by Jim Fusilli
“A Snubbie?” he said as he counted the rounds.
“It does the job,” Fat Tutti said. “Believe me.”
He snapped the cylinder back into place. “Let’s go over it one more time.”
“Sal, get the fuck out of the car.”
“I line up like I’m waiting for the six o’clock to Washington and here comes Dunney and I pop him and then the cops take me out. I’m dead and Leo dies.”
“Sal—”
“Me and Leo die.”
“Goddamn it, Sal—”
Benno jammed the nozzle of the gun against the top of Fat Tutti’s mammoth thigh and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet deep into fat and flesh.
Tutti cried out. He looked at Benno, stunned. For good measure, Benno reached across and shot him in the other leg, this time inside the thigh. Fat Tutti slammed against the door in pain but like the first shot, nobody heard nothing, all those cars and mounds of seared skin acting like mufflers. And here comes the blood.
Benno twisted the rearview mirror until he saw the cops turn the corner. Even though people were pouring out of the station and hopping into cars and cabs, passing headlights sweeping over him, he put the nozzle of the gun under Fat Tutti’s chin.
“You notice you ain’t dead, right?” Benno said. “But only if Leo’s OK. You understand me? Something happens to him and you’re next.”
“You’re fucked, Sal,” Fat Tutti managed, his face red and contorted. “Ooh, you are fucked.”
“We’ll see.” He took the car keys and then he stepped into the cold. Turning down the collar of his coat and adjusting his hat, he went toward the station, squeezing between two taxis. Bending like he was tying his shoe, he buried the .38 in a back pocket and hoped he didn’t have none of Fat Tutti’s blood on his clothes or face or nothing.
All of a sudden, standing in the middle of a million people rushing for trains or hustling to quit the station, Benno realized he didn’t know what Alvin Dunney looked like. He sped through the crowd sideways and made his way over to the newsstand.
“Which way is the train to Washington?” he asked the newsy, who pointed.
Benno ran like he was escaping a fire.
The train wasn’t supposed to leave for 15 minutes, but already people were going toward the tracks. The loudspeaker said this train was boarding, that train was boarding, but no cops were charging through the station looking for him, at least not yet. He would’ve sworn he felt the trains rumbling under the marble floor as he studied every face, turning his head so his good eye led.
Then Sal Benno saw him. Just like a regular guy, the senator was joining the shuffling line.
Benno walked over, took a breath and said to himself, OK. Here we go. He opened his mouth. “Senator—”
Dunney smiled polite but he turned away. He was talking to Bebe’s lawyer, Archibald.
“Senator—”
“Sal Benno,” said the guy behind Dunney. He was blond and tall and he looked like what they used to put on Army recruiting posters.
Dunney kept going.
The guy said, “It is inappropriate—”
“You’re Tyler,” Benno said, “Leo’s guy.” He stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“Mr. Benno—”
“They got Leo. Frankie Fortune’s got Leo.” Benno tried to stay calm, but he could hear panic in his own voice.
Tyler stared at him. “I can’t help you, Mr. Benno.”
“I said they got Leo. They’ll kill him.”
“Excuse me. I’ve a train to catch.”
“Tyler. Come on. Jesus.”
Dunney and the white-haired lawyer went toward the darkness. Tyler followed.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
As she helped him into his jacket, the stewardess whispered, “Mr. Marsala, the captain said there are reporters on the ground.”
“Thanks, doll,” he managed with a listless smile, his voice a weary rasp. She’d nursed him through his panic attack over the Midwest and helped him clean up after he vomited the lunch she’d served. Now he tried to slip her a $50 bill, but she said no. Holding his elbow, she led him to the door as the propellers sputtered to a halt and the chocks were set in place.
The press boys started in even before he was halfway down the steps into the Southern California sun. He made like he couldn’t hear them, cupping a hand to his ear. What he needed to do more than anything was talk to Eleanor and even if it cost $10Gs in dimes, he was going to call her in Mozambique from the first phone booth he saw.
She was going to say, “Don’t worry, Bill. It’ll be all right, sure it will. I’m devoted to you. You’re somebody.”
