JACK BRISTOW

Hard Time
 Copyright © Jack Bristow, 2018

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 Contents

Last Day In Hell 1

Free At Last? 5
'We Ain’t In Kansas Anymore, Uncle' 13
The Ace of Spades 24
The Pine Barrens 34
Francesco's Place 38
Back at the Social Club 53
Another Day At Save-More 72
Back to Francesco's: Part 3 78
Saint Luke's Hospital 83
The End is Near 87
The Confrontation 90
The Grand Opening 95
 1

Last Day In Hell

I
“ would rather die than be a rat.” Those were my old man’s dying
words.
The man, who appeared to be in his middle sixties to early
seventies, sat on the fold-out chair in the Recreation Center of the
Lewisburg, Pennyslyvania penitentiary, reflecting.
He was not a bad-looking gentleman, despite his years. One of the
most healthy-looking senior citizens you had ever gazed your eyes
upon, in fact: Thin but well defined arms, slicked back black hair, with
only a few specks of gray in it.
The Recreation Center was dark, save for a few flashes of light
bouncing off the projector screen, exposing Tommy Roma’s face and
body. Roma sat watching the movie, rapt. It was, ironically, an old
gangster movie, with Edward G. Robinson.
Robinson just wasted a guy, shot him in cold blood: Bang, bang, bang.
The guy falls over, clutching his chest in an almost comical fashion.
Roma grinned at the ridiculousness of the scene. True, he had loved
these old gangster flicks—the original Scarface, staring Paul Muni in
the titular role, was one of his favorites. But some of these movies
lacked the grittiness of “The Life” the way he knew it.
The trouble here, anyway, wasn’t movies. Roma didn’t blame classic
cinema on the lack of cinematic diversity. He blamed Warden Sanchez.
The terrible, colostomy bag masquerading as a warden would not

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 HARD TIME

allow any movies over a PG certificate in the big house. If Roma wanted
to see some of the biggest Mafia movies of all time—The Godfather,
Goodfellas and Scarface ‘84—he would have to watch them on TV, edited
to death. Francis Ford Coppola’s trailblazing work, as well as Martin
Scorsese’s character study of a mob associate turned stool pigeon Henry
Hill, were a little more bearable to watch. But Mr. Roma really couldn’t
get past the hilarious dub-overs in Oliver Stone’s revolutionary re-
imagining of the 1923 Howard Hawks classic.
The little guy was alive inside the projector now, mouthing off to
some cop, moving his little arms around cockily, arrogantly. Roma
stared blankly, expressionlessly at the projector screen, his arms folded.
His mind was somewhere else.
Suddenly the screen displays all the major events that had transpired
since Roma’s incarceration.
The Vietnam War.
Robert F. Kennedy lying on the floor of the Ambassador Hotel, a bullet
in his brain, and a group of concerned friends and aides hunkered around
him.
The 1969 moon landing.
Nixon waving and making his final bows to the press before boarding Air
Force One, departing the White House in shame.
The Berlin Wall tumbling down.
Ronald Reagan getting shot by Hinckley.
Waco.
The Heaven’s Gate Cult mass suicide; 39 bodies stiff and motionless on
bunk beds. Nike shoes everywhere.
The second tower from the World Trade Center collapsing to the ground,
hundreds of New Yorkers and non-New Yorkers fleeing away from the
monstrous debris.
The Shock and Awe bombing of Iraq, during the George W. Bush
administration. Mass carnage, death and destruction everywhere.
Before Roma knew it, the movie was over. The credits had rolled
and Warden Sanchez was standing in front of the screen, his hands

2
 LAST DAY IN HELL

behind his back, his portly belly sticking out, his chin held high.
Roma smiled at the image. If the warden were an inch taller he’d
have made the perfect circle.
“All right, you vermin,” barked Warden Sanchez. “Playtime is over.
Follow the guards back to your cells. No funny business. Any funny
business, and I’ll shoot you dead personally myself.”
Roma had no recollection of Andy, the guard, escorting him back to
his cell. His mind was totally disconnected, withdrawn. He glared at
his reflection in the mirror. He did not much recognize what he saw.
He was a far cry from the young Mafia upstart from Newark, New
Jersey, who always had a wad of cash in his pocket, a golden Rolex on
his right arm and a diamond-studded pinkie ring. The life he had lived
had seemed so far away to him now; so distant. Like a dream. The
cash, the women, the violence—it all had been just a dream.
Roma felt beaten, whipped, a shell of his former self. The dark circles
under his eyes were the result of many sleepless nights, many months of
isolation perpetrated by an unconscionably deranged Warden, whose
flagrant sadism would have seemed excessive even to Joe Arpaio. The
more Roma had thought about Sanchez, the more angry he became.
The only remaining emotion was anger. Anger at what had happened
to him. Anger at all the health violations in this toxic cesspool only an
idiot would call a rehabilitation center.
There was only one person on Earth who Roma despised even more
than the corpulent warden. There was just one man other man on the
face of the planet who Roma hated more passionately and intensely.
Jimmy Spirochete.
Roma’s blood boiled not just at the thought but the mere mention
of Spirochete. An intense hatred permeated his mind whenever he
thought of the man. He had ruined his whole life. He was the entire
reason Roma was here.
No, stop thinking that way, Roma. Let go of the bitterness, let go of the
anger, forgo the hate. You’re better than that.
Roma lay on the lumpy cot. He had trouble sleeping. And as he

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 HARD TIME

stirred and kicked his feet petulantly under the prickly bed-bug infested
blanket, he had his first pleasant thought of the day.
The restaurant.
Soon enough, Tommy Roma was sleeping like a baby.

4
 2

Free At Last?

H
ow could this have happened? Fifty years. It had seemed
like just yesterday that Tommy Roma had been thrown
into this revolting human cesspool, otherwise known as
the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. This has been Fifty years of
cold showers. Fifty years of bad food, of subhuman concoctions that
would have made gruel seem desirable. This had been fifty years of
never having been with a woman, of never having a sexual encounter.
Other inmates had had many encounters during the time of Roma’s
incarceration. He could hear them going at it from his cell. That wasn’t
Tommy’s bag. He loved women, pure and simple.
As long as it was consensual, Roma had no inkling to stop the
other prisoners. “What they’re going to do, they’re going to do.”
One time, however, Roma heard Crusty George, a huge towering
behemoth of a man—a member of the notorious outlaw biker gang,
the Freedom Riders—forcing himself upon Jose Hernandez, a young
kid sent Lewisburg on a marijuana distributing conviction.
Andy the guard found Crusty George the next day at a screening of
“Bye Bye Birdie” in the Recreation Center, a prison shank sticking from

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 HARD TIME

his chest. Jose was forever thankful to Tommy Roma, his protector,
his bizarre savior with a shifty Newark accent.
Enough thinking about all that, Roma thought, as he surveyed himself
in the mirror. He is wearing the last clothes he had worn as a free man,
back in 1968, on the night he had gotten himself arrested: A dark blue,
sharkskin jacket, a yellowish dress shirt, its front collar unbuttoned
and sticking out, and a pair of black slacks. Remarkably, the clothes
had still fit like a glove. No excess fat making it hard to zip the pants
up. The pants nestled into the back of the ass like they had never been
slipped off.
The only difference were the legs; they were slightly too long. Roma
had shrunk at least a good inch since his imprisonment, bringing him
down to 5’10, which was about average height.
“Roma, you look like a million bucks,” said one voice. The other:
“Hey Tommy, you think you could get me a job once you get out? Truth
be told, our dental plan here really sucks.” Snickering ensued. Roma
looked to the right of the cell, and there he saw the two familiar voices.
Two guards, one large and black, the other white and medium-built
with thinning brown hair, clown-like around the edges, escorted Roma
down the cellblock. As Roma moved flanked between both prison
guards, there were prisoners on all opposing cell blocks on their feet,
cheering on the legendary gangster; he had been the celebrity inmate of
the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary for almost fifty years. “Give them
hell, Roma!” shouted one particularly grizzly looking specimen in his
cage. “Tear their goddamn lungs out, Tommy!” yelled another inmate,
a well-known bank robber, who was serving life for murdering a guard.
(“I didn’t mean to do it. He had his gun trained on me. I panicked,” the
bank-robber once confided in Roma.)
But what really caught Roma’s attention was Jose Hernadez standing
on his feet, attentively, looking less like an inmate and more like a
navy-man ready to salute the president, a lone tear streaming down
his face as Roma walked gingerly, regally past his cell. Roma saluted
Jose as he, still flanked by the two guards, walked on. “Take care of

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 FREE AT LAST?

yourself, pal. I’m gonna miss you,” he said.

Roma stood before the corpulent Warden Sanchez in his office. The
office was a strange place, the warden kept mementos everywhere.
Commendations galore on his desk and walls: Cleanest Prison Recipient
Award; The Greatest Rehabilitation Rate award; The Longevity Award, for
how many years Sanchez had been governing the prison, fifty. Also on
the wall is another huge memento: The head of a large dead lion. There
were also pictures on the large mahogany desk of the short, overweight
warden and his grand kids, standing side by side a large bass, which
was almost as tall as they were in height. Warden Sanchez stood there,
stoic and impassive, as Roma, still flanked by the guards, made his way
inside the office.
Sanchez eyed Roma, his brown eyes looking like two inanimate,
lifeless objects.
The legendary piece of shit; the renowned sadist of the Lewisburg Federal
Penitentiary. Ladies and gentleman I give you Warden Sanchez. This figlio
di puttana—he thought he was going to break me. He thought he was going
to bring me to my knees today, like a turtle with its head inside its shell, face
contritely down. But he didn’t break me. He couldn’t break me. I have seen
some pretty hardened guys come into this joint. He broke every single one
of them. Some he broke by destroying their dignity—restricting visits with
their friends and family; sending them to The Hole for months at a time on
trumped-up charges. Others hanged themselves with their own bed sheets,
unable to cope with the isolation. Me, however, he couldn’t break. Not once
had the punk ever forced me to tears or an apology. I beat him. He knows
this. It’s been chapping his ass all these years, as a matter of fact.
Sanchez broke the monotony. “It’s been a long time. How long have
you been staying with us again, Roma? Fifty years?”
“Something like that, chief,” Roma responded.
“Have fun. Enjoy your little outing as much as possible. Because
you’ll be back,” Sanchez snickered.
“I will have fun. But that’s because I’m never coming back, chief,”
Roma said.

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 HARD TIME

Warden Sanchez laughed once again. Not so much with malice in his
face this time. More with the expression of astonishment, as though
he were an adult speaking to a child, and the child saying something
outlandishly incorrect, impossible.
“Of course you’ll be back, Roma. I know your type. You old aged
mafiosi, you greasy guidos are all the same. You come in here, you go
out. You come in here, you go back out again. You repeat the cycle until
you’re eighty or ninety and then, finally, you come out one last time: In
a bodybag with ‘Property of Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary’ stamped
on the side of the goddamned thing. You greaseballs are incorrigible;
you’re a dying breed. Omerta doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe it did
fifty, or sixty years ago. But right now, there’s a hundred guys waiting
in the street, waiting to make friends with you, waiting to turn on
you. Omerta has become an antiquated notion, Roma. It is dead,” said
Warden Sanchez.
Roma was adamant and unwavering in his convictions. “You can try
deluding yourself all you want, chief, but the fact remains: I ain’t ever
coming back to this hellhole.”
Warden Sanchez chuckled, almost more to himself, as though he were
alone and laughing about some strange, esoteric irony, and not around
three other people. Such was this disgusting man’s self-indulgent
attitude: Off the charts.
“You’ll be back. All you Mafia people come back. It’s as regular as
clockwork, Roma.”
Roma, feigning ignorance, and adhering to the mob’s strict edict
of deny, deny, deny, looked around at both guards, as though he were
asking them if they knew anything about this mysterious entity called
“The Mafia,” which he had never heard of before, prior to today. “What
Mafia? I don’t know anything about any Mafia. How about you guys?”
The warden exploded. “Peterson, Dobs: Get this piece of shit out of
my office. Now!”
***

8
 FREE AT LAST?

Outside now. Free at last! True, Roma had left escorted by guards
through the courtyard before. He had gone to nearby hospitals for
critical health observations—sepsis, once; a heart attack, in 2004;
and for GI problems in ‘09—but this was his first time leaving the
Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary a free man. Everything—the smell of
the air, the wind whipping through his hair, the sun beaming down
on his face—was totally reinvigorating. He took in a deep lungful of
air. So this is what freedom felt like. Freedom had felt pretty damned
good.
Moving through the courtyard, Roma, suitcase still in hand, looking
spiffy, dapper as all get-out, swaggered with the two expressionless
guards still flanking him. They are not officially out of the prison yet.
But they’re damn close.
They walked well past the gate. Now they were in the parking lot.
This is where Roma saw a familiar but welcoming sight.
Salvatore DeLuna, eighty and looking it, standing expectantly in
front of his Lincoln Continental in the parking lot. There is an oxygen
tank on wheels beside him as he stood nobly, dignified, with the The
nasal cannula attached to his nostrils, and a cigar clenched between
his teeth. He is an old man; his body aged even prematurely so, due to
a lifetime of hard-drinking, hard-smoking, and all-around hard-living.
He looked one hundred. There is a sailor’s tattoo on his right arm
which is, surprisingly, still impressively muscular, with bountiful hair
lining it like trees on a well-vegetated hillside. And there are also veins.
Veins popping up galore on the tough old buzzard’s arms. The man
was still, in spite of his age and cancer-stricken lungs, an intimidating
presence. A very scary looking old buzzard.
“Well I’ll be damned. Here’s the man of the hour. Tommy, you look
like a million bucks. High-tail your ass over here, kiddo.”
The two men embraced. Then Roma shoved his suitcase in DeLuna’s
backseat. Then, before Roma knew it, they were gone. His first car
ride as a free man in fifty years.
Roma looked out the window, as though he had never seen trees and

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 HARD TIME

vegetation before.
“So, Uncle. Tell me. What has happened with the old gang? What
ever happened to our old friend Joey?”
“Joey?” DeLuna said, squinting as he peered out the window, focusing
on the road.
“Yeah, you know. Our Joey. He used to hang around our crew.
Whatever happened to him?
“I’ve known a lot of Joey’s. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Roma was incredulous his Uncle Sal hadn’t a clue exactly who he was
referring to. “You know–the guys from the old crew. Shotgun Joey,” he
said. “You and I used to go on bank jobs with him. Really crazy bastard.
You’d be in the back, trying to crack a safe and I’d be driving the getaway
car and Joey, he’d be going wild in the bank, flashing the sawed-off
twelve gauge at everybody, cocking it, shooting it for dramatic effect,
hollering into the air, stomping his feet.” Roma chuckled as though this
was all so cute. “Joey was a real crazy fella,” he went on. “What the hell
ever happened to him, anyway?”
DeLuna scratched his head as he focused on the road ahead. It was
mostly empty. There were not a lot of cars out at this early hour.
“Ah, yeah, Tommy. Joseph Luba was The Shotgun’s real name, I believe.
I do remember Joey. He died about twenty years ago, cirrhosis of the
liver or some such shit.”
Roma’s face contorted into a sour-looking frown.
“How about Larry Three Balls, the guy who used to cheat at pool,
and who used to actually have three balls. He used to fence jewels for
us. Remember Larry? What the hell ever happened to him? Is he still
kicking?”
Uncle Sal shook his head regretfully.
“The legendary Larry ‘Three Balls.’ He was good people, all right.
Three balls had short, brown hair, and he walked with a limp.”
“That’s him, Larry Three Balls,” Roma grinned.
“Gone. dead. Morta. No more Larry Three Balls, Tommy.”
Roma winced.

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 FREE AT LAST?

“Oh, no. Not Larry!” he said. “He was good people. We used to make
a lot of money with him on those credit card scams. What happened?”
Uncle Sal sighed. “Mr. Spirochete found out Mr. Three Balls was
skimming gambling money that was supposed to have gone to the
family. So he had Larry clipped.”
Roma balled his fingers into a fist, and then shook it in the air
animatedly, indignantly.
“I’d love to get my hands on that sonofabitch who clipped Larry. I
loved Larry. He was good people.”
“I am the one who greased him, Tommy.”
Roma stiffened up in his seat, his posture becoming more erect, his
body assuming a more upright position.
“Ah, well. I’m sure you had your reasons then, Uncle,” Roma said
finally.
Salvatore DeLuna and his nephew Tommy Roma were approaching a
green highway sign that read: WELCOME TO NEWARK, NEW JERSEY,
POPULATION: TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY ONE THOUSAND.
The town itself, once small and quaint, was now a city, teeming
with all kinds of unique lifeforms: Derelicts on the side of the
road, near the city’s renowned wishing well, drinking booze from
paper bags; bohemian millennials donning scruffy beards and cheap
sunglasses; men and women, many of whom strumming guitars near
strip malls; religious zealots on street corners, standing on soapboxes
and screeching scripture into bullhorns; old men holding signs begging
local residents to “Vote No” on Proposition 5: Fracking Is Destroying
our Environment. This was, most certainly, not the Newark, New Jersey
Tommy Roma had left behind. This new place, Roma realized, was
unrecognizable.
Roma peered out the passenger side window, a dismal expression on
his face. “Ah, man, what happened to Lenny’s Pool Hall?” he grumbled.
“I don’t see it.”
“They went out of business about fifteen years ago,” DeLuna replied.
“All the other places that were in that strip mall—Kim’s Nail Salon,

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 HARD TIME

Marty’s Auto Loans, Joe’s Steakhouse–have all been bulldozed as well,

and they’re now sleeping with the fishes. In their place, this huge
Save More building has just been constructed. They had their grand-
opening last Friday.”
Roma was puzzled. “Save More?” he said.
“Oh yeah, I forgot: I couldn’t tell you about it during our visits,
but this new business, Save More, took over. Mr. Spirochete got a
huge piece of the pie on that one, kiddo,” DeLuna replied. “Local 407
wouldn’t let the contractors build anything on that site, not unless
they used R and J Construction to pour the concrete. Haw, haw, haw.
Those corporate jerk-offs ended up paying out of their asses. By the
time all the concrete had been poured, Mr. Spirochete was already a
good five million dollars richer. Hey, didn’t you have a piece of R and
J construction? Maybe you have some money coming your way.”
“It was all mine, before I went to prison, Uncle Sal.” Roma was going
to elaborate further. But instead, he didn’t say anything.
He was looking out the window, mouth agape, taking in all the
many unique-looking specimens. Not only was he appalled by their
uniqueness, he also marveled at them. For a man who grew up on
Leave It To Beaver, Father Knows Best and Frank Sinatra albums these
people were truly odd spectacles to behold. True, Roma had seen many
strange cats in prison, with all-over-body tattoos, piercings and the like.
But that was the big house. That was to be expected. He had expected
many dregs to be there. But this was Newark. This was home—or at
least, at one time, it once had been.
Uncle Sal guffawed until he coughed. “Better than TV, eh nephew?”

12
 3

'We Ain’t In Kansas Anymore, Uncle'

R
oma gazed at his Uncle Salvatore S. DeLuna, sitting across
from at the Yin and Yang Chinese restaurant, on Forty-Second
street. He had become a bit uneasy looking at his Uncle.
He was not used to seeing that damned oxygen tank on him. True,
Uncle Sal had visited him several times at Lewisburg; but the visits
were always brief. This was not the old man Roma recognized from
childhood; this was not the Uncle Sal who used to take Tommy fishing.
He wasn’t the same robust man who comforted Roma in his arms after
his father had died. No, this Salvatore DeLuna—he was changed. The
snake’s shed skin, instead of the snake. The 45 Magnum’s spent shell
casing, instead of the gunpowder. But there was still fire in his eyes,
piss and vinegar in his blood, that same fiery attitude, God bless his
heart.
Outwardly, Roma thanked his Uncle for taking him to this Chinese
restaurant. Inwardly he laughed at the irony: Nearly five decades he’s
been in the joint, and his Uncle takes him to a Chinese restaurant, of
all places.
The old man had been talking about Mr. Spirochete all day. The
mere mention of the old coot’s name was enough to make Roma’s
blood boil—although he tried to cloak his anger, the raw emotion in
his voice; he hoped his face would not get too beet-red. Don’t worry,
Roma, he thought. If he notices the redness, blame it on the preservatives.

