Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “I swear!” Sal vowed raising his right hand. “I ain’t gonna do nothing to fuck you up with these guys.”

  “Yeah, sure whatever you want, Sal. I’ll introduce you to Carmine Mattazolo. He’s Don Lucho’s Underboss. For whatever its worth, I’ll even put in a good word for you. How’s that?”

  “Grazei, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “Let’s go inside and have a drink, Sally Boy. God, I fucking missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  Stepping out of the car, Anthony led Sal to the front entrance of the Mirragios Private Italian Club. There was an entry door nestled in between two sizable plate glass windows. Except these windows were black and you couldn’t see inside the club from the street. At the bottom right corner of each glass pane was the warning: “PRIVATE CLUB MEMBERS ONLY” in gold lettering.

  Rich, dark, wood paneling covered the walls and several eye-catching paintings of the gorgeous landscapes and seascapes of Sicily were hung. The furniture consisted of several stylish but simple card tables encircled by comfortable leather chairs. A booth at the back was reserved for the “Don” himself. The hardwood floors were freshly refinished and in the farthest corner was a good sized bar. All the drinks, coffee, and espresso were prepared by an old man who worked the bar. His services to the club helped him pay down his sizable gambling debt to the Mirragios. The old man’s duties included tending bar, cleaning the club, and taking care of all necessary chores from sun up to sun down.

  The Mirragio crime family was one of five Mafia Families that ran New York City. Each family oversaw one particular borough, and the Mirragios controlled BronxCounty. They commanded virtually all the illegal activities there including: gambling, prostitution, loan-sharking, unions, protection, and the biggest money maker of them all, narcotics. Anything they didn’t control directly had to be sanctioned by them, and they took a cut. Anyone who didn’t adhere to these rules, or make their pay-offs on time, usually didn’t stay healthy very long.

  Four well-dressed Mafiosi sat around a table playing cards and sipping drinks. Anthony led Sal over to the game and addressed the group collectively, “How you doing, fellas?”

  After acknowledging Anthony’s presence by raising their chins, the men suspiciously looked Sal over.

  “Fellas, this is my good friend, Salvatore Scalise. I’ve known him since we was kids.” Anthony proceeded to point out each individual seated at the table. “Sal, this is Jimmy Spikes. That guy eating the sandwich over there is Tony Fats. The guy next to him is Joey Blinks. And this is Nicky ‘Skirts.’ They call him Skirts ’cause he likes to wear dresses.” Anthony chuckled. “I’m just kidding. They call him Skirts ’cause he gets all the young broads.”

  “It’s nice to meet you guys,” Sal stated cordially.

  Nicky was by far the most handsome man at the table. Extremely well-dressed, Nicky had baby blue eyes, neatly styled thick, black hair, a toned body, and a smile that made the young girls go crazy. As he looked Sal over with contempt, Nicky asked rudely, “What was your name again, kid?”

  “Salvatore.”

  “You like girls, Salvatore?”

  The other men at the table laughed.

  “Why do you ask me that?” Sal responded in a serious tone.

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Yeah, of course I like girls.”

  “Good, ’cause we don’t want any finooks hanging around the club. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Sal fired a steely glare at Nicky.

  “Stop breaking fucking balls, Nicky!” Anthony pulled Sal away from the table. “Forget about him, Sal. I’ll introduce you to Carmine when he gets here. Let’s take a seat and I’ll get us a couplea drinks.” Directing Sal where to sit, Anthony went to the bar and returned to the table with two glasses of scotch on the rocks.

  “Anthony, what’s up with that fucking cidrule?” Sal asked as he lit a cigarette.

  “He’s Carmine’s nephew. Sometimes he can be a real fucking jerk-off.”

  “I promised you that I wouldn’t fuck you up with these guys. And I’m gonna keep that promise. I swear. But I ain’t gonna forget what he said to me.” Sal puffed his cigarette.

  “That’s fine with me, Sally Boy. I ain’t never liked that piecea shit.” Anthony glanced at his watch. “Damn, Carmine shoulda been here already.”

