Say Goodbye and Goodnight
David Ruggerio
© Copyright David Ruggerio 2020
Black Rose Writing | Texas
© 2020 by David Ruggerio
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-493-3
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
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Fateful Decisions by Trevor D’Silva
“...Places you right in the action from page one.”-Luke Edison, author of Valcarion: Sacrifices
To my grandchildren,
The little prince and princess.
“All our dream-worlds may come true.
Fairylands are fearsome too.
As I wander far from view
Read and bring me home to you.” (e)
Praise for
Author David Ruggerio gives a lavish literary quality to every well-crafted and meticulously thought out sentence of his work, which is rewarded in the reader having a full experience of the time and place in which his story is set. The nostalgia and glory days of New York City and the America of the late seventies oozes from every page, the characters enveloped in the sepia-toned scenery of a kind of hazy golden age of music before technology took over and everything turned to chrome. The plot is well structured to convey the Shakespearean tragic romance, with one or two surprises thrown in to keep things fresh, and I also really enjoyed the ‘Kings county’ dialogue with its sharp edges and down to earth poetic rhythms. Overall, Say Goodbye and Goodnight is a highly accomplished work that literature fans are sure to enjoy.
–5 Stars by Readers’ Favorite
Set against the backdrop of New York City’s Italian community, this novel blends New York City brashness and humor with the wit and whimsy of a young man exploring his youth, his ideals, and his purpose. With its Godfather-like characters and settings, this book displays the ever-controversial and ever-changing demands and ties of cultural duty and mindset, familial ties and expectations, and the complexities of father-son relationships. The psychologically thrilling parts of this book stem from its portrayal of the .44 Caliber Killer, an unseen enemy that young Anthony Marino feels he and his friends must stop before he harms the young women in their community. Readers of romance, suspense, and murder mystery will enjoy this book, as will those who enjoy a more historically based type of fiction.
—US Review
Author’s Note
This book was indeed a labor of love. I do not consider myself a writer, per se. Instead, I regard myself as a storyteller, and as one, I found it necessary to write dialogue for the character of Izzy Moishel in an unorthodox manner. Izzy was born and raised during the Great Depression, in the staunchly Jewish neighborhood of the Lower Eastside of Manhattan. Like many other ethnic groups in New York, people from that area did not speak the King's English. I also took a similar liberty when it came to the Italian Americans portrayed in these pages.
Last, there are references to women and ethnic groups within the text; that some might feel are offensive. Please keep in mind, this is the 1970s, in a place that differs significantly from what we encounter today. I have the uttermost respect for all human beings.
I hope you enjoy not only the character of Izzy, but all the others I have written about in this prophetic tale of love and tragedy.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Recommended Reading
Dedication
Praise
Author's Note
Part 1: The Palace of Pleasure
Chapter 1: Open Hydrants
Chapter 2: I’m a Fighter
Chapter 3: Saint Dominic’s
Chapter 4: A Flick of a Match
Chapter 5: A Ting of Beauty
Chapter 6: Mushrooms?
Chapter 7: Bosoms and Bottoms
Chapter 8: No Strings Attached
Chapter 9: Snorkeling
Chapter 10: Warm and Fuzzy
Part 2: Brooklyn. A Street
Chapter 11: Good?
Chapter 12: Tiger
Chapter 13: Temptations
Chapter 14: Big Surprise
Chapter 15: Seething
Chapter 16: The Darkside
Chapter 17: Insanity
Chapter 18: The Night the Lights Went Out on Broadway
Chapter 19: Resurrection
Bibliography
About the Author
Note from the Author
BRW Info
Part 1
The Palace of Pleasure
Once upon a time, in a storied land, far far away, there existed a pair of star-crossed lovers.
He was a handsome lad whose valor and deep love for a fair young maiden was what legends were made of.
Chapter 1
Opened Hydrants
This would be a summer for the ages; our youthful existence was celebrated like never before! Fanciful cinemas were brimming with wicked storm troopers and adorable droids who took us on a whimsical journey to galaxies far, far away, and although the King was laid to rest, music still reigned supreme. A ghostly executioner took his maniacal orders from the neighbor’s canine, while three beauties, along with a guy named Charlie, were fighting crime right in our very own living rooms. A computer named after a common fruit was coming home with us, while we were glued to our sets for an entire week over something called a miniseries that rightly opened our eyes. The lights did go out on Broadway, and yes, Virginia, the Yankees did conquer the universe again. It was a wondrous time, like none other. Mine was a turbulent adventure with such highs and lows as few lives have ever experienced. It was also an enduring conflict between what some claimed was an act of indomitable courage, yet others witnessed a profound doubt. But, let me not get ahead of myself. This spectacle took place in the scintillating county of Kings during the tumultuous summer of 1977. During those sizzling months, I experienced triumphs, agony, fear, and a mythic love affair that had no end. This is also the story of the first time I died, and it went something like this…
My name is Anthony Marino, but everyone in my neighborhood called me “Ant.” I’m sixteen years old, born, and bred in the rough and tumble neighborhood of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. For those of you who are not familiar with my hometown, my friends and I call it Guineasville (only we Italians can call each other a guinea and get away with it). In other words, in this neighborhood of
ours, it’s not whether you’re Italian; it’s merely from what part of the boot your family hails?
