Ragazzo

By Gio

RAGAZZO-is an action, adventure novel with humor, comradeship, danger and romance

1927-Rocco Roselli, a gambler, will take you through the steaming streets of Little Italy in New York City; with the smells, the sights and the sounds of immigrants in crowded tenements. Theres prohibition, gangsters, bootleg whiskey and speakeasies.
Rocco is incredibly powerful as he defies the mob. Also, there are magical moments with his outrageous girlfriend Barbara Collins.


1928-Angel Dupree 19, tall and sultry, leaves New Orleans to go to New York City; alone and no money. Angel will excite you and captivate your mind and heart as she keeps you in suspense; chasing her fantasy dream and then her turbulent sizzling romance with Rocco Roselli.

1945- Nick Salerno, young and wild, lives in the Bronx, New York, with his immigrant parents. Theres tremendous energy and excitement with Nick and his friends. The characters are vividly gripping as they venture out to have fun but encounter danger. At the age 15 Nick is deflowered by Anna Koskowsky a Polish refugee. Then theres Jessica, a Negro, who knows Nick from school days.
His mother Sophia tells Nick her long held secret that devastates him.
While in the Army Nick learned to box--Thats another chapter.

Mario Salerno, Nicks father is a mystery.

The dialogue is realistically spoken with the New York flavor.
As the novel weaves together between two different eras, the scenes are vivid and the characters are captivating.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477262214

Gio

Growing up in New York, the Bronx, at the age 16, GIO, was playing baseball when he was picked by a scout to try out for the New York Yankees. He’s an accomplished high bar gymnast, also a professional boxer, studied acting and acted in plays, movies and TV. He also took a course in writing at Marymount College.

Book preview

1 

1927—New York City

During the roaring twenties we had prohibition, gangsters, bootleg whiskey, the horse and buggy, pushcarts, speakeasies, and crowded tenements that are on the lower east side of manhattan and one such building on Mott Street has a gambler in a hurry to leave his girlfriend’s apartment.

Don’t go! Stay a while longer! she whined as he hurried out of her apartment and down the three flights of stairs. She chased after him into the hallway. Come back.

Rocco Roselli looked up between the banisters and saw Barbara Collins, still naked, leaning over the railing holding her large breasts. Come back!

He shook his head in disbelief. She must be out of her mind, standing there like a real floozy. She wants him to go back; he had spent too much time with her already. There were things to do, money to be made.

Rocco continued through the narrow hallway, past the stinking garbage cans, and emerged from the doorway of a tenement building on Mott Street, looking tall, lean, and muscular.

Assaulted by the bright noonday sun, his sleepless eyes squinted as he focused on ferret-like faces of three matronly women sitting on the stoop, staring up at him. Rocco wondered if they recognized him from the neighborhood; he lived only a few blocks away on Mulberry Street. Embarrassed, he wiped his irritated, red lips with the back of his hand, lowered his head, and walked quickly past them, easily jumping the three short steps onto the sidewalk.

Rocco looked back at the women, who were leering at him with dark, accusing eyes. With their contorted faces close together, they were whispering. One was heavyset, with a mustache and long black hairs on her short, chubby legs. The other two were thin, with long faces and noses. The woman with the larger nose pointed her bony, crooked forefinger at him. "Ragazzo, her voice screeched, calling him young man in Italian. I know you; from around here somewhere. What apartment you come from, eh?"

Rocco ignored the question and turned away. If they knew he had spent the night at Barbara’s apartment, it would give them reason to whisper putana (whore) whenever they would see her. The fact that she wasn’t Italian would enhance their pleasure of gossiping even more. "Ah putana Americana!"

The women were dressed in black, as if in mourning. That was the mood of most of the inhabitants of the neighborhood: disgruntled and in turmoil over the electrocution of their two countrymen, Sacco and Vanzetti. Without conclusive evidence, the Anglo-Saxon politicians of Massachusetts had found them guilty of murder. They had also accused the two Italian immigrants of being anarchists.

Rocco was anxious to get to the Club Roma, on Mulberry Street; to gamble at poker. He felt this was going to be his lucky day. Fortunately, he was able to borrow twenty-five dollars from Barbara. She gladly offered him the money, thinking it would consummate their relationship. I have some extra money you can have. Then we’ll be partners! Of course you’ll have to give me my share of the winnings.

The only problem was Rocco hadn’t won at anything in months and owed an enormous amount of money to the wrong people. Barbara would be the last to see any kind of payback from him. The fact that he hadn’t paid back any of the borrowed money didn’t seem to bother him. Whenever he was able to accumulate some extra cash, he would get himself outfitted with some tailor-made clothes; he had a fetish for appearing prosperous. Constantly scheming, he lived from day-to-day, plotting new challenges to manipulate an income.

