“Capitol Palace, tomorrow night,” Frankie grunted. “Tell him I’ll be waiting with the cash.” And a fistful of lead. “This boss of yours, lady, how will we - I recognize him?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Polletti. He’ll find you.” Click.
Betty placed the receiver gently back onto its cradle and walked into the bedroom. George was in front of the mirror, his hair oiled down as was the latest fashion.
“Have you seen my tie, jitterbug? The blue one with the stripes?”
Betty smiled and cleared her throat gently. “You mean this one, dear?” She bent down, unknotting the tie that was close to the floor, holding the legs of their two single beds together to form one.
“My lucky tie,” he winked, taking it and tapping his wife playfully on the backside. He slipped the tie under his collar.
“You rogue,” Betty giggled. She took his shoulders, turning him to face her. With nimble fingers Betty fixed his tie and straightened his collar. She took a step back, delighting in the crisp, spicy scent of the Avon after-shower spray for men she had ordered for him only last week.
“Don’t you look hotsy-totsy, today!”
“Thanks, jitterbug.”
Betty stepped up to the mirror herself, smoothing her curls and preparing to pin her matching blue hat into place. A lady never left the house without her hat. “Say, George?” she turned back around as her husband reached for the doorknob.
“Yes?”
“What do you say to a night out tomorrow? I’ll ask Mrs. Porter to look after the children. It’s been such a busy week for us both.”
“Mrs. Porter? Are you sure the old duck can manage it? She’s as deaf as a post these days.”
“Oh, she’s fine, dear. She adores the children and they know to speak up. Besides, I’ve heard of a club in Harlem that’s meant to be swell. The Seymore girls were raving about it - they said it was the ‘Cat’s Meow’!”
“High praise indeed!” George laughed. “Anything for you, jitterbug,” he said. He tipped his hat and winked at her, then turned to head downstairs, where his breakfast lay waiting for him.
“Time to skidoo, Betty! The car’s warmed up!” Betty gave the children an extra tight hug and thanked her neighbor once more for minding them, as George revved the engine in the driveway and pulled on his driving gloves. “Could you grab my wallet from the counter?” he called.
Betty ducked back inside and slipped George’s wallet into her Avon bag.
“Now you be good, dears,” she said, as she hugged the children one last time. “Mind your manners and speak up for Mrs. Porter.”
The elderly woman leaned forward, cupping her ear, “What’s that, dear?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Porter. Thank you again for watching them,” Betty shouted, before sliding into the single leather seat beside her husband. Only three years ago, George had bought a brand new black Chevrolet with silver trimmings. He kept it shined and oiled and drove it around town each day for work, proud as punch. On the weekends that they went dancing, it still felt ritzy to sail past the crowded trams and trains on the way into New York City.
They passed the splendid houses of Park Avenue and skirted the East fringe of Central Park until they hit Lenox Avenue. Under its layer of grime and crooked smiles, the street was buzzing with energy and light. A dozen or more jazz clubs boasted the most talented musicians in New York. Every night the street was brimming with hep cats and zoot suits, brass and petticoats, all looking for a brush with fame. Cab Calloway and Willie Gant lent their weight to the heavy birth of the jazz scene where The Breakfast Club and big band orchestras would fan the flames for decades to come.
Betty and George parked the car on a nearby street. Her sleeveless, cherry red, satin dress swished at her knees as she walked toward Capitol Palace. Betty brushed her perfectly rolled hair back over her shoulders and took her husband’s arm. Her lips and nails were painted bright red and her pumps were adorned with black sequins.
“Surely you don’t need such a cumbersome thing just to go dancing?” remarked George, frowning at the large cosmetic case that Betty carried in her free hand.
“You know me, darling.” Betty’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the club ahead. “Never miss an opportunity.”
Within ten minutes of arriving, Betty and George were kicking up their heels in triple step to Glenn Miller and his Orchestra. The crowd pushed against them on all sides, dolls and cats spinning and tapping the East Coast Swing. ‘In the Mood’ began, all trumpets, trombones, drums and reeds and Betty threw her head back and laughed as George dipped and spun her. Again, they surged into the smoke and body heat of the throng, reveling in glorious music.
