Sally Boy (32 page)

Taking off his coat, Sal rolled up his
sleeve and vowed, “Those motherfucker’s are gonna regret they ever
fucked with me.”

* * * * *

Sal and his new crew sat around a big
circular wooden table in the dimly-lit cellar of the Jolly Tinker.
The room was dank and musty, nearly a dungeon. The walls were
unpainted concrete and there were no windows. A monstrous,
antiquated furnace sat in the corner: metal pipes and rubber hoses
ran up through the floor joists and extended the length of the
room.

On Sal’s right sat Angel, and to Sal’s left
were Juan, Roberto, and Clo. Each man had a bottle of liquor in
front of him, and in the center of the table was a pile of cocaine
that resembled a snow covered mountain. Handguns, switchblades,
semi-automatic, and automatic weapons were strewn about on the
table along with magazines and hundreds of rounds of live ammo.

Using the side of his hand, Sal cut a long
fat line and snorted it. “The Mirragios got no fucking idea what
they’re about to go up against. I’m gonna make their mothers wish
they never gave birth to those cocksuckers.”

“I’m with you, hermano.” Angel snorted a
line. “But you know the Italians ain’t gonna just sit still and let
us move in on their territory. Not without a war.”

“They wanna war with me? I’ll give ’em a war
they won’t fucking believe.”

“Sal, I was thinking maybe we should lay low
for a while. You know, build up our strength,” Angel suggested
cautiously.

“You’re talking like a fucking coward.”

“I ain’t no fucking coward! Let’s get our
shit together and some money coming in. We ain’t gonna be no threat
to ’em.”

“Look, if we try to set up shop, we’ll be
dead before you know it. I’m telling you, the only way to beat ’em
is to go right after ’em. Like the way we did back in the jungle.
Remember? We just gotta be smarter and more fucking ruthless than
the Mirragios. Like the VC were. If we whack the right
motherfuckers, their whole operation will come apart. They ain’t
got the balls to fight a guerilla war.” Sal cut a line of cocaine
and offered it to Juan. “Here, snort it.”

Juan snorted the huge line. “This is some
really good shit, primo.”

Looking over his men, Sal asked, “Youse guys
ain’t afraid, are youse?”

The room went silent.

Grabbing a fistful of Juan’s shirt, Sal
pulled Juan toward him. “I asked you if you was afraid,
motherfucker?”

“No! I ain’t afraid,” Juan cried out.

“What about youse guys? Are youse
afraid?”

“No, primo!” Roberto and Clo responded
simultaneously.

“Good.” Sal finished loading a magazine,
stuffed it into his .45, and chambered a round. “Then it’s time to
unleash the fury!”

“What do you got in mind?” Angel asked,
excited.

“Pasqualli Bracco! He’s the key. He knows
the Mirragios better than anyone. He was Don Lucho’s consigliere
for like thirty fucking years before he retired. That motherfucker
knows where all the bodies are buried. We’re gonna snatch his ass
and bleed him ‘till he spills he guts about everything,” Sal
explained with an evil grin.

“Then what?” Angel took a sip of scotch.

“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 interfere 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.”

* * * * *

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.