Inherit the Mob

by Zev Chafets

  “Don’t be so touchy,” said Grossman. “I just thought I’d mention it.”

  On the way out to Brooklyn, Grossman congratulated himself on the way things had gone so far. Velvel was temporarily safe; now it was time to make things right with Luigi Spadafore. Thanks to Jerry Shulman, he had a plan. Jerry was dying, but he was still brilliant. Albert Grossman was not, by nature, an envious man, but he envied his old friend’s learning and originality.

  As he pulled up to Spadafore’s mansion, Grossman noted the hoods on the corners and in front of the house. It had been years since he had been to the brownstone, and never had he been invited on his own. He hadn’t seen or talked to Luigi Spadafore since his retirement, and he hadn’t missed him. Grossman knew that it was mutual; in the old days, the Sicilian had barely tolerated him, and made little effort to hide it.

  He parked at the curb and took a small piece of paper out of his breast pocket. There, in Jerry’s spidery, precise handwriting, he read: “Canossa, Gregory, Henry.” “Canossa” he repeated to himself. He was afraid that he might get it mixed up with Canarsie.

  Grossman was admitted to the tomblike house by Carlo Sesti. He had seen the consigliere at Max’s funeral, but hadn’t bothered to say hello; Sesti gave him the creeps. Now they shook hands solemnly. “Mr. Spadafore is expecting you,” he said. “He’s in the library.”

  Spadafore, dressed in a silk smoking jacket, sat in his easy chair puffing a DiNobli. Classical music that Grossman couldn’t identify played softly. The Don took Grossman’s proffered hand, but remained seated, a calculated act of rudeness.

  “Luigi,” Grossman said, “I was sorry to hear about Mario.”

  Spadafore nodded silently, but his face told Grossman nothing. He gestured to his guest to take a seat. Sesti remained standing behind Spadafore’s right shoulder. So far he was playing it just as Shulman had predicted, like a fat wop potentate.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding, Luigi, and I’ve come here to clear it up,” said Grossman. “I know you think that my boy had something to do with Mario’s death, but you’re wrong. I want you to know that.”

  “Why do you imagine that I think such a thing?” asked Spadafore softly. “Have I done something to threaten your son?”

  “My son has been in hiding, which you know very well,” said Grossman, trying unsuccessfully to match the Don’s formal, old-world cadence. “He’s still hiding, and I intend to keep him hid until I know you don’t believe this bullshit about him being involved.”

  “I ask again, why do you imagine that I would believe such a thing?”

  “Logic,” said Grossman. “Mario gets hit. Then, Sesti here threatens my boy. And that afternoon, Flanagan gets stabbed on the street. I don’t need a billboard to tell me what’s happening.”

  “I had nothing to do with Flanagan,” said the Don. “As for your son …” He let the phrase dangle in the air.

  “Luigi, I come here today like King Henry came to Pope Gregory,” said Grossman, the unfamiliar names clumsy in his mouth. “I have come to Canossa, on my knees.”

  “I am familiar with the story,” said Spadafore. Carlo Sesti was alarmed to see that the old man’s face registered quiet pleasure at the analogy.

  “King Henry came to ask forgiveness for a crime; you say your son is innocent,” the consigliere interjected.

  “I’m not talking about Mario. My boy is a famous journalist, not a murderer. I swear to you, on Max’s memory, that he had nothing to do with the death of your son.

  “No, I’m here to appeal to you to forgive my boy’s foolishness,” Grossman continued. “Velvel had no business getting involved in our world. I apologize for his nutty Irish pal, too, for the way they both behaved toward you. I understand from Velvel that he’s got some papers you want—OK, you say what they are, they’re yours. For free. But you’ve got to believe that the rest of this is just a misunderstanding.”

  Sesti saw that Grossman was getting through to the Don’s most vulnerable spot—his damnable vanity. Pope Gregory, indeed. He suspected that Gordon was behind the comparison; certainly the father hadn’t thought of it alone. It was extremely important to Sesti that Don Spadafore believe that Flanagan and Gordon were the cause of his son’s murder; otherwise, he would inevitably cast about for another explanation.

