STRAYZ

“Ready?” she asks, before pressing play on the voice recorder.

The prisoner pulls the oxygen mask from his face and throws it on the table. The wrinkles in his caramel-colored, weathered skin, fold around his mouth as he cracks a smile. He runs his hands through his tightly curled, salt and pepper-colored hair, slicking it back, before reaching for the box of Tasty-Kakes. Slowly, he opens the box and removes a pack. He flips the plastic wrapped Krimpet over and begins lightly rubbing the butterscotch frosted top on the steel table, in a clockwise motion, before unwrapping it.

The woman stares at him curiously before glancing down at her watch and speaking into the voice recorder. “It is 10:32 am, December 11th, 2050. I’m Violet Reed with the New York Times, on record. This is the first interview of eight with notorious gang leader and former Italian mafia member, Michael Scarpato, also known as Mickey Bats, Mickey the Moolie and most famously, Don Mulignan.”

Mickey laughs and nearly chokes on the sponge cake, coughing. His voice is raspy and coarse.

Violet reaches down into her bag. This time she pulls out a can of Pepsi Cola, pops the top and places it on the table.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Mr. Scarpato.” says Violet.

“Yea, yea, whatever youse want… but you know the deal, no ticky-no washy.” says Mickey as he wags his pointer finger.

“I will hold up my end, if you do, Mr. Scarpato. You will get the locket after our final interview.” says Violet earnestly.

The old man grins and packs a box of cigarettes against his palm.

“Tell me about your family.”

“My father was Rocco “The Rebel” Scarpato. He was a real street kid, ya understand? After nonno got wacked he didn’t have two nickels to rub together… ugatz. So, he joined the service and started boxin’. They called him the “Broad Street Bully”.” says Mickey as he pulls the cellophane from the cigarette box.

“When did he get into organized crime?” Violet asks.

“He’d say, he was born a gangster. He had a legionary spirit…his heart pumped Roman blood. That’s what made him a good General, ya understand? When that stunod, LBJ, declared “War on Crime” …my ol’ man took that personally. He turned the Philadelphia faction of La Cosa Nostra into the fuckin’ Navy Seals, excuse my language. Angelo Bruno named him Underboss, so he commanded our Militia. He marched them to Washington and took the Capitol in ’65. As youse know, that was the turnin’ point in the war. History was written, the bad guys won… Seventy years of lawlessness, kicked off by our 37th President, Carlo Gambino.” Mickey sparks a cigarette.

Violet finishes scribbling into her notebook and finally looks up at Mickey. “There’s no denying your father was a very accomplished man. How did he influence the Commission to allow you to be sworn into La Cosa Nostra, as a Made Man… being that you are half black?

“My father took that secret to the grave. I found out in ’93, I was twenty-somethin’. My Ma passed, givin’ birth to me. My ol’ man said, Sicilians were darker, and I never gave it a second thought. Plus, I had his hair.” Mickey said with a smile.

Violet takes a moment to process and then writes something in her notebook. “Interesting… let’s talk Strayz. Can you tell me about how you were introduced to the street gang? Maybe take us through your first day or initiation.”

For the first time, the frail man sits up straight in his wheelchair. He cracks his knuckles then takes a deep breath.

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A giant man with hulking arms and fists like cinderblocks skipped up the stoop of his modest, South Philly, row home and fiddled with his keys at the door.

“YOO ROCCO! APPRECIATE THE FIREWORKS, MY KIDS ARE HAVIN’ A BALL!” hollered one of the neighbors from across the street.

“AAYY BOBBAY! NO PROBLEM, JUST DON’T BURN DOWN MY NEIGHBAHOOD!” shouted Rocco with a laugh.

He walked into the house, threw his keys on the end table then headed straight back into the kitchen.

“Mickey, get down here, we’re gonna be late. You got the tickets, right?” he yelled as he cracked a beer and shut the refrigerator door.

“Madone! Come on kid, how do ya forget the fuckin’ ice?” he said to himself as he pulled a note from a magnet on the freezer door.

After changing into his Lenny Dykstra, Phillies jersey, Rocco stood in front of the mirror at his dresser, meticulously combing back his gray curls. The sound of booming fireworks rang outside his window and made him jump. He laughed to himself as he heard the front door open.

He yelled down to his son, “Yo Mickey, your ol’ man almost just shit himse…”

To his disbelief, two men wearing ski masks, toting sawed off shotguns kicked in his bedroom door and filed in. Before Rocco could make a move, one of the gunmen fired a shot that blew his left leg off at the knee. The other gunmen followed suite and blasted off his right leg at the thigh, his hamstrings flew like streamers through the air.

“You cocksuckas got some balls, don’t youse… LO SONO IL DIAVALO, mothafuckas! I’ll see youse in hell.” cursed Rocco as he rolled around in a pool of his own blood, writhing in pain.

The two men stepped over the obliterated legs to get closer. They raised their guns at the same time, and both aimed for the head. They blew his head and neck clean off his body, leaving the walls and dresser painted with his blood and brains before they dropped their guns and turned to flee.

Meanwhile, a burly, hard-nosed looking man with a barrel chest and tan caramel skin skipped up the stoop and dropped a bag of ice on the porch, as he searched his pockets for his key.

