Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  Pulling around the block, Sal parked right in front and waited. A good time later, Anthony stumbled out of the front door and clumsily fell into the passenger seat.

  “Where’s everybody else?” Sal asked sounding annoyed.

  “Don Lucho needs Carmine and the fellas to take carea something important. Here, Carmine wants you to put his bets in for him.” Anthony handed him a roll of bills and a piece of paper. “So I guess it’s just gonna be you and me, Sally.”

  Sal punched the steering wheel and shouted, “God damn it!”

  “What are you getting so excited for? Forget about ’em. I don’t give a fuck if any of those jerk-offs come. I really feel lucky tonight. We’re gonna make a big fucking score, Sally Boy. I can feel it. So let’s go, huh?”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Sal started his car and sped off.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  The noise at the track only made it more difficult for Sal to think. Trapped by his loyalties, Sal was at an impasse. No matter how much he played the angles, he just couldn’t figure any way around having to kill his best friend. Leaning over the railing, Anthony was screaming and clapping like a crazy man. He was so drunk that he almost fell over the rail, but Sal managed to pull him back onto his feet. “Be careful, Anthony! You’re gonna crack your fucking skull open.”

  “I’m just having a good time.”

  “You’re acting like we never got a horse before. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I just feel so fucking good about the way things are working out. I mean we’re making good...okay not so good but we’re making some money with the Mirragios. I get to work with my best friend in the whole world. Who knows, maybe someday we’ll be the ones calling the shots insteada taking orders from those fucking mamalukes.”

  “You’re sure that’s it, Anthony. ’cause you’re really fucking juiced. You’re sure there ain’t nothing else going on here? Maybe something you wanna tell me about?”

  “You’re right!” Anthony said with a big grin. “There is more going on than just the usual bullshit.”

  “What is it?” Sal asked in a serious tone.

  “Lisa’s pregnant! Isn’t that fucking great? We’re gonna get married next week in Vegas. I was gonna wait to tell you, but I’m feeling so fucking good. God, can you believe I’m gonna have a kid?”

  “Yeah, that’s great,” Sal said in a subdued tone.

  “Wait, there’s more, Sally Boy. We’ve always been closer than brothers ever since you moved into the neighborhood. I can still remember the day we first met. You just come in off the boat. You couldn’t even speak English. Me and Mikey taught you how to play stickball right on Arthur Avenue! Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  Tears began to well up in Anthony’s eyes. “What the fuck happened to us? We was like the three fucking musketeers. We was gonna be friends forever. I can’t fucking believe he’s gone, Sal. I miss him so much, you know.”

  “I miss him, too. What did you wanna tell me, Anthony?”

  Wiping his eyes, Anthony lit a cigarette. “Well, you’re the closest thing I got to a brother. And I...no we...me and Lisa, I mean...want you to be my best man at the wedding.”

  “Is that it?”

  Insulted, Anthony fired back, “That’s all you got to say to me?”

  “I’m...I’m sorry. It’ll be an honor, Anthony.” Hugging his friend, Sal kissed him on the cheek.

  “But wait, there’s more. Me and Lisa was hoping that you and Chrissy would christen our kid? You know, be his Godparents. So what do you say?”

  A distant look came into Sal’s eyes.

  “Hello, anyone home?” Anthony waved his hand in front of Sal’s face. “What’s the matter, Sally? You’re gonna fucking be there for me, right?”

  Sal forced a smile. “Have I ever let you down before?”

  “Never! You was always there for all your friends, ever since we was kids. You ain’t never turned your back on nobody.”

  Peeking at his watch, Sal knew his time was running short. “Anthony, let’s go tie one on, huh? I mean, let’s get stinking fucking drunk. You know, to celebrate your wedding and your future kid. What do you say?”

  “I thought that’s what we was doing.” Anthony laughed. “Hey Sally, don’t forget the name of the horse. ‘Lucky Days,’ he’s the number three horse in the seventh race.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, Lucky Days. The three horse in the seventh. Anthony, I gotta ask you something...something that might sound kinda strange coming from me. But I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “You can ask me anything. You know that.”

