“Let me get you her number. Hold on just a sec please.” She didn’t wait for my answer but I didn’t mind. Her chirpiness was contagious. I felt better already. And on top of that she had me listening to some very easy listening music. Now if I could just close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
“Here you go Mr. McIver. Five five five. Three nine two three. I’ll make a note in her file that you called.”
“Please do.” This way they’d get their ten percent or whatever it is agencies charge nowadays. Didn’t matter though. Ten percent of nothing is nothing. I dialed her numbers and listened to ringing. I listened too long and got voice mail.
“Hey, thanks for calling. This is Jade Sky. Leave me a message but don’t tell a lie. And I’ll call you back in a fly.”
Flaky actress. John was spot on there. The voice was another sing song of happiness with a nasally edge that just didn’t add to the sexiness. I figured maybe it was a deviated septum. Fix that up real quick and she could have a solid career. If her chops were any good. I got the beep.
“Yeah hiya Jade. Frank McIver from over at Universal Studios. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about a project that Rod Saliver is thinking of doing. We’re trying to line up our principles first. Call me. Five five five nineteen seventy.”
I hung up and closed the phone. Bugger, I thought I was on a role. I was hoping to speak to her tonight to set something up for tomorrow. I contemplated my navel for a bit. Not literally. I was mulling things over when my phone vibrated in my hand as if I’d caught a bee and forgotten to let it go. I looked at the screen on the outside. It showed five five five three nine two three. A gift from the gumshoe gods.
“Frank McIver,” I said trying to sound like an authority. Not sure what a producer might sound like though. I mingled confidence with an easy going tone. Thought that would be close enough.
“Hi Mr. McIver it’s Jade. Jade Sky. You just called?”
The voice was still sing-songy. Sounded young, like a woman in her late teens but I figured she had to be older than that. I hoped she was older than that for Max’s memory’s sake. I’d hate to think worse of the dead. That nasally voice was resonating youthfulness. Maybe that was her problem.
“Yes Jade.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get me, I was just in the shower when you called.” Nice catch, I doubted it but the fumble was caught.
“Sure Jade. Listen I want to talk to you about this project with Rod.”
“Sounds great. The Rod Saliver who did Brides of Swansea?”
“You betcha.”
“Sure Mr. McIver. I’d love to.”
“Listen, call me Frank.”
“Okay Frank.” She was easy, too easy. Maybe because she was so young. Hate to see a young girl like that get caught up in a mess like this.
“Okay Jade. Let me see. I have an hour here tomorrow at nine am just before I meet with Brad Pitt. Let’s meet at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Santa Monica Boulevard at nine. Do you know where it is?”
“Wow, Brad Pitt. Will he be there? I sure know where it is.”
“He might be Jade. You might have the opportunity to meet him at around ten.”
She was as green as the leaves of barley sprouts. Why she’d believe that Brad Pitt would meet a producer at a coffee bar seemed odd to me. But hell, maybe I was the green one. In Hollywood who knows where and when the glitzy meet.
“Wow, I’d love to meet him. I’ll see you then Mr. McIver. Nine am. I’ll be there sharp.”
“Okay then.” I hung up on her. I figured that’s what a power Hollywood producer would probably do anyway. She’d forgotten about my first name. Hell, tomorrow she’d probably be calling me a bastard.
I was getting hungry. I’d put off my meeting with Gianni long enough. It was time to face the music, or the pasta. Maybe both. Pavarotti and linguine seemed like a good match. I looked into my cubby and pulled out ‘Mish Mash’. It was a collection of some of my favorite tunes. I scanned to number three. The great tenor was about to sing ‘Nessun Dorma’ just for me. There was no one else in the car. I cranked it. Nothing like opera to get you in the mood for a mafia meeting.
THIRTEEN
Pasta With The Mafia
FIVE thirty on a Monday evening and traffic would be heavy. God bless Johnny Rotten I was only about ten minutes away from Wilshire and Twenty Sixth Street. The Trattoria wouldn’t be too busy and I’d be there before my stomach started to churn and gurgle. Hard to have a mano a mano with the mafia when your belly keeps butting in.
