by Joe Bruno
Tony B did make one slight mistake concerning the buses. He loaded up both buses with bottles of booze, wine and beer, which his father Sally Boy dispensed in the first bus with a very heavy hand. His wife Dria shook her head in disapproval.
“You're getting all the guests drunk before the wedding,” Dria told her husband.
Sally Boy knocked down a scotch, neat. “So what? We've having this wedding in a freaking clubhouse by a softball field, for Christ's sake. Its better our people get sloshed before they even get there.”
“But you're getting fat as a pig with all your eating and drinking. You want to give yourself a heart attack?”
Sally Boy patted his belly. “This is just good living. Now leave me alone. I'm enjoying myself.”
“I hope you have all your life insurance policies paid up.”
Sally Boy took a slug of booze. “What life insurance policies? My estate is all in cash.”
“What cash? I don't even know where you keep all your money.”
“And it's going to stay that way. If you did know where I kept all my money, you might get ideas.”
“I already have ideas,” Dria said. “And they're not good for you.”
The people on the second bus were not quite as drunk as the people on Sally Boy's bus, because Richie Ratface, the buses' designated bartender, did not operate as quickly, or as efficiently as Sally Boy. And he had a much lighter hand.
By the time the two buses arrived at the clubhouse by the Greenwood Lake softball field, some people were already slightly drunk. Others could barely make it down the steps of the bus.
As the father of the bride, it was also Ryan O'Reilly job to pick up the tab for the wedding. Keeping true to his cheap bastard form, he spent as little as possible, so the wedding and wedding reception itself, looked more like a high school prom, with older people. In some cases, much older people.
Tony B and Ann were married on the clubhouse stage, where just a week before, there had been a high school rendition of Damn Yankees.
When O'Reilly's booming voice said, “And I pronounce you man and wife,” there was polite applause from the O'Reilly contingent. But Tony B's group from New York City let out a roar, like one heard in Yankee Stadium after Mickey Mantle hit a tape-measure home run.
There was no waiter service for wedding dinner, so the attendees got their food from a buffet table, lined with trays of cold cuts, sliced bread, potato salad and a lousy cold slaw.
Sally Boy was not amused. He turned to his wife, who was munching on a corned beef on rye. “What kind of freaking wedding is this? No pasta. No meatballs. No freaking baked ziti. Or even a platter of chicken parmigiana.”
Dria spoke without looking up from her sandwich. “Stop complaining. I told you should have volunteered to pick up the tab for the reception.”
Sally Boy's face turned red. “Screw that. That was the Mick bastard's job. Not mine. At least the donkey creep should have served some steak, or lobster. Or maybe even some shrimp.”
“Shut up and eat,” she said.
After about two hours of dancing to the four-piece Greenwood Lake Um Pa Pa Band, Tony B's group started to have a pretty good time. While the band was playing “The Beer Barrel Polka,” which sounded like every other song the band had already played, Skinny Benny decided he had had just about enough. He sauntered on shaky legs up to the bandleader, who was blowing away on his trumpet. Skinny Benny slipped him a ten spot. “You know any rock and roll? Like Elvis, or something?”
In mid-note, the band leader silenced the band with a wave of his trumpet and started playing “Jailhouse Rock.” After a few bars, Skinny Benny grabbed the bandleader's trumpet. “Not a good idea. Some guys here might take that personal.”
The bandleader took the cue and started playing “Don't be Cruel,” which suited Skinny Benny just fine.
A few songs later, and Tony B was shocked to see the band was packing up their instruments.
He hurried over to the bandleader. “What's with you guys? Why are you leaving?”
The bandleader put his trumpet into its case. “Because O'Reilly only paid us for two hours. He said that would be enough.”
Tony B rushed over to where Ann was sitting with Betty. He stared darts at Betty. “Your cheap bastard husband only paid for the band to stay for two hours. My people came all the way from New York City and they're just getting warmed up.”
