by Jim Fusilli
“Now you’ve found true love.”
“Rosa. I’m all jammed up,” he said, palms open at his sides. “I didn’t mean to say it wasn’t swell, the times we—”
“Swell?” She nodded derisively. “Thanks. Now I know. Swell.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping toward her. “Look, this is coming out all wrong. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I blew it, I know.”
She ran her hand across the top of the baby’s downy hair. “Is that it? Is that what you came to say?”
“I want you to come to the Strip, Rosa,” Marsala said. “To see the show. Let bygones be bygones.”
She looked at him, her expression blank with disbelief.
“You’ll see some of the old crew. Frankie Fortune—”
“But not my uncle.”
Marsala sighed. “No, not Mimmo.”
She turned slightly, allowing her son to see his father’s face. “Say good-bye to Daddy,” she said.
“Rosa, come on now. I’m trying to do right here.”
She didn’t reply.
Resigned, Marsala said, “All right. Fine.”
When he leaned in to kiss Bill Jr., he put his hand on Rosa’s arm but withdrew it quickly when she stiffened.
“I’ll walk you out,” Terrasini said as Rosa passed him on her way to the kitchen.
When they reached Marsala’s car, the singer said, “She’d kill me if she could.”
“What’s the point?” Terrasini said. “To her, you’re already dead.”
“I’m still the boy’s father,” Marsala replied, opening the door. “I’ve got rights.”
“He’s a good kid, Bebe. Don’t make him a tennis ball.”
“I came here—”
“For once in your life, do the decent thing. The thing that helps somebody besides you.”
Marsala got behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. He stared as Terrasini went back inside. Ten minutes passed before he turned over the engine and drove off.
At work in his cabana office, Cy Geller summoned an armed guard and asked him to bring a phone. He called New York City. Though he doubted Corini, he respected protocol; he explained the situation and proposed a temporary solution, adding “with your approval, Anthony.” Fifteen minutes later, Geller had Fortune on the line from Los Angeles.
Geller said, “Leave town. Anthony agrees.”
“Leave town,” Fortune repeated. “All right.”
“Canada, perhaps.”
Fortune didn’t know a soul in the entire country.
Geller explained, and Frankie Fortune now considered Sen. Alvin Dunney and the crime commission a threat, though he knew that Corini, in his thuggish arrogance, viewed Dunney as a disposable clown.
“You’ll be subpoenaed if he finds you,” Geller said. “It’s federal, so leave until the Los Angeles hearings are over.”
“What about Bebe?”
“Anthony says you have a backup plan.”
“I do,” Fortune said. “But make the order come from Anthony.”
Geller hesitated. Earlier in the week, he’d had a disquieting conversation with Bruno Gigenti, who he called at Don Carlo’s request. He expected a tally of complaints about how he’d been treated in Havana and maybe a display of temper. Instead, Gigenti said he had proof he’d been set up.
Geller already knew this was true. Corini spoke of a note on a dead man’s body that the police hadn’t found. It was either delivered and retrieved or it never arrived. In either case, only the men who composed it could be certain it existed. For a moment, he thought of testing Fortune to see if he was an accomplice to the betrayal.
“Watch your back,” Geller said instead.
“Yeah,” Fortune replied, thinking the old Jew was still talking about Dunney.
This morning, as they sat together over coffee and crullers at the kitchen table, the radio told the Bells and the rest of the region that Sen. Alvin Dunney had formed a commission to investigate organized crime. He intended to hold public hearings in Los Angeles, Chicago, Miami and New York. The Bells stared at each other, simultaneously left their seats and padded to the hallway.
With his father at his side, Bell dialed Charlie Tyler at his hotel in Washington.
Drowsy, Tyler confirmed the report. The Dunney Commission would have subpoena power, he added. He refused to tell Bell whether he had been assigned to the investigation.
“Tyler’s working for Dunney,” Bell told his father when he put down the phone.
“Sal,” Mr. Bell said.
Soon, Leo Bell turned up at Benno’s, which wasn’t yet open for customers.
