Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “When was that? When dinosaurs lived in the Bronx?”

  “Get outta the fucking car, you little wise-ass!”

  An irritated Sal scuffled out of the car. Stepping out onto the street, he slammed the car door.

  “Hey stunade, don’t slam my fucking door.”

  “Sorry! It was an accident.”

  “You slam my fucking door again and you’re gonna have an accident.” Touching the tip of his finger to his tongue, Peter carefully worked a smudge off of the car’s hood. “Let’s go. Get in there.”

  Taking hold of the handle, Peter pulled the heavy door open. “Go ahead.”

  “You go first, Pop.”

  Angrily biting his lower lip, Peter ordered, “Get the fuck in there before I kick your ass.”

  Kicking the ground like a little boy, Sal reluctantly scooted through the entrance. As he stepped inside, an assemblage of fifty or so of his friends consisting of every member of the Golden Guinea’s, and all the pretty young girls from the neighborhood, jumped out from the shadows and collectively screamed, “Surprise!”

  Sal struggled to contain his emotions because he didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of knowing that he had fooled him.

  Throwing his arm around his son, Peter shook him hard. “You surprised, kid?”

  Shaking his head, Sal muttered, “Not really.”

  “You’re fulla shit. You know that?”

  Breaking into a tremendous smile, Sal finally admitted, “Yeah! You got me good, Pop!”

  “Happy birthday, Salvatore.” Peter smiled as he hugged his son.

  “Thanks, Pop.” Sal hugged back tightly.

  “Go say ‘hello’ to your friends.”

  As he stepped toward the crowd, Sal was mobbed by all of his friends. Several of the guys jumped up on him yelling, “Happy birthday, Sally Boy!” Sal gracefully caught the over-enthusiastic party guests and set them down on their feet. The rest of the fellas greeted the birthday boy with handshakes and hugs while the female guests offered him pecks on the cheek. Frankie Knuckles had to push several people out of the way so Nicole could get to her man.

  Finally, Nicole threw her arms around Sal, and planted a passionate kiss on his lips. “Happy birthday, handsome!”

  Peter strolled toward the bar where his Brooklyn Family associates already occupied every barstool and were drinking heavily. A banner stretching above the bar from one end to the other read: “Happy Birthday, Sally Boy.”

  Although Peter could have held the party anywhere he wished, he chose to have the party at Tommy G’s for old time’s sake. The proprietor had a cleaning crew working on the establishment for three straight days to ensure that Peter was satisfied.

  The bar had fifteen seats, usually occupied by old, unshaven rummies. The faded paint peeled, several ceiling tiles were missing, and the plumbing leaked, but the joint still hadn’t lost its charm. Covering the entire wall behind the bar were photos of great Italian-American heroes: Rocky Marciano, Joe DiMaggio, Frank Sinatra, Rocky Graziano, Dean Martin, and Jake LaMotta, just to name a few. There was a pool table, a jukebox, and a cigarette machine. A worn out patch in the center of the floor was where people danced, usually when they had too much booze, or if some pretty girls wished to cut a rug.

  Decked out in their customary gangster apparel, Peter’s cronies sported expensive silk suits, custom-made shirts, silk ties, diamond rings, and the standard gold watches. One dangerous looking heavy-set wiseguy with an ugly scar on his left cheek stood as Peter approached. The behemoth shook Peter’s hand and asked in a low, gravelly voice, “How you doing, Peter?” then he kissed Peter on the cheek, and presented him with a white envelope, swollen with cash. “This is for Sally Boy.”

  “Grazie, Rocko.” Peter graciously kissed Rocko on his cheek. Tucking the envelope into his inside jacket pocket, Peter proceeded down the line of now-standing men accepting envelopes from each. Kissing each man on his cheek, Peter shook their hand, and sincerely offered his thanks for their generosity on behalf of Salvatore.

  Over against one of the walls was a tremendous buffet table covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was heaping from one end to the other with Italian specialties that smelled as heavenly as they appeared: antipasto, calamari, veal parmagiana, manicotti, lasagna, sausage and peppers, meatballs, sausage, and lots of Italian bread.

