Sneak Preview: The Prologue from Pretty - A Novel from the East Harlem Cycle

Ahead of our August 2021 release date, I thought I'd give followers of the blog a sneak preview of Pretty - A Novel from the East Harlem Cycle. The Prologue of the novel introduces our main character years after the events that take place in Parts One, Two, Three in the novel. The old man is on his way to a wedding in Westchester, and as the book begins he's making his way from a brownstone on 118th street to the MetroNorth station at 125th Street and Park Avenue. He eventually arrives at The Kittle House in Chappaqua, where he comes face to face with a piece of his own past. 

When I began thinking about writing a historical novel, I kept coming back to something that the great Italian director Sergio Leone once said: a story needs a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. With that in mind, then, from a chronological standpoint, the Prologue is actually the end point of the story. 

Of course, as the novel begins, we find Pretty's story unfolding against the backdrop of the waning days of the Schultz organization in the fall of 1935. However, as the narrative develops, the reader finds himself being borne back to where it all began for Pretty: as a young man named Orlando Fuentes arriving in East Harlem from San Juan for the first time as the decade of the 1920s beckons. . .

******

PROLOGUE

    The old man stepped out of the three-story brownstone with the faded brickface that stood in the middle of 118^th Street between First and Pleasant Avenues. He locked the door behind him, then shuffled over to the iron fence that surrounded the small concrete yard and lifted the latch on the front gate. He stepped quickly out onto the sidewalk, closed the gate behind him and looked down toward Pleasant Avenue before he turned and began walking up to First. He tipped his 8-piece pie cap to Annie, Pete’s sister next door. She held up the end of a green rubber hose that she was using to clean off the sidewalk so that the old man could walk past.
    He was a few inches short of six feet and struck a frail figure but his pace was brisk for an octogenarian who had been smoking since the summer he graduated from Central Commercial. Aware of his own brittleness, the old man found comfort in the dull, heavy weight of the sap in the pocket of his suit vest. It tapped playfully against his chest as he made his way west.
    At the corner, he thought about a nice cup of cool coconut ice from Rex’s but decided against it. The ice would just end up all over his suit, he thought. As he waited for the light to change, he looked across the avenue at the peeling moss-green façade of Patsy’s Pizzeria. The last vestige of the once-proud guinea empire in East Harlem. Well, Patsy’s or Rao’s. Neither one is Venezia’s, is it? But who cares now, anyway. Most of the eye-ties are long gone and the dark hordes have got the ones who stuck around completely surrounded. Jefferson Houses to the South, Wagner Houses to the North, Johnson and Taft Houses to the West, and the river to the East. A wop Waterloo. Robert Moses, you clever bastard.
    He crossed the avenue, then walked north up First until he turned left on 124^th street. He skirted the north end of Wagner, passing the public swimming pool that was already open for the day. From there it was a straight walk up 125^th street to the Metro-North Station. The old man paused to catch his breath at Park Avenue and gaze on the old flophouse at the southeast corner of the intersection.  He surveyed the weathered brick that ran the length of the building like pock-marked cheeks that ended at the filthy, stained windows of the corner bodega that operated out of the building’s storefront. Two junkie broads leaned on the glass. Or were they hookers? The old man couldn’t tell the difference anymore.  They were dark and ashy and unappealing with sunken, lifeless eyes. Nothing like Polly’s girls. Nothing like Trish. The pursuit of happiness gone awry, but to each his or her own hustle.

