The bond between siblings is a strong one, and finding out about his brother’s demise was tough for Adriano. He did his best to keep his emotions in check, but it was a difficult moment. He was sitting in Fat Chuck Rizzo’s office when the 300-pound Sicilian related the news, and at first, he looked towards the ceiling and remained speechless. After processing the revelation in his mind, he looked back to Rizzo. “He had it coming to him, Chuck. No one to blame but himself.”
“I warned him. I told him, you go screwing around with major players in the organization, don’t be surprised if you end up wearing a pair of cement shoes, and what does he do? He tries to rob Javernick’s casino on the same night that Viscuso and the Meatman are having their sit-down…And that was no insignificant little get together, believe me.”
“Yeah, I know it, Chuck. Trying to knock the place off was probably the stupidest thing Tony ever did in his life.”
“That’s an understatement, and I’m doing my best to patch things up with Carmello.”
“What about Big Ears and Branigan?”
“Angelo Iacono is currently residing on the bottom of Lake Erie. He was dumb enough to show up at that shitty little pizzeria where Frankie Bianchi works, but Branigan is still in the wind. I made Big Ears talk before I drilled him, and he said he was headed back to Irishtown Bend.”
“Cleveland? That’s Bosko Chiodo’s territory ain’t it?”
“Yup. I had a conversation with Bosko last night and he gave us the green light for a friendly visit.”
“To hunt down Branigan.”
“Me and Ralph and Pete are planning on driving out there Wednesday morning. Branigan’s the one that shot Scudari and Roselli, and the Meatman said he’ll double the reward money if we can deliver the bum’s frozen head to L.A.”
“Double it, huh? That’s a big pile of lettuce.”
“I’ll say…You want in?”
“Yeah, I’ll go along. But give me 24 hours to visit Kokomo. I need to let my parents know Tony’s gone.”
It was a tricky job for Adriano, telling his father that his youngest son was dead. Divulging an accurate account to an unconnected party could easily get Adriano his own pair of cement shoes, so instead, he used his imagination and made up a story.
He found Mario working on one of the pumper trucks in the tall workshop next to the house. It was built out of corrugated tin and had an unsavory background odor from the cesspool residue in the trucks’ tanks. It was enough to make Adriano gag, and he covered his nose with his handkerchief as he walked through the open doorway. Mario was accustomed to it—the offensive smell didn’t bother him a bit.
“I have some bad news about Tony, Dad.”
“Bad news?” Mario was working under the hood of one of the trucks. The engine was illuminated by a hanging work light. It left a soft yellow glow on the elder Falanga’s rugged face as he turned towards Adriano with a 3/4″ wrench in his hand.
“He went deep-sea fishing in California and had an accident.”
“An accident?” repeated Mario with a puzzled expression.
“Yeah, they were on a fishing boat and Tony hooked a big tuna. He was supposed to have his seat belt fastened in the chair, but he didn’t. The deck was wet, and he started sliding, then he lost his footing and went overboard.”
“How did you find out?”
“Angelo Iacono was on the boat with him.”
“Big Ears is in Kokomo right now?”
“Uh, no, he’s still out in Vegas.” Adriano was doing his best to keep his story straight.
“Why were Tony and Angelo in Vegas?”
Adriano had never told his father about joining the mob, nor had Tony. “They were thinking about opening up some kind of small business, with the place growing so fast.”
“Opening up a business doing what?”
“I don’t know, Dad.” Adriano shrugged his shoulders. “A delivery service or something? I never talked to him too much about it.”
“So, Tony fell off the boat and drowned? They couldn’t throw him a life preserver or something?”
“Nope. A school of sharks were following the boat, and they tore him to pieces when he hit the water.”
“Jesus Christ!” He tossed the wrench he was holding towards an open toolbox. It made a clanging noise when it missed the tray and landed on the concrete floor instead. “My youngest son was eaten alive by sharks?!”
“Yeah, and that’s why there’s no body to bury…Sorry I had to be the one to tell you, Dad.”
