Savage Brooklyn E-Book

Andy Rausch

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After small-time mobster Joe D'Amato gets attacked by a werewolf, his life takes a dark turn, and he begins a transformation towards a new, twisted life.

As corpses start piling up, two cops suspect there is something unnatural on the loose, and they have a suspect. When nobody listens to their theories, they go rogue and start digging for clues.

Soon, forces both natural and supernatural clash, and all hell breaks loose.

This book contains graphic sex and violence, and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

SAVAGE BROOKLYN

A WEREWOLF CRIME NOVEL

ANDY RAUSCH

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

You may also like

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Andy Rausch

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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

For Adam Hall. Thanks for the support

and encouragement.

ONE

Joe D'Amato was a small-time hood who'd never dreamed of being anything more. Perhaps a big-time hood, but nothing beyond that. He stole cars and sold them to chop shops, robbed trucks filled with televisions, sold counterfeit Giants tickets, shit like that. Whatever he could do to make a buck. His life wasn't glamorous, but it was his. He'd been working for the mob for more than two decades. He wasn't a high-profile guy or a made man. He was just a knockaround guy who did whatever he was told and never caused anybody any trouble. When people saw movies about wiseguys, they only saw the guys who whacked people or had high-ranking jobs like boss or captain. Most civilians didn't even know guys like Joe existed. But the truth was, guys like Joe were the heart and soul of the mob. Without schlubs like Joe, there would be no Mafia.

Joe was an average-looking guy, 5'9”, black hair with a ponytail, and a slightly-crooked goatee. He always had a five o'clock shadow, and he was a little bit paunchy. He'd just turned forty and to his mother's chagrin, had never married. Joe saw himself as a lone wolf who couldn't be tamed. The truth was, women weren't all that interested in his company, and he wasn't all that interested in theirs. Because of this, he frequented Dino DeSantis' whorehouse in Midwood. It was a predominantly middle-class Hasidic neighborhood, and everyone knew what went on upstairs at the Golden Palm Lounge, but no one said a word. This was because Dino kept the cops paid off, and the neighbors were either too scared to say anything or they were customers themselves.

Joe worked a couple nights a week as a bouncer at the Palm as a side hustle and got paid in free pussy. It was a good deal, and it kept everyone happy. There wasn't too much trouble in the place since everybody knew it was mobbed up, and when there was, Joe handled it with joy and ease. In his eyes, the job was a two-fer; he got to beat the shit out of people, and he got enough pussy to keep him seeing straight. On top of that, he drank for free.

Tonight had been an uneventful late September Tuesday, and business had been average. There had been a handful of patrons downstairs and hands full of cocks upstairs. There was no trouble, and Joe had spent his shift sitting at the bar listening to songs on the jukebox and talking to Frank the bartender. After close, Joe had received his pay with a twenty-minute around-the-world session with Dallas, the Hispanic broad who'd been his favorite these past few months. When they had sex, Joe had no illusions that Dallas actually liked him or cared about him, but she was at least cordial, which was more than he could say for some of the others. But he got it, really he did. It was just a job for them, and a job was a job. There was no need for the girls to become pen pals or besties with him. Had he been in their shoes, he would have just got in and done the deed and got right out, too. The girls were like Joe in a way—tiny cogs in a big money-making machine. In the end, they both got fucked by the mob heirarchy, just in different ways.

Joe's old rust-colored Camaro had finally died once and for all, so he had to catch a ride home with Frank. At first, this had seemed like a good deal, but then when they were in the car, Frank told him he had an errand to run. Joe said cool, and they were on their way. But then, a few minutes later, Frank said, “There's this fuckhead owes me money. I'm gonna need you to stand in and look tough. Be there to back me up.”

Joe had looked at him with no small amount of irritation and said, “I get paid to do that, you know? Are you gonna pay me?”

After it became clear that Frank was not gonna pay Joe and that Joe was not gonna back him up, Frank got pissed and dropped him off a couple miles out of the way.

“How am I supposed to get home, you dumb bastard?”

“Fuck if I care,” Frank said, just before driving away.

So now Joe was roughly five miles away from his apartment. With no car and no cash, he had no choice but to walk. But fuck it, Joe thought. He needed the exercise. He'd developed a small gut, and he'd recently read that exercise was not only good for the body but was also good for the mind. So here he was, walking down the dark backstreets of Brooklyn, alternating between smoking Pall Malls and whistling an old Sinatra tune.

