Whacking Jimmy: A Novel

by William Wolf

  The Livingston market had another, even greater at raction for Johnny Baldini. Once a week he met Annet e Tucci there.

  Baldini was thirty years old but inexperienced with women. In his life he had only known three wel : the grandmother who raised him and taught him to cook in he r cramped, aromatic kitchen in Queens; his twelfth-grade teacher, Sister Elizabeth, who recognized his talent and convinced him that cooking was a t profession for a young man; and now, Annet e Tucci.

  Annet e was Johnny Baldini’s patroness, his champion, his con dante, his friend—and his lover. Before they met his con dante, his friend—and his lover. Before they met he had been a virgin, miserably certain that he was homosexual but terri ed of physical intimacy with a man.

  Imperiously, brusquely, Annet e had plucked him out of his monkish isolation and plunged him into her sexual broths and gravies. Oddly, Baldini didn’t take the a air as proof of his own heterosexuality. He thought of Annet e Tucci less as a woman than a mighty, singular, irresistible natural force. He worked for Don Vit orio, but he belonged to Annet e.

  Baldini had original y come to the Tuccis upon the recommendation of his uncle Mike, who did business in Detroit. On his rst evening in the don’s kitchen he had prepared one of his finest meals: rognocini trifolati al vino bianco—sautéed lamb kidneys in white wine—along with spinach- l ed crespel e and an asparagus salad. Don Vit orio had cal ed him from the kitchen and applauded, but Annet e had withheld her praise.

  The next afternoon she had come to the kitchen. “Today I make dinner,” she said. As Johnny watched, she fixed the identical dishes he had prepared the night before. She worked with the uid, decisive motions of a professional chef, cooking from memory. When she was nished she set the meal before him.

  Fearful y Johnny raised a forkful of sautéed lamb to his lips. The job with the Tuccis was important to him, but food was sacred; lying would be out of the question. He chewed tentatively and swal owed.

  chewed tentatively and swal owed.

  “Wel ?” said Annet e.

  “Magnificent,” said Johnny.

  “You’re an artist,” Annet e had said. “I just want you to know that you’re cooking for an artist.”

  Now Johnny looked up from his asparagus-induced reverie and saw Annet e swaggering toward him on open-backed heels. She wore tight white jeans, a red halter top, and a half smirk that acknowledged the stares of the farmers in the market stal s. She walked up to Johnny and put her arms around his ample paunch, pinching the soft esh that hung over the waistband of his Bermudas. As usual he was surprised that she came only to his chin; when they were apart he always pictured her as towering above him.

  “What have you got?” she asked.

  “Fresh sage,” said Johnny with a fond look at his shopping basket.

  She took his pudgy hand in hers and said, “Let’s walk around, see what else looks good.”

  They took an unhurried turn through the market, stopping now and then to sni the oregano, ferret out glossy zucchini, inspect the dried wild mushrooms, and nibble at homemade blood sausage. At one of the stal s Annet e picked out several eggplants, but when she saw Johnny frown she put them back. The market was the one place she treated him with equality, even deference.

  After a while they sat down under an awning to have After a while they sat down under an awning to have jelly donuts and weak American co ee. “Okay,” said Annet e. “What would you do with wolf?”

  “That’s a good one,” said Johnny. It was a game they played, how to prepare dishes using protected species.

  “Let’s see. Start with a marinade: olive oil, white wine, ground black pepper, sage, rosemary, parsley, and sweet marjoram. Is this an old wolf or a young wolf?”

  “A tough old she-wolf,” said Annet e.

  “In that case, I’d marinate for thirty-six hours. Then I’d stew her in her own juice with just a lit le celery, a bit of sugar, and a clove of garlic, basting with white wine as necessary.”

  “Sounds delicious,” said Annet e.

  “Add a dash of Romano at the end.”

  “Why Romano?”

  “In honor of Romulus and Remus.”

  “What if it’s in honor of me?” said Annet e, sliding her hand down the inside of Johnny’s bare thigh. “What would you put in then?”

  Johnny blushed.

  Annet e laughed huskily and darted her hand into Johnny’s crotch. “Hey, big boy, is that a cotechino in your pocket or are you happy to see me?” she drawled.

