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The Counterfeit Tens

Drew Marshall

    He was a huge and monstrous creature. This behemoth frightened us. We were respectful and polite during the little contact we had with him. He owned the largest home on the block, across from the shul.
    Rumor had it this giant was a low-level mob man. Every month, there were three or four different cars in his driveway. He headed a stolen car ring.
    I was friendly with Joey, his teenage son. We played basketball together in his backyard.
    Vinnie, Roland and I, approached the door to Big Tony’s home with trepidation. I rang the bell. We were expecting Joey to answer, and he usually did.
    Instead we were confronted with Big Tony himself and his less than friendly Doberman Pincher, Sal.
    “Joey ain’t home. He’s out shopping with his mother.” Sal growled and barked louder than Big Tony, to emphasize this fact.
    He looked agitated, as he always did. He moved to close the door but suddenly stopped. He stared at us for a moment.
    “I got counterfeit ten dollar bills. I’ll sell them to you for three dollars each. You got any money?”
    We all received our allowances the day before and had about fifty bucks between us. We decided to pool our resources and gave every cent to this mountain of a man.
    “Wait here!” he shouted as he slammed the door in our faces. We heard Sal behind the door, continuing with his non-stop growling and barking.
    He returned and gave the tens to me. I quickly stuffed the bills in my pocket without looking at them.
    “Don’t pass them in this neighborhood. You didn’t get them from me. Understood?
    We nodded in unison.
    “Good” he said, as he slammed the door in our faces once again. We flew down the stairs and ran to our apartment building. We looked around to see if the coast was clear. I then took the bills out of my pocket and gave Vinnie and Roland their share.
    We went over every bill with a fine tooth comb. We decided in our expert adolescent opinion, they were flawless.
    We were then off to Coney Island for a Saturday of good, clean, wholesome fun. We stuffed our faces with burgers, fries, cotton candy and hot dogs. We hit all the arcades first. Then several go rounds on the go carts and roller coaster. Teenage heaven!
    We were sitting in the stationary passenger car on the Ferris wheel, admiring the view below. It had stopped to load the passengers at the bottom. Vinnie started rubbing his crotch and complaining that he hadn’t been laid in several weeks. His girlfriend Sherry was away at summer camp.
    He told us of a place on the Lower East Side that he frequented on occasion. He was the only one of us who was not a virgin. We decided to take off for Manhattan.
    We stood in front of a run down, flea bag motel, smothered with graffiti. We looked over the three prostitutes, who loitered near the entrance. Not the most appealing females who ever walked the streets of this decaying city.
    Vinny approached the tallest of the three and they walked into the motel. Roland and I realized we only had a few dollars between us. We crossed the street and sat on a parked car, directly across from the motel entrance.
    About forty minutes later, Vinnie burst through the motel doors. His usual poker face expression was replaced by one of absolute fear. He is covered with blood.
    “RUN! RUN! He screamed.
    He took off like he was shot from a cannon. He ran towards Third Avenue. Seconds later, a young black man, dress in a lavender suit, sporting a wide brimmed, pink fedora hat appeared. He spotted Vinnie and sped after him.
    Roland and I started running in the same direction. We stayed on the opposite side of the street, carefully running behind the pimp, so he didn’t notice us. Vinnie managed to hop into a cab that was on the corner, waiting for the light to change. The lavender suit dude tripped and fell to the ground. Roland and I jumped into the cab as the light changed.
    I gave the driver the name of the intersection near our home in Brooklyn. We sat back, trying to catch our breath and compose ourselves. I looked behind me and did not see anyone in purple. We had made a narrow escape.
    After taking care of business, Vinny decided he had not been given his money’s worth, and wanted a refund. The working girl refused and told him to leave. Upon exiting he noticed her purse lying on the dresser and impulsively grabbed it.
    “I was only trying to get my ten back. I wasn’t going to rob her.” He exclaimed.
    She grabbed him and started kicking at his legs. The woman began biting his ear and scratching his face. She screamed bloody murder. A battle ensued. He freaked out and smashed her several times in the face. He broke her nose and knocked out a few teeth.
    As Vinnie told his tale; I noticed the driver’s nervous expression as he glanced at us through his mirror. I caught the cabbie’s eye and he immediate looked back at the road. At first I was taken aback by Vinny’s chilling story. Then I found myself vicariously enjoying this violent experience he had just lived through.
    My partner in crime suddenly exploded into violent hysterics. I asked him what was so funny. He continued laughing for another minute or two.
    “I forgot. It was a counterfeit ten!”
    We calmed down and remained silent for the remainder of our journey home. Several blocks from the intersection, as the vehicle stopped for a light, we knew instinctively what had to be done. Without a word, we bolted the cab and scattered in all directions.

