by Jim Fusilli
“Yeah, we know Bebe,” Mimmo said with a smile.
“Moran says he’s putting the Saint Tropez out of business,” she said.
She gestured at the rail-back chair across from Mimmo who, with a sweep of his hand, told her to sit.
“To tell you the truth,” she said with a sigh, “Bebe wants to be on WNEW. You know, the Lakeside has that Saturday night thing they broadcast. Brings in a lot of money. A big bump, I heard.”
Farcolini’s crew operated the jukeboxes and cigarette machines in every joint in northern and central Jersey. Counting coins gave them an idea of how much the clubs pulled down in food and liquor. So Fortune knew she was right—the Lakeside was paying out; people were crossing the Hudson to hear good music away from the bustling city.
Her hand played, she reached for one of Mimmo’s Camels. “In the end, Bebe’s on the radio. OK?”
“If I could do something for Bebe and Rosa, I would,” Mimmo said, flicking his lighter under her cigarette. “But you ain’t going to get those WNEW sons of bitches to switch. You know how many times I told them—”
“OK,” Fortune said, staring at Hennie. “But when we go, Bebe comes with us.”
She sat back. “What for?”
“Bebe comes with us,” Fortune repeated.
A curl of smoke drifted toward the tin ceiling. Jesus Christ, she thought, they want Bebe deep in their pocket. They think he’s good. They think he can make it big.
“Sure, Frankie,” she said. “I’m not going to question you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was about two in the morning, a few weeks later, when they pulled out of Narrows Gate, Boo Chiasso driving, Bebe next to him, Mimmo and Fortune in the backseat. As they passed the Esso station by the viaduct, Mimmo said he needed to hear Fortune go over it again. It didn’t make no sense.
“Makes sense,” Fortune said.
Pretty soon they were driving alongside the Hudson River, the piers quiet. Bebe’s heart was pounding, his stomach bumping against his throat. “Go along,” his mother had said, and she dressed him in dungarees, a turtleneck and a leather jacket, like one of the Dead End Kids.
“We had the Saint Tropez since when?” Mimmo said. “Since before Prohibition.”
When Bebe turned, he saw Fortune staring at him.
Mimmo said, “I swear to Christ, we were raking it in. Hand over fist. Back then, the Saint Tropez was some shit hole named Joe’s, Joey’s, Johnny’s, something…”
“Hey, Mimmo. Stifle, huh?” Fortune said. He wriggled down in the seat, slipping his fedora over his eyes. Mimmo owed him for the embarrassment with Freddie Pop and the Buick, he figured. The least he could do was shut the fuck up.
“But this…” Mimmo said. “This I don’t get. Our own joint…”
Chiasso looked in the rearview.
“Burning down our own joint,” Mimmo muttered.
A few minutes before three, Fortune told Bebe and Mimmo to stay in the car while Chiasso threw Molotov cocktails through the windows. The Saint Tropez was on fire, the flames visible in the Bronx. By the time the fire engines and the cops arrived, the four of them were gone, heading to the Lakeside.
Moran’s big neon sign out front was shut down, its steady buzz silent.
“The bouncer’s not here,” Bebe said.
“You sure?” Fortune asked.
“His car’s gone. Stub usually puts it under the sign.”
Chiasso parked in the back under dense trees.
Mimmo and Bebe watched as Chiasso jumped out and hurried around to the trunk. A moment later, his arms full, he crouched behind the only other vehicle in the lot. With little effort, he popped its trunk and stashed a gas can, empty liquor bottles and oily rags inside.
Fortune leaned on the backseat. “Bebe, where’s Moran?”
“In his office,” he said. His throat was as dry as sand. “There’s a safe in the floor.”
Mimmo laughed. “Bebe wants we should rob the place.”
“Go say hello.”
Bebe protested.
“Go say hello,” Fortune repeated.
Bebe eased out of the car and walked across the lot, limping a bit as he looked for the orange sky above the Saint Tropez. Chiasso had left the side door unlocked. Bebe entered the inn. The main room was empty, chairs upside down on tabletops, the dance floor swept clean. At the bar, the cash register drawer was open.
