by Jim Fusilli
She was inches away yet Marsala already felt abandoned.
Afterward, his body sated but his mind alive, he took two sleeping pills and nested next to her warm, naked body. When he woke up many hours later, she was gone.
“I love you always,” said the note pinned to the door. “Always and forever.”
He cleared his aching throat. To the empty room, he said angrily, “What does she think I am? A child? ‘Always and forever’? What the fuck is that?”
Robe flowing behind him, he stormed into the kitchen, turned the flame on under the teapot and called Enna, who was in a deep sleep. “Find Mal Weisberg and get me everything on the picture,” he demanded, his voice coarse. “I want the name of every grip, every crane operator, every caterer, every fuckin’ Ubangi in that jungle.”
Rubbing his forehead, Enna said, “Yes, Bill.”
“Do it now.”
“All right—”
Marsala slammed down the phone.
Boo Chiasso wasn’t much for subways, but he did all right. He left Gigenti’s storefront on Mulberry Street, got on the BMT and arrived near Rockefeller Center, where the Dunney Commission had its New York headquarters. Head high, shoulders squared, he bowled through the business crowd, went through a gold revolving door and entered the RCA Building. He was sent upstairs to see a man named Tyler, who introduced himself as an investigator for the Department of Justice.
The room was barely big enough to hold a desk and some chairs. Keeping his coat on, Chiasso sat facing cooing pigeons on the ledge and musty blinds sloping at the jamb. The windows were filthy.
“How can I help you, Mr. Chiasso?”
“I need immunity,” he replied, crossing his long legs.
“From what?”
“You know what. It’s a matter of time.”
“Well then, why don’t we serve you here and now? You can tell your story under oath.”
“I haven’t killed nobody,” Boo Chiasso lied.
“I don’t know if that’s true. With narcotics, you can’t ever say.”
“I’m not involved in drugs.”
“Mr. Chiasso, please. We’re extremely busy here.”
Tyler knew who Chiasso was. Domenico Mistretta told him when he came in and laid out his entire operation. In his lucid moments, the man the crew called Mimmo was a fountain of useful information. As Senator Dunney himself said, “Thank heavens for a man with a perceived grievance.”
“Everybody you call ends up dead,” Chiasso said.
“Not everybody.” Tyler opened a folder. “But I’d contend that the Department of Justice isn’t to blame.”
“Oh yeah,” he snorted. “Some coincidence.”
“What do you have for us, Mr. Chiasso?”
“Immunity,” he repeated.
Tyler sighed. “Mr. Chiasso…”
“Maybe I could tell you who took out Fredo Pellizzari.” Chiasso withdrew his cigarettes from his coat pocket. When he brought one to his lips, Tyler offered him a light. “It was the same guy who hit Mimmo,” Chiasso said as he settled back.
“Mimmo. Would that would be your boss, Domenico Mistretta?”
“Not no more he ain’t.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll give you the gunman for immunity.”
Tyler already knew Eugenio Zamarella was the hitter on Pellizzari and Mistretta. The bullet Bell turned over matched the one that passed through Pellizzari’s head; both were a match to Zamarella’s Carcano bolt-action rifle, found under the floorboards in his bedroom out in Rego Park.
“Mr. Chiasso, you’ve misread the scope of the investigation. Our purpose is to understand the tie-ups between the rackets, business and politics.”
“Who can help you do that?”
“It’s an open hearing. The witness list is a matter of public record. Does it lead you to believe we’re investigating the murder of your friends and associates?”
“Mimmo’s on the list,” Chiasso said.
“As is Anthony Corini.”
“So maybe you are looking at murder.”
“You’ll have to do better than Gus Uccello in the 1920s. Are you suggesting you have recent information that implicates Mr. Corini?”
“In murder? Let me think about that.”
Tyler stood and looked out the window. He began counting the water towers on the East Side roofs, a trick he used to maintain his silence. Next, he’d try to recall the home addresses of the 57 men and one woman on the witness list, more than half of whom, if you included attorneys with clients in government, were associated with the city of New York.
