Short, Slightly Built, And A Wiseguy Into The Bargain

 Paulie Gatto hated quickie jobs, especially when they involved violence. He liked to plan
things ahead. And something like tonight, even though it was punk stuff, could turn into
serious business if somebody made a mistake. Now, sipping his beer, he glanced
around, checking how the two young punks were making out with the two little tramps at
the bar.
Paulie Gatto knew everything there was to know about those two punks. Their names
were Jerry Wagner and Kevin Moonan. They were both about twenty years old,
goodlooking, brown-haired, tall, well-built. Both were due to go back to college out of
town in two weeks, both had fathers with political influence and this, with their college
student classification, had so far kept them out of the draft. They were both also under
suspended sentences for assaulting the daughter of Amerigo Bonasera. The lousy
bastards, Paulie Gatto thought. Draft dodging, violating their probation by drinking in a
bar after midnight, chasing floozies. Young punks. Paulie Gatto had been deferred from
the draft himself because his doctor had furnished the draft board with documents
showing that this patient, male, white, aged twenty-six, unmarried, had received
electrical shock treatments for a mental condition. All false, of course, but Paulie Gatto
felt that he had earned his draft exemption. It had been arranged by Clemenza after
Gatto had “made his bones” in the family business.
It was Clemenza who had told him that this job must be rushed through, before the boys
went to college. Why the hell did it have to be done in New York, Gatto wondered.
Clemenza was always giving extra orders instead of just giving out the job. Now if those
two little tramps walked out with the punks it would be another night wasted.
He could hear one of the girls laughing and saying, “Are you crazy, Jerry? I’m not going
in any car with you. I don’t want to wind up in the hospital like that other poor girl.” Her
voice was spitefully rich with satisfaction. That was enough for Gatto. He finished up his
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beer and walked out into the dark street. Perfect. It was after midnight. There was only
one other bar that showed light. The rest of the stores were closed. The precinct patrol
car had been taken care of by Clemenza. They wouldn’t be around that way until they
got a radio call and then they’d come slow.
He leaned against the four-door Chevy sedan. In the back seat two men were sitting,
almost invisible, although they were very big men. Paulie said, “Take them when they
come out.”
He still thought it had all been set up too fast. Clemenza had given him copies of the
police mug shots of the two punks, the dope on where the punks went drinking every
night to pick up bar girls. Paulie had recruited two of the strong-arms in the family and
fingered the punks for them. He had also given them their instructions. No blows on the
top or the back of the head, there was to be no accidental fatality. Other than that they
could go as far as they liked. He had given them only one warning: “If those punks get
out of the hospital in less than a month, you guys go back to driving trucks.”
The two big men were getting out of the car. They were both ex-boxers who had never
made it past the small clubs and had been fixed up by Sonny Corleone with a little
loan-shark action so that they could make a decent living. They were, naturally, anxious
to show their gratitude.
When Jerry Wagner and Kevin Moonan came out of the bar they were perfect setups.
The bar girl’s taunts had left their adolescent vanity prickly. Paulie Gatto, leaning against
the fender of his car, called out to them with a teasing laugh, “Hey, Casanova, those
broads really brushed you off.”
The two young men turned on him with delight. Paulie Gatto looked like a perfect outlet
for their humiliation. Ferret-faced, short, slightly built and a wise guy in the bargain. They
pounced on him eagerly and immediately found their arms pinned by two men grabbing
them from behind. At the same moment Paulie Gatto had slipped onto his right hand a
specially made set of brass knuckles studded with one-sixteenth-inch iron spikes. His
timing was good, he worked out in the gym three times a week. He smashed the punk
named Wagner right on the nose. The man holding Wagner lifted him up off the ground
and Paulie swung his arm, uppercutting into the perfectly positioned groin. Wagner went
limp and the big man dropped him. This had taken no more than six seconds.
Now both of them turned their attention to Kevin Moonan, who was trying to shout. The
man holding him from behind did so easily with one huge muscled arm. The other hand
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he put around Moonan’s throat to cut off any sound.
Paulie Gatto jumped into the car and started the motor. The two big men were beating
Moonan to jelly. They did so with frightening deliberation, as if they had all the time in
the world. They did not throw punches in flurries but in timed, slow-motion sequences
that carried the full weight of their massive bodies. Each blow landed with a splat of
flesh splitting open. Gatto got a glimpse of Moonan’s face. It was unrecognizable. The
two men left Moonan lying on the sidewalk and turned their attention to Wagner.
Wagner was trying to get to his feet and he started to scream for help. Someone came
out of the bar and the two men had to work faster now. They clubbed Wagner to his
knees. One of the men took his arm and twisted it, then kicked him in the spine. There
was a cracking sound and Wagner’s scream of agony brought windows open all along
the street. The two men worked very quickly. One of them held Wagner up by using his
two hands around Wagner’s head like a vise. The other man smashed his huge fist into
the fixed target. There were more people coming out of the bar but none tried to
interfere. Paulie Gatto yelled, “Come on, enough.” The two big men jumped into the car
and Paulie gunned it away, Somebody would describe the car and read the license
plates but it didn’t matter. It was a stolen California plate and there were one hundred
thousand black Chevy sedans in New York City.

Mario Puzo, The Godfather.