Sally Boy (33 page)

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 backs 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.”

“What is Don Lucho gonna say if we clip
Peter?” Nicky asked, stuffing the tickets into his coat pocket.

Angrily, Carmine retorted, “Just do what I
said. And keep your fucking mouths shut. Now get the fuck outta
here.”

Sharing a look of concern, Nicky and Jimmy
left the club and headed over to Peter’s apartment.

Across town, Sal and Angel sat in the cellar
of the Jolly Tinker. Trying to blunt the pain of losing his
brother, Angel snorted a fat line of cocaine off a mirror. “I can’t
believe Roberto’s gone, man. I just can’t fucking believe I ain’t
never gonna see him again.”

Gulping scotch from a bottle, Sal’s lack of
concern angered Angel. “Stop acting like a little fucking cunt. I
lost plenty of friends in the jungle. Do you see me crying about
it?”

“You shot him in his face! You shot when I
was holding him in my fucking arms!”

“So what?”

“He was a good man. I loved him!” Angel
gritted his teeth.

“He was a cocky little fucking prick. I
never liked him any way.”

“I know you’re fucked up all the time, but
ain’t you even a little sorry about what you done? I mean...he was
one of us,” Angel asked, trying to find some way to forgive
Sal.

“Fuck him!”

“That’s all you got to say?”

“Yeah. This is my motherfucking thing.”

“I thought it was our thing.”

“Look, this is almost over. Awright? The
Mirragios can’t afford to be at war with me much longer. Soon
they’ll be begging for a fucking truce. Then I’ll get my own
territory and everything will settle down. So just be cool.
Remember what you once said to me, ‘Just like Caesar.’”

“Yeah, I remember. That’s good for you,
you’re one of ’em. What about me, Juan, and Clo? They’re never
gonna let us live if you make a deal. We’ve done too much fucked up
shit to ’em. We’re just three dead motherfucking spics no matter
how you slice it.”

“What, are you fucking crazy?” Sal laughed
as he snorted a line. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen to you as long as
I’m alive. And I’m gonna live forever. So stop fucking
worrying.”

“Whatever you say,” Angel angrily bit his
lower lip.

#

Having just gotten home, Peter Scalise stood
in his kitchen preparing a sandwich. He still wore his trousers and
shoes. However, he had stripped down to a white wife-beater for
fear mustard might get on his silk dress shirt. Peter seldom wore
his shoulder holster when he was at home, but these were dangerous
times. Knowing that sooner or later the Mirragios would come
knocking on his door, Peter wanted an advantage.

Just as he was about to take a bite of his
sandwich, there was a series of bangs on his front door. Putting
down the sandwich, Peter removed his .38-cal pistol from its
holster, and looked through his peephole. Cautiously, he opened the
door to find an uncomfortable looking Nicky and Jimmy standing
before him.

“Hey, how you doing, fellas? C’mon in.”
Peter shrewdly flashed his weapon before tucking it back into its
holster.

Stepping inside, both men kissed Peter on
the cheek.

“How’s Don Lucho?” Peter asked out of
courtesy.

“He’s good,” Jimmy replied in a subdued
tone.

“Can I get you guys something to eat? I was
just about to have a sandwich and watch the fight.”

“No thanks. Look Peter, we was hoping we
could talk to you,” Nicky said respectfully.

“Yeah sure, sit down.”

The three men each took a seat at the
kitchen table.

“What can I do for you?” Peter asked
insincerely.

With a shaky hand, Nicky lit a cigarette.
“We was kinda hoping...maybe you could set up a meeting between us
and Sal. You know, so we can talk all this shit out.”

“I see.” Peter nodded slowly. “You wanna
talk? Just talk, huh?”

“Yeah, we just wanna talk. Don Lucho wants
to end this. Peter, good people are dying.”

“Yeah, mostly your people,” Peter responded
rudely.

Jimmy cleared his throat. “We come here
outta respect. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”

“Don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s
raining boys. I didn’t just fall off the fucking turnip truck, you
know. What you really want is for me to set up my son.”

“Nah, it ain’t like that. We just wanna
settle this before any more fucking people get clipped.”

Nicky puffed his cigarette. “Sal’s gone,
Peter. The junk’s got him. He’s crazier than a shit house rat. All
we’re asking you to do is the right thing. So please, set up the
meeting so we can end this.”

“I could do that, I guess,” Peter remarked,
as if considering their proposal.

“Really?” Jimmy blurted.

“But then again, I don’t get involved in my
son’s fights. Ever since he was a little boy, I let him fight his
own battles. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but I never
interfered for any reason. And I’m not gonna start now. Not for
that fat cidrule, Don Lucho, or that fucking testaduda, Carmine
Mattazolo.” With lightning speed, Peter pulled his pistol and
stood. “Now get up, and get the fuck outta my house before I drop
you both.”

Nicky and Jimmy rose quickly with their
hands up.

“Take it easy, Peter. We don’t want no
trouble,” Nicky cried out.

“Then get the fuck outta here and never come
back and you won’t have any. Capisi?” Peter waved his pistol,
motioning them to the door. “Get the fuck out.”

Nicky and Jimmy slowly stepped backwards
toward the door.

“Awright, we’re leaving. We just thought we
could settle this peacefully,” Nicky said timidly.

“‘Peacefully?’ By asking me to help you
whack my son? How fucking stupid can you be?”

A passing car back-fired, distracting Peter
for a split-second. Nicky jumped at the pistol and grabbed it. As
they struggled for control of the weapon, the gun went off and a
bullet struck Jimmy in his shoulder. Jimmy hit the floor hard and
yelled, “Fuck!”

Peter and Nicky thrashed around the kitchen,
bouncing off walls and knocking over anything in their path.
Finally, the gun discharged again and a round entered Peter’s chest
at point blank range. Dropping to his knees, Peter clutched his
chest and fell to the floor.

“Why did you have to be so fucking
stubborn?” Nicky shouted nervously, looking down at Peter. “Now we
gotta hunt Sal down and shoot him like a fucking dog. Is that what
you want, huh?”

In a low, gurgling voice, Peter warned, “I
wouldn’t wanna be in your shoes when Sally Boy catches up to you.
He’s gonna kill you ugly for what you did to me.” Flashing a
contemptuous smile, Peter took his final breath.

“I think the bullet went right through,”
Jimmy noted pressing a dish towel against the wound to slow the
bleeding. “What are we gonna do now? When that crazy fuck finds his
father like this there’s no telling what he’s gonna do. We just
can’t leave him on the floor.”