A Gangsters Life Ch 01

A Gangster's Life #1

Author's Notes: There is racial, sexist, offensive, discriminatory language, discriminatory behavior, and discriminatory actions in this series. As well as dated stereotypes, insensitive opinions, and ignorant beliefs. These are not in my story to glorify them, justify them, excuse them, or explain them as anything other than wrong. These things are in my story as they are examples of the period of time this series will be set across. I in no way believe in, endorse, condone, or encourage such. They were wrong then and they are wrong now. If any of the above offends you, you have been warned.

Author's Notes: While this story's characters will reference and sometimes interact with real life historical figures, all the main characters of the story are of my own creation. As well as most places, such as restaurants, that will feature prominently in my story. I am endeavoring to avoid some of the historical inaccuracies that have been pointed out in my 'On the Sea' series. I will do my best.

Thank you all for reading!!

Chapter 1: The Made Mountain Man

1938

As rain poured down from the sky above, a taxi pulled up beside a diner on the outskirts of Queens New York. I stepped out of the taxi, quickly putting my hat on and dashing into the diner. The diner, a non-descript placed named 'Good Eats', could have been any one of a thousand diners, bars, or restaurants across NYC's five boroughs. I entered the diner. A cute blonde waitress came right up to me. "What can I get ya?" she asked. She was a native New York broad with that accent.

"Just a booth and a coffee for now. I'm waiting for someone. Yes to milk and sugar," I added as she was clearly going to ask. I took off my hat and raincoat so I could hang them up. I was led to a table and the waitress left to get my coffee. There were only two other people here besides her. One was an old man at the bar, clearly some lifelong laborer on his lunch break. The other was a brunette woman at the other end of the diner, who looked like she'd had a miserable day.

The waitress returned with my coffee. She lingered as I put milk and sugar in. She was blue eyed, perky, and pretty full breasted from what I could see. She caught my my eye and said "so who are you waiting for?"

"A friend," was my reply.

"You're way too fancy for this place," she said taking in my appearance. I was wearing a tailor made suit of midnight blue with white cuffs, polished black shoes, and a red tie. My hat and raincoat were of the same midnight blue color.

"I admit I don't get out this way much," I said to her. "I work in the city."

"What do you do?"

"I work in the District Attorney's office."

"Oh a lawyer! No wonder you dress well. You get paid."

I chuckled. "I'm a prosecutor ma'am. We don't make quite as much as the lawyers you're imagining. We're still civil employees."

"I bet it's more than the three bucks a day I barely make. And that's only if I get tipped!"

I took the hint at once. I pulled my wallet out of my suit jacket and pulled out a twenty. Handing it to her I said "for your trouble ma'am."

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't that much. Truthfully, I shouldn't have handed her a twenty. But it couldn't be more obvious she was interested in me, even if it was only because she assumed I was well off. But she was cute, attractive, and if I'm honest my job doesn't leave me much time for catting around, if you know what I mean. I ran a hand through my brown hair and gave her a smile. She pocketed the twenty and said to me with batting eyes, "I'm Caroline. I get off at eight."

"I'm Thomas. And honestly I have no idea how long I'll be here. But I'll remember when you get off." And hope you can get me off, I added mentally.

"Who're you meeting, fancy Tommy?"

"A friend."

"Who's this friend?"

Before I could answer, the diner door opened and Caroline gave a little gasp. Into the Good Eats walked the largest human being she had ever seen. Hell, he was the largest human I'D ever seen myself, and I'm six-foot-two! This guy towered over the few others in the diner. He had to be close to seven feet tall. In a custom made black suit and raincoat that probably cost more than this diner's entire earnings for a month. He took off his hat to reveal jet black hair that was greying at the temples slightly.

His face wasn't deeply lined but it had a look of someone who'd seen a lot. Like one of my bosses that was a Great War veteran, he had that same look. The huge man looked at Caroline. "Coffee. Black." She nodded almost fearfully and scooted away. He sat down across from me. With his raincoat gone it was obvious he was not just tall, he was ripped physically. This guy looked like three hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle. His shirt and cuffs were immaculate.

