Narrows Gate

by Jim Fusilli

  “Oh, Leo knows that, Charlie,” Landis said, as smoke escaped his lips. “The data you saw…Am I right, Leo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We did a fine job. Did we not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tyler carefully sipped his Manhattan and returned the glass to table. “Leo, we’ve learned an awful lot about you.”

  “No secrets among us, Leo,” Landis said softly, a paternal smile lighting his face.

  “Your name isn’t really Leo Bell,” Tyler said. “It’s Leonardo Campanello.”

  “We changed our name, sure,” Bell said. “A lot of us did.”

  “Of course, Leo,” Landis said. “It isn’t an issue. Not at all.”

  Tyler said, “You came with your father on the steamship American out of Naples. You were born in Irpino. That must have been quite the journey for your father. A baby less than two years old.”

  Bell shrugged.

  “The information is from our friends in the Bureau of Immigration,” Landis said. “No need to be concerned.”

  “Leo, the point is, were we to consider you part of our team, you’d be the only native-born Italian among us,” Tyler said.

  “With a gift for analysis, I might add,” Landis added.

  Bell said, “But I still don’t know what you’d expect me to do. I’ve already said I’d like to be considered for a post overseas.”

  “Leo,” Tyler said, “it’s not just the Reds.”

  Landis shifted in his chair. “Leo, our nation is under threat from many sources. Agitators of all stripes want to tear us down. One of our enemies is the criminal element. One aspect that is particularly troubling is Farcolini’s ever-expanding syndicate. They are well organized and, as much as I’m loathe to admit it, quite savvy. Their infiltration of the political sphere in New York and Chicago is thorough and their increasing influence in the entertainment industry is equally troubling.”

  Landis laid his pipe on a bread dish.

  “If our new intelligence agency is to be at all effective, we need to anticipate what they’ll do,” he said. “Reacting, as law enforcement prefers, is…Well, it’s—”

  “Shutting the barn after the horse is gone,” said Tyler.

  Landis said, “We have to gather intelligence about these men. Their personal histories, how they’ve come to their way of thinking, their pathologies. When we know them well—better than they know themselves—we’ll know what they intend to do.”

  “Do you understand?” Tyler asked.

  “Leo,” said Landis, “your country needs you to infiltrate their organization.”

  “From New Haven?” Bell replied.

  Tyler looked at Landis.

  “Leo, we think we’d all be better served if you were to remain in Narrows Gate,” Landis said. “As far as Yale is concerned, we know you can compete. Heck, you’re about the brightest boy I’ve had the pleasure of working with.”

  “Stop,” Tyler joked. “You’ll give him a swell head.”

  “No, I’m quite serious. Leo, we are prepared to propose that you attend college in New York or New Jersey while you work with Charlie. Afterwards, should you still want to be posted overseas, you would be more than qualified.”

  Bell considered the cocktail at his elbow.

  Tyler said, “What do you think, Leo?”

  Calculating, Bell brought a long finger across his lips. Then, sitting back, he said, “Let me see if I’ve got this. I go on the payroll of this new intelligence agency. I infiltrate the Farcolini organization. I report what I see and hear. You cover my tuition and board. When I graduate, you’ll give me my choice of assignments overseas.”

  Landis said, “That’s a rather broad interpretation—”

  Tyler interrupted. “No, I’d say that about sums it up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Settling back in Southern California, Bebe Marsala returned to work. Metro’s Brooklyn film was readied for Grauman’s and his scenes in another feathery musical, shot on a nearby soundstage, were in post-production. Klein found a sponsor for a 15-minute midafternoon radio show and Bill Marsala was back in homes across America. “Bag the announcer,” he suggested to Klein. “Let me spend a few extra minutes with my fans. They’ll appreciate it.” Marsala read the promos and needled the sponsor, a soap company with products in kitchen cabinets everywhere. But he always reminded the listeners that Rosa used the same detergents and floor wax as they did. “Gives one heckuva shine, doesn’t it?” he’d say before launching into another song.

