Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery

by Venutolo Anthony

  “Really? And why is that?”

  He shrugged his bony square shoulders rather matter-of-factly. “Because, Mr. Moretti, you went and made yourself the unlikely star of the film you were hired to write. You gave it an ending it didn’t need, but an ending everyone will now want to see. If I was some working schlep living in Topeka, I’d wanna see you knock the big bad man down. It would make my week and I’d wanna see the picture again. It’s a talker. I’d say I have quite a decision to make here, kid. By almost breaking the champ’s back, you became the star.”

  He held up a stack of newspapers. “Everyone is talking about you.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “It would make my day if one of them were Ava Gardner.”

  “What do you plan for an encore, Nick? Slingshot the first basemen at the World Series?”

  “I didn’t do it by choice, sir.”

  He slammed his hand on the desk. If it was for emphasis, I’d say it worked. “What was it then, happenstance?”

  I shook my head. “I would say necessity.”

  The old man struggled to stand, wobbling every bit of the way. “Don’t you dare, young man! Don’t you dare waltz into this office and provoke me with your petty condescension.”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but were you watching the same fight as the rest of the world?”

  A few seconds passed and if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it if you told me. As Stuhlberg stood there, struggling to stand upright, I watched his eyes tear up. Something was bringing this man to water works.

  “I care for that boy,” he whispered.

  If you asked around my newsroom, they’d say Nick Moretti has a reputation for being somewhat of a hard-nose, but I just couldn’t let this this shell of a man stand in front of me any longer, even if he’d just had some goons work me over.

  It was clear this immigrant — a man who arrived in the open frontier of filmmaking with only lint in his pocket — was baring his soul to me. I just wondered why. After all, I was a stranger and furthermore, a mere employee.

  Walking behind the mogul’s desk, I helped him slump back into his leather seat. I could tell he was embarrassed, so I gently patted his back in a feeble act of consolation. “It’s okay, sir. It’s an odd time for all of us.”

  Just then, my eye caught a framed photo on the desk of a more robust-looking Stuhlberg with the champ. It looked to have been taken a number of years ago. The old man, looking much healthier in a cozy Fair Isle sweater, had his arm draped around Rattlesnake, who didn’t look a day over 17.

  My wheels spun. Were they an item?

  I casually walked around the room and noticed a few more photos peppered discreetly throughout the grandiose space. I inspected each respectfully. All of them featured Stulhberg and Rattlesnake, smiling and enjoying each other’s company.

  Again, I couldn’t help myself by wondering if they were in love.

  I quickly eyeballed the rest of the room to see if there were any photos of a Mrs. Stuhlberg and, in fact, there were.

  I focused on the bookcase where shelves were jammed with first editions from Twain to Dickens to Doyle. Then, two items prominently featured in the center of the middle shelf jumped out at me: The studio’s Oscar for Weep Softly at Dusk, and an old photograph of a much younger Stuhlberg holding a baby. But not just any baby, a Negro baby.

  Holy heavens! Why didn’t I figure it out sooner?

  Could Jericho “Rattlesnake” McNeal be Isaac Stuhlberg’s son? It made a crazy sense of the whole scenario.

  The missing puzzle pieces on this silly excursion suddenly fit. It was no wonder the LAPD pushed the murder, manslaughter or self-defense under the rug. Daddy Stuhlberg was one of the most powerful men in the city, if not the country. And the local press? No one would dare challenge the titan who not only employed the bulk of the area, but brought commerce to the state. It just wasn’t worth the trouble.

  At this point it would have been fruitless to tell the old man I’d figured out why his son killed Hector Fernandez. It was unnecessary, and I’m not sure he would care. He loved his son and would do anything to defend him.

  I picked up the photograph and looked at it more closely. It was affectionate and tender. I couldn’t help but smile, trying to erase the shame of thinking just a moment before that the two were romantic.

  Stuhlberg’s voice rumbled. “His mother was a day player, a Negro contract girl here at the studio and part-time dancer at The Trocadero. A knockout. Naturally, I made sure he wanted for nothing.”

  I beat around the bush. “Sure. Maybe even manipulate some rankings? Set him up with a top-notch former champ like Grenade? It all makes sense now. I’d want to protect my boy, too, and give him the best.”

  “Should I be ashamed to be in a position to give my son what he deserves — even if I couldn’t acknowledge him? What I may have lacked as a proud father in his formative years, I’m more than making up for now.”

  I laughed because this old man was blind. “We’re not talking about helping him get out of jury duty. You have to admit, Mr. Stuhlberg, the champ — your boy — drank from one deep, poisoned well.”

  He chuckled quietly. “This whole rotten town is a poisoned well. Can’t you tell?”

  “It’s a shame,” I said. “If he’d fight straight, he could be one of the greats.”

  “He is one of the greats, Moretti.”

  I don’t have any rugrats, at least none I know about, so my daddy knowledge may not be as keen as Ozzie Nelson’s. I do know this, however — there was no arguing with a delusional father.

  Shaking my head, I could see where the conversation was headed so I made way for the door.

  “Mr. Moretti? Where do you think you’re going?”

