My Kind of Town

by John Sandrolini

  The lights went down and the curtain came up just after eight, the quartet in the middle looking rather small on that big stage, most of which was hidden in the darkness. First, the guitar began; then, the piano; and, finally, just a hint of horn playing a familiar-sounding tune, jouncy but subtle. Anticipatory applause broke out, followed by . . . nothing.

  Two beats later, a spotlight lit up the far corner. I swiveled around as Claudia materialized from the darkness, flat crushing it in a red dress that broke the fire code in at least ten places. Eyes expanding, I dialed in as I waited for her to tear into some popular standard for her American audience.

  But she didn’t.

  Her lips parted and an unexpected sound escaped: mellifluous, elegant, seraphic. Undeniably Italian. Then I realized what the band was playing: A stornello, an Italian folk song, this one a story of love denied.

  And it was beautiful. And she was beautiful. It was all so very beautiful.

  I put my drink down, then my chin. One on the table, the other on my hand, although I wasn’t really sure which went where. The only thing I knew was that I was smitten. Right there, right then. Smitten.

  She finished the song smartly, without flourish or melodrama, treating the work with respect. The applause was warm but less than I expected, my own contribution the loudest. Claudia’s eyes met mine ever so briefly as she scanned the crowd, beaming.

  She followed with “Al Di Là,” and “Nel Blu Dipinto Di Blu.” Beautiful songs both, especially in the native tongue, but I was hoping for another stornello, or even a tarantella after she’d set the bar so high. But the crowd had come to see the cornball headliner Anthony Di Scungille, not Claudia. Her sizzle had kept them in line so far except for a couple of shouted requests for her to sing in English, but her sublime charms were utterly wasted on those contadini.

  She threw them a couple of bones anyway, doing a pair of songs in Uncle Sam’s vernacular. That brought the crowd back just long enough for her to close with “Grazie, Prego, Scusi” and the up-tempo “Tu Vuò Fa’ L’Americano,” which got ’em on their feet at the end, me first.

  The arctic routine I’d gotten earlier was already forgotten. It was no longer possible for me to be an uninterested observer; her talent was just too compelling. And I loved the courage she’d shown by opening with the stornello and performing most of her work in Italian. It might not have been career smart, but it showed a strong heart—and head.

  I guess maybe it runs in the blood.

  9

  Jilly and I shot the bull at the table between acts, both of us doing the slow eye sweep around the room as various Outfit guys trickled in. Jilly pointed out this guy and that as they sauntered down to the lower tables, mistresses in raccoon and rhinestones sparkling on their arms. Rocco “the Parrot,” Jimmy “the Monk,” Joe “Yak,” Willie “Potatoes,” “Milwaukee” Phil—the whole alphabet soup of killers was there, even reputed overboss Tony “Big Tuna” Accardo.

  “Jill, what’s the big deal tonight?” I asked. “Frank and the whole pack were just here doing shows a month ago, right? How come the entire Chicago mob is here again?”

  Jilly shrugged. “Guys like to see Sinatra sing . . . what can I say? Besides . . .” His voice trailed off, head swiveling slowly side to side.

  I leaned in. “Yes . . . ?”

  “The Quonset Hut is open tonight.”

  “Quonset what?”

  “Hut. A gambling joint just up the road. Sam runs it. A mint.”

  I made a discreet wave at the mobsters. “But aren’t these the guys who usually do the fleecing? What’s their angle?”

  Jilly smiled at me. “C’mon, Joe, you know anything they lose is guaranteed, same as Frank is at the Sands. They just sorta stimulate the pigeons, if you get me.”

  “Oh, get I do, Jill. Remind me to keep my roll in my pocket.”

  He smiled broadly. “Just enjoy the scenery, it’s top shelf. Use your money for that.” He actually winked on that one, as if I didn’t understand the setup.

  “I’ve got another play in mind, thanks, paesan.”

  “Buona fortuna there, amico; nobody gets anywhere with that one, not even Frank.”

  I sat back, crossed my arms, grinning. “So that’s why ol’ Francis said he thought she’d go for me. He wants to watch me crash and burn, too. Maybe he won’t feel so bad that way.”

