No Welcome Home - Weeping is Over

Then came the event that shocked my mom: I was escorted home by the Polizia di Stato after putting a kid three years older than I was in the hospital. We left the next morning and I never visited Udine again. My mother quickly convinced me not to use my enhanced vocabulary.

When I was 18, I started school at Texas A&M. I chose them because they had one of the best Air Force ROTC programs in the nation. From everything I'd seen with my dad, I had a lot of respect for the Air Force. Also, from spending a lot of time on base at many AF Bases scattered around the world, I was really impressed by the Air Police, the AF equivalent of the Army MPs. I didn't bother with sports; I was on a mission. I majored in International Studies and history, with a focus on Military History.

I worked hard on my studies and even harder on ROTC. I graduated with honors and accepted a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Air Force. I'd chosen the Air Force Police, which came with a four-year commitment. I enjoyed my time, did a good job and worked my way up to a Captain. However, when it came time to decide if I wanted to make it a career, I decided not to continue.

I had to do some mandatory separation training, and I asked to have it done at Lackland AFB, outside of San Antonio. I chose Lackland because I was familiar with it. The training covered being a civilian again: jobs, Veterans Affairs etc. In one of the last classes I was given a note to be at Base HQ after the class was over.

I was met at the front desk by an airman who led me to a secure conference room. I walked in and met Jim Phillips. At the time that I had no idea this meeting would have an impact on me, every day for the rest of my life. Jim was a senior manager in the Special Operations Group of the Marshal's Service.

I was surprised when Jim introduced himself in excellent Italian with a hint of a Milano accent. For the rest of the interview, and through the years, every discussion I had with Jim was in Italian.

"Sam, I'm Jim Phillips. We, well actually, a collection of Federal Agencies, need you. Anyone with the languages that you have would do, but as far as we can find out, you have a unique skill set. You have experience as a leader, some undercover work, an outstanding knowledge of Italy and specifically, Italian with an accent of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, in northeastern Italy. I understand you literally have a native accent. Is this correct?"

"Yes, Sir, but..." I asked with a decidedly perplexed look.

Jim sighed, "I guess there is no other way but to lay it out. I'm sure you know about the long history of the Mob in the Greater New York area. We've never been able to completely obliterate it, but the last few years it has toned down somewhat. Over the last two years, a new organization has popped up. It's the Mala del Brenta, also known as Mafia Veneta (Venetian mafia) or Mafia del Piovese ... "

I groaned, "Oh, shit!"

Jim chuckled and went on, "Yes, I guess you would have heard of them."

"Well, the kid I put in the hospital—I assume you know about that—was a runner for them, and that led me to leave Udine. I've never been back."

Jim asked, "Do you still know anyone there?"

"That was what, about sixteen years ago? No, just some remnant of the family. My mom tells me they have mostly scattered.

"Do you have any, umm, entanglements now?"

I laughed at that. "Sure, I've had a few 'friends' in the Air Force, but with fraternization rules and all, I certainly do not have any entanglements."

"What about your folks?"

"My dad is in his last tour before retiring, two more years at Mainz AFB."

"Would you be interested in helping us? We have our hands around the neck of one of the mid-range members of this gang. He will work with us to train someone on the organization and bring you into the mob under him. We'd start you at the dock for a couple of weeks and then you will help him in a fight. He will gradually bring you in and set you up."

"How long are you looking at?"

"We figure maybe eighteen months. It will take some time to look across his organization."

"What are they into?"

"Drugs, sex trade, murder for hire, extortion, kidnapping, just about everything. The key is that they are very violent. They'll kill a cop, bystander, just about anyone."

I laughed, "Oh, that's not so bad, I thought maybe they were bad-asses or something."

We got down to brass tacks, the details of what, how, when, who.

On his jet flying to Andrews AFB, I thought it over. I didn't really like undercover, but it really came down to loyalty. I loved my country and hated to see it infected by vermin like this.

