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“Hi . . . I’m Debbie . . . ” And from there, the video depicted the man behind the plan, using his growth in the entertainment industry as leverage to further captivate viewers. Then there were images of construction workers laboring and building, and eventually the hard labor images were transcended by an artist rendition of the finished complex. Darryl smiled at his work as the video projected living conditions of comfort and luxury accommodations. Vacations, jewelry, celebrity events as well as other gifts and bonuses were projected as incentives. There were opportunities such as swimsuit videos, magazine layouts, modeling for TV and dancing in music videos. There were 8-hour work schedules, training, orientation and a fitness program to keep dancers in shape. There were also medical benefits and educational quarters for girls who maintained stability and growth as assets to the enterprise. Finally, aside from the weekly salary, there was a profit-sharing program that was available for all participants. All of these elements were detailed briefly; however, enough to paint a picture of organization and structure. At the end of the presentation, once the monitors went dark, the lights were turned up to a dim, gloomy level, and a strobe light was switched on and a multi-colored laserlight show began shooting streams and rays of color towards the platform. The horns and trumpets which introduced Cheryl Lynn’s “Got To Be Real” sounded off and the bass carried the electric vocals, turning the room into an instant club scene. One at a time, for about 3 intense moments a piece, Valerie, Mechelle and then Debbie came to life on stage for the all-female audience. The dancers seduced onlookers as they would a male audience, and it excited them even more to perform for their own sex. Leather and lace, chiffon and silk outfits wrapped in one way or another about their bodies, the girls advertised it, made their pitch and sold the exclusive exotic dance for inevitable applause. And that was the cherry on top. The presentation was over. The lights went back to full blast; Greg ended things by letting everyone know that decisions would be announced momentarily.
The room filled with high anxiety, with everyone wondering who would be chosen. At 11PM, conversations and murmurs carried on as the all day affair had reached its climax. The staff congregated in a semi circle, discussing selections and their whereabouts in the room.
Meanwhile, amidst the settling and adjusting, Debbie indicated to her homegirl Trina that she should meet her in the rear. Trina had her eyes on Debbie all the while, beckoning for her inside help, never missing a blink.
“So what’s it like?”
“Girl, if you only knew. I’m living large. And it keeps gettin’ larger by the day. For real, I feel like Cinderella. That’s how I’m livin’.”
“Wow . . . and that’s your man?”
“You could say that . . . but this thing ain’t like Chicago livin’. You know, like livin’ for yo man and all. I have a family now. A real-live, stick-by-my-side, extended family. And there’s not an empty spot in my soul.”
“Woo-woo-woooo . . .” Trina stared at Debbie like a movie star.
“Debbie, do you think they picked me?”
“I’ll just let you wait and see.” Debbie hid her grin and gave Trina a warm hug. Then she returned to Douglass’s side.
Hot as Hell
Friday, December 6th
Agents Walsh and Hammer took the information from Chief Washington and ran with it. Otherwise, they were getting nowhere. Having attended the Investor’s Day event got them nothing but a business plan and an eyeful of exotic dancers. They couldn’t figure out where Douglass disappeared to, but hung in there for the presentation anyway.
And now things were getting serious again. Another body. Tony the Crow was blackened to a crisp inside of The Pretty Girl and investigators were certain that it was arson. Almost a week after the fire and a tedious morning at the building department, the agents found the rightful owners of The Pretty Girl.
“Babe, could you please get that?” Pauly was down in the basement, fixing the hot water heater and shouting once he heard the doorbell a second time.
“Alright . . . alright already!” Mrs. Givanni was wrapped in a bathrobe, waking out of her lazy slumber. Her hair was wrapped in rollers and a freshly lit cigarette hung from her lips. She pulled the door open, already cringing in anticipation of the winter climate.
“Mrs. Givanni? This is Agent Olgenhiemer and I’m Agent Walsh [they both raised their slim wallets with credentials showing] with the FBI. We’d like to speak with your husband.”
“But moy husband already served his toyme . . .” The missus had a thick accent; like Popeye’s Olive Oil.
