I was named Giuseppe, after a jazz violinist or some shit. I never knew why, I never had any rhythm.
I grew up in Jersey in a small Italian-American family. I guess that’s kinda’ strange, most Italian guys have more cousins than they can count. My mom came over alone, but more on that later.
I first killed a guy when I was 15. You wouldn’t tell by looking at me that that’s the life I’d lead. I was always small for my age, had a drawn, white complexion, even after that weekend in Cape May. I was skinny, too. My mom always said, “Joe, you’d have to stand in the same place twice to cast a shadow.” I’m still not quite sure what that means.
I always tried to run with the older guys. They all hung out in Vailsburg. That’s where it happened. I snuck out one night and took a ride with my Uncle, Frankie. He knew those guys and I saw that as my way in. It was a life I longed to live. The suits, fancy automobiles, and staying out all night, I couldn’t wait for my taste of the action. At 15 I knew no better, and that was that.
As for the guy who got shot, I try to convince myself he had it coming. I remember everything about that day, down to the color of the wallpaper and the smell of shit when I had the gun to his temple. It was dark orange.
Once he had died, my life changed. My mom always said, “You’ve got to crack a few eggs to make an omelette.” I made it my business to understand that one. After a few scrapes, busts, and broads I was 18 and waiting at the side of the road, ready to jack the next truck they rolled by. My life might have changed when that poor guy was whacked, but that was nothing compared to what was about to happen.
It was all set up. We’d done it so many times before I could hear the crates unloading in my sleep. The breath and cigarette smoke hung in the air, mixing with the fog; we couldn’t see what was about to happen.
