by Jim Fusilli
Benno thought, Ain’t this something? A meeting on Polk Street and no Mimmo, no Frankie Fortune. No Boo Chiasso or Fat Tutti.
“You need a Jew lawyer,” Paolo said in Sicilian. “Oh, sorry, Ding.”
Bell shrugged. Since he wasn’t dead from Boo Chiasso hitting his head, he was in a forgiving mood. At first, he tried to talk Benno out of telling Paolo. “Why own up?” Bell had asked. “To gauge if the story plays,” Benno said and Bell thought, Well…
“Why do I need a lawyer, Enzo?”
Imogene interrupted. “Sal. English, please.”
“Sure, sorry.” He returned to Paolo, over there half in his blue uniform, half in his pajamas. “I’m saying Fat Tutti puts a gun on me and Fortune says I should kill Dunney or Boo throws Leo off the viaduct. Tutti is going walk me through Pennsylvania Station with a gun at my spine to see I do it. So first I clip him and then I come and get Leo.”
Brown-skinned, silver-haired now and chiseled around the jaw, Paolo was doing his best to say nothing. He nibbled a cannoli Gemma threw in front of him, which kept his mouth occupied.
“I guess Fortune heard about Tutti with the legs, so he comes to kill Leo like he said he would and Boo shoots him, thinking, I don’t know, it’s the feds, maybe. Fortune got off a few rounds, I guess and by the time I get there, everybody’s dead. Except Leo. Boo, that ugly bastard, trussed him like a pig and he don’t feed him.”
Paolo said, “‘Fortune got off a few rounds.’ The knife man had a gun.”
Benno shrugged.
The cop looked at the powdered sugar on his fingertips. “Also maybe you can explain Mimmo in the trunk of Tutti’s car you were in. His throat slit.”
Gemma gasped. Imogene clung to Bell.
“You say something about a knife man, Enzo?” Benno asked.
Bell said, “They were killing each other and Sal found me after he escaped Tutti. Cut and dried.”
Paolo said, “Tutti claims you held him up for twenty-two hundred bucks, Sal.”
“At Pennsylvania Station?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Boy, that’s thanks for you. He threatens me, so I shoot him in the legs instead of the brain. Maybe he likes it better you got Fortune and Boo killing each other like selvaggi.”
“Savages,” Bell said sideways.
“I mean, if I’m this big-time armed robber, why do I call the cops and say, ‘Go find dead Frankie Fortune and Boo.’ Huh?”
“Where’s the gun you shot Tutti with? He says it was a snub nose .38.”
“I threw it in the Hudson. Why do I need a gun?”
“In the Hudson. For Christ’s sake, Sally.”
“Hey, how am I supposed to think clear? I got Frankie making me kill senators, and they’re holding Leo and I’m walking through New York City carrying a piece and maybe it’s hot ’cause Zamarella used it or somebody. I’m over by Port Authority anyway, so I walk to the piers…”
Benno gave the whole speech with his shoulders up around his ears, his hands waving.
“Do you remember which pier?” Paolo asked.
Benno said no.
Bell said, “Enzo, I wonder how many Snubbies you’ll find on the bottom of the river.”
“You know what they wanted to do, don’t you?” Benno said. “If I hit Dunney, it’s like Corini ordered it. Which means Frankie threw in with Gigenti, who wants to run the crew and to hell with show business and politics.”
Paolo nodded. Bruno Gigenti did like the old ways. In Sicilian, Paolo said, “Maybe Gigenti respects you now. Could be he forgives you busting his window and scaring one of his boys.”
“You heard about that, huh?” He wagged a finger and in English said, “Don’t try to trap me, Enzo. I don’t want Gigenti’s respect or Dunney’s or nobody but the people sitting here in this room. I’m out. Period.”
Bell thought that was pretty good, so he stood to go, walking over to get a hug from Gemma. He figured he’d take a nice long shower, spend a little quality time with Imogene and then he’d call his father’s partner Eli Kreiner and get Salvatore Benno the best Jew lawyer he could find. Then he’d go back to meandering around the brownstone and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.