Betty rushed over to her husband, who had his arms around a young blond from Tony B's New York City crew. “You miserable cheap bastard! The band's leaving and these people came all the way from New York City.”
O'Reilly squeezed the blond tighter. “Screw those Guinea bastards.” He pinched the blonde’s cheek. “Besides, I have other plans anyway.”
Out of nowhere, Sally Boy rushed to the table, his fat belly proceeding him by about two seconds. Without saying a word, he pushed the blond out of the way and cold-cocked O'Reilly with a clubbing overhand right. O'Reilly eyes rolled in his face and he fell backwards off the chair, hitting his head on the floor. Blood gushed from a huge cut on the back of his head.
A hush came over the wedding party. Betty screamed, “Is there a doctor in the house?”
Old Dr. Depasquale, who had his office on Canal Street, staggered over to where O'Reilly lay motionless. He knelt down and felt his wrist for a pulse. Then he put his forefinger to the side O'Reilly's neck.
Zippo. Nothing. Nada. Neggits.
Dr. Depasquale slowing forced himself to his feet. “I'm sorry, but this man is dead.”
As soon as the words came out of Dr. DePasquale's mouth, Sally Boy clutched his chest, moaned, then fell face-first to the floor, right next to O'Reilly.
Dr. Depasqule bent down again and rolled Sally Boy over onto his back. After a few seconds of examination, he stood up and told the crowd, “Sally Boy is dead too.”
Ungodly moans, and ear-splitting screams and screeches emanated from the crowd. In seconds, a festive party had turned into an Italian wake at it's worse. Dria hugged Betty and Ann hugged the both of them. People from both New York City and Greenwood Lake stood stunned, as the three women expelled sounds usually heard in the Bronx Zoo. Tony B stood paralyzed, not knowing what to do. His face was as white as his wife's wedding dress.
Thinking fast, Skinny Benny ran towards the band, who had stopped packing up their instruments and were just standing there with slack jaws. He pulled a roll from his pocket and gave the bandleader five twenty-dollar bills. “Just keep playing until this money runs out. Then let me know and I'll stake you some more.”
“What do you want us to play?” The bandleader said.
“Anything fast and cheerful. Get the crowd moving.”
The bandleader whispered something to the band. Then the music started. The bandleader sang:
Come on,
Clap your hands in the air
And follow the music man!
I am the music man
I come from down your way
And I can play
What can you play?
I play piano
The piano player started playing, while the bandleader continued singing:
Pia-pia-pia-no
Pia-no pia-no
Pia-pia-pia-no
Pia-pia-no
I am the music man I come from down your way
And I can play
What can you play?
I play the trumpet
The bandleader played the trumpet while the piano player sang:
Umpa-umpa-um-pa-pa
Um-pa-pa um-pa-pa
Umpa-umpa-um-pa-pa
Umpa-um-pa-pa
Like Zombies rising from the dead, the aggrieved people started gravitating towards the dance floor. The Greenwood Lake contingent started dancing the Polka, while the Italians from New York City did the Tarantella to the same music. They had all become oblivious to the two dead bodies laying on the floor.
Betty and Dria stood sobbing over their husbands, while Tony B held Ann tight
.
Tony B whispered into Ann's ear. “A wedding, a murder and a heart attack. All in one night. Who would have believed it?”
Skinny Benny came over to the newlyweds. He whispered into Tony B's ear. “Hey, at least your old man didn't get arrested for manslaughter, or maybe even worse. About two hundred people witnessed the murder. No way he was beating that rap.”
Tony B nodded. “True. His lawyers would have taken him to the cleaners and he still would have had to do big time in the can.”
Skinny Benny made the sign of the cross. “Thank God for little favors.”
Betty and Dria stood hugging each other, both crying loudly.
Betty stopped crying first. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “What am I going to do? How am I going to bury my husband? He didn't even have a life insurance policy?”
Dria wiped the tears from both eyes. “Neither did mine.”
“But your husband was a big man,” Betty said. “He must have left you plenty of money to get on with your life.”
