Maximum Rossi

by Paul W Papa

  “Reformed,” I assured her.

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “I was never full-fledged. I just dabbled.”

  She sat quietly for a while and I let her. I had gotten us in a bit of a jam and I wasn’t quite sure how to get us out. Fingers would probably take care of the boxing match in the Emerald Room, but the dame was a different story entirely. Bilotti’s pride was hurt and while I could certainly handle myself, even if I had to take a beating, I had promised Jeanie that I’d protect her and that was a zucchini of a different color.

  “He’s going to kill me,” Jeanie said solemnly. “He told me if I ever left him, he would find me and kill me.”

  Now I really hated him. “He’s not going to kill you,” I said for no reason.

  Jeanie looked me square in the eye. “I know what he does for a living,” she said. “I’m not a child. I knew he was mob when I started dating him, but he was just so charming, and he treated me very well, jewelry, clothes, anything I wanted. We ate at fine restaurants, all the maître d’s knew him. They gave him the best tables and the good wine—not the cheap stuff they pretended was good. We sat front row at all the shows.” She paused and stared off in the distance. “It was…nice.”

  “Until it stopped being nice,” I said. That brought her back.

  She looked down at her tea. “Until it stopped being nice,” she repeated.

  “So why did you stay?”

  Jeanie looked up at me. “I told you. He said he’d kill me if I ever left. He doesn’t care about me; he just likes people to know he has a dancer for a girlfriend.”

  “You mean a hostage.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “From where do you hail?” I asked her.

  “I’m a Midwest girl,” she said. “Grew up on a farm.”

  Somehow, I couldn’t see it. “What brought you here?” I asked.

  “They did a hunt for Copa Girls,” Jeanie began. “Jack and Jake.”

  She was referring to Jake Freeman and Jack Entratter who was once the manager of the Copacabana club in New York City, but had moved to Vegas to run Freeman’s Copa Room.

  “Freeman wanted dancers,” Jeanie continued, “but he wanted them from Texas. One of my girlfriends, Virginia James, told me about it, so I drove all the way to El Paso and put in the application we got from the newspaper. We both got letters saying we had made the final cut, and that they were coming to El Paso to see us. Virginia was from El Paso, so she had to teach me how to be a Texan.”

  “I guess it took.”

  “And how! We showed up to the contest at some radio station. There were so many other girls. Some wore bathing suits, but Virginia and I wore dancer’s shorts with a cropped shirt and hose. Virginia said they’d want to see us in hose. It showed off our legs and our stomachs.

  “Jack liked Virginia right away, you could tell. And why wouldn’t he? She was tall and leggy and a great dancer. But I could tell he had his eye on me as well, so I played it up as much as I could. Problem was, and we didn’t know this at the time, but Jack only wanted one girl from each town. We were competing against each other.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said.

  “It was,” she agreed. “But it all worked out. Jack looked at Virginia and said ‘Virginia, I have to have you. But, Jeanie, you are so pretty, I'm going to take you, too.’ So, we both made it. It was the only town where they took two girls.”

  “Imagine that,” I said.

  “I’ve been here ever since.”

  “And Virginia?” I asked.

  “She’s still in the show, still dancing.”

  “They never found out you weren’t from Texas?”

  “Oh, they found out, but by then it was too late to change anything. I play the act when I need to. I’ve learned enough about Texas to fit in. Jack looks the other way.”

  We chatted for a little while longer, but I could see the sleep setting in, so I showed her to one of the bedrooms and offered her the bed.

  “Where will you sleep?” she asked.

  “There’s two more of these,” I assured her. “There’re towels in the bathroom, they came with the place, but I haven’t had a chance to purchase toiletries or sheets for that matter.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said.

  She looked up and me and I down at her. She had sad eyes; the kind that had already seen too much in life. A real man would have pulled her to him and kissed her. I guess I wasn’t a real man.

  “Well, goodnight then,” I said.

  Jeanie hesitated, then she kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

  I stood there as she went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. After a few minutes I made my way into the living room, loosened my tie, and threw my coat on the back of a chair. I sat on the sofa and pulled off my shoes, then I let my head rest on the sofa’s back. The blanket Jeannie had used lay next to me. I pulled it to my nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled like her. I had only intended to sit there for a few minutes, to gather my thoughts, but before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep.

  Seven

  WHEN I AWOKE Jeanie was gone. There wasn’t a sign of her in either the bedroom or the bathroom—heck, nowhere in the entire house for that matter. I hadn’t expected that. Perhaps she was an early riser and needed to make herself up. I had nothing to offer her; my kitchen was empty and my house bare. Since there was little I could do about it, I dressed for the day and headed to my favorite diner.

  I had just ordered breakfast and was sweetening my cup of Joe, when Lieutenant Connor McQueeney, “Queeney” to those who knew him, took the seat across from me. That couldn’t be good.

  “Please, join me,” I said. Queeney was actually a transplant from Boston. He had an Irish-Boston accent, a ruddy complexion, dirty red hair, and the kind of knuckles that never passed on a fight. Queeney came from a long line of Irish police officers, at least some of whom were on the family’s payroll. Queeney had come here, I assumed, to escape the connotations that came with the badge in Boston. I’m not sure he picked the right place.

