Disney Buys Lucas Episode 15

  My grandfather, Tom Byrne was buried at the San Fernando Mission cemetery in San Fernando, Ca. It was a pleasant sunny morning. Joe Sica was there.
   He had two Anubis-like aloof entities standing on either side of his small little dying self, they were both in black suits and thin white ties before the costume became popular among people who watch Jersey Shore and think they have as a result entered the Mafia. Joe himself looked like he had been dressed by Hurricane Katrina. He did not have a reputation as a clothes horse. He did however have a reputation as a killer.
   He was there because my uncle Joe was the chef at the Sica restaurant in San Fernando, Sir Sico's. If you cook for the Los Angeles mob and don't poison them they do little honorariums for you when your relatives die.
   Thomas, the man in the casket, had also been a cook. He had been the kitchen boss at Harvard University from the pre Depression to the 50's.
   Between my grandfather and my uncle most of the Heirs of American Crime and Politics could have been murdered with impunity. Killing the heirs of American Politics would have been a patriotic act in my opinion if you were to ask me under oath. Killing the Mob would have been, on the other hand, were you to ask me under oath, a senseless eradication of the only warriors of freedom since the Revolutionary War. But nobody's asking me.
   At some point, after the priest did whatever he was doing and everyone had said whatever they were saying, Joe broke ranks from his quiet, unmoving interceptors and began to walk toward me. This was often the last thing anyone Joe Sica was walking towards ever saw.
   "Come with me for a minute."
   Since I had never interacted with Joe Sica before, though I had heard of him, I figured the chances were pretty good I was going to come out of the other end of this conversation still vertical.
   Away from the others he stood in front of me with one hand holding his other wrist and said "How long since that Mouseketeer thing." I almost said "Jesus, is that all anyone wants to ever talk to me about?" But I didn't. Joe Sica was was one of the 11 names in the Black Book. There were only 11 names in the Black Book when the Black Book was created by the advanced postal workers of the FBI. And Joe was one of them. The Black Book was the 11 people not allowed in the State of Nevada by Washington DC.  Now, this could just be speculation, but I don't think even the wig-donning, tights-wearing Founding Fondlers in their most exotic fever dreams of omnipotence could have foreseen the Constitution of Renown having been "interpreted" to keep American citizens from traveling throughout the 50 States or barring them from one State altogether for the rest of their lives. It's kind of a "reverse jail." which is very creative, i admit, but constitutional? Well, you can relax, it turns out that everything wrong is constitutional and everything right is either illegal already or on its way to being illegal.
   I have lost my place.
   I didn't express to Joe Sica my exhaustion at his question. Joe Sica was so menacing even the Mafia preferred negotiating with him than attacking him. The head of the Los Angeles Mafia wanted him to kill Mickey Cohen and he told Jack Dragna that ain't gonna happen. This endeared him the the five Families. But not to Dragna. He died a natural death in the presence of his loved ones.
   "Five years or so," I said, answering his question.
   "What happend to that job."
   "I got fired."
   "Why is that. What did you do, whack someone?"
   I thought this was funny.
   "Hahahaha. No. I think I just stunk."
   "Maybe you shoulda whacked someone, they told you that."
   I laughed at that too.
   If he was severe up to now he got sepulchuric then.
   "You seen the city, right?"
   "I saw the city."
   "Anyone know?"
   "Just the people who showed me. If they told anyone I don't know. I aint said  shit about it."
   "Why is that."
   "Who would believe me. What would it accomplish. Besides, I don't think I was supposed to be there."
   "Oh, you was supposed ta be there. You have a long way to go. Most of it will be really shitty. Just remember these days. And your time with Benedetto. And the others. This is a fucked situation. You'll be ok. If you don't get hit by a fuckin' car crossin' the fuckin' street."
   "Why am I even involved in any of this bullshit."
   "It's only bullshit to you because you're, what, 16? You know what?...I don't understand why you're involved myself. And I don't care. I gut my own problems. But you ain't one of 'em. You are more of an assignment."
   "What kind of an assigment."
   "To see if you're lyin'."
   "I ain't lyin'."
   "Yeah I know. You know how I know? 'Cause we're still talkin'"
   I laughed at that too. Italian thugs are generally pretty fuckin' funny. At least to me.