  “Swear to me that your answer, no matter what, will be the truth.”

  “I swear.”

  “Has there ever been any problem with your count?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, have you ever come up short? Ever?”

  “What, are you fucking kidding me? My collections go right to Carmine. He counts ’em. Then Carmine gives ’em to Don Lucho. Believe me, if there was ever a fucking problem, Carmine woulda had my ass in the office right away. You know how much that cocksucker loves money? What? Did you hear something?”

  “No! I was just asking you a question. Don’t go getting so fucking paranoid. Awright?” Remembering the story Jimmy told at the nightclub about Pauly Mopes, Sal was now convinced that it was Carmine who was skimming.

  “For a second there I thought I was in trouble.”

  “C’mon, let’s get another drink. I’m buying for the rest of the night. Whatever you want, it’s on me, okay?”

  “You know, Sal. We shoulda come to the track more when we was kids. I really like horses,” Anthony said, sounding like a teen-ager again.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “You know what I was thinking about the other day, Sally?”

  “What?”

  “Your eighteenth birthday party. Man that was one fucking good time. Me and Mikey got so fucking high that night. I got my dick sucked by some broad out in the back alley. Your Pop really knows how to throw a shindig. All you did all night was hang around with Nicole. Don’t get me wrong, she was a piecea ass. Damn, she had some big fucking tits. Did you ever throw her the ol’ brascholl or what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hey, whatever happened to her, anyways?”

  Sal shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess she got married and moved up state like everybody else.”

  “I’m sorry, man! Did I bring up a bad subject?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Besides, I really like this girl you’re with now. She’s fucking beautiful. I can tell Chrissy really loves you, pisan. You guys make a great couple. I guess we’re both lucky that things turned out the way they did, huh?”

  Looking at his watch again, Sal cried out, “I need a fucking drink.”

  “So, let’s go get one. The bar’s right over there.”

  Taking a seat at the bar, Sal pumped his friend full of liquor while they watched the remaining races. For the next couple of hours, Anthony rambled on about the good old days and how great it was to grow up in their neighborhood. He talked about all their friends, the girls they knew, and Sal’s legendary fight with Sonny Giordano at Louie Rag’s going away party. Knowing that it was now or never, Sal turned to a now almost unconscious Anthony and asked, “How do you feel, Anthony?”

  “I gotta piss so bad my teeth are floating. Then we gotta put in the bets for the seventh race. Lucky Days! The three horse in the seventh,” Anthony slurred.

  “We already put the bets in, Anthony. Don’t you remember?”

  “I forgot!” Anthony laughed as he stumbled toward the men’s room.

  Following his friend into the bathroom, Sal watched as Anthony hurried right up to the first urinal, unzipped his fly, and began to relieve himself. “Ahhh! That feels so good. It’s true what they say about booze, you know.”

  “What’s that, Anthony?” Sa
l asked as he crouched and checked under each bathroom stall.

  “You don’t really buy it, you only fucking rent it. How much did I drink?”

  Certain they were alone, Sal pulled his .45 cal-pistol from its shoulder holster. Drawing a silencer from an inside jacket pocket, he quickly screwed it onto the barrel. Walking right up behind his friend, Sal raised the weapon so the tip of the silencer was pointed directly at the back of Anthony’s head. Exhaling slowly, Sal said sheepishly, “Anthony, I want you to know that I love you with all of my heart.”

  “Thanks! I love you, too!” Anthony laughed.

  “And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, Sally Boy?”

  Closing his eyes, Sal tightened his finger around the trigger. The .45 round mutely exited the pistol and struck the back of Anthony’s head. Skull fragments, blood, and brain matter sprayed the wall. The force of the bullet sent Anthony’s body flying forward. As if in slow motion, Sal watched as his friend’s lifeless body slid down the urinal and came to rest on the floor of the men’s room.

  Although he had seen scores of dead bodies and killed many men in Vietnam, Sal’s face couldn’t hide the searing pain in his heart. Crossing himself, his eyes welled up. Sal unscrewed the silencer and placed it back into his jacket pocket. He then tucked his weapon back into its holster and made his way out to the parking lot.

