FOR THE SINS OF MY FATHER(ISBN=9780767906890) 英文原版 下载 pdf 百度网盘 epub 免费 2025 电子版 mobi 在线

　　Offers a remarkable perspective on how a brutal mobster could

lead a sweet home life as a suburban dad.” —New York Times

“One of the most searing volumes ever written about the mob .

. . An] unforgettable memoir.” —Publishers Weekly

“Admirers of Mafia fiction . . . should enjoy DeMeo’s attempt

to strip off the gaudy veneer of what is, what was, and [what]

always will be very dirty business.” —Detroit Free Press

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　　Born in Brooklyn and Long Island, ALBERT DEMEO lives in

suburban New York.

　　From the Hardcover edition.

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　　one

　　FAMILY

　　Let us go then, you and I,

　　When the evening is spread out against the sky

　　Like a patient etherized upon a table;

　　Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

　　The muttering retreats

　　Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

　　And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

　　Streets that follow like a tedious argument

　　Of insidious intent

　　To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

　　Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

　　Let us go and make our visit.

　　--t. s. eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

　　My earliest memory is of blindness. I was four years old when I

woke up in a hospital crib with patches over my eyes, darkness all

around, utterly alone. Confused and disoriented, for a moment I

could not understand where I was or why my parents had left me

there alone. Then I remembered: I'd had an operation to fix my

crossed eye. Fear and loneliness whispered in the invisible room

where I lay, and I cried out for my mother and father. When the

bandages came off a few days later, the first image to emerge from

the blur was my father's worried face. Looking back, it seems

fitting. I have spent more than thirty years since then struggling

to bring him into focus.

　　I was born in a quiet residential Brooklyn neighborhood in 1966,

the second child of parents barely out of their teens. I had an

older sister named Debra and a teenage stepbrother in my Uncle Joe.

My grandfather DeMeo had died when Joe was a baby, and when Grandma

DeMeo returned to her native Italy without Joe, my parents took him

in as their own. The five of us formed a happy, traditional

Italian-American family. A year later we moved to suburban

Massapequa, where my younger sister Lisa was born. Grandma returned

to Brooklyn shortly before Lisa was born and moved in with her

closest friend, Mrs. Profaci--"Mrs. P," as I called her. Once

again, the family was complete.

　　Mrs. P lived just down the street from the two-story brick duplex

where my father had grown up. It was a green neighborhood in the

springtime, with tall, well-established foliage and small shrines

to the Virgin Mary in nearly every front yard. The Profacis'

towering brick mansion dominated the quiet street. Twice a year

until I was five or six, my father took me there to spend the night

with my grandmother, down Flatbush Avenue, through a maze of side

streets, and up to the corner lot where Mrs. Profaci's house stood.

The Profaci home was like another world, a realm of elegant

timelessness. The living room was filled with delicately curved

gilt French furniture, always perfectly maintained. Pale satin

drapes and lace panels covered the windows. Mrs. P was equally

elegant in her high heels and pearls. The scent of Chanel No. 5

would wisp into my nostrils whenever she bent to kiss me. With her

silver blond hair swept into a French twist, she seemed a human

embodiment of the golden furniture that filled her home.

　　Mrs. P didn't own a television, so our evenings there were spent

in quiet conversation in the kitchen after dinner. Grandma and Mrs.

P spoke Italian to each other, but they spoke English to me.

Grandma loved to talk about Mrs. P's brother-in-law, Joseph

Profaci.Grandma admired everything about him--his custom-made

clothing; his luxurious car; the lavish gifts he made to his

family; and most of all, the way everyone looked up to him. "Your

grandfather was just an ordinary working man, Albert," she would

tell me. "But Joseph Profaci--he was something special. I pray God

your father is half the man someday." One time I asked Mrs. P how

her brother-in-law got so rich, but she changed the subject. Mrs. P

didn't seem to like talking about him.

　　I lived in Massapequa, Long Island, for ten of my first eleven

years. It was a wonderful place to grow up. The streets of our

neighborhood were wide and clean, the sidewalks lined with

children's bikes. It was the kind of place where you could sleep

outside on a summer night and feel perfectly safe. My early years

there were filled with joy and contentment. At the core of my sense

of security was my father.

　　No one could have asked for a better father than mine. He was a

husky man with dark hair and kind brown eyes, and though he was

only five feet, nine inches tall, he was a giant to me. He could

pick me up and toss me around as effortlessly as a cotton ball, and

he often did. I loved to ride on his shoulders. He spent more time

with me than any of the other fathers in the neighborhood spent

with their kids. Most of the other fathers were firemen, policemen,

teachers, or small business owners who worked on the island and had

to be at work by nine o'clock every morning. My dad was different;

he was home in the mornings, so he walked me to school while my

mother cleaned the house and started lunch. When the other kids

were kissing their moms good-bye, I was hugging my dad. Sometimes

he brought me a doughnut when he came to pick me up a couple of

hours later. I wasn't exactly sure what my father did for a living,

and I didn't care. I just liked being with him.

