Narrows Gate

by Jim Fusilli

  Benno described him.

  “He lives over on Pike,” the guy said. “We call him Little Buff.”

  “Let’s go,” Benno said. He turned the big fat guy around and put the nozzle against his spine. “You got money?” he said to Bell.

  He did. Enough for dinner and a picture show with Imogene.

  “Throw it on the bar. For the window.” Then he said, “Come on, fat man. We’re going to kill somebody.”

  They crossed under the Manhattan Bridge, Bell hurrying to keep up. Half the time he scurried backward, expecting to see Gigenti, the killer Zamarella and the 200 soldiers in his crew storming through Little Italy.

  The moon hidden by the overpass, Pike Street was coated in shadows. They came to the stoop of a ratty, redbrick tenement. “The next two minutes are the most important you lived,” Benno said to the fat man. “You ring the buzzer, you tell him Bruno wants him.”

  “What if he ain’t—”

  “Then you’re dead. Now ring the buzzer.”

  He did and they went in, all three of them, over cracked tile, steam heat sputtering.

  The big fat guy grabbed the banister and looked up, waiting for Little Buff to show. He waited, then looked at Benno.

  “Somebody’s paying,” Benno said, his voice as calm as warm milk. Veins pulsed at his temples.

  “Che c’è ora?” came a voice from high up.

  The guy wiped his bloody face with the back of his wrist. “Danny,” he shouted. “Now.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Benno whispered.

  “Now?” Little Buff shouted.

  “Hurry the fuck down here,” the big fat guy said.

  When the door upstairs slammed shut, Benno bolted, leaping two steps at a time.

  The guy turned to Bell.

  “I sit if I’m you,” Bell said. “Otherwise…”

  Benno ran up four flights and arrived just as the little thief motherfucker reopened the door, stupid bastard struggling into his coat at the same time.

  Benno broke his front teeth with the gun butt. Little Buff collapsed to his knees. “The money,” Benno said, gasping. “Every fuckin’ cent.”

  Little Buff looked up in terror.

  Benno thought, What the fuck. I might as well… He aimed at Little Buff’s forehead.

  Little Buff knew he was dead.

  At that moment, a bony, dark-haired woman with raccoon eyes appeared at the door. She wore a tattered nightgown, her breasts hanging. She said, “Abbiamo un bambino.”

  “No, you don’t,” Benno said.

  “No, we do. We do,” Little Buff said, his voice jagged with panic.

  Benno kept the gun poised. “Why don’t he cry?”

  “He cries,” the guy said. “But not now. Not now, Madonna mio! I swear to God—”

  “I bring him,” the woman said. She trembled.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bruno.” They said it at the same time, more or less.

  Benno sagged. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me.” Then to the woman he said, “Get the money. Get it now.”

  She ran off.

  “She comes back with a gun and you got an orphan in there,” Benno said.

  The envelope came around the door. Benno snatched it. It was torn open, but it held its weight. “Who sent you?” he said to Little Buff, who now sat in the doorway, blood pouring down his chin.

  “Please—”

  “I said—”

  “Some guy from Jersey.” In Sicilian, he added, “Please don’t tell Bruno. For God’s sake, please don’t tell him. My God!”

  Benno stepped back. Then he swung and slammed Little Buff across the face with the gun, knocking him out.

  As he dashed down the stairs, he buried the envelope inside his jacket. The gun hung at his side.

  The big fat guy was sitting on the landing, Bell leaned against the lukewarm radiator.

  “Let’s go,” Benno said.

  Before he left, he turned. “Fat man, you’d better pray Gigenti don’t think you stole from me, too.”

  The guy held up his blood-streaked hands in surrender.

  “Good,” Benno said.

  Side by side, Benno and Bell ran back to the car.

  The gun quaked in Benno’s hand as Bell pulled the car out of parking spot.

  Benno took a deep breath. “OK,” he said, “that’s the first part.”

  Bell drove too fast but he was mindful of the cops. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over with a bloodstained envelope full of cash. He made the squealing turn onto Watt Street, his heart pounding.

