Requiem for a Gangster

By Tell-Tale Publishing

Ex-con Johnny Darrow is released from prison intending to go straight. But when he returns to the mean streets of his old neighborhood he quickly discovers that circumstances are against him. Unable to find honest employment and saddled with a reckless younger brother determined to pursue a criminal career as a means to escape his environment, Johnny soon finds himself drawn into a scheme with his gangster pal, Frank Lisanti, which, if successful, will provide him with the cash to solve his problems. However, returning to crime proves a dangerous maneuver as Johnny quickly becomes enmeshed in a web of murder and treachery with his brother becoming the pawn in a deadly game between two boyhood friends turned adversaries. Now on the run, Johnny must somehow extricate his brother from the clutches of Lisanti and his murderous mob while keeping himself free from police capture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tell-Tale Publishing
• Release date: Nov 17, 2018

Tell-Tale Publishing

Elizabeth Fortin, CEO of TT Pub is a retiree whose nickname Doc followed her into said retirement. Now, like most retirees, she is busier than ever. She has been involved in one aspect or another with the publishing industry for nearly 30 years. Once she retired she was finally able to do what she loves most, write fiction and help others with their writing careers.She often writes blog articles around branding and other writing business issues of value to both new and seasoned writers.When not writing, she can be found on her back porch with her personal editor, Hudson, (AKA Maltese), and her Irish hubby, Kenton, sipping a yummy summer concoction while watching the Sonora Desert wildlife around her small pond and waterfall, or reading as the sun rises above her beloved Santa Catalina Mountain Range.

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REQUIEM FOR A GANGSTER

STONE WALLACE

© 2018, Stone Wallace

Tell-Tale Publishing Group, LLC

Swartz Creek, MI  48437

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in an electronic system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Stone Wallace. Brief quotations may be used in literary reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Cindy (my Audrey), whose love, support and belief in whatever talents I may possess have made this and all of my previously published works possible.

Also, a special thank you to my publisher, Elizabeth Fortin, PhD. Am most proud and pleased to be associated with Tell-Tale Publishing and their fine creative and professional staff.

PROLOGUE

I knew what was coming. I should have had it figured from the start. But I trusted, and that trust blinded me. I trusted because I was desperate and saw no other way out. That desperation trapped me in a web of lies and deceit. Orchestrated by my pal. A guy I knew since we both were kids. And now this was it. The big payoff. The Fates had dealt me my final hand.

Johnny Darrow struck a match to the last Lucky Strike cigarette in the pack and drew heavily on its unfiltered end. He watched as the gray spirals of smoke drifted lazily upward before dissipating into clouds as transparent as his future.

He glanced at his wristwatch. It was nine-thirty-seven p.m. Not that the hour made any difference to him. They were just numbers on a dial. Time had no meaning to him anymore. It never really did, except when he was counting away wasted minutes in stir. Years, months, weeks – even days. All were unreal, abstract concepts. Time behind bars was measured in minutes nothing more. When he regarded time at all, it was as an enemy.

As the seconds ticked away, Johnny’s tired, rheumy eyes once more took in his dreary surroundings. A small under-lit hotel room with sparse furnishings. A plain wood coffee table, ratty upholstered chair, a dresser with a big rectangular mirror perched atop it, a night stand and a cot serving as a bed with the sheets carelessly strewn about. He observed each of these items with a resigned detachment. Only the late evening shadows that crept into the room through the thin fabric of the curtains, casting malevolent shadows across the far wall, seemed to arouse his interest. In those moments he seemed to realize that he, too, had become a shadow. No depth, little substance – and soon to be forgotten as he, too, would soon fade into the night.

His cigarette was finished and he mashed the butt into the worn surface of the coffee table. He considered the bottle of bonded bourbon that stood before him and mechanically poured himself a drink he neither wanted nor needed. But what did it matter now? He lifted the bottle in a slightly trembling hand and gulped a big swig, the liquor dribbling carelessly down the corners of his mouth. He moved to put the bottle down, then drew back his hand and ingested another swallow, wincing as its potency burned a trail down his throat.

He wasn’t really drunk, though he debated whether he wanted to be. Perhaps somehow it would drown out the oppressive silence that permeated the room. A grim and unrelenting quiet that he was unable to ease even with the persistent chattering of incomprehensible thoughts that raced through his brain.

Finally, Johnny stood up – perhaps too quickly, as he instantly felt the effects of the liquor now swirling around in his head. He swayed uncertainly for a moment before he managed to steady himself and regain his equilibrium. He moved from the chair and went over to the window, parting the curtains slightly and peering out at the rain that had begun to bead on the filmy glass, glistening translucently against the flickering glow of the neon sign that read: LANDMARK.

Then, as he turned and started to walk away from the window his shoe struck something soft, yielding – out of place with the stark harshness of the room.