“Sorry, ma’am, this is unrelated to any past encounters. May we see your husband, please?” Walsh was direct, while Hammer kept a sharp eye inside the house. She let them in and showed them into the living room. Seconds later, the agents could hear arguing coming from the basement. Meanwhile, they couldn’t help but to notice the lacquered furnishings, mirrors, chandelier, and crystal. The carpet was plush and the couch was inviting. Certainly not the life of a criminal reformed. When the arguing from below subsided footsteps could be heard climbing from the basement. More mumbling. Hammer swore he heard a male voice demand, “Just keep your mouth shut!”
“Oh—hi.. What’s new?”
“Sir, this is Agent Olgen . . .”
“Hammer. Just call me Hammer.”
“And I’m Agent Walsh. We’d like to have a few words with you. Alone, if at all possible.” Pauly got the message and whispered to his wife. She begrudgingly went on her way, now puffing furiously at her cigarette.
Saturday, December 7th
Chucky Bianco was just 3 years into a lifetime bid. The B.O.P. had him buried in Marion, Indiana, under 23-hour-a-day maximum security lockdown. While the elder Bianco anticipated his appeal meeting with a favorable decision, his son Anthony, a headstrong bodybuilder, assumed his father’s role as the head of the family. Mob boss.
It was evening again, not necessarily the required setting for any such power meeting; it just so happened to work out this way. And also, this wasn’t just power. A man was killed; a Bianco solider. There were indications of a territorial violation behind this . . . a man down and a 900 G’s investment, all gone up in smoke.
A few earners stood by while, one by one, 4 weighted-down Lincoln town cars and two limos swooshed through the entrance, parking at various degrees in the open area of the warehouse. A plane could be heard taking off overhead since Newark Airport wasn’t far away. And that was a great edge for the big shipping business that the Biancos operated here.
A ballet of activity ensued; car doors opening and closing. Large and small suited men in dark colors and sunglasses decended on one particular area, the center of the warehouse. One of the men escorted a slinky white girl to the forefront.
“This is her, boss. Sally.” Sally looked a slight bit apprehensive standing more under the light than anyone else.
“Sally, we need to know exactly what happened . . .” Sally started slow, but eventually spilled it all; her evening of pleasuring Tony and the men she ran into in the dark driveway.
“Are you sure you heard somebody say kapish?”
“Yes,” she said, frightened.
Fat Jimmy wagged his head, and Bruno took Sally and put her in the back of a car.
“That does it. It’s definitely the Toccis . . .”
“How do you know, boss?”
“Because nobody uses ‘kapish’ any fuckin’ more. That’s Salvatore’s funny ways. Besides, Jimmy, didn’t you tell me that he had an issue about us being in New York?”
“Yep.”
“Well, now we got issues wit dem. Mikey . . . you take that girl somewheres. Keep her at your house if you have to. I don’t want her talking. I don’t want a word of this to reach the street. We got work to do. Now my pop always taught me, an eye for a fuckin’ eye! So, we’re gonna fight fire with fire. Those fuckin’ Toccis are gonna roast—Jimmy.”
“Yeah, boss. . . .”
“You sure that Black Beauty club is their t
hing?”
“Gotta be, boss. It makes sense. What kind of coincidence is it for our spot to catch fire out of nowhere and all of the sudden a brand-new club opens across the street. Across the fuckin’ street! It’s like they’re burnin’ us out and then pissin’ on our grave. I want revenge. And I want it now!!”
“Calm down, Jimmy. I call the shots here. I want revenge. And I want it now!!” Anthony had spoken.
“Cipriani.”
“Sir, we’ve got news . . . I think you should set up the three-way.”
“Okay. But I hope you’re not cryin’ wolf.” Cipriani put Walsh on hold and buzzed his boss, Bobby Zeal. Hammer was on an extension in the same office with Walsh.
“Okay, Walsh, Cipriani says this is urgent. Talk to me.”
