My Kind of Town

by John Sandrolini

  He let that slide as I walked off to find some better air.

  A couple of the other boys filled in my space, offering Frank deference a cardinal would’ve envied. One of them lit another cigarette for him, the others kissed different sections of his ass by turns.

  Frank tired of them pretty quickly, signaling impatiently for me to rescue him. I was in no mood to bail him out, but friendship obliged me. Walking over, I stepped between him and the reception committee.

  “Yeah, pal?”

  “What was that you were saying about a ceremony at this place a few months ago?”

  “Jack Kennedy came here back in March or April or something—I read it in the Press-Telegram. They had a big ceremony, rededicated the field to Butch. His mother, Mayor Daley, they all came out. Music, speeches—the whole nine yards. What . . . didn’t you get an invite?” I ribbed, knowing that Frank had been getting the cold shoulder from the president ever since the inauguration over his high-visibility high jinks with his mob playpals.

  “Nah, I think I was making a movie with Dino or something. My loss, I guess.”

  One of the goons broke protocol, stuck his oversize proboscis where it didn’t belong. “Dem Irish, always waving their asses in the air. Dose O’Hares weren’t so clean—and neither’s Kennedy.”

  Frank stiffened up. I beat him to it, brushing an arm across his chest, letting him know this one was mine.

  “Butch O’Hare was a friend of mine,” I said, spelling it out for him through clenched teeth. “And President Kennedy’s a friend of Mr. Sinatra’s.”

  The poor guy didn’t read too well. He held his palms out, mining for laughs. “Whatsamatter, you guys part Irish or somet’in’? One of dose guys is a welsher, d’other was a sucker.”

  Eyes fell in the semicircle. One guy looked clean away. Vinnie’s glower could’ve melted rocks.

  “You know,” I said, “during the war we weren’t Italian or Irish—or Jewish, or Polish, or anything else. We were American. You would’ve known that if you’d been there.”

  “Sure, buddy, sure,” he blathered on. “But old man O’Hare was connected. Da kid coulda taken it easy. Dumb mick got himself killed playin’ hero and now dey go and name—”

  I’d run out of letters to spot him. Seeing white, I lunged forward, pinning him hard against the side of the car, jerking his tie up tight against his chin. “Shut your ziti hole, guinea,” I seethed. “Eddie O’Hare’s lying on the bottom of the sea. Don’t say another word—not in front of his memorial, not in front of me.”

  Frank had me from behind then, waving the others off. “It’s all right, boys; back off,” he ordered as he pried my hands off the stunned gunsel, counseling, “Ohh, ohh, easy there, Joey boy,” in my ear as he backed me away. “I’ve got enough troubles with these guys right now.”

  Even in my highly charged state that one still registered.

  Then Frank took charge of the situation as only he could. “That guy,” he said, pointing to the lingual diarrhetic. “Get him outta here—now!”

  His fingers popped like a bullwhip and the boys paid heed, hustling Johnny Stugots off in the last car toward what would surely be a very unpleasant meeting with his boss.

  Life’s hard. It’s harder if you’re stupid.

  Six minutes, one cigarette, and a lot of blown smoke later, Frank convinced me to ride in the limo with him and Jilly down to the hotel. But I made him promise that Jilly would be the driver for the rest of the weekend while the Outfit boys kept their distance. I didn’t like playing the wet blanket, but Frank had absolutely nothing to gain and literally millions to lose through his foolish and dangerous Mafia associations.

  But I don’t know why I bothered harping on him—an FBI interview, a Senate hearing, and two decades of bad press hadn’t gotten through to him. Why the hell did I think another browbeating from a guy with my checkered record would?

  4

  Traffic wasn’t too bad considering. I was dog-tired but kept my eyes on the road, marking the many new features that had sprouted up since I’d last made landfall in my hometown, like the slick black Northwest Freeway we were rolling down.

  When we’d ridden long enough, I looked across the backseat at Frank and asked, “You mind telling me just what the hell I’m doing here now?”

