by Frank, S. W.
In two months he made a hundred grand from those pills alone, more than what he made in a year selling weed. His supplier wasn’t kidding; the yuppies were eating the shit like candy and were running to the store for more. It got so bad, suburban kids were pulling up in their pop’s Benzes looking to score.
Man, it’s crazy!
He unfolded the paper and read the illegible writing, “What?”
The sound of rap music floated up through the open window and he grew tight. He thought of his cousin, and the anger rose. Carlos and his boys were gunned down like animals. Nobody seemed to know shit. Mouths clamped closed like virgin pussies. They weren’t giving up nothing, but once he started getting paid, and what-not, the lips loosened and he was all up in it. The anonymous note claimed the dude who shot Carlos was a former acquaintance. Someone he once played ball with at the Polo Grounds. When he re-read the name, his blood boiled.
He sat forward, “Yo, Miguel!”
The sound of grunts and a mattress squeak were heard, followed by an expletive before Miguel appeared in CK briefs, “Yo, wazzup?”
“Guess who we gonna’ put a hurtin’ on?”
“Man, you called me out here for what, an interview?”
“Fuck that slut, wait to you hear who’s responsible for doing our cuz and Hector.”
Miguel clutched his sack of jewels, “Who?”
“Alfonzo.”
“For real…no shit?”
Juan scowled, “For real, now ‘aint that a bitch?”
“Yo, nobody said nothin’ before. You sure you got this right ‘cause Carlos ripped people off left and right?”
Juan jumped to his feet, “Yo, I know Carlos wasn’t an angel. He screwed me out of cash more times than I can count but family’s –family, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I ‘aint tellin’ you what to do, bro. All I’m sayin’ is Alfonzo’s got serious protection, know what I mean?”
“I’m not gonna’ kill him…nah…I’m just going to beat the shit out of him. I’m gonna’ put the mother-fucker on notice, go the fuck back to PR or wherever the hell he been hidin’, cause every time I catch him out here, he gonna’ get a beat-down or worse, bro!”
Miguel snorted, “Yo, you do that and what we got going, es finito. ‘Aint no fucking way we can do business and turn against those mafia pendejos when Alfonzo’s tight with them, y’hear what I’m saying?”
Juan punched his fist in his hand, and growled, “True, true.” His head turned to the side, his eyes bright with a sudden thought when he looked at his younger brother, “Yo, all I gotta’ do is pass it by my man, you know how they do it in them mob flicks. Get the okay and shit. If he ‘aint got a problem with it, I’m stompin’ the shit out that Puerto Rican-gringo’s ass!”
Miguel grimaced, “Do what you need to do, hermano, right now my dick is hurting for some soft cushion.”
“Yeah, hurry the fuck-up, we got business!”
“I’m taking care of my business.” Miguel chided, shaking his sack at his older brother, then returned to the bedroom where his girl Antonia waited.
Salvatore watched the board intently, his clear eyes studying the position of the chess pieces as he determined his next move while his father waited patiently in silence. His small hand hovered over the head of the rook then changed course to grip the side of a bishop. The attentive eyes did not wander to his father for assistance; instead he reviewed his opponent’s pieces then moved the white bishop to second rank adjacent to the knight’s file in a fianchetto pattern. He looked up at his father’s face and smiled.
Alfonzo maintained an impassive expression. His son’s strategy improved each time they played. In their last game Sal took advantage of his weaknesses and put him on the defensive. In that game the end result was an embarrassing stalemate.
Squinting blue eyes settled on the black bishop. He mirrored his son’s move and a sudden, yet familiar ringtone broke his concentration. “Carajo lo que ahora?”
“You owe me a dollar. You cursed.” His son laughed.
“Sorry, hijo.” He said getting up from the table to answer the call. It was his mother. “Yeah mama?”
“We’re leaving in half an hour, are you bringing Sal to the airport?”
He looked at his son sitting there eyeing the chess board in contemplation. At six years old the boy exhibited skill beyond his years. Alberti was right. The game of chess taught patience and strategy, of which Salvatore had in abundance.
He switched the cell phone to his left hand and tapped the boy’s shoulder then gestured for Sal to put on his sneakers. “Yes, mama we’re leaving soon.”
