by Jim Fusilli
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bell recognized no part of the ceremony, had never in his life heard El Maleh Rachamim, the memorial prayer familiar to Eli Kreiner and the congregation, all of whom waited as he, with Imogene at his side, followed the casket out into the gray morning. He wore a yarmulke and a sliver of black ribbon pinned to his lapel.
The Cypress Hill Cemetery isn’t far from the temple, Kreiner told him last night. Nonsectarian, he added, which Bell took to mean that one day he might be buried somewhere near his father, who the rabbi praised as a man who did what he had to do to bring a new generation to America. He’s forgiven, Bell told himself, not realizing Roman Catholicism had informed the thought.
He knew no one who approached now to shake his hand, men Kreiner introduced as their customers and vendors. They nodded respectfully at Imogene as Kreiner spoke to her father. Young women in black milled under the bleak sky. In his solitude, Bell studied the barren trees and the stout little birds that pecked at random seeds.
He felt a touch on his elbow. “My condolences, Leo.”
Charlie Tyler removed his gloves to shake Bell’s cold hand.
Too fatigued to be surprised, Bell accepted the courtesy. “Thanks for coming, Charlie.”
“Of course,” Tyler replied.
Bell gestured for Imogene.
“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” Tyler said to her. “Leo, is there anything I can do?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Bell said, as Imogene took his arm in hers.
“Would you like me to come to the cemetery?” Agitated and uncomfortable, Tyler was unfocused and vague. His work for the Dunney Commission had him on edge.
Bell said no. “I’ll be all right.”
“Might I have a word then?”
Tyler started up the hill toward the avenue. Bell followed him as Imogene withdrew.
“I wasn’t sure whether I should come to see you,” he began. “I don’t know if I should be here now.”
“What do you need, Charlie?” Bell shivered. His topcoat and hat were in his car.
“Cy Geller is dead, Leo,” he said. “Without his testimony, Miami’s going to be a bust.”
Bell nodded. Tyler’s problems seemed a remnant of a distant time.
They stopped near a rusted hydrant. “We had the mayor in our scope, Leo, and the port director. Without the threat of Geller, we can’t make the case.”
“Charlie—”
“The target of the Dunney Commission isn’t just organized crime. It’s the politicians who support it. Our ports are under control of a criminal enterprise with the tacit approval of local and state government. This has to be stopped, Leo. Business demands it.”
“Charlie,” Bell said, frowning, “I’m burying my father here. Can’t you under—”
Tyler clutched Bell’s elbow. “We’re picking up Benno.”
Bell recoiled. He yanked his arm free.
“It’s crucial, Leo. The suitcase he delivered to Farcolini—”
“Marsala delivered it. I told you that.” Bell clenched his fists. “God damn you, Charlie.”
“Leo, calm down,” Tyler said quickly. “With Fortune missing, I need Benno to collaborate. Who gave it to him? Marsala can say he doesn’t know. We can trace the money back to Corini—”
“You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
“We can’t fail in New York, Leo. Everything is riding on it.”
Outside the temple, mourners were waiting for Bell to return. Idling motors purred, exhaust fumes rising through the chilled air. Imogene had begun to walk the incline.
“In other circumstances, I’m out of line, Leo. I know. But I’ve got to call in my chits. Benno’s coming in.”
“I don’t owe you shit, Charlie.”
“I’ve been making a future for you. It’s not going to be easy in Justice for you—”
“Because I’m a Jew?”
Tyler wore a wry smile. “Everybody needs an advocate, Leo.”
“Landis was yours and you threw him overboard.”
Imogene said, “Leo, we’d better…”
“I’m sorry, Miss O’Boyle,” Tyler said. “Here he is. All yours.”
“Don’t do it,” Bell insisted.
“Leo…”
“Give me a week. A couple of days.”
Tyler hesitated.
“Two days,” Bell repeated.
“Think it through, Leo,” he said, his gaze shifting to Imogene. “Look forward.”
