Alfonso ‘Al’ Bosco
Age: 23
Place of Birth: Bayonne, NJ
Likes: Veal; Cognac
Dislikes: Crowded places; Dogs
Al took a heavy blow to the head and was still unconscious. If he knew what we were walking into, he might have thought twice about pulling through.
He still isn’t home. I’m calling the police from the corner, I’ve had enough.
“What happened to Frankie?” Asked Joey, as we drove through some shit hole neighbourhood. I still didn’t think to speak. Joey didn’t care; he came to his own conclusions about Frankie.
Those Fucking Jersey scumbags have boosted their last truck. Mark my words.
We rounded the corner before Calvino’s place. The Boss was there; we saw his car. Tasting the cold air, stale smoke; I pulled up, we got out, left Al on the back seat, and walked towards the door of the safe house, snuffing out my second-to-last cigarette under my heal.
From the outside nothing gave it away; an old apartment block masked by lingering fog and broken windows.
Knees shaking, palms sweating, I couldn’t bring myself to knock at the door. Al is going to be the hero, later. He’s going to bust in and save us. I didn’t know that yet. I knew we were in trouble but I thought it was just The Boss who would want us dead. KNOCK… The door swung open with a loud creak. Joey and I looked at each other. Eyes shot; lip shaking; brow sweating; blood drying on our collars, I walked in first, Joey second. Three men stood, crowded round, with their backs to us.
They’re on their way. I just hope they can help this time round. I always told Joe not to get himself mixed up with those people; they’re nothing but bad news. He doesn’t listen to me any more. My Father was mixed up with the same type before I came to America. He was killed helping me escape. They haven’t forgotten about me, I’m sure.