  “They’ll get here when they get here. Relax.” Sipping his drink Sal inquired casually, “So, what do those guys call you, Anthony?”

  Shrugging, Anthony replied innocently. “They don’t call me nothing.”

  “C’mon, give. They call everybody something around here. What do they call you?”

  “They just call me, Anthony.”

  “What? You want me to go ask those fucking guys?”

  “Awright, you’d figure they’d at least call me Tony Two, or Skinny Tony, right?”

  Rolling his eyes, Sal asked impatiently, “Anthony, what the fuck do they call you?”

  Looking uneasy, Anthony finally admitted, “They call me Cuddles! Tony Cuddles.”

  “What? Why do they call you that?”

  Taking a deep breath, Anthony explained, “One day I was talking to Lisa on the phone and I accidentally called her my...my little cuddle bunny. It’s a fucking pet name for Chrissakes! Anyway, Carmine overheard me say it and he’s been breaking my fucking balls ever since. They ain’t called me that in a while so act like you don’t know nothing about it. Awright?”

  “No problem.”

  The front door opened and an older, heavy-set man looking more like a kindly old grandfather than a Mafia Don trudged in. Don Lucho had thinning grey hair, a drawn out face, and a pair of thick glasses resting precariously on his big nose. He wore a cheap suit and carried a rolled up racing form under his arm.

  Elbowing Sal in his ribs, Anthony mumbled softly, “That’s Don Lucho.”

  Strolling in right behind him was Carmine Mattazolo, the Underboss of the Mirragio Family. Much younger than the Don, Carmine had a medium build, dark brown hair neatly combed straight back, and treacherous eyes. Carmine was short, much shorter than the other fellas, a fact which had cost several men their lives over the years for foolishly making a joke about it. Notorious for his quick temper, Carmine carried the scent of a man who had no problem slitting the throat of anyone, for revenge or profit.

  “Don Lucho, how are you?” Anthony asked politely as they passed.

  The Don walked right past him and plopped down at his booth in the back. Scurrying from behind the bar, the old man brought the Don a double espresso. Carmine stood before Anthony looking over the stranger seated next to him. “Who’s the new face, Anthony?” Carmine asked rudely.

  Anthony rose to his feet. “Carmine, this is my good friend, Salvatore Scalise. I grew up with him.”

  “So why is he here?”

  “We’re having a couplea drinks.”

  Looking Sal over, Carmine inquired, “Scalise? Are you related to Peter Scalise?”

  “He’s my father. It’s nice to meet you, Carmine.” Sal stood and shook Carmine’s hand.

  “How come I ain’t seen you around the neighborhood?”

  “I’ve been away.”

  “Where you been? The can?”

  “No.”

  “Then where the fuck you been?”

  “Vietnam,” Sal answered proudly.

  “You made it home in one piece I see. You’re very fortunate. Many good people from the neighborhood wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Who you working for?”

  Sal shook his head, “Nobody.”

  “Sit down.” The three men sat. “What are you good at? What did you do in the war?”

  “I was a soldier like everyone else.”

  “Tell me what the fuck you did in Vietnam.” Carmine demanded.

  “I killed people.”

  Nodding slowly, Carmine smiled. “Maybe we can find something for you. If you’re intereste
d.”

  “I’m very interested,” Sal answered respectfully.

  “Good. Come back tomorrow with Anthony. I’ll talk to the Don and see if he has something for you.” Shaking hands once more, Carmine stood and headed over to Don Lucho’s booth and slid in across from him.

  Anthony shrugged. “That was fucking easier than I thought.”

  “Thanks, Cuddles. I fucking owe you one,” Sal remarked laughing.

  “What are friends for? If you really wanna pay me back, forget that fucking name,” Anthony muttered softly out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You got it.”

  The old man made his way over to Anthony and whispered something in his ear. He then headed back behind the bar and continued his cleaning duties.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Don Lucho wants to talk to me,” Anthony said sheepishly.

  “So go talk to him.”

