By the time all the arrangements had been made, their baby was approaching term, and upon disembarking at Ellis Island, New York, Maria Bonetti promptly gave birth to Alberto, a brand-new United States citizen...
...and already a headache to officials, who didn't quite know how to deal with a sudden birth right on their literal doorstep.
But citizen or not, Alberto remained a Sicilian at heart. And not in a good way. One day New York's Five Families woke up to find they had a new neighbor who had grown up while they were warring, whose wealth and power had made him into a quiet, deadly force that could not be ignored and, rather than invite him into their conclave, they simply moved over and made room for him.
The early dons seemed to relish holding on to their early beginnings. The decrepit old buildings where they started their empires were like the hills of their old, beloved Sicily, the caves they had to return to every so often to make them remember who they really were.
A half block off Second Avenue, in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge, the Y and S Men's Club took up all three floors of an old brick building whose considerable renovations were not visible from without.
On the street level, behind frosted windows and a wooden door marked MEMBERS ONLY, was a recreation room with pool tables, pinball machines, and booths along one side for sipping cold cans of beer from upright pop machines that needed no coins and held no pop and were lined up against the opposite wall like the victims in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. This lineup included a 1950s-era jukebox that played old rock 'n' roll and new heavy metal, no fuckin' disco, and similarly required no coins. Toward the back was the latest thing, a massive rear-projection television that ran continuously with beat-up easy chairs and a threadbare couch arranged for worship at its cathode altar.
This ground floor was the province of the young turks, the bodyguards, muscle boys, and pistoleros who had graduated from street gangs and relaxed here between duties, criminal and otherwise. An open staircase climbed the rear right wall and on the opposite side was a small elevator. There were presumably other avenues of entry and escape known only to the occupants.
No snotty kids or teenaged punks ever touched the muscle cars parked out front, or the luxury rides with vinyl tops and whitewalls in the rear lot. Reprisals for that kind of action were swift and severe. No ongoing police surveillance was maintained either, unless a member was out on bail and being watched. The Y and S Club was well protected and well defended.
The second floor could have been a Madison Avenue millionaire's hideaway. A curved, thirty-foot-long bar with chair-back stools dominated a chamber whose richly dark wood-paneled walls were decorated with gilt-framed paintings in oil, watercolor, and pastel by famous artists, the kind whose work had been copied onto the nose cones of planes during World War II. The subject matter was female nudity, of course—this was a men's club—but nothing outright vulgar.
In addition to a civilian bartender, a staff of four was on hand to take coats and hats, serve drinks, and do whatever their benefactors required. These minions were a special breed—their training suited them for the finest private club in any major city, but they were also armed bodyguards. They wore dignified black suits with black bow ties, and the cut of the jackets did not betray the holstered guns on their hips. Among their duties was never remembering what went on in this sanctuary of smoking, drinking, and privacy.
The members were an odd mix. Men in their sixties and seventies, in sweaters and threadbare pants, would sit at a pearl-enameled table and play cribbage, whist, and other old-fart card games. A table of sharply dressed younger members—in their forties—had a poker game going that took up a corner with a felt table and a hanging Tiffany-type shade. This game had been continuous, as far as anybody knew, for decades. Always money on the table. Always players coming in and out. Whether six A.M. or six at night, no matter.
In the middle of the room was a little reading area, easy chairs and a couch around a coffee table littered with upper-tier girlie magazines, plus Sports Illustrated, Ring, Variety, and various boating periodicals. No TV had been installed in the second floor clubroom—anybody wanting to watch sports could join the kiddies downstairs. No radio either—if you wanted to keep track of the horses, go to a fuckin' bookie joint already. There was, however, continuous music, soft but easily discerned, Italian crooners singing hits of the forties and fifties.
No disco allowed on the second floor either.
On the third floor were the suites. Each one had a living room with TV and wet bar, a well-appointed bedroom, and a luxurious bath with a large hot tub. There were three such suites, used by important out-of-town guests and by various members who wanted a little overnight getaway from the wife and kids. A larger fourth suite, however, belonged to the master of the brick castle.