  The sweet table was set up next to the food and was jammed with tiramisu, cannolis, zabaglione, cream puffs, and various other pastries. Every morsel of food and baked goods was prepared by the same adorable Italian grandmothers who watched over Sal when he was growing up.

  Sal’s birthday cake was ceremoniously placed in the center of the sweet table. It was a huge devil’s food cake, with cannoli cream filling and fresh whipped cream frosting, with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SALVATORE” spelled out across the center.

  Guests wasted little time forming a line and loading up their plates. Crown Royal and Johnny Walker Black were the libations of choice for Peter and his crew, while Sal’s buddies sipped their seven-and-sevens and rum-and-cokes. Everyone was eating and drinking and having a wonderful time. After the guests had a chance to get some refreshments, Peter raised his hands and cleared his throat.

  Immediately, the bartender lowered the music and everyone stopped what they were doing. The room fell silent and all eyes focused on Peter. “I would like to make a toast to my son on his eighteenth birthday.”

  Everyone inched in closer.

  “Where’s Salvatore?”

  “Right here, Pop.” Stepping from the crowd, Sal made his way over to his father and proudly stood beside him.

  “Salvatore, you’re a good son. I know if your mother was alive, she would be very proud of you. And she would tell you how much she loves you. The best thing I ever done was bring you to America. I’ll always be happy about that. So everybody, please raise your glass in honor of my son, Salvatore...” Peter raised his glass and then everyone else did. “...Chin Don!” Everyone drank.

  The heartfelt toast was followed by a thunderous round of applause. Peter threw his arm around his son once more, and flashbulbs popped all around them. The music volume was raised and the festivities resumed. Making his way back to Nicole, she hugged Sal tightly once more.

  “I’m so happy to be here with you, Sal!”

  “Thanks. I’m glad to have you here!”

  They were still locked in a tender embrace when an already inebriated Anthony and Mikey finally approached. Tapping Sal on his shoulder, Anthony managed to slur the words, “Hey, Sally Boy. Happy birthday, man.”

  Looking back over his shoulder, Sal dropped his arms from around Nicole’s waist.

  After shaking Sal’s hand, Anthony hugged him and kissed his cheek.

  “Thanks, Anthony.”

  “How you doing, Nicole?”

  “I’m fine, Anthony. And you?” Nicole said with a polite smile.

  “Happy birthday, man.” Mikey’s words were more subdued than cheerful. He hugged and kissed his friend on the cheek.

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “What’s up, Nicole?”

  “Hi, Mikey.”

  “Where the hell have you guys been? I didn’t see you when I came in. And I ain’t seen you in days.”

  “Sal, we was outside in the back smoking,” Mikey gestured as if he were puffing a joint.

  “Come here, we need to talk to you.” Anthony started to lead Sal away by his arm, then he stopped and asked, “Nicole, do you mind if we borrow this guy for a little bit?”

  “Go ahead. It’s okay.”

  Standing in a distant corner of the bar, Anthony explained, “Your Pop told us if you found out about the party, he was gonna do something unspeak...unspeakable to us. Yeah, that’s it. So we decided to keep our distance. You know, just in case.”

  “He was just fucking around with youse. Youse are family.” Sal couldn’t help but notice Mikey just stared at the floor. “Hey Mike, what’s the matter with you? You look like somebody just told y
ou the ‘Bombers’ was moving to Brooklyn.”

  “I’m awright, Sal.”

  “No you’re not. What’s the matter with you? I know you ain’t worried about what my Pop said, are you?”

  “Nah, that’s not it.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Yo Sal, this is your birthday party. I really don’t wanna be the one to bring you down. So let’s just leave it alone. Awright?”

  “Oh, now you gotta tell me fucko. C’mon, give. Tell me what’s got you so twisted that you can’t have a good time at my fucking birthday party?”

  “Louie Rags,” Mikey muttered softly.

  “What about him?” Excitedly, Sal started scanning the room for his friend. “Is he here?”

  “Nah, he ain’t here.” Mike lit a cigarette.