    He crossed over to the north side of 125^th street and walked into the dark, musty main room of the station. He got in line behind a young man wearing a blue blazer, burgundy tie, khakis and penny loafers. The young man’s backpack was stretched to the breaking point by an assortment of textbooks that hung oppressively from his shoulders so that he hunched at such an angle as to put the old man to shame. As if the world’s accumulated knowledge wasn’t adequately represented by the portable library strapped to his back, the boy held yet another book in his hands.
    Latin. Christ. A Jesuit, the old man thought. And that is probably just his weekend reading. A prepster from Fordham, most likely, and the little bastard doesn’t dare risk that mule pack on the subway. He can’t outrun anyone and hell if he’ll leave those goddamned tomes behind. The little shit probably gets off at the Botanical Gardens and slinks in through the back before anyone can get a good look at him. Be careful, kid. Skip the subways and you’ll miss all the fun.
    The old man stepped up to the window as the boy shuffled off to catch his train. He paid for a roundtrip to Chappaqua, deposited the tickets in his inside jacket pocket and took a seat on the bench at the other end of the waiting room. It was there on New Year’s Eve back in ‘30, right there on that exact same spot, that he had spoken to Jack D. for the last time. Jack had a police guard with him then so no one could bump him off before they kicked him out of the big town for good. Ol’ Jack didn’t realize it was the bulls he needed to worry about. What’re you gonna do? Jack asked. The old man shrugged.
    He got up from the bench and started for the staircase at the far end of the hallway that led to the elevated platforms above. He climbed the stairs in about 5 minutes flat, then pushed open the glass door and walked out into the brightness of a fall afternoon.
    With his glasses on, the old man could see all the way east to the ramp of the Triborough Bridge on Second Avenue, and beyond that almost to First Avenue and the Willis Avenue Bridge. The sky was clear and blue and the sun was shining. A pleasant breeze kept him cool in his wool suit and lifted the voices up to him from the sidewalks below.

    It was a perfect day for a wedding.

    As the old man settled in to peek into the hotel windows, a horn sounded off in the distance. A moment later the train slid into the station, cutting off the breeze and all but the loudest noises from the thoroughfare below. Then the Brewster North train closed its doors, jerked forward and slowly lurched out of the station. The old man found a four-seater for himself and sat down in one of the padded blue and red seats. He took off his pearl grey fedora, an old custom Borsalino number with a dark grey band, and crossed his legs. With his right foot dangling in the air, he flipped the hat onto the tip of his black spade-soled Johnston & Murphy Handmade 100s that had been spit-shined into an ebony brilliance.
    Fishing out a crème-colored sheet of paper from inside his suit jacket and holding it directly in front of his face, he leaned in with the glasses that were perched precariously at the edge of his nose. The paper had been folded in half into a little booklet advertising the Kittle House Inn & Restaurant -- “A House With A Past” -- located in scenic Chappaqua, New York. The front page had a small photo of the place while the last page offered high praise for the wine list. The inside of the booklet went on about the history of the place. The old man’s eyes searched out the paragraph that had piqued his curiosity and led him to respond yes, he would be happy to attend the wedding of his grandson on Saturday, the 29^th of September.

Since then the Kittle House has changed hands several times and many enhancements have been made to the building and property. In the late ‘70’s, a beautiful mahogany bar with quite a history of its own was added. The bar, originally bought in England by Fanny Brice as a birthday present for Dutch Schultz, spent some time in Schultz’s Bronx speakeasy before making its way to the Kittle House Tap Room about half a century later.

    His first impression, aside from a sense of indignation at the suggestion that the Dutchman had owned one lousy speakeasy in the Bronx, was that this was pure and unadulterated horseshit. Someone had probably read about Fanny’s gift, found an old bar in some mick dive in Hell’s Kitchen, and thought it would add some character to the joint.
    Yet, in the days following the receipt of the invitation, the old man found himself often wondering about the bar in the Tap Room of the Kittle House. One morning while sipping his coffee, he realized that if it was that bar, its present location was quite fitting. Arthur would have liked that the bar had moved beyond the confines of the Bronx, as he himself had done. There had always been something about Westchester that had appealed to Arthur. It was the Shangri-la of his earliest days, the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow, before he discovered other places that outshone the suburban palaces of Westchester County.
    After all, in those golden days of their ascent, wasn’t it his habit in a tight spot to offer up a home in Westchester in lieu of hard cash or on top of it? And hard cash never knew a more loyal disciple than Arthur. When they shot Danny Iamascia on the corner of 102nd and Fifth and got the drop on Arthur, hadn’t he offered those lousy bulls a house apiece if they would let him walk? Later on, when Vincent went off on his own and was driving everyone nuts, hadn’t the old man been standing right there when Arthur walked into the detectives’ squad room of the old Morrisania police station and said, “Look, I want the Mick killed. He’s driving me out of my mind. I’ll give a house in Westchester to any of you guys that knocks him off.”
    Yes, Arthur would have liked to have known that he had a bar serving the swells up in Westchester. If it was his bar.

    And so the old man went to the wedding.

