Narrows Gate

by Jim Fusilli

  Ree planned on sending a telegram when the train left the station. Maybe her oilman could send a plane to meet her, bring her back home. Maybe he’d fly it himself.

  Benno told the limo driver to leave him by the A&P. “See you later, Hennie,” he said cheerfully.

  Hennie sat in the back, burping and stewing. “Yeah,” she replied, staring out the other side.

  No Leo at the A&P. His day off. Eight-to-five he ain’t home, Benno thought, but he walked to his father’s house anyway, his suit jacket on his arm, sleeves up, his tie hanging low.

  At his desk, Bell heard pebbles hit a front window. As if caught peering at French postcards, he shoved the Yale brochures in a drawer, a wave of guilt rising in his head. Sliding into chinos and loafers, he met Benno on the brownstone steps, shady now with the sun setting behind the Heights.

  “Eighteen years and still you don’t knock?” Bell said as he ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Hello. I’m Sal Benno.” He stuck out his hand.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “You buy me dinner and I’ll tell you a story. That is, if you can spare the time.”

  Bell said, “Let’s go.”

  Imogene wasn’t due back at St. Claire’s until Friday, so she was enjoying the end of her summer vacation with her family down the Jersey Shore. Bell visited her whenever he had time off, abusing the cooling system in a car Charlie Tyler sold him for $400. “You give us Yale and sign on long-term,” Tyler proposed, “and I’ll sell you an eight-hundred-dollar car for half price.”

  “I’ll give you Yale,” Bell countered, “if you guarantee me equal time in Europe.”

  Tyler said, “I don’t think Miss O’Boyle will approve for you leaving her behind for twenty-four months, Leo. I see what I see, and you two are getting serious.”

  “True,” Bell admitted. She occupied his thoughts and made his heart skip a beat. When they spoke on the phone, his skin tingled. He was in love and she was too, and if he couldn’t hold her in his arms, he thought he’d burst into flames.

  Everything had fallen into place so easily. The first thing Bell did with the car was drive down the shore and introduce himself to Imogene’s father, who shook his hand, threw him a Rheingold and pointed him toward his daughter, who was on the beach with her kid sister. Later, they went out to tap the sand for clams; Imogene carried the bucket and held his hand. Mr. O’Boyle told stories while little Ruthie O’Boyle collected shells tumbling in the foam.

  Bell brought her to Narrows Gate to meet his father, the old man treating her like a china doll, Imogene insisting he sit down, she’ll take care of everything.

  “A winner,” Mr. Bell declared later. “This one you hold onto.”

  He was waiting for the right moment to show her off to Sal.

  “When am I going to meet him?” she asked. “You talk about him all the time.”

  He made excuses. “Sal’s a busy guy. Up before dawn, rushing around, his aunt and uncle are getting old and he’s all they’ve got.”

  “Leo, we’ve been going steady for almost five months.”

  “I know. I want it to be just right. You’ve got to love him the way I do.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  It wasn’t Sal and it wasn’t Imogene. They’d get along fine. Hell, they’d be best friends, beaming smiles, the two of them flitting like fireflies on a summer night. But Sal would see what it meant. The conversation would turn. She’d say, “Don’t you think Yale is a great opportunity for Leo, Sal? Tell him.”

  Now, as he walked toward downtown with Benno, Bell said, “You were going to tell me a story.”

  “Mimmo sent me with Hennie to see Bebe. And I met Eleanor Ree. In a bathrobe.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You ain’t kidding. They left me alone with her. Me and her, a movie star. And the bathrobe, it ain’t tied too tight.”

  “What color bathrobe? I’m trying to picture it.”

  “She’s got an all-over tan,” Benno replied.

  Bell laughed. “I bet you wish you were Bebe.”

  “No, I wouldn’t go that far. But I wouldn’t mind being that robe.”

  Soon, they stopped at the Mirco Brothers’ and settled on a table out on Pierce Street.

  “So. Where you been?” Benno said as he sat.

  Bell looked at him, detecting a trace of a grin at the corners of his mouth.

  Benno said, “All of a sudden, you disappear like the fuckin’ Shadow.”