    The next day, I traveled upstate to join my mother for a few weeks’ vacation. On the bus I had time to reflect on yesterday’s incident. It was another in a sequence of similar events I was involved in this past year. The end result would be prison or the graveyard.
    I returned to the city after the Labor Day Holiday.
    I was heading towards my part time job at the grocery store. Vinny strolled by as I went into shock upon spotting him. Gone was his long jet black hair. It was replaced by a crewcut and topped off by an army cap. He was in full uniform. My fellow hooligan had joined the Army while I was upstate. The Vietnam War had finally ended earlier in the year. He was leaving for boot camp the next day.
    I hadn’t seen Roland for several days. I ran into Joey one Sunday as he headed off to Church. He told me the third member of my little gang was now working for his father.
    “Running errands and making deliveries.” was all he said as he trotted away, late as usual.
    Joey, non-too bright, was kept out of the family business.
    Later that day, on my way home from work, I noticed a lavender, Cadillac double parked in front of my building. Roland jumped out of the driver’s seat, calling my name.
    He wore a black suit with a black collar shirt. His tie was dark grey. I knew he hated suits and ties as much as I did.
    He drew my attention to his suit and the black Stetson fedora that adorned his head. Leaning against that car, he reminded me of the pimp who chased after us, a few short weeks ago.
    He told me about his new job with great enthusiasm. The Caddie belonged to Big Tony. He started bragging about pulling down two hundred a week. It was easy money.
    Roland looked at his watch, mumbling something about chicks always being late. He had never worn a watch before.
    I told him I was seeing a tutor in order to get my G.E.D. Before he could say anything Sherry came out of the building and ran into his arms. They kissed a few times before Sherry said hello to me. Strange, I thought. Roland could never stand Sherry and the feeling had been mutual.
    They soon took off to catch a new movie called American Graffiti.
    I had never told anyone that Big Tony offered me that same “errand” job, last year. I was returning home from having had to register for the draft. I went to his house to pick up my basketball, which I had left with Joey the day before.
    I politely refused, telling him I was happy with my job at the grocery store. I knew what a job with him would lead to.
    Mom was going to marry a man who was fifteen years her senior. They were planning the date for the wedding at his kitchen table. He suddenly collapsed, and had died of a heart attack.
    My aunt Becky had found us an apartment in Forest Hills. She lived in the same building with her son Ely. Ely and I had been very close growing up, until he moved to the borough of Queens, three years ago. My mother decided we should start fresh. Forest Hills was twenty miles in distance from my current address, yet worlds away.
    I obtained my G.E.D. We moved soon afterwards and I enrolled at Queensboro Community College. My delinquent years were now behind me.

*********

    I was on my lunch hour, headed for the Pizza Parlor. I ordered two slices to go. A man my age was removing coins from the pinball machine. He looked vaguely familiar. I walked over to him for a closer look.
    It was Vinnie. He was a bit heavier, with a receding hairline. He was as surprised as I was when I called his name and introduced myself.
    It had been twenty years since I last saw him. He worked for his uncle out on Long Island.
    His uncle owned a Pinball distribution and repair business. I worked for the New York City Law Department, also referred to as the Corporation Council. I was dressed in a conservative business suit. He wore jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt.
    When I asked about Roland, his demeanor changed. Roland had died in prison while serving time for armed robbery. He was killed in a knife fight, a few days before his twenty fifth birthday.
    He jotted down his phone number and told me to call him. Vinnie proudly showed me a photo of his wife and their seven year old daughter, Marie. He had another on the way and hoped it was a boy. The pizza was ready and I had to get back to my office.
    My appetite disappeared. I sat at my desk looking at Vinnies phone number for a moment, before throwing it in the trash. I wondered what would have happened, had we been caught with those counterfeit tens.
    Would I have confessed to the cops and had to fear Big Tony’s wrath? Would I keep silent and have a felony rap hanging over my head for the rest of my life? It would be a tough dilemma for a nineteen year old to face.
    One mistake when you’re young can ruin your whole life.

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