This was Alberto Bonetti's home away from home.
As a kid, he and his gang holed up in the cellar under Poco's papa's saloon, and as long as they never messed with the old man's beer barrels or raised too much hell, he let them alone. Now Alberto had a mansion on Long Island, where his alcoholic wife lived in luxury and despair over the demise of Sal and the lack of visits from their married daughter, who had publicly disowned them, and the lawyer son who had put a continent between him and the family whose money had paid for his deluxe schooling. And Alberto was only around on the occasional weekend.
Weekdays, Alberto worked and relaxed in his comfortable Y and S Club suite, which included a small kitchen and a modest office with no staff, since he was retired, after all. Various of his business interests around the greater metropolitan area did have larger office setups and all kinds of staff.
But old Alberto was retired. Just puttering these days. Right?
The Y and S, by the way, stood for the Yelling and Spitting Club. Little of that was done here now, except maybe the punks on the first floor.
This, at least, had been the arrangement of the club when I had last been there, over a year ago, when I had asked for and received a sit-down with Alberto Bonetti in his suite.
I had tried to reason with the old man, requesting that he get a handle on his son Sal, whose ruthless loan-sharking activities had been causing a client of mine grief. Alberto had listened politely, thrown up his hands, and said, "What can a father do? Kids these days."
I had been up late, dealing with the aftermath of the intruder at the Commodore, and Pat had made me wait until the photographers and lab boys were through and the stiff had been rubber-bagged and hauled out before allowing me to gather my things and move to my new room. The gigantic bed in the Honeymoon Suite, with its Every Day Is Valentine's Day decor, had a pillowy mattress that was perfect for everything but sleeping.
So I wound up camping out on the damn couch, where I finally dropped off, and it was ten A.M. before I woke up. I went over to Bing's for a workout, took a swim at the hotel pool, then skipped breakfast and went straight for lunch. I had a steak sandwich at the Commodore's café, passing on the salad and barely touching the fries. I needed some protein but didn't care to haul anything heavy along.
Because I was going to drop in on an old friend—the kind of old friend capable of the brand of warm welcome that made a bulletproof vest and three extra .45 clips in my sport-jacket pocket the minimal precautions.
When I had closed the MEMBERS ONLY door behind me, I planted myself over the threshold and waited. Lots of young faces at pool tables and at booths turned my way—narrow, bony faces; round, acned faces, lots more hair than you used to see on this type of punk, including muttonchops like those sported by my late intruder last night.
This floor hadn't been Frankie Cerone's likely hangout, though—at his age, and with his standing, Frankie had probably been eligible for the second floor with the curved bar and the Rat Pack music.
So the pale-faced punks peeking at me from booths and glowering at me over pool cues were not necessarily pals of Cerone. They'd probably heard that one of their own bought the farm last night, six feet of acrea
ge straight down with grass for a crop and I don't mean marijuana. They'd probably even heard it was thanks to a guy name of Hammer.
But I was just a tough-looking older dude they didn't recognize, who might be a cop. Nobody stepped forward to question my presence. This was a clubhouse without a leader. No Leo Gorcey, just a bunch of homicidal Huntz Halls.
Any thought that I'd be patted down and have to justify carrying the .45 in the sling into their den of budding thieves didn't even come up. I just walked along between the two pool tables and the row of vending machines and such, the boys in the booths on the other side of the room eyeballing me like monkeys in cages frustrated that the zoo patrons weren't getting close enough to hurl feces at.
I just kept nodding and smiling at the curious dopes, my hands in my pockets, very unthreatening, loping along like I belonged nowhere else but here and knew exactly what I was doing, no big deal, fellas, no big deal.
