“Sit down, Pinky,” Gino said mildly. “We’ll have a drink and get out of here.”
Pinky Banana’s fleshy lips twitched. “‘S’ O.K., Gino, don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Nobody gonna shove me in the back of this pisshole.”
The waitress was getting frightened now. She was new to the job and had never set eyes on Pinky Banana before, but she could tell trouble when it was coming her way. “If you’ll let go of me I’ll find the manager for you.” Her voice quavered slightly.
“Naw,” Pinky Banana spat belligerently, “we don’t need no manager. You’d better get it straight who I am. I’m Mister Kassari, and I’ll take that table over there.” He pointed to an empty table center front, right at the edge of the small dance floor. “Move it, sweetie.” He smacked her sharply on the ass.
She flashed an angry glance at him, then decided her job was more important than an argument with a customer. She led the three of them through the crowded place to the table Pinky Banana had requested. It had a reserved sign on, but let the manager sort that one out.
When they were seated and had ordered drinks, Gino said, “You’re a loud sonofabitch, Pinky, y’know that?”
Pinky Banana guffawed. “Yeah. I know that. So friggin’ what?”
Gino shrugged. “One day it’s gonna get you in trouble.”
“So? Ain’t no trouble too big for me. I can handle anything.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Gino nodded with no real conviction. He had a bad feeling about Pinky Banana. The power of killing was going to his head.
The waitress returned to the table with their drinks. By her side was Fat Larry. He had changed from the amiable slob who used to run the place when it sold nothing but milk shakes out front. He was still as fat as ever, but his large body was crammed into an uncomfortable formal suit, his hair slicked down with oil, and sweat coursed freely down his cheeks. He threw up his fat arms in mock despair. “Pinky, m’boy. Whatcha tryin’ to do to me?”
Pinky Banana sniffed loudly, wiped the back of his hand across his nose, and winked at Gino and Aldo. “Wait for it, boys, here comes the sob story.”
“I didn’t know you was comin’ in tonight,” Fat Larry said reproachfully. “If I’d known, of course you would’ve had this table. But as it is, you can see the place is filled up, and this table is promised to a real high-class society dame bin comin’ here regular for two weeks. This is her table.”
“Tough shit.” Pinky Banana yawned.
“Aw, come on, boys,” Fat Larry wheezed, “you gotta move.”
Pinky Banana’s eyes were suddenly hard and cold. “Gotta move, Fatso? Did I hear you right?”
Fat Larry visibly blanched. Wasn’t it enough he had to pay protection on his place to the mob. Now he had to deal with local hoods too?
Pinky Banana was twitching dangerously.
Gino intervened. He had no desire to get in any kind of brawl. “This your high-society dame?” He indicated a tall woman swathed in fox furs who stood in the doorway surveying the room. By her side was a nervous-looking young man.
The sweat dripped from Fat Larry’s face. “That’s her.”
“So have her and the chump she’s with share the table with us. We don’t mind, do we, boys?” He winked at Pinky Banana. “We could do with a little class education!”
Fat Larry nodded. It was not the ideal solution, but apparently the only one. What was he going to say to Mrs. Duke? Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Duke, ma’am, I got three bums refuse to move, so I do hope you don’t mind sharing a table with them tonight? Mrs. Duke would love that. She had been in every night for two weeks. She was a real lady who always wore beautiful clothes and drank only champagne. Every night she was accompanied by a different young man. Her routine never varied. Arrival ten minutes before the show and departure ten minutes after. Fat Larry failed to see what interest she could possibly have in six high-kicking squeaky-voiced chorus girls and a bad comedian who told the filthiest jokes this side of the East River. But she seemed to love it. Oh, well… bye-bye, Mrs. Duke. Better than a bullet up his ass one dark night. And he wouldn’t put that past Pinky Banana if he didn’t get his own way.
Fat Larry waddled in her direction.
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Problems tonight, Larry?”
He loved the way her tongue turned over on “Larry.” Real class.
“Overbooking, Mrs. Duke. Stupid waitress is new, didn’t realize it was your table.”
“Can’t you move them?” Mrs. Duke was somewhat amused by Fat Larry’s obvious discomfiture.
“Nowhere to move them to, Mrs. Duke.” Fat Larry produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his face. It was true. The place was jammed.
“Are you telling me I can’t come in?” Mrs. Duke’s tone shifted from amused to icy.
“No, no….” Fat Larry stammered. “If you wouldn’t mind sharing your table…”
“It seems I have no choice.” She swept past Fat Larry in the direction of her table, her escort close on her heels, mumbling and nervous. “Clementine, are you s-s-sure? Why don’t we go somewhere else?”
Gino, Pinky Banana, and Aldo watched in amazement as she headed in their direction. They had all expected her to turn down the suggestion.
“You and your big mouth!” groaned Aldo to Gino. “What we gonna say to her?”
“I don’t expect she’ll be holdin’ her breath for conversation with us,” Gino snorted. “Just watch your language.”
