“Well, you can watch me eat mine. Meet me in the Acapulco lounge in thirty.”
“OK. In thirty minutes then.”
“Yeah.” I jumped out of bed, showered, shaved and washed in less than fifteen minutes. I was sat at a table for two by the time Rachel arrived. She turned up ten minutes early.
“HOW ARE YOU?”
“Still shaken a bit from last night,” she replied.
“I don’t want to know,” I countered. She looked at me quizzically and I realized I’d revealed more than I’d wanted to with that remark. Like an angel with an apron, the waitress took our order. I had my usual and Rachel had coffee. Even though she’d already eaten, she could have had anything on the menu. After all, Eliza was paying for the damn thing.
As I was eating, I could tell Rachel was watching my every move. By the time I’d finished my coffee, she had turned her napkin into a catamaran. “What shall we do today, then?” I looked deep into her eyes and thought of nothing but her perfume. I made a mental note to find out what it was. “When’s Aaron back?” She lowered her eyes and played with her hair. “I dunno. He didn’t say. Only that he’d back in time for dinner tonight.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Having lost eye contact I snapped back into private dick mode. I needed to figure out what Aaron was up to. Yesterday’s breakfast was still sitting in the pit of my stomach. And I’m not talking about the under-cooked eggs either.
“No, but I overheard him speaking to a guy on the phone before we came down for breakfast.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. He just checked on the time for the meeting and that was it.” I could tell the broad was lying: her eyes kept shifting from left to right, but wouldn’t look into mine.
“How d’you figure it was a guy and not a dame?”
“Aaron wouldn’t have dumped me for the day to see another woman,” she replied, indignantly. Besides, she was probably right. Whatever business Aaron was involved in, the chances were that it was business. Not even Aaron would take a dame to Vegas to fuck her brains out and then leave her to ball some other babe. Aaron might not have smarts, but he’s not a complete schlemiel.
“So what else did he say?”
“Not much, like I said. Only he was going to see this guy at nine and that it could last all day ... stop quizzing me, I don’t like it.” That I could believe. Rachel was used to giving the orders and she didn’t like it when I turned the tables on her.
“Sorry,” I lied, “I’m just worried that Aaron’s in trouble. If he is, I want to help. That’s all.”
We sat, silent for a spell and the catamaran became a swan. “Where d’you learn to do that?”
“Art school. I took a class last year. Gave me something to do in the afternoons.”
“Yeah?” For the moment, I couldn’t think of anything to say. And then I realized what I needed to do. “How d’you fancy a walk on the Strip?” The walk wasn’t important, I was just hoping that as we checked out the no-hopers taking a break from their gambling, Rachel might loosen up. I needed to find out what Aaron was up to. Whatever it was - and I had some ideas already - I knew he was in over his head. Aaron wasn’t the kind of guy to carry a piece and, despite the many deals he struck, I’d never known anyone to actually want him dead. There’d been Bernie Schwartz, of course. He was all mouth though. I’ll tell you his story some other time. For now, my task was to find out what was going on with Aaron and who the hell he was meeting.
3
IF I’D HAD any sense, I would have got up early and followed him, but I’d drunk too much the night before and besides, I liked Aaron a lot, but not enough to lose any sleep over him. He’d done my some favors along the way and, in turn, I’d helped him out of a few jams.
Rachel agreed to the walk, muttering something about wanting to get a gulp of fresh air. She was sick and tired of the air con in the hotel. This made no sense as her apartment in New York had air con. I said nothing. We left the Tropicana and headed east.
“Tell me more about your art class,” I asked. It worked. Rachel was happy to talk about herself for the ten minutes we took to reach the Holiday Inn. For no good reason other than Rachel didn’t want to walk any more, we popped inside to have a coffee.
As we sauntered into the coffee lounge, I was shocked at what I saw, but I didn’t let it show.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, I thought I recognized one of the punters, that’s all.” I said, deadpan. Aaron was sitting with his back to us, talking to an olive-skinned greaseball in a three piece green suit. And I mean green. Like an apple.