  Clams on the half shell arrived, a dash of vinegar with diavoletto, and two ice-cold beers—the usual—delivered by a girl the guys called Knotty. One evening late in the war, Benno kissed her under her stairs until his balls turned blue. Next day he learned she was 15. He went straight to confession, but at the Irish church so Father Gregory don’t find out.

  “It’s true. I’ve been busy,” Bell tried.

  “Cut the shit. You got a broad, right?”

  “Not a broad, Sal. A girlfriend.”

  Benno slurped a Little Neck, cold, chewy and sweet. “I know her?”

  Squeezing a lemon, Bell circled his fist over the cherrystones. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The time’s not right.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Bell sat back, the little fork empty. “I guess it’s part of a package, Sal. I’ve got a decision to make.”

  “She’s pregnant?”

  “I hope to hell not. Listen, I didn’t mean to keep her away from you.”

  “Maybe when you first started dating you thought, she meets Sal and I’m done.”

  Bell smiled. “That’s it.”

  Benno reached over and tapped his hand. “Only kidding. I know you’re shy around girls.”

  They ate in silence save for Benno’s slurping and cars passing on the side streets.

  “There’s something else,” Bell said finally. He leaned in. “The Army wants me to go to college.”

  “That’s good, no?”

  “They want to pull strings and get me into Yale.”

  “What’s Yale?”

  “A college in New Haven.”

  “New Haven?”

  “Connecticut, Sal.”

  “That’s where they play the Ivy League?”

  Bell nodded as he sipped the cold beer.

  “Your girl, she’s all right with this?”

  He nodded.

  “So you’re asking me if I’m OK with it?”

  Bell hesitated. “It’s more…Yeah, sure. What do you think? I mean, I could go around here. City College, maybe. It’s a damned good school.”

  “I thought you said the Ivy League is for the best.”

  Bell continued to dodge his own thoughts. “Maybe we don’t see each other for a while.”

  “Well, I figure if the Army sends you to Poland, I ain’t going with you, Leo.”

  “They have some kind of orientation program on campus next week. I’m thinking I should go.”

  Benno cleaned his glasses on the napkin.

  “Sal, I’m saying that—I’m saying you’ve got to watch your ass with Mimmo and those fucks.”

  “I do. They ain’t outsmarting me.”

  “It’s not a matter of who’s smarter.” Bell leaned across the table and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Of course you’re smarter. You’re also honest and forthright. Those are—”

  “What’s forthright?”

  “Straightforward. Direct. Trusting,” he said, emphasizing the last word.

  “That’s good, no?”

  “Not with these fucks. They already trapped you with Pellizzari. They turned you into their bagman. I’m worried they’ll make you the next Freddie Pop, for Christ’s sakes.”

  Benno frowned. “I ain’t no Freddie Pop.”

  “No. Of course not. I’m saying you run your ideas by me and they become clearer in your own mind.”

  Benno reached for his beer glass, which was empty. He turned to Knotty and threw two fingers in
the air.

  Bell pushed his half-filled glass toward his friend.

  “Well, I ain’t coming to Yale Haven every time Mimmo wants something,” Benno said finally.

  “They got phones, Sal.”

  “I’ll reverse the charges.”

  Bell took in the scent of the clams and the lemon juice. It reminded him of dinner at the O’Boyles’ down the shore, Mr. O’Boyle shucking clams as they sat around a table on the screened-in porch, Mrs. O’Boyle chiding her husband to save some for her chowder, little Ruthie reminding her mother the ocean might have a few more to spare.

  “Where’s your girl live?”

  Bell told him. Kearny, which was maybe a half-hour drive from Narrows Gate.

  “They got Sicilians there, too?”

  “She’s Irish, Sal.”

  Benno snapped back. “Are you nuts?”

  “You meet her and tell me what she’s not.”

  “Holy Christ. I think somebody hit you on the head at the A&P.”

  Benno quickly finished off Bell’s beer, then took the two fresh glasses from Knotty, who gave him a playful elbow to the ear as she turned to leave.

  “Your girl—”

  “Imogene. Imogene O’Boyle.”

  “Minga. You don’t go halfway, do you?” Benno said as he lifted a clamshell. “She know your real name and Rabka, Poland? All that?”

  “Nobody knows that,” Bell said. “My father and you. Period.”