It had rained earlier in the night, and the streets were slick and shiny beneath the street lamps. The streets were empty, but Joe could hear traffic in the distance and would occasionally see a car driving across intersecting streets up ahead. He saw no people out in their yards or walking around. It was just him, and this suited him fine. Sometimes Joe just wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. Some were good, such as his remembrances of Dallas' sweet ass pushed up against his cock, and others less so, such as the realization that he was a failure in just about every aspect of life. But he'd known this for a long time now. He'd tried to tell himself otherwise, but he knew. He'd tell himself he was living exactly the life he wanted to live, but that was bullshit. While he had no ambitions to be much of anything more, he'd always wanted to be rich somehow. The fact that he had no clue how to achieve this was a big part of it never having happened. So, he'd become a wiseguy, just like his pops.

He still remembered the talk his pops had with him right after he'd dropped out of school. They were sitting on the porch drinking Michelobs, and his pops had looked him square in the eye and said, “This life of mine ain't yours. It don't gotta be, Joe.”

And Joe had looked at him and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Just because I'm a wiseguy don't mean you gotta be one, too. I want something more for you. I want you to make your mama proud. She don't like this shit.”

“Well, what does she know?”

His pops had raised his hand as if to slap him. “Don't you disrespect your mama. She knows plenty. She knows a hell of a lot more than you think. This life…it chews men like us up, and then it spits us out. It's a good life sometimes, but most of the time, it's bad, through and through. I don't want you to be like me. I want you to be like…”

“Who?” Joe asked. “Uncle Sal?”

“Your uncle is a good man,” his pops said. “He owns his own grocery store. He makes his money the right way. The clean way. That's respectable, Joe. This life…mylife…ain't for you.” His pops had then looked into his eyes and made him promise he would never become a wiseguy. And Joe had done this.

That had been a year before Joe's pops had been shot to death and two years before Joe went to work for Don Dellasandro.

Joe knew his pops wouldn't have liked this, but he hoped he would have understood the decision. His pops, Charley D'Amato, had been an understanding father, as far as Mafia fathers went. He'd been a strict no-bullshit father who was pretty free with the belt, but Joe had always known he was loved.

As Joe walked home, he looked up at the night sky, seeing nothing but the big full moon hanging above.

“You up there, Pops?” he asked.

His pops said nothing. There was no sound on the street.

“I'm sorry I let you down, Pops. I never wanted to do that. But after you left, I had to make money to take care of Mama and Debbie some way, somehow, and I ain't got no skills, Pops. I didn't have what they call a marketable skill. All I knew how to do was steal and bust heads, so I put that to work and went out and got food for our family.”

Joe kept walking, staring up at the sky. “Do you understand? If you do, say something. Anything.”

There was only silence. Angry and disappointed, Joe kicked at nothing. “Just like I figured,” he muttered. “You're dead and gone.”

He kept walking, lighting up another smoke as he did. He took a single drag and started to feel sparse, light droplets of rain on his skin. This wasn't good. He still had several miles to go. The rain didn't stop, but it didn't pick up either. It just remained something slightly more than a mist—just enough to annoy. At least it wasn't enough to put out his cigarettes.

As he walked, something darted out from behind a parked car, startling him. It was a cat, running as if its last life depended on it. Fucking cats. Joe had never liked the damn things. He'd always considered himself more of a dog man, although he'd never owned a single pet.

He walked another block before he heard the growling sound behind him. It sounded like a goddamn mountain lion. Joe turned and looked back nervously but saw nothing. He had goosebumps and, although he would never have admitted as much, the growl had frightened him a little. He sped up and started walking faster and faster. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette down as he did.

Still terrified, he kept his eyes focused on the street ahead. Maybe he hadn't heard the growl, he told himself. Maybe it wasn't real. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it was an after-affect of drugs he done when he was younger. The cocaine maybe. Or the heroin.

When he heard the ferocious-sounding snarl again, Joe knew better. It sounded like something big, much bigger than a dog. He didn't want to look behind him, so he kept moving, now walking as briskly as those women he saw power-walking in the park. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins and he realized he was trembling. But he kept walking, fast—so fast that his toe caught in a crack between the bricks and he stumbled, falling hard to the pavement. Before he could push himself up, he heard the loud, frightening growl behind him again. He started to push himself up now, looking back as he did. It was then that he saw the thing.

