by Jim Fusilli
A few scratches with a pen, the thud of a rubber stamp and they were accepted.
“So that’s how we got to Narrows Gate,” Leo Bell said. “That’s the story.”
“Józef Herlitz,” Benno said, trying the Polish pronunciation. “Herlitz. Explains everything. The name, it’s serious like you. Bell, I don’t know. It’s light. Maybe you should’ve stayed Campanello, which is Italian for bell, by the way.”
“I know.”
“Herlitz,” he said, still trying it out. “Herlitz.”
“Forget the name, Sal. You call me Herlitz when you get out of here and I’m fucked. This secret has to hold.”
“I can tell you this, Leo. If you want to keep getting away with being Italian, you shouldn’t go around like you’re the professor of Polk Street. I mean, you seen Mimmo carrying books?”
Bell said no.
“Maybe try to be like me. Except keep both eyes. Between us, we’re going to need all we got. With Farcolini on the run, it could all go to hell.”
“This matters?”
“You want Maguire and the other Irish cops back?”
“I’m asking if this is what you think about all day.”
“I’m thinking if they leave us with Mimmo and his band of idioti, we might as well get back on the boat.”
“Speaking of Mimmo,” Bell said, relieved the subject had changed, “you heard about Bebe and his niece?”
“From who?”
“Bebe’s in with Mimmo’s niece.”
“Fuckin’ Bebe,” Benno said, grimacing in distaste.
“What’s the matter with Bebe?”
“Bebe Marsala. What kind of name is that? He’s ashamed he’s Sicilian. Pretty soon he’ll be telling people he never heard of Narrows Gate. You watch. He’ll put a thousand million miles between us and where he’s going.”
Bell had no feeling for Bebe, a stuck-up prig if there ever was one, but he was about to defend him. Leaving Narrows Gate seemed a sensible ambition. But he let it pass, considering. “Feel good to get mad at Bebe?” he asked.
Benno sat up. “You know what? It does.” He balled his fists, bobbed his head. “Let’s go a couple rounds, me and you.”
Bell help up his hands. “Listen, are we all right on this thing?”
“What? The Jew thing? I forgot it already.”
“Not possible.”
Benno said, “No, no. Your father, he made the right move. A Jew gets no shot in Narrows Gate, believe me.”
Cy Geller was reluctant to leave South Florida, where he was protected not only by his own security team but also by a succession of local cops and government officials. They were never the obvious choice—a captain, a mayor, a congressman—but people deep in the machine who made things go, people who were no more obvious than a coat tree in a corner or dust on Venetian blinds.
A pensive man of regal bearing in his late 50s, Geller conducted his business from an office behind his 9,000-square-foot plantation-style home in Coral Gables. Under a Mediterranean tiled roof, the office had only three walls surrounded by dense, shoulder-high bushes. At the front, behind a lounging area filled with wicker chairs and tile-topped tables, was a wide entrance that revealed Geller’s desk, seats for visitors and an armoire. Inside the armoire was a safe that was bolted into the concrete floor. Most days, it held up to $1 million in cash.
Geller occasionally spent a few minutes under the palm trees in his yard, enjoying the hibiscus his wife had planted and watching tiny lizards dart across the grass. But then he would return to his desk. His guards knew if Mr. Geller was at work, a good reason was needed to disturb him.
Geller was Carlo Farcolini’s most trusted advisor and ally and had been since the day they walked along Mulberry Street to announce their association while Gus Uccello’s bullet-ridden body lay in a Coney Island morgue. He helped coordinate many of Don Carlo’s strategies to synchronize the underworld throughout the country and the Caribbean. At present, Geller was developing a plan to improve the flow of heroin imported from Sicily through Havana into Miami and New Orleans. In addition, he was responsible for monitoring the infiltration of Los Angeles, an action coordinated by Ziggy Baum.
Now Geller was to be pulled away from these enterprises, at least temporarily. A message had arrived: Farcolini instructed Geller to go to New York and meet with Corini and Gigenti. Geller understood this meant Farcolini could no longer outrun Dewey and the feds. When he surrendered, the void in leadership would have to be filled until a deal could be struck.
