by Lyle Howard
Pauly scanned his clipboard. “Yeah, I can see that you’re not a regular here. You usually work down in the hotel?”
Berger nodded in the affirmative. The fictitious Jimmy Smith supposedly waited tables in the casino’s coffee shop. “Can you wet a dish rag for me?”
The activity in the kitchen was calamitous. Waiters and cooks were running all over the place, screaming orders and directions at the tops of their lungs. The malignant odor of overcooked broccoli filled his nostrils. He would have known that stench anywhere. It was a foul odor he had smelled every Friday night of his entire married life. Why was it that he never had the heart to tell Sara how much he despised that vegetable?
Weaving his way through the tumult, Pauly managed to return promptly with a dampened towel. “Here, put this over your eyes,” he advised. “Let ‘em cool off for a minute. Jeez, old man, you’re sweatin’ like a pig!”
Berger let the cool compress do its work. For the first time in the past two weeks, the pain was so terrible, his mind could think of nothing else.
A few minutes passed and, thankfully, the nausea began to subside.
“You gonna be able to work?” Pauly asked, as he gnawed on a celery stick he had snatched off a passing tray of table garnish.
Berger rubbed the wet rag on the back of his neck. It felt refreshing against his clammy skin. “Sure, I can work. I’m feeling a bit better.”
Pauly pointed the half-eaten celery stalk at the old man. “You’re lookin’ much better. The color’s coming back to your face, and your eyes don’t look nearly as bad as they did a few minutes ago.”
“The towel did the trick,” Berger said. “Just point me to my station.”
Pauly shrugged. “Hey, I’m just security around here. You’re gonna have to find out from the caterer where you’re supposed to go.”
Berger held out his hand. “Well, thanks for all your help. You’re a nice young man.”
Pauly dried off his hand on his pants before shaking the waiter’s hand. “Anytime. I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.”
Berger was about to walk away, when he paused. “Oh, by the way…”
“Yeah?”
“Tony asked me to tell you that he was hungry and he wanted a sandwich.”
Pauly shook his head. “That guy must have a hollow leg or something. He just ate!”
Berger shrugged. “Well, if I make him a sandwich, will you take it down to him? I can’t face that ride again.”
Pauly looked around and shrugged. “Yeah, okay. I guess I’ll do it.”
Berger smiled, as he remembered the words of Robert Frost etched on the wooden plaque that had hung behind his desk at the hosiery factory for over 30 years: “In three words I can sum up everything I have learned about life: It goes on.” “Okay then,” he said, knowing full well that by sending him back down, he just might have returned Pauly’s kindness a million-fold. “Wait right here. I’ll be right back.”
Seven minutes to live
The party had been well underway for over two hours. Congratulatory banners, colorful streamers, and cigar smoke as thick as British fog filled the ceiling of the rotating room. Every hour, the Top of the World restaurant made one full revolution, affording diners, and in this case party-goers, a breathtaking vista of the undisputed gambling Mecca of the United States.
Chivalry was not a neglected custom in this circle of organized crime bosses, but one would have never known it from surveying this room. The women stood off to one side, sipping their martinis or stirring their gin fizzes, each trying to upstage the next with their exaggerations of wealth and power. What any one of them might have spent on their finery and jewels could have bought the average teenager a decent college education.
Unlike the women, whose voices grew louder in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol they imbibed, the men conversed in whispers. Through the choking haze of $25 illegally-imported Cuban cigars, new contacts were being made, old relationships were being cemented, and life-ending decrees were being deliberated.
And at the center of it all sat Salvatore Mangione.
Berger could see him through the diamond-shaped windows in the doors that swung out from the kitchen into the dining area. Mangione was holding court, like some sleazy pontiff accepting devotions from his faithful parishioners. Spinning his cigar between his lips until it bordered on the obscene, the stocky little man with the Julius Caesar haircut was enjoying every last minute of the party being thrown in his honor. Every last minute...
