Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  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 rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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 authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  * * * * *

  Sally Boy

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  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)

  * * * * *

  DEDICATION

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

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 moul
anyan 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

  Shoulder-length, shiny, raven-black hair caressed the pristine olive skin of her gorgeous face. Her big, brown eyes sparkled like precious topaz. Kissable lips, full and red, accentuated her alluring smile. French-manicured fingernails, gold hoop earrings, and a sheer, tight, low-cut red dress complemented her voluptuous breasts and curvy, athletic body.

  Beside the petite beauty sat a much older, rather portly, unattractive, pock-marked Puerto Rican man stroking his dark handlebar mustache. When he smiled, the light caught several gold teeth and his laugh resembled a hyena’s. His breath reeked of whiskey and his clothes carried the stench of the cheap cigar pressed between his lips.

  The young sex kitten couldn’t help but be enthralled by the amorous gaze of the delicious stranger seated nearby. Sal’s perfectly groomed black-mane, cleft chin, flawless, tanned skin, and sexy smile were too much for any woman to resist. Playfully, she removed the maraschino cherry from her drink. Grasping it up by the stem, the girl slowly ran the cherry around her lips moistening them until they glistened. Passionately, she licked at the savory red fruit, thrusting it back-and-forth and up-and-down with every agile stroke of her soft, pink tongue.

  Finally, the temptress wrapped her lips around the cherry and tenderly sucked it off the stem into her mouth. With her tongue, she pressed the fruit up against the roof of her mouth until its fluid spurted out, and she swallowed. Using the tip of a finger, she wiped a drop of the sweet juice off her chin and erotically sucked the digit clean.

  Pleased by the performance, Sal got the attention of a familiar bartender. He held up two fingers and pointed to the mismatched pair. The bartender nodded, then speedily poured and delivered a round of drinks to the unlikely couple.

  “What the fuck is this?” the man shouted with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “What does it look like?” the bartender replied innocently.

  “What the fuck are you trying to do, run up my check? I ain’t paying for shit, maricon!”

  “Take it easy. I ain’t doing nothing like that. It’s already taken care of, pal.”

  Reaching over the bar, the man took hold of the bartender’s tie and strongly yanked the bartender toward him. “Who bought us the fucking drinks, scumbag?”

  Turning his head and slightly lifting his chin, the bartender’s eyes shifted toward Sal’s table.

  Twisting around in his seat, the man raised his glass and shouted, “Salud!”

  After gulping the whiskey, he slammed the glass down onto the bar, and continued to ignore the little honey seated next to him. Leaning back in his chair, Sal inconspicuously raised his glass to the girl and took a sip. With a deep sigh, she seductively ran her tongue around her pouty lips and silently mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  In the reflection of the mirror behind the bar, her companion spied her flirtatious actions. Enraged, he seized the girl’s upper arms and violently shook her. “You fucking whore! Do you want to suck his cock, too?” he shouted angrily in Spanish.

  The altercation drew the attention of several patrons seated next to them as well as the men sitting with Sal. Without hesitation, the man drew back and unleashed a stinging backhand across her face. Her head snapped left, and then back again, her hair finally falling disheveled and masking her face. The girl just sat motionl
ess, poised in a defensive posture, holding the already reddened right side of her face.

  Incensed, Sal turned to his companions and barked, “Did youse fucking see that?”

  “Fucking spics? So what? They’re animale, anyway. Fuck ’em,” Joey replied.

  “She didn’t fucking deserve that,” Sal roared and slowly rose from his chair.

  Reaching up and grabbing Sal’s forearm, Jimmy strongly pulled Sal toward him. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  Ripping his limb free, Sal cautioned, “Hey Jimmy, I think maybe you oughta mind your own fucking business. Awright?”

  Jimmy’s face tightened with rage. “We’re here to celebrate the birth of my kid, not to get into a beef over some little spic whore. Capisi?”

  “Take it easy. I’m just gonna go see if the girl’s, okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”

  “Sit the fuck down!” Jimmy insisted as he shot a lethal glare at the young upstart questioning his judgment.

  Smirking defiantly, Sal started to move away from the table.

  “Hey kid, hold up!” Tony blurted as he struggled to sit up quickly. “I like this fucking joint. Why don’t you just sit down? Have a drink or something. You want something to eat?” Tony held up the huge platter with only one puny clam remaining.

  Seeing the lone clam, Sal scowled and set off toward the man seated at the bar.

  Dropping the platter onto the table, Tony took a long puff of his cigar and dejectedly blew the smoke up into the air. “Blinks, why the fuck didn’t you stop him? You know that crazy bastard is gonna start some shit. I ain’t built for this kinda action. If you know what I mean.”