The overall team met as needed at a conference room on Andrews, in a fenced separate area just inside the gates. Jim was involved because the Marshal's service provided protection for Federal Juries as needed, and in this case for my protection. DEA was there along with the US Attorney for NY, a contact for the NY Police Commissioner, Army 12^th Aviation Battalion for helicopters as needed; and a few that never introduced themselves. Most of them had European accents. There were regular update meetings, but the place was mostly used for training.

I got slide shows of all the new Mob's employees they knew about, who was where, what I would do, what information they needed, etc. Part of it was all the player's roles in the Udine and Venice area of Italy. The focus was on the low-level grunts that I might be expected to know.

It looked as if the key was the snitch they "owned." I was to spend a week with him, going over process, and how to bring me in. One minor hitch: when Jim walked Antonio Duca in to introduce him to me, I 'bout shit a brick! Antonio was my cousin Danilo Chialina. Most people wouldn't recognize each other after that much time, but after that long hot wild summer... it was instant.

Walking into the conference room, he looked confused, then shocked. As Jim turned to take his arm, I quickly did a "no way in hell do you know me" look and shook my head quickly. He recovered and we talked it over for a couple of hours. At the end, Jim looked at Antonio and suggested, "Why don't you take Nicolo out for a few beers, get to know each other?" Nicolo Rosso was my new name for this exercise.

We got to the bar, a rundown sorta place with sticky floors, and servers that came by only when you raised your arm and waved it with increasing irritation until a server came by. We got a pitcher of beer and a couple of questionably clean glasses ... well, really, there was no question.

"Holy Shit, Sammy, it shook me up when I saw you sittin' there."

"Hey, Antonio, I'm Nicolo, get with the game!"

"Scusi, Nic!" He smiled at me for a minute. "I always liked you; you had guts. I never forgot when you kicked that testa di cazzo (dickhead) so hard he was in the hospital for a week. Look, we gotta work together on this. I'm inna tight place. I'll take care of you, watch your back."

We talked, drank beer, played old-home-week.

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Jim gave me the final overview. "We will give you a generous allowance to "take" care of your new friends. When this is over, we must kill you! Ha, ha! You should see your face. You do realize you can never use your name again. When this is over, we will get you a new ID and hide you somewhere for a couple of years. After that, you will get another new ID and you can come back to the States, but never to the Northeast. We will be generous during the settlement time and will set you up with a very large amount of money in a Swiss safety deposit box. This is not taxpayer money, but money we have taken from the Mob and are putting it to a better use."

He went on with rules of engagement, "Try not to kill any civilians; the paperwork is unbelievable! If you are asked to take out a mob figure, be my guest. You will probably need to do some enforcing: bills to loan sharks, numbers, protection ... you know the drill. As much as you can, just try to hold off just a little.

"Gain 30 pounds as quickly as possible, let your hair grow, grow a mustache, not a beard. We will get you some flashy clothes. We can do something to your nose to change the profile; they can fix it later or, if you want, you can just keep it. He laughed, and said, "But it might be a little bit crooked."

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I did what I had to. It took sixteen months to gather the evidence. It was over a year of hell. I did things I was proud of, and things I was ashamed of for the rest of my life. The trial lasted for six months before it came time for me to testify. This testimony was the end result of all the crap and danger I'd put up with. The more time I had spent with this gang, the surer I was that I had done the right thing. I spoke to the jury clearly, conviction in my voice, wanting them to understand what was at stake. The jury seemed entranced with my story; I could see they were feeling the love.

When I finished there was s dead silence, as if everyone were holding their breath. Then, as I stepped down from the witness box, all hell broke loose.

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Jim met me at Andrews. I laid it out straight.

"I think the documentation is still good, but I want to change the itinerary. You still have my original ID?" He nodded. "Good, get me an Air Force uniform that fits and I'll fly on an Air Force plane to Brussels. Just another low-level courier going to NATO, a dime a dozen. I'll take a taxi to a hotel, dump the uniform, destroy my original life, and take a train to Frankfurt using the new Spanish ID. I'll rent a car, and drive to Munich and on to Madrid by train.