His eyes slid down to the floor, coming to rest on the outstretched hand that was just barely visible in the darkness. He stared at the hand and the curled fingers that once had tenderly caressed him. His eyes slowly traveled the path of the arm to the body of the woman, sprawled motionlessly on the carpet.

Johnny observed her supine form with a stare as blank and as numb as his remembrances. And perhaps it was better that way. All emotion had drained from him. It was how it had to be. Still, that trace of human feeling that remained in him urged Johnny to lower to a crouch and once more touch the soft, warm skin of her face. Yet his expression stayed vacant as he laid gentle fingers against her cheek, his fingertips sliding toward her slightly parted lips.

He murmured not a sound, just gazed at the woman in the eerie stillness of the room. He straightened to his feet, experiencing another unpleasant rush of dizziness. And once more he glanced at his watch. Nine-forty-three. The room had gotten darker in these last few minutes.

Johnny sighed and the faint sound whispered through the room. He walked over to the coffee table and lifted the .45 automatic. He checked the magazine clip. Four bullets, just as he knew. For one crazy second, he hoped his odds would be improved. That he’d miscounted.or that by some divine intervention those empty chambers might be filled.

Four chances were all that he’d be given. He would have to make good on each one, and even so the odds were that he was a dead man. He snapped the clip back into the grip and hefted the gun, at the same time feeling a wave of sickness not attributable to the alcohol he’d consumed course through his body. He slid the automatic into his hip pocket, eager to be rid of its cold, unyielding feel – if only for a few minutes. He pulled his jacket tight around himself but saw no need to button it.  They knew he would be armed.

He moved over to the dresser and regarded his reflection in the mirror. Even in the faded light he could see that his complexion was pallid, his face drawn and marked with lines that belied his twenty-seven years. Allowing himself one moment of vanity, he moistened his fingers with the small bit of saliva he was able to draw and ran his hands through his coarse black hair, smoothing the tousled locks back over his forehead.

The moment had arrived. In one respect it was overdue.

Before he left the room, he brought himself to take another look at the woman. He was thankful that she would be spared these next horrible moments. He only hoped that once it was over she might be spared.

He locked the door from the inside and proceeded down the narrow, dimly-lit corridor, a dank hallway redolent of tobacco and stale booze. There were six rooms on this floor but not a sound was heard from within any of them. There were surely occupants, but each had probably fallen into a drunken or hopped-out stupor, either passed out or blissfully oblivious to any existence beyond their closed door.

With slow, hesitant steps Johnny approached the payphone at the end of the hallway, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing some silver. He dropped a nickel into the coin slot, hesitated again while he held himself steady, and then began dialing a number.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up. Detective Bureau. Desk Sergeant Burmeister – 

Lieutenant Tierney, Johnny cut in.

I’ll have to see if he’s in, Burmeister said.

Johnny was briefly put on hold. He was impatient. Moments later a voice came on the line. One he immediately recognized.

Tierney, the voice snapped.

Johnny breathed into the receiver. I’m calling to keep my promise.

Darrow? Tierney asked without having to.

Johnny said nothing.

Darrow, where are you? Tierney demanded.

The Landmark Hotel. On West Mulvey – 

I know where it is, Tierney said with abruptness.

I won’t be here long, Tierney, Johnny said resignedly. Got some ‘friends’ waiting for me downstairs.

No. You stay put, Darrow. I can be there in ten minutes.

Johnny sighed, Ten minutes. His voice got stronger. So long, Lieutenant. He hung up the receiver.

He paused again before walking over to the lift elevator. He pressed the ‘down’ button – and waited. Soon there was a clanking thud as the elevator began its climb to the third floor. Johnny stood motionlessly as he watched the brass indicator arrow slowly slide past the preceding numerals: ‘1’ edging toward ‘2’……finally settling on ‘3’.

Johnny swallowed dryly as the door slid open. The compartment was empty. One final hesitation before Johnny opened the metal mesh gate and stepped inside the claustrophobic confines of the elevator.

Struggling to overcome the shakiness in his hands, he pressed the button that would take him to the first floor. The door closed on its track as the mechanism rumbled into gear and the elevator began its slow descent into the shaft.

He was alone. As alone as could be. Alone – as he saw it, for the last time.

His final companion would be his thoughts, clearing of their jumble and beginning to form into a cohesive pattern. He once remembered hearing that in the final moments of one’s life the whole of one’s earthly existence passes before him. Perhaps that was what was happening with him. His first moment of clear thought was a memory. He was born in a tenement slum. The irony was that he was now preparing to die in one.

And without really wanting to remember, Johnny Darrow reflected on the events that had brought him to this moment of destiny.

CHAPTER ONE

I remember the date: April 15, 1948.

A date burned into my memory. That was the day I stepped a free man from the high walls of the Bennettsville State Prison. It should have been one of the better moments in a misspent life.