“Leo!” Gemma cheered. She was spooning cured olives into a honey jar but stopped and waddled over to give Bell his kiss. Meanwhile, Benno’s uncle, who was rinsing bay leaves one at a time, nodded and smiled.
“You see this?” Bell asked Benno, holding up the Friday morning newspaper.
Benno, who was trimming the escarole he’d picked up at the market, said, “Why do I got to read the New York fuckin’ Times when I live in New Jersey?”
Bell pointed to the headline.
Benno scanned. “Yeah, so?”
“Some senator is investigating your pals.”
“Good luck. Like he ain’t already in our pocket.”
“This guy’s from South Carolina.”
Benno looked at him, his expression saying if South Carolina is on Earth, Farcolini and Corini own its senator.
“Sal, I’m not fucking around. If this guy’s got any juice, it’s trouble. If you’ve got a record, Sal, or you ignore a subpoena or you lie under oath, you’re fucked. They’ll probably call Corini, Gigenti, Frankie Fortune, Mimmo—”
“Zamarella,” Benno added, remembering Pellizzari’s brains on his face.
“They can call anybody they want, Sally. They can call you.”
“Me? What do they want me for?”
“They don’t want you,” Bell said, “but they want you to give up what you know.”
Benno thought about it. Then he gestured for Bell to follow him into the back of the store. He tossed off his apron. “What do I know?” he said.
Bell stayed in the doorway. “You know what you know, Sal. Cut the shit.”
“I’m saying who knows what I know? Corini, Frankie, Mimmo…”
“Dunney squeezes you to get to them, not vice versa,” Bell said. “But then the papers say you’re a mobster.”
“For what? I brought food. The suitcase I gave to Bebe—”
Benno stopped. Looking over Bell’s shoulder, he saw Mimmo weaving through the store.
Mimmo took the newspaper out of Bell’s hand and tossed it on the table. It unfurled as he nudged past Bell to sit. As befuddled as he was angry, he said, “Ding, what’s it mean?”
“You need a lawyer, Mimmo.”
“A showboat from nowhere, this Dunney,” he said.
“A showboat with subpoena power,” Bell replied.
“Nobody’s worried.”
Good, Bell thought. Let the arrogant pricks all walk into the trap. Hoover allowed them to roam free. Dunney does this right and they’ll die by their own hand.
Benno noted that Mimmo had put on about 20 pounds since he was ousted from Havana. He no longer patrolled the neighborhood and whatever good his evening strolls used to do for his constitution had been reversed. He was lumpy and gray with rings around his tired eyes that you could even see behind his sunglasses.
“You heard from Frankie?” Benno asked.
Mimmo said, “As a matter of fact, yes. Come with me.”
Bell grabbed his hat from the table.
“Not you, Ding,” Mimmo said.
“No, I’m coming.” Bell followed them through the store and out onto Polk Street.
Boo Chiasso and Fat Tutti waited in the dull February sun and stared down Bell with his raincoat, tweed blazer, button-down shirt, baggy slacks, loafers, this guy thinking who he is.
“Fuck it,” Mimmo said. “He wants to come, let h
im come.”
The little caravan took off behind Mimmo—Benno and Bell, Chiasso and Fat Tutti. They went through the candy store, past the fountain, over dirty leftover snow. Benno and Bell went into Mimmo’s house. Chiasso and Fat Tutti stayed outside, Chiasso snatching the newspaper full of Dunney and the commission out of Bell’s hand like it was a weapon.
Mimmo stopped a few steps into the narrow kitchen, leaving Benno and Bell between the refrigerator and the back door.
“They told me to tell you you’re going to Los Angeles,” Mimmo said to Benno.
“Me?” Benno laughed. “When?”
“Now.”
“Now now?”
Mimmo reached into a drawer, rooted around and pulled out a roll of cash. He peeled off $1,000 in fifties. “You’ll need a car but we’ll take care of that.”
“What am I doing there?”
“You sit Bebe,” Mimmo replied, as he pushed the cash into Benno’s hand. “Frankie’s got some other business.”
