by Jim Fusilli
Benno drank half the beer and now he had a foamy mustache. Bell passed him a napkin.
“That fuckin’ Frankie, though,” Benno said. “He still don’t like me.”
“You jumped his head by going straight to Corini. You threatened the order of things.”
“I’m not looking to make an enemy. I figure Corini had to say OK if I’m invited.”
“Well,” Bell said as he put a heel on the foot rail, “you get a trip out of it.”
“You mean there’s no chance I could say no.”
They ate in silence, their hands taking turns dipping into the tattered pot. After a while, Benno called the bartender, Volpe, over, saying, “More zuppa and this time don’t stint on the fuckin’ clams.”
Volpe groaned as he shuffled off.
“I hate that cheap fuck,” Benno whispered.
“Like he don’t know.”
“We been in here maybe once a month since the war ended. You’d think he’d buy a round.”
Bell said, “He holds a grudge.”
“Since Little League?”
“You chased him across the outfield, Sal.” Bell saw 7-year-old Volpe screaming in terror, the umpires trailing Benno and parents laughing in the stands, opening-day pennants and bunting on the fence.
Benno recalled how Volpe smirked when he threw strike three past him. “I should go over and knock that grudge out his ass.”
Bell found a garlic clove in the sauce and offered it to him. “Imogene’s got somebody for you,” he said. “A nice girl. A nursing student. She transferred.”
“What am I going to do with a nursing student?”
“Her name is Esposito.”
Benno turned. “No kidding. We’re in the nursing schools now, too?”
“I guess.”
“Put her on ice until I get back.”
Bell caught Volpe’s eye. He pointed to the empty breadbasket, knowing it’s even money the fuck delivers stale.
Ree took the hint and decided to fly back to Hollywood. A script interested her. Incredibly, they wanted her to play a goddess come to earth. A trip to Greece, she told Marsala. “You’ll join me, won’t you?” she asked.
Simon dropped in unannounced as she was packing.
“You waited until Bill was out, I see,” she said. She rushed to the bedroom to complete the task. The plane was scheduled to take off in an hour.
Simon followed and stood in the doorway. “Is he too busy for you?”
“We’re both busy people.” Retrieving a few toiletries from her dressing table, she gave a quick glance to the mirror and saw only her flaws. “We have careers.”
“His voice is back so you’re disposable.”
“Oh, why don’t you just go to hell,” she said.
Simon grabbed her arm. “Eleanor—”
Spinning, she kicked him hard in the shin.
Hissing in pain, he hopped red-faced and leaned against a chest of drawers.
“You wanted to move in on him,” she said, continuing to pack. “He’s down and you’d revive his career. Then you’ll take the credit and you’ll have something to do with your life.”
“That’s rid—”
“Bill Marsala’s musical director.”
“Well, he needs someone.”
She said, “He doesn’t need you.”
“Perhaps he won’t need you, either.”
“Good.” She snapped the luggage clasps. “He’ll be with me because he wants to be.”
He followed her back into the living room. “But why run off?” he said. “I’m here, you are too…”
She slipped into her coat and pulled a sheer scarf from its pocket. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Eleanor, you have to admit it was always wonderful between the sheets with us,” he said.
“No it wasn’t, Guy.” She tied the scarf under her chin. “It’s wonderful with him. Better than you’ll ever know.” Sliding on her sunglasses, she picked up her bag and headed to the elevator. A car waited for her on Central Park West.
In its backseat were two-dozen red roses. The card read, “Come home soon, baby. Forever, Your Bill.” Ree suddenly felt giddy.
Across the avenue, Marsala shivered as he watched from behind an ancient oak tree in the park. He loved her. He did. He was right about her: She was solid. A good kid who was there when he was down. Mimmo, Fortune, Corini, Gigenti, Don Carlo—they’d have to understand.
Forty minutes later in the suite, the telephone rang. Marsala was changing his outfit and he trotted across the room in his boxers and undershirt. Maybe it’s her calling from the airport, he thought. Maybe one last sweet good-bye.
“Bebe. You ready?”