I loved the ending of this opera. ‘At dawn I will win’. That was a catchy phrase. At dawn I’d like to get some answers about who done it. I was more concerned about the Max affair and not so much about Lorenzo. But hell, if I could kill two birds with one stone, not trying to be punny, then all the better. Besides, John could use the help.
I pulled up in front of the Trattoria d’Italia. Restaurant of Italy or something like that. One thing the mafia was not guilty of was creativity. But who could come up with fancy names for restaurants when you’re up to your eyeballs in prostitution and drugs and other dark arts. Besides, a simple business was probably easier to launder money through. The red awning outside traversed the entire width of the restaurant which was roughly twenty feet or so. Trattoria d’Italia was written in white cursive along it. Vice and Organized Crime nicknamed this place Red Riding Hoodlum’s House. Double R H for short. Only it was the big bad wolf that resided in here.
I pulled my jacket off the hook in the back seat and struggled into it in the front seat. No need in stepping out of the car flashing an empty holster around. It wasn’t easy putting on my jacket in such a cramped spot. Not like in high school where it’s amazing the backseat gymnastics youth could achieve. But I digress. I put myself in the correct mindset by cursing the few Italian curse words I knew. I called my jacket a puttana. Unkind I know. But I had to get my game face on. Vaffanculo is something else I might have said. Thanks to my all too brief encounters with Maria. An Italian woman who cursed like a sailor and fought like one too.
I got out of the car and locked it. My gat needed to stay where it was. I might need to come running for it later. I looked into the bay windows but I couldn’t see in. So I walked into the place like I was a part owner.
A guy with a name badge that said ‘Jimmy’ stopped me by the host table. He didn’t look so much like a maitre d’. And a place like this wasn’t that high end to require a maitre d’. He was a tall, muscled fellow. His biceps bulged in the white shirt he had rolled up his forearm. His forearms were thick with muscle. He was a good looking Italian with jet black curly hair. He had a five o’clock shadow and his eyes were a hard walnut. He put his hand out to stop me. I didn’t let it touch me.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a firm tone that tried to be generous. It wasn’t.
“I’m here to see Gianni.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No.” I looked around the restaurant, there were a few tables occupied. A family of four, an older couple in their sixties and a young group of five kids. Late teens I figured. In the back was a table in the far corner, separate from the rest of the restaurant and close to the kitchen. I saw Gianni there. He was watching us. He was sitting with a big fella. If I was to lay a fifty down I’d say it was Fat Tony. Jimmy was looking down at his host table seeing if I was on the guest list. His eyebrows furrowed. He was new at this. Or he wasn’t too smart. I watched him for a bit. He had a couple of inches on me, but his muscles were for show. He hadn’t earned them in the ring. The closest he’d probably come to the ring was an O ring to keep the plates from falling off the barbell. I didn’t like him. I wanted to step toe to toe. See what those muscles could do. Jimmy looked behind himself at Gianni. I saw Gianni wave the big fella off. He strained out of the booth and lumbered up towards us. He had small bits of putty for ears, and his neck was straight with his head. His eyes were too close together and seemed to be popping out of his head. I expected to catch them
any minute. His head looked small on his thick frame, covered with a buzz cut. He didn’t look Italian, he was too light of complexion. He had close to fifty pounds on Jimmy and he was my height. I had him a shadow away from three hundred pounds. His mouth belonged on a pouty fish.
He put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. It looked like a ham dangling thick sausages. I was still hungry.
“Mr. Carrick,” he said to me in a squeaky voice. I was surprised, but thought better at smirking.
“Yeah,” I said in what sounded baritone to his soprano.
“May I?” and by this he meant pat me down. He made a gesture with his other hand lifting the palm up towards the ceiling a few times. I flashed him my empty holster. He smiled at that. I lifted my arms and let him cop a feel. He was discreet but not thorough.
“Please come with me. Mr. Mancini would be pleased to have you dine with him.”
I followed him back to the table in the far corner. We passed a dumb waiter and the waiters’ order computer. The booth was nestled in opposite the kitchen and in front of a coat rack not for the patrons. Gianni gestured me in to the opposite side of the booth with his knife. Looked like he was stabbing at me and twisting it in. I sat down. I was feeling edgy.