“Maybe if you asked me a question,” Chiasso said finally.
“Who ordered the hit on Mr. Pellizzari?”
“I heard it was Corini.”
“But you don’t have firsthand knowledge.”
“I wasn’t there, if that’s you’re asking me.”
“Then it’s hearsay, Mr. Chiasso. We’ll need something of substance before we can negotiate. For example, your organization’s money—”
Chiasso scoffed. “My organization.”
“—money comes from various enterprises throughout the county—kickbacks, the numbers racket, horse racing, nightclubs, prostitution, narcotics. Then it goes out. To whom?”
“I’m in New Jersey,” Chiasso said. “What goes on in New York City I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re saying Mr. Corini knows.”
“He talks to politicians all the time.”
Tyler nodded. He sat on the window ledge, his back to the city. “But on occasion, you’ve been given responsibility for the distribution of funds outside New Jersey. Am I correct?”
“I’m not sure. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about the money that was sent to Havana for Carlo Farcolini.”
“They did that?”
“We have a witness, Mr. Chiasso. Where did the money come from?”
Chiasso stood, dusted his coat and went for his hat. “No immunity and I say Cy Geller was probably responsible. Maybe Ziggy Baum, too. The Jews.”
“So you do know.”
“No immunity and I say Cy Geller and Ziggy Baum.”
Tyler walked to the office door. “Did you get what they sent you for?” he asked.
“I seen what I seen.”
“Extend our greetings to Mr. Gigenti,” said Tyler as he reached for the knob.
In the early morning’s silvery light, Benno was driving his uncle’s jalopy and next to him was Bebe, baggy-eyed and droopy in his gorgeous camel’s hair coat, paisley ascot and burgundy scarf. Maybe an hour ago, Benno came into the store straight from the fruit and fish run. As he dropped a crate, the phone rang.
Bebe, whispering scared. “Sal…”
Alarmed, Benno said, “Bebe, what? What happened?”
“Let’s ride, Sal,” Bebe replied. “Please.”
“OK, Bebe,” Benno said.
Jesus, Benno thought as he barreled through the tunnel, this guy’s got nobody.
Now he was back on the Jersey side, River Road going north toward the George Washington Bridge, Bebe over there like he was drying up. When Marsala rolled down the windows to flick out his cigarette, the Hudson came in smelling like oil and raw sewage.
“Drink that soup, Bebe,” Benno said. He’d asked his aunt to come down and fill up a thermos.
“I’m good, kid,” he whispered.
“Then sleep, why don’t you?” Though he was zipping along on a swerving road, trucks in the next lane and behind him, too, Benno started to wriggle out of his leather jacket for Marsala to use as a blanket.
“No, no, Sal. I’m fine.”
“Hey, Bebe. Not for nothing, but Eleanor loves you. The way she looks at you. Madonna mio. Guys would kill for that look.”
Marsala managed a lifeless smile. He was sure the clits were back but this time he couldn’t run, not with Corini breathing on him, despite rumors of a downfall via the Dunney Commission. Marsala knew he was being judged and couldn’
t understand why: He could earn at the Sandpiper in Vegas—the reviews from Los Angeles, the hit record, the radio show’s popularity and now the residence at Corini’s own joint proved he could. He was on the straight and narrow, true to Eleanor, respectful to Rosa, a good father, a good Joe to reporters and columnists. Perplexed and with no one to talk to, his depression deepened. He got it into his head that Corini was calculating whether he should be allowed to live. Frankie Fortune, who was supposed to be guiding his career, had disappeared. They killed Ziggy Baum, who dropped the ball. Mimmo they threw in the gutter. The guys in charge of me, Marsala thought, go down.
This he had to face without Eleanor. Already his life was reduced to meaningless routine. His anger spent, he concealed his anguish and gave a professional performance, and then retreated to the hotel for a restless sleep, the pills failing to combat the sense the bed was a sad, lonely place. He woke up before dawn with his throat red and raw. He vomited, nerves overcoming reason. He was lost, aware he couldn’t face the world alone. He needed somebody to tell him he was all right.