I could see a gold chain in his breast pocket. Caroline came back with his coffee and made to ask what we wanted to eat but the huge man gave her a 'go away' look and she scurried off like a mouse running from a cat. He turned his gaze on me. His eyes were black and hard, making me think of coal mines. "Thanks for coming, councilor," he said to me.

"You're welcome," I replied. "And since this is informal, you can call me Tommy."

"Names can be dangerous, you know."

"Why? Is yours dangerous?"

"You have no idea."

"You're right I don't." I leaned back, watching him down his black coffee easily. I've never been able to stomach coffee black with nothing in it. But this guy looked like he ate cows whole, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised he could handle black coffee. I went on. "I was working in my office yesterday when I got a strange phone call about someone who could quote 'tell me everything I ever wanted to hear' about Derrick Cavizerrie's organization. Wouldn't give me his name. Wouldn't say any more. Just said 'come to Good Eats in Queens tomorrow if you want to know. Bring a notebook', then hung up on me. I had half a mind to think it was a prank call."

"Yet here you are."

"Yet here I am," I agreed. I took a drink of my own coffee. Caroline offered the tall man a refill, which he accepted without looking at her. Then she darted off to tend to the miserable looking woman at the other end of the bar. "So," I went on. "Who are you? Why is your name so dangerous?"

"My name is Lorenzo Scalabrini."

The name got my attention. I knew through my contacts at the NYPD that Lorenzo Scalabrini was a 'person of interest' in the NYPD's ongoing investigations into criminal organizations within the city. But not that he was the size of a dammed mountain. And how did this guy know me? "Okay," I said, suddenly wishing a cop would wander by on his beat. But with the rain, there were no beat cops on foot around. Especially this far out in Queens. "I give you that, Mr. Scalabrini. You name is pretty dangerous."

"You can call me Scal, Tommy."

"Very well Scal. You called me. You told me you had information. I'm here. So talk."

"It's not that simple, councilor."

"Make it simple then."

"I'm not sure making it simple is possible. Just talking to you is, well, let's just say there are rules to my organization. And talking to cops, or ambitions ADA's like you, is against all the rules."

He knew my actual job title. That worried me somewhat. He knew a lot about me. Whereas I only knew what was rumored about him. And those rumors were not friendly stuff! "So why do it?"

"I have my reasons. It would be better if know one knew it was me. I talk to you-"

"If you think you can remain off-the-record, I might as well leave now."

"Councilor, do you think I reached out without knowing I'd have to go on record?" he asked me witheringly. "You fucks in the DA's office have been trying to nail Cavizerrie and all the others for years without much success. Yes, some of the big boys went down. Capone and Luciano for example. I hate to break it to you councilor, getting those guys didn't stop business from booming. Far from it. Nobody you've pinched has talked. I'm willing to talk."

"You are?" I asked.

"Yes," said Scal. "I'm willing to give you genuine insight into how the hell my organization works, and how far the various organizations reach! And let me tell you, Mr. Assistant District Attorney Thomas Mason, it reaches higher than anyone knows."

I leaned back, not reacting to his use of my full name. This sounded to good to be true. "You're referring to the rumors of organized crime being country-wide instead of local affairs."

"Exactly. I know J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI deny it. He has to. If it became public how far the organization reached in spite of his efforts to deny it that fact that it exists, he'd have to resign."

In spite of myself, I leaned forward, truly interested for the first time. "And how far does it go?"

"The cops. The newspapers. The highest circles of society. Your office. The mayor's office. The governor's office. Probably right up to Roosevelt's office for all I know! Never mind how many hands we've got in so many businesses in the this city itself!"

"You have my attention, Scal. I'm listening."

"I'm sure you are," said Scal downing his second black coffee.

"Mr. Scalabrini, if you are prepared to talk on record and aid the city in ending this Cavizerrie business, we can protect you."

That made him laugh, which was a big booming sound. The old man at the bar glanced at us briefly. "I just told you we have cops and people in various offices who's job it is to tip off the families if someone talks. Or if you guys are getting too close to something. You really think you can protect me?"

"What choice do you have?"

"This ain't my only choice, councilor. I can leave, buy a boat ticket, and be on a beach in South America. Or cross into Canada."

"Then why did you reach out to me Scal?

