The Consultant

By Anthony A. Pellegrino

Tony, the main character, is introduced as a teenager and reaches the age of forty-five at the conclusion of the book. He is an Italian male with brown hair and brown eyes. He is a clean-cut college graduate who is employed by a mob boss.

Tonys invitation to play in a baseball game has a huge impact on his future. The game concludes when his team is attacked by a bloodthirsty gang. Tony escapes the gang of thugs by hiding in the backseat of a car that belongs to a mob boss, Mr. Guidice. He takes a liking to Tony and provides him with a menial but well-paying job. A mob hit that goes wrong results in a conversation between the two that opens the door to a bizarre arrangement.

Tony is employed by Mr. Guidice to provide plans for murders that look like accidents. He needs a cover to hide his involvement in the scheme, so he poses as a consultant in a small out-of-the-way town. Along the way, he meets an intelligent, beautiful college girl named Kate, with whom he falls deeply in love.

He manages to keep the criminal part of his life well hidden from others, especially from the love of his life. His relationship with Kate has its ups and downs and eventually falls apart. That doesnt stop him from revisiting his past years after he flees from his mob boss and his job as consultant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524538118

Anthony A. Pellegrino

Anthony Pellegrino has always had a passion for writing imaginative stories. His life's work as a professional educator prevented him from finding the time to become a full time author. Although he is now involved in a great many activities, he has found the time to pursue a lifelong dream, an author. A few harsh winters a few years back in the northeast part of the United States confined him to remain in his home for long periods of time. That allowed him the time to write four published novels, The Detective, The Consultant, Miracle Man and Nightmares in Dreamland.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a cool, crisp autumn night, and I was heading back to Brooklyn. An annoying drizzle had just stopped, and I turned off my windshield wipers. I drove across the Marine Parkway Bridge and then through a maze of streets until I reached my destination. I’m not sure what made me return to this old familiar city street. Maybe it was nostalgia calling me back. After parking my car, I stepped out and drifted down the street. I came to a stop and stood beneath a dim overhead streetlight. I turned my collar up to the wind and gazed across the street at a two-story attached brick house. It was there where I first met Kate.

My thoughts carried me back to the far-distant past. It was a weekend night, and not too much was going on. The telephone rings and I answer it.

Hello, this is Neil. Neil is my longtime best friend. He is the closest thing I have to a brother. We’ve known each other since we were children. We went to the same schools, played on the same teams, had the same likes and dislikes, and we had a great deal more in common.

What are you doing tonight? he asks.

I’m watching the flowers grow, and besides that I have plans to meet with the president for dinner, I casually reply, half-holding the phone and half-wondering whether or not I actually own a plant.

Neil, having a complete understanding of my not-so-eventful life, says, In other words, you have nothing going on. How would you like to go to a dance?

I don’t hesitate to ask where.

It is taking place at a private house in Marine Park. It’s free. A group of college girls are looking for husbands, and if nothing else, they put out a great spread of food. Are you in?

Eagerly I respond, I’ll cancel my dinner plans with the pres. Yes, I’m in.

Good, I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes. Wear something nice, not your usual set of rags. I’ll see you in a bit. Ciao. Neil hangs up, and I put on my usual set of rags.

We arrive at the house to find the party in full swing in the basement. It is tastefully decorated, and we are warmly greeted when we enter the premises. Neil, who has an aggressive personality, mingles immediately. I find a secluded corner in the room and leisurely survey my surroundings. A table is set up with lots of delicious finger foods. The beverages include soda, lots of wine, and a keg of beer. For some reason, it reminds me of a prelude to an AA meeting. Some people have already had too much to drink as they are already stumbling about. The girls are dressed to the nines, and there are two or three real beauties; the rest are not so bad either. Someone carefully selected a good many popular tunes that were perfect for slow dancing and getting acquainted. There were six or seven couples moving together slowly to the music. Some people were engaged in conversation while others were joking and fooling around. People were leaving, and some others were coming in through the doorway. I find it interesting to people-watch. There were about thirty people in the room. Most of the people at the dance were well behaved, but there were a few who stood out, especially the three members of the US Navy. One fellow who was standing across the room from me was smoking a cigarette. Although ashtrays were readily available throughout the room, he insisted on flicking his ashes onto the carpeted floor. I wonder if he did the same thing at home. In my view, he was a real slob. A few girls caught my attention too, for their robotic-type movements on the dance floor. They never smiled; they looked straight ahead, never turning their heads to the right or left. They reminded me of fashion models strolling down runways. There were people who appeared to be warm and interesting from a distance. Then there was me standing afar from anyone else. I didn’t know a single person in the room other than Neil, and I wasn’t getting any closer to meeting anyone. True, I had a lot on my mind, but maybe I was somewhat antisocial.