Mario silently wiped his hands with a rag, shaking his head, then he walked towards the house to give Mrs. Falanga the bad news. Better him than me, thought Adriano as he stepped outside to stand by the bare dirt in the empty vegetable garden. He inspected the last of the season’s withered zucchini vines and lit a cigarette. The sky was turning dark towards the northwest and a cold wind made him turn the collar up on his insulated jacket.
Fallen leaves from nearby elm trees were accumulating on the ground in windblown piles. Back when they were kids, Mario would have yelled at him and Tony to clean up the yard: “Hey youse two, quit standing there with your thumbs up your asses and grab some rakes!” Adriano felt bad about having to lie to his father, but he had no choice. His loyalty to the Cosa Nostra was nonnegotiable. He certainly didn’t want to end up like Tony.
A few moments later, he heard his mother scream. She cried hysterically for a full two minutes, then abruptly fell silent and went back to stirring the big pot of tomato gravy on the stove.
***
The next morning, Rizzo and his hit squad drove to Cleveland in Blandisi’s big black Lincoln-Zephyr. Catalono was riding shotgun and Rizzo and Adriano sat in the back. With Tony and Big Ears deceased, the four men in Blandisi’s car represented the Toledo mob in its entirety, the whole organization. Like Nick Lococo had said to Javernick, it was a farm league operation.
But that’s not to say they were any less vile in their criminality than their counterparts in places like Chicago and Detroit. To the contrary, Fat Chuck Rizzo was known as a ruthless mob boss. The small size of the gang was a testament to his ugly demeanor. He’d once broken a soldier’s fingers by slamming a car door shut on his hand, because the goombah had lied about the take in a bootlegging operation—Georgie Buccafusca—and Rizzo shot him in the head a week later when he came up short again, point-blank, sitting at a poker table.
Cleveland was America’s sixth largest city in 1941. It was a little over a hundred miles and they made it in less than two hours.
The Cleveland Cosa Nostra was considerably bigger than their pint-sized Toledo counterpart. Bosko “Cueball” Chiodo was the local capo, and he owned a chain of grocery stores. The flagship location was in the Little Italy section of the city east of downtown. It was a middle-class neighborhood with lots that were big enough to have a fenced in backyard, a step up from the tightly packed rowhouses in Irishtown Bend.
Rizzo and his crew met with Chiodo in his office behind the market. The capo wore his fedora indoors, because he was totally bald and sensitive about it. Only his closest confidants had the nerve to mention his nickname in his presence. A big wheel like Lou Civella could call him Cueball without fear of retribution, but the average soldier was well advised to address him as Mr. Chiodo.
A loan shark named Ray Fratianno was sitting in the office with Chiodo when Rizzo and his crew arrived. Rizzo was well acquainted with Chiodo, but he’d never met the shylock before. Fratianno was tall with a muscular build. A couple of noticeable scars made his face look rough, like he’d seen his share of street fights.
“I have a client who might know where Branigan is hiding out,” said Fratianno following Chiodo’s introduction. “Jack Bohannon grew up in Irishtown Bend and he has the connections.”
“He lives there now?” said Rizzo.
“No, he lives in an apartment building downtown. Works at the Hotel Cleveland.”
“That’s the big one next to the train station?”
“Yeah. It’s the classiest joint in town. Bohannon works the evening shift as a desk clerk, so he’s probably home right now.”
“What makes you think he’ll talk?”
“He’s behind on his vig. Likes to pick losing horses at the track.
Fratianno climbed in the back of Blandisi’s Lincoln for the drive into the city, leaving Adriano no choice but to sit in the middle. Cramped for space, he stretched his arm out on the seat behind Rizzo.
“Don’t do that, Adriano,” growled Rizzo.
“Do what, Chuck?”
“Put your arm around me. I ain’t your girlfriend and Ralph don’t let no queers ride in his automobile.”
“Sorry about that.” Adriano quickly removed his arm, and his face turned to the vivid red hue of his mother’s tomato gravy.
He did his best to conceal his embarrassment because Adriano went both ways, and it made him feel anxious to sit there squeezed in-between the two big Sicilians…Not that either one of them was his type.