  Tears ran down his face as he drove south on the Taconic State Parkway. Fumbling with his Zippo lighter, Sal tried to light a cigarette that hung from his quivering lower lip. Finally, out of frustration, he rolled down the window and tossed the unlit butt onto the road. Jerking the steering wheel hard, Sal’s car veered through traffic onto the shoulder and came to a screeching stop. Angrily, he punched the dashboard and the seat next to him. “You fucking motherfuckers! You’re gonna fucking die! What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

  As he wept, Sal covered his face with his hands, trying to shield his guilt. After several minutes, he wiped his tears on his sleeve and took several deep breaths. Sal jammed the car into gear and sped back into traffic almost causing an accident. Several cars honked and swerved around his vehicle to avoid him. Sal drove aimlessly for hours, until eventually, he turned onto a street in the South Bronx projects. Standing on the corner was a tall, skinny black kid in dark clothes. Sal pulled up to him and rolled down the window. “Hey you, come here.”

  “Hey, white boy, what the fuck you doing in the South Bronx after dark?” the young man taunted as he approached Sal’s car.

  “What’s your fucking name, jerk-off?”

  “My fucking name is Otis. What the fuck do you care? What are you a cop? We made our payment yesterday, motherfucker.”

  “Shut the fuck up. I need some scat. You know where I can get some?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Sal pulled out some cash and handed it to the kid. “Get me as much as you can with this.”

  “Whatever you say, honkey.”

  “Hey, Otis?”

  “What?”

  “If you try to duck out on me, I’ll hunt you down and cut your little black dick off and shove it up you mouli ass. Capisi?”

  Otis laughed. “You better cool out, white boy. This ain’t no motherfucking country club. This is the South Bronx. The nigga’s run shit down here.”

  “Yeah, yeah, just get me the fucking H’. And don’t step on my shit, either.”

  “Why would I wanna step on your shit? If you shoot this much horse your gonna end up on a slab in the morgue anyways. And that’s fine with me.”

  “Why is that?” Sal asked, amused by Otis’s spunk.

  “’Cause it means one less cracker motherfucker I gots to deal with.”

  “Just go get me my shit, boy!”

  Otis gave Sal the finger and then strutted toward the front entrance of the run-down tenement. Sal lit a cigarette and waited. Five minutes passed and Sal became agitated, believing that the kid had taken off with his money. About this time, Otis sauntered out of the building with a rolled up brown paper bag clutched in his hands. Otis tossed the bag through the open window and it landed on Sal’s lap. “Sweet dreams, motherfucker.”

  Nodding, Sal drove off into the night. Recklessly, he darted in and out of traffic until he came to a screeching stop in front of his building. Jumping out of his sedan with his brown paper bag under his arm, Sal ran up the steps to his apartment. Stumbling through the door, he locked it behind him.

  Only the light from a candle illuminated his bedroom as Sal sat on the edge of his bed cooking up a tremendous amount of heroin. With great anticipation, he tied off, loaded the syringe, and shot up. Swooning, Sal fell back onto his bed. Picking himself up, he staggered through the apartment, knocking things over. Sal stumbled back to the bedroom and finally collapsed onto the floor.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  One eye, thEn the other, slowly opened: night had turned to day. Waking to a dry mouth and a splitting headache, Sal needed to use his bed to help pick himself up off the floor. Staggering into the bathroom, he managed to raise the toilet lid just before vomiting. Breathing deeply, Sal remembered his horrid undertaking from what he thought was last night. Overcome with guilt, Sal wished he could somehow puke his black heart and tainted soul out of his body. After splashing some water on his face, Sal glanced up into the mirror at the reflection of a man whom he no longer respected and was coming to loathe because he had betrayed everything he believed in. Sal’s eyes squinted and his face tightened. “If that’s the way they want it, then that’s the way it’s gonna be.”

