Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “That’s nonea your fucking business! Hey, I ain’t gotta explain myself to some wet behind the ears little punk kid like you. Understand?”

  “But Pop...”

  “Salvatore, don’t go fucking looking for answers that ain’t there.”

  “I’m not. I’m just trying to understand things.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m confused.”

  “Look, you’re a smart, kid. You’re getting older. Soon you’ll be a man. Things are changing around here, and not for the better. You gotta be careful, Salvatore. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the neighborhood. It’s fucking changing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you fucking listen to me? When I was a kid the neighborhood was a place to be respected and protected. Now you got spics moving in, soon it’ll be the moulanyans. After that, this neighborhood won’t be worth shit. We gotta hold on to what’s ours, before we ain’t got nothing left to hold on to. Capisi?”

  Understanding that this was his father’s way of expressing his concern for him, Sal smiled. Being “old-school,” Sal knew his father lacked the capacity to say, “I love you.” This was very understandable considering that when Peter was young he was disciplined by the sting of the strap whenever his father drank, or if he stepped out of line.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Pop. I can take carea myself.”

  “What? You think that jacket makes you a tough guy? Youse guys ain’t tough. Shit, when I was your age, I coulda kicked all your fucking asses.”

  “When you was my age, Pop?” Sal laughed at the notion.

  “You heard me.” Standing quickly, Peter shadowboxed around the living room, throwing punches like a seasoned pugilist. “When I was your age, I was the best fighter in the neighborhood, and I got the most trim. I used to get laid almost every night. Now I get a piece three or four times a week. Only now they’re much better looking broads, so it’s a wash.”

  “Hey Pop, not for nothing, but I see somea the skirts you get. They ain’t that great,” Sal countered glibly.

  Peter stopped throwing punches and turned toward his son. Grabbing two fistfuls of Sal’s jacket, Peter jerked him up off the couch to his feet. The two stood nose to nose. “Not that great, huh? Why you little fucking hump? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  With speed and agility, Peter threw a headlock on Sal and wrestled him down onto the floor. Lying on top of his son, Peter squeezed Sal’s head as he futilely tried to break free.

  “C’mon, Pop! You’re gonna mess up my hair.”

  “Stop your crying, you little sissy. You’re some fucking tough guy, huh? You can’t even get away from an old man.”

  “I could, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

  Peter laughed. “Ah, shut the fuck up!”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  Strolling up to the entrance of Tony’s Pizzeria, Sal opened the heavy glass door and stepped inside. Tony’s was a regular haunt for the neighborhood fellas, and they routinely gathered there after school to grab a slice, shoot the breeze, meet up with girls, or to just hang out. If any of the guys were ever looking for something to do, they could usually find a familiar face there, and if they ever found themselves in a jam, they could always find back-up.

  Booths lined the walls on both sides, and small four-tops filled the center of the dining area, leaving a clear path from door to counter. Each table had the usual pizza condiments in shakers neatly arranged in the center. There was a pinball machine, a jukebox, and a cigarette machine in the corner. Stacked pizza boxes rose from behind the counter to the ceiling, and the four ovens ran continuously, serving up the Bronx’s best pies. The aromas of the sauces, meats and cheeses made your mouth water from a block away.

  Sal smiled when he saw his friends Mikey Delia and Anthony DiGregorio sitting in a corner booth, eating slices and drinking cokes. Like Sal, they wore the colors of the Golden Guineas. The three were initiated into the club together, and for the past three years fought side-by-side to protect their turf.

  Regarded as the neighborhood wise-ass, Mikey was never at a loss for words or a contrary opinion about any subject. Irritating people was something he truly enjoyed. A young, tough, brawler, Mikey had a chip on his shoulder the size of the EmpireStateBuilding.

  Like all the other members of the Golden Guineas, he was the son of Italian immigrants and a product of an unforgiving upbringing. A belligerent attitude kept Mike in constant conflict with the people around him, and for some bizarre reason, made him very popular with the girls. They were drawn to his “bad-boy” demeanor. Exceptionally handsome, Mike had dark, black hair, stunning baby blue eyes, and a muscular body.

