Cigars

Every weekend, and sometimes during weekdays too, there's a group of men congregating outside our deli. They sit on black milk crates and smoke cigars, play cards and chit chat with the deli guys. Occasionally they play chess. Frankie, the oldest and most Italian-looking man, is bald and has a big belly. He walks with a cane and his lips are chronically malformed from sucking on that cigar. The other guys remain nameless. They wear their cell phones on their belts.

A friend of mine who is a retired police officer told me: "You know, those guys in front of your deli are either cops looking over the market across the street or mafia guys with the deli."
"What would the mafia do with our deli?" I asked, and he said "Gambling."

A week later he called me and said "They're cops. I saw them at the market in the Heights too." "Oh ok," I agreed, not really sure how hanging out in Brooklyn Heights proofs the cop-status. But whatever, I guess there's a thin line between the two.

Regardless of who they are, Frankie always says "How y' doin' sweetie?" when I walk by, cigar still in mouth, and sometimes one of the younger guys helps me carry my bag of laundry.