''Butchie''

By Anthony C. Tripari

PEABODY, Mass. (Release Date TBD) In the grand manner of Mario Puzos The Godfather, BUTCHIE, a novel by Anthony C. Tripari, will draw readers into a complex labyrinth of crime, revenge and retribution. This literary foray into the mafia underworld is the thrilling follow-up to the events in Triparis previous book, Fast Ball.

Dante Panarelli, a player and a pawn in a sinister game of power, is killed in a motorboat explosion. The suspicious circumstances that surrounded his death left room for doubt among those he left behind. Was it an accident? Or was it a well-executed murder? Dantes uncle, Bruno Panarelli, will do anything to find out; even seek the help of Giulio Butchie Frischetti, a close friend of the Panarelli family. Intimidating and clever, Butchie is a made man who has carved his niche within Boston crime circles; leaving a trail of blood in his rise to power. Together they pick up the pieces of the puzzle behind Dantes untimely death but they must do so with extreme caution if they want to remain on top of their game.

Roiling on a narrative that is riddled with unexpected dangers and twists, "BUTCHIE" will absorb readers into a shady world governed by crime families; a world reeking with treason and where the laws of the game are constantly broken and changed. Once started, this novel will be hard to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469152530

Anthony C. Tripari

Born in East Boston, Massachusetts in 1932 the second child of immigrant Italian parents. He acquired first hand experience the difficulties his parents and other Italian émigrés had in assimilating into the American culture, customs, and in learning the English language. In 1939 just shy two months of his seventh birthday his father died on, leaving his mother as the matriarchal head of the family. By example she instilled in him as well as to her other three children to challenge themselves through out their lives. He and his wife Elizabeth have raised four children, with seven grandchildren

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE PUBLIC PAY station telephone in Butchie’s office is ringing. Butchie has just arrived and hustles, running up the one flight of staircase to open the door leading into his office. The only people who have the telephone number are guys who are connected, thinking out loud, Who the fuck is this that’s going to bust them this early in the morning? He is always early as he wants to get a head start on all of the days betting and other illegal activities, but this call was a little bit early for him.

Sal Casserta, the former deceased capo, once ran this office; and Butchie took over once Sal became deceased. It was immaculately clean, newly painted, and furnished. And yet one could still smell the residual smoke from Sal’s constant smoking of Italian imported stogies (Italian cigar twisted like a rope and having the appearance of a cat’s stool) somehow emanating from the four walls. Yeah, who’s this? he scowls.

A man with an anxious-sounding voice is on the other end of the telephone line and answers, It’s me, Bruno. My heart is fucking broken. You will never believe what the fuck happened on the West Coast. My nephew Dante is fucking dead. He got killed. His fucking boat exploded with him in it. I hope somebody from here didn’t fucking wipe him out.

An astonished Butchie responds, Whoa, whoa, you got to be shitting me. I know no one from here is involved. I would know. I sit well with Spats.

Yeah, I know you’re right. I’m just thinking out loud, you know. Butch, my brother Frank has now lost two sons, two Panarellis’, and I think I’m going to lose him too. He’s got a weak heart, you know.

I’m gonna head out to the West Coast. You want to come?

Yeah, sure. Let me get a couple things straightened out and I’ll go with you.

Growing up on Webster Street, in the Jeffries Point section of East Boston, Giulio Butchie Frischetti is a made man within the Boston crime scene and a tough street fighter. He deals out his form of justice whenever an occasion arises; he is the judge, the jury, and at times, the executioner. Although huge in stature and his face scarred after many brawls, he remains a handsome-looking Italian-bred American man.

At birth, he weighed in at nearly fifteen pounds. With the size of his body, he is able to enforce any rule that he puts into effect. A behemoth of the male species, he is an intimidating man featuring two menacing fists. He walked the pavements of East Boston’s Jeffries Point section as if he were a medieval knight never fearing anyone. His legs are often referred as being the size of fire hydrants.

He towers in stature over other native-born Italian American males in height and weight, and no one would dare test the courage of his heart. Butchie is also known for his fairness and having that incredible inner moral compass to do what is right.

As he walked on the streets throughout the neighborhood, smiling Old Italian women would great him with a Buono salute´, figlio bella. Good health, beautiful son.

