Maestro: 4 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  “Herbie,” her voice had a teasing little edge. “I do believe you’re a transvestite. You’ve been trying on her clothes.”

  “Transvestite your bum,” Herbie said with a big grin. “Anyway, her stuff d never fit me, even if I was your common or garden freak.” He gave her a wicked look, his eyes dancing. “Tell you one thing, Pucky Curtiss, this lady gets a lot of stuff from Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Victoria’s Secret, Herb? And how would you know?”

  “I seen the catalogue. Very rousing stuff. Very you, Pucky. You should get a nightdress or something. This is disconsolating for a red-blooded male.”

  “I think you mean disconcerting, Herb.” She did not even blush.

  After a moment, she said she would go on listening to the tapes. “I’ll join you for dinner tonight.” She gave him what her mother would have called an old-fashioned look. “Then, maybe, I can see the wigs. See if it’s safe for me to go out alone.”

  When he had gone she stretched back on the pillows. Everyone had talked about this large ugly man’s charm. He certainly had a cheeky way with him, and he was not as ugly as some people claimed. She smiled to herself and then thought, “Pucky Curtiss, grow up. Kruger’s old enough to be your father. Well, almost old enough.”

  After lunch, and Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring, Louis carried on with his story. Within minutes, Herbie was transported back to Chicago in the mid-1920s.

  (19)

  CARLO’S PROBLEM, LOUIS DISCOVERED much later, concerned his cousin: his father’s brother’s daughter. The brothers had quarreled many years before, otherwise approaches would have been made directly through Carlo’s family. This was far from advisable, and Lucio Giarre, the uncle, had made a neat and timely detour, having written straight to his nephew, Carlo. In any case, he knew that Carlo was nearer than anyone else in the family to the real seat of power in Chicago.

  The girl was around nineteen or twenty years of age, and showed no sign of wanting to marry any of the young men who were always hanging around her parents’ apartment. Terrible interfamily fights had ensued, particularly when the girl’s parents had attempted to force her to marry one particular man. As Carlo’s uncle had written—

  He was a nice boy, and it would have been a good match, but she is a willful child and does not listen to nobody. I have told her many times that she should take heed of her elders, and that tradition demands she marry the man we pick for her. She is now of the age. But girls today seem to disregard the old ways. She fights us all the time, and, for the peace of the family, I feel it would be better for her to get away from home for a season or two. Could you possibly ask Mr. Torrio or Mr. Capone, for whom we have great respect, if they could find any decent work for her? You know what I mean. I do not wish for my little Sophie to get mixed up with bad women, and I am sure you would say the same. I know you like and respect her, Carlo. Even you might think of taking her in marriage. This would keep it in the family. In spite of the differences between your father and myself, I ask humbly if you can help?

  Carlo’s uncle knew his nephew was a soft touch. He had always liked Sophia—they all called her Sophie—and the pair had played together as children, before the rift had come between their two fathers.

  But what to do with a bright young Italian girl, almost twenty years of age, and very attractive, here in Chicago? There was really only one kind of work Torrio or Capone could put her to, and if Carlo knew his cousin, she would not care for that. Besides, his uncle would flay him alive if he discovered his Sophie was whoring.

  Yet Carlo was conscious of his obligations; after all he was a Sicilian and his family, large and strong back home, was growing in the United States. Already four more cousins and his aunt and uncle—from the village which bore their name, on the island’s eastern coast, in the shadow of Mount Etna—were on their way to New York, via Ellis Island. Soon the Giarre family, in America, would be very strong in numbers. Yet, now, this moment, he had to do something. Capone had no Sicilian blood in him, but at least he was Italian, a Neapolitan, so he would understand about family matters.

  On the night Louis went off to the opera with Tony “The Gentleman” Genna, Carlo saw Capone in private. Capone listened without interrupting, then sat for a while, sucking on his big Havana cigar.

