Narrows Gate

by Jim Fusilli

  Bell glared at him, but he had no play. Chiasso was squared on the bed, the gun on his thigh, finger on the trigger. The nozzle was aimed at Bell’s stomach.

  “What do you need, Boo? What Tyler knows?”

  “Too late to deal, Ding.” He stared hard and cold.

  Fat Tutti made the call. “We got trouble,” he said.

  Mimmo had been dead asleep. He had clouds in his head, half his mind in outer space. But then he remembered: He’d made his move and to hell with all of them that treated him like he was some stain, and Bebe, a first-class bum.

  “Mimmo. You there?” Tutti said.

  “Carlo?” The boss was calling to tell him he was right to stand up, Gigenti and that smug fuck Corini fuckin’ up the entire enterprise.

  “Mimmo, it’s Tutti, for Christ’s sake.” He was out of breath standing still. “We got trouble.”

  Fat Tutti? “What time is it?” He groped the nightstand for his dark glasses.

  “Mimmo, the feds are in the store.”

  “The candy store?” he asked as he sat up. Little tufts of gray hair peeked above the rim of his undershirt, his comb-over sticking this way and that. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Those motherfuckers. You’re at the store?”

  “I’m at the store,” Tutti told him.

  “I’ll be right there. Don’t do nothing.”

  He dressed as fast as he could. His wife, they could drop the atom bomb in Narrows Gate, she wouldn’t hear it while she slept. He grabbed his hat and was out the front door, he didn’t even brush his teeth.

  He noticed the darkness first, the streetlamp in front of his house all of a sudden broken. And then the black town car at the curb, the engine running.

  “Hello, Mimmo,” said Frankie Fortune. He was standing right next to him on the stoop, his back against the sandy stone.

  Mimmo sank. “They brought you back for this?”

  “For what, Mimmo?” he asked as he nudged him down the steps toward the car.

  They couldn’t give me one fuckin’ day to enjoy what I done, Mimmo thought. They couldn’t let me see myself a man again. “One question.”

  Looking left, right, Fortune said, “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you burn down the Saint Tropez? The Saint Tropez was better than that dump. The Lakeside, it was a dump.”

  “All right, Mimmo,” Fortune said as he felt the stiletto under his sleeve.

  The meeting began at three in the morning, New York City slowing down and Rockefeller Center dead, the ice rink shuttered, gold Prometheus floating in darkness. Benno brought Enna’s car to the garage entrance like Tyler told them. Enna sat in the front seat with him, Bebe in back with a jowly, white-haired lawyer nobody introduced Benno to, but his name was Leland Archibald. Everybody was quiet like they were in church waiting for Mass to begin, Bebe’s eyes drifting. The muscles in his jaw twitched.

  At the bottom of the ramp, Benno pulled over.

  They all got out, the underground garage murky, cold and damp. A guy from Justice in a trench coat flipped his identification.

  “Stick around,” Enna said to Benno.

  Good luck, Bebe, Benno wanted to shout, but he was already on his way, following the fed, the ancient lawyer’s leather briefcase swaying in his hand.

  “Rico,” Benno said. He continued in Sicilian. “Is he the guy?”

  “The lawyer?” Enna replied in Sicilian, too. He’d hired Archibald on the advice of the president of the talent agency. “He’s connected in Washington.”

  Which Benno knew was no answer.

  Enna hustled to catch up and joined the group in the elevator.

  Just before Tyler closed the doors, Marsala looked up and gave Benno a small, sickly smile, the kind that could break your heart if you gave a shit.

  Benno put a “go get ’em” thumb in the air. He ached for Bebe, the skinny son of a bitch being way over his head with these Dunneys and Archibalds.

  Tyler had commandeered a boardroom high up in the night sky, its glass wall showing streetlamps and brake lights below and stars over Narrows Gate. Photos of the construction of Rockefeller Center lined the other wood-paneled walls, elected officials and financiers in hardhats. A dozen high-back chairs surrounded the long table that dominated the room. Dunney was seated in one at the table’s center, the lawyer Bamberger at his side, their backs to the view, papers strewn here and there. In the corner, close to the door, was a joyless stenographer.

