The Life and Times of Sammy Santello

“Rocco. Rocky, baby. Wake up. You’re dreaming again. Wake up, honey.”

My wife’s voice sounded far away, like she was calling from some empty place, dark and distant. I had a hard time focusing on her voice, my attention being diverted toward another dark, far away place, my right hand reaching into that darkness, and my own voice drowning out my wife’s pleas as I called over and again, “Sammy. Sammy! Come back. Sammy….”

My wife, Victoria, rested her hand upon my chest and lowered her face to mine, whispering, “Wake up, baby. You’re havin’ a dream, talking in your sleep. Wake up—please. Sammy’s not here anymore. Sammy’s gone.”

“Sammy’s gone? Gone where?”

“Honey, Sammy’s been gone a long time. A long, long time.”

I opened my eyes and in our pre-dawn bedroom I saw Victoria’s face as it had looked nearly fifty years earlier when we were young, all of us young; Victoria, me. Sammy. Gradually, I returned to the present moment with Victoria’s face close to mine; I saw the toll that her almost eighty years on this earth had taken, the same wear and tear I knew appeared on my own face. We’d lived a long time. Sammy never reached twenty-eight.

# # #

Sammy Santello and I were born June 20, 1949. He never let me forget he’d arrived five hours earlier. We’d been best friends since we wore diapers. Our families lived next door to each other, and as I would discover, our families were part of, well, la familia. We lived in a mostly working-class city, in a modest Italian neighborhood of tidy single-family homes, all bought and paid for through the hard work of our fathers and our fathers’ fathers. It wasn’t the suburbs, but still a longish bus ride to the riverfront docks, railyards, and factories. You could walk downtown and find two upscale department stores, plus Kresge’s and Woolworths. We had two movie theaters, a record store, a couple of liquor stores, fancy restaurants, coffee shops as well as the city jail, law offices and banks. And everything else a downtown should have.

Our close-knit residential neighborhood had a small business section with Righetti’s grocery, Manatto’s Meats and Cheese store, a tailor, a shoemaker and TV repair, Phil’s Barber Shop and a doctor who made house calls. Cinelli’s Bakery, of course, and two good Italian Restaurants—Panetta’s and Diamante’s. There were bars and “social clubs” and espresso cafes. And the infamous Lucky Louie’s Lounge.

My pops owned Riccio’s Hardware and Sammy’s dad ran a coffee shop/luncheonette he called Café Santello, which doubled as a bookie joint. The basement served as one of several locales for floating poker and craps games. My pops had a few sidelines going as well.

As a kid, I never thought of our dads as “wise guys” but as nice guys, good guys. Neither they nor most of their paisans seemed like anything other than straight-up business owners or working men to me. Nobody wore thousand-dollar suits or those tacky sweatsuits that once were a thing. Hardly a shoulder holster and snub nose .38 to be seen. Sure, a few guys could’ve been gangsters. Mostly, to me, they looked regular. Some were handsome; some athletic; others wore pockmarked cheeks or carried a well-inflated spare tire around the waistline. Nobody sported gold chains; few drove expensive cars. The exception—Big Dom Fenella drove a new white Cadillac convertible every year and wore a diamond pinky ring on his right-hand pinky finger with a longish, perfectly manicured fingernail at its end. I’d just turned ten when Sammy filled me in on why Fenella kept that long, perfectly sculpted nail that way.

To my innocent eyes, if a guy worked in a grocery store, he looked like a guy who stocked shelves and bagged groceries. If a guy fixed cars, he’d have grease under his unmanicured fingernails. Dom Fenella, on the other hand, looked like he never worked a day in his life; he wore tailored suits, Italian shoes, and got a weekly hair trim and manicure. I didn’t know what Dom Fenella did. Sammy thought Big Dom was hot stuff. Sammy swore, “Someday, I’m gonna be bigger than Fenella; bigger and richer and I’m gonna run everything.” Whatever that meant.

Growing up, Sammy and I lived a regular childhood; played kids’ games, teased girls, caused our share of trouble. We were altar boys and shoplifted everything from candy to cigarettes to 45-RPM records. One day in Manatto’s Market, Sammy stuffed a half-a-gabagool into his jacket. Outside, when I saw it, I went back and stole a loaf of fresh bread and a jar of roasted red peppers. In summer we played Little League ball and each fall, Pop Warner. I played varsity shortstop in high school, but Sammy quit school in tenth grade.

Sometimes we’d work for Sammy’s dad, bussing tables or washing dishes, or we’d help pops stock shelves or sweep the store. When we were old enough to not screw up, we’d do some real “family” stuff, like answer the corner pay phone when Chickenhead called in bets for the ponies or the numbers.