“Bueno, I want to get there early.”
“Si, mama, but you have plenty of time. Your flight isn’t until ten o’clock. Really, you could’ve flown on a jet.” He watched the boy rush to the closet for his vintage Jordan’s and flop on the floor, thrusting his growing feet in.
“Hijo, we bought the tickets months ago and I’m not letting good money go to waste.”
“Okay…it’s your choice.”
“I just want to get the kids through screening, the airport security process is almost as bad as visiting you know who at Rikers. Ugh, I still feel so dirty going there. They touch you, look in your mouth…ugh!”
Alfonzo laughed, “It’s not like that at the airport mom, just opt for the full body scan.” The Rikers Island experience traumatized the poor woman. She could have spared herself the agony by refusing to accompany her friend to visit an abusive husband. His mother’s actions were perplexing. Her friend’s spouse, Eduardo was arrested for domestic abuse and received a year for assault. His church going wife was a nice woman but a fool for going to see him and his mother more foolish for co-signing on the bullshit! He empathized with his mother’s desire to be supportive, but there’s a limit to every friendship.
After their visit, his mom complained non-stop about the dehumanizing conditions at the prison –and this came from a well-guarded visitor inside a room who was free to leave any time she wanted. He chuckled, imagining her fingering those rosary beads, praying fervently to the patron saints.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nada…nada!” The laughter lingered as he wondered, what exactly did his mom think incarceration meant, a resort for fucking convicts? “We’ll see you at the airport.” He hung up, still smiling, “We’ll finish the game another time hijo.”
“Okay but I’ll know if you touched anything.”
Alfonzo scoffed, “I wouldn’t do that, it’s cheating.”
Sal laughed, “Pop, I saw you one time.”
“Me? Nah –never.”
“Pay up!” Sal said holding out his pink palm.
“You should be a banker.” Alfonzo chuckled then reached in his back pocket for his wallet. He separated one dollar from the large denominations and slapped it in his son’s outstretched hands. “Here, now get your stuff, tell mommy and Allie bye then bring your little butt right back!”
The boy shoved the dollar in his pocket then ran upstairs. Alfonzo grinned. Sal was incorrigible!
Alfonzo sat on the sofa, donned his brown leather Prada loafers and listened to the multiple footsteps descending the stairs. He frowned, of course his wife wouldn’t stay in bed. When she came into view holding Sal’s suitcase, he immediately voiced his opinion. “You shouldn’t be up. Sal can carry his own stuff, babe.”
She put the luggage down, “It’s okay.” She replied, sitting beside him.
Sal dashed up the stairs, again shouting, “Hold-up I forgot my game!”
Alfonzo sighed, leaned over to his wife, caressed her face and asked, “How you feeling?”
“Like crap.”
Selange caught a summer bug from Allie. Last night his little women were huddled beneath the covers clinging to each other in misery. This morning she appeared flushed and the dark circles below her eyes signified she could use more sleep.
Their daughter, Aldonza Darlene Diaz was nearly two, with a quiet dispo
sition and utterly adorable features like her mom. He hoped they recovered soon because seeing them sick broke his heart. He hugged her close, “I’ll be back, okay?”
She nodded, leaned her tired head on his shoulder and commented, “Umm, You smell good.”
“Thanks.” He said then looked toward the hall wondering what Sal was doing upstairs. He could feel the fevered heat from her cheek permeate his shirt. He became concerned. Fever was never a good sign; it also indicated it was time to visit a doctor. He preferred their physician at home, however under the circumstances he thought it best to see a local doctor.
Actually, he was ready to leave Nueva York, it held too many unpleasant memories. Coming to the brownstone for the summer was Selange’s idea. “We have an empty house, sitting there. Why don’t we use it when we visit this summer?”
He hadn’t thought she’d want to step foot in the place again after the shooting, apparently he was wrong. He should’ve sold the place, put it in the archives with the rest of the bloody past.