  “Carlo,” he said at last. “Ya puttin’ me in a difficult position. I don’ have to tell ya the kinda work we got for broads here. There ain’t really no other way a broad can make a living in our operation. Not if she wants to live good.” He paused, taking another suck on his cigar. “Mind, I appreciate ya point. She’s family, and ya know what I thinka family. You’re family far as I’m concerned, so I’ll tell ya what I’ll do. If ya can make a place for her at The Barn, a job where she’s not turning tricks for johns, ya got her. Ya have full responsibility. Ya put her to work. Ya keep her virgin white, if that’s the deal ya got with yer uncle. Me? I take no responsibility, except I pay the salary. I can’t be fairer than that, huh?”

  Capone was fair, Carlo admitted that to himself. But he saw problems ahead. Sophie was terrific looking and the last time he had set eyes on her, when she was around sixteen, even he had thought she would make a great lay. She had a ripe and perfect figure, huge black eyes, thick jet-black hair. At that age, Sophie had a way of walking and moving that would arouse any man. If she came to The Barn, he would have to watch over her like a guardian angel. As for him marrying his own cousin, Carlo fancied her sexually, of course, but he would never tie himself to a family member. He had other fish to fry. If and when he married, it would be someone way outside his own clan. For him to marry Sophie, or even touch her in the wrong way, would be disaster.

  Then, suddenly, he had another idea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Louis was an old buddy, and Louis would do as he was told. Exactly as he was told. No doubt about it. Louis could be the answer to the whole thing.

  Back at The Barn, Carlo called his uncle in New York. Sophie could come to Chicago next week. By the time she arrived, he would have a good, honest, clean job all staked out for her.

  His uncle’s gratitude was almost embarrassing.

  It was late when Louis got back to The Barn that night, so Carlo did not even bother him with the plan. He merely asked if Louis had enjoyed his evening.

  They had been to see a lavish production of Aida—Tony Genna, Louis and two girls that Genna had brought along as their dates. After the performance, Tony took them all to one of the Genna-controlled restaurants. Louis had enjoyed a fine night. The opera had been magnificent, and the restaurant was one of the better places, and did not sell any of the Genna poison, only the best Italian wines brought in illicitly by boat. The food was excellent, and his date proved to be pleasant and pliable. She shared a large apartment with Genna’s girl, and they all ended up at her place.

  Before going in, Tony had whispered that it would not be a good idea for them to stay all night. In any case, he had to get home to the family—“I must check on one or two things.”

  Louis caught on quickly, and considered that the real truth was the girls were probably high-class Genna-operated whores. Tony would be penalized for keeping them from work.

  Louis’ date was called Anna-Louise and she had a distinct New York accent, long golden hair, which proved to be unnatural when she stripped, and breasts fashionably like those of a young boy.

  She was very experienced, though she treated Louis correctly, as though he were doing the seducing. It was on this night that Louis got his first taste of oral sex. Or, to put it another way, as he later thought, Anna-Louise got her first taste of Louis. She certainly appeared to take as much pleasure in its giving as he did in the receiving. She had a wide and generous mouth and Louis experienced the most exquisite sensations as she went down on him, seeming to take him almost to the back of her throat.

  Louis still did not associate sex with the emotion of loving. In his own way he had loved his father and mother before that had turned sour, certain
ly he loved his cousins with a sense of pride and longing passion. This thing you did with girls was for pleasure and relief; it had little to do with emotion.

  “Later, Herbie, I discovered the true horror and anguish when you mixed the two together, love and sexual passion. That deepest of human feelings, when I finally discovered it, real love brought me nothing but pain, as you will see.”

  When they left the girls’ apartment there was a car waiting, together with a pair of hoods: one to drive and the other to act as a bodyguard. None of the Gennas traveled without some kind of guard. Like Torrio and Capone, they were big wheels and, therefore, at constant risk, particularly if the uneasy truce—manufactured by Johnny Torrio—ever broke down.

  “Ya meet any of the other Gennas?” Carlo asked. Louis had indeed met them over an early morning drink at the Genna residence. Carlo was very interested to hear what Louis thought of them.