He knew he couldn't be seeing what he saw, but he was. It was a big hairy beast of some sort. It was the height of a man, and it was covered in dark fur, standing on two legs. It resembled a…well…a werewolf. But no, fuck that, he told himself. That shit wasn't real. But looking at the thing, Joe wasn't so sure now. The creature was staring at him, standing still but looking like it was poised to leap at any second. It wasn't growling now, but its teeth were bared, white, sharp, and shiny, in a silent snarl. Its fiery yellow eyes were locked on him.

Frozen in a sort of half push up, Joe pissed himself. He looked down beneath his raised body, at his crotch, seeing the urine leaking through his pants. Then he looked back at the creature.

Joe had never been so scared. Then he realized he hadn't been breathing. He'd been so frightened he'd forgotten to breathe! He resumed raising himself up. There was nothing else he could do. He watched the creature's face as he did, watching to see if his movements would trigger it, causing it to attack. But it just stood there, watching him. Since its face was covered in fur, he couldn't read its expression if it had one. But he thought it looked angry, although he couldn't say for sure. One thing was certain—its teeth were bared the entire time, and the creature never took its eyes off him.

Joe was on his feet now, standing there, unsure what to do. He was facing the wolf-man or whatever this thing was. They were caught in a staring match, each of them just standing there watching the other. Joe started to back up, slowly, hoping he could back his way out of this.

The first step was a success. The creature didn't move, didn't even flinch. This just might work, Joe thought. Then he took a second step back. The creature still didn't move. Then he took a third step, and that seemed to trigger the beast. That was when it growled and leaped forward. It covered the seven or eight feet between them in a second, and suddenly it was on him! Joe tried to turn so he could run but was unable. Before he could make any movement at all, the creature knocked him back onto the street.

Joe screamed and the beast growled loudly. Couldn't anyone hear this? Maybe if he screamed loud enough they would, he thought. His thoughts were interrupted as the beast tore into his face with its claw, scratching across his eye. The searing pain was intense. Joe knew he was screaming but couldn't hear it. Everything was a blur. Then he felt the creature bite deep into his arm. Joe could hear himself now. He was screaming continuously, although he wasn't intending to. His body just did it. He looked at the blood-covered, hairy muzzle of the creature, right in his face now. He smelled the foul, putrid scent of its warm breath. And then he passed out.

TWO

Joe woke up in the hospital with his right eye covered by bandages. There were no doctors in the room, no one sitting with him. He was alone and was hooked to I.V.s and a number of machines, one of which was giving him blood. He blinked his good eye, trying to figure out where he was and how he'd gotten here. And then he remembered the creature. That hideous, grotesque beast.

He looked around. What the fuck?

He screamed. “Hey! Hey! Is anybody here?”

There was no answer, and he started to panic. Now he realized his eye was covered, and he became even more anxious.

“What is this?!” he screamed. “Help! Someone!”

But there was no answer. He was still shaken from the attack, although he had no idea how long ago that had been. Looking at his surroundings, this was obviously a hospital room. How long had he been here? There was no way to know.

He screamed a couple more times, but there was no response. He tried to calm himself. If this was a hospital, there had to be a way to contact the nurses' station. He looked down by his side and saw a corded controller with a call button beside his arm. He pulled it up and pushed the button.

After a moment, a woman's voice said, “You're awake. We'll be right in.”

Christ. What kind of bullshit hospital was this? Why wasn't there anyone here with him? But then Joe realized it was because he had no friends. He had associates, sure, but no one who really gave a damn about him; no one who would shed a tear if he joined his pops up in heaven.

But what about Sonny? Sonny was an old-time gangster, way up the totem pole. He was a captain, and everyone figured him next in line for the throne. Despite his lofty position, Sonny had always been Joe's friend. Or maybe not friends, but friend-adjacent at least. If nothing else, Sonny tolerated him, and for that Joe was thankful. Sure, it would be nice to have a real friend, someone close he could confide in, but for now, things were what they were, and there was no changing that. And definitely not from a bed inside the hospital.