Adriano’s true sexuality was something he could never reveal to Fat Chuck Rizzo, nor any of the other Cosa Nostra wise guys for that matter. Something told him they wouldn’t like it too much. Back when Tony was sitting in the living room listening to boogie-woogie on the Victrola and Adriano was fucking half the girls in Kokomo, there was an occasional boy sneaking in his bedroom window too. Now that he was a grown man, close to a quarter of the names in his little black book were male.
Bohannon lived in a high-rise apartment building on a busy street in the center of town. Blandisi guided the Lincoln into a tight parking space and Catalono climbed out to drop a couple of coins in the meter. Fratianno, Rizzo, and Adriano went inside. They rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. Blandisi and Catalono stayed with the car.
When Fratianno rang Bohannon’s doorbell, there was no reply at first and he rang it again. “C’mon Jack, open up, I need to talk to you,” he called out.
Finally, Bohannon pulled the door open. He looked like he’d just climbed out of bed, he was wearing slippers and buttoning up his shirt. When he saw Rizzo and Adriano standing behind Fratianno, he became visibly distraught. “I know I’m late, Ray, but I need a few more days to come up with the dough,” he said anxiously as the three Sicilians barged in. “You guys want some coffee?”
“We don’t want no coffee, Jack. What we need from you is information.”
“Information about what?”
“The current whereabouts of one of your people,” said Fratianno as Rizzo moved in closer and gave Bohannon the evil eye.
“One of my people? Who’re you looking for?”
“Joey the Bum.”
“What makes you think I know anything about Joey the Bum?”
“We know how tight you micks are and figure you might have some inside information.”
“What did he do?”
“Fucked up good,” said Rizzo.
“I never caught your name,” said Bohannon looking towards Rizzo, eyeing him warily.
“My name ain’t important. What is important is your cooperation with our little investigation.”
“Let’s say I do know something about Branigan, what’s it worth to you?”
Rizzo pulled a thick roll of hundred dollar bills out of his pants pocket and removed the rubber band. “How much do you owe Ray?”
“The vig is a little over a grand.”
Rizzo counted out ten hundreds and held them in front of Bohannon’s nose. “Tell me where Branigan is, and I’ll pay it off in full right now.”
Bohannon looked from Rizzo to Fratianno silently. When he met his eyes, the loan shark lifted his chin and acquired a menacing grin. Bohannon was short in stature, and the two big Sicilians staring down at him reminded him of a pair of vultures gazing at their next meal. He swallowed hard and looked back towards Rizzo. “Joey’s hiding out in a garage behind Dry Tom Sweeney’s house. Word on the street says he has big problems with the Cosa Nostra.”
“Branigan has problems all right. Is it a detached garage?”
“Yeah.”
“How far is it from the house?”
“Fifty feet or so. Sweeny has a bunch of junked cars parked back there.”
“Write down the address on something so I don’t forget it…Is there a bathroom in the garage?”
“A bathroom?”
“Yeah, does he have a place to take a crap in the garage, or does he need to go in the house?”
“Uh, I think he needs to go in the house.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been back there before. Drinking beer and playing horseshoes with Tom.”
Rizzo handed the ten hundreds to Fratianno, “Okay, Jack, you’re up to date with Mr. Fratianno now.” He peeled off two more bills and handed them to Bohannon. “And here’s another two hundred to keep your mouth shut…And when I say keep your mouth shut, I mean you don’t say shit to anyone about anything. When you get word of Branigan’s unfortunate demise, you don’t go running your mouth about our meeting here today. Capiche?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rizzo pulled his jacket open so Bohannon could see his holstered .38. “Because if I hear you said one word about our conversation today, I’ll come back here and shut your mouth for good. Understand me?”
“Yes, sir. I ain’t sayin’ shit to nobody.”
Bohannon left the room to find a notebook so he could write down Sweeney’s address. Rizzo walked towards the living room window and motioned for Adriano to join him. The apartment building was on a slight incline above the Cuyahoga, and from the thirteenth floor, there was an unobstructed view into Irishtown Bend. The steel mills were off in the distance, closer to the lake, where an imposing array of tall smokestacks expelled thick clouds of furnace exhaust into the heavily polluted sky.