This time, the guest star on Chesterfield Presents Bill Marsala was a tap dancer. When Bebe told him, Benno thought, A tap dancer on the radio? That’s as stupid as Edgar Bergen on the radio. But it turned out the guy sang, too, and there was a skit where he and Bebe were supposed to be carrying a refrigerator up some steep steps, and a pissy little dog tugs on Bebe’s cuff, some guy going “woof woof,” also there’s this banana peel and the guest star was funny as hell. Also, the guy was colored, which Bebe didn’t tell nobody and Benno wondered if all over America people thought he was great and as soon as they found out, they wouldn’t no more. He’d been thinking about shit like that since Mr. Bell died and Leo went Jew.
Benno was standing in the same spot as last week, the audience spread out before him, the busy stage, and Enna was pacing behind him, wearing a path in the rug. After he sold some Chesterfields, Bebe said, “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s one I think you know. We’d like to make it our next hit, so let’s see if you enjoy it.” Enna stopped and stepped up next to Benno close enough to pick his pocket.
Then came the saxophone player with that bluesy feel and Ollie played a few notes and the audience sighed. Sure, they recognized it: Marsala’s first big hit from forever ago. Only modern, the band kicking in strong like Basie after a while, the thing swinging smooth.
Bebe smiled when he sang—which didn’t make sense when you heard the lyric—but the whole house was smiling, too, and when it was over, they went nuttier than the people did in the nightclub. Enna went, “Yeah!” He punched the air and slapped Benno’s arm, then gave him a big handshake.
In the parking lot, Enna said, “Bill, fabulous. Really fabulous.”
Marsala was blasé, which is how he acted when he thought he was as great as the other guy was saying.
“Are you happy with yesterday’s take?”
“I haven’t listened to the acetate yet,” Marsala replied as he signed autographs, giving them that automatic grin when he returned their pens.
“I want the record in the hands of the New York disc jockeys before you open there,” Enna said.
Marsala nodded. “Let’s get together in the morning.”
“Your place?”
“Why not? We’ll give Eleanor some peace.”
Eleanor, Benno thought. Yesterday, he picked up Bebe to bring him to the recording studio, and she was on a towel in the grass next to her swimming pool. She’d started out in a two-piece bathing suit but then her top was untied and she was naked upstairs, more or less, and Benno thought if only that pain-in-the-ass houseboy would call her and up she’d jump. Which took his mind off Leo Bell for about 30 seconds.
He opened the car door and Marsala slid in back. A tap on the window glass and a little wave to his fans as Benno pulled away.
“Sal, drive by Canter’s and pick up some chicken soup,” he instructed.
“You want to shower first?”
“I’ll do it at the nightclub.”
“OK, Bebe.”
In the dressing room, Marsala said, “Bring me a hot towel.”
Benno found one and Marsala pressed it around his throat. Then he spooned down the chicken soup and then hot tea with the horseradish, which Benno tried at the Polo Lounge while the waiter watched. Never has a Sicilian drunk anything so bad, Benno was thinking, but then his nose caught on fire and then he could breathe so good he thought he could smell his aunt’s cooking 3,000 miles away. Didn’t do a thing for his throat, though.
Now Bebe took
a piss, washed his hands like a surgeon and then he went to sleep on a couple of chairs.
After the show, Marsala, sagging, said he wanted to go to the Wilshire Towers.
“You all right, Bebe?” Benno asked.
“Just tired.”
“I guess so,” Benno said. “You recorded yesterday afternoon, then a show. The radio today, then a show.”
Marsala had his eyes closed.
To the rearview mirror, Benno said, “Could be worse, though.”
“Yeah? How, kid?”
“Like maybe you could be back on Polk Street, and you got a wife with jiggling arms, she smells like Lestoil and yesterday’s scungilli and there’s three crying babies and you’re working at the shipyards.”
Marsala opened his eyes. “Sal, did my mother tell you to say that?”
“Funny,” Benno answered. “Just yesterday I was thinking about Hennie.”
Wearily, the singer said, “Not a day goes by…”
“Yeah, but good or bad?”
“Both. But when it’s bad, Sal, she’s usually making a speech like that.”