These old folks knew that Butchie would take care of anything that would befall any of them. Butchie always had time for these old ladies, often helping them across snow-bound streets and carrying their shopping bags. He is melted marshmallow when he met them. Of course, they had heard of the event when he nearly killed a street hood attempting to steal a purse from one of their paisans (friends from Italy), Lucia Panarelli; and with the passing of time, the tale grew in dimension each time it was a subject of conversation.

Butchie became a made man once he disposed of Sal Casserta, who was a captain in the mob and ran all of the businesses on the north shore of Boston. His office is located on Sumner Street in East Boston. Sal reported to Leo Spattaro.

Leo Spats Spattaro lives on Prince Street in the North End of Boston and heads up the New England crime family. Butchie is well known throughout the crime syndicate in the northeast and in New York City. Spats didn’t have much love for Sal Casserta, and he was obliged to make Sal a made member, a captain because Sal was a third cousin.

I’ll never fucking do that again, he once confided to his consigliere, Sammy Paskie Pasqualino. I’ll move anyone I want to because I want to, not because I owe somebody a fucking favor. Fuck that, that’s fucking bullshit.

Butchie is a good fit for Spats, and Spats has a lot of confidence in Butchie. The confidence is reinforced with Spats when Butchie eliminated not only Sal Casserta but also Charley the Toy Bulldog Silvestri and Rosario Ross Rizzo.

He tells Paskie, Butchie is a genius with a high IQ. I couldn’t have made a better plan. He wiped them all out with one blast, and he didn’t take the fall with the cops. Unbelievable! He continues, Who knows, Paskie? Someday he might be the number one capo.

Fuck you, Spats. I’m in line, and don’t fuck me around!

Leo Spattaro is a well-built man, always on the alert for anything that might go wrong. He got his nickname Spats as a kid, shining the shoes of many of the wise guys. The old-timers would summon Spats by sending one of their runners looking for him on Hanover Street in the North End of Boston, the arguably debated crime headquarters of New England. The runner nearly always could find Spats plying his early trade of polishing men’s shoes. The old mustachioed Mafia Petes would order the runner, Go get that faulkenor kid Spattaro, you know Spats, I wanna shinna the shooze.

Spats is found guilty of a murder conspiracy charge back in the early forties. He was sentenced to twenty-five years in state prison and was paroled after serving fifteen years. He went to jail when he was in his early twenties. He and four of his street compatriots had to settle a score with an Irish/American gang member operating in Charlestown.

The bookie is a small-time hood that convinced his boss in Charlestown he could book numbers and take bets on horses in the North End of Boston. The North End and the rest of Boston belonged to the Italian wise guys. However, they left Charlestown and South Boston to the Irish gangs. This attempted infiltration into the North End rackets is not welcomed by the old-world Italian capo. The Italians here from the old country had decided to deal effectively with these Irashe bastas (Italian slang for Irish bastards).

Spats, a young kid, is working for and under the old now retired capo Jimmy Three Fingers Struzzeri and is ordered by Three Fingers along with four other foot soldiers to take care of le Irashe (Italian slang for the Irishman). Spats’s role is to be the lookout guy and to point out the victim.

On one dark night, at about 1:30 a.m., the intended hit leaves a bar in the North Station area of Boston on Causeway Street. He then proceeds to walk across the Charlestown Bridge, heading back into Charlestown. Spats, standing on the opposite corner of the street, gives the signal to his compatriots by lighting a wooden match that reflects a faint glow in the dark to his four partners. He also keeps a watchful eye for the law. The two of the four men repeatedly stab the rival hood as he is being held in the grasp of the two other men. The man collapses, and his bleeding dead body is picked up from the ground and thrown into the Mystic River.

Bernard Benny Farts Matranga is one of the men who are in on the killing. Benny was always in trouble with the law and is the first suspect the police question. It doesn’t take long for him to fold, especially when an eyewitness came forward with a licensed plate number of a car parked near the scene of the crime. The car is registered to a well-known felon, Bernard Francis Matranga.

Under heavy questioning, Benny panics and caves in when he is told by the investigative team that he could serve life if he is proven to be one of the killers. Knowing that he isn’t one of the killers, he chooses to become a witness for the prosecution, turning state evidence on his pals and, in doing so, was given a lighter jail sentence.