  Even before he removed his coat, Archibald protested. “We were to understand this was an informal meeting.”

  Bamberger said, “A transcript will serve to protect both of us.”

  Marsala saw that the two Washington lawyers knew each other.

  “Mr. Marsala,” said Dunney as he rose from his chair and walked to greet the singer. “My wife is one of your greatest fans.”

  “Tell her I said thank you, Senator.”

  Archibald had warned him about Dunney. “Don’t be fooled by the drawl and the country bumpkin routine,” the patrician lawyer said. “He’s smart and ambitious. Don’t let him see you as an enemy.”

  Dunney said, “You understand why we have to speak, Mr. Marsala, after the today’s debacle…”

  “I feel like I should apologize.” Marsala folded his coat over a chair’s back. “I’m sure you know by now that Mistretta is my wife Rosa’s uncle. I’m not a big hit over in that family these days.”

  “But he put on quite a show, did he not?” Dunney said as he returned to his seat.

  Archibald sat next to Marsala. “Was it necessary for your Mr. Tyler to threaten to call my client to testify in public?”

  “It certainly could come to that,” Dunney said. “But if I had my druthers, I’d hope we’d have a productive conversation tonight and eliminate that possibility.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Senator,” Marsala said. “I think if you ask Mrs. Roosevelt and President Truman, they’ll tell you I’ve served my country whenever they’ve asked.”

  “Very good,” Bamberger said as he rubbed his tired eyes. “Now, if we may begin…”

  Archibald said, “I suggest we define the scope and boundaries of the conversation the senator mentioned. As Mr. Marsala has indicated, he’s eager to cooperate, but—”

  Bamberger said, “I can assure you that we have had no testimony, public or otherwise, that suggests Mr. Marsala is engaged in the kind of activities we’re investigating.”

  Marsala sighed in relief, but Archibald said, “That doesn’t address the issue of immunity.”

  “We’re not after Mr. Marsala,” Dunney said. “I don’t think I could return to South Carolina if I did damage to his career.”

  “How can I help you, Senator?” Marsala said.

  Bamberger replied. “Is there anything about your relationship with Carlo Farcolini you think we need to understand?”

  “He was a friend of my father’s. When I was a kid, I broke my leg and he gave me a radio. He liked the way I sang, I guess, so he stood by me. I don’t know. Maybe he feels responsible for me—you know, the radio, music…”

  “And Anthony Corini?”

  “If you’re in show business, you play his clubs. Look, if you want to ask me whether I’m in bed with their organization, I’ll tell you. The answer is no. But I’ve known those guys since I was a kid singing in saloons. The ‘bent-nose squad,’ I call them. You don’t pick your audience, Senator, and they like nightclubs.” He shrugged and put up his hands. “What are you going to do?”

  “When is the last time you spoke to Mr. Corini?” Bamberger asked.

  “I haven’t talked to Corini in a while. I saw him the other night at the Caribbean, but we didn’t speak.”

  “Did you know Cy Geller?”

  Marsala shook his head. “I met him once or twice, but I wouldn’t say I knew him.”

  “Fortunato Spaletti?”

  “Frankie Fortune, sure. He ran a few clubs and restaurants. A couple weeks ago, we met for brunch in Beverly Hill
s.”

  “Was he responsible for your career prior to his disappearance?”

  Marsala bristled. “Buddy, nobody’s responsible for my career but me.”

  Archibald tapped the singer’s wrist. He’d warned Marsala not to antagonize Sam Bamberger.

  “The mistakes I’ve made,” Marsala added quickly, “they’re all mine.”

  “But Mr. Spaletti accompanied you to Los Angeles for the purpose of expediting your relationship with Mr. Enna and the Sandpiper resort, did he not?”

  “Phil Klein died and the agency asked me to accept Rico. Fine. That’s the business. I needed a change.” Marsala looked at Dunney. “My career was on a respirator. Your wife can tell you that, Senator.”

  Dunney smiled and nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on his notes.