  Inspired by Lady Day, his next project was close to his heart: into the recording studio with a selection of standards he’d sung for years that were now rearranged for a small combo—a vibraphone added to the rhythm section, only a single tenor sax and Sweets Edison, on loan from the Basie band, on trumpet. Marsala dubbed it “Music for People Who Get Laid.” The boy singer would be buried for good.

  He surprised Rosa with a new home, Spanish-style, five-bedrooms, secluded yet within walking distance of the lake. “Invite your family,” Bill insisted. “Let’s show them the good life.” Dodging photographers, he took her to dinner at out-of-the-way places with good food in the Valley; they walked the beach in Malibu, escaped to Catalina. Some of Bill’s celebrity friends came over, husbands and wives, Rosa cooking specialties she learned from her mother and grandmother. Oliver Hardy asked for her recipes; so did Lucille Ball, who cradled Bill Jr. in her lap.

  For the first time in months, years maybe, Rosa heard Bill singing around the house, scatting the horn solos, tapping out the rhythm. Whenever she crossed the living room, he’d dart over and sweep her into his arms. They’d dance as he hummed into her ear.

  “This mother’s gonna swing,” he told Terrasini as they worked on Bill’s new music room. He decided he’d rehearse at home, putting the band at ease. Rosa and Sweets chatted while Bill grilled steaks and Nino tossed a salad.

  He felt good. His mother was right: Fuck the pictures and let’s get with the music. That was the pulse, the stuff of life. The music, baby. Pictures were publicity to sell records and to pack the ballrooms and nightclubs. Bill Marsala came alive on vinyl.

  The snappy tap-tap on the high hat, the brush on the snare, the double bass chugging its rhythm and then a touch of piano echoed by warm vibes. And Bill Marsala singing just for you.

  “What do you think, baby?” he asked when a song ended, the guys settling back.

  Perched on a love seat’s arm, Rosa smiled. It was good, better than good. Bill was enjoying music again and life was bliss. At night, when he complained of a tired throat—he’d spent hours singing without a microphone—she brewed tea with honey and massaged his neck and chest with VapoRub.

  Best of all, Bill was happy. Every little thing seemed to buck him up. One late-autumn afternoon, Sweets drove up with Lester Young. “Pres,” Bill cheered, going out to hug the great saxophonist. “Fine Wine,” the beagle-eyed Young said in reply, hanging Marsala with a nickname he cherished. Young had heard Marsala was growing into jazz. “Be sure you take care of those pipes,” he advised, wagging a lean finger.

  Downtown in the studio, Marsala worked three hours a night, starting at midnight, five times a week. To take advantage of the new, long-playing recording format, he wanted a couple dozen killer cuts in the can before he made his next move. Terrasini thought he was running low, riding the last of his burst of energy after Hennie’s funeral. But there he was, on the other side of the glass, Johnny Walker on the music stand, his jacket folded with care on the back of the chair. When the sextet kicked it, Marsala seemed a picture of vitality, a man in charge.

  “‘Sweet Lorraine,’” he said now. “In the key of F.”

  …two, three…

  “I just found joy. I’m as happy as a baby boy…”

  He felt like he could just soar, man, then hover above the studio’s parquet floor, floating like a feather in a breeze. He’d already given the LP a title—“Just for You”—and he told Klein he wanted the buzz t
o begin now: Bill’s back and better than ever. “Bring the columnists to the studio,” he said. “I’ll sit with them on break and they’ll see. Bring Parsons. Hell, bring Hearst.”

  Even they couldn’t crash his plane. Back from the funeral, he called Parsons and asked if he could join her for lunch at the Brown Derby. He showed early. “Can I tell you something just between us?” A wary Parsons agreed. Marsala said, “I wasn’t ready for it. Success. It caught me dreaming and I lost my head. I know it now. I understand. You know what I mean, Louella? Life has a way of telling you what’s important.”

  She was impressed. Marsala wasn’t so far down that he had to bend a knee.

  “And Eleanor Ree?” Parsons asked.

  “A great kid. First-rate. Mark my words, she’ll be a major star.”

  “Bill,” she said, eyebrow arched.

  “Like I said, Louella, life tells you what you need to do.” He waited for her next question. When there was none, he said, “Can you give me a fresh start? I’m not asking you to go to bat for me with Mr. Hearst. But the column…Can we—”

  There was Rosa, approaching the table. Right on cue.

