Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “What the fuck do you want me to do Fats, huh? This is Spike’s party. Talk to him.”

  “Spikes, ain’t you gonna do nothing?” Tony implored.

  “Sometimes you just gotta let things do what they do,” Jimmy countered, sounding almost philosophical.

  As he descended upon the unsuspecting couple, Sal rapidly concluded that his decision to confront this individual might not be the wisest course of action. After all, as Jimmy so eloquently pointed out, she was just a “spic.” None of the “higher-ups” would condone his involvement, nor would they sanction his intervening in a situation that held no profit potential for them.

  However, Sal was conflicted, because he was raised by his mother and grandparents who had instilled in him a deep respect for all women. Even though he knew that the smart move would be to walk away, Sal could not allow this piece of shit to go unpunished.

  Marching right up to the man, Sal tapped him firmly on his shoulder. “Excuse me.”

  Slowly the man turned around.

  “Is there a fucking problem here?” Sal inquired in an accusatory manner.

  The man’s beady eyes squinted and his face contorted in a look of disdain as he gave Sal the once-over. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Don’t worry about who I am. I saw what you did. You shouldn’t be hitting on no female.”

  “‘Female!’” The man laughed with false bravado. “This is my bitch, pendejo. That means I can do whatever the fuck I want to do to her. Comprende?” Puffing his smelly cigar, he purposely blew the smoke directly into Sal’s face. “You know cabron, if I was you, I’d get the fuck outta here while you still got a chance.” Drawing back the left side of his jacket, the man revealed a .38-caliber snub-nose revolver tucked into a shoulder holster.

  Seeing the weapon, Sal’s eyes sprung open, the bridge of his nose creased, and his left cheek began to twitch as the threat thundered in his ears. In an effort to control his rage, Sal turned his attention to the girl. “Are you okay, Miss?” he asked politely.

  The terrified girl’s hand shook, causing the ice in her glass to rattle like a maraca. Raising the drink to her lips, she took a long sip. “Everything’s okay. You better go, but thanks anyway,” she replied softly, flashing a nervous smile.

  “Awright, have a good night.” Sal smiled and turned to walk away.

  Whack! Again, the man bashed her across the face. “I didn’t fucking tell you to speak, cunt!”

  Spinning back around, Sal bitch-slapped the man across his face, almost knocking him off his stool. “Hurts, don’t it, scumbag?”

  “Fuck you!” the man shrieked in a high-pitched voice and pulled his pistol.

  Sal pounced on the hand clutching the weapon. Using his overpowering strength, Sal turned the pistol toward his adversary and forced the barrel down against his genitals. “No, fuck you!” Sal snarled.

  Slipping his finger over the man’s, Sal pulled the trigger. The once-proud stallion, now a gelding, flew off his bar stool and crashed to the floor. The man just laid there, blood already flowing.

  The thunderous beat of the music masked the sound of the shot, rendering it barely audible, but the ruckus at the bar created a ripple of concern. Security personnel disbursed in an attempt to ascertain the situation. The D.J. was ordered to lower the music, and the people on the dance floor slowed and then stopped dancing entirely. The pretentious laughter and excessive chatter of the socializing drunks ceased and the club became eerily quiet. No one was really sure what had happened, but all heads turned, and every eye was now focused on the bar area.

  Knowing it was just a matter of seconds before the inevitable stampede to the exits, Sal reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of big bills. Placing the wad of money into the girl’s trembling hand, he closed her fingers tightly around the cash.

  “Grab a cab and go home now!” Sal whispered commandingly into the girl’s ear and then urgently nudged her toward the door.

  Like a frightened rabbit, she took off running and collided with a passing waitress carrying a tray full of drinks. The tray flew into the air then crashed to the floor. The sound of bursting glass reverberated like a minor explosion throughout the silence of the club. Looking down, the waitress saw the gruesome mess on the floor. Shocked, she unleashed a blood-curdling scream igniting a panic.