  “Returning to Carlo Farcolini for a moment,” Bamberger said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “In Havana, not too long ago. I was booked for a show at the…Rico?”

  “El Malecón,” the agent said. All night, Enna had watched Marsala swing from panic to defiance and back again without logic or reason. The pulsing veins at the singer’s temple told Enna he was growing angry again despite Archibald’s counsel.

  “Who was present at the show?”

  “A lot of people. But Corini was there. Frankie was there. Farcolini.”

  “Representatives from the Cuban government, would you say?”

  “I don’t know those guys. They could walk in here now and I still wouldn’t.”

  “That would include Fulgencio Balboa—”

  “Who?”

  Archibald said, “How can it be relevant whether General Balboa attended a performance by my client?”

  The question hung in the air as the steno machine clacked. Bamberger waited while Marsala sipped lukewarm water.

  Enna leaned in to whisper to Archibald, who said, “Senator, Mr. Marsala may need to rest his voice for a few minutes.”

  Dunney nodded. “That’s fine.”

  Without a flicker of concern, Bamberger said, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  Marsala stared at the commission’s attorney. Dunney’s prodding he could take—the guy was a senator, for Christ’s sake. But the lawyer was a hack in a cheap suit. Nobody gave a fuck what he thought.

  “Let’s go,” Marsala said.

  Archibald said, “A short recess, gentlemen.” Though the lawyer cared little for popular music, he was aware of Marsala’s legendary arrogance. Left unabated, it was a vehicle to self-destruction. “Perhaps you could find some hot tea.”

  Marsala interrupted. He didn’t want no favors from that bum Bamberger. “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Bamberger said, “Did you meet privately with Mr. Farcolini?”

  “It would have been an insult if I didn’t. I told you. He was like an uncle to me.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “He asked about my old man. He mentioned my mother. To tell you the truth, he wasn’t excited about my divorce.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know. General chitchat. People like to talk to celebrities. Right, Senator?”

  “I’m not a celebrity, Mr. Marsala.”

  The singer chuckled. “Lately you’ve been getting more ink than me.”

  “Did Mr. Farcolini express his gratitude to you?” Bamberger asked.

  “For what? Singing? It’s a job. If they meet the fee, that’s gratitude enough.”

  “For the suitcase you delivered to him.”

  Marsala was jolted. “Suitcase?”

  “You carried a suitcase to Havana. It wasn’t with your baggage when you returned.”

  Archibald turned to look at his client.

  “I’m trying to remember,” Marsala said. “I had my own luggage, the same kind I always travel with.”

  Bamberger slid a manila envelope from under his notes, opened it and slid a photo across the table. Before Archibald could intercept, Marsala grabbed it.

  “Is that not a photo of you carrying a black suitcase onto the flight from Miami to Havana?”

  “Yes. That’s me,” Marsala said.

  “In the second photo, are you not leaving the plane in Havana with the same suitcase?”

  “Yes,” he repeated.

  From his post at the double doors, Tyler studied the singer’s changing expression, his scowl vanishing as he shifted in the chair. Tyler had taken the photo in Havana. The picture and many others he’d snapped were proof Marsala made the delivery.

  “Did you look inside the suitcase, Mr. Marsala?”

  “I couldn’t, Mr. Bamberger. It was locked.”

  “It was locked?”

  “Yes, sir. As I recall, the suitcase was locked.” Marsala inched toward the table and folded his hands together as if in prayer. As his defiance withered, he felt a rush of panic. His throat began to constrict. He grabbed the water glass.

  “Who unlocked it?”

  “Frankie. Frankie Fortune.”

  “In your presence?”

  Marsala nodded.

  “What was in the suitcase, Mr. Marsala?”

  “I didn’t know until it was open.”

  “Mr. Marsala,” Dunney said, “please answer Mr. Bamberger’s question.”

  “Money,” he said. “A lot of money.”

  “Would you risk a guess at how much?”

  “Sam,” Archibald scolded. “Your point is made.”

  “Mr. Archibald,” Dunney said, “I’m sure we would like to know what constitutes ‘a lot of money’ to a man of Mr. Marsala’s considerable achievements.”