My brain whirled round inside my head. I needed to find out precisely what was being said, but I knew if we stayed, Aaron would have a bullet in his brains before lunch time. Fuck. Today was not going to win any Best Day of 1976. Shit.
Grabbing Rachel by the elbow, I tried to swivel her round.
“What’re you doing, you ape?”
“The punter ... it is him and the last time I saw him he said he’d break my arms if he saw me again. Sorry babe, we’ve gotta leave. Now.” By this time Green Suit was looking our way and we were starting to make a scene. Or rather Rachel was starting to make a scene. Aaron turned round to check out the commotion and for the second time in two days there was total anger in his face. I was not helping his blood pressure. Aaron stormed over to us, at which point Rachel pulled herself away from me and went straight to the bar. Not to Aaron but to the bar - like she knew not to screw things up for Aaron.
“You stupid fuck! What the fuck are you doing? For Chris’ sake, all you had to do was keep that bitch company for one day.” Aaron pointed to Rachel as he screamed this. I looked him straight in the eyes: “We’d just been going for a walk ...” I trailed off because I knew that the truth was unbelievable. But Aaron calmed down almost immediately.
“Okay. Now you’re here, you can help me.”
“How?”
“I want you to pretend you’re my bodyguard. A heavy. Don’t act like a gorilla, but make sure Frankie sees you’re carrying your gun.”
“OK, but what’s going on, Aaron?”
“Can’t say now. I’ll tell you later. Promise.”
WE WALKED OVER to Frankie and Aaron made the introductions. We sat down and I ordered a black coffee. Frankie spoke as though nothing had happened and I didn’t exist.
“You’re getting heat from Michael and you want me to act on your behalf. Why should I intercede in this matter?” That one line told me all I needed to know. Don Michael Lambretti was the head of one of the five Families and Aaron was going to cut a deal with Frankie - or rather I should say Frankie ‘The Hammer’ Pentangelo - to save his bacon.
Frankie was Lambretti’s nephew. A Wise Guy. There were a million stories of how Frankie got his nickname. My favorite concerned a Joe who had run up a hundred grand marker with a bookie named Vince, who was working under the Don’s protection. The Joe’s real name was Fred or Barny or whatever. Anyway, the story goes that Don Michael didn’t approve of this bum treating him like JP Morgan and wanted to teach him a lesson - as well as send out a message to the other Joes. Don Michael was not pleased and he let Frankie know it. Frankie was only twenty at the time and, quite rightly, wanted to show Don Michael what a good guy he was. So, in his naïve way, he could only think of one thing to do. He invited Barny over to his apartment to talk about a numbers racket. While he was sipping his seven-and-seven on the rocks, Frankie Pentangelo slammed a hammer into the top of his head, killing him instantly. He dumped Barny’s body into the Hudson and got an alibi. Four days later, the body washed up on the New Jersey side. The cops used dental records to identify him - Frankie had sliced off the guy’s finger tips. He was brought in for questioning, but Frankie had done a thorough job and the cops had to let him go. And that is the story of how Frankie Pentangelo, nephew to the great Don Michael, got his nickname of the Hammer.
Aaron’s response to Frankie’s question was slow, th
oughtful and with more than just a trace of fear: “If you don’t help me, I’m dead. Don Michael wants to ‘invest’ in Five Counties Water to get hold of white money. He’s talking about taking 51 per cent of the shares. I can’t afford for him to do that. If you help me here, I’ll give you...” Frankie raised his hand up in the air to stop Aaron’s gushing.
“You think too highly of me. Now, I will not sit in the coffee lounge of the Holiday Inn and state that I know this man is a Don. And I’m not going to say I even know him. Besides, the information I have is that there’s already a contract on your head and that someone from Chicago nearly pushed the button on you yesterday. On that basis, I must tell you that my answer is no.”