The girls who sponsored the parties spared no expense. The guys were more or less freeloaders, but if all went well, they would be expected to pick up the tab later on down the road. I eventually found out that the parties were arranged about once a month at a different girl’s house, and if you were attracted by one of the girls, you were invited to come to the next party scheduled for the next month. Don’t ask me how we were invited to this one. Leave it to Neil; he has a knack for finding events exactly like this. I never asked him how he does it; I just went along with the roll of the tide. Out of nowhere I spot a girl standing next to me. I hadn’t seen her approach, and that was odd because I was always very aware of anyone or anything in my surroundings.

Having a good time? she asked.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve had better nights.

Maybe I can help change that, she replied. Would you like to dance?

Standing before me was one very attractive young lady. She had jet-black shoulder-length hair. The dim light prevented me from determining the color of her eyes, but they were dark. Her complexion was as light as snow. She stood about 5½ feet high, and she wore a stunning blue dress. She also sported a beautiful smile, showing off her pearly whites.

Why not dance? I hadn’t noticed you in the room until now. Where were you hiding?

I was around, but I’ve been busy taking care of some odds and ends.

We began dancing to a slow tune that was playing. She looked directly into my eyes—nothing shy about her. Two strangers holding each other, as close to one another as any two people can be and we don’t even know each other’s names. Do you have a name?

Sure, she replied in a polite and confident manner.

Would you like to share it with me? I ask with a grin.

Why not? It’s Kate.

Glad to meet you, Kate.

And what do people call you?

Tony. People call me Tony. Sometimes some people call me by other names, but I’m too polite to mention those names. She laughs. I know it’s in bad taste to ask a lady how old she is—

But you’re going to ask me anyway. Why? she interrupts.

I want to know if you are of legal age. You look so young.

How old do you think I am?

It’s difficult to estimate, but if I were to venture a guess, I would say you’re somewhere between, let’s say, seventeen and sixty-five years old. She laughs again.

Close. I’m twenty-one years of age, I can vote, and I am of legal age. At that moment, the music stopped, and a police siren sounded. One of the girls asked for everyone’s attention.

All male occupants have been fined. Please pay $5 to the nearest girl standing by you.

Still rubbing my damaged eardrums, I say, What’s this all about, Kate?

It helps to pay the rent. We’re college girls, not working girls.

I heard the siren and I thought it was a raid. You don’t look like a policewoman to me.

That’s because I’m working undercover.

What if I want a receipt for this so-called fine?

I can happily arrange that. What is your address? I’ll be sure to mail a receipt to you.

With my glowing smile, I respond, 580 Brooklyn Avenue, Brooklyn, New York.

Look for it in the mail. She smirks.

I took out my wallet and pulled out a $10 bill and told her to keep the change. Thanks, sport. It’s very much appreciated.

I hope that buys me another dance with you.

It sure does, but it’s not solely because of your generosity.

The slow dance music started up again; we cuddled and moved to it on the dance floor. I found it quite smart of these young college ladies to find eager men in the room in the middle of such slow close movements.

Bringing her closer, I whisper, Does it seem strange to you that neither of us actually knows anything about the other, and yet we have our arms wrapped tightly around each other?

Not at all. It’s actually an excellent way to get to know someone, she replies with assurance.

No, it’s not. I can make up all sorts of things about myself, and you would never know if I was telling the truth or not. I could be a serial killer or a mass murderer. You know absolutely nothing about me. Regrettably, I think, why did I ever mention killing or murder? Those words are too close for comfort—little does she know.

Well, eventually, the truth would surface, and I would be able to tell if you were lying or not. Maybe I’ll run a security check on you. That should reveal a thing or two about you. Can we change the subject? I cut my thought off.

Certainly. I was just trying to make small talk. Besides, I could never lie to such a sweet and innocent girl who has made this night so meaningful for me. I’ve been having a very good night since you came along.

Well, thank you. She nods.

Glancing upon my wrist without a watch, I say, Wow, I had no idea it was so late. Would you like me to see you home?

Not really. Seems like a colder response than the dance we just had. I thought to myself, Strike one.

Trying to avoid a complete strikeout, I kindly reply, I couldn’t let you go out in the middle of the night without someone to protect you.

I assure you it won’t be necessary. She now has her ear-to-ear grin back again.

Why is that? I ask, puzzled.

Because I am at home. I live here.