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 HARD TIME

There’s enough MSG in this soy sauce to kill a frigging Tyrannosaurus Rex.
“Speaking of the boss, Mr. S., he loves you Tommy,” Uncle Sal gushed.
“He’s been asking all about you every year. He says to me, Tommy–he
says–“When’s Tommy finally getting out, Salvatore? I just love that
kid, after what he has done for me. After all he has done for us, I meant
to say….”
Roma couldn’t stand it; he could bite his tongue no longer. “You
really think Mr. Spirochete cares a lot for me, huh?”
“You bet your ass on that one, kiddo. Mr. Spirochete adores you. He
absolutely thinks the world of you. He loves you as though you were
his own son.”
“Yeah? Then how come he let me do fifty years for a crime he
committed, if he loves me so much,” Roma steamed.
“Tommy, Tommy,” Uncle Sal said.
T.R. was not about ready to ditch the subject. Not yet anyway. Like
a stealthy lion attacking its prey, Roma went straight for the jugular.
“Hey, Uncle Sal. I’m dead serious: How come he didn’t fess up, and
do the time himself? He supposedly loved my old man. That’s what
you have always told me during our visits, through the frigging glass.
So if that’s the case, and he really loves me so much, then why’d he let
me serve almost half a century in the big house without opening his
mouth once, and taking the blame for his own miserable actions?”
Salvatore DeLuna looked over at his nephew sharply, as though
Tommy were just a little insolent-pipsqueak kid again running at the
mouth. You could tell by the look in DeLuna’s almond-colored brown
eyes that he was shocked–absolutely horrified–by the words coming
out of his nephew’s mouth. You don’t talk about The Boss this way,
under any circumstances whatsoever, when you’re in The Life.
Uncle Sal picked at his Mongolian beef as he spoke. “Listen, Tommy,”
he said. “In spite of all that there, Mr. Spirochete really looks up to you.
He and all the other guys really do look up to you–like you was some
kind of movie star. Listen up, kiddo: Before I drop you off at your new
apartment, let’s stop by the Ace of Spades first, so all the guys–some

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 'WE AIN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE, UNCLE'

old, some new–can pay homage to you. You know you’ve earned it.”
Easy going there, old sport, Roma thought to himself. It isn’t wise policy
to down-talk The Boss to anybody when you’re in the Mafia, even to family.
Roma feigned regret, showing repentance for his actions. “You know
what, Uncle Sal? I’d love to. Really, I would. But see–I gotta get situated
in my new apartment tonight,” he said. “I gotta have my air mattress
picked out, gotta get the refrigerator packed with goodies. And early
tomorrow morning I’ve got a meeting with my parole officer. I’d love
to see the guys; really, I would. But please let me get my own shit
together before we start busting out the champagne glasses, huh?
DeLuna, now crunching on a piece of crab rangoon, looked over at
Tommy. He gazed deep, deep into his nephew’s hazel-colored eyes.
And then—surprisingly to Roma—his uncle burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe it. You’ve done fifty years in the can, and now you
gotta report to some damned pencil-necked geek. What the hell?”
“Cause once you get out, after committing such a serious crime–i.e.,
a double-homicide–they don’t want to let you loose; they don’t want
you to be free completely,” Roma said. “You have to prove yourself to
them. You still gotta answer to them. You have to tell them what you’re
doing for a living, so they can keep tabs on you. Just for a little while,
to make sure you’re rehabilitated, or some such bullshit.”
“Hey, Mr. Spirochete is a partner in R & J Construction. Did I tell
you that? Maybe we could arrange something. Maybe I could talk to
him, we could get you a no-show job. It’s the least he could do for you,
considering all you’ve done for him…”
The mere mention of R & J Construction was enough to make Tommy
visibly wince. Roma cracked open the fortune cookie. He looked at
the tiny piece of paper a long while before he finally spoke again.
“No, thanks, Uncle Sal,” he said. “I mean–it’s not that I don’t
appreciate this very kind gesture. I really, really do. But the truth
is this: I don’t wanna go that route anymore. I’m a 70-year-old ex-con.
I did my time. I didn’t give anyone away. There’s two guys in the
graveyard, and everybody thinks I am the one who sent them there.”

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 HARD TIME

Roma fidgeted uneasily in his chair, tugging at his shirt collar, and
then he rambled on some more. “True, the guys were rats, and they
deserved everything they had coming to them, but I wasn’t the one
who did the deed. But I did my time for him, for Mr. Spirochete,
regardless of all that. No big deal. Now all I want to do is retire. I
want to find some pretty broad, start my own restaurant, be beholden
to absolutely nobody, and I want to ride my pretty horse off into the
sunset, away from everything: Away from the bloodshed. Away from
Mr. Spirochete. Away from The Life.”
Uncle Sal shook his head incredulously. “Look at you, kiddo: You’ve
flipped your frigging wig,” he raved and ranted. “Here I am, thinking
you’re gonna leave prison even more educated, a more experienced
man of respect. You come out talking like Al fuckin’ Gore. What next,
huh? You’re gonna tell me that global warming bullshit is true, also,
huh? Let’s get the hell out of here, I think this chink food has already
given me the indigestion.”
Uncle Sal dropped a five-dollar bill on the table and as they both
stood up to leave, almost in unison, the writing on the fortune cookie
is projected into Roma’s mind, in huge emphatic lettering.
Life is short. Live it the way you want to.
***
Hours later. Roma was making his way out of the 1966 Lincoln. He
holds a few grocery store bags in his right hand.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to get an air mattress?
There’s that Save More, just five blocks away,” said Uncle Sal.
Roma waved his hands up into the air dismissively. “Nah, forget
about it, Uncle Sal. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“You sure, kiddo?” asked Uncle Sal.
“Uncle Sal,” Roma said. ” I’ve been sleeping on lumpy cots infested
with rat and bedbug shit for forty-eight years. You think one night
sleeping on the floor is going to be some traumatic experience for me?
DeLuna cracked up. “See ya tomorrow, kiddo. Go get your beauty
sleep. I’m gonna take you by the social club tomorrow. You’re gonna

16
 'WE AIN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE, UNCLE'

finally get to see the guys.”

“Sure, Uncle Sal. I’d love to catch up with the old gang. And some of
the new guys, too. Why not?”
DeLuna cracked a huge smile, exposing the tobacco stains on his
large buckteeth.
“That’s the spirit, kiddo. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
Fast forward to the next day. Tommy Roma is sitting on one of
those fold-out chairs, bought at the local Save More, used primarily
by campers. There is a large, heavyset man, bespectacled, with shaggy
curly hair sitting across from Roma on a matching camouflaged chair.
Roma is holding a pink square box, he holds it open in front of the
heavyset man, allowing him to take a pick of the box’s contents.
“Sorry, chief. I hope you don’t mind vanilla rainbow sprinkles. They
were all out of the chocolate ones,” said Roma apologetically. This
was no problem for the bulky man. “Vanilla rainbow sprinkles are my
favorite,” he said. “Thank you very much, Mr. Roma. Excuse me for
not having properly introduced myself. My name is officer Douglas
Bukoski.” The man sighed heavily. “It’s that this has been been an
extraordinarily stressful morning for me. Long story short, one of
my clients, just up and flew the coop,” the corpulent man explained,
greedily stuffing his face with the doughnut.
Bukoski started to choke up with emotion. And then he pounded
his fist on Roma’s newly bought kitchen table courtesy of the local
Save More superstore, located only five-blocks away from the Green
Village apartment tenement buildings.
“Goddamn it!” raged Bukoski. “Why? Why couldn’t I have saved him,
huh? Now you know what’s going to happen? The police are going
to come looking for Jordan, and he’s going to get thrown back into
prison. Back into some Goddamn rat-infested hellhole of a cage. And
you know what’s going to happen whenever he finally gets out? Just
guess. He’ll be even harder to rehabilitate.”
Roma, not ordinarily accustomed to seeing peace officers burst out
into tears over incorrigible convicts, said nothing, simply taken aback.

17
 HARD TIME

Bukoski seized Roma’s hand, glaring in his eyes intensely all the
while. “Now, look at me Mr. Roma,” he said. “Look at how this is all
affecting me—you see these tears trickling down my face, huh? You see
this snot, you see this snot dribbling out of my nose? This is real, Mr.
Roma. I am real. And I’ll tell you right here and now—I will be your
parole officer. I will also be your friend. I will do everything within
my capacity and human capabilities to help reform and rehabilitate
you, to make you a normal citizen once again. However, there is still
one caveat.” Bukoski briefly, momentarily inched closer toward Roma,
whispering into his ear: “Don’t toy with me,” he said finally. “Don’t
you ever play with my emotions. Are we clear, Tommy?”
“Sounds good, Douglas,” said Roma. “And I am totally willing to work
with you too, one hundred percent, chief. Wait, hold on a second. Let
me go get you some tissues.”
Roma rushed away over towards the bathroom. Then he walked
into the kitchen for a few seconds. Finally he walked back, handed
something over to the unusually emotional parole officer.
Officer Bukoksi looked down at what Mr. Roma was offering him.
“Are you sure these are…appropriate, Tommy?”
“Sure, I haven’t stocked up on any tissue paper yet. Allergy season is
still a far ways around the corner. Please, be my guest,” Roma said.
Bukokski looked down at the coffee filters in Roma’s hand once more
and then he shrugged his head indifferently. What the hell? Paper was
paper, after all. He grabbed the filters, and commenced sticking them
inside his nose. The result was a peculiar, and unsettling, sight to
behold.
Now Officer Bukokski looked totally deranged. Roma couldn’t help
but chuckle, internally.
“I’m really sorry for having reacted like this today, here in front of
you, Tommy,” the parole officer said. ” I guess I do take my job a little
too personally. See, my father, he was a con. At home? Nicest guy you
are ever going to meet, but outside the house? He was an embezzler.”
Bukokski shook his head nervously, regretfully. “Yes, my old man really

18
 'WE AIN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE, UNCLE'

had a wild side to him, you know?”

Roma looked back at the parole officer, straight-faced.
“You see, he worked as an accountant, for this Israeli drug kingpin,
who had taken up residency in Queens, Jeremiah Adler. You ever heard
of Alder?”
Roma shook his head.
“Well, anyway, the FBI intercepted a call between this drug kingpin,
and one of his…hit people. He had instructed this other party-for-hire
to knock my father off,” Bukokski said.
Roma, once again, feigned interest in the parole officer’s story,
wondering where the hell it was going, and what the hell its relevance
was.
“Two FBI agents approached my father later that day, warned
him about the planned hit, and asked him if he would cooperate,”
Bukokski continued. “He eventually did cooperate, testified against
these characters, got a real slap-on-the-wrist sentence: house arrest,
for one year. The ankle bracelet, you know. Anyway, long story short,
my old man went right back to his crooked ways, after he was once
again a free man. This time he was selling porno movies with underage
girls in them. “Strictly Seventeen,” that was the name of his production
company, and the names of all the VHS tapes, and all their volumes.
I’m ashamed to say, he got busted for his business not long after he
started it. He sold a few hundred copies of “Strictly Seventeen” to
an undercover police officer, who arrested my old man promptly,”
Bukokski said. “Heck, it was a real traumatic experience for me, as I’m
well sure you could probably imagine. All the kids at school would
taunt me, call me names. They’d say, ‘Hey look: Here comes “Strictly
Seventeen’s son.’”
Roma snacked on his doughnut, nonchalantly. Finally, he felt he had
to say something. He couldn’t remain silent any longer. “That is…some
story you got there, Douglas,” he said finally.
“And do you have any idea why my old man relapsed—why he
continued living a life of crime after having gotten such a sweetheart

19
 HARD TIME

deal from the government?”

“No idea, Douglas.”
Officer Bukokski sighed deeply.
“My father ended up that way because he had an impersonal parole
officer. He had this guy, who was supposed to help rehabilitate
him—and the officer didn’t rehabilitate my father; he treated him
perfunctorily, mechanically. It didn’t matter to this particular parole
officer—and I’m using the term “parole officer” loosely here—what
happened to my old man, if he was rehabilitated or not. He just didn’t
care. But we are supposed to care, Tommy. A parole officer is supposed
to care. He is supposed to look out for his projects. He is supposed to
help them grow, to become better people.”
Sure, sure, Roma thought. It makes perfect sense. “Thank you for taking
so much interest in my rehabilitation, Douglas,” he said. “Thank you. I
really appreciate that you want to see me succeed. Really. Your efforts
mean the world to me. Honestly. And let me tell you something here
today, absolutely no bullshitting, man-to-man. I don’t want to go back
to that life. No way, Jose. True, I was in it then. But that was then,
this is now. I’m an entirely now person these days. The Mafia? That
doesn’t even sound like a real thing to me anymore. To me, the Mafia
sounds like some distant, faraway imaginary place—like Never, Never
Land. I would never go back to that life. Never. Not in a million years,
chief.”
Bukokski smiled vaguely. “I’m relieved to hear that, Tommy.”
***
Roma cannot understand it, but somehow the year once again is 1968.
The past is once again the present. He is inside The Ace of Spades social
club. The place reeks of cigarette butts and heavy perspiration, despite the
raging snowstorm outside. Years upon years of pool playing, years upon
years of sweat dripping off the bodies of made man, interspersed with their
cheap cologne, have given the social club its own distinct stench. Couple that
with the pleasant smell of the old antique furniture, the couch in the corner
that reeks of mothballs, the old vintage lamp on the corner-hand side of the

20
 'WE AIN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE, UNCLE'

pool room, which reeks of bug poison, and you have an aroma that is truly
unforgettable. Not to mention the pot of pasta, which was always boiling in
the kitchen.
There was also a jukebox at one end of the social club, near the bar, where
Roma clearly remembers his 9-year-old self popping a nickel into it. “Play
Sinatra,” his father Dominick would always encourage him. “Play ‘My Way.’”
That was his father’s favorite song. And Roma, without fail, would always
play it. He never pressed any other song. Ever. Roma had idolized his father.
He never would have disobeyed one of his commands. Roma remembers
sitting there, over there at the far hand table, sipping a soda, listening to the
jukebox, as his father went into the other room to “speak business” with one
of his myriad of friends.
Here today, however, Roma is not a child. He is a fully grown man. He is
a newly made member of the Spirochete family. His father has been gone for
over a decade, shot dead by some Puerto Ricans, over some real chickenshit
stuff. A territorial dispute. Simply put, Dominick Roma was in the wrong
place at the wrong time. A few PR hoods mistook him with his swarthy
Sicilian looks as a rival gang member, and shot him full of lead. Dominick
Roma knew who had shot him, too. Knew the kids, but failed to finger them
to Sergeant Mahoney on his deathbed.
“Don’t you want to get justice for your killers?” Mahoney pressed Dominick.
“You’re as good as dead anyway, Roma.”
Dominick said nothing.
“C’mon, tell me who did this to you. You have nothing to lose and everything
to gain,” Mahoney said, feigning genuine concern.
“Fuck off, Mahoney,” Dominick said, defiant to the very end.
Sergeant Mahoney appeared taken aback. “Now why on Earth would you
say a thing like that to me? I’m just trying to help you, Roma. To solve this
case.”
“I’d rather die than be a rat,” Dominick Roma gurgled. And then he died.
Uncle Sal had related this story to Roma many times. He was there beside
Tommy’s father on his deathbed. He had rushed over to the hospital as soon
as he had heard his brother-in-law had been mortally wounded. Roma’s

21
 HARD TIME

mother, Ruth, was sleeping like a baby, as was 10-year-old Tommy Roma,
both blissfully, peacefully unaware that the most important person in their
life was biting the dust as they snoozed.
The story proved as young Roma’s sustenance, it reinforced his love for
The Life, for La Cosa Nostra. His father had died a champion, a man to be
emulated, a stand-up guy.
Dominick Roma had died a martyr. Tommy Roma prayed he would one
day die just as gallantly and fearlessly as his intrepid father had.
But that, again, was all in the past. Today, Roma was once again sitting
in his favorite chair at The Ace of Spades social club, reading the newspaper.
Sitting beside the recently made Roma are two young Mafia associates, who
have no chance of hierarchical promotion, due to their partial Irish bloodline:
Sonny Boyle, 27, and Danny McGuire, 25. Jimmy Spirochete walks past
them and there was something—in his mannerisms maybe—that gave them
away. Maybe it was the stench of fear in the room. Or maybe it was because
Boyle and McGuire were acting a little strangely themselves; maybe because
they knew they were dropping dimes, and if somebody discovered this, they’d
be leaving Ace of Spades in body bags. Anyway, Spirochete swaggers over to
where the three of them were sitting, and he looks Sonny Boyle square in the
eye.
Roma sees Spirochete’s face, his opaque eyes.
“What’s the matter, Sonny?” Spirochete says. Then he looks over at Danny
“half-breed” McGuire. “What’s the matter, Danny? You two guys look as
though you’re hiding something from me.”
McGuire forced a smile. Blond-haired, blue-eyed he was, by all accounts,
a handsome-looking guy. Sonny Boyle, more average looking with a nose
that almost made him look ugly but not quite, could not even manage a
facade of normalcy, that everything was A-okay. A single rivulet of sweat
dripped down Boyle’s forehead. It was twenty-two below zero outside. Things
weren’t adding up. There was a sadistic glee on Mr. Spirochete’s face. There
were two rats in his midst and he had a license to exterminate both of these
malignant rodents. Spirochete pulls a snub-nosed 38. caliber pistol from his
waistband. He points the gun at Boyle’s face first, fires. Then he points the

22
 'WE AIN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE, UNCLE'

gun at McGuire’s back, fires.

Right then and there inside the Ace of Spades social club. Instant death.
Twice. Blood drenches an appalled and shaken 20-year-old Tommy Roma’s
face, and saturates his newspaper. Roma quickly looks up at Mr. Spirochete,
who is grinning broadly, widely. Crimson covers most of Jimmy’s Spirochete’s
face except for his eyes. They glow, surrounded by the crimson like a
lighthouse in the ravaging sea. His face looked long and hard at Roma,
as Roma just sat there silently, slowly processing the horror show which has
transpired before his very own eyes.
***
Roma lay on his air mattress, distraught, his heart beating inside his
chest a mile a minute. Get a grip on yourself, Roma, he kept thinking. He
hoped—he prayed—nobody in the apartment complex had heard his
blood-curdling screams, that nobody had taken it upon themselves to
call the police on him. That was the last thing he needed: He, Tommy
Roma, an ex-mobster, freshly out of prison, and they the police are
already paying him a visit, less than 24 hours after his long-awaited
release.
To be able to get out of The Life permanently, and to successfully
start his own restaurant, Roma knew he would have to keep a low
profile, and play his cards right—with the proper authorities, as well
as with Spirochete and his goons.
Roma tried to drift off back to sleep, but it was an exercise in futility.
His heart was beating too fast.

