Sally Boy (16 page)

“I ain’t saying ‘sorry’ to nobody,
asshole.”

“You’re a real fucking tough guy, ain’t
you?”

“Yeah, I am. So what are you gonna do about
it...” Glancing down at Sal’s name tag McLaughlin continued,
“...Scalise. Isn’t that a wop name?”

Sensing that neither man was going to
relent, Angel stood to broker a truce. The moment he got to his
feet, McLaughlin strongly shoved Angel back down into his chair.
“Nobody told you to get up, scumbag!”

Looking up, Angel pleaded. “Look man, we
don’t want any fucking trouble. We was just about to leave,
anyways. Here, youse can have our table.”

“Then why don’t you two assholes get moving,
’cause you’re stinking the fucking place up.” McLaughlin sniffed
the air. “It smells like a cross between a rancid pizza and a stale
fucking burrito in here.”

McLaughlin’s friends burst out laughing.

“That’s pretty funny, but I still got a
shooter.”

“Don’t let a swallow of scotch cost you your
life, grease-ball,” McLaughlin taunted.

Again, McLaughlin’s friends howled with
laughter.

Gazing over the faces of the men surrounding
him, Sal plotted his next move. “You’re a pretty funny guy. I like
funny guys. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. Outta respect for
your size and in honor of our new friendship I’m gonna make a toast
to you.”

“We ain’t friends, meatball.”

“I know,” Sal responded in a serious
tone.

“On second thought, I think a little Guinea
should have to toast a full-grown Irishman,” McLaughlin stated,
confidence soaring.

“Angel, stand up. Let’s raise our glass in a
toast to our new friend.”

Though confused, Angel stood and raised his
glass. Speaking with a thick Irish brogue, Sal recited this
unsentimental toast: “Here’s to the Irish. God love ’em. Their men
are drunks and their women are whores.”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” McLaughlin roared as
he fired a punch at Sal’s head.

Ducking the powerful right hook, Sal
connected with a vicious right-left combination to McLaughlin’s
chin, stunning the big man briefly. After shaking off his cobwebs,
McLaughlin threw a bone crushing right cross that grazed Sal’s jaw.
Though it didn’t land flush, its force knocked Sal to the floor.
McLaughlin raised his beefy leg and slammed it to the floor trying
to squash Sal, but he rolled away and scrambled to his feet. Using
his speed and agility, Sal landed a straight left and a right hook
to McLaughlin’s head that buckled his knees. Sal then delivered a
jaw-crushing right upper cut that lifted the colossus off his feet.
Like a felled redwood, McLaughlin hit the floor unconscious.
Glaring down at the deplorable heap of humanity, Sal shouted, “Big
fucking tough guy, huh? Next time, watch where the fuck you’re
walking. You stupid mick, donkey, asshole.”

Sal now faced the crowd. “Any of youse
assholes want somea this?”

Collectively the group stepped back, hands
raised. One soldier yelled out, “No way, man!”

“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Angel said,
laughing at the unconscious bully. Picking up the bottle of scotch
from the table, Angel tucked it into his shirt.

“Why not, I finished my drink,” Sal replied
coolly.

Stumbling out the front door, the two made
their way to Angel’s tent. After making themselves comfortable on
separate bunks, Angel lit a candle, and turned on a small
transistor radio and set the volume on low.

“You knocked that big motherfucker out cold!
Damn, that was something to see. I would pay to see that again.”
Angel laughed, taking a long sip of scotch, and then he handed the
bottle to Sal.

Reaching under his pillow, Angel pulled out
a plastic bag containing several rolled joints. Removing one from
the bag, he lit it, and took a good long hit. “This is some good
shit, man.”

After taking another hit, Angel passed the
joint to Sal, who inhaled deeply. “Yeah, it’s not bad.” Sal smiled.
“I’m starting to feel it already.”

“Now it’s really party time. I just gotta
get my shit first.” Drawing a small knife from his pocket, Angel
dropped to the floor, and carefully pried up several narrow floor
boards. Reaching under the floor, he removed a small tin box.
Again, Angel stuck his arm under the floor and retrieved a small
satchel then sat back down on the bunk. He separated the lid from
the tin box and placed it on an ammo crate near his bunk. Removing
a folded-up piece of paper, Angel carefully unfolded it, revealing
a good quantity of a whitish powder.

“I ain’t putting any of that shit in my
veins.”