I am the second faithful son of Saverio and Rosalina, prideful people who emigrated from Taormina, Sicily. My parents met as young teenagers, married and traveled to America (sounds like a movie, doesn’t it?). My mother was the dutiful housewife. A fanatical homemaker who would be mortified if you ever caught her without the beds being made, the furniture dusted, and fresh vacuum marks on all the carpets. There was always a pot of sauce gently simmering on the stove, its bouquet greeting you as you entered the front door — and a maganette (espresso pot) steaming away, its mocha-like aroma declaring the humble brilliance of our home.
Everyone in my neighborhood knew my father; he was the finest example of a dying breed of ancient artisans, known around these parts as stonemasons. He was short, stout, yet a giant in stature. His complexion was dark enough that many mistook him for an Arab. My father was always working; he didn’t understand the word should; I think it might have made him a happier person.
My older brother Sal worked with my father, but he disliked it. What I really meant was that he hated it. Well, maybe that’s a little strong. Instead, working with the old man revealed everything Sal loathed about himself yet lacked the courage to face. You see, my brother Sal was the kind of person who, when asked, took five minutes to decide whether or not he wanted pepperoni on his pizza. Just the other night, he told me a secret I realized would devastate my father. I lay in bed and struggled with it. I wish he didn’t tell me, but I understood this would change Sal and the family forever.
*****
Jesus! That damn alarm; it turned my stomach, especially when it barked at 5 am, jarring me from a peaceful sleep. What an ungodly hour! Only garbage men, bagel makers, and my father woke at that hour. Wait, who am I kidding? There’s one other group who often wake before the pigeons rise. Let me introduce you to the professional boxer, a barbarous species of contemporary gladiator who lives his life by walking a fine line between arrogance and cruelty, fear and fearlessness, confidence and doubt.
(Hey! That’s me!)
(In Brooklyn, we’re just made differently)
(Arrogance? Are you kidding?)
Legitimate boxers rise before dawn during the dog days of summer to avoid the scorching midday heat. Even though it was a frigid March morning, Izzy Moischel, my trainer, insisted that I still wake at the crack of dawn, “Kid, what da hell else would you be doin with yourself at dat time, anyway?”
Boxing is a highly ritualized sport that is bound by rules, taboos, and time-honored traditions. Women are considered one of those taboos and are bad for business. It is drummed into our noggin that serious relationships should be avoided like the plague. Life in the ring is nasty, brutish, and short, and pussy will shorten it even quicker.
From the moment you’re thrust into this godless path, someone is hollering at you to run. Run from the punch, run from the gym, run from the other fighter, just keep running. The fact of the matter, to become a great fighter, you must build a supernatural endurance. To do that meant that you would run, and run, and run some more. Running rated right near the top of my hate list, right next to waking early.
(Ok, I know what you’re thinking; this kid hates a lot. But wait a moment; it’s still the beginning of the story) But hey! I’m going to be the champ.
*****
My best friend in the world, Vito Mercutio, talked me into hanging out with him at Romeo & Juliet’s, the most compelling and carnal club this side of the Pecos. It was nestled right over a car dealership on the ever-bustling Broadway of Brooklyn, 86th Street. I loved the place! This was lights, camera, action, and I mean a lot of action.
Danny Pooch, DJ par excellence, spun the best disco in the world. This was the music that liberated a generation, but who went just for the music? This place was painted wall to wall with girls. But these weren’t any females; they were young Italians.
(Are you not familiar with this species?)
(Let me introduce you)
The moment Gloria told us we never can say goodbye, these feisty beauties of the Mezzogiorno, all of them, discarded their mother’s circle dresses for Jordache and Sassoon and began gracing Brooklyn’s dance floors. They transformed their parents Jitter Bug and Bunny Hop, to the Hustle and the Bump.
For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, these girls were just made differently. Don't you believe me? Let’s begin at the top; they all sport magnificent manes of teased dark hair that took them hours, if not days, to fix. Atop this regal hairdo was the usual crown of oversized designer sunglasses (No Ray-Bans here). These girls are also amazingly ambidextrous; they can twirl that shiny hair with either hand while annoyingly snapping gum. That aptitude is a strategic diversion. It’s sending you a subliminal message; Yes, I have a dirty mind, and right now you’re dancing naked in it.