  People bolted from the dance floor toward the nearest exits. Their panicked shrieks and shouts only created more hysteria. Fleeing guests overturned tables, chairs were thrown about and several women were trampled in the mad rush. Deftly dodging frenzied patrons trying to escape the premises, Sal arrived back at his table.

  Blinking even faster than usual, Joey sat up. “You couldn’t just let it alone, could you Sal?”

  Sal’s eyes shined like a child’s on Christmas morning. “He pulled on me, asshole. What the fuck did you expect me to do?”

  Jimmy almost managed a grin, but thwarted the impulse. “You done good, Sally Boy. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  The men made their way through the chaos surrounding them toward the back door. As they walked, Sal was reminded of a story his father had shared with him when he was just a boy. Although it was many years ago, Sal remembered the day well. It was a hot summer afternoon and Peter Scalise had purchased two vanilla cones with colored sprinkles from a Mister Softee truck that worked the neighborhood.

  The two sat on their front stoop enjoying their treat while Peter explained this anecdote in Italian to his naïve nine-year-old son. “One cold winter day, this big gust of wind came along and blew this little bird right out of its nest. This cow saw the baby bird shivering on the ground and she knew that the little guy was gonna die unless she did something quick. So the cow thought for minute and decided the best way to save the bird was to take a shit on him. You know, to keep the little guy warm, so he didn’t freeze to death.

  “Anyways, the bird didn’t realize it was for his own good and he started yelling for help. This coyote heard him and came over and pulled him out. The little bird was so happy to be free, he didn’t even care that it was a coyote that saved him. Just before the bird could say ‘thanks,’ the coyote gobbled him up. The point of this story being, not everyone who shits on you is necessarily trying to hurt you. And not everyone who pulls you out of shit is really trying to help. And if you should ever find yourself up to your eyeballs in shit, keep your mouth shut. But you gotta figure that out before you end up like the little bird. Remember that, Salvatore,” his father had insisted. Sal always would. Unfortunately, Sal had no idea how much his own life would parallel that story.

  Exiting by way of the back door, the four men sliced through the moonless night scarcely casting shadows. Reaching their long black Lincoln, they swiftly slipped away, pandemonium in their wake.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  A light, early morning mist arose from a stagnant body of water in the small village of Altavilla in Palermo, Sicily. There was little movement on the narrow cobblestone streets or in the village square by the remaining inhabitants. World War II had long since ended, but the threat from vendettas lingered like a pack of ravenous wolves. Infighting and reprisals against those formerly loyal to “Il Duce” and his cohorts had taken many lives and stained the streets with the blood of anyone suspected of collaboration.

  Once impressive, manicured residences that had stood in stately elegance for over a century were now crumbling buildings bearing the scars of hostilities forced upon them by an abhorrent dictator. Remnants of fascist party emblems painted on walls were riddled with bullets and defaced with slogans that cursed the formerly powerful leader, serving as a warning to anyone who might seek to ever again rule with an iron fist. The once proud and gregarious Sicilian people had been reduced to a distrustful, clandestine populace that longed for what was their way of life on the beautiful island before the twisted dreams of world domination sealed their collective fate.

  In the distance, picturesque mountains appeared surreal as the
sun peeked over them, initiating another glorious Mediterranean sunrise. Waves crashed against rocky cliffs, shooting sea water high up into the air and the spray yielded a majestic rainbow. Morning dew blanketed the lush green landscape. Ocean breezes playfully kissed the leafy trees, producing a soothing, rustling sound. An aromatic delight of traditional Italian breakfasts could be detected as church bells rang, and their tolls carried for miles across the countryside.

  An old postman, whose uniform was as ancient and fatigued as he, trudged up a dirt path to the home of the Cogassi family. With his heavy bag shouldered, he made his way up the rickety steps onto the porch. Mustering the strength to rap on the front door, he knocked three times. The creaking door slowly opened. Appearing from behind the weathered door and stepping out onto the porch was Dominick Cogassi.

