In the 1970s I always said that the East Village looked like Rome three days after the sack of the Visigoths 410 CE. Buildings burned day and night. The overstretched 9th precinct triaged the streets beyond 1st Avenue. No patrols ventured farther than Tompkins Square Park. Shooting galleries outnumbered bodegas and hordes of thieves fearlessly prowled their newly-won turf for victims. Nobody honest could survive in a neighborhood more burnt-out than a junkie’s vein and families of all races, colors, and creeds fled the outlaw DMZ for the suburbs.

256 East 10th Street was my home. Sinse dealers ruled the 1st Avenue corner. We got all well. They showed respect for how my friends and I had scammed the 9th Precinct at our after-hour club on 14th Street. East of Avenue A life was tricky. Gunfire was heard day and night. My neighborhood was rough. His was dangerous. Very dangerous.

My friend Uncle Carmine lived on East 11th Street between Avenues B and C. The first time I visited the Sicilian plumber at his ground-floor office. We discussed military history, while Carmine sucked on an unlit cigar. He ate them more than smoke them. We had a good laugh. Our conversations were between two men with convictions about truth and justice. We discussed some schemes only involving us. We were sworn to secrecy. Not Omerta. Carmine was connected, just not that way.

As I got up to leave, he said, “Wait a second.”

He reached into his desk and pulled out a 38. He slid it over to me.

“For your protection, this neighborhood is fucked.”

I laughed and asked, “Where are all the bullets? I’d emptied this before I reached B. I don’t need a gun. I need money.”

“Don’t we all.” He stashed away the piece. “I’ll see what I can do for us.”

“Thanks.” I walked onto East 11th Street. Hakkim was across the street. The junkie thief glared at me. He had a death wish. I was glad not to have a gun. Thou shalt not kill.