AARON HAD TEARS in his eyes. I was in awe of Frankie. This man had the power to save Aaron’s life and he didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t even interested in what his consideration would be. Aaron pulled himself together and started right back at Frankie. “If you help me and call off the contract, I’ll give you a controlling stake in Los Angeles Water. It clears at least half a billion a year. Profit.”
Frankie sat there silent and put his hands together like he was about to pray. He was weighing up the deal: half a billion personal profit a year against sticking his neck out for a New York Jew. The silence lasted about a minute and I could tell Frankie had made up his mind within the first ten seconds. He wouldn’t have agreed to the meeting if he hadn’t intended to do something. He was just showing Aaron that his gratitude would need to be immense for this accommodation.
“The certificates for Los Angeles Water will arrive at my attorney’s office by tomorrow morning. I appreciate the donation. As for the other matter, let us just say you need not worry about any hostile takeover of your Five Counties business. Make the call now to get those certificates on an overnight flight. When you return to the coffee lounge, I shall be gone.” And with that, Frankie sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. I did the same and Aaron jumped up and walked, slightly faster than normal, to the kiosks to make that call.
Frankie turned to me and said: “Get out of my face.” I got up and walked over to Rachel, who was tucking into her second dry vodka martini straight up with a twist.
“You knew?”
“Yeah, but Aaron told me not to tell you ... you’re a nice guy, y’know that?” Rachel put her hands through her hair and pushed out her breasts. The drink was getting to her and her body was coming on strong.
Aaron returned and stood next to me. He looked at where Frankie had been sitting, but the Hammer had disappeared.
“It’s all taken care of.”
We stayed so that Aaron could have a drink, which he gulped down in one. Then we headed for the door. Quite what happened next will always be a blur. A guy with sunglasses and a gray suit stood at the entrance to the lounge. From what I remember, he pulled out a gun and pointed it at Aaron, who grabbed Rachel to use as a shield. The hood fired three shots. The first landed in Rachel’s shoulder. I grabbed her and yanked Aaron onto the floor. The second shot spat out of the barrel and whipped straight through her chest and out the other side, missing me by about an inch. Instinctively, I hit the deck, taking Rachel with me, but the third slug landed between her eyes. The splatter spread across Aaron, myself and the bar. Two early morning drinkers vomited immediately.
That was it. Aaron noticed all the blood and brains on him and screamed, thinking bullets had splattered through his body. But he was clean. Me too. Rachel was dead after the second shot, according to the autopsy. We spent thirteen hours in the precinct house but neither Aaron nor myself knew what the guy looked like and, even if we did, we weren’t going to say.
There’s not a lot else to add. Rachel was a sexy broad, with big tits and a lovely ass who screwed her best friend’s husband. Given time, I could have fallen in love with her. One final thing: I never found out what scent she was wearing.
PART TWO
NEW YORK 1961
4
BY THE TIME my plane landed back at JFK, I’d had time to settle my stomach. And, like I said before, as I stood at the top of the steps leading down from the shuttle, Simone Lambretti was waiting for me. To say I was surprised to see her would be an understatement. The last time I’d seen her, she’d shown me her stomach. But that was OK, she was only four at the time. Simone’d snuck into her father’s office when I’d been summoned there for a meeting. That was eighteen years before, back in ‘61.
I recognized her through the papers. I don’t think a month’d gone by since her sixteenth birthday when she’d been out of the press. Much to her old man’s annoyance. The reason I was in Don Lambretti’s office had nothing to do with Simone, however, and a lot to do with some difficulties he was facing. One of his ‘associates’ had thumbed through the phone book for a gumshoe and dialed my number. When an associate of the Don calls you and asks whether you’d like to meet with the Don this afternoon, you take a cab and to hell with the expense.
Lambretti lived upstate in a mansion hidden from the road by a wood. A single dirt track led to the copse where the house was. Kids were playing out front and, leaning against the front door posts, were two hoods packing pieces. It was the middle of summer and these goons were sporting long black coats.
