Snippet 5

The park was just down the street from the bar. It was a strange little park in the middle of million dollar brownstones. It had a wire hurricane fence and some benches and a war memorial from I think World War One. The senior citizens often came there to take the sun and the Jamacian nannies would bring the yuppie rug rats out to run around and scream while they gossiped. At dusk it was empty. Except for a man sitting on the bench across from the memorial.

He was of medium height with very nondescript features. Didn't look anything like his old man. He was dressed to the nines as usual in a fancy suit with shoes that probably cost more than my car. He was one guinea looking bastard with olive skin and kinky curly hair that caused him a lot of grief when he wore it in the style of an Afro when were in high school. Of course now he had it styled in a razor cut like all the wise guys did these days. Ever since Gotti glammed it up they all tried to look like the second coming of Amard fucking Assante.

"Hey Mikey. Very dramatic meeting in the park like this. Why couldn't we meet at your mothers house. At the kitchen table."

"Bobby thanks for coming. Sit down, we need to talk."

I sat. "I heard about your dad. Sorry man."

"He's dying Bobby. Got maybe two weeks. And the fucking sharks are circling. You hear about that shemanutz Victor." That was the capo from Park Slope who was the acting street boss of the family. He was the Snakes right hand man while he was in the joint. A real piece of work. Everybody hated him. Everybody was afraid of him. So far the fear was winning out.

"No what's that got to do with anything."

"He's just waiting for the old man to go. Then he's coming after me. Big time. And the rest of the guys in the club. Benny. Short Leg Louie. Bobby Bells. Shit he might even wanna whack Louie Nerve for all I know. He hates 'em enough to do it. It's going to be some sick shit."

"Hey that sucks man, but what can I do about it. I mean really. You made a lot of enemies Mikey and instant karma shit is gonna rain down on you or whatever that stupid song sez, ya know."

"Yeah I know. I can't just sit here and let it happen. I have to make a move. And I need your help."

"My help. That ain't happening. Look I can get jammed up just talking to you. There ain't shit I can do for you so forget about it."

"You do that computer shit down at the cops. I need access to addresses and shit. Even phone numbers and what not. I got somebody in the phone company can help me out I tell where to look. I gotta know whats going on. I gotta make some plans." He took out his gold cigarette case and lit up a Lucky Strike. He looked away at a bird walking along a ledge, "You owe me man."

"Did you talk to the old man. Is he still got his marbles. What does he say?"

"What does he say? What he always says. Blast em. Kill the fuckers. Each and every one. Down to the third generation. He says I have to do it now to set myself up. Otherwise they will take a run at me every fucking month till they get me. I don't know if he ain't right Bobby. I got to do something. And fast. I think that prick is just waiting for the old man to die. He's still shitting yellow at the thought of him. But don't help me in the long run."

I had to agree. But I didn't feature getting involved again in this shit. I had made my peace with it and got out of the line of fire. I couldn't let him pull me back in.

But I couldn't abandon him either. We went back too far. We knew too much. He was right. I did owe. Big time. Shit this sucks.

Snippet 4

I am sitting there sipping my beer and I throw back the shot. The cool smokey flavor of the whiskey gave me that sweet burn that I loved so much. Too much really. Looking out the big front window who do I see struttin' down Court street but fucken' Louie Nerve. Jesus.

Louie went to Sacred Hearts with me and Mikey back in the day. He wasn't especially nervous. He just had the Tourettes and had to scream out curses every five seconds. Last I heard he was running errands for the old man in the social club. The sent him when they wanted to be subtle.

He opens the door and sreams at the top of his lungs "Bitch whore motherfucker."

Jed Camplet drops the glass he is polishing.

"Bobby fuckface, cocksucker, Mikey is waiting in park cunt licker." The Mexican cooks come out of the kitchen caring knives.

"Glad to see you keeping up you vocabulary there Louie. Where by Veranda."

"Pussy muffin eyeball cock. Yeah."

"Ok I be over there in a bit."

"Dick, asshole, fisting keyhole twat."

"Yeah Merry Christmas to you too." He turned and walked out. Even the cat was staring at him.