  Sesti cleared his throat. “Since you raise the example of King Henry’s trip to Canossa, you must know that it was merely a subterfuge. Eventually King Henry raised an army and deposed the pope.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t no king, boychik,” Grossman flared, fixing the consigliere with a fierce scowl. “I’m an old man with a son in trouble and I want to make peace.” He turned back to Spadafore. “I’m willing to do whatever you say, Luigi. There’s no excuse for Velvel’s disrespect to you, but I’m asking you to forgive him. I’ve come to you for, ah, clemency.”

  Spadafore puffed his cigar, considering. Despite Carlo’s tape, he still had his doubts that Gordon and Flanagan were behind Mario’s murder. He would look into it, perhaps use someone from one of the other Families to double-check his consigliere. If it turned out that Gordon and Flanagan were guilty, there would be plenty of time for retribution. Indeed, bringing them out of hiding would make the task all the easier. As for the notion of King Henry’s subterfuge, Spadafore considered this merely a case of Carlo parading his erudition; he had known Albert Grossman for fifty years, and considered him to be a vulgar, harmless fellow, certainly not capable of deceiving him.

  “Your trip to Canossa has been unnecessary,” he said to Grossman. “I have no reason to suspect that your son is involved in the death of mine. Should I believe that, no plea of yours could prevent me from doing what would be necessary. But, as I say, there is no reason to suppose it is so.”

  “Do I have your word that nothing will happen to him?”

  “You have my word that I will not punish an innocent man,” said Spadafore stiffly. “Carlo will arrange to collect the papers you mentioned. And now, if you will excuse me …”

  Grossman stood and pulled the creases of his trousers straight. “Thank you, Luigi,” he said. “I hope you catch the bastards that hit Mario and string them up by the balls.”

  “One more thing,” said Spadafore, ignoring the remark. “You have come to me with assurances that your son is innocent. I accept those assurances because I have no reason to doubt them. But you have made yourself a party to this affair, and unlike your son, you understand the rules of our world.”

  “Sure, I understand,” said Grossman. He felt a great surge of relief; he had succeeded, dealt with Spadafore on his own terms and won a reprieve for his son. He wished that Max could be here to see his little brother in action. “Don’t worry, Luigi,” he said. “You won’t be hearing any more from the Grossmans.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Grossman stopped at a coffee shop just across the bridge and called Bev. “Things are under control,” he said. “I’ll try to get out there tonight.”

  “Great,” she said. “How’s Velvel?”

  “Last time I seen him he was making matzoh-ball soup with a cat burglar,” said Grossman. “Wear something sexy tonight, I’m in the mood.”

  Grossman drove to the hideout. He was annoyed to find that there was no guard downstairs. On the way in, a stooped Hasidic rabbi pulled the sleeve of his sport coat. “Can you give me a dollar for charity?” he mumbled in Yiddish.

  “Get outa here, you old shnorrer,” Grossman snarled in English, brushing past the rabbi. “Go back to Williamsburg, where you belong.”

  “I hope your dick falls off,” the rabbi said in Yiddish.

  Grossman spun around and burst into laughter. “Louie, where the hell did you get that outfit?” he demanded.

  Sleepout Levine grinned through his false beard. “Zuckie brought up three suits,” he said. “Camouflage. The beards we got at the costume place on Times Square. You know what? I been out here two hours, I already collected thirty-one bucks.”

  Grossman went
upstairs, where he found his son sitting in the living room with Handsome Harry, Kasha Weintraub and Indian Joe. “Al, come on in, we just were talking sports here with Velvel,” said Kasha.

  “They were telling me about Jackie Malka,” Gordon said,

  Grossman’s face lit up. “The greatest crooked basketball player in the history of the sport,” he said. “Played for NYU, all-American, and a couple years in the pros. What a gonif. You heard of the jump shot? He invented the dump shot.”

  “Hey, Al, you remember that game against Seton Hall?” said Indian Joe. “NYU’s down one point, five seconds left and a rebound hits Jackie right in the hands. He can’t drop it ’cause it’s already there, see. And he’s got a guy under the other team’s basket, all alone. ‘Hey, the ball, the ball!’ he’s screaming. Jackie rears back and heaves it into the stands, damn near in the upper deck. ‘I guess I got nervous,’ he tells the sportswriters. Nervous. Christ, the kid had a thousand beans down on the Hall. What an operator!”

  “You think they still fix ball games?” asked Gordon.

