by Joe Bruno
“Is Tony B here?” Blusterman asked Calogero, a short, stout man, with a large mustache, highlighting a moon-like face.
“Out back,” Calogero said, jerking his thumb towards the backyard. He re-locked the front door behind him.
Blusterman grunted. “You stay here,” he told Clarice. “And don't let anyone get past you into the backyard.”
“Yes sir,” Clarice said. She took a seat at an inside table, just opposite the tiny bathrooms.
“Can I get you something?” Calogero asked Clarice.
“Double espresso,” she said.
“Same for me,” Blusterman said. “But I'll have mine outside.”
Blusterman headed towards the backyard seating. When he got outside, he spotted Tony B and Junior seated at a back table. Both were sipping espresso from tiny porcelain cups and a bottle of Anis Gorilla anisette sat half empty on the table.
Blusterman stopped at Tony B's table.
“Have a seat,” Tony B said.
“First, I need to frisk you both” Blusterman said. “Now stand up so I can do my job.”
Junior and Tony B obeyed.
After running his hands all over both men's bodies, Blusterman was satisfied neither man had a gun, or a wire. “OK, be seated,” Blusterman said.
Junior and Tony B sat down in their chairs and Blusterman sat opposite them.
Almost immediately, Calogero put a cup of double espresso in front of Blusterman.
“Help yourself to the Anisette,” Calogero told Blusterman.
“No thank you,” Blusterman said. “I never drink on duty.”
Calogero shrugged. “Suit yourself.” And he walked back inside the cafe.
“Where's Hung Far Low?” Tony B said.
“He'll be a little late,” Blusterman said. “But what I have to say to you, I can say before he arrives.”
*****
Detective Clarice Jackson sat inside Cafe Finito and sipped the double espresso. She was not used to this type of strong Italian coffee and in seconds her stomach began to churn. The front door was locked, and she and Calogero were the only people in the place.
“Do you have a ladies room?” she asked Calogero.
Calogero pointed to two small doors opposite the counter. “Use the men's room. The ladies room is out of order.”
She glanced at her wristwatch and knew she had to hurry.
She dashed across to the men's room door, opened it and slipped inside. It was the tiniest bathroom she had ever seen. There was a small sink and an even smaller toilet bowl. And when she sat on the bowl, her legs touched the wall in front of her.
“No wonder the ladies room is out of order,” she thought. “One of those fat Italian cows in the neighborhood must have broken the bowl when she sat on it.”
Clarice finished her business quickly. Then she bolted out of the bathroom and returned to her seat by the counter.
She peeked at her wristwatch. It was almost time.
*****
The sniper lying on his stomach was dressed entirely in black, with a black ski mask covering his face. He was in position on the roof of a Mulberry Street tenement, right next door to Cafe Finito. The site of his rifle was locked-in on his target, sitting in Cafe Finito's backyard garden. He was waiting for a signal from his boss. Then it was curtains for Tony B and then Junior, if he had the time to shoot both.
Blusterman had made it clear, Tony B had to go first. If he could get Junior too, that was an added bonus. But Tony B was the main target.
The sniper wiped a drop of sweat from above his lips. It shouldn't be long.
*****
Blusterman sipped his espresso, then poured himself his second anisette.
“I thought you didn't drink on duty,” Tony B said.
“I had a rough night last night,” Blusterman said. “I need this mud to wake me up.”
He then continued to lay down the law to Tony B and Junior.
“So in summation,” Blusterman said, “Hung Far Low has agreed to a truce with you Italians. The only catch is this. As a fee for me organizing this truce, I want ten thousand dollars a month from the both of you. For my continued services of course.”
“And what may those services be again?” Tony B said.
“I will give you complete protection from the New York City Police Department with anything you do, except murder,” Blusterman said. “If you kill someone and get caught, you're on your own. Or maybe, if the circumstances are right, we could negotiate further payment for further services.”
Tony B rubbed his chin. “OK, I need time to think this over. And by the way, where is Hung Far Low? I want to hear that he agrees to this truce from his own mouth.”