  He launched into a rambling spiel about ostensibly being in town to take trailer shots for his just-wrapped film, Robin and the Seven Hoods, some kind of a gangster musical set in Chicago. When he got to the part about me needing to be fitted for a tuxedo at the hotel, I cut him short.

  “Frank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let me rephrase my question. You mind telling me just what the hell I’m doing here now?”

  He exhaled heavily, then spit it out. “I’m singing at the Villa Venice tonight for a lot of important people. You’ll need to be properly dressed.”

  “Villa Venice? Momo’s joint? Get bent.”

  “You’re a real ball-breaker today, you know that?” he shot back. “First you go mustang on Carpaccio’s guy and now you’re—”

  “Who’s Carpaccio?”

  “He’s one of the guys you’ll meet tonight.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “Joe?”

  I grunted. “What?”

  “I’d like you to meet these guys.”

  “You said you needed my help. You didn’t say I’d be rubbing elbows with the blackjack set. Don’t you know by now that I am all finished—”

  “Joe!” he blurted out, an unmistakable urgency in his voice.

  I bit my tongue, drew a breath, offered a cautious, “Yeah?”

  “I’d like for you to meet these guys. I’m doing an unannounced special show for them. Do you understand me?”

  I made a sour face, rapped him on the arm harder than I intended to. “What gives with that, Frank? Why are you doing shows for those animals?”

  “You’re familiar with the concept of ‘command performance,’ are you not, Joseph?”

  “Of course I am. But Sam Giancana ain’t exactly the Sun King.”

  “God knows that. But let me be clear here: This is not something I can say no to.”

  I scoffed at him. “At this point in your life, you can’t reach down there and grab your coglioni and tell ol’ Momo to shove it?”

  Frank chuckled bitterly, gazed up at the velvet headliner, slapped his hand on his thigh. Then he looked at me. “I’m going to tell you a little story, Joseph, and it’s a story that does not leave this Lincoln. Do we understand each other?”

  I nodded, reached for my Luckys. Frank stopped me with a wave, pulled out his cigarette case, flipped it open. He plucked out a Camel short, handed it to me. Then he hit it with a Cartier lighter, the little diamonds glinting in the plush dark back of the limo.

  “Sam Giancana helped put Jack Kennedy in the White House,” he declared flatly.

  I arched my brows. “He was the one who wrote that little K-E-double-N-E-D-Y jingle? That was so clever!”

  “Cut the shit,” he said with a glare. “Look,” he went on, “everybody knows that Daley delivered Illinois in the general.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “But do you know who delivered West Virginia when Jack was struggling in the primaries?”

  “I’m thinking it wasn’t Mother Jones.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “So . . . maybe . . . I don’t know . . . the guy you’re going to go warble for tonight?”

  “Mm-hmmm,” he hummed. “And why would he do that?”

  “’Cuz he’s an ardent believer in the platform of the Democratic Party?”

  “Fat fucking chance.”

  “Okay then, because Bobby Kennedy told the mob he was going to go easy on them if they delivered the coal miners’ vote?”

  Frank sat up, assessing me with surprise
. “Quick study, Buonomo.”

  “You should’ve met my professors.”

  We each took a drag on our smokes. I blew out some gray air, watched it slip through the top of the cracked-open window. “So what’s the problem then?”

  Frank exhaled a cloud through his nose. “Attorney General Kennedy not only isn’t going easy on those guys, he’s doubling down on them—hard, see? The FBI is tapping lines, tailing guys, rousting people, squeezing informants. Perhaps you’ve heard of a certain fella not too long for this Earth, name of Valachi?”

  “Is said fellow making headlines all over America of late, telling Mafia tales out of school and the like?”

  Frank pounded the seat back. “Damn right he is. And he and the FBI are making life very difficult for some very important people.”

  I knew Frank was getting to something serious, but I was enjoying egging him on. “So . . . Hoover’s boys have finally acknowledged the pin-striped elephant in the room. I ask again, what’s the problem here?”

  “The problem is that Sam Giancana and the high-ups are pissed, that’s what. Bobby flat out reneged on them.”

