My South Philly Review Crime Beat Column: Is Police Work More Dangerous Today?

The South Philly Review ran my Crime Beat column today. 

I interviewed retired Philadelphia Police Lieutenant Martin O’Donnell and asked him if police work was more dangerous today. 

You can read the column via the page above.

My Crime Fiction: Welcome To Japan, Davis-San

 Below is my story about an American sailor visiting Japan, circa 1971. 

The story is a chapter from Olongapo, a crime novel that I hope to publish. 

The story first appeared in American Crime Magazine.

Welcome to Japan, Davis-San

By Paul Davis

In May of 1971, the Kitty Hawk was temporarily relieved from combat operations on Yankee Station in the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of North Vietnam by another aircraft carrier and the Kitty Hawk set sail for Sasebo, Japan for a scheduled R&R period.

The Japanese had been my father’s bitter enemy, as he served as an Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) frogman in the Pacific during WWII. The old chief participated in some grueling and bloody battles on the Japanese-held beaches and islands, yet he held no rancor against the Japanese. Judging from his letters to me, he appeared to be as excited as I was about my visit to the “Land of the Rising Sun.”

I became particularly interested in Japan in 1965 when I read Ian Fleming’s James Bond thriller, You Only Live Twice. I was fascinated by Fleming’s characters and plot and his take on the cultural differences between the West and Japan. 

I prepared for my visit to Japan by re-reading You Only Live Twice, as well as re-reading the chapter on Japan in my ever-ready "travel bible,” an old paperback edition of Ian Fleming’s travelogue, Thrilling Cities.

Shortly after the Kitty Hawk docked in Sasebo, I and other sailors headed towards the city’s area known as “Paradise Alley,’ where the bars catered to American sailors. I went ashore with Salvatore Lorino and Mike Hunt, and we visited one of the bars on Paradise Alley, and we drank and danced with the Japanese bar girls. After a couple of hours, Mike Hunt suggested that we go and have what Americans called a Hotzi bath and massage. We left the bar and visited a nearby public bathhouse called a Sento. 

We first sat in a sauna, where we sweated out the alcohol from our bodies. Then, after a rigorous shower, we slipped into the steaming hot public bath. After a while, we left the bath and went into another room for a massage. There were no sexual “happy endings” here, but the massage was very satisfying. 

My massage was administered by a slight and pretty Japanese girl who had the strength of a sumo wrestler. She squeezed, pressed, pounded and applied karate-type blows to my body. When we left the Sento, I felt so good that I thought I could leap over a tall building. 

It was a beautiful spring day, so we walked around and ended up on a narrow street. I spotted a small store that could have been an antique shop or a pawn shop.  I had no idea what kind of store it was as the signs were in Japanese. But what I spied in the shop window quickly drew me in. In the center of the window was an old and glorious set of Katana swords, more commonly known as Samurai swords. I didn’t know much about Katana swords at the time, other than the cursory knowledge I gleaned from the books I read, but these swords looked authentic to me. I entered the shop and bowed to the proprietor, an elderly man, and I pulled out a handful of yen and pointed towards the swords in the window.

His response was in Japanese, spoken softly as he continued to bow up and down. I bowed back, having read somewhere that the more you bow, the more humble and polite you are. Of course, the proprietor was always two bows ahead of me, as he had a lot more practice at this than I. Thankfully, a young woman customer spoke English and she politely informed me that the swords were not for sale. She explained that the swords belonged to the proprietor’s ancestors. I bowed again, twice, and quickly bowed out of the store. 

We spent the rest of the day and evening in a bar, and while most Americans were drinking beer or whisky, I was drinking Sake, Japanese rice wine. There is a saying that notes the man drinks the first three cups of Sake, and the next three cups of Sake drink the man.

I danced with a beautiful Japanese girl named Kimora, and she then sat with me at our table. Kimora had long dark hair, a beautiful face and a lean and alluring body. I especially loved her soft and sexy voice when she spoke Japanese, and I found her broken English to be both funny and cute. She kissed me after every swallow of the whiskey I bought her.    

Lorino noticed four stern-looking Japanese men in dark suits siting with four women at a table in the corner. Lorino knew I was an aspiring crime writer and something of a serious student of crime, so he asked me, “Hey, those guys in the corner are Jap gangsters, aren’t they?”

 “Yeah. Yakuza, I believe,” I replied.