Bebe stopped and took a look at the bandstand, then went toward the long corridor that held the restrooms and, at the far end, Moran’s office. Halfway down the hall, he tugged his sleeves until they covered his wrists, checked the cuffs on his dungarees, lifted his cap to smooth out his hair. He cleared his throat to greet his former boss, who, in Bebe’s mind, hadn’t given him solid advice but had only treated him like he pissed the rug.
Bebe pushed the door. “Hey, Eddie Moran—”
The Ear was tied to his desk, his arms and legs splayed, clothesline around his ankles and wrists, his stomach like a mountain. He had a big mouse above his left eye.
Bebe watched as Chiasso prepared a gag for Moran’s mouth.
“Bill, what did I do to you?” the club owner said, turning his head. “Tell me.”
“You should’ve let me sing on the radio.”
“And this is what I deserve? He tried to take my head off.”
Chiasso watched as Moran struggled.
“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” Bebe said. Hennie told him to put up a front. Nobody in the crew should see him scared.
“What’s he gonna do, Bill? For God’s sakes, Bill, don’t let him—”
In went the gag. Chiasso tied it so tight Moran’s lips tore at the corners.
Bebe felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Sit down,” Fortune said. “Over there.”
An old leather sofa rested against a wall lined with old photos of log cabins out West, a few coated in snow, scowling big-boned men and women posing in front of them. Bebe sat like he was told.
Then he saw Mimmo had carried in a brown paper sack. He wore workmen’s gloves.
“Somebody burned down our club,” Fortune said as he walked toward Moran. “Mimmo here thinks maybe it was you.”
“You’re some son of a bitch,” Mimmo said, “burning down our club.”
The Ear rattled in denial.
“So we’re taking your club,” Fortune said.
The gag muffled Moran’s protest.
“Look,” Mimmo said. “He thinks it’s a good idea.”
Moran continued to argue. But then he stopped and sagged.
“You keep the union job,” Fortune said as he nodded to Mimmo.
Mimmo dug into the brown paper bag and pull out a can. “Paint Thinner,” read the label. Next, he produced a funnel.
“Go ahead,” Fortune said.
Moran’s eyes opened wide, and he let loose a high-pitched scream, his back arching off the desktop.
Chiasso grabbed his head in two hands and snapped it to the side.
Without realizing he had, Bebe left the sofa and was standing next to Fortune. He was shaking. “Oh Jesus,” he moaned as Mimmo shoved the funnel deep into Moran’s ear.
With a swipe of his thumb, Mimmo spun the cap off the paint-thinner can.
“Acid,” Fortune said, loud enough for Moran to hear.
As Chiasso pressed Moran’s head against the desktop, Mimmo filled the funnel. It flowed down smooth, no problem, but, as it began to burn through tissue, it started to bubble. What came back up was laced with blood.
Moran continued screaming, his face turning purple, the veins in his temple pulsing, legs trembling.
Mimmo stopped the flow. He looked down, but the smell made him recoil.
Mouth open, jaw slack, Bebe stared in shock as the scent of searing flesh filled the office.
Fortune said, “Let’s go, Bebe.”
When he didn’t move, Fortune grabbed his arm.
“Bebe, andiamo.”
Retreating, Bebe watched as Mimmo
brought a towel from the sack. He placed it around the narrow end of the funnel as he wriggled it from Moran’s ear, going careful like he didn’t want to scar his face, too. As Chiasso undid the knots in the cord, Mimmo said, “Moran, you want to keep the other ear…”
Squirming in anguish, Moran tumbled off the desk, hitting the floor with a thud.
The burning sky behind them, they went back the way they came. Every now and then, Chiasso raised his right hand off the steering wheel, flexed it, and studied his bruised knuckles. Down below the Palisades, he pulled over to lose the brown sack and its contents, including the blood-tipped funnel.
“Why do that?”
Fortune sat up and stared at Bebe. “What?”
“He would’ve gave up the club,” Bebe said, talking to the windshield, the dark winding road up ahead. “You had him beat.”
“There’s no rules, Bebe,” Mimmo said, clapping the kid on the shoulder. “The fuck stood in the way.”
“I didn’t think…” he stammered. “I didn’t know…”
“Yeah. Well,” Fortune said. “Now you do.”
