Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “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.”

  “I got an idea. Help me get him up.” Nicky took hold of Peter’s arms.

  Helping the best he could, Jimmy grabbed Peter’s legs and they lifted his body off the floor. Placing him in a chair with his back to the front door, Nicky wrapped Peter in his dress shirt, and stuffed the tickets Carmine gave him into Peter’s shirt pocket. “This oughta bring that crazy bastard to us on a silver platter,” Nicky said coldly.

  Jimmy checked his flesh wound. “Let’s get the fuck outta here. I need to get this looked at.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Picking up the phone behind the bar at the Jolly Tinker, Sal dialed. The phone rang numerous times but no one answered. “Where the hell could he be?” Sal muttered to himself as he forcefully hung up and redialed. A voice on the other end answered, “Yeah?”

  “Yeah hello, it’s Salvatore. Who’s this?”

  “How you doing, Sally? This is Frankie.”

  “Frankie, I’m looking for my Pop. He around?”

  “He ain’t here, Sal. We ain’t heard from him all da
y. He hasn’t picked up at his house either. We was about to send somebody over there to check on him.”

  “You ain’t heard from him at all today?”

  “Nah, and it ain’t like him not to check in.”

  “I’ll go by the house and check on him myself. I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

  “Okay, Sal. Make sure you call us, awright? Don Bruno’s concerned, if you know what I mean?”

  Slamming down the receiver, Sal made another call. “Angel, come by the Tinker and pick me up. I need to go by my father’s place and make sure he’s okay.”

  “What’s wrong, Sal?” Angel’s voice suggested he had just woken up.

  “I don’t know, but something’s not right. I can feel it.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, hermano.”

  “Awright, pick me up outside. Angel, bring some fucking hardware, just in case.” After hanging up, Sal lit a cigarette and poured himself a drink. Impatiently, he watched the door until Angel arrived.

  Hurrying out of the bar, Sal jumped into the car. “Let’s go!”

  Angel sped off right into oncoming traffic. They raced through the streets cutting off other cars. “Relax. He’s probably shacked up with some young piece of pussy.”

  “I hope so. But the thing is, my Pop’s old-school. He would never go MIA. His people in Brooklyn always know where he is, or at least how to get in touch with him.”

  Coming to a screeching stop in front of Peter’s building, they both jumped out of the car. Angel carried a sawed-off shotgun concealed under his overcoat. Sal tucked his .45 in his pants and they quickly made their way into the building and up the stairs to Peter’s front door.

  “Hey, Pop, you home? Pop, you there?” Sal shouted as he banged on the door. Using his shoulder, Sal forced the door open. Stepping inside, Sal found his father sitting with his back to the door and his head slightly pitched to the left. “Hey Pop, how come you didn’t answer the door?” Walking around in front of his father, Sal saw the bullet wound in his chest. “Oh, Pop! What did they do to you?” Dropping down onto a chair next to his father, Sal began to sob like a child.

  “Jesus Christ! I’m sorry, hermano,” Angel said consolingly.

  Looking up at Angel with tear-filled eyes, Sal vowed, “They’re gonna pay for this! You hear me, Angel? They’re gonna suffer before I kill ’em.”

  “Sal, there’s something in his pocket.”

  Removing the stubs from his father’s shirt pocket, Sal stared at them. Slowly his facial expression transformed from sorrow to rage.

  “What are they?”

  “They’re tickets from Yonkers.” Balling up the stubs, Sal stuffed them into his pocket.

  Sal took off the gold crucifix and chain his grandparents had given him when he was a child and carefully placed it into his father’s palm. He closed his father’s fingers tightly around it. Crossing himself, Sal whispered softly, “Please take carea’ my Pop.” Rising to his feet, Sal looked skyward and unleashed a fearsome roar.

  Unnerved by the scream, Angel warily asked, “What do you wanna do, Sally Boy?”

  “I’m gonna kill those motherfuckers in such an ugly way their own mothers ain’t gonna recognize ’em.” Turning to Angel, Sal ordered, “Get everybody together. Get all the rounds and weapons we got. We’re gonna finish these scumbags off once and for all.”

  #

  Sitting around the large oval table in the basement of the Jolly Tinker, Sal, Angel, Juan, and Clo cleaned their weapons and loaded magazines. They worked silently, with deadly accuracy. A lone bulb above their heads provided the only light. As they moved, each man’s shadow danced on the wall behind them. A large pile of cocaine sat in the center of the table and they shared full bottles of scotch.

  After snorting a line, Angel lifted his head from the table. “Damn, this is some good fucking coke! This sure do feel like old times, hermano. You and me getting ready to go shoot up some motherfuckers.”

  Snatching up a magazine from the table, Sal jammed it into his automatic weapon. “Yeah, but this time...” Sal locked-and-loaded, “...I’m killing everybody! Let’s go.”

  Rising from their chairs, each man collected their weapons and ammo from the table and followed Sal up the stairs and out to the street.

  Across town, Carmine and Don Lucho sat in Fiorellio’s, an exclusive Italian restaurant. Having just finished their meal, Carmine motioned the waiter to bring the check. The server promptly placed the check on the table and politely asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you, gentlemen?”

