by Jim Fusilli
“I have a dozen men who can run a casino.”
“True, I’m sure. Perhaps you can suggest one or two who can correct the situation at the Sandpiper and move us deeper into the entertainment industry.”
“I don’t see how one has to do with the other,” Gigenti said. “We’re out seven million in Vegas. We need to earn and we need to earn now.”
“Bruno’s right,” Corini said. “The loss at the Sandpiper is a big hit. Until we straighten out that mess, how do we know we can do these other things we’ve discussed?”
“Bruno?” Geller said.
Gigenti tried to calculate. His objective was to show the Sandpiper was no more than a glitzy version of the gambling operations he commanded up and down the East Coast for the past decades. Corini’s entertainment angle was bullshit. People gambled. You throw up a game where there’s people and you earn. Baum’s idea to put a casino in the middle of the desert was stupid. “Bulldoze it,” he said. “It was a mistake.” He dusted his hands together. “Finito.”
Farcolini said, “I’m not sure it was a mistake. The mistake was in who we trusted with the job and this was my decision.”
Corini said, “It’s true that we have a major investment in the city.”
“This is the issue, I think,” Cy Geller said. “We wanted to do more than build a casino. We wanted an industry in a city we owned. We shouldn’t lose sight of this.”
Farcolini nodded knowingly.
“I’d like to make a recommendation,” Geller continued. “My son, Saul, has done a very good job of managing the Palm Tree in Miami Beach. Very competent. I suggest we allow him to oversee the completion of the renovation at the Sandpiper and to run the property for a period of one year. Bruno, your men who know gambling might serve on the board and run the floor. Anthony, you could continue to develop the entertainment angle to bring in customers, so you would be represented on the board, as well. Perhaps you can suggest people in local and state government we can turn to.”
Corini nodded.
“This is the proper way to proceed,” Farcolini said. “Bruno?”
“He’s got one year to get us out of the hole? That’s seven million above the ten percent off the top we discussed when we agreed to the Vegas move. Am I right?”
Farcolini nodded.
“And that’s all off the casino floor. Not prostitution or narcotics.”
Corini said, “The casino floor and entertainment.”
Gigenti snorted as he sat back. “Good luck, Geller.”
It was decided that Zamarella would remove Baum from his post. Gigenti would be compensated for the assignment.
“Next item is Marsala,” said Cy Geller.
Frankie Fortune walked to the door to retrieve Mimmo.
Marsala relaxed at the pool for a while, then snuck back into the cabana to use the phone. Last night’s performance had him “higher than the moon,” as he put it, and he was eager to talk about it. He figured Ree would still be on New York time and up early in Bel Air, which was right—but she was already out, her houseboy said. Breakfast with her agent, then she was going to the studio. He tried Terrasini at the Wilshire Towers, but there was no answer. Phil Klein came to mind and then he remembered—dead. Maybe I ought to do something for Klein’s family. A college fund for his grandchildren. I’ll tell Nino to find out.
He stepped back into the sun where Benno sat, a lobster’s empty shell at his elbow. Earlier, Marsala told him to buy himself swim trunks, a terry top and lounging shoes.
“What’s on your mind, kid?” he said.
“Bebe, you could fire a bullet in my ear, and it comes out the other side clean,” he replied. He had his fedora on the back of his head and his hands folded on his stomach. “You?”
“I’m thinking it was pretty swell last night.”
“They went nuts,” Benno agreed. “Nuts.”
The orchestra was grand and when “She’s Funny That Way” ended, Marsala turned to them and said, “Gorgeous, fellas. Muchas gracias.” The audience, which, according to Benno’s count, was 500 Cubans, a couple tables full of Sicilians and the Gellers, applauded the song and the gesture. Spirits were high and by the time he finished with “All of Me,” the crowd was overjoyed and Marsala was, too. “That all right for you, kid?” he said as he came off stage.
“You got something, Bebe,” Benno said as the singer wiped his face with a towel Enna provided.
“You bet your ass I do,” Marsala replied before he took one last bow.
“That’s the sugar, kid,” he said now with a nod. “Right there.”
