So was Griff. We each got tattoos on our backs, me a giant shamrock and Griff a winged griffin. I was part of the crew. Becoming part of the crew meant steady work and a lot more money. It meant I could help my mother out at home, not just chip in for groceries but really remove some of her burden, although it didn’t seem to be working. She was hitting the Beefeater more and more, and her pack-a-day habit of Virginia Slims had swelled to three packs. I was starting to worry about her. But my life couldn’t have been better. I beat the rap on the jewelry store thing. They found Scrubby Mike’s bag of jewels in a garbage pail along the avenue, but they couldn’t tie it to us. The cops couldn’t even prove I was guilty of breaking and entering. Not once Mario put his pit-bull lawyer, Marty Feldman on the job. Marty had me and Scrubby off the hook and out of trouble after one court hearing. It was a joke. We walked into court, sat at the table and watched Marty nod to the Assistant District Attorney. I don’t know if they were in cahoots or if the guy was scared of Don Mario or maybe he was just lazy and knew that his public-servant salary was no match for Marty Feldman. Either way, Marty moved for dismissal of all charges in the first five minutes and the judge agreed. Insufficient evidence. Go home, kid.
