by Jim Fusilli
“I got to talk to you,” Mimmo said as he approached. The price of admission was turning over the gun, which was all right, seeing as he had a boning knife inside his sock.
In the back of the musty clubhouse, four old-timers playing scopa didn’t bother to look up. But at least the guy behind the bar brought over an espresso. He waited until Gigenti pointed Mimmo to a seat, then put it down.
“Thank you,” Mimmo replied. He put his hat on the adjoining chair. “How you feeling, Bruno?”
Everybody in here spoke only in Sicilian, so they did, too.
“I’m all right,” Gigenti said. “You?”
“Yeah, all right. Maybe you told Zamarella not to shoot my head?”
“Not that.”
Mimmo frowned.
“I heard you got the syph,” Gigenti said. “Syphilis. It rots your brain.”
“Bruno, I ain’t come here to talk about my health.”
Gigenti stared at him. He never could figure Mimmo out other than he took more than he gave, like everybody who worked under Corini and Fortune.
“They told you I’m off Bebe, right?”
“Good. You fucked that up big.”
With that, Mimmo went to stand. “My mistake—”
“Sit down, Mimmo. Sit.” Gigenti hissed in pain as he waved. “Go ahead. Speak your mind.”
“I don’t like how it’s playing,” he said as he folded into the chair.
“I got nothing for you,” Gigenti said.
“Maybe I got something for you. That’s what I’m saying.”
Gigenti sipped the bitter coffee. “Like what?”
“Like why Carlo won’t let you sleep in the house,” he replied. He saw Farcolini holding a nasty cat by the scruff and tossing it into the street, the cat being Gigenti.
“What do you know, Mimmo?” Even if the guy had a bug rooting around his brain, maybe he remembered something.
“Who told you Pellizzari was going to be in that hotel in Jersey City?”
The tip came from a low-level in the Hudson County DA’s. Frankie Fortune got it and passed it on. “You know who. Let’s not play games, Mimmo.”
“So why does Pellizzari step into broad fuckin’ daylight by himself?”
“Mim—”
He held up his hand. “Because he thought Anthony had men waiting to steal him out of there.”
“Why would he think that? It don’t make sense.”
“’Cause he had in his hand a note saying so. The delivery boy gave it to him and then Pellizzari steps out, pop, and the cops find it.”
“What note? I don’t know nothing about a note.” A note like that pins the hit on me. To Carlo, it means betrayal. “So why didn’t I hear about this note?”
Mimmo shrugged.
“Who wrote it?”
“‘Who wrote it?’” he repeated. “Come on, Bruno.”
Fortune, Gigenti thought.
Mimmo said, “And the delivery boy is the same guy who busted your window.”
“You know this kid?”
“It’s not the kid,” Mimmo said. “I’m you and I find out how one of your guys knows he’s the Jersey bagman.”
Gigenti tried, but Little Buff had fled, taking his wife and baby. Nobody could find him to bring his arm back in a rag and show it to the rest of the crew.
Mimmo said, “Somebody recruited your boy to rip off Anthony. Another fuckin’ setup.”
“The same guy.”
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t the kid with the groceries.”
Gigenti nodded slowly.
“You see what Carlo thinks of this? You pin the Pellizzari hit on Anthony and then you swipe his feed? And then you take a shot at me. Jesus.”
“Nobody is saying I put one in you—”
“Please, Bruno, all right? The cops, they got the slug out of Pellizzari’s head. What happens if we give them the one from my shoulder?”
Zamarella and that fuckin’ Carcano bolt-action rifle.
“All of this, it’s an insult to Carlo, all of it,” Mimmo said. “We look like fuckin’ children.”
Gigenti calculated, grimacing as he leaned in. “What do you want from me?”
Mimmo hadn’t put it to words yet, but he knew what he’d lost and needed back.
“I want to walk down the street,” he said. “I want people to know I count.”
“You count?” Gigenti said.
Mimmo nodded firmly like he believed making his move meant turning back the clock and restoring his youth, giving him another shot at power he never had.
Today they were down at the Battery, Bell and Tyler, facing the brawny towers of Wall Street.
