The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(15)

He learned that the Kosher Nostra engaged in every manner of crime except for the mixing of dairy products with beef.

“But afterward, we feel bad,” the Kosher Nostra recruiter said with a shrug.

“After you mix beef and dairy?”

“After we do crimes. These other schmendricks”—he gestured toward the Wounded Chickens and the Black Hand—“they do whatever, then they have a cannelloni or drink a bottle of whiskey. But us, we feel guilty.” He held out a plate of pastry. “Would you like a rugelach? Apricot. They’re to die for.”

Paddy decided this wasn’t quite the right criminal organization for him. Then he spotted the smallest of the booths. It was hardly a booth, in fact, just a card table manned by a sullen, furious-faced man in a too-large striped suit. The man was playing solitaire with a dirty, bent-up deck of cards. On the table was a half-finished bowl of something Paddy recognized: oatmeal.

“Aren’t you going to finish that?” Paddy asked boldly.

The furious-faced man looked up at him. Furiously. A sneer distorted his face, which was further distorted by what had to be a knife scar running from the corner of his left eye to his right jaw.

“No,” the man spat angrily. “It lacks any real appeal. Altogether a bland, unimaginative dish.”

“Try toasting some pecans,” Paddy said. “Toasted pecans, and instead of milk maybe a dollop of crème fra?che. Clover honey would sweeten it nicely.”

The man squinted at Paddy. “You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“Have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Good. Crime is a great life. But it’s not for a family man. It’s a lonely life, kid. A life of violence and money and flashy clothes and money and then some more violence.”

“I tried to kill my own twin brother.”

“Nice.” The furious-faced man nodded thoughtfully. “Just the kind of ruthless, amoral, psychopathic young fellow we’re looking for.” He put down his deck of cards and reached inside his jacket. He whipped out a business card.

The card had the single word Scarnose. And an address.

“You’re Scarnose?” Paddy asked.

The man looked a bit sheepish. “I wanted Scarface. But it was taken.” He looked Paddy up and down. “So, you want a life of crime. Do you have any objection to serving the murderous Mother of All Monsters, who is plotting her distant return, at which time she will enslave the entire human race?”

“Meh,” Paddy said.

“Go to the address on the card.”

“I’ll do that,” Paddy said. “Say, what’s the name of this gang?”

Scarnose grinned (insofar as he was capable of grinning) and said, “You’ve just signed up with the Nafia, kid.”

The Nafia had a very rigid system of promotion. Young Paddy started out as an “eel.” An eel spent his days running errands and occasionally attending classes in criminal culture and technique.

(Incidentally, criminal-culture-and-technique school was quite strict. Fail one test, and you were put on horse-poop pickup detail. Fail a second test, and the teacher would hurl you out of a second-floor window. Fail a third test, and the teacher could remove one of your eyeballs and make you eat it. This was not exactly Montessori.)

Paddy enjoyed the life of an eel. But one day an older kid shoved him out of the way, and Paddy beat the boy severely with a fruitcake (a fresh fruitcake fortunately, or it would have been murder).

At which point Paddy was promoted to “miscreant.”

Miscreants still had to run errands and attend the occasional class, but they were also given real duties, mostly as lookouts.

Once while acting as a lookout, Paddy was approached by a suspicious police officer. Paddy shoved the police officer. At which point the cop delivered a beat-down with his billy club.

Naturally Paddy was promoted from miscreant to “malefactor.”

A malefactor did not run errands or attend classes but acted as a sort of freelance criminal, responsible for shoplifting, purse-cutting, and the snatching of men’s pocket watches. (Ninety years ago, remember? They weren’t stealing iPods.)

Paddy proved to be quite good at his work. He was a malefactor until the age of sixteen, when he was promoted to “thug.”

It was a proud moment because Paddy was the youngest person ever to be so honored.

Being a Nafia thug was a pretty good gig for Paddy. For the first time he was responsible for others. He employed one malefactor and three miscreants.

Oh, they were carefree days for Paddy. Some of the best days of his life.

Each morning he would get up in the afternoon, enjoy a bowl of oatmeal and several shots of whiskey, and then make the rounds of small shops and kiosks, extorting “protection” money.

Paddy had a certain charm that even his victims appreciated. One of them, Luigi MacMackenzie, testified in court that Paddy had never once threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay up. Instead, he always phrased his threats politely.

“Which would you prefer, Mr. MacMackenzie? That I beat you with a brick until you can’t talk without drooling? Or would you prefer to pay up?”

It was these small courtesies that his victims always appreciated.

Unfortunately Paddy was not as good at managing his subordinates. In fact, the reluctant conclusion of the Nafia bosses was that Paddy would never be a people person.