  “Then what’s going on?”

  “Those little yellow bastards whacked him. He’s dead.”

  “That’s a pretty fucking sick joke, Mikey. Even for you.”

  “He ain’t joking, Sally,” Anthony stammered.

  “When the fuck did this happen?”

  “About a week ago, I think.” Anthony sipped his drink. “Nobody knows nothing. I heard they brought him back in a fucking bag. His own family couldn’t even see him.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause they fucked him up so bad, there ain’t enougha him left to see.” Mikey puffed his cigarette.

  “Those motherfuckers!” Sal gulped his seven-and-seven.

  Anthony nodded slowly. “I heard they got Bobby G, and his cousin Victor, too.”

  “Those cocksuckers killed Louie. He never did nothing to nobody. They’re taking out everybody from the neighborhood. Those scumbags are gonna pay for what they did, even if I gotta go over there and clip every fucking one of ’em myself,” Sal vowed with fire in his eyes.

  “Me and Mikey was just saying the same thing outside.”

  “Oh, yeah! Then we should all go down there tomorra and sign up. We gotta get even with those fucking gooks for Louie and everybody else. They don’t deserve to live.”

  “Hold up, Sal. I said we was just thinking about it.”

  “Thinking and doing is two different things, Mikey. You always had a fucking problem understanding that.”

  “Take it easy, Sally. This is your fucking birthday party! Don’t go getting all discombobulated.”

  “What?” Sal asked crossly.

  “I know what it means.” Anthony smiled confidently. “I looked that one up.”

  “Yeah, don’t go getting all discom...discombob...whatever the fuck Anthony said. This is your night, kid.” Mikey slapped Sal on his back. “You got Nicole waiting for you over there. The whole fucking neighborhood’s here for you. I shoulda waited till tomorrow to tell you about Louie. Let’s just get fucked up and have a good time. Awright? We owe it to Louie. You know he woulda wanted you to have a good time at your party. We can talk about all this shit tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Here, have a smoke.” Anthony tossed Sal a cigarette and lit it for him. “You need to calm down.” Raising his glass, Anthony insisted, “I wanna make a toast to you, Sal.”

  “I’m really not in the fucking mood.” Sal took a puff and angrily blew the smoke up into the air.

  “C’mon. Don’t be like that.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Sal reluctantly raised his glass.

  “To Sally Boy, a guy couldn’t have a better friend in the world. No matter what happens to us in the future, the three of us will always be tight, we’ll always protect each other’s ass, and we won’t let nothing ever come between us. No matter what. If anyone of us don’t honor this toast, then let ’em get theirs. Chin Don!”

  Arms extended, Mike and Anthony waited for Sal to touch their glasses. Finally, Sal blurted, “And to Louie. Salute!”

  The three clinked glasses and drank.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dressed in his bathrobe and slippers, Peter sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. Sal came out of his bedroom already dressed and carrying a suitcase. Setting his bag down on the floor, Sal stood in the kitchen quietly studying his father. After a few moments, Peter could sense his son’s eyes upon him and he peered up from behind his paper.

  “Where the fuck you been? I ain’t hardly seen you in three days,” Peter said sharply.

  “I’ve been getting up early and doing some things.”

  “Did you have a good time at your party the other night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you get the money I left for you on your dresser from the fellas?”

  “Yeah, Pop. Thanks. That was really nice of ’em to give me so much dough, considering that I really don’t know any of ’em.”

  “You’re my kid, Salvatore. What the fuck did you expect?” Glancing down at Sal’s suitcase, Peter asked, “Where do you think you’re going with that?”

  Sal cleared his throat. “I leave today, Pop.”

  “What do you mean ‘leave’?”

  “I joined up.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Pop, I leave today for boot-camp. I enlisted in the Army.”

  “Salvatore, it’s a little too early for you to be breaking balls. Awright? Now tell me what’s going on?”

  “I just told you. I went down to the enlistment office two days ago and told the sergeant there I wanted to go to Vietnam.”

  “Madonn! Are you outta you fucking mind?”