  “No.” Carmine shook his head.

  Don Lucho leaned forward and asked annoyed, “When is this problem going to be taken care of? You promised me it would be over by now.”

  “It’ll all be over very soon, Don Lucho.”

  “Good. Let’s have one more drink to celebrate, and then take me home,” Don Lucho suggested happily.

  “Okay.” Summoning the waiter back to the table, Carmine gave him the check. “Bring us another round.”

  Loading into Angel’s car, they drove to the Mirragio’s Private Club. Angel parked down the street and they quietly climbed out of the vehicle. With military precision, Sal and his men made their way up the block and over to the side of the building. Hiding in the shadows, they moved along the side of the building and positioned themselves at the front door.

  “Kill ’em all,” Sal ordered coldly.

  Turning the knob of the front door, Sal realized that it was locked. Backing up several feet, Sal raced toward the door and kicked it open. Rushing inside with their weapons firing, Sal and his men shot up the club. Bullets riddled the bar and tore up the walls. Nicky was shot in his chest as he sat reading the racing form. Joey had his face blown off by automatic gunfire. Jimmy and Tony were murdered while playing gin. Kneeling down next to a still alive Nicky and seizing a handful of his hair, Sal lifted his head off the floor. “Where’s that piecea shit, Carmine?”

  “He ain’t here,” Nicky managed to whisper.

  “I know it was you and Carmine who set up Anthony to take the fall for the count being short.”

  Nicky sneered.

  “Who killed my father?”

  Knowing he was dead anyway, Nicky responded defiantly, “Fuck you!”

  “No, fuck you!” Drawing a large knife from its sheath, Sal forced Nicky’s head to the floor and slowly ran the blade across Nicky’s throat, slitting it from ear to ear. Blood from the carotid artery sprayed up all over Sal’s face and drenched his clothes. With pleasure, Sal watched as Nicky slowly choked on his own blood until he was dead.

  Approaching Sal cautiously, Clo remarked, “They’re all dead, primo. Maybe we should get the fuck outta here.”

  Climbing up from the floor, Sal yelled, “Bring those scumbags over here to me.”

  “They’re all fucking dead,” Juan cried out.

  Sal shoved Juan toward the bodies. “I said bring ’em here to me.”

  Reluctantly, Angel, Juan, and Clo dragged the bodies to Sal. Flipping over one of the card tables, Sal pulled it into the middle of the room, so it was in the direct line of sight of anyone entering the club. Smiling at his crew, only the whites of Sal’s eyes showed through his blood-covered face. “Now I’m gonna show ’em who’s the baddest motherfucker in the Bronx.”

  Kneeling down, Sal took hold of Nicky’s right ear and pulled it as far away from the skull as he could. With his knife, Sal lopped it off as close to the head as possible. Holding the bloody ear up for his men to see, Sal announced, “After tonight those scumbags will know that nobody fucks with me.”

  After slicing off Nicky’s other ear, Sal started a pile on the table. Forcing open Nicky’s jaw, Sal yanked his tongue out as far as he could and cut it off. Placing the tongue on the table next to the ears, Sal ripped out each of Nicky’s eyes with the point of his knife and started a pile of eyeballs on the table. Sal raised the blade above his head and thrust the knife deep into Nicky chest and sliced him open from
his throat to his bellybutton. Using the knife’s heavy blunt handle, Sal cracked the chest plate and worked his hand down into Nicky’s chest cavity. After cutting out his heart, Sal held the fist-sized organ in his hand and squeezed. Blood spurt from it spraying the ceiling and the walls.

  Over in one of the corners of the room, Juan dry heaved several times before violently throwing up all over the floor. Angel and Clo turned and walked away quickly, but they soon vomited.

  “Watch the fucking door ‘till I’m finished here, you gutless fucking pricks.”

  Taking hold of Jimmy’s arms, Sal rolled him over and went to work hacking and chopping away at his still-warm body like it was a slab of beef. Sal continued the process on each man, until only mutilated corpses and severed body parts neatly piled on a card table were all that remained.

  Looking over his work, Sal proclaimed, “Now for the finishing touch.” Turning to his men, Sal shouted, “Help me! Pick ’em up and put ’em in these chairs.”

  “What?” Angel shrieked.

  “Pick ’em up and put in these fucking chairs. Move, you fucking assholes!”

  Hesitantly, Angel, Juan, and Clo dragged the bodies over to the table and propped them up in the chairs. Locating a deck of cards, Sal dealt each man a hand of poker and placed the cards between their fingers. Rifling through the deck, Sal selected five specific cards for Nicky. “I got a special hand for you, Skirts. You fucking piecea shit!”

  After placing the cards in Nicky’s hand, Sal reached into his pocket and pulled out the ticket stubs he had removed from his father’s shirt pocket and tossed them into the center of the table. Looking over the carnage, Sal laughed. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  They made their way out of the Mirragio Club, down the street to Angel’s car, and sped away.

  Driving along listening to the radio, Carmine smoked a cigarette as Don Lucho sat comfortably in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Burping loudly, Don Lucho clutched his chest. “That food was good, but it’s giving me agita like you wouldn’t believe.”