by Robert Child
South Street Mob
Payback’s A Bitch
Book One
Robert Child
© Copyright 2013 by Robert Child
South Street Mob – Book One
by Robert Child
Copyright 2013 Robert Child
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by means of any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Works published and produced by Robert Child can be obtained either through the author’s official website: www.robchild.net or through any online retailer.
Works by Robert Child
Fiction
Blood Betrayal
The Russian van Gogh
Rush On, Boys: Hamilton at War
NonFiction
How Canada Won the Great War
Weather and Warfare
Gettysburg: Voices from the Front
Films
The Wereth Eleven
USS Franklin: Honor Restored
Silent Wings: The American Glider Pilots of WWII
Lincoln and Lee at Antietam: The Cost of Freedom
Gettysburg: Three Days of Destiny
Gettysburg: The Boys in Blue and Gray
Preface
This South Street Mob series is based on a successful FBI mob investigation in Philadelphia led by Charles “Bud” Warner, (Frank Murray) which drew national media attention and a personal commendation from Attorney General, Janet Reno. It is not a blow-by-blow historical account but a fictionalized series, which uses dramatic license to enhance the drama and suspense. Within the dialog are liberal uses of profanity, which reflect the mafia accurately and the language of the street. In addition, in this section of Philadelphia, the term “youse” is a heavily used pronoun.
If you ever have the honor of meeting Bud Warner, in person whom the Philadelphia papers labeled, “the FBI’s Stand Up Guy”, you’ll instantly recognize that he and Frank Murray are one and the same - a real life, no nonsense crime fighter who put his life on the line every day for the citizens of this nation.
It was a privilege to write this series it was a gritty departure from my mainly historical and military history works but I enjoyed it very much. And I thank you for downloading this installment. And be on the look out for a special offer at the end of this book that will be hard to refuse. It is simply my way of saying “thanks” for reading this installment.
—Robert Child
Chapter 1
LA TUNA FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION, ANTHONY, TX, 1984
In the blistering brown nothingness of far west Texas, the fortified gates of a federal prison glint in the sun. A motorcade of six luxury rental cars idle a short distance down the main drive at the curb. Guards with automatic rifles poised survey the scene from 20-foot towers behind barbed wire. A mechanical latch on the main gate clicks, and the steel mesh doors begin to separate.
A short, dark-haired man, 55, blue windbreaker, permanent smirk, Nicodemo Scarponi, glides towards two menacing guards near the front gate with rifles cradled. The guards flank 45-year-old warden, Frank Handy. Handy, in standard issue brown suit, has seen them come and go but few as colorful as Scarponi. Still, Handy’s stone face and eyes reveal no emotion as he watches the released prisoner approach.
Scarponi’s grin widens.
“Be seeing ya, boss,” Scarponi says as he finishes a mocking salute.
“We’ll leave the light on for you Nick,” Handy dryly retorts.
Continuing to walk, Scarponi can’t stifle a sarcastic grunt as six young Italian men wearing high-end designer running suits and coifed hairdos, known in Philadelphia as “Nicky-dos”, emerge from the dusty motorcade. Scarponi waves to them and picks up his pace to arrive at the curb. In an unspoken ritualistic pecking order, the men formally kiss Scarponi on both cheeks, one by one. Scarponi finally steps back, opens his arms and tilts his head to the side.
“Now, get me the fuck outta here.”
Instantly relaxed, the young mob soldiers pat “Little Nicky” on the back as they jump in behind the wheels of their rented limos. Nick takes one last hard look at the place he’s called home for the past three years and remembers his promise. That bastard is gonna pay.
PHILADELPHIA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, 2 WEEKS LATER
A click of a latch and a gate door opens to reveal a curvy USAir flight attendant trailed by Scarponi, eyes glued to her ass. Nick, properly cleaned up in a Brioni suit and long dark overcoat, leads his posse back home. First behind him is his nephew underboss pretty boy and cold-blooded killer, 25-year-old Phil Leoni. Sal Vestra, womanizing capo thug with feathered-back disco-era hair, follows him. Sal’s got used to running the show in Nick’s absence. The remainder of the entourage is comprised of four other “made” mob soldiers carrying luggage and garment bags.
Sun-guns flash on the waiting television cameras, flooding the gate area with harsh yellow-green light. Reporters shout and elbow their way toward Philadelphia’s returning mafia kingpin.
Scarponi, now rested and tan, waves to the crowd. The shrill voice of attractive blonde reporter cuts through the din. It’s Cheryl Kennedy from Channel Ten.
“How’s it feel Nick, being back in Philly?”
Scarponi stops, smiles.
“Hey baby, it feels great.”
A bearded, crusading male reporter, loyal NPR listener, sticks a silver microphone through the crowd of bodies. “Nick, Mark Stein, Channel Six. Can you comment on all the recent violence downtown? Some are calling it a new mob war.”
The smile leaving Scarponi’s face, he scans the crowd and shouts to no one in particular.
“Yo, I’ve been on vacation.”
A smattering of laugher erupts as reporters jot down the one-liner and Nick continues.
“I don’t know nothin’ about it.”
Stein prods. “So you’re saying this violence is going to continue, citizens gunned down in the street in cold blood?”
Scarponi’s eyes narrow on the plaid-shirted reporter, and his voice rises.
“Hey, I said I got nothin’ to do with it. Didn’t you hear me right? Ain’t you got ears?”
In the hanging silence, Scarponi pushes past Stein and the other reporters swinging his arms to clear a path and ending his news conference with the comment, “No more questions!”
Scarponi’s soldiers fall in behind the don, shoving the reporters back hard.
Stein shouts one last follow-up, needling for a reaction.
“Three years is a long time, Nick. Must have scores to settle?”
Scarponi slows but does not turn as he thinks, Only one.