by Joe Bruno
“And what does your father say about this? The way I understand it, in order to become a member of an Italian mob, you have to kill someone.”
“That went out with high-buttoned shoes. I've been present at a few hits. Like Skinny Benny for instance. But I've never done the deed myself. The Mob figures, by law, I'm a co-conspirator in the murder, so that qualifies me to be a member of the Mob.”
“Very interesting. It's like your mob is loosening its requirements for your benefit.”
“Would you rather I be a killer?”
She smiled. “No, of course not. But it's just interesting how a Mob boss like your father can make, or bend any rule he wants.”
“What about your father? He had Peggy Soo pulling off hits for him. She even tried to whack me.”
“We have no rules discriminating against women doing the dirty work. Besides, Peggy Soo was one of the best shooters my father had.”
Junior smiled. “That's interesting. So according to your rules, you could be a boss one day.”
Lily's eyes twinkled. “Don't be silly. Why would I want to do that? Besides, my father is going to live a very long time.”
“Not if my father has his way, he won't.”
“And you father won't be around much longer if my father agrees to the police commissioner's proposition.”
Junior felt his gut tighten. “What are you talking about?”
Lilly leaned across the table and whispered. “Blusterman told my father, he'd do my father a big favor and have someone kill your father.”
“That's ridiculous. What's would be in it for Blusterman?”
“One hundred thousand dollars after your father is dead. Then ten thousand dollars a month for protection from all the cops in New York City. In effect, Chinatown would be a criminal's paradise for my father's benefit.”
“Come to think about it, my father mentioned something a while back about Blusterman approaching him about them doing business together,” Junior said.
“And what did your father say?”
“He told Blusterman to take a hike. Or words to that effect.”
Lily squeezed Junior's hand tighter. “Look, we have to do something real quick.”
“You have any ideas?”
“Yes I do. It won't be easy, but this is what we must to do to solve all our problems.”
*****
A naked Tony B sat hunched over in the steam room, at the Russian Baths on 10 Street and Avenue A in the East Village. Sitting with him and also naked were Junior, Shorty Stitchhead and Bobby the Beak. They sat around a huge rock-walled furnace, which was filled with twenty thousand pounds of intensely heated rocks. This furnace raised the temperature in the room to a sweltering 120 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sprinkled around the room were men of various shapes, sizes and nationalities. Every few seconds, someone would grab one of the many buckets in the room, fill it with cold water from a rubber hose and dump it over their heads. This procedure was repeated by each person in the room approximately every thirty seconds. Otherwise they would fry to death and that would not be a good thing for Tony B and his boys, not to mention the reputation of the Russian Baths.
The fact that all the people in the room were naked and could hardly hide a recording device, plus the fact that no one else in the room could listen into a conversation while dumping buckets of water over their heads twice a minute, made this the perfect place for Tony B to discuss business.
“Mannaggia, I wish we were here on one of the Russian Bath's coed days,” Bobby the Beak said. “Imagine being in this room with a bunch of naked broads.” He dumped a bucket of water on his head.
“Don't be stupid,” Junior said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “On coed days, both men and woman have to wear bathing suits in here.”
Bobby the Beak dumped another bucket of water on his head. “Even that's better than sittin' in a room with a bunch of naked men.”
Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Not if you're Liberace, it ain't.”
Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Let's cut the bull, we're here to discuss business.”
“My father's right,” Junior said. “Now listen up. This is important.” He dumped a bucket of water on his head.
Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “The word on the streets is that the Chinese have declared all-out war on the Italians. That means we gotta declare war too.”
Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “So you want us to start taking out the Triangle gang members right away?”
Junior dumped a bucket of water on his head. “You mean Triads, not Triangle.”
Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Triangles,Triads, or Trick or Treat. The point is, do you want us to start immediately shooting the Chinamen son-of-a-bitches?”
Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “No, I didn't say for no one to start shooting anyone. I want you all to be on the lookout. But don't shoot anyone unless you get a direct order from me. Understood?”
Bobby the Beak dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Then how's that declaring all-out war on the Chinks? I thought all-out war was when you shot the enemy on sight.”
Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “No, you don't understand. I want you guys to spread the word out on the street. Tell all our people I'm declaring all-out war on the Chinks. But no shooting until I give the word. No stabbings. No stranglings. No nothing. Get it?”
Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “So you're declaring all-out war on the Chinks, but you don't want us to kill anybody just yet.”
“Exactly,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “But I want the word to get out to everyone. So that when I'm ready to give the order, everyone is ready to react.”
Bobby the Beak dumped a bucket of water on his head. “I don't get it. Either we're at war with the Chinks or we ain't.”
“Listen guys, this is pretty simple,” Junior said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “We're declaring war on the Chinese gangs, but nobody gets hurt until the time is right. Nobody lifts a finger until my father says so. Got it?”
Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “I think so. We're at war with the Chinks, but it's a peaceful kinda war where nobody gets killed. At least not right away.”
“That's close enough,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head. “But make sure the word gets out to everybody. I want everyone in the 4 and 6 Wards and everyone in the Village to know we're at war with the Chinks. Spread the word out to Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx too. Just in case.”