  Johnny started and looked around wildly; he was afraid, as he always was when she groped him in public, that she’d get them both arrested for indecent behavior. “Why don’t we go back to the motel?” he said. A Holiday Inn don’t we go back to the motel?” he said. A Holiday Inn down the freeway was their regular venue for sex.

  “I like it here.” said Annet e. “Tel me, how would you fix puf erfish?”

  “Pu er sh? I’ve never even seen one. I don’t think they’re legal in America.”

  “Of course they’re legal,” said Annet e impatiently. “It’s just a fucking fish.”

  “It can kil you if it’s not prepared properly. Something about excretions from the liver.”

  “Forget that. How would you fix one?”

  “Okay,” said Johnny. “Let’s see. First, is this a young puf erfish or an old puf erfish?”

  “Hey, I’m not playing this time. I’m serious. I want you to cook me one.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “You wouldn’t dare not to,” said Annet e, glaring at him.

  “That’s not fair,” Johnny said. He was pouting.

  Annet e had forgot en how petulant he could be when it came to food. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were learning to live dangerously. I guess I’ve been kidding myself.” She looked away and waited.

  “But why take the chance?”

  Annet e seized Johnny’s jowly cheeks and pul ed his face close. “You are the greatest goddamn chef in the entire world,” she said with passionate conviction. “You want me to believe you can’t x a dish that every short-want me to believe you can’t x a dish that every short-order cook in Japan can make? That it’s beyond you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Johnny averted his eyes. “I guess I could find out how to do it.”

  Annet e released him and said, “I knew I could count on you.” She took a sip of cold co ee. “Ready to hit the road?”

  “Where to?”

  “The motel,” said Annet e. “You’re being a good boy, and good boys deserve a prize.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to.”

  “That’s just the way women are,” she said. “Flighty as but er ies.” She extended her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Johnny took it. They walked toward the parking lot, Annet e striding along with her head high, Johnny shu ing to keep up and sneaking puzzled looks at her from the corner of his eye. He didn’t know much about women, but he knew enough to know that Annet e Tucci was anything but a but erfly.

  Chapter

  Chapter

  Eight

  “NOW, OVER HERE’S where the Sugar House was,” Mendy was saying. “The original hangout of the Purple Gang.

  Park right up there and I’l show you something.”

  Bobby, who was driving Til ie’s van, gave Mendy an uncertain look. Al afternoon the three of them had been cruising Detroit, venturing into neighborhoods ful of AME

  churches and barbecue joints and boarded-up apartment buildings where dark, brooding men sat staring through unfriendly eyes.

  They had visited the site of the Col ingswood massacre; driven down Twelfth Street, now cal ed Martin Luther King Boulevard—the very epicenter of the 1967 riot—to view the shel of a restaurant where Vit orio had once hosted a dinner for Meyer Lansky and Frank Costel o; driven by what had once been Jew Mary’s whorehouse o Woodward Avenue (“I was in charge of security there.

  Your grampa was her best customer”) and the now defunct Empress Burl
esque. From there they had crossed Woodward into the even more forbidding East Side, to see Joey the Bum’s old tavern where Johnny Ray once sang (“He got paid in smack”) and the streets where Vit orio Tucci first began to make his name.

  Tucci first began to make his name.

  Mendy pointed out these places with none of the resentment white Detroiters used in describing their old haunts. Bobby was struck by his good cheer and lack of nostalgia. It was as if the city had never changed, as though Mendy expected to see Cherokee Levine, Frankie

  “the Farmer” Deloni, or some other member of the old gang emerge from the tumbledown frame houses they passed along the way.

  The Sugar House proved to be a vacant store in a row of vacant stores, al dirty cinnamon brick and busted glass.

  On the corner Bobby spot ed two young black men who seemed to be eyeing them with interest.

  “Come on, take a look,” said Mendy. He opened the door and climbed out, shaking kinks from his arms and legs. Til ie slid out after him, and Bobby reluctantly fol owed. As he locked his door he could see the black guys gravitating toward them.

  “Hey, man,” said a tal , cocoa-colored young man who appeared to be the leader. “That’s a bad-looking van you got there. Y’al some kind of hippies?” He sounded amused.