"I'll stay there for a few weeks, buy a car and drive to Sevilla. From then on, it's the original plan. You come to Sevilla with new ID in a couple of years, and then I'll go back to the United States with my final ID, as Dave Lawrence. I plan on flying to Dallas and I've decided on Colorado for a permanent home."

Jim gave me the IDs, the key for the lockbox in Zurich, a hefty wad of Euros, and gave me a big hug. "I don't know how to thank you for all you've done. You have helped America but I'm afraid there is no way to give you that recognition. I'll do all I can to make your life comfortable, and if you ever need to get hold of me use the method we discussed."

I stood up to leave and he handed me a newspaper clipping from the Miami Herald:

Sam Carson, famous as a witness during a recent mob trial in New York, was killed in a boat accident about twenty miles south of Marathon, Florida. The Coast Guard reports it was a vintage Chris Craft 28' Cabin Cruiser. At the time, there is no conclusive explanation for the fire and explosion. While there was no body found, a leather briefcase with documents in Carson's name and what was described as a large amount of money were found in the wreckage. There have been no statements from any government agency. We will publish more as facts become available, other than this one from the Coast Guard.

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I wound up in Madrid for six months. My health was the shits. All the weight I had to gain, the high cholesterol from all the Italian restaurants, no exercise. I joined a local sports club and started exercising. I really cleaned up my eating habits. As I said, I had cut out fast food cold turkey. I lost twenty pounds in the first four months. As I lost weight, I gradually replaced my clothes with a more European look.

I moved to Sevilla, where I planned on staying for some time. It was a nice town. I fit right in; it was a lovely place to live with a good climate. This was in Southwest Spain, close to the Mediterranean and not far from the Algarve area of Southern Portugal. There were days that I felt like staying there and not going back to America, but the US was home and it pulled on me in a melancholy way. I had comfortable lodging, the food and wine were world class, and I occasionally found some friends with very nice benefits. I never felt that one of the ladies I met—and they were all ladies—was anyone I wanted to be with for a lifetime. I had strong feelings about matrimony and I wanted to wait for the one!

I never really felt lonely. There were two different women from England that were both spectacular. One was buying oranges (the English love their Orange Marmalade made with Sevilla oranges) and the other, sherry (the English also dearly love sherry). And the secretary at the Italian Consulate... she was, how should I say, delizioso.

I drove over to Portugal a few times, working on my Portuguese and enjoying the backcountry. The Algarve, centered on Faro and trendy Albufeira, is solid tourist along the coast, but ten miles inland, it is a quiet, almost sleepy area of farms and small towns. A couple times I went on up to Lisbon. The food was as good as in Spain, but there were some different trends, which made it interesting.

I also enjoyed driving around the places nearby. Southeast from Sevilla is Malaga, and straight south is Jerez de Frontera, the main area where sherry is made. I had many quiet afternoons idling around some rural Bodega, sipping the best of the sherries and enjoying quiet conversations. It was pleasant on the hot days to rest in the coolness of the ivy covered stone buildings.

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Then came the time to go home. Jim came, and over a magnificent dinner, we agreed that I was well and truly dead. That was an incredible relief for me. He gave me my final papers and I was ready to go home. At the end, he gave me bad news.

"I'm sorry, but they got to Antonio. He was safe in a suburb of Phoenix, but got the gambler's itch and drove to Las Vegas. Someone recognized him, and his body was found in the desert a few days later. Even if he was forced to talk, there are no links to you."

He took off and later that night I sat out on the balcony, looking up at the starry sky. The glass of sherry was giving me no joy as I remembered the number of times Danilo had put his life in danger to save mine. It made me reflect that I had to be ever vigilant, and that it was time for me to settle down and get married with a house in the country. I was Dave Lawrence and I was going home.

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It took a couple days to wrap things up, such as the flat, a car I was leasing, and closing out the bank accounts. I didn't say goodbye to anyone. Just took a taxi to the train station and took the train to Lisbon. I didn't want to go through New York, so I flew to Heathrow in London and then direct to Dallas. After a short layover, I took the final flight to Denver.

