Vendetta

By Anthony C. Tripari

The saga of the Panarellis
Butchie, the Straffords
and with the introduction
of Dillon Doherty an Irish
American mobster make
Vendetta a must read,
offering the reader a continuing
thrilling tale into the
charted waters of anger,
vengeance, treachery and
betrayal.
Retribution for these characters and by these characters
is the only devious choice for them to make that will
eliminate the anguish they possess in their minds and
unforgiving souls

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493175253

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

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Copyright © 2014 by Anthony C. Tripari.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/22/2014

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Contents

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

DEDICATION

The family and one more addition

I dedicate this novel to my lovely wife, Elizabeth, a woman blessed with much patience and tolerance.

Our daughter Cynthia Davis and her children, our grandchildren, Erin Marie (Davis) King and Lonnie Elizabeth Davis. Cynthia’s grandchildren, our great-grandchildren, Riley Marie King and Nolan David King; Lonnie Davis’s child, Mikayla Jacklyn Russo.

Our son Marc Tripari and his wife, Cheri Kanwiboon, and his children, our grandchildren, Christopher Marc Tripari and Tamara Leigh Tripari. Marc’s granddaughter, our great-granddaughter, Lily Tripari.

Our daughter Karen Le Brun and her husband, Kenneth, and their children, our grandchildren, Lindsay and Travis Le Brun.

Our son Anthony Tripari and his wife, Cynthia, and their daughter, our granddaughter, Alexandra Elizabeth Tripari.

To those in my extended family who are near and dear to me in my heart and soul. And to my highly treasured friends that have given me their support with their kind words of encouragement, guidance, and indulgence.

In memory of my departed loved ones

My father, Simone Tripari, who passed away on March 26, 1939, at forty-nine years of age, and his soul was taken up to heaven. My mother, Alphonsina Tripari, who passed away at age seventy-five on August 28, 1970, whose soul also shares a heavenly peace with my father.

A mother who inculcated in me and to her other children the value of achieving an education, passing on to me much of my personal edification, one that I could never have received or achieved through a formal educational process.

My beloved sister, Gina Victoria Tripari Paone, who departed from our family at an early age on April 4, 1965, in her twenty-seventh year of life.

My half brother, Christopher Joseph Colizzi, who passed away at eighty years of age on August 10, 2003.

Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools.

—Albert Einstein

An Italian American raised on the streets of East Boston, Anthony (Tony) Tripari walks the walk and talks the talk. Like a tour guide he takes you through the back streets and alleys of greater Boston and introduces you to the fictional characters that lived and died there. Always with a flair for the local lingo, Tripari has you the reader enter into the inner circle where the lines between good and bad are blurred and even the demons sometimes are angels. A real American original, his stories and characters will leave you waiting for more.

—Jim Conway

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

To all of my dedicated and devoted Irish American teachers and Irish American Catholic nuns who helped me further my education, each of them performing their tasks with due diligence, dedication, commitment, and tolerance.

At the top of this list is my gratitude to my seventh- and ninth-grade home room teacher at Donald McKay Junior High School, located in East Boston, Miss Regina O’Connor. She was also my English teacher in all of my three grades while attending classes at that school. It was Miss O’Connor who passed on to me the art of penmanship and the inspiration to write.

Second, my high school senior-grade homeroom teacher at East Boston High, Thomas Murphy, was not only a masterful teacher but also a man who shared much of his innate wisdom with me, guiding me through my last year in high school.

I personally want to recognize the entire Xlibris graphic department for their efforts in assisting me in developing the design for both the front and back covers of this novel.

To all, a heartfelt thank you.

—Anthony C. Tripari

CHAPTER 1

A barely visible opaque scene emerges as three men are unmercifully, savagely physically beating up a man. The night has reached its pinnacle of darkness. The man lands onto the ground, his head smashing up against the curbing, blood gushing from his mouth, his blond hair sprinkled with droplets of blood. The three men, each standing with closed fists, stare at the lifeless male and at each other, one saying, The fucker is dead. He had it coming. Let’s get out of here. And they immediately get into a waiting car and speed off.

A woman begins the process, awakening with a loud scream. She is solely dressed wearing a pink babydoll negligee, outlining her sculptured breasts and body. The lamp on the night table illuminates the sumptuous bedroom. The woman has many droplets of sweat, mating with each other and winding down the facial cheeks of a female in distress. She, while still exiting the recesses of a slumber, shouts, No, no! Adam, get up. Come to me! Her screaming fully awakens her, and she realizes that it is only a dream and thinks to herself, Adam, where are you?

Continuing and knowing that reality has set in her brain, she ponders, Oh my God, I have been caught up in giving my total attention, clearing my name of any implications in the deaths of Dante Panarelli and Hans Von Gerhart and my attorney, that I have completely neglected my interactions with my son Adam. It has been a few days since I have seen or heard from him.