Snippet 3

As I leaned back in my chair I opened my leather jacket and adjusted my piece that I had in a shoulder harness. Fuckin’ Jethro saw it as he was bringing my drink and he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I mean I look like a cop. A big fat white guy with the map of Ireland on his face and white donut crumbs on his shirt is usually a cop. But this dick was so lame he didn’t know what was going on.

He actually spilled some of the beer when he put it on the coaster.

He scurried off to the end of the bar and picked up the phone and whispered into it. About two minutes later this Arab looking dude came bursting out of the door from the basement and looked at me. And visibly relaxed. Then he actually slapped the kid on the head. Hard enough to knock off the hat. I guess they don’t have a human resources department in Damascus.

He oiled his way down the bar. Didn’t look like much. Wearing a too shiny shirt with a too shiny skin. Wasn’t much comfortable in either.

“Hello my friend…how are you…I am Wally and I own the restaurant. “
“Bobby Doyle, nice to meet you chief. You can relax, I‘m on the job.”
“I thought so but I felt I should ask. Guns make me nervous you know. Perhaps you meant to go next door to Brady’s. Most of the police prefer it there although I would like to get some of that business. I just don’t want any trouble.”
“No trouble just meeting a friend. Don’t sweat it Babu.”
“Wally.”
“Whatever, pally.”
“Thank you sir. Please to have the next one with us ok?”
“Thanks.”
He walked away back to end of the bar, whispered to the shit kicker and went back downstairs. Something was hinky here but I really didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to get this over with.

Snippet 2

You see the old man Greg Scala was a shooter for the Snake ever since the Gallo wars when we coming up in the sixties. He had so many hits under his belt they freakin’ called him Elvis. He ran his own crew out of a social club on Lorraine St down in the Hook and everybody pretty much left him alone. The cops. The crooks. The corner Boys dealing crack out of the projects. Nobody wanted to fuck with the Weasel. Or his son for that matter. The only question was how much of it was Mikey and how much was it the weight his old man threw. I guess we were going to find out now. Because the old guy was gonna croak in the next few weeks. It was a miracle he lasted this long.

That’s why I agreed to meet up with Mikey in a public place. I hadn’t talked to him in a year or so. I already had a couple of beefs in my jacket from consorting with “known” criminals so I tried to lay low. But he told me he needed my help. And when your brother calls you for help, you come. No matter what.

So I met him in the Court St. Saloon that used to be Cousins back in the day on Amity. We used to hang there for years on end. Back before he got made. And I wasn’t on IAB radar. The place had changed owners. The guys who owned it were Italians but they sold out to some Syrians who owned a deli in the city that got demolished for a skyscraper. So they decided to go into the bar business. They didn’t have a clue.

The waiter was some hipster dofous wearing overalls and a john Deere cap. He had a soul patch, a bunch of tats and the skin of leper.

“Hey, howya doing” I said. “Mikey around.”
“Mikey Who? I don’t see anybody else here in the bar dude. What ya have?”
“Gimmie a Bass pint and a Jameson shot. And a menu.”

So I sat at turn of the bar where I could see out on Court St and keep my back up against the wall. I didn’t think anything was wrong, but it pays to be careful. That’s why I am still here. And a lot of other people ain’t.

First snippet?

My best friend is a killer.

Which is bad enough. But what's worse is that I am a fucking cop. A fat out of shape lazy cop who works with computers and sits on his ass but still a cop.

Where we grew up in Red Hook in the sixties you had a good chance to be one or the other. Or you moved to fucking Staten Island over the guinea gangplank and never looked back. We didn't though. We were what the moolies called original gangsters. Of course Mikey still was a gangster. And it looked like he was gonna get promoted. To capo. Hot shit.

Mikey Scala was coming up in the world. He had his button for quite a while but now his old man was on his last legs and he wanted to secure his place in the family. The old man was a holy terror and the most feared hitman on the East Coast for the last twenty years. Nobody fucked with the Weseal. He had the biggest balls in any borgota in the city, jesus in the fucking country. That's what made is so ironic that he was dying now. Of aids. What the fuck?