A moment later, a heavyset black nurse came in, followed closely by a male nurse Joe figured for gay. Or maybe metrosexual. Joe never knew. He himself had a sense of style that was pretty close to Otis the town drunk on The Andy Griffith Show, so Joe resented those snazzy metrosexual guys. Maybe they could get pussy without paying for it, but Joe could beat the hell out of them. Joe figured it all evened out. But this guy, he was pretty sure he was gay and not metrosexual. Joe felt he had developed a sort of radar for it during his stretch in Otisville.

“About fucking time,” Joe said. “I been in here yelling for a while.”

The black nurse blinked, trying to maintain her professionalism. “In the future, all you need to do is hit the button and, as you see, we'll be here.”

Before Joe could say anything smart in response, another guy walked in. He was obviously a doctor. He was a skinny guy—a little toothpick-motherfucker Joe would have picked on in school—with black hair that was beginning to gray at the temples. He was a smug little prick. Joe could tell just by looking at him.

“Hello, Mr. D'Amato,” he said. “My name is Dr. Ramsey.”

Joe looked him over suspiciously. “How you know my name?”

The doctor smiled a condescending “you're-a-fucking-idiot” smile and said, “I'm assuming the paramedics read it off your driver's license. But I can't say for sure as I wasn't there. I just looked at your chart, and there it was—your name.”

“Why the fuck am I here?”

Dr. Ramsey's face twisted into a look that read both confusion and concern. He crossed his arms, raising his hand to his face to show he was considering his response. “You were attacked by something. Some kind of animal. Something big. We're not sure, but we think it was a bear. Did you… Did you see what attacked you?”

Joe stared at him. “I did, but I'm not sure what the hell it was.”

He didn't want to say what it looked like or they'd probably stick his ass away in a different kind of hospital.

“We're pretty sure it was a bear,” Dr. Ramsey said. “The only thing that saved you was that, while the thing was ravaging you, a car drove up on you and struck the creature. It's a miracle you weren't killed by either the bear or the car.”

“I don't believe in miracles,” Joe said.

The doctor nodded. “I don't, either, but if ever there was one, this is probably it.”

“The…bear…was struck by a car?”

“Yes, Mr. D'Amato. An SUV. But the driver wasn't sure what the creature was. But we're pretty sure it was a bear. What else could it be?”

Joe looked at him. “Didn't they find its body?”

“No, the creature ran off, probably to die somewhere. You lost a lot of blood, too.”

“So what's the deal? Am I gonna be okay?”

Dr. Ramsey bit his lip, looking like he was trying to figure out how best to deliver bad news.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“You lost your eye, Mr. D'Amato.”

“What the fuck? You're fucking with me, right? Tell me you're fucking with me.”

“I'm afraid I'm not, Mr. D'Amato. The attack completely destroyed the eye.”

“So it's gone?” asked Joe, reaching up to touch the bandage where his eye had been.

Dr. Ramsey looked at him, nodding. “I'm afraid so.”

“You guys… you… took it out?”

“There wasn't much left.”

“What? Did the bear eat it?”

“No,” Dr. Ramsey said. “It scratched your face, from your forehead down through your eye to your cheek. It clawed the eye out.”

“Wow,” Joe said, looking down, shaking his head, trying to make sense of all this. “I can't believe it. One minute I'm mindin' my own business, and the next…” He looked up at the doctor. “I got no eye. Just like that!”

“No one has called the police reporting that they've seen the bear yet,” Dr. Ramsey said. “But I'm told it's not uncommon for black bears to wander into the city. But who knows what provoked it? They're animals, you know? They just do whatever it is they do. They wander around aimlessly and just…”

“Be bears,” said the gay nurse.

Joe looked at him, wanting to slap the shit out of him. Of course they “be bears.” That was the single dumbest statement he'd ever heard. What the hell else would they be? And then Joe had a thought. He looked at the doctor. “You get many bear attacks around here?”

“Not many,” said Dr. Ramsey. “But I've seen a couple these past few years.”

“In Brooklyn?”

The doctor nodded. “There have actually been quite a few attacks, but we've only seen a handful of survivors. Four to be exact, and that includes you.”

“Let me ask you something,” Joe said. “In those attacks, have they ever found the bears?”

“It's odd, but no, they never have. It's crazy. You wonder how bears could just wander around Brooklyn and go unseen. It boggles the mind.”

“It does,” added the black nurse.