  After a long, hot shower, Sal swallowed some aspirin and dressed. Racing out of his apartment, he sped over to the Mirragio Club. Standing outside the front door, Sal’s face flashed maniacally as he drew his pistol. Chambering a round, he tucked it back into his shoulder holster and stepped inside, prepared to kill Carmine.

  “Sally Boy!” Nicky cried out as he stopped short to avoid running into Sal in the doorway. “Where the fuck you been?”

  “What are you talking about, Nick?”

  “Nobody’s seen you for two fucking days.”

  “I been around. Maybe you didn’t look hard enough,” Sal fired back defensively.

  “Carmine’s not happy about this shit.”

  “Oh yeah, where is he? I wanna talk to him,” Sal asked, through gritted teeth.

  “Why?” Nicky inquired sensing Sal’s anger.

  “I got something for him.”

  “What do you got?”

  “His tickets from Yonkers. That piecea shit nag of his is still fucking running”

  Joey laughed. “He ain’t around. Put ’em on the desk. He’ll be back tonight. We got an important job to do.”

  “What job?”

  “We gotta go to Harlem and make a pickup. Carmine told us to find you and bring you with us.”

  “I’m gonna wait here for Carmine.”

  “You’re coming with us, Sal. That’s what Carmine wanted. Understand?”

  “Sal, he ain’t gonna be back until late tonight, anyway. You might as well come with us.” Joey stated convincingly.

  Looking at his watch, Sal hesitantly agreed, “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

  Traffic was light and they made good time getting to upper Manhattan. Pulling into a parking space in front of a tenement in the heart of the Harlem projects, they got out of the car and glided up the steps to a third-floor apartment. With his weapon drawn, Joey turned to Sal. “These spic’s been late for two fucking months with their payments.”

  “Why are we making the collection? This ain’t even our territory.” Sal asked, confused.

  Drawing his pistol, Nicky explained, “Don’t you know? We got the action now. It’s gonna mean a lot more ‘scarole for all of us.”

  “Carmine told me he wanted these cocksuckers taught a lesson. The asshole that runs the joint is named Hector,” Joey said, blinking rapidly.

  Sal nodded. “The way I’m feeling r
ight now, I’ll be glad to teach somebody a painful fucking lesson.”

  With one explosive move, Sal kicked the door wide open. Three dirty-looking, unshaven Latino men sat on a worn out sofa, shooting heroin. Another man sat on a chair with his pants down around his ankles getting his dick sucked by a naked Puerto Rican girl. The men were shocked as Sal, Nicky, and Joey rushed inside with their pistols pointed at them.

  “Which one of you assholes is Hector?”

  One of the men on the sofa stood. “Who the fuck are you guys?”

  Sal cracked him across the head with his pistol. The man fell to the floor unconscious. “I’m in no mood for fucking games. So I’ll ask you one more time...” Lowering his .45, Sal picked up a switchblade off a table and popped it open. “...then I’m gonna start cutting one of you motherfuckers up. Where’s Hector?”

  Pointing to the guy on the floor the other man on the sofa said, “That’s him.”

  Nicky laughed. “He shoulda kept his fucking mouth shut.”

  Sal picked up a full bottle of beer off a table and poured it over the man’s head. Still groggy, Hector opened his eyes and slowly sat up.

  “You’re Hector?”

  Looking up, Hector nodded slowly. “Si.”

  “The Mirragios want their fucking money. Comprende?”

  “I ain’t got it.”

  “Gimme the fucking money, cabron!” Sal stuck the muzzle of his .45 in Hector’s face.

  “I ain’t got it. But I’ll get it. I swear!”

  “When, motherfucker?”

  “Tomorrow, I swear.”

  “You see these two guys here. They’ll be back tomorrow to get the money.” Nonchalantly, Sal picked up a plaster statue of Jesus from a shelf and pretended to look it over. “If you ain’t got the money tomorrow, Jesus Christ Himself won’t be able to save you. Understand?” Sal walloped Hector across the head with the statue. Again, he fell unconscious to the floor.

  “That was fucking beautiful, Sally Boy. I love it when you do shit like that!” Nicky howled.