Sally Boy (29 page)

“What’s that, Anthony?” Sal asked as he
crouched and checked under each bathroom stall.

“You don’t really buy it, you only fucking
rent it. How much did I drink?”

Certain they were alone, Sal pulled his .45
cal-pistol from its shoulder holster. Drawing a silencer from an
inside jacket pocket, he quickly screwed it onto the barrel.
Walking right up behind his friend, Sal raised the weapon so the
tip of the silencer was pointed directly at the back of Anthony’s
head. Exhaling slowly, Sal said sheepishly, “Anthony, I want you to
know that I love you with all of my heart.”

“Thanks! I love you, too!” Anthony
laughed.

“And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Sally Boy?”

Closing his eyes, Sal tightened his finger
around the trigger. The .45 round mutely exited the pistol and
struck the back of Anthony’s head. Skull fragments, blood, and
brain matter sprayed the wall. The force of the bullet sent
Anthony’s body flying forward. As if in slow motion, Sal watched as
his friend’s lifeless body slid down the urinal and came to rest on
the floor of the men’s room.

Although he had seen scores of dead bodies
and killed many men in Vietnam, Sal’s face couldn’t hide the
searing pain in his heart. Crossing himself, his eyes welled up.
Sal unscrewed the silencer and placed it back into his jacket
pocket. He then tucked his weapon back into its holster and made
his way out to the parking lot.

Tears ran down his face as he drove south on
the Taconic State Parkway. Fumbling with his Zippo lighter, Sal
tried to light a cigarette that hung from his quivering lower lip.
Finally, out of frustration, he rolled down the window and tossed
the unlit butt onto the road. Jerking the steering wheel hard,
Sal’s car veered through traffic onto the shoulder and came to a
screeching stop. Angrily, he punched the dashboard and the seat
next to him. “You fucking motherfuckers! You’re gonna fucking die!
What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

As he wept, Sal covered his face with his
hands, trying to shield his guilt. After several minutes, he wiped
his tears on his sleeve and took several deep breaths. Sal jammed
the car into gear and sped back into traffic almost causing an
accident. Several cars honked and swerved around his vehicle to
avoid him. Sal drove aimlessly for hours, until eventually, he
turned onto a street in the South Bronx projects. Standing on the
corner was a tall, skinny black kid in dark clothes. Sal pulled up
to him and rolled down the window. “Hey you, come here.”

“Hey, white boy, what the fuck you doing in
the South Bronx after dark?” the young man taunted as he approached
Sal’s car.

“What’s your fucking name, jerk-off?”

“My fucking name is Otis. What the fuck do
you care? What are you a cop? We made our payment yesterday,
motherfucker.”

“Shut the fuck up. I need some scat. You
know where I can get some?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Reaching into his pocket, Sal pulled out
some cash and handed it to the kid. “Get me as much as you can with
this.”

“Whatever you say, honkey.”

“Hey, Otis?”

“What?”

“If you try to duck out on me, I’ll hunt you
down and cut your little black dick off and shove it up you mouli
ass. Capisi?”

Otis laughed. “You better cool out, white
boy. This ain’t no motherfucking country club. This is the South
Bronx. The nigga’s run shit down here.”

“Yeah, yeah, just get me the fucking H’. And
don’t step on my shit, either.”

“Why would I wanna step on your shit? If you
shoot this much horse your gonna end up on a slab in the morgue
anyways. And that’s fine with me.”

“Why is that?” Sal asked, amused by Otis’s
spunk.

“’Cause it means one less cracker
motherfucker I gots to deal with.”

“Just go get me my shit, boy!”

Otis gave Sal the finger and then strutted
toward the front entrance of the run-down tenement. Sal lit a
cigarette and waited. Five minutes passed and Sal became agitated,
believing that the kid had taken off with his money. About this
time, Otis sauntered out of the building with a rolled up brown
paper bag clutched in his hands. Otis tossed the bag through the
open window and it landed on Sal’s lap. “Sweet dreams,
motherfucker.”

Nodding, Sal drove off into the night.
Recklessly, he darted in and out of traffic until he came to a
screeching stop in front of his building. Jumping out of his sedan
with his brown paper bag under his arm, Sal ran up the steps to his
apartment. Stumbling through the door, he locked it behind him.