Short Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “What about Staten Island?”
“There ain't no Chinks in Staten Island,” Tony B said. He dumped a bucket of water on his head.
Bobby the Beak dumped a bucket of water on his head. “The boss is right. Staten Island is all Italian, with a few Moolies here and there.” Tony B dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Now let's get outta here and jump into the cold plunge. The cold plunge opens up the pores. Gets rid of all the toxins in your body.” He got up and headed for the exit door.
Shorty Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “How cold is the cold plunge?”
Junior dumped a bucket of water on his head, then stood up. “Fifty degrees. You'll feel like a new man.” He headed towards the door.
Bobby the Beak dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Fifty degrees! Madone! I'll be freezing my balls out there, just to get rid of a few toxins, I never knew I had in the first place.” He dumped another bucket of water on his head. Then he stood up and headed towards the door.
Short Stitchhead dumped a bucket of water on his head. “Screw you guys, I'm staying here.”
Junior turned around. He headed back to Shorty Stitchhead, grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Let's go. We're all going in the cold plunge.”
Shor
ty Stitchhead sat back down and grabbed a bucket. Junior grabbed the same bucket and a tug of war began, which Junior won easily. He threw the bucket down, put his hands under Shorty Stitchhead armpits and lifted him to his feet.
“We're outta here,” Junior said.
“I rather keep my toxins,” Short Stitchhead said.
“You have no choice in this matter. My father wants a healthy crew. So this is what you gotta do. Capice?
They headed towards the door.
“Life sucks anyway,” Shorty Stitchhead said. “A few toxins more or less won't make much of a difference.”
Junior smiled. “Tell it to my father.” He opened the door and pushed Shorty Stitchhead through the exit. “In the cold plunge.”
CHAPTER 19
A Very Bad Idea Indeed
Police Commissioner Keyshawn Blusterman sat in his Office at One Police Plaza and decided he was not having such a very good day. In fact, the last few weeks sort of sucked too.
First, Blusterman had in place a scheme with Charlie Crappola to siphon off ten grand a month from the entire Dago organized crime syndicate in New York City. But to see this plan to fruition, Crappola had to get rid of Tony B and Tony B's son Junior too. But now Crappola was sleeping with the fishes, which was not a good thing for Crappola, or even for the fishes.
Information from his C. I.'s on the street (C. I. being a police code for confidential informant, rat, canary, or just plain garden variety tattletale), said Tony B had declared all-out war against the Chinese. No one had actually been whacked yet, but Italians enjoyed killing like the Italians enjoyed kissing, so all hell could break loose at any minute.
Blusterman decided that before Hung Far Low was sleeping with the fishes too, he had to devise a plan to take care of Tony B and all the wops in Blusterman's fine city of New York; thereby opening the door for Blusterman to collect one hundred thousand large, up front from the Chinks, and an additional ten thousand clams a month, for additional services rendered. All this money would go into Police Commissioner Blusterman's retirement fund, minus whatever it took to keep all his lovely girlfriends up to their boobs in cocaine.
Blusterman picked up the phone and beeped Detective Clarice Jackson. Minutes later, she phoned him back.
“Clarice, I need you to do something for me, “Blusterman said.
“Sure thing chief,” Clarice said. “What's up?”
“I need for you to go to the curio shop and set up a meeting between yours truly and you know who. But I want the meeting to be on my turf.”
“Do you have a meeting place in mind?”
“I certainly do. I have the perfect place. It's out in the open and it'd hidden at the same time.”
“Can you give me a clue?”
“I can do better than that. I can tell you exactly where I would like to meet Hung Far Low. Say at noon tomorrow.”
*****
Police Commissioner Keyshawn Blusterman trudged up the steps of the New York State Supreme Court Building at 60 Centre Street. These were the same steps that actor Richard Conte (a.k.a. Barzini) was shot in the back by a fake policeman at the end of The Godfather.
Even though Blusterman's mug was in the newspapers and on television almost every day, to the casual person watching, it would be impossible to detect that the skell now heading up the steps of the New York State Supreme Court Building was the police commissioner of New York City.
Blusterman was dressed in the same filthy duds the bums on the Bowery wore while they washed car windows with dirty rags. On his head sat a Rastafarian dreadlocks wig, which was covered by a black beret, that seemed to be stapled to the wig. He walked stooped over, pacing slowly up the steps like a snail dipped in glue. When he reached the top of the steps, he took off his beret, almost taking the wig with it, and wiped his forehead with a dirty sleeve.
Out of nowhere, an blue-haired lady wearing diamonds and pearls dropped several dollar bills into his hat.
Blusterman stared at the cash, then spoke without looking up. “Much obliged, Ma'am.”
Mrs. Blue Hair smiled. “Now get yourself something to eat. You look terrible.” Then she trudged down the steep steps of the New York State Supreme Court Building and out of his life forever.
Blusterman stared at her back for a moment, then he looked both ways and walked past the entrance to the New York State Supreme Court Building. He stopped at the far left-hand corner of the building, turned right and slipped behind a huge statue, which was covered by pigeon droppings dating back to when Teddy Roosevelt was New York City's Chief of Police. From this vantage point, Blusterman could see people walking up the steep steps, but they could not see him.
