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  • It isn't every day Lucky Luciano's grandson sits down next to you at a hole in the wall bar in the small corner of civilization you call home. It isn't every day that a made man tells you about how he murdered them all - all those people -first one when he was only twelve - and about the twenty years he served. It isn't every day when a mobster cries on your shoulder about the car bomb that blew up his wife and three young children - blew them so high that the explosion could be seen six city blocks away in his Brooklyn neighborhood. And, then, in a whisper that makes your blood run cold, he says the little boy was named after him.

    After a swig of his whiskey, he goes on to tell you about the terrible revenge, served cold, he exacted three years later, at Christmas.

    All I wanted was a dark corner booth and a handful of quarters for the jukebox. But, no, that's not going to happen. Not today. Besides, I have to hear his stories because I am a writer, therefore, I am drawn and repulsed at the same time. I linger at the jukebox before finally pressing L 10 - Can't Get No Satisfaction - then slide back into my corner booth, all red Naugahyde, dim lights and dinginess - while a gangster signals to the bartender to bring us another round.

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