Geller flew immediately to Newark Airport and a driver brought him into Lower Manhattan. He checked into the Grosvenor Hotel under an assumed name, showered, put on a wool suit he’d brought north in a carry-on and took a taxi to Pell Street. When Geller arrived at the Chinese restaurant, which was situated underground, Anthony Corini was already seated in a red vinyl booth, a pot of tea at his elbow. Short, broad at the shoulders, his nose once broken at the bridge and now hooked, Corini stood to greet Geller. They embraced.
Geller sat across from him, his back to the door.
“We wait for Bruno,” Geller said.
Though he tried to conduct himself as a modern businessman, Corini bristled at any measure of disrespect, which is how he took his rival’s decision to be tardy. “Maybe I send him a watch for Christmas.”
Geller poured himself a cup of tea.
Gigenti arrived 20 minutes later with Eugenio Zamarella, a tall, thin man whose skin was scarred with deep pockmarks. He took Gigenti’s hat and coat, folding the latter over his arm, and sat at a table on the other side of the small restaurant.
Rather than sit next to Geller or Corini, Gigenti dragged a chair from an adjoining table. A large, bearish man, he sat and crossed a thick leg. A cuff of his gray slacks seemed of more interest to him than the presence of Geller and Corini.
“Bruno,” Geller said softly. “I have a message from Don Carlo.”
“And you already told this one,” he bellowed in Sicilian, nodding at Corini.
Geller sighed. Though the restaurant was nearly empty prior to the dinner rush, the idea was to be as inconspicuous as possible, but here Gigenti had brought along his button Zamarella, sat himself in the aisle and barked in Sicilian.
“Bruno, please,” Geller said. “The situation is difficult enough.”
Anthony Corini studied Gigenti. Under Farcolini, they had become rivals. Responsible for the traditional work including drugs, loan sharking, prostitution and the waterfront, Gigenti scorned the organization’s legitimate businesses and its ambitions in politics and entertainment. He thought Corini’s activities were costly and naive; investing in anything less lucrative than crime was stupid. But Corini could see the logic in Farcolini’s plan to diversify. Were it further along, Don Carlo wouldn’t be under threat of prison or deportation: He would own the man in Dewey’s seat. If the troubles brewing in Europe cut off the supply of heroin from Sicily, a diverse portfolio of legitimate activities could fund operations until new sources for the drug were developed.
To Geller, the two rivals, men in their early 40s, represented different aspects of Carlo Farcolini’s personality. Gigenti was the brute, the cold, conscienceless killer. Though he was in on the Uccello hit, Corini had come to believe finesse was almost always less costly than violence. Geller believed both men would profit from a thorough collaboration and ultimately both would fail if they undermined each other’s efforts.
Corini leaned his elbows on the table. “Bruno, what’s on your mind?” he said in Sicilian. “If we have a problem, we tell Cy and work it out.”
He didn’t disagree. Though he had joined him after the Patti hit in ’29, Gigenti still felt he had no personal relationship with Farcolini, who had met Corini in reform school when they were teens. Don Carlo and Corini spoke as friends. For all his efforts, Gigenti felt Farcolini held him at arm’s length. With Geller, maybe he could be heard.
“The problem,” he said to Corini, “is you take, but you don’t bring. I to
ld you this a hundred times.”
“I don’t dispute your facts, Bruno. But this is an investment and it needs time.”
Gigenti waved his hand. He’d heard this before.
Corini said, “We shouldn’t be at each other’s throats. We’re at a crossroads here, no?”
“The thing runs right,” Gigenti insisted. “Where’s the problem?”
Corini looked across the table.
Geller said, “Bruno, come here.” He tapped the seat next to him. “Sit over here. Come on.”
Gigenti hesitated, then moved into the red booth.
Zamarella watched from across the room.
“Here’s the issue,” Geller began. “Carlo can’t continue to flee the feds. He will either end up in prison or in Sicily—whether he’s deported or leaves on his own.”
“So what Dewey says in the papers is true,” Corini said. “There’s no chance he beats the rap.”
Geller nodded. “It’s done. He takes the hit.”
