Sally Boy (26 page)

After acknowledging Anthony’s presence by
raising their chins, the men suspiciously looked Sal over.

“Fellas, this is my good friend, Salvatore
Scalise. I’ve known him since we was kids.” Anthony proceeded to
point out each individual seated at the table. “Sal, this is Jimmy
Spikes. That guy eating the sandwich over there is Tony Fats. The
guy next to him is Joey Blinks. And this is Nicky ‘Skirts.’ They
call him Skirts ’cause he likes to wear dresses.” Anthony chuckled.
“I’m just kidding. They call him Skirts ’cause he gets all the
young broads.”

“It’s nice to meet you guys,” Sal stated
cordially.

Nicky was by far the most handsome man at
the table. Extremely well-dressed, Nicky had baby blue eyes, neatly
styled thick, black hair, a toned body, and a smile that made the
young girls go crazy. As he looked Sal over with contempt, Nicky
asked rudely, “What was your name again, kid?”

“Salvatore.”

“You like girls, Salvatore?”

The other men at the table laughed.

“Why do you ask me that?” Sal responded in a
serious tone.

“I’m just asking.”

“Yeah, of course I like girls.”

“Good, ’cause we don’t want any finooks
hanging around the club. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Sal fired a
steely glare at Nicky.

“Stop breaking fucking balls, Nicky!”
Anthony pulled Sal away from the table. “Forget about him, Sal.
I’ll introduce you to Carmine when he gets here. Let’s take a seat
and I’ll get us a couplea drinks.” Directing Sal where to sit,
Anthony went to the bar and returned to the table with two glasses
of scotch on the rocks.

“Anthony, what’s up with that fucking
cidrule?” Sal asked as he lit a cigarette.

“He’s Carmine’s nephew. Sometimes he can be
a real fucking jerk-off.”

“I promised you that I wouldn’t fuck you up
with these guys. And I’m gonna keep that promise. I swear. But I
ain’t gonna forget what he said to me.” Sal puffed his
cigarette.

“That’s fine with me, Sally Boy. I ain’t
never liked that piecea shit.” Anthony glanced at his watch. “Damn,
Carmine shoulda been here already.”

“They’ll get here when they get here.
Relax.” Sipping his drink Sal inquired casually, “So, what do those
guys call you, Anthony?”

Shrugging, Anthony replied innocently. “They
don’t call me nothing.”

“C’mon, give. They call everybody something
around here. What do they call you?”

“They just call me, Anthony.”

“What? You want me to go ask those fucking
guys?”

“Awright, you’d figure they’d at least call
me Tony Two, or Skinny Tony, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Sal asked impatiently,
“Anthony, what the fuck do they call you?”

Looking uneasy, Anthony finally admitted,
“They call me Cuddles! Tony Cuddles.”

“What? Why do they call you that?”

Taking a deep breath, Anthony explained,
“One day I was talking to Lisa on the phone and I accidentally
called her my...my little cuddle bunny. It’s a fucking pet name for
Chrissakes! Anyway, Carmine overheard me say it and he’s been
breaking my fucking balls ever since. They ain’t called me that in
a while so act like you don’t know nothing about it. Awright?”

“No problem.”

The front door opened and an older,
heavy-set man looking more like a kindly old grandfather than a
Mafia Don trudged in. Don Lucho had thinning grey hair, a drawn out
face, and a pair of thick glasses resting precariously on his big
nose. He wore a cheap suit and carried a rolled up racing form
under his arm.

Elbowing Sal in his ribs, Anthony mumbled
softly, “That’s Don Lucho.”

Strolling in right behind him was Carmine
Mattazolo, the Underboss of the Mirragio Family. Much younger than
the Don, Carmine had a medium build, dark brown hair neatly combed
straight back, and treacherous eyes. Carmine was short, much
shorter than the other fellas, a fact which had cost several men
their lives over the years for foolishly making a joke about it.
Notorious for his quick temper, Carmine carried the scent of a man
who had no problem slitting the throat of anyone, for revenge or
profit.

“Don Lucho, how are you?” Anthony asked
politely as they passed.

The Don walked right past him and plopped
down at his booth in the back. Scurrying from behind the bar, the
old man brought the Don a double espresso. Carmine stood before
Anthony looking over the stranger seated next to him. “Who’s the
new face, Anthony?” Carmine asked rudely.