They headed up the bumpy cobblestone road to the boulevard that led back to Narrows Gate.
Frankie Fortune didn’t want anything to do with the Lakeside Inn, but he had to move in until things settled. After a few days behind Moran’s desk, he called Anthony Corini and asked if he could recommend someone to run the joint. Corini owned a slice of a talent agency in midtown Manhattan—personal management, booking tours, contracts, accounting and the like.
“The sooner the better,” Fortune told him. Then he took a shot and asked Corini if he’d heard from Don Carlo.
“When you call me, you’re talking to Dewey,” Corini replied. “The phones are tapped.”
The next afternoon, a guy from the agency turned up. Not long ago, Rico Enna was midlevel at best. Now his former bosses were asking him if Corini would keep them on the job, seeing as how he handpicked Enna out of a back room. Enna was a dark-skinned Sicilian, tall with a long, thin nose, soft hands, finely tailored suits and a service mentality. After Enna looked at the books, Fortune saw he wasn’t a total mope.
“You do nothing and you earn,” Enna said, closing the ledger.
“We didn’t move in to do nothing,” Fortune replied. They were sitting at the bar, lights up, a guy washing glasses the only one within earshot. The rest of the employees went about their business, cleaning, stacking, checking electricity, not certain why the Ear was gone, but glad no one had put them back on the breadline. They were veterans of the nightclub business and had seen this act before; though Fortune didn’t seem to notice, two guys in the kitchen had worked in a restaurant he’d taken over in Englewood Cliffs a decade ago in much the same way.
Enna nodded. “Mr. Corini says the radio.”
“The radio,” Fortune agreed.
“You can do better than Cornell,” Enna said, mentioning the Okie singer.
“We’ve got a guy.”
Enna nodded, though Corini hadn’t mentioned anything. “He has representation?”
Fortune stepped from the stool. “That’s your department.” He looked around the room at the longhorns over the bar, the Indian blankets, framed photos of the Old West, outlaws with six-shooters.
“I don’t get this cowboy shit,” Fortune said.
“It’s a log cabin,” Enna replied. “Either you go with the Old West or you get the staff dressed up like Abe Lincoln.”
“You want to be a cowboy, why the fuck you live in New Jersey?”
A couple of days later, on time to the minute, Bebe, Hennie, Terrasini and Mimmo entered the Lakeside. Fortune was seated at a table off to the side of the bandstand with Rico Enna and a doughy Jew Enna proposed as Bebe’s manager.
“Frankie,” Hennie bellowed gleefully. In a blue dress, her silver hair done up, handbag swinging, she held out her arms expecting Fortune to rise and kiss her, which he did not.
Looking through her as she stomped across the dance floor, Fortune said to Mimmo in Sicilian, “What are you doing here?”
Mimmo shrugged and made a slight gesture with his hand, indicating to Fortune that Hennie had asked him to come along, a bullshit excuse. Mimmo had it in his head that there was a chance Fortune would give him a shot at running the Lakeside, an idea too impossible even to be considered fantasy.
Midafternoon sunlight filled the ballroom, chairs atop most tables, the doors open to encourage a breeze. Fortune, Enna and the Jew were drinking ice water, the pitcher replenished by a redheaded waitress still in her saddle shoes and brown slacks.
With a wave of his fingers, Fortune called Bebe over to the table. He introduced Enna as the club’s manager loud enough for Mimmo to hear.
Enna stood. He wore an impeccable, pale-olive, lightweight suit and a tie with an olive-and-red pattern and he looked almost as good as Fortune in his gray sharkskin. The other man, whose wrinkled blue suit shifted on his rounded shoulders, suffered double from the comparison. In his mid-50s, his remaining hair was in disarray. A tip on his shirt collar stuck out.
“Meet Phil Klein,” Enna said. “He’s someone you’ll want to know.”
Klein shuffled around the table to shake hands with Bebe, who, in khakis and a silk shirt that matched his eyes, greeted him with a smile.
“Good to know you, Phil.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” Klein said earnestly. He offered his seat to Hennie. She settled next to Fortune, who continued to ignore her.