“Sir, I’ve been keeping Mr. Cipriani updated all along about our movement on the Bianco-Gilmore associations. Recently there was a fire in the Bronx. It was a club called The Pretty Girl. We did some investigating and found that the owner was just a front. His name is Pauly Givanni, an ex-con who had done eight years up at Allenwood Penitentiary for embezzlement. We visited him and pressed him. He spilled the beans—told us about money laundering that he was carrying out for the mob and some other things. He’s laying sweet, up in a Scarsdale home . . . doesn’t want to go back to prison and agreed to testify against Anthony Bianco.”
“Theee Anthony Bianco?” Nobody could see it, but that buzz word made Bobby Zeal’s eyes light up. Bobby’s former boss, the U.S. Attorney whom he’d succeeded, was responsible for putting Chucky Bianco away. Now, Bobby could get the son! The next generation of mob bosses would be his before he even got his feet wet!
“Yessir! I believe we can meet the standards for racketeering, tax evasion, money laundering, wire fraud and extortion.”
“Well . . . now we’re finally getting somewhere. What about this Gilmore character? And the murder in the Bronx?”
“Sir, quite honestly we don’t see how that ties in. I’d like to say we made a mistake, as much as I don’t want to say it, but there’s still the issue about the dead dancer. It’s hitting too close to home. Too close to this case.”
“Well, I’ll think this over. You all keep an eye on things and I’ll see if we can get us a few warrants.”
Sunday, December 8th
It was almost cold enough to see spit freeze in mid air. The 1AM darkness seemed to make it that much colder. There was a gusty wind that changed directions and a sprinkle of snow was just beginning.
“There she is . . . let’s see if’n we can’t make ’er blacker than she is already.”
There were two town cars and a limo tailing them. All windows of the vehicles were tinted, but this was the same ole likely scene of a mob hit. There were 5 soldiers that got out of the town cars, easing the suspensions for the vehicles. All of the men were in black overcoats. Anyone who didn’t have a wool cap was a fool. They knew that Fat Jimmy was in the limo behind them and wondered if the boss was in the vehicle also. The team of mobsters were at the side of the building, on an off street from Boston Post Road. They faced the massive wall that was the side of the club. It was high enough to be 4 stories and wide enough to fill a half-city block. The men hadn’t been out of their vehicles for a minute when a fuel tanker snailed around the corner. Suddenly, it looked larger up close then it did traveling down the expressway. The driver was one of them, and seeing him brought on a smile or two—meaning the hijack went smoothly. The truck pulled up just towards the middle of the building, in the center of the street and ahead of the limos in audience on the adjacent curb.
The goal was simple . . . they would hose the building down and one match would send it into the depths of hell. The boss wanted a body, yes. But this was a start. And they might even get lucky.
“Alright, let’s do this fast,” Vinny announced.
“Pull that hose out,” Sergio added.
“Which hose?” asked Joey.
“Any . . . both of ’em!” Everyone seemed to be giving orders. Nobody knew how to work the valves, or that they were fucking with over 8,000 gallons of fuel. The truck carried 5,000 gallons of diesel and 3,000 gallons of gasoline. Angelo was one of the cocky ones who liked to throw his weight around. But all he had was fat surrounding his intestines, and besides that, ants probably got in and ate his brain cells.
Angelo pushed past Felix, who was holding one hose, and also Joey, who held the other. While Felix was careful to hold his hose in the direction of the building, Joey wasn’t embracing the nozzle tight enough. He was just pointing it at the ground, waiting for a disaster. Angelo was pressing buttons now, not sure which was which. He started to turn the lever, a steering wheel of a smaller kind. He turned it all the way—full blast—but nothing happened. He began pushing buttons again. Without a hose in his hand and with virtually nothing else to do, Sergio stood back, nearly a car length away, and lit up a cigarette.
Out of the corner of his eye (still pushing buttons all the while), Angelo caught the spark of light that flickered from Sergio’s match.
“PUT THAT SHIT AWAY, YOU FUCKING MORON!” Angelo yelled at Sergio like a football coach on the opposite end of the field, but his voice had scared Joey into seeing what Sergio was up to. When Joey turned, the hose also turned, and it was pointing in Sergio’s direction. It was just then that fuel jumped out of the hose all of a sudden. In a split second, fuel shot alongside of the tanker, out of the hose and onto Sergio’s overcoat.
The fuel splashed all over him.