  When Mikey was ten, his mother ran off with another man, leaving him to be raised by his abusive, alcoholic father. With no one else to blame for his failed marriage, Mike’s father directed his anger toward his only son. Whenever Mike’s father tied one on, he would take out his frustrations by beating Mikey with his belt. Even though the leather strap stung, Mikey never cried because he was a tough little kid and he didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of knowing he was hurt.

  However, when his mother left, she took any confidence or self-respect the confused boy had. His mother was the only person who ever made him feel that he had any value as a human being. Psychologically, Mikey never recovered from being abandoned, and the traumatic experience caused him to develop a deep-seated resentment toward all women. This underlying malice has since shaped every interaction Mike has had with a girl, rendering him incapable of fostering a meaningful, loving relationship of any kind.

  Anthony DiGregorio was the complete opposite of his friend. Thin and wiry, Anthony had brown eyes, black hair, and a happy-go-lucky attitude. Although he wasn’t as well-built as Mike, Anthony was still quite capable when the fists started to fly, and he was fearless if a friend was in danger. His only fault was he was a little too trusting. Anthony hadn’t acquired the high-degree of street smarts, or the killer instinct, that so many of his brethren had developed.

  Anthony’s mother was overly protective of her only child, and his father resented the fact that his son hung around with “street punks.” He certainly took more than his share of harassing from the fellas because his parents were so strict with him, but Anthony’s good nature allowed him to laugh it off. Fortunately, his sensitivity afforded him the luxury of attracting the pretty girls who admired those qualities.

  “What’s going on fellas?” Sal asked happily as he slid into the booth next to Anthony.

  “We’ve been waiting for like an hour. Where the fuck you been?” Mikey chided, peering up from his plate.

  “I was talking to my Pop.”

  “So how’s that asshole doing?”

  “What the fuck did you just say, Mike?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You better watch your fucking mouth, jerk-off,” Sal cautioned, sticking his finger in Mikey’s face.

  “Why so fucking sensitive all of a sudden? You know I’m just breaking balls.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Hey, I was only fucking around with you. Why you acting like a fucking mamaluke?”

  “Maybe I’m just not in the mood to be fucked with.”

  “What’s your fucking problem, asshole?”

  “I ain’t got a problem, Mike.”

  “It sounds like you do.”

  “The problem is not everybody wants to hear what’s coming outta your fucking pie hole. Especially, when its fulla chewed up pizza.”

  “Sal, c’mon, how fucking long we know each other? This is what I do, pisan. You know that.”

  “Oh, I know. But I’m telling you Mikey, one of these days you’re gonna say the wrong thing to the wrong fucking guy, and you’re gonna get your ass stomped good. Maybe worse.”

  “Well, you been telli
ng me that for years and it ain’t happened yet.”

  “Give it time.”

  “‘Give it time.’ You say that like you’re hoping it happens or something.”

  “I ain’t hoping nothing. But if it does, it won’t surprise me. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, if anybody wants a shot at my title, they can come and see me anytime. I ain’t that fucking hard to find.”

  “‘Title shot.’” Sal laughed. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Rocky Marciano?”

  “No, but a lotta people tell me I fight like Jake LaMotta.”

  “The Bronx Bull, huh? I forgot what a tough monkey you are.”

  “I’m tough enough.”

  “You know, Mike. My Pop always told me that no matter how tough you think you are, there’s always gonna be somebody out there tougher. The trick is you gotta be smarter than the other mug. Out think him. See?”

  “Fuck that shit. If I can’t beat a guy with my fists then he better fucking kill me. ’Cause if he don’t, the next time I see that motherfucker, I’m gonna do him in.”

  “Why do you gotta be like that Mike?”

  “’Cause that’s the way it is around here. You know that. And besides, I don’t really give a fuck one way or the other.”

  “That’s always been your problem, Mikey. You just don’t give a fuck about nothing.”

  “So what! Who the fuck do you think you are, Sal? My mother?”