The estate in San Juan was history. They immediately bought a larger, more secure estate in Bayamón, not far from where his cousin Jessica attended the University. She popped in regularly, which was cool but, it’s her mother who caused him stress. Aunt Carmen asked him to keep an eye on the girl after she flunked last semester and didn’t graduate in May. So, the chica had to take summer classes, and Aunt Carmen’s theory is she deliberately failed to stay in PR to be with a boy. Alfonzo wasn’t sure if this were true, then again, Jessica was almost twenty-one. Alfonzo snickered, Aunt Carmen was entirely too controlling. To avoid family drama, he assured Aunt Carmen he’d have someone keep tabs on Jessica and in hindsight he wondered if that was a smart idea. In any event, he assigned the kid Emilio to the task. The kid reminded Alfonzo of himself, tough, smart and no-nonsense; just the type of guy to handle his spirited cousin.
Anyway, he had a lot of shit on his plate; the last thing he wanted was babysitting duties for a grown ass woman.
Selange coughed and his errant thoughts returned to his wife, “I think it’s time to see the doctor then go home.”
Finally, Sal bounded into the room, hiding something behind his back, “Ready!”
Alfonzo spied the velvet case, “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Ven aqui!”
The boy shuffled forward and Alfonzo took the case from his hand. He opened it and saw the antique pocket watch he’d given his son upon return from his first trip to Italy. The watch belonged to his grandfather, Sergio Giacanti. Seeing it sent a cold chill down his spine. The world he rejected continued to insinuate itself into his psyche. He had another family, no matter how much he tried to deny it. What bothered him most was he came to love them.
Occasionally, he spoke with Giuseppe but had not returned to Italy since the day of his uncle’s funeral. He returned the case to his son, “I think it’s best you leave it here. You might lose it.”
“But…but...”
“No but’s Sal, leave it home.”
The boy pouted and tossed the case on the sofa, “Fine…but I wanted to show it to Manny because it’s cool!”
Alfonzo frowned disapprovingly at his son’s behavior, “Pick it up hijo and take it upstairs, ahora!”
The boy grabbed the box from the sofa and ran upstairs stomping loudly on the way then returned sulking. Alfonzo gave him a get your act together glare and the boy went to his mother.
“I wanted to show Manny my watch mommy.”
Selange cleared her throat, her voice small and weak, “Sweetheart, listen to daddy. That’s a very special watch and if you lose it we can’t replace it. It’s very valuable. Okay?”
Sal’s sour mood cleared at this explanation and he nodded, “Okay mom.”
“Have fun at Disneyland sweetie, I’ll miss you,” then they hugged.
Alfonzo stood, anxious to get the boy to the airport so he could take care of his wife. He appreciated Selange’s interference but the boy required a firm hand. He was stubborn and opinionated; traits inherited from his old man. He took hold of the small suitcase and quickly ushered Sal to the door looking over his shoulder at Selange. She was his rock; the center of his world and seeing her in distress cut at his heart. “Get dressed because when I come back we’re going to the doctor. No debates!”
The moment he stepped outdoors the Saturday morning warmth enveloped him. He blocked Sal with his body, an instinctive and precautionary action. There were dangers associated with having mob affiliates, whether you’re in the life or not. At any moment someone could decide you’re a liability and you’d never know death was coming. Part of staying alive, meant being vigilant, and not forgetting, everyone has at least one enemy.
Alfonzo, proceeded down the stairs, chin up, eyes discreetly scanning cars and windows. He always had this gut feeling he was under surveillance. He didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, yet somehow he knew there were eyes trained in his direction. They were ghosts in the fog, unseen, yet present nonetheless. He would be a foolish man not to think the OCTF, DEA, FBI, IRS and every goddamn acronym imaginable weren’t watching. They weren’t convinced of his abstention from the syndicate, so they waited. Among the watchers, hidden beneath cloaks of invisibility were the shadows sent by Alberti.
Last year he ordered Alberti to cut the cord, he agreed –but Alfonzo wondered if the old man disobeyed. Normalcy didn’t include the company of mafia soldiers everywhere he traveled with his family. He needed freedom to move about, space to breathe without feeling suffocated by reminders of his bloodline. The joys of his life were his family and they deserved normalcy. He wanted desperately to provide it; he had to try!