“Maybe you should pick a fight with some guy,” Benno suggested. “Get the blood going. Let’s call your old trumpet noodge.”
Passing under the bridge, Bebe said, “Sal, do me a favor, make a left here, go around a circle there, take a quiet side street.” Soon Benno pulled into a cemetery.
Bebe told him to keep going. “Park over there,” he said, pointing.
They got out of the car and Benno walked with Marsala across the spotty grass, the tree branches a web of gnarled fingers, everything foreboding, tombstones, dead flowers, silence save the crunch of the turf underfoot. Then there it was. Rosiglino, it said in big stone letters above the bronze door, Bebe’s original name, the mausoleum the size of a garage, fancy columns and compassionate angels with half-moon wings.
Benno stopped, but Marsala continued like he was going inside the tomb. He put his bare hands on the door. After a moment, he began to whimper. “Mama. Help me, Mama.”
Benno shivered.
“Mama,” Marsala said, “tell me what to do.”
Benno expected Marsala to faint, but the singer blessed himself and bowed his head in prayer.
Benno did, too.
His eyes ringed red, Marsala came down the path.
“What did Hennie tell you?” Benno asked.
Marsala shook his head. “She’s not talking to me.”
“Ah, Bebe. Don’t say that. She was proud of you.”
“Kid, if I couldn’t sing she would’ve thrown me in the gutter.”
Benno didn’t say nothing because everybody in Narrows Gate knew that was true.
Bell was rattling around the house, his father’s scent still in the air. Crates he’d brought from the A&P were scattered across the landing. He had so much to do but soon he didn’t do anything but stand and stare, thinking himself a poor excuse for a son. He’d done that for days.
He was so deep in his thoughts that he missed the doorbell the first time it rang. Then it called again repeatedly, as if it were stuck. Pulling back the curtains, he looked into the darkness and turned on the porch light. There was Tyler in a suit, no topcoat, meaning he’d just got out of his car right in the middle of Narrows Gate where everyone could see.
“Leo,” he said as he rushed in, pulling along the night air. “I haven’t heard from you.”
“Shouldn’t you be preparing your witnesses?” The hearings across the river started on Monday.
“Where have you been?”
Bell walked toward the parlor and sat in his father’s seat, sinking into the cushion. “Nowhere but here, Charlie.”
The floor of the fireplace was littered with cold ash.
Tyler remained standing. “I’m going to talk to Salvatore Benno.”
“No,” Bell said. “I gave you Mimmo. That’s enough.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission, Leo.”
Bell saw desperation. “Marsala took the bag to Cuba. Get Mimmo to tell you he gave it to a messenger to take to Bebe.”
“Mistretta says he doesn’t remember.”
“OK. Tell him that’s what happened. Make him remember.”
“What did Benno say? Will he testify?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
Tyler started to pace. Suddenly, he threw up his hands in frustration. “Fuck it. I’m calling him.”
“You’ll be blown to shit if you do.”
Tyler stared down at Bell. “Meaning?”
“Maybe somebody calls Winchell. Somebody tells him the commission can’t work a half-wit like Mimmo to get what it needs. Maybe somebody calls Hearst and tells him you guys are protecting Bebe.”
“You’d do that?”
Bell shrugged. “I gave you Mimmo. My conscience is clear.”
“You’d put yourself on the wrong side?”
“If you ever had a friend, you’d know there’s only one side.” Bell put his hands on his thighs and hoisted off the sofa.
“You’ve killed yourself, Leo. I hope you know that. You’re dead in Washington.”
“Charlie, I was already dead. You guys haven’t kept your word yet.” With a flick of a finger, he signaled to Tyler to follow him to the door. As he leaned against the newel-post, he saw his father’s hat hanging on the rack next to his well-worn vicuña coat.
“Call Bebe,” Bell said. “You’ve got a question about the suitcase, call Bebe.”
“Then it’s a circus.” Tyler was sweating.