For the first time, he didn't have a reply right away. When he finally spoke his voice shook. "Because they cost me everything. I gave them everything I had. Did everything they wanted me to do. They said I was family. Derrick Cavizerrie called me the son he never had. We had it all. Then they all got greedy. That destroyed the family bond. Justified turning on me by saying I turned on them! That's why I'm doing this. To fuck all of them like they did to me."

"Who's 'we'? Who's 'they'? I need more than hints." I asked.

"This is a long story, councilor. And if you want to hear it, you hear it my way. In order. From the beginning."

"I understand," I replied.

"And you don't tell nobody about this," said Scal waving a ham-like hand in front of me. "Nobody. The Cavizerrie's are looking for me. None of the other families would stand up for me. The Cavizerries find me, I'm dead! And your case against them is dead with me." He waited until he got my nod, then resumed speaking. "You got something to take notes?"

"I remember what you said," I said pulling the notebook out of my rain coat. I grabbed my favorite pen from my chest pocket. "I'm ready, Scal."

He watched me for a second then leaned back himself, relaxing for the first time. "This is the story of how I wound up made in La Cosa Nostra."

"I'm sorry, your story of what?"

"Ah, I forget you're not Italian or Sicilian. That's the old-world name for what families like the Cavizerrie's do. I'll use the more common name, the name of the group that megalomaniac Hoover denies exists. You can call us the Mafia."

Chapter 2: Getting Ready For Dinner

1920

So my story begins almost twenty years ago. Well, obviously it begins further back than that but you want my time in the Mafia, don't you councilor? No don't interrupt, I said you get story this my way. I'll tell you when you can ask questions. I, Lorenzo Scalabrini, was born in 1895. My mother was American. My father was an immigrant Italian from Rome itself, who hadn't even gotten full America citizenship yet. They met in '92. He was tall, like me, handsome, like I was before time and Mafia life started catching up with me. She was tall too, for a woman. She was just under six feet herself, unusual in women. So that explains my height, which in case you were wondering is seven-foot and a half.

I'm actually taller than my old man, who topped out at about six-foot ten. He charmed her with his size, old Italian manners and customs, and her believing he was a divine blessing from the holy city itself. She was a devout Catholic, you see. She loved the idea of someone being born close to God's chosen on Earth, the Pope. He was born in Subura, the dregs of the city. Supposedly Julius Cesar lived there. If the history books are true that is. Sorry, I'm digressing.

There was nothing divine about him, except his size. Same goes for me. Her family did not approve. Her father was some kind of mid level banker and thought my father was after his money. I don't know. Once my parents married we had little interaction with her family. My father's name was Leonardo and my mother's name was Ethel. They married in '94. I was born the year later.

I grew up in one of the many immigrant neighborhoods in New York City. Irish, Italian, Jewish, and more besides. Only thing missing were the blacks. They were all up in Harlem. My father was comforted that despite our immigrant status, we weren't bottom of the barrel. The blacks were. To this day I don't understand why we them like shit. But I've long given up trying to figure it out.

My father started working in the city, and came to the attentions of certain nefarious individuals for all the same reasons I did later on. He was Italian, huge, looked like he could stop a horse, and had a brain. Not as good a brain as me, I will say. My mother insisted I get educated. And while her family didn't approve of her marriage, they didn't completely cut her off financially. So I went to decent schools, learned my letters and numbers, all that shit. She wasn't stupid though.

Eventually Ethel Scalabrini figured out her husband wasn't what he appeared to be. But she stayed with him. I like to believe it was real love between them. Why else would she endure the hardships?

Those nefarious individuals my father worked for? They would eventually become serious names and bosses of their own families. Derrick Cavizerrie. Antonio Clemente. Enrico Tomassino. Guys that would be on the Commission. Oops, shouldn't have mentioned that. We're a ways off from that. More on that later, councilor. Point is my father knew these guys when they were all young men. Hell, he even met a younger Arnold Rothstein. You remember him right? The guy who fixed the 1919 World Series? My father worked for the boys that would become the big boys later on. So he knew them all.

I grew up happy. Between his job and my mother's meager income from her otherwise uncaring parents, I didn't want for much. We never made enough money to get out of the immigrant neighborhoods but otherwise everything was good. I turned eighteen in 1913 and my father wanted us to go visit the old country. He'd saved enough money for it.