Lorino leaned over to the girl at his side and asked her to send a round of drinks to the yakuza criminals. He told her to tell them that he wanted to meet them.

“Tell ‘em I’m Cosa Nostra.

“Cusi who?”

“American Mafia.”

She got up and went over to the mama-san and spoke to her and then returned to Lorino’s side. A waitress delivered a tray of drinks to the men and the mama-san whispered to one of the men. The man waved to Lorino and beckoned him to come over.

“C’mon, Paulie. Let’s go over.”

“I’ll pass. You go.”

“Hey, you got the black suit and shirt. You look like a mob guy. They’ll love ya.”

I was curious, so I walked over with a strutting Lorino.

One of the yakuza spoke English and he translated for Lorino. He made the other hoodlums laugh with his translations. I felt we were being mocked, and I told Lorino that we should go. Lorino brushed me off and then pulled out a wad of U.S. dollars. He said he wanted to buy shabu. The Japanese, like the Filipinos, called crystal meth shabu.

The yakuza members stopped laughing. The one who spoke English conferred with his associates and then turned back to Lorino. He took out a piece of paper and wrote the name of a bar and a person’s name in English and added some Japanese characters. He passed the slip of paper to Lorino.

“Go to this bar and ask for this person,” the yakuza member said. “Hand him this note and he will help you.”

“Thanks,” Lorino said. “Youse guys are cool.”

We went back to our table and Lorino said “Let’s go.”

“You go, I want to stay here and drink and dance with Kimora.”

“This will only take a half hour. I need you as a back-up. The girl will be here when we get back.”

Reluctantly, I went with him.

 

We took a cab to the bar and walked in. We were the only Americans there and we were given dirty looks by some of the customers who appeared to be yakuza gangsters. Lorino, unfazed at our reception and uber confident as usual, walked up boldly to the bar and showed the note to the bartender. The bartender, without a word, motioned over a young Japanese thug. The thug read the note and told Lorino in English to meet him outside in the alley.

Out in the alley, the young yakuza thug, accompanied by another young thug, asked for the money. Lorino handed over the U.S. dollars. The young thug put the money in his pants pocket and then pulled out a knife.

The thug smiled.

“So, this is how it’s going to be,” Lorino said, smiling back.

He looked sideways at me and said, “You believe this shit?” and then he delivered a swift kick to the thug’s left knee. As the thug buckled from the kick, Lorino stepped in and threw an uppercut that dropped the thug. I began to step in towards the advancing second thug, but Lorino whipped out a small semi-automatic pistol. Seeing the gun, the second thug stepped back.

The second thug helped the first thug up from the street. The first thug grinned, picked up his knife and put it in his pocket. And then he bowed. He took out a plastic bag out of his pocket and handed it to Lorino.

Lorino bowed back. He wet his finger and dipped the finger in the bag. He pulled out his finger and held it to his nose and inhaled it. His head jolted back, and he laughed.

“Very good shit,” he said and bowed.

The two thugs bowed and went back into the bar.

“Where did you get the gun?” I asked.

“Olongapo. Where else?”

 

Lorino and I took a cab to our hotel and once in our room, we snorted a couple of lines of the shabu. Lorino hid the bulk of the shabu but kept some of it on him for us to use later while we were out. I wanted to go back to the first bar we visited and drink and dance with Kimora. I became even more talkative than usual, but Lorino reacted differently to the meth. He became quiet and introspective.

We walked to the bar, and went in. Lorino gave the yakuza hoods a thumbs up.

The English-speaking yakuza explained what the upright thumb meant, and they all laughed and raised their own thumbs up.                           

After many cups of Sake, I needed to get some air, and I left the bar. Lorino followed me up the street where we saw a small restaurant with an open front. The smell coming from the restaurant was enticing. We entered the restaurant, and I stepped up to the counter. The menus were banners hanging from the ceiling, and of course they were written in Japanese. A man sitting next me to me was eating steamed vegetables and as I liked the smell, I motioned to the waitress that this was what we wanted. Although I was not big on vegetables, steamed or otherwise, after consuming the Sake, I thought this was a fantastic meal. 

I pulled out my money and having forgotten the rate of exchange for Japanese yen to American dollars, I gave the waitress a stack of yen. As we walked down the street, I heard someone yelling, “American-San! American-San!” I turned and saw the waitress coming towards me. She bowed and I bowed back. She bowed again and handed me some yen. I gathered that I gave her too much money for the meal. I bowed and shook my head as I handed her back the bills. She bowed twice and would not accept the offered bills. She bowed again twice and turned and walked back towards the restaurant.

