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Playing with fire
An Original Fiction Work in Progress Author's note---This piece was inspired by recent news stories about mob bosses having no tolerance for their gay soldiers, and a recent tie-in on The Sopranos. To wit: Mafia Targets Gays For Hits
(New York City) Being a gay or bi mobster can be bad for your health. A trial in New York City this week got a rare glimpse of how the mafia treats gays it finds in its midst. On the stand was former mobster Vincent Palermo, 58, spilling the beans at the racketeering trial of aging reputed Genovese mobster Federico Giovanelli. Plermo's testimony, the Daily News reports, began with federal prosecutor John Hillebrecht asking him about his criminal past. Among the details Palermo listed was his ordering of the 1992 killing of DeCavalcante underboss John D'Amato. Palermo pleaded guilty to ordering the hit and then agreed to cooperate with the government in 2000. Palermo said he started becoming suspicious of D'Amato's sexuality after hearing "a lot of different rumors." "What's the rule in [the Mafia] about this?" Hillebrecht asked him "You die," Palermo replied. Which led to thoughts of what it must be like to be a gay mafia member in a straight-man's army...and a well-educated, super-tough one at that...so with that, I give you my WIP version of a gay Dashiell Hammett-style story:
The first time I saw him, he was dressed like a made man, in a maroon silk shirt and raw silk blazer, with a white tie held by a platinum sword-shaped tie clasp. His hair, what little was left, was slicked back. He wore a gold and diamond ring on his pinky finger, and a gold chain gleamed against his hairless chest. When he smiled, the smile was feral and the teeth stark white. But his hands were too rough, too square and calloused for a point man. Too full of work, like a carpenter, or stonemason. I watched him talk Johnny out of a truckload of Marlboros, which made Johnny dent the truck's rear panel and shatter his wedding ring. I laughed to find the new guy backing Johnny against the truck door like a cop corners a perp. Then, a flash of anger went through me. It had taken too long to recognize him for what he was. That was not like me, I could spot them in two eyeblinks. "Who's the new guy?" Vic asked me, between bites of a chili dog. Like me, he was wearing Armani and Italian loafers, and sported a Rolex on his left wrist. But Vic's lazy eye leached all the finesse out of the get-up. "How the fuck can you eat that?" I said, as if I had not heard him. "I don't know. How can you eat cock?" he grinned back through a mouthful of chilidog. "Shut up," I whispered, "you want to get me killed?" "Sorry, Dom," he murmured, wiping his flabby mouth on his sleeve. I patted Vic on the back and gave him my best "I love you, you dumb fuck" smirk before striding over to Johnny to intervene. I checked the .38 in its holster. The con still had my boss backed against the truck door. Johnny was getting redder by the minute, and he'd started spitting. We were in a warehouse lot on Railroad Ave, but the Command Management guards we had paid off were getting suspicious. "Dom," he whined in his furious, high-pitched tenor, "tell this jerk-off I didn't smuggle this shit. I got it wholesale from my brother's business." To the impostor, he spat out, "Why are you so worried where I got this? You want it, or not? And I'm not taking no goddamn ten thousand." The ersatz paisan looked me over. There was something about his slow perusal. Too thorough, too interested. Jesus God. A gay fucking cop. An undercover gay cop. What were the odds? 70-1, same as me. "I'll say it again," the stranger said in a fluid baritone. "The offer stands. I've got orders from Goldstein, ten thousand and no higher." "Johnny, can I talk to you a second?" I said as matter-of-factly as I could. Reluctantly, the cop stepped aside. I guided Johnny by the arm into the warehouse, out of earshot of the guards and the stranger. "Fucking cop, huh?" Johnny snarled. I nodded. He kicked the nearest thing available, a gas can. It sailed across the floor, hitting a delivery truck with a clang. "Kike," he muttered, referring to Goldstein. His mortal enemy from the day Johnny stole Joe's Knishes and More out from under Goldstein's indentured owners. Playing Nazi storm trooper for a laugh. "I don't think Goldstein knows this guy," I consoled him. "Looks too clean. Take his ten thousand, and get out." "Fuck you," Johnny shouted, going for my lapel just short of pushing me. He knew better. The scar on his lower lip attested to