“Now, Mimmo?”
“Right now.”
“Where are you?”
Mimmo spoke in Sicilian. “I’m in Miami, Florida. Be ready, Bebe, and do this thing right. Don’t fuck this up.”
There was a knock on the hotel door so loud that Mimmo heard it. “Go,” he said. “Do what he tells you.”
“All right,” Marsala said. The new silk robe Ree had bought him hung behind the bedroom door.
“And don’t fuck this up.” Then Mimmo cut the line.
Marsala hurried to the bedroom. “Just a minute,” he shouted. He wriggled into the robe and opened the door.
“Let’s go, Bebe,” Sal Benno said as he lifted the black suitcase at his side.
Despite the caramel suit and the spit shine on his brown shoes, Marsala thought the one-eyed kid had the look of somebody who’d have to climb to be second rate.
“Would you mind if I dressed?” Marsala said.
Benno stepped in, bumping him with his shoulder. “Me, I don’t give a fuck what you do. But Anthony Corini says you carry this bag all the way to Havana. You start now.”
“What?”
“Plus it’s locked, meaning I don’t know what’s in it.”
As Marsala watched, Benno sat on the sofa. “You got fourteen minutes,” he said. “And don’t worry about no topcoat. They got sun in Cuba.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rico Enna met them at the airport in Havana, the air moist and warm. When he reached for the black suitcase Marsala carried, Benno said no and pushed his way between the two men.
“Rick, it’s all right,” Marsala said as he slipped on his sunglasses. He’d come to some sort of terms with this bulldog Benno who, over the Atlantic, walked through the curtain into first class and sat next to him.
“How can you read a magazine when you got those clouds?” Benno asked, pointing to a window. And then he said, “Bebe, the ocean is pretty big, no?” Then the stewardess shooed him back to coach. Benno, who’d never had a glass of Champagne in his life, lifted Marsala’s flute and took it with him to 11C, where he resumed his study of sea and sky. “It looks like it don’t end,” he said in wonder.
In the silvery evening light outside the terminal, Enna suggested Benno sit in front with the driver, but he went in back with Marsala, the suitcase between them, an armrest for the singer. Soon they were driving along El Malecón, the waves slamming the seawall alongside the wide boulevard with its grand buildings with arches and ornate balconies. In the quiet time before supper, couples in white, the men in straw fedoras, strolled leisurely. Benno was taking it in, the swagger and brown skin, palm trees and a lighthouse. If he had turned around, he might’ve noticed Charlie Tyler of the U.S. Department of Justice riding in the taxi behind them.
Marsala had taken off his jacket and folded it neatly on his lap.
Enna passed him an envelope. “It’s the agenda for the meeting and your itinerary.”
Benno craned to see. Luckily, Marsala was on the side of his good eye.
“Tonight?” Marsala said, raising the sheet.
“For Carlo.” Enna nodded. “To set the tone.”
Benno saw that Marsala was to perform at the welcome banquet.
“The band’s ready. We’ve got all the charts. Real professional, these guys.
”
“Rick, I’m out of shape.”
“Five or six tunes, Bill. You pick them.”
“You should’ve let me know.” Marsala struggled to stay calm. He wasn’t sure he was up to a performance. “When I’m working, Rick, there’s a way to do things. You know that.”
“It’s been hurry up and wait for everybody, Bill. Hurry up and wait.”
“Carlo knows I’m on tonight?”
“This comes from Cy Geller. So I’d say, yeah, Carlo knows.”
Benno heard the silence and knew it was written in stone. Bebe on stage, Don Carlo Farcolini front and center.
“We’ve got a nice suite for you. One of the best,” Enna said. “Two stories in the tower. First class.”
“What about me?” Benno asked.
“Yeah, you’re all set, too,” Enna replied.
“I’m with him, though.” Fortune told him plain: Don’t let Bebe walk away from the suitcase.
Enna looked back at Marsala, who replied with a shrug.
