Savage Brooklyn
Savage Brooklyn - book excerpt
One
Joe D'Amato was a small-time hood who'd never dreamed of being anything more. Perhaps a big-time hood, but nothing beyond that. He stole cars and sold them to chop shops, robbed trucks filled with televisions, sold counterfeit Giants tickets, shit like that. Whatever he could do to make a buck. His life wasn't glamorous, but it was his. He'd been working for the mob for more than two decades. He wasn't a high-profile guy or a made man. He was just a knockaround guy who did whatever he was told and never caused anybody any trouble. When people saw movies about wiseguys, they only saw the guys who whacked people or had high-ranking jobs like boss or captain. Most civilians didn't even know guys like Joe existed. But the truth was, guys like Joe were the heart and soul of the mob. Without schlubs like Joe, there would be no Mafia.
Joe was an average-looking guy, 5'9”, black hair with a ponytail, and a slightly-crooked goatee. He always had a five o'clock shadow, and he was a little bit paunchy. He'd just turned forty and to his mother's chagrin, had never married. Joe saw himself as a lone wolf who couldn't be tamed. The truth was, women weren't all that interested in his company, and he wasn't all that interested in theirs. Because of this, he frequented Dino DeSantis' whorehouse in Midwood. It was a predominantly middle-class Hasidic neighborhood, and everyone knew what went on upstairs at the Golden Palm Lounge, but no one said a word. This was because Dino kept the cops paid off, and the neighbors were either too scared to say anything or they were customers themselves.
Joe worked a couple nights a week as a bouncer at the Palm as a side hustle and got paid in free pussy. It was a good deal, and it kept everyone happy. There wasn't too much trouble in the place since everybody knew it was mobbed up, and when there was, Joe handled it with joy and ease. In his eyes, the job was a two-fer; he got to beat the shit out of people, and he got enough pussy to keep him seeing straight. On top of that, he drank for free.
Tonight had been an uneventful late September Tuesday, and business had been average. There had been a handful of patrons downstairs and hands full of cocks upstairs. There was no trouble, and Joe had spent his shift sitting at the bar listening to songs on the jukebox and talking to Frank the bartender. After close, Joe had received his pay with a twenty-minute around-the-world session with Dallas, the Hispanic broad who'd been his favorite these past few months. When they had sex, Joe had no illusions that Dallas actually liked him or cared about him, but she was at least cordial, which was more than he could say for some of the others. But he got it, really he did. It was just a job for them, and a job was a job. There was no need for the girls to become pen pals or besties with him. Had he been in their shoes, he would have just got in and done the deed and got right out, too. The girls were like Joe in a way—tiny cogs in a big money-making machine. In the end, they both got fucked by the mob heirarchy, just in different ways.
Joe's old rust-colored Camaro had finally died once and for all, so he had to catch a ride home with Frank. At first, this had seemed like a good deal, but then when they were in the car, Frank told him he had an errand to run. Joe said cool, and they were on their way. But then, a few minutes later, Frank said, “There's this fuckhead owes me money. I'm gonna need you to stand in and look tough. Be there to back me up.”
Joe had looked at him with no small amount of irritation and said, “I get paid to do that, you know? Are you gonna pay me?”
After it became clear that Frank was not gonna pay Joe and that Joe was not gonna back him up, Frank got pissed and dropped him off a couple miles out of the way.
“How am I supposed to get home, you dumb bastard?”
“Fuck if I care,” Frank said, just before driving away.
So now Joe was roughly five miles away from his apartment. With no car and no cash, he had no choice but to walk. But fuck it, Joe thought. He needed the exercise. He'd developed a small gut, and he'd recently read that exercise was not only good for the body but was also good for the mind. So here he was, walking down the dark backstreets of Brooklyn, alternating between smoking Pall Malls and whistling an old Sinatra tune.
It had rained earlier in the night, and the streets were slick and shiny beneath the street lamps. The streets were empty, but Joe could hear traffic in the distance and would occasionally see a car driving across intersecting streets up ahead. He saw no people out in their yards or walking around. It was just him, and this suited him fine. Sometimes Joe just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. Some were good, such as his remembrances of Dallas' sweet ass pushed up against his cock, and others less so, such as the realization that he was a failure in just about every aspect of life. But he'd known this for a long time now. He'd tried to tell himself otherwise, but he knew. He'd tell himself he was living exactly the life he wanted to live, but that was bullshit. While he had no ambitions to be much of anything more, he'd always wanted to be rich somehow. The fact that he had no clue how to achieve this was a big part of it never having happened. So, he'd become a wiseguy, just like his pops.
He still remembered the talk his pops had with him right after he'd dropped out of school. They were sitting on the porch drinking Michelobs, and his pops had looked him square in the eye and said, “This life of mine ain't yours. It don't gotta be, Joe.”
And Joe had looked at him and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Just because I'm a wiseguy don't mean you gotta be one, too. I want something more for you. I want you to make your mama proud. She don't like this shit.”
“Well, what does she know?”
His pops had raised his hand as if to slap him. “Don't you disrespect your mama. She knows plenty. She knows a hell of a lot more than you think. This life…it chews men like us up, and then it spits us out. It's a good life sometimes, but most of the time, it's bad, through and through. I don't want you to be like me. I want you to be like…”
“Who?” Joe asked. “Uncle Sal?”