But that wasn’t the case. Hell no, not by a long shot. Frankly, I was bitter and punk sore at the world. I made no apologies for my attitude. Why should I? I’d served out the full term of my sentence without benefit of pardon or parole. I’d appeared before the parole board just once – when I was first eligible to apply. But I could tell as I stared into their sanctimonious faces that my application for early release would be denied. And they didn’t disappoint me. They didn’t want to set free another burden on society. At least that was how I saw it. No, to them it didn’t matter that my crime was of a relatively minor nature and that I’d worked hard to become a model prisoner. They’d already reached their decision and I was forced to accept it. But even as I suspected the outcome of my hearing my brain was churning. I’d serve out my time. Damned if I was going to give those self-righteous bastards another chance to determine my future.

Sure, they treated me like I was Public Enemy #1 – a threat to Dillinger. I was an accomplice on a two-bit grocery store stickup, wasn’t even picked up with a weapon in my possession, as was later attested to by a witness at the trial. But my partner had gotten away and I was left holding the bag – literally. A sack containing the princely sum of twenty-six dollars and some change. The public demanded justice at this outrage to society, and they got it – at my expense.

The fact that I’d slipped free of some earlier convictions didn’t help my case. Neither did the pleadings of my mother who tearfully told the court that I was really a good kid with a lack of opportunities who’d made a few wrong choices. I think what fried me was when she told the judge outright that she was having problems with my younger brother Raymond and that I was the only one who could straighten him out. The judge, looking over my delinquency record, obviously thought otherwise and threw the proverbial book at me. Six years in the state prison.

Throughout most of the trial, I was in a sort of emotional blackout after the verdict was read and the stern-faced judge passed sentence. His expression reflected the type of sonofabitch he was, but the way he announced the term I was to serve . . . he might as well have been handing out Halloween candy.

My only other memory was that my court-appointed lawyer looked relieved that it was over. I guess he felt he’d earned his fee. Only it didn’t come from my pocket.

Two years into my sentence my pal and partner-in-crime Frank Lisanti was apprehended. It made no difference to my case. Still, I harbored a bitterness – and maybe some envy – toward him since he’d gotten away after our ‘big time’ robbery. So, while I tried to avoid Frankie, within the confines of prison with its closed society that proved impossible – especially when I was told by another con that Frankie was both persistent and insistent on seeing me. At first I wondered why, but soon I determined his motive.

Not more than a week after his arrival at Bennetsville he accosted me in the recreation yard during exercise period.

Here’s the lowdown on Frankie. I’d known him since we were both slum kids, yet even as a street punk it wasn’t long before he developed a flashy fashion style. I and his other pals could never figure out how a tenement guy managed such a classy wardrobe. One thing you could say about Frankie, he did wear his clothes well – and somehow managed to look stylish even in his pale gray prison issue. He was still impeccably groomed, his jet-black hair neatly combed and glossy with what looked to be almost a tub of Vaseline. Frankie had personality to spare, which made him an attractive companion and compensated for his somewhat sinister appearance. He really looked like a movie gangster and I don’t doubt that was the image he tied to project. He was good-looking, but in a hard, almost predatory way. Thin-faced with prominent bone structure and a strong arched nose that wasn’t intrusive to his features, but rather complimentary. The pride of his Sicilian heritage, as he joked of it. But what always stuck out most about Frankie were his eyes. They were deep-set and cobalt blue. They were eyes that told you outright: Don’t ever mess with me. And if you were smart, you didn’t. Frankie had a hair-trigger temper and I’d seen him change from charm to rage in an instant – with or without provocation. But Frankie rarely did his own dirty work. He always had a couple of toughs with him who were more than obliging when it came to beating some poor chump’s face into a bloody pulp. One of Frankie’s sidelines was running a corner loan shark operation. As with his fancy clothing, no one knew where he got the dough to start his street enterprise. But he did pretty well with it, though a lot of those to whom he lent money were poor risks. Frankie wasn’t stupid. The way I saw it, at times he more enjoyed watching those deadbeats get their bones broke than collecting on their debt. Just part of his oftentimes ruthless personality.

Walking inside the joint with that kind of reputation, it didn’t surprise me that Frank Lisanti quickly became one of the most popular and respected guys in the prison – even among the hard-timers who generally were either suspicious or downright hostile toward the punks. But it also was assumed that Frankie was accepted into the prison elite because he was well-liked by some big-league connections on the outside. Guys that no con would want to cross.

Me, I didn’t have such friends. While I certainly was no boy scout, I didn’t harbor any deep-rooted ambition to become a career criminal. It was just through boredom, restlessness and frustration with my circumstances that I finally let Frankie talk me into joining him in his big caper.

Still, I kinda liked Frankie, although being in his company was like juggling fire and dynamite. You never knew when it might explode.