“Lighten up, hermano! You’re telling me you
ain’t never shot smack before? What are you fucking shitting me,
man?”

“Do I look like a fucking junkie?”

“I ain’t no fucking junkie. I just use it to
get by. Look man, I didn’t ask to come to this fucked up place. So
if I gotta be here with these zipper heads trying to kill me all
day, every day, I wanna be as fucked up as possible, whenever
possible. I don’t wanna feel nothing if I get hit. And if I get
killed, then it really don’t fucking matter if I’m high or not. Do
it?”

“Yeah, but that shit can really fuck you up.
I mean it can take over your whole fucking life.”

“Only if you let it get a hold of you,
troop. Otherwise it’s as safe as booze or smokes. I’ve been
shooting up for years. It ain’t hurt me none.”

“Yeah, but this shit really ain’t my
thing.”

“Look, hermano, they’re sending us back into
the shit in a couplea days. ‘Till then, I’m gonna get as high as I
can, get me some yellow pussy, and have a good time.”

“You do whatever you wanna do. I ain’t
having nothing to do with it.”

“Whatever you say, my brother, but you don’t
know what you’re missing.”

Rolling up his sleeve, Angel untied the
satchel and removed a spoon, a syringe, and a rubber hose. Tying
off his arm with the rubber hose, he then carefully transferred
heroin to the spoon. Angel held the spoon over the candle until the
powder liquefied. He loaded his syringe, and then injected the
needle into a bulging vein in the fold above his forearm. Carefully
drawing back the plunger, he allowed his blood to mix with the
heroin, and then he depressed the hypodermic needle. Angel appeared
to drift off, a peaceful smile upon his face. Intrigued by the
speed and effect of the innocuous looking powder, Sal asked, “What
does it feel like?”

“It’s like...like getting into some really
good pussy.”

Picking up the syringe, Sal examined it
closely. “I ain’t never saw one of these up close. To be honest
with you, I ain’t never saw nobody shoot up before either.”

“It’s the best trip you’re ever gonna have
in this fucking hell hole.”

“I heard about guys having some fucked up
hallucinations and shit.”

“What could be more fucked up than the shit
we’ve already seen here?” Angel asked serenely.

Appearing torn, Sal finally relented, “Fuck
it! Shoot me up, motherfucker.”

“You got it, bro.” After tying Sal off with
the rubber hose, Angel cooked up some heroin, loaded the syringe,
and injected Sal’s arm.

Sal swooned, falling back onto the bunk. He
hallucinated that he was at a strip club back in the Bronx,
surrounded by all of his friends. The club had a small stage, a
stripper pole, and a bar. Music played loudly as beautiful
half-naked girls, not much older than Sal and his friends, danced
around teasing them. The young beauties stuck their perky bare
breasts into the guys’ smiling faces. Several of the girls gently
massaged some of the fellas’ hard swollen cocks over their tight
jeans. Mikey and Anthony sat on either side of Sal, greedily
squeezing bosoms and caressing firm asses.

“This is fucking living huh, Sal?” Mikey
boasted as he fondled a pair of perfect tits.

Two girls had their enormous breasts lying
right on Anthony’s face. “Sal, when I die, I wanna go just like
this.”

One gorgeous blonde took Sal by his hand and
led him toward a door in the back of the room. All the guys watched
Sal walk away until Mikey finally yelled out, “Hey Sally, where the
fuck you going?”

Looking back over his shoulder, Sal shouted,
“I don’t know. But I hope there’s a bed.”

The girl opened the door and led Sal through
it. When he stepped past the doorway, Sal was transformed into a
six-year-old boy back in Sicily. Young Salvatore and his mother
played in the front yard of his grandparents’ home. They laughed
and sang, enjoying the beautiful sunny day. “You can’t catch me!
You can’t catch me!” Salvatore teased as he ran away from his
mother as quickly as his little legs would carry him.

“I’m going to get you, Salvatore.” Chasing
after her son, Marie followed him around the yard, laughing at her
son’s high-pitched giggle. Taking several more steps, Marie
abruptly stopped and called out in a desperate voice,
“Salvatore!”

Salvatore turned and saw his mother
clutching her arm precisely where Angel shot the poison into Sal’s
arm. Marie shook her head and slowly keeled over. Rushing back,
Salvatore took her hand. “Are you okay, mommy?”

Appearing sad and disappointed, Marie shook
her head and whispered, “No, Salvatore! No!”