“Your uncle is a good man,” his pops said. “He owns his own grocery store. He makes his money the right way. The clean way. That's respectable, Joe. This life…my life…ain't for you.” His pops had then looked into his eyes and made him promise he would never become a wiseguy. And Joe had done this.
That had been a year before Joe's pops had been shot to death and two years before Joe went to work for Don Dellasandro.
Joe knew his pops wouldn't have liked this, but he hoped he would have understood the decision. His pops, Charley D'Amato, had been an understanding father, as far as Mafia fathers went. He'd been a strict no-bullshit father who was pretty free with the belt, but Joe had always known he was loved.
As Joe walked home, he looked up at the night sky, seeing nothing but the big full moon hanging above.
“You up there, Pops?” he asked.
His pops said nothing. There was no sound on the street.
“I'm sorry I let you down, Pops. I never wanted to do that. But after you left, I had to make money to take care of Mama and Debbie some way, somehow, and I ain't got no skills, Pops. I didn't have what they call a marketable skill. All I knew how to do was steal and bust heads, so I put that to work and went out and got food for our family.”
Joe kept walking, staring up at the sky. “Do you understand? If you do, say something. Anything.”
There was only silence. Angry and disappointed, Joe kicked at nothing. “Just like I figured,” he muttered. “You're dead and gone.”
He kept walking, lighting up another smoke as he did. He took a single drag and started to feel sparse, light droplets of rain on his skin. This wasn't good. He still had several miles to go. The rain didn't stop, but it didn't pick up either. It just remained something slightly more than a mist—just enough to annoy. At least it wasn't enough to put out his cigarettes.
As he walked, something darted out from behind a parked car, startling him. It was a cat, running as if its last life depended on it. Fucking cats. Joe had never liked the damn things. He'd always considered himself more of a dog man, although he'd never owned a single pet.
He walked another block before he heard the growling sound behind him. It sounded like a goddamn mountain lion. Joe turned and looked back nervously but saw nothing. He had goosebumps and, although he would never have admitted as much, the growl had frightened him a little. He sped up and started walking faster and faster. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette down as he did.
Still terrified, he kept his eyes focused on the street ahead. Maybe he hadn't heard the growl, he told himself. Maybe it wasn't real. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it was an after-affect of drugs he done when he was younger. The cocaine maybe. Or the heroin.
When he heard the ferocious-sounding snarl again, Joe knew better. It sounded like something big, much bigger than a dog. He didn't want to look behind him, so he kept moving, now walking as briskly as those women he saw power-walking in the park. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins and he realized he was trembling. But he kept walking, fast—so fast that his toe caught in a crack between the bricks and he stumbled, falling hard to the pavement. Before he could push himself up, he heard the loud, frightening growl behind him again. He started to push himself up now, looking back as he did. It was then that he saw the thing.
He knew he couldn't be seeing what he saw, but he was. It was a big hairy beast of some sort. It was the height of a man, and it was covered in dark fur, standing on two legs. It resembled a…well…a werewolf. But no, fuck that, he told himself. That shit wasn't real. But looking at the thing, Joe wasn't so sure now. The creature was staring at him, standing still but looking like it was poised to leap at any second. It wasn't growling now, but its teeth were bared, white, sharp, and shiny, in a silent snarl. Its fiery yellow eyes were locked on him.
Frozen in a sort of half push up, Joe pissed himself. He looked down beneath his raised body, at his crotch, seeing the urine leaking through his pants. Then he looked back at the creature.
Joe had never been so scared. Then he realized he hadn't been breathing. He'd been so frightened he'd forgotten to breathe! He resumed raising himself up. There was nothing else he could do. He watched the creature's face as he did, watching to see if his movements would trigger it, causing it to attack. But it just stood there, watching him. Since its face was covered in fur, he couldn't read its expression if it had one. But he thought it looked angry, although he couldn't say for sure. One thing was certain—its teeth were bared the entire time, and the creature never took its eyes off him.
Joe was on his feet now, standing there, unsure what to do. He was facing the wolf-man or whatever this thing was. They were caught in a staring match, each of them just standing there watching the other. Joe started to back up, slowly, hoping he could back his way out of this.
The first step was a success. The creature didn't move, didn't even flinch. This just might work, Joe thought. Then he took a second step back. The creature still didn't move. Then he took a third step, and that seemed to trigger the beast. That was when it growled and leaped forward. It covered the seven or eight feet between them in a second, and suddenly it was on him! Joe tried to turn so he could run but was unable. Before he could make any movement at all, the creature knocked him back onto the street.
Joe screamed and the beast growled loudly. Couldn't anyone hear this? Maybe if he screamed loud enough they would, he thought. His thoughts were interrupted as the beast tore into his face with its claw, scratching across his eye. The searing pain was intense. Joe knew he was screaming but couldn't hear it. Everything was a blur. Then he felt the creature bite deep into his arm. Joe could hear himself now. He was screaming continuously, although he wasn't intending to. His body just did it. He looked at the blood-covered, hairy muzzle of the creature, right in his face now. He smelled the foul, putrid scent of its warm breath. And then he passed out.
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