  I turned up my palms. “I can see how that might be socially awkward for you at the next inauguration, chum, but other than that, why would you care?”

  “Because I was the go-between!” he shouted. “I made calls, I put people together, I vouched for both sides. And guess who’s standing here now with his bra’zhol hanging out? Now do you get it?”

  I sat back in the deep-cushioned seat, letting out a whistle as I reclined. “I’m afraid I’m starting to.”

  Frank stared at me, his head rocking back and forth, his face tight behind the curls of smoke emanating from his hand. I gazed back at him, at the cars zipping by around us. Jilly hit the horn at someone, laying on it hard.

  “Christ, Jilly, lay off the New York shit, would ya?” Frank barked. “A ten-second blast’ll do here.”

  “So,” I asked, “are you telling me that Sam’s holding you responsible?”

  “Not quite, but he’s upset. Very upset. So in answer to your question, that’s why I’m doing these shows for him. He says I owe him.”

  I tilted my head, threw up my hands. “A couple free shows? You’re getting off easy.”

  “You bet your ass I am.”

  “So . . . why am I not playing post office with Bunny Whooz-it again?”

  Frank leaned right into me, placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezed hard. “Because maybe I got wind that something’s up, that’s why.”

  I looked over at him very intently, making sure I’d understood him. “What kind of thing? A thing thing?”

  “I think so,” he said uneasily.

  “You? C’monnnn . . .”

  “I don’t really know, but Sam’s been quieter than I’ve ever seen him. They say that’s how it happens. One minute you’re laughing with the boys, then—bang!”

  “You are seriously overreacting here.”

  “I’m just playing it safe. There’s been rumblings on the wire that somebody big is getting taken out. It was like this just before Anastasia got hit.”

  “You might want to stay out of barbershops for a while then.”

  He rolled his head, groaning in frustration. “Would ya please help me here, Joe? You’re right, it’s probably nothing, but I’d feel a lot better knowing you were around the next couple of days. A lot of the right people will take notice if they see you next to me again—think word isn’t already out about you necktieing that guy back there?”

  Our eyes met, long seconds ticking by in the smoke-filled space. Frank had a disquieting look on his face, one I hadn’t seen in a long time.

  I bit down on my lips, made a fist. “Last. Time. Ever,” I growled, burying my hand into the seat cushion with each word.

  “Of course,” he replied, nodding earnestly.

  “And no guns.”

  “I understand.”

  I jabbed a finger into the handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. “One more thing . . .”

  He looked down at my finger, back up at me. “Name it.”

  “About that football game. You better put us in old man Wrigley’s box tomorrow. I wanna know the plays before Halas does.”

  “It’s done.”

  I put my hand behind his neck, leaned in until our foreheads nearly touched. “You sing for these fucks tonight, then we stay the hell away from them for the rest of the weekend, okay? Nothing, nothing, good ever comes from associating with them.”

  I could make out the hint of a smile on his tight mouth as he nodded, see the tension visibly fading from his face as he processed what I’d said.

  “Jill,” he called out, “where’s that cocktail shaker? Let’s have a splash back here. And step on it, would ya? Let’s get this weekend started!”

  Frank prattled on the rest of the ride, a completely different man, the weight of the world off his shoulders and onto mine. I settled back in my seat, listening vaguely as he talked about “this Italian songbird Miss Claudia,” his escapades from last month’s visit to Chicago, his next movie, et cetera. Yak yak yak it all went as the miles rolled by.

  Something bright red flashed by outside. I looked out, gazing in bemusement at the enormous pair of neon lips puckering up on the roadside, catching Frank leering at them too when I turned back inside. I had no idea what the Magikist company did, but I knew exactly what that voluptuous mouth represented to the man sitting next to me: that the old frontier town was still as wide open and beckoning as she was the day they snookered her from the Indians.

  Chicago truly was that most American of all cities, as “small d” democratic as they come. She didn’t do blue blood. She didn’t do social register. She didn’t do Hollywood connections. Chicago did hunger. Chicago did brass. Chicago did balls. And she was still the girl who could be had by the guy with the biggest pair.