“That’s mick town right over there,” said Rizzo, pointing out the working-class neighborhood with his plump index finger. “We’ll go find Branigan tomorrow morning, and I’m making you the trigger man.”
Assigning Adriano the clip was a way of testing his loyalty. Rizzo wanted to make sure he was still in after losing his kid brother. Adriano knew he couldn’t say no. If he turned Rizzo down and refused to kill Branigan, it was likely he’d soon be joining Big Ears on the bottom of Lake Erie.
***
They spent the night in a Chiodo recommended hotel in Little Italy. There was noise from a nearby rail line, but the important thing was they could check in under assumed names with no questions from the management. “No trail of breadcrumbs for the flatfoots to follow,” is what Rizzo said. There’d be no record of their visit, and as soon as Branigan was dead, they’d be gone, back on the road to Toledo.
They left the hotel well before sunrise and arrived in Irishtown Bend before 5:00 am when it was still dark. The streets were deserted and poorly lit. Blandisi drove by Sweeney’s house and found an alley that led to a side street. It put them on a rise behind the garage where Branigan was alleged to be staying. Blandisi parked the car next to a chain link fence that separated a salvage yard from the street. He shut off the engine and killed the headlights. A full moon provided enough light to see their surroundings in the clear, cold night.
“Branigan is a heavy drinker and an early riser,” said Rizzo, “I know that much about him from when he was running with Tony and Big Ears. When he wakes up, the first thing he’ll need to do is go to the house and take a shit.” He handed Adriano a .33 caliber pistol with a silencer fixed to the muzzle. “Find a place to duck down outside the door, so you can get behind him when he’s walking towards the house. Once he’s down, Pete saws off his head, drops it in the bag and we’re gone. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
Rizzo stayed in the car with Blandisi as Adriano and Catalono crept up on the garage. They both stopped and ducked down when they heard a guard dog bark in the salvage yard, but the canine quieted down after a couple of yaps. The garage had an entry door on the side of the building. Adriano found a couple of trash cans to hide behind where he wouldn’t be seen. Catalono was carrying a mason’s tool bag with a handsaw inside and he found another hiding place nearby.
There was nothing left to do but wait and it was unknown if Branigan was even inside. When the dawn arrived, they’d need to vacate fast, whether he’d appeared by then or not.
Adriano had never killed a man, and he had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. His trepidation had grown steadily ever since he’d learned of Tony’s death and listened to Rizzo joke about killing Big Ears. He was reluctant to go through with the clip, but he had no choice. He was in too deep, and he knew that quitting the Cosa Nostra was not a viable option—Rizzo had told him as much when he took his vow of Omerta. Once you were accepted as a made man, you were in the mob for life. Changing your mind was a good way to wind up dead.
A light came on inside that he could see through a narrow sidelight next to the door. A few moments later, Branigan appeared. He stepped outside and paused to take a swig from a flask of whiskey, wincing. Then just as Rizzo had predicted, he began walking towards the house in the cold moonlight. Adriano moved in as quietly as he could, but as he came up behind him, Branigan sensed his presence and turned towards him. His eyes grew wide when he recognized his assailant and realized what was happening. He tried to reach for the .25 caliber pistol he had stuck under his belt in the small of his back, but he was too slow. Adriano raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger, hitting him between the eyes almost point-blank.
Branigan fell to the dirt. The dog in the salvage yard began barking again, louder and more ferocious this time. Catalono joined Adriano quickly. He set the tool bag on the ground, reached inside and produced a handsaw. Crouching down next to Branigan’s corpse, he grabbed a handful of the disgraced mobster’s hair and began sawing through his neck. The tool was sharp as a butcher’s cleaver, and he finished the job in a few strokes.