  “Kinda scary.” He did not really want to talk about it, for he had felt like an interloper, under constant scrutiny while in the Genna home. There was also something else that worried him: a sense of pent-up violence. Not that they were unpleasant. In fact they treated him with careful consideration; yet, the whole time he was there, Louis had this strange feeling that the Gennas were working out angles, sizing him up, testing him out. He was glad Tony had been with him, for the rest of the Gennas appeared vulgar and uncouth beside their educated brother.

  In particular, Angelo and Mike seemed dangerous. Over drinks, in the early hours, they spoke almost casually about what they had done that very afternoon to a saloon keeper who had been caught cheating on the family.

  “Right in duh balls,” “Bloody” Angelo said with glee. “I shot him right in duh balls.”

  Mike—“Little Mike,” or “Mike the Devil”—laughed, throwing his head back. “Jesus, he scream, that one. I never heard anyone scream so good. We left him for a good five minutes, to know his balls was gone before I finish him off.”

  As he was leaving, Tony patted Louis on the shoulder. “We’ll have another night out soon,” he smiled. “We didn’t even get a chance to discuss the opera.” Then, his face took on a masklike quality, showing neither pleasure, pain, nor sadness: just a deadpan look. “Don’t take too much notice of the talk in there.” He spoke quietly. “The boys are high-spirited, that’s all. Sometimes I have to use my influence to stop them going over the edge. You see, they’ve found out what power can do, and if you allow power to run away with you … well, who knows how you end up. So, take no notice, let me worry about them.”

  But Louis did take notice, to the extent of repeating most of Angelo’s and Mike’s conversation to Carlo.

  Carlo did not seem perturbed. “I tol’ ya, Pianist. Killers. They’d snuff ya out like a fly. Look, we got our share of that breed right here, working for Johnny and Al. They scare the shit outta me, but those Gennas, they’re real bad news. Some guy tell me a joke, a riddle, the other day. What’s the difference between a gorilla with a machine gun and the Gennas? Ya want to know the answer? Well, ya can reason with the gorilla, right?”

  It was lunchtime the following day when Carlo asked Louis to come out and eat with him. They went to a nearby delicatessen, where everyone seemed to know Carlo, and bought sandwiches and coffee which they took into a booth at the far end of the place. As usual, Carlo sat where he had a good view of the door.

  “I got something to ask ya, Pianist,” he began, then launched quickly into the story about his cousin, Sophia. Louis chewed on his pastrami on rye, nibbled a dill pickle, and sipped his coffee, nodding all the time and wondering what was coming next.

  “Now, she ain’t no whore, I’ll tell ya that.” Carlo stabbed his finger across the table. “Nobody touches her, and any funny stuff is out, capisce?”

  Louis nodded, still waiting for the punch line. Somehow he felt that Carlo had a really important favor to ask of him.

  “Ya see, I got complete control of her. She’s my total responsibility. I gotta see she comes to no harm, right?”

  “Right,” said Louis.

  “I’m father and mother to her. Father, mother, guardian angel, everything; and that’s where ya come in, Pianist.” He continued to explain that Sophia Giarre had what he termed, “A fair voice, like for singing. She used to sing at the church back home, and I heard her sing around the house. My uncle thinks she’s blessed with the greatest voice ever, okay?”

  The thought filled Louis with dread. Already he was wise enough, in musical knowledge, to perceive in others that perverse and rose-tinted distortion regarding the musical talents of relations, or people emotionally near to them.

  “What I figure,” Carlo continued, “is that ya work with her. See if ya can lick her into shape—for singing, that is. See what I mean? Ya can teach her a few numbers. Y’play piano and she sings for the customers. Y’also make sure that the johns know she’s forbidden fruit—and that applies to yerself, Louis, as well as the other rams around here.” The seriousness of this last remark was underlined by the use of Louis’ real name. Seldom did Carlo call him anything but Pianist.

  Louis Packer was appalled. He knew what dangers and nightmares could lie ahead. He had a vision of some ugly girl with legs like tree trunks, an off-key voice, and a figure already plump on a diet of spaghetti and meatballs. A real chromo.

