and knocked.

We waited a few seconds before the door opened.

A man in his late thirties stood there. He had thinning hair, a white T-shirt and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

His face changed when he saw Joey.

"Joey."

"Frank."

Frank looked past him at us.

"Who's this?"

"Friends."

Joey stepped inside without waiting to be invited. Frank moved aside.

We followed.

The house was small and clean. There was a couch in the living room, a television against the wall and a kitchen table covered with papers. Nothing about the place looked like someone who owed eight hundred dollars.

Joey stood near the table.

"You got it?"

Frank sighed.

"I told you I'd have it."

"You told me that Monday."

"I know."

"It's Thursday."

Frank took the cigarette from his mouth.

"I've had a bad week."

Joey nodded.

"Everybody has a bad week."

"I'll have it tomorrow."

Joey looked around the room.

"You said tomorrow last time."

"I mean it this time."

Frankie shifted beside me. I could tell he was getting impatient already.

Joey didn't seem bothered. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"How much do you have?"

Frank looked at him.

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Frank went into the kitchen. A moment later, he came back with a wallet. He opened it and counted the bills on the table.

"Two hundred and thirty."

Joey looked at the money.

"That's a start."

"I can get the rest next week."

"No."

Frank's face tightened.

"I need the money for the shop."

"Then you should've thought about that before you bet it."

Frank looked down.

I watched Joey carefully, He wasn’t shouting, no threats, no fists. Just a man sitting at a kitchen table, waiting.

Frank pushed the money toward him.

"Take it."

Joey counted it, folded the bills and put them in his jacket.

"You still owe five hundred and seventy."

"I know."

"Tomorrow night."

Frank nodded.

Joey stood.

"Don't make me come back."

Frank swallowed.

"You won't have to."

Joey walked toward the door. We followed him out. As soon as we reached the sidewalk, Frankie looked at him.

"That's it?"

Joey unlocked the Cutlass.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Something."

Joey opened the driver's door.

"Like what?"

Frankie shrugged.

"A little more convincing."

Joey looked at him.

"The man knows who I work for. He knows what happens if he doesn't pay. I don't need to threaten him."

Frankie didn't have an answer. Neither did I. We got back into the car.

On the way to the club, I kept thinking about what just happened. I expected violence because that's what I imagined the Mafia was supposed to look like.

But Joey didn’t touched the man. He didn’t even raised his voice. The fear had already been there before we walked through the door.

When we got back to the Social Club, Joey handed the money to Salvatore in the back room.

Salvatore counted it once.

"Two hundred and thirty."

"That's what he had."

Salvatore nodded and put the money away.

He looked at us.

"Anything happen?"

"No," Joey said.

Salvatore nodded.

Then his eyes moved to me.

"You got something to say?"

I shook my head.

"No."

He studied me for another second before looking away. Then we left the room. Frankie waited until we were outside before speaking.

"I thought we'd have to break his nose."

I looked at Frankie in surprise too.

"So did I."

"Joey didn't even raise his voice."

"I noticed."

Frankie laughed.

"Maybe we're learning something."

I smiled. Maybe we were.

Until that night, I'd thought Mafia men were the ones who could hurt you at any given chance.

Joey showed me there was another kind. The kind who didn't have to.