As my cab stopped out front, one of the goons sprung up and rushed to open the door. “I’ve come to see Mr. Lam...” I began to say, but before I could finish my sentence, the goon had grabbed me from the cab, paid off the driver and hustled me inside. This was not a good way to start a business meeting.
THE INSIDE OF the house was cluttered. Filled with the kind of crap only a very rich man with very little taste could accumulate. Stag heads mounted on the walls. Paintings of old men with their horses. The one thing I was certain of was that none of the guys in the pictures were Lambretti’s family - this Italian-American had WASPs on his walls.
The goons hustled me into the library. I stood in the middle of the room and as I swiveled round, the gorilla shut the door on his way out and I heard him turn the key. In the book room were rows of dusty leather-bound slabs set against the walls and two high-backed reading chairs. I grabbed one of them and dragged it so that its back was against one of the walls. I sat down, sinking into the upholstery and waited.
One lifetime later, the door unlocked itself and Lambretti entered, closely followed by two of his henchmen. Instinctively, I stood up and went over to shake his hand. Lambretti looked at my outstretched hand as though it had shit on it. I smiled and put the offending item in my trouser pocket. Lambretti glided over to my chair and sat down, beckoning me to do likewise. Without taking his eyes off me, he motioned for the goons to leave the room. They nodded, departing without saying a word. We were alone.
“So Mr. A-d-k-i-n-s, thank you for coming to see me at such short notice,” he intoned, slowly, coldly; as though his interest in the niceties was to set me at my ease rather than because there was even a grain of truth in his gratitude.
“No problem. It is an honor that a man such as yourself should have even heard of me, let alone...”
Lambretti held his hand up to silence me. He wasn’t interested in my ass-licking.
“Never mind. I did not invite you here to exchange pleasantries, Mr. Adkins. May I call you Jake?”
“Sure can, all my friends call me Jake.”
“I am not proposing to be your friend, Jake. Instead I am proposing you carry out a job of work for me.”
“I guessed as much,” I retorted, hoping to show that I was quick-witted and the kinda guy who wouldn’t let him down.
“A very fine guess, Jake. The task I have in mind for you should be relatively simple to accomplish,” he smiled, “even for someone of your ... shall we say ... talents.”
I scrunched up my face quizzically, not knowing whether he was complimenting me or not.
“Jake. All I ask that you do is to do nothing. Or rather carry on doing what you are currently doing. Nothing more.”
AT THIS POINT the French windows burst o
pen - had I mentioned there were French windows? - and little Simone rushed in, jumping onto her dad’s knee and lifted up her smock. Lambretti’s eyes warmed and he said sweet nothings to his kid, before telling her to leave him and daddy’s friend to their conversation. I had never really thought of Don Lambretti as a ‘daddy’, you know?
Anyway, once the French windows were securely shut and Lambretti had sat back in his chair, I asked: “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“You are on a case at the moment, are you not?”
I thought long and hard. I had a couple of choices. First, I could lie and pretend I wasn’t on a case and that they’d got the wrong guy. The chances are I’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson. Second, I could tell the truth and admit I’d been following a broad for a couple of weeks. This blonde spent her whole time sashaying between beauty parlors and Fifth Avenue boutiques. Her life was a million miles from daddy Lambretti and his hoods. Third, I could admit that I was on a job and that I was tailing Dawn Pasquale, but that as nothing was happening, I had called it quits.
“Yes I am. I’ve been tailing a broad up and down Fifth Avenue. It’s good money but I’m gonna call it quits.”
“No you are not. I will double whatever you are being paid now if you agree to my request that you carry on.”
The john who’d got me to tail Pasquale was a well-to-do heel who was paranoid she was out sucking some other guy’s cock. Instead she was sucking his credit cards dry. But the way I figured it was this: he was paying me $200 a day plus expenses. If I told Lambretti I was earning $300, the Don would give me $600 to do the same job, making a grand total of $800 every time the alarm clock went off. And whichever way you look at it, that’s a lot of green backs.
The Case Page 2