  Jilly looked on like the Sphinx, said nothing. But that nothing said a lot.

  The house lights dimmed twice, signaling the imminent beginning of an intimate evening with Anthony Di Scungille. I’d already heard the screams on his records; I didn’t need to visit the scene of the crime to know something was going to die up there.

  “See you later, Jill, I’m goin’ for a walk. Meet you back here at ten.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding. “I’ll be here.”

  I slipped downstairs toward the dressing rooms, hoping to get a chance to congratulate Claudia on her performance. The guy at the door knew I was with Frank and let me pass. As I neared her room, I made out a heavyset guy in a hat at the door, a bouquet of red roses behind his back. There was a brief conversation I couldn’t hear, then he went inside and the door closed behind him.

  I stood there awhile feeling stupid, arms at my sides. “Day late and a dollar short, Joe.” I sighed as I turned and headed back out.

  At least I had a good seat for a Sinatra show, I told myself. The night still held the promise of that.

  10

  Villa Venice management waited a good fifteen minutes after Di Scungille finished burning the popular songbook on a pyre before making the surprise announcement about Frank. Anyone dumb enough not to notice that half the house was still hanging on to their seats lost their own to the mob fringe and friends who slithered in when they made for their cars. There were some protests and a dustup or two, but out was out, especially with that crowd.

  I met Jilly back at the table just as the lights went down. The air was popping with excitement, hushed whispering rippling through the overwhelmingly Italian American crowd. I looked all over but didn’t see Claudia anywhere in the audience.

  A comedian came out to pave the way, making several ribald comments at the headliner’s expense before introducing him as, “The one and only . . . Mister Frank Sinatra!”

  A roar rolled through the room when Frank strutted onto the stage and tore into a two-fisted version of “I’m Gonna Live Till I Die.” The band was all over it, too, the brass coming down in ingots as Frank nailed the ending. He owned that crowd when he walked in, but after that, he could have loaned their own mothers to them at three points above the vig.

  The show, including a couple of monologues, ran a tight sixty minutes and closed to thunderous applause. We were all still on our feet when Frank came back out to perform an encore. He cracked a few jokes first then said he wanted to perform a brand-new song that Jimmy Van Heusen had written for his recently completed film set in Chicago.

  “Before I begin,” he added, “I just want to acknowledge a gentleman in the audience. He isn’t gonna get up, but he knows who he is—and how much he means to me. He’s a wonderful friend, and believe me when I tell you, I wouldn’t be here without him.” He held up a rocks glass, saluted the room. “Joe Bones, God love you, this song’s for you. Welcome home, dago.”

  I sat up in my chair, nodding ever so slightly to acknowledge Frank’s tribute, the first he’d ever given me in public. I was fully aware that he was sending a not-so-subtle message to certain parties in the audience as well as thanking me, but I couldn’t help the mile-wide grin that broke out on my face as he finished the short intro and then launched into the song, bringing a roar from the crowd as he began with the words, “This . . . is . . . my . . . kind of town, Chicago is . . .”

  11

  Backstage, there was the usual glad-handing and clowning, but Frank cut it off quickly. “Okay, boys,
” he said, “it’s already past eleven, time to go over to the Quonset Hut and let slip the bones.”

  What followed was a two-minute ride in a shuttle bus to a parking lot behind the nearby Flamingo Motel. At the far end there was a large half-moon building, maybe a hundred by one fifty, hidden in plain sight behind several dump trucks and tractors. Other than the blacked-out windows, the Quonset Hut looked fairly inconspicuous in the setting, its corrugated sides shining flatly in the moonlight. But what went on beneath them was anything but dull.

  Inside, several hundred people were swarming around roulette wheels, blackjack tables, and craps games, cigarette girls and cocktail waitresses weaving amid the throng on the plush carpeting, their wares well distributed throughout the packed room. Everything vibed Vegas: the noise, the energy, the occasional shouts of triumph.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” I said to Frank. “They do this right here in the open?”