Benno apologized. Now he felt like shit. Bebe hadn’t done nothing but treat him good, better than Fortune or Mimmo. He decided to drive to Wilshire Boulevard with his mouth shut.
“What’s eating your ass?” Marsala asked. “The driver, right? His father dying.”
“To tell you the truth, Bebe. He’s not a driver. He’s my friend since kindergarten at St. Francis.” They cruised through a yellow light. “I think he’s miserable.”
“I’m sure he’s miserable,” Marsala replied. “You lose a broad, Sally, you go find another. But just you try to find another mother or dad.”
I wouldn’t know, Benno thought, since I ain’t had neither.
Marsala leaned up and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, Sal…”
Corini made the call. Gigenti thought about it, agreed and now they were on the 86th-floor observation deck of the Empire State Building with the tourists. Corini wore a camel’s hair coat, thick brown scarf and leather gloves against the ungodly March wind. In gray, Gigenti limped toward him, his face contorted by a fierce scowl.
“What?” Gigenti said.
“It’s just you and me,” Corini said in Sicilian.
Gigenti stared at him. “Bullshit. You got two men up here and I got two.”
“I’m saying with Geller gone and Carlo back in Sicily, it’s you and me.”
Gigenti shrugged, his collar rising above his ears.
“You been served?”
Gigenti said no.
“I have. And the mayor and people on his staff.”
“Your mayor,” Gigenti said.
“They’re putting me on the television.”
Gigenti was unmoved. What did he care? Television, radio, the newspapers, magazines. They were none of his concern.
A little kid ran around them, chasing his father’s hat as it tumbled in the wind.
“You talked to Ortega,” Corini said. “You want Miami.”
“I got Miami and now Ortega works for me.”
“And you? Who do you work for, Bruno?”
When Gigenti didn’t reply, Corini said, “I’m thinking you go to Sicily. See Carlo and get a reminder.”
“I think maybe you leave the country this time.”
“I’d say we both go,” Corini said, “but I can’t travel.”
He could, but it wouldn’t be easy, not with the two-bit feds sitting on him so tight he had to go to Jersey this morning, change cars and drivers on the plank road and double back for the meeting with Gigenti two miles from his apartment. They were treating him like a criminal.
Worse than the feds was Gigenti, who was taking everything he wanted like he was daring Corini to come at him with muscle.
Corini started to stroll, beckoning for Gigenti to follow. They walked through shadows into the dull rays of the midday sun, heading toward the reason he picked such a public spot.
“You see what Dunney did in Chicago?” Corini asked. “He embarrassed people—the mayor, aldermen, state senators.”
“Yeah, but the money flows. Who gives a shit? Nobody I know runs for office.”
“Bruno, we work with those people. Maybe you don’t like it but it’s what Carlo wants. And it’s smart. We make them and they’re in our fuckin’ pocket from the start.”
Gigenti laughed bitterly. “Like I can’t buy in anytime I want.”
They continued to the Fifth Avenue side of the building. On the East River, cargo ships crowded the harbor, tugs edging into position. The docks on both sides of the icy waterway flurried with activity: Cranes swung weighty pallets and trucks lined in jagged rows to move in and out. Forklifts scooted in search of freight while stevedores leaned into dollies stacked high with goods.
“Without the politicians, we lose that,” Corini said, pointing east.
Undeterred, Gigenti said, “You through?”
“I’m asking you to go see Carlo,” he repeated. “Find out what he wants with Cy gone and stay out of the country until Dunney blows over. Let your crew run the show.”
The moment Geller asked him to provide protection for his son, Gigenti knew he had no need for concern. Corini’s attempts to eliminate him—exposing him for the Pellizzari hit, setting him up for the robbery of the Jersey bagman, provoking him into winging Mimmo—had all failed. Now Don Carlo knew the truth.
“I’m not going nowhere,” Gigenti replied. “You want somebody to see Carlo so bad, make Fortune go.”
“I can’t. He’s up in Canada and the feds are watching.”
“Then send a telegram,” Gigenti said as he limped away.
“Don’t make me an enemy, Bruno,” Corini shouted in Sicilian, the wind scattering his words. “It’s good for nobody.”