  “You’re still here,” Queeney said. He removed his Stacy Adams hat and set it on the seat beside him.

  It really was the same script, and everyone had it, but I was getting tired of the production. “You come here just to bump gums?” I asked.

  Queeney smiled. He was a dick, so instead of a uniform, he wore a grey flannel suit, with a white button-down shirt, and a matching tie. He was as dull as a two-penny bulb. “I heard you got into a bit of a row last night.”

  “News travels fast,” I said. “Is that why you’re here? Because you heard I bent the nose of some nogoodnik?

  “Nah,” Queeney said, “I don’t care what mobsters do to each other, until it involves me.”

  “And just how does this involve you?”

  “Why don’t you come down to the station, we can talk there.”

  “Why would I want to do that? Don’t tell me the palooka pressed charges.”

  “Why don’t you just come down. We can take my car.”

  “You arresting me Queeney?” I asked.

  “Don’t get all starched,” he said. “We’re just talking. I just want to do it someplace where the ears aren’t so perky.”

  “I don’t think I like where this is going Queeney,” I said. “I think I’m going to respectfully decline your invitation.”

  Just then another suit stepped up to the table. His suit was as grey as his expression. I was pretty sure he wasn’t there to ask how I wanted my eggs.

  “C’mon Max, we’ll take my car,” Queeney repeated.

  It looked like I was going for a ride whether I wanted to or not. I reached back for my wallet. The suit grabbed my arm. Queeney sent me a look.

  “I’m taking out my wallet,” I said. “I’ve already ordered, I need to leave the waitress a buck or two.”

  Queeney smiled and nodded at the suit to let go of my arm. “Breakfast is on us,” he said.

>   I donned my chapeau and slid out of the booth. Queeney followed. He motioned for me to walk ahead of him. “Take care of the bill, O’Malley,” he told the suit and put the Stacy Adams back where it belonged. Seniority has its privileges.

  It was a quiet ride to the station and an even quieter walk to the box, but I was grateful not to be in bracelets. Queeney was as cordial as could be. That didn’t sit well with me either. He opened the door and I peeked inside. The room was smartly decorated with three worn chairs and a large piece of haggard wood that at one time passed for a table. It was a perfectly fine room for a hobo to sleep off a drunk in. Queeney showed me to the seat across the table where he and probably the other dick would be sitting. I took the seat and set my hat on the table, hoping not to attract splinters.

  “You want a cup?” Queeney asked.

  I nodded.

  “Black?”

  “Sugar if you have it,” I said.

  Queeney sent the suit he called O’Malley for the coffee and took a seat. He folded his hands and placed them on the table in front of him, throwing caution to the wind. “Why don’t you tell me about last night,” he said.

  I leaned back in my chair. “I bent a guy’s nose because he slapped some dame around. You gonna arrest me for that?”

  “It wasn’t just some guy Max, it was a button man, Joe ‘The Barber’ Bilotti,” Queeney said.

  “Yeah, I know who he is.”

  Queeney reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. He offered me one, but I refused. I watched as he lit his own and took a deep puff. I moved the ashtray nearer to him. “So why did you hit him?” Queeney asked as he let the smoke out.

  “I told you, he backhanded some dame.”

  “And you took exception to that.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I asked. “I was raised a gentleman.”

  Queeney dropped his ashes. He took his time asking me his next question. “How’d you do it?”

  “The standard way,” I said. “I curled up my fist and threw it at him.”

  “You’re a pistol, aren’t you?” Queeney said. “Bilotti’s a pretty big guy. How’d you get the drop on him?”

  The suit came in with my coffee and set it on the table in front of me. Then he took the seat next to Queeney.

  “Your lackey?” I asked.

  “Watch your tongue,” O’Malley said.

  Queeney laughed.

  “Look,” I said. “If you’re going to arrest me for slapping a guy around who deserved a good beating, then let’s get to it. I got things to do.”

  Queeney grinned. “Where’d you go after the boxing match?”

  “I went to a nightclub I know and had a few drinks. Why does that matter?”

  “You got a home?” Queeney asked.

  O’Malley just sat there, a blank man, expressionless, not moving a muscle or saying a word. His job was to make me uncomfortable. It was beginning to work. “I got a room at the Sands,” I said.

  “But you didn’t go there, did you?”

  I leaned forward. “If you know where I went, then why don’t you tell me?”

  Queeney studied me for a moment. “You haven’t touched your coffee,” he finally said.

  I picked up the cup and took a sip. O’Malley had put way too much sand in it. I spit it out.

  “What’s wrong?” Queeney asked.

  I looked at O’Malley; he was grinning like the cat who had swallowed the canary. I’m sure I saw feathers coming out of his mouth. “Nothing,” I said. “I just realized I don’t like coffee. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here, Queeney?”

  “Don’t get frosted,” O’Malley said.

  “Get bent!” I retorted, then turned back to Queeney. “You gonna give me the scoop, or should I just hit the road?”

  Queeney pressed his smoke hard into the ashtray like he was squashing a bug. He turned his attention to me. “Bilotti’s dead,” he said.