  He backhanded me on the chest. “Which one of us is from Chicago anyway? The feds know all about it, but they want to get Sam on something bigger than this. And they aren’t gonna blow all their hard work by pinching us for playing cards, dig?”

  “Dug. As long as it stays on the hush, all is well. Same as it ever was here.”

  “Precisely,” said Frank as he embraced an Outfit guy and planted a kiss on his cheek, before patting the other several times.

  “Joe, I have to grip and grin with a few guys. See you in a bit. Ohh . . . And if you get the urge to throw the dice, Chuckie Sparrow here tells me table number three is the way to go. Mi capisci?”

  “Sì,” I said, nodding. “I understand. You okay?”

  He glanced at Chuckie then back at me. “You bet.”

  “Okay then, I’ll do just that.”

  I wandered the room awhile watching the sheep get shorn. They seemed happy enough though, probably considering it just the price of admission to breathe in air that Frank Sinatra had exhaled. I played some cards, got burned. Then I sauntered over to table three and laid down a five-dollar chip.

  My luck was better there, unnaturally better, I realized after rolling two sevens and three elevens in a row. A biscuit in black satin sidled up to me, slid an arm around mine. “You’re a lucky guy tonight, aren’t you?”

  I eyefulled her, made her for talent. The too-bright lipstick sealed it. “Aren’t you a bit cold in that lil’ thing, dear?”

  “I know how to get warm if you do, handsome.”

  I couldn’t help but smile; she must have been working volume. “Do you, now?”

  “It’s close,” she said, some odd kind of earnestness coming through her pitch.

  The croupier announced, “No more bets, folks. Shooter, are you ready?”

  Then I felt long-distance heat on me, scanned the room, spied a pair of chestnut eyes interrogating me from eighty feet. Claudia.

  She looked away when I smiled at her. I didn’t care, though, now that the odds really did seem to be turning in my favor.

  A gambler along the side of the table bleated, “Hey, buddy, you shootin’ or what?”

  I turned. “Huh?”

  “Is the shooter playing or passing, sir?” the croupier asked.

  “Oh yeah, I’m playing—just not here. Cash me out.”

  There was a groan from the rail buzzards who’d been riding my win streak. I looked at the dubious gains, handed a ten-dollar chip to the croupier. He nodded in thanks.

  A voice said, “What’s the play, lover?”

  It was the bordello number, still clutching my arm. She began to walk with me as I stepped away from the table.

  “Here’s the play,” I said, pressing two more chips into her gloved hand, “Take a break, honey, go buy yourself a coat. You look like you were a nice girl once.”

  She didn’t know whether to smile or slap me, but she put the tokens in her purse just the same as I moved off across the room, my eyes on a lady in a red dress.

  Jilly waylaid me halfway across the floor. “Frank wants you to say hi to Momo.”

  I frowned, started to strike a posture. But then I realized that the best place to take the temperature of the room regarding Sinatra might be right by Giancana’s side.

  “Lead the way, Jill,” I replied through a forced smile, nodding toward the far corner where Momo was standing with the other hoods.

  We walked together toward the big-boy section of the room, passing a phalanx of made guys on the way. They gave a series of chin nods or smiles to Jilly, but I didn’t know any of them. The only one I recognized was the big guy with the flowers I’d seen outside Claudia’s room. I didn’t know where he fit in, but I didn’t like it much. Somehow, I could have sworn I knew him from somewhere.

  Frank was telling some story to a couple of éminences grises in the mix. I patted his shoulder as I passed. Then I came face-to-face with the mob chieftain. “Mr. Giancana,” I said, “how you doing?”

  “Tuttabon’,” he answered. “Christ, I ain’t seen you in a while, Buonomo—I thought you was a ghost.” He found that funny for some reason, issuing a single cluck at his own comment.

  “Not yet, but it’s not for a lack of trying by some people.”

  Neither one of us laughed at that one, although Jilly smiled nervously.

  “Maybe you should take it easy then. I heard you half strangled one of Carpaccio’s guys today.”

  Behind Sam, I could see the flower guy angling through the crowd, edging closer, his eyes aglow.