Nikki glances at the radio alarm clock on the night table and under her breath utters, Oh my God, it’s three in the morning, as she lifts the telephone receiver from its ornate cradle and dials a number. The telephone rings in a bedroom where two people’s naked bodies are sexually intertwined. The neatly appointed bedroom is located within the modest Prescott Security building. Calvin Prescott, a chronic paranoid, designed the building to his specifications and hired the best contractors to build it.

This picturesque building structure is where Nikki’s medical and security offices are located. There are a dozen bedrooms on the third floor, offering accommodations for those who work the entire weekend and too, permanent housing for a few of her chosen staff of investigators and chauffeurs and the medical staff.

Dimitri Podolov is Nikki’s personal bodyguard and chauffeur and is one who has been given the opportunity of having permanent residence on the estate. He is an extraordinary behemoth of a man and is lying beside a beautiful, naked young Mexican woman, his ashen white skin contrasting with her sheen, naked bronze-colored body.

Floria is a beautiful woman with black-pearl-colored eyes. She is young and vibrant, fully bosomed, and has a beautiful body that exudes her sexuality. Dimitri’s left forearm is tucked under the back of her neck while their lips are melded into a passionate kiss. The ringing telephone interrupts their moment of mutual passionate rapture.

Dimitri breaks away from Floria’s naked body, reaches over to the night table, and switches on the lamplight. He stares at the alarm clock on the night table, and he too notices that it is 3:00 a.m. and thinks, It can only be Nikki. Dimitri here, he softly responds, knowing the voice on the other end will be that of his boss Nikki.

Dimitri, have you seen Adam? It seems to me that a few days have passed, and I cannot recall when it was last that I either spoke to him or saw him. I just woke up from a terrible dream about him, and I am now worried.

No, madam, I too have not seen nor heard from him, but don’t be concerned. You know Adam. He is a free spirit and quite capable of taking care of himself, and I am sure he will shortly be in touch with me as he has always done in the past. Madam, please go back to sleep. My first priority in the morning will be to locate Adam.

Nikki responds, Dimitri, we need to do all that can be possibly done to locate my son. I hope he isn’t harmed in any way. Can we meet in my office later this morning, let’s say, at ten, and talk about and plan on what to do?

Yeah sure, madam, I will be there, and I am sure you have nothing to be concerned about. Adam is fine. I will see you at 10:00 a.m., and we will share our thoughts as to how to proceed looking for him if indeed he is among the missing. As I said, my thinking is that Adam is out carousing as he often does and at times telephones me as to where he is located to assure me that he is all right. I too haven’t heard from him the past few days. We will have more of a discussion when we meet later this morning.

Floria asks, "Mi amor [my love], what is that all about? as Dimitri gets back into bed, lies on his back, and turns off the lamplight. It’s Nikki, and I need to take care of a problem for her. She tells me she is concerned about Adam and that he has been missing. The time of day or night means little to her."

"Mi amor, forget Adam. I too have a problem, and I want a baby. Now? a smiling Dimitri asks. In a sultry voice, she responds, Si en este memento [right now], I want a baby girl," as Floria exotically slithers her body on top of Dimitri. Dimitri wonders to himself, Why would I want a fucking kid? I have it made here. Ah, what the hell. Heated passion rules this moment in time by man’s genetic predisposition to succumb to his primordial lust, in the process losing all of his sensibility. He and Floria lie as one on white silk sheets in a synchronized tango of lovemaking. She moans, Oh, mi amor!

CHAPTER 2

T wo flags are snapping vigorously to a brisk breeze. These are located on both sides of a large sign above the doorway of an old store located on Prince Street in Boston. It is now known as the Italian American Social Club. In the years that have passed, this store at one time sold fresh vegetables and fruits, surreptitiously, on guarded occasions, selling a gallon or two of homemade wine to trusted amici (friends).

Some of these stores were also converted into small apartments as a large number of supermarket grocery chains made their impact in the community, offering a greater selection of household items at a lesser cost, resulting in the demise of these small family—owned enterprises. This location has now been renovated into a social club.

One major requirement for an aspirant to become a member is that he must be a full-blooded Italian American male. And if that initial requirement is filled, the candidate must have a sponsor who will vouch for him. No one is allowed to enter this establishment unless they are a dues paying member.

For a brief moment, the wind subsides, and the pristine sparkling American flag and the tricolored Italian flag take a respite and quietly drape down toward the cement pavement, allowing one to fully view a multicolored signboard. The background colors of the signboard are brilliantly painted in green, white, and red colors, representing Italy’s national colors. Printed in bold letters across the billboard bottom are the words Italian American Social Club. Underneath that are the words, boldly printed in Italian, Viva Italia [Italy lives]; and below that, also in the Italian language and in small italic letters, are "I membri di fratelli italiani solo" [members only for the brothers of Italy].

