“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Joe, I don’t even know what the hell is going on. All I’m saying is, don’t act before you think. You’re playing with fire with that guy. In the end, he’ll have it his way anyway.”
“They already have a piece of my action—and that’s all they’re getting!”
Any look at the Rochester rackets had to focus heavily on Frank Valenti, “made” in the Mob by Joseph “Joe Bananas” Bonanno in the 1950s. A delegate to the Appalachian Crime Convention in 1957, he had been arrested with fifty-seven of his cohorts when the state police pulled their surprise raid on the home of host Joe Barbara. Frank served jail time when he refused to talk about the Appalachian agenda. His silence earned him control of Rochester when Upstate crime czar Stefano Magaddino of Niagara Falls decided it was time for a change in the Flower City.
After returning from prison, Frank settled into the Rochester rackets as Magaddino’s handpicked capo.Frank Valenti began playing Godfather with a classic flair. The files of the Rochester Police Department swelled during his years at the top. Death awaited anyone who refused to play the game his way.
With the help of his old-time pal Joe Colombo in New York City, Valenti opened a Rochester chapter of the Italian-American Civil Rights League. He effectively used the office both as a Mob front and to pursue the cause of antidefamation for his ethnic kinsmen. I attended many of the fund-raisers. After the dinners, Joe Colombo would return with us to the club and the parties continued. But it wouldn’t be long before the party would end for all of them.
Two weeks had passed since Frank Valenti had darkened our doorstep. Joe didn’t mention him after that day, and I didn’t ask. My parents had taken Toni on a trip for the weekend, affording me the opportunity to enjoy the nightlife at Caesars II for a change. Without Toni as an excuse for Joe to keep me locked up, I dressed conservatively in an elegant pantsuit and walked downstairs into a din of noise and the bustle of activity.
Friday night and business as usual. Through a growing crowd that threatened to exceed the club’s 300-seat capacity, I spotted Joe trying to accommodate the steady stream of high rollers.
I sat at a vacant table and quietly took in the room, which resembled the decor of our home upstairs: the dismal colors of red and black. Although the apartment didn’t have the heavy stone and brick walls, they both had a dusky, cavelike atmosphere.
The cocktail waitress hurried over to take my order. “Hi, hon.”
“Hi, Bea.”
“Your usual?”
I nodded. “Say, where’s the hostess tonight?”
Bea Massaro shrugged. “Beats me. Hasn’t shown up.”
“On a Friday night? Is she sick?”
“Could be, I suppose, but as far as I know she hasn’t called in. It’s not the first time she’s pulled this either. I don’t know why Joe hasn’t fired her. It’s not like him to tolerate that from an employee.”
I know why, White, he’s sleeping with the bitch.
I caught a glimpse of Joe across the room, beaming as he charmed a pretty brunette. Even at a distance I could see the nervousness in him when he had to play host and couldn’t keep an eye on me. Or was it more about me keeping an eye on him? Maybe I should show up unannounced more often.
Company joined me—unwanted company, as usual. I tried to force a smile as he sat down, but the expression failed to appear.
“How’s it going with you tonight, Georgia?” Jimmy Massaro asked.
“Just fine, till you showed up.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t like being treated like a child, that’s what. Why aren’t you babysitting Frank Valenti? He needs a bodyguard. I don’t.”
“What the fuck’s gotten into you tonight, ya got your period or somethin’?” Shifting his focus from me, he called out to Bea, “How fucking long does it take to get a drink around this joint?”
“I have customers, Jimmy. I’m moving as fast as I can,” Bea answered as she hurried past us.
Agitated, Jimmy turned his attention to the band until Bea arrived with his drink. He grabbed Bea’s wrist and pulled her face-to-face with him. “I don’t give a shit about your customers. I’m your husband, damn it. You serve me first! You got that?” he growled, applying pressure to her wrist.
“Yes, Jimmy,” she responded like a scolded child. “I’m sorry.”