  Rising quickly, Anthony stood ill-at-ease listening as the Don did all the talking. Anthony nodded in apparent agreement, and then the Don waved him away in a discernible act of disgust. Seemingly rattled, Anthony dashed back to where Sal sat. “Let’s go,” Anthony muttered, his face flushed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Pulling Sal up by up his arm, Anthony implored, “Let’s just get the fuck outta here. Awright?”

  Stepping outside, Anthony insisted with a cracking voice, “Get in the car, Sal.”

  “Anthony, what the fuck’s going on?”

  “Just get in the fucking car, Sal. Please!”

  Once in the car, Anthony blurted, “I’m on the hook!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m on the fucking hook for you.” With an unsteady hand, Anthony lit a cigarette. “Don Lucho said since I brought you around I’m responsible for anything you do. It’s my fucking ass!”

  “Anthony, calm the fuck down! I ain’t gonna do nothing to fuck you up with these guys.”

  “Look, Sally, this shit’s for real. Awright? People fucking die! And for no good reason, I mean. If you piss off the wrong motherfucker they find you in your trunk with a bullet in your head. If you fuck around with the wrong broad you end up in some alley with your throat slit and your cock cut-off and stuffed in your mouth.”

  Sal laughed. “I’m really fucking home. Ain’t I?”

  Anthony slowly drew back from his friend. “What the fuck did they do to you over there?”

  Sal’s face hardened. “Take it easy, Anthony. You’re getting all fucking excited for nothing.”

  “But, what if...”

  “Listen, if I didn’t crack that piecea shit Nicky in his head for what he said to me, you can believe me when I tell you that you got nothing to worry about. Awright? I gotta go see my, Pop. I’ll catch up with you later at the bar. Wait there for me. Have a few drinks and try to fucking relax. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  Jumping out of the car, Sal hailed a cab and got into the back seat. The cab drove off and minutes later arrived at Peter’s building. Sal paid the fare, got out, and hiked up the stairs to his father’s apartment and knocked.

  “C’mon in,” Peter shouted.

  Stepping inside, Sal was surprised to find his father standing at the stove wearing a long white apron, and stirring a pot of sauce. “Madonn! Nice apron, Pop.”

  “Don’t say nothing fucking stupid. I didn’t wanna get any sauce on my shirt. I thought it might be you. That’s why I didn’t take it off.”

  “It smells pretty good in here. How you doing, Pop?”

  “I’m good. You want some wine?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Peter uncorked a bottle of red wine and filled two glasses. “Are you hungry? I got plenty.”

  “A little,” Sal replied hesitantly.

  “Do you fucking want some or not?”

  “Yeah, Pop. Thanks.”

  “What’s the matter, Salvatore?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Salvatore, maybe you can fool somea the people somea the time, but you can’t ever fucking fool me. Tell me what’s bothering you?”

  “I just come from a meeting with Anthony. He told me Mikey got whacked by some wiseguy for shooting off his mouth.”

  Peter shrugged.

  “You knew about it? Didn’t you, Pop?”

  Peter nodded. “I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it when I first got home?”

  “’Cause I figured you’d find out sooner or later. Better it came from your friend than me.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was business, Salvatore! Not personal. You must respect the rules if you wanna play the game.”

  “Pop, who was it?” Sal demanded.

  “No! I don’t want you going off half-cocked. When I feel the time is right, and I think you’re ready, I’ll answer all your questions. ‘Till then, shut the fuck up about it.”

  “Okay, have it your way. I can wait. I’m supposed to meet up with Anthony later at the No Name Club.”

  “‘No Name, huh? You’re working for the Mirragios now?”

  “I guess.” Sal sipped his wine. “So how’s Don Bruno treating you, Pop?”

  “Is there something else bothering you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You never ask me about my affairs. I know I raised you better than that.”

  “I’m sorry, Pop. I’m just looking for something to talk about.”

  “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” Placing a slice of bread on Sal’s plate and one on his, Peter went to the stove and brought back two heaping plates of pasta. “You look tired, Salvatore. Is everything okay?”

  Fiddling with his bread, Sal slid the plate away. “Pop, how come you never went to work for the Mirragios?”

  “I work for Don Bruno.”