The junkyard dog continued his aggressive yapping. Lights came on in the Sweeney house, and more neighborhood dogs joined in on the barking. As Catalono dropped Branigan’s severed head in the sturdy canvas bag, Adriano lost control of his stomach and let loose with a stream of projectile vomit. Bent over with his forearms on his knees, he had a stunned expression on his face—he looked like he was ready to pass out.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” said Catalono, doing his best to keep his voice low. He slapped Adriano on the back and snapped him out of his daze. They ran out to the car. Catalono hopped in the front and Adriano jumped in the back with Rizzo. Blandisi started the engine and put the car in gear. He drove slowly at first, keeping his headlights turned off until they were a block away. Before long, they were back on Euclid Avenue, headed for Little Italy.
Adriano had wiped the vomit off his mouth, but he could still taste it. He was relieved that Catalono didn’t mention it to Rizzo, how he’d lost control of his stomach after killing Branigan. Showing any sign of weakness to Rizzo was ill-advised because he’d never let you forget it. None of them said much at all on the drive across town.
They met with Bosko Chiodo before they left for Toledo and Catalono handed him the tool bag to freeze in his meat locker. Chiodo received regular shipments of beef from Civella’s slaughterhouse and the next time the train came through town, he’d hide the bag in one of the Meatman’s refrigerated boxcars.
***
Back in Toledo, Fat Chuck Rizzo had a new assignment for Adriano: “I want you to drive out to Vegas and make amends with Viscuso. Seeing as Tony was your fucked-up little brother, you’re the best man for the job. Carmello will appreciate your personal apology.”
“That’s a long way, Chuck. Too far for my Harley in the cold weather.”
“Ralph will supply you with a car and I’ll give you plenty of spending money. It’s an extremely important mission because there’s a lot riding on it. Vegas is growing fast, and I had my foot in the door with Chicago until Tony fucked things up. If it takes going down on your knees and kissing Carmello’s big fat butt, then so be it…Suck a turd out of his greasy Sicilian asshole if that’s what it takes.”
Adriano made a face and laughed. “That sounds kinda raw, Chuck.”
“Yeah, but you catch my drift, right? We had an opportunity to get in on the ground floor before your brother screwed things up. So go out there with your hat in your hand and make things right. Get back on Carmello’s good side. I know you got in in you.”
The next morning, Blandisi handed Adriano the keys to a 1939 Studebaker Champion. The original owner had wrecked it and Blandisi rebuilt it, mostly with stolen parts supplied by Sally Cucinotta’s outfit in Detroit. It was a lightweight coupe, in a metallic green color. Blandisi replaced the stock six-cylinder with a Ford eight that featured a four-barrel carburetor. He beefed up the suspension and added a dual exhaust system with headers. It looked, sounded, and ran like a race car.
Adriano decided to take the southern route to avoid early winter storms in Nebraska and Wyoming. Instead, he drove south to Indianapolis, then picked up Route 66 in St. Louis. He stopped for the night in a hotel on the outskirts of town. He was on the road early the next morning, and he made good time through the rolling hills of Missouri.
When Adriano travelled, he kept his eyes peeled for gorgeous dames. There was no telling where he might see a good-looking girl. In other cars, at filling stations, maybe in a roadside rest area. Sure, there were lots of overweight sows, but every once in a while, he’d see a hot tomato. He may not have been in a position to make a pass, but catching an attractive lady’s eye and seeing her smile was enough to make his day.
By 1941, Route 66 had been paved in its entirety, from Chicago to L.A. In the old days, much of it was nothing more than a dusty dirt road with rough stretches known for flat tires and broken axles. But by the 1940s, it was an asphalt two lane highway.
Adriano encountered slowdowns where the traffic was backed up behind trucks, and when he saw a safe place to pass, he’d downshift into third gear, stand on the gas and let the Studebaker’s four-barrel roar to life. He’d race by the line of traffic in the oncoming lane, duck back into the westbound lane once he’d successfully passed the slow-moving truck, and then quickly reduce his speed, keeping his eyes peeled for cops.
