The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  I’d forgotten all about Debbie. She was pretty shaken, unaccustomed to this world. Joey Tiraborelli stood in the doorway, head hung low as we drove off.

  The phone finally rang. “He’s got five broken ribs, and some internal bleeding. They’re keeping him here for a while.”

  “When can I see him, Butch?”

  “He . . . he doesn’t want to see you, Georgia. Not right now.”

  “I don’t care; I’m coming anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “How did it happen, Butch? How did it start?”

  “You’ll have to ask Joe about that, but I think you’d better think about whose side you’re on, lady.” The phone went dead.

  The purpose of that beating was never made clear to me. I’d always thought Frank Valenti had his hand in it. Then again, for months after the incident, Joe refrained from using physical violence with me. But as his bruises faded, so did his memory.

  By the turn of the decade and into the 1970s, Frank Valenti had soared to his peak. The years 1971 and 1972 saw the beginnings of legal problems that would cut short Valenti’s reign. His underlings were not anxious to tolerate his continued rule from behind bars. The time had come. Sammy G was strategically moving into the long-awaited position. Sammy killed one of Frank’s bodyguards with a shotgun blast to the face. Valenti understood the message and went quietly to serve his prison sentence of twenty years to life.

  Sammy Gingello, Red Russotti, and Rene Piccarreto were the trio that inherited the empire Frank Valenti had built under Stefano Magaddino. Sam was the one with the flamboyance. Red and Rene stayed quietly in the background—well, in the background anyway. The life and times of Frank Valenti were a thing of the past by mid-1972. The new regime took over. The shifting of power produced a wave of murders.

  They found him in his trunk. Six bullets in his head. Five days had elapsed since he had disappeared. The cool November air had kept his body from decomposing. I knew he didn’t have long. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Jimmy “the Hammer” Massaro was a memory now, and a bad one at that. Thanksgiving Day 1973 would be the last holiday Jimmy would live to see. I shudder to think how he got his nickname.

  I didn’t want to go to the funeral. I went only to comfort Bea. She was really a gentle soul. She couldn’t help that she loved him, any more than I could help loving Joe. Now she was free to live without dread. She would realize that in time and find peace.

  The room had a chokingly sweet smell of roses. Old ladies with rosary beads twisted in their wrinkled hands took turns wailing as we moved through the horde toward Bea. We sat in the front row, Joe and I on her left, her family on the right. I held her hand and stared at the picture on top of the casket. There were no tears in my eyes. I had no fond memories, only dark pictures developed in my head. I couldn’t burn the negatives, no matter how I tried.

  The entire Rochester Mob filed in before the night was over. The absence of color was the traditional attire for an Italian funeral. When Sammy G showed up wearing a cream-colored raincoat, he made his point. The level of murmur in the room attested to his rank as he arrogantly strutted to the widow’s side.

  He took Bea’s hand gently in his own. “I’m sorry, Bea,” Sammy said with unbelievable sincerity.

  Bea snatched her hand back and pierced him with a freezing glare. Sam looked away, unremorseful. He nodded in my direction, ignored Joe, then turned and walked to the casket. His bodyguards followed, making a solid wall of human flesh and muscle behind him as he stood with head bent for a brief moment. When he turned to leave, I thought I caught a hint of a smirk on his lips.

  Rose Rotundi, Jimmy’s live-in girlfriend, sat across from us in the row of chairs against the wall. She was visibly shaken. She had a lot to be shaken about. It was she who had answered the phone call that had sent Jimmy busting out the door, in a rage, to his death. She knew whose voice was on the other end of the line, but she wasn’t talking. Now, her body stiffened, and the little color she had drained from her face. I followed her frigid stare to see Gene DeFrancesco making his entrance.

  “Big Gene” was the name used when referring to him, but I had my own name for him: “the Accountant.” He could not only pass for one, but according to the talk, he could personally account for a number of bodies found floating in the Genesee River. He was one mean son of a bitch. He and Jimmy were tied on that score. But Big Gene knew how to keep his cool, and Jimmy didn’t. That made Jimmy easy to set up for the kill.