Corini shook his head in dismay. Three whores and a soldier up in the Bronx had testified to a grand jury about Farcolini’s involvement in prostitution. Dewey couldn’t make anything else stick, so he went with it.
“It’s up to you two to keep everything moving,” Geller said softly. “Don’t see this as an opportunity.”
Before either man could protest, Geller raised his hand. “It’s not a matter of your loyalty. It’s a matter of judgment. You both believe what you want to do is right. Fine. But we continue what Don Carlo planned, regardless.”
“Of course,” said Corini.
Gigenti grunted.
“We have a big challenge with the situation in Italy,” Geller continued. “Mussolini will open the door to Hitler as soon as the Germans want to make a move. The Stresa Front is pointless.”
This meant nothing to Gigenti. They should all kill each other over there.
“War in Europe is bad for us,” Corini said, nodding. With less product to sell, expenses would be cut and plans to legitimize put on hold. This troubled him: Without that part of Farcolini’s scheme in action, there was no place for him in the organization. He’d begun to appreciate the comfort of his new standard of living.
Geller said, “We have to prepare for all eventualities. Bruno, you must ensure our hold over the ports up and down the East Coast, including the airports. You make sure interstate trucking is content. You have full authority.”
Gigenti nodded.
“Anthony, you continue your work with the politicians, the newspapers and the nightclubs,” Geller continued. “Don’t hesitate. Everyone has to understand we’re in business.”
“All right,” Corini replied.
“Tonight, you come with me to Chicago,” Geller said to Corini. “They have to know we’ll uphold whatever their agreements are and they must honor ours.”
Gigenti said, “Chicago? You give them the impression this one is sitting in for Don Carlo.” He sat back in disgust.
Geller said, “The people who need to know understand you run the engine, Bruno.”
Gigenti glared at the old Jew. Then he reached into the aisle and angrily snapped his finger. Zamarella got out of his chair and started across the restaurant. Gigenti edged out of the booth.
Corini drew the .38 from his ankle holster.
Zamarella held open his boss’s coat, and Gigenti slipped his arms into the sleeves.
“Bruno, don’t make a problem for us,” Corini warned, the pistol on his thigh.
Gigenti spoke to Geller. “You gave this one too much.”
“Myself,” Geller replied, “I refuse to question Don Carlo.”
Quicker than expected for a man of his heft, Gigenti snapped his hat from Zamarella’s long fingers and stormed toward the door, scattering waiters and arriving customers.
CHAPTER SIX
Four Saturdays in a row, each chillier than the last as winter arrived, Bebe brought Rosa up to the Lakeside Inn. The first time, Eddie the Ear went so far as to pick up the tab for his midweek singing waiter and his date while WNEW’s Saturday Dance Cavalcade was broadcast right there from the dance floor. The program featured Lonnie Cornell, a dopey-looking, long-faced bastard from Oklahoma who Bebe figured couldn’t touch him. The second week, Moran greeted Rosa warmly, asked her if she liked the inn’s Western theme and its cowboy motif. He gave them a nice table, but no, he didn’t pick up the tab. The third Saturday, he started with, “Rosa, hi, sweetheart, you look lovely as always,” and she beamed sweetly, sincerely, unaware Bebe had a scheme going. They got a crap table near the kitchen; they practically had to stand to see Cornell. At week four, Stubby Wilson, a colored bouncer, took Bebe to a corner off the main bar.
Longhorns overhead, Wilson said, “Cornell drops dead tonight and Eddie puts me up there before you. And I sing like I gargle.”
“I don’t—”
“Stop begging and earn it.”
“Earn it how, Stub?” Bebe said over the dance music. “I get three songs a night and when I go on there’s not enough people to start a fight.”
“And you don’t think Eddie sees you think it’s a bullshit gig?”
“It is a bullshit gig.”
“Lonnie Cornell walked here from Oklahoma, Bebe. What did you do?”
Marsala was going to mention his success with Captain Bridges, but he’d learned from the Ear’s other singing waiters that, given the number of touring vaudeville shows the Captain had crossing the country, a lot of guys on the come-up had that credit in their caps. Cornell was in his 30s and sang his way up to the New York–area nightclubs by playing cafés, county fairs, honky-tonks, juke joints, roadhouses, second-rate hotels and piss-scented dives for almost a decade. As Wilson liked to say, he bled for his shot.