  Bobby’s stomach tightened. As a kid he had tuned in every day to Frantic Ernie D on WJLB, because he loved the music and because listening to a colored radio station forti ed his reputation as the family ake. Over the years he had mastered the guitar licks and copied the in ections of everybody from Bo Diddley to Jimi Hendrix. But he of everybody from Bo Diddley to Jimi Hendrix. But he had met very few black people in person, and in truth, they frightened him.

  “No, man, we’re musicians,” Bobby said. “You know a cat named Carver Cleveland? He’s in our band.”

  “Ah, no, I don’t believe we know that particular cat,”

  said the tal guy dryly. He looked at Til ie and his grin widened. “How you doin’ today, princess?”

  “It’s hot as shit out here, I can tel you that,” said Til ie.

  She seemed relaxed enough, but Bobby was acutely aware that they were staring at her. Never had she seemed so white.

  “I got some cool drinks up at my crib,” said the tal guy.

  “Nah, that’s al right,” said Bobby.

  “Didn’t nobody ax you,” said the short, light-skinned guy with freckles and a giant mushroom-shaped Afro. He wore a Black Panther pin on his khaki vest.

  Bobby caught a glimpse of Mendy, who had wandered o in the direction of the vacant building. Before meeting him Bobby’s life had been a model of nonviolence. Now it seemed like he got into some kind of confrontation every time he left the house. He seized Til ie’s arm and said,

  “We got a go.”

  “Man, y’al just got here,” coaxed the tal guy in a mocking tone.

  Mushroomhead took a step toward them. Bobby shifted his weight, preparing for an assault, just as Mendy came strol ing over with his hands in his pockets. “You guys live strol ing over with his hands in his pockets. “You guys live on this street?” he asked.

  They looked up, surprised. Mushroomhead said, “What’s it to ya? You a cop?”

  “Aw. Hey, did you know this street used to be the hangout of the Purples?”

  “The what?”

  “The Purple Gang. Don’t tel me you never heard of the Purple Gang.”

  “They like them purple people-eaters?” asked the tal guy.

  Mendy pointed to the abandoned shops. “That over there was a numbers bank. Pimples Warnick used to run it til one time the number come up seven-one-one and he went broke. Next door was a pawnshop, belonged to a one-armed fence named Seltzer. You could get rid of anything in there. His sister sold smack. Her name was Helen. I heard she’s out in California now.”

  “Al that right there in them empty buildings?” asked the tal guy, sounding genuinely curious.

  “Sure. You fel as live in a historical neighborhood.

  Com’ere, lemme show ya.” Mendy began walking toward the building. To Bobby’s surprise, the black guys fol owed.

  They entered one of the vacant stores, and Mendy said,

  “We used to lock up guys in here. Fel as somebody had a problem with.”

  “How you lock ’em up if you ain’t got no bars on the windows?” asked the tal guy.

  windows?” asked the tal guy.

  Mendy went to the back of the room and scu ed at the lthy oor with his two-toned shoes. After a moment he said, “Yeah, here it is.”

  “What?”

  “Trapdoor,” said Mendy.

  “What’s down there?” asked Til ie.

  Mendy shrugged his shoulders. “The jailhouse. Who’s got a knife?”

  Mushroomhead whipped out a six-inch gravity blade.

  He gave Bobby a long look before handing it to Mendy, who ipped it open and ran it along the crease of the trapdoor until he found the lock. There was a click and the door popped up a few inches. Mendy tugged and it swung al the way open, exposing metal stairs that led down to a dark basement.

  “Cool,” said Til ie. “Let’s go take a look.”

  “That’s up to—hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,”

  said Mendy to the tal guy.

  “Rudy. This is Delbert,” he said, pointing to the mushroomhead.

  “You wanna go down, you got a ask Rudy,” Mendy said to Til ie. “This is his turf.”

  Rudy gave Mendy an appreciative look and said, “Del, run by the A-rab and tel him I need his ashlight. And get some refreshments while you there.”

  Delbert grumbled but did as he was told. While he was gone, Mendy reminisced about the Jewish and Italian gone, Mendy reminisced about the Jewish and Italian gangs that had once control ed Oakland Avenue.

  “Man, those were some cool times,” said Rudy. “But let me ask you this—y’al back then, how you think you’d do up against us?”

