“Then we’re gonna kill everybody the Mirragios do business with, anybody who owes ’em money, and whoever works for ‘em.”
“You’re gonna kill all those motherfuckers?” Angel asked, mouth agape.
“You got a fucking problem with that?”
“No! No way,” Angel said tentatively.
Turning toward the other men, Sal yelled, “What about youse? Do youse got a problem with that?”
The room was quiet for several moments until Clo busted out laughing. His cackling laughter caused everyone else to break out laughing.
#
One night outside the No Name Club, Sal and Angel waited in the dark and kidnapped Pasqualli Bracco at gun point. Pasqualli, or “Patsy” as he was known by his friends and associates, was an “old-school” gangster. He was tough as nails and had the scares to prove it. Patsy was a bull of a man, in his late sixties, with a barrel-chest and the disposition of a rattle snake. He was the only other person besides Don Lucho who knew every detail of the Mirragio’s operations.
Sal and his crew held Patsy captive in an abandoned warehouse in the South Bronx. His ankles were bound with duct tape to the legs of a chair and his wrists were secured to the armrests. Patsy’s face was swollen and bloody. The front of his white dress shirt was now a deep red color. To make Patsy crack, Angel, Juan, Roberto, and Clo took turns punching him in his face. However, the more they abused Patsy, the more determined he became. Putting his cigarette out on Patsy’s arm, Angel laughed, and then punched him once more.
“You cocksuckers hit like little fucking girls,” Patsy mocked.
Patiently, Sal sat and watched, wanting to see how long Patsy could hold out. Shaking his head in frustration, Juan looked to Sal. “He doesn’t want to talk, primo. He’s the toughest old man I’ve ever seen. Let’s just kill him.” Drawing his pistol, Juan pointed the muzzle at Patsy’s temple.
“No.” Pushing Juan’s arm aside, Sal pointed out, “You just ain’t found the right method of interrogation.” Picking up a large knife from a nearby table, Sal walked toward Patsy. The steely blade glimmered, even in the dark desolation of the warehouse. As Sal neared Patsy, he spit blood at Sal. “What the fuck are you gonna do with that, tough guy? When I get outta here, I’m gonna stick that knife up your fucking ass.”
With one quick decisive stroke, Sal lopped off Patsy’s right ear.
“Motherfucker!” Patsy screamed in pain.
“Did that hurt?” Sal taunted.
“You piecea shit! You’re a fucking disgrace to us and to your father!”
“You shoulda never brought my father into this.” Sal then hacked off Patsy’s other ear. “I want to know everything about the Mirragio’s operations.”
“I don’t know nothing!” Patsy blurted, blood streaming down his neck.
“Tell me what you know and I’ll kill you quick. Don’t tell me, and I’ll keep you alive for days cutting you up into little fucking pieces.”
“Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell a scum bag traitor like you,” Patsy insisted, breathing heavily and showing fear for the first time.
“‘Traitor’?” Sal jabbed the point of the blade into Patsy’s eye socket. With one quick flick of his wrist, Sal ripped the eye completely out. Patsy’s agonizing screams echoed throughout the warehouse. Noticing that the eyeball was stuck to the tip of the blade, Sal swiped the knife across Patsy’s sleeve. The eyeball popped off and dropped to the floor. It rolled away, coming to rest at Angel’s feet.
“Sal, maybe he don’t know nothing. Let’s just do him and get the fuck outta here. Awright?” Angel said, voice cracking.
“He knows. He’ll talk or I’m gonna cut him up like a fucking Christmas turkey. Either way is fine with me.”
Swallowing hard, Patsy’s bloody and beaten face reflected the horror of Sal’s statement. As he peered up into Sal’s cold, dark eyes, Patsy saw his inevitable dismemberment. Terror washed over him and suddenly a bullet through the head seemed a fine alternative to what awaited him. “Awright, I’ll talk. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know. Just promise you’ll fucking kill me quick.”
Sal plunged the knife deep into a tabletop. “Start talking, asshole.”
Patsy told Sal everything he knew about the Mirragios drug smuggling enterprise, the names of the ships they came in on, and the delivery dates and times. He revealed their most profitable gambling spots and the names of the men who ran the clubs. After spilling his guts, Patsy looked up at Sal. “That’s all I know. I swear!”