It hadn’t always been that way for Rocco Roselli. On the contrary, he was a hard-working man who never gambled, borrowed money, or drank alcohol. He was early to bed, ready for work the next day. But after a series of tragedies, he had concluded that working was not for him; he no longer had a purpose.

As he ambled over to the other side of Mott Street, Rocco glanced at the usual throng of customers bustling at the pushcarts lined on both sides of the street. The peddlers hawked their wares: clothing, produce, and household articles. Poor immigrants gathered around the wagons, jostling each other over bargains, shouting in foreign languages. On the crowded sidewalk he had to do a quick two-step to avoid knocking over the imported olive oil and tomato cans stacked on wooden boxes in front of a grocery store. Inside the store, hanging on display in the windows, were assorted salamis and cheeses. Kids out of school playing on the busy street, causing problems for the vendors. Mothers yelling from their windows at their children. Blankets were draped over the fire escapes to be aired.

The area was rapidly becoming the Little Italy of the Lower East Side of New York City. There had also been an influx of Russian, Polish, and Jewish immigrants who had settled on the other side of the Bowery, only three blocks east of Mott Street.

Always concerned with his image, Rocco paused in front of an empty store to check out his appearance in the window. To be regarded as well-groomed was a status symbol among the guys in the neighborhood. As he turned his head from side to side, he ran his fingers through his long, black hair with premature grey at the temples. He was only twenty-five and was known as Rocco the Count. They commonly based nick-names on physical appearances or the trade the man worked at, revealing something about the person.

When he looked closer at his reflection in the store window, he became angry upon noticing his tailor-made, sky blue slacks and navy blue silk shirt were wrinkled. He couldn’t understand how it could have happened after folding them carefully and laying them neatly on the chair beside Barbara’s bed. Rocco glanced up at Barbara’s window and was surprised to see her there, waving at him. Instinctively, he threw up his arm and waved back at her. His thoughts wandered to her full body and as she lay in bed revealing her blonde pubic area, he extended himself slowly into her. Oh, Rocco! I want you so bad! She pulled him down on top of her and locked him in her embrace till he was ready and together they moaned as they erupted, releasing hot fluids and sensuous thrills.

Barbara Collins had been casually introduced to Rocco during her first weekend engagement as an exotic dancer at Club Roma. The following weekend she had had a lengthy conversation with him and seemed overwhelmed by his charismatic personality and sex appeal. At the bar he ordered her another scotch and soda.

So Barbara, you’re from Boston. I should have known from your New England accent.

Oh really? I didn’t think it was that noticeable.

You have to be kidding. Don’t get me wrong; I love it. It gives you an air of sophistication. I mean you’re different from the others around here, kind of special.

My, my, Rocco, I’m impressed. Your line is the best one I’ve heard yet, and believe me I’ve heard quite a few from the men in here. But I must admit that I enjoy listening to your New York accent with that deep, raspy voice of yours; it’s marvelous.

His left eyebrow went up as he smiled and said, Really!

Rocco, I think we’re about to embark on a beautiful adventure of bewilderment and intrigue.

Later that evening, Barbara emerged on the dance floor as a fully mature woman. Her low-cut, red gown revealed her large breasts as she danced bewitchingly to the exotic music played by the three-piece band in the corner. With her long, blonde hair shimmering in the spotlight and with her hands on her wide hips, Barbara wiggled her rump directly in front of Rocco. He acknowledged her with a slight nod and a sly grin, confirming what she had on her mind. If only for that night, he knew she belonged to him.

From Boston, Massachusetts, Barbara Collins arrived in New York City at the age of twenty. She settled in a low-rent apartment on Mott Street, not far from Centre Street, where she acquired a job as an office clerk. At her office, she met Archibald Dewey, a thirty-five-year-old, short, heavyset attorney. He took her to the finest restaurants and bought her expensive gifts. She tolerated the unhappy affair to secure her job, but as soon as she was hired to work at the Club Roma, she broke off with him and quit her office job. The Club paid more than her office job, and the men she met there were actually a lot easier to handle than the lechers she had met in the office

When he got to Mulberry Street, Rocco saw his buddy Ralph Lo Pozzo (Crazy Ralph) Andrini pacing anxiously in front of the Club Roma. Rocco immediately assumed he must have gotten into some trouble again.

Ralph was an impulsive kind of guy; Rocco never knew what he would do next. The week before, he and Rocco had to fight their way out of Blue Bird Café on Fourteenth Street. This is a great place for food and booze, Ralph had told the two girls, trying to impress them. Besides, the boss is a friend of mine.

But by the time the waiter had finally got around to taking their order, Ralph had gone berserk. What the fuck kept you so long? I’ll teach you to keep me waiting! Ralph hit the waiter and turned over the table, causing the bouncers to rush at them.