Five minutes
The cápos of nearly every major crime family were present. Berger hadn’t memorized all of their names, but he recognized them from their pictures. They stood huddled together like football players on a gridiron, with Mangione, the quarterback, in the middle of the pack. The scene was set, the timing was perfect. Berger couldn’t have asked for anything more.
“Hey! You by the door!” Berger turned to see the caterer, a tall, thin fagela scowling at him. “You come here to work, or to watch?”
“Sorry; you caught me daydreaming.”
The caterer waggled his finger in Berger’s face. “Well rise and shine, Mister Sleepyhead! You’ve got an entire plate of hors d’oeuvres to pass out before they turn to mush!”
Berger accepted his reprimand, grabbed a tray of stuffed mushroom caps, and headed out to meet his destiny.
Four minutes
A quartet from one of the casino lounges had been hired to play nothing but old Italian ballads. This style of music was obviously not an integral part of their normal repertoire—and it showed—but no one cared.
The invited guests attacked Berger’s tray of food like a flock of hungry vultures. He hadn’t made it 50 feet from the kitchen before his tray was emptied and he had to return for another. As he moved around the room passing out napkins and lukewarm egg rolls, he feigned a gratuitous smile and tried to focus on what they had told him. His instructions were specific: keep them between you and the windows.
That was easier said than done.
Three minutes
There was an unequivocal hierarchy to the way the other men were positioned around Mangione. Like the rings inside a severed tree bark, the further away you stood from the core, the newer you were to the organization, and the less power and respect you commanded. Getting close would be no simple task. At least a dozen foot soldiers stood protectively around their cápos, only allowing the waiters bearing beverages to pass through their imposing perimeter. It was time for him to make a switch.
Two minutes
Berger stepped quickly over to the bar and took his place in line behind another server waiting for a tray of drinks.
“I’ve never seen you here before. You new?” the other waiter asked.
Berger pointed to the man’s bowtie implying that it was crooked. “Filling in for someone.”
The waiter set his tray down on the bar top, handed the bartender a list of drink orders, and straightened his tie while the tray was being filled. “So, you making any money here?”
Berger shook his head.
“Yeah, me neither. All the friggin’ money in the world, and the cheap bastards got nothing but lint in their pockets! Hey, I got a wife and two kids to support for God’s sake! Cheap bastards!”
Berger grabbed the waiter by the sleeve and spun him around. “I want you to listen to me and listen closely.”
The waiter jerked his arm away. “Are you crazy, old man?”
“You’ve got to do exactly what I say.”
“Why should I?”
Berger pulled the waiter’s head close to his, and whispered in his ear. Without a moment’s hesitation, the waiter walked quickly but nonchalantly from the dining room and headed for the elevator. Berger picked up the abandoned tray of drinks. It goes on.
One minute
His hands were trembling so hard, the ice in the drinks was rattling. Through the panorama of windows, Berger could see the glitter of the city sparkling below, and in stark c
ontrast, the foreboding darkness of the desert on the horizon. The short trek from the bar to where Mangione was ruling his roost seemed interminable. Coming through … dead man walking! He remembered hearing that in a prison film somewhere.
“Where you goin’ with those?” one of the underlings gruffly asked him.
Berger stared down at his belt buckle. “Somebody ordered drinks?”
“What happened to the other guy?”
Berger took a deep breath. Even in this stale atmosphere, the air suddenly tasted wonderfully sweet. “Somebody beeped him from home. You want these drinks or not?”
The bodyguard scanned the tray suspiciously. “Yeah, go ahead.”
The rest seemed to happen in slow motion.
Salvatore Mangione was in Berger’s eyes, but not in his mind or heart. His wife Sara—he remembered her the way she looked on the day they first met. His three children, five grandchildren … their security was all that mattered. Happiness makes up for in height what it lacks in length.
