The Dame Did It

by Joel Jenkins

  Just then, an enforcer named Jack Morristi made a point to express his opinion in audible fashion. “Heh! Of course that bug is gonna support the dame taking over a man’s job. He’s got lots to gain considerin’ how he would be boffing the new boss.”

  Overhearing the remark, Ira became incensed and pointed his Colt in Jack’s direction. “What the hell did you just say, Morristi? Say that again, why don’t you!”

  “C’mon, we all know how sweet on this girl you are, Ira,” Jack stood up and said. “And I’m not sure how much respect any of the boys should have for a guard who needs a skirt to save him.”

  Ira’s grip on the trigger tightened. “You son of a—”

  Gia stepped in and motioned for her lover and bodyguard to stand down. “Now, now, Ira, no need for you do anything like that.”

  “But—”

  She then grabbed the Colt out of Ira’s hand, and in a blur of motion shot Jack directly in the throat. His adam’s apple exploded in a shower of crimson, and every man sitting in his near-vicinity were sprayed with his blood, along with pieces of his larynx and esophagus.

  “Jee-zus,” Al said, too stunned to react any further.

  Gia then pointed the gun in the general direction of the assembled men. “Let’s all get something straight here. I totally am a skirt, but I’m a skirt who’s in charge! Did ya’ll enjoy that red shower I gave you? Would some of the rest of you like to contribute the blood for one of those, like Mr. Morristi did? No? Then shut up and don’t give me no more back talk!”

  The assembly remained completely quiet, their attention respectfully focused on Gia. The sole exception was Jack, who was too dead to give attention to anyone in this world any longer; his wide-open eyes glared unblinking at the ceiling, as blood continued to pour from what was left of his throat.

  When Gia looked at Al for a response, he simply clasped his hands together and nodded in abeyance.

  “All right, good,” Gia said, cautiously lowering her gun. “Now that that’s out of the way, we can discuss business.”

  * * *

  Florence Gates ran at a hurried pace down a darkly lit area of Buffalo known as “the Hooks.” Close to the city’s harbor in the Erie County Canal, it provided an ideal shipping area for illegal liquor and other types of contraband; hence, as one might expect, it attracted more than its share of mob-related activity. The young woman traipsed quickly down Dante Place, to a large church that had long been a secret hideout for Buffalo’s Gambino Family in the midst of Provenzo territory.

  Making her way to the back entrance where she knew the meetings took place, she began frantically pounding on the door.

  “Vito, darling!” she shouted. “Are you there? I need you! Please help me!”

  A known Gambino enforcer opened the door to let her in. She saw that five men were present, none of whom, unfortunately, were her lover Vito. She did recognize Vito’s much feared right-hand man, Ricky Lopresti, however.

  “Hey, look at the sweet patootie that came knocking!” one of the men squealed in delight. “Come to party with the big boys, doll?”

  “Shaddup, Ramus,” Lopresti hollered. “This dame is Vito’s main squeeze… at least, as of a few days ago.” He looked her over. “Has that changed, Florence?”

  “Not that I know of!” she stammered. “I mean, no. No! I guess you heard what happened, right?”

  “Who in the city hasn’t, Flo?” Lopresti asked rhetorically. “Where have you been, and what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been in hiding since that awful lady went all ‘Chicago’ on us at the diner,” she explained. “I came here to be with Vito, so he can keep me safe. Is he here?”

  “No, he ain’t,” Lopresti replied. “And I’m not about to tell anyone, even you, where he is. If he wants you to be with him, he’ll find you first.”

  “Oh,” she said with a crestfallen tone.

  “But you can stay here in the meantime,” Ramus stated with a grin. “And we’ll give ya all the protection you’ll need. Right, Ricky”?

  “Shut your hole, Ramus!” the dark-complexioned lieutenant repeated. “Don’t make me have to tell you a third time!”

  Suddenly, three figures entered the door, the first of them shoving Florence aside with a casual push. As they walked further into the illumination provided by the array of lit candles, the trench-coat-and-pub-cap-wearing figure of Gia Provenzo was revealed. Fido and Ira were directly behind her.