  I couldn’t have been more surprised had my mother walked into the room with a priest. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Dead, not breathing, cashed in his chips, sleeping with the fish. Whatever you mobsters call it. Here at the station, we call him a stiff.”

  I leaned forward. “I didn’t give him that bad a beating,” I said.

  “That’s not what Abbandandolo said.” He threw the name out like a fastball in the strike zone. He meant it to get my attention. It worked.

  “You talked to Fing, um Frank?” I asked.

  “Fingers and I spoke,” Queeney said with a grin.

  “What did he say?” I didn’t figure he’d tell me, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  Queeney leaned forward. He folded his thick fingers into each other and laid them on the table. “He said Bilotti tripped.”

  I smiled.

  “He also said Bilotti was alive when he left.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Then why am I here?”

  Queeney unfolded his hands and placed them on the edge of the table, bracing himself as he leaned even more forward. “Cause I know you and Bilotti have history. I don’t know what that history is, but knowing your father’s line of work, I can imagine, and I have a good imagination. I also know that when you left the room, you weren’t alone. You had Bilotti’s girl in tow.”

  “Frank tell you that too?”

  Queeney smiled. He leaned back and folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Frank wasn’t the only one in the room.” He paused. “You go back to Bilotti’s house and finish the job?”

  “You’re asking me if I took out a made guy without permission?” I said.

  “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “I’d be the first to do it for hitting a skirt. Look Queeney, you know enough about the family to know I’m not in with both feet.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still in.”

  That comment hit a bit harder than I expected it to. “I may know the players,” I said. “It doesn’t mean I’ve got skin in the game.”

  “Then tell me what happened.”

  “I told you, Bilotti rapped a skirt across the face and I bloodied his nose.”

  “Yeah, I already know that part. Who was the skirt?”

  I had hoped to hide Jeanie’s involvement, but it didn’t look like it was going down that way. “Some girl that came up to meet him,” I said.

  “You can do better than that,” Queeney countered.

  I looked down at the table, trying to weigh the odds. They weren’t very good. I was going to have to come clean. “All right,” I said. “I took his moll with me. She’s a dancer at the Sands. A Copa Girl.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I looked at Queeney. “You know her name,” I said.

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Jeanie Gardner,” I said.

  “And where did you and Jeanie Gardner go after you left, and don’t tell me to your hotel room. We both know that’s a lie.”

  I looked hard at Queeney. He seemed like the kind of man who held his cards close to the vest.

  “You take her to your place over on seventh street?” he asked.

  I was impressed. “How’d you find out about that?” I asked.

  “I’m a cop,” he said. “And, as you’re about to find out, very good at my job.”

  “All right,” I said. “I took her to a place I’m renting on seventh street. Is that a crime?”

  “So, you’re staying in town.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You with her all night?”

  “We were together in the same house if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. I was beginning to wish I smoked.

  “Don’t get steamed,” Queeney said. “I’m just trying to get the picture. When did she leave?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “She took a bedroom and I took the sofa. She was gone when I woke up.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About an hour before you interrupted my brea
kfast.”

  “And you don’t mind if we search your house?”

  “If you’ve got a warrant, you can do whatever you like,” I said. “Now if you’re not gonna arrest me, I’d say we’re done here.”

  Queeney smiled that big toothy grin of his. The smile you can’t help but get when your hand is full and you’re playing a patsy, only I was the patsy. “Don’t leave town,” he said.

  Finally, someone wanted me to stay.

  Eight

  THE MOB DIDN’T want me here. The police didn’t want me here. And now I was the suspect in a murder. My day was looking up, if you considered a man tying his own noose as upward. I took a taxi from the station back to the diner, got my Roadmaster, then headed for the Sands. I needed to make sure my hotel room hadn’t had any unwanted visitors. It hadn’t. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Good ol’ Bobby.

  I freshened up a bit, combed my hair, then slid open the desk drawer where I’d stored my favorite .38. I made sure it was loaded, then slipped it into the shoulder holster I had just put on. It’s not that I needed the piece, but it had a habit of coming in handy. The kind of thing that gave a man an extra bolt of courage when needed. Like fresh drawers or a new hat. I slid on my suit jacket, donned my lid, and headed for the casino.

  Bobby was already there. I wondered if that man ever took time off, but then again, I had been at the station for quite some time.

  “Mr. Rossi,” he said. “It is so good to see you.”

  “Did you think you wouldn’t?”

  Bobby smiled out of habit, but it was a distant smile, something you flash to be polite.

  “Something bothering you?” I asked. That brought him back.

  “No, Mr. Rossi, everything is fine. Can I get you a drink?”

  “I was just headed to the café to get a sandwich,” I said. “I missed breakfast.”

  “I can take care of that for you, Mr. Rossi. Shall I bring something to the table, or do you want to eat in the café?”

  “What the heck,” I said. “I might as well be productive while I eat. I’ll take it at the table. How about a club and a crisp dill?” I first had the sandwich at the Saratoga Club in New York and I was hooked. Turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, cheese, all stacked three layers high—what wasn’t there to love?