23
 4

The Ace of Spades

T
he place had changed a lot, since Roma had been sent to the
can.
True, there were some parts of the club that were the same,
and were always going to remain that way: The slate pool table. The
bar area, where those two guys Sonny Boyle and Danny McGuire had
been executed, gangland-style, by Mr. Spirochete. Around by the bar,
the same old sixty-year-old, personally signed photos of Sinatra, Dean
Martin, and Sammy Davis Junior decorated the walls. Beneath the the
photos of the Three Venerated Legends there was the jukebox.
But many additions had made The Ace of Spades seem a foreign
place to T.R. that day: The new paint-job; the brand-new pinewood
cabinets near the kitchen area; the big screen plasma television set in
the rear corner, near the bar area. Even the stench of BO and expensive
cologne wasn’t so overbearing. The Pine-Sol smell on the neatly waxed,
checkered-linoleum floor overpowered it significantly.
There sat Tommy Roma that day, at the poker table, with the cards
in his hands. To the right of Roma, sitting at the same table, was his
Uncle Salvatore DeLuna. To the the left of DeLuna, was this soldier-
turned-skipper Tommy used to know when he was on the outside,
Danny Volgia. Sitting directly across from Roma is this skinny soldier
with a pale face, olive-colored eyes, Joey Raguso. Sadly, in the five
decades since Roma’s incarceration, Raguso still had not found a wig

24
 THE ACE OF SPADES

that looked halfway decent, halfway realistic, halfway like something

else other than roadkill. Today was no exception.
“Deal me in,” barked Raguso excitedly.
Raguso was definitely the most lively of the four made men sitting
at the poker table. He looked very odd, one might say even comical,
in his outdated pinstripe suit, no tie, the collar from his shirt jutting
out, La Cosa Nostra-style. Salvatore DeLuna, gasping greedily for air
to be directed into his nostrils via the oxygen tank which was situated
beside his feet on the floor beside the card table, spat in the grim
reaper’s face, a defiant look as he sat there, reading his hand. Danny
Vogila, seventy-six and sure as hell looking it, couldn’t hear much of the
discussion. He sat slumped on the chair, an absentminded expression
on his face.
“Well, ain’t it something, fellas?” marveled Uncle Sal. “Our very own
man of the hour here has been gone away a very long time. Over four
decades, to be exact.” DeLuna breathed lustfully some more air, and
then he resumed his speech, staring at his nephew all the while. “He
could have opened his mouth. He could have sung like a Goddamn
canary, but he didn’t do that. He did his time like a real man. Salute,
nephew!”
"Salute," all men present shouted in unison, even Voglia, who very
clearly couldn’t hear too well.
The always-intense Raguso grabbed Roma by the arm excitedly.
“Thank you so much for keeping quiet, Tommy. I always had a good
feeling about you, kid,” he said.
DeLuna peered down at his hand, an inscrutable expression perme-
ating his face as he silently processed his cards. The old man gasped
for breath, and then he slammed a five-dollar-bill down onto the
table—frugality had always been one of Uncle Sal’s strong suits, noted
Roma.
Raguso laughed at DeLuna’s aforementioned frugality. “I’ll raise you
ten, Fred Mertz,” he said.
Salvatore DeLuna opened his wallet—which he hadn’t put back in his

25
 HARD TIME

front right side pocket—extracted two five-dollar bills, and stamped

them on the table, atop the first one.
“Count me in, too,” Danny Voglia said, dropping a five into the pile.
Nobody bothered too correct Voglia. He was too worn, too decrepit.
Even the hardened men at the table took pity upon him.
Roma dug into his wallet, and then shortly thereafter tossed fifteen
dollars into the money-pile.
“So much stuff has happened since you’ve been locked away, Tommy.
I have no idea where we should start filling you in,” Raguso said.
DeLuna smirked. “I know where we should start, Joey. We gotta start
by filling Tommy in on the essentials. Like how our last president was
a socialist. We had another socialist broad running for office too, and
a socialist guy, who sounded like a chicken whenever he talked.” Uncle
Sal took a puff off the rancid-smelling stogie, then he continued. “Now
we got this other crazy bastard as president, and the guy hasn’t done a
lick of military service, and he’s a businessman, with this fucked-up
looking toupee, that only an asshole would have picked out. Relax,
Joey: I’m not talking about you.”
Glass houses, Salvatore,” Raguso said. “At least I don’t have hoses
coming out of my nose. At least I don’t look like I’m some kind of
goddamned science experiment.
“Salvatore, you think somebody’s gotta serve in the military just to
make a good president?” Danny Voglia said, squinting at Uncle Sal all
the while. Roma just sat there, taking it all in. Things hadn’t changed a
bit. Incredible.
“Yes I absolutely do. I believe it should be a prerequisite.”
“A what?” Danny Voglia cupped his hand around his ear, as though it
would amplify the sound.
Salvatore DeLuna inched closer to the aging mobster, increasing his
voice. “I said I BELIEVE IT’S A PREREQUISITE.”
“Bullshit,” Raguso interjected. “What about Ronald Reagan? Guy
wasn’t in the military. He ended up being one of our greatest
presidents.”

26
 THE ACE OF SPADES

“Reagan was a panty-waste,” fumed Uncle Sal. “He was all show and
no go. He had no initiative. He always consulted with the old lady on
everything. Then she’d have to consult her Magic 8 Ball. Is that your
idea of a strong leader, Raguso? Forget Reagan—he had his balls in
Nancy’s purse the whole time, anyhow. The guy was a real stooge, all
right. It’s a wonder the Gipper even knew how to take a piss, without
having the Mrs. holding it up for him over the goddamned toilet.”
“Sure Reagan had balls. What about Grenada?”
“Grenada” DeLuna scoffed. “You call that a war?”
Old man Voglia chimed in: “You know who I liked? Lyndon Baines
Johnson. He really showed them Vietcong a thing or two. We really
showed them what for, really bombed the hell out of those parasites,
you know? My one regret is that we didn’t fight those commies harder.
We should have doused all them fish-head eating stronzos with the
napalm. But congress wouldn’t let us. Them and those spineless,
cock-less peaceniks.”
Salvatore DeLuna’s face went red with emotion. “I’d love to douse
you with napalm, you stooge. They’ve got women and children over
there.”
Joey Raguso grew agitated. “Hey, are we gonna finish this game or
what? Read em’ and weep, little girls. Four nines,” he said, displaying
his cards for all present to see.
Roma sagged. “All I have is two sixes. Goodbye, fifteen dollars,”
he said; never a fan of gambling, only engaging in it today for the
camaraderie.
Uncle Sal reached avariciously for the loot in the middle of the table,
but Raguso seized him by the arm, and then flashed his cards at DeLuna,
and then the rest of the players.
“Last time I checked, a full house beats three aces, Salvatore.” Raguso
smiled, clearly reveling in DeLuna’s defeat, after his making fun of
Raguso’s idol Ronald Reagan.
DeLuna whined. “You lucky son-of-a-bitch. You always win. I should
never have gone up against you.”

27
 HARD TIME

Just then, this huge guy—who Roma had never met nor seen before
in his life—dressed up in a black suit, collar outstretched wiseguy-style
over a beautiful-looking cashmere jacket, approached the card table.
The man was young, dashing, with dark brown hair parted in the
middle. He is clean-shaven, with bright blue eyes. He looked over at
Salvatore DeLuna, and then over at DeLuna’s nephew, Tommy Roma.
He placed his hand slowly but reverently on Roma’s shoulder, his tone
of voice firm yet easygoing.
“Tommy Roma, Mr. Spirochete is ready to meet you now.”
Roma stood up. Uncle Sal was about to stand up too—however, Mr.
Handsome Goon stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Sorry, Salvatore. But Mr. Spirochete’s instructions to me were
implicit: Bring Tommy up here, and bring Tommy alone," explained
Handsome Goon.
The young man and Roma made their way up the staircase.
“So how do you like the place, Mr. Roma? Is it the way you
remembered it?” asked Handsome Goon.
“I like it fine, Mr…?”
Handsome Goon stopped walking, turned around, and facing Roma,
said: “I am Jamie—Jamie Bartonella.”
Roma smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bartonella,” he said. “And, to
answer your question a little better, yes, it is the way I remember it.
But different. More modernized. But it still feels the same, you know?”
They resumed walking up the stairs.
“Funny, I don’t remember these stairs though. Or this place even
being two-stories. What’s up with that, Jamie?”
“They’ve been here about twenty years—long before I ever worked
for Mr. Spirochete.”
Spirochete had a spacious, highly organized office. Office might be
an only halfway true assessment. The other half of the office looked
more like a personal study, than office. The fireplace at the right end
of the office—near all the bookcases, inside which stacks upon stacks
of books—was a strange addition, which had made the office appear

28
 THE ACE OF SPADES

more as the living room of a cabin, than a place of business. A huge

iguana paced slowly about on the floor, sticking its tongue out every
once in awhile. Mozart blared from the modernized speakers, which
were attached to an old phonograph record player. The classic song in
question: Mozart’s The Classic Flute Overture.
Mr. Spirochete sat on his swivel chair at the very end of the room,
his back facing both men, Roma and Jamie Bartonella, as they made
their way into the office. He was holding a musical wand in both
hands, tapping it energetically, enthusiastically, to the beat of the
classical overture. Finally, the composition ended and Spirochete’s
rapid movements halted. There is now a deafening silence in the
room, save for the logs burning in the fireplace. Spirochete suddenly,
very quickly, jerked his body around in the swivel chair, facing both
men now. He donned an elegant-looking Kimono, his hair long and
shaggy—a little too long, for a Mafia don.
Spirochete opened his eyes very slowly. They were green, opaque,
reptilian and otherworldly. He motioned with one hand movement, as
if annoyed by a pesky little fly around his face, for his loyal assistant,
Jamie Bartonella to buzz off.
Bartonella nodded once at Tommy, and then he bowed at Mr.
Spirochete, as though he were some sort of majestic Roman emperor.
“Well look what the cat dragged in, Tolstoy,” said Spirochete. “The
Tommy Roma. How are you doing, Tommy? Long time no see. You’re
looking dapper in that suit. Tell me, what kind is it?”
“Sharkskin.”
Spirochete grabbed the Iguana, stroking its forehead affectionately,
creepily. “Ah, Tolstoy. This fine, outstanding gentleman you see
standing before you is Tommy Roma. That’s right, Leo. The Tommy
Roma. The legend. The guy who kept his trap shut for fifty years. The
patron saint of Men of Respect. Ah, so much you have missed while on
the outside, pal. So, so much. Come on now, my friend. Have a seat,
please.”
Roma sat on the gold-plated chair, in front of the desk.

29
 HARD TIME

Spirochete administered a firm-but-loving slap on the reptile’s

bottom. “Go, Leo,” he said. “Explore. Find gold. Find riches. And, once
you do, be as generous with your species as your human counterpart
was with his own.”
The Iguana now had free rein of the office. Slowly Tolstoy lumbered
about the floor, past his tiny little playpen, all the way over to his Iguana
condo, which was not unlike a cat condo in appearance. Tolstoy sits
on the uppermost level of the iguana condo, still, noble, like a medieval
gargoyle statue making watch over its master’s kingdom.
“Have you ever read ‘War and Peace,’ Tommy?”
“A long time ago in the prison library, yeah.”
Spirochete grinned widely, exposing his one golden tooth. “The
author of ‘War and Peace,’ Leo Tolstoy, believed in spreading the wealth.
Money meant absolutely nothing to him, Tommy. And you know
what?”
Roma shook his head sheepishly. Spirochete stood up, the portly
little bastard. He was built like a bowling ball, a bowler’s dream. All he
needed were a few holes on the top of his head, and he’d be picking up
seven/ten splits. The rotund little man walked leisurely over toward
the safe, which was hidden behind a bunch of ancient-looking books
on one of the bookshelves. He looked back at Roma, and smiled
broadly once again, exposing his pearly whites along with the one
little golden nugget. Spirochete’s teeth—the only attractive features
on the corpulent little man’s entire body.
The ratty little ponytail on the end bobbing and weaving, as the Boss
of Bosses ferociously pounded the pass-code into the safe. The safe
door whooshed open. Spirochete reached for the duffel bag down
on the floor, and then he began to stuff the stacks of money into the
bag. He counted to himself, not clearly audible to Roma, but still loud
enough for Roma to hear something.
Spirochete then walked leisurely over to where Roma was still sitting
and dropped the duffel bag on the shiny oaken desk in front of Roma.
“This for me?”

30
 THE ACE OF SPADES

“Of course, Tommy. It’s a little piece of the R and J construction pie.
We made a lot of money on that business, while you were away. I’ve
got one hundred thousand dollars here. My gift to you.”
“I am honored, chief, that you would be so generous. Trouble is, I
gotta answer to this parole officer with daddy issues right now.”
Spirochete looked confused. “Daddy issues?” he asked.
“Yeah. A very emotional guy. His father embezzled money from
Israeli gangsters, and then he profited from porno movies with
underage girls. ‘Strictly Sixteen,’ I believe they were called.”
A quizzical expression saturated Spirochete’s face. Roma exhaled
mightily.
“It’s kind of a long story, boss,” he said. “Anyway, as I’m sure you
already know: being on parole is still kind of like being in jail. I’m still
not completely free, at least not until another six months from now.
Any minute, at my apartment, I could be subjected to a random search
and seizure of my place, all on account of this fucking fruitloop of a
parole officer. That’s just the way it is. Some bullshit laws, right? So,
anyway, I was wondering—would you be so kind as to hold on to my
loot until after I’m a completely free man, when I won’t have Uncle
Sam breathing down my neck so much?”
Spirochete looked long and hard into Roma’s eyes. You could cut the
tension in the room with a knife. And then he laughed some, grabbed
the duffel bag, stuffing it down on the floor, into the leg compartment
of his desk.
“Sure, Tommy. Why not? I’ll hold onto this for awhile, for
safekeeping. And when you are ready to pick it up, when the parole
expires, you come by anytime and pick it up. Understood?”
Roma stood up immediately, respectfully. “One hundred percent,
champ. One hundred percent. Thanks for the generosity. I’m really
looking forward to using the dough.”
“Of course, Tommy. You’ve earned it, kid,” Spirochete said in his
raspy voice.
Roma walked over to where Mr. Spirochete was sitting, planted a

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 HARD TIME

kiss on the short, rotund don’s blubbery right-side cheek.

***
Inside Uncle Salvatore’s Car
Salvatore DeLuna is once again puffing off a huge stogie, and as a
result the car is filled with smoke. Roma, once again, has his hand
outside the window, feeling the breeze, enjoying the sensation of
freedom. DeLuna shot his nephew yet again another angry gaze as
they were waiting for the light to turn green at one of the stoplights.
“How many times have I told you, Tommy? Ever since you was a
little kid: Stop sticking your hand out the frigging window,” DeLuna
said exasperatedly.
Roma shrugged, and then he started to whistle.
Uncle Sal’s face hardened. “Tommy—stop with the whistling. I can’t
hear myself think.”
Roma, never one to back down, continued to whistle, his hand still
out the window.
DeLuna cut to the chase, finally addressing what was bugging him.
“So what was the old man telling you in there, kiddo?”
“Omerta, uncle,” Roma explained. “What a boss tells his underlings is
always classified information in the Life, remember? Besides, we were
just catching up on old times.”
Complete silence for a few seconds, as DeLuna navigated twists,
turns, and a sporadic horn-honking here and there, whenever neces-
sary. The ever-present, always noisy machine ushered oxygen through
the nasal cannula and into the old man’s failing lungs. In between shifts
and swerves of the wheel, DeLuna took puffs from off the overbearing
stogie, occasionally tipping the cigar outside the open window and
then ashing it.
“Just catching up on old times, huh?” Uncle Sal said finally.
“Correct.”
DeLuna goaded his nephew further. “What did the old man tell you,
Tommy?”
“I told him what I needed to say, that I’ll have to work elsewhere, find

32
 THE ACE OF SPADES

a legitimate job. Someplace my whacked-out parole officer wants me

to work at, till the parole expires in six months.”
Uncle Sal pressed T.R. further.
“But in the meantime, what kind of work do you plan on doing?” he
asked. “Those parole officers—you’re right, they’re whacked-out. They
have got daddy issues, every last one of them. But they’re also malicious
bastards. They aren’t going to have you doing any respectable jobs.
They’ll have you doing something really demeaning, really trivial, like
shining some fat-ass magistrate’s shoes or janitor work.”
“Don’t worry about that, Uncle,” Roma said. “I know they’ll find me
work more respectable than janitor or shoe-shiner. I just know it.”

33
 5

The Pine Barrens

S
now is falling everywhere on the highway Tommy Roma, twenty one
years old, is driving on. Roma is bundled up really nicely with ear
muffs, a faux-fur jacket ala Al Capone, and red gloves on his hands,
which were tightly grasped to the steering wheel. Tommy breathed in and
out, expelling the fog-chill from his breath. The heater in the car was old
and unreliable, barely even noticeable. Sure, it’s better than nothing—but,
clearly, by Roma’s frigid expressions, it was nothing to write home about.
Initially, he drove along at a prudent speed: Not too fast, not too slow.
Don’t want to lose traction. Indeed, the last thing you want to do, when
you’re transporting two corpses in the trunk of your car, is to spin out of
control off the road, ramming into a snow-and-ice packed ditch somewhere
where the paramedics or, worse, the authorities, would undoubtedly discover
you and them.
Roma whacked the fans and kicked the floorboard of the car, desperately
hoping for a little more warmth. But none came. He just wanted to get these
two guys buried in the wilderness, and have the whole sordid affair ended;
over with.
Driving with his left arm, and clutching with his right arm the London
Fog fur coat to his chest, he shivered uncontrollably and then he coughed.
The young, 20-year-old man was piloting the car—trying to make heads
or tails of what is going on outside: where his lane stops and where the other
drivers’ lane begins. He was also, simultaneously, scoping the road out for a

34
 THE PINE BARRENS

good, inconspicuous place to pull over at.

Pine Barrens, 3 Miles Ahead, the large green sign read.
Good, Roma thought. Bury the stiffs as quick as you can, and then haul
ass back home. Hopefully the car doesn’t die out. He cursed Spirochete. Why
couldn’t he have sent someone else along with him? After all, burying two
corpses in a raging snowstorm is never an easy thing to do. But with one
more hand to shovel and bury the bodies with, it’d be done a helluva lot
quicker.
Roma became a little nervous; he wanted this all over with as quickly as
possible. He tapped his right foot on the accelerator. The car gained speed by
ten miles per hour. The speedometer would have reported that had it
not already been frozen. Good Lord, Roma thought. Is this the way it’s
going to end? Me, dead on the side of the road with a broken-down car and
two stiffs I didn’t even clip in the trunk?
He speeds up another ten miles per hour or so. Just then, sirens blare. A
black-and-white sheriff’s car is on Roma’s tail.
Where the Hell did he come from? wondered Roma. Incredible. Well, it
looks like maybe I’m not going to freeze to death, but that I’m gonna be
arrested—if they find Boyle and McGuire….
Roma dutifully pulled over to the side of the road, panicked. What am I
going to do? Suddenly, he remembered Spirochete had given him the same
snub-nosed .38 pistol he whacked Sonny and Boyle with. “They have a lot of
wolves and wildlife out there in the Pine Barrens,” Spirochete said. “Might
as well take this along with you.”
Thanks a lot, Spirochete, Roma thought. As if it weren’t bad enough having
recently murdered bodies in the trunk, Roma also had the gun that clipped
them. Wonderful.
The thought crossed his mind, quickly, to waste the sheriff with the .38.
But he then considered: What if he’s got kids? The last thing Roma wanted
to do was make some kids fatherless. He was acutely aware of how bad that
felt. So, he decided talking himself out of the situation was his best chance
for success.
“Yes, sheriff. I’m just traveling around Jersey, looking for a good place to

35
 HARD TIME

settle. Why? Because my parents kicked me out, for criticizing the Vietnam
war and Lyndon Baines Johnson. I’ve decided to become one of those, what
the hell do you call them again? Oh, yeah: Hippies. That’s what I am, sir.
Peace and love.
This rollie-pollie looking sheriff exited the cruiser, flash-light in
hand—along with his partner, a wiry little mustached deputy.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked the sheriff. “Let’s see some ID.”
T.R. handed it to over to the sheriff, obediently. “Surname: Roma,” the
cop said. That Italian?”
“Yes sir,” Roma responded.
The deputy spoke, finally. “Sir, Italian surname….”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said. “Listen, kid. We’re going to have to ask you to pop
open the trunk.”
“It’s nothing personal,” said the deputy. “Just a precaution. Some unsavory
characters have been known to dump bodies out here late at night.”
“You’re kidding?” Roma said. “That’s insane.”
The sheriff snagged the key from Roma’s hand. “Which one is it?”
“The large one,” Roma responded, trying to hide his grimace.
The trunk whooshed open, and that’s when the sheriff noticed the rolled
up carpet.
“Do you travel with rolled up carpet often, son?”
“Yes sir,” Roma said, lying through his teeth. “I am a carpet salesman,
actually.”
“Carpet salesman, huh?” the sheriff said. Then he handed the flashlight
over to his deputy, the wiry-thin man with the mustache. “Do me a favor,
Lambert. Flash this in the back. I am going to take a look-see at the carpet.”
After rummaging around for a little bit the Sheriff shrieked out in horror.
There they were: Two bodies, crumpled up, already frozen stiff by the subzero
temperature.
Roma woke up again, screaming. He was, once again, on his Save
More air mattress and in 2018, not 1968 anymore.
“The year is not 1968, Roma,” he said to himself, aloud. “It’s 2018.
Get used to it.”