Now to the body, we cugines don’t like skinny girls, they’ve got to have meat on their bones, and all in the right places. Italian girls know just how to fill out those halter tops and short-shorts exactly right. They know precisely how much to show, and some have even conquered counties showing it. Their cunning deep-brown eyes are every shade of chestnut, and as the man of steel, their x-ray vision can see through every line of bullshit a guy throws at them. Ok, do I have your attention? Now, to the most potent weapon in their arsenal when it comes to the cuginette, that saucy attitude. Since the times of ancient Rome, they have perfected sarcasm down to an art form. Italian girls know they’re hot shit, and they understand how to wield it like a mighty sword. No matter how much you got-it-going-on, these girls are just not going to beg. They can flash a disinterested look with the best of them that says, I might like you more than the Bay City Rollers, but please don’t make me prove it!
Now ladies, don’t hate. I love you all like no others. These girls are fiercely loyal and supportive, not to mention smart, savvy, and let’s not forget stubborn! Got the picture?
*****
Vito and I met up with another friend, Joey "Chee-Chee" Esposito. He just came home from doing six months in the Brooklyn House of Detention for gun possession. Chee-Chee was sitting alone at a table in an obscure corner of the club, casually nursing a tumbler of Black Label. His ancestral genes determined that he was to be short and stout, with jet-black hair that was perpetually slicked back. He had an affinity for diamonds and gold that was on constant display. Beneath his mask of calm and attentive listening, his overactive cerebellum was already planning crime and mayhem; much in the same manner, most people write a shopping list. No one is born broken—someone breaks us, and Chee-Chee was a prime specimen. You see, Joey was living life on the edge, following in his father and grandfather’s footsteps. Both were serving long prison terms for various crimes.
(What an endearing tradition)
As much time as I had spent around Joey, I always had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even as a friend, he still came off as half-cocked, and you knew you just couldn’t let your guard down. He seemed to be perpetually scheming, looking for weaknesses and angles, seeking to climb the ladder of gangsterdom quickly. In my neighborhood, that ambition could be detrimental to your health.
As Vito and I made our way over to the table, a group of girls joined us. Vito was the first to inquire, “Oh, Chee-Chee, how was college?”
“Fucken’ A, met a few paesans, but damn good to be home. I see there’s a lot of new puttana shaking theirs.”
“After six months, you must be ready to bust a nut.”
“You’re speaking my language.” With that, Vito threw the keys to his car, and one of the girls happily grabbed Joey’s hand and off they went.
Uninvited, Ari Finkleman jumped into Chee-Chee’s still warm seat, which aggrav
ated Vito to no end. “You know Finkleman; you’re like the sentinel of doom.”
“Why don’t you like me, Vito? I always buy you guy’s drinks?”
“Listen, Finkleman, you creepy bastard, why don’t you stick your drinks up your ass.” Despite Vito’s distaste for Ari, I had to admit, at times, Finkleman amused me. He was a thirty-three-year-old lawyer, with a receding hairline, donned three-piece suits, and left stacks of his attorney cards in the girls’ restroom. He drove weekly from the Georgetown section of Brooklyn to Romeo and Juliet’s for one thing, trying to bed a young girl. The younger, the better, and that’s why Vito hated him. The other thing that rubbed people the wrong way was that he was a crooked lawyer who had a reputation for accepting cocaine as payment. After a few drinks, and tonight would be no different, he regularly took out a vial of coke from his breast pocket and brandished it about, that was the last straw for Vito, “Listen, you fucken skelbag, take those drugs of yours and go see where you gotta go.”
*****
True power and influence existed in our neighborhood, but it was not conspicuous. Instead, it was ubiquitous. It was palatable and brooding; some said romantic, a semi-subculture that regrettably defined the Italians. However, to see it, you had to look hard, very hard. As I made my way over to the bar, hidden in a small table out of sight was Calò Vizzini. Calò came from a small town in Sicily named Castellammare del Golfo, an infamous village that bore more than its fair share of legendary mobsters. From what I heard for years, he was part of organized crime, not here in America. Instead, he was what was referred to as “a man of honor” back in Sicily. Calò had little to do with the gangsters here, but I could see from afar all gave him profound respect. He was a youthful man in his forties, dressed in exquisite cotton knit shirts and tailored pants. Brandishing neither jewelry nor driving flashy cars. There was a refinement to him in his mannerisms. His language was quiet and measured. Commonly, he would be in the company of mysterious, yet magnificent girls who rarely spoke. He motioned me over. Always warm, our friendship felt honest. He never asked for anything other than my company. In his resonant accent, he spoke, “My dear friend Anthony, how are you this evening?” The girl next to him was alluring. With no suggestion, she left the table with a nod and smile as I sat. “Calò, please, she did not have to get up for me.” He acknowledged, but these were his way. “Anthony, let me order you a drink.”
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