  Rose was holding her hands tightly in her lap, trying to keep them from shaking. Could Big Gene have been the triggerman? I watched him, and the interaction when their eyes met as he passed in front of her. That was when I knew that he had done it. And he knew that she knew. And she knew that he knew. Now, I knew too. Maybe others sensed it, but nobody was talking. They had been very tight, and Jimmy trusted Big Gene. They say it’s always the one closest to you, the one you could trust with your life.

  “Bea, I’m so sorry,” said the Accountant.

  “Oh, Gene, he’s gone . . . he’s gone,” she said, a spurt of emotion escaping her.

  “I know, honey, I know. . . .” he said, hugging her tenderly.

  I stifled my scorn. What a wonderful display of compassion, something I had never seen in him before. Maybe he missed his calling—he should have been an actor.

  “Jesus, Joe, can we get out of here now?” I whispered. “I think we’ve overstayed our show of respect, don’t you? Bea has her family; she doesn’t need us.”

  I waited alone while Joe disappeared into the jammed parking lot. The silent air was brisk. I pulled my coat collar up over my neck and tucked my chin into my chest. A fine snow was falling now, the kind that accumulated fast. The ground would be covered with a soft white blanket by morning. Trudging through the snow to an open grave in the cemetery was not where I would be tomorrow. I’d had enough of this charade.

  Suddenly a chill surged through my body, and it wasn’t from the cold air.

  “Hi, there,” said a voice that sounded like a rusty car muffler.

  I turned to see the Accountant hunched inside his coat. “Hello, Gene,” I said coldly, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I wouldn’t want to die in the winter, would you?” he asked, trying to make small talk—I think.

  Shoving my cold hands deeper inside my coat pockets, I answered, “Not if I had a choice, Gene, but unfortunately, I doubt I’ll have that luxury. With your connections, why don’t you put the word in that I prefer the fall.”

  That was a pretty stupid thing to say to a guy like that, but it was spontaneous. The silence that followed made it worse. I looked everywhere except at him. Joe finally pulled up, and Big Gene opened my door. What a gentleman!

  “See ya around,” he said with a curious expression as he shut the door.

  Hope not too soon, I thought to myself with a shiver.

  I never voiced my observations to Joe. I perceived a lot, but I never talked much. Life was easier that way.

  Four years passed before the truth was known, but Gene DeFrancesco was ultimately charged with the murder of Jimmy Massaro. And life in the underworld went on.

  Chapter Seven

  Gunshots woke me again. I knew they weren’t in my imagination, as Joe had suggested the last time I heard them. I listened. There was only silence. I fell back to sleep. Voices in the distance woke me again. The stragglers are leaving. Joe will be up shortly . . . I drifted back into a sound sleep.

  “I heard that sound again last night. I swear it sounds like gunshots,” I said at breakfast the next morning.

  “It was. The boys got a little rowdy last night. Wanna go to the track today?” Joe asked, changing the subject.

  “Sure. Who’s going?”

  “Chris Fiorito, Butch, and some of the guys in the band. A friend of mine has a horse running in the seventh race, and the jockey is a friend of Chris’s. It’s a sure bet.”

  “What’s the number of the ho
rse?” I excitedly asked. I loved the horse races.

  “Seven.”

  “It’s going to win. I just know it. Seven is my lucky number.”

  “You won’t need any luck.”

  He was right. We won, and we won big. Joe was in a good mood. Driving home from the track, he had an idea on how to spend some of this newfound money.

  “Ya know, honey, I really need a bigger office. I think I’ll convert our bedroom into an office.”

  “What will we use as a bedroom?”

  “We’ll build one, and I’ll even let you design it.”

  The plan went into effect immediately. We took a town house two blocks away until the construction was completed. The problem with the new bedroom was the absence of light. And there was no place to knock out a window. Not having any natural light depressed me, but Joe was satisfied. Darkness suited him.