Anthony rose to his feet. “Carmine, this is
my good friend, Salvatore Scalise. I grew up with him.”

“So why is he here?”

“We’re having a couplea drinks.”

Looking Sal over, Carmine inquired,
“Scalise? Are you related to Peter Scalise?”

“He’s my father. It’s nice to meet you,
Carmine.” Sal stood and shook Carmine’s hand.

“How come I ain’t seen you around the
neighborhood?”

“I’ve been away.”

“Where you been? The can?”

“No.”

“Then where the fuck you been?”

“Vietnam,” Sal answered proudly.

“You made it home in one piece I see. You’re
very fortunate. Many good people from the neighborhood wasn’t so
lucky.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Who you working for?”

Sal shook his head, “Nobody.”

“Sit down.” The three men sat. “What are you
good at? What did you do in the war?”

“I was a soldier like everyone else.”

“Tell me what the fuck you did in Vietnam.”
Carmine demanded.

“I killed people.”

Nodding slowly, Carmine smiled. “Maybe we
can find something for you. If you’re interested.”

“I’m very interested,” Sal answered
respectfully.

“Good. Come back tomorrow with Anthony. I’ll
talk to the Don and see if he has something for you.” Shaking hands
once more, Carmine stood and headed over to Don Lucho’s booth and
slid in across from him.

Anthony shrugged. “That was fucking easier
than I thought.”

“Thanks, Cuddles. I fucking owe you one,”
Sal remarked laughing.

“What are friends for? If you really wanna
pay me back, forget that fucking name,” Anthony muttered softly out
of the corner of his mouth.

“You got it.”

The old man made his way over to Anthony and
whispered something in his ear. He then headed back behind the bar
and continued his cleaning duties.

“What was that all about?”

“Don Lucho wants to talk to me,” Anthony
said sheepishly.

“So go talk to him.”

Rising quickly, Anthony stood ill-at-ease
listening as the Don did all the talking. Anthony nodded in
apparent agreement, and then the Don waved him away in a
discernible act of disgust. Seemingly rattled, Anthony dashed back
to where Sal sat. “Let’s go,” Anthony muttered, his face
flushed.

“What’s wrong?”

Pulling Sal up by up his arm, Anthony
implored, “Let’s just get the fuck outta here. Awright?”

Stepping outside, Anthony insisted with a
cracking voice, “Get in the car, Sal.”

“Anthony, what the fuck’s going on?”

“Just get in the fucking car, Sal.
Please!”

Once in the car, Anthony blurted, “I’m on
the hook!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m on the fucking hook for you.” With an
unsteady hand, Anthony lit a cigarette. “Don Lucho said since I
brought you around I’m responsible for anything you do. It’s my
fucking ass!”

“Anthony, calm the fuck down! I ain’t gonna
do nothing to fuck you up with these guys.”

“Look, Sally, this shit’s for real. Awright?
People fucking die! And for no good reason, I mean. If you piss off
the wrong motherfucker they find you in your trunk with a bullet in
your head. If you fuck around with the wrong broad you end up in
some alley with your throat slit and your cock cut-off and stuffed
in your mouth.”

Sal laughed. “I’m really fucking home. Ain’t
I?”

Anthony slowly drew back from his friend.
“What the fuck did they do to you over there?”

Sal’s face hardened. “Take it easy, Anthony.
You’re getting all fucking excited for nothing.”

“But, what if...”

“Listen, if I didn’t crack that piecea shit
Nicky in his head for what he said to me, you can believe me when I
tell you that you got nothing to worry about. Awright? I gotta go
see my, Pop. I’ll catch up with you later at the bar. Wait there
for me. Have a few drinks and try to fucking relax. I’ll get there
as soon as I can.”

Jumping out of the car, Sal hailed a cab and
got into the back seat. The cab drove off and minutes later arrived
at Peter’s building. Sal paid the fare, got out, and hiked up the
stairs to his father’s apartment and knocked.

“C’mon in,” Peter shouted.

Stepping inside, Sal was surprised to find
his father standing at the stove wearing a long white apron, and
stirring a pot of sauce. “Madonn! Nice apron, Pop.”

“Don’t say nothing fucking stupid. I didn’t
wanna get any sauce on my shirt. I thought it might be you. That’s
why I didn’t take it off.”

“It smells pretty good in here. How you
doing, Pop?”

“I’m good. You want some wine?”

“Sure, why not.”