  “Pop, why are you getting so mad? I thought you’d understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “You know, seeing as you fought in a war.”

  “You stupid son-of-a-bitch! Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t go behind my back and do something like this without telling me. I didn’t wanna go off and fight in some fucking war. Nobody in their right mind does. I got drafted. I had to go!”

  “Yeah, but you still went and did the right thing.”

  “It’s one thing if they call you, but you don’t go looking for trouble. I know I taught you better than that.”

  “I’m sorry, Pop. But this is something I gotta do.”

  “Something you gotta do, huh? I saw you talking to your little friends the other night. I know all about Louie Rags. Look, I’m sorry your friend got killed. I really am, Salvatore. That’s a tragic fucking thing for his family to have to deal with. But that’s his family’s problem. Not yours.”

  “Pop, you don’t understand. I ain’t just doing this for Louie. It’s for Bobby G, Victor, Joey, Mario, Tommy, Gus, Patsy, and all the other fellas from the neighborhood who went there and ain’t coming home. Those guys wasn’t just my friends. They was my family. My blood.”

  “Your blood, huh? Listen to me, and listen to me good, you little fucking hump. ’cause I’m gonna tell you something that I ain’t never told nobody before. You won’t read about it in a history book. And they won’t teach it to you in school. Back in ‘42, at the beginning of the war, the F.B.I. had a lot of problems protecting the harbors here in New York. There was some incidents on the docks and they was afraid of sabotage, and spies from Germany blowing up some of the ships. So the F.B.I., if you can fucking believe it, they come to Lucky Luciano looking to make a deal to help keep order on the docks. Charlie was doing a stretch in Sing-Sing on some trumped up prostitution charge. They said that in return for his help they would move him to a better prison and lessen his sentence. So Charlie agrees to help. He gives the order, and there ain’t no more fucking problems on the docks.”

  “How do you know about all this, Pop?”

  “I ain’t finished. When the United States decided to invade Sicily, the F.B.I. comes to Charlie again asking for his help. So Lucky agrees and he has some Navy bigwigs deliver our ‘friends’ in Sicily a message. A yellow handkerchief with a white letter ‘L’ printed on it, signifying cooperation with Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano and giving permission for our ‘friends’ to assist the U.S. Military with t
he invasion. You see, Charlie thought he owed it to his country to do what was right. But he was a sucker, ’cause even after all the things Charlie done for ’em, you know how the Government repaid him for his help? They commuted his sentence. Then they deported his fucking ass back to Sicily.”

  “How does this have anything to do with me?”

  “Shut the fuck up. Not only did they double-cross Lucky after he vouched for ’em, but when that asshole Mussolini declared war on the United States, the government forced almost every Italian school back here in America to close. They told our people not to speak the language of our enemies, and they tried to make us ashamed to be Italian. But this was the worst part! They rounded up thousands of Italian-Americans and put ’em into those fucking internment camps.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, but you won’t hear any of our people bitching and moaning like the moulanyans or the spics. Italians are above that nonsense. We’re bigger than that. ’Cause we’re smart enough to understand that sometimes with great power there’s great error. But believe me, everything I just told you is true, every fucking word of it.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “’Cause I want you to understand that you don’t owe nobody nothing. Not your friends. Not your country. Nobody! I settled the bill for you when I shipped out. You’re paid in full. Capisi?”

  “Pop, I’m proud of what you did during the war. I really am. But I gotta do this. The bus is gonna pick me up around the corner in ten minutes. I just wanted to say ‘good-bye’ to you.”

  Peter slowly shook his head in disgust. “You didn’t hear a fucking word I said? Did you?”

  “I heard you, Pop. But it don’t change nothing.”

  “What about your little girlfriend. How does she feel about you going off to avenge your friends and leaving her here all alone?”

  “We talked. Nicole cried a lot. But she understands. Nicole promised she’d wait for me.”

  “Don’t bet on it, kid. I seen plenty of broads make promises like that and not keep ’em. What makes you think you’re so fucking special? You’re gonna lose her. And chances are you’re probably gonna get killed, too. And for what? Ou gots!”