“You got moxie, kid. I’ll give you that,” Wilson told Marsala. “But nobody’s handing it to you.”
“Eddie doesn’t think I want it?”
“You want it, Bebe. Hell, everybody knows that.” Wilson headed back to his post by the rear door.
As the band played the “Cavalcade” theme and the announcer took his post, Bebe collected Rosa, tossing a few bucks on the tablecloth. Ten minutes later, buffeted by a harsh December wind, they crossed the George Washington Bridge, 50 cents poorer for the toll. New York City stretched out before them. In midtown, the night had barely begun. No one knew what would happen next. The dice hadn’t rolled.
“Bill,” Rosa said, “maybe I can help?”
“Believe me, doll. You don’t want to know.” He stole a glance, the headlights from the oncoming traffic sweeping their faces. “What do you say we drive and let it die?” Marsala maneuvered the late-model Ford onto Riverside Drive for the trip south. The lights of the bridge quivered on the Hudson’s black water. The curvy drive was quiet. An uneasy silence lay heavy in the car.
Soon, they drove past Grant’s Tomb on its grassy isle and Rosa saw the gothic towers of Riverside Church high above barren trees.
“Bill, if you don’t mind, pull over across from the church.”
He turned like he was surprised she was there. But he eased the car into the right lane and parked. Across the drive, the limestone cathedral, scored with shadows, seemed timeless, as if it had been transported from centuries ago. Though they were raised just across the river, neither Bebe nor Rosa knew it had been completed within the decade. Just kids, 22 and 17, they had no idea how little they knew.
Bebe lit a Chesterfield.
“There’s something bothering you, Bill.”
He hung a wrist on the steering wheel. “The music business. It’s a rough road. A long, rough road.”
“You’ve got time.” She turned to face him. “Haven’t you?”
“Seems like I’ve been chasing the dream my whole life. You climb a mountain and you know what you find at the top? Another mountain.”
“You’ll climb that one too, Bill.”
He forced a smile.
“No, I mean it, Bill. I can’t say I know you for long,
or very well, but I see you’ve got what it takes. Not just the voice. Not just the look.” She stroked his cheek. “But you’ve got the will.”
“Right now, I’d throw it all away for a chance to feel fine. Do you know what I mean? Not high, not low. Just fine.” Marsala gave the steering wheel a light punch with the side of his fist. “I want it, Rosa,” he said. “I want it so bad. I wish I could explain.”
“Try. Please.”
Marsala stared into the night mist. “All right,” he said finally, crushing out the cigarette as he turned to face her. “Say you wake up one morning and you’ve found a new way to breathe. You feel lighter. Man, you can just float wherever you go. The blood rushing through you is filled with the good stuff—you glow. You’ve got it all. You’re going, doll, you’re going and you feel so damned good you know nothing can stop you.”
He took her hands. “You go to bed at night and you can’t wait for another day. Counting sheep? No need—you’ll have the most peaceful sleep you’ve ever had in all your ever-loving life. Because you know tomorrow is going to swing even better than today.
“Then you wake up and, bam, it’s gone. The magic, the excitement, the thrill, the possibilities—all gone. Everything is like it used to be. The air is dull—it’s flat. The past is back. But since you remember how swell you felt yesterday, the old way is no good. You’re not back to square one. You’re busted back to zero, baby. You’re weighed down. You’re nothing.”
“But, Bill—”
“You want to talk about desperation. That’s the definition of desperation.” Marsala pulled back his hands and retreated until his back was against the driver’s side door. “You look in the mirror and what do you see? Nobody.”
“You feel that way now, Bill?”
“You tell me. What have I done? I’m a singing waiter on slow nights in a club maybe ten miles from where I was born. I been nowhere and I haven’t done a thing.”
Rosa held out her arms in an open invitation.
He shook his head.
“Bill, I look at you—”
“Don’t. I’m nobody, baby. Turn away.”