    At the inn the valet, a young man in black trousers and a red blazer, helped the old man out of a cab. The old man thanked him, then gently patted down his thighs to smooth out the wrinkles in the fabric of his 3-piece suit. When he was done the old man put his fedora back on, tilting it far too rakishly for a man of his years. Then he gave the Kittle House a good once-over before he stepped into the foyer.
    As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark interior, he saw a bored blonde seated on a stool behind the front desk. Behind the desk was a short hallway leading to a large dining room on one side and a narrow staircase leading to the rooms above on the other. A large window at the back of the dining room looked out on the roof of an atrium and the garden behind it. To the old man’s left was a smaller dining room that he barely glanced at. He was already smiling when he turned toward the dark expanse of the barroom to his right.
    “Can I help you?” the young girl asked from behind her desk, which was framed by a collection of burnt orange leaves. Two large pumpkins, ornately carved with intricate floral patterns, were stationed at each end of a shelf behind the blonde.
    “I’m here for a wedding, but I might be early,” the old man suggested. He redirected his smile towards the beautiful girl.
    “Would it be alright if I waited at the bar?”
    “Oh, certainly. You can go right in. I think the bartender is helping to set up downstairs, but I’ll go get him.”
    “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said pleasantly. He walked toward the barroom, and as he shuffled off he could hear the blonde somewhere behind him, her kitten heels clicking loudly against the wood floor.

     He had seen the apex of the bar, its triangular wood centerpiece, from the moment he had peered into the cool darkness of the room from the hallway. The old man had smiled then and, unable to shake it, he had let the smile loose upon the blonde which was something he hadn’t done in many years, blondes being a vice he had abstained from for many years. He had smiled because there it was, the sturdy mahogany center and its accompanying wing sections, the mirrored back of the shelving, the long bar and the handrail with its unpolished bronze end-pieces that looked like cannonballs. Just above the floor, he spied the footrest which gleamed majestically in the half-light of the cozy little room.
    The only thing missing are the hand-towels, the old man thought to himself as he walked the length of the bar-top. He inspected the surface with his right hand until it came to rest upon the only real blemish in the lustrous, aged patina of the oak, just to the right of the brass end-piece at the far end of the bar. In the intervening years, the mark, roughly four to five inches long and about as wide, had been polished and buffed with such regularity that it looked as if black ink had once been spilled there. The old man bent his head directly over the mark and stared at it. He felt a twinge of nausea for a moment, a fleeting memory from that long-ago day when the blood flowed freely from his nostrils down on to the top of Fanny’s bar, courtesy of a tough bull named Broderick.
    After a while, the bartender came in from the garden.
    “Sorry, mister,” he said to the old man. Then he ducked down and reappeared behind the bar, appropriately flanked by the bottles of spirits stacked on the shelves behind him. “What can I get you?”
    “Whiskey.”
    The bartender opened a bottle and poured the drink. The old man took a sip and sighed contentedly.
    “You know,” he said to the bartender as he set the glass back down on the bar. “The last time I was at this bar, I was maybe 18, 20 years old.”
    “I didn’t know this place was that old. No offense.”
    “None taken. It isn’t. Well, I don’t know how old this joint is. I don’t mean here. The bar was someplace else then. South Bronx. Third Avenue. I worked for the owner.”
    “South Bronx? That’s pretty rough these days.”
    “Pretty rough then, too,” the old man said as he took another sip of the whiskey and surveyed the bar once more. “But we made out alright.”
    “You sound like my father,” the bartender said. “He used to talk about Hell’s Kitchen like it was Great Adventure. A thrill a minute. Swimming in the Hudson, busting heads on the West Side piers. Crazy stuff. The good old days, the way he tells it.”
    “It’s all great when you’re 25,” the old man said. He gave the younger man a wink and finished his glass.
    “So what about you? What were you doing back then?” the bartender asked.
    “Me? I was a book-keeper,” the old man said.
    The young man chuckled. “I thought you said you worked in a bar.”
    “I did. But this guy I worked for had his hand in lots of different things. So I did, too.”
    “Sounds like he kept you busy.”
    “That he did,” the old man said. He stared down into the empty glass. “He died before his time, a long time ago.”
    “Sorry to hear that.”
    The old man shrugged. When he looked up at the bartender, the smile had returned.
    “Yep,” he said. “All in all, he was a pretty good pretzeler, though.”