  “H’lo, Ricky,” Gia greeted acerbically. “Vito may not be here, but you’ll do for now.”

  Lopresti began reaching for the roscoe located in his jacket pocket. “Are you Gino Provenzo’s daughter? What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to pay a social call and introduce you to my good friend Tommy,” she said. With another of her characteristic displays of lightening-like reflexes, she brandished a Thompson 1928 sub-machine gun from its hiding place in her trench coat.

  Lopresti and his men stood transfixed with astonishment for a moment. And a moment was all Gia needed.

  “Y’see, we heard this rectory here was infested with cockroaches,” she lamented. “And my trusty goombah Tommy is a world-class exterminator!”

  Gia then unleashed a spray of deadly hot lead at close range. The carefully controlled arc of bullets struck the chest and stomach areas of the men before her, ripping through flesh and internal organs like a hot knife slicing through a stick of butter. Within several seconds, as Gia’s clip was emptied into the room, the walls and tables were soaked in scarlet gore. Florence fell down on her knees and covered her ears, terrified her bladder and bowels would empty on the floor.

  Gia walked through the blood-stained room, inspecting the condition of each body. She discovered that Lopresti was still alive, though he had a hole the size of a baseball in his lower abdomen, his small intestine jutting out like a glistening pink snake. He was in a sitting position and desperately attempted to hold his displaced guts in their proper place.

  Barely conscious and in shock, Lopresti looked up and saw Gia standing above him with a sardonic grin on her face. “Wow, Ricky, don’t let anyone tell ya that you’re not one to totally spill your guts for this job! Muah-ha-ha!”

  “Geezzzz… Gia-aaa,” was all Ricky could muster for a response. “Vito is gonna kill you… for this…”

  “I think you got things backwards there, dear,” she said. She brandished a derringer and pointed it directly between Lopresti’s eyes. “Tell me where your boss is, and I’ll get you to a hospital. You got my word on that, and you know the Provenzo code of honor.”

  “I’ll… be dead on… arrival, and… you… know it… so go f…”

  Lopresti was cut off—in more ways than one—when Gia pulled the trigger.

  “I’d hate to be the janitor of this place,” Gia remarked as she re-pocketed her pistol.

  “I sure hope Jesus forgives us for all this violence in his house,” Fido said.

  “Of course he does,” Gia retorted. “Jesus forgives us for anything! He ain’t our personal savior for nothing.”

  “Good point there, Miss Pro,” Fido noted with a smile.

  Gia then walked over to the still trembling Florence. She grabbed the crouching woman by her brown locks and pulled her back to her feet.

  “Get up, you filthy puttana!” the femme Don demanded as she slammed Florence against the wall. “You looked so pathetic cowerin’ down there. Haven’t you ever seen any Chicago-style rub-out before? Anyways, thank you for leading us to Vito’s little hiding place right under our noses. Not that you had any other choice after my boys picked you up last night, mind you.”

  “Please…” Florence pleaded. “I did what you asked. Don’t kill me don’t kill me…”

  “Geez Louise, does Vito know how to pick ’em,” Gia noted while shaking her head. “Then again, if he ever found himself a real woman, he wouldn’t be in the top seat for long, would he? So anyways, do you really want to live that badly, girlie?”

  Florence
nodded meekly.

  “Okay, then here’s what ya gotta do…” Gia began explaining.

  * * *

  BUFFALO NEWS

  August 6, 1933

  —

  QUEEN CITY IN PERIL

  By Lissa Rose

  The Chief of the Buffalo Police has declared the Queen City and its nearby environs “a virtual war zone.” This is due to the rampant increase in homicides and shootings over the past week. Our sources, who requested the strictest anonymity, claim that the recent death of respected entrepreneur and philanthropist Gino Provenzo is the catalyst for this wave of bedlam. These same sources have long reported Mr. Provenzo to be head of an Italian organized crime outfit operating in the city, and having large amounts of capital invested in a variety of businesses, both legal and illicit. Mayor Dominic Goldwater has declined any type of clarification along these lines, stating simply, “Mr. Provenzo has long been a generous donator to many charitable institutions in need. This includes various programs that assist City Hall in creating job opportunities, and I, for one, will not sully his memory by giving credence to unproven rumors.”