  Despite his advanced age, Cogassi was quite a distinguished looking gentleman. His thinning gray hair was parted on the side and neatly combed. Though furrowed and wrinkled, Cogassi’s face still suggested the vibrant good looks of his youth. His once strong body was now ravaged by age, and riddled with arthritis, causing him to walk slightly hunched. Although his clothes were frayed and shoes were worn, they were neat and clean. Antoinette, his adored wife of fifty-plus years, kept his garments in as fine a condition as possible.

  The Cogassi’s home was a simple two-bedroom cottage in desperate need of a coat of paint, and the repair of a leaky roof. A well in the overgrown front yard yielded clean drinking water, and an antiquated outhouse provided relief from nature’s callings. All the family’s meals were prepared by Signora Cogassi on a wood-burning stove in the kitchen that also served as their sole source of heat during the winter months. The furniture, like everything else they owned, required constant mending. Stuffing was coming out of the sofa, old broken kitchen chairs were bound together with rope, cabinet doors hung open due to missing screws, and the warped wooden flooring was lifting throughout the house.

  A short hefty fellow, the postman, had a round face, bloodshot eyes, and a red bulbous nose, evidence of a passion for wine. “Good morning, Signore Cogassi.”

  “Good morning to you, Signore Pesci.”

  “I have an interesting piece of correspondence for you this morning.”

  “What might that be?”

  “It’s a certified letter from America. I need you to sign for it before I can give it to you,” the postman stated enthusiastically.

  “A certified letter from America,” Cogassi muttered, scratching his head.

  “That’s right.”

  After scrutinizing the return address written in English, Cogassi signed the postman’s receipt and took the letter. “Thank you.”

  Tucking the receipt securely into his pocket, the postman stared at the letter still clutched in Cogassi’s hand. “Well, aren’t you going to open it? It’s a certified letter from America.”

  “I know. You’ve told me that already.”

  “I didn’t know that you knew anyone in America, Signore Cogassi.”

  “I don’t, Signore Pesci.”

  “Then that’s all the more reason why you should open it. I know if I received a certified letter from America I wouldn’t be able to open it fast enough. Even though I can’t read English, like you or your lovely wife. Aren’t you even the least bit curious about the letter?”

  “Not really. I have many pressing chores to attend to. Perhaps, I’ll open it tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want to at least take a peek at it?”

  Well aware of the postman’s appetite for gossip, Cogassi shrewdly concocted a plot to distract the busybody from his interrogation. “Signore Pesci, how have you been feeling lately? Are you well?”

  “I feel fine. Why do you ask?” the postman replied defensively.

  “I can see in your tired eyes the strain of your demanding job. Your bag certainly does look much heavier today than most days. You must have many more stops to make today than usual.”

  “I do have a lot of deliveries today. And come to think of it, I am feeling a little tired. You know, without me, everyone in our village would be cut off from the rest of the world. People don’t realize how much they depend on me,” the postman declared emphatically.

  “I understand, and I most definitely agree. You certainly do have a great deal of responsibility and I know that many people are waiting for their correspondence. As much as I enjoy talking with you, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your important duties. So I’ll say good day to you, Signore Pesci, and let you finish your work.”

  “Thank you, Signore Cogassi. You are a very kind man. Good day to you.”

  Stepping off the porch, the postman confidently waddled back down the beaten trail to complete his appointed rounds. Easing down onto a wooden chair, Cogassi drew his glasses from his coat pocket, and carefully placed them on his nose. Though weary from his morning chores, he could hardly contain his excitement. “Who could be writing me from America?” Cogassi asked himself aloud.

  During the war, it was imperative for Cogassi and his wife to acquire a better than rudimentary understanding of the English language. With all the chaos and disorder in Sicily after the Allied invasion, anyone who could communicate and barter with the occupying forces for food and other necessities would be better able to provide for their family.

  The return address read: “Law Offices of Gutstein & Gutstein, 429 Park Ave., New York, New York.” Cogassi thought, This letter must be very important if lawyers are writing to me from America. But why would lawyers from America write me?