I got all the way to the second-floor landing without a hitch. Somebody had called from downstairs, though, because from the fancy club room, a big guy stepped out into the bland little reception area to meet me. He was about thirty-five with short, dark, military-cut hair and dark, no-nonsense eyes, and wore the black suit with matching bow tie of those who attended the members. He would have a revolver on his hip. Probably a cross-draw affair like lots of cops were wearing these days.
"I know you," he said. Nothing intimidating about it. Matter of fact. Then: "Mr. Hammer, you've been here before. But surely you know this is a private club."
"Yeah. I was hoping Mr. Bonetti might see me."
"If you had an appointment, I'd know."
"I don't have an appointment. A guy named Frankie Cerone, who may be familiar to you, tried to kill me in my hotel room last night, also without an appointment. I'm here to talk to Mr. Bonetti about that. On his turf. I'm here on peaceful terms, requesting a sit-down."
That was a lot to absorb, but he got it right away.
"I need to check with Mr. Bonetti," he said.
Good—the old boy was in.
"But, Mr. Hammer, before I do that, you'll have to stand for a frisk."
"No need." I opened my jacket and let him see the .45 in the sling.
His frown was like a father's to an untrained child. "You expect to wear that in to see Mr. Bonetti?"
"You can tell him I'm armed. I saw fifteen guys downstairs. You probably have another twelve members, anyway, in that fancy club room. And I'll bet there are guards in the hall upstairs, outside the suites."
The big guy said nothing.
"I keep the gun," I said, "or Mr. Bonetti can come to see me on my turf, on my terms. He can bring a gun. Because I sure as hell will."
He was thinking.
"Another option is you can try to take it away," I said.
That he didn't think about at all, just nodded, said, "Take a seat," and slipped back in the club room.
I did not take a seat, though a couch and several comfortable chairs were available. The paintings out here weren't of the pinup variety—they were landscapes. Probably Sicilian landscapes, but who the hell knew? Trees are trees.
The big guy returned and said, "Mr. Bonetti will see you. He is unconcerned that you are armed. He understands that you are vastly outnumbered and outgunned."
"Yeah, that was my point."
"We'll take the elevator."
"It's just a flight up. I don't get winded that easy."
He shook his head. "The elevator is private. It opens up inside Mr. Bonetti's suite."
"Ah. Okay."
I followed him over, he used a key on a metal panel, and we stepped inside the elevator, which was about the size of a refrigerator carton. I had my coat unbuttoned and my hands casually on my hips. It looked natural enough but the point was, if the elevator opened up on a bunch of guns, I would have easy access to mine.
But it didn't open on anything except another little receiving area. My escort stayed inside the elevator, and the doors shut him in as tiny slapping slippered footsteps from the nearby hallway announced my host.
Alberto Bonetti, in a pale green sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and the kind of tan slacks old people garden in, came trotting up and offered his hand for me to shake.
I did. It was a soft handshake, but my hunch was it was soft on purpose.
In the equally soft face—where under the slicked-back gray hair sharp young eyes hid out in the seventy-year-old oval of flesh—a smile blossomed, friendly but with the faintest hint of shark. Old shark, but shark.
"You walk an interesting line, Mr. Hammer."
"What line is that, Mr. Bonetti?"
"The line between hero and fool, between brave and reckless." He gestured vaguely back toward his suite. "There's coffee. We'll sit in the kitchen."
I followed him, but I already knew the way from my previous visit. Off the hallway on the left was his small office, a cluttered desk, file cabinets, photos hanging crookedly depicting him with political and show biz figures. Soon the hall opened out and a living room yawned off to the left, with a small, warm kitchen—modern but with wooden cabinets—at right.
The place had surprisingly little personality. It was a nicely appointed modern condo, like many older people retired to, but with none of the Renaissance bric-a-brac some old dons affected. The only distinctive aspect was the lack of windows. Even prison cells had windows, but old Alberto had once been shot at through the living room window of a summer home down in Florida, and ever since he'd had an aversion to anybody outside blowing him a kiss.