36
 THE PINE BARRENS

Roma tried to go back to sleep but he couldn’t. He changed positions,

he kicked, he stirred.
So he did what he had always done when insomnia was setting in:
He thought about the restaurant.
Roma was sleeping like a baby in no time.

37
 6

Francesco's Place

F
rancesco’s restaurant, a cozy little Italian eatery, is located in
downtown Newark, New Jersey. There are not many customers
inside at the current hour, nine o’clock at night. The walls
of the quaint little Italian restaurant are filled with pictures of Al
Francesco, the restaurant’s owner, back in the days when he was a
professional wrestler. Old black-and-white pictures of Francesco in
the ring, scowling at the referee, snarling at his opponents, and snarling
at the audience, decorate the walls. There are also pictures of Francesco
standing beside nuns, priests, bishops. Pictures of Francesco, several
years after having retired from wrestling, inside the Vatican, gazing at
ancient scrolls through protective glass. The place had the ambience of
a genuine Italian restaurant—from the dim lighting to the gentle music
to the miniature statuette, a small cherubic boy, pissing and spitting
water into the fountain near the entrance.
Roma and DeLuna were sitting by the right-hand corner of the
restaurant. Roma sitting with his back to the wall, as always.
DeLuna grinned from ear to ear. “Old habits die hard, do they not,
kiddo?”
Roma shrugged. “I’m just enjoying the view of the restaurant is all
uncle. Nothing more.”
DeLuna laughed at that, like it was one of the funniest things he had
ever heard in his life.

38
 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

“Spare me the bullshit, kiddo. You don’t trust me,” he said.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, zio di mio.”
“Sure it is. You don’t trust your Uncle.”
Roma was silent for a few seconds, then he finally disclosed the truth.
“You’re not the one I distrust, Uncle Sal. It’s him. He’s probably going
to have me whacked.”
“Tommy, Tommy. Mr. Spirochete is not going to have you clipped.
Why in the hell would he do that?”
“Beats me,” Roma said. “Who knows? But one thing I do know—the
man’s a snake. And I don’t trust him, Uncle Sal.”
Salvatore DeLuna rolled his eyes, and then he coughed a few times.
For a few seconds, quietness followed the conversation again. The only
thing audible the sound of the oxygen machine, in the stead of Salvatore
DeLuna’s diseased, tar-laden lungs, which were failing drastically as
the days and nights rolled on.
The waitress finally appeared—a crusty-looking old Italian crone,
hunch-backed and shaking from arthritis and maybe even an advanced
stage of Parkinson’s. Her accent was thickly Southern Italian, peppered
with a pinch of unveiled hostility.
“What what you two be having to eat?” she asked both men, brusquely.
I guess I’ll have the number 5—the plate of spaghetti, but with no
sauce, and garlic toast on the side,” Roma said, still gawking down at
the menu.
“I’ll just have an order of Zitti, doll,” DeLuna said. “Oh, and could
you please bring me an espresso the next chance you get?”
The old hag rushed off kitchen-wards, muttering cursing to herself
in Italian.
“Why is it you don’t trust the boss, kiddo? Tell me. I’m confused.”
“Because he’s a malicious old bastard, that’s why I don’t trust him,”
Roma said, sipping his Coke through the straw.”
“Malicious?” DeLuna asked incredulously. “In what way?”
“He just giddily blew those two guys to Kingdom Come, right there
in front me like it was…nothing. He looked so…sadistic. He looked

39
 HARD TIME

like he was enjoying his work just a little too much, if you know what
I mean. There was something evil in his eyes, Uncle Sal. I saw it that
day. I swear. I know whackings come with the business. But with this
guy—it’s something different entirely. Whacking ain’t just a necessary
evil with Spirochete. He relishes in ‘em. He’s sick, touched in the
head, demented.” After saying that Roma is once again caught up by
the memory—the same memory he had relived thousands of times in
his prison cell; relived the memory every day since his incarceration.
The young, ruddy-faced, 27-year-old Irish-Italian half-breed Sonny Boyle
is dressed in a white-and-brown polo shirt with khaki pants. Spirochete,
short as always, but with a lot less fat and, of course, decades younger, pulls
the .38 out from the back of his pants. Roma recollects, clear as day, the
young Sonny Boyle jabbering frantically, but he can’t hear him. Slow motion
gunshots are in place over the muted dialogue. Spirochete pulls the trigger of
the .38, shooting Sonny Boyle square in the face. Blood splashes the walls
of the club, the pool table, it even reaches the kitchen area. A good amount
sprinkles Roma. Next Spirochete walks over to McGuire, who is about to
make a futile run for it and, with a huge smile on his malevolent face, shoots
McGuire in the back. McGuire yelps out in pain, like a tortured animal
howling in agony, about to be put out of its misery.
McGuire is now crawling on the floor defenselessly, slowly, like a toddler
learning how to walk for the very first time. Spirochete points the gun down
at his prey, smiles vindictively, and then fires the gun, again and again.
"The man’s evil, Uncle Sal. Simply put. Evil and Selfish. To the core.
I flat-out cannot stand and don’t trust him.”
Just then the old crone reappeared, with Roma’s plate of Spaghetti,
and DeLuna’s bowl of zitti.
“That was quick. I’m starving. Thanks.” Roma, fork in hand, reached
for the plate. The grizzled old waitress administered a good-sized
slap to Roma’s wrist. She wagged her forefinger at him. “Wait a few
minutes before eating, eh? The plate is very hot.”
Just then, the old bat shot Uncle Sal a fierce look, as if to say, “You’d
better put that frigging fork down, Mister, and stay the hell away

40
 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

from that bowl of Zitti, at least for five minutes.” DeLuna immediately
dropped the fork to the table, and forced a smile at the old waitress.
With a grunt, which was either an “Enjoy your meals, gents,” or a
“choke on your food and die, you bastards” grunt, the old hunch-backed
waitress shuffled off, toward the kitchen once again.
“Evil’s a strong word, kiddo. It gets tossed around an awful lot.”
Roma shrugged. He touched the plate and winced in pain. Then
he looked over toward the kitchen, where the old lady was clanging
around pots and pans. “Sure, it gets tossed around a lot. But with
Spirochete, it doesn’t get tossed around enough.” Roma twirled the
spaghetti on his fork and then he crammed it down his trap. “In fact,
calling Jimmy Spirochete evil might be an understatement. The man
is evil incarnate. Thank God that for the next half a year I have a good
excuse for not showing up at the Ace of Spades everyday and being his
loyal little foot soldier. Parole.”
“So what’re you gonna do when the six months are finally up, Mr.
Bigshot, huh? You ain’t going to work for him anymore?”
“Hey, Uncle Sal. I told you I was out, and I meant that I was out.
Understand?”
“You think Spirochete is gonna take your defection well, Tommy?
You’re out of your mind, nephew. There are only two ways out of this
thing of ours: One is a lifetime behind bars. The other way is inside
a County Coroner’s bodybag. Lay Capisce?” DeLuna said, forking his
Zitti.
“We’ll just see about that, Uncle. I’m not going back. I have plans. I
want to start my own restaurant. Get out of the Life. Start life anew,
you know?”
DeLuna sighed. “So you’re just stalling Mr. Spirochete, eh? You’re
just biding your time. Then, when after the six months are later up,
and you’re off the parole, whoosh. Tommy Roma disappears. No sign
of him whatsoever. Not a trace. He sleeps with the fishes, like Luca
Brasi.
***

41
 HARD TIME

Salvatore DeLuna and Tommy Roma are walking out from the
restaurant’s entrance. They are on Discovery Street. Granted, a
nicer area than the block which housed the infamous Ace of Spades
social club. There wasn’t one heroin pusher, nor one whore, working
the streets or the sidewalks. Roma, a stomach full with spaghetti,
toothpick in mouth, outstretched his arms and patted his own belly,
lazily. DeLuna, as was the custom, due to the several years of seniority
he had over his nephew, walked ahead of Roma, oxygen tank in tow, but
wheeling it with his own hands. He coughed and wheezed a mighty lot
but, nevertheless, Uncle Salvatore moved fast for a man with blackened
lungs. They were making their way out to DeLuna’s Lincoln in the
parking lot. As they made their way around the corner shop, near the
parking lot, Roma felt a nudge on his shoulder. He turned around,
rapidly, instinctively, ready for a brawl, ready to tear somebody’s throat
out if need be….
Anyway, he turned around, only to see a fresh-faced man, who
appeared playful and full of life, excited and as exuberant as a puppy
on his way to a new home from the pound.
“Hey, Tommy,” the man said. “I see you like Francesco’s Restaurant.
But, I’ve gotta be totally honest with you here—they’re not the best
Italian restaurant in Newark. What’d you have?”
“Spaghetti.”
The man laughed.
“Spaghetti, at an Italian restaurant? Say, what? How unimaginative.
You know, they serve that everywhere. Even at non-Italian restaurants,”
the man said.
“Pay this knucklehead no mind nephew,” DeLuna said irritatedly.
“He’s an FBI agent. Joey Samento. He’s always standing in front of the
Ace of Spades, handing out cards.”
“Oh, hey, Salvatore. How have you been doing, man? What did you
have for dinner?” asked Special FBI Agent Joey Samento.
Special FBI agent Samento focused his pesky gaze over at Salvatore
DeLuna until he answered. Samento was quite persistent. You had to

42
 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

give him that.

“Zitti,” DeLuna groaned finally.
“Tell you fellas what—you want Italian food, good Italian food, then
try Luigi’s, downtown. Their marinara sauce is to die for.”
“Are you kidding me? They’re Northern Italian, which isn’t really
Italian. Their cuisine tastes like something a goddamned German
would whip up. No thanks, Fed,” snapped DeLuna.
DeLuna labored his way inside the Lincoln, without even dignifying
the G-man’s presence with further comment. Roma, as per the custom,
grabbed the oxygen machine, toted it into the trunk of the car, and
then he looked over at the G-man. It wasn’t even intentional. It was
unavoidable. Their eyes locked.
“You have something on your mind, chief? My Uncle’s got a doctor’s
appointment. I don’t want for him to be late. So if you don’t have a
warrant, an affidavit or an indictment, then go play with yourself.”
Special FBI Agent Joey Samento said nothing in response—right
away. He simply walked over to Roma, handed him his business card.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, the G-man finally spoke
again.
“A place like Newark, New Jersey is filled with all kinds of traitors,
cutthroats and back-stabbers, Tommy. It doesn’t hurt to have the right
friends on your side. The right people to confide in. No?” Samento
smiled.
***
Both inside Lincoln Continental. Uncle Sal behind the wheel. Roma
the passenger. He had his arm outside the window. Uncle Sal shot his
nephew a disapproving glance, that would have sent shivers up even
the spine of the Incredible Hulk.
DeLuna shook his head ruefully. “Just like when you were a 10-year-
old whippersnapper, Tommy. You still got the thickest noggin in town.
I can’t ever tell you anything. You’re incapable of learning anything,
too. Just like your old man was. Hard-headed. Stubborn—to your own
detriment.”

43
 HARD TIME

“Was he as hardheaded as me?”

“Harder headed even,” DeLuna sighed, squinting out the windshield
all the while. His eyes on the road.
DeLuna lit up another cigar, as was the custom, inside the car. Roma
coughed, but that did not dissuade his Uncle from smoking. It never
did.
Roma’s Uncle braked at the upcoming stoplight. Horns were honking
behind them as they sat there, waiting for the light to turn green. Loud
music permeated the air. Voices of people on telephones jabbering,
yapping, chatting about inconsequential shit. A typical Newark, New
Jersey stop light.
“I will never forget your old man’s face, as he lay dying on that
goddamn gurney. Doctor Morrison was there, so was Sergeant Blake,
one of the toughest Irishmen on the beat. Your mother, my sister, was
by your father’s side, sobbing. And you—where the hell were you again,
nephew?” DeLuna grabbed his forehead, as though he could seize the
memory of where his nephew was on that fateful day. He couldn’t.
“Camp. Making bows and arrows, sharpening arrowheads, sculpting
a kayak out of a log.”
DeLuna hacked away. And then he continued the story. “So Tony’s
got three bullets in his abdomen, he’s coughing up blood bubbles. I’m
glad you weren’t there to see that, kid. Anyway, Sergeant Blake, he sees
your Ma balling her eyes out, he sees the stern look on my face, so he
tells your father, he says, ‘You might as well identify your shooters.”
DeLuna took another puff. “Look, they’ve cost you your life. You’ll
never see your family, or your brother or your son or your wife ever
again. Just let me know who did this to you—we’ll be all over that
vermin like flies on roadkill.”
Roma looked over at his uncle with renewed interest.
“Anyway—and I’ll never forget what happened next—Jerry motions
for Blake to inch closer to him, like he’s gonna whisper something into
his ear. Blake follows suit, puts his ear close to your old man’s lips, and
your father—Madone, I’ll never forget this—he shouts in Blake’s ear,

44
 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

“Fuck off, copper.” Then your old man, he gurgles some more, and with
his last gasp of breath, he whispers, ‘I’d rather die than be a rat.’”
“That’s the way I always remember you telling me the story,” Roma
said.
“He went out like a true champion, a true mafioso, a real man of
respect. He didn’t blab nobody out, and he minded his P’s and Q’s till
his last dying breath,” Uncle Sal said.
“You never caught up with those guys who whacked him?”
DeLuna shook his head regretfully. “Neither hide nor hair of them
spics. We were gonna take care of it ourselves. Henry Spirochete—Mr.
Spirochete’s dad—scoured all the neighborhoods. We let all our friends
know—all the bookies working the streets, all the point shavers, all
the dealers—that if they were ever to come into contact with those
lowlifes who clipped your dad at the restaurant, then to let us know.
There’d be a reward in it for them, twenty thousand clams,” DeLuna
coughed. “You dangle that kind of money in front of people on the
street, I don’t care who you’re asking for them to turn in—their own
mothers—those degenerate bastards are gonna turn them in, all right.
But we never found them.”
Roma, perhaps disgusted with idea of his father’s murderers never
being brought to justice, street-style, became suddenly, eerily silent.
Uncle Sal stopped the car at another red light, and took a drag off his
cigar.
Uncle Sal’s eyes just lit up. “Oh, yeah. I’ve damn near forgotten,
kiddo. Next week is Mr. Spirochete’s birthday bash. We’ve gotta sneak
you over there so the feds don’t see you consorting with known felons.
Make sure to buy him something nice.”
“Hell, no. I’m on parole. The feds are probably tailing me, day and
night” Roma said, looking into the rearview mirror. He continued:
“They see me associating with a bunch of known criminals, the first
thing they’re gonna do is throw me back in the slammer, and then
that’ll be it for me. The next time I make it out of the bighouse, it’ll be
in a body bag.” Warden Sanchez would win.

45
 HARD TIME

“Look, you don’t have to go at the end of the day, when the dozens of
cars start pulling up and the feds are outside on the watch. Instead, we’ll
sneak you through the back again. I’ll drive you over there. Nobody is
more skilled at picking up and losing tails than I am, Tommy. I’ll drive
you over there. You buy the old man something nice as a token of your
friendship, wrap it up, and give it to him. It’s not rocket science. Hey,
don’t give me that look. Listen to me, Kiddo, and listen very carefully.
You’ve been locked up for a long time. I believe you have forgotten
how serious the Life can get. You have to make this birthday party,
Tommy. Otherwise, Spirochete, he’s gonna get suspicious. And believe
you me, you don’t want to have that guy suspicious. Neither do I.”
***
The corpulent parole officer with a heart of gold eyed the teabag with
sheer intensity, with the unmatched dogged commitment he applies
to eating his food and helping people. He’s sitting on a fold-out lawn
chair inside Tommy Roma’s apartment. The apartment still looks,
quite, barren. A few lawn chairs here and there. A small coffee table, a
small dinner table, in the kitchen.
Finally, Tommy broke the silence, and parole officer Douglas M.
Bukoksi jerked awake from his reverie.
“I apologize for not having any coffee, chief,” Roma said. “But truth
be told, I have never been much of a coffee drinker. Never while in
the big house, not while before it, and certainly not now. It keeps me
up late. Makes it very hard to get sleep. Gives me nightmares. You
know?”
“That’s okay, Tommy. Green tea is perfectly acceptable. Thank you.”
Roma smiled at Officer Bukokski. Bukokski smiled back, warmly. A
sheaf of papers are in front of Bukokski on the table. Bukokski shuffled
through them with his hands. Then he took out a pen, and made a
few notations. He was focused on the paper, intensely—the same way
he focuses on his meals, teas, and parolees. He scribbled a little more
onto the paper. And then there is silence for a few seconds. Finally, he
spoke again.

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 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

“Well, Tommy, I believe it’s time we focus on employment. You have

been on the outside for a few days now. How do you feel?”
“Bored.”
Bukokski nodded his head. And then he jotted some things down
into his notebook.
“Ah, boredom. Yes,” he said. “This is oftentimes a symptom of
freedom for longtime inmates, ironically. My theory is, so many years
are spent fostering grandiose expectations—life is so great, you’re going
to become rich, everything’s going to be perfect—that once back in
reality, in the general public, the tedium of it all can hit you quite hard.
Well, Tommy, forget about it. Things are going to be just fine, as soon
as we find you some work. Don’t worry about it, Tommy. Your hands
will not remain idle for much longer. So I’ve been browsing this guide
here, and it tells me about all the applicable jobs for a former inmate of
your…stature. There are some fascinating jobs here. Tell me, ideally
but realistically, what kind of work are you interested in?”
Roma grinned broadly. “Well, I’ve always had this love for unions.
How about union work? I could easily see myself as a union organizer,
you know? Straighten things out. Settle disputes. Shit like that.”
Bukokski burst out laughing. You, a union organizer? Oh boy, that’s
rich Tommy.”
Roma shot the parole officer a hardened “Hey, watch who you’re
talking to, pal,” gaze. Bukokski stopped laughing.
“Sorry, Tommy—ahem, I mean, Mr. Roma,” he said. “I did not mean
to come across as insolent. It’s not that, Tommy, it’s just… Union Work,
as I’m sure as you might know… Well, with that type of work, there’s a
certain, um, stigma, if you will attached to it.”
Roma starred blankly. “Stigma?”
“Sure,” said Bukokski. “Well, you know, in that type of job you are
known to bump shoulders with a lot of, um, shady individuals. And
the whole purpose of parole, my whole job is to rehabilitate you, to
keep you away from…um…specimens of that nature. So I’m sorry,
Tommy, but I cannot, in good conscience, make you a union organizer.