  5

  Doormen swarmed us at the Ambassador East. The manager came out to meet us in the lobby, handing us all keys to suites on the top floor along with a promise to do everything on heaven and earth to make our stay comfortable. Frank requested we all meet in the Pump Room downstairs at six in “proper evening attire.”

  There was an Argentine tailor waiting for me in my suite to make sure that happened. He’d brought two assistants with him, along with half of Marshall Field’s showroom. I was riding pretty low in the saddle, but I consented to letting him get his work done. It was easier than arguing with Frank about it.

  Señor Pepe fitted me up with two suits, a blazer, and a killer midnight tuxedo with an understated velvet lapel. He called over to his store for several pairs of shoes then went to work while I knocked off for a couple of hours. The suite was empty when I awoke except for the suits, blazer, four dress shirts, five ties, and three pairs of shoes. Everything fit great. Classic Sinatra.

  One hot shower and one cold beer later and I was ready to take on Primo Carnera. I slipped into the tux, fired up a smoke, and checked my watch. It was time to meet the boys downstairs. I jumped the elevator and rode it down to the lobby, then hooked a right up the stairs, through the green-and-black doors and into the house restaurant.

  The Pump Room was no ordinary hotel eatery. Frank had assured me of that, building it up pretty good on the ride downtown. The place didn’t disappoint, what with the red-jacketed waiters whipping up Caesar salads tableside, brandishing orders of lobster thermidor in front of the many plush booths, and parading through the dining room with all manner of flaming things on skewers.

  It was early, but the Gold Coast crowd was out in force and buzzing, all eyes on the crooner in front of the bar telling a story with his hands for Jilly and a clutch of supernumeraries. Despite Frank’s intense efforts to keep a lid on his comings and goings, someone on the inside invariably gabbed and word got out that he would be at a particular town or place, guaranteei
ng a small riot. I think he liked the attention anyway.

  “Good evening, Joseph,” he said as I approached. “Manhattan?”

  “Smashing.”

  Frank whispered to Jilly who then shouted out, “Johnny, couple more Manhattans for Frank and Mr. Joe Buonomo here.”

  Jilly had many gifts that made him a close friend of Frank’s. Discretion wasn’t one of them. It was okay, beneficial even, if the mob knew I was in town, but the general public was another matter altogether. The minute Jilly dropped my name aloud, he drew attention to me, attention I didn’t particularly want, especially in that town. Frank hung out with all manner of movie stars, athletes, and celebrities who lived for the secondhand glitz he spattered on them, but I was none of the above and operated exclusively under the radar—as much as anyone can sharing a Manhattan with Frank Sinatra in the Pump Room.

  But there had been a time when I was a somebody in Chicago, whether I had wanted to be or not. Sure enough, my name tumbled for someone.

  A pasty little man smiled at me, said, “Say, are you any relation to the Buonomo of Second World War fame?”

  I hesitated, but I knew I was boxed in. “I, uh, I served in the war, but I’m sure a lot of guys named Buono—”

  Jilly kept on drowning me. “Yeah, dis is the guy, pal. Joe Bones. Shot down a couple hundred Japanese planes, decorated by Roosevelt. A great American.”

  I felt myself wince, saw Frank doing the same when I opened my eyes.

  I murdered Jilly with a look for a few seconds then leaned over and muttered, “Twenty-nine, Jill. Twenty-nine. If you’re going to throw me in the river, at least get your numbers straight.”

  I eye-fried him some more as Frank eased him away for a lecture. Turning to my questioner, I said, “It was far less than that, and I didn’t meet the president. And it was all a long time ago. Sorry.”

  He made a pale, doughy smile. “Nothing to be sorry about at all. I’m Sy. Nice to meet you.” A smallish hand emerged. His soft, cold mitt gave me the willies when we shook. “I knew your face was familiar. Don’t tell me,” he implored, wagging a finger up and down. “Wait . . . wait . . . I’ve got it! Battle of Midway, wasn’t it?”