Alley! Alley! Alley!
Oh, my God!
Oh, God. God.
I told you|not to sell him drugs.
It was the summer of '58.
The year the Dodgers|left Brooklyn.
The summer|Dion and the Belmonts...
were blasting|out of every car radio...
and the summer|that I first fell in love.
It was the summer|Marco Vendetti...
came home from prison...
Our job|was to protect the block.
-You need anything?|-I'll let you know, kid.
But it was a local mob guy|named Fritzy...
who really ran|the neighborhood.
He pretended to be|everybody's best friend.
Get yourself an ice cream.
But he was only in it|for himself.
Scooch. Center field.
Hey, Pops.|Grandson gettin' better?
-Hey, what?|-Aw, it's horrible.
We hung out at a candy store|called Willie's...
where we ran bootleg cigarettes,|illegal fireworks...
and did a little bookmaking|on the side.
Hey, we had to make a livin'.
What, did he throw it|underhand?
Oh, Scooch. We're havin' fun.
Ah, the Dodgers lost again.
The usual, Scooch.
I told 'em. They ain't gonna|win in Los Angeles.
They shouldn't have left|Brooklyn.
Come on, I never seen 'em cry.
The last game,|they wept like a baby.
How are you?
Go on. F*ck the Dodgers.
F*ck Pee Wee, f*ck Jackie,|and f*ck the f*ckin' Duke.
Don't say that, Tommy! Don't|say, "F*ck the f*ckin' Duke."
Get over it. They left.
I ain't rootin' for 'em|no more.
'cause you're|a fair-weather fan.
Oh, come on, now.|Let's go outside.
Let's go outside now.|I'll see ya later.
Pink taffeta.|You like it, huh?
You know what I like you in.
Who's gettin' married?
My cousin Antoinelle,|out in Bayridge.
You're comin', right?
Another cousin gettin' hitched?|How many more are there?
People do get married, Leon.
It is somethin' people do,|you know.
Willie, is it suddenly|gettin' hot in here or what?
Oh, so what do you|want to do tonight?
-You know this f*ckin' kid?|-Who?
-This kid.|-Who's he?
You know whose turf this is?
This is Deuces turf.
You f*ckin' listenin' to me?
Ah, me deaf! Ah, me deaf!
-Shut the f*ck up!|-I'm deaf!
Come here. There's a fight.
What are you doin'?
This kid|was disrespectin' our turf.
I think he's one of them|Garfield boys or somethin'.
This ain't a Garfield boy.|He don't hang with no peewees.
This is Betty Ann's little|brother--her deaf brother.
Nate. Big guy. Go home.
You hit one person a year,|it's a deaf kid.
Well, how the f*ck|am I supposed to know?
Father Aldo, we're up here.
Father. Thanks, bud.
You missed a spot.
Hey, Father. You wanna|come up here and help me?
That's your penance.
I hear Marco Vendetti|is comin' home soon.
Give me some more|of that polish, Scooch.
I'm gonna get me|a nice cold beer...
and find that rat motherf*cker|who sent me here.
from ear to ear.
Mark the son of a bitch.
Not bad, huh?
-It's not bad.|-It looks all right.
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