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Fidel Castro, it wasn’t your Boston Brahmin or Texas cowboy whose services were requested. It was Momo Giancana, one of the jewels in our city’s crown. That he failed was no fault of his disciplined upbringing. And whom did Mayor Daley most often call upon for political support on our city’s West Side? Aldermen and ward committeemen, of all ethnic groups, who are faithful mourners of the funerals of some of my more distinguished fellow alumni. And who can ever forget the moving plea of Al Capone, dying in Alcatraz: “Set me free and I’ll help you fight the Bolsheviks”? Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.
    A profound sense of loyalty extends to friends as well as to country. When one is in trouble, whether with officialdom (something quite easily resolved; cash in hand, preferably brand-new bills, turneth away such wrath) or with matters of the heart (being cuckolded), he can depend on a small circle of friends.
    So is it with Barney, outside Dreamland, on this night in 1924. As Ben calls out, “Kid!” I move toward him uncertainly. The back door of the automobile is open. The two strangers appear to be urging him in. “Hiya, Ben,” I say, for want of anything better. “How ya doin’?” The others see me for the first time. I have a natural tendency to blend into any background.
    “Who’re you?” the big one says, slightly puzzled.
    “I’m his brother.”
    “Beat it.”
    “He’s s’posed to be buyin’ me a malted.”

    “He ain’t buyin’ ya nothin’.”
    “It’s Friday night,” I say, apropos of nothing. I’m trembling.
    “Yeah,” says Ben. His voice is shaking. “A chocolate malted at Liggett’s. It’s the best in town, fellas.”
    The driver leans back against the seat. He sighs. “Are we goin’ or not?”
    “Let’s take him too,” says the short one.
    “Are you nuts?” counters the big one.
    “Aw, Christ,” moans the chauffeur. “Make up your mind.”
    “Where’s Barney?”
    “He’s gone off with his pig.”
    They look at one another. What’s to be done? Should I suggest we all go for a malted? Always, I’ve been in favor of peaceful solutions.
    “My mother is sick,” I blurt out.
    “Too bad,” says the big one.
    “She’s callin’ for Ben. That’s why I came to get him.”
    The big one turns to my brother. “Is that your name?” Ben nods quickly. About five times.
    “OK, Ben . Get the fuck out of here. If we ever catch you foolin’ around with our women, you’re gonna wind up in the drainage canal. All wrapped in cement. Y’unnerstan’?”
    Ben understands.
    “Yer lucky you got a little brother.”
    Ben nods.
    “An’ yer lucky yer mother’s sick.”
    Ben nods.
    The big one reaches toward his inside pocket, smiles, and says, “Run!” Ben and I take off. We hear laughter as we run and run and run, without once looking back.
    Exhausted, we lean against a fence gate. Ben touches my cheek. He pats me on the head. We walk. I reach for his hand.
It is cold and sweaty. Mine is too. It is the final scene from The Bicycle Thief . He is the humiliated father and I am the small boy, Bruno Ricci.

    Rome, 1962. Vittorio De Sica is seated in his office. His classic face betrays weariness. I observe we’re within hailing distance of the balcony from which Il Duce addressed multitudes. He smiles. He quotes Baudelaire on Napoleon: A dictator is not as dangerous alive as when he lives on after death.
    “You had your sorry period,” he says. “McCarthyism. We had a bad one after the war.” Closet Fascists gave him a hard time. They were in high circles of government.
    Once a matinee idol, he still acts in films, too many of which are bad ones. Reason: He must raise much of his own money to finance the ones he directs. It is better now, but in the beginning the government was intransigent. They abhorred his chosen themes.
    Shoe Shine : homeless boys, rootless, roaming streets. The Bicycle Thief : unemployment. The Roof