“He should be here any minute,” Blusterman said. “Is there a men's room inside?”
“Yeah,” Tony B said. “Calogero will show you where it is.”
Blusterman rose from his seat at exactly 12:15 pm. Just as he neared the door to the inside of the cafe, he heard a loud gunshot. Followed quickly by another.
He turned around, expecting to see Tony B dead and maybe Junior dead too, but instead, a body dressed entirely in black fell from the roof and landed half way between where Blusterman was standing and Tony B's table. The body bounced twice, then stopped dead, face down.
Tony B looked up towards the roof. He spotted Shorty Stitchhead and Bobby the Beak, both holding smoking guns.
“Good work boys,” Tony B yelled up to them.
Blusterman rushed into the cafe. “Come on,” he yelled to Clarice. We've got to go! NOW!”
Before Clarice could rise from her chair, Big Fat Fanny, with a mean 38-caliber revolver in each hand, burst from inside the ladies room. Not by opening the locked door, but like a mad bull, smashing right through the door, knocking it completely off its hinges. The splintered door hit Blusterman as he flashed by and he toppled to the floor, as Calogero ducked behind the counter.
Clarice started to draw her gun. But before she could, Big Fat Fanny shot her three times in the torso. Clarice barreled backwards and banged her head against the wall. Her bullet proof vest took the brunt of the three shots and she reached for her service revolver again. The gun came out of her shoulder holster, but before he could fire, Big Fat Fanny dotted her forehead three times with 38-caliber bullets. Clarice slid to the floor, now totally dead.
Blusterman scrambled to his feet and tried to sprint through the narrow corridor to the street outside. Unfortunately, he ran smack into Big Fat Fanny's chest and he bounced off her like he had run into a brick wall.
Before he could say, “Please don't shoot me, you big fat bastard,” she did just that. Six times. Blusterman spun around, fell face forward and landed on top of the dead body of Detective Clarice Jackson, his nose nestled right between her two large breasts.
Tony B and Junior rushed inside the cafe from the backyard garden. Tony B glanced at his wristwatch. He barked at Junior and Big Fat Fanny, “Let's go!”
As Big Fat Fanny and Junior rushed to the front door, Tony B flipped a wad of hundred dollar bills wrapped with rubber bands at Calogero, who had now just peeked up from behind the counter. Calogero caught the wad against his chest.
“That's for you, for now,” Tony B said. “And there's more where that came from when this is over with. But that means, you gotta stay and wait for the cops.”
“Where am I going anyway?” Calogero said. “This is my joint. I gotta take the heat, no matter what.”
“Good boy,” Tony B said.
Tony B followed Junior and Big Fat Fanny out the door of Cafe Finito. A black Cadillac was stopped in the middle of the street and Hung Far Low was sitting behind the wheel.
“Quick, jump in.” Hung Far Low said. “My daughter is blocking traffic with another car on the corner of Canal and Mulberry.”
Tony B opened the back driver's side door, and with Junior's help, they pushed Big Fat Fanny into the back seat. Junior squeezed in next to her and pulled the door shut. Tony B sprinted around the
back of the Caddy and got into the front passengers seat.
Hung Far Low burnt rubber as he sped north on Mulberry Street. He made a quick left on Hester Street, down to Lafayette Street, where he made a right, and drove up the back ramp of a waiting 18- wheel enclosed tractor-trailer. The driver of the trailer quickly slid the back door down with the Cadillac safely inside.
The driver he got behind the wheel and drove to Houston Street, where he made a left. In less than two minutes the 18-wheeler was safe inside a huge former sanitation garage, which was now owned, of course, by Tony B.
*****
Two detectives sat at a round table in Cafe Finito's backyard garden, one on either side of Calogero, who was puffing on a cigarette like he was competing in a smoke-for-your-life contest. The older detective was tall and thin and his face looked like a hawk's. The younger detective, pimpled-faced and looking fresh out of high school, clammed up completely, deferring to his superior.