As he sat in his dressing room, fretting over his throat and whether the band would cloak his weak points, Bebe Marsala suddenly realized this was the first gig he’d done without Nino Terrasini taking charge. Terrasini would review the charts, verify Marsala’s selections and stand by as his pianist, Ronnie Oliver, ran through a couple of numbers with the band, encouraging the woodwinds, muting the brass. He’d return to their suite to wake Marsala, pour scotch over ice and help him dress, maybe call out for a meal. When they arrived at the venue, Terrasini would ward off the well-wishers. When Marsala wore a tux, Terrasini would slip in his black onyx cufflinks. “Buona fortuna, Bebe,” he’d say as he adjusted his bow tie and Marsala would reply, “Non è fortuna, Nino.” Then Terrasini would escort him to the side of the stage and cue the lights, his hand on the singer’s shoulder until it was time for Bebe to go to work.
Now a wave of panic rushed over Marsala. He needed somebody to tell him it was going to be fine, that his voice wouldn’t go, that the band wouldn’t expose him, that Don Carlo wouldn’t be displeased.
He glanced at Benno.
“Bebe, I got to say, you look great and like shit at the same time.”
Marsala looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were pinwheels. The veins in his temples pulsed. Whatever good the time in Madrid and New York with Eleanor had done for him seemed gone and he was as frightened as he was when he fled Los Angeles. “Yeah, it’s the jitters, kid. We all get them.” He dabbed a bit of pancake makeup on the slope of his nose.
“You sung for some of these guys at the Chatterbox when you were thirteen years old. What’s the big deal?”
Marsala looked at Benno through the mirror. “I’m like everybody else, kid. I want to be at my best.”
“Why? They know the difference?”
Marsala smiled.
“Why don’t you figure out what they want and do that?”
For some reason, this Benno kid put him at ease. “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?”
Twirling his hat in his hand, Benno said, “You know, your mother told me the same thing. Maybe I got something that fools you guys.”
He rose to answer a knock on the door. “I told Hennie it’s a matter of being useful—”
Benno opened the door and was struck numb.
“Kid?” Bebe said.
Standing in the hall next to Frankie Fortune was Carlo Farcolini.
Unable to speak, Benno pointed to the black suitcase.
Farcolini waited impassively, his scarred eyelid drooping, his jaw chiseled stone. Silvery gray had crept into his hair at his temples, but he was tan and fit under a baggy brown suit. Fifty years old, he looked like he could snap a head off at the neck. He smelled of bay rum and talc.
Remembering how Bell did it with Corini, Benno said, “Salvatore Benno, Mr. Farcolini.”
Farcolini shook his hand.
Benno noted that Farcolini had some serious air around him, a kind of electrical charge.
“You’re the one with Mimmo?” Farcolini asked. “The gunplay.”
“Under the car? That’s me.”
“Siete Siciliani?”
“Sì,” Benno replied. “Sono Siciliano.”
Farcolini nodded, then entered the dressing room, leaving Benno alone among the bare light bulbs and fire axes in the narrow corridor below the El Malecón stage.
Fortune sealed the door. The singer rushed to Farcolini, kissing both cheeks.
“I’m so happy to see you looking well,” Marsala said in Sicilian as Farcolini sat on a folding chair.
“You’ve brought something for Carlo,” Fortune led.
When Marsala hesitated, Fortune nodded toward the black suitcase.
Marsala retrieved the bag.
“Bebe wanted you to have this,” Fortune said. “A sign of his gratitude.”
Farcolini looked at the suitcase as Fortune produced a key.
It was loaded with stacks of one hundred dollar bills, one hundred to a bundle wrapped in rubber bands. Marsala calculated quickly. Six rows across, maybe eight rows deep. Almost a half-million dollars.
“He knows how important the Sandpiper operation is to you,” Fortune said.
Marsala said, “I want you to understand how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Carlo. Since I was a child.”
“And the future,” Fortune added.
“That’s right. Yes.” Marsala waited for another cue, but Fortune wouldn’t look at him.
Farcolini said, “We have to talk, Bebe.”
“I know, padrone. I need your guidance.”
“You see me tomorrow,” Farcolini said as he stood.