After Jim had visited me in Sevilla, he had opened an investment account and an online checking/savings account at one of the major national banks in Denver. With no address, he used a PO Box in the Denver Post Office. I had logged in to both accounts to make sure all notices and statements were sent electronically. In any case, I would clear out the PO Box as soon as I got to Denver.

On the long leg over the ocean, I started trying to get used to the name Dave Lawrence. I thought about the four novels I'd written while in Sevilla. Jim had suggested writing to earn money for the future. Even though I had ample money, people might ask questions if I never worked. I'd thought about it and decided to start writing. I felt my work was good (with proper editing!) to publish. After I finished the second book, I went back and looked at the first and basically rewrote it.

The same thing happened with the third book: I went back and made major changes to the first two. After that, it seemed easier; I could write consistent stories. My particular bane was punctuation... a pox on it all. The Romans had it right: LATINJUSTRUNSTOGETHER WITHNO PUNCTUATIONNOTEVENASPACEORLOWERCASE.

I settled in Denver in a rental near the Denver Tech Center. I liked the house and talked to the owner about buying it. We worked it out and I gradually started remodeling, replacing all the flooring with hardwood, new appliances and furniture, and having the yard redone. I had the contractor rip out the bath and replace it with a large walk-in shower with clear glass walls. Not that I'd need it, but a group of four would have fit in easily.

I wasn't exactly looking for a wife, but I was craving some regular companionship. I took some dance lessons, including some on Western Swing, which seemed to be popular in Denver.

I asked around and got a referral to an agent for my writing. I met with her, and got good vibes. I left her with the first story, and on her recommendation, started making outlines for future stories. I liked the idea, because I could take each character and see how I wanted it to change it over time.

A couple of days later, my agent, Ginger Simms (the ginger was a nickname because of her red hair), called and asked, "Do you have any more books ready?"

"Yeah, I've got three more, and a start on a fifth."

"Have you started on the outlining?"

With a bit of excitement in my voice, I replied, "Sure. It's been a great help. I can see this character working for about ten books, altogether. As I get time, I'll look at a new character, line out an environment, and start outlines for the next book series."

Ginger replied, "Great, can you bring the other three books in, along with your outlines? I've found a publisher that really likes the book and is ready to give a nice advance check. This is a package deal; they do the editing, work with you directly on fixes, they are very interested in a long-term arrangement."

"That sounds really good, but I don't need the up-front money."

"Dave, Dave, think about it. You get a wad of cash and invest it. It's making money right away. Do you have a financial advisor? If not, I can make a couple of suggestions."

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A few months later we were all at a party in a private room in one of Denver's finest restaurants. Everyone who had been involved was there, along with a few hangers-on. There was a table with a stack of my first book, "Devil Wind." I'd written a personal note for each of the contributors, plus a few extra to autograph for any extra guests who always came to such parties.

Ginger had a great idea; she left several boxes of the books with the Maitre'D for each waiter to leave at a table when the bill was presented. Any leftovers were given on a first-come basis to the staff.

Not too long after the party started, I couldn't help but notice a stunning brunette walk into the room and make "kissy-face" with Ginger. After they chatted for a few minutes, Ginger started walking my way with the dark-haired beauty. This gave me a chance to take a discreet look as she came closer and closer. There was an enticing sway to her hips. She had a, well, the best I could explain, a "womanly" look to her. I could even say she was the personification of woman.

Tall, curvy, but still svelte; her hair was cut stylishly short, showing off her long, elegant neck. The simple black dress exuded an almost raw sexuality. She had my undivided attention.

Ginger introduced her to me with a flourish, as if she was giving her to me... as if! "Dave, this is Sandra Payne; we were sister Tri-Delts at Colorado. Sandra, this is my client and good friend, Dave Lawrence."

We made small talk for a few minutes; the champagne tray occasionally came by and we were not shy. Ginger handed me a book to autograph for Sandra. I quickly took the pen and wrote, "To Sandra, a lovely dream that has touched my heart". I know, corny, and if I'd thought a moment, I would have quit at, "To Sandra" and left it at that.