  “We wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Mendy. “It’s just like sports. Kids today are bigger and stronger. And smarter.

  You’d wipe up the floor with us.”

  Delbert returned with a powerful ashlight, a big bag of pork rinds, and two quarts of Jet malt liquor. Rudy took one look and said, “Man, Del, why you bring them rinds?”

  “What’s wrong with ’em?”

  “Don’t you know Jews don’t eat no swine? Go on back an’ get my man Mendy some potato chips. Potato chips al right with you, man?”

  “Rudy, man, I ain’t no servant,” said Delbert.

  “Aw, that’s al right,” said Mendy, taking a handful of rinds. “I don’t keep al the rules and regulations.”

  Rudy icked on the ashlight. “Let’s go have a look at y’al ’s jailhouse,” he said. “Del, you stay up here and make sure don’t nobody come along and drop this top back down on us.”

  The basement was dank and malodorous. Rudy sni ed and said, “Smel s like shit.”

  “It’s the kangaroo,” said Mendy. “Henry Stutz used to keep a boxing kangaroo down here. We cal ed him Bat ling Australia. I remember this one time, Australia took on Sonny Rosenberg, who was supposed to be a took on Sonny Rosenberg, who was supposed to be a middleweight ghter, for fty bucks, and knocked him out. Sonny claimed it was a sneak punch, but Stutz wouldn’t give his money back. So Sonny snuck down one day and shot Australia right between the eyes. The place never smel ed the same again. It was like a curse.”

  Rudy ashed his light into the far corners of the basement, but there was nothing there except a few empty tin cans. Bobby lit a match and inspected one of the wal s.

  “Hey” he cal ed, “check this out.”

  Rudy beamed the light at the wal , which was spot ed with gra ti. Some was writ en in ink, some carved into the plaster.

  “Cool,” said Til ie. “Gangster hieroglyphics.”

  “This one say LOUIE KANTER EATS SHIT,” said Rudy.

  “Jeez, Louie,” said Mendy. “He was a nice guy. He got shot in
the fties over a bad debt. His brother Morrie’s an Elk, very high up.”

  “Here’s a good one,” said Til ie. “LOKSHEN KISS MY ASS.

  Isn’t lokshen what you cal Italians?”

  “It’s just a gure of speech in Yiddish,” said Mendy. “It means noodles.”

  “Man, maybe you left a message up there,” said Rudy.

  “Nah,” said Mendy. “Not me.”

  “How do you know?” said Bobby. “This was like, what?

  Forty years ago?”

  “I know.”

  “Man’s got too much class to be scribbling on wal s,

  “Man’s got too much class to be scribbling on wal s, that’s what he’s tel ing you,” said Rudy.

  “Nah,” said Mendy “That ain’t it. I just don’t know how to write.”

  “At al ?” asked Til ie. She had never met anyone who couldn’t write.

  Mendy shook his head.

  “You could learn,” she said. “I could teach you.”

  “Aw,” said Mendy. “Tel you the truth, I’m used to it by now.”

  They came back up blinking into the dim light of the deserted building. “Y’al see some ghosts down there?”

  asked Delbert sarcastical y; he was annoyed at having been left behind.

  “Ain’t about what was, it’s about what wil be,” said Rudy.

  “Sure,” said Mendy. “Clean it up a lit le and you got yourself a nice spot. Maybe spray something around, get out the kangaroo.”

  “Man, you stil in the life?” asked Rudy. His tone was entirely respectful now, col egial.

  “Nah, I’m retired, got a lit le diner down by the bal park, the Bul Pen Deli. You ever go to the bal games?”

  “Ain’t no brothers go to no bal games,” said Delbert in an aggrieved tone. “The Tigers be some prejudiced motherfuckers.”

  “Drop by anytime,” said Mendy to Rudy, “I’l x you

  “Drop by anytime,” said Mendy to Rudy, “I’l x you somethin’ good to eat. I’m there til three every day but Sunday.”

  “Yeah, I might wil do that,” said Rudy. “Talk about what it was like in the days.”

  To his great surprise, Bobby felt a pang of jealousy. He said, “You dig rhythm and blues, you should come hear us play some night. As my guest. We gig around Detroit sometimes.”