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 HARD TIME

But fear not: there are a lot of different jobs in here, so please do not
get discouraged and disheartened. Tell me of another job you would
like, that is realistic, but of which you are also passionate about.”
“I was just reading in the Star-Ledger the other day that the best
job, without needing a higher experience, is secretary. I was thinking
maybe I could do something like that.”
Officer Bukokski nodded his head eagerly. “Absolutely. And, as it
is, there are a few secretarial jobs in here. Um, but there are a few
prerequisites. Do you know how to use the Internet, Tommy? Did you
learn at the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary?”
“Nope.”
“Okay well, hmmm,” Bukokski said. “Do you have any typing
experience. It says here in this job listing that to become a secretary at
this particular office, you need to be able to type seventy-five words
per minute. Can you type that much per minute?”
Roma scoffed. “Are you kidding me, chief? I never even learned how
to type. Get out of here!”
“Okay, okay. Do not fret, Tommy. There are still plenty of jobs in
here. How about pet groomer?”
“Pet groomer? The fuck’s that?”
“You wash people’s pets, shampoo their fur coats. Cut them, clip
them. That kind of thing. Are you interested?”
“Won’t work,” Roma said. “I’m allergic to cats. Their fur swells up
my bronchial pathways. They’d have to wheel me out in a gurney the
first day, and inject a bunch of Benadryl into my varicose veins. What
else you got, champ?”
Bukokski stammered, perhaps taken aback by Roma’s bellicose
demeanor and overall disagreeableness. “Truck driver?” he asked,
hopelessly.
“Nope.” Roma waved his hand dismissively. “Never could get my
CDL’s. Why do you think I joined the mob? I always aspired to be a
truck driver. It never worked out.”
“Um, okay,” Bukokski said. “Here’s what looks like a very promising

48
 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

vocation: Security guard at the Mall of Newark. How about that,

Tommy?”
“Security guard,” retorted Roma. “You mean like a snitch? Forget
about it. It’s not happening.”
Officer Bukokski, clearly dismayed, said: “But Tommy—”
“I said it ain’t happening, chief.”
“Okay, Tommy. Here’s one. I know it’s going to work great for you.
Perfect, I must say, for your age range, and it is nothing too difficult.”
Roma wagged his forefinger at Bukokski. “Don’t even talk to me
about it if it’s demeaning. If it’s in any way, shape or form, degrading
or demeaning, I don’t want it. After all, I have an image, a reputation
I’ve got to uphold. Understand?”
“Trust me, Tommy.” Bukokski said.
***
Tommy Roma, dressed in dark blue, employee’s only garb, stands in
front of the Save More store near the entrance, tepidly greeting the
plethora or impassive faces entering and exiting the massive superstore.
Superstores were something new altogether to him. They were flat-out
bizarre. He had never seen the likes of them. They were, in length
and overall size, what he imagined Noah’s Ark to have been. People
flooding in and out of the grandiose establishment. Roma imagined
them as animals, not people. There’s a zebra over there coming in. Here’s a
donkey and two wattling pigs coming in. Hey, here comes a male buffalo and
his wife, a gigantic giraffe—she certainly has a neck as long as one—trundling
the shopping cart inside. How long is it gonna rain? How long must I spend
in the midst of such creatures? Forty days and forty nights? I’d rather be in
the clink. Not only do these animals stink, but they’re hard to look at, too….
Nevertheless, he had to greet them. He had to make them feel special.
This was his job, after all.
“Hi. How are you?” said he. “Good morning, sir. Good day, miss…
Hey, welcome to Save More, where you always save more on your
purchases. Hey, champ, how are you doing? Hey, don’t ride that
skateboard in here. I’m afraid that goes against store policy. Hello,

49
 HARD TIME

Father. You’re looking well today. I love the priest collar. Really, really
sharp. How much did that thing cost you, anyway?”
A young zit-faced man approached Roma, arms folded. “What the
hell do you think you’re doing, Roma?” he said.
“I’m working, sir. What does it look like I’m doing?”
The fresh-faced punk who stood in front of Roma, and who was
chewing his ass out royally, was Patrick O’Callahan, Save More’s acne-
faced assistant manager. O’Callahan was a short man, with a high-
pitched voice. His hair is blond and shaggy. His facial expressions
are haughty and arrogant. Such a small power bestowed upon the
little man was too much for him to handle responsibly. O’Callahan
acted as though he were not Save More assistant manager, but despotic
ruler. He undoubtedly ruled Save More with an iron fist. Undoubtedly,
he also enjoyed—perhaps even he got off on—insulting his seniors
and elders, shoving them beneath him in the pecking order was, quite
possibly, a dream come true for the budding Superstore Tyrant.
“You call this working, Roma?” O’Callahan asked, eyeing Roma
intensely.
Roma looked toward the entrance, at the legion of new faces pouring
in and coming out.
“I sure do, champ.”
But the Napoleon of Superstores was not placated. “Bullshit,” he said.
“You’re not even doing it right.”
Roma, a puzzled expression engulfing his face, said: “What am I
doing wrong, chief?”
“First of all, you’re only greeting the people entering the store,”
O’Callahan said. “Just as important, you also have to greet all the
faces exiting. If you don’t tell them goodbye, then why do you think
they’ll come back? Of all the places they could shop at here in Newark,
they have chosen us. And we respect them for that, Roma. We honor
them for that. Understand, Roma?”
“You’re absolutely right, boss. And I terribly—profusely—apologize.
But, you’ve gotta understand, I’ve been locked up since 1968. We never

50
 FRANCESCO'S PLACE

had any of these superstores when I was still on the outside. So I’m
sorry. I hope you accept my most sincerest apologies and believe me
when I say this: It will never happen again.”
Roma’s face was red, beet-red, but his words were placating enough.
Music to the diminutive little tyrant’s ears, no doubt. He could have
told O’Callahan what he really thought of him. He could have gotten
in his face, intimidated him. But that would have sent him back to
Lewisburg, where Warden Sanchez would be gloating, tears of joy
streaming down his face. The man’s perpetual hard-on for Roma knew
no bounds. This little pipsqueak was like a mini Warden Sanchez. Not
yet fully blossomed in his fully realized assholishness, but getting there.
But at least Roma had freedom. At least this little twerp didn’t get to
control all aspects of his life. This job was only eight hours a day. Piece
of cake. Roma could do that sitting on his head.
O’Callahan looked at Roma, O’Callahan’s arms crossed. Finally, he
spoke again. “Also, you need to say hello more enthusiastically. You’re
greeting all our fine, outstanding shoppers like you don’t even want to
be here, like it’s some kind of a chore. When I’m walking through here
again, Roma, I want to see you greeting our employees enthusiastically.
Understood, paesan?”
Roma nodded his head sheepishly.
O’Callahan shook his, then he rushed off. Mr. Bigshot. Too
important to stay there another second longer and speak to a dreg
like Tommy Roma, who made less money than him, and who was
lower on the totem pole than he was.
Roma started to act more enthusiastic.
“Well, hello! Welcome to Save More. Hello! How are you doing
today, miss! Hello, sir, you are looking great today. Love the crewcut!
Goodbye, sir, thank you for shopping at Save More. Have fun with all
that beer you’re taking home. Try not to drink and drive.”
A beautiful elderly woman, 60-ish, dressed in a gray turtleneck shirt
and white jeans, bleached hair and large glasses, made her way through
the entrance. She walked with purpose, attitude and grace—bouncing

51
 HARD TIME

all her good stuff; Roma glared at her, marveling at her great beauty,
transfixed.
“Hello, sweetie,” Roma said. “Welcome to Save More. Anything you
need, here you can save more. You get it?”
“Sweetie? What kind of talk is that. I have a good mind to go see the
manager.”
Roma, perplexed, asked: “I’m sorry. Have I said something out of
line?”
“Yeah, sweetie. You called me sweetie. Don’t you understand: It’s
improper and offensive to call a woman sweetie in the 21st Century?”
“Really?” asked Roma.
“Yes, really. What’s wrong with you? What’s the matter? Have you
been living in a time capsule for forty years or something?”
“Time capsule, no. But I have been locked up for fifty years. I’m an
ex-con. My name’s Tommy. Tommy Roma. Perhaps you have heard of
me. I made the newspapers. I did hard time.”
Roma extended his hand to the woman. But she did not shake it.
Instead, the pretty older woman’s eyes bulged with consternation. And
then she stormed off, an indignant expression on her face.
While she was still within earshot, Roma yelled out to her.
“Thanks for shopping at Save More. Can I take you out to dinner
sometime?”

52
 7

Back at the Social Club

T
here are only six men at the table at this early hour. The
real numbers would start to pour in the afternoon, after
several wiseguys woke up, made their daily rounds, and
frantically shopped for “the right gift” for Mr. Spirochete. There
was a humongous cake on the table in the recreation area of the Ace of
Spades social club. HAPPY 78th BIRTHDAY, MR. SPIROCHETE, the
birthday cake read in large blue letters. The cake was vanilla, except for
the blue lettering, Spirochete’s favorite color. Seventy-eight candles
adorned on the cake, sticking out of the white-and-blue frosting like a
pencil jutting out of the snow.
Mr. Spirochete sat perched high in his large swivel chair. The five
other made men present sat all in chairs encircling the bohemian, blood-
thirsty Mafia don. The five wiseguys present for the early morning
festivities: Salvatore DeLuna, Tommy Roma, the 76-year-old capo
Danny Voglia and middle-aged soldier Joey Raguso and counselor, or
consigliere, Jamie Bartonella, thirty-two. Bartonella was muscular, tall,
and a genuinely menacing looking character.
Spirochete laughed to himself and then blew out all the candles. It
was clearly a lot of work, considering how many were there. After
extinguishing every single spark of fire with his breath, Spirochete
looked around the room. Tolstoy, the Iguana and Mr. Spirochete’s
always-present sidekick, sat in his lap. Spirochete let the reptile lurch

53
 HARD TIME

off. Spirochete smiled jubilantly, majestically.

“You know what? I’m the most lucky guy in the world. Sure, I’d
rather have been something else, somebody legitimate. I’d rather have
been born into a different time, a different era—1920s Paris, France,
perhaps.”
Loyal capo Danny Voglia visibly winced at his boss’s candor, though
nobody seemed to notice the momentary gesture, except for Tommy
Roma, who was sitting directly across from the aging capo. Spirochete
resumed his pompous speech, sounding more like a majestic ruler and
less like a true mafioso.
“Of course, if I were in 1920s Paris, I would regularly visit Shake-
speare and CO, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas’ eclectic bookstore,
on 37 rue de la Bucherie.”
All the guys at the table looked at the boss, solemnly. Of course, you
could tell just by looking at them what they were thinking: Is this guy a
poet, a deep philosopher or a mob boss?
“Sure, I’d love to hang around with Stein and all the denizens of
the expatriate movement and Ernest Hemingway would particularly
be a great man to speak to, associate with, attend prizefights with,”
Spirochete said. “Ah, Mr. Hemingway, gone far too soon. He was a
drunkard, intoxicated by life. But how about his buddy Ezra Pound,
another frequenter of Shakespeare and CO? Some might say too
crazy for this world, indeed, committable. But in spite of his many
eccentricities and shortcomings, I would categorize Pound as a man
of pure soul, of pure conviction. Or what about Henry Miller?”
Roma nudged his Uncle Sal under the table. DeLuna, oxygen mask
still cloaking part of his face, simply rolled his eyes at Roma, as if to
say, What do you expect from me, kiddo? He is, after all, the boss. We have
no other alternatives but to suffer his eccentricities, but not gladly.
Spirochete resumed in his long-winded speech.
“I believe Miller disdained Hemingway, and all the other writ-
ers of whom Gertrude Stein famously categorized a “Lost Genera-
tion”—scribes, outcasts and genuine misfits—because I believe Miller

54
 BACK AT THE SOCIAL CLUB

felt left out from that era. But still, I believe Miller, even if he wouldn’t
have approved of the designation, would have constituted as being
a member of the “Lost Generation” as well—a man with virtually
zero direction, leaving his home country of America, embarking and
searching for something in lands unknown, territories far, faraway….”
Bartonella walked up to Spirochete and whispered something into
his ear. Spirochete’s face went pale, and his eyes bulged.
“Gentleman. If you’ll excuse me and my friend Mr. Bartonella for a
few minutes, we have some business which is urgent, which needs to
be attended to promptly,” Spirochete said. “But please do not let this
change in plans ruin your morning, or the celebratory feelings you
are all having, presently. Please continue to enjoy the festivities—help
yourselves to some cake, some more wine, some whatever—and we’ll
be back as soon as we can reach a resolution to this particular issue.”
Spirochete stood up and as he did, Joey Raguso grabbed the boss by
the arm.
“Always working, even on your birthday, sir. That I admire,” said
Raguso.
Spirochete smiled broadly, stroking the Mafia soldier’s hand. “Thank
you, Joey. Your compliments will serve as my sustenance,” he said.
Roma took this entire insane spectacle with amazement. This is
supposed to be a major mafia family? This, he understood, was
a travesty. La Cosa Nostra, loosely translated, means “this thing
of ours.” But Spirochete had made it this thing of his. If it were
the old days, Spirochete would have been whacked. His actions,
his eccentric behavior, his attitude would have rendered him the
enviable designation, in mob parlance, of “loose cannon,” or, simply
put, NUTCASE. Here was clearly a man who should not have been
boss. I can’t believe I wasted three quarters of my life in Lewisburg for
that mental midget, Roma thought. Incredible. Okay, Roma. Change the
subject. Say something—or else you’re gonna stick out like dick-sore.
Roma faced Voglia. “How are things going, Danny?”
“Good. Good Tommy,” Voglia said. “Hey, listen Tommy. Maybe it’s

55
 HARD TIME

the wine just making me emotional but I’m sorry for not saying this
a few days ago when we was talkin’, but thank you. Thank you for
taking the rap. Thank you for your service and your dedication to this
thing of ours. Not many men could have done what you have done,
Tommy, keeping their mouths shut for fifty years. You didn’t roll over
on nobody, nor did you drop dimes and sing like a canary. We need
more men like you. You have my utmost respect, Tommy. It took real
balls to do what you did.”
“Big, hairy brass balls,” Joey Raguso chimed in. “Shit, Tommy. We
ought to dedicate a statute to you in here. You’re like a saint or
something.”
Roma played it modest.
“It was nothing, guys,” he said. “I was just abiding by the oath I took.
That each and every one of you have taken, ‘Thou shalt not rat.’ These
were my father’s dying words: “I’d rather die than be a rat.” That’s the
way I feel about it myself. And I know it’s how each and every one
of you feel about it, too,” he said, smiling at them. “If we don’t have
Omerta, we really don’t have anything. We don’t stand for anything,
no rules, you know? Well, I’m getting old now,” he stammered. “But I
don’t know if this new generation understands for sure what kind of
sacrifices we the older generation have had to make in the past. Getting
your button isn’t a hobby, it’s not a pastime, it’s a part of our life. It’s
who we are, you know? And to ever break that vow, I believe we’re
not only hurting La Cosa Nostra; we’re also hurting ourselves. Taking
a little piece away from our soul along with La Cosa Nostra’s. May La
Cosa Nostra live on forever, after we are all dead and gone. Here’s to
La Cosa Nostra. And here’s to keeping your mouth shut at all times.”
Roma held the wine glass aloft, the other three gentleman at the
table—DeLuna, Voglia and Raguso—immediately tapped their glasses
with his.
“Cent’anni,” beamed Salvatore DeLuna.
All four men clanging wine glasses in unison: Cent’anni.
Danny Voglia: “So what did you all buy the old man? I bought him

56
 BACK AT THE SOCIAL CLUB

the new Oxford Dictionary. I know how he likes reading and shit.”
“I stole him a Rolex. I think he’ll like it,” said Raguso.
“I bought him ‘The best of Mozart’ on sale at Save More,” Tommy
Roma said.
“None of your shit beats what I got him,” DeLuna said, picking at
cake with the plastic fork.
“What did you get him, Uncle Sal?” Roma asked.
“An FBI agent,” DeLuna said.
All mouths at the table were agape, and all eyes were on Salvatore
DeLuna, waiting to see what he was going to say next, waiting for
an explanation. After all, having a corrupt deputy sheriff in your
pocket was considered impressive enough in the Life. Having an FBI
agent—though it has happened before—was a tremendous coup.
“How did you manage that? You’re sure you’re not just jerking us
around?” asked Raguso.
DeLuna chuckled. “Let’s just say I have my own secret connections.
This fed has got these papers, these classic papers he’s already sold me.
Trouble is, he won’t have them ready until Friday—tomorrow. So this
is going to be a belated birthday present for the boss of sorts. For today,
I’m just gonna give Spirochete a two-hundred-dollar gift certificate
for the Juicy Lobster restaurant. But come next Friday, when the old
man sees these confidential files, he’s gonna be really fucking pleased.
Ecstatic. Elated, you might even say.”
“What’s in them?” Voglia asked.
“Beats the hell out of me,“ DeLuna said, hacking away. “Listen, the
corrupt G-man is supposed to be a surprise, so I want all you oddball
jerkoffs to keep it that way, or else I’ll gut each and every one of you
personally.”
Just then, Bartonella was back. He hunkered over and whispered in
Roma’s ear: “Mr. Spirochete wants to see you now.”
***
“You wanted to see me, chief?”
Spirochete, sitting behind the desk, held Tolstoy. His face impassive,

57
 HARD TIME

inscrutable.
“Please sit down, Tommy,” Spirochete said.
Roma sat down on the chair, opposite the boss. He looked around
the office, at all the pictures on the wall—weird things. Strange things.
Dead, stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls: Zebras, Moose
heads, Elk heads. Elephant tusks, with a small plaque underneath them.
Ancient tribal jungle music blares from the deluxe stereo Surround
Sound speakers. Spirochete, with one push of the remote, lowered the
volume, although it still is slightly audible.
“Those tusks belonged to Ernest Hemingway,” Spirochete explained.
“I had Bartonella purchase them at an auction in Hopedale, Mas-
sachusetts last week. Are you familiar with the writings of Ernest
Hemingway, Tommy?”
“Well, I read A Farewell To Arms when I was in prison. That’s about
it.”
“Excellent. And what did you think?”
“I thought it was really good, boss. But the ending was a little bit sad,”
Roma said, still looking around the office.
Spirochete looked at Roma for a few seconds, saying nothing. Was
he offended? Was he seriously contemplating what Roma had just said?
Within a few more seconds, Spirochete erupted in wild, unrestrained
laughter. He had a deep sounding, gruff laugh—like that of a pirate,
hardened by squalls and a lifetime of slave labor. But there was
something different in his laugh. There was dash of aristocracy, of
subtle, I’m-better-than-you condescension.
“Well, Tommy, none of Hemingway’s stories have happy endings,”
Spirochete said. “None, at least, that I am aware of. Even his novella,
The Old Man and the Sea. Children and young adults were the book’s
target audience. However even that book has an unhappy ending.
Sharks attack the mammoth fish the old man has on his skiff, dragging
its flesh into the water. The old man notices, with lamentation, that the
beautiful fish he had caught has now been reduced to nothing; ugliness,
deformity.” Spirochete slammed his fist on the desk. “At the end of the

58
 BACK AT THE SOCIAL CLUB

story,” he continued, “the old man regrets casting the rod, and catching
the legendary fish. He comes back to the village empty-handed. The
boy, the old man’s sidekick, notices the old man’s despondency and
tries to console him. The Old Man and The Sea—a beautiful work of
art. A masterwork if you will. A genuinely sad story. And like all sad
stories, Roma, I unfortunately have some work that needs to be done.
Roma was beyond attentive now.
“Work?” he asked.
“That’s right, work. W-o-r-k,” Spirochete spelled it out. “Listen—and
it pains me to say this—there’s this guy, he’s an unfortunate nuisance.
Very wicked. Very, very amoral. He’s got to go. And I’d hire someone
else from the crew to do it, but, unfortunately, he knows us. You, he
doesn’t now. You, he has never even met before. I need you to clip
him, Tommy. Shoot him. Stab him. Poison him. Choke him with a
Goddamned Grotto wire. I don’t care. Do whatever you have to do,
my friend. But just make sure he’s dead. And make sure after you do
the deed to leave his body someplace where it can be found. We need
to send a message.”
Roma’s face is filled with anxiety and tension.
There’s never any fun in having to clip someone. Clipping somebody—also
known as making your bones—is an initiation rite of passage into the Mafia.
It’s something the boss has you do to test you. Spirochete, the piece of shit,
was treating me with disrespect. Here I was: I had kept my mouth shut for
more than forty years, and the paranoid old punk was testing me. To tell you
the truth, I would have loved to have shot Spirochete right then and there. I
entered the big house for two double-homicides I didn’t commit. Now the
evil old bastard wants me to commit a murder, just for him. It’s a good way
of assuring my dedication to him, I guess.
***
Roma paced around his apartment.
Salvatore DeLuna sat on the camouflage camping chair, drinking
coffee out of a styrofoam cup, eating cake off a plastic plate. The nasal
cannula attached to his nose. The oxygen machine working dutifully

59
 HARD TIME

beside him.
“I can’t believe it, murder. Cold-blooded murder, Uncle Sal,” Roma
said. “If they ever catch me with this, I’m going away permanently.
Warden Sanchez—that crazy psychopath, this’ll make his day. Murder.
Nope. I’m not going to do it. I can’t do it. I refuse to do it, Uncle Sal.”
“Listen, kiddo. This is easy work. The guy isn’t nice. He’s a low-life,
drug-dealing piece of garbage.”
“I know. You’ve told me this. A million times. Still, I just can’t bring
myself to do it.”
“For shit’s sake, Tommy. You’ve been out for a month now, and you
still haven’t bought any real cups. What is it with you and this plastic
stuff, anyway?” DeLuna said, as he fumbled around in Roma’s cabinet.
“Uncle Sal!” Roma croaked, his voice overwrought with emotion.
“Right. The murder,” DeLuna responded, pouring 10-litre Coke into
the plastic cup. “Um, why exactly do you object to it?” said he.
“What do you mean?” Roma asked, confused.
“I mean: You seem so conflicted about murder. So what? The guy’s a
monster. Killing kids with drugs. He deserves to go.”
“It isn’t right to take another man’s life, Uncle Sal.”
DeLuna flung his arms into the air. “Look at you, nephew! Prison has
softened you instead of hardening you. What gives?” DeLuna shrugged.
“I see it the same way as Dirty Harry: There ain’t nothing wrong with
doing a little bit of shooting; so’s long as the right people are getting
shot!”
“Well,” Roma said, “I’m not doing it. Period.”
“You don’t do what the boss says, you’re dead meat,” DeLuna said,
wagging his boney forefinger at his nephew.”
“So be it, then,” Roma said, grimly.
***
Back to work, back at Save More. Roma’s got a lot of things on his
mind. Was he wrong to have made a moral stance? Should he have just
whacked Collins and gotten it over with?
Never mind that, Roma, he thought.