Benno was staring at the Cuban dames by the pool, the sunlight dancing on the turquoise water. They reminded him of the kind of Italian girls he liked—cool and hot at the same time, flowing dark hair, chin held high, a nice rack and they knew it. But these broads had a caboose a mile wide. Madonna mio, he thought. What do you do with that thing?
“Stop drooling,” Marsala said as he stood behind him, sharing the view. “Make your move.”
“They got their ways, Bebe?”
“Sure, but who cares? Go make your own. What are they going to say?”
Benno didn’t reply.
“Am I right? You make your…Kid?”
Benno pointed. “Look.”
There was Mimmo, luggage on his good side as he walked from the tower toward the parking lot beyond a flower-coated trestle.
“They kicked him out,” Benno said. “Jesus.”
“Go see,” Marsala said, tapping him on the shoulder. He was concerned. Maybe $500,000 wasn’t enough to make things right.
Benno stood. “Bebe, don’t disappear.” He held up a finger in warning.
“I’ll be right here. Scout’s honor.”
“Ah, you ain’t no Boy Scout.”
He caught up to Mimmo in the lot, steam rising from the asphalt. Several limos waited, but Mimmo couldn’t determine which were assigned to Farcolini and the crew. Mimmo looked deflated, slouched in his wrinkled suit, his straw hat, sunglasses, and that arm in a sling.
“Mimmo,” said Benno as he skidded to a stop.
In a daze, he turned to see a young guy in a brown fedora, terry top and bathing suit. “Sal…”
“Can I help you with something, Mimmo?” Benno said.
“Which car?”
Hand over his brow, Benno searched. “Where are you going? Maybe that means something.”
“The airport.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mimmo. They told you to go home?”
“Yeah. Fuckin’ Bebe. Somebody had to pay.”
Benno grabbed Mimmo’s luggage and headed toward the first car in the queue. “The airport,” he told the driver. “This is a very important man you got here. You do what he says.”
The little Cuban nodded.
Benno eased the bag into the trunk as Mimmo slumped into the backseat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A commotion outside in the hallway. Alarmed, Saul Geller sprung from an armchair but with a casual wave, Farcolini said no, sit. He’d recognized one man’s voice—Cy Geller had, too—and crossed the hotel suite to answer the door himself.
In the corridor, Farcolini’s guard, a Cuban military man, was wrestling with Bruno Gigenti who, though maybe 20 years his senior, had the man gripped in a headlock. Gigenti threw a right uppercut that caught the center of his face.
“What is this?” Farcolini said in Sicilian. “What do you call this?”
Gigenti released the man, shoving him back toward a small table. A vase and flowers crashed to the carpeted floor.
“We’re not finished,” he said to Farcolini, spittle flying. “Me and you.”
“We’re not?”
“What you did. That wasn’t right. You threw me over.”
Farcolini stared at him.
“You think I set up Corini for that skunk Pellizzari and I robbed his Jersey bagman.”
Farcolini didn’t reply.
“But I told you I didn’t do nothing to Corini, tha
t fuckin’ politician.”
“So you said, yes.”
Gigenti rolled his shoulders. “Now I’m here to tell you what’s right. You’re gonna know what’s going on.”
“Ah.” Farcolini stepped back and opened the door wide. “Come then.”
Gigenti stormed inside but stopped when he saw the Gellers.
“This is none of your business,” he told them.
Saul Geller was still standing, but his father remained on the sofa, surrounded by long sheets of accounting paper.
Cy Geller looked at Farcolini over by the door. “Carlo?”
“You stay. Saul also.”
Staring at the Gellers, Gigenti said in Sicilian, “Carlo, this is another mistake—you following these Jews. You know who makes the most from these plans? Jews.”
Farcolini walked slowly across the room. When he was an arm’s length from Gigenti, he dropped his shoulder and drove his fist hard and deep into Gigenti’s lower back, slamming his kidney. Howling like a wounded animal, Gigenti collapsed to his knees.
With terrifying speed, Farcolini grabbed the chair where young Geller had been seated, snapped off its arm and began beating Gigenti, rising off his feet and grunting as he struck each savage blow. When Gigenti toppled on his side, Farcolini kicked him in the stomach and chest three, four, five times.
