All too easy.

John O'neil eased his car into the space at the end of the street. He chose a spot in the shade as the tempeture had nearly hit the 100 degree mark. It was the kind of the heat that living things died in and it had put him in a foul mood. He was pouring sweat, practically dripping, the product of the heat and the double scotch he had consumed at lunch. It was heat like this that reminded him of another place, another time. Of his time in the pacific as a marine, surronded by the stench of death and decay, leeches, mosquitos and rain. He remembered as he had seen his friends all around him being killed, of being pinned down in his position for so long, he remembered thinking that if he survived the ordeal if he came back he would do good in the world. That he would become a positive force in the rest of his years. John had came back alive, even with a few medals on his chest to show his valor. Still all the plaudits and all the accliam could not get rid of the memories, the horrific images that stayed with him and never seemed to fade. He had joined the union as a laborer when he got back, through a connection from his cousin and had taken the job as seriously as the army. The work was tough outside in the sun, but he liked it. He liked the kind of people he worked with, the working folk. Many of them had come from the same kind of backround as him. Still John had always been cleaver and he could slowly start to see who was really pulling the strings. He was a natural leader and he began to move up to become an organizer and than slowly he began to see even more closely who was really in control. Men whose interests coulden't be farthur from the workers. Still he had rationalized it away feeling that it was a nessacary evil to deal with such characters. And he had enriched himself considerably as he had done so. John lumbered out of the car and walked toward the social club. The Palma restaurant and bar looked like any other neighborhood establishment blending in quite well with the decor. Few would have guessed that withthin those walls some of the most important decesion about city contracts were being made. John himself would not have guessed it either were it not that he was so deeply immersed. He got on well with the Italians, they shared the same religion and the same attitudes about certain things. They had both faced discrimination and persecution upon they're arrival in this country and had struggled to make their voices heard and obtain status. He reached the door and walked in, the place was somewhat dimly lit and at first the denizens seemed to look at him warily, soon he saw a familiar face 'Johnny!, you mick bastard what bring you out here.' He regognized Tommy instantly, 'I guess to see what you dago's are up to.' He sidled his way up to the bar shaking Tommy's hand. 'Is Vito around?' He asked. 'Yeah he's in the back taking care of something. You need a drink?' 'You really need to ask? Yeah get me a double scotch straight up.' The bartender, and aging Sicilian quickly obliged producing a glass on the bar and pouring a generous amount into it. The Sicilian had owned the bar for years, but had fallen on some hard times. He was an uncle of Vito's and Vito had agreed to purchese the bar from him and let him continue to live in the upstairs apartment in exchange for him letting Vito and his associates congreagate there. 'So how you been Johnny?' 'Alright except for this fucking heat.' He took a long swig of his scotch. 'I been inside with the AC all day my friend.' Tommy remarked. 'Some of us got things to take care of.' John remarked. 'By things you mean bottles of scotch?' Johnny laughed. 'Well that too. But i'm getting thing done in the process and thats all that matters.' Johnny finished the scotch off. A short swarthy figured emerged from the backroom. 'Johnny, how are you.' Vito said as he emerged.