It's finally here!
Lisa's debut novel, "The Brooklyn Witch-The Battle for Brooklyn," is finally available on Amazon. It was a lotta work to get done, and we are very proud of what she has done.
It is available in eBook for Kindle as well as in paperback. If you are so kind as to order it, you can get a signed copy from our website: www.thebrooklynwitch.com
Or buy it now on Amazon The Brooklyn Witch
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Thank you for your attention to this matter.
McCarthy and Torrez sat at a table in front of Ferdinando’s
panelle store. It was a fixture in the neighborhood since 1904 and was known
for serving the best sandwich in Brooklyn. That sandwich was the potato-panelle
special. Three chickpea pancakes are called a panelle. Deep-fried in a vat of
oil that had not been changed since the 1950s. Two potato croquettes on top
with some fresh ricotta served in a crusty toasted roll. They were washing them
down with a couple of Manhattan Special sodas served in an iced mug with the
espresso soda poured straight from the tap. Bliss.
Torrez picked up his sandwich and took a big bite. “We seem to be
spinning our wheels here, Dummy,” he said with his mouth full of sandwich.
“Everyone we look at has an alibi of one sort or another. I am coming to the
conclusion that she didn’t know the doer.” McCarthy sipped his coffee soda. “I
hate to agree with you, but it is starting to look like you’re right. This is a
cluster fuck, man.”
“What are we gonna do? I mean, what’s our move? We can take a run
at her boyfriend again or maybe the guy she went on a date with, but I don’t
think anything will change,” Torrez said as he finished off the last of his
sandwich. When a sandwich was this good, it didn’t last on the plate very long.
“Our only move is to roust all of the neighborhood perverts and peepers to see
if they graduated.” McCarthy agreed with the thought, “Yeah, I think you’re
right. I want to take another run at those retarded flower shop assholes. We
already eliminated the UPS jerkoff. At least we will when we find out whose
wife he was banging. I want you to go through the files to see who else might
pop up. Ask Holland again to help. She can work the computer.” McCarthy was
looking at the door. “In the meantime, I
have to ask the people who know.” Torrez looked at him and said, “What the fuck
does that mean?” “Watch and learn Beaner.”
The door opened, and the old man walked in. He stopped short when he saw the two cops. He nodded at them and then proceeded to the back of the store, followed by Geno. He sat in his favorite spot under the framed, faded news clipping of the election of Mussolini. Old man Aiello sat with his back to the wall as always, with Geno in his customary side seat with a view of the kitchen and the front door. They were predictable in that, if in nothing else.
Hipster Holocaust Chapter Twenty-Four- Special Delivery
McCarthy and Torrez sat on a bench at Valentino Park across from
the Statue of Liberty. When you sat there, you felt like you could reach out
and finger Lady Liberty as she seemed to be right in front of you. It never
failed to soothe McCarthy’s spirit. He had gone to school with the fireman that
the park was named after, and he would go there often to veg out and think. The
kid had died in a fire long before 911, and his old man was a big shot in the longshoremen’s
union and had a lot of political pull. He got a park named after his kid when
all the firemen who died on 911 just got a plaque on the side of the railing
facing where the World Trade Center used to be. It is all about who you know in
this world. McCarthy liked to come here to remind himself of that fact.
The park was quiet today. Just a few sunbathers and a couple of
old men fishing off the side of the pier. Two kids riding back and forth on
skateboards. They should be in school, but who gives a shit? After all, they
were homicide detectives, not the truant police. These kids were probably
homeschooled entitled little shits who would make a beef with the rat squad if
you ever questioned why they were out on a school day. McCarthy tried to look
on the bright side.
Maybe they would roll out into the street and get hit by a bus. You can always hope.
Hipster
Holocaust Chapter Sixteen- Slice Of Life
Fat Louie sat
in Nino’s pizzeria with a large Nonna pie in front of him. It was a favorite.