The bodies of Police Commissioner Keyshawn Blusterman and Detective Clarice Jackson had already been removed from inside the cafe on stretchers and carted off to the morgue in the meat wagon. Several police personnel were busy inside dusting for prints and doing whatever else their job required them to do.
“So give it to me again,” the older detective said to Calogero. “From the beginning.”
“Like I told you ten times before,” Calogero said. “My workers were late and two people were waitin' to get in, so I opened the joint myself.”
The older detective smirked. “The two people being the police commissioner of New York City and a female detective.”
“They were just two Moolies to me,” Calogero said. “I don't watch the news on TV and I don't read the newspapers. So how the hell would I know who the hell they were?”
“So you served them coffee in the backyard cafe,” the older detective said.
“Yeah, two double espressos with Anisette,” Calogero said. “I left the bottle on the table.”
“Then what happened?” the older detective said.
“Like I told you before, I had to go to the men's room. While I was in the men's room, I heard a bunch of shots. At first I thought it was firecrackers.”
“Firecrackers? Why would you think it was firecrackers?
“Because this is freakin' Chinatown, that's why. These Chinks are always shootin' off stuff like that. Like it's in their blood or somethin'.”
“Ok, so you heard the shots. What happened next?” the older detective said.
“I heard people screaming and yelling. But I was scared, because then I realized it was not firecrackers that I had heard. It was gunshots. So I stayed quietly in the men's room, figurin' that was the smartest thing to do.”
“How long did you stay in the men's room after you heard the shots?”
Calogero puffed hard on a butt. “Maybe two, three minutes. Maybe five minutes. I don't know. I was scared stiff.”
“Then what?”
Calogero put out the butt and lit another one. “Then I tried to get out of the men's room, but the door was stuck.”
“How did the door get stuck?”
“How the hell do I know? I'm not a freakin' locksmith. The door was freakin' stuck. So I put my shoulder into the door and pushed hard. The door broke and I got out and I saw the two dead bodies. Then I called you guys.”
“And that's everything?” the older detective said.
“What else is there? Through no fault of my own, I found two dead bodies in my place and now you're breakin' my freakin' balls. Like I did somethin' wrong or somethin'. You freakin' cops are pains in the asses. I'm just a honest businessman.”
“And you expect us to believe that?”
Before Calogero could reply, Louis J. Lombago strode into the backyard cafe. He spotted Calogero talking to the two detectives. He sauntered over to the table put his hand on Calogero's shoulder.
“This man is my client,” Louie told the detectives. “Any further questioning will either be in my office, or at the police station.” He handed the older detective his business card.
The older detective took the business card and glanced at it. “Yeah, I know who you are. You're the lawyer who never gets paid.”
“Now if you two gentlemen will excuse us, I have to confer with my client,” Louie said. “In private.”
“Who's stopping you?” the older detective said.
“You're presence is stopping me,” Louie said. “Now either take us to the police station, or please leave and contact me later. My client will be available for questioning within one day's notice.”
The older detective stood and the younger detective followed suit. “Ok, we'll be in touch.”
“I'm sure you will,” Louie said.
The two detectives spun around the exited the garden cafe.
Louie sat down at the table opposite Calogero. “You OK?”
Calogero took a long drag on a butt. “Yeah, I'm fine. But I'm sick and disgusted.” He took another drag, then flipped the butt to the floor. “And I think I'm getting cancer from all these freakin' cigarettes I'm smokin'. The cops have been up my ass for two freakin' hours now. Relentless bastards.”
“Don't worry,” Louie said. “The worst is over. From now on, leave everything to me.”
CHAPTER 20
Chewing the Fat
Big Fat Fanny slid a huge Chinese spare rib into her mouth and stared munching away. In seconds, all that was left was a small piece of the bone, which she spit onto her plate.
Tony B was sitting next to Big Fat Fanny at a large round table, which was located on the second floor of Tony B's west side garage. He sipped a glass of red wine.