“For how long?” Bell asked.
“We’ll see.”
Benno held up the money. “This ain’t going to do it then. Give me the roll and I’ll bring back change.”
Mimmo hesitated. Then he peeled off a couple of bills for himself and passed the rest to Benno. “There’s five Gs there.”
“Mimmo…” Benno said. It was three at most.
Mimmo grabbed a pad and pencil off the counter and scribbled a phone number. “Call this when you get there.”
“You’re serious, huh? Go now?”
“Sally…”
When they crossed the backyard, Benno said, “You coming?”
Bell drew up. “To Hollywood?”
Benno tapped the fat roll in his pocket.
Bell used a pay phone in the lobby of the Avalon Theater to call Washington.
“Charlie, I’m going to Los Angeles.”
Tyler hesitated. “Why?”
Bell explained.
“Why, that’s fine,” Tyler said. “The commission—”
“—is holding a hearing in Los Angeles,” Bell interrupted. “Are you admitting you’re working for Dunney?”
“All right, Leo. I am.”
“You’ve told the commission what I told you?”
“Of course.”
Bell calculated.
“Leo?”
“You want me to do legwork in LA?”
“That would be very helpful.”
“Promise you won’t subpoena Benno.”
“Leo, I’m not in a position to do something like that.”
Bell wondered who was in Tyler’s office. “Benno doesn’t know anything you don’t already know.”
“Leo, let’s continue the discussion when you arrive in LA,” Tyler said as he cut the connection. In his office, the towering Washington Monument in view, he looked at his visitor and said, “Our man on the inside. He’ll be in Los Angeles.”
“That’s fine, indeed,” said Alvin Dunney with an easy drawl. The senator was in his early 50s. He had a long face and the top of his head shone. The hair above his ears was cut short and graying.
“It’s a sign,” Tyler said, smiling. “Luck is mounting on our side.”
“Which we’ll need.”
“Ironic,” Tyler mused. “Our man is helping with Marsala.”
Dunney nodded. On his thigh sat a fat file of information collected through interviews and wiretaps, as well as Tyler’s study on organized crime he’d based on Landis’s analysis of Hitler to support a conclusion he’d held before the process of gathering facts had finished.
“Do you plan on calling Marsala?” Tyler asked.
“Oh, not yet, I don’t think,” Dunney replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
They were walking through the busy terminal at Los Angeles Airport when Benno pointed. “I know that guy.”
“That’s not him,” Bell said.
“It’s him. The guy, he comes in, says ‘half pound of prosciutto sliced thin.’ Like who the fuck gets prosciutto thick?”
“He’s a porter. I doubt the guy travels three-thousand miles for ham.”
Benno stared across the terminal at the broom and barrel.
“Plus, I’m sure they got prosciutto in LA,” Bell added.
They had sat apart for most of the flight because they both wanted windows to see the snow-covered checkerboard farms below, the winding rivers, mountains purple and majestic surrounding the vast desert where the newspapers said somebody was dumping guys who had fucked over the late Ziggy Baum. Benno wondered whether he’d spot a herd of wild horses trailed by some cowboys or a chuck wagon. Across the aisle, Bell was thinking the same thing. It was his first time on a plane, despite the Army. He’d never been west of Newark.
Veering toward a bank of phone booths, Benno dug out the phone number Mimmo gave him. He held the door so the light went on but Bell could listen in. The nickel dropped.
The stolen DeSoto was in the parking lot just like the voice said, key sitting on top of a tire. At the newsstand, Bell bought a map and, after he loaded the trunk, gave it to Benno. “Earning my keep,” he said when he nestled behind the wheel.
Soon they got off Route 66, Benno craning and peering, his hat bobbing on the back of his head. They arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“Holy shit,” Benno said.
“Ditto.” Bell saw a paradise, palm trees spread against the sky and grass like they cut it with tiny scissors.
The guy behind the desk was waiting for them.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Benno. Mr. Spaletti informed us that you’d be arriving this evening,” he said, using Fortune’s real name. A Negro took their bags and they were escorted through a flowery garden to a bungalow painted pink on the outside. A sofa for Bell in the living room and Benno scoped out the bedroom.