Suddenly, Marie turned black and decrepit
and disappeared before her son’s eyes. Salvatore reached out,
trying to touch his now-gone mother. The boy cried, frantically
calling out to her in Italian. “Mommy, where are you? Where are
you, mommy?”

Without warning, ominous black clouds
blotted out the sun. The sky darkened and a wind storm arose. Trees
swayed side-to-side; shingles were blown off roofs, and debris
careened everywhere, causing the now weeping child to cover his
face. Peeking through his tiny fingers, Salvatore searched for his
mother while calling out to her, “Mommy, I’m scared. Where are
you?”

As he wandered through a grove of trees,
Salvatore found himself alone at his mother’s grave. Dropping down
onto his knees near the headstone, the boy wailed. The earth on top
of his mother’s grave began to separate and break apart, and a
woman’s decayed hand tore up through the soil and seized the arm
injected with the poison. The hand tried to yank Salvatore down
under the dirt. Fighting back with all of his strength, the boy
struggled to keep from being pulled into the grave. Finally able to
break free, Salvatore fell backwards.

Sitting up quickly, Sal awoke from his
hallucination drenched in sweat. He was breathing heavily and
disoriented. With an unsteady hand he reached for the bottle of
scotch resting on an ammo crate. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Sal
whispered to himself.

Looking around, he could see Angel sprawled
out unconscious on a chair fashioned out of sandbags. After taking
a long sip from the bottle, Sal slowly laid back down.

* * * * *

The thick leafy canopy of the jungle blocked
out most of the sun; only shards of sunlight cut through. Dirt
kicked up by the soldiers’ scuffling boots appeared to hang,
suspended in the sparse shafts of light. Nearby, a brook lazed
through green moss-covered rocks surrounding its banks. The clear
water seemed to hum a sad song as it traveled carelessly to its
final destination. Giant mosquitoes feasted on the exposed skin of
every man. Snakes, scorpions, and ants lurked under every rock and
fallen tree.

Leading the platoon through the dense
foliage, with his M-16 securely in hand, Sal negotiated the
unfamiliar territory with an experienced combat eye. Instinctively,
he shifted his focus from the jungle floor to the next wall of
green ahead of him, alert for ambushes, booby traps, mines, or an
enemy bunker. Following close behind him, Angel tried to walk in
Sal’s exact footsteps for fear of setting off some type of
explosive device.

The rest of the platoon, approximately forty
men, attempted to keep their intervals so as not to create a
target-rich environment for a lone sniper or a concentrated enemy
attack. One young muscular soldier carried his M-60 automatic
machine gun across his straining shoulders. The metallic belt of
rounds crisscrossed his body appearing like a suit of armor.
Another man held an M-79 grenade launcher, poised to fire it down
range at the first sign of a conflict.

In addition to their designated weapon, each
man carried at a minimum: several grenades, two full ammo pouches,
two colored smoke canisters, a bandage, poncho, shovel, flashlight,
and a full canteen secured to their web gear.

A young soldier accidentally tripped over
some tree roots and fell into the thick brush. As he struggled to
right himself, his heavy pack rendered him as helpless as a turtle
on its back. Eventually, several other men had to assist him in
breaking free from the foliage’s suffocating grip. The men made
every effort possible to avoid the tall, thick, elephant grass
littering the jungle floor. If it rubbed up against your bare skin,
it stung like a swarm of hornets.

Some of the more superstitious grunts had a
variety of good luck charms and religious paraphernalia hanging
around their necks and strapped to their steel pots. The men’s
sweat-soaked rucksacks and helmets felt twice as heavy in the
stifling heat. Perspiration streamed down their faces and no matter
how much water they consumed, the heat and humidity sucked up their
strength and stamina like a sponge. Dehydration left each man
feeling weak and lightheaded. This constant battle with the
elements, coupled with the anxiety of knowing an elusive enemy was
waiting, only worsened an already stressful situation.

Without warning, the quiet of the jungle was
violated by the whistle of a mortar round. It exploded near two
men, who were blown up into the air. They fell to the ground
bleeding and broken. Someone shouted, “Incoming!”

The men scrambled to cover. Dirt, rocks,
sticks, and leaves pelted them as they crawled behind stumps and
trees. Another mortar round exploded several feet from where Sal
and Angel had just been standing before they dove beneath a dead
tree trunk. The concussion from the blast ripped small trees and
vegetation from the ground hurling them up into the air.