  Kasha shrugged. “The kids they got today, they’re so stoned on shmeck you can’t rely on ’em to be crooked.”

  “Nothin’s like it was,” said Indian Joe. “These young punks don’t have no pride of accomplishment. Take Harry here,” he said, gesturing toward Millman. “Remember him in court, bitching ’cause he was only sixth-ranked in the most-wanteds? That’s pride.”

  “And sixth-ranked in them days wasn’t peanuts,” said Kasha.

  “Waxy Gordon, Longy Zwillman, Bugs, Lepke, the Purples in Detroit, Al Axelrod, Jake Shapira …”

  Millman shrugged modestly. “Don’t forget the Blumenthal brothers in Minnesota,” he said. “They were some tough fellas.”

  “For my money, the toughest was Charlie Workman and Abe Reles, out of Murder Incorporated. What a crew,” said Indian Joe. “You know what it was, sixth-ranked with them guys around?”

  “Weren’t there any Italians in the Mafia?” asked Gordon, amused and a little touched by their nostalgia.

  “Lokshen? Sure there was lokshen,” said Kasha. “Luciano was a smart cookie, and Anastasia, Genovese. But between you and me, Velvel, they were never in our league.”

  “The movies made them heroes,” said Indian Joe, with a touch of resentment. “All them big Jews, your Rabbi Wises and whatnot, got to the Warners and the other Yiddlach in Hollywood, they shouldn’t put Jewish gangsters in the movies. Better they should be Italians.”

  “I still say Scarface was a great movie,” said Millman. “You wanna tell me that Capone wasn’t a rough character?”

  “Capone? Yeah, he was right up there,” conceded Indian Joe.

  “But how come nobody ever made no movie about Handsome Harry Millman, for instance? Answer me that. I’ll tell you why—discrimination.”

  Gordon laughed. “Why don’t you complain to the Anti-Defamation League?”

  “Nah, that’s your style, Velvel,” Kasha said affectionately. “You could write about it sometime.”

  “Yeah, make a book up about our exploits for a change,” said Millman.

  Grossman saw that the boys were having a ball entertaining his famous son. The kid loved it, too. He felt a touch of resentment. All those years when he had kept his mouth shut around the boy, not wanting him to be ashamed of his old man, and it turns out he’s a regular camp follower. The hell with it, he thought; it’s better this way.

  “Listen to you alter kockers,” he said. “One carload of these young punks today would mow down the whole Purple Gang, for Christ’s sakes.”

  There was a chorus of protest. “How can you say something like that?” Millman demanded angrily.

  “Stands to reason,” said Grossman. “Look at sports. Kids today are bigger, faster and stronger than our generation. You think Joe Louis could take Muhammed Ali? No way.”

  “Yeah, but who was smarter, Al, Ty Cobb or Joe Montana?” demanded Weintraub.

  “Apples and oranges,” said Grossman. “What are you, senile?”

  The kitchen door opened and a red-faced, sweating Pupik Feinsilver emerged. “Dinner is served,” he announced in a mock formal tone.

  They took their places around the large table in the living room. “I thought tonight we could eat, ah, buffet,” Feinsilver said, pronouncing the t, “but Abe wanted it should be family style.”

  “Family style is nice,” said Indian Joe.

  “What’s on the menu, Chef Boyardee?” asked Kasha. Feinsilver smiled broadly. “We got kugel,” he said. “Tsimmes, a nice roast and a leafy salad,” he said.

  “Oy, the cholesterol,” said Kasha. “You couldn’t make something a little more healthy?”

  “Whaddya think this is, Grossinger’s?” demanded Abramson, emerging from the kitchen with a large pot in his hand.

  “I hear Grossinger’s is closing down,” said Millman. “What a spot that was. Christ, the broads they had up there …”

  Despite himself, Grossman felt a flush of affection for these men. He had planned to tell them that Velvel was out of danger and they could all go back to Florida. But seeing them together, the kibbitzing, even the taste of Pupik’s awful cooking, brought back memories. Why spoil their fun? he thought. They’re not in any hurry. He decided to wait awhile to send them home. A few more days, he told himself. What difference can a few days make?

  Jupiter Evans rolled over in the satin sheets and ran her hand along Pietro’s thin, surprisingly smooth thigh. He stirred and opened his eyes. When he first woke up, Pietro looked like a deer, she thought—warm, frightened and very sweet.