He threw down the weapon. Looking at Gigenti, Farcolini drew a breath and said, “When you betray any one of us, you betray me. Do you understand this? Do you understand this?”
Gigenti felt as if his insides would explode. “I understand,” he groaned, holding up a quaking hand.
Cy Geller looked up at his son. Fear had drained the young man’s long, tan face. “Saul,” he said, “Saul. Saul, get a washcloth and a towel.”
When Farcolini turned toward him, the elder Geller said, “It’s fine, Carlo. It’s done.”
“I apologize for this man,” he said in English.
“No need.”
Gigenti coughed and blood spewed across his lips.
Stepping back, running his hand through his close-cropped hair, Farcolini stared down at Gigenti. “Anthony Corini represents me. Cy Geller represents me. Understand this or you’re through. Period.”
Young Geller approached and looked to Farcolini for permission to treat Gigenti. Farcolini nodded.
As Geller put the wet cloth to his face, Gigenti shuddered and passed out.
Bell was playing penny-a-point gin with Imogene’s kid sister, Ruthie, while Mrs. O’Boyle cooked dinner in time for her husband’s return from work. He’d spent the day with Imogene in New York City, talking for hours over espresso, sitting by a glowing stove, in a tiny storefront in Greenwich Village and what’s better than that? You do something that simple and you feel good, you know you’re in the right company.
Ruthie was conniving something as she rearranged her hand, the freckle-faced kid chewing her tongue, the preamble to a triumphant shout, “Gin!”—which was followed always by “Ha!” Then “Ha, ha, ha!” as she started counting her points. Bell was down 65 cents. He promised himself he’d stop feeding her cards when the tally hit a buck.
“Leo,” Imogene shouted from the kitchen. “Telephone.”
“Don’t cheat,” he said as he stood.
“Don’t have to,” she sang, her head bobbing.
Imogene handed him the handset and waited.
“Leo. Charlie Tyler.”
Bell made a silent plea for privacy. Imogene faked a huff before she fled.
“How’d you get this number?” Bell asked.
“Leo, you’ve got to find out what’s going on down here.”
“Down where—Wait, you’re in Havana?”
“They just brought Bruno Gigenti out on a stretcher.”
“Dead?”
“They’re taking him to the hospital. They also sent Mistretta back home.”
“What about Sal?” Bell asked, alarmed. “Have you seen him? Is he all right?”
“He’s at the pool with Marsala. At least he was. They’re probably up in the room now. Benno is sharing Marsala’s suite.”
“See if he’s OK.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Leo. But you can.”
“I’m not supposed to know he’s in Cuba. No one is. I can’t call Bebe’s room and I can’t page him.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“The rest of them. Are they still at the hotel?” Bell asked.
“As far as I know, Farcolini, Corini and Geller are still here. So’s Fortune. Eugenio Zamarella got into the ambulance with Gigenti,” he replied. “Speculate, Leo. What does it mean?”
Calculating, Bell said, “Corini’s in good shape. Farcolini wants him to keep up with the politicians and Marsala.”
Tyler was using a pay phone on El Malecón. A young couple lingered by the booth, kissing and giggling as they waited.
Bell said, “Let me talk to Sal when he gets back home. But keep an eye on him while you’re there, Charlie.”
“Leo…”
“I don’t want him to be the next guy who goes to the hospital.”
Well after midnight, Corini and Fortune shared a corner at the bar in one of El Malecón’s small, dimly lit lounges. Farcolini had retired to the villa he maintained in the hills west of Matanzas, its perimeter patrolled by guards provided by Senator Balboa. The Gellers had gone off to review information Farcolini had provided from Don Mauro and his other counterparts in Sicily. Across the lounge, under a cloud of violet smoke, were a handful of American businessmen who were oblivious to all but their own discussion.
Over cigars and dark rum, Corini told Fortune what he had proposed to Farcolini regarding Marsala.
Fortune was stunned.