Fortune opened the door and there was Benno, waiting. “Sal, you stay with Bebe.”
Benno noticed Fortune had the suitcase now.
Farcolini left the dressing room and without acknowledging Benno, walked the corridor, Fortune behind him, the suitcase swaying at his side.
Benno came in and shut the door. “How much?” he asked.
Shaking, Marsala sat. “Five hundred Gs.”
Benno whistled. “A tribute from who?”
“From me.”
“Hey. Nice going, Bebe. Corini just fronted you five hundred large, which means you get to live to earn it back.”
Marsala struggled to light a cigarette.
“How long does it take to make five hundred Gs?” Benno asked.
In ’43 or now? the singer thought.
Rico Enna knocked on the door. “Ten minutes, Bill,” he said.
Cy Geller hadn’t slept well. Propriety had required that he sit through Marsala’s performance and the celebration that followed, so he was late to bed. At dawn, he took a light breakfast in his room before joining his son and the talent agent Enna to inspect the third-floor boardroom. As he walked around the table, he adjusted the bottles of Sicilian wine imported by Farcolini that stood alongside pitchers of ice water. The centerpiece, an oversized display of tropical fruit, was thoroughly unnecessary, but it would be an insult to hotel management to have it removed.
Geller walked to the window and looked beyond the white water at the shoreline to the Florida Straits. A misty fog had settled over the northern edge of the city; otherwise, Geller believed he could see the outline of the Florida Keys, the gateway to America. He’d insisted the meeting be held in this boardroom so he and Don Carlo could point to the Atlantic Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico and the United States to reinforce the notion that their international enterprise was too vast to tolerate a petty turf battle in New York City. Frankly, with Farcolini in Sicily overseeing the flow of heroin from Central Asia and Northern Africa and Geller managing distribution throughout the United States and Canada from outside Miami, New York was no longer an indispensable base. If the Gigenti–Corini grudge grew into a war, affecting shipping into and transportation by truck out of the Brooklyn, Manhattan and Jersey piers, several other ports might serve to replace them: Baltimore or New Orleans, for example. But it would take years to t
ransplant the operation. Peace was the most practical solution.
“The room is fine,” Cy Geller said.
“We’ll sweep it one more time,” replied Saul Geller, who learned the value of caution from his father.
The meeting began on time. Farcolini sat at the head of the oblong table, facing the door, his back to the wall. Geller was to his right with his son, Saul, seated behind him. To Farcolini’s left was Anthony Corini, with Frankie Fortune nearby. A representative from Farcolini’s Cuban operation, Jorge Ortega, was to Corini’s left. Directly across from Ortega sat Bruno Gigenti. All were dressed in business suits of light grays and browns. Since Farcolini had approved the seating arrangement, the third agenda item had already been addressed to a degree: Corini was at Farcolini’s side, with Fortune, who was supposed to be a neutral party, at his back; Gigenti, who had his scar-faced rifleman Zamarella behind him, was positioned as equal to a Cuban thug who had no vote. His ink-black eyes mere slits, Gigenti breathed heavily, like a beast preparing to charge, raising the level of tension that already gripped the room.
Gigenti stared at Corini, who seemed oblivious to his implied threat. Fortune was not; his eyes shifted from Gigenti to Zamarella, who studied his long, tapered fingers as they rested on his thighs.
With the slightest gesture, Farcolini told Geller to proceed.
“Gentlemen, we have three items to address. I think it’s best to begin immediately. The first is the matter of our Las Vegas investment and our expansion into the entertainment field. For the benefit of Señor Ortega and to refresh our memories, my son, Saul, will review the numbers. Saul…”
With a master accountant’s precision, Saul Geller systematically detailed how the organization’s initial investment of $700,000 in the building of the Sandpiper Hotel and Casino had grown by a factor of 10, with little prospect of recouping the $7 million if mismanagement under Ziggy Baum continued.
Cy Geller said, “We recommend replacing Mr. Baum.”
“With who?” Gigenti asked.
“I think we can open it to discussion, Bruno,” Geller said calmly. “Do you have someone in mind?”