Appalled by his behavior, I just had to get in my digs. “You may not care about the customers, Jimmy, but I’m sure Joe feels differently. Bea is working for us, you know. Who do you think you are anyway, King Farouk?”
His eyes hooded over. “Y’know, I think I’ve had about enough of that mouth of yours tonight, Georgia. I’m not in the mood.” He stiffened and leaned over the table. “So lay off.”
God, how I despised him. Bea was such a sweet woman. She didn’t deserve this treatment. Besides, they were separated. Even though Jimmy was living with another woman, he still controlled Bea’s every move. She still loved him. Even if she wanted to make another life for herself, she knew it could never happen. His last girlfriend had tried that. . . .
Word had it that Jimmy followed her one night when her date picked her up. He killed them both—shot ’em in the head, cold turkey. Then he blatantly bragged about it. He had no fear of the law, or of the Mob, for that matter. No, Jimmy “the Hammer” Massaro was not the kind of guy one crossed. Only about five-four, he was a wiry little hothead. He’d rather shoot than argue. And to set him afire didn’t take much.
I left for the ladies’ room. On the fifty-foot walk, I was asked to dance several times and offered just as many drinks. I ignored them all. Not even a “no, thank you.” I learned to alter my personality in the club. Too many innocent people under the influence of alcohol did not walk out the same way they had walked in.
When I returned, Joe was standing at his usual place at the end of the bar. His suspicious eyes shot daggers at everyone who dared to let their look linger for too long. At my table, yet another undesirable, Gene DeFrancesco, joined me. His broad, owl-like face showed years of a hard life. Big Gene and Jimmy were both Frank Valenti’s part-time bodyguards.
“Who’s guarding Frank tonight?” I asked as he sat down.
Big Gene frowned and gave me a cockeyed expression.
“Don’t mind her; she’s got the rag on tonight,” Jimmy said, shooting me a disgusted look, which I returned.
“Hi, Gene,” I said with a forced smile.
“Hi, Georgia,” he said without one.
“You know what, Gene?” I ventured. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile. Do you . . . ever?”
“Yeah, I smile.”
Yeah, I bet. A friendly pat on the back was just Big Gene’s way of looking for a soft spot to stick the knife in.
“When? I’ve never seen it.”
“When I hurt someone,” he answered, devoid of feeling or compassion—just the cold, dark eyes of a shark.
His thick glasses magnified the lurking evil. I felt as if he were sucking me into the depths of his demented mind, as if toying with me to enter. I turned away from his frosty glare. If this was a mind game we were playing, he was winning.
Big Gene was completely the opposite of Jimmy, but only in stature. He towered over Jimmy by at least a foot. His large frame housed over 250 pounds of solid muscle.
Jimmy cleared his throat and asked, “When’d you get back from Boston, Gene?”
“Yesterday,” Gene answered, adjusting his glasses with thick fingers resembling Italian sausages. “Mike ‘the Fink’ is a memory now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He dropped dead while being strangled.” They burst into laughter. I rolled my eyes and looked away. Big Gene’s face became serious again. Rubbing a hand over his patent-leather hair, he said, “Jimmy, we got business to discuss.”
That was usually my cue to leave, but I had just returned from the ladies’ room, and besides, this was my table! If they wanted to talk, they cou
ld leave. They did just that. Good! I sat alone and listened to the band, but not for long.
“Would you like to dance?” a man asked.
Looking over my shoulder I simply replied, “No, thank you.”
Joe was watching, of course. He never missed much. Within seconds he stood behind my chair.
“It’s time to go upstairs,” he said.
“I don’t want to go upstairs.”
“I’m too busy to watch you; get your ass upstairs.”
“I’m a big girl, Joe; you don’t need to watch me. I’m not going anywhere,” I retorted defiantly.
Attagirl, White. Don’t let him push you around.
He discreetly pulled my head back by my hair. “You heard me.”
Sammy G appeared from out of nowhere. “This table open?” he asked.
“For you it is, Sammy; sit down.” Sammy slipped casually into the seat and unbuttoned his coat. Raising my head to Joe I whispered mockingly, “I have a babysitter now. I think I’ll be safe.”