  “No, no. Don’t go for the tunnel,” Benno said. “Get on the West Side Highway.”

  “What—”

  “The second part, Central Park West. And slow the fuck down. We look like a couple of armed robbers here.” He stashed the gun in the glove compartment.

  Marsala slouched across the opulent hotel lobby in Madrid, unaware that Eleanor Ree was waiting on a banquette under the hotel’s glass dome. When she saw him, she jumped up, brushed by potted plants and caught him at reception before he could ask for her room.

  Marsala heard his name whispered softly, as if from a distance. “Bill.”

  He was flagged with fatigue, but his suit was immaculate, as if it had been pressed on the airplane. He was clean-shaven.

  “Baby,” he said. He hugged her desperately and snuggled into the warmth of her embrace.

  “Oh, Bill.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” He looked over her shoulder for photographers.

  “Bill, we’re shooting tonight.”

  “Blow it off.”

  “Bill.” She pretended to pout.

  He stepped back and put a tired smile on his face.

  Ree wore a green silk blouse and pale slacks. Her hair was tucked behind her ears.

  “You look terrific,” he said. “Spain’s done wonders for you.” He held his arms open wide. “Come here, doll.”

  Oh God, she thought as she leaned against him.

  “I’m going to ravish you,” he whispered. “You’re going to know how much your Bill missed you.”

  She moaned as he kissed her neck and nipped at her ear.

  “Upstairs,” he said, “before I take you right here.”

  “Darling, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  He let go. “So?” Then his face fell.

  “Bill, I can explain.”

  Marsala charged toward a concierge and elbowed to the head of the line.

  “Bill, please.”

  Startled, the concierge blurted the room number.

  Marsala raced for the sweeping stairs. Ree’s flats clacked on marble as she followed.

  He stormed along the corridor, checking door numbers to the left and right.

  “Bill,” she said as she caught him. “Bill. Goddamn it, Bill. Would you wait a minute?”

  He found the double doors to de Zuera’s suite and pounded at them with the sides of his fists.

  “Bill.”

  The bullfighter appeared.

  “The gig’s over, shorty,” Marsala said, flicking his thumb. “Pack your bags.”

  Ree said wearily, “Bill, it’s his room.”

  “Then let’s throw this bum out.”

  In his black suit, his shirt open at the collar, de Zuera stood rail-stiff. He seemed thoroughly disinterested in Marsala.

  Panting from the rush up the stairs, Ree said, “They’d empty the hotel before they move him.”

  “Oh, he’s a big shot?” Marsala returned to de Zuera. “Are you a big shot, shorty?”

  “I am Antonio Miguel de Zuera,” the legendary bullfighter replied. “And you are?”

  “I’m her guy,” Marsala said. “Now move along.”

  De Zuera stood firmly in place.

  Inching in, Marsala said, “How’d you like to wind up on your ass?”

  De Zuera smiled. He didn’t understand half of what Marsala was saying, but he could feel the challenge. “As you prefer.”

>   Marsala threw a punch. De Zuera dodged it without moving his feet.

  The next one missed, too.

  Then de Zuera stepped deftly aside. He grabbed Marsala by the back of his slacks and tossed him deep into the suite’s living room.

  “What do you wish me to do, camaleón?” De Zuera called Ree chameleon: one moment, she was the epitome of sexuality, the next a freckle-faced innocent. Bold, then suddenly adrift with insecurity.

  “We’ll go,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Antonio.”

  “No, my dear. Please take the room. It is my gift to you.”

  “Fuck off, shorty,” Marsala said as he gathered himself. “Nobody here needs charity.”

  De Zuera looked at him. “I was not speaking to you.”

  “Well, I’m speaking to you,” Marsala replied. He stepped up again. “You know, shorty, where I come from, we know how to take care of a punk like you.”

  De Zuera swept his hand behind his back and withdrew a small pistol, a .22. He tossed it to Marsala. “Use it as you wish.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.”

  De Zuera snorted in disgust.

  Ree grabbed the Spaniard by the arm and tried to yank him outside the suite. But he wouldn’t move.

  Marsala waved the gun. “Go on, shit heel,” he said. “Get lost.”