  “Lou, ya’ll do it for me, won’t ya? After all, I fixed things for ya. Just do this one thing: be kind to her, help her, keep the johns away—and those fucking bull dykes we got in the cathouse—and yerself. Be a brother and a helper to her. Do that for me and I’ll see ya set okay for life.” He sounded so desperate that Louis could not refuse him.

  “There’s nothing easier, Carlo. ’Course I’ll see she’s okay. You know you can trust me. When she get here?”

  Sometime next week, Carlo said, but Louis was not listening anymore. He knew the difficulties about family commitments, and at least he was being true to his family by maintaining contact with his beloved cousins.

  He was already getting mail from them, full of their own news: David now married; Rachel and Rebecca well on the way to becoming betrothed. To Louis, working as he did among whores, illicit drinkers and gamblers, under the control of the mob, his cousins’ stories of life in the town of Passau, and their simple, immature, emotional loves seemed far removed, even unreal. More than anything he wanted to bring David, Rachel and Rebecca to America, so they could see a different sort of life, even make new kinds of lives for themselves. His cousins were, after all, his only real family, for he had put his father and mother out of mind.

  On the following Wednesday, Sophia Giarre arrived and life changed drastically for Louis Packer.

  “But, Herbie, on the night before she came into town, something happened which made me more aware of the ruthlessness of the people I was working with. I suppose I’d been playing around and not thinking straight,” Louis told Kruger in the present. “What happened had a profound effect on me, by which I mean it scared the shit out of me on a permanent basis. It also gave me a taste of things to come: the great terror that Capone finally released.”

  On that particular night, trade at The Barn was not brisk. It was around ten thirty. The band was playing in the lounge and Louis, after running through a couple of numbers on the piano in the cathouse reception room, wandered out to the bar. Carlo was standing at a table talking to a couple of clients, sipping a glass of wine from the good supply they kept for special customers.

  The two old friends went over to the bar, and were there for about five minutes, talking about arrangements for Sophia. Carlo had turned one of the girls’ rooms into a very respectable bedroom for her, complete with a crucifix over the bed. Louis was about to return to the cathouse waiting room, having promised to go to La Salle Street train station with Carlo in the morning, when three men he had never seen before came through the doors from the lobby. The guardians, Jo-Jo and Mouse, followed them, indicating these men were trouble.

  “Stay loose, Pianist,
I think we gotta little problem,” Carlo spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Cops?” Louis asked.

  “Don’t figure. Never seen ’em before, ’cept maybe the tall one. I think I seen him a few years back, in the nineteenth ward.” Louis had heard many stories about the bloody battles and murders during the struggle for mob control of the old nineteenth ward of Chicago.

  The trio looked like mobsters. They even dressed in that flashy way Louis associated with the men who were always around Torrio and Capone. One was tall and slim, shifty-eyed and a little preoccupied with his own importance. The two, flanking him, were squat and heavy. Thugs, both of them, Louis thought.

  Carlo turned back to the bar, telling the bartender to get a couple of the boys out front fast. Capone and Torrio had recently insisted that their major speakeasies should have at least three guards, “soldiers,” on duty during opening hours. It was as though they were expecting trouble, for these were picked men, loyal to Torrio and Capone, who had proved themselves in the past, and knew how to handle fists, brickbats and weapons.

  They were always armed, as was Carlo these days. Louis often found himself fascinated by the shoulder holster with its deadly little snubnosed pistol. He got a good look at it every time Carlo wandered around his quarters without a jacket.

  The three newcomers came to the center of the bar and Carlo motioned Louis to stand behind him. It was as though he was protecting his friend, just like in the old New York days. The tallest of the three asked if they could see the manager.

  The bartender said he would see if the boss was in. He also wanted to know who was asking for him.

  “Never mind about that. Just tell him there’s some people here ready to do him a favor.”

  “Yeah,” said one of the smaller thugs. “Yeah, tell him we’ve come to do business.”

  As he spoke, the door to the cathouse waiting area opened and two of Torrio’s guards came into the lounge: Mario and Luigi. Carlo signaled for them to stay back, then he turned towards the three men. “Ya want the manager, gentlemen?”