When we started hanging out nights on street corners or around the joints—Lucky Louie’s Lounge or the “social clubs”—the places where business got done over a drink or an espresso and a card game, I wasn’t so naïve anymore and recognized men for who they were: the “made guys,” the “soldiers,” and the wanna-bees—young hoods desperate to make their bones. We’d deliver messages, wash the made guys’ cars or sometimes drop off paper bags stuffed with cash. We never asked questions. We made a good buck.

You learned early and fast to not ask much and to say less. When I was about five, my Nonna warned me, “Tieni gli occhi e orecchie aperti e la bocca chiusa.” My pops who never said much translated, “Never say nuthin’ to nobody.”

# # #

Hanging around the bars and social clubs felt adventurous and dangerous. I liked that the men didn’t treat us like kids. Liked hearing their stories about the old days and old timers. I’d laugh at their dirty jokes, even ones I didn’t understand yet.

At fifteen years-old, Sammy dove deep into thug life. He’d idolized movie gangsters; transferred that idolatry to our neighborhood conmen, shylocks, gamblers and thieves. He’d imitate the way those guys walked and talked, and those guys liked him for respecting them. He wanted to be like them. But better. As Sammy put it, “Worser!”

Sammy and I got into our share of scrapes; knock-down-drag-outs behind the school gym or bloody ball busters in vacant lots with thugs from other neighborhoods. I fought because I had to. Sammy fought because he liked fighting, liked winning, got off on making a guy cry “uncle.” When the guy cried, Sammy’d stomp him anyway. Sammy began by looking for trouble but graduated to making trouble everywhere. I reached a point where I’d had enough, but Sammy and I were best friends, so I hung in for a while until….

# # #

One day, Pietro del Monaco, an enforcer from the big city showed up. He did la familia’s dirty work. Understand, that while we all belonged to the “family,” our big city “relatives” treated most of us like raggedy ass poor cousins. Pietro del Monaco’s appearance put everybody on edge. The boss in the city sent Pietro del Monaco upstate to “tighten things up.” He stuck his hands in everything. His word was law. Almost everybody hated him.

In our neighborhood, guys got roughed up if they didn’t pay up or screwed up. Guys could get messed up for lots of reasons, but there didn’t seem to be much reason for Pietro del Monaco’s kind of enforcement where we lived. Nonetheless, one day we woke up and there he stood. A huge, looming creature, brutish, with a face incapable of smiling. I never saw his joyless eyes blink. Once, I gave him a day-old racing form. He glared at me and I almost shit my pants. But Sammy latched on to him like a stray dog begging for handouts. And for Sammy, Pietro had handouts to give. They became peas in a pod.

More than anything about Pietro, Sammy admired the brute’s capacity for cruelty, and the Colt .45 M1911 A1 semi-auto pistol the brute carried.

One night at Lucky Louie’s, Pietro del Monaco told Sammy, “You’re in my crew now. You belong to me.”

At sixteen, Sammy believed this guaranteed his future.

Sammy felt like Pietro’s right hand, bestowed with authority, power. Sammy enjoyed the prestige, the power. It didn’t take long before Sammy realized the power wasn’t his.

# # #

About a year later, we were like seventeen, I ran into a pissed off Sammy on my way to pick up cannoli for my moms.

“What’s up, Sammy?”

“Son of a bitch del Monaco.”

I said nothing.

“Look at this.”

Sammy pulled a small, nickel-plated revolver from his pocket—so small I thought he’d shown me a toy. He showed me three .22 rimfire bullets.

“Told him I wanted a gun. He gave me this piece of shit. Told me to go learn how to use this before I talked about getting a man’s gun.”

“Maybe he wants you to slow your roll. Take things one step at a time. Maybe he’s, you know, concerned about that temper of yours.”

“I’ll show him temper.”

“You’re gonna get your chance. Here he comes. I gotta go. Calm down before he gets here.”

# # #

I’d just finished Sunday supper with my folks, getting ready for espresso and cannoli, when the phone rang.

“Rocco—don’t say nuthin’. I need a ride, but not your car or your old man’s. Boost one, something plain and come get me.”

He said he’d be waiting near a roadside phone booth on Route 20, about fifteen miles east of the 7 & 20 junction.

It took thirty minutes to find a suitable ride and another forty to reach the phone booth. I pulled off the road and waited in the dark. Sammy slipped out from behind a closed tire store.

“What the fuck, Sammy?”

“Drive.”

About a mile from our neighborhood, I stashed the car in an alley. As we walked toward Sammy’s house, he pulled a Colt .45 semi-auto from behind his back.

“How’s this for a gun?”

“Jeezus. Pietro give you that?”

“You could say.”

“Huh?”