  Marsala stood and kissed her cheek. “Louella, may I introduce you to my wife? Rosa, this is Louella Parsons.” Behind Rosa were her two sisters in from Bayonne, their husbands playing golf at a country club in the Valley on Marsala’s tab.

  All right, Ma? he thought as Parsons met the in-laws. OK, Mimmo?

  Parsons hadn’t swatted him since and Klein made sure Marsala talked to everybody he could win over. Columnists and magazine editors were invited to the new house. Rosa served hors d’oeuvres. A few punks turned down the call and kept swiping at him, but the public caught on to their game, the piling on, the cheap shots. The loyal fans forgave. They’d been right about their Bill. He was true.

  “Thanks, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks a million,” he said after a tune on his radio show, the applause still ringing. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to say something and I’m going to say it right here, right now. You picked me up when I was down and, well, as my friends in the old neighborhood will tell you, I don’t forget. You’re swell, each and every one of you!”

  He was elated. Free. Life seemed so uncomplicated. A new year, a new lease on life, everything glowing under the California sun. When the sessions were done and the first sides ready for release, he intended to get back on the road with his new combo. Rico Enna had approached him with a plan. He’d play the Cocoanut Grove at the Ambassador, the Chez Paree in Chicago, the Palm Tree in Miami. Then he’d head back north to that new joint in Philly and the 500 Club in Atlantic City. Then three weeks solid at the Caribbean, where he’d show Anthony Corini how getting in line had put him on a shooting star. He was certain the pictures would pack them in, the radio show, too. There was money to be made. Bill Marsala couldn’t be stopped.

  The producer spoke over the intercom. “Bill, I’d like to take it again from bar forty—”

  Marsala turned to the booth. “Hell, let’s take it from the top,” he replied. Snapping his fingers, he said, “I could swing with this lady all night.”

  The producer nodded to the drummer when the tape was rolling.

  Marsala entered on the fifth bar. “I just found joy…”

  The combo purred and Marsala closed his eyes and let the melody ride the rhythm.

  “…why I love my Sweet Lorraine.”

  Sweets tossed off a little fill that ushered the singer to the B flat bridge.

  Marsala threw open his arms as he prepared to move up in register. “When it’s raining, I—”

  His voice cracked.

  The band stopped.

  “Who the hell let in the frog?” Marsala joked. He took out a handkerchief, coughed a few times and wiped his lips.

  The musicians laughed.

  Shaking his head, Marsala put his fingers to his throat. “Baby, don’t you fail me now,” he warbled.

  The producer said, “Bill, you want to take five?”

  “I’d like to take five hours after that one.”

  As the musicians chatted, Marsala lit up a Chesterfield and gestured for Terrasini to come out from the booth.

  “How bad was it?” he whispered. He’d started making his necktie.

  “The clam?” Terrasini asked. “What the hell? You missed a note. You’re tired…”

  “That take seven any good?”

  Terrasini shrugged. At bar 40, the tenor sax stepped on Sweets, marring the whole thing.

  “I’m blowing the joint,” the singer said. “Tell the boys I’ll see them tomorrow.”

  Terrasini met his boss at the car, Marsala already in the backseat. The dome light went on when he inched behind the wheel. “Where to?” he asked.

  “The Wilshire Towers,” Marsala said. “And tell Klein to get a doctor.”

  He held up his handkerchief. Using the rearview, Terrasini saw it was blotted with blood.

  Marsala watched as the doctor packed away his instruments. In his blue silk pajamas, pillows stacked behind his head, he was trying for an air of nonchalance but came up short.

  “You have a hemorrhagic vocal cord nodule,” the doctor said. “A capillary ruptured. It’s not serious.”

  “For you, maybe,” Marsala said.

  Klein paced, hands clasped behind his back.

  “In fact, you have two nodules. One popped. The other might. We call them singer’s nodules. They’re benign.” He wiped his hands with his handkerchief. “They look like clits, if you must know.”

  “What does it mean, Doctor?” Klein asked.