  However, the Mayor’s words of tribute to the late Mr. Provenzo conflict with the reports in question, which are persistent despite their lack of substantiation. A few of his bodyguards have a record of criminal offenses, and Mr. Provenzo himself was arrested twice in the past; once for petty theft when he was 15, and once for suspicion of racketeering at age 28. The charges were ultimately dropped in the first case for lack of evidence, and he was acquitted for the latter by a jury of his peers. Many in the city, however, feel that his generosity has long spoken for itself.

  It’s been reported by many in the “Little Italy” section of Buffalo that the murder of Mr. Provenzo was a pre-meditated hit by a rival syndicate, not the random action of a young marijuana addict, as stated in his obituary. The shooting spree that erupted in a West Seneca diner is said to provide ample evidence of this. Strangest of all, this siege on Mr. Provenzo’s alleged long-time rival, wealthy fruit exporter Vito Gambino, is said to be led by the former’s 23-year-old daughter Gia, who took over her father’s business following his demise. As reports of her purported ruthlessness for vengeance continue to grow, she has been dubbed the “Damsel of Disaster” by many West Side residents.

  * * *

  Gia had her arms wrapped comfortably around Ira’s torso as they relaxed in bed together mere minutes after waking up. The Queen-sized bed was more than large enough to accommodate two, and she imagined enjoying many similar hours in the future. This was one of the rare occasions when she felt at peace with herself; where she could be a woman rather than a boss or an engine of mayhem. But Ira didn’t seem to share the sentiment. He appeared increasingly distant since Gino’s death, and he found himself glaring at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling rather than Gia’s mocha brown eyes.

  “So, what’s on your mind this morning, man of mine?” she asked while rubbing his chest. “’Cause it shore doesn’t seem to be me.”

  “It’s nothing, dear,” he replied. “I just got a touch of a headache, is all.”

  “Babe, when someone answers ‘nothing’ to the question I asked, it always turns out to be something,” she said. “And that headache complaint wasn’t flattering to this girl. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s just that I miss your Papa. You don’t need to read more into it than that.”

  “Actually, I think I do. Now tell me what’s going on, or—”

  The two were interrupted by a knocking on the closed bedroom door. The voice of Jennings, the Provenzo home’s butler, made itself heard through the thick oaken door.

  “Ma’am, forgive me for the disturbance, but you told me that you wanted to be informed the moment which the letter in the red envelope arrived. Well, it has arrived.”

  “All right, Jennings, slip it under the door,” she commanded as she leapt out of bed and began getting dressed.

  “Will do, ma’am,” was Jennings’ expected response, and she grabbed the scarlet envelope the moment it was slipped under the crack of the door.

  After opening and reading the missive, she turned to Ira with a stern expression. “We can talk things over later, babe. Flo finally managed to contact Vito and find out where he is. This war has been going on for over two weeks now, and it’s gotta end!”

  “So where is he?”

  “He’s in the harbor on that fancy yacht of his. He’s fixin’ to go to Canada to get some new recruits and lay low for a while. But we’re gonna stop him before he leaves.”

  “I hope you know it isn’t going to be easy to breach the security of that yacht. I suggest—”

  “Your suggestion is considered, and dis-missed! Sorry, honey, but I’m the boss, not you, and we have to end this war yesterday. I ain’t gonna let Buffalo become like Chicago or New Orleans under my watch! I owe that much to Papa.”

  Ira sighed and looked down as he put on his pants. “Do you want me to gather the usual crew?”

  “You shore do read my mind, honey bun. No wonder I hired you as my chief enforcer. Hah! Now let’s go do this while we still got the element of surprise.”

  * * *

  About two hours later, Vito Gambino sat in his barricaded quarters, located in the bottom floor of his yacht, From Sicily with Love. He fumbled with his Colt nervously amidst his two main bodyguards, Heff and Johnny-Boy, the latter watching the cabin door. Heff approached and told him what was on his mind, something he felt necessary.