With relief in my voice, In that case, would you see me to the door? My friend is signaling me that it’s time to go home.

She walked me to the front door and told me she had a good time too, a very good time. We looked into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, and I said, Well, good night. After that last comment, I walked to Neil’s vehicle, and we proceeded to head for home. She did not extend an invitation to attend next month’s dance, and I didn’t ask sweet Kate for her telephone number or for a date. The ride home was uneventful, and I was looking forward to some shut-eye, but I couldn’t get Kate out of my head. I had a dark side that I wasn’t proud of; it was to be kept a secret, and I would do everything in my power not to share it with anyone, especially Kate.

Chapter 2

THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I was born and raised in a nice-enough neighborhood. The people who lived there weren’t rich enough to be considered middle class, but they weren’t at the bottom of the economic barrel either. The wine-drinking Italians and the beer-drinking Irishman made up the major ethnic groups. The largest minority group was the matzo-eating Jews. A smattering of other nationalities also lived in the neighborhood. Most of the Italian wine was not store-bought. It was good wine, really good wine, and it was made in the basements and cellars of private homes. No restaurant in the world could cook like an Italian woman. They made the finest pasta dishes on earth, and the sausage and meatballs were an epicurean’s delight. The Irish, on the other hand, consumed large quantities of beer from the local pubs. Sorry to say, but Irish women were not engineered to win any contests in the kitchen. There was just one exception. Saint Patrick himself must have blessed them with his very own recipe for corned beef and cabbage. No finer homemade concoction could be found anywhere in the land. People were very generous when it came to sharing meals. Lots of invitations were extended to join the families at their tables for meals. They made you feel at home, as if you were a member of the family. The Jews, for the most part, lived in apartment dwellings, and I do believe they were responsible for the many fine restaurants that sprung up. It seemed as if they were always eating out. I’m not sure what they cooked in their kitchens if anything. The best-tasting knishes and bagels ever to be made could be found in our local delis. The kosher franks weren’t so bad either.

It seemed to me that with all the ethnic diversity in the neighborhood, most people got along very well together. It wasn’t a perfect situation mind you.

We had our bigots, and that has played out for some serious prejudice. But for the most part, we had our act together. The Irish would make fun of the Italians and vice versa, but not in a malicious way. As a group, the Jews were more sensitive, and I understood why. They were the target of persecution throughout the world for centuries, and that point was underscored after an unexpected visit and lesson in Judaism from a local rabbi. Three or four friends and I were passing by a local synagogue one day. Being the inquisitive youngsters that we were, we wondered what it was like on the inside. The front door was open, so we decided to let ourselves in. We were all familiar with the interiors of churches, but the inside of the synagogue was quite plain in comparison to the churches that we were familiar with. While reverently inspecting the Jewish house of worship, we became concerned when the rabbi appeared.

May I help you?

We’re so sorry we came into your church without first asking for permission. Our eyes were wide open with fear.

We welcome all. You meant no harm. Do you want to join the Jewish faith?

We laugh and tell him that we just wanted to see what it was like on the inside. We’ve passed your synagogue many times and heard the wonderful voices in your choir, but we could never understand the words. The rabbi then took the time to give us a brief lecture on Jewish religion and history. We were very impressed by his presentation, and when we left, we had greater appreciation for the Jewish faith and its people. He invited us to come back any time to visit. We considered the rabbi a warm and friendly human being.

There were two major Catholic churches in the neighborhood. Some of us attended the larger, more upscale modern church while others of us attended a small poor local one situated across town. Sometimes, it seemed as if people from the more moneyed parish looked down on those from the smaller, poorer local church, but it was tastefully done. Mom and Dad sent me to the parochial school attached to the larger church. It housed kindergarten through grade 8. Many of my classmates were chums who lived in close proximity to my residence, so I knew them very well.

A good many of my neighbors were first- and second-generation Americans. There were those who sounded as if they just got off the boat and others who appeared to be in this country forever. They exhibited a great deal of respect for this country and were glad to be here. In my family, the adults felt that to get ahead and be successful in this country, one would have to get into the mainstream of Americana. They thought that this could be accomplished by getting a good education and by cloaking their country of origin. Some changed their names, but their accents gave them away. They often felt discriminated against, so they decided that their children could avoid their fate by learning to speak English as businesspeople do. Although they could speak Italian fluently, they decided not to speak the language when the children were present. The final outcome was that no one could detect the nationality of the children by listening to them speak.