The bar overflowed with hurricane cocktails and gin sours and in every corner, soldiers at port sat draped in adoring girls. Beneath the ritz and glamor though, Betty felt the undercurrent of the seedy world she’d once fought her way out of. At least twenty of the zoots skulking in the crowd were Polletti’s men. She felt their eyes raking the newcomers and assessing the moves of everybody in-house. Betty knew they were searching for Mr. Jimmy Carson, the fictional new wise guy that had played Polletti for a fool. And if their behavior hadn’t given it away, their thoughts certainly did.
There’s no way that spiv’s getting out of here alive, one goon thought, fingering the gun inside his pocket. Frankie could tear any mans’ guts out.
Betty smirked. That suited her just fine.
“Goodness, I’m puffed, darling,” she said, retrieving her Avon bag from their table and leading George to the bar. “Would you mind ordering me a drink while I powder my nose?” Betty leant in close, deeply inhaling his scent.
“You’re a miracle, my George. So sweet and steady.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
George smiled. “Not too dull for a diamond like you?” he asked. “Because I can dance a mean Lindy Hop!”
Betty laughed. “Perhaps later. Life should be sweet and steady, darling. That’s why I love you.” She smiled brightly, then made her way back through the crowd as he stood happily at the bar, nodding to the music.
The office was easy to find. An unmarked door past the lavatories. A narrow hallway. Another unmarked door with a thug waiting outside, arms crossed over his too-big jacket. The man let out a low whistle as she walked toward him. She set her bag down in front of him, smiling coyly as she pulled on her black leather dress gloves.
“Well, hey there Sugar, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Are ya’ rationed?”
Betty battered her eyelids as she drew close.
“Sure am.” Crack! With a spin and a high kick to the temple, the guard was dead. “And you’re doing a terrible job by the way,” she muttered, stepping over his body.
Without hesitation, Betty picked up her bag and opened the door. She stepped into a small storeroom that had been fitted out as an office. There were ten men smoking and playing cards, each with a gun beside their hand. They startled as she strode in and jumped to their feet in confusion. The potent stench of Lucky Strikes sucked towards the door as she slammed it shut behind her. The lively music that had followed her down the hallway muted to a dull thud, like a metronome that kept pulse with her heart. Betty surveyed the men quickly. Everything was laid bare for her - their motives, fears, their weaknesses. Everything swept into her mind in a whirl of information which she assessed as a matter of reflex. It was a terribly unpleasant sensation, to stare down your enemy knowing full well what he was capable of. These weren’t just goons; they were Frankie’s closest. Betty knew every one of them by sight. They were trusted for a reason. Killers, every one.
“I believe you have some cash for me, Frankie?” Betty said, ignoring them and getting straight down to business. There was no point keeping George waiting. Behind a wooden desk at the end of the room, Frankie stood up fast, knocking his chair over. He stared at her in disbelief. It had been twelve years since Betty had last seen her Uncle Frank, but with the exception of gray sides and a paunch belly, the man looked just
the same. Betty, however, was unrecognizable from the broken child he had once known.
“What’s this? Carson sends a broad to do his dirty work?”
“Oh no, Frankie. Mr. Carson doesn’t exist. But I’ll be taking the money all the same.”
Frank’s face split into a wide grin and his men laughed. “Will ya now, doll? And how do you suppose you’re going to do that?”
Betty looked thoughtful, then turned to the wall behind her and hit it with the side of her fist. She listened carefully for the hollow thud of vibration that traveled down the wall on both sides. Then she smiled, sharp and ruthless.
“With ease, Frankie. First, I’ll kill every one of you slimy bastards in this room. Then I’ll take the cash from the safe in the paneling behind that terrible picture of your cousin Donny.”
Frankie glowered up at the monochrome photograph of a hawk-nosed man with oil slicked hair and a cigar hanging from his lips. A slow dawning of comprehension broke across his face.
“You dirty little whore! Get her boys!”
Before the words had left his mouth, Betty had dropped her handbag by the door and leapt. Smack!
Crash!