“Hey, Sam,” Joe said, extending his hand. “How’s it going?”
“Could be better,” Sammy answered, not offering his hand in return.
Joe left to defuse an argument at the bar.
“What was that all about?” Sam asked.
“What was what?”
“Georgia, don’t play dumb; you know what I’m talking about.”
“It was nothing, Sammy, really. He just doesn’t like it when I exercise my brain.”
“How’s he been treating you lately?”
“Okay,” I answered, avoiding looking at him.
He squared his shoulders and confronted me. “Then what’s that bruise on your arm?”
“What bruise?” I questioned, peering down at my arm. “Oh, I must have done that on the car door yesterday.”
His doubting eyes pierced mine. He smirked and looked away. He knew I was lying.
“Where’s Joey Tiraborelli?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.
“He’s around here somewhere.”
I turned to survey the room. Joe stood at the bar with three women hovering around him, enjoying the attention.
Who does he think he’s kidding, White—you or me?
“Do you ever wish you had stayed with Tom?” Sammy asked, recognizing my wounded expression.
“No, Sam, never. Whatever made you ask that?”
“Just wondering.”
“I don’t even know why I married him.”
“I do.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I think I got you pegged. You married him because you thought you were spoiled goods. Right?”
“Well, I don’t know, maybe . . .”
“You sold yourself short then, kid, and you’re selling yourself short now. You don’t need to take the shit this asshole gives you. You’re a special lady, Georgia. Everyone seems to know that but you.”
“I love him, Sam, but there are times . . .”
He shook his head and looked through the partition of red hanging beads just in time to catch Joe depositing the brunette’s phone number in his pocket. Something in Sammy’s expression was unsettling.
“Are you going to the after-hours club tonight?” Sam asked after a moment of silence.
“Oh, I don’t think so. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I’d already be upstairs. All dressed up, entertaining myself by staring out the window at the parking lot, watching who’s cheating on who. It’s shocking what I see from that window.” I bit my tongue, hoping he didn’t pick up on it.
“I’ll bet it is. Isn’t that your cousin at the bar?”
“Oh, yeah, she said she might stop in tonight.”
I left Sammy and joined my cousin Debbie at the bar. When we returned to the table, Sammy was gone.
We cashed out at three in the morning and headed for the after-hours club on Lyell Avenue, just a few blocks down the street from Caesars. Joe knew I had watched him in action with the ladies all night, and he felt he needed to appease me. The after-hours club was an old, run-down house in a commercial area, converted into a meeting place where clandestine business was usually conducted. The boys were all there, except for Sammy G. Joey Tiraborelli surfaced through the parade of faces.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, looking perplexed.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?”
“Well, Sam said you weren’t coming tonight. I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all,” he said. His eyes darted around the room. The left side of his cheek twitched as he lit a cigarette, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
“Joey, you remember my cousin Debbie, don’t you?”
“Sure, I remember Debbie. How are you, Deb? You guys want a drink?” he asked, looking nervously over his shoulder.
“Of course we want a drink, Joey; why the hell else do you come to an after-hours club? The question is, what do we want to drink?” I replied with a throaty laugh.
He didn’t laugh. That wasn’t like Joey. He was always good for a laugh. He bought us a drink and disappeared.
“Seemed kind of edgy, didn’t he?” Debbie asked.
“Who knows what weirdness goes on in their world, Deb. I’ve learned not to question it,” I answered, looking down at the worn linoleum floor.
Joe was busy at the other end of the bar, instructing the bartender as to whom to give drinks. It was Debbie’s first time in an after-hours club. She glanced over her shoulder continuously, worried about being caught in a raid.
“Relax, Deb. The cops are well taken care of.”
Just when she started to get comfortable, the all-too-familiar sounds of a fight broke out. I immediately looked for Joe. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Panicking, I pushed my way through the crowd to the kitchen, dreading what I would see. My fears were validated.