  “There’s nothing left to say unless you want me to stick around and take another beating.”

  Stuhlberg shook his head. “I’d say we’re even.”

  * * *

  At this point, I figured I was living on borrowed time at the Beverly Hills Hotel. After all, I didn’t plan on staying there on my dime. Before checking out, however, I stopped by Cedars of Lebanon to check on Pete. As expected, his head was wrapped like Boris Karloff’s in The Mummy.

  I dropped a familiar line. “I heard of hangovers, but this is ridiculous . . .” I’d have to pay Cornfed Barkeep a residual when I got back to the East Coast.

  My cousin grumbled a laugh, but didn’t say much else.

  Looking at his chart, it was clear he’d have been in better shape if he’d been hit by a bus. Along with several cuts and contusions, his jaw was wired shut, and he had a rack of cracked ribs. I shook my head in disgust.

  I told him not to try to talk, but he pointed to a nearby pad and pencil.

  “Good,” I said.

  After pouring him some water, I opened the window to circulate the air which was staler than the BLT I had in the cafeteria downstairs. Pete motioned to his radio. I tuned it to “The Johnny Otis Show.”

  I sat at the foot of his bed and felt like I had to explain. “Look, Pete, I had to step in. It was getting pretty brutal in there. The ref was just letting it happen . . .”

  He held up his hand to stop me. His fighter’s pride was left on the canvas at the Rose Bowl. He scribbled on his pad and tore off a sheet, handing it to me.

  It’s okay, cuz. I would have done the same.

  “I know, Pete,” I told him. “I know.”

  It wasn’t long before a nurse the size of a Nebraska Cornhusker barreled in and told me I had to leave.

  “Looks like it’s your sponge time,” I whispered as she left.

  Pete scribbled, When you close your eyes, it ain’t so bad.

  Before I left, I told him there was going to be a night on the town coming his way once he got sprung. Sky’s the limit. The Brown Derby. Romanoff’s. Chasen’s. Anywhere he wanted. Pete wrote to tell me I had to find us both dates. I laughed and easily agreed.

  I’ll be honest. I didn’t feel grea
t about leaving Pete in his hospital room all beat to hell, but I knew he’d ultimately be okay. Plus, I just knew the public was itching for another fight. They’d want to see The Python do his thing and scrap again with Rattlesnake. Pete nearly had him early on, and the crowd knew it. Another shot somewhere down the line could very well be in the cards.

  As for me — I was never going to get to write the script for the story, at least not for Pinnacle.

  I’d only been jobless in Tinsletown for twenty-four hours before three other studios came knocking. Granted, they smelled blood since word was out Pinnacle had put me on the bricks.

  It was easy getting used to Los Angeles. It was rough around some of its edges, but it was just the right kind of town for me, Nick Moretti. Plus the thought of going back east with my tail between my legs left me cold.

  So, I took the meetings with other studio big wigs. Could you blame me? Granted, they weren’t Pinnacle, but then again none of the suits had killer boxers for offspring, so I was ahead of the game.

  They each wanted a movie from me, so I went with the studio granting the best perks, and by perks, I mean lodging, liquor, and a Lincoln thrown in for good measure.

  I couldn’t use Rattlesnake’s name or even certain specifics, but I sure did come as close as possible. And let’s face it, at the end of the day, everyone knew what Scrap with the Cats was based on. There was even a grizzled sportswriter in my movie. And wouldn’t you know it, George Raft never looked better.

  THE END

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  Praise for Anthony Venutolo’s Flash Fiction:

  In 1-2 page meteoric, magnesium-burning, retina-blinding flashes, Anthony Venutolo may be writing a fiction of the future that is technically, and decidedly, not science fiction. Part short story, borderline poetry, his “flash fiction’s”, as are quite possibly, with the imminent death of the moribund novel, the future of literature where everything’ll be read on a smartphone or tablet. But don’t let this “modern” format deter you from discovering these charmingly retro pieces that borrow heavily from film noir, detective fiction, Jorge Luis Borges and Bukowski a little (natch). Drolly funny, surreally pithy, they may herald, if Venutolo decides to stretch his considerable wings into the longer form, a unique, personal voice that has the timbre and dispassionate worldview of the hardboiled private eye novel, hearkening back, even as it speeds headlong and tangle-footed into the future, to a now bygone past.

  — Rex Pickett, author of Sideways, Vertical and Sideways 3

  The Lady in Waiting

  She was a professional lady in waiting. That was her job — to keep his ice cubes cold and the foot play hot. Nothing more.

  Rinaldo booked them a corner suite at the Gran Hotel Velazquez in Madrid and made sure it was near an exit. He told his blonde Lady in Waiting that he’d be gone for most of the day and, if by midnight he hadn’t returned, she should go on to the next town and wait for him there. After all, poker with the gringos could get intense and who was he to break up anyone’s winning streak? That was his story and she knew it was a crock.

  A Lady in Waiting is much smarter than she lets on. She hears things and pretends not to. She sees things and files them away, putting together the pieces of the puzzle on days like this — when the room is quiet and still.