Peter uncorked a bottle of red wine and
filled two glasses. “Are you hungry? I got plenty.”

“A little,” Sal replied hesitantly.

“Do you fucking want some or not?”

“Yeah, Pop. Thanks.”

“What’s the matter, Salvatore?”

“Nothing.”

“Salvatore, maybe you can fool somea the
people somea the time, but you can’t ever fucking fool me. Tell me
what’s bothering you?”

“I just come from a meeting with Anthony. He
told me Mikey got whacked by some wiseguy for shooting off his
mouth.”

Peter shrugged.

“You knew about it? Didn’t you, Pop?”

Peter nodded. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it when I
first got home?”

“’Cause I figured you’d find out sooner or
later. Better it came from your friend than me.”

“Who was it?”

“It was business, Salvatore! Not personal.
You must respect the rules if you wanna play the game.”

“Pop, who was it?” Sal demanded.

“No! I don’t want you going off half-cocked.
When I feel the time is right, and I think you’re ready, I’ll
answer all your questions. ‘Till then, shut the fuck up about
it.”

“Okay, have it your way. I can wait. I’m
supposed to meet up with Anthony later at the No Name Club.”

“‘No Name, huh? You’re working for the
Mirragios now?”

“I guess.” Sal sipped his wine. “So how’s
Don Bruno treating you, Pop?”

“Is there something else bothering you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You never ask me about my affairs. I know I
raised you better than that.”

“I’m sorry, Pop. I’m just looking for
something to talk about.”

“I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” Placing a slice of
bread on Sal’s plate and one on his, Peter went to the stove and
brought back two heaping plates of pasta. “You look tired,
Salvatore. Is everything okay?”

Fiddling with his bread, Sal slid the plate
away. “Pop, how come you never went to work for the Mirragios?”

“I work for Don Bruno.”

“I know. But the Mirragios was right here in
the Bronx. Why did you go all the way out to Brooklyn?”

Grating some cheese onto his pasta, Peter
explained, “It’s better that I do my own thing, Salvatore. I like
my privacy. Besides, I don’t know anybody in Brooklyn who can see
what I’m doing here in the Bronx.”

“You don’t trust the Mirragios? Do you?”

“Not as far as I can throw ’em. That Don
Lucho is a fucking pig. He’ll use you up and throw you away like a
piece of garbage. His Underboss, Carmine Mattazolo, is a fucking
whore master. He’d stab his own mother in the back to make a
couplea bucks. Does that answer your question? Can I eat my
macaroni now?”

“Yeah, thanks Pop.”

“I’m glad you still come to me when you got
questions,” Peter stated in a cheerful tone. “I may not have been
the best father in the world, but you always knew who to come to
when you needed to know the straight dope. Didn’t you?”

“That’s true, Pop. You know the streets
better than anyone. None of these cidrules could ever fool
you.”

“Remember what I said, Salvatore.” Peter
reiterated his sentiments speaking in Italian, “You must have eyes
in the back of your head. No one can be trusted. No one!
Understand?”

Spearing some pasta onto his fork, Sal
replied coolly, “Si, ou capisi.”

* * * * *

The No Name Club was “legally” owned by
Larry Lent, an elderly Jewish man, who resided in Mt. Vernon, New
York. A successful haberdasher, Mr. Lent peddled high-end men’s
apparel and had a well-known passion for not only gambling, but
losing. Unable to pay his debts, Mr. Lent had grudgingly agreed to
shill as the owner of the establishment as an alternative means to
settle his account with the mobsters who actually did own the
club.

The No Name, or “No Names,” as the wiseguy’s
jokingly referred to it, had become the local watering hole where
all the aspiring wannabes from the neighborhood hung out dreaming
of being somebody important. The place was always swarming with
attractive, young females in search of a guy making his way up
through the ranks. Unfortunately, every guy in the joint thought he
was climber.

Seated at the bar, Anthony smoked a
cigarette and nursed a drink. Approaching him from behind, Sal
slapped Anthony on the shoulder and hopped up onto a barstool right
next to him. Pulling out a pack of smokes from his inside jacket
pocket, Sal slid an ashtray in front of him, and lit a cigarette.
“How you doing?” Sal asked politely.

“What took you so long?” Anthony grumbled as
he glanced at his wristwatch.

“Take it easy. I was talking to my Pop.”
Looking up at an already approaching bartender, Sal asked, “Lemme
get a seven-and-seven, please.”