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 BACK AT THE SOCIAL CLUB

The superstore was brimming with activity; bodies pouring in and

out for Black Friday: avarice-inspired children, teenagers and adults
rushing through the aisles. Some of these patrons getting pushy with
one another. Violence isn’t quite in the air yet, but you smell it; it’s not
very far off.
Roma is making his way to the bathroom at back of the store, near
the Lay-Away and electronics departments. He was clutching his
crotch with gusto. That was the thing about getting older: Ya couldn’t
suppress a strong piss. Ya could suppress it when you were younger—as
uncomfortable as that was. But as you aged, it was like a ticking-liquid
bomb. You only had a few minutes until urinary explosion. Roma
hoped he didn’t get caught for desertion, leaving his typical greeting
post. The tyrant, O’Callahan, would be livid if he found the elderly
employee shirking his duties.
Roma made his way for a urinal, unzipped his pants, and took a nice
hot, tranquil piss. A look of relief permeated his face.
After exiting the restroom Roma noticed something outrageous in
front of the electronics department: Two men, one short like a little
runt, the other taller and impressively muscular, both making a grab
for a video game console overhead. In his haste, the muscular fellow’s
right arm accidentally knocked an older blonde woman over to the
ground, who was shopping beside him, near the glass-locked partition
that secured the latest video games. The woman yelped out in pain.
The two men continued their argument, not even noticing that one of
them had knocked an innocent bystander on her tail. Roma made his
way over to the scene of the incident, indignant, enraged. Where had
chivalry gone in the 21st century?
The two men were now pushing one another, and the pushing had
finally led to shoving. They were now on the cusp of an all-out brawl.
“I already told you, I saw the stupid thing first. It’s mine,” said the
diminutive runt.
“You’re kidding me, right?” snarled the large man. “Look, let’s not
make this personal, okay? I bust my ass twelve hours a day shoveling

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concrete, pal. I could crush your head like a tiny fucking walnut, right
underneath my palm.”
Roma reached for the woman and pulled her to her feet. Once she
was standing up in front of him erect, he was incredulous. It was her.
The one. The love of his life. The beauty who had stumbled into the
Save More a few weeks before, to whom Roma had made an instant
ass of himself. Now was the time for redemption. She would think
differently about him after today.
“Are you alright, miss,” he asked, coolly, confidently.
The woman, always a class act, brushed debris off her pants with
her palms. “I’m fine. Really, I am,” she said. “This brute beside me just
knocked me over. Some people should watch where they are going.”
The two men were seconds away from fisticuffs. Roma walked over
to them, putting his arm around the burly man’s shoulder—the large
brutish man who knocked the woman over.
“Excuse me, chief, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave
the premises, now,” Roma said.
The burly man looked over at Roma as though he had two heads. He
focused his attention away from the smaller man, for a moment, and
faced Roma and spoke. His voice taking on a conciliatory tone. “Sure.
No problem,” he said. “I’ll leave, all right. And I’ll be taking what’s
rightfully mine along with me.”
The little runt chimed in. “Hey, you can’t do that. I had that first.
You snagged it away from me. You big bully.”
Roma, a good five inches shorter than this behemoth standing in
front of him, blocked the man’s progress with his hand.
“What the hell is your problem, pal?”
“First things first, pal. Number one, you’re gonna apologize to this
lady over here. See the lady. You knocked her over. Go ahead, tell her.
We’re waiting.”
The sophisticated looking woman’s arms were folded. Her face
looked angry; it had an expectant look on it.
“While you were arguing with this shorty fellow—”

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“Hey,” the little man injected. “I’m not short—I have a medical
condition.”
“…you knocked this lady over. Tell her you’re sorry. Second, you’re
gonna leave the whatever-the-hell-ya-call it—the console—with shorty
over here. And then you’re going to haul your ass the hell out of the
store and never come back ever again. Understand, pal?"
The muscular man looked Roma square in the eye, defiantly, explod-
ing in laughter. And then he sat the video game console on the ground,
by his feet.
“That’s my daughter’s console,” he said. “It’s her birthday present.
And there ain’t a Goddamn thing you can say that’s gonna stop me,” The
modern-day nephilim fumed. “Hey, just who the hell do you think you
are, little man? Coming up to me, you little Guido-looking shit-head,
with your black hair, and your olive complexion. I used to beat the shit
out of little greaseballs like you, walking to and from school, everyday.”
The burly man shoved Roma forcefully, almost knocking him over.
“Hey, chief, I wouldn’t do that if I were you…”
The enraged customer continued to push Roma, harder and harder
as Roma just stood there, resolute.
“What are you going to do about it, shrimp?” asked the man,
tauntingly.
The belligerent man was now laughing hysterically. The bully on the
playground, keeping all the other kids in check.
From out of nowhere, Roma administered a right-hand wallop to the
belligerent man’s jawline, sending him sprawling backwards, knocking
him onto his ass on the ground. Boom; the big ornery oaf hit the floor
like Redwood being sawed down in Oregon. Timber!
The short man bent over and reached for the console.
Just then, O’Callahan, the assistant manager who had chewed Roma’s
ass out just a few weeks before, was standing in front of Roma, who,
right now, was doing a little shadow-boxing, to congratulate himself
on knocking someone out at least thirty years his junior, who was a
good six inches taller than he was, and at least seventy pounds heavier.

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O’Callahan’s face was flushed red with righteous indignation. He

pointed his little forefinger at Roma and declared:
“That’s it, Roma, I warned you,” O’Callahan said. “But no, you
wouldn’t listen. I knew you were always going to remain a thug at
heart. I knew you were beyond rehabilitation. Wait till your parole
officer hears about this one. You’re fired, Tommy.”
O’Callahan faced the woman. “My apologies, miss, for you having to
view this violent act. I assure you: This will never happen again.”
Roma was about to say something but the woman cut him off. “Wait
a minute—you’re firing this man? This man is a hero! He saved me
from that hideous man over there.”
Chambers pointed over at the burly man, who still lay on the floor,
unconscious, momentarily dead to the world. Morta.
“That lumberjack,” she said, pointing at the man on the floor,
“knocked me over, almost giving me a concussion.”
“Me too, kid,” the short man said, clutching the console to his chest.
“That shopper over there…he started pushing me, and getting violent.
This brave soul over here, he comes over, and he asks the man nicely
to leave. The guy won’t listen. He started pushing and shoving this
here gentleman, so the gentleman defends himself. And he defends us.
That’s more than you have done, buddy,” sneered the little man.
The woman, once again, chimed in.
“Don’t you recognize me from television, sir? I’m Evelyn Chambers,
Channel 13 news,” she said. “I am the station’s leading investigative
journalist. If you so much as dare to fire this man, I can guarantee
you, that I’ll do a huge expose on you and your store. I mean, look
around you: The conditions in this place are…rancid. I don’t see one
security guard around on Black Friday. You ought to be stripped of
your managerial duties, right here and now, for having failed to keep
your customers safe, and for having chastised this fine, outstanding
gentleman for interceding, and saving both of us from further assault.
The man standing before me is a hero, you are not.” Chambers really
reamed the tyrant good. “You are the incompetent one, sir.”

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O’Callahan’s face went pink as a Cotex. He stared at Chambers for a

second, then back at Roma. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Neither do I,” Roma said, joining in on the harangue.
O’Callahan, his head sagged down in defeat, hands inside his pockets,
shuffled away from Roma and Chambers, muttering apologies.
“You saved my ass, miss,” Roma said. “How am I ever going to repay
you?”
Chambers smiled, exposing her big, pearly white teeth. “You can
start by buying me dinner,” she said.
***
Back at Francesco’s Restaurant once again.
The place is a little more crowded than it was the day Roma and his
Uncle Salvatore DeLuna had patronized it: An elderly couple eating
and talking animatedly; a man off in the far distance dunking his bread
in his pasta, speaking with someone on Bluetooth; a woman slurping
the spaghetti at the far end, near the kitchen. There were also a few
cops hanging around the far right hand side of corner of the restaurant.
It appears they had finished their plates. Now, they’re sipping coffee,
conversing.
But then isolated from everyone there was Chambers, sitting across
from Roma, looking lovely in her white turtleneck sweater, the sweater
was filled out nicely. Roma kept shifting his attention over towards
the cops, more out of compulsion than legitimate concern. After all,
these guys had been his tormentors most his life, his nemeses.
Chambers looked around the restaurant. The place was a dive, by no
means, but it wasn’t that remarkable, either.
“Well, this place sure is…interesting. Do you come here often?” she
asked, eyeing pictures of the retired wrestler on the wall.
“Just recently, with my Uncle Sal,” Roma said. “This place comes
highly recommended by him. He’s been coming here for the past thirty
years. He swears by it.”
Chambers gazed down at the menu for a second, then she looked at
Roma. She was a beautiful sight to behold: wide, baby-blue eyes, roomy

65
 HARD TIME

chest, large naturally pouty lips. And they appeared to be natural, too.
Not one ounce of collagen in those suckers, Roma thought to himself,
appreciatively.
Suddenly, the old hunchbacked Italian crone made her way to the
table, shouting at Roma and Chambers.
“What do you want to drink?” barked she.
Chambers looked up from her menu, a startled reaction on her face.
“I’ll have a glass of White Zinfandel, please,” she said.
The crone grunted, as she scribbled this down on her notepad. Now,
she faced Roma. “What do you want?”
“I’ll have some tea. Thank you.”
The old crone shuffled off, muttering curses to herself in Italian.
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, why were you in prison?” Chambers
asked Roma.
“It was nothing, really,” he said. “It was so unimportant, I don’t even
want to bore you with the details…”
“It wouldn’t bore me, Tommy,” Chambers inched closer to Roma.
“Seriously. In fact, I’m dying to know. So, please, tell me, what’d you
do? Wait, let me guess. You didn’t pay your taxes?”
Roma shook his head. “Nope.”
“Driving under the influence? Were you that guy who drunkenly ran
over those five kids and crossing guard at Andrew Jackson Elementary
school? I did a story on him, but can’t remember his name. He sort of
looked like you, as I recall.”
“Nope. That wasn’t me. I’m no child-murderer.”
Just then, the crone reappeared, nearly slamming the tea in front
of Roma, and the wineglass in front of Chambers. The ancient
misanthrope then rushed off.
Chambers looked around the bar some more, a look of genuine panic
and fear surrounding her face. Roma sipped his tea, and she followed
suit, taking a sip from her margarita glass—and then another, and then
another.
“Oh my God. You killed somebody, didn’t you? Who did you kill,

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Tommy?”
“I was convicted of murder. Wrongly convicted of two murders,
actually,” Roma explained, nonchalantly.
“Tell me what happened, Tommy?” asked Chambers, totally en-
grossed.
“Well, I was driving my car in upstate New York, driving in this
raging snowstorm,” he said. “And I could barely see outside, right?
So I’m almost about ready to pull over, but this sheriff’s car pulls up
behind me. The bastard’s lights are flashing. Their sirens blaring like
an injured coyote, ready to be put out of its misery. So I pulled the
car over, and they ask me to open the trunk. I kindly oblige, and the
trunk goes open…whoosh…and then they see what was inside, and
they arrest me. “Hands over your head.” The Miranda rights. A big
spiel. All that bullshit, you know?”
Chambers looked beyond spooked. More than that, the expression
on her face screamed she was terrified.
“What was in the trunk, Tommy?”
Roma’s reluctance to answer was discernible, but he eventually did
just that. “There was a dead body in there…”
“A dead body?!” shrieked Chambers.
“Well, actually, two dead bodies."
“Two dead bodies?!” exploded Chambers, looking both simultane-
ously disturbed and riveted.
Chambers said this last part a little too loudly—two dead bodies. All
heads in the restaurant, save for that of the old crone’s—she was
probably in the back, clanging together some pots and pans—were
now on Roma and Chambers. Roma looked around, and he noticed
the two cops glaring over at their table. He forced a smile at them, then
they looked away, not returning the pleasantry.
“Don’t worry about it, Evelyn: I didn’t kill either either one of those
guys. I swear.”
“What the hell were two bodies doing in your trunk, then?” Chambers
was, once again, speaking a little too loudly.

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 HARD TIME

“Look, I’m gonna try explain this whole thing as tactfully as possible
to you,” Roma said, dipping the appetizer bread in the tomato sauce.
“See, I grew up in an organization…among a bunch of like-minded
individuals. This is an Italian organization, you understand. See, you
gotta be one hundred percent Italian to be a full-fledged member of
this said organization. And I was a made member, when I was a real
young man, but I didn’t know any better at the time. So, I’m a part of
this organization, this brotherhood, this secret society if you will—and
when you’re a part of this secret society, sometimes you’re asked to do
some pretty unpleasant things. Like clean up other people’s messes,
you read me? OK, so I was really young back then, really stupid, so I
cleaned up some other guy’s mess. Then when I was about to dispose
of said mess, when the cops came sniffing around, I took the heat for
the crimes, and saved somebody else’s ass higher on the totem pole
than me.”
“Hold on a second,” she exclaimed. “You’re in the Mafia!”
All heads in the restaurant, once again, turned toward Roma and
Chambers’ table. Roma motioned to his lips, forefinger in front of
them, with a “please-shut-the-hell-up” gesture. The cops looked at him
again, and he forced a smile.
“Was in the Mafia, Evelyn. Was is the keyword here. A long time ago.
Not anymore. We’re talking more than fifty years ago. I’m a completely
different person now Evelyn, I swear. Totally rehabilitated. Going at
life completely straight.”
“Why didn’t you tell the judge you didn’t kill those guys? Why in
the world would you do forty years behind bars for a crime you didn’t
even commit?”
“That’s a good question, but one I don’t think I’ll be able to answer
myself—except after years of therapy with a very good shrink,” Roma
said. “But it has something to do with this concept of Omerta. This idea
that had been instilled in me. It was a code we had all lived our lives
by at the time—Thou Shalt Not Rat. The punishment for informing
was, unfortunately, death. So I kept my mouth shut. I took my lumps

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like a champion. I thought ratting was tantamount to the worst crime

imaginable, you know?” Roma sighed. “My old man, he was gunned
down in an Italian eatery—a place something like this one. As he lay
dying on the hospital bed, in a pool of his own blood, this cop comes in
and asks my old man for info. ‘Who are your killers?’ he asks him. And
does my old man give them away? ‘I’d rather die than be a rat,’ that’s
what he said. Those were his last words. Not cooperating, I guess, was
ingrained in me, you could say.”
“You’re sure that world is behind you?” Chambers asked. “I mean,
you’re really staying away from that life for good now?”
“Absolutely,” Roma said. “Through with it. Whacking people, the
lying, the cheating, the corruption. That life is over for me. Only a
deranged person would keep doing this shit his whole life.”
***
“Club Raven!”
The nightclub was a tribute to Edgar Alan Poe’s eponymous short story.
There was a dark sign above the CLUB RAVEN, lit up a whole multi-universe
of bright yellow lights. A picture of Poe’s face lit up beside The Raven.
There was a huge line waiting outside.
Salvatore DeLuna was dressed shabbily, in blue jeans, a plaid western shirt
and a baseball cap. The only thing that pointed to rich-man-keeping-a-low-
profile were the Gucci shades the aging mafioso donned, and the forceful way
with which he walked about, comported himself. The line was packed with
club-hoppers—millennials, mostly. Newark, New Jersey’s most superficial.
Clearly, Club Raven was Newark’s very own hotspot.
The nightclub of all nightclubs for the young, horny and coked-up, ecstasy-
imbuing youngsters. There were, too, several oldsters peppered throughout
the line. Old men dressed in chic suits, sharkskin, Brioni, Armani, desperately
trying to look young. Old women, fifties upward, dressed ridiculously as well,
like teenagers with leather vests, miniskirts. Young and old alike, the club-
goers wore glow-sticks around their necks, a flimsy piece of string serving as
necklace.
DeLuna cut in front of these people. He walked all the way to the front,

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 HARD TIME

and crossed the rope, wheezing—sans his precious oxygen machine. The
bouncer stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you on the list?” asked he, the intimidating-looking
bald-headed fellow who had a snow leopard tattooed on his bulging right
tricep. This bouncer, this man’s, name was Mikey Collins.
An annoyed expression cloaked DeLuna’s hardened, wrinkle-saturated
face.
“Let’s just call me Terry,” said DeLuna, winking at the bouncer. But
Collins seemed unfazed. “Last name, please?” he asked, chewing his gum
nonchalantly.
“Terry Conaway,” the frail old man said, coughing up a lung. “Listen,” he
continued. “I’m not on the list. But I work for a few people you work for.
They have a message for you, about the next shipment of scag. They sent me
over here to speak with you. Could we go somewhere a little more private?”
“Hey, Marcus. Come out here and watch the line for just a second. I’ll be
back in ten minutes.”
It was dim, but not pitch dark, in the alleyway where DeLuna and Collins
stood and spoke. Collins stood there, arms folded. Roma stood there, facing
the drug dealer/bouncer.
“What did you need to speak to me about? Did Henry send you?”
“He sure did,” DeLuna said, coughing into a crumpled up tissue. “Oh, yeah.
Henry sent me, alright.”
“Listen, I haven’t sold the whole pound—yet,” Collins said nervously. “These
screwy kids, they love the stuff; but the problem is, it’s really frowned upon
here. See, the Mafia owns the city of Newark. The Spirochete clan. They
don’t like people selling junk in their territory. They look upon it as an insult
to their rule, an insult to their neighborhood. So I’ve got to pawn this shit
off, piecemeal: One-by-one,” scoffed Collins. ” I have to sell it independently.
Trouble is, the last girl to buy—dumb bitch—she died. So now I have to be
on the look-out who I sell to. Cops, now, are everywhere. Anybody could be
a cop. So don’t worry, my friend. The stuff is going to sell. It’s just going to
take awhile, is all.”
DeLuna’s face stiffened.