  “Not the Army? The Ivy League?”

  “Period,” Bell repeated. “Look, the point is, you’ve got to promise me you don’t let yourself get trapped by these guys.”

  Benno thought for a moment. Then he said, “How do I know I’m trapped until I’m trapped?”

  Hennie couldn’t sleep—the weight on her chest, indigestion, frustration and thinking Frankie Fortune is out in the hall, can of paint thinner in one hand, a stiletto blade in the other. A tension headache, pain in her shoulder. Gas. Her husband Vincenzo out cold, purring, the guy at peace with himself. I wonder what the fuck that’s like.

  Hot night, the fan a worthless piece of shit from the five-and-dime. She looked at the clock. A little after one in the morning. Shit. Groping for her cigarettes, she tugged the doily, the lamp wobbled, and there goes the ashtray onto the carpet. She brought her bare feet down carefully, a miracle she don’t step into a pile of cold butts.

  Robe off the hook on the back of the door. A quick piss and she stayed on the bowl to smoke, leaning back to drop the half-gone cigarette between her chafed thighs. Stairs creaked under her weight on the trip down. She entered the darkened living room on her way to the kitchen. Maybe I’ll sit outside in the backyard, she thought. A cool breeze, maybe. Look at the moon.

  Bebe sang in her mind. “It’s not the pale moon that excites me…”

  She smiled. Taking up with Eleanor Ree. The one they all want.

  And he tells King Mayer to go fuck himself.

  My son.

  My beautiful boy.

  Don’t let nobody push you around, Bebe. You work Corini, too. Get what you want, what you deserve. He don’t come through and you go see Don Carlo. He believes in you.

  The sambuca was in the cabinet above the sink.

  A plastic Virgin Mary glowed in the dark.

  A plate and a fork: Vincenzo had stolen a piece of Dee’s torta di ricotta.

  Bottle and glass in hand, Hennie went for the key to the back door.

  Suddenly a twinge in her chest, followed by a sharp, crunching pain.

  Moaning, she struggled to Vincenzo’s chair, glass smashing near her feet.

  The moment she sat, it felt like something exploded behind her breasts, then some sort of electrical charge ran throughout her body. Then unbearable pain in her head.

  She snapped upright and the chair tumbled back. She crashed on the floor, her skull slamming the linoleum.

  She moaned again and then a sad little cry escaped as she thought, I showed those fucks.

  And then, just like that, she died.

  “Long day,” Bebe said.

  “Long day,” Terrasini agreed.

  “I’m turning in.”

  “Anything you need?” Coming off the Hampshire House elevator, after a late dinner at Billy the Oysterman on 47th, just the two of them, drinks until the joint closed, Terrasini alert to signs of his boss’s changing moods.

  “I’m good,” Marsala replied.

  Though their adjoining rooms shared a living area and kitchenette, they entered by different doors.

  Marsala waited. When he didn’t hear Terrasini at the radio, he turned gingerly and went back out to the corridor. He sealed the door and headed to the stairs, kicking down to the ground floor. Short of breath, he flagged a cab on Central Park South. “Harlem,” he told the driver. “The Hotel Cecil.”

  “Mind I take the park?” the driver asked.

  “Kid,” Marsala replied, “I don’t care if you fly.”

  The cab entered Central Park at the Grand Army Plaza and stayed on the east side, racing behind the zoo and along the reservoir up to Harlem Meer. Leaving the park, they continued north on Lenox Avenue and turned on 118th. There was the Cecil, home to Minton’s Playhouse.

  Minton’s was on the hotel’s first floor. The jazz club was closed for the night, but as Marsala approached, he heard music. While Terrasini was at the train station with Eleanor, Marsala made some calls. “The best tonight,” he said. They responded. “But go in quiet,” he was told. “No columnists, no reporters, no starlets, Bill. This one’s for us.”

  Marsala rapped the code and the husky doorman let him in, nodding in acknowledgment but saying nothing. Though it was after hours, the tables were packed, Negroes outnumbering whites maybe 10 to 1. Everyone faced the stage and stared at the singer, who swayed with her eyes closed, her face a mask of serenity. Nobody gave a shit he was there. Marsala went to the bar.