As Rocco approached him, Ralph glared at him and threw his arms in the air. Hey, Rocco! Where the fuck ya been? I’m hanging around here all mornin’ long waiting for you, ya know what I mean? Yesterday you told me you wanted to get an early start. We had to make some money! What happened? Where were you, ya know what I mean? When I saw you weren’t home I didn’t know what to think. I mean, ya know, I got drunk last night. You think I wanted to get up early this morning? And look what time you show up! It’s after twelve! The day’s half shot! Ya know what I mean?

Rocco nodded in agreement. You’re right! I have to tell you the truth. I forgot all about it. I knew there was something in the back of my mind that kept telling me to hurry to the Club. Rocco put his arm around his friend and tried to ease the situation. Ralphie! Ralphie! Don’t be mad at me, you know I love ya. Besides, it wasn’t my fault. I was with Barbara; I spent the night at her place.

Ralph shook his head and said, I know it was hard for you to leave her after having those bazongas… big tits in your face all night!

Rocco smiled. She didn’t want me to leave, so I had to….

Holy cow! Ralph interrupted. I almost forgot! That guy Vito? Ya know, he’s always with Lucky Luciano? He wants to see you at the Siciliano Club, ya know, where Joe ‘The Boss’ Messeria hangs out.

No kidding? Wonder why? C’mon, let’s go see what he wants. Then I’d like to come back to the Club here and play some cards. I feel lucky today.

Talking about the Club, Ralph said as they started to walk, you missed it last night after closing. O’Brien, the cop, came into the Club; and you know him with a few drinks, he shoots his mouth off. He picked on Guido the Head. But he knows Guido owns the place. So why him, ya know what I mean? Well anyhow, O’Brien said to the Head, ‘Hey, wop! C’mere, I want to talk to you! Hey, greaseball, I’m talking to you! Come here when I call you!

Rocco was dumbfounded. O’Brien must have been real drunk, or else he has a death wish. Doesn’t he know that Guido killed a guy with his bare hands?

Listen to this! Ralph said as he began to whisper. The place got real quiet. Everybody had their eyes on Guido. He stared at the cop as he raised his bald head. He was mad! Ya know what I mean? When he stood up from his chair you could see he was tense. His short legs shuffled slowly up to O’Brien, and he grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and picked the cop up off the stool. Then he raised his right arm high in the air; his fist came down on O’Brien’s head like a sledgehammer! Out cold! He dropped the cop like a sack of potatoes! Then Guido told one of the guys, ‘Go get the Captain, and tell him to come and get his drunken brother-in-law before I hang him from one of those poles out in the street.’ The Captain came right away and apologized to Guido. ‘I’m sorry about this, it won’t happen again. I’m transferring him to another precinct.’ Then the Captain went over to O’Brien and kicked him. ‘Get up, you bum! I warned you the last time, you lousy drunk! Wait till I tell my sister about this. Boy, will she straighten you out!’ Everyone started to laugh.

When they turned left on Canal Street they ran into Rocco’s cousin Walter the Dentist. Hiya, Doc, they greeted him.

Walter leered at them suspiciously. What are you guys up to? Never mind; don’t answer that. Save me from heartburn. Hey Rocco, you forgot where I live? Why is it you don’t come around anymore? Hah! What happened? You know Ralph, I’m the only family he has, and yet to get him to my house is like pulling teeth. Ha-ha, get it? Pulling teeth? They just gazed at him. Forget it. You guys are slow in the head; retarded.

Walter took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Rocco, tomorrow is Sunday. I want you at my house by four o’clock for an early dinner. I’ll tell my wife, Dolly, to make an extra dish of meat balls and spaghetti.

Rocco nodded. Okay, I’ll be there, I promise.

Walter looked at Ralph. Hey coocoo, you too.

Are you crazy? On Sunday? My mother will kill me if I don’t eat with the family; and besides, nobody makes gravy like my mother, ya know what I mean?

Walter waved his hand. "Yeah, I know, Ralph. Mothers are all the same. They get us addicted to their cooking so we don’t go anywhere else to eat. Mothers know everything, don’t they? Well anyway, I’d better hurry and buy my cigars. I have a couple of patients waiting in my office.

Two old men known as Mustache Petes were sitting in front of the Siciliano Club, their forearms resting on the backs of their chairs. Their hawk-like eyes shifted constantly, on the alert for strangers nearby. They were neatly dressed, an indication that they were men of respect. No matter how old they were, if shown the slightest disrespect, offend their women or children, raise your hand at them, or use the wrong choice of words and you’d have a knife at your throat before you knew it.

They greeted the old men, "Bon giorno!" and entered the smoke-filled club. Some men are playing cards, while others stood by watching, and at another table, men are talking while having café espresso. Ralph leaned close to Rocco’s ear and whispered. Look at the pusses on these guys. Their faces look as if they’re in pain or they have to take a crap or something. There must be a sign around here: NO SMILING!

