I got an idea for a short story or novel about the real lives of gangsters and mob bosses. You know how in the movies there are all these henchmen who are willing to risk their lives for the boss? And most of them die? I kind of wonder how that really plays out.

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Lorenzo awoke and swung his feet around to touch the floor as he sat up. The metal frame of the cot dug into his palms and thighs and he lifted himself up off of the thin mattress and stood, scratching his chest and squinting his face. He reached for his watch on the cheap nightstand and put it on, checking the time. 9:30 a.m. Later than he'd wanted to wake up. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror over the dresser and winced at the sight of a black and purple bruise on his upper arm and tricep. He shook his head in self-disgust.

Still in his boxers and sleeveless t-shirt he stumbled into the kitchen, dumped yesterday's coffee grounds into the garbage and pulled a fresh filter from the box. He prepped a new pot and turned the maker on, sitting down in an old wooden chair at a wobbly formica and chrome kitchen table. A greasy and stained pizza box sat partially opened, he reached inside and procured the stale leftover slice, eating it cold.

He sat there, chewing the first bite over and over while he stared out the window. After a while he finally swallowed, choking it down, dry. It was the first step to rebuilding himself. The coffee maker was now sputtering its finale, so he put the slice down on the closed box lid, then got up and poured himself a cup. The aroma hit him with a sense of comfort, instantly colorizing his bleak world. He returned to the chair and the unfinished slice, this time finding flavor and even a bit of enjoyment. There was nothing like Sal's pizza, and when he'd gotten home the night before it was like an s.o.s. call when he ordered the delivery.

His peace and solice didn't last long as it was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He went back into the bedroom and dug the phone out of his pants pocket.

"Morning Rita."

"Morning Lorenzo. He wants you to come in. How soon can you make it?"

Glancing at his watch he did some quick math. "Ah, if I can make the next train I can be there in 30."

"Take a cab if you have to."

This last instruction surprised him. Boss generally frowned on taking cabs to the office, preferring that his associates come and go on foot or private car. "No records," he would say.

"O.K. I'll head down there now. Say, Rita?"

"Yeah?"

"Nevermind. I'll see you soon."

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Rita disconnected the call and put the phone down next to the others. She walked over to Carmine's open office door and knocked on the jam to announce the intrusion.

"Just spoke to Lorenzo. He's on his way."

"Good. Put another couple grand in his envelope this week. He took a helluva beatdown last night."

"O.K. boss. What about Big Tony's widow?"

"Put 10k in an envelope and I'll bring it to the funeral."

"I'll try to find out when they make arrangements."

Rita turned and walked back to her desk. She knew Carmine would make a big show out of handing Tony's widow the envelope. He might make the first couple of monthly payments to her, too. And then something would come up. A whisper campaign. 'Did you hear? Tony was skimming.'

How he manages to maintain an organization is beyond me, she thought. But there was always new blood eager to rise up through the criminal underworld and they knew that death was always looming on the horizon, so why should the boss care about assuaging anxieties?

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Lorenzo went into the bedroom, changed his underclothes and put on a clean suit. Before putting the jacket on, he removed his gun from the holser draped across the chair in the corner and dumped out the 6 empty shell casings, replacing them from the box he took out of his top dresser drawer. He'd have to clean the firearm when he had time, but for now it would do. He strapped the holster around his shoulder and put the weapon, still smelling like fresh gunpowder, in it. He put the jacket on and went to the mirror in the bathroom, found a brush, and did his best to tame any hairs trying to stand up.

Then he sucked down the rest of his cup of coffee and turned the warmer off under the pot, checked his pockets for his wallet, phone, cash and keys, and grabbed the half eaten breakfast to go, locking the apartment door behind him. He flew down the stairs, and walked briskly to the subway. He figured he'd take the 3 train across the river and get off at Columbus Circle and take a cab from there. Might be quicker to take the train all the way uptown but any time saved would be lost walking the two long blocks to Central Park West. If he wasn't in a hurry he would have transferred to the A train, but there was no telling how long he'd have to wait.

Lorenzo hated the subway. He hated being underground with all the flourescent lights. In this ethnic city, the lights made subway riders look sick, like they never saw sunlight. He wondered if it made his tan skin look that way, too.

Columbus circle smelled like car exhaust, hot dogs, and pretzels. He loved the smells of this city. Even the piss in the subway smelled like it belonged there.