  Listening to what has lately become the usual banter among his friends, Anthony ate fast, trying to finish so they could leave and get to Louie’s going away party. Seeing some sauce running down Anthony’s chin, Sal tossed his friend a stack of napkins. “Anthony, take it easy. You’re eating like a fucking gavone?”

  “Yeah, slow the fuck down. It ain’t going anywhere,” Mikey added sarcastically, his own mouth stuffed.

  “This is the way I eat,” Anthony said as he wiped his mouth.

  “If you eat pussy like you eat pizza, you’re screwed.”

  “Fuck you, Mike!”

  With the quickness of a mongoose, Sal snatched Mike’s soda off the table and took a sip. “Hey Mikey, you still seeing Nicole’s friend, Gina?”

  “Her and about six other broads. Why?”

  “I was just wondering if Nicole’s gonna be at the party tonight.”

  “There’s gonna be a lotta people there. Frankie invited the whole fucking neighborhood. What do you care if Nicole’s gonna be there or not?”

  “Madonn! Why is it every time I ask you a question you gotta crack wise? Can’t you just give me a simple answer? Just say ‘yeah,’ ‘no,’ or ‘don’t know.’ It ain’t that fucking hard.”

  “I could. But then I wouldn’t have any fun. Would I?”

  “Hey fucko, is Nicole gonna be there or not?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I don’t know. Why the fuck are you asking me about her, Sal?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “Oh, I see what’s going on here.” Mikey sat up fast as if he figured out something. “You got a thing for her, huh?”

  Shaking his head, Sal just looked away.

  “Well, you can forget about her, Sal. She’s a fucking cock-tease. Besides she’s going with that asshole, Sonny Giordano.”

  “Yeah Sal, he’s a bad motherfucker.” Anthony burped loudly. “I heard he once stabbed a guy just for whistling too loud.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real fucking tough guy. Philly C from over on Webster Avenue knows Nicole pretty good. He told me the only reason Nicole goes with Sonny is ’cause he threatened to beat-up her little brother if she don’t. She only goes out with that piecea shit to protect the kid. Can you fucking believe that?”

  “So fucking what! She’s just another dumb bitch. She deserves whatever she gets.”

  “No Mike, she don’t! Philly C told me that Nicole told him she thinks I’m cute. She said she would go out with me if it wasn’t for that fucking jamoke. So what do you think about that, buddy boys?”

  “I think Philly C is fulla shit. That’s what I think,” Mikey stated with a hint of jealousy.

  “Who asked you, anyway? What do you think, Anthony?”

  “Sal, I gotta be honest with you. I think maybe you oughta forget about her. Any broad that beautiful is nothing but trouble. Besides, what about Sonny? He ain’t just gonna step aside and let you move in on his girl.”

  “She ain’t his girl!” Sal slammed the soda down.

  Recapturing his soda, Mikey took a sip. “Sal, let’s just say for the hell of it that Philly C is right and Nicole does want you to give her the ol’ brascholl. How are you gonna get that fucking maniac outta the way, huh? I don’t know. Let’s say, Sonny’s skull gets crushed by a brick falling offa roof. Or maybe somebody drops an ash can on him. Then you’d have a chance. But he’s only half the problem. What about Sonny’s old man, Sal?”

  “Did you forget who my Pop is?”

  “Sal, Sonny’s old man’s here in the Bronx. Your Pop’s over there in Brooklyn. That shit matters. You know that.”

  “Fuck Sonny! Fuck his father! And fuck anybody else you wanna throw in.”

  “Fuck this guy. Fuck that guy.” Tauntingly, Mikey wagged his finger in Sal’s face. “That’s always been your problem, Sal. You just don’t give a fuck. How does it feel asshole, huh?”

  “Fuck you, too.”

  “Yo fellas, let’s get going, huh. I wanna get to the party before all the good pussy is taken and all that’s left is the battona’s.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Sal fired back, “Why do you gotta talk about girls like that all the time, huh? How would you like it if somebody talked about your sister like that?”

  “I ain’t got no sister, Sal.”

  “I know, jerk-off. I mean, what if you did? Would you want somebody to treat your sister the way you treat girls? Like a whore?”

