Prizzi's Honor

by Richard Condon

  “Hey! Charley?” she said.

  “Don’t wake up. Go back. We got to leave here by six.”

  “To where?”

  “Pop called and—”

  “Turn the light on, I can’t hear you.”

  He flipped the switch. Irene was sitting up in bed and her beautiful, blind boobs were staring at him just over the tops of the bed covers. “Jesus, Irene. You got a beautiful set.”

  “You already told me that. Tell me about Pop.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and talked as he undressed. “Pop called. He said things were heating up and we should get Filargi out of Brentwood by noon at the latest.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s all he could say. We’re going to talk again as soon as we get Filargi stashed.”

  “Where are we going to stash him?”

  “Well, we got a long drive tomorrow and a real short time tonight. We’ll talk in the car. This is a bed.” He threw back the sheet that covered her, gasped with pleasure, and fell upon her.

  ***

  They left the apartment at the beach at five minutes to six and talked about what they were going to do with Filargi all the way out to Brentwood. Irene wanted to talk about what they would demand from the Prizzis and where they would go after they beat the Prizzis, but Charley said that they had to get Filargi first, then figure out where they were going to put him. “We got a logistics thing here,” he said. “We can’t take him like to your house in LA because we got to be near enough to deal with Pop, the middleman. We can’t take him where there are a lot of people around because by now, believe me, everybody knows his face.”

  “I know. Where we can put him, I mean.”

  “Where?”

  “You put him to sleep in the back of the Chevy while I go out and rent a car and a big house trailer or maybe one of those trucks which are really like mobile homes and we’ll keep moving. We’ll drive out on the Island, way out, except when we have to meet Pop then we’ll come a little further in and park the trailer in a trailer park.”

  “I was thinking more in the shape of a boat.”

  “A boat?”

  “Like a cabin cruiser and we just cruise around the Great South Bay and Pop can get us on the ship-to-shore phone.”

  “That’s great if you know how to operate a boat.”

  “I thought you just steer it.”

  “It’s trickier than that. Besides, you ever been on a boat?”

  “Once, at the boat show.”

  “The whole floor moves on the water. That’s how people get seasick.”

  “The trailer is a better idea,” Charley said. “A mobile home. Listen, maybe we’ll like it. What’s a better way to stay out of sight after we stick it to the Prizzis. We take it to Canada, then Alaska, and after a couple of years maybe the whole climate is changed.”

  “Sensational.”

  “How do we get one?”

  “The Yellow Pages,” Irene said. “There are even people who rent yo-yos in the Yellow Pages.”

  ***

  Two miles from the house, Charley pulled the van to the side of the road. It was a fine summer morning on the mariner’s finger that pointed out to sea from New York. Charley said, “The Plumber will be up and Dom will be down. Dom is easy but the Plumber is an old campaigner.”

  “Why don’t you go in the back, then I’ll come in the front and get behind him,” Irene said.

  “Yeah. Good.”

  “When will the Prizzis find them?”

  “Pop calls in at noon and at six. If nobody answers he’ll send people out here. Okay? You all set?”

  “Me? What do I have to do except keep the Plumber from shooting you?”

  Charley drove into the driveway of the isolated house. He got out of the car and moved around the house to the back door. As soon as he was out of sight, Irene left the van and moved in the opposite direction to the front of the house. As Charley was letting himself in the back door, Irene was opening the front door, under a wide porch.

  Charley moved into the kitchen. Halfway to the refrigerator he heard the Plumber’s voice behind him.

  “Hey, Cholly!” Melvini said.

  Charley spun around. His back was to the front of the house. Melvini faced the direction of the front door with the door into the dining room at his left. Melvini had a .38 Police Special in his right hand. It was pointed at Charley’s stomach.

  “What’s the piece for?” Charley asked.

  “You were going to take the big banker out of here, hey, Charley? Jesus, that could make the Prizzis kind of sore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We all got a job here, Charley. I am the telephone man. I record all the calls on a tape machine and I got you and Angelo when he called you last night.”

  “Then I’m a dummy.”