Occasionally, he’d see a state trooper, hiding behind a billboard or a bridge abutment. When he wasn’t passing trucks, he kept his speed down. He didn’t need to worry too much about getting pulled over because he wasn’t carrying any contraband. He was carrying a couple of pistols, but they were completely legal and locked in the trunk. Yeah, the cops were suspicious when they saw the souped-up car with the Ohio plates and noticed his Italian heritage. He could easily be profiled for a wise guy, but he wasn’t doing anything illegal, and he never drove if he’d had anything to drink.
He arrived in Tulsa, Oklahoma in the early afternoon and took an extended break in a roadside park. The landscape dried out considerably between Tulsa and Oklahoma City as he continued west on the Great Plains. There were endless stretches of flat as a washboard prairie and oil derricks began to spring up on the horizon.
He reached Amarillo, Texas in late afternoon. He’d planned on finding a hotel room and stopping for the night, but the locals seemed unfriendly when he stopped at a filling station, so instead, he decided to keep driving west…Maybe he’d keep driving into the night and find a place to stop in New Mexico. The Studebaker was running great with the freshly reworked motor, and he felt like he could keep going for a few more hours. It was still a long haul to Vegas. The further he could go, the better.
The sun was beginning to set when he crossed into New Mexico. There wasn’t much out there on the Great Plains besides miles and miles of wide-open prairie, long stretches of highway with no sign of human habitation…Then the tiny town of Roca Rugosa popped up. It had an oasis-like quality with plenty of deciduous trees, and it was obvious that the cross-country traffic on Route 66 was the chief thing keeping it alive. He decided to stop for dinner at a homey looking restaurant because the next town to the west was a long way off.
When Adriano walked into the place, the first thing he noticed was a beautiful young waitress working behind a long lunch counter. She had a dark complexion with big brown eyes. He took a seat on one of the padded stools and she brought him a menu.
“What’s good today, Catalina?” said Adriano, reading her name off the tag she wore on her blue and white striped blouse.
“The baby back ribs. Our cook smokes them up fresh out back.” She spoke with a heavy Mexican accent, stumbling over the occasional word, like she’d learned to speak English out of necessity, but it wasn’t her primary tongue.
“That sounds tasty. Give me a half rack.”
“You want beans or potato salad with that?”
“Can I have both?” he said with wandering eyes, admiring the graceful curves of her shapely breasts.
Catalina raised an eyebrow, smiled, and said, “Of course you can have both.”
As the waitress walked towards the kitchen with his order, the front door swung open, and a uniformed law enforcement officer appeared. He gazed around the interior, took note of Adriano, then walked to the counter, and took a seat next to him. Adriano’s first thought was this is no coincidence. He’d already noticed a pair of local cowboys looking over his ride when he’d pulled in.
“You need a menu, Sam?” said Catalina.
“No, just a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie.”
Catalina brought him the coffee and set a slice of pie on the counter in front of him. He began eating slowly, taking care to keep the filling away from his bushy mustache. Adriano’s food had yet to arrive, and he sat there looking straight ahead, feeling uncomfortable.
The cop placed his fork on the plate after taking a couple of bites. He took a sip of coffee and then looked towards Adriano. “Say there, partner, you wouldn’t know who owns that flashy green Studebaker parked out front, would you?”
“That would be me,” said Adriano. “Well actually it belongs to my employer.”
“And who’s your employer?”
“Blandisi Automotive of Toledo, Ohio.”
“Uh, huh. That explains the Ohio plates…I’m Sam Hoyt, the local sheriff.”
Adriano was reluctant to give out any information he didn’t need to, but the cop’s facial expression made him think he was waiting for him to respond. He was friendly enough, so Adriano decided to play along with the impromptu interview, even though he thought the cop’s questions were awfully nosy. “Adriano Falanga,” he replied with a small smile.
“Falanga—that’s an Italian name ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Sicilian? That’s the part of Italy you’re from?”
“Actually, I grew up in Kokomo, Indiana.”
“Well, yeah, but your people came from Sicily?”
“Yup, they sure did.”
“So, what brings you to Roca Rugosa, Mr. Falanga?”
“Just passing through on Route 66. Stopped in for dinner and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Uh, huh…Where you headed?”