that. "Dom," he intoned, practically crooning, "Shoot the fucker. You know I don't negotiate with terrorists." Johnny spun what was left of his ring. "And you know," I murmured, "I don't shoot unless I'm shot at. That's the deal." Johnny's eyes glittered. His neck turned lobster-red against his collar. "What the fuck am I paying you for? Why did I agree to such a fucked-up bargain, anyway?" "Because you love me," I smiled, hitting him on the back. He shook his head. "Don't shit a shitter, Del." I just nodded. I loved Johnny like a retarded kid brother. "Take the ten thousand, Johnny. You know cop killers get the death penalty. I'd hate to see you lose that swelled head of yours." Johnny glanced down at the floor, looking like he was going to kick a truck tire. "If I take the money, I go back to prison. Either way, I'm fucked." "Alright," I sighed, "I'll handle it." Back on the lot, the cop was leaning against Johnny's black Ferrari, a crime punishable by live burial. I motioned for him to step aside and join me. Slowly, he pushed himself off the door panel and sauntered toward me. "Look," I said. "Obviously, we're at an impasse. My boss decided he's not selling at this time." The cop's tan drained to off-white. A little muscle in his jaw twitched. "Okay," he drawled, struggling to regain his momentum. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then drew a pack of USA Golds from his breast pocket. Instintively, I reached for my lighter. As I steadied the flame under his cigarette, he asked, "You smoke?" "No, never,' I replied. "Keep it around for the boss." "Your loyalty is admirable," he quipped, as though he were in some amateur Shakespeare play. "Name's Rich Klein. You?' "Dominick Del Mar, " I said, extending my hand. "People call me Dom, or Del." He tilted his head at me as if to say, "how did you get tangled in this?" That, of course, was another story. Again, the slow perusal. I could almost read his thoughts: hazel eyes, set a little too close together. Flashy suit, broad shoulders, could stand to lose a few. Bites his nails, thinks he is somebody. Wishes he were made. Smart, probably from some better-ranked state college. Takes no shit from anyone. Probably gay, poor bastard. He stared at me through narrowed eyes, blew smoke in my face. "What's it like?" he finally asked. "What's what like?" He leaned in close, speaking sotto voce. "Being a gay soldier in the straight man's mob." Jesus H. Christ on a Harley. "You better keep that to yourself," I said, remembering when Johnny stabbed a Lark Street drag-queen just to watch "her" run in 5-inch knock-me-downs. "I intend to. Dinner Friday?" My mouth went dry. "No thanks." "My first rejection. I don't know how I feel about that." I stared into his blue eyes. The impatience in them, mingled with a playful hilarity, went straight to my cock. My face flushed as I heard myself say, "I'm sorry. I can't." "Just as well," the blue-eyed cop sighed. He nodded his head, "here comes your boss." When Johnny clapped a hand on my shoulder, I almost leapt out of my skin. "Gotta cut back on the caffeine, Del," he snickered. He grabbed the cop by the shoulder and pronounced, "I expect business is concluded, gentlemen?" "Yes--" "No--" we answered simultaneously. "I explained to Mr. Klein," I began, "that the offer has been withdrawn until further notice." Johnny's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, probably to say, "What the fuck?" but my scowl stopped him. Not one for self-control, he blurted, "tell that cocksucking Jewboy he can kiss my Sicilian ass, I wouldn't sell to him if Jesus came down and started quoting from the Koran." Rich gave me a side-long glance, a thin smile ghosting over his lips. He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and coolly glanced up at my boss. "I'll just give him the abridged version," he replied with a lethal smile. I was beginning to like this guy. As I watched him walk toward his red Impala, I slipped a hand in my pocket. My fingers gripped a piece of cardstock that had not been there before. I shook my head, deeply impressed. Might have to rethink that dinner invitation. > One poker game at Sally's, one linguini carbonara dinner at my brother and his wife's, and two legitimate cigarette transactions later, I was home, throwing my holster on the coffee table and flipping on a Puccini CD. I poured myself a Chivas. I had just settled on the leather sofa and loosened my tie, when the doorbell rang. Better be Red, I thought, still owes me a grand from OTB-- "Dom," my ex-lover said, standing there as if nothing awkward had been said or