  “Charley, I don’t know a smarter cat than Angelo. If he has you taking the banker out of here, then we are talking heavy money. If it’s rich enough for you and Angelo then I want in.”

  “In?”

  “If we can make a deal, I’m your man.”

  “How much are the Prizzis paying you for your stand?” Charley asked.

  “Fifteen dollars.”

  “We’ll pay fifty.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as we settle with the Prizzis.”

  “How much do you figure they owe you?”

  “Plumber, you were okay with fifteen dollars. Now it’s fifty. That’s all you need to know.”

  Melvini grinned. “You’re right, Charley. What do we do now?”

  “We put the piece away.”

  The Plumber tucked the revolver in his belt at the small of his back. Irene moved into the kitchen at his direct left, ten feet away, in the doorway to the dining room, holding a gun on Melvini. “You made the best deal you ever made, Plumber,” she said, smiling that gorgeous smile.

  That broke the Plumber up. He laughed so hard it rattled the dishes. “They doubled on you and I make a big deal out of it,” he managed to say, “and all the time you are doubling on me.”

  “What the hell, Al,” Charley said, grinning. “Doubling is just kid stuff.”

  ***

  Charley and the Plumber tied Dom to the bed, making him as comfortable as possible. “Listen, I could starve to death here,” Dom said. “You take off with the client while I could starve here.”

  “Come on,” Charley said, “how can you starve? They’ll call in at noon and when nobody picks up, they’ll come out here.”

  “Listen, I’m the one who is in the shit,” Dom said. “At least I am entitled to a good breakfast.”

  “All right,” Charley said. “Make him some breakfast.”

  “Not him!” Dom protested. “Did you ever try to eat it when this guy cooks it? You make it, Charley. Some fried pasta with a little tomatoes, a little garlic; some scrambled eggs with little peppers. What do you say?”

  “Ah, shit,” Charley said, and hit him with the sap.

  When the two men went upstairs, Irene went to the classified phone directory. She found what she wanted, made the call and arranged to go into Bayshore to get one mobile home. When the two men came downstairs to organize Filargi for the journey she told Charley that the trailer was all set. “It’s one of those complete units on a big truck, Charley,” she said, “just like you wanted. But I got to drive in to get it, then I need somebody to get the Chevy back here.”

  “What did I tell you?” Melvini said. “These jobs got to have three people.”

  “How long you going to be?” Charley asked.

  “Maybe an hour, maybe more,” Irene said.

  “It’s eight-twenty. Figure two hours. Be back here at half past ten and I’ll have him ready to go.”

  “We going to miss the twelve o’clock call?”

  “That’s what my father wants,” Charley said.

  ***

  When Irene and the Plumber left, Charley went to the ice box and got out the stuff t
o make himself some fried pasta with some tomatoes and a little garlic and some scrambled eggs with peppers. At 9:20 he had eaten and cleaned up the kitchen and he went down the cellar stairs to the padlocked door. He unlocked, talking through the door as he did, then he went into the room.

  “How are you?” he asked Filargi, who was fully dressed in a neat little blue suit, a white shirt, and a blue tie with small silver figures on it. The last time he had come out from New York, Charley had brought him three new shirts, three changes of underwear and, at Filargi’s request, a tin of black shoe polish and a shoe brush.

  “I’m all right,” Filargi said.

  “Food all right?” It was Charley’s cooking.

  “Excellent. Really delicious.”

  “You got enough books?”

  “Well—”

  “We’ll get more books for you,” Charley said. “Tell me something, you know who grabbed you?”

  The banker made one short, emphatic nod. “The Prizzis,” he answered. “And I know why. When I get out of here, if I get out, which doesn’t seem likely, I am going to spend the rest of my life pinning this on them.”

  “You’re a real feisty little guy,” Charley said. “Now lissena me. We are taking you out of here. The Prizzis don’t control this anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “That is a private reason between me and the Prizzis. But it could be a better deal for you. At least there is nobody to tell us that we got to do the job on you. And, if it works out a certain way—” by that Charley meant if the Prizzis refused to meet his terms “—it could be a better deal for you all around because the Prizzis figured to take the bank away from you and I ain’t got no use for your bank.”