Hunched over a container of coffee to ward off a whipping wind, Tyler tried to make sense of it. “Gigenti challenged Farcolini and Farcolini put him in the hospital. So Corini is still in charge. They hit Baum and Fortune is taking over Marsala.”
Bell nodded. “You got it.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Farcolini is pulling the strings,” Bell said. “He knows if he stays in Havana it’s the same as being here.”
“What would you do?”
“If I’m you?” Bell had thought about that last night as he lay in bed, still in his slacks and shirt, suspenders hanging low, Imogene’s new scent lingering. “How bad do you owe Farcolini for his help with the invasion of Sicily?”
“Dewey wants to be president,” Tyler replied cryptically. “He’ll never admit there was a deal to get Farcolini out of Sing Sing.”
An ocean liner coming around the Battery blasted its horn. Tugs trailed and seagulls bobbed in the stiff breeze.
“Kick Farcolini out of Havana,” Bell said. “Remind him the deal was Sicily, not 75 miles from Miami Beach.”
Tyler agreed. “We’ve got to stop the flow of narcotics out of Cuba. For all intents and purposes, the heroin labs in Sicily might as well be on our doorstep.” He looked at Bell. “You’ve got to get closer, Leo.”
He shook his head. “Can’t happen. They’ll never accept me.”
“What about your friend?”
“Charlie…”
“He’s in thick now.”
“Leave him be.”
“Haven’t you asked yourself what he was doing in Havana?”
“Helping Mimmo,” Bell replied, tapping his shoulder where Mistretta took a bullet.
“He carried a suitcase full of cash to Farcolini. Your friend is supporting the drug operation that’s destroying the youth of America.”
“Sally?” Bell laughed. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s a natural progression. First, the envelopes hidden among groceries, then a suitcase…”
“If there was a suitcase—”
“There was.”
“—he didn’t know. Believe me. It’s a game to him but he draws the line. Look, he wants to run the grocery store. That’s his ambition. This thing with Corini, and Marsala now, it’s a thrill, that’s all. He’s cherry and he likes it that way.”
“Bagman. In on the Pellizzari hit. Trafficking in narcotics.” Tyler counted on his fingers. “Cherry’s been popped.”
Bell said, “Marsala wants to take him to Hollywood. He’ll be three-thousand miles away.”
“Hollywood? He muscles Gigenti’s crew and he gets a reward?”
“Maybe for you Marsala’s a reward…”
Tyler stood, leaving the coffee container under the bench. “He’s crazy, you know.”
“Sal? No. No, he’s—”
“Marsala.”
“Crazy how?”
“Crazy as in insane,” Tyler said. “Certifiable. The Army would’ve taken him with the leg. You think a limp mattered much in ’42? The psychiatrist said no. Psychoneurosis is what they call it. Mental instability. Manic depression. Crazy.”
Bell grew up with the rumor that Marsala had tried to kill himself when he was a kid, ending up with a fractured thighbone. But too crazy for the Army?
Tyler said, “Your friend has no i
dea what they have in store for him.”
“He’ll be all right,” Bell said as he stood, his voice quivering with doubt.
“Benno’s a born patsy, Leo. You know it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Nevada State Police found another contractor in the desert, a hole behind the ear, but only after he’d taken a first-class beating, tuned up with pipes and bats before mercy descended. That made four guys turned into carrion feed since September who had hired and purchased for the Sandpiper.
A prosecutor with the state attorney general’s office called on Saul Geller, who kept a trailer at the far end of the hotel and casino’s parking lot, clear of the dust if not of the pounding of frantic construction, in anticipation of a March 1 reopening. Geller shared it with Harry Milton, the cowboy hotel and club owner Baum had run out of town when East Coast money bought up property the 72-year-old Milton didn’t know he was selling. To win him back, Geller gave Milton two points off the top and a title, figuring it’d be worth it if the locals thought one of their own was in charge. In turn, the widower named Palm Tree Enterprises his beneficiary, but only were he to die of natural causes.
“Now,” said the prosecutor, R. W. Saturday, “I’ve lived here in southwestern Nevada all my life and I’ve never heard of four men in the same business who worked on the same job turning up dead in a matter of less than two months.”