Leo Spats Spattaro, the head of the Boston crime family, is sitting behind his desk and hears someone rapidly knocking on his office door of the converted store. His office is located in a back room of the Italian American Social Club. It is the meeting headquarters for the entire mob captains, where they discuss and plan all of the illegal activities that take place in Boston and in surrounding cities and towns.

Within the confines of the club and at the far end of the room, there is a small bar that is well stocked with hard liquor and a chest filled with ice-cold bottles of Budweiser. On the lower shelves of the bar, there are a number of gallons of homemade red wine and a few quart bottles containing home-produced anisette with high-proof alcohol. It is the favorite liqueur within the Italian culture, which is quite often used in spiking a cup of strong black coffee. A few round tables are scattered throughout the large room, each covered with wide colored striped tablecloths featuring the colors of the Italian flag.

Spying through a peephole that is located at eye level on the upper part of a solidly built door, he sees that it is Butchie. Spats mentally thinks, The big prick is back. It’s about time. Things and cash have not been the same since he left. Hey, Butchie, how the fuck are you? Did you get laid while you were out there? Butchie doesn’t respond. Spats doesn’t notice that Butchie’s muscular left hand is curled around the top of a brown grocery bag. Spats, there is some cash in the bag for you, to make up for when I wasn’t here it’s 25k. I figure that is what you lost when I was on the West Coast, if you know what I mean. Spats’s eyes warmly look at Butchie, and the two men embrace. Butchie, I can always depend on you.

Continuing, he says, I understand that prick Paskie was thinking over his head and bought a bullet because he became a fucking idiot, thinking he would be the next capo. What the fuck are we coming to when we can’t trust our own? I recognize he conned Desiderio, the stupid bastard. Desi got lucky when he only got wounded and dodged a bullet. He could have been whacked out.

Butchie sits down as Spats pulls out a couple of chairs from one of the tables and asks, How about a drink? Yeah, give me a shot of anisette. Spats goes to the bar and grabs a bottle of the licorice-flavored liqueur. He pours the white liquid into a couple of shot glasses, and they offer each other a salute.

Good to have you back, big guy. After some small talk, Spats says, "Listen to me, Butch, I had to bring in a new addition to our group of guys, a new soldier that moved here from Chicago. We are getting more action, and I needed someone from the outside, not only for his street smarts but also who maybe can pass on to us some new ideas.

"He took care of some small matters I need to have taken care of here. I kept his presence under wraps, restricting most of his movements in the southeastern part of the state and west of Boston near Springfield. The reason I kept him out of sight is not to have anybody speculating. You know how these fuckers think. They see a new guy, and right away, they think Butchie is on the fucking way out or going to be whacked out, especially when they heard the rumor that Paskie was contracted to snuff you out.

"He was born in Italy and came to this country as a kid. His name is Vittorio Catalano. He goes by Victor. He’s a young guy, maybe in his forties, pretty smart, and a little bit of a hothead. I know the capo out there in Chicago, Joe Gaggiano. Joe G highly recommended him to me and told me that he can be trusted, and the reason he came here is that he needed a change of ‘climate,’ if you get the drift. I teamed him up with one of your men, the Sicilian Gary Scarpa.

"Victor did a fair job, but I want you to know from the start he’s no Butchie. He might turn out to be a good soldier for us, but only time will tell. Desiderio is good when he is with you. The same goes for Scarpa. But you know Desiderio got a problem with his fucking English. He is all fucked up when he is trying to explain things to me, and I don’t have much patience. And he’s a follower. And as you know, he nearly got you killed for not figuring things out when he went to California with Paskie. Desi, he’s a good triggerman, a dependable guy, but hey, you know what I’m saying. As for Victor, I can’t introduce him to you right now. He had to go back to Chicago to clean up a few things, but he will be back.

I am the only guy in Boston who knows who he is and where he came from. Joe Gaggiano told me that there was a big misunderstanding that needed to be straightened out between Victor and a captain. Joe G didn’t want it to get back to the captain that Victor took a Dixie, leaving Chicago, fearing for his life. Joe G patched things up between the two guys. And Victor went back to Chicago to make peace, get some of his things, and come back here and start new. For now, you will fill in for Paskie as a consigliore, and later on, we will see where this all goes.

Butchie looks at Spats and says, Spats, with all due respect, the kid Desiderio is new. He needs to be polished up. Leave him to me. I will groom him. You know he will snuff out anybody we tell him to do in. As for Vittorio— Spats interrupts, Butchie, I’m not busting balls, but he likes to be called Victor. Butchie continues, Okay, I look forward to meeting him. I need to get to know him. If you say he’s okay, then he’s okay with me. You know I’ll cover his ass. I need to trust him with mine, like I did with Cosmo, making the sign of the cross. Spats asks, How about another drink? as he fills the two whiskey glasses. Yeah sure, Spats, just one more, I got a heavy fucking schedule today ahead of me—I want a clear head.