  “I—Thousands. Could’ve been a hundred thousand. Maybe more.”

  “In excess of one hundred thousand dollars?” Bamberger asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps two hundred thousand? Three hundred thousand?”

  Marsala nodded compliantly. “Could’ve been. Yes.”

  “I see.” Bamberger waited while the singer sipped water again and cleared his throat. “I may have asked you this already. Was Mr. Fortune in attendance when the money was presented to Mr. Farcolini?”

  “He was, yes,” Marsala nodded. “He gave it to him.”

  “And who asked you to carry such a large sum of money to Mr. Farcolini?”

  Archibald interrupted. “Sam, Mr. Marsala made it clear he didn’t know what was in the suitcase. Please.”

  “Mr. Marsala.”

  “Salvatore Benno,” Marsala said. “He brought the suitcase to my room at the Hampshire House.”

  “Salvatore Benno,” Bamberger repeated. The name meant nothing to him.

  “The Jersey bagman,” Marsala continued. “He’s in Mimmo’s crew. They call him the Delivery Boy.”

  Enna stood and walked toward the door. Asking Tyler to step aside, he reached for the knob. “Tea,” Enna whispered, pointing to his own throat.

  Tyler let him pass.

  “Did Mr. Benno tell you what was in the suitcase?”

  “No.”

  “Did he tell you where the money came from?”

  Archibald said, “Mr. Marsala already told you he was unaware—”

  “After the suitcase was opened, did you tell Mr. Benno what was in it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing that I can recall,” Marsala said.

  “Was he surprised?”

  “Not really.”

  “Is it your opinion he knew what was in the suitcase?”

  “He might’ve. There must have been a reason why he insisted that I carry it.”

  It took Enna a while to find the public elevator. He asked the sleepy operator if he could be taken directly to the garage. No, he was told, so he walked out of the RCA Building into the cold and hurried down the ramp, and there was Benno, leaning against the car, arms folded, his eyelids closed like he was asleep standing up.

  He moved when he heard Enna’s shoes on the concrete.

  Enna said, “Get out
of here, Sal.”

  “Why? What happened to—”

  “Give me the keys and get out of here.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s happen—”

  “He gave you up. He told them you knew he was carrying 500 large to Don Carlo.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I know the suitcase was lock—”

  “No, I mean bullshit that Bebe gave me up.”

  “Sal,” Enna moaned. “Sally…”

  Benno stared at him as knowledge took hold. “Am I fucked?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But get out of here so they don’t pull you in tonight.”

  Benno reached into his pocket and turned over the car keys. “Fuckin’ Bebe,” he said, shaking his head. He hustled toward the ramp.

  “All right, Mr. Marsala,” Senator Dunney said. “I think we have an understanding of how the operation worked.”

  Marsala sat back. “Does that mean I won’t have to testify in public?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” he replied. “But you’ve done yourself some good here tonight.”

  “Senator, if you call me to appear, my career will be over.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know if that might be true. Allow us to review our notes. We’ll let you know.” Dunney turned to Bamberger. “Sam?”

  The attorney made a dismissive gesture.

  “That seems unnecessarily cruel, Senator,” Archibald said. “As my client told you, he’s at a crucial stage in his career.”

  Dunney said, “Mr. Archibald, it’s a little late for speechifying, so I’ll let you calculate how crucial our investigation is to the free flow of legitimate commerce and the termination of the narcotics trade that so richly profits Mr. Marsala’s friends.”

  “No one doubts the legitimacy of your efforts, Senator,” Archibald replied.

  “Well, thank you for the endorsement,” Dunney said as he stood. “Mr. Marsala, I hope the next time we speak will be under more amiable circumstances.”

  Tyler held open the door as the senator departed.

  “What’s it mean?” Marsala whispered. “Are we done?”

  Archibald held up a finger. He said, “Sam?”

  Bamberger didn’t respond.

  “Sam.”

  “He pushed it down, Leland,” Bamberger said. “To a delivery boy. Meaning he’s still in the middle.”