Three seconds
Isaac Berger held out the drink tray with one hand and recited the Kaddish to himself. Salvatore Mangione never even saw his executioner’s face.
Zero hour … 2:42 A.M.
Windows were blown out as far away as the Mirage Hotel from the thunderous concussion of the blast. Gamblers were thrown from their stools as the shock wave rumbled down the strip. In the bumper-to-bumper traffic, windshields imploded, sending shards of razor sharp glass through the air like shrapnel from a grenade. Sleeping tourists were hurled from their beds with the force of an earthquake. Flying glass turned faces into pin cushions. Unprotected arms and legs were flayed and slashed. Eardrums were burst, and eyes were blinded, as the tidal wave of sonic force steam-rolled over anything and anyone in its path.
Everyone inside the Top of the World Restaurant simply ceased to be. The explosion came as a blast of searing white light that disintegrated everything within a 200-foot radius. The family members who were unlucky enough to be standing near the windows at the moment of detonation were catapulted outward into empty space, only to plunge headlong through the breach and splash onto the merciless pavement below.
Hundreds of stunned bystanders found themselves frozen in terror, unable to run from the surreal vision of the cars from the rooftop roller coaster plummeting toward them. Like a 50,000 pound snake slithering its way down the side of the tower, the miniature train caterwauled all the way to the sidewalk below. Over 30 innocent bystanders were instantly pulverized by the falling cars. A smoking crater 60 feet wide and eight feet deep was left in the train's bloody wake.
As far away as Henderson, Nevada, the burning tower was clearly visible. It glowed brightly against the night sky like Lady Liberty’s torch.
The cause of the explosion would be reported as a gas leak in one of the kitchen’s ovens, but there would be no in-depth arson investigation. The gossip tabloids would do their best to pursue the idea of a conspiracy theory or perhaps even a vendetta against the mob families, but all of those stories would hit a brick wall after a few weeks.
* * * * * *
The obituary said Isaac Abraham Berger died of complications from cancer very early in the morning on February 16th, 1997. His widow was the only person present at the time of his death. The funeral services were held the next afternoon at the Mount Zion Cemetery with a closed coffin. It rained the entire day.
During the grave-side eulogy, Sara Berger told her family and friends the reason for the closed coffin was that she wanted her husband to be remembered for the way that he lived, not for the way he died.
Only Sara Berger and one mysterious red-haired woman standing alone in the downpour by the cemetery gates knew that they were lowering an empty casket into the ground.
2
Downtown Miami, Florida
8:55 P.M.
Rain pummeled the city for the fifth straight day. Outside of Strofsky’s Deli, the downpour filtered through the amber streetlights creating an almost other-worldly vista to those who stared out through the restaurant’s front window. The forecast called for clearing skies, but there was no sign of a let up. It was the kind of weather that chilled a person to the bone and made them want to stay inside where it was warm and toasty—unless your job description said otherwise.
Police detectives Gabe Mitchell and Joanne Hansen sat at their regular booth debating the same topic they always did. Gabe, dressed in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, always faced the door, keeping one eye on the coat rack where both of their raincoats hung to dry. This neighborhood didn’t have the best reputation, and losing two jackets in one year was a record Gabe didn’t care to break.
Gabe, the 17-year veteran, scarfed down his usual double hamburger and a side of fries, while his younger partner grazed on her usual mixed greens with balsamic vinegar dressing eaten straight out of the Tupperware container she always brought from home. It was the same old thing, night after night. Rather than listening to her incessant lectures on eating healthy, Gabe would have much preferred dining by himself in the privacy of his own place, but he really needed the overtime.
“Don’t you ever eat anything but salads?”
“You probably wouldn’t be feeling so crappy all of the time if you tried eating something healthy instead of all that processed meat,” Hansen chided. “Just look at yourself.”
Gabe’s partner was never one to mince words. Everyone on the force saw it. Gabe had simply lost his zest for life since his wife and daughter had died a few years earlier.