“You better be careful,” he told Big Fat Fanny. “One of these days you going to swallow the whole bone by accident and choke to death.”
Big Fat Fanny nodded towards Lisa Low who was sitting opposite her, eating pork fried rice with chopsticks out of a Chinese container. “If there wasn't a lady at the table, I'd tell you somethin' about me swallowin' the whole bone.”
Hung Far Low sat next to his daughter. He was sipping egg drop soup with a large spoon. “You Italian are very funny. Always telling jokes. Us Chinese should be more like you Italians. We are too somber. Too serious. Never smiling.”
Junior sat between Tony B and Lisa. He has his left arm around Lisa's shoulder and was sipping from a Bud bottle in his right hand.
“The Jews are even funnier than the Italians,” Junior said. “Henny Youngman, Don Rickles. George Burns. They all crack me up.”
Lisa put down her chopsticks. “You know, I never thought about it. But I can't recall even one Chinese comedian.”
Tony B took another sip of red wine. He said to Lisa, “You know, the Charlie Chan movies were pretty funny. Especially Charlie Chan's number one son. And his number two son too. They were just hilarious.” He took another sip of wine. “But that's way before your time.”
Big Fat Fanny spit out another splinter of a spare rib bone. “Enough about being funny. We have some serious talking to do. Like what to do about our dearly departed police commissioner. I'm sure the police brass is going to come down hard on us, if we don't think up something real quick.”
Tony B slugged the rest of the red wine in his glass, then poured himself another. “I'm way ahead of you. Me and Mr. Hung Far Low didn't get to where we are by being stupid.”
Hung Far Low finished the rest of his soup. “Please pour me a glass of your fine Italian wine,” he said to Tony B. Then he turned to his daughter. “Red wine is permitted on the Atkins diet.”
“Not in excess,” Lisa said. “One glass of red wine is fine. But there's about four carbs in a glass of red. More than one and you're inviting trouble. White wine is better. It has less than two carbs a glass.”
“I do not like white wine,” Hung Far Low said.
“Me neither,” Tony B said. “White wine is for broads schmoozing at brunches.”
Big Fat Fanny now turned her attention to the Chi
nese boneless pork ends. She reached her right hand into the quart container, pulled out four slabs of pork and stuffed them into her mouth. She spoke while chewing. “So what did you two geniuses come up with to take care of the cops?”
“That was sheer brilliance on our part,” Tony B said. “It was my idea first. But Mr. Hung Far Low came up with a twist on my idea that made it perfect.”
Big Fat Fanny grabbed four more pork ends and shoveled them into her mouth. “So are you going to tell me what your great idea is, or not?”
Tony B told her.
“But now we need someone to follow up for us,” Tony B said. “And I think I have the perfect person.”
*****
Gordon Goldman sat at his new computer in the newsroom of the New York Post at 210 South Street and started banging the keys. Being a crime reporter had its upside and its downside. The upside was that in New York City there was always enough crime to write about. There was no need to dream up stories on slow days. And when dead bodies were falling from the sky on a daily basis, there was no such thing as writer's block.
The downside was that after a while even a grisly murder made no impression on a man's soul. The crime beat was just a job and dead people who were once very much alive, now meant no more to Gordon than a pimple on his big toe.
“The dehumanizing of mankind,” is what he told people his job description had now become.
What Gordon needed was something spectacular to get his blood boiling again. Not your garden-variety, body-with-a-slit-throat sitting in the last car of a BMT subway train with his pockets turned inside out. No, that would just not do anymore. Gordon figured if things didn't change quick, he might just quit his job and tackle that novel he always knew he had inside him.
The phone rang and Gordon picked it up on the first ring. “Cityside.”
“Gordy, this is Louis J. Lombago, Esquire. Do you remember me?”
“Of course, Mr. Lombago. You're the lawyer who never gets paid by his clients.”
“What makes you say that? I don't work for my health.”
“That's a matter of opinion. But considering your clients, hounding them for money might be hazardous to your health.”