“Can you image any other place in Southeast Asia where this would happen?” I asked Lorino. “Only in Japan.” 

“In Olongapo, they would come out and cut our throats for the rest of the money,” Lorino said and laughed. 

We headed back to the bar, where I danced and drank more Sake with Kimora. After drinking much Sake, I ended my night in a hotel room with the incredibly beautiful Kimora.  

The following day I left Sasebo and took a train with Hunt to Nagasaki.

Lorino stayed in Sasebo and partied with his new yakuza friends.

© 2024 By Paul Davis 

Note: You can read the other posted chapters of my crime novel Olongapo via the below link:

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Butterfly'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvatore Lorino'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: The Old Huk

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: Join The Navy And See Olongapo

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Boots On The Ground'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The 30-Day Detail'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Cat Street'

Paul Davis On Crime: Chapter 12: On Yankee Station

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Cherry Boy'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Hit'

Paul Davis On Crime: A Look Back At Life Aboard An Aircraft Carrier During The Vietnam War: 'The Compartment Cleaner'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Murder By Fire'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Admiral McCain'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Hit The Head'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'A Night At The Americano'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Missing Muster'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Barracks Thief'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The City of Bizarre Happenings'  

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Refrigerator Thieves'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Go Forth, Goforth'

Governor Shapiro Announces $837 Million Investment In PhilaPort To Support Largest Expansion In Port’s History, Creating New Jobs, Expanding Global Trade, And Growing Pennsylvania’s Economy

Philly Daily, where my On Crime column appears each week, reports that PA Governor Shapiro announces a $837 Million Investment in PhilaPort. 

You can read the piece via the link below:  

Governor Shapiro Announces $837 Million Investment in PhilaPort to Support Largest Expansion in Port’s History, Creating New Jobs, Expanding Global Trade, and Growing Pennsylvania’s Economy – Philly Daily 

A Look Back At Raymond Chandler And 'The Annotated Big Sleep'

As I noted, here before, I have been an admirer of Raymond Chandler since I was a teenager. I’ve read all of his crime novels, short stories, his commentary and several biographies of the late, great writer. 

Back in 2018, I reviewed The Annotated Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler for the Washington Times.

You can read the review via the link below or the following text:

 

Paul Davis On Crime: The Annotated Big Sleep: A Look Back At The Late, Great Raymond Chandler And His Classic Crime Novel, 'The Big Sleep' 

 

THE ANNOTATED BIG SLEEP

By Raymond Chandler

Annotated and edited by Owen Hill, Pamela Jackson and Anthony Dean Rizzuto

Vintage Books, $25, 512 pages

 

“Raymond Chandler once wrote that ’some literary antiquarian of a rather special type may one day think it worthwhile to run through the files of the pulp detective magazines’ to watch as ’the popular mystery story shed its refined good manners and went native,’” the editors of “The Annotated Big Sleep” write in their introduction of the late, great Raymond Chandler’s classic crime novel.

 

“He might have said, as the genre of detective fiction kicked out the Britishism and became American. A chief agent of this transformation was Raymond Chandler himself. ’The Big Sleep’ was Chandler’s first novel, and it introduced the world to Philip Marlowe, the archetypal wisecracking, world-weary private detective who now occupies a permanent place in the American imagination.”

 

The editors note that in their annotated edition of “The Big Sleep” they trace the many veins of meaning into the intricate novel, which they call “a ripping good story.” The editors inform us that Raymond Chandler (July 23, 1888 March 26, 1959) did not think of himself as primarily a “mystery” writer, calling his novels and stories only “ostensibly” mysteries. But his work was confined within the limitations of genre fiction during his lifetime and many years after, even though he was lauded while he was alive by W.H. Auden, Evelyn Waugh, T.S. Eliot, Graham Greene and Christopher Isherwood.

 

But today, as the editors point out, Chandler is taught in university courses and Le Monde voted “The Big Sleep” one of the “100 Books of the Century.” The novel was also made into two films, with Humphrey Bogart as Philip Marlowe in the 1946 film, and Robert Mitchum portraying Philip Marlowe in the 1978 film. (Dick Powell, Robert Montgomery, James Garner and many other actors have portrayed Philip Marlowe in films based on Raymond Chandler’s other novels).