“Anything to add, Ding?” Paolo asked.
Bell said, “No.” But he thought, God bless reasonable doubt.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Terrasini walked Marsala into the Wilshire Towers. The young UCLA student who served as the night doorman had his nose in a textbook. He said “Nino!” like a cheer, but then soured and said, “Mr. Marsala, I have a telegram for you.” Whenever Marsala came in liquored up, the singer liked to bust the kid’s balls for sport.
Terrasini handed it to his old boss as they went into the elevator. “More gloom and doom,” Marsala said, shaking the yellow envelope.
“How do you know? You don’t know…”
“Believe me, buster. I know.”
They rode up in sullen silence.
Inside the apartment, the air stale with cigarettes, Terrasini lit a flame under the teakettle.
The singer went to the sofa and, much as he’d done at Rosa’s, melted into the cushion. He stared nowhere, his face hollow and gray. There was a sudden rap on the door, but Marsala didn’t turn. When Terrasini asked him if he should open it, Marsala shrugged. The way it was going, it was the feds, handcuffs out, a photographer right behind them.
But it was Rico Enna, topcoat over his arm, briefcase in his fist. “Nino,” he said, in a way Terrasini knew he’d brought more bad news.
“Bill.” He entered, dropping his coat on a chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to travel with you.”
Marsala didn’t reply.
“How are you feeling, Bill?”
“Like the world wants me to get off.”
The kettle whistle blew and Terrasini left for the kitchen.
“You saw Anthony, right?” Marsala asked. “What did he say?”
Enna said, “Joey Aaron’s filling in. You need to rest.”
“The Sandpiper, too?”
“A good, long rest, Bill. Take care of your pipes.”
Terrasini put the steeping tea in front of Marsala and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He figured he’d hurry back to Rosa’s and make sure she’s all right. No matter what Bebe had done, he was Bill Jr.’s father. She still cared, if only for that.
“Buck up, Bebe,” Terrasini added with a forced smile. “This bout has a lot of rounds left.”
Marsala nodded, blue eyes vacant.
On the way to the door, Terrasini stopped at the phonograph. He figured, OK, a little music and Bebe will see life still has its richness whether he’s up or way down.
The LP on the turntable was one of Marsala’s favorites, music they’d studied together. Terrasini turned it on and by the time Billie Holiday was crooning cool and mellow over chugging rhythms, he was down the hall.
“Lady Day,” Enna said as the door swung shut. “What’s the telegram, Bill?”
“Can they send a subpoena by cable?”
Marsala ran his thumb under the envelope flap. Enna watched the singer read.
“Oh, yeah.” Marsala let the telegram float to the floor. “Oh, yeah.”
Enna retrieved it.
“Dear, dear Bill. Sing your song. You know who you are. Wish I could say more, but I’ve a duty to this little family we’ve made here. I won’t forget you. Love, Eleanor.”
“Bill, I’m sorry,” Enna said. “Damn.”
“A Dear John letter all the way from Africa.”
Lady Day’s song ended. A slow ballad began with Lester Young playing a beautiful breathy intro.
“You want a drink, Bill?”
Marsala didn’t respond.
Billie Holiday entered golden. “In my solitude, you haunt me…”
Marsala stood.
“I’ll get it, Bill.”
Enna went to the bar.
Prez k
ept blowing as Lady Day sang, “In my solitude, you taunt me with memories that never die.”
The ice bucket was empty, so Enna went into the kitchen and filled a tumbler with cubes from the refrigerator.
When he returned, he saw sheer curtains fluttering.
“…I’m filled with despair…”
Marsala had climbed over the rail and set his heels on the balcony’s thin concrete lip 22 stories above Wilshire Boulevard.
When he was a kid, he threw himself off a ledge near Elysian Fields, landing on River Road in front of a truck, his femur fractured, the bone jutting out of his thigh. His mother came to the hospital and hugged him tight, crying until she ran out of tears.
Now there was nobody.
Enna dropped the glass. “Bill. Jesus!”
Marsala looked at Los Angeles spread out before him, the hills, lights in the distance. From here, he could see all the way to Narrows Gate a long, long time ago.