From the moment he entered the room, Terrasini trained his eye on the man at the piano, Chu Kirby, who played in Mel Keenan’s orchestra. He’d been with Pollard, too.
“Bebe, sit down,” Fortune said.
Klein took note of the nickname as he poured Hennie a glass of ice water.
“You want your shot, you work with Rico,” Fortune began.
“OK, Frankie. Whatever—”
Fortune held up a finger. “This isn’t the Chatterbox with your cane, your lil’ Crosby routine. This is the radio, this is New York City. Ciò proviene da Don Carlo. You understand me, Bebe?”
Bebe said he did.
Fortune said, “In the desk, there’s a couple hundred singers—”
“I’m going to give you what you want, Frankie,” Bebe replied. “We’re putting this over the moon, my hand to God.”
Hennie said, “Frankie’s never steered you wrong, Bebe. Don’t forget that.”
Enna stood. “Come with me, Bill. Please.” He put his hand on Bebe’s back and guided him toward the piano. “Let’s be clear, Bill. This isn’t an audition. It’s an opportunity for us—you, me, Phil, if that’s fine with you—to find the best way to put you across.”
Bebe nodded. He felt nice, mellow down to the marrow. All the shining light heaven could afford was about to find him.
Enna said, “What do you think you need to make it work?”
“Nino—Nino Terrasini—knows the arrangements.”
“You’re familiar with Chu?” Enna asked, nodding toward the pianist. “He put in a good word for you.”
Bebe looked at Kirby, who smoked two at a time and hunched like he was trying to surround the keys. “I like working with Nino. But it’s your call.”
Enna snapped a finger. Kirby stood obediently.
Terrasini slid onto the piano bench.
“Let’s use the mic, too. Chu can run the PA.”
Over at the bar in his sunglasses and his best suit, Mimmo sagged. Fortune didn’t even give him a shot to impress. He had ideas to dress up the log cabin, to bring back the original crowd from the Saint Tropez, maybe once a week there’d be music from the old country and always the right menu. He’d line up whores like the kind he ran out of the Blue Onyx: you’d think they were models. And discreet? Guys brought their wives to the joint and sat 20 feet from a broad who cleaned their pipes the night before and no one was the wiser.
Bebe settled by the piano. He tapped the mic with an index finger until he heard it was on
. “Frankie, Rico, Phil, I think Chu over there will tell you the up-tempo numbers work fine. What I’d like to suggest is we add a few ballads to the program.”
“Go on, Bill,” Enna said with interest as he returned to his seat.
Elbows on the table, Hennie leaned toward her son as if in rapt attention. Sweat beaded under her girdle, a blue cloud of cigarette smoke over her head.
“On radio, you’re not fighting the crowd noise,” Bebe said, rubbing his hands together. “You can bring down the volume for the folks at home.”
Cooperate, Bebe told himself. Be part of the team before you become its star. “Rico, I think you’ll find you’ve got yourself a first-class orchestra here at the Lakeside. They can make it sound like it was sprinkled with stardust.”
Enna leaned toward Klein. “Phil?” he whispered.
Klein nodded thoughtfully. “The ballads? It’s an idea.”
“The package,” Enna pressed.
Klein saw that Marsala had a versatile style—you could play him a kid or a young man on the way up—and confidence. He wasn’t a looker, but he had charm. And those eyes.
“Personality,” Klein replied.
“You comfortable with the name?”
“You’re asking if we can break big with an Italian crooner,” Klein said. “Nobody’s done it so far.”
“So you be first,” said Hennie, stubbing out a cigarette.
Klein nodded. “Someone will be first.”
Enna turned. “All right, Bill. Whenever you’re ready.”
Bebe smiled. He was ready.
He looked around the room slowly, surveying the terrain. Mimmo over there, the redheaded waitress behind the bar. The house empty in back. At the table, Enna, Klein, his mother, Fortune. All attention aimed in his direction. He knew what they wanted. He was sure he would deliver. The warm glow of inner peace continued; he was ready to be judged.
Fortune shifted in his seat.
Bebe whispered off mic. “Nino…”
Terrasini played the intro to “She’s Funny That Way.” He and Bebe had studied Billie Holliday’s version for hours. They took it slow, more lento than adagio, letting it swing with the bass tones.