  With the eagerness of a child on his birthday, Cogassi tore open the letter. Something fell out of the envelope and dropped down onto his lap. “What is this?” Cogassi asked as he snatched up the official looking stub, and examined it closely. “A ticket to New York!”

  Intrigued, he now removed the letter from the envelope and read. All at once, the answers to Cogassi’s questions were revealed, and a nightmare from his past that he believed had long since ended began anew. The correspondence in his trembling hands was from the man whom he despised more than Mussolini: the American soldier who had married Cogassi’s only daughter nine years earlier. The man the Cogassi Family believed was deceased, because after returning to America alone eight years ago, he hadn’t sent for his wife and son though he had vowed to do so once he got settled in the states. Moreover, the G.I.’s failure to respond to any of the dozens of letters Marie had sent to him over the next several years only confirmed their assumption of his death.

  Although the official cause of Marie’s demise was influenza, Cogassi blamed this wretched individual for his daughter’s untimely passing two years ago at the age of twenty-five. Convinced that his beloved daughter had died of a broken heart, Cogassi believed that it was brought on by an unfulfilled promise and unrequited love.

  Though he had forbidden anyone to speak this man’s name aloud, Cogassi broke his own decree: “Peter Scalise,” he grumbled hatefully, then turned his head and spat on the ground.

  Cogassi could manage only to call out faintly for his wife. “Mama, he wants to take our grandson!” Using all of the strength left in his tired body, Cogassi rose from the chair. Urgently he made his way in the front door, through the living room, and into the kitchen where his wife was preparing breakfast.

  In a hurried and excited voice he announced, “Mama...” he wheezed, “...that son-of-a-bitch wants to take...” Cogassi clutched his chest with one hand and steadied himself by grasping the counter with the other as he tried to catch his breath. The shock of the letter and a failing heart were almost too much for him.

  In her younger days, Antoinette Cogassi was the embodiment of classic Italian beauty with long, lustrous black hair, enchanting dark eyes, and smooth, supple skin. Now she showed decline from years of hardship, oppression, and war. Shocked by her husband’s use of profanity, Mama insisted sharply, “What’s wrong, Papa! What is happening that has you so out of sorts this early?”

  With an unsteady hand, Cogassi
dropped the letter down onto the counter. “Read, Mama.”

  Mama’s face drew ghostly pale. “What’s wrong, Papa? You’re frightening me.”

  “Read, please,” Cogassi muttered softly and then fell despondently into a kitchen chair.

  “Wait a moment,” Mama replied nervously as she fumbled for her glasses. “I have to put on my reading glasses first.” Unfolding the letter, she quickly looked it over. “This letter is written in English. Where did it come from, Papa?”

  “Please, just read the letter.”

  “All right, Papa!” Mama silently read the letter.

  “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cogassi:

  “This letter is to inform you that our client, Mr. Peter A. Scalise, is filing a petition seeking sole custody of his son, Salvatore Scalise. Due to the fact that Salvatore’s mother, Marie Scalise, has passed away. Mr. Scalise wants his son to live with him in America. It is Mr. Scalise’s contention that Salvatore would have a better life and more opportunities in America than he would in his current place of residence.

  “You may feel compelled to contest this request in court. However, Mr. Scalise wants us to inform you that he feels such action would be an egregious error. Mr. Scalise has sent along a ticket for Salvatore’s passage on a ship to New York that is scheduled to depart from the Palermo harbor on May 30th. He feels that three days is adequate time for you to make the necessary preparations. Mr. Scalise has also contacted several of his business associates in Palermo and enlisted their services to observe this situation.

  “In closing, Mr. Scalise wanted us to strongly remind you of the dire consequences you would face if you refused to adhere to his wishes. In fact, Mr. Scalise is prepared to come to Sicily and retrieve his son if he isn’t on the ship. An inconvenience that Mr. Scalise believes the two of you should avoid.

  “Cordially yours,

  “David Gutstein Esq.”