Geller sat behind the desk, Milton on the sofa. The furniture was rented and looked it. To add to the office’s ragtag appeal, Milton suggested keeping the blinds askew and a bottle on the desk.
“You understand that we need to study your records and see if you might’ve had any cause to be upset with these gentlemen,” said Saturday, who was about Geller’s age, maybe 35 years or so, but weathered like he spent more time chasing leads in the sun than at trial in a courthouse.
“We’ve had a terrible time locating Mr. Baum’s records,” Milton replied. “So if you have any luck finding them, we’d be grateful if you would share them with us.”
“Mr. Saturday,” Geller said, “we terminated all contracts as of December 1. The only firms working on the Sandpiper now were hired by Mr. Milton and myself.”
“But you are aware that it’s rumored the four contractors, the deceased contractors, had provided materials and supplies to your predecessor, had them removed from the property and resold to you at the same price.”
“Not to us, R. W.,” Milton said. “To Mr. Baum.”
Geller said, “We have a private security firm on hand now and several licensed private investigators, all of whom are registered with your office. We don’t anticipate any problems of that nature.”
Saul Geller arrived in Nevada the day after Ziggy Baum was killed. Milton notified the Las Vegas Evening Review-Journal of their new partnership and the newspaper made sure to report Geller’s reputation as a no-bullshit businessman, who also was son to one of Carlo Farcolini’s trusted deputies. Within 24 hours, two envelopes turned up at the hotel, both addressed to Geller. One contained $31,000 in cash from Snowland Irrigation, the other a certified check for $82,000 from Lovelock Carting. More followed. Suddenly, companies wanted a clean slate.
Saturday nodded thoughtfully and tugged on his ear. “You expecting any trouble from Senator Dunney and his crowd?”
“The crime commission? Why should we?” Geller said. “Palm Tree Enterprises is in the entertainment business. We intend to comply to the letter of the law of the state of Nevada.”
“Though you list Anthony Corini on your board of directors.”
“Mr. Corini has a lot of influence on the East Coast,” Geller said. “We’ll draw our clientele from throughout the United States.”
“Any chance he had something to do with those boys you brought in from New York? Your private security firm.”
“None,” Geller said. The muscle came from Gigenti’s crew.
Milton said, “Hell, Mr. Baum wasn’t doing great with local talent, was he?”
“If I didn’t know you since I was a boy, Harry, I’d said maybe you had something to do with the hard time they gave Baum, seeing how he booted you out.”
“Which ought to tell you I had nothing to do with killing them and dumping them where the coyotes could pick at them.”
Geller said, “Mr. Saturday, if there’s nothing else.”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” the prosecutor said. “What I’d like to know is…” He clapped his hands. “Where do I sign up?”
Milton pushed off the sofa. “Let’s walk, R. W.,” he said.
Ree’s agent never sent her a script unless he was certain she was right for it. Mal Weisberg drove this one to Bel Air himself.
They sat under an umbrella by the pool, the lanky, silver-haired agent draping his jacket on the arm of the white, cast-iron chair. Ree sat across from him. She wore burnt-orange slacks and a white silk blouse open to her cleavage. Even without makeup, she was Weisberg’s most beautiful client. And most troubled. In the movie business for more than 20 years, he’d never known someone who, at her core, didn’t care what happened to her. She worked hard, conducted herself as a professional and was diligent about her appearance. He found her charming, sweet even, and knew she appreciated the job he did on her behalf. But it was all a guise. Inside she was empty, and as far as he was concerned, by choosing Bill Marsala as a lover, she proved she held herself in gutter regard.
The houseboy brought a pitcher of limeade, tall glasses and a small carafe of gin.
“Eleanor,” he said after they toasted, “I have in my briefcase the most exciting script I’ve read since Huston wrote The Maltese Falcon.”
As she added a generous splash of liquor to her drink, Ree smiled. Weisberg always claimed every script he presented was almost as good as Huston’s.
“And this time I mean it,” he added. He slid the script across the glass table.
“Mikindani Bay,” she read aloud.