With no tomato sauce. The acidity gave him agita. He liked the plain mozzarella
and ricotta pie. With extra ricotta just the way his Nonna used to make it when
he was growing up on Henry Street. He would come over to stay with his Nonna
while his mother went to work. He loved spending time with his Nonna. It was
his favorite childhood memory.
Not like his
memories of his father. That cocksucker. He wasn’t home all that often. He was
either whoring around or in the can. A low-level enforcer for the Gallo’s his
father was always getting pinched because they would leave him holding the bag.
Never anything more than a lowly wannabee, his father made him ashamed. He didn’t
have the balls to move up. To do a hit and become a made guy. The best he could
do was be the muscle in collecting the vig from the longshoremen that the gang preyed
on in the neighborhood. He only got paid peanuts, and the family lived on his mother's
meager paycheck as a maid for a rich family in the city.
Fat Louie was on his own. He had always been on his own. His father hated him and batted him around until he was big enough to punch back. His mother must of loved him, but she was so exhausted all the time that she couldn’t muster the strength to care what he did. When his Nonna died, he was twelve, and he just didn’t give a shit no more. He made his life out on the streets. He wasn’t popular at Sacred Hearts, his grammar school. All the kids mocked his stained and wrinkled clothes. The nuns didn’t give a shit about him either. By 1968, most of the Cabrini Sisters had left the convent, and the new secular teachers didn’t give two shits. He dropped out in the seventh grade. You would think that the government would have known he was a truant, but he just slipped through the cracks.
Hipster Holocaust Chapter Fourteen
Lydia woke up feeling groggy and sick to her stomach. She had no
idea where she was. She felt her head, and when she brought her hand back, it
had blood on it. She had a big bump and a terrible headache. Then she realized
something even more terrifying. She was naked.
She was lying on the mattress on a dank, cold floor. When she
moved her leg, she realized that she was attached to a chain that led to a ring
on the wall. She didn’t have a blanket or a sheet, and she shivered a little in
the cold air. She must be in a cellar, as there were no windows that she could
see. Just a room that had concrete walls and a floor that was made of the same
unforgiving material.
Lydia tugged on the chain to see if she could rip it off the wall.
It was too solid, and all of her exertions were for naught. She decided to call
out. “HEEELLLLPPPPP!!!!!” she screamed. She screamed over and over, hoping that
someone would hear her. Someone other than whoever had put her here. It was
every woman’s nightmare. It was specifically her nightmare. To be kidnapped and
chained up to be the victim of someone cruel enough to throw her down a
freezing cellar and leave her for dead. It was a cliché that you see in every
TV show, and now it had happened to her.
After screaming until her throat was raw, Lydia stopped and tried to think for a moment. She carefully looked around the room. She had seen thousands of TV shows and movies where people had been held captive and had found a way to free themselves. She looked at the chain on her arm. It was very tight and was locked with a lock that she would not be able to pick if she had the skills to do that. The ring in the wall was even more secure, as the ring and the plate in the wall were all one piece. There was no escape. Nothing else was visible in the room. No food. No water. Not even a bucket if she had to pee. Why did she think that? Now she had to pee.
Hipster Holocaust
Chapter Ten- A Rat In The Mouth is Worth Two In The
Bush
Anna Feola poured an
espresso and took the small white cup and saucer to the dapper elderly
grey-haired man at the corner table. He looked up at her and smiled a shy smile
that was out of place on his pale, elegant face. His resting face was a hard
one, like he had seen bad things. Done bad things. Things you didn’t want to
know about.
It intrigued her to no
end.
“Here you go, sir,” she
chirped cheerily. His smile deepened if that was possible. “You don’t have to
call me, sir sweetie. Vincenzo is fine. Or V if you want. That’s what my
friends call me.” “Okay, V it is. Say, I wanted to ask if my landlady ever
called you V,” she teased him. He looked at her with a deadpan expression that
almost scared her. “Whose your landlady?” “Celestine. Celestine DiMartino. I
think you know her.”