  “Well, the way things are, what have I got to lose? What do you want from me?”

  “Just cooperate. That’s all. Just cooperate. You ready for some breakfast?”

  “Yes, I am. I certainly am.”

  “Then come on. We’ll go upstairs and you can eat in the kitchen for a change.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The two men of respect, Vincent Prizzi and Angelo Partanna, sat in the thirty-by-thirty, six-window office of Ed Prizzi on the sixty-seventh floor of the United Insurance Industries building, which Prizzi capital had built, and which the Prizzis owned.

  Ed Prizzi sat behind a massive early Georgian table, which was his desk, holding in his hands the letter from Charley Partanna that threatened to wreck Corrado Prizzi’s monument, a seventy-million-dollar heist.

  Vincent’s eyes had curdled. He had not been able to speak once on the journey from Brooklyn to Ed Prizzi’s office because his own man, the traitorous Charley Partanna, had deliberately emasculated him before the eyes of his father by directing the letter to his brother who was not even supposed to have anything to do with the part of the Prizzi business that this letter concerned.

  Vincent had worked himself into an erratic anger but Angelo Partanna was objective, wary and cold. His single interest at the meeting was to use Ed Prizzi’s sudden superiority over his older brother to secure the survival of his own son and the assurance that he, Angelo Partanna, was the only possible choice of go-between to repossess Filargi, so that he and Charley could proceed with their plans.

  “‘Dear Ed,’” Eduardo Prizzi read aloud from Charley’s letter, “‘You are probably hot right now because we took Filargi but when you hear the score at least you and your father are going to understand why there was no other way we could go.

  “‘Vincent put out a contract on me.’”

  Vincent roared, “What the fuck is that? He’s crazy. If I put out a contract on him he’d be blown away by now.”

  “Vincent, lissena me,” Ed said. “You want to hear this letter then you sit there and keep your mouth shut. This is maybe sixty-seven million dollars here that’s got to be renegotiated to get it back. So shut up and listen to this.”

  He picked up the message smoothly where he had been interrupted.

  “‘Naturally, he’ll say it’s a lot of bullshit but it so happens he hired my own wife and he gave her a down payment of fifty dollars, and my wife is sitting right here beside me while I write this down, laughing like hell. I personally think Don Corrado found Vincent on his door step because Vincent is like fifty times too dumb to be a Prizzi.’”

  Ed looked up and grinned at his brother. “I never knew Charley was such a joker,” he said, “lissena this.

  “‘So, the first thing I got to have before you get Filargi back is that you deliver Vincent to me where I tell you, when I tell you.

  “‘Don Corrado told my wife that he would forget the whole business about Louis Palo and the three hundred sixty dollars if she paid back the three sixty plus fifty percent. Now, from past experience with the Prizzi policy, it could be that Don Corrado was going to have my wife clipped after she paid back the money. Therefore, the second thing we got to have before you get Filargi back is that you pay to my wife the seven hundred twenty dollars she had to give up out of the Vegas scam, plus the fifty percent penalty on the three hundred sixty, plus the difference of fifty dollars which Vincent Prizzi would have had to pay her for giving her the contract on me. That is only the side money.’”

  Vincent was the color of a bouquet of flowers. His blood pressure had taken off because of outrage and fear. His breathing was shallow. He made choked sounds while Angelo got out of his chair and patted him softly on the back, making comforting sounds.

  “We are trying to do business here,” Ed Prizzi said, his face as long as a horse’s and as seriously disapproving. “You’re going to have your chance at a stroke later, Vincent. Calm down, fahcrissakes.”

  “Charley is dead,” Vincent said. He remembered Angelo and turned to him. “I’m sorry, Angelo,” he said, “but Charley is strictly dead.”

  “Listen to Ed, Vincent,” Angelo said softly. “For seventy million dollars.”