It was five on one. Joe didn’t have a chance. Joey Tiraborelli, my friend, was doing most of the damage. Every time Joe went down, Tiraborelli smashed a foot in his face. I broke through the crowd and jumped on Joey Tiraborelli.
“No! You’ll kill him!” I screamed. “You bastard! How could you do this?”
Tom Torpey grabbed me and pulled me off Joey, throwing me against the coffee machine. Then I was blocked, forced to watch as they beat Joe to a bloody pulp.
“Please, please,” I begged Torpey.
Behind his dark glasses his eyes widened; his mouth became set. “Please what? The motherfucker’s got it coming!”
Tom Torpey was treating me as though I were the enemy! I was shocked and powerless. Nothing I could say could make them stop their brutality.
The kitchen door window steamed over, shielding them from any outside interference. “Kill ’im!” Torpey shouted as he held me hostage.
These were no ordinary men doing this damage. These were Rochester’s fiercest, men who made their living killing and mutilating. Some men killed for money, others for family business . . . and then there were those who killed for pleasure. They were the guys who slithered around town collecting debts for the Mob, living for the poor dummies who couldn’t pay.
I had seen their wrath many times over the years at clubs throughout the city. At the age of fourteen, I witnessed Tom Torpey’s brutality in front of the 414 Club on Ridge Road, where he worked as a bouncer. I watched in horror as he bit off a guy’s ear. He’d graduated from those days. Tom was my friend and my protector; I’d known him since I was a kid. I loved all these guys, and assumed the feelings were mutual. Why were they doing this to me? I was terrified for Joe’s life.
“Stay down! Stay down!” I kept yelling, but Joe was dazed. He kept getting up, and the punishment was severe.
I finally broke through the human barricade and ran outside into the cold winter air, my tangled hair covering my face. Gasping for air, I spotted a police car patrolling the alley. I wasn’t thinking about the rules—never call the cops. I was hysterical, sure they’d kill Joe if I didn’t get help. The cop stopped. I knew him; he was a regular
at the club.
Eyebrows raised, eyes afire, I screamed, “John! They’re killing Joe in there! Help me. They’re killing him!”
John took both of my hands in his and squeezed them tightly. Appearing genuinely sympathetic, he said, “I can’t help you, Georgia; I’m sorry.”
“But they’re—”
He let go of my hands, looked straight ahead, and drove down the alley to the street. I stood with my mouth open as the patrol car made a right-hand turn onto Lyell Avenue and disappeared. Feeling totally helpless, I ran back inside.
Joe lay motionless on the floor. Joey Tiraborelli was crouched over him, making the sign of the cross on Joe’s forehead—with Joe’s own blood. I thought he was dead. Frozen in place, I screamed. Tiraborelli turned and, seeing me, he rose slowly. His face showed remorse as he approached. I resisted as he pulled me outside.
“Joey, how could you?” I yelled, punching him.
“I had to, Georgia!” he shouted, shaking me to bring me out of my hysteria. “I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry. But the asshole deserved it, the way he treats you.”
“Oh, no! Oh, my God! You didn’t do that because of me? Please say you didn’t do that for me! Not because of me . . . ,” I cried.
“Let’s just put it this way: He’s stepped out of line one too many times.”
Joe’s friend Butch Marionette stood in the doorway with Joe’s deadweight leaning against him. Everyone had scattered—the club had emptied out.
“Georgia, get the car. Hurry!” Butch yelled. “We’ve gotta get him to a hospital.”
I ran to the street, jumped into the car, made a 180-degree turn, and tore down the alley, screeching my tires as I came to a stop. I sprang from the car and helped Butch get Joe inside. Butch then ran around and got in the driver’s seat.
“Stay here,” Joe said, his voice barely audible.
“No, I’m going with you.”
“I don’t want you to,” he said, still dazed.
“Don’t argue with him, Georgia. Close the door. We gotta go. Now, goddamn it! I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
Alone in a frightening atmosphere, I stood in the alley and watched as they sped off.
“Come on, Georgia—get in. I’ll give you a ride home,” Debbie said, pulling up beside me.
The Company She Keeps Page 16