Gigenti waved his hand, the gesture telling Corini to go to hell.
Mimmo was sitting all by himself at the Grotto, a table near the kitchen and everybody who walked by looked at him like they wished he would blow away. Twice, he got excited seeing somebody coming his way, maybe they’d join him for lunch. “Hey Lou-Lou,” he’d start saying, his hand jumping into the air. “Hey, Pork.” But they kept going, even Joey Flattop, who stole underwear off clotheslines as a kid and Mimmo cuffed him around, a favor to his late mother. Now a cop in Jersey City, Flattop made a U-turn, his shoes sliding on sawdust.
Mimmo stared down at his steak pizzaiola, Volpe giving him gristle. The vino was lukewarm, the bread ready to mold.
“Mimmo.”
He looked up slow. For a few seconds, he’d forgotten his misery. He was picturing himself young in a white dinner jacket, a red carnation, working the room at the nightspot they burned down, the best job of his life. For a few years, he had class.
“You all right, Mimmo?”
He tried to focus.
“I’m Leo. Sal Benno’s pal.”
“Che cosa volete?”
Bell nodded toward the empty seat.
“Go ahead.”
As Bell sat, Mimmo ignored his guest, cutting through the tough meat to fork a sliver into his mouth.
“Mimmo, I heard you’ve been served,” Bell said, speaking low.
“Served? Served what?”
Bell looked at the plate. Jesus, he thought, there’s one less dog in Narrows Gate. “The commission. Dunney.”
“So what? It don’t matter.”
“Mimmo—”
“Think I give a shit what some senator wants?”
“Mimmo, you can play this guy.”
He looked at Bell.
“This guy opens the door for you.”
Intrigued, Mimmo put a finger across his lips. He whispered, “Parli Siciliano.”
Speaking Sicilian in the Grotto was like speaking English in the House of Lords, but Bell went with it. “They clear a path. You get my meaning, Mimmo?”
Sucking on his teeth, Mimmo nodded knowingly.
“You, you’re a big fish,” Bell conti
nued, “but they want mayors and governors. They’re going to go after them through Corini. Maybe a seat opens up.”
Mimmo nodded to the Chianti in a basket, telling Bell to take a glass.
Bell obeyed as if he’d been given orders from a powerful boss. “Thank you.”
“Why do you bring this to me?”
“You’ve been good to me, Mimmo.”
Suddenly, he remembered Ding was a Jew. “Let me think about it,” he replied.
“Take this phone number.”
Mimmo palmed the slip of paper.
Dismissed, Bell kicked through sawdust and left the crowded restaurant.
Mimmo sat in silence, calculating. He snuck a look at the phone number he’d been given. His plan was soon lost to fantasy, but later he remembered Bell had stopped by, paid a tribute, showed courtesy. It felt good, up and down.
Like old times.
Moving by train from Calgary to Saskatoon and hopscotching Ontario for Quebec, Frankie Fortune tried to find a city where he felt he could disappear. At every stop, he called Geller’s private number, the secure line in the cabana, and nobody answered. He was concerned. Once, twice, three times, he’s not there is one thing. Every time is something else.
He read the Canadian newspapers to find out what happened, but all he learned was Dunney scored in Chicago, showing a couple of aldermen with their lips on the tit and putting a state senator in a jam. The local crew looked like slap-happy morons, colorful characters who stole milk bottles off the back steps instead of guys who put heads in a vise grip until they heard pop. Dunney set himself up by asking Giorgio Labbi about a bank job he pulled in ’38, and Gigi Lips said, “Sure, but I spent the dough in Marshall Field’s. Everybody made out.” Fortune wondered if the crew showed up in black shirts and white ties, chalk stripe jackets with wide lapels, like the mugs in the movies.
Now he was in Toronto, a big city that was too close to the border for his taste, but at least they spoke English. He took a room at a hotel in Yorkville, expecting Germans like the ones in the section with the same name in New York, and made himself a promise he’d stay out of the Italian neighborhood in Scarborough, which sounded about as Italian to him as white toast.
