The Law of Second Chances by James Sheehan Page B

his eyes as he spoke.
    “I told you not to shoot. I told you he’d give you the money.”
    Benny put his hands over his ears. “I know, I know. I was so fucking high I don’t even remember what I did. You shouldn’t have given me a gun with a hair trigger. And that wasn’t coke you gave me either because I didn’t come down for two days.”
    “Don’t blame your fuckups on me,” she said.
    “I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying.”
    “Yeah, well, don’t say any more. This is the end of our brief love affair. When I walk out of this room you and I are finished. Got it?”
    “Got it.” As hot as she was, he had no desire to ever set eyes on her again.
    He watched her as she walked down the stairs. Something was bothering him. He had only given her five thousand dollars—instead of the seven she’d insisted on—and she hadn’t checked the amount.
    Why didn’t she count the money?
he asked himself.
And why did she decide to leave the gun with me?

12
    New York City, September 1966
    Johnny was bigger, stronger, and faster when the next football season rolled around. He worked out for weeks before the start of practice; he even stopped smoking. He took his cue on that from Frankie, who was one of the few guys in the neighborhood who didn’t smoke. Johnny hoped like hell Frankie didn’t stop drinking beer
.
    Ever since he’d become a member of the Lexingtons, his status in the neighborhood had changed. Johnny wasn’t just an obscure punk anymore—he was one of the guys. And he was part of everything they did, whether it was playing cards at Frankie’s on Friday night, going to Rockaway Beach for the weekend during the summer, or stealing cases of beer from the basement of Fellino’s Market—Mikey had figured out a way to slip through the basement bars. One night they took two cases out and stored them up at Frankie’s apartment
.
    The next day Sonny Fellino, the owner’s son, a twenty-something-year-old who was big and tough as nails, lined four of them up against the wall in front of the store and grilled them—Johnny and Mikey, Norman Martin and Frankie. Sonny was sure they were the thieves
.
    “You guys are gonna tell me who did it!” Sonny was yelling at the top of his lungs. “And if it was one of youse and you tell me right now, I’ll go easy on you.”
    Nobody believed a word of it. Sonny was a bully. He wore a tight white T-shirt with his Marlboros stuck inside
his rolled-up right sleeve. His hair was greased up and combed straight back except for the front, which fell over into his eyes. Admitting to anything was going to get you beaten unmercifully, and then you’d become Sonny’s slave at Fellino’s until he decided the debt had been paid
.
    They all held tough, however, and Sonny let them go
—
all except Johnny. Sonny knew he’d never get anything out of Frankie. Hell, Frankie might give him a run for his money if he tried. Same with Mikey—he was young, but he had a reputation of never backing down from anyone. Norman had two older brothers, and Sonny did not want to mess with them. That left Johnny—the weak link
.
    “C’mere, Johnny, I wanna talk to you,” Sonny said as he motioned him to come away from the wall. Johnny watched the others walk away, each one catching his eye and giving him a look that told him what would happen if he ever talked. He was between a rock and a hard place. He decided he needed to give Sonny something
.
    “You know who did it, don’t you, Johnny?” Sonny said, his left arm around Johnny’s shoulder. He was so close Johnny could smell his body odor. Johnny knew he would have to make his story good
.
    “Yeah, I do, Sonny. I mean, I wasn’t involved last night or nothing. Neither were the other guys. I should have told you this when it happened. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
    “Told me what?” Sonny asked impatiently. He was in the mood to beat somebody’s ass, not to talk
.
    “I saw Billy Reynolds checking out your cellar the other