Sally Boy

by

P. Vincent DeMartino

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Silk Daddy Publishing on Smashwords

www.sallyboy.net

Sally Boy

Copyright © 2008 by P. Vincent DeMartino

Cover by James Lee

www.speechlessfx.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
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* * * * *

Sally Boy

* * * * *

I wish to give thanks and praise to my
Heavenly Father - Without Him nothing is possible and all is
lost.

For my mother - Thank you mom, I love
you.

Sheryl Kelly-Ginsburgh Ph.D. - Your
unwavering support and encouragement helped make this work
possible. HOOK ’em HORNS!

Sir Charles and Barbara Wilson - Your love
and friendship have blessed my life in so many ways. GO
DOLPHINS!

For all the glorious Italian people who came
to America and made this nation great.

For all the courageous men and women who
served in Vietnam and Southeast Asia.

For all of my friends and family who
believed in me - Thank you and God Bless.

The efforts which we make to escape from

our destiny only serve to lead us into
it.

—
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

* * * * *

It is with the utmost love and respect that I
dedicate this novel to the memory of my father.

* * * * *

Seated in an upscale Manhattan nightclub,
Salvatore Scalise sat, legs crossed, sipping his cocktail as he
casually smoked a celebratory cigar. The rich, deep brown color of
the Cuban only enhanced his mesmerizing eyes as they drank in the
provocative sights. Impeccably attired, Sal wore a black silk suit
and Italian leather shoes. His custom-made, burgundy linen shirt
was unbuttoned to reveal his muscular chest and a heavy gold
crucifix hanging from a solid gold chain. Deep in thought, Sal was
oblivious to the admiring stares of several attractive young women
lingering in his vicinity.

In a mirror, Sal had caught sight of the
gleam of his crucifix prompting him to recall a childhood memory.
Ironically, it was of going to church with his mother and
grandparents. Our Lady of Refuge was one of the oldest churches in
Sicily, and the people in his Palermo village of Altavilla attended
daily. On Sundays, his mother dressed him in his best clothes and
the family would attend Mass. Sitting in a pew, usually between his
mother and grandmother, Salvatore listened to Father Gagliano quote
the Bible and talk about God.

The curious boy would stare at the stained
glass windows depicting Christ’s crucifixion and wonder what could
warrant such a terrible fate. He’d listen as the priest spoke of
the road to salvation through confession of one’s sins and the
forgiveness of those who had sinned against you. Salvatore didn’t
understand Father Gagliano’s words then, but he does now. So if his
story sounds like a plea for forgiveness for all the men he’s
killed and all the terrible things he did, then perhaps it is.

In the farthest corner of Club Rapture, a
young D.J. stood in an elevated booth overlooking the congested
dance floor. “It’s a Family Affaaaa-air...” he enthusiastically
sang along, smiling wryly at the raucous crowd dancing beneath him.
Taking a lengthy hit from a joint, the self-assured maestro held it
for as long as possible before slowly exhaling a billowy cloud of
smoke. The smoke gradually ascended toward the mirrored disco-ball
that revolved in unison with the lights that flickered and flashed
overhead.

Sexy young girls swarmed the dance floor in
painted-on bell bottoms and halter tops, shaking their asses and
brazenly displaying their cleavage. Tongue-wagging, twenty-year-old
suitors dressed in tight polyester pants and half-unbuttoned
over-sized collared shirts pursued the adolescent hussies with the
determination of dogs in heat. Throughout the club, an assortment
of socialites, middle-class nobodies, gold-diggers, underworld
figures, and drug king-pins danced, drank, smoked pot, and snorted
cocaine in plain sight. It was 1970; anything goes.

Three well-dressed fellow soldiers from the
Mirragio crime family sat with Sal laughing it up as they puffed
their stogies, slammed shots, and shared exaggerated tales of
violent and inglorious exploits. Their hyperbole amused Sal
briefly, but the truth was he couldn’t have been less interested in
their inane conversation. Sal couldn’t help but wonder if it
wouldn’t be better to go deaf than to have to listen to these slags
drone on for the rest of the night.

The menacing character sitting on Sal’s
right was Jimmy “Spikes.” Jimmy was a slightly balding, heavy-set
sociopath who seldom spoke and never smiled. His tortured face and
malevolent demeanor reflected a soul devoid of humanity. Most
disconcerting about Jimmy were his eyes: cruel and spiteful. One
could only imagine the terror of seeing his psycho lamps approach
knowing you were about to be whacked.

On his left was Joey “Blinks.” They called
him Blinks because of a nervous facial tic: he blinked incessantly.
Joey was a shady, skinny little runt, with a pointy nose, and a
face between a weasel and a rat. Consequently, taking anything
Blinks said seriously was difficult. Twice divorced, Joey had
difficulty maintaining a steady relationship with a woman because
of his fondness for beating them.

Tony “Fats” sat directly across from Sal,
gleefully stuffing himself with an entire family-size platter of
Clams Casino. Tony’s mug favored that of a chipmunk with too many
nuts stuffed into its cheeks. It seemed the only time Fats was
truly happy was when he was eating. Anyone who didn’t know Tony
might have thought he was only capable of threatening a tray of
lasagna, but Sal knew better. In fact, he had the goods on all of
these men. That’s why he didn’t trust any of them.