Dominick Fiorello walked leisurely toward the church surrounded by his henchmen. Drips of water fell from the afternoon sky atop his new fedora. Wisps of black scurried by, nodding and giving perfunctory condolences as they rushed to get out of the rain. His thoughts were not of his deceased wife lying inside the old Catholic church but of another, Alfonzo Diaz.
The International Board of Directors were extinct, killed in a mysterious fire during a clandestine meeting in Italy two years ago. Since then Alfonzo Diaz kept a low-profile upon his return to the states. Rumors whispered in secluded rooms were the young outsider turned away from the life. Dominick found this hard to believe. Who but a fool would relinquish such power for anonymity?
After the deaths of the IBD many mob families sought to exert their presence in Europe and a power struggle began. However, Giuseppe Dichenzo ended it abruptly and violently. The young man was definitely his father’s son. As reigning Capo of the Dichenzo clan his allies were many and stretched beyond the shores of Italy here to America. The feared Capo settled disputes by wiping out dissenters with a bloody fist and rewarding allies with access to an international market. He cared nothing about the American troubles and failed to intervene when the feds clamped down on their businesses. Yet, none of the American families wanted war with Giuseppe. Their fears were not only of financial ruin but death.
As a sign of fealty to the powerful Italian Don, the American families issued an ordine untouchable for his cousin and as a result, under the decree Alfonzo Diaz was off-limits. The young man could walk the streets, gamble at their casinos, eat at their restaurants, fuck their women and none in the mafia dare touch him.
Dominick agreed to the dictum despite his true feelings on the matter but he was no fool. In order to attain his goal he would play the game until he was in position to reveal his hand. Every move he made brought him closer to his objective. Within the American, Canadian and Australian syndicate his power grew. Soon, he’d be calling the shots and not some arrogant brute who considered power a birthright!
The quiet room of mourners turned when he entered. He removed his hat, genuflected to make the sign of the cross then strolled down the long carpeted aisle to the front pew. The room was silent and he could feel the curious eyes of the assembled on his neck. The priest looked scathingly in hi
s direction then continued with the eulogy. After ten minutes the funeral for his pill popping wife concluded. He accepted condolences from high ranking representatives with a curt, “Thank you.”
In the hours which followed he could not think of anything other than how grateful he was to be rid of Frank’s tainted family lineage to begin anew. Once his wife was interred in the family plot with the rest of her bunch he went home to celebrate with a drink. After thirteen long years he was finally free. As Don Fiorello he no longer answered to anyone’s beck and call, except perhaps the influential Giuseppe Dichenzo. However, very soon he expected this to change.
CHAPTER THREE
Allie’s small fingers gripped Alfonzo’s neck as he cradled her in his arms as they left the doctor’s office. In his pocket, prescriptions for antibiotics and over the counter cough syrup. His girls suffered from a viral infection, the doctor said. A little rest, some TLC and they were going to be fine. He frowned; they looked disastrous, and felt relieved it wasn’t anything more serious. The human psyche has a way of imagining the worse.
When they arrived home, he settled Allie in bed and rushed out to get their medicine. The vicinity around the large pharmacy chain was congested. In the summer, especially during midday when the hang-over crowd came out, uptown came alive. The vibrant colors of its people and disparate cultures brought an excitement to the air unlike anywhere else. Harlem was his old stomping ground. He was intimately familiar with these streets, from the lower east side to the west side and points in between. He knew every closed door hustler, gang-banger, heel-wearing whore and bodega owner in the vicinity. There wasn’t a hole or back-alley he didn’t know or precinct he hadn’t visited.
Of course he’d traveled throughout the other boroughs, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island. There were many occasions he drove out to the suburbs of Nassau and Suffolk County hustling his wares and making connections. –But it’s Harlem, the cultural mecca of the world, he considered home. It’s where he got schooled about socioeconomic differences. He saw the juxtaposition of poverty; witnessed the upper middle-class and low income residents exist cohesively. Yes, he tasted the salt and sugar of each, but it’s the struggle he remembered most. The hustle and grind; the scuffle to make things happen and get the fuck off the street to make something out of his life. Well, he had. He got a college education, owned a profitable business and inherited loads of cash by default. The smartest decisions he ever made was marrying Selange and getting the hell out of the United States.