“Bill, have you heard the news?” a reporter asked. Flashbulbs popped as Marsala reached the tarmac.
“I’ve got nothing for you, fellas,” he said, elbowing past pencils and notepads.
“Bill, do you think it’s fair that you’ve been dropped by Chesterfield?”
Another reporter said, “And the record label?”
Each sentence landed like a slap. Lightheaded, he tried to grip his composure as he entered the terminal. “Fellas, look. I’m having trouble with my throat and—”
“Is that why you were fired by the Caribbean?”
“Bill, what’s Eleanor’s reaction to all this?”
“Is it true you’ll be called to testify in public before the Senate commission?”
“Come on now, fellas. You know that Domenico Mistretta is my ex-wife’s uncle. I’m in the middle of something here.”
They trailed him as he headed toward baggage claim.
“It’s all a big misunderstanding,” he added.
A reporter tugged at his sleeve.
“Hands off the threads, asshole,” Marsala snapped, yanking his arm free. A photographer caught the skirmish.
Out of the corner of his eye, Marsala saw a sign for a men’s room. He veered toward it and washed his haggard face with frightening vigor. Then he ducked into a stall, locked the door and started to sob.
Three hours later, Eleanor still hadn’t returned his calls—she’s in the jungle with the men, said an operator at the Lourenço Marques Hotel. “Yes, they have walkie-talkies, but…No sir, we can’t send one of our people to Tanganyika. It is quite a distance. Sir—I’m sorry, sir.”
Marsala sent six cables within 90 minutes. “Where are you? Call your Bill in Beverly Hills. Pronto,” Slowly and painfully, the messages withered to, “Baby, please. Baby.”
Enna’s wife said the agent was on his way to Los Angeles. The head of programming at the radio network wouldn’t take Marsala’s calls nor would the representative at the sponsor, Chesterfield. Same with the record company: Marsala’s a pariah. The singer paced the apartment, rubbing his temples, patting his stomach as it gnawed, sweating as the walls closed in. He called Mal Weisberg, Eleanor’s agent.
“If you love her, Bill—”
This time, Marsala hung up.
He sat on the bed, then stood seconds later. Sat, stood. A shower, but his mind kept misfiring and when he closed his eyes against the soap’s sting, he saw his mother’s disapproving scowl. Pacing in his bathrobe and slippers, he wandered into Nino Terrasini’s old room and he had an idea. It was desperate, but what else could he do?
Certain he was unfit to drive, he told the concierge to call a taxi.
She came to the door in a fog of a mother’s well-earned sleep, tying a terry cloth robe, her hair pinned under a scarf. Alarmed, she said, “Bill, what happen—”
“Let me in,” he said as the taxi pulled away.
“I don’t think so,” said Rosa Mistretta Rosiglino.
“Please, baby. I’m in trouble.”
Clutching the old robe at the collar, she stepped back and stared at him: crisp gray suit, white shirt without a tie, his hair perfect but his expression dripping dread.
“All right. For a few minutes. You can see Bill Jr.”
He limped into the living room. As she shut the door, he said, “Is Nino her
e?”
“Bill, it’s past midnight.”
“Is he here?”
She reached for the door again.
“No, no. I’m sorry. Rosa. Jesus. It’s all gone wrong. It’s…It’s all gone wrong.”
“Sit down, Bill. I’ll put on some coffee—”
“Mimmo screwed me,” he said. “Why did he do that?”
“He didn’t say anything. He’s confused, he’s sick.”
“What he’s done, Rosa. God almighty, what he’s done.”
“But the radio says he did it because I told him to. Did you say that, Bill?”
“No. I said he was angry with me because of you. Listen, he’s killed me, baby. I’m dead. Look at me, I’m dead.” He started to pace again. “The radio show, the record deal. The Sandpiper, I’ll bet. Mayer won’t have me at Metro.”
She thought he might burst. “Bill, you’d better calm down. Bill.”
“I’ll need an operation for my throat. Who knows how it will turn out?”
“Bill. Pull yourself together. This is no good.”
He retreated, dropped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. “How did it go off track?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl, Bill.”