done. I had kicked him out several weeks earlier, and had Fed-exed the rest of his things to his mother's. Which I'm sure did not go over well, as he had not spoken to his mother in ten years. "Fuck, Ian," I growled, already closing the door in his face. He reached out a hand and stopped me. "Wait, Dom. We need to talk. Let me talk to you, I need--" Fuck, shit, hell, I thought. Always about his needs, the neurotic bastard. "Fuck off," I said, purposely letting the door spring open behind me. I picked up my scotch and downed it in one gulp. "I--I need a favor," he said, stepping gingerly into the room as he eyed my .38. "What else is new," I grumbled, flinging myself on the couch. I picked up the .38 and started disassembling it, watching his reaction. "I thought you were in Chicago," I said, amused by his nervous twitching. "I was." He took off his leather and neatly folded it over the chair arm. Felix Unger in buttless chaps. "My sister kicked me out, so now I'm back here at Rob's. Just 'til I find my own place." Christ. Back in Albany, where I was bound to run into him. "You still hustling?" I asked, opening the gun's cylinder and knocking the empty rounds into my hand. "Um, yeah," he said warily, as though I were a cop. We sat in silence. I grabbed new brass off the coffee table and loaded them into the chamber. I closed the cylinder with a satisfying snap. Ian winced, making me smile. I saw that a snake tattoo concealed the still-fresh gunshot wound on his left shoulder. Evidence of his manager's penchant for settling things with semi-autos. "Still with Tony?" I asked, sighting my gun-barrel in his direction. "Yeah," he replied, swallowing hard. Always one for clever conversation. I flung the .38 on the table, glaring a warning at him to stay put. "Let's go for a drink at Pauly's," he said, "on me. I need to ask you--" "For a favor," I finished for him. "Yeah, I heard you. You can forget it." "Dom--" "I already did you a favor by not killing your pimp. Why don't you ask him for help?" "I can't," he replied, staring down at his hands. "He's trying to get rid of me. I caught him paying off this Niskayuna cop, and now they're both trying to kill me." I stared as he chewed on his bottom lip, a sure sign he was genuinely worried. "Jesus," I said, "There's got to be more to it than that. How do you know they're after you?" "Tony tried to run me down with his Jeep last night. On Eastern Parkway. I fucking ran into a Stewart's and tried to call you, but--" "You didn't leave a message." "I couldn't. I left my cell home. Tony followed me, so I ran out and headed for the cemetery. You know how fast I can run, he couldn't keep up with me, and Vale's too narrow for cars. I hid in a mausoleum all night, and all day today. 'Til I came here. Please, Dom, I never meant--" "Stop," I interrupted. "Why should I help you? You almost got me killed!" Ian fidgeted with a lighter I always kept on the table. His lighter. Forgot to throw that out, fatal mistake. He reached into his back pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and leaned back into the club chair. "You should've known Tony doesn't take threats lightly." "Well, neither do I." I stood up and paced, wanting to throw him out. But his hurt puppy routine, coupled with a very real-looking shiner, had me concerned. He was 24. We had met in a gay bar on State. He sat now in my living room in a tank top that showed off his swimmer's body. The familiar thorn tattoo circled one of his biceps. His short blond hair was shaved neatly, and he smelled of soap despite his recent ordeal. "Come on, Big Man," he sighed, stretching his long legs in the chair, "Don't be mad. I really need you right now." God. Those legs that used to wrap around my neck. When I did not yet hate the sight of him. "Don't bother," I spat out, suddenly craving something like a cigarette to calm my nerves. "That doesn't work on me anymore." "I bet," he smiled, licking his lips. Flash to that night before Tony stormed the house, interrupting our love-making. Bodies sliding together, moans intermingling in the silence of our room. Fresh grief stabbed through me, clouding my vision. "Ian," I said slowly, "I can't help you. Ask your new boyfriend." Rob, the guy he threw me over for, was a bouncer at a local bar, and as unyielding as a juggernaut. "But," he said, absently stroking his stomach, "I feel safer with you." Jesus. That body. Those soulful, honey-brown eyes. That sweet, nine-inch cock. I took a breath, and shook my head. "You'd better go," I said. 
(To be continued...)
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