The Negro hung around until Bell caught on and gave him a quarter. “Thank you, sir,” the guy said without enthusiasm, like a quarter didn’t mean shit.
“I’m calling Bebe,” Benno said. He was stretched across the king-size bed, arms and legs spread like he was making a snow angel.
“Where?”
“At—” Benno sat up. “Shit. Fuckin’ Mimmo. He didn’t say.” He reached for the phone.
“It’s late back home,” Bell said.
“Fuck him. He wakes up.”
“No. I got an idea.”
“How? You know the same nothing as me.”
Bell returned with a map of the stars’ homes. Marsala lived at the Wilshire Towers, which was pretty close by.
“How’d you get that?” Benno was halfway changed into blue sharkskin.
“The bellhop. Cost me another quarter.”
“Let’s go,” Benno said.
“Could I say something?”
At the mirror, Benno was making his tie. “Say it going.”
“We don’t know he’s there. If he’s not, then it looks like you’re not sitting on him right already if the guy at the desk tells him, ‘Some guy was here…’”
“We check the restaurants.”
“But we don’t know which. Let’s find out where he goes, who he sees, what’s what.”
Benno watched Bell through the mirror. “And?”
“I’m hungry and I need a bath.”
Running his hand along his chin, Benno said, “Yeah, I could use another shave.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. There in the hall was a dumpy guy in a floppy brown suit, matching hat and shoes beat to shit.
“Fortunato Spaletti?” he said.
“With one eye, I’m Spaletti?” Benno asked.
The guy reached into his breast pocket, pulled out some kind of paper and thrust it at Bell. “You’re served,” he said.
Benno watched him waddle away. “You’re served what?”
“A subpoena.” Bell scanned the document. “To appear before the Dunney Commission next week.”
“You?”
“Not me,” Bell replied. “Frankie.�
�
Bell slid the subpoena onto an end table and then he went to the closet. A couple of suits were still there next to empty hangers and no luggage on the top shelf. Across the room, the drawers held a few shirts folded neat and some socks but were mostly empty. On top of the chest, a lone tie bar was in an ashtray.
“He took off,” Bell said. “Now we know why.”
“Unbelievable,” Benno replied.
“Why? He’s a stand-up guy? He can explain himself under oath?”
“No, I’m saying it’s unbelievable they think you’re Frankie Fortune. No offense, Leo. You ain’t no mutt, but Jesus…”
In the morning, the Los Angeles Times told them Bebe was playing 10 nights at a club on the Sunset Strip beginning Friday and that he had a radio program this evening, Chesterfield Presents Bill Marsala, the cigarette getting top billing. Then Benno saw a copy of Life magazine with a photo of Marsala and Eleanor Ree. He chatted with the newsy. “She live around here?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the guy replied.
Benno bought Life, a box of Chiclets and said keep the change. “Bel Air,” the guy replied, noting that Ree had lunch in the Polo Lounge now and then. Benno threw him a five-spot like Bebe would’ve.
They hurried breakfast, Benno insisting they get to work before sightseeing. Impressed with his friend’s diligence, Bell drove along Sunset to Bellagio Road.
Benno opened the magazine, tore out a photo and held it by the windshield. “Start looking,” he said.
Bell glanced at the picture. There was Ree, her arm around Bebe’s waist, the guy beaming and her bare feet in the grass. The house stood behind them. Up this street, down that one, Benno looking left with his good eye, Bell looking right. “You notice something, Sal?”
“If you like perfect, this is the place.”
“The street names,” Bell said. “Perugia, Stradella, Cecina, Siena…”
Benno turned. “I would’ve thought the opposite.”
Bell didn’t tell him he saw Maureen O’Hara crossing a lawn. No sense him bringing up the Irish.
“Brake,” Benno said suddenly.
And there it was: Eleanor Ree’s.
Two cars were parked in the shade at the side of house. “We wait,” Benno said.