  “‘For the main money, this is what I want,’” Ed continued reading from the letter. “‘Twenty-three hundred and fourteen dollars and some change for expenses. That’s what I figure it’s going to cost me for the three weeks while you set it all up. Then I want fifty dollars for the fee for my helper and, of course, the fee that was promised to my wife as second man in the Filargi stand.’”

  Ed looked up with surprise. “Charley’s wife was the second man?” he asked Angelo incredulously.

  Angelo nodded. “She was right,” he said. “She was the only way we could take out the bodyguard.”

  Vincent passed a deadly look to Angelo. Angelo had held out on him.

  Ed went back to reading from the letter. “‘Then I want all of the full insurance coverage on Filargi’s kidnap policy which is two million five hundred thousand. Altogether, that comes to eleven hundred to my wife, fifty for extra labor, the twenty-three fourteen for expenses, and two and a half million from the policy. That makes a total of $3,652,314—plus Vincent.

  “‘There is only one man I trust to deal with, my father. Talk it over. Make your mind up. If you want to do business, run the house flag of the New York Athletic Club on the pole on the thirty-third-floor terrace of the building at ten after twelve on Thursday. That gives you two days. When I see the flag I’ll send you the letter about how we’ll work this out. Charley.’”

  The only sound was Vincent’s breathing.

  Ed Prizzi said briskly, “Look at it this way. On seventy million dollars that is only an eight percent sales cost if we were paying out the two and a half million. But we aren’t. The insurance company pays and the premiums are deductible, so what we are looking at here is a sales cost of like two point two percent, plus overhead, to get the whole bank back. Listen, how can we not recommend a deal like that?”

  “How? I’ll tell you how,” Vincent yelled. “Because I’m a part of the fucking sales cost, that’s how.”

  “Come on, Vincent!” his brother said. “Charley is just making a point! That is negotiable. Right, Angelo? Am I right?”

  Angelo pu
t an arm across Vincent’s shoulders. “You know Charley, fahcrissake, Vincent. You know he’s got to make his point. It’s a thing like honor with him. All right. He made his point. Now we dangle the three million six in front of him and we tell him take it or leave it and he takes it.”

  “Fahcrissake, Vincent. You don’t think we would turn you over to Charley, fahcrissake?” Ed said. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I am not saying the whole wad, Angelo. After all, what is negotiating? We make him an offer, then we settle.”

  “You never worked with Charley, Ed,” Vincent said. “He don’t settle. He is a very straight boy. If you want Filargi you are going to have to pay all the money.” He left the rest of the payoff unmentioned.

  “Then let’s go over to Poppa’s and get this thing settled,” Ed said. He handed Angelo Charley’s letter. Angelo folded it and put it into an inside pocket.

  The three men rode down in the elevator just as silently as all the other passengers, no more, no less. Ed copped a feel from a nice-looking young head standing just ahead of him in the elevator car. She turned around and smiled at him. He got so hot that he would have gone out with her if Angelo hadn’t grabbed his arm and held him back.

  When they got to the entrance on Fifty-sixth Street, they were starting out to the curb when Ed said, “I got to pick up a Wall Street closing,” and turned back toward the newsstand. A blue Oldsmobile 98, which had been parked fifty feet down the street, moved and sedately passed the three men, who were at different distances from the curb: Angelo was a few feet back of Vincent, turning to acknowledge Ed, who was ten feet farther back, turning toward the building, when Cheech Scaramanzia of the Bocca family opened rapid fire from the blue car as it went past. Vincent went down. The blue car moved out and turned with the stream of traffic at the avenue. Ed came running out of the building.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Vincent Prizzi was dead on arrival at the Roosevelt Hospital. Angelo Partanna and Ed Prizzi had faded into the crowd, watching the ambulance crew take Vincent away. Angelo told Ed to go back to his office, stopped a taxi and followed the ambulance to the hospital. Within ten minutes he had bribed two nurses and three orderlies so that he could sit in the visitors’ room on the emergency floor and receive the medical bulletins. When it was confirmed that Vincent was dead, he telephoned Ed from a booth and told him he was on his way to Brooklyn to tell the don.