 

Unlike his great predecessor, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler was not an ex-detective, and he didn’t associate with police officers, racketeers or grifters. He was born in Chicago, but he was raised in Nebraska, England and Ireland and he attended Dulwich College, where he studied languages and the classics.

 

He served in the Canadian infantry in World War I and he ended up in Los Angeles in 1913. After he was fired from his job as an oil executive due to his drinking and other offenses, he became a regular contributor to the pulp magazines at the age of 45. His first short story, “Blackmailers Don’t Shoot,” was published in 1933. Raymond Chandler’s first novel, “The Big Sleep,” was published in 1939. The novel sold about 10,000 copies in two print runs for Knopf. The novel was not a best-seller, but it sold more than the average mystery novel.

 

“I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.” So begins the well-known and celebrated opening that introduces the reader to Philip Marlowe, the first-person narrator of “The Big Sleep.”

 

The big sleep is a metaphor for death and it is the first of many fine metaphors and similes that Raymond Chandler employs in his novel. “The Big Sleep” is a novel about organized crime, blackmail, gambling, drugs, alcohol, sex, wealth, family secrets and murder. Philip Marlowe’s narration and running commentary on everyone he meets and everything he encounters is timeless. Marlowe is an incorruptible modern knight in a corrupt world.

 

As the editors note, the city of Los Angeles was in many ways Raymond Chandler’s other major character alongside Philip Marlowe. “Its character was set by its sudden expansion, and also by the greed and self-promotion that went with it,” the editors write. “It was a city of excess, escapism (Hollywood!), tawdriness, exhibitionism, and corruption.”

 

Along with the classic crime story, the editors of “The Annotated Big Sleep” sprinkle the book with the historical context of Raymond Chandler’s LA, and they offer extracts from his letters, an analysis of the novel’s characters and plot, and facts about the films made from the novel. The book also offers photos and maps. “The Big Sleep” remains a classic crime novel that is discovered by each new generation of crime aficionados (I first read it as a teen-age crime-fiction aficionado in the early 1960s) and the novel continues to inspire crime writers and film makers.

 

“The Annotated Big Sleep” not only delivers a great novel, it also provides a literary and historical treatise on the life, times and work of one of America’s greatest writers, Raymond Chandler.

 

• Paul Davis is a writer who covers crime, espionage and terrorism.

My Crime Fiction: 'Passyunk Avenue'

The story below is another chapter in my work in progress crime novel about Cosa Nostra from South Philly to Sicily.  

The story originally appeared in American Crime Magazine. 

Passyunk Avenue

By Paul Davis

I first saw Robert Zucco at a police press conference in the mid-1990s. As one who grew up in South Philadelphia, his South Philly swagger was apparent to me. He had a self-confidence and insouciance that reminded me of the entertainer Dean Martin, and that made him stand out from the other stiff and formal police officials at the meeting. 

Zucco (pronounced like ZOO‑koh, with the stress on the first syllable “ZOO”) wore a well-cut expensive suit, silk tie, and Italian black leather loafer shoes. His swept back dark hair was freshly barber-cut and he was clean-shaven. 

But if there had been any doubt of his origin, that was removed when he spoke to the man seated beside me in a mocking voice.

“What, you again? You’re at every meeting. Don’t you have a job?”

The elderly man next me laughed and shook his head.

“Good to see ya,” the man in the aisle said and walked towards the stage.

I asked the man seated next me who the man walking away was.

“That’s Chief Inspector Robert Zucco, the commanding officer of South Division.”

As a crime reporter and columnist for the local paper, I had heard the name, but I had never seen him or met him.

The man next to me explained that Zucco, prior to becoming a chief inspector, was the chief of detectives and before that he was the inspector in charge of a special investigative/intelligence unit that was tasked with looking after South Philly organized crime.

I made a mental note to request an interview in the near future with Robert Zucco.

And I went on to interview him several times over the years, and I had lunch with him on many occasions and drank in local bars with him. I even visited his home and met his beautiful wife and son.

Zucco was loquacious, irrelevant, and funny. and he was “good copy” for a writer. He was the subject of many of my newspaper columns. 