  I flexed my neck. “Guy was out of line.”

  Giancana looked at me, his face stone serious. “He was right, you know—about O’Hare, I mean.”

  I could feel my face flushing, reminded myself I wasn’t dealing with an underling here. Sam Giancana wasn’t very big physically, but I knew that he was one of the most ruthless killers the Outfit had ever spawned.

  “Sam, I knew Butch O’Hare—”

  He waved his cigar vigorously side to side. “Nahhh. Not the kid, the old man—Edward O’Hare. Easy Eddie, we called him. He was with Capone.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me. I used to work for Capone back in the wild days, and I’m telling you I saw ol’ Alphonse and Mr. O’Hare get into that bulletproof Cadillac of Capone’s together more than once. They’d parley in the car so no snoops could overhear ’em.”

  “Yeah,” I conceded, “I remember. O’Hare was his lawyer or something, right?”

  Giancana flashed that killer’s smile at me. “Aaat’s right, he was his lawyer—and a lot more.”

  “But that’s got nothing to do with Butch. He was a stand-up guy. Had a Medal of Honor and went back into the fight—because he was better than his old man and he needed to prove it. And that’s something I know, Sam, because I knew him.”

  I could see the flower guy’s ears perk up. He was definitely eavesdropping on our conversation now. I glanced over at him, back at Sam, then said loudly for effect just to see what it would get me, “And I can tell you this too, Sam: The next son of a bitch to pop off about him won’t get half strangled.”

  Jilly’s eyes went lunar. Heads spun, including Frank’s, but Giancana just threw his head back and laughed out loud. “All right, all right,” he said, motioning down with his hands, “let’s let it go at that. The kid was all right. I didn’t mean no disrespect to him.”

  Giancana had thrown me a bone, so I played fetch. “Okay, I’m sorry about the ruckus, Sam. I don’t want any trouble, I’m just here to have some laughs with Frank anyhow.”

  He nodded in acceptance, pulled on his cigar. The guys around us turned back to their conversations, but there were still a few look-overs. We shifted to safer ground, made some small talk about Frank’s show. Frank drifted by, leaned over Sam’s shoulder, basking in the attention. If there was anything up at all, Sam didn’t betray it. He glanced back at Frank, grinned broadly, then jabbe
d a finger in the air in my direction. “Did ya catch Di Scungille’s show, by the way? He could be the next Sinatra.”

  Frank’s eyes rolled above his smirk in anticipation of my response.

  “He’s no Sinatra,” I said. “Maybe the next Jerry Vale. Now, that comedian who introduced Frank . . . What is it . . . Bobby Weyze? He had me in stitches. And that Claudia Cucciabella? She’s fabulous. She could fill any club in town. Let her open for Frank here next time he’s back, why don’t ya? Get her some real exposure.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, rocking his head. “Who wants to hear Italian anymore?” He hooked a thumb at Frank, “Dis guy, Dino, Bennett, Como—they all sing in English, right? Besides, I just own the joint, I don’t run it. You wanna talk to her manager? He’s around here somewheres.”

  He started to look around, but I waved him off. Why the hell would I want to get her ensnared in their web anyway? Frank’s drinking buddy Joe E. Lewis had lost half his throat getting out of the Outfit’s clutches, and Frank himself had been the source of innuendo about the mob strong-arming Tommy Dorsey to break his contract for decades.

  I decided to quit while I was behind. “Nah, skip it, Sam. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to convey my admiration to that lady in person.”

  “Is that what they call it dese days?” Sam said, what might have been a smile on his lips.

  12

  Claudia was alone at the end of the room next to the small checkerboard dance floor, her eyes on her moonlighting band as they grooved through “Take Five.” I watched her watching them, wondering what wheels were turning in her mind as the hypnotic rhythm riffed in recurring cycles. I stopped a few feet away, didn’t speak. She glanced at me then back at the band, her stiletto tapping in time with the music as the piano soloed above the irregular drumbeat. I knew the piece, guessed that she did too since it had been a hit for Dave Brubeck.