The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  Feeling safer now that Steve didn’t know where I lived, I started venturing out without my bodyguard. I went to the bank to retrieve some personal papers from my safety-deposit box. As I exited the private room, two men in suits were standing there. Somehow I knew they were not bankers.

  “FBI, Miss Durante,” they said, displaying their identification.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind coming with us?”

  What if they search me and find the loaded .38 in my purse?

  Okay, White, don’t panic. Just get rid of the gun.

  The thought never occurred to me that I could have declined.

  “Yeah, sure . . . but could I use the ladies’ room first?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” said the tall one as he turned to lead the way.

  Suspicious stares from the bank employees followed us as we walked toward the bathroom. Please, let it be empty, I prayed. It was. I buried the gun in the bottom of the wastepaper basket, took some deep breaths, and walked back out.

  “I’m ready.” Flanked by an agent on each side, I walked outside to a waiting car. “What’s this all about?” I asked, feeling my composure slowly returning as the car pulled away.

  “I think you know what this is all about, Miss Durante. Do you prefer Miss Durante or Mrs. Lamendola?” the agent asked, carefully monitoring my reaction.

  “Neither,” I answered stone-faced. “You can call me Georgia. Where are we going?”

  “To the Bonaventure Hotel, downtown. It’s safe there. No one will see you with us. Your safety is our first concern, Georgia. We’re on your side.”

  As the elevator rose to the eleventh floor, I shifted nervously and stared blankly at the walls. Two more agents waited inside the suite. They stood as we entered, introduced themselves, and offered me a cup of coffee. What I needed was a drink.

  We all sat down except the one named Nelson. He walked slowly to the window with both hands in his pockets, then turned toward me.

  “We are prepared to protect you, Georgia,” he said. “We can change your identity and relocate you in Europe, if that’s your preference. Even give you enough money to start a new life for yourself. You’ll be safe. But we need some answers—and we know you have them.” He was cold and dispassionate; a touch of humanity might make him more convincing.

  “Gee, I really need the money, and I’d love to live in Europe, but I’m afraid I don’t know whatever it is that you think I know. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  Nelson put up a hand to show he didn’t mind.

  “What do you know about the hit on Bompen siero?”

  “Nothing,” I answered, blowing out a puff of smoke.

  “What about Joe Bello?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Come on, are you saying you don’t know Joe Bello?” Nelson thundered.

  “Well . . . yes, I know him, but I don’t know about him.”

  He swung a steely glare at me. “You have a selective memory. Is it your habit to be vague?” I shrugged and looked blankly out the window. “You were at a party in Bello’s home on February twenty-second, 1976, which you attended with your husband, am I correct?”

  “If you say I was, then I guess I was,” I answered, giving him a brittle smile.

  The agent with the pointed features and a slick of smooth brown hair that I could tell was a rug sat silently studying my body language. He was getting on my nerves.

  “Several reputed Mafia members attended that party. Did you overhear any conversations between any of these men that may be of interest to us?” Nelson continued.

  “No.”

  “Why was Salvatore Reale there?”

  My heart rate picked up. “I don’t know the man.”

  They threw a picture on the coffee table of Sal and me at a restaurant called Separate Tables in New York. I glanced at the picture without expression.

  “Anyone else you want to claim not to know?” Nelson asked as he threw out more pictures. There was Paul Castalano, head of the Gambino family; Tony Lee, captain in the Gambino family; Sammy G and Joe Colombo at an Italian-American civil-rights dinner. “Nice guys you’re friendly with,” he said with a cutting sharpness.

  These people had a better record of my life than I did.

  “They’re just old acquaintances—”

  Nelson bent forward, placing both his hands on the coffee table. His eyes bore into mine. “Level with us, Georgia. We can help you.”

  Returning his intensity, I answered in an even tone, “I don’t know anything.”

  After hours of getting nowhere, they were visibly losing their patience with me. Nelson paced, agitated by my reluctance to elaborate on my answers. Maybe he thought this was a case of the victim bonding with the oppressor. Maybe it was. I was immovable when flexibility might have served me better.

  Nelson moved in front of me, a commanding figure in a gray suit, burgundy tie, and striped shirt. “I’m tired of sparring with you, Georgia!” he declared. “Now, we said we’d protect you, but if you don’t cooperate with us, I’m afraid we’re going to have to leak your name out to the other side.”

  “We can’t be responsible for what might happen to you,” the tall one added in a surprisingly flat monotone.

  “I’m confused,” I said sarcastically. “Who’s supposed to be the bad guys?”

  They didn’t answer. Instead they took out a picture of Al.

  “Do you know this guy?”

  I hesitated, but not long enough for them to notice. Inside, my anxiety ran wild. “No,” I answered.

  “Hmm. He’s not a very nice man. In fact, he is what you would call a ‘bad guy.’ But I think you already know that, don’t you?” He paused. “What do you suppose he would do if he knew you were talking to us?”

  I lit a cigarette and glanced at my watch. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

  “Go ahead,” Nelson gestured, directing his arm toward the bathroom. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  Upon closing the door, I rummaged through my purse in desperate search of a Valium.