He was a few years older than me, but I discovered that we lived two blocks from each other in the early 1960s. Unlike me, Zucco had not been a South Philly corner boy hoodlum. Instead of hanging on a corner getting high and getting into trouble, he was a serious athlete. He excelled in baseball and football. He was also a good student and graduated from St. John’s Catholic High School and in 1967 he enlisted in the U.S. Army. After serving in combat in Vietnam, he came home, married his high School sweetheart, and joined the Philadelphia Police Department.  

Robert Zucco retired some years ago, but we kept in touch. I recently received a phone call from him. He was reading my series of columns about former Cosa Nostra capos Nunzio Stillitano and Salvatore Stillitano, and he wanted to give me his take on the father-son criminals.

 

Back in the early 1970s, Zucco was a young detective assigned to South Detectives. He used to stop in frequently at Angelo’s Italian Deli on Passyunk Avenue.   

Back in the 1970s, Passyunk Avenue (pronounced Pash-yunk, which was a Lenape Indian word meaning “a place in the lowland”) was a main shopping and eating corridor in South Philly’s predominantly Italian American neighborhood. There were decades old Italian restaurants, clothing stores, jewelers, bars and specialty shops.    

Angelo Grassi, a longtime shop owner on Passyunk Avenue, was a short and stocky man in his early 50s at the time. He made great sandwiches and even greater coffee. Zucco would pop in the deli at lunch time and get a cup of coffee and sometimes an Italian hoagie or meatball sandwich.

Angelo had a couple of small tables in the back, where he hung out with his friends. Zucco would eat his sandwich and drink his coffee back there and talk with Grassi and his small group of friends. He got to know Grassi well, even discovering that the deli owner and operator was a degenerate gambler.

Zucco would often warn Grassi that his gambling would lead to ruin, but Grassi would wave him off, stating that gambling would make him rich.

One day while checking in at South Detectives, Sergeant Bob Ham called the young detective over to his desk.

“You know Angelo Grassi, the deli guy on Passyunk Avenue, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He got the crap beat out of him and he’s in the Methodist Hospital with broken bones. Two young guys with baseball bats pounded him.”

“Robbery?”

“No. It looks like something personal. Want to take it?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Zucco drove to the Methodist Hospital on Broad Street and walked up to Grassi’s room. Outside of his room, he flashed his detective’s shield and questioned a nurse. She told him that Grassi was admitted to the Emergency Room the previous evening with a broken arm, broken leg and several broken ribs.

Zucco thanked her and entered Grassi’s room.

“How are you, you old crook?”

“Not to good, Robert. Two guys really laid into me.”

“Do you know who they are? Do you know why they gave you a beating?”

“No, I never seen them before and I don’t know why they beat the shit out of me.”

“It wasn’t a robbery, so what was it? Did it have anything to do with your gambling?

"Robert, I thank you for the visit and your concern, but please let it go. I ain’t gonna say nothing.”

Zucco left the hospital and called an informant of his who was an associate with the Philadelphia Cosa Nostra organized crime family. He called the informant "Jerry.”

He arranged a meeting with Jerry in Northeast Philadelphia, away from the eyes of the South Philly mobsters. Jerry parked his car next to Zucco’s in a mall parking lot and got out and stepped into Zucco’s front passenger seat. 

Zucco asked Jerry if he knew anything about the Grassi beating.

“Oh, yeah. Angelo Grassi went overboard on his sports betting and Joe Fabbri, a mob associate and bookmaker, allowed him to keep betting on credit. I heard Fabbri wanted to take over Grassi’s deli.

“He sent two young thugs to give the poor slob a solid beating. Fabbri told Grassi that unless he signed over the deli, on the next visit the guys would be packing guns.”

“Who were the young guys?

“One was Frankie Santoro, a dumb kid, but the other one was “Salvie Shotgun.”

“Who is he?

“You don’t know? He’s Nick the Broker’s 18-year-old son.”

Zucco knew who Nick the Broker was. Nuncio Stillitano was a capo (captain) of the Wildwood, New Jersey crew under Philadelphia’s Cosa Nostra organized crime family.

Although he ran the Wildwood crew at the seaside resort, he was often in South Philadelphia as he was a major boxing promoter, and he could often be found at local gyms, bars and restaurants on Passyunk Avenue conducting boxing and illegal gambling business.

The following day at South Detectives’ 24^th and Wolf Street station, Zucco walked up to Detective George Mathis’ desk.