“It’s in Tanganyika, but they’re shooting in Mozambique, a Portuguese colony on the southeast coast of Africa. You’ll be based in the capital.”
“Africa,” she said, thumbing through the pages.
“You’re an adventuress and you tangle with a big-game hunter,” Weisberg said. “You go into the wild, up river. There’s action, romance, danger.” He mentioned the director’s name. A legend, a three-time Oscar winner. “He wants you.”
“Who’s playing Anton Victor?”
He told her. A huge star, maybe a few years past his prime, but box office gold and hearty enough for the lead role, for sure. She knew him, a nodding social acquaintance. The veteran actor had recently taken up with the widow of a silent screen star, which didn’t make him seem any younger. But he was a pro and Ree knew a Metro picture with him as the lead had a chance to flow on time.
“How long?” she asked.
“Exteriors ought to take six to eight weeks,” he replied.
Two months in Africa, she thought.
“You’re guaranteed a nomination, Eleanor,” Weisberg said. “This will make your career.”
She reached for the carafe.
From the wings, Marsala watched Ronnie Oliver at the piano run the band through a couple of Basie standards. He was thinking, I’m here in Kansas City. We could’ve had Prez or Ben Webster on tenor, Walter Page on bass, Jo Jones on the skins. Instead we got refugees from a third-rate Philharmonic who play like it’s criminal to spice the soup. The music’s so stiff, I should goosestep on stage.
But Marsala came on light and the applause was nice, generous even, the nightclub just about full. The first number was a challenge for the band—“All or Nothing at All” up-tempo and in double-time; “Cugat without the congas” is how he put it to Ollie when they finalized the arrangement in LA—but it worked.
They went right into his most recent hit, that rollicking piece of fluff. The tenor murdered the solo, but the tune drew a surprising reception and Marsala thanked the crowd. “Hey, it’s great to be back in KC, ladies a
nd gentlemen. One heck of a swinging place,” he said as he tugged the mic cable and moved downstage. “Now, here’s a lovely number…”
A ballad from ’43 and he nailed it. Women sighed, drifting back to their younger days when their men were overseas and only Bill Marsala gave them the warmth they needed.
From his perch, Marsala could feel their reaction. He had it tonight, his baritone smooth, his delivery poised and confident, his power within his control. He was embraced by the sound of his own voice and certain it was about the best goddamned place in the world to be.
Afterward, Rico Enna edged through well-wishers in the corridor and stuck his head in Marsala’s dressing room, which was maybe the size of a service station toilet. “Nice, Bill,” he said. He’d already contacted Frankie Fortune.
“Thank Ollie,” Marsala replied as he tossed his sweat-soaked shirt in the trash bin. “His back must be killing him from carrying the band.”
The dressing room reeked of menthol like a TB ward.
“Plane leaves in two,” Enna said.
They arrived in Chicago at six in the morning. Breakfast, a couple of pills and Marsala slept until five in the evening. Saturday night at the Chez Paree and a crowd gathered, including press and boys from the Chicago crew who came backstage. Marsala was in a good mood. He liked joking with “the bent-nose squad,” as he called them. He let them know he’d seen Farcolini, telling them Don Carlo was in the pink. “He’ll outlive us all, believe me,” Marsala said. Then Enna shooed them away. By the time the agent returned, Marsala had soured. “Fortune sent them,” he complained.
“No, this is the place to be, Bill,” Enna tried as Marsala spooned horseradish into a cup of hot tea. “Saturday night in Chi town.”
Half the crowd was liquored by the time the band ended Basie’s “Taxi War Dance.” Marsala came on to modest applause and a couple of catcalls. In their cups, the crew was in a mocking mood; once their broads got to say hello and have a picture taken, the skinny kid from Narrows Gate meant no more to them than somebody else’s pet. The Chicago musicians swung hard and during the opener, Marsala gestured for the trumpet player to grab another chorus. “Take a bow, fella,” he said as they went into the pop fluff. Next, the ballad from ’43 started gorgeous as Oliver flicked the intro sweet and the trombone put a cushion under Marsala’s voice. But he could hear the tough crowd talking while he sang. He tried that old trick, singing softly to draw them in, but it didn’t catch.