“Las Vegas, Nevada.”
Hoyt paused, raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, then said, “Pleasure or business?”
“Both.” Adriano was relieved to see his food had arrived. Catalina placed a large platter sized plate on the counter in front of him. It was loaded with ribs. Then she set a smaller plate next to it with the beans and potato salad.
“Well, I’ll let you enjoy your dinner in peace, Mr. Falanga,” said Hoyt, picking up the khaki-colored Stetson he’d set on the counter. He finished off his coffee and left half the cherry pie unfinished as he rose from the stool. “You can put the pie on my tab, Catalina,” he said as he departed.
“Okay, Sam,” she said as he walked out the door.
Adriano picked up one of the ribs and took a bite. The meat was tender and delicious.
“Don’t let Sam bother you,” said Catalina as she refilled his water glass from a pitcher. “He does that to everyone.”
“Does what?”
“Asks a bunch of nosy questions.”
“Probably figures it’s part of his job.” When Adriano made eye contact with Catalina, he could sense her amorous interest. He was a good-looking man, and carnal interest from the opposite sex was something he encountered often.
Catalina smiled and picked up the unfinished plate that the Sheriff had left on the counter. She grabbed a fresh fork and began eating the leftover pie. “I hate to see good food go to waste.”
Adriano returned her smile between bites of his dinner. He used a napkin to wipe his mouth before he spoke—Mrs. Falanga had taught her favorite son good manners. “Did you grow up here in Roca Rugosa…Did I pronounce that right?”
“Yes, you pronounced it right, and no, I’m Mexican.”
“Old Mexico?”
“Sí, I’m from Chihuahua.”
“What does Roca Rugosa mean in Spanish?”
“Rough Rock.”
“Ah, that would be Roccia Grezza in Italian.”
“Spanish and Italian are similar languages.”
“Yup, both based in Latin.”
“Both pleasing to the ear too, as opposed to English, a strange tongue to learn. The conjugation is backwards to Mexicans.”
“I grew up speaking English in Indiana, but my Ma and Aunt Francesca taught me Italian.”
“Italians are very expressive in the way they speak. Spanish is more poetic sounding.”
“Yeah, I’d have to agree with that.”
Adriano felt the mutual interest growing. She was an attractive young lady, and he briefly considered making a pass at her, but of course he’d need to find out more about her before he tried it. She could be married, and it was an awfully small town. No telling when her shift ended, and he quickly decided against it.
Business was picking up as he polished off the ribs and as a result, Catalina didn’t have the time to share more conversation. He left her a bigger than average tip and when he went to the cash register with the bill, she hurried over to take his money and bid him farewell.
She looked up at him with her alluring brown eyes, and with a seductive smile on her full ruby lips said, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Adriano.”
“Likewise, Catalina.”
“Come and see us again if you’re ever back in Roco Rugosa.”
Adriano was turned on by her sexy demeanor, and it triggered an erection. He was extremely well-endowed, the Kokomo Stallion is what the high school girls back home had called him, and his big Italian sausage pitched a big top tent in his stylish slacks.
He walked to the door holding his fedora in front of his crotch, his face flushed red in embarrassment. Catalina had certainly aroused his libido. Calm down there, boy, he said to himself as he stiffly walked towards the Studebaker. He opened the car door and climbed behind the wheel.
Once a man’s mind is on sex, the only way to get it off sex is resolution, and Adriano was not accustomed to masturbating. Normally, he didn’t need to because it was so easy for him to score. He knew it was going to bug him now, as he pulled out of the parking lot, but he certainly wasn’t going to go find a place to whack off, that wasn’t Adriano’s style at all.
The gas gauge was below a quarter tank, so he stopped at a filling station. As he pulled up to the pump, he perceived a vision of sexual salvation. The attendant was a handsome teenage boy, couldn’t be older than 18, probably still underage.