“I believe you.” Sal nodded and Angel raised his pistol to Patsy’s head. Suddenly, Patsy broke out laughing. “Hold up, Angel. What’s so fucking funny, old man?” Sal asked curiously.
“I know the Mirragios better than anyone. They got plans for you, Sally Boy. What they’re gonna do to you is gonna make this look like a kiddy’s birthday party.”
“And what’s that gonna be?”
“I don’t wanna ruin the surprise. I only wish I was gonna live long enough to see you get yours.”
“Well, you’re not.” Sal pulled his pistol and shot Patsy in the head.
“What a fucking punk. I never woulda gave you up like that. Even if they cut me to pieces, I still woulda never gave you up, hermano.”
“I gotta go see somebody. Get rida the body,” Sal ordered sternly.
Angel, Juan, Roberto and Clo hauled Patsy’s body out of the warehouse and threw it into the trunk of a car. Sal got in his car and sped off. While en route to his father’s apartment, Sal recalled that when he was about fifteen-years-old he once asked his father if he trusted anyone.
Taking his time, Peter thought for several moments and then answered like this: “One day this scorpion came upon this frog near a lake. So the scorpion said, ‘Can you do me a favor and ferry me across.’ The frog looked at the scorpion and said, ‘No, ’cause you’ll sting me and I’ll drown.’ So the scorpion said, ‘No I won’t, ’cause if I do, I’ll drown with you. Plus I’ll owe you a favor.’ The frog, he thinks for a moment, and agrees.
“The scorpion jumps onto the frog’s back and he starts to swim out. About halfway across the scorpion stings the frog. Just before the frog went down he said, ‘Why did you do that? Now we’re both gonna die.’ And the scorpion said, ‘’Cause it’s my nature. That’s why.’ That’s why I don’t trust nobody, ’cause betrayal is in their nature.’ Remember that, Salvatore.”
Parking down the block, Sal cautiously stepped out of his car. He looked around, ensuring that all was clear, and then he hurried up the steps to his father’s door and knocked.
Peter sat on the couch watching television. Startled by the loud knocks, he reached for the .38 he kept under the pillows. Concealing it behind his back, Peter walked toward the door. “Who is it? he asked
“It’s me, Pop. Open up.”
A smile came to Peter’s face and he quickly undid the three locks.
“How you doing, Pop?” Sal gave his father a big hug.
“C’mon in.” Closing the door, Peter and Sal took a seat at the kitchen table. “You want something to eat?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You okay, Salvatore?”
“I’m okay.” Sal nodded.
“How’s that pretty girlfriend of yours doing?”
“I don’t know. I guess she’s awright.”
“What happened? You’re still together?”
“Yeah, Pop. She’s fine.”
“Good, ’cause I like her.”
“I like her, too. Listen, I need to talk to you.”
“Well, I need to talk to you. I’ve been hearing some things about you and this new crew of yours. I hope they ain’t true.” Pausing momentarily, Peter yelled, “What the fuck is the matter with you, Salvatore? You’re running with spics? And involved with the babania? You go to war against your own people? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“That’s bullshit, Pop. Besides, they brought this on themselves.”
“I ain’t gonna inte
rfere in this, Salvatore. Not unless you want me, too. You’re my son, you’re all I got left. All you gotta do is ask and I’ll have Don Bruno intercede on your behalf. It’ll be over just like that.” Peter snapped his fingers.
“Don’t worry. I got everything under control. But thanks for offering.”
“If you ever need me for anything, all you gotta do is ask. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I ain’t seen you in so long. Since you’re here, let’s have a drink.”
“Okay.”
Peter poured some wine and placed the glasses on the table.
“Lemme ask you a question, Pop?”
“What?” Peter sipped his wine.
“If you was Don Lucho, I mean if you was in his position, what would you do?”
“I don’t wanna talk about this.”
“I need to know what they’re thinking. I’m out there all alone.”
“I’d find somebody you trusted and have ’em set up a meeting with you. And then I’d blow your fucking head off.” Sensing that his son wasn’t pleased with his answer, Peter pointed out, “You asked. So I told you.”
