Product Description
by Vito Quattrocchi (Author)
The Black Hawks, the primary Italian street gang in Hoboken, New Jersey, did their hanging out in front of a storefront club room on Friday and Saturday nights talking street gossip, rackets, crap games, about guys who were made, about guys who got whacked and the money that could be made from one sweet move. Their voices purposely inflecting the hard Italian American street dialect of Northern New Jersey. 1 The age range was sixteen to twenty, spoiling for a fight; swift and merciless, an uppercut to the groin, a chop behind the ear, a few well placed kicks and it was over, savagery not tempered by youth; bodies hard, eyes narrow and cruel. Alert and tense, smoking endlessly, fanatical about their dress; pastel Italian knit shirts with matching pants, see-through silk socks and straw shoes. The Nicky Newark look, really sharp. "Hey Nicky, wadda ya know?" "Nothin, I didn't see nothin! I know nothin and I'm not saying nothin! Omerta!2" This wisdom kept street kids alive and kept them street kids.