The old man leaned back
until his back was against the wall. He smiled a little in remembrance. A fond
remembrance, it would seem. “Yeah, I know her. From a long time ago. She is
your landlady? Good, that’s good. You give her my regards, ok?” “I will V when
I see her when I get home. I am sure she will be happy to get them.” He gave a
little shake of his head. “Maybe, maybe not. But give them to her all the
same.”
Anna gave him a quick
smile and scurried back behind the counter. The line had already formed in the
few moments she had spent at the table. She had to hurry to get out of the
weeds.
Vincenzo looked at the
street as he did every other minute. He had lived a long time by being careful.
With his wits and with his fist. Occasionally, with a pistol. Once and a while
with a bomb. Those days were gone, and still not that far away if that made any
sense.
He had great eyesight. Sniper’s eyes, they used to call it. He saw a guy leaning against a Con Edison junction box in front of the barbershop. He was out of place in the new neighborhood. A guinea in a Member’s Only jacket circa 1986. That wouldn’t have been a surprise in this neighborhood twenty years ago. More like forty years ago. Still, there were a few holdouts. It was not as prevalent as the 1980’s but not anything unusual for some of the cheap ginzos who still lived around here. They never threw anything out. Some of them still had their communion suits and the envelopes that came with them. What was unusual was that he was studiously avoiding looking at the coffee shop. He was nervously peeping all around. Except at this front window. Vincenzo had super strong radar. When something was out of place, he noticed it. And he acted.
O’Malley and Johnson walked into the interrogation room and sat
across from Fat Louie DeMaio. Fat Louie sat all calm and collected like a
guinea Buddha. He didn’t look calm at first glance because he was sweating like
a pig. But that was because of his thermostat, not his energy. He was stoic,
almost meditative as he waited. Louie was cuffed to the table and had to lean
slightly forward because he was too fat to sit back as his stomach kept him
away from the edge of the table.
O’Malley gestured to Johnson. “Why don’t you unhook this fine
gentleman, Detective Johnson, so we can have a little chat?” Johnson grimaced
but went across the table and unlocked the cuffs. Fat Louie sat back and rubbed
his wrist that had been severely chaffed by the cuffs, as usual were too small
for his meaty wrist. He looked at O’Malley expectantly as if he had to answer
as to why he was sitting there in a too-small chair in a too-small room.
“Well, boyo, it looks like we need some answers from you. Detective Johnson has some questions, and it would behoove you to answer.” Fat Louie smiled and said, “I would be happy to help if I can, Detective. Who are you, by the way? I didn’t catch the name.” O’Malley smiled. This one was sharp. “Detective Sergeant O’Malley, to be sure, Mr. DeMaio. I am in charge of this little merry band, and I would appreciate it if you would answer us truthfully and clearly so we can get you out of here as expeditiously as possible.” “Fair enough, Sergeant, but I don’t see how I can help youse. I told Detective Johnson that I only knew the girl in passing as someone to buy flowers from and no more. We met maybe three times in all. You know who I am, I guess?” “I am aware,” O’Malley said. “None of the boys knew anything more. Certainly, Mr. Aiello didn’t. How can I help?” O’Malley turned to Johnson, “Yes, how can he help Detective?” Johnson silently fumed as he regretted bringing this fat fuck into the station. His temper was going to get him in deep shit someday. “I think you know something more than you are telling us. Is there any word on the street about these killings? The girl worked a block away from you. Didn’t any of your mooks hit on her and try to get over? I know how you guinea bastards operate. This is bullshit man because you have your ear to the street and you have to know something. Give me something, and you can walk out of here.” Fat Louie just gave him the dead eye. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about. Nobody has been talking about these murders except as it being a shame. It has nothing to do with us. You know that is not what we do. The only other thing I can tell you is that she worked at the Ace Hardware on Court Street. Maybe she got in a beef there or something. The guys there were more likely to hit on her and try to get over. She wasn’t the type of girl my guys go for. They don’t stick it in hipsters. It’s beneath them. So, you see, I don’t know anything.”