“All right. It’s a circus.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Under the television cameras and the glaring lights, the Senate Criminal Investigation Committee hearings at the U.S. Courthouse in Foley Square proceeded with dry determination. The committee’s slow-talking chief counsel set out to introduce into the record names of the organization’s members who operated in and around New York City. As Alvin Dunney and five fellow senators watched from their perch, witnesses testified to a relationship with Anthony Corini, who existed at “the axis of commerce and criminality,” according to one senator, a Democrat from Rhode Island. Witnesses included the chairman of the association that operated several racetracks in the area; a former union organizer who had a scar that ran under an eye and across his nose; a cop from upstate whose wife saved $180,000 on his weekly salary of $142; and a businessman from Queens who was described as “influential in Republican circles”—causing the senators from Vermont and Michigan to recuse themselves while he was on the stand. The man from Queens testified that the mayor’s office had recommended several companies Corini owned either directly or by proxy, but otherwise the morning was a dud. When a dozing man in the back of the crowded courtroom let out a roaring snore, Dunney laid on the drawl to say, “I know how you feel, sir. We will try to make this afternoon a little more to your liking.”
After a break for lunch, they brought in Mimmo. “Where’s the television?” he said, though the bright lights bounced off his sunglasses.
The attorney Corini sent went “Ssh.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Mimmo told him as he found his seat.
“I’m Domenico Mistretta,” he said after he was sworn in. “I got a house in Narrows Gate and I got another house down the shore in Deal.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Mistretta?” asked Sam Bamberger, the beagle-eyed chief counsel.
“I run the Blue Onyx Lounge.”
“Given your real-estate holdings, would I be safe in assuming the Blue Onyx Lounge is a profitable enterprise?”
Mimmo said, “It’s so good somebody might burn it down.”
“Sir?”
“Why don’t you come and see for yourself? On the house.”
A ripple of laughter. Dunney smiled, too.
“Senator, I know what you really want—”
“I’m not a senator, sir—”
“Which one’s the senator?” Mimmo asked his attorney.
“Up there,” he said, pointing to the platform, where shoulder-to-sh
oulder lawmakers and staff were flanked by the U.S. and the state of New York flags. Two stenographers’ fingers danced across their machines.
“Who’s Dunney?”
Each senator had a nameplate.
“I’m Senator Dunney, Mr. Mistretta.” The collar of Dunney’s shirt seemed too large; anticipating photos, he wore a new necktie.
Mimmo said, “You want to know how I make my money.”
“That is correct,” Dunney replied. “Among other things.”
“Ask.”
Bamberger said, “Mr. Mistretta…”
“Ask,” Mimmo repeated. “I got nothing to hide.”
Dunney looked at Mistretta and saw a man teetering toward caricature. In Chicago, the clowns won. He wasn’t going to let it happen here. “How do you make your money, Mr. Mistretta?”
“I gamble and I gamble good.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s enough.”
Again, laughter from the gallery. The press, lubricated at lunch, scribbled furiously.
Referring to notes on a yellow pad, Bamberger asked, “Is it not true that you are one of the owners of the Cangemi Linen Supply Company?”
“True. The laundry. Yes.”
“Can you tell us the other owners’ names, Mr. Mistretta?”
Suddenly, Mimmo’s mind went blank. The other owners’ names?
“I bet boxing,” he said finally. “Prizefighting.” He tapped the side of his head. “I know a good boy when I see him.”
“Yes sir. Regarding Cangemi—”
“I like the ponies, too,” he continued. “I got a system and it don’t fail.”
Bamberger turned to the panel. Dunney nodded discretely.
“A system?” Dunney said.
“Bet across the board. A long shot shows and you do better than a big favorite running strong.” A wink was hidden by his dark lens. “You come to the track with me, Senator, I’ll show you.”
“I just might do that.”
Laughter.
“Mr. Mistretta, what we’re trying to ascertain is who are your associates in the linen supply company,” Dunney said.
“Anthony can tell you,” Mimmo replied. “He knows.”