Corini explained that Don Carlo wanted Fortune to stick to Bebe. “I should’ve known,” he said. “Once again, you can’t see the benefits.”
“We never said a thing about this,” Fortune replied bitterly. “Not word one.”
“You’re angry because I went to Don Carlo before I spoke to you.”
“Because you knew I wouldn’t agree.”
“Because you don’t know what’s in your best interests.”
“Babysitting Bebe is in my interest?”
“This opens up the West Coast for you. You sit on Bebe for a couple months, then you put somebody in your place. By then, he’s on track or he’s through. In the meantime, you’re already tapping the racing wires, the numbers, the unions and whatever the fuck else Baum is up to. It’s good.”
“And when do I come back to New York?”
“You want to know when you’re taking over for Bruno.”
Fortune snuck a glance at the Americans in the corner. “Wasn’t that the plan? Wasn’t that the agreement we made in Brooklyn?” He lowered his voice and in Sicilian said, “Wasn’t that why I’m teeing up Bruno for you?”
With a note of triumph in his voice, Corini said, “I remind you that Bruno’s in the hospital, my friend.”
Fortune snorted. “If you think a beating is going to change his ways, you’d better think again.”
“Of course not. The man’s an animal. But if Carlo gives you Baum’s seat right away, Bruno puts two and two together. Then he’s got no choice but to blow everything up. So instead of Mimmo, it’s you or me at the end of the rifle shot.” Corini clapped a hand on Fortune’s arm. “Irregardless, we need a man out in California we can trust. You go with Bebe, and it develops slow and natural. It’s logical. You in for Ziggy. Then you’re the king of Las Vegas.”
Fortune said, “Anthony, tell me. Does this bullshit work when you talk to your politicians?”
Corini smiled. “Sure. Why not?”
“Well, I ought to tell you I know when I’m getting fucked.”
“Listen, this thing is going our way nice,” Corini said. “I told Geller about the note the cops found on Pellizzari which put it on me. Then you caught a big break when your bagman went after Bruno’s guy. Instead of me pinning the whole
thing on it looking like Bruno stole from us, I get to tell Carlo the fuckin’ truth: He tried to take out Mimmo. Over a fuckin’ plate-glass window. Typical.”
The plan was for it to look like Gigenti had one of his crew swipe the Jersey take from Corini as a sign of his frustration with the continuing investment in politics and entertainment. Fortune sent Chiasso to approach the kid they called Little Buff and tell him the robbery was a test of Benno’s mettle. Chiasso said he could keep the money if he rode away clean. Fortune figured in a day or two he’d send Fat Tutti to retrieve the cash, but Benno moved too fast, smashing his way into the Mulberry Street club, embarrassing Gigenti in front of the neighborhood and his crew. Of course, Gigenti would want revenge, no matter that an attack on Mimmo looked to Farcolini and Geller like Gigenti was eager to bust up the organization over a minor grievance.
Corini examined his thick cigar, a serpentine plume of smoke rising. “That Benno kid did good,” he said. “What are you going to do for him? Can he sit in Mimmo’s chair?”
Fortune shook his head.
“Then?”
“I got an idea,” Fortune said. “Could work out for everybody.”
Nino Terrasini found a little bungalow in West Hollywood that would suit him just fine. He salvaged some crates off the loading dock at Ralph’s, crammed them into the trunk and with Rosa in the passenger’s seat, drove to the Wilshire Towers to move his stuff out.
“So this is it,” she said as she removed her scarf. “His bachelor pad.”
“This is it.” Terrasini went to his bedroom. He’d made a silent pledge to leave behind everything he hadn’t earned. He started tossing shirts, slacks and jackets toward the open luggage on the bed.
“No, Nino. Don’t,” Rosa said. “Let me do that.”
She folded a pair of slacks over her arm and placed it gently in the suitcase. Next she started folding Terrasini’s suit jackets.
“The furniture stays,” he said.
“Too bad. I wanted to see you fit that chiffonier into a tomato crate.”
Terrasini smiled. This was a damned difficult task, closing the casket on a long friendship and she was trying to make it easy for him. No way she had to be here, but that was Rosa. She knew the right thing.