Only the light from a candle illuminated his
bedroom as Sal sat on the edge of his bed cooking up a tremendous
amount of heroin. With great anticipation, he tied off, loaded the
syringe, and shot up. Swooning, Sal fell back onto his bed. Picking
himself up, he staggered through the apartment, knocking things
over. Sal stumbled back to the bedroom and finally collapsed onto
the floor.

* * * * *

One eye, thEn the other, slowly opened:
night had turned to day. Waking to a dry mouth and a splitting
headache, Sal needed to use his bed to help pick himself up off the
floor. Staggering into the bathroom, he managed to raise the toilet
lid just before vomiting. Breathing deeply, Sal remembered his
horrid undertaking from what he thought was last night. Overcome
with guilt, Sal wished he could somehow puke his black heart and
tainted soul out of his body. After splashing some water on his
face, Sal glanced up into the mirror at the reflection of a man
whom he no longer respected and was coming to loathe because he had
betrayed everything he believed in. Sal’s eyes squinted and his
face tightened. “If that’s the way they want it, then that’s the
way it’s gonna be.”

After a long, hot shower, Sal swallowed some
aspirin and dressed. Racing out of his apartment, he sped over to
the Mirragio Club. Standing outside the front door, Sal’s face
flashed maniacally as he drew his pistol. Chambering a round, he
tucked it back into his shoulder holster and stepped inside,
prepared to kill Carmine.

“Sally Boy!” Nicky cried out as he stopped
short to avoid running into Sal in the doorway. “Where the fuck you
been?”

“What are you talking about, Nick?”

“Nobody’s seen you for two fucking
days.”

“I been around. Maybe you didn’t look hard
enough,” Sal fired back defensively.

“Carmine’s not happy about this shit.”

“Oh yeah, where is he? I wanna talk to him,”
Sal asked, through gritted teeth.

“Why?” Nicky inquired sensing Sal’s
anger.

“I got something for him.”

“What do you got?”

“His tickets from Yonkers. That piecea shit
nag of his is still fucking running”

Joey laughed. “He ain’t around. Put ’em on
the desk. He’ll be back tonight. We got an important job to
do.”

“What job?”

“We gotta go to Harlem and make a pickup.
Carmine told us to find you and bring you with us.”

“I’m gonna wait here for Carmine.”

“You’re coming with us, Sal. That’s what
Carmine wanted. Understand?”

“Sal, he ain’t gonna be back until late
tonight, anyway. You might as well come with us.” Joey stated
convincingly.

Looking at his watch, Sal hesitantly agreed,
“Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Traffic was light and they made good time
getting to upper Manhattan. Pulling into a parking space in front
of a tenement in the heart of the Harlem projects, they got out of
the car and glided up the steps to a third-floor apartment. With
his weapon drawn, Joey turned to Sal. “These spic’s been late for
two fucking months with their payments.”

“Why are we making the collection? This
ain’t even our territory.” Sal asked, confused.

Drawing his pistol, Nicky explained, “Don’t
you know? We got the action now. It’s gonna mean a lot more
‘scarole for all of us.”

“Carmine told me he wanted these cocksuckers
taught a lesson. The asshole that runs the joint is named Hector,”
Joey said, blinking rapidly.

Sal nodded. “The way I’m feeling right now,
I’ll be glad to teach somebody a painful fucking lesson.”

With one explosive move, Sal kicked the door
wide open. Three dirty-looking, unshaven Latino men sat on a worn
out sofa, shooting heroin. Another man sat on a chair with his
pants down around his ankles getting his dick sucked by a naked
Puerto Rican girl. The men were shocked as Sal, Nicky, and Joey
rushed inside with their pistols pointed at them.

“Which one of you assholes is Hector?”

One of the men on the sofa stood. “Who the
fuck are you guys?”

Sal cracked him across the head with his
pistol. The man fell to the floor unconscious. “I’m in no mood for
fucking games. So I’ll ask you one more time...” Lowering his .45,
Sal picked up a switchblade off a table and popped it open.
“...then I’m gonna start cutting one of you motherfuckers up.
Where’s Hector?”

Pointing to the guy on the floor the other
man on the sofa said, “That’s him.”

Nicky laughed. “He shoulda kept his fucking
mouth shut.”

Sal picked up a full bottle of beer off a
table and poured it over the man’s head. Still groggy, Hector
opened his eyes and slowly sat up.

“You’re Hector?”

Looking up, Hector nodded slowly. “Si.”

“The Mirragios want their fucking money.
Comprende?”

“I ain’t got it.”

“Gimme the fucking money, cabron!” Sal stuck
the muzzle of his .45 in Hector’s face.