  On the bandstand, the musicians laid a deep groove under an up-tempo number. The bass player pumped four to the bar, matching the drummer’s high hat. The piano player had a great left hand.

  Marsala whispered for a scotch and got his drink before the trumpeter—it was Roy Eldridge—turned over the melody to the singer.

  “All of me,” Billie Holiday sang with Eldridge blowing low behind her, “why not take all of me? Can’t you see I’m no good without you…”

  Scotch in hand, Marsala smiled. Lady Day sang dangerously off the beat, like a tightrope walker threatening to fall. But she never wavered and swung easily into a reprise of the second verse.

  Marsala’s big band version of the tune was influenced by Holiday’s. His was fine, hers perfection. He loved everything about the way she sang: her style; how she toyed with a lyric and riffed on a melody; her sense of rhythm. The columnists, wrong again, compared him to Crosby. But as a vocalist, Holiday was his model. They were the same age—he teased her that she was three months older—but she was his musical big sister, a success on her own when he was fighting to launch a solo career. When he took off, he praised her whenever he could. In turn, she introduced him to Lester Young and all the jazz cats. They were the greatest and they knew it.

  The song ended and the pianist began a new number, a ballad this time, the drummer entering on the third block chord. Marsala recognized it before the first bar ended: “Solitude,” the Ellington composition. Now Marsala closed his eyes.

  She sang, “In my solitude, you haunt me…”

  The beauty of Duke’s impeccable melody and Billie’s voice: Oh sweet Jesus, Marsala thought. This is it, isn’t it? The whole ball of wax. That moment when song and singer become inseparable—buddy, that’s what you call heaven on earth.

  He leaned an elbow on the bar, his eyes still closed, his head perched on his fist. A sense of well-being engulfed him. He floated to his place inside the music where nothing mattered but the beauty that surrounded him. No pain, no aggravation, no confusion, no ups, no downs, no mood swings—now it was just him and the music. Sanc
tuary. He was somewhere between downy clouds and a tranquil blue sea.

  After midnight, all calls for Mr. Marsala went to Terrasini’s line. House rule.

  Terrasini sat up at the first ring. Maybe it was Metro. Or Klein, forgetting the three-hour difference.

  “Yeah,” Terrasini said, as he cleared his throat.

  Mimmo gave it to him straight.

  “Oh, good God,” Terrasini replied. “Yeah. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him now.”

  Terrasini threw on the robe he kept at the foot of the bed. He hurried across the living area and knocked on the door to Marsala’s room.

  “Bebe,” he said.

  He knocked again.

  “Bebe.” He had a sudden thought he’d taken his sleeping pills.

  He opened the door. The room was empty, the bed made. The bathroom door was open, the light off.

  His mind raced.

  Somebody had already called Bebe, he thought. They sent the call up and he knows his mother’s dead. Jesus Christ.

  Terrasini raced out of the room and down the hall. The window to the air shaft was open.

  “Bebe, damn you…”

  He reached the open window and stuck his head out, expecting to see Marsala in a crumble down in the courtyard below.

  But only a few pigeons nesting on the ledges.

  He rang the switchboard, identified himself and asked for a list of the telephone numbers Marsala called. Maybe he was with one of the broads he had stashed in town, maybe that Broadway actress again.

  Then he asked for a long-distance operator. Certain Mimmo had contacted his niece, he requested person-to-person to Phil Klein. Knowing Klein, he told the operator to try his office first.

  “Phil. Nino.”

  Klein stood. Hearing those two words, he could tell Terrasini was forcing himself to stay calm. “What is it?”

  “Hennie’s dead.”

  Klein slipped a pen out of the desk set and scribbled while Terrasini told him what he knew.

  “Can I speak to Bill?” he asked.

  Terrasini told him Marsala was out. He had to locate him before the papers and the radio heard the news.

  Klein thought quickly. He’d have to release a statement on Marsala’s behalf, expressing his gratitude for his fans’ prayers and sympathy. In the morning, he’d contact Louella Parsons. She knew Marsala had been close to his mother. The entire country deserved to be reminded. He’d propose that she speak to him, an exclusive. She could convey his enormous sense of loss and devastation. People would see Bill Marsala for the sensitive man he was under the swagger and bravado, stardom’s ebb and flow.