“I can’t trust nobody? Can I?”
“No.”
“Have you heard anything on the street?”
“Nothing that you probably don’t know already. Don Lucho wants you dead. He’ll use anybody to get what he wants. The other families won’t get involved ’cause they hate that cocksucker as much as you do. Plus they like seeing that fat bastard get his nose bloodied.”
“Pop, what would you do if you was in my position? I mean if you was me?”
“Kill ’em all,” Peter responded without hesitation.
“Who killed Mikey?”
“Salvatore, with everything going on, you ask me about this?”
“Who, Pop?”
“It was Carmine Mattazolo.”
“Do you know why? I mean how’d it happen?”
“Does it really matter now?”
“I guess not.”
“You know I liked that kid, ever since we met him the day you come in on the boat from Sicily. He had balls, even back then. I liked all your friends. They was all good boy’s.” Peter placed his hand on top of his son’s and said softly, “Be careful, Salvatore.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER THIRTY
Heeding his father’s advice, Sal and his crew turned the streets of the Bronx red with the blood of their enemies. They savagely murdered drug dealers, bookies, loan sharks, and various other business associates of the Mirragios. Many were executed while driving their cars, sleeping in their beds, or dining in the restaurants they frequented. The headlines of the New York newspapers read: “Bloody Street War Rages in the Bronx.”
Utilizing the information gained from his interrogation of Patsy Bracco, Sal targeted the most profitable illegal gambling spot the Mirragios controlled. The “Basement” was a posh underground casino on the East side of the Bronx. With this club, the Mirragios spared no expense impressing some of New York’s most affluent and influential personalities. Beautiful tapestries and artwork hung on the walls and complimented the cosmopolitan color schemes. The lavish decor was superbly accented by the long opulent draperies that offered the club’s haughty clientele heightened seclusion.
Inside, scores of attractive, scantily-clad, martini-toting women traipsed around on the club’s imported Italian marble floors. The clicking of their heels was muffled by the luxurious Persian rugs placed in high-traffic areas. Tuxedo-wearing dealers moved the games of chance along with the familiar shout of: “Place your bets!”
Young attractive cocktail waitresses dressed in revealing outfits ferried free drinks to the prominent guests who stood huddled around craps, roulette, and blackjack tables. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, contrasting with the mix of designer fragrances poured over each body.
Dressed like one of the regulars, Sal stepped to the front door holding two pistols. Using the butt of his .45, Sal knocked on the door and then quickly concealed the weapons behind his back. A four-inch by four-inch peephole opened and a man looked through it. “What do you want?” he asked in a serious tone.
“Periwinkle,” Sal responded, knowing from Patsy that this was the password.
The front door opened and Sal rushed in followed by Angel, Roberto, Clo, and Juan. The doorman reached for his gun and then stopped as Sal put his .45 to his forehead. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“What the fuck do you guys want?” the doorman asked angrily.
“What do you think we want, asshole?” Sal laughed.
Angel held a sawed-off shotgun pointed directly at the man’s chest. “We want everything. But we’ll start with the cash, cabron.”
“Do you assholes know whose joint this is? You’re fucking dead.”
“Yeah, we know. But you’re the asshole that’s dead.” Sal shot the doorman in the face at point blank range and his body fell to the floor. The entire room gasped collectively, and then went silent.
“Listen up, scumbags,” Sal yelled looking over the frightened faces. “We don’t give a fuck about youse. We’re here for the Mirragio’s money. But since you’re stupid enough to be here, we’re gonna take your shit, too.” Turning to Angel, Sal ordered, “Get all their money and jewelry while I cover these jerk-offs.”
Running through the club like savages, knocking people over, Angel and Juan gathered up anything of value and stuffed it into plastic bags. They scooped up loads of cash from the gaming tables, pulled rings off fingers, snatched diamond necklaces from the necks of the female guests, and took every man’s wristwatch.
Out of the corner of his eye, Roberto saw a shiny diamond bracelet on the wrist of a gorgeous, young blonde girl. She was dressed in a black evening gown and bore a striking resemblance to Chrissy. Roberto pulled at the bracelet but the girl resisted as best she could. “Gimme that fucking bracelet,” Roberto shouted as he wrestled with the girl.