The match he had tossed ignited the fluid.
Sergio lit up like a narrow flame.
He turned paranoid and ran to the left.
To the right, then left again.
While all of the gombada were amazed at the sensation of seeing Sergio blow up like a torch, they didn’t realize that the fire now spread along the ground. Joey had turned into a flamethrower. He stood still with his bulbous eyes turned to mirrors of fear. In that split second, Joey also became a moving torch as the flames engulfed him. He began to spin around like a bumper car shooting liquid flames in every direction. Now the flames caught Felix, whose hose was also spraying fuel, until all five men were on fire with hoses shooting flames everywhere. The fuel’s direction was as erratic as the screams and hollers that pierced the air. It shot out towards the limo and showered the cars with flames and a thin blanket of fuel. Bruno revved up the engine for a quick getaway. But before he could think, there was an eruption. The tank ignited and there was an explosion that could challenge a volcano blast. The tanker flipped, and all hell let loose at its rear. The long tube essentially took flight, rocketing through the air to hundreds of feet aboveground, until it fell and exploded a second time on the median of I-95. Every last animate or inanimate object in the wake of the explosion was caught in a furnace of fury, incinerated and left in ashes.
“Man, you can’t do with it . . . can’t do without it. This I-95 might be our bread and butter, but there’s not a week that goes by without a major backup.” The staff was returning from their Chicago promotion having just flown into LaGuardia, and they were looking forward to getting back to the townhouse. In the jeep, Demetrius drove, while Debbie, Mechelle, and Valerie were slumped against one another in the backseat. Darryl was in the far rear seats alongside of his video equipment, and Douglass was in the passenger’s seat co-navigating. It was Demetrius who suggested that they turn off of the throughway and Douglass who chose the side streets to take. He was leading in the direction of the club. Anxious to drive past; to see how far it had come along. But snow was beginning to fall, and even Boston Post Road, which ran parallel to I-95, was backed up. It was 2 in the morning and they agreed that later in the day would be better. So they widened their maze, and maneuvered down local streets of the Bronx until they reached the tip of Westchester County and inevitably, the town of New Rochelle. Ironically, the traffic jam kept them so far back on I-95, they never realized that the reason for the backup was an attempt to destroy the club.
Monday, December 9th
Chief Washington was called at once, and he wasted no time in getting to the scene on that Boston Post Road side street. This event was definitely FBI-level-shit, he considered.
“What the fuck is going on around here, Sam. These are within a week of each other . . . tragedies . . . death. This area is like fucking Vietnam.”
“Chief, this could be some kind of accident . . . a fuel truck exploded.”
“Yeah, but this happened between one and two in the morning. Bodies are laying out like charcoal in the snow. Then you’ve got three bodies over in that limo laying on its side. That’s eight bodies. Call the feds in, Sam.”
By 8 AM, construction workers showed up to Black Beauty as usual. They were nearly a week into the job, yet they had finished so much. Where 10 or 15 workers might have worked on a nightclub contract, 134 were hired to expedite production. Dino was both diplomat and General in keeping pace and moving fast. His biggest concerns were the bar, the stages, the catwalks, the kitchen and the utilities. Everything else (he felt) would be simple, “usual” work. He also took photos as the work progressed. It started as one empty, cavernous building. Four walls, a roof and a cement floor. Big enough to be an airplane hanger, 10,000 square feet, in fact. But as the major construction took root, the venue developed some character. The centerpiece was similar to a giant hand with only three huge, extended fingers. At the base of the hand shape (where the palm might be), there was a massive attraction made of stones and artificial palm trees stretching up high into the air. Walking in the entrance of Black Beauty, the three fingers were actually three stages with services bars that ran along their perimeters. A brass pole was planted in each of three main stages. Elevated catwalks were everywhere in the complex; along the walls, across the center of the club and down the middle in the rear. Douglass envisioned a tropical atmosphere to emulate a reflection of paradise, something that the original Fool’s Paradise never accomplished. Aside from the main stages, there were seven others. They were round, and seats were built around them for exclusive audiences. Two of those round showcases were actual jacuzzis with their own light shows.