“Oh, he left me with plenty of money alright,” Dria said. “Now if only I can find out where the hell he hid all his money, I might be able to pay my bills.”
“What about me?” Betty said. “My husband didn't have two nickels to rub together.”
“Don't worry. Me and my son will take care of you. You're family now.” Dria wiped another tear running down her cheek. Then her face turned mean. “On Monday, we have to pay a visit to someone in the know. My husband's scumbag lawyer. He better say all the right things, or else my son's not going to be too nice to him.
CHAPTER 10
Louis J. Lombago ESQ
On the Monday after the double tragedy in Greenwood Lake, Louis J. Lombago sat at his cramped office on the 57 floor of the Woolworth Building, at 233 Broadway, diagonally across from City Hall. His big bay window faced east and it's panoramic view encompassed the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge, as well as part of Brooklyn called DUMBO, which is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. His Rolex wristwatch said it was ten minutes to three.
The Woolworth Building had been built in 1913 and until 1930, it was the tallest building in the world. Frank Woolworth personally commissioned the Gothic-style building to be built at the cost of $13,500,000, and the five and dime son-of-a-bitch paid for it all in hard cold cash.
Coincidentally, it was hard cold cash that now was on the mind of Louis J. Lombago, called Louie by his male friends and Horsedick by his female acquaintances.
Louie shaved his head bald and with 250 pounds tautly stretched on his six-foot four-inch frame, he looked like the big guy in the Mr. Clean commercial. The rumor was that his penis was 14 inches long, which could not be confirmed by any of his male friends, because Louie would never stand naked in front of people, even in the locker room at the Downtown Athletic Club where Louie worked out five days a week.
Louie said it was modesty that made him take his showers at home after a workout. But on one of his not-too-infrequent weekend booze binges, Louie admitted to a friend that he was afraid he might excite some homosexual, who just might be in the locker room when Louie's manhood was exposed. If the homo made sexual advances to Louie, he'd have to bash his head in, even though Louie was basically a non-violent person. Except for when he was drunk. Then Louie could become downright homicidal.
For the past ten years, Louie had been the personal attorney for the late Sally Boy Bentimova, which was good and bad at the same time. Sally Boy never paid Louie a dime for maybe ten thousand hours of legal work throughout Sally Boy's somewhat criminal career. But being a boss, Sally Boy did insist that all of his underlings employ Louis J. Lombago, at whatever the market rate was, and not say a damn word about it.
Louie figured, in the long run concerning Sally Boy, he had made a nice living for the time he had expended doing the legal work for the Bentimova Crime Family. Things were running good for Louie and he hoped, despite the death of Sally Boy, he could keep it going that way.
For the past half a dozen years or so, Sally Boy had developed an allergic reaction to banks. If anyone even mention the word “bank” in Sally Boy's presence, he would sneeze violently and his body would turn beet red with a bad case of the hives.
So whenever Sally Boy was given piles of cash as a result of his underling's criminal work, he called Louie to meet him at someplace secluded, so he could give him cash for Louie to hide for him. One of his favorite meeting places was behind one of the two pigeon-crapped-on statues, up the steep steps at either far end of the entrance to the New York County Supreme County Building at 60 Centre Street.
At night, the building was basically deserted and behind these two statues, generations of male Little Italy teenagers had copped their first feel, got their first handjob, or if they were extremely lucky, got their first half-a-blowjob. Having intercourse with a neighborhood girl was a dangerous exercise that could end up with the girl pregnant and the boy weighed down by cement blocks, fifty feet deep in the East River.
The only time any kid from Little Italy ever enjoyed intercourse with a woman, was for five bucks a pop at the Bellmore Hotel on Lexington Avenue and 25 Street. The five bananas was for sex with a black broad. A white broad cost ten bucks and due to the economic times, most Little Italy men never had intercourse with a white girl until they were married.