“…I know that I’ll soon go mad. In my solitude…”
They thought I was kidding when I jumped off that ledge, Marsala thought. When I took the mirror glass to my wrist. When I shot that gun in Madrid.
Buddy, there comes a time you look into that void and you’re certain you’ll never escape it. You hear it calling your name…
As Enna lunged, Marsala leaned into the night sky and let go.
Terrasini was about to slide into his car when he heard a loud, grotesque thud behind him. Before he turned, he knew what it was.
Marsala’s fallen body was fractured and twisted. Blood was flowing across the asphalt. Terrasini looked up along the tower.
The kid behind the desk ran out and then spun away in disgust.
“He fell,” Terrasini said, backing away. “He was feeling sick, he went for air and he fell.”
Jumping in the car, he pulled out of the lot and raced toward La Cienega and the 101 to Rosa.
Upstairs, his mind spinning, Enna told himself to calm down, to gather his thoughts. He called the police. “There’s been an accident.” Then he called his boss at the talent agency in New York and asked him to call Corini. He didn’t want the cops to find Corini’s number on Marsala’s phone.
Then he took the elevator down to Bebe’s body. A janitor stood next to the UCLA kid and Jesus, Marsala was in a sickening pose and all that blood and already a smell.
“He leaned over,” Enna said. “He must’ve been tired and he fell.” Enna repeated his story to the beat cops who didn’t give a shit. But the dispatcher knew they had a mess on their hands and the call went all the way up to the captain, who contacted Hearst.
Rosa’s phone rang just as Terrasini arrived.
Next, Louella Parsons called Lourenço Marques, Mozambique, and was told Eleanor Ree was in Tanganyika and would not return for hours. Then she woke up Mal Weisberg and Ree’s agent was the first one to use the word despondent. Recalling when Marsala was raked across his wrist by mirror glass, Parsons asked if the singer was despondent enough to commit suicide. Weisberg replied, “Eleanor will be devastated. She loved him. I hope she can muster the courage to continue.”
At the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C., Charlie Tyler was jarred from sleep by what he thought was his wake-up call. But it was a colleague at the Department of Justice. Standing at the bedside in his boxers and undershirt, Tyler said, “It doesn’t matter. The hearing won’t be postponed.” They were already sitting on the news of Mistretta’s murder.
Up early, Imogene O’Boyle turned on the radio in Bell’s kitchen while she made herself a cup of Nescafé. A minute later, she was nudging Leo awake.
“Bill Marsala is dead,” she said.
Bell sprung up. “Dead?”
“The radio says he fell off the balcony at this apartment in Beverly Hills.”
He killed himself, Bell thought. He scrambled out of bed and dressed hurriedly.
“Sal?” Imogene asked.
“Better we should tell him.”
Sitting in the back room at the store not quite heated by the Franklin stove, dragging around the peppers and eggs he made himself, Benno was trying to figure exactly when Gigenti’s men would invade. He was already confused in his thinking, unable to separate what happened from what he said happened. Plus he shot two people and who on Polk Street would buy that Boo Chiasso shot Frankie Fortune—true—and Fortune shot Boo—not true—and then there’s that rat fuck Mimmo. Leo was looking for a lawyer and there goes the $2,200 in Benno’s pocket, plus the rest he skimmed over the years.
Suddenly, screaming police cars blew by, sirens and lights, and then Bell and Imogene walked in, even though Benno’s wasn’t open yet.
“Sal…”
Benno looked up at Bell, whose face was red from the cold. “Now what?”
“You put on the radio?”
“The truck don’t have a radio. You know that.”
“It’s Bebe. He’s gone. Off the balcony.”
Benno shot out of the seat. “He killed himself?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Holy shit,” Benno repeated as he sat slowly. Then he stood again. “You think somebody threw him off the balcony? You know, they got some of Ziggy’s guys still and maybe Zamarella’s guys.”
“Sal, you know Bebe. You heard what he did at Elysian Fields when he was a kid.”
“Bebe. Jesus. I guess after Mimmo, then he rats me out to the commission and Corini can’t like that.”