  “Like I said before, I ain’t got no sister. Second, if the broads don’t like the way I treat ’em, fuck ’em. They can go find somebody else. But they don’t. They keep coming back to Mikey D. Why do you think that is, Sal?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What’s your point, Sal? ’Cause I don’t see it. I like pussy. I like to eat it. I like to fuck it. What? You want me to apologize for that?”

  “You’re such a fucking mook, you know that? I don’t even know why the fuck I hang out with you.”

  “’Cause you love me,” Mikey said grinning.

  “Nah, that’s not it.”

  “What’s your fucking problem, Sal? You’re mad ’cause you know I’m right.”

  “Change the fucking subject, Mikey. Awright. ’Cause you’re really starting to piss me off. I wanna have a good time tonight. Who the fuck knows when we’re gonna get to see Louie again after he leaves. So let’s just go to the party.”

  Rising from the booth, Sal picked up the garbage from the table and threw it in the trash.

  Getting up right after him, Anthony and Mikey followed Sal toward the door. Slightly raising his chin in a show of familiarity to the guys behind the counter, Sal said courteously, “Hey Tony, Ray, we’ll see youse later, okay?”

  The guys nodded back in a mutual show respect.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Having already forgotten their minor disagreement, the three friends strolled down the sidewalk with the vitality of youth, chomping at the bit to get to the party. The sun was setting and the familiar shadows of the neighborhood were creeping in. Street lights were coming on and the closer they got to Frankie’s house, the more apparent it became by the number of people loitering about in the street drinking beer, talking to girls, and smoking, that Louie’s going away party was a huge success.

  Anthony lagged behind the gait of his friends to watch the sun set. When he tried to catch up, he noticed that his shoelace had come undone. “Yo fellas, hold up. I gotta tie my shoe.”

  Sal and Mikey stopped and turned to watch their friend.

  “Hurry up, assh
ole!” Mikey snapped.

  “Yeah, I’m hurrying,” Anthony said, frustrated, as he put his foot up on the rear tire of a parked car. While hunching over to tie his lace he heard faint moans coming from the back seat of the Pontiac sedan. Cautiously, Anthony put his face up to the partially lowered window and peeked inside. A streetlight barely illuminated the two prone silhouettes in the back seat. Excitedly, he waved his friends back to the car, trying not to alarm the couple in the back seat. “Yo, come here. Hurry up,” Anthony urged as quietly as possible.

  Turning to Sal, Mikey threatened, “This better be good or I’m gonna smack the shit outta him. I swear to God!”

  As they walked back to where Anthony stood, he pointed at the car, and whispered, “Take a gander at this, fellas.”

  “What?” Mikey asked, annoyed.

  “Look in the back seat,” Anthony blurted, and then covered his mouth to smother a laugh.

  Shoving Anthony out of the way, Mike fearlessly stuck his head inside the window, startling the two unsuspecting teens laid out in the back. “Well, well, what do we got here, Romeo and Cleopatra?” Mikey said, laughing at the now alarmed couple. Withdrawing from the window, he turned to Sal. “This is fucking beautiful. Cheesy’s getting a piece.”

  “Cheesy’s” real name was James O’Scanlon. Jimmy was a tall, skinny, sixteen-year-old Irish kid from the neighborhood who everybody knew and had great affection for. He had bright red hair, freckles, and a face like a pepperoni pizza. He got the nickname “Cheese Doodle” from some girls who were eating them at a party, and noticed how similar one looked in comparison to him. Over the years, the moniker mutated into several different variations, finally settling on Cheesy.

  Lying sprawled out on top of a chubby, homely, redheaded girl, with a pale complexion, and thick glasses, Jimmy’s jeans were down around his ankles, and his lily white ass glowed in the back seat like a full moon on a clear, dark night.

  “Ah, leave him alone. How many times do you figure he’s gonna get some in his life?” Sal said sympathetically, as he stepped to the window and got a good look at the girl’s face. “Whoa!” Startled by her appearance, Sal jerked his head back.