“That fucker laughed at me. Said he’d been busting my balls with the .22. Putting me in my place. Asked if I knew where we could shoot without anybody hearing so he could teach me. He let me drive and I took him to Cappy’s junk yard. He showed me how to take the gun apart and put it together. How to load it. He fired off some rounds; hit everything he aimed at. Then, handed me the gun. I fired a couple shots, turned toward the big man and emptied the magazine.”

“Ma che diavolo....”

“Here’s the best part. Nearly gave myself a hernia loading that fat chooch into his car. Took keys from Cappy’s office and fired up the forklift, raised the car onto that enormous flattner thing. Figuring how to work that busted my balls, but I did it. Picked the crushed wreck up with the forklift again and dumped the car way in the back of the lot. Niente più, Pietro. Addio per sempre.”

“You better hope so. You killed a made fucking guy. No matter who your father is, you’re a dead man. Even God won’t save you. And you brought me into it. Phoned my house! Got me to drive you, now you’re telling me everything—I can’t even plead ignorance. I’m as dead as you are. You fucking asshole. You wanna talk about goodbye forever—that’s you and me. Don’t want to see you, hear you, even hear about you. Finito.”

The next day I told my pops, “I want out of what you call ‘the life,’ la familia. Of the store—everything. I’ve gotta get away—far away.”

“Aspetta. Che cosa c'è? What happened?”

“I can’t tell you, pops. It’s a loyalty thing. That fucking Omerta thing, I think. But somebody did something and dragged me into it, and …. Damn! I’m screwed.”

“Something about the Big Guy?”

“If word’s out, I gotta disappear—before I disappear.”

“Vai piano,” pops said. “Yeah. A shit storm’s coming. But slow down. First—

Bocca chiusa, capito? The worst thing is you take off. Makes you look guilty. Puts a target on your back. They’ll hunt you. Stay home a few days, paint the garage.”

Pops called a civilian friend with a paving business, saying I didn’t want to sell tools anymore, but use them, work with them. Build things. His buddy took me on as an apprentice.

I gave Sammy a wide berth.

# # #

I graduated high school in ’67 and registered for the Draft. Sammy’s dad found a doctor who got Sammy classified 4-F. I guess pops could have done the same for me, but he said if I wanted out of the Army, I could go to college and get deferred. I figured if I ever went to college, the government could pay on that G.I Bill thing. And enlisting got me far away. Thinking myself a tough guy, not once did I imagine what a cluster-fuck Vietnam would be. By the time I got back stateside, I thought I’d seen every horrible, horrifying thing that human beings could do to each other. I’d yet to learn that human cruelty has no limits. Anywhere.

# # #

As I settled back into civilian life, I needed my family, my real family, so I lived at home and worked with my pops selling hardware and doing those tedious side jobs I’d once thought so glamorous. Being back in the life made me look legit, so nobody would think suspicious thoughts about me, about my absence.

Among other jobs, I kept track of the non-hardware store merchandise in my pops’ warehouses—everything from TVs and stereos to dishwashers to truckloads of booze and cigarettes, racks of ladies’ dresses and coats, men’s expensive suits—and how every day that illicit inventory would like magic grow or shrink.

Then there were the card games and craps games pops had me watch over, and the daily drives around the city to pick up betting slips.

One day I realized that in three years I’d been away, the downstate boss let Pietro’s disappearance simmer on a back burner. Seemed if anybody in the neighborhood knew what became of the brute and his .45, nobody ever talked. The day Pietro died, he didn’t have one friend. It puzzled me, haunted me that the big boss never replaced Pietro.

On a numbers run one afternoon I saw a figure, partly in shadow, sauntering toward me. As the figure drew closer, I recognized Sammy; but not my boyhood buddy Sammy. This guy was dressed to the nines. Gray sharkskin suit, pale blue silk shirt, pale rose necktie and a shoeshine you could see your reflection in. He must have owned a Brylcreem factory the way his raven black hair had been slicked down.

That night, we went to Lucky Louie’s for drinks.

“You won’t believe the broads there,” Sammy boasted.

When we walked in everybody greeted Sammy. Some guys knew me and nodded. Sammy took me to Dom Fenella, Jr.’s table and said to Junior, “You know Rocky’s old man. Rocky’s a friend of mine.”

We drank for hours and the guys told jokes and busted each other’s balls. Some of them danced with different girls. Those guys were lousy dancers, but the girls pretended not to mind. Sammy alternately gladhanded or bullied one person or another.

Eventually, I had to hit the head, so, acknowledging Dom, Jr. I excused myself. Sammy said, “Hold up. I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

Standing at the urinals, Sammy pulled his piece.

“Jeezus, Sammy—what the fuck?”