“Anthony. How are you? What brings you here?” he talked to me through a mouthful of food but I never saw any of it. Fat Tony tore off a piece of thin baguette and spooned tomatoes on it. I wanted some, but I was polite. My mother had bred good manners. Tony stuffed the piece of bread into his pouty mouth. He chewed it well and his lips puckered like he wanted to kiss a baby. I looked at Gianni.
“I’ve come for some dinner,” I said. No need to rush. I wanted to get some food in my belly. It had been a while since I’d seen him. Perhaps two or three years. He was early fifties I figured, and slick. Immaculate taste in clothes. He had on a deep purple silk shirt. I couldn’t see his pants but I’d guess coal black with patent black shoes. He was a trim man with deep creases on both sides of his mouth. Sideburns were severed mid ear and his black hair was thick and oiled back. He’d have been coloring it for a few years now I figured. And his eyebrows too. Not outrageously black so they stuck out like caterpillars above his eyes. No, he was more discreet than that. He was a shorter man. Around five eight in shoes. His hands were clean and well kept but probably not manicured. He had a red cloth napkin tucked under his chin and there was some sparse salt and pepper hair in the v of skin below his chin. He was fit and tough as nails. His stature and warm brown eyes belied his ruthlessness. He was driven and probably could have been successful in any endeavor he pursued. The FBI and LAPD Organized Crime had been eyeing him for years. He knew it but they couldn’t put anything on him. He paid taxes so the IRS wasn’t having any luck either. He had on a thick gold wedding band and that was the only flash of jewelry.
He was a man of deep integrity. No call girls, no drugs, no gambling. He didn’t drink and he was loyal to his people. But his integrity was different to mine. If you screwed him over he’d kill you. Easily. He slept well at night. I liked him and I respected him despite our differences. He hadn’t harmed anyone who hadn’t done him wrong.
He called over the waitress by name. She was Alexandria. Alex for short and she had a very nice boob job that she showed with pride. I took a moment to admire it. Discreetly.
“Please get my friend here some food,” he told her.
I asked him what he was having. It was the gnocchi. Looked good. I asked for the same.
“More bread and bruschetta Alex please,” he said. She went away and came back quickly with some ice water. I hadn’t asked but I didn’t complain.
“So you’re still a single man Anthony?” It wasn’t so much a question as an observation. I raised my eyebrows in query.
“Alex. I saw you, young dog. But that is why we hire them that way.”
“Smart move,” I said. “Keeps repeat business I bet.”
He shrugged and put another forkful of gnocchi in his mouth. Tony dug into what looked like fettuccini with Alfredo sauce, clams and shrimp. The plate was white with thick creamy sauce. I suddenly had clarity. I was looking at the reason Tony was so large. Some creamy sauce dribble down his chin. He took his napkin which was by the side of his plate and wiped his mouth. He tossed it down casually. It landed where it had just been. It was a bad origami peace crane. Maybe because I wasn’t feeling the peace. Tony looked at me now and then. Nothing obvious, nothing severe. But he didn’t have to. I knew where I was. I was a hen in the fox’s den. Alex came by with warm crust bread and bruschetta. I looked at her firm round bosom and smiled at her face. I’m a dreamer, what can I say. She smiled back but I didn’t take it personally. I was with the boss.
“Tony,” Gianni said. Tony looked up from his plate. His eyes were sad and rheumy suddenly.
“Tony, can you give me and Mr. Carrick a moment please.” He squeezed Tony on the shoulder having first put down his knife. It was a steak knife. And the way he handled it I had a feeling it was a skill he had acquired years ago.
Tony got up and took his plate of pasta in one hand. With the other he placed the wooden board with his torn baguette and bowl of bruschetta on top of the plate of pasta. He was a hungry man. My hunch it was a hunger that couldn’t be filled by food. I watched him take a seat not too far away and in plain view but far enough out of earshot. Gianni watched me watch him. We were a regular cast of hawks.
“Tell me how you’ve been Anthony.” He finished his gnocchi and took a cleanly cut piece of bread from the fresh loaf and mopped up the sauce from his table.
