Michelangelo’s was a popular joint off Granby street in Norfolk, VA.
And also known for its colorful owner’s connection to organized crime at least now it was.
It was all over the news and people now packed the place like vultures wanting to be near something that was almost dead and still extremely dangerous.
Salvatore Cottone was a private man and was happier when folks looked at him like the old restaurant owner of the neighborhood. It's the whole reason he moved down to this dump of a city.
Yeah, he could have gone to Florida, but a retirement village and annoying ass old farts on their golf carts swapping pictures of their grandkids just wasn't his scene.
The apartment overtop the restaurant was Sal’s headquarters so to speak. Sometimes it was weeks before he stepped foot in his own house and being his wife was more a stranger than love interest that's how he preferred it.
“Hey Boss, how are you holding up?”
Henry asked as he stuck his head in Sal’s office.
“Well my names all over the fucking headlines! My son’s going to take a dive for a heroin distribution and now people are packing this joint for all the wrong reasons, do I really need to tell you!”
Henry knew when it wasn’t the time to test Sal.
“Dude, leave Mr Cottone alone, go take out the trash or something, oh yeah that reminds me, go take my car and get it washed.”
Sam said as he handed Henry the keys to his Cadillac parked outside.
Sammy Esposito was an abrasive prick and the the next in line whenever Sal stepped down.
He was a loudmouth but a mover and always looking for an opportunity to please the boss.
Sal loathed his guts but he knew the kid was determined to take the throne so to speak.
He admired his balls and watched his back constantly around Sammy.
“Hey boss, why do you keep this knuckle head around?”
“I tell you my boy Tommy, has the brain and the brawn unlike Frankenstein's monster there.”
Salvitore looked Sammy dead in the eyes.
“Because I’m the brains, I only need the brawn and Henry does what he is told, you got a problem with that?”
Sammy took a seat.
“Boss look, I meant no disrespect to you, I just well.”
Sal knew Sammy’s wheels were turning as he was playing a chess game with a grand champion.
“Spit it out Sammy I don't have the patience for small talk today.”
Sammy looked at Sal.
“Well boss, I mean with everything that's happened, how can we truly know we can trust Henry?”
Sal remained silent.
“Look boss, we know somebody’s a rat and I mean this guy in my opinion, is jealous of what you have.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Look at him boss, he dresses like a bum wears the same old suits for days. And he always seems jealous of Eric, I mean who wouldn't be he’s a real ladies man.”
“And whats the fucking point to all this? Sammy besides you not liking my employee.”
“I mean what's left for this guy there's nothing but scraps, he can't grow or go up in rank and boss honestly after you pass the torch I’m not making him part of my crew and he knows it.”
Sal understood Sammy's point he also knew now wasn't the time or place to talk shop.
The feds had ears everywhere and this room was no different.
He knew what Sammy wanted to hear.
“Well maybe it’s time for some new blood around this place. This Tommy kid you say he is a good guy.”
“Real good guy boss, I can bring him by to meet you sometime I think you will really like him.”
Sal looked out the window to the street below, the city had become a skeleton of its former self.
And he knew he was partially to blame for this.
But in the city nobody's hands were clean, cops included.
His son was taking a wrap for something Sal knew he could easily be taken down with.
But true family is loyal to a fault.
“Bring the kid by next week, now get the hell out of here, go down stairs harass the waitresses or something and close my office door on the way out.”
“Sure thing boss and thank you for listening. I know things are bad but we will get through this together, I promise.”
Sammy said as he got up and exited Sal’s office.
He waited to make sure he heard the stairs creak before he pulled the phone from his pocket.
He rang Henry.
It was a quick and simple message to deliver those flowers to Amanda.
Henry understood full and well what Salvitor meant.
Sammy was slick but stupid also.
He thought the old man was growing soft between the ears.
Truth is you didn't get to his age from being stupid.
Sammy had tried to place the heat on Henry to hide a basic truth.
Sal’s son was a ladies man and in fact one of those young ladies he kept regular company with, was Sammy’s hot little number of a daughter Emily.
She was trouble, but often the best ones always are.
Sal tried to talk to his boy, but men will chase women; it's only human nature.
And to Sammy if it had been any other kid, he would have simply had one of his so-called friends handle the situation for him.
But this wasn't just any other kid and although Sammy couldn't touch Bobby, he had done the next best thing, set him up to go away for a very long time.
Bobby wasn't like Sal. He grew up privileged, he knew his son couldn't handle being locked up and once inside some things were just beyond your control.
Sammy was right Henry wasn't smart but Henry was no rat either.
Henry was a dog and although far from a genius a dog is always fiercely loyal to it’s master.
Henry delivered the Roses.
As Emily was found in the trunk of an abandoned car two weeks later.
Sammy wouldn't even make eye contact at the funeral.
And Sal knew his only son was as good as dead when he went inside those walls of that prison.
It was an eye for an eye that would truly leave men in power, blind in this line of work.
Henry was a pawn and Sal was an aged king.
The message was clearly sent and everyone heard Sal from his silent appearance at the young girl’s funeral.
You never get to be old without being smart and Sal wasn't going down without a fight.
John Patrick Robbins, is a writer first and editor second.
His poetry and fiction has been published in.
Punk Noir Magazine, Mojave River Review, Red Fez, As It Ought To Be Magazine, The Blue Nib, San Pedro River Review, Sacred Chickens, Piker Press, Beatnik Cowboy, Blognostics, Schlock Magazine.
He is also the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and author of Sex Drugs & Poetry from Whiskey City Press.
And If Walls Could Speak Mine Would Blush from Syndicate Press.
His work is always unfiltered.