  “Antonio, please. For me, Antonio.”

  De Zuera yielded. “Para ti,” he said softly. He gestured for Ree to pass into the corridor.

  “You’re going with him?” Marsala said.

  “For Christ’s sake, Bill, would you just shut up for a minute.”

  Marsala dropped onto a settee as de Zuera followed Ree into the hall. She shut the door. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have explained.” She took his arm again and walked with him along the corridor.

  “There is no need,” de Zuera replied. He looked at her, a glint in his eye. “Nothing will change how I feel about our time—”

  A gunshot echoed.

  Ree and de Zuera stared at each other.

  Ree bolted back to the suite.

  The bullfighter waited. Then he turned and left. He spoke to the concierge in their native language, his speech so exceedingly calm and measured that it was clear de Zuera had been offended.

  “There is a desperate man in my room. He has pretended to shoot himself and perhaps he has—a minor wound requiring sympathy, but nothing so serious. When the charade has ended, please find Miss Ree new accommodations, perhaps at the Ritz or the Canarias, if you don’t mind. The desperate man will insist that he pay, but I ask that you send the bill to me.”

  “As you say, señor,” the man replied.

  “I thank you.”

  “Señor, do you know who this man is?”

  “No. Nor do I care.”

  “He is Bill Marsala. The famous American singer. There are reporters who want to talk to him.” The concierge nodded toward the bar.

  “The Americans can have him,” de Zuera replied. He left the hotel and as he walked toward the splashing fountains at the Canovas del Castillo Square, he wondered what a woman like Eleanor Ree could see in a man like that. By the time he reached the Paseo del Prado, he understood that she was more damaged, and more fragile, than he feared.

  “No, he don’t expect me,” Benno said, answering the night doorman’s question. “But he wants to see me. You bet.”

  The bewildered doorman scratched the back of his neck.

  “Go ahead,” Benno insisted. “Tell him Salvatore.” He pronounced it in Sicilian, operatic and fluttery. “Say it like that. Salvatore from Narrows Gate.”

  He turned to Bell. “I seen Hennie Rosiglino do this. These guys, they’re in charge of nothing.”

  And then they were on the elevator, going up.

  Anthony Corini was at the door facing the lift. Over blue silk pajamas, he wore an embroidered robe with matching slippers. Bell thought the boss wasn’t terribly surprised to see them.

  “How can I help you?” Corini said. His hands sat in his robe’s side pockets, his thumbs out.

  “I got the money back, Mr. Corini.” With a nod, Benno asked for permission to reach inside his coat. He handed over the bloody envelope.

  “I don’t know how much it is,” Benno added, as Corini eased back the flap. “But it’s all there.”

  Corini said, “Come in.” He stepped aside to let Benno and Bell pass.

  “The kitchen,” Benno whispered.

  “Really?” Bell said.

  Corini closed the door and moved to the sink, putting a butcher-block table and a hanging garden of pots and pans between him and his guests. The window offered a glimpse of other castle towers.

  “Tell me,” Corini said.

  “I found him near Gigenti’s joint on Mulberry Street,” Benno said, spinning his hat in his hands.

  Corini nodded slowly.

  “But the guy says Gigenti don’t know.”

  “The guy?”

  “Who robbed me. He has a new baby,” Benno said. “But new teeth, too, when the swelling goes down. He wasn’t lying.”

  Corini put the envelope on the counter, not far from the sink.

  Somewhere deep in the apartment, a door closed. Benno lowered his voice, thinking he woke up Corini’s wife, too. “Mr. Corini, I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, “but I don’t want you to think I could fail you. This bothered the hell out of me.”

  “No, you did good, Sal,” Corini replied. Then he looked at Bell. “And you?”

  Benno answered. “He’s my friend. He goes to college.” When Corini frowned in confusion, he added, “He drives.”

  “They cracked his head,” Bell said as he tamped down his sweater.

  Benno turned and pointed to the gash, which was now hidden under curls.

  “Mr. Corini, I’m out of line, I’ll just shut up, but I’m in the middle of something and I don’t want to be in the middle of nothing.”