  Holy shit. Al and Joe are going to kill me for bringing this down.

  Finding the Valium, I washed it down and took a few minutes to regain my composure. I checked my makeup, hoping it would buy me some mercy.

  “Listen, you guys,” I said when I returned, “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know anything. I really don’t.”

  “That’s not what Steve’s been telling us,” Nelson said.

  “He says you know a lot,” added the agent with the cheap rug.

  So this is all Steve’s doing. A wounded dog is a dangerous dog. Big mistake, White. You should’ve let him die.

  “We can understand your fears, Georgia, but like we’ve been saying, we are prepared to relocate you and Steve and—”

  “What?”

  “Steve told us about the beating and the threats on your lives. If you two want any kind of life for yourselves, you’re gonna have to be straight with us.”

  I laughed so hard it was almost impossible to speak. “I don’t believe this! You guys must have an IQ three points below plant life! Let me get this straight: You think I’m in love with Steve, but Joe is putting a kink in it?”

  “Well . . . yes. Isn’t that the way it is?” Nelson asked.

  “God, he’s good. He’s really good. Either that, or somebody messed up pretty bad when they let you guys into this agency,” I said, enjoying the confusion in their faces. They didn’t answer me. They just sat there passing silent glances at each other. “This guy Steve is a nutcase! I’d rather face a fate with the Mob any day than with him. If you don’t believe me, just call the Beverly Hills Police Department. I’ve filed several complaints against him. The man is obsessed with me! I can’t believe you actually fell for that crap. Now, if you’re really concerned about my life, you’ll help me get rid of him. The so-called police can’t seem to do anything about it. Why do you think I had to do what I did? There was nowhe
re else to turn.”

  Nelson’s face was one big question mark. The seated agents’ faces were tight and red. They all stared at me in awestruck silence. It was the most I had spoken in hours. Finally they believed me. It was apparent, however, that they had opened a door they could not easily close. The FBI had unwittingly played into Steve’s hand. His strategy was brilliant.

  It just so happened that Joe was the number-one suspect in a case on which they had been working for over a year. For them, this was perfect timing. What a break for the good guys. But Steve had no idea what he was stumbling into. Fortunately for Al, they wanted the bigger fish.

  Nelson propped his glasses on the top of his forehead, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes in a circular motion. “Well, it looks like we’ve spent a lot of time here getting nowhere,” he said, placing his glasses back on his nose.

  The interrogation broke up shortly after, and they drove me back to the bank. As I got out of their car, Nelson had some words of advice: “We don’t advise you to contact Joe about our little meeting, for your own safety.”

  “I won’t,” I answered, questioning his sincerity.

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  I got in my car and watched as they turned right on Wilshire Boulevard. I went left. I drove around on side streets for about a half an hour until I felt sure I wasn’t being followed. I remembered something Salvatore Reale had told me once: Always make four right-hand turns to be sure no one is tailing you. I did that, then stopped at a phone booth—and called Joe.

  “Hello?” he said in a foggy voice. I almost hung up, but somehow I got the courage to speak.

  “Joe, you’re not gonna like this,” I said, and then started to blurt it all out.

  “Georgia! What the fuck, haven’t you learned anything by now? Don’t talk on the damn phone! Were you at least smart enough to see if you were being followed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get in your car and get your ass down to San Diego right now. Don’t stop at home.”

  “I can’t. I—”

  “Now!” He hung up.

  I called Frankie and told him what happened.

  “You gotta go to San Diego, baby. You gotta let Joe in on what’s happening here.”

  Frankie hated Joe, but he felt a kinship in this situation. A code which Italians on the dark side live by was taking charge.

  “If the FBI’s been following you,” he said, “they probably got a make on me by now. This is gonna bring down some heat on our friends in the East, and they’re not gonna be happy about it. I gotta get back to New York and smooth this thing out before tempers start flaring, y’know what I mean?”

  “A sit-down? But—”

  “I didn’t get permission, Georgie Girl. I can’t explain it on the phone. You may have to come to New York for a few days. I’ll send you a ticket if it comes to that.”

  “I’m afraid to go to San Diego, Frankie.”

  “Baby, you gotta go. You can’t leave him in the dark.”

  “I know I have to. . . .”

  “I won’t be here when you get back, baby. You got a place you can stay?”

  “No,” I said. Fear surged through me. I felt so alone.

  “I’ll leave you some money. Get a hotel for a while until I can figure this out.”

  “I’ll miss you, Frankie.”

  “Yeah, me too, baby. I don’t like leaving you like this, but I have no choice.”

  “I know. See ya when I see ya, Frankie.”

  “Georgie Girl? . . . I love you, baby.”

  “I love you too, Frankie,” I uttered, but he didn’t hear me. The connection had already been broken.

  “It’s all my fault,” I said aloud, continuously checking the rearview mirror. If I hadn’t asked for Joe’s help, he wouldn’t be in this mess. He’s probably working himself into a frenzy by now. Oh, God, he’s going to kill me.

  I was positive I wasn’t being followed. I took a few more turns just to be sure and then I headed back to the bank to retrieve my gun. Thankfully, it was still where I’d left it.