  “I know. But the Mirragios was right here in the Bronx. Why did you go all the way out to Brooklyn?”

  Grating some cheese onto his pasta, Peter explained, “It’s better that I do my own thing, Salvatore. I like my privacy. Besides, I don’t know anybody in Brooklyn who can see what I’m doing here in the Bronx.”

  “You don’t trust the Mirragios? Do you?”

  “Not as far as I can throw ’em. That Don Lucho is a fucking pig. He’ll use you up and throw you away like a piece of garbage. His Underboss, Carmine Mattazolo, is a fucking whore master. He’d stab his own mother in the back to make a couplea bucks. Does that answer your question? Can I eat my macaroni now?”

  “Yeah, thanks Pop.”

  “I’m glad you still come to me when you got questions,” Peter stated in a cheerful tone. “I may not have been the best father in the world, but you always knew who to come to when you needed to know the straight dope. Didn’t you?”

  “That’s true, Pop. You know the streets better than anyone. None of these cidrules could ever fool you.”

  “Remember what I said, Salvatore.” Peter reiterated his sentiments speaking in Italian, “You must have eyes in the back of your head. No one can be trusted. No one! Understand?”

  Spearing some pasta onto his fork, Sal replied coolly, “Si, ou capisi.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The No Name Club was “legally” owned by Larry Lent, an elderly Jewish man, who resided in Mt. Vernon, New York. A successful haberdasher, Mr. Lent peddled high-end men’s apparel and had a well-known passion for not only gambling, but losing. Unable to pay his debts, Mr. Lent had grudgingly agreed to shill as the owner of the establishment as an alternative means to settle his account with the mobsters who actually did own the club.

  The No Name, or “No Names,” as the wiseguy’s jokingly referred to it, had become the local watering hole where all the aspiring wannabes from the neighborhood hung out dreaming of being somebody important. The place was always swarming with attractive, young females in search of a guy making his way up through the ranks. Unfortunately, every guy in the joint thought he was climber.

  Seate
d at the bar, Anthony smoked a cigarette and nursed a drink. Approaching him from behind, Sal slapped Anthony on the shoulder and hopped up onto a barstool right next to him. Pulling out a pack of smokes from his inside jacket pocket, Sal slid an ashtray in front of him, and lit a cigarette. “How you doing?” Sal asked politely.

  “What took you so long?” Anthony grumbled as he glanced at his wristwatch.

  “Take it easy. I was talking to my Pop.” Looking up at an already approaching bartender, Sal asked, “Lemme get a seven-and-seven, please.”

  “No problem.” The husky bartender poured and then placed the drink in front of Sal.

  “Put it on my tab,” Anthony insisted.

  “Thanks, Ant.” Looking around Sal noted, “This is a pretty nice joint. Who owns it?”

  “Some Jew from Mt.Vernon, I think. I heard Carmine and Johnny Rocks got a piecea it.”

  “Classy. I wouldn’t mind owning something like this myself someday.”

  The No Name Club was quite an extravagant establishment. The bar was fashioned from real imported mahogany. Two big color televisions hung from the ceiling at either end of the bar, both turned at 45-degree angles. The cushioned bar stools had soft, genuine leather-covered seats, and the spirits selection compared favorably to that of the finest restaurants in Manhattan.

  Each table was draped with a crimson-colored table cloth. In the center of the table was a gold-colored candleholder supporting a gold-colored candle. The crimson carpet matched the drapes, and the walls were a lighter shade of crimson, tying the room together. The food was excellent Southern Italian Cuisine and the dining room music selection was strictly Italian crooners.

  Sitting several barstools over from Anthony, with his back to them and talking to a gorgeous blonde, was Johnny “Rocks.” A nice looking man, Johnny had a slim build and neatly combed black hair which was starting to turn grey, dark eyes, and a small mole on his right cheek below the corner of his eye. Johnny recently did a stretch in Sing-Sing Penitentiary for selling stolen diamonds to his long time fence, Marco Cabrini. After getting out of prison several months ago, Johnny had picked up right where he had left off as one of the craftiest jewel thieves in New York.