Howling At the Moon: The Southern Ladies Mafia Goes Abroad

By Jack R. Sparacino

Join renegade corporate attorney Carla "String Bean" D'Andrea and the Southern Ladies Mafia as they wreak havoc and mayhem in the US and overseas. Buckle up for a wild ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887311401

Book preview

HOWLING AT THE MOON

The Southern Ladies Mafia Goes Abroad

JACK R. SPARACINO

Copyright © 2022 Jack R. Sparacino

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2022

ISBN 979-8-88731-139-5 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88731-140-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To my wonderful friend Eddie Blakely, who died recently much too young. He was a wonderful fellow, and if he didn’t bring a smile to your face, it was probably time to see a doctor. Watch over us, Eddie. We won’t forget you.

Contents

Caribbean Dreams

Southbound

Moon Shine

Fish On

Pretty Girl

Gone with Some Wind

Pain to Die From

School Days

Welcome to Sleepytown

Looking in the Mirror

Welcome to Spudville

More Fish On!

Where the Wind Comes Rushing Down the Plain

South Carolina Revisited

1

Caribbean Dreams

Carla String Bean D’Andrea sat slumped over on a bench near the Four Seasons Hotel in Boston, her electric man-killing green eyes cast downward. Autumn leaves had fallen, and it had rained an hour ago. Her partner in crime, Billy O’Connell, sat next to her, fingering his gray goatee. He knew something was seriously wrong with Carla, but they did not speak for a long while. Finally, he muttered a few words cautiously. Carla, my friend, what’s up with you today? You look, ah, what’s the word—miserable, I guess. Maybe you don’t much like my cologne or somethin’?

Nah, Billy boy, that’s not it at all—although that stuff does make you smell like a fag or a drug dealer. I’d say a baby’s powered ass, but that would be an upgrade. Don’t mind me—you know how it is sometimes. Leaves falling and all, the leaves of our lives, dead and just lying there, wet and dead. Like all of us will be some day. Buncha dead leaves. Fuckin’ dead, man.

Billy knew all too well that he was no kid anymore. Early eighties, maybe he looked five or six years younger. His back hurt when he woke up; it took him three cups of coffee to get going in the morning. He probably needed a cane, but resisted the idea of using one in public. His eyes grew watery when he tried to read for more than a few minutes, or look at his phone to read his messages. He could hear a clock ticking in his head, counting down to his demise. He recalled Bette Davis’s famous line, Getting old ain’t for sissies.

He told himself regularly to snap out of it, a line he loved as delivered by Cher in the movie Moonstruck. She was his ideal of physical and spiritual beauty. Snap out of it, Billy. You’re not dead yet, you just feel that way somehow, sometimes. Just snap the fuck out of it.

While Carla and Billy commiserated, their old teammate Joanna Ciampa was headed toward them in an Uber. She sat quietly in the back seat, staring out the window and then at the driver back and forth, saying nothing. He had some nondescript hip-hop or whatever the hell they called it playing on the radio very loudly. They were both wearing masks against COVID infection. These masks were getting really old, but what could you do? Get COVID and then take horse dewormer? What the hell was that stuff called? Oh yeah, Ivermectin. Or maybe bleach like that dumbass fucking Trump once suggested.

The driver appeared to be Chinese, and she checked his GPS which, lo and behold, was guiding him in Chinese. His hair was cut very close to his scalp—your basic buzz cut. His arms were so smooth they looked like wax. It didn’t look like he had ever begun to shave his face. A hairless wonder, except for his head, which looked suitable for scrubbing a sink or toilet if it was maybe a quarter inch longer. She took careful note of his name: Fong Gu Wilson. She had to laugh at that, but kept it to herself. No sense in embarrassing the guy. She wondered where the Wilson came from and how long he had been in the United States. She wondered if he had gone to college somewhere, maybe changed his last name from Tu.

When he dropped her off, she thanked him, and he responded in perfect English. "Mucho gracias. Nice car, my friend, I’ve always liked Lexus and you drive very well. Maybe I’ll see you again."

Thank you so much—it was nice to have a customer who didn’t chatter the whole time. Or try to talk with a phony, belittling Chinese accent.

You bet, Fong Gu. That sounds a little rude, but what the hell. I guess you can’t always pick your own name, so don’t worry about it.

Joanna stepped over to her old gang, flashed a thumbs-up, and sat down with them. The sun arcing over her shoulder and warming her, Carla sat up straight and grinned disarmingly. Hey, Jo, nice to see you. You look wonderful for an old broad. Seriously though, you are a breath of fresh air. Now if only Sarah would show up, we could maybe start to rock ’n’ roll again. Why don’t you give her a call? I think she has an apartment or a condo not far from here. It sure would be nice to have our old Slingshot girl back in the fold.

When the chaos in her life settled down for a few moments, and especially when she was alone, Joanna had to wonder what had happened to her life. She had been a very successful painter and interior designer in Boston. A long list of clients and an even longer list of potential customers, some of which had watched her work. She was always patient with them and answered their questions. Sometimes when she took a coffee break, one or two of them would ask to join her. She always agreed.

While painting a huge mural on the wall of a bar and darts joint in the Seaport section of town, a pleasant elderly fellow stood watching her in awe. When she went down to the first floor to have coffee in the Parisian Café, he followed her and sat nearby. With only a few other customers seated at the counter, it was easy to make eye contact and continue their conversation. The fellow claimed his name was Jake and that he was a writer. So, she thought, here we are—a couple of artists. He seems interesting, and not bad-looking really. But I really need to get back to that mural. My deadline for completing it is next week, and I’m only half-finished.

Jake was astonished to learn that even on such a huge project, she did not work from so much as a sketch. She climbed her ladder with paint and brush and simply went to work. Every stroke, every fantastical character, each bit of scenery came straight out of her head.

Jake seldom worked from an outline when he wrote, but he always had a notion of where he was going with a story. How on earth did this woman wing it up there? He couldn’t fathom it.

Joanna tried to convince herself that she had simply been on some sort of sabbatical from her artwork. It was a losing argument. Maybe it would be inspired by it in the future. She knew that sooner than later, this life of crime she had taken on—no matter how exciting—had to end. She loved Carla like the sister she never had. But that excuse faded each evening as the sun went down. She could only hope that she did not go down with it.

Joanna jumped on her iPhone and made the call. Somehow, she reached her on the second ring and then easily convinced her to come join them. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed and fix my face, Sarah said. She arrived a half hour later by taxi courtesy of Boston Cab Company. She eased over to where the old gang was seated and was greeted by warm hugs and kisses.

Oh hey, you guys, this is so great. You all look terrific, especially having done time recently. I guess I was really the lucky one, only getting slapped with a couple misdemeanors. My lawyer was pretty slick. I think maybe he had a crush on me.

Sneaking along to the left was a medium height, strongly built man in his late seventies. It was their old accomplice Freddy O’Brien, recently released from prison. He was still a punk, but they all loved him like a brother. Brother punk. He padded up to the bench in his sunset-yellow Skechers and sat down with a big sigh before pulling out a huge joint. What’s up, you guys? Carla, you look like you just ate a coupl’a bad hot dogs or somethin’.

Fuck you, Carla said. Go mind your own fucking business. And where the hell have you been anyway, you handsome old piece a shit?

Freddy stared at her like she was the devil incarnate, which wasn’t that far off. "Well, so nice