  My nerves played havoc with me all the way to San Diego.

  Walking up the path that led to the beautiful condominium on the cliff’s edge, I stopped. The smell of fresh sea air and the sound of crashing waves against the rocks below gave me a surreal sensation. This had to be a bad dream. Would my life ever be as natural as the smells and sounds that filled my senses? Such calmness. However, when that door opened, it would be anything but calm.

  My hand shook as I rang the bell. I braced for a predictable punch to my head. He opened the door and stepped back to let me in.

  “I’m sorry Joe. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”

  “Do you think you were followed?” he asked, dismissing my frantic attempts at explaining.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said, shaking as if from the cold.

  Amazingly, he seemed composed. He poured us both a drink without saying a word. Thrown by his calm reaction, I struggled with my reluctance to relax. He handed me my drink and put both his arms around me, holding me tightly.

  “Okay, sit down, and tell me everything from the beginning.”

  When I finished, Joe swallowed hard and ran his hands over his head. “Okay, this is what we’re gonna do. . . .”

  It was four o’clock in the morning before we stopped talking. We were both pretty weary. As I knew he would, Joe tried to convince me once again how much he loved me. Suppressing feelings of love that I still harbored, I chose to view only the face of a batterer, an abuser, and a controller.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he said, as if it were the natural thing to do.

  “Joe, I don’t think—”

  “I just want to hold you, honey; we won’t do anything, okay? Besides, you can’t leave until you talk to Al. He’s gonna need convincing that you know how to keep your mouth shut.”

  “They didn’t seem to be concerned about Al, or the beating.”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s small potatoes compared to where they’re going with this, but they’re gonna try an’ squeeze him anyway,” he said as we walked down the hall toward the bedroom.

  “Do you have a T-shirt?” I asked.

  “You don’t need one.”

  “Joe.”

  “Don’t worry,” he assured me.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed with my back toward him, I felt his eyes burning into my flesh as I unbuttoned my blouse. I quickly removed my clothes, leaving on my bra and panties, and got under the covers.

  “It’s nice to see you lying there again,” he said, standing at the foot of the bed as he undressed. His desire mounted with each article of clothing that hit the floor. I closed my eyes, having only myself to blame.

  I turned to my side with my back toward him as he slid his body next to mine. His smell was fresh and clean, with an undertone of cologne.

  “Oh, my sweet baby, you feel so good next to me. I’ve missed you so much.” His hardness pressed against me.

  I stiffened. “Joe, you promised.”

  “I know, I know. I love you, Georgia.” I uttered no response. “Good night, my baby,” he whispered tenderly.

  “Good night, Joe.”

  The sun was pouring in through the large picture window when I opened my eyes. The condo was a far cry from the dungeon we had lived in above the club back in Rochester. In the morning stillness, the birds sang out in harmony. A calmness existed, as if life itself had been suspended.

  Joe waltzed in with a tray of coffee and toast.

  This is new and different.

  We sat on the bed, Indian style, sipping our coffee as he mapped out my strategy for the day.

  “Let’s finish our coffee on the patio,” he suggested.

  Rising, I jumped into the shower. The welcoming hot water beat heavily on my body, releasing the previous day’s tensions. My robe still hung in the closet, awaiting my return. Slipping it on, I walked out to the patio and joined Joe.

 
; With his long, slender fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, he stared out at the sea. Breathing deeply, I took in the morning. Everything was so peaceful. Then my attention fell upon a woman sitting alone on the cliff, her quiet sobs lost in the wind . . . and I remembered.

  So many days I’d spent sitting on that cliff, watching the endless rhythm of the ocean. It had been my salvation during the vividly painful times.

  Joe sipped his coffee, put it down, and peered through his lightly tinted sunglasses. His eyes became fluid as he spoke. “I love you, Georgia. I’m such a fool. You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. It was hard for me; I loved this Joe, but I had made it too far to turn around now.

  I drove to Al’s house and knocked on the door. He looked shocked to see me. That was understandable, since he had no warning as to what he was about to hear. He displayed no signs of being agitated. His only remark, emitted with cold emotion, was: “I knew I should’ve killed the fucker.” I shuddered.

  He paced around the room as we discussed the course of action we would take, depending on the scenario. When he was satisfied, I left. Phew, that was over.

  Entering the freeway, I headed north toward Solana Beach. As I approached the exit, red lights flashed in my rearview mirror.

  “Shit.” Just what I need, another ticket.

  Two men in plain clothes exited the unmarked car and approached. Putting a hand to my mouth, I gave them a guilty schoolgirl grin. It was a wasted effort.

  With a stern demeanor, one of them asked, “Where are you going in such a big hurry?”

  “Home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Can I see your driver’s license and registration, please?”

  I handed him both and he walked back to his car, leaving me to speak with the other man.

  “We clocked you at a hundred and two near La Jolla. Took us this long just to catch up to you.”

  I had no comment. What could I possibly say to justify that?

  “So, you’re from L.A., huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you doing in San Diego?”

  “I had a doctor’s appointment.”