Suddenly a long, hairy arm appeared in front of them, preventing them from going any further. Who ya lookin’ for? His deep voice echoed as if he was using a megaphone.

Rocco stared at the man, who had a large head with a wide nose, almost flat against his face. Is Vito here?

The man took a few seconds to check Rocco out and then finally pointed toward the back of the room.

Vito was sitting at a table with three other men. He was medium in stature; his appearance belied his obvious power. As soon as they approached the table, Vito led Rocco away into a corner, out of earshot of the others.

I don’t want anyone else to hear what I have to say. Somebody told me you could drive a truck. Is that right, Rocco?

Yeah, sure, why do you ask?

Well, most of my guys can’t drive a truck. They only handle horse and wagons to make deliveries. I got a problem getting a driver and I have to get a load of whiskey out this afternoon. I heard you did this before and you know what you’re doin’. So do you want the job?

Yeah, sure! Of course!

After Rocco received his instructions from Vito, he glanced at Ralph, who caught his eye, and they walked out together. Rocco explained what they had to do.

Vito’s gonna be a big man around here. He’s a friend of Lucky Luciano, and he wants us to deliver a load of whiskey. Someone told him about us and so he knows we can handle ourselves. He needs a guy who can drive a truck.

Ralph rubbed his hands together. Maybe he’ll give us steady work! We could be part of his gang, ya know what I mean?

Rocco shrugged. Yeah, sure! C’mon, let’s hurry. We gotta get started.

They were standing in front of Rocco’s building next to Club Roma on Mulberry Street. Ralph, go home change your clothes, and I’ll do the same. Be back here in twenty minutes.

Rocco ran into his building and up four flights of stairs. As he entered his top-floor apartment, he reminded himself not to forget his shotgun.

Delivering bootleg whiskey was a dangerous job. There were always problems with rival gangs or desperadoes trying to hijack the trucks; it was necessary for someone to ride shotgun. Gangsters turned to bootlegging booze and acquired unbelievable amounts of money. Charlie Lucky Luciano was one who moved quickly into the ranks of the underworld, becoming a well-known figure in the neighborhood. He once said, I would rather die than be just a crumb.

Prohibition had provided the Sicilian immigrant with opportunities to reap a small fortune acquired from his knowledge of distilling whiskey and brewing beer in the hills of Sicily. Many of the stills set up in houses generated a fruitful odor of alcohol that constantly haunted the whole neighborhood. Prohibition was also the era of wild merriment known as the Roaring Twenties.

Rocco and Ralph walked around the block to a large warehouse on Mott Street. Sitting in front of it was a short, stocky man with tattooed arms folded on his barreled chest. Rocco stepped up to him. Are you the guy I’m supposed to see? Vito said you have a loaded truck I’m to take out of here.

The man took his time answering while eyeing the shotgun wrapped in a sheet clutched in Rocco’s hand. Then he moved slowly to open two large doors. He pointed at a 1919 Mack truck with hard rubber tires and a canvas top. Dere it is. Hurry up and get it outta here.

Ralph noticed two well-dressed men standing next to a black sedan watching them. He nudged Rocco, who whispered, I see them. They climbed into the truck and drove out of the warehouse.

Okay Ralph, now we go to Houston Street and unload the whiskey at the Gay Paree Club. With every turn, Rocco had to use all his strength to steer the truck.

Wow! This is some load. Good thing there’s not much traffic, or I would probably run into one of those horse and buggies.

They traveled toward their destination, crossing Grand Street and passing the Curb Exchange. Ralph pointed out the window at a group of men standing on the corner of Elizabeth and Grand.

Hey! There’s Lucky Luciano talking to those two Jewish guys. They musta hijacked a load of whiskey and are lookin’ to make a deal.

Rocco glanced over at them. That’s Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel. They have a club straight down the block on the other side of the Bowery. A gang of tough Jews.

The Exchange operated out on the street under the control of Joe the Boss Masseria and his lieutenant Charles Lucky Luciano. It was a makeshift marketplace, organized for the sole purpose of exchanging bootleg liquor. If a bootlegger was stuck with one brand, he would swap with the others for the brands he needed. The Exchange, a block away from police headquarters, became a hangout for different gangs. Many times shootouts would erupt there, causing embarrassment to the police department.

When they arrived in front of the Gay Paree, Ralph jumped off the truck, but immediately returned and grabbed the shotgun.

Rocco jerked his head around. Ralph, what happened?

Those two fuckin’ guys with the black car followed us, and they’re parked right behind the truck!

They’re Luciano’s men, protecting the load.

Ralph put the shotgun back on the seat. "Why didn’t you tell me, ya know what