The first two men to arrive had their heads knocked soundly together and crumpled out-cold to the floor. Joe and Lefty down. Betty made a mental note to finish them off later as she caught the wrist of Fat Vito, twisting his gun up to the ceiling, spinning him around, then pointing it back onto the crown of his own head. He was strong. He twisted back around, his biceps bulging with the effort. But not strong enough. Betty forced him back, jabbed the back of his knees with her pointed toes. He collapsed to his knees as she forced the trigger down. A shower of blood sprayed the floor through his own face, away from her body. It wouldn’t do to ruin such a splendid dress. Three down.
Two more men jumped her, one from each side. Behind her, Larry the Horse reached around her throat with long fingers, squeezing tight. His rabid breath on the back of Betty’s neck was even more a violation than his attempt to strangle her. Betty ran him backwards, impaling him on the muzzle of Pozzy’s gun as he took aim. Bang!
Betty had heard his intention long before the bullet left the chamber. Pozzy’s bullet pierced Larry the Horse instead of her own gut as she shimmied sideways in frozen time, letting it continue past her tiny waist and into Rusty Salvatore, a gold-toothed bastard with his gun pressed into her bosom as he too, pulled the trigger and missed her moving flesh by a fraction. Both men collapsed. Released from their vice, Betty leapt high, spinning as she round-housed the head of the smoking gun left standing. In a split-instant of shock, Pozzy realized that he too, had received the second-hand bullet from Rusty’s Liberator, before Snap! his neck lolled like a baby bird and he fell on the corpse pile at Betty’s feet. Six down.
Three men were left. The youngest, a nasty little blight that Betty knew to be Cracker Charlie, was shooting erratically into the chaos of falling bodies. Lifting her dress high, Betty let the men take in the gleaming fence of knives in her garter. Thud! Charlie was down with knife to his jugular, spilling blood from his mouth. Seven. Flick! Thud! Betty finished off the two unconscious men she’d started with. She was nothing if not thorough.
“Well boys, it looks like it’s just you and me…” Betty purred, spinning her final two knives lazily in her hands as she filtered the thoughts pouring in from their minds. “Oh, please,” she sighed, grabbing a whiskey flask from the card table and flinging it toward the shortest man, who had his finger on the trigger of a gun. The bullet met the flask halfway and ricocheted off the metal rim, sending both objects to the filthy concrete floor. Their weapons gone, the fight was now down to guts and strength alone. Despite being burly and street-wise, the men didn’t move.
Frankie was still behind the desk, staring red-faced and furious at the rapid failure of his best. Closer to her, the two remaining gangsters looked back to him for support, their legs shaking.
“What do we do, boss?” one man asked. She almost felt sorry for them. Almost.
“Yes, Frankie,” Betty drawled, “What should poor Ronnie do? He’s in quite a fix here and he can’t possibly think for himself.” She smirked. The men’s minds betrayed their character in an agonizing montage of loyalty laced with murder, ambition stained by greed and sparks of love that told her they had once been so much more than they were now. Lost potential was an unhappy thing. But their hands were dirty and like their comrades sprawled on the floor behind her, Betty read no intent for self-redemption in their minds. Which made them equally as deserving of the death they so frequently dealt. She wondered what she’d do if she ever felt true regret in one of the murderers she faced. So far, it hadn’t happened.
“Boss?” Ronnie asked again, his eyes darting between Betty and Frank.
Frankie’s lip curled and he turned an ugly shade of purple. “You do what I told you to do, you useless son of a bitch. Kill her!”
The two remaining men looked at each other slowly, as if daring the other to act first.
“Oh boys, really,” Betty clucked, shaking her head in mock amusement. “I don’t bite you know.” She ran forward onto a kicked-out chair and toppled it backwards, riding the height to the card table where she landed. She dropped her knives, spearing the wooden table on each side of her body. Reaching one hand up high, she grabbed the electrical cord dangling a bare light bulb onto the table from the roof. She yanked the cord through its hole, and grabbed Ronnie’s collar, pulling his feet from the ground. In an instant, she shoved the light bulb in his stunned mouth and forced it shut, electrocuting him as he crashed to the floor.