Spats inwardly vowed to get even with Benny Farts and arranged for Benny to get killed. It was fairly simple to get Benny eliminated as all of the indicted killers will serve time in the Massachusetts State Penitentiary. The court assures Benny that he would be protected in prison. Nevertheless, Benny is always on the alert, keeping an eye out for those who were physically near him and ready to have the angel Gabriel summon him.

The prisoners are all returning from their recreation hour, and Benny is among them. He drops his guard for a split second, and then it happens. Up on the third tier of cells, a prison-cleaning crew is scrubbing the floor down with mops. Walking to their cells, a group of prisoners begin a squabble among themselves. One is armed with a shiv (a prison-made rudimentary knife or blade). The squabble is a ploy as the remainder of the convicts including Benny stop to see what is occurring. The men in the staged battle scuffle their way next to Benny.

Benny immediately realizes what is taking place and attempts to avoid the battling men and the flashing steel shiv. He knowingly begins to back up to the black-painted pipe guard railing as the assassins move in for an attempted killing. There is a bit more soap than usual mixed in the floor-washing solution. Benny’s rubber-soled shoes helped him slip over the rail, arms flaying in the air, similar to the wings of an eagle attempting to get airborne. He air surfs down three floors, hitting the floor with a thud. Blood begins to exit Benny’s mouth, and eerily, his opened eyes seem to follow the thin path of blood flowing and coiling its way into a floor drain.

The shiv is hand passed from one inmate to another and magically finds its way down to the first tier of prison cells and handed to the guard who is on Spatsie’s payroll and paid to take care of Spatsie’s crew while they serve time. The turncoat guard takes the shiv and slips into the inside of his leg boots. The convicts retreat to their cells, and the prison officials investigating the death concluded that Benny’s death was an accident. The men involved in the scuffle were found guilty of fighting, and each of them was sent to solitary confinement for thirty days.

Sammy Paskie Pasqualino, as a young kid, is always hanging around the pool hall owned by Spats. He ran errands for Spats, often taking bets on horses and numbers on the streets in the North End. Spats also trusted him to bring payoff money to those that hit a number or had winnings coming from betting on a horse race. Paskie often visited Spats in prison, and he would carry back any and all messages about running the family business to the other made guys.

Paskie is a sneaky street battler. He harbors aspirations in succeeding Spats as capo once Spats is retired. He is stockily built. His waist is quite trim, and like most young Italian American men, he had an ambition to enter the boxing game as a light heavyweight fighter. He soon realized that the capos had complete control as to who the winner is going to be in each boxing contest. Paskie early on opted to be on the right side of the equation, that being on the capo’s side of the fight game enterprise.

Paskie’s favorite method of punishment is by forming his two fingers of his right hand into a V position. When he got mad or irritated, in a lightning-fast motion, he would slam a left-hand body blow right into the gut of his prey; and in a flash, he would jam the two V-shaped fingers into the eyes of his prey. While his victim is crouched and his hands are cupped over each eye, with lightning speed and with closed fists, Paskie would then swing his fists simultaneously in a circular motion toward the victim’s ears. The inner part of his fist, led by the outer knuckle of Paskie’s thumbs, makes a volatile impact upon contact with the intended victim’s eardrums. The ringing in the man’s ears equaled the sounding of bells at the Notre Dame Cathedral in France. The punishment isn’t over. The pain immediately ceases in both the eyes and ears of the unfortunate slob with a well-placed kick from Paskie that relocates the testicles of the beaten-up man. I got earwax on my thumbs from the last guy I hit that way, a warning he gave each time he confronted an intended miscreant.

CHAPTER 2

GEORGE ATKINSON, NIKKI’S private attorney, gently lifts a small replica of a black stallion’s wrought iron head by its bridle, releasing it ever so gingerly, as it softly resonates on a huge rose-stained oak door of Nikki’s mansion. Horace, her butler, quietly opens the door and informs George that Nikki will see him in the library.

The chime on an antique Simon Willard tall-case clock in the foyer leading to the library begins its ritual of alerting everyone within hearing distance that the tenth hour of the morning as arrived.

You’re late, and why? an uncontrolled Nikki asks.

I got caught up in traffic. There was an auto accident on the Pacific Coast Highway, a sheepish George replies.