“Hey Jimmy, tell the kid how you got your
nickname,” Joey requested as he downed a shot.

“Nah, that’s ancient fucking history.”

“C’mon, Jimmy, don’t be like that,” Joey
insisted as he gestured to the waitress for another round of
drinks. “It’s a party.”

“You know I made my fucking bones that
night. Shit, that was twenty-five years ago, before the kid was
even born, I bet.” Jimmy sipped his drink.

“Spikes, are you gonna tell the fucking
story or what?” Joey pestered.

“Keep your fucking shirt on, awright? Lemme
think...this was back when Don Lucho was just the Underboss. It was
a few years yet before Don Mancini dropped dead from a heart
attack. God, how time fucking flies, huh? Anyways, I just come up
and I was parta Carmine’s crew. I was, what, twenty-five I think at
the time. There was this uppity moulanyan bookie over in the South
Bronx who didn’t wanna kick up to the Mirragios. What the fuck was
his name?” Jimmy puffed his cigar. “Rico...Rico Jones, yeah that’s
it. That monkey had a pretty good operation going for himself. He
was pulling in ten, maybe twelve fucking grand a week. So Carmine
sends me and this other guy, this fucking mamaluke, Pauly ‘Mopes,’
to straighten him out.”

“Jimmy, get to the good stuff for
Chrissakes!” Tony demanded as he wolfed down another clam.

“Let him fucking finish,” Joey shouted
trying to talk over the music.

“So one night we grab this cocksucker, Rico
Jones, coming outta this shithole dive in Harlem. We throw him into
the car and run him over to this abandoned warehouse near the
railroad station. We tie him up and we’re working him over pretty
good, and the fucking mutt blacks out. So I splash some water on
the spook’s face, you know, to bring him around. And I ask him if
he’s gonna start making his payments. So the fucking shine, he
spits at me.”

Dramatically, Jimmy’s voice changed, and his
eyes glazed over with a sadistic look of satisfaction. “So I see
these railroad spikes lying on the ground near this pile of
garbage. I pick up two of ’em and I ram one right through his
fucking chest. Blood’s shooting outta him, and he’s kicking and
screaming like a little fucking cunt. So I ask him again if he’s
gonna kick up and he tells me to go fuck myself. This nigger’s got
a fucking spike sticking outta his chest and he tells me to go fuck
myself. Can you fucking believe that? So I jammed the other spike
into him. But I wish I woulda waited, ’cause it was over too quick.
I was really enjoying watching that prick suffer.”

Smiling, Joey turned to Sal. “That’s why
they call him Spikes. Pretty good fucking story, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Sal responded
indifferently.

“Spikes, tell him what happened to the other
guy, Pauly Mopes.”

“You tell him. I’m tired of talking.”

“Awright, as they was leaving the warehouse,
Jimmy put two into the back of his head.”

“Why?” Sal asked casually.

“Carmine found out Pauly was skimming the
count so he pushed a button on him. Two fucking mutts for the price
of one. That was a good night for you Spikes, huh?”

“Yeah, it was,” Jimmy muttered
contentedly.

Although Sal regarded these men as fools and
would have much rather been any place else, Mafia protocol dictated
that he be present as a show of respect to honor the birth of
Jimmy’s first child. Hoping he had viewed the time incorrectly
earlier, Sal nonchalantly stole a second glance of his wristwatch.
“Only twelve o’clock. Is this fucking night ever gonna end?” he
softly whispered to himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy caught
Sal sneaking a second peek at his watch.

“Hey kid, your fucking watch broke or
something?” Jimmy queried in a venomous tone.

“Why do you ask me that?” Sal replied
guardedly.

Aggressively, Jimmy leaned toward him.
“’Cause that’s the second fucking time I saw you check it in the
last five minutes. What? We’re fucking boring you or something? You
got some other fucking place you need to be?”

“Nah Spikes, I’m just enjoying listening to
you guys. I don’t want the night to end,” Sal countered in a
lighthearted tone, purposely trying to agitate him.

Jimmy sneered.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Forcing a laugh, Joey tried to
ease the tension. “Ah, he’s a good kid, Spikes. He don’t mean
nothing by that, right?” Joey slapped Sal on the shoulder. “Hey
kid, if you liked those stories, lemme tell you about the time me
and Fats pulled this job up in Yonkers. Hey, how old are you,
anyways?”

“Twenty-three,” Sal responded tersely,
noting the unwanted hand still resting on his shoulder.

“Madonn! Twenty-three. Shit, when I was your
age I got more fucking ass than a toilet seat.”

“Yeah, I bet all the broads was chasing
after you,” Sal fired back sarcastically.

Snickering, Tony continued to shovel food
into his mouth. Joey slowly removed his hand from Sal’s shoulder
and continued speaking in a monotone voice. “Like I was saying
before kid, lemme tell you about the time me and Fats heisted this
jewelry store up in Yonkers.”

“Yeah, tell him that fucking story, Blinks.
That’s a good one. What a score we made that night.” With each
syllable uttered, food particles sprayed from Tony’s mouth.

With painstaking detail, Joey recounted the
events of the night of the robbery. Finding it difficult to
concentrate, Sal’s eyes eventually began to wander. As he searched
for more stimulating entertainment, Sal methodically surveyed the
dance floor and the bar area. It wasn’t long before his eyes
focused in on one particular young girl poised seductively on a
barstool