“I ain’t got it. But I’ll get it. I
swear!”

“When, motherfucker?”

“Tomorrow, I swear.”

“You see these two guys here. They’ll be
back tomorrow to get the money.” Nonchalantly, Sal picked up a
plaster statue of Jesus from a shelf and pretended to look it over.
“If you ain’t got the money tomorrow, Jesus Christ Himself won’t be
able to save you. Understand?” Sal walloped Hector across the head
with the statue. Again, he fell unconscious to the floor.

“That was fucking beautiful, Sally Boy. I
love it when you do shit like that!” Nicky howled.

A man with a scruffy beard and long hair
rose from the chair pulling his pants up. Joey immediately pointed
his pistol at him and cocked the hammer. “Where do you think you’re
going, wetback?”

“Wetbacks is Mexicans. I’m Puerto Rican.”
The man noted, staring directly at Sal.

Hearing familiarity in his statement, Sal
turned toward him.

“Hey, gringo, how’s it going?” the man asked
Sal in a relaxed tone.

“I think that cocksucker’s talking to you,
Sally,” Nicky taunted, hoping to anger Sal.

“You talking to me, spic?”

The man smiled confidently. “Yeah, I’m
talking to you.”

Knowing things were going to get ugly, Joey
and Nicky smartly trained their weapons on the other man still
seated on the couch.

“You got some fucking balls? You know that?”
Sal moved toward the man with his pistol down by his side. “I’ll
tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna blow your fucking spic head
off, and my friends here are gonna fuck your girlfriend in her ass,
while these other assholes watch.”

Quickly raising his .45, Sal fired at the
man’s face. Miraculously, the man managed to move his head and the
bullet only grazed his cheek. Throwing up his hands, the man
shouted excitedly, “Sal, it’s me! Angel! Don’t shoot! Remember?
Vietnam? Holy shit, motherfucker. You almost killed me!”

With his weapon still leveled at the man’s
head, Sal intently studied him. Finally, Sal’s face softened and
his lips curled up into a huge smile. “Angel? Is that really you? I
thought you was dead.”

“No, I made it out.”

“I can’t fucking believe it! You’re alive!
Come here.” Sal hugged Angel tightly.

“You almost fucking killed me, man.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Sal said,
laughing.

“Sal, what the fuck’s going on here?” Nicky
asked, confused.

“We served together in the war. Everything’s
cool.”

Pointing to the other man still seated on
the sofa, Sal ordered, “Get the fuck outta here.”

The man bolted, dragging the naked girl out
with them.

“Why don’t you guys wait for me in the car?
I’ll be down in a few minutes. Awright?”

Reluctantly, Joey and Nicky left the
apartment.

Sal went to the refrigerator, opened it, and
grabbed two beers. He opened them and handed one to Angel.

“So what the fuck happened to you after I
got hit?” Angel sipped his beer.

“You wouldn’t fucking believe me if I told
you.” Sal hugged Angel once more. “Damn, it’s good to see you
again.”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

“Look, I gotta get going. Those assholes I
came here with can’t be trusted. But we’ll get together soon. I
promise.” Sal finished his beer and set the bottle on a table.
Picking up a pencil and a piece of paper from the table, Sal
scribbled something on it. He handed the paper to Angel. “Here,
this is my number. Call me.”

“I’m gonna throw us one hellacious fucking
party.”

“I still can’t believe you’re alive.”

“Don’t forget! I’m gonna call you,
hermano.”

“Awright. I’ll talk to you soon.” Exiting
the apartment, Sal hurried down the stairs to the street and got
into Joey’s car.

“What the fuck was that all about, Sally
Boy?” Joey asked tentatively.

“None of your fucking business.” Still
hurting from his hangover, Sal shouted, “Let’s get the fuck outta
here.”

Without so much as a peep, Joey started the
car and drove off.

* * * * *

Making his way to the second floor of a
rundown high-rise in Harlem, Sal located apartment number 2C and
knocked. The stench of urine filled the halls and garbage littered
the stair wells. Crying babies and quarreling couples could be
heard from behind every closed door. Latin music blared from inside
the apartment so it wasn’t a surprise that nobody heard Sal
knocking. Sal pounded on the door until someone finally opened it.
A skinny, unshaven, middle-aged Puerto Rican man in a white t-shirt
and jeans stood in the doorway. After giving Sal the once-over, the
man asked with a heavy Spanish accent, “What do you want?”