  Pietro wriggled lower in the bed and took her nipple in his mouth. She felt a flush of pleasure. He didn’t gnaw it like most men, or lick it, as if it were some kind of lollipop. She had no idea how he knew exactly where and how to touch her, but he knew.

  Never, not even that first time with Claudette Lawton, had Jupiter experienced such an erotic excitement as with Pietro. It was as if he had opened a locked place inside her, and all the anger and frustration and fear had come spilling out, mysteriously transformed into lust. I can’t get enough of this man, she said to herself. I can’t get enough of this … man.

  As usual, Pietro responded to her mood, tracing a soft hand across her belly and touching her with feathery fingers between her legs. Sometimes she felt that he was reading her thoughts, but she didn’t care. She wanted him to know, to see her hidden places. Perhaps it would give him pleasure to feel her excitement but she didn’t care about that, any more than a ravenous woman cares about giving pleasure to a lamb chop. She was a performer, and she needed an audience—someone to witness the salvation of Jupiter Evans’s sexuality.

  For a fleeting moment she saw Gordon’s face. What he would give to be here instead of Pietro, she thought; how unfair. But, after Pietro, she would never sleep with Gordon again. He was too large, too hairy and coarse, rough even in his most desperate attempts to be gentle. Besides, the woman he had known was dead; and the new Jupiter didn’t want Will Gordon around to remind her of who she had been.

  Pietro kissed her neck, just a wisp of a kiss, and she felt herself rising slowly, almost involuntarily. He slid inside her, but by some trick of gravity, she could barely feel his weight. She knew that Pietro would take his time, find just the right rhythm, allow her to get hot and wild until she wanted to tear the pillow apart. “Fuck me, Pietro,” she said in a low moan, “fuck me like a man.”

  Pietro felt Jupiter’s thin, muscular thighs tighten around his ass. Soon she would begin to moan and cry, and call out filthy words. When she did that, it was a sign that she wanted to be taken faster. He stole a glance at the clock on the nightstand—six-nineteen. With a little luck she’d climax by six-thirty, which would give them time to shower and dress and drive into the city. Coming to his father’s farm had been a good idea, but he wanted to be back in town by ten, when Julie Morganfield got through rehearsing. He licked her neck the way she liked it, and felt her respond. “God, you’re a s
exy woman,” he groaned. He wondered if there would be a parking spot near the theater, or if he’d have to leave the Jaguar in the lot.

  At seven-fifteen, Pietro and Jupiter emerged from the farmhouse. The sun was setting and she could hear the mooing of cows in a distant field. Everything was so still, so beautiful, so perfect. Even this, she thought, Pietro had known, had sensed her need to make love in a rustic place, a spot, she recalled suddenly, not too different from the lake where she had first been awakened to sex.

  Jupiter felt the lust rising in her once again. She knew what she would do. When Pietro climbed into the car she would lean over, open his pants and take him in her mouth. She was thrilled at her own boldness—she had never before tasted a man.

  Pietro helped her into the red Jaguar, walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat. As he put the key in the ignition she leaned over and touched him between the legs. She felt his hips move, and his penis grow hard. Jupiter gently opened his fly, eased him out of his trousers and lowered her mouth onto the head of his cock. Pietro Spadafore sighed happily, turned the key in the ignition, and six pounds of TNT attached to the Jaguar’s starter blew them both into a million pieces.

  It took the Massachusetts state police laboratory twenty-four hours to positively identify the bodies of Jupiter Evans and Pietro Spadafore, and the media twenty minutes to flash the news around the globe. “Movie Queen Killed in Mafia Love Nest,” read the Tribune’s headline. “Police Suspect Gangland Slaying.”

  In gangland, war was declared. Within an hour of Pietro’s identification, the area around Luigi Spadafore’s mansion looked like Fort Dix. Dozens of heavyset men in overcoats patrolled the streets, or stood stonefaced at the intersections leading to the house. Half a dozen sharpshooters were deployed on the roof, with orders to fire at suspicious automobiles first and ask questions later. These orders came directly from Spadafore himself. The murder of his younger son reawakened in him a ferocious thirst for blood that he had long forgotten, and could now barely control.