  Corini let a smile cross his lips. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was there when Pellizzari took one and now this and I ain’t said nothing to nobody. My hand to God.”

  Corini came around the table. “Everything is good,” he said in Sicilian. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  Benno sighed. Then he said, gesturing toward Bell, “He speaks Italian, by the way, though he don’t look it.”

  Bell smiled as if embarrassed.

  “Sal, you don’t say anything to anyone about this. You understand me?”

  “No, Mr. Corini. I won’t.”

  “And you—”

  Bell jutted out his right hand. “Leonardo Bell, sir,” he said.

  “Keep this to yourselves.”

  “You got it, Mr. Corini,” Benno replied, speaking for both.

  Rosa thought he’d decided to have a few drinks with the band. A bottle or two in the studio, ice in Dixie cups, blue smoke clinging to the ceiling, cables underfoot. Or maybe he’d gone for breakfast with Nino, bacon and eggs on a roll, out on a pier, fresh-brewed coffee in a thermos, and maybe they’d kick off their shoes and walk the cold sand. A chance to relax while feeling fine about what he’d done and where he was going. A life back on track, music once again at the heart of things. Then he’d sleep until late afternoon and start all over again, Bill’s career in flight.

  But there was no mistaking the expression on Terrasini’s face as he stepped through the morning haze, slouching toward Rosa in the doorway, Bill Jr. in her arms. Until seconds ago, having heard the car pull up, she was thinking her husband had come home.

  “Go ahead, Nino. Just say it.”

  “He went to Spain,” he told her as he hitched up his slacks. “She’s there.” Terrasini shook his head in frustration and disgust. “His voice gave out and he panicked. We got a doctor and the guy said it was nothing but rest. But Bill panicked.”

  She stared at him. “What else?”

  “He fired Phil.”

  She slumped. “I don’t believe this.”

&n
bsp; He followed Rosa into the house and watched as she paced. Look at her, he thought. Dressed nice and fresh for Bill—her hair pulled back sweet, lipstick, sky blue blouse, khakis, brown flats. When she turned, he studied her face. Her eyes darted as she calculated, her jaw clenched.

  “That son of a bitch,” she said finally. “He had this planned.”

  “No, no,” Terrasini replied as he took the baby, cradling him against his hip. “We had to track her down—Phil tried to talk him out of it.” He stopped. “Jesus, it’s a mess.”

  “He’s an idiot. An idiot.”

  Worse, Terrasini thought. Not an idiot. He knows what he’s throwing away and he don’t care. Not when he feels the world’s got him cornered. Then it’s to hell with everybody, which includes his wife and son.

  “Questa è la goccia che fa traboccare il vaso,” Terrasini said. “Right?”

  “For me, yes,” she said. “The last straw. Finito.”

  Terrasini had known women like Rosa his whole life. Anybody waiting for her to burst into tears this time was going to be hanging around forever. Siciliana like Rosa don’t stand around waiting to get worked over twice. Odds are she already has her strategy in place.

  But, oh, the way she’d loved him. Oh, Jesus. The way she’d stare at him, sitting at a front table in some joint, nursing a ginger ale; Bebe’s singing for everybody but also just for her. He’s a kid in a floppy bow tie, she’s a budding young girl with a blush on her cheek and they don’t know where this thing is going, but it promised a wonderful ride.

  Which is now over.

  Hennie in the grave and now this door is sealed shut.

  Fuckin’ Bebe.

  “Rosa, could I ask you maybe we could see what happens when his voice comes back?” Up went Bill Jr. onto his shoulder and the baby pawed at the side of his head, tugging at his ear.

  “His voice goes,” she said. “I understand. But why isn’t he here, Nino? Tell me.”

  “Sure, that’s the sensible thing to do, to come to his family,” he said. “But he’s not sensible. We know that. He panics.”

  The phone rang and Rosa went for the kitchen.

  Terrasini looked for a place to rest the squirming kid.

  “Oh, yes, Louella,” Rosa said. She gestured for Terrasini to join her. “Phil Klein—” She opened her eyes wide. “Phil Klein had a stroke.”