  I hated staying at the town house alone. Joe worked late, and sometimes he would crash at the apartment. I got bad vibes from the place. I wasn’t the kind of person who scared easily, but being there by myself made me strangely uncomfortable.

  “Joe, I want to sleep at the apartment tonight. I don’t like it at the town house alone.”

  “Stop being so silly.”

  “Really, Joe, that superintendent gives me the creeps. I don’t like the way he looks at me. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s out there watching me.”

  Suddenly he was interested. He sat upright. “Did you ever see him snooping around?”

  “No. I just feel it. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I know he’s out there, somewhere in the dark. He scares me.”

  He stood up and began pacing the floor like a bull. “If I catch that creep watching you, I’ll make him a new asshole! You and Toni sleep at the apartment tonight; I’ll be home early,” he said, kissing me good-bye.

  I woke up in Toni’s room at three o’clock in the morning. I walked into the office and peered out the window at the dark, echoing emptiness of the parking lot. Hungry, I tried calling Joe’s favorite late-night haunts to ask him to bring me something to eat. He was nowhere to be found. My heart sank, suspecting the worst. How he begged me not to leave the last time this happened, promising never to do it again. And I believed him. The flowers, the romantic dinners—all a sham.

  Show him you’re not going to put up with this, White! Don’t be here when he gets back. You let him get away with too much. Stop being such a fool!

  My stomach churned. I bundled up my daughter and left for the town house.

  Joe’s car sat in my parking space. I began to tremble. My suspicions were correct. I turned my key in the door, only to be stopped by the chain lock. Setting Toni down on the sidewalk, I threw my weight against the door with unbelievable force. The chain lock broke, taking the entire doorjamb with it.

  I scooped Toni into my arms and ran up the stairs. I hastily put her in her room and closed her door. Adrenaline rushed through me. I pushed open the door to my bedroom and turned on the light. I was shocked. The woman in my bed was Joe’s cousin!

  Trapped, with nowhere to go, they nervously clung to the bedsheets for the dreaded confrontation.

  Joe shouted, “Are you gonna believe what you see, or are you gonna believe what I tell you?”

  “You sick bastard!” I screamed as I ripped the decorative sword off the wall. “In my bed! You son of a bitch.”

  I was out of control. All the times he’d beaten me, I’d let him convince me that I was to blame, that I had done something to set him off. But this time was different. And he was going to pay.

  Kill the no-good bastard! He doesn’t deserve you—he doesn’t deserve to live!

  I swung the sword with a deranged vengeance, slashing the bedspread and everything in its path. Joe’s cousin jumped from the bed totally nude and ran out of the house. Joe pulled the thick polar bear bedspread over his head for protection, but I managed to wound him anyway, just missing the real culprit by inches. The thickness of the bedspread saved his life, and mine too. I would have killed him if he hadn’t managed to grab the sword. He tried to slap me back into reality, but my rage continued.

  Toni cried loudly, but I was in no condition to calm her. I was still out of my mind. Even the sight of his blood wasn’t satisfying enough. I ran down the stairs, threw open the cupboards, and began smashing glasses against the brick wall. It was a pretty senseless thing to do, but I needed to vent the incredible anger. Joe came down the stairs fully dressed, but his once cream-colored pants were now bloodred. Dodging glass, he grabbed me and pulled me into the living room, shaking me violently to stop my insane behavior. He sat me on the couch, holding my arms hostage. He waited impatiently until I stopped convulsing. He didn’t dare hit me; he was too afraid of losing me after what I’d seen.

  “This wasn’t planned, Georgia. She was depressed and wanted to talk, so we came here—just to talk.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it looked like to me—talking. You cocksucker! Let go of my arms!”

  “After we got here . . . she seduced me,” he continued, speaking calmly.

  “In my bed! Your own cousin! You’re sick, and she’s even sicker. Let go of my arms, you son of a bitch!”

  “Georgia, it wasn’t that way. . . . Hey! What was that?” He gestured toward the sliding glass doors to the fenced-in courtyard.