“But it happens,” Dr. Ramsey said.

Joe blew out air, exhausted and discouraged. “So what now? Where do I go from here?”

“Well, that depends,” Dr. Ramsey said. “Do you have insurance?”

“No,” Joe said. “I've never had any.”

Dr. Ramsey touched his hand to his chin and asked, “How about Medicaid?”

“I don't even know what that is,” Joe said.

“It's government insurance,” the doctor said.

“What?” Joe asked. “Do I look like I need a handout to you? I earn what I get. I ain't no bottom-feeder living off a state check.”

The doctor made a concerned face and turned and traded looks with the two nurses. Then he turned back towards Joe. “Well, that's going to change things,” he said. “Unless you've got a stockpile of money lying around, I doubt you're going to spend much time here. You probably won't be fitted for a prosthetic eye, either.”

“So what then?”

The doctor looked at him. “You'll probably have a patch.”

Joe cocked his head, looking at him like he was nuts. “What? Like a fuckin' pirate? Like Patch fuckin' Adams?”

“Patch Adams didn't actually wear a patch,” Dr. Ramsey said.

“I don't know nothing about that. I don't watch that fruity shit.”

Wanting no part of this, Dr. Ramsey turned and said, “Just rest for now, and everything will work itself out.” Before any further conversation could occur, he left the room.

Joe looked at the nurses. “You believe that? This fucking guy.”

The nurses shook their heads. The gay guy said nothing, but the black woman leaned in towards him like she was telling him a secret even though she didn't lower her voice. “It's this stupid healthcare system,” she said. “Unless you got money, you don't get the care you need.”

“My old man said there are three kinds of people you should never trust,” Joe said.

“Who are those?”

“Doctors, lawyers, and women.”

The nurse just stared at him, blinking.

“Who cares, anyway?” Joe said. “I just wanna get the fuck outta here. I got better things to do.”

“Like what?”

The truth was he had nothing important to do, but he looked at her like she was stupid. “What the fuck do you care, lady?”

THREE

An hour later, the gay nurse returned and said, “There are some gentlemen here to see you, Mr. D'Amato.” Before Joe could ask who they were, a couple of guys—obviously cops—straggled in. They were plain-clothes guys, but they had COP written all over them. Their cheap clothes, their mannerisms, the tired, knowing looks in their eyes. The lead cop, a heavyset guy in his fifties, was holding a brown fedora in his hands.

“My name is Detective Barnes,” he said. “This is Detective Ainsley. We're here to ask you some questions.”

“Yeah?” Joe asked, suspicious. “About what?”

The two cops looked at one another, and then Barnes looked back at Joe. “The animal attack. What else would we be here for?”

Joe felt relieved. He'd been a hoodlum his entire life, so his go-to thought when he saw cops was that they were there to talk about one of the many crimes he'd committed. “So, I'm not in trouble?” Joe asked.

Barnes did a little half-grin, his brow furrowing, trying to make sense of this. “Of course not. Why would you be?”

Joe shrugged. “No reason, I guess. In the neighborhood I grew up in, if the cops came to see you, it was always something bad. Somebody was getting pinched.”

Barnes grinned, nodding. “What neighborhood was that?”

“I grew up over on Mulberry Street.”

Barnes nodded, understanding. “I'm told you got a look at the animal that attacked you. Is that right?”

Joe stared at him for a moment, studying his expression to see if he could read anything there. Seeing nothing, he said, “What if I did?”

“Why don't you tell us about it,” Barnes said.

Joe looked at him. “What do you want me to say?”

“It looks like a bear attack. Is that what this was? A bear attack?”

“What else would it be?” Joe asked.

“I don't know,” Barnes said. “I wasn't there.”

“That's why we're asking you,” Ainsley said.

“Looked like a bear to me,” said Joe.

“You sure?” Barnes asked, squinting his eyes, looking for a different answer.

Joe looked back and forth at the two of them, staring at him. “Why are you asking me like that? There's a reason. What is it?”

“It's the damnedest thing,” Barnes said. “We've had four guys—all guys—attacked by this…this…” He looked at Joe. “Bear, in the past two years. All in Brooklyn. Thing is, we can't find a bear. And all the guys I've interviewed have acted really weird about it. And one guy, he had a different story than the others. He said it wasn't a bear at all.”