So we sat in the kitchen of this bunker at a nice round wooden table drinking coffee that he served me himself. He also had a little plate of hard white biscuits sprinkled with sugar. There was cream for my coffee and Sweet'n Low. He was a good host. On the counter behind him were shiny new appliances, including a big glass-fronted microwave.
Alberto sipped his coffee, which was black, and said, "I suppose this is about Frank Cerone."
"Yeah."
"My people tell me you cut him open and handed him his entrails."
"I cut him open. I didn't have to hand him anything—he caught what he could of them, before he went down. He didn't suffer much, but he didn't go out on a happy note."
This seemed to amuse him. He set his coffee down on a paper place mat. He'd provided me one, too. "I have the feeling you would have liked to make him suffer, given the opportunity."
"Oh, I had the opportunity. I'm just getting soft in my middle age."
"Wait till you're my age ... if you get there." He nibbled a cookie. So did I. "We both know I sent him. Do you understand why I sent him, Mr. Hammer?"
I told him my theory—that he'd been given undue credit for Doolan's faked suicide, and for the failed hit-and-run attempt on me, and that he'd seen an opportunity to raise his standing among his fellows by really having me whacked.
He sipped more coffee. "Astutely reasoned. You are right, of course. But I failed. And I'm going to suggest that you coming here today in good faith—and me receiving you the same way—indicates that this temporary truce can be maintained. Can become a permanent one, so much as anything is permanent in this life."
"Yeah, it can slip through your fingers." I grinned at him. "Just ask Frankie Cerone."
He chuckled silently, then shook his head. "I never know whether you're grandstanding with such remarks, Mr. Hammer, or if you really, truly have that sick a sense of humor."
"Beats me. Why would you want us to strike a truce, Alberto?"
He smiled more with his eyes than his mouth; the bland softness of his face was only lightly creased with old age. "I might ask you the same thing ... Mike."
I had another cookie. "I don't see that I have any argument with you. Or anyway I didn't until last night. I settled my score with Sal and his crew a long time ago. You knew damn well that your boy was a twisted piece of work, and in a weird way I figure I did you a favor, ridding the world of him. Ridding you of him."
Alberto said
nothing, but his eyes seemed to confirm my assertion. He sipped more coffee, glancing at his watch.
"After I took Sal out," I said, "you must have decided, at some point, that killing me to save face just wasn't worth it. With Sal and half a dozen of his best boys dead on that dock, the cops waded in and put the squeeze on your family, and you were lucky not to do hard time. You retired, or pretended to, and had to just sit back and watch while somebody else stepped in and took over the drug trade in this town. In this country."
"Somebody," he said, and sneered a little. "Do you know who that somebody is?"
"Yeah. It's Little Tony Tret. He's sold this Club 52 bill of goods to the public and the politicians, where doing coke is just acceptable behavior for the beautiful people. And the cops and maybe even the feds can't imagine Anthony would be bold enough to take advantage of all the slack he's being cut to use the place as a front for major trafficking."
The dark eyes flared. "But he did. He has. He is."
"And more than that, he's opening Club 52 spots all around the country—a conduit for coke and every other controlled substance, getting a free ride from starstruck local politicians. Plus payoffs when necessary. The kind of money he's generating, that's just the price of doing business."
Alberto brushed cookie crumbs off his sweater. "Then you must know, Mike, that I am the last person on earth who would ever have arranged for your friend Bill Doolan to die. Doolan was investigating Club 52 and hoping to bring Little Tony down, an effort I can only applaud."
"You weren't actively helping Doolan...?"
"No! No, that hard-ass old copper would have been too proud, not to say suspicious, to accept the benefit of my counsel, much less help. I may have fed certain information to him through contacts, but that's all."
I frowned. "Why sic Cerone on me right when I'm closing in on Little Tony?"
The don shrugged. "It seemed the right card to play. You know nothing personal was intended. But I believe I have lost my moment. Even the police are knowledgeable enough to connect the late Mr. Cerone to me and my affairs, and that will require ... pulling in my head and playing turtle again."
Kiss Her Goodbye Page 19