Blusterman checked the cheap knockoff Rolex wristwatch he had just bought from a Canal Street vendor. It said it was exactly 2 pm, the time he had told Hung Far Low to arrive for this important meeting.
Less than a minute later, Blusterman spotted the bulky figure of Hung Far Low ascending the courthouse steps. Hung Far Low traced Blusterman's route and soon he was behind the statue standing next to him.
“Good, you're almost on time,” Blusterman said.
Hung Far Low crinkled his nose. “You stink. No take bath this morning?”
“No take bath. That goes with my disguise.”
Blusterman patted down Hung Far Low, looking for either a weapon, or a tape recorder.
Hung Far Low giggled, “Stop. You tickle me.”
“Let me have your wristwatch,” Blusterman said.
“I no wear wristwatch. I have pocket watch.” Hung Far Low removed a pocket watch from his pants pocket. “See.”
Blusterman snatched the pocket watch from Hung Far Low. “I'll give this back to you later. After I have it checked for bugs.”
“Do I get a receipt for the watch?”
“No receipt. Just my word, which you know is good.”
“If you say so, Mr. Police Commissioner of New York City”
Blusterman cleared his throat. “Look, I know it's not seven days yet, but you need to make a decision right away.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the word out on the streets is that Tony B has declared an all-out war against all the Chinese Triads. And that the big target is squarely on your back.”
“I find that hard to believe. The Chinese in New York City outnumber the Italians twenty to one. Tony B is not that stupid to start a war he cannot possible win.”
“Well, be that as it may. But Tony B ain't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer either. And my information is concrete. It comes from several sources and they all say the same thing. Tony B is looking to put one right between your eyes.”
“So what do you suggest I do?”
“I suggest you leave all the dirty work to me. Like I said before, I'll take care of Tony B for you and I meant what I said. That Guinea bastard is going down and I'm going to be the one taking him down.”
Hung Far Low rubbed his chubby chin. “So let me be clear. By you saying you're taking Tony B down, you mean you're going to have him arrested, right?”
Blusterman's eyes flashed. He put his forefinger under Hung Far Low's nose. “No. I am not going to arrest Tony B. I am going to have him killed. Whacked. Eliminated from the face of the earth. Am I clear to you now? You stupid Chinaman bastard.”
Hung Far Low smiled. “Now Mr. Police Commissioner, is that any way to speak to your business partner?”
Blusterman scratched his wig. “So, I assume you're going for the deal?”
“Of course. I don't see that I have any choice.”
“You don't.”
“Now let me see if I have the details correctly. You kill Tony B, I give you one hundred thousand dollars in cash. Then for the fee of ten thousand dollars per month, you give me complete protection in all my endeavors. Is that correct?”
“You've got it right, baby.”
“I'm no baby. I'm grown man.”
Blusterman shrugged. “Whatever. Now let me give you the details of how
I'm going to kill Tony B. And I'll need your cooperation.”
“My cooperation?”
“Yes, I want you to set up a meeting with you and Tony B. Tell him you want to make peace. At that meeting, I'll make sure Tony B is no more.”
“I don't know if Tony B would agree to such a meeting. And even if he did, he'd insist it would be on his own turf.”
A loony grin spread across Blusterman's face. “I'll have the meeting on his turf. I can whack Tony B anywhere. Even in Little Italy. I'm the police commissioner of New York City. I can do whatever I want.”
Hung Far Low's face erupted into a huge grin. “If you say so, Mr. Police Commissioner. If you say so.”
*****
Cafe Finito, owned by a neighborhood character named Calogero, is located on Mulberry Street in the heart the Italian mob. By 1985, the neighborhood was still mostly Italian, but a few Chinese had started to trickle west onto Mulberry from Mott Street, the heart of Chinatown, just one small block east.
When you enter Cafe Finito, there's a dessert counter on the left and a few tables splattered about inside. Just past the counter and to the right, are the two smallest bathrooms known to humanity. Standing up to urinate is barely manageable, but if you have to do number two, good luck trying to fit your bottom on the toilet seat without your legs being jammed up against the wall in front of you.
Yet the charm of Cafe Finito is outside the back glass door, which opens into a wondrous backyard cafe, where you can mangia home made gelato, holy cannolis, zabaglione and Cafe Finito's World Famous Tiramisu. The only problem with the ambiance of the backyard cafe is that it is surrounded by firescapes, resplendent with the neighbor's wet clothes hanging from clotheslines. After a few Sambucas, Anisettes or Gallianos, all this visual mayhem evaporates in the minds of people seated in Cafe Finito's backyard Garden of Eden, which is a good thing indeed, especially for Calogero.
At noon sharp, before the place was open to the public, Calogero unlocked the front door and Police Commissioner Keyshawn Blusterman strode into Cafe Finito. With him was Detective Clarice Jackson, who was now permanently assigned to guard Blusterman's body, whether it had clothes on or not. This arrangement seemed to be working well for both parties.