I remember the first words he spoke to me when he found me lounging against a back wall in the shade, idly watching a few cons pitching a softball in the baseball diamond.

What’d ya do with the take?  Same old Frankie, talking like a character out of a gangster movie. If ever a guy was influenced by the hardboiled images of Cagney, Bogart or Edward G. Robinson, it was Frank Lisanti.

Don’t you read the papers, Frankie? I replied. Then kidding-on-the-square, I got nabbed before I could price me that yacht.

Frankie merely shrugged. That’s the breaks. He moved over next to me. Too bad about the dough. Word I got was that there’d be close to a grand in the safe. The grocer was said to be collecting neighborhood bets for some of the big boys.

I seriously doubted Frankie’s source of information.

We never even got to the safe, I reminded him. I then asked him outright, Why’d you want to pull a punk job like that? I thought you were doing all right with your money lending.

Frankie smiled. Too many weren’t payin’ off.

I smirked. Yeah, I heard.

Frankie took out a pouch of tobacco that he sprinkled onto some rolling paper and began to build a cigarette, his slender fingers operating with smooth precision.

Y’learn by your mistakes, Frankie remarked as he struck a match against the back wall to light his smoke. I didn’t expect to be nailed on this rap. And if I did, I woulda thought it’d be you who squealed.

I tossed Frankie a dirty look. I ain’t no rat.

Frankie was quick to explain. I know that ain’t the case. Goofed up myself. Got drunk and started shootin’ my mouth off to the wrong people. You know how it is. Anyway, a lesson learned.

Frankie drew on his cigarette and let his eyes wander about the prison yard. The way I got it figured, I’m gonna get myself a good education here.

And he did. After making that first contact Frankie didn’t stay too close to me, preferring the company of the veterans and hard cases, into whose ranks he blended easily. He had a five-year term to serve, and he was going to make every minute count.

*  *  *

A day or so before my release I saw Frankie for what I hoped would be the last time. He broke away from his clique and sat himself next to me at the long table in the mess hall. He was grinning that Cheshire grin that stood in marked contrast to the grim and solemn faces of the other cons crowded around the table, and he clapped me hard on the shoulder. I didn’t know what he was so happy about; I’d heard through the prison grapevine that he’d flunked his interview with the parole board.

Well Johnny, you’re in the graduating class, he said. Thought I’d be doin’ three on a nickel rap, but the suits said I’m an incorrigible. He lifted a shoulder and said in a not quite joking manner, Who am I to argue?

I risked insulting Frankie when I said, Word is if they could have, they’d have slapped another five years on you.

Yeah, wouldn’t that be a tough break, Frankie said with a sardonic edge. He glanced about at the other cons and inflated his chest with obvious pride. Wouldn’t have said that when I first got here, though.

I spooned up some of the salty tomato water that masqueraded for soup. Some of us are born for change, Frankie.

You said it, pal, Frankie said as his eyes narrowed. And I’ll tell ya, when I do walk outta here it’s gonna be a whole different ballgame. I won’t be playin’ nobody else’s tune.

At that moment I saw that Frank Lisanti had changed. He’d made a major leap from street thug to hardened convict. There was no turning back for him now. Prison hadn’t made him repentant, it had only instilled in him the determination to make it big on the outside – and unknowingly had provided him with the right tools. If that was his attitude before the parole board – and knowing Frankie I’m sure it was – it was no big surprise he was denied early release. In truth, if I’d been sitting on the opposite side of the table I think I would have deep-sixed his application as well.

But who was I to pass judgment? Maybe I didn’t have the same game plan as Frankie, but I sure knew I wouldn’t be leaving prison with a more tolerant view of society.

*  *  *

There wasn’t a ride waiting for me when I exited those prison walls, so I picked up my small suitcase holding my meager belongings and walked the half mile or so to the highway and tried to thumb a ride to the train station.  Dumb move. As if any respectable motorist is going to pick up a guy hitchhiking just a short distance from the walls of the state prison. And so I just kept walking, and that really wasn’t a bad thing since it was my first taste of freedom in six years and I found myself enjoying the crisp spring weather. The skies were a clean and cool blue that I’d never taken the time to notice before. I even found myself receptive to the cheerful chirping of the birds that flew overhead. I was a city boy, born and bred, and never had much to do with nature. My outdoor activities were surrounded by concrete and pavement. As I continued along this walk I found that my defiant attitude was beginning to mellow. At least for the time being. In fact, I was a little disappointed when a passing car pulled over to the shoulder ahead of me and the driver offered to give me a lift. Okay, but I hoped he wouldn’t talk my ear off. I wasn’t much for conversation. Luckily, he seemed to be of the same thought. He simply asked where I was headed. I told him, and he offered to drive me all the way to the train depot.

I could feel my mood already reverting back to form.

I tried to get a little sleep