“No, please! My mother gave this to me. Please, no,” the frightened girl pled.
Viciously, Roberto slapped her across the face and she fell to the floor. Ripping the bracelet from her wrist, Roberto grabbed his crotch and laughed at the now sobbing young girl. “I’d like to give you something else, you stupid fucking cunt.”
The girl’s resemblance to Chrissy was so amazing that Sal stood mesmerized by her. Believing that she was Chrissy, he approached her. “Chrissy, is that you?” Sal asked sympathetically as he helped her to her feet. “I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t know it was you. You okay?” Sal kissed her cheek.
Confused and frightened, the girl’s sobbing became hysterical. His mind clouded by mass consumption of heroin, cocaine, and whiskey, Sal turned to Roberto and shouted, “You stupid motherfucker! Do you know who this is?” Raising his pistol, Sal shot Roberto in the face at point blank range. Roberto fell to the floor, dead. “Nobody touches my girl! You dumb fuck!” Sal continued to pump bullets into Roberto’s body.
Seeing what had happened, Angel rushed to his brother. “You killed ‘Berto! You fucking killed him!” Angel bellowed in disbelief at the sight of Roberto’s bullet-ridden body.
“Help me pick him up! We can’t leave him here!” Kneeling at Roberto’s head, Angel took hold of his arms.
“Fuck him.” Sal shot Roberto once more.
Blood sprayed up, covering Angel’s face. Dropping his brother’s body to the floor, Angel screamed insanely, “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”
Instinctively, Sal trained his weapon on the crowd. “Everybody get to the back of the room and face the wall. Move motherfuckers!”
The patrons fled to the back of the club and turned toward the wall.
“Hey, fucko,” Sal shouted to one of the men running the club.
“Yeah,” the man replied fearfully.
“Tell that cocksucker, Carmine, Sally Boy did this.’”
“I will.”
Retreating toward the door with their weapons leveled at the b
acks of the crowd, Sal and his men made a hasty get away.
#
When news of the robbery reached Don Lucho, it sent him into an insane rage. Summoning Carmine to his office, he unleashed an angry tirade. “This crazy bastard violated our club. Our fucking club! Do you know how much money we lost? Every breath he takes costs us money. What the fuck are you gonna do about him?”
“I know how to deal with animals like Scalise. The babania has made him crazy. He even whacked one of his own men. Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake, then we’ll put him down like a wild dog. I promise.”
“I want this fucking problem taken care of. Understand? Every day he lives is a disgrace to our honor and he makes a jerk of you for letting him work for us.”
“I think Peter Scalise could be helpful in ending this,” Carmine said, looking pensive. “He has a way of making his son understand things. Maybe I can talk to...”
“No! This is our problem. If we ask for help we’ll look weak. A man in my position cannot afford to look weak. Ever!”
“I’ll take care of this. My hand to God,” Carmine vowed, kissing Don Lucho’s cheek before leaving. As Carmine stepped into the front of the club, he gestured for Nicky and Jimmy to come to him. The three men huddled at one of the tables. “I want you guys to go pay a visit to Peter Scalise. Make him understand that he ain’t got no choice but to give that piecea shit son of his up.”
“What if he don’t wanna? That motherfucker’s as crazy as his junkie son,” Nicky said quietly.
“Then fucking clip him. Do whatever you gotta do. I want that motherfucking Sally Boy shot and buried in a fucking hole. The sooner the better. Understand?”
“Carmine, not for nothing, but if we do whack Peter, his people in Brooklyn are gonna want blood. He ain’t some fucking cidrule off the street, you know. He’s Don Bruno’s consigliere. It’ll start an all-out war,” Jimmy cautioned in a low voice.
“We’re already at war with a rabid fucking dog and he’s giving me fleas. If you gotta clip him make it look like a robbery or something. But leave something so Sally Boy knows we did it. And I know just the thing, too.” Carmine went behind the bar and opened one of the drawers. Returning to the table, he gave Nicky a handful of ticket stubs. “Leave these where Sally Boy will find ’em. They oughta bring him right to us. Then I’ll crush him like a fucking bug.”
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