“I’ve been good thanks Gianni. Really good.” We were like two bulls staring each other down. Subtly.
“You know Anthony. I love this Italian food. You know I brought Luigi over from the old country for the authentic experience. He’s my chef. It helps bring in the business. But that’s not why I did it. I wanted a reminder. Thinking about the old country Anthony, my childhood, makes me feel at peace. It helps me make sense of this madness that the United States is becoming. No respect anymore Anthony. You see that in the movies. You see it on TV and the way kids talk to each other. Especially the way they talk to their parents. It’s shameful. Nobody wants to work for a living. They all just want to take. And you know why? Because the institutions are rotten. The justice system Anthony is soft. And because the justice system is soft, the cops are impotent. What we have now is the government spying on its own people instead of instilling core values. The communities are evaporating. People are holing themselves up instead of reaching out. You’ve got gangs of punks Anthony, that are terrorizing grannies. You’ve got hoodlums and scum preying on the weak. This is why we have problems. In the old days, in the old country, things were different. People earned respect and were shown respect. Punks were taught at the school of hard knocks. You know we got broken into a few weeks ago. Can you believe it? Anyway, we figured out who did it and we talked to the guy. A real heart to heart. He learnt the error of his ways Anthony. Word gets out that we expect respect and suddenly these problems won’t happen anymore. You know that’s why I like you. You’re like me. You could’ve been from the old country. You’ve got core values Anthony. You’ve got integrity and you’ve got honor and you’ve got pride. And you’ve always shown respect to me and my people. I remember that. That’s why I like you. You and me could be like brothers that way. That’s why I want you to eat with me. Be my guest and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Alex came then and placed the gnocchi in front of me. It was steaming and smelt of tomatoes and garlic and mashed potatoes. I was hungrier than I realized.
“You still drinking Scotch Anthony?” I nodded. “Scotch for Mr. Carrick please Alex.”
I thanked her for bringing the food. It was a decent serving. Good enough for two of me. I took the pepper grinder from the middle of the table and ground black flakes all over the face of my pasta. I mixed it up with a soupspoon that Alex had left with me. The only knife on the table had been resting in Gianni’s empty bo
wl that Alex had taken away. I asked Gianni if we could get a knife for the bread. He waved one over from Fat Tony. I cut up some of the bread into coins. I put bruschetta on a piece of mine and stuffed it in my mouth. Damn good. I told Gianni that too and he smiled at me. I waited for my gnocchi to cool.
“How’s Aurelio?” I asked him.
“He’s good Anthony. Really good. I think that time you picked him up and brought him home really made him look at his life and the direction it was going. Maybe me talking to him helped too. He hasn’t drank since then and he’s now at UCLA in law school. He wants to become defense counsel. Thinks his old man might need the help sometime.”
I tested the gnocchi. It was hot but not scorching. Rich and vibrant sauce.
“I don’t know why I don’t come round here more often for this food. Magnificent Gianni. Really magnificent.”
He smiled again. His teeth were straight and white. White like toothpaste. Like the dentist might have helped him.
“You know why you don’t come here much Anthony. It’s because you’re still like a cop. The cops don’t come around here because they think I’m with the mob. But still you should come more often. How long have you been out now?”
“Three years.” I took another coin of bread. The center was warm and doughy, the crust, crispy and crunchy. I spooned the bruschetta on it like I was gonna fight vampires later. The garlic was tangy but not hot. It didn’t have a bite. Probably roasted.
“The reason I don’t come by too often Gianni is because I don’t wanna get fat. I come here more than what, once every couple of years and I’ll be like an addict looking for a regular fix.”
Gianni laughed loudly. It was natural and infectious. It put me at ease. I grinned at him. Ear to ear. Alex came by. Two moons were rising up out of her blouse. The blouse was struggling to keep them. I smiled at her face again. But I wanted to rest my head on those pillows. She had brought me Scotch on the rocks. The barkeep had been negligent. Maybe he had been admiring her while pouring my drink. It was a good finger more than it should have been. Thanks again I said to her.
Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 13
