The Butcher by Philip Carlo

he’d burn in hell, as the portrait of a saint now burned in his cupped hands. Pitera stood ramrod straight, his chest puffed out, his head high. He knew when he left that room, no one would ever make fun of him again. No one would ever knock his high-pitched voice. Even now, standing there, reciting omertà, he was speaking in this distinct falsetto voice. If it weren’t so solemn and serious, it would have been outright comical to hear him talking like that—more Saturday Night Live than La Cosa Nostra.
    With the ceremony completed, they shook hands heartily and kissed on the cheek, embracing one another. Afterward, they all went out to dinner at a popular La Cosa Nostra hangout Tommaso’s on Eighty-sixth Street. There was no laughter, no patting on the back. It was a quiet, solemn dinner in which respectful toasts were made in hushed tones.
    â€œSalud.”
    â€œChindon.”
    â€œSalud.”
    â€œChindon.”
    Thus, the dragon was born.

CHAPTER TWELVE
GRAVESEND: THE CEMETERY
    I nevitably, when dealing narcotics, some people don’t pay. They get caught up in the trials and tribulations of life and don’t realize that the nonpayment of drugs could very well lead to a death sentence. If, it was common knowledge, you fronted an amount of drugs that were not paid for, soon everyone would be doing it; soon the dealer would be out of business. To stay in that business, people had to keep their word, people had to own up to the agreements they made. No one believed this more than Tommy Pitera. He came to view the selling of drugs as though he was selling his own respect. For him it became a very personal enterprise. If he gave you drugs and you didn’t pay him back, you were stealing away his livelihood, you were stealing away the reputation he had worked hard and diligently to acquire. He took his place in the family very seriously. For him, his position in the family was something to be revered, not merely respected and spoken about in whispers.
    According to those in the know, Thomas Salerno had taken several ounces of cocaine on consignment from Pitera. He paid a little late, though he paid. Pitera gave him more cocaine and, again, he paid a little later, but still paid. Pitera warned him about paying on time. Apparently, what Pitera said fell on deaf ears, for the third amount ofdrugs Pitera fronted Salerno were not paid for. Pitera sent word for Salerno to come see him. He didn’t come. When Pitera finally met up with Salerno, he managed to convince him to go for a car ride, which ended up with Salerno being shot in the head.
    Pitera thought it would be funny to leave the dead Salerno in his car right next to Gravesend Cemetery. When the body was found by police, there was no connection to Pitera, but soon word spread on the street of exactly what had occurred and why, and people in La Cosa Nostra nodded knowingly as the police scratched their heads and wondered who committed the murder.
    Like this, Tommy Pitera began killing people who were not paying for drugs on time. He not only killed those he personally had fronted drugs to, but he murdered for associates of his in the Bonanno clan. He soon became the go-to guy for murder, not only within that family but other families as well. With each murder, Pitera’s reputation grew. Pitera became adept at murder, comfortable in that guise.
    Now, for the most part, Pitera wore all black. He shunned daylight, came out mostly at night, and his face grew pale and waxy. His light skin juxtaposed against his black clothing gave him a vampire-like appearance. He was quiet—sullen. This further fueled the fear people had for him. This further fueled the rumors that were being passed all over Brooklyn—that Pitera was a remorseless killer; that Pitera was dismembering his victims, neatly cutting them up into six pieces and disposing of them at various burial sites.
    It was said that he had cleverly discovered that land on bird