  “Mr. Marsala needs to rest. Nothing more.” He returned to the singer. “At some point, you might consider having the nodules removed, but for now, rest.”

  “How long?” Marsala asked.

  “Ten days to two weeks.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They won’t kill you, Mr. Marsala. But they’ll make you hoarse and in time, they may affect your vocal cords.”

  Klein stepped in. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said as he took him by the arm.

  Terrasini inched aside to let them pass.

  Agitated, Marsala lit a cigarette. “My vocal cord ruptured, but it’s not serious.”

  “There’s enough songs in the can, Bebe,” Terrasini said. “Phil can get the agency to push the tour back a few weeks. You’ve been driving yourself awfully hard.”

  Klein returned, the doctor’s bill in his jacket pocket. “What do you think, Bill?”

  Marsala said, “Where’d you come up with this clown? Clits? And then he says the other one might pop, too?”

  “Not if you rest, Bill,” Klein said hurriedly.

  “It’s not serious, but I ought to get them removed.” Marsala crushed out the cigarette, threw back the bedding and stood. “Fuck him.”

  “Bill…” Klein sank in dismay. “It’s your call, of course. But how can rest hurt you, Bill?”

  Marsala slipped into his silk robe and began to pace.

  “Nino, get Eleanor on the phone.”

  Klein stammered. “Bill, she’s on location.”

  “Nobody’s talking to you, pal,” Marsala snapped as he walked toward the bath. “Get her, Nino. Track her down.”

  Klein waited for Marsala to run the shower. Then he said to Terrasini, “It’s almost one o’clock in western Europe.”

  “So she’s on the set,” Terrasini said. “Somewhere.”

  Klein slumped. “This is a nightmare.”

  Klein confirmed that Ree was in Madrid. TWA would get Bebe to New York, then onto Spain. Stunned but not surprised, Terrasini packed Marsala’s bags. He watched as Marsala dressed, slamming drawers and closet doors, his eyes narrow, jaw clenched.

  “Bebe—”

  Marsala held up a hand and stuffed his passport in his jacket pocket.

  Klein rode to the airport in back next to Marsala. He knew what to say but not how to say it so he kept quiet until Terrasini pulled up outside the terminal.

  “Bill, ho
ld on a second,” he began.

  Marsala sighed.

  Terrasini was on his way around to the trunk.

  “Bill—”

  “Save it, Phil,” Marsala said as he slipped on his sunglasses.

  Klein could feel his heart pumping. “I’m sorry, but this is a mistake, Bill. You’ve got everything going your way now. Can’t you give it two weeks?”

  Marsala stared ahead. “No.”

  “The press is going to be there. They’ll jump on you.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “They’ll say everything we did—bringing them out to your home, introducing Louella to Rosa, talking about your family—Bill, they’ll say it was a game. A sham.”

  Marsala turned to him. “It was.”

  “No, Bill. No. It was the right thing to do. It’s right for you and right for your career.”

  “Hey, Phil, didn’t you hear? There’s no career. No voice, baby, no career.”

  “Bill, the doctor didn’t—”

  “Let Eleanor know I’m coming. I don’t care what you tell the press.”

  “Bill, please. Don’t throw it all away.”

  “Phil, do what I told you. Handle it.”

  “I can’t, Bill. It won’t wash.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “Both,” he said, his voice soft and desperate. “Bill, it won’t play. I’m sorry.”

  “OK,” Marsala said. “You’re fired.”

  “Bill—”

  “Get fucked, Phil. You and everybody else.”

  He pushed open the door and told Terrasini to bring the bags into the terminal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Daydreaming the truck could make the run by itself, Benno turned left off Central Park West and settled near the familiar fire hydrant, yanking the hand brake. He hopped in back, moving something like graceful, something like a busy chimp in a zoo. The baccala went into the crate next to the fennel, the arancini di riso with the chicken livers and the envelope, as fat as ever.

  He was hoping Corini greeted him. Frankie Fortune blew cold and frigid, despite making a big deal out of introducing Benno around at Hennie’s funeral. Since then, he treated Benno like a stain. Old Cy Geller, up from Miami, saw Benno entering the apartment with a crate and said, “Good afternoon.”