Sally Boy would meet Louie behind either the right, or left statue, as Sally Boy like to call them, sometimes having to evict a hot couple who had beaten them to the spot. Then Sally Boy would hand Louie a brown paper bag stuffed with twenties, fifties and hundred dollar bills. With the exact total amount written on a piece of paper stuffed inside the bag.
“Take care of this for me,” Sally Boy would say. “And don't forget I'm keeping track of how much I'm giving you. So don't try anything stupid.”
Louie would then stuff this cash in numerous safety deposit boxes, scattered under false names, throughout the United States, Canada, Mexico and even as far away as Sicily. Sally Boy figured he had access to cash almost anywhere, if he ever needed to lam it from the law.
Sally Boy told his son Tony B about the hidden cash and advised him, “If anything ever happens to me, go see Louis J. Lombago.”
Throughout the years, Sally Boy made scores of deposits, but nary a withdrawal. So according to Louie's calculations, the deceased Sally Boy had about five million bucks scattered throughout Mother Earth, with no one except Louis J. Lombago knowing the exact locations, or amounts.
In ten minutes, Tony B and Dria Bentimova would arrive at his office and Louie didn't know exactly what he was going to tell them, and how much he was going to tell them. After all, he had worked all those countless hours for Sally Boy, and all he had gotten in return was a firm pat on the back and a few referrals.
At exactly 3 pm, his intercom buzzed and his secretary Miss Comely told him Tony B was there to see him.
Louie took a towel and dried the sweat off his bald head.
“Let them in,” he told Miss Comely. Seconds later, Tony B strolled in with his mother Dria, followed by two nice-looking women, one young and one middle-aged, both of whom Louie had never seen before. The younger one was obviously Tony B's wife and Louie guessed the older one, who looked hot-to-trot, was Tony B's mother-in-law. All three women were dressed in black.
Louie had been invited to Tony B's wedding two days prior, but he had begged off, citing a previous business engagement in another state, which was true, since he was shacked up with his secretary Miss Comely at the Mount Airy Lodge in the Poconos. But to show proper respect, Louie did send along a nice fat envelope, via Sally Boy, for the lucky bride and groom to add to their wedding stash.
Louie stood up and extended his hand over his desk to Tony B. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Don't mention it,” Tony B said, shaking Louie's hand.
Louie walked around the desk and attempted to hug Dria Bentimova. She pulled away like he was a leper. “I'm not here for any hugs an
d kisses. Let's get down to business.” She sat down on one of the two chairs on the opposite side of Louie's desk.
Tony B introduced Louie to his wife Ann and to his mother-in-law Betty. Louie hugged them both. “Sorry for you loss,” he repeated.
Louie hugged Betty a little longer than necessary; long enough for Little Louie to expand a bit, which to Betty, was like getting hit in the stomach with a night stick. Louie thought, by the look on her face, she seemed to like the unintended contact more than just a little bit.
Louie pressed the intercom, “Please bring in two more chairs,” he told Miss Comely.
Soon the four people were seated opposite Louie. Tony B spoke first. “My mother's basically broke. And so is my mother-in-law. We need some cash right away to bury their two husbands. Then we'll talk about the rest.”
“How much do you need right away?” Louie said.
“Ten grand today, and another twenty grand tomorrow.” Then Tony B said a second time for emphasis, “Then, we'll talk about the rest.”
Louie squirmed in his seat. “The banks closed at 3pm. There's nothing I can do for you today.”
Tony B leaned forward in his chair. “My father told me you keep at least ten grand in your office. In a secret hiding place. Like just in case you might need it for emergencies like this.”
Now this was not going too good for Louis J. Lombago. Sure he kept money in his office, but it was stashed in a secret place, he wanted no one to know about, in case one of his clients decided to break in and steal the cash. After all, all his clients were criminals and that's what criminals sometimes do.
“Secret hiding place?” Louie said. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
Tony B shrugged. Then he stood up, turned around and walked to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that comprised Louie's legal library, dragging his chair behind him.