He let a french fry dangle limply from the corner of his mouth. “What’s the matter with the way I look?”
He watched her stab at her lettuce and dip it into the dressing she always kept on the side. It was her only attribute he thought dainty.
“Don’t you have a mirror in your apartment?” she asked. “For the last few weeks, you’ve looked like crap on a cracker.”
Gabe molded his cheeks. “Crap on a what?”
“You’re losing your good looks, my friend.”
Gabe dipped another french fry in the massive puddle of ketchup that covered nearly half his plate. “Well, I have been feeling kinda crummy lately. You really think it’s my diet?” He held up a french fry and examined the thin, golden strip as it fell limply between his fingers. “They’re only potatoes.”
Hansen snatched the potato from him and held it up to his face. “Not after they’ve been given a hot-oil Jacuzzi, for cryin’ out loud.”
“Aw, leave me alone. You’re just a crazy vegan!”
Gabe watched her posture stiffen across from him. He could almost feel the temperature of the room suddenly drop.
“Someday after you’ve had a quadruple by-pass, my friend, I want you to remember everything I’ve warned you about! Mark my words,” she growled, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth. “All of that garbage you’re ingesting is going to be the death of you!”
Gabe took a long swig from his creme soda. “Hey, you don’t know what you’re missing!”
His partner took a sip of the bottled water that she always carried with her. “You’re killing yourself.”
Gabe lifted the top of his hamburger to reveal its ingredients to her. “Really? How? Just look at all these yummy veggies!”
Hansen forked a sliver of green pepper. “I’m telling you, I can hear your arteries clogging as we speak! You really have a death wish, don’t you?”
Gabe let out a long exasperated sigh. “And you could walk out of here and get clobbered by a bus!”
“Your point being?”
“Well, when they’re loading you into the ambulance, and the heart monitor is just about to flat line, you can say to yourself, ‘Damn, Gabe was right! I knew I should have tried that delicious looking burger!’”
“I’d bet you’d never let Casey eat that same kind of sludge, would you?”
Gabe took an extra big bite from the burger and, with his mouth near bursting, smiled. “The only good thing I’ll say for my in-
laws, is that they make sure my boy eats well. Marta the housekeeper sees to that.”
A clap of thunder shook the building and the lights in the restaurant flickered. Gabe knew Hansen was right about everything, but now it was a contest of wills that Gabe refused to lose.
“A Cuban housekeeper that tips the scales at over 300 pounds from living on a diet of frijoles negros and plantains? That’s some healthy diet for a 7-year-old.”
Gabe pointed the last few bites of his burger at her. “Hey, don’t you knock Marta! If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably never get to see my kid.”
“Well, you keep eating that shit, and the only place Casey’s gonna see you is in intensive care!”
Gabe was just about to hit her with one of his patented zingers when the door to the restaurant suddenly burst open, catching him in mid-grouse. “Oh jeez, I’m not believing this...”
Dripping wet and looking like a famished rat, a young Latino stood in the doorway brandishing a pistol. “Everybody, down on the floor!” he yelled, as the cold and rain poured in through the door. He held the gun in a trembling hand and waved it like a Fourth of July sparkler. “Just get down on the floor and nobody will get hurt!”
There were only four other patrons besides Gabe and his partner, along with two waitresses, the cook in the back, and old man Strofsky who always tended the cash register. Instinctively, Hansen’s hand went below the table, but Gabe widened his eyes, a signal for her to hold off.
“He’s just a junkie,” Gabe whispered through unmoving lips. “He’s strung out. He could shoot someone by accident. Do what he says.”
The sound of chair legs scraping against linoleum echoed through the restaurant as everyone went to their knees. Everyone except Gabe Mitchell who nonchalantly continued to stuff french fries into his mouth.
“Didn’t you hear me, buddy?” The robber screamed, shaking his gun at Gabe. “You tryin’ to be un tipo duro?”