Zucco shook hands with the 6’4, 250-pound former college football player and Black detective and explained thar he was going to confront a couple of local hoodlums. He asked Mathis to come along.

“This is I-talian business. Why do you want me?”

“I want you to scare the shit out of them.”

Mathis laughed.

“I just want you to back me up while I talk to these young hoods.”

“OK.”

Zucco and Mathis drove to Passyunk Avenue and parked in front of a pizza place that Jerry said Salvatore “Salvie Shotgun” and his friends hung out.

Zucco walked in the place with Mathis behind him. Even without flashing their badges, the young hoodlums sitting at the tables knew they were cops.

“Salvatore Stillitano,” Zucco called out. “Outside. I want to talk to you.”

Stillitano, a tall and muscular 18-year-old with curly dark hair, stood up slowly and walked over to Zucco.

“I’m Salvie. What do ya want?”

“Outside. Now.”

Stillitano turned towards his hoodlum friends and grinned. He then walked out the door. He stopped grinning outside and Mathis leaned against Zucco’s unmarked police vehicle.

“I hear you’re a baseball player, good with a bat,” Zucco said.

“Yeah,” Stillitano answered surly. “I can play ball.”

“I hear you can swing a bat when you’re not playing ball.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do. And if anything happens further to Angelo Grassi, a personal friend of mine, I’m going to show you how to really swing a bat.”

Zucco’s threat did not register with the bold, young hoodlum. After Zucco’s visit. Stilitano drove to the Methodist Hospital, walked up to Grassi’s room and gripped the deli owner by the neck.

"You rat motherfucker. Did you send that cop fucker to me? I’ll kill you if you say another fucking word.”

Stillitano then punched Grassi in the left eye. Grassi passed out and Stillitano walked out of the hospital room. When Zucco heard that Stillitano had again attacked Grassi after the detective’s threat, he considered gathering Mathis and a few other detectives and show Stilitano and his friends that he meant what he said.

But after a few minutes, he calmed down and called Jerry. He asked his informant where Nick Stillitano would be that night. Jerry told him.

Later that evening, Zucco walked into a small Italian restaurant on Passyunk Avenue and saw Nick Stillitano and two men sitting at a back table. He walked briskly over and one of the men rose and attempted to bar Zucco from speaking to Stillitano.

“Do you want to spend the night in jail?”

“Fred, sit down. You too detective,” Nick Stillitano said.

Zucco looked into Stillitano’s slightly protruding black eyes. He saw that Stillitano was a handsome man. conservatively dressed, and outwardly calm and polite.

“I heard of you, Detective Zucco,” Stillitano said. “You’re a good guy from the neighborhood. You’re a cop, but a good guy anyway, I hear. You don’t frame no one, and you don’ get carried away. What can I do for you?”

Zucco explained the situation regarding Grassi, Fabbri, his son Salvatore.

Nick Stillitano did not initially respond and appeared calm, but his protruding eyes seemed to grow darker.

“I’ll look into this and call you.”

Stillitano rose and extended his hand. Zucco got up and shook the mobster’s hand.

The following day, Zucco received a call from someone named Harry. He took the written message from another detective at South Detectives and wondered who this Harry was. He called the number and asked for Harry.

Nick Stillitano took the phone.

“Detective, I looked into the issue we discussed. I had a word with the book guy, who will lay off the deli guy. He worked out a payment plan, so no one will bother him anymore. I hope you won’t pursue my son.”

“No, I won’t.’

“Good.”

Zucco was happy and visited Grassi in the hospital and told him that he had straightened out the situation. Anglo Grassi was thankful.

Zucco then called Jerry to get his take on the situation.

“Yeah, Nick the Broker chewed out Fabbri for involving his son and he chewed out his son for being stupid.”

“Nick said that Grassi was given a payment plan.”

“Nah, that's bullshit” Jerry replied. “Not that he needed the money, but Nick pulled rank on Fabbri, wiped out Grassi’s debt and made himself Grassi’s partner in the deli business.”

© 2026 Paul Davis  

Note: You can read earlier posted chapters via the links below:

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Rigano Murders'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'From South Philly To Sicily'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Salvie Shotgun'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Nick The Broker'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Upton "Uppercut" Clarke'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'The Face'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Three Soldiers' 

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Jadroll'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Up And Coming'

Paul Davis On Crime: My Crime Fiction: 'Tony Ball-Peen'