Betty dropped down beside the remaining man, ignoring Frankie, who was now rifling through his drawers for the key to his safe.
“How would you like to die, darling?” she asked.
“I…I…I wouldn’t,” the man stuttered. His hands were dangling, and a wet stain bloomed on his oversized pants.
Betty regarded him coldly. “Is that so?” she said. “Well, I just happen to know there was a shopkeeper in Manhattan last week that had the same preference. And a baker in New Jersey. Remember old Mr. Chang? Or poor, stupid Davey Thomas at The Flourhouse? Simple men with families, over their head in debt until Frankie here stepped in to bail them out.” Betty glanced to Frankie, whose lips twitched. She looked back to the goon remaining in her way. Sweat glistened in his pores. “And when they couldn’t meet their obligations?” Betty lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in close enough that her lips brushed his ear. “Bang.” The man whimpered.
“I also know that you, Tommy,” - his face drained - “pulled the trigger both times.” Betty looked disinterestedly at her painted nails. “That being the case,” she looked back to him, “I think it’s fair to say that no one gets what they want.” Betty’s fist met his gut as she ploughed Tommy backward into a dusty cabinet of booze. The glass shattered behind him. Shards of it pinned him, like an insect, to the wall.
Betty took a deep breath and reclaimed her throwing knives from the card table. What she wouldn’t give for a long, hot bath right now. She turned back to Frankie. He had his hands up above his head, the safe keys dangling from his fingers.
“You can take it all.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Frankie let out a nervous sigh of relief, eyeing off the carnage around him. “I don’t get it. Why’d you do this? For the money?”
Betty surveyed him curiously. She always knew Frankie was smarter than the rest, but he was still a coward.
“Of course not, Frankie.” Betty sighed. Sometimes, especially at times like this, the lines blurred. Her smile dropped and her eyes became as devastatingly sad as they had been twelve years before. Betty was suddenly unmasked, a ghost of vulnerability and anger. The ghost of Susie.
“You knew what he did, Uncle Frank. You knew what Pop put us through,” she said. Betty’s eyes turned hard and her muscles tensed under the delicate dress. Frankie grappled with understanding, his eyes scouring her body, searching for clue
s. “He used me, you both did,” Betty continued, her resentment boiling higher with each word. “You let Donny use my mind, just like he did to Mom. Even after it killed her. What chance did I have, a twelve-year-old girl?” Betty stepped forward and Frank blanched.
Betty could see it finally hit him.
“Susie? Little Susie?” he choked out.
Betty tensed, so unused to that name now. Her chin lifted, and she continued. “He used her as a punching bag, Uncle Frank. And you used him to hide behind, to do your dirty work. You, Uncle Tony, Uncle Vince, Lucius, Marco, Joey, Tyrone, Carlos. All the boys. And they’re still doing it now, aren’t they? Well, except for Marco. He won’t be doing anything anymore.” A self-satisfied smile brushed her lips, then disappeared.
“That was you? You took out Marco?” Frank spluttered.
“Mmm,” Betty brushed the fabric of her skirt down noncommittally. “I came across him last year hauling some coke at the docks. Let’s just say he caught me on a bad day.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And Donny up there,” Betty continued, nodding toward the ugly photograph on the wall behind him, “Well, Donny uses everyone, doesn’t he?”
Frank’s eyes widened. “You’re going after Donny? Holy hell, you can’t do that! Let me talk to him, Susie. We can do it together. He’ll be glad to see you kid. Hell, I’m glad to see ya. I mean, I was cut up when Roy died sure, but I never wanted to see you hurt. Nor your mother. It was just the way he was, see?”
“The way he was?!” Betty snarled. “You saw your own brother day in, day out beating his wife and kid, and it’s just the way he was?”
“But I tried! I told Roy to cool his jets. He was hot-tempered, always was. I had my own wife, my own kids. I got to keep my head low. This isn’t a game we’re playing Susie. Donny was watchin’ me too. I couldn’t look weak or he’d lose me from the team. Anyway, your mother, she had problems Susie. She didn’t have it in her. Not like you did. We had a good four years with you on the team, kid. And all these years I thought you were dead.”
Avon Calling Box Set Page 4