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“Oh, yeah. The girl. I read about her in the newspaper. Wasn’t her name
Diane?”
“Beats the hell out of me. She was a dumb bitch, whoever she was, for
injecting too much of the shit—”
Collins was unable to finish the sentence. DeLuna suddenly whipped out
the silenced Derringer pistol from the right breast side of his jacket pocket,
and pumped three shots into the muscular man’s chest. Collins fell over,
backwards, hitting his head against the brick wall in the alleyway, and then
collapsed over onto the ground, falling on his face.
For good measure, DeLuna hovered the silenced Derringer over Collin’s
body, unloading the rest of the clip into him. Then he stuck the pistol in his
right side jeans pants pocket, and walked off, away into the night.

71
 8

Another Day At Save-More

T
ommy Roma, looking like shit, like he had slept in his own
clothes the night before, made his way for the Save More
entrance, ready for another day of greeting a bunch of lousy
people. Before he reached the door to the store, he felt a nudge on
his back. He recoiled. He turned around, ready to pop the nudger in
the face. Fight or flight. For all Roma knew, this could have been an
assassination attempt. He turned around to see the smiling face of
Special FBI Agent Joey Samento, the pesky FBI agent. Samento was
dressed in a dark blue government-issued suit. White shirt, and dark
blue tie. Wingtip shoes. Aviator sunglasses. The works.
“How are you doing, Tommy? Good to see you, my friend,” said
Special FBI Agent Samento.
“What the hell do you want from me, chief?” Roma snapped. “Isn’t
it enough I already have to report into a parole officer? Now I gotta
have you hounding my ass once every week, too?”
Samento laughed, as though he and Roma were old friends, and
Roma really liked him. “Hey, I just want to talk to you. Listen, Tommy.
You’re friends with some very bad people.”
“What bad people?”
“You know,” Special Agent Samento said, inching closer to Roma.
“The Spirochete clan.”
“I’m not involved with the Spirochete clan anymore, boss.”

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“That’s funny, Roma. But please, don’t bullshit me. I’ve been studying
the Mafia for years. I know how they work. I know about the induction
ceremony. Omerta. Pricking the finger, then letting your blood dribble
down on the card of Saint Peter. I wasn’t born yesterday, my friend.”
“Could have fooled me,“ Roma said. “Listen is there anything I can
help you with? I’d love to sit with you all day out here, talking about
meaningless shit, but I’ve got to go to work.”
“Oh, yeah. Work,” Special Agent Samento said. “Yes. Well, you might
want to try sucking on a breath mint before you go in there. Anyway,
Tommy, listen to me. It doesn’t hurt to have a friend working the
opposite side of the law. If you ever need to just talk, call me. Here,
take this and then, I promise, I’ll leave you alone.”
Roma looked down at the card, reluctantly for a few seconds. Then
he took it.
“Very good. Very good,” Special Agent Samento said. “Well done, Mr
Roma. We’ll talk soon.”
“No, we won’t.”
***
Back inside the superstore, “working,” greeting shoppers. Roma
would have preferred being on the chain-gang again. At least that felt
like a more respectable vocation.
He looked visibly depressed, as he unenthusiastically greeted and
halfheartedly said goodbye to Save More shoppers. The overly
confident bounce seen previously in his gait was gone totally today. He
moved about sluggishly, listlessly. His hair was disheveled, as though
he hadn’t combed it the night before. He hadn’t. A two-day beard
stubble permeated his face. He looked more like a wino and less like
the jubilant greeter he once was. In fact, he walked around as though
he were intoxicated or, at the very least, extremely buzzed. He greeted
the customers, some of them perfunctorily, many of them rudely. The
faces walked briskly by Roma; he had difficulty keeping up in all of the
salutations and bon voyages.
“Hey, thanks for shopping at Save More,” he shouted. “Have a

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fantastic day. Hey, thanks for nothing. Hey, you walked by without
even acknowledging me, well, screw you then, pal,“ he laughed, clearly
still buzzed. “Hey, miss. Thanks for shopping at Save More. Nice ass,
too. It’d make a grown man cry. Hey chump, thanks for shopping at
Save More. Now waddle out of here, and go wallow in some mud at
home. Screw you. Screw all of you, swine!”
Just then, Roma noticed something unusual—a man. He was dressed
strangely, and he was walking awkwardly. It appeared as though he
was clutching something to his chest. Like he had something strapped
on it. A bomb! The grim realization struck Roma, even in his halfway
drunken stupor, suddenly. This guy is trouble. I have to do something
about him.
So I see this guy walking through the place, clutching something against
his chest. And I think right away, terrorist. He’s going to blow the whole
goddamned establishment up. He carries this satchel, and holds it to his chest,
protectively. Very suspicious.
The man was dressed somewhat flamboyantly: He wore blue jeans, a
bare-midriff. But it’s the satchel that mostly caught Roma’s attention.
Just what does he have hidden inside there?
Roma followed the man. The man made his way into the lady’s room.
Now Roma’s paranoia is in full swing. This person is up to no good,
clearly.
Inside the lady’s room.
Nobody is in there, save for the suspicious man in question. And he
went into one of the stalls, closing the door immediately upon entering.
Roma stood in front of the stall, listening. He heard nothing. He looked
near the front door of the restroom. An overweight African-American
woman, about fifty-five, walked in. Roma approached her. “Hit the
road, ma’am,” he said. “There’s a terrorist in here. He’s got a bomb
strapped to his chest. Don’t get excited. Don’t scream. Calmly exit
the superstore and dial 9-11. Tell them we have ourselves a terrorist
situation here, of life and death importance.”
The ebony woman looked petrified, her eyes bulging to three times

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their normal size. She ran out of the lady’s room hurriedly.
This was it. The moment of courage. Roma kicked the stall door
open, breaking the small bolt which locked the door.
There was the man from the outside sitting on the toilet, a terrified
expression on his face. He obscured his private parts with his hands.
He spoke in a high-pitched voice. He appeared to be wearing makeup,
noted Roma.
“What’s going on? You’re not supposed to be here. Get the hell out
of here!” he shouted.
“I ain’t supposed to be in here? I think you’ve got it the other way
around, pal. You ain’t supposed to be in here. Where’s the bomb at,
huh?”
The man pulled his pants back up, then looked over at Roma, red-
faced.
“You don’t understand. I have every right to use this restaurant. I’m
transgender!” she said.
“What’s a transgender?” Roma said, scratching his head.
***
O’Callahan paced around the office restlessly, anxiously. Roma sat
on the chair, nonchalantly eating mints, one after another, from the
guest bowl in front of him.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “You have really outdone yourself this time,
Roma. I mean, I could see you knocking that belligerent old asshole’s
lights out back in the electronics department but this. But this!”
O’Callahan plopped himself down on the chair behind his desk. He
was now facing Roma, face-to-face. The young assistant manager
opened the desk draw and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He placed
one cigarette to his lips and then lit it up—surely a breaking of company
policy.
“Do you understand what you have done, Roma?” he snarled. “Do
you understand the political maelstrom you have just unleashed on
Save More? There’s going to be a huge lawsuit. Gigantic! Rita, the
transgender woman you just harassed today, has already threatened

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a huge lawsuit. Pretty soon, the press is going to catch wind of this.
Then what, huh? I’ll tell you then what: There’s going to be chaos.
Complete and utter chaos. You’ll have cost the company hundreds
of thousands of dollars—and that’s if we win the case. That’s just the
price of lawyers. If we lose, God help us.”
O’Callahan took a few more drags from his cigarette, and then
stomped it out on the desk.
“Look, How was I supposed to know he—she—was a transgender
woman?” Roma said. “I ain’t never even heard of a transgender person
before, chief, honest. I just saw what I thought was this guy, walking
into the lady’s room, with a frigging bomb in his satchel. That’s all. I
didn’t mean any ill will. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble to you, sir.”
O’Callahan nodded his head, over and over again.
“Oh, well, that all makes me feel so much better, Roma. You didn’t
mean to cause any trouble. Well, it’s too late for that, my friend. As
it is, you have made Save More look as though it were being run by a
bunch of vile bigots.”
“Listen, it’s not happening again, chief. Honest.”
“You’re absolutely right about that, Roma. This will never happen
again.”
O’Callahan stood up, and pointed his finger at Roma. “Tommy Roma,
I hereby declare you a fired Save More employee,“ he said. “You will
collect your last paycheck next week. You will receive it in the mail.
After that, we owe you nothing more. Lay capisce, amico?”
“You…can’t fire me. When my parole officer finds out I’ve been
shit-canned, then it’s back to the big house for me.”
O’Callahan grinned malevolently. “Oh, well, that’d be catastrophic
now wouldn’t it, Roma?”
O’Callahan was about to say something else, but he didn’t have time
to. Roma’s fist came crashing into O’Callahan’s face, breaking into
his nose, blood gushing out from it. The insolent assistant manager
howled and squawked out in pain, groaned in genuine agony.
“My nose! You broke my nose. You psychopath!” he shouted.

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 ANOTHER DAY AT SAVE-MORE

Roma grabbed the assistant manager by the scruff of the neck, pulled
him towards his face.
“Believe me, you’ve gotten off easy, pal. For all you have put me
through, you’re lucky I don’t kill you.”
Roma let go of O’Callahan’s shirt, dropping him to the floor.
“You’re fired, Roma!” O’Callahan cried. “Don’t let me ever see your
face in here ever again. You stupid dago!”
“Yeah, whatever,” Roma laughed. “You do what you’ve got to do, chief,
but allow me to offer you some words of wisdom. Don’t you dare tell
my parole officer I was fired this week. You tell him that, and even if
they lock me up and put me away as a result, I’ll make sure somebody
from my family comes here and pumps two into your head.”
Roma looked at all the trophies and commendations O’Callahan had
on his wall.
Outstanding Management, 2013, read one plaque. Topnotch Managerial
Duties, 2014, announced another. The third said: Leadership Quality
Award, Save More, 2015.
“Maybe it’ll take a month. Maybe a week away. Maybe it’ll take a
whole year. But if you try to blab against me before this week is up, pal,
they’re gonna find part of you with the fishes—the other part they’re
going to find in a garbage compactor. Lay capisce, amico?”
The belligerent assistant manager finally relented, nodding his
bloodied face. And then Roma made his way out the door, shaking his
head and scoffing all the while as he stormed out.

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 9

Back to Francesco's: Part 3

T
ommy Roma and Evelyn Chambers sat in the same spot. The
old Italian crone cleans up around behind them, dust-buster
in hand, sweeping the floor, muttering curses to herself all the
while. Chambers was enjoying a bowl of spaghetti, dipping the large
piece of bread inside the sauce, then eating it. Roma was finishing
off his order of fried calamari, cut in lengthwise strips, lightly hand
breaded and served with marinara sauce.
“I still can’t believe it, Tommy. You served fifty years for a crime you
didn’t commit. Fifty years! This is remarkable. I’d love to do a news
story about this.”
“That ain’t happening, sweetheart,” Roma said. “If the powers that
be were to see this segment, I’d be sleeping with the fishes. Like Luca,
whatever-the-hell-you-call-him.”
“Seriously, Tommy—what was the hardest thing about being locked
away for fifty years?”
“No sex.”
“Really? You mean, not even once? Not even one conjugal visit?”
“Some prisoners had conjugal visits, before they were outlawed. Not
me, though. Warden Sanchez, he hated my ass with a passion. Wouldn’t
let a woman come anywhere near me. He’d throw me in the hole over
the stupidest things.”
“That’s terrible. On what grounds did he do this?”

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 BACK TO FRANCESCO'S: PART 3

“Just because he could,” Roma explained. “Many times he’d have one
of his underlings plant contraband in my cell—prison shanks, knives,
cell phones. Anything he could write up as an excuse for sending me
away to Solitary Confinement. Those were the darkest days of my life,
let me tell you.”
“But why? Why did he treat you so terribly?”
“Sanchez loved to beat all his prisoners into submission, into little
robots,” said Roma. “Me, I never went along with his bullshit. I never
allowed him to punk me. So he punished me, severely, as often as
he could. For whatever chickenshit reason. When my mom, Ruth,
was dying of cancer, I was supposed to be speaking to her one day at
Thanksgiving, via satellite. But Sanchez put the kibosh to that. Found
some bullshit reason to send me to the hole again.” Roma sighed. “That
was the last chance I had to ever see my mother again. She died a week
later in the hospital with her brother, my Uncle Sal, by her side.
Chambers grabbed Roma’s hand, affectionately.
“Get all that touching in while you still can…” Roma said, cryptically.
Chambers suddenly looked confused. “What do you mean?” she
asked.
“Let’s just say, I got fired from my job today.”
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“Yeah,” Roma said. “And as soon as my parole officer finds out about
this, it’s back to the big house for me. Back to living under Sanchez’s
despotic rule. Hooray.”
“Maybe I could help you out, Tommy,” Chambers said.
“Yeah?” Roma asked with astonishment and uncertainty. “How?”
***
An attractive-looking Asian manicurist worked diligently on Mr. Spiro-
chete’s hands. He sat there in his chair, regally.
“Jamie, Jamie,” Mr. Spirochete said. “I need for you to drive up to the
Hampton’s tomorrow night. They’re having an auction up there. Salvador
Dali’s socks are up for bidding. The starting price, I believe, is five thousand
dollars. Bid up as high as you can go. I must own these socks. Understand?”

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 HARD TIME

“Absolutely, sir,” said Bartonella.

Spirochete sighed. He flicked the TV on with the remote. Inside the
television they saw Evelyn Chambers standing in front of Save More
Superstore, a microphone in her hand.
“Save More, boss. Isn’t that where Roma’s working at?” Bartonella said.
Spirochete placed his forefinger to his lip, gesturing for Bartonella to be
quiet.
“Here at Save More, an elderly employer, a greeter, has been fired, for
reasons many believe to be excessive,” continued Chambers.
The camera skimmed through the aisles of the superstore, as Chambers’
voice could be heard offscreen, narrating.
“Last week, at this Save More store, an employee, one Tommy L. Roma,
was fired for barging in on a transgender customer while she was using the
bathroom. But were Roma’s intentions malicious, or noble?”
The camera focused on Roma’s face, as he sat in on a swivel chair in the
darkened interview room. You see him smiling, laughing, but his voice is
not audible. Evelyn Chamber’s voice, however, is audible over Roma’s. After
a few seconds, Spirochete and Bartonella finally hear Roma speaking. The
caption beneath Roma reads: “Tommy Roma, ex-professional Save More
greeter.”
“I don’t have a transphobic bone in my body,” Roma said, finally. Chambers
voice-over is now narrating over Roma’s frozen picture.
“Roma has served over forty years in prison. He considers himself to
be a rehabilitated man. He just was released from the Lewisburg Federal
Penitentiary last month,” Chambers said. “He works to keep his parole officer
happy: To stay out of prison, and clear from the oppressive rule of the leader
of the penitentiary, Warden Sanchez. Roma says Sanchez was more tyrant
than warden, alleging Sanchez had even planted contraband in Roma’s cell,
so Roma would be denied satellite visitation privileges with his dying mother,
back in 2005. Sanchez, Roma insists, is a sadist, who derives pleasure from
the cruel and unusual punishment he bestows upon other prisoners. Anthony
Cuigli, Attorney General, after being informed of Belmonte M. Sanchez’s
questionable governing abilities at the Correctional Center, promises to look

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 BACK TO FRANCESCO'S: PART 3

into the matter, not ruling out an investigation.

Bartonella approaches Spirochete, a concerned look on his face.
“What does this all mean, sir?” he asked. “Do you think Tommy has finally
cracked? Is he going back to prison? I mean, beating up on a transgender
person in the shitter. He sounds like he’s losing it. And like he might be
hauled off back to jail any day now.”
Once again, Spirochete shushed his lowly second-in-command. He kept his
hand extended, his palmed slightly closed, so the beautiful young manicurist
could continue working her magic, as he watched Evelyn Chambers’ expose,
enthralled.
Inside the television set, Roma erupted into crocodile tears.
“And now I’ve been fired from my job,” Roma continued. “By Patrick
O’Callahan, the store’s assistant manager, for a stupid mistake. I saw the
satchel the young lady was carrying. I mistook it for a bomb. I had done
what I felt was the right thing to do at the time.” Roma blew his nose into a
tissue. “However, O’Callahan didn’t see things that way. That’s why I’ve lost
my job. And that’s why I’ll be going back at Lewisburg, where I’ll be abused,
psychologically and physically tormented, by that cruel Warden Sanchez, for
the rest of my life. Haven’t I been tormented enough? Haven’t I paid my debt
to society? I was a young man back then. I didn’t know anything. Besides,
I’m not transphobic.”
As the camera pans away Spirochete and Bartonella see the transgender
woman, Rita, sitting there in the studio. They are holding hands. The best of
friends.
“Rita and I are good friends,“ Roma said. “We talk to each other every
night. No problems. She understands it was all one big misunderstanding.”
Rita finally spoke. “Tommy Roma is a beautiful soul. He’s just stuck in
the past. He’s been locked away so long, and isolated so long from society, he
was unaware that America is a Mosaic of diversity. I respect this man very
much,” she said. ” I have long since forgiven him and I am proud to say that
he, Tommy Roma, is a good friend of mine. I hope Patrick O’Callahan, the
assistant manager, is able to do the right thing and forgive Mr. Roma and
rehire him. If he doesn’t, well, that would be a shame.”

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 HARD TIME

Spirochete puckered his lips as he watched the end of the news segment,
the attractive young manicurist still working on his hand, obediently.
***
The news segment worked. One day after its airing, Tommy
Roma received a telephone call for Save More’s main manager, Clyde
Simmons. Simmons informed Roma he had his job back—and that
O’Callahan had been fired.

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 10

Saint Luke's Hospital

S
alvatore DeLuna lay on the hospital gurney, breathing quickly,
greedily. Dr. Morrison, chart in hand, was speaking to
Roma and DeLuna. Two nurses—one a pretty black woman,
thirtyish and the other, an average-looking white woman with
brown hair—were attaching Uncle Sal to a huge oxygen machine.
The attractive African-American nurse was attaching the nasal
cannula to DeLuna’s nose while the other nurse—the average-looking
woman—fumbled around with the switches and knobs, letting the
appropriate amount of air out. Attached to DeLuna’s right wrist is a
tube, transporting Demerol into his bloodstream. Doctor Morrison
looks over at Roma, then at DeLuna, and then he walked away, tending
to some other business.
Doctor Morrison said things didn’t look good. He offered to bring in a
priest and, Uncle Sal, without missing a beat said, “I ain’t confessing my sins
to no child-molesting, shithead priest. Are you fucking kidding me? That
punk probably sins more than I do.” Good old Uncle Sal. He always had a
way with words. Never, ever losing a beat. If there ever was a person capable
of spitting in the grim reaper’s eye, it was Uncle Sal, defiant and remorseless
to the very end. And maybe he was right to do so: Maybe he was going to
win and outlive us all… Still being in that lousy hospital had sent shivers
down my spine. This was the same place they hauled my old man off to,
after those punks had pumped him full of lead. This wasn’t the same Doctor

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 HARD TIME

Morrison who worked on my father, but his son, Sam Morrison.

“How are you feeling, Uncle Sal?”
DeLuna waved his arms into the air dismissively. “I’m doing fine,
kiddo. Don’t even worry about me.”
Roma, very briefly, eyed the Demerol tube; it was dripping slowly.
Drip, drip, drip.
“Listen, Dom: I know I don’t say it a lot but you’re my nephew. I love
you. Understand?” DeLuna said.
Roma walked over toward his Uncle Sal, sat down on the doctor’s
stool beside the gurney.
“Uncle Sal—I’m Tommy, Tommy. Dominick was your sister’s brother,
and my father.”
DeLuna hacked up the most nasty-sounding cough you can imagine.
And then he was silent for a few seconds. But finally, he spoke again.
“So sorry, Tommy. So very, very sorry, Dominick. I wish we could
have saved you.”
Roma sighed. “It does no good beating yourself up about that now,
Uncle Sal. There was nothing you could do.”
For the first time in Roma’s life, he had noticed his Uncle Salvatore
doing something which he had never seen nor expected him to do—cry.
Uncle Sal started crying. And then bawling his eyes out uncontrollably.
He started whaling out to Dominick, to his dead sister and Tommy’s
mother, Ruth, and then, finally, to God Himself.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ruth. I’m sorry! Please, believe me: I wanted to
save him. Really, I wanted to. There was just nothing I could have
done.”
Roma gently stroked his Uncle Sal’s forehead, reassuringly, as if to
say, Hey, it’s okay. There was nothing you could have done.
"Oh, Dominick. Dominick. Dominick….”
“Uncle Sal: My name’s not Dominick, it’s Tommy. You’re just
hallucinating, is all. It’s those lousy drugs.”
“Dominick, Dominick, Dominick. Please, please forgive me,” cried
DeLuna.