Spats sits quietly for a few seconds and then begins to reminisce. "Remember when we were younger? I know you are younger than me, but remember at the beginning of World War II. I was about sixteen, and you were about ten or eleven. The government started to put a ration on things that were needed for the armed forces. They started to issue gasoline rationing stamps. I think this is how you got mixed up with us.

Gasoline became rationed late 1942. Jimmy ‘Three Fingers’ Struzzeri had a small carton filled with counterfeit gasoline rationing stamps. There were sixteen stamps on each sheet. Remember?

Yeah, I remember, Butchie responds. Spats continues, "And we, me and you, would go out and bring those fucking phony stamps to whoever Three Fingers told us to see, and he would say, ‘Maka sura you bringa backa to me da scarola [Italian word for the vegetable escarole, the word quite often used by Italian American males as a metaphor defining hard cash]. Capisce?’ He was a ball buster, tough as tempered steel, but I liked the guy.

The government found out about the counterfeit stamps and printed new issues of the gas rationing stamps, using the same system they made and printed with U.S. dollar bills. They even had George Washington’s picture on the stamps. Three Fingers was still able to get his hands on counterfeits gas stamps.

We still made money bootlegging alcohol whiskey and all of the other stuff, the meat, sugar, and especially cigarettes that we hauled in from Canada. Ahhh, the good old days. Yeah, they were great, and we didn’t get caught. Three Fingers had all of the cops on his payroll, and those that he didn’t, he had enough on them for their wives to either divorce them or buy themselves a bullet. He was a master mafioso, and I learned a lot from him. Butchie interrupts this moment of nostalgia and says, Hey, Spats, it’s getting late. I got to go and catch up. I have been away for a while, and I got to see what is going on with my crew. He extends his hand to Spats, and the men firmly shake hands. Spats smiles and says, That was a good job you did in California. Maybe you should have been a dick (detective).

Fuck you, Spats. Let me get the fuck out of here.

CHAPTER 3

M adam, when was the last time you saw Adam? Dimitri asks as he slurps his morning black coffee down his gullet. At that same moment, Nikki places a cigarette to her lips and takes a deep drag. "That is a good question. I can’t recall when I saw him last. I do know that on weekends, he visits the Eldorado, and I suppose he picks up some bimbo that he gets to bed with him after a night of partying at the Eldorado. After all, he is a young handsome virile man, and most know him to be my son and an heir to the Prescott business empire. Any young sensuous money grabber would love to be impregnated by him and by extension extort from him a sizeable amount of cash.

I suggest you may perhaps visit the Eldorado Night Club and speak with some people there, such as the maître d. He may be able to shed some light as to when he last saw Adam, establishing a timeline. Spare no cost and use whatever methods you need to locate my son. If need be, I will inform Arthur (Lieutenant Arthur Driscoll of the Malibu Police Department) that he gives you as much assistance that he possibly can and not to interfere with you in a deleterious way.

Dimitri arrives at the Eldorado at about ten in the evening. It’s a cool evening, and the night air occasionally has drifting wafts of air tainted with a blend of cheap ladies’ perfume and cigarette smoke. The smoke emanates out of the night spot each time the front entrance door is opened. Palm branches sway with the slight breeze.

Dimitri walks past the nightclub bouncer, a former professional football player who toiled in the middle of a defensive line, a master at busting bodies of running backs. He gives Dimitri a short wave of his hand. The bouncer knows Dimitri and his connection to Adam. He has often telephoned Dimitri when Adam in a drunken stupor got completely out of control, using vulgar language and wanting to take on the bouncer and some other male studs in a fighting match, only to be knocked unconscious with a mere back hand slap on Adam’s jaw from the ex-professional football player.

It’s a Monday night, and there isn’t too much of a crowd milling about in the main lounge. Dimitri approaches Andre, the maître d. Hello, Mr. Dimitri. If you are looking for Adam, he isn’t here. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. That is why I am here. When was the last time you saw him?

He was here two weeks ago with three other guys. When he came in, he told me they are his friends. Later in the evening, I saw at different times each one of his friends leave with a young lady. Adam too left with a young beautiful woman. Andre do you know her name? I heard one of her friends call her by her first name ‘Daphine’. Can you tell me anything else? Apparently, by your questioning, you seem to be concerned about Adam’s whereabouts. May I ask why? Andre, please keep this conversation between you and me, as he places a fifty-dollar bill into Andre’s vest pocket. Adam’s mother hasn’t seen nor heard from her son for about a week or so. And you know, as a mother, she is nervously concerned about his well-being. Should you hear anything or see anything or if he shows up here, please telephone me. You know where to find