His neighbor, old lady Russo, yelled over the deafening fireworks. “HEY MIC” …

Mickey jetted inside to avoid conversation. To his surprise, two masked men were barreling down his steps at full speed. Without hesitation, he picked up the wooden Louisville Slugger, that has been propped up next to his front door since Little League.

Mickey met the intruders as they reached the landing. He took a full cut at the first man’s kneecap. His fibula splintered, piercing through his skin like a spike, dropping him like the first domino. The second man scrambled to his feet and yanked off the ski mask, limiting his vision. When his eyes met Mickey’s, the color drained from his face and his lip started to quiver, as if he had seen a ghost.

Both men stood silent, waiting for the other to make a move.

“He was like a father to you.” said Mickey, with a lump in his throat.

He stepped to the side and lowered his bat as if he were submitting. The man made a run for it. The moment his hand touched the brass doorknob Mickey turned around and cracked him in the back of the head with his bat. After he fell, Mickey clobbered him repeatedly, caving in his skull. He took a few deep breaths then wiped the splattered blood from his face and walked over to the man with the shattered leg, screaming as he tried to crawl away.

Mickey put his blood-stained white sneaker on the man’s throat. As his face turned blue, Mickey lifted his foot then stomped on his windpipe, crushing it like a can. For the next few minutes, Mickey baseball batted the man’s legs as he choked for air and suffocated to death.

Breathing heavily, he walked up the steps and into his father’s bedroom. He glanced around the room then down to the area rug where his body was left. He stood in a puddle of his blood and said a silent prayer over his dismembered bloody carcass. He touched his hand to his forehead, heart, then shoulders, “Amen.” he whispered.

Mickey rolled the remains of Rocco’s body up in the rug. He took a knee and began pulling up lose floorboards. He reached into the stash spot and pulled out two black duffel bags and an old tin box. First, he unzipped the duffel bags. The first was packed tight with fat wads of cash bound by rubber bands. The second was loaded with guns; 2 Mac 10s, 3 micro-Uzis, and a snub nose .38 special. Before zipping the bags closed, Mickey took the .38 and tucked it in the back of his waistband.

He carried the bags and tin down the steps and into the kitchen. Before sitting down and opening the tin box, Mickey took a beer from the fridge and chugged half of it. He sat down at his kitchen table, for the last time and popped the lid off the rusted tin. Then he pulled a note from the box.

Mickey,

If somethin happens to me call this number and ask for Moe. You can trust him…he’s BLOOD. If I’m dead, then THE FAMILY can’t be trusted nomore…NOBODY. Hit our stash houses before they do. Remember what I always said, Swing for the fences… no matter the count. I love ya Kid.

-Your Ol’ Man

Following Rocco’s instructions, Mickey picked up the cordless phone from the kitchen table and dialed. The phone only rang once before being answered.

“Is ugh, Moe there?” Mickey said timidly.

He heard no response, just the sound of a click and then the dial tone. Mickey slammed down the phone and sat back down in his chair to finish his beer. He reached back into the tin and shuffled through some old polaroid pictures. Buried under the pictures was a golden, heart shaped locket. Inside, was a picture of a teenage Rocco and a beautiful young black woman. Mickey knew immediately that this was his mother. She was even more beautiful than he imagined.

The sounds of revving motorcycle engines pulled Mickey from his trance. He reached into the duffel and drew the Mac 10 before he crept to the window and peeked through the curtains. Six men with black bomber jackets parked their bikes out front. Mickey shattered his window with the extended magazine clip fixed to the butt of his gun and squatted at the windowsill.

“YO JERKOFFS, DO YOURSELVES A FAVOR… GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!” screamed Mickey.

The leader removed his bike helmet. His brown, bald head was shiny, and his beard was full and sharply outlined.

“Nephew! That’s no way to greet your Uncle Moe.” said the man lightly.

He walked up the steps alone, with his hands up. “They comin’ for yo black ass… grab yo shit.”

Mickey did as he was told, heeding his father’s last piece of advice.

Moe led the group through the gangland, ruled by mobsters, divided by race. Past the penitentiary, now detaining politicians and police. Through China Town, humming with junkies and prostitutes and down the abandoned Chestnut Street subway entrance to the tunnels. After zipping around in the dark, they suddenly stop. Headlights reveal a giant garage, jam-packed with motorbikes.

“Let’s walk.” said Moe.

He opened a giant vaulted door and Mickey stepped through. Grandiose chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The walls of the tunnels were lined with rooms, housing hundreds of people. They walked through the bustling common space and into a quiet room.

“These tunnels represent freedom. Carved out by runaway slaves. Then cleaned up by yo grandpop, durin’ prohibition, for bootleggin’. Now it’s home base for the mutts, the outcasts…the Strayz.” said Moe.

“So what now?” asked Mickey.

“Your baptism.” said Moe.

Dozens of pumped-up Strayz filed in for Mickey’s initiation. Surrounded, outnumbered and down in the count, Mickey started swinging for the fences.

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As Violet scribbles, Mickey slips some cigarettes into the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

She looks up,” I’ll see you next week, Mr. Scarpato…good work today.”