　　On sunny weekends my father took my sisters and me for hikes in

the nearby nature conservancy. Dad loved being outdoors with us.

Dad; our German shepherd, Major; my sisters; and I would all head

out after breakfast carrying bags of stale bread my mother packed

for us. The path behind our neighbors' house led to a trail through

the trees and about half a mile down to a preserve with woods and a

small lake. The lake was filled with ducks and swans, and my

sisters and I would crouch down near the water's edge and coax the

birds with pieces of stale bread. Afterward we would hike through

the woods until we got tired. When we were ready to rest, we headed

for the big log near our favorite tree to sit down. My father

always carried a switchblade. One afternoon my father took the

knife from his pocket and carved all of our names on the tree,

along with the date. After that we thought of it as our tree, and

we visited it whenever we could. It was a DeMeo family secret, our

special place in the woods.

　　Sometimes my dad took me for rides in the car with him on the

weekends. One Saturday he told me he was taking me to the airport

to meet someone named Uncle Vinny. "Uncle Vinny isn't a blood

relation, Allie, just a friend of mine," he told me when we pulled

into the terminal. I was too interested in watching the planes take

off and land to pay much attention when my father introduced me to

Vinny.

　　"How ya doin', Albert?" Vinny asked as he bent to shake my hand.

He had on a blue uniform with his name embroidered on his shirt. We

went back into the cargo section with Vinny so my father could talk

to him, but I couldn't hear a word they said over the roar of the

planes. I explored the dusty cargo area while Dad and Uncle Vinny

talked. Vinny looked very earnest and waved his hands around a lot

while my father shook his head the way he did when I was naughty.

Finally Uncle Vinny gave my father an envelope, and we left.

　　It wasn't long until I saw Uncle Vinny again. Early the next

Saturday morning Vinny drove up in a station wagon filled with

crates of fresh fruit. My sisters and I lined up on the curb to

watch as he carried the wooden crates into our house. We had never

seen so much fruit. Along with the ordinary bananas and oranges,

there were exotic fruits like guava that not even my mother had

ever seen. My mother shook her head as she sorted through the

crates, murmuring that there was enough here for half the

neighborhood. Uncle Vinny smiled sweetly and murmured, "A little

gift for you and the children, Mrs. DeMeo." The following Sunday he

brought us boxes of imported chocolate. The weekend after that he

brought beautiful London Fog raincoats for us kids. Trailing behind

him back out to the car that afternoon, I asked him where he got

all this stuff.

　　"They're F-O-T, Albert," he told me. When I looked blank, he

winked at me and said, "You know, F-O-T. Fallen off trucks." I was

amazed. How could the truck drivers be so stupid? This was a lot of

stuff. It must be worth an awful lot of money. Uncle Vinny had

brought more coats than we needed, so my mom gave the extras to

Barbara and Jim, my parents' best friends on the block, for their

kids. Jim was a policeman who didn't make much money, so Barbara

was really excited to get the coats. Vinny continued dropping

things off for us at least once a week, and after a while I started

wondering why the truck drivers didn't just pick this stuff up if

it wasn't damaged.

　　Finally I asked my father about it. He eyed me for a moment, then

smiled and said, "Son, can you keep a secret? Man to man?"

　　Of course, I could. I was proud that my father trusted me.

　　"Your uncle Vinny steals things. He's a nice guy, but he steals

just about anything he can lay his hands on. And he bets on horses

a lot, so I loaned him some money, and he can't pay it back because

he keeps betting. This is his way of repaying me. I don't ask him

where the stuff comes from. I don't want to know."

　　Uncle Vinny was a thief? But he seemed so nice, and I could tell

my father liked him. If my father liked him, he must be all

right.

　　Saturdays were good, but Sunday was the best day of the week. My

father got up early on Sundays to cook us breakfast. My Sunday

alarm was the sound of the juice machine as my father squeezed

fresh orange juice to go with the meal. I piled into the kitchen

with my sisters one late spring morning to find the table loaded

down with stacks of pancakes, butter and warm syrup, homemade hash

browns, eggs to order, and bacon and sausage. We ate until our

stomachs hurt as my father sat and watched, smiling to see our

enjoyment. Afterward my mother chased us upstairs to get ready for

church.

　　In half an hour, we were all back downstairs in our Sunday best.

My sisters had lovely dresses and patent leather shoes, and I wore

a nice suit and tie, with my shoes polished and my nails manicured.

While Dad cleaned up from the mo...

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媒体评论

　　Offers a remarkable perspective on how a brutal mobster could

lead a sweet home life as a suburban dad.” —

New York

Times

　　“One of the most searing volumes ever written

about the mob . . . An] unforgettable memoir.” —

Publishers

Weekly

　　“Admirers of Mafia fiction . . . should enjoy DeMeo’s attempt to

strip off the gaudy veneer of what is, what was, and [what] always

will be very dirty business.” —

Detroit Free Press