Nikki, standing in the back of her desk, is still attired in her nearly sheer nightgown. It is all contrived as she is supremely aware that it drives George completely out of any sexual inhibitions and or restraints that his brain has stored within its inventory.

An impatient Nikki asks, You called for this morning’s meeting. What is it you wish to talk about? And make it quick!

In a reserved tone of voice, George starts out saying, He’s gone, referring to Dante Panarelli, and you know that I have expressed my sorrow to you in your loss of a man that you deeply loved. Can I do anything to mitigate the sorrowfulness you harbor in your heart?

What sorrow what are you referring to? How in hell do you know how or what I feel in my heart?

I suppose what I’m asking is what about us? Can we…

What? Now what? answers an outwardly irate Nikki, parroting George. What are you trying to say? Spit it out, I don’t have time to waste.

Well, you and I, can we, I mean… can I renew, um, uh, our past relationship, me and you?

Nikki’s negligee loosens up as she walks from behind her desk, exposing more of the valley of flesh in her cleavage to face and tease George. George cannot resist her taunting advances while his baby-making mechanism is working overtime and waiting for a command to execute its purpose. And yet within the marrow of his bones, he knows that as he views her full pink-fleshed bosom, his chances or having any notion of a sexual liaison with her is far-flung. And his sexuality will continue to be in a frustration mode, his body informing him that he will only be relieved of his seminal fluid by paying the price for a professional prostitute, thinking, I hope she is available tonight.

George is being brought back to reality by Nikki with a disparaging tone in her voice and shouting, What relationship! We had sex, and it was a pleasure for you and somewhat pleasurable for me, and that’s it. I heavily compensate you for your services as my personal attorney, a premium at that, and if I choose to terminate our professional relationship, I will. Continuing, "You are not bound, nor I am, to any contractual understanding for your services, and that’s it. Find someone else to screw!

As for Dante, he was a player if not a pawn in the grown up game of life, and he lost. There will be other men in my life, but for now, I need to get through his loss. Let people come to their own conclusions as to what were the circumstances that led to his tragic death. For me, it’s the end of one chapter in my life as I have lost a husband (Chris Strafford) and Dante, the love of my life. That will be all George. I will get in touch with you if I need you. Good day.

George excuses himself and exits the estate, walking by Horace who displays a stoic look on his face. Out in the air, he strides toward his Mercedes Benz convertible knowing that any chance of him having a relationship with Nikki is next to impossible. For the moment, he has reached a point where lovemaking with another woman will be his only biological orgasmic relief, consoling himself and thinking out loud, I’ll call the hooker.

In the intervening time, Nikki returns to sit at her desk. The telephone begins to ring. She answers the phone before her butler Horace can pick up the extension located on chiseled, white Italian granite, marble table, in the foyer.

On the other end of the line, there is a male voice, a deep resonate voice. Hey, I know who killed Dante. What will you pay me for that information?

Nikki astoundingly answers, What? What did you say?

You heard me. I know who killed Dante. What will you pay me for that information?

Who is this? Who are you? What the hell are you talking about?

Think about it, sweetheart, and I will get in contact with you. Trust me. I know what I am talking about, and don’t have your investigators or the police get involved. Instantly heard is the ominous sound of a telephone click.

Nikki lowers the telephone, and in the deadening silence of her large office, a feint dial tone can be heard. Nikki slowly moves her right hand, hanging up the telephone.

Meanwhile, back in Santa Monica, Connie sporadically grieves as she still hasn’t come to grips that Dante’s horrific death was due to a malfunctioning speedboat engine. Her vengeance is directed toward Nikki. In a jealous rage, she feels that Nikki played a role in the accidental death of her beloved husband. She is thinking, Nikki will pay for anything she wants, even having someone killed.

Connie is attired in elegantly designed tight-fitting black dress, sits in her living room, and still unable to comprehend the sudden turn of circumstances. Her mind is on a nomadic journey, wandering into various unwanted past events and curious destinations in her life; and yet her pragmatic intelligence has been activated as she attempts to head off the repressed anger harbored in her psychosis.

Mother, Mother, Maria beckons as she stands at the door, What are we to do now that dad is gone?

Maria, come here, and sit with me, Connie says as she pats the sofa seat, and then opening up her arms offering an embrace.

Maria and her mother hug while a few crystal