He looked up. His eyes moist, he sighed. “All at once. Everything. Gone in a flash.”
She said, “Stay here a minute. I’ll get coffee.”
She went into the kitchen, and, while she rattled the espresso pot and let the water flow, she dialed Terrasini. She whispered, “Bill’s here. He’s in rough shape.” As the coffee brewed, she returned to the living room. Marsala was staring at his reflection in the mirror above the mantle.
“Where is Miss Ree?” she asked from a distance.
“In Africa.”
“Fucking some big-game hunter?”
Without turning, he said, “You too, huh, Rosa?”
At least, I’m warm here, Benno thought as he crouched under the stairs of Bell’s flop. Every now and then, he’d hear thudding footsteps, a floor high above him moaning and squeaking. Boo Chiasso, he knew, and he wondered what the cops did with Fat Tutti and his ventilated legs.
Earlier, after coming back to Narrows Gate by the Port Authority bus, he tried to pull down the fire-escape ladder on Bell’s flop, using the Siamese pump as a stepstool, but it wouldn’t budge from rust. Then he figured cement-head Chiasso might hear and here I am out on a shelf in the freezing cold and dark and Chiasso shoots me and I go down looking like just another shit-for-brains Sicilian crook. They kill Leo, too, and that’s that.
So he waited, amazed that his temper let him think so he could cook up a scheme.
And then it happened, just like he imagined.
A car came up slow, its headlights going dim. It bounced over the curb and crunched pebbles and broken glass where the sidewalk used to be. The engine coughed as it shut down and the emergency brake growled when it was set. The door opened and closed.
Benno inched like a crab, the Snubbie drawn. He heard footsteps outside. Then the building’s door opened cautious and the wintry night came in along with Frankie Fortune, who looked up into the blackness at the top of the steps. Before Fortune knew what happened, Benno sprang and had the gun jammed into the bone under his eye.
“Hands,” Benno whispered, “or I’ll shoot you like Tutti.”
Fortune felt the nozzle dig into his skin.
“Drop the blade. Frankie.”
The stiletto fell to the floor.
“You’d better hope Leo is alive,” Benno said.
He pushed Fortune up the stairs, matching each step he took, holding the banister with his left hand and jabbing Fortune’s spine with the gun. At the landing, Fortune turned to negotiate, but Benno sent him along, knowing Chiasso was listening, the old stairs announcing an arrival.
“Leo!” Benno shouted. “Boo, I’m coming to kill you, you ugly son of a bitch.”
The wood buckled and creaked, the banister wobbled and finally Benno could see a strip of light under the door. He was sure Chiasso was right there, ready to shoot.
“Here I come!” Benno screamed.
The door swung open and Boo Chiasso appeared, firing rapidly, each round ripping into Fortune’s torso. As Fortune slumped, Benno shot over him, hitting Chiasso square in the face. In agony, Chiasso fell to his knees and hunched over. What the hell, I’ve gone this far and Benno stepped up and shot him through the top of the head. Nobody was going to fuck with them no more.
Leo was tied to the bed, a bloody towel gagging his mouth.
Benno knelt to help. But his hands started shaking and he couldn’t get the cord untied. Bell mumbled until Benno understood. He removed the gag.
“Sally, what the fuck?” he said.
“You’re telling me. Look at me. I’m dancing over here.”
“Get my arms.” Bell was soaked in sweat. Blood had caked on his forehead.
Finally, Benno took apart the knot that had Bell’s right wrist tied to the springs. Then the left hand was freed and soon Bell was untied and standing.
“Your coconut…”
Bell said, “Boo liked to dent it. Three times.” He reached and rubbed the bumps on his head. “What do we do now?”
“I’m tired of thinking,” Benno replied between gasps. “What’d you got?”
Over by the sloppy pile of books was some bedding. Bell lifted a pillowcase, took the gun from Benno and wiped it down. He climbed over Chiasso, put Fortune’s fingers around the grip, then let the .38 tumble down the stairs.
“I hope that works,” Benno said.
“It’d better,” said Bell as he rubbed his wrists. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Don’t make me forget Frankie’s knife.”
Bell hustled into his topcoat.