I would later find out his 'savings' had actually been a payment for him to go to Rome and whack somebody who owed Cavizerrie a lot of money and skipped town without paying, then do some 'business' with the 'businessmen' there for a couple of years. So we began a three year trip to the old country. I met my Italian grandparents, saw all the historical places all the tourists go to see. I wish I still had those pictures. But they're gone. Like so many other things.

If you know your history, you know what came next. The Great War broke out in the summer of 1914. Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Russia declared war on Austira-Hungary in response. Germany declares war on Russia. Russia, France, and Britain declare war on Germany and Austria-Hungary. All hell breaks loose. I can tell you weren't old enough to remember the war, councilor. You look like you were a kid during the 1910's.

My father, possessed with a patriotism I'd never seen of him before, insisted we stay in Italy. Eventually Italy entered the war, and my father and I both signed up. My father had dual citizenship at that point. I did not. But the recruiters didn't ask when we arrived. They needed men to fight the Austrians. They didn't care that we were so both so big they had to order special uniforms for us.

My mother didn't want me to go but I was old enough so she couldn't stop me. It was the only time my mother ever fought with me. She fought with my dad all the time. But not me. She believed in me. 'Lorenzo,' she'd say to me. 'You're not like your father. You're not going to spend your life as a muscleman. You're going to be something!' I took her words to heart. But back to the war.

You know all the horror stories you hear about the Great War? I saw them first hand. The debacles in the field where we got smashed by the dammed Aurstrians. Specifically at Caporetto. What a fucking nightmare that was. I won't go into all the details but the battle was a disaster for the Italian army. Mussolini used Caporetto and the horror the Italian army went through to get himself into power just a few years after the war ended. My father was killed at Caporetto.

I was hit but survived. I spent the rest of the war in a hospital bed. Once the Austria-Hungary collapsed, things quieted on the Italian front. My mother and I were able to get home after Armistace Day. Given what happened to Italy after the war ended, we got out just in time.

We returned home to find things had changed. My mother's family had fallen afoul of President Wilson's sedation act that made it basically treason speak against the war. The cops could arrest you just for saying you didn't like the war if they wanted to. So much for the right of free speech! My grandfather lost his job at the bank for a short while, and thus my mother's family income was gone.

Not that it mattered. Her family didn't acknowledge me, so I wouldn't get anything once she died. Even when he got rehired by the back in '19, he didn't send her another cent. My grandfather didn't even come to her funeral, even though he paid for it. He got his though. The bank eventually went belly-up in 1929 like so many others did. He died shortly afterward and left everything to my half-brother, who has since lost it all. My mother and I were on our own.

Then I lost my mother to the Spanish Flu. So in five years I'd turned eighteen, seen the old world, fought in a war that destroyed said old world, been wounded, lost my father, come home to nothing, then lost my mother. To her dying breath my mother still believed in me. Didn't change the fact that I was all alone. Then, as if I wasn't miserable enough, this damn country passed Prohibition in 1920. So I couldn't even get a fucking drink!

All right. That's my life before the following events. Here's where the story that you want to hear really begins.

It was June first, 1920. I was leaving my apartment for work. As I locked the door behind me I turned to see the last person I wanted to talk to. The landlord, a prick named Mickey Duka. He was a small, weasel of a man. He looked the personal typist of someone in some office. His hair was so slick it could have oiled a car engine. "Today's the first of the month, Scally-Boy," he said.

I glowered. I told most to call me Scal. Scally-Boy made me sound like a fairy. "I know it's the first," I replied. "I can read a calendar."

"Rent's due."

"I thought rent was due on the tenth?"

"New policy."

My glower only intensified. This place was the same apartment I'd grown up in. The old landlord, Mickey's father, was a more reasonable man who had always been friendly with my father. Probably because he knew who my father rubbed shoulders with. But late last year Mickey's father died and this piece of shit in front of me became landlord. Since then he'd increased monthly rent and claimed it was due to rising expenses, cut people little slack if they were late on rent, and evicted three tenants in the middle of winter. These where his all part of the 'new policy' he was talking about. Apparently he wanted some of the lifelong tenants out so he could renovate the place and then charge even higher rents.