“Eleanor, too. You think she’s carrying his picture around Africa?”
“You know he’s got clits on his pipes, right?” Benno asked.
Imogene blinked.
“They say he fell,” Bell shrugged.
“Fuckin’ Bebe,” said Benno.
EPILOGUE
It had been a difficult weekend for Anthony Corini. Bruno Gigenti moved a new crew into the candy store in Narrows Gate, declaring ownership. From his leather wing chair in his apartment on Central Park West, Corini took it as intended: Your boy Fortune is dead. Mimmo, too. The muscle Chiasso. Your advisor Cy Geller. Farcolini is in Sicily and I own the Cubans. Your bet on Marsala marks you stupid. And now your politicians are dumping you. I’m taking everything. You are finished.
Still, Corini came to the courthouse cocky and defiant, and in no time the heat of the blinding television lights melted away the veneer of respectability he’d spent years maintaining. As he positioned himself at the table facing the commission, ignoring huge cameras on rolling stilts and stepping over cables, he told himself to remember that politicians were like entertainers. They liked to put on a show. You remind them they’re in charge of nothing and they fall apart like children who dropped their candy.
As instructed, he stood, looked around the crowded courtroom, raised his right hand and bellowed, “I do.” Then he sat next to his white-bread attorney, a heavy hitter Farcolini used for his deportation negotiations, who was on a first-name basis with Dewey.
“The television isn’t the same as radio,” the lawyer advised.
“It’s radio with pictures,” Corini snapped.
“Actually,” the lawyer said, “it’s not. It’s a microscope.”
Mr. Corini replied, “Good. Anybody who looks is gonna see who runs who.”
“You’ll be judged,” the lawyer continued.
“By who?” Corini said with a sneer.
Sworn in, Corini sat for an hour as Sam Bamberger read his police record, slowly and methodically showing him to be a violent street punk who’d become “the Jukebox King” and, in time, successor to Carlo Farcolini, the organization’s deported and disgraced head. Every legitimate enterprise Corini was associated with was shown to be a front for organized crime activities.
Corini simmered. He was amused. Openly annoyed. Bored. He yawned. He examined his hat. He studied his fingernails, unaware that, as Bamberger continued in dry monotone—a voice so hypnotic and lacking in emotion that no sensible person coul
d doubt everything he said—the camera was fixed on him. It captured Corini as a man capable of the allegations made against him now and during last week’s hearings.
Finally, Bamberger addressed Corini. “The commission would now like to ask you a few questions.”
Corini replied, “It’s about time.”
Bamberger began each query with “Isn’t it a fact that…” or “Would it not be true to suggest…” which made them difficult for Corini to rebut. “It’s not a fact,” he said at one point. “It’s a fact because you say it’s a fact?” He was reduced to a litany of denials and claims of a faulty memory. Bamberger treated him like a common criminal.
Bamberger turned over the questioning to the senator from Rhode Island, who wore a sun visor against the hot television lights. He proceeded to interrogate Corini about his relationship with two dozen politicians, most of whom were associated with Tammany Hall and all of whom visited him at his apartment on Central Park West. Photographs taken at restaurants, nightclubs, ballgames and the track were introduced into the record and shown on television. Corini thought he’d regained his footing as the attention turned to these assemblymen, mayors, councilmen. “We shared a few cocktails,” he said. “Like you do with friends.”
“On what do you base these friendships?” Rhode Island asked.
“Just like you, Senator. I can do for them, they can do for me.”
“Please tell the commission, what is it that you do for these men, Mr. Corini?”
“I’ve been around a long time,” he replied. “I know a lot of people.” Looking at the senator’s nameplate, he added, “Even in Rhode Island.”
Uncomfortable laughter rippled in the courtroom. Reporters looked at each other. Corini’s remark sounded like a threat.
“Mr. Corini,” Dunney said as he tapped the gavel. He was convinced Bill Marsala’s death was murder, as Mistretta’s had been. His triumph tainted, he wanted to expose Corini for the base criminal he’d always been. “Mr. Corini, did you offer your services to any war effort?”