The place was empty, except for Adriano and his flashy Studebaker. Under the bright lights, Adriano noticed the attendant had the facial attributes of a Native American, but the light blue eyes of a Northern European. He wore a tight-fitting company uniform with pinstripes, a polka-dot bowtie, and a crested cap with the brim turned up. His name patch said Hank. Adriano had a talent at reading people through first impressions, especially regarding sexuality, and as he rolled down the window and their eyes met, he was almost positive the svelte young attendant was queer.
“Top of the evening to you, mister. Check your oil and tire pressure for a nickel.”
“Oil and tires are fine, but you can fill ‘er up with premium, Hank.”
“Sure thing, mister.” He looked from side to side and then leaned in closer. “Sell you ten bennies for two bits.”
Adriano noticed the attendant had dilated pupils and seemed awfully chipper, like he’d been sampling the amphetamines himself. The last thing he needed was contraband in the car and he politely declined. “Thanks for the offer but I’ll stick to the coffee to stay awake.”
“Whatever tickles your pickle,” said Hank with a quick wink, and Adriano was certain now that the lad was queer.
As the dials on the gas pump spun round and round, the attendant went to work cleaning the windshield with a squeegee, smirking at Adriano through the glass and whistling gaily. Adriano was quick to notice that Hank had an attractive rear end, what was known in the homosexual underworld as a bubble-butt. (He’d visited a queer biker bar in Detroit and was hip to all the lingo.)
“So, what do you fellas do for fun around here, Hank?” he said through the open window.
“Not much,” replied the attendant with a short laugh. “When the weather’s warm we go skinny dippin’ out at the hot springs.”
“Skinny dippin’, eh?”
“Yep, but it’s all boys,” with a mischievous grin. “The girls don’t care for it much at all.”
Making homosexual advances was extremely dangerous in 1941. There were laws against fellatio and sodomy, not to mention corrupting the morals of a minor. With small town cops like Sam Hoyt on the prowl, Adriano knew he was on thin ice, but he went ahead and let the cat out of the bag: “So, you like takin’ your clothes off with other boys then, Hank?”
“I sure do, mister.” He stood at the window now, grinning ear-to-ear as the dials on the gas pump continued to spin. The fill-up was taking quite a while, the storage tanks must have been low.
“I’m Adriano.”
“Hi, Adriano.”
“How old are you?”
“Just turned 17.”
“You like drinking wine?”
“Yeah, I do. Been drunk before too.”
“What time you get off work?”
“I close the station at nine.” He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s 8:15 now. I’ll be off in another 45 minutes or so.”
“I’m going to go get a room at that motel down the street,” said Adriano, pointing it out. “I’ll pick up a bottle of wine and park my car in front of the room I’m stayin’ in. So, when you see the car, knock on the door and I’ll let you in. We’ll drink some wine and have some fun. You up for it, Hank?”
“Damn right I’m up for it.”
“See you in a while then.”
It was lucky for Adriano that Sheriff Hoyt wasn’t privy to the underage drinking and illicit sexual activities that took place in his cheesy motel room that night. Hank’s knock was right on time and Adriano was surprised at how experienced the young lad was. Told him he did it all the time, bragged about the frequency, and said he’d been gang banged by an entire queer motorcycle club from Detroit.
“From the Motor City, eh, Hank?” Adriano was standing, fiddling around with the lobster hooks as he undid his suspenders. Hank sat in a chair, his face a few short inches from the Italian’s crotch. “What was the name of the gang?”
“The Flaming Tubes.” He laughed, looked up at Adriano and made eye contact. “I was walkin’ round the station bow-legged for a week.”
“Yeah, I know the Flaming Tubes. Drank whiskey with those boys on East Congress, in a bar in downtown Detroit.” Adriano undid his belt buckle and dropped his trousers around his knees…
The sexual tension that Catalina had initiated was successfully resolved—a relief for the Kokomo Stallion, it certainly put a smile on his face…But what would Fat Chuck Rizzo have said? If he knew that he’d fucked an amphetamine-crazed teenager on the windswept plains of Eastern New Mexico? Would Adriano have had his Toledo mob membership permanently revoked? Would he have ended up on the bottom of Lake Erie with Big Ears?
To be continued…