  It was funny, they always landed in exotic cities with museums, exhibits and unfortified banks. They would always skip town with sirens wailing in the distance and wherever they landed afterwards, it usually was for a while.

  * * *

  She kept herself occupied for the greater part of the day. She’d visited the El Restro market and after arguing with a local merchant about the price of a beaded necklace, she took in the late afternoon breeze at an outdoor café.

  Usually, men flirted with her. They didn’t today and, in an odd way, she missed the attention. The handsome men in the square came in all shapes and sizes. But no one paid her any mind. The savvy tourists, regal businessmen and shady pickpockets figured her for a gypsy — especially with that beaded necklace. She must have been a working girl. If they only knew it was the complete opposite. A working girl who waited for a living.

  Back at the hotel, she took a long, hot bath and made herself a Cuba Libre. Drink in hand, she walked towards the open balcony and watched the sun set, laughing into the open air at the very notion of Rinaldo’s poker game. “Poker . . .” she said laughing to herself.

  * * *

  At dusk, the air became crisp and Rinaldo never did come back. She knew he wouldn’t this time. As instructed, though, she left for the next town like a good Lady in Waiting should. Only this time, she knew Rinaldo wouldn’t be there — his partner would be and that was just fine by her.

  Thirteen Men

  I tended bar at Tony’s Tap Room up on Biltmore Avenue.

  The gig was good enough and while I wasn’t a Rockefeller by any stretch, I didn’t need much. At the end of the week, my rent was paid, the cupboard was stocked and if I was lucky, I’d be able to spring for some English Leather for the weekends.

  As frugal as I can be, however, I sometimes feel that I’m not paid nearly enough to deal with the occasional bullshit that came with the job. We had our share of regulars. There was Shade, half-hustler, half lover; Tino, the cool cat with the cool car; O’Toole, the crazy mick that everyone seemed to love; Auggie, the portly everyman; and Bobby C., who was plum convinced he’d be the next Frankie Valli. And then there was Linky . . . He was a fucking moron.

  Taking care of the guys on the floor was usually Elsa. She was Danish and gorgeous. Being that I also managed the place, Tony provided some extra payroll cash for eye candy and I only hired top-shelf. And why not? If I have to look at these mooks all day long, I should be able to stare at something that jiggled once in a while. Plus, this was just the kind of watering hole where men escaped their wives and Elsa was the icing on this crummy cake.

  Looking back, maybe Linky shouldn’t have said what he said. But hey, that was Linky — half stupid, half insensitive. It all started when he bet Elsa fifty beans that she couldn’t dance a whole tune without spilling the drinks on her tray. He tossed her a coin and she trotted up to the juke, chose a song and cut her rug.

  It was the best three minutes of my shitty week. In fact, there were thirteen of us in there and, I think, they’d all agree. When she finished, we all clapped except for Linky, who told her that she had lost the bet.

  Perplexed, she asked why. Linky told everyone that he had to pick out the song so it was a natural forfeit. We all groaned at him and it didn’t take long for tears to well up in Elsa’s big brown peepers.

  She looked around the joint and recognition reared its ugly head. It was obvious that Elsa had enough. She charged toward Linky and hurled that plastic blue tray right at him. He ducked so most of the glasses hit my pinball machine — which was on its way out anyway.

  Elsa grabbed her coat, told me she was sorry and walked across the street to the diner, where I see her every day waiting tables with a smile.

  She was a good kid and I’m glad for her. That said, I’m even happier that there’s no jukebox in there.

  The Calm Before the Storm

  Havana, 1953

  I told her there was nothing worse than waiting for the hurricane. And this phone call.

  She ignored me. Cracking her gum, she bopped around the
room and looked for her beach towel.

  “You comin’?”

  I shook my head and blew her a kiss. She shrugged her shoulders, returned a smooch and slammed the door. Suddenly the room was quiet — that glorious kind of quiet that almost hums. But man, the air was as heavy as my great Aunt Millie after Thanksgiving dinner.

  I paced, played with the radio, and discovered a young musician named Tito Puente. The sweat now dripped down my neck. Even though it was barely noon, I was dying for some whiskey — something from Kentucky and aged in charred oak. The way I felt, though, I’d even go for some of that rotgut hooch mixed with Passaic River sold during Prohibition. I looked around the room. All they seemed to have down here was rum. Tons of it. To me, the swill tasted like coffin varnish.

  But there was a storm coming and it was all I had.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I couldn’t see a hole in a ladder. She’d been at Café Sunburn all afternoon and trotted back into the bungalow looking like a ripe Jersey tomato.

  “Did you fall asleep in the sun?” I asked.

  She told me instead of tanning lotion she rubbed some Cuban paprika on her front to get some color. I’d say it worked.

  “What’cha doin’?” she asked.

  I pointed to the phone. It meant that I was still waiting for the phone call that would bring me to him.

  * * *

  The magazine wanted me to find his human side. Whatever that meant. A dictator was a dictator any way I sliced it and this Clyde’s tale was a common one: Seized power in a military coup, banned elections and followed up with right wing policies.

  I was instructed by Esquire to specifically ask him about a charismatic young revolutionary named Castro and what’s being discussed in hush-hush circles as “The Movement.”