Sammy laughed, a lunatic laugh. “You didn’t think?”

Hell yeah. Exactly what I thought. Being the only person who knew about Pietro del Monaco, friend or no friend, my existence threatened Sammy.

He held out the former Pietro del Monaco’s Colt .45 semi-auto.

“You crazy fuck. You’re carrying that piece around for everybody to see? You killed a made guy. Everybody at that table’s got to know where that gun came from.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. I’m in with these guys. I’m in so good that I’m gonna marry Dom Fenella’s daughter Marisa.”

“But still….”

“I’m in with these guys because I have this gun, because I used this gun. They respect me because they know I’ll use it. Since I offed that pig Pietro, I’ve clipped eighteen other guys. People who don’t respect me, fear me. I don’t have a worry in this fuckin’ world.”

Next morning I had breakfast with pops and told him about Sammy. Told him how Sammy waved del Monaco’s .45 around, how he bragged about his hits.

“Yeah,” pops answered. “He’s a natural born killer. Some guys he clipped were nobody—civilians. A guy walking on the street. Somebody who beat him to a parking spot. Never knew ‘em. Never had orders to pull the trigger. Bosses think he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s good at contract hits. He’s a good earner. Took over Cappy’s car theft thing. Never pinched for the murders. He’s led a charmed life—so far. But some day—it won’t be the cops who get him. Keep your distance.”

The next day I went back to my paving job.

Sammy took me to lunch a few times, and I’d see him when I stopped for an espresso and he’d pop in to do business. He’d bust my chops about working with a paving company, getting my hands dirty when easier money could be had. I’d say how doing small things for pops was enough for me. I liked working outside, liked working with my hands. Once I said, “And the dirt I work with is clean dirt.” You should have seen his face. Reminded me of the shit my pants look I once got from Pietro del Monaco.

# # #

Years passed. Sammy married into the Fenella family, believing more than ever he’d be bigger and worser than old Dom. Of course he cheated like a dog on poor Marisa, screwing one goomadah after another. Always thinking he’d be a made guy once la familia reopened “the books” for membership. But he waited and when nothing happened he got more frustrated every day. He made trouble. Brazen heists. Beat schleps almost to death who were late paying small debts. And he couldn’t keep that .45 in his pants.

The day before his twenty-eighth birthday, Sammy, all excited, found me, said, “Rocco—finally those fuckers are gonna give me what I deserve. The bastards opened their books a year ago, but only now my name came up. Tonight’s my night. By tomorrow, my birthday no less, I’ll be a made guy.”

“Congratulations, Sammy.”

We embraced. Kissed cheeks.

“Now all I need is for Dom, Jr. to have, you know, an accident, and I’m set for life.”

We stopped for a couple shots. I said I had to go. Business for pops. Sammy said he had to pick out the just right suit for the occasion.

# # #

That night, just before midnight, I got a call. I heard my boss say, “Got a rush concrete job; got to lay a patio tonight.”

“Who pours concrete in the dark?

“Just get here.” He gave the address: Sammy’s father’s place.

The old man had been expanding to make a classy trattoria with a patio in the back, you know, the alfresco thing. Why did he need it done that night?

I drove up behind the luncheonette. Sammy’s dad wasn’t there. I saw my boss. Then Dom, Sr. stepped out from the darkness and said, “Bundle’s in the trunk.”

Dom, Jr., half in shadow, stood next to the Caddy; flashed me a psychotic grin. Fingered the .38 in his waistband. When my boss and I lifted the dead weight, I saw the face—what was left of it. “Sammy. You dumb fuck.”

Junior sneered.

“Why under his dad’s patio?”

Senior said, “Mouth shut. Dig a hole. Dump the body. Fill it in. Lay the concrete.”

The Fenellas left.

I dug the hole. I removed the crucifix I wore on a chain around my neck and tucked it inside the bundle as close as I could get to Sammy’s heart. He wasn't wearing a suit. I covered his face—what was left of it. We dropped him in the hole. The cement mixer rumbled behind us.

I shoveled the last bit of dirt. “Sammy, you got made alright—made dead.”

I stared into the pitch-black dirt patch and watched darkness devour Sammy. I reached out my hand. “Sammy,” I said. “Come back.”

Boss said, “Concrete’s ready.”

BIO: Nick Di Carlo has careened about this planet for almost eight decades, and wonders if his next stumble might take him to the edge of his journey. He's taught writing and literature in universities on both coasts as well as on wilderness treks and in New York's Maximum Security Correctional facilities. His writing has been influenced by many of his own experiences and some colorful characters he's encountered. Read his work in The Muleskinner Journal, Literary Garage, The Orange Rose Literary Magazine, BULL, Shotgun Honey, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, and The Yard.

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