Out in the icy air, a car or two roared up the viaduct, but underneath it was as dark as a cave. Breath pluming, Benno said, “Imogene said you didn’t bring your car.”
“I’m not using it anymore. I’m giving it back to Tyler.”
“Tyler,” Benno said. “That fuck.”
“Jesus, Sally, what did I miss?”
Terrasini got there as fast as he could. “He’s in rough shape,” Rosa said and that meant Bebe could hurt himself. Though what could he do that would be worse than what’s already happened, according to the papers? To get back to where he used to be, he’d have to start below the bottom and with the clits on his throat and no war where all the boys are gone. He’s no longer just a skinny kid from Narrows Gate, New Jersey, with a silky baritone, gosh and golly, his blue eyes twinkling. Hennie isn’t around to steamroll everybody and Don Carlo won’t help. The recording industry won’t touch him, radio neither or the movies.
Terrasini knocked gently, not to wake Bill Jr., and peeked in before entering. Marsala was pacing the living room.
“Bebe?”
Marsala hugged him desperately. Terrasini, who’d seen him on his knees and in the clouds, thought, He’s gone. Bring the straitjacket. Bebe Marsala’s cracked. “Can you pull yourself together, Bebe?” Terrasini said. He steered Marsala to the sofa and eased down at his side.
Rosa sat across from them on the edge of the chair, arms folded, concerned though there wasn’t a drop of pity in her dark eyes.
“Corini will tell them everything,” Marsala said.
“What’s everything?” Terrasini asked. “We know Don Carlo since we’re kids. He liked the way you sing.”
“I’m blowing back fifteen percent—”
“To a talent agent. What he does, that’s your concern?”
“Nino, they got me delivering a half million dollars to him in Cuba.”
Terrasini looked across at Rosa.
Of course, they did, she thought.
“Frankie Fortune told Carlo it was from me. In gratitude. Corini will tell the commission the same thing.”
Rosa said, “You don’t have a half million dollars to give away. If they check the bank, they’d know that.”
�
�Rosa, honey, they’ll say this is money you don’t put in the bank,” Marsala said. “I saw how the commission works. They’ve got the big hammer and let me tell you—they know how to use it.”
Terrasini offered his former boss a tiny cup with hot espresso and a splash of sambuca. Marsala declined.
“You got somewhere to go?” Terrasini asked.
“I can’t leave the country.”
“Yeah, but you got friends.”
“Who do I know who isn’t in show business? Or Carlo’s crew?”
Rosa shook her head.
“Bebe, when’s the last time you slept?” Terrasini asked.
“I—I don’t know. I spent last night with Dunney and his snakes.”
In Sicilian, Terrasini said, “You need a fresh head.”
“Ho bisogno di nuova vita.”
“I didn’t say a new life. A good night’s sleep is all you need.”
“Bill,” Rosa said, “go home. Tomorrow you get a new agent.”
“Who’ll represent a bum who has no deal and no future?”
“Bill, self-pity’s never gotten you anywhere,” Rosa said as she stood.
Terrasini stood, too. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
Marsala looked up. “For old-time’s sake?” he said bitterly.
“Sure, Bebe. For old-time’s sake.”
Marsala slumped toward the door. He said, “I fucked up good, huh, Rosa?”
“You sure did, Bill. First class all the way.”
Terrasini scolded her with his eyes. Then he reminded himself that this was Marsala’s way—he makes like a puppy dog so you feel sorry for him and forget how he stomped on everything decent and common, and then when he sings, it touches you and you forgive him for all he’s done.
“Come on, Bebe,” he said as he opened the door.
“Good-bye, Bill,” Rosa said as they walked toward Terrasini’s car. She watched as they drove away.
Some crew they got in the back room at Benno’s at four in the morning: Benno and Bell, Benno’s aunt and uncle, and there’s Imogene in her nurse’s uniform with the white hose and the only Italian sergeant on the Narrows Gate force, Enzo Paolo, who knew everybody on Polk Street since they was born. Meanwhile, the knuckleheaded cousin is in the truck and maybe this time he drives backward through the tunnel or he forgets the peppers.