  “What?” I said, looking outside, thinking he was trying to divert my attention.

  “I just saw something move behind the fence,” he said, letting go of my arms and moving toward the window with concern.

  Joe slid the door open. A trail of blood followed the path from his badly wounded leg.

  “Who’s out there?” Joe yelled.

  “It’s the superintendent,” answered a meek voice from the shadows.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing out there, you fuckin’ degenerate? Show your face, you sorry excuse for a man!” Joe yelled in his perfected belittling voice.

  “I was just checking out the noise—that’s all. . . .”

  His shadow passed by the spaces between the fence and he was gone. Joe closed the door and turned back to me.

  “You were right about that pervert,” he said, putting a calming hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off violently.

  “Look who’s calling who a pervert!” I mocked.

  With not much he could say in his defense, he walked into the kitchen, ripped up a dish towel, and put a tourniquet on his leg. I was smoking a cigarette when he returned. My hands were still shaking, but I was slowly regaining my composure.

  “You did a pretty good job on this leg.”

  “You’re lucky to have a leg at all, let alone a penis, you bastard!”

  “I’m going to get some stitches. Go back to the apartment. I don’t want you here alone. We’ll discuss this later.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Joe. I won’t stay here, but don’t expect to see me at the apartment.”

  “Georgia, I love you. I know how hurt you are; I’m hurting too. Please, just be there when I get back.” He walked down the narrow path between the buildings to the parking lot.

  When he was out of sight I started to close the door, but movement caught my eye. I opened the door wider. At the end of the walkway the superintendent was crouched, pointing a gun in Joe’s direction.

  “Joe! Watch out—he’s got a gun!” I screamed.

  He fired twice, then got up and ran toward Joe, out of my view. I ran to the end of the walkway to see Joe slumped over in the car. He backed out at high speed. His tires squealed as he shifted his Corvette into first gear and floored it out of the parking lot. Had he been hit or was he just dodging the bullets? The man ran out to the middle of the street and began firing after the speeding car.

  Thank God a patrol car was cruising down the street. (It was the first time I’d ever seen a cop when I needed one—at least one who could help.) I ran into the street to flag the police car down, although I didn’t see how they could have missed this nut in
the middle of the road firing a gun. They screeched to a stop, flung open their car doors, and pulled out their guns, using the doors as shields.

  “Drop the gun!” they yelled, pointing their weapons at the superintendent.

  The man turned and began to fire at the police. I stood dazed in the middle.

  “Get the hell out of here, lady!” screamed a cop.

  Three more police cars came charging up. I ran back to the town house and grabbed Toni, still crying, from her bed. I held her tightly and waited.

  The bizarre incident was quickly under control, and the police were soon at my door. In the meantime, Joe had gone back to the apartment to get his gun. When he returned to see the police apprehending the lunatic, he went to a pay phone. I still had no way of knowing if he had been shot.

  “What happened here, lady?” one of the officers asked, taking in the broken glass and the trail of blood on the floor.

  Where do I start? Just then the phone rang.

  “You all right?” Joe asked.

  “Yes, we’re fine . . . are you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, sounding relieved. “Are the cops in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell them what went on . . . with us.”

  “Why? You embarrassed?”

  “Christ, Georgia, you stabbed me, for God’s sake. They’ll take you in.”

  Hadn’t thought about that.

  The night’s surreal events were catching up with me. I was totally drained. I hung up and told the police I was going to check on my baby. Toni was stirring in her crib, still a little shaken from the yelling and the craziness of the night’s activities. I softly stroked her hair to soothe her. Feeling safe, she closed her eyes and quickly nodded off. I quietly closed her door and entered my bedroom. The bedspread was drenched with blood. It looked as if a murder had been committed. Close, but no cigar. I discreetly closed my bedroom door and returned downstairs. Three more policemen had entered the house.

  “Whose blood is that?” one of the new cops asked.

  “It’s my husband’s. He cut himself on the broken glass.”