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 SAINT LUKE'S HOSPITAL

Roma’s face tightened, his shoulders becoming more rigid. “Uncle

Sal—what are you so sorry about?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the old man wheezed. “I’m sorry I let them kill
you.”
A look of surprise permeated Roma’s face. “Who, Uncle Sal? Who
killed me?”
“Spirochete killed you, my sweet Anthony,” DeLuna groaned. “I knew
he was going to kill you, but I did nothing to stop it. That’s the code.
That’s what we have sworn our lives and pledged allegiance to. Omerta,"
DeLuna blubbered. “Spirochete senior had his son, Jimmy, do the deed,
to make his bones.”
Roma patted his Uncle on the head, consolingly. “It’s okay, Uncle
Sal.”
A look of genuine bewilderment and horror enveloped Roma’s face.
And then Uncle Sal’s eyes closed—for the very last time. Beep, beep,
beep. Roma looked over at the life monitor: It was just a straight,
uninterrupted line. No movement whatsoever. Like a stock that shows
no promise. Just then, Doctor Morrison, clipboard in hand, made a run
for the room, both nurses in tow. The ebony nurse injected DeLuna’s
wrist with a syringe, with Doctor Morrison slamming defibrillators
against his chest. DeLuna body jumps up like a doll being smashed
against a trampoline, again and again.
Shock, shock, shock.
“Clear,” Doctor Morrison shouted, several times. But despite his best
efforts, DeLuna lay still, motionless.
He was gone.
***
Roma paced around his apartment, breathing heavily. He walked
straight for the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and then he
moved over toward his bedroom; he plopped himself down on the bed.
Tommy Roma ruffled his fingers through his salt-and-pepper colored
hair anxiously. He looked at the picture of his father on the nightstand:
Tall, handsome, dark-haired. His father was standing beside his Uncle

85
 HARD TIME

Sal in the old black-and-white. They were in an Italian restaurant, his

father’s right arm comradely around DeLuna’s shoulders. Best friends.
Best buddies. This picture was just taken two months before Dominick
Roma was assassinated by Spirochete.
“Not only did he ruin my life but he destroyed yours too, pop,” Roma
said somberly. He pulled out a card from his wallet—it read: Joey
Samento, Special Agent. Beneath the name was a phone number:
555-420-3147. Roma looked at the card for a while, then at the picture
of his father. The card, and then the picture of his father again. He was
hugely conflicted. What was he going to do?
Roma slumped over in misery, sulking

86
 11

The End is Near

M
r. Spirochete sat behind his desk, Tolstoy, the scaly Iguana, in
his hands; Mozart’s “Requiem” blaring from the deluxe stereo
speakers. He patted the reptile gently on its back, ordering it
to go play. And then he inclined his own head down, continuing whatever
paperwork he was working on. Just then, the door swun open, and it is none
other than Jamie Bartonella, Mr. Spirochete’s aide-de-camp. Bartonella
has an urgent look on his face.
“Sir?”
Spirochete stopped writing. He looked up at Bartonella, an annoyed
expression on his face. He spoke to Bartonella condescendingly.
“Didn’t I tell you not to interrupt my overseeing of the monthly intake,
unless it was something of vital importance, Bartonella?” Spirochete snapped.
Bartonella cleared his throat, and then he continued speaking to the boss.
“Agreed, sir. I would never ordinarily interrupt what you are doing, except
this is an issue which I believe requires your urgent attention.”
Mr. Spirochete inched his head back imperiously, and then he exhaled,
exasperatedly.
“Let’s hear it, then, Bartonella,” he said.
Danny Voglia, the 76-year-old capo, entered the room. Undoubtedly, old
age had taken its toll on Voglia: He walked hunched-backed, slumped-over.
He was the poster “child” for decrepit old man. All he had missing was the
walker.

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 HARD TIME

“How are you doing, boss?” Voglia said. “I have something I need to run by
you about our friend Tommy Roma.”
“What is it?” asked Spirochete, impatiently.
“I think he’s a rat,” Voglia said.
Just then Spirochete burst out in unrestrained laughter.
“Tommy ‘I did fifty years in prison for somebody else’ Roma—a rat? Have
you lost your mind, Voglia? Roma’s a lot of things, but a snitch he most
certainly isn’t.”
Spirochete, reading glasses on, then inclined his head down once again,
inspecting the paperwork.
“Actually, sir, it’s true,” Bartonella said, nervously.
Spirochete looked at both men, then folded his arms. “What makes
you both so sure?” he demanded.
Just then Voglia looked over at Bartonella. Bartonella nodded his consent.
Voglia approached Spirochete, a pink Android phone in his hands. He handed
Mr. Spirochete the phone. On the screen Spirochete could clearly see Tommy
Roma outside, talking to Special FBI Agent Joey Samento.
“That’s Joey Samento—the same fed who hangs out in front of the club,
giving guys who leave cards. Roma’s in bed with the FBI, sir,” Bartonella
said, scratching his neck nervously.
“How did you stumble upon this rendezvous?” Spirochete asked Voglia.
“I came upon these two by accident,“ Voglia retorted. “I was taking my
granddaughter, Cynthia, out for Ice Cream yesterday, then across the street, I
notice Tommy across the street, talking to this guy, an umbrella in his hands.
It’s drizzling a little but nothing serious. Anyway, after squinting my eyes
a little bit, I notice this is that same Goddamn fed that’s always over here,
chewing on our asses, harassing us, trying to get one of us to flip. So I tell
my daughter to take a picture of these two with her cell phone. They were
talking an awful long time, sir.”
Bartonella: “If you don’t mind, sir. I have reached a theory on why Roma
might be cooperating.”
“I’m all ears,” Spirochete said.
“Roma’s on parole,” explained Bartonella. “It’s against the rules that he

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 THE END IS NEAR

consort with known felons. Well, he’s stopped by this Ace of Spades a few
times, in ‘secret.’ Maybe he wasn’t so cautious, sir. Maybe he got caught. And
now, rather than going back to prison for violating his parole, he’s decided to
rat against you—against us, I mean.” Bartonella coughed. “Ahem. Maybe,
sir, that’s what’s happening here.”
Mr. Spirochete looked down at the cell phone. His predatory eyes like those
of a lion.
“Bartonella, schedule Tommy here for a meeting, pronto,” he said, finally.
“Tell him I would like to speak to him about the bookies his Uncle Sal owned.
Tell him I have some questions for him. Make sure his guard is good and
down. We don’t want to arouse any suspicions. This Tommy Roma is a very
cagey specimen. I’ve known the man for over fifty years.”

89
 12

The Confrontation

M
r. Spirochete sat imperiously behind his desk, Voglia and
Bartonella sitting on two chairs opposite him. There is a
third chair in front of the desk, in the middle. Roma made
himself comfortable there. He looked around the office, puzzled. After
all, Bartonella had told him on the phone Spirochete wanted to speak
to him privately, about his Uncle’s assets.
“What’s up, sir? You wanted to see me? Hey, what are these two
doing here?”
Roma’s face was drained of all color. Something just wasn’t right
here. Spirochete shook his head, regretfully.
“Haven’t I always been good to you, Tommy?” he said.
“Listen, chief, I don’t know what you’re getting at but…”
Just ten, Spirochete stood up from off his chair, and he walked over
toward Roma, handing the Android over to him.
“I see you have a new best friend.”
Roma stammered. “Listen, chief, all he wanted to do was talk to me,
you know? We weren’t talking about anything important. Just the
weather. That’s all. I swear.”
Spirochete nodded his head glumly. And then he reached for Roma’s
button-up Hawaiian shirt, tearing it open.
There it was for all three to see, a tiny tape recorder, taped to Roma’s hairy
chest.

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 THE CONFRONTATION

Roma looked around, at Bartonella to his left, and Voglia to his right.
Neither man said a word. They didn’t have to: the looks on their faces
had said it all.
“Looks like you’ve been feeding your new friends information about
us,” Spirochete said, shaking his head.
Roma stammered along some more.
“Listen, chief, I can explain everything. I—”
Wham. Spirochete decked Tommy in the face, knocking him off the
chair, onto the floor. Once on the ground, Spirochete began kicking
Roma: In the back, ass, chest. Blood gushed out of Roma’s nose, and
it trickled down his face. He lay there on the floor motionlessly, as
Spirochete continued his assault—like an unlucky camper who had
stumbled across a fierce grizzly bear. Better to just play dead and hope
his rage subsided than put up a fight. Better to sit still and pray for a
miracle. Spirochete kicked Roma one more time and then Bartonella
and Voglia grabbed Roma, set him back up on the chair and held him
there. Spirochete opened his desk and extracted a nickelplated 45
handgun. He shoved the gun against Roma’s temple, laughing all the
while.
“This is what I did to your father. You know why my father had me
do this to him? Because we thought he was going to be a rat, just like
you, ratta. Later we found out he wasn’t one, but now I know you
are, so I can send you to Hell with a clear conscience. Say hello to
your father for me, Tommy. Tell Dominick it was nothing personal.”
Spirochete pulled the hammer back on the gun, grinning all the while.
Just then Roma nodded over at Bartonella and Voglia, who were still
restraining him. In the blink of an eye, Bartonella and Voglia attacked
Spirochete, hitting him in the face, kicking him over. The 45. fell to
the floor. Roma bent down, seized the 45, pointed it at Spirochete,
then made his announcement.
“Sit him down on the chair, fellas.”
Voglia and Bartonella ushered Spirochete over to where Roma was
was seated, being held against his will, just seconds before. Roma sat

91
 HARD TIME

behind Mr. Spirochete’s desk, on his chair, and he pointed the gun
at him. Tears stream down Spirochete’s face; he’s bawling his eyes
out like a baby. The elderly Voglia sat on the chair opposite Roma
and beside Spirochete, who is still being restrained by the super-buff
Bartonella.
Spirochete now mans up, as it were. The tears are now gone from
his eyes and in their place is a steely, hardened gaze. The fox had been
outfoxed.
“You two side-winding, double-crossing cretins! Why have you
betrayed me?” he hissed.
Voglia piped up. “Because you’re destroying La Cosa Nostra with
your eccentricities.”
“No offense, sir. But you are insane. You have made a mockery of The
Life—having me go to art galleries; always quoting ancient authors;
randomly quoting 18th century Greek poets. You are unfit to lead.
It’s always about you and nobody else. You are a danger to our sacred
society and need to be cut off permanently from our thing,” Bartonella
said.
Spirochete exploded. “You’re all insane. I never did anything to
warrant being executed!”
“I had to do fifty years in prison for two murders you committed,
Spirochete. Then to add insult to injury I find out—you filthy
degenerate pig—that you pulled the trigger on my old man, all because
your father falsely believed he was dropping dimes.” Roma said firmly
but coolly. “It’s time to say goodnight, chief.”
“That’s preposterous,” Spirochete exclaimed. “I didn’t really kill your
father, Tommy. What nonsensical tripe! I was just saying that because
I was angry at you for becoming an informant. Puerto Ricans really
did slay Dominick. God rest his soul.” Spirochete made the sign of the
cross. Rivulets of sweat dripped down his face.
“You’re very convincing, Spirochete…”
A look of relief surrounded Jimmy Spirochete’s face. “Of course I
am, Tommy. Because I didn’t whack your old man. The Puerto Ricans

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 THE CONFRONTATION

did it. I swear, it wasn’t me. Just let me go and we’ll make everything
right again—”
“See the thing is,” Roma said, “My Uncle Sal, before passing away, he
came clean about everything. He told me you whacked my father, and
that it was by the orders of your father. Gee,” Roma said, looking and
Bartonella and Voglia. “What are the odds my Uncle Sal would confess
this, and you would too—and then go back on it?”
Spirochete shook his head, as though this were all one big misun-
derstanding. Roma pulled the hammer back on the gun, aimed it at
Spirochete’s chest, and pumped three bullets into him.
Spirochete lay still on the chair, his eyes wide open, his mouth agape.
Bartonella felt his wrist for a pulse, and then he shook his head. There
was nothing.
Just then, Chopin’s Marcha Funebr escaped gently from the stereo
speakers, as Spirochete sat still and motionless on the chair. Tolstoy,
the Iguana, walked on the body of his old master, as though he were a
tree or desk the reptile had never before played on before.
In the middle of the upstairs office room, Spirochete’s body was
rolled up in velvet rug. After the boss was ready to go, Roma spoke
with Voglia and Bartonella for a little bit.
Roma looked near the safe. “Do you have combination numbers?” he
asked Bartonella.
“Yeah. 46735. Why?” Bartonella asked.
“I was thinking of collecting on my share of the R & J Construction
proceeds. Spirochete promised me that bag of money last month. But
all I need to take is one hundred grand. You two can have the rest of
what’s in the safe, which I’m sure is millions more.”
“Whatever’s right,” Bartonella said.
Voglia: “Sure. No problem, Tommy.”
“So what do you fellas plan on doing with him?” Roma asked, eyeing
the rolled-up rug.
“We were thinking about driving him upstate, to the Pine Barrens.
There’s a lot of trees up there, a lot of land. We’re thinking nobody will

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 HARD TIME

ever find him there,” said Bartonella.

“Fantastic,” Roma said.
“Wanna help?” asked Voglia.
Roma looked out the window. It was snowing pretty good outside.
Just like that fateful night in 1968.
“Nah, snow, corpses and me don’t get along too well. But I will help
you carry him into the car.”
Roma grabbed an end of the carpet, Bartonella grabbed the other.
Voglia, the 76-year-old capo, followed them from the office all the
way downstairs and into the back alley of the club where the car was
parked.

True it took a little coaxing for me to finally convince the guys to turn on
Spirochete. In addition to telling them about Spirochete’s ratting me out and
whacking my father for no good reason whatsoever, I also told Mr. Voglia
he could be boss after we clipped Spirochete and then I promised Bartonella
he was next in line after Voglia retired. It worked. I met up with Joey
Samento just for the photo-op. Bartonella drove by and took a picture of the
rendezvous with Bartonella’s granddaughter’s whatever-the-hell-you-call it,
the Android. Just as planned. Then I went over to the Salvation Army and
bought the small tape recorder and taped it to my chest before the meeting.
And the rest, my friends, is history.

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 13

The Grand Opening

T
he large neon sign read “Tommy’s and Sal’s Restaurant.”
The name of the restaurant bathed the streets with neon. In
front of the entrance to the restaurant stood Evelyn Chambers,
microphone in hand. Cameramen and producers stand in front of her.
They’re rolling.
“Tonight’s story: From wiseguy to restaurant owner to author.
Thomas Roma, formerly of the Spirochete family has really turned his
life around.”
Meanwhile, inside the restaurant….
Roma is dressed up to the nines in his sharkskin suit, alligator style
loafers, and hair slicked back. He’s walking through the restaurant
kitchen, addressing the cooks, Vincent and Giuseppe.
“Miss Chambers will be interviewing me tonight, guys. I don’t know
what she’s gonna order, but make sure it’s something nice, so she’ll
leave us a good review.”
“Absolutely, Tommy,” Giuseppe said.
“Hey, no problem, Tommy,” said Vincent. “Mr. Voglia tells us you
need some cooks to help you get started. We’re more than happy to be
helping you out, free of charge, as long as you need us.”
A smile engulfed Tommy’s face. He patted Vincent, then Giuseppe,
on the back.
“Listen, Tommy, between you, me and Vincent over here, I’m glad Mr.

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Voglia is the new boss, you know? Not that I didn’t love Mr. Spirochete.
But Danny is a little more down to Earth, you know? Spirochete was
just too Goddamned intense,”Giuseppe said.
“I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Spirochete anyway,” mused
Vincent.
Roma waved the comment off dismissively with his right hand.
“I think the pressure of being boss just got to be too much for the
old guy, you know? Probably, he decided to go on a little vacation, get
away from all the drama. Listen, I’ve got to go, fellas. Ms. Chambers
will be in here shortly. I have to be ready to accommodate her and the
crew.”
Roma rushed off, and as he did, Vincent faced Giuseppe.
“Hey, Giuseppe.”
“Yeah?”
“You think Tommy, Voglia and Bartonella conspired to have Spiro-
chete whacked?”
“You watch too many movies,” Giuseppe said.
Roma stacked money into the cash register: Washingtons, Lincolns,
Andrew Jacksons and Benjamin Franklins. And then change: Pennies,
nickels, quarters, etcetera. While T.R. dropped the change into the
register he gazed up and noticed the urn directly across the room from
him. The gold-plated urn had the name “Salvatore DeLuna” and then
his time on earth—1938 to 2018—engraved beneath it it. The urn
sat atop a makeshift shrine decorated with flowers—fake ones—and a
writing on the wall beside it. We miss you, Uncle Sal. A stand-up guy for
eternity.
Roma walked by the tables, to ask the clientele how they were
enjoying their food on the grand-opening. The place was jam-packed.
He walked over to a table near the far right hand side corner of the
restaurant. In the table sat Douglas Bukoski, the corpulent parole
officer.
“Hello, Douglas,” Roma said.
Bukoski was focused on his food, pasta primavera with a side of

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garlic sticks.
“Oh, Tommy. The food here is exquisite. Absolutely delightful. I am
so happy. I’m overjoyed you no longer have to work at Save More and
that you’re actually managing your own restaurant.” Bukoski looked
around the restaurant, at all the patrons. He choked up with pride.
“And I’m sorry to hear about your Uncle Sal,” he said. “I know he
meant a lot to you. But how much he must have loved you, to have put
you in his will, and bequeathed you all this money to start your own
business. It seemed as though your Uncle was more than an Uncle
to you. He was like a father. My father—I’m not sure if I already
told you this—was a pornographer and embezzler, and then later, an
unrepentant pornography distributor. I hate the bastard to this day.
He left me, Tommy. He just up and left us, deserted us, my mother and
I.”
Tears streamed down the overweight parole officer’s face. Roma
patted Bukoski on the back.
“Don’t worry about things, Douglas. Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll
have the waiter bring you out another Whiskey Sour. That’ll get you
feeling better, chief.”
Bukoski blew his nose on one of the polyester napkins. Roma winced.
“You can keep that napkin too buddy,” T.R. said.
“Anyway, Tommy, I’m pleased to tell you: Your six months are
officially over tomorrow. You’ll be free to go wherever you want to
go: You could leave the country, and you wouldn’t have to report it to
anybody.”
Just then, Evelyn Chambers and her camera crew made it inside the
restaurant. Roma beamed.
“That’s good to know, chief. But between you and me, I don’t think
I’ll ever be leaving this place.”
With that, Roma walked away, over toward Ms. Chambers and her
entourage.
Roma, Chambers and the crew were laughing, smiling, joking around.
Roma pointed around at the paintings on the restaurant’s walls to the

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cameraman. He held a book in his hands, showing it off to Chambers

and the camera crew.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, champ. I spent most of my life in
the can, behind bars. I lost out on a lot of opportunities, on a lot of good
years. But it doesn’t do me one ounce of good to dwell on any of that shit now.
Truth be told, had I not been locked away that long, I would never have met
Evelyn. I also would never have learned the depths of what a sonofabitch
Spirochete was; that he had murdered my father. I never would’ve been able
to exact revenge on the traitorous tyrant either so, all in all, things turned out
alright. Not perfect, because things never resolve themselves in that manner,
but in their own flawed way. Make no mistake about what I am going to tell
you next, chief. It’s The Secret. It took me seventy years to learn this—fifty
of those years behind bars.
Well, The Secret is only one sentence long. It’s a short sentence, too; only
three words, in all…
Life is beautiful.

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