The area we lived in is truly a neighborhood. Many of the residents lived in the community for decades. We knew entire families for generations, grandparents, parents, and their sons and daughters, and they knew us. Total respect for the neighbors was always expected. Our people looked out for them, and they looked out for us. I remember being part of a Halloween prank. We decided to have some fun by ringing doorbells and then running away. I pushed one doorbell and then took off running, but not before Mr. Florio recognized me. I remember hearing his dreaded words, Anthony, I’m going to tell your mother. He followed through with his threat, and now Mom expected an explanation for disturbing the Florios. The respect thing had to be obeyed and honored. Mom couldn’t quite understand how I could do such a thing. But I avoided the ultimate punishment. She decided not to tell Father. That would have been a real disaster. In return, I had to promise that I would confine myself to the house after school for an entire week. It seemed so unfair at the time, and I still feel it was, but the doorbell ringing, as silly as it was, was pure fun.

The houses in the area were small but well-kept. Occasionally, one could discover a large fancy house that just didn’t seem to belong. It wasn’t uncommon to see the lady of a house hand-sweeping the sidewalks in front of her home. In the winter, the women would shovel the snow from the walks to the curbs to make paths so that people could walk safely or they would hire kids to do the job for them.

Most of the women were stay-at-home moms. They cleaned their castles, cooked hot meals, and took care of their children. Times were different back then; in most homes, the men were the absolute rulers. Sadly enough, wife-beating was an acceptable part of life in some homes. Women rarely reported these events to the police. It sort of came with the territory of matrimony. As far as I know, it never happened to any of the women in my family. However, I can recall a woman named Lee. She was one of the prettiest ladies in the neighborhood or, for that matter, any place on earth. She looked like a movie actress, and she dressed like one too. She was as neat as can be. If Lee passed me on the street, she would always greet me with a smile that would brighten my day. She stood about 5'5 tall, and I would say she weighed no more than 105 pounds soaking wet. She was married to a man nicknamed Trucks"; he was built like a sixteen-wheeler. It was rumored he was a wife beater. On one particular day, she strolled down the street wearing a pair of sunglasses with very dark lenses. As she was passing before me, she had my usual attention, and she lifted her sunglasses resting them on her forehead for just a brief moment. Lo and behold, one of her eyes was as dark as the lens that she had just uncovered her eyes with. It was a full-blown shiner with Truck’s signature on it. I felt sorry for Lee, but there was nothing in the world that I could do to help her. I will never forget the way her one beautiful eye revealed a pain that was at the same time so present yet so hidden beneath those dark glasses. A pain she shared with just me on that sunny afternoon.

By and large, the neighborhood was as safe a place as one could find anywhere in the country, but it wasn’t exactly a garden of Eden. The birth of narcotics took hold. There were people who took drugs; some became addicted, and some overdosed. The majority of residents avoided drugs. Most of the adult males were hooked on tobacco products. Very few women smoked. Then there were some teenage boys who belonged to gangs that were led by men in their midtwenties. For the most part, they were not a threat to the people living in the community. I never quite understood gang mentality. Their leaders would arrange for their members to fight members of opposing gangs. It was like a sporting event to them. So on a Friday night, about twenty to thirty members, oftentimes armed with bats and chains and at times even zip guns, would load onto a truck and proceed to a desolate place to go to war with rival gangs. The uniform of the day was a pair of black boots and a leather motorcycle jacket. They would engage in a rumble and return a few hours later sporting bruises, big egos, limping, and telling stories of glorious forays. To no surprise, most of the gang members never went on to higher education although they certainly could have used it.

The adult men and women managed to entertain themselves in various ways. After work on a Saturday or Sunday, groups of men would organize card games and play for hours. The younger men would play softball or two-hand-touch street football. The women would gather together in circles and chatter for hours. They were experts at knitting, and they would never miss a stitch while carrying on a conversation. They traded recipes for delicious meals and magnificent desserts. They invited their friends to join them for in home demonstrations of Tupperware or some other popular product of the time. They also had a passion for playing bingo. Most everyone loved going to the movies at least once a week. Thursday-night movies were extremely popular with the women because that was the night a free dish was given out with a ticket of admission. Come to the theater for thirty consecutive Thursdays, and you could obtain a full dinnerware set.

It seemed to me that everyone knew how to play a musical instrument. One could often hear a small group of men making music while they would down a cool brew or two. The woman would move to the music in very graceful dances. Many of the dances were folk dances from their respective native countries. There were times when the adults would put together a makeshift stage in someone’s backyard, inviting an audience and exhibiting local neighborhood talent. The entertainment, though not very good, was still very enjoyable. True, some individuals had pure talent, but they were far and few in between. As a teen, I remember seating in a