  “Boss, I’m tellin’ ya, it’s not wise to wait for that broad of yours to come here before heading to Canada. She could be in jail and singin’ like a canary, or split town.”

  “I don’t think so, Hess,” Vito opined. “Flo is a stand-up doll, and she really has it for me. I know she’ll be here before the day is out, and it would be un-gentlemanly of me to rush off without her.”

  “Un-gentlemanly? Boss, I gotta be up front with you for your own good, which is part of my job. Your major weakness is dames like Flo. You find one broad you see as classy, and you’re hooked! A man of your position can have any girl he wants, you don’t need to settle—”

  “Settle? Watch how you speak of Flo, Heff, or I’ll forget what your job is! How would a trigger-holding mook of your position know the difference between a floozy and a woman of worth anyway?”

  Heff merely looked at his boss, hesitant to speak out of fear for what he might say in response to the insult on both his person and station.

  “Look, Heff,” Vito finally said after a few minutes of silence. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying that I know a stand-up girl when I meet one, and Flo is it—”

  The Gambino Don was then interrupted by a knock on his cabin door. Another of his guards announced that he received a package and note from Florence. He euphorically opened the door and took the shoebox-sized package with purple wrapping and mauve ribbon. It had an envelope on it with large cursive letters saying, “To My Mookie Vito” in Flo’s very distinctive hand-writing.

  “Boss, let us take a look at that before you open it,” Heff said.

  “No, no, it’s okay, it’s from her,” Vito retorted. “Purple and mauve are her two favorite colors, something known only by people who know her as well as I do. Also, that handwriting is very obviously hers, and the nickname she gave me is something only she and I would know.”

  Vito unwrapped the package, inside which was a letter attached to a small gift. More of her handwriting was scribed on the interior letter: “My dearest Vito, this is from me to you, until we can be together again.” Upon opening the lid to the gift, he realized, to his horror, that upon being opened it was rigged to pull the pin on a Mills grenade inside the package.

  “Oh, shit,” he said quietly.

  Seeing what happened, Heff shouted to his boss to duck behind his heavy oak dresser set while he grabbed the package and ran towards the side portal to hurl it out into the water. Despite his practiced speed, Heff was a second too late, and
the grenade went off while he was about to throw it. The guard’s body was blasted to pieces in a shower of blood and internal organs. The impact of the explosion sent Johnny-Boy flying clear through the locked door of the quarters, reducing every organ in his body to shapeless mush in the process. Severe damage to the entire vessel had ensued, though Vito was spared serious injury thanks to the thick, heavy wood of the dresser he hid behind.

  “Dear God,” he said as he recovered from being stunned and deafened. Through his haze, he could hear the intense exchange of gunplay between his trigger men and those of… someone else. The bitch found me, he mused to himself. And you must have helped her, Flo. How could you sell me out like that, babe? We could’ve had it all…

  Vito forced himself to his feet, scrambling to search for his Colt while his senses returned.

  Elsewhere on the yacht, the surprise detonation of the grenade succeeded in allowing Gia’s crew to breach the heavily secured vessel. She personally strode over its deck and into the corridors of its living area, with Fido and Ira at her side, the three of them blasting all opposition aside with the Colt and Tommy guns they respectively carried. Behind them, a horde of her trigger men engaged those of Vito, with losses on both sides accumulating in favor of Gia’s forces.

  Finally, Gia located Vito’s cabin, its location described to her by Florence. She stepped over Johnny-Boy’s piecemeal corpse and into the room. She grinned with satisfaction when she saw the remains of Heff spattered all over the floor.

  “Careful you don’t slip on the mess,” she cautioned her two compatriots.

  Having recovered his Colt, Vito peeked from the cover of one of his dressers and fired. Gia saw him just in time, however, and she leapt behind a large oaken coffee table on the other side of the room to evade the shot. Fido and Ira jumped back out the door for cover, but prepared to step back in and return fire.

  “Stay out of this, boys!” Gia ordered. “This is between me and that dirty rat!”

  “You fat puttana!” Vito yelled as he took another shot, also failing to penetrate Gia’s cover.