“Aw, frig!” exclaimed Pinky Banana. “I ain’t watchin’ my language for no friggin’ taffy-nosed skirt.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.” She was at the table, cool green eyes looking them over. “I understand we’re sharing this table tonight. Perhaps you could move up slightly, and I do believe we’ll need another chair.”
The three of them stared at her.
She turned to her escort. “Frightfully kind of these gentlemen, Henry, don’t you think?”
Henry had a bad acne condition around the neck of his shirt which glowed a dull red. “Yes, Clementine,” he replied stiffly.
Pinky Banana suddenly leaped to his feet and snapped his fingers for the waitress. “Chair over here!” he yelled. Then he shoved Aldo. “Move up.”
Aldo stifled a curse. The shove had caught him bang on his bad arm. Sixteen stitches were holding his skin together, and he didn’t fancy them splitting and spilling a bucketful of blood all over the table.
Mrs. Clementine Duke smiled at Pinky Banana and extended her hand toward him. His eyes riveted onto a magnificent diamond ring.
“I’m Clementine Duke,” she said in a crisp New England accent, “and this is Henry Moufflin, Jr.” She shook him firmly by the hand.
“Mr. Kassari,” Pinky Banana managed to mumble in return.
“Mr. Kassari. A pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand to Aldo next.
“Aldo Dinunzio,” he muttered.
“Delighted.” Then she was looking straight at Gino, and he was staring straight back at her. Nothing audible was heard, but there was a decided click as their eyes met.
“Gino Santangelo,” he said firmly.
“What a nice name.” They held eyes just that split second longer than was necessary.
Mrs. Duke broke the stare and turned to Henry. “Order champagne, darling, you’re simply going to adore this place. It’s so unutterably… seedy.”
Gino studied her carefully. He wasn’t sure what she had, but she had it all right.
She was an older woman, somewhere in her thirties, but she looked pretty good for her age. Her green eyes were widely spaced and fringed with very long lashes. The slight shadows underneath made the eyes extremely sensual. Her nose was a touch too long, giving her a permanently arrogant look. But it was a perfect nose, and the arrogance only added to the sexuality. Her lips were thin, and her mouth turned down slightly.
She had jet black hair cut dramatically short with straight bangs, an
d her body, beneath the expensive white satin dress, was thin and muscled. His eyes lingered on her nipples, clearly visible through the satin.
She caught him looking and smiled slightly. She was thinking of the hot excitement she felt. The thrill of being in this dreadful place. The thrill that had been building for two weeks, ever since she had first come to Fat Larry’s. She had known that eventually she would find something here, some little morsel that would get her sexual taste buds going again.
Gino Santangelo. What a peculiar name. What a hot-looking young man. Bit short, but that never mattered in the bed stakes. She had already checked out his thumbs, and they were long and thick, a sure sigh that what he had between his legs would be more than enough. She liked his eyes. Uncompromising eyes. Hard, black, and much older than the rest of him. She liked his hair. Thick and black. Once she got rid of the grease plastering it down, not too successfully, it would be an improvement. She liked his face. A strong nose, and thick sensual lips that broke constantly into a wonderful smile. She even liked the scar on his cheek. It gave his face more character.
“Clementine.” Henry Moufflin Jr. was busy trying to clink his champagne glass against hers.
She obliged, shifting slightly on her chair. Oh, God! She was ready. She was very very ready.
“Fat Larry told us you come here every night,” Pinky Banana said suddenly, having thought a full three minutes about how to open up a conversation with this knockout classy dame.
Clementine nodded. “Yes.” She didn’t like the look of him, too tall and gangly, something dirty about him.
“S’not a bad place,” Pinky continued airily, “if you can’t be bothered goin’ downtown. ’Course, we usually do. Jump in the roadster an’ pop downtown.”
Aldo choked on his drink. What roadster?
“How about you?” Clementine asked, fixing her eyes on Gino. “Do you ever venture downtown?”
He shrugged, confused. He didn’t want to be thinking about another woman, but this one had given him what seemed like a permanent hard-on. It was her goddamn nipples staring him in the face. One thing was sure, he would never let Leonora wear a dress like that. No sirree. Never. “I get around. New York’s my city.”
Her eyes gently teased him. “I bet it is.”
“My city too,” Pinky Banana joined in quickly. “The best frig—er, the best,” he finished lamely and glared at Aldo, who was smothering laughter.
“What business are you in?” Clementine’s eyes held Gino’s.
“You name it, I do it,” Pinky replied cockily. He did not like the way things were progressing here. “I ain’t never had a job I couldn’t handle.”
“Really.” Clementine’s eyes flickered over him like he was a dog turd in the gutter. “And you? What do you do?” Her eyes were back on Gino.
He wished she would stop looking at him that way. He knew what she wanted and he wasn’t in the market for giving.
He decided to stop her in her tracks. “I handle shipments,” he said.
“S’matter of fact, I’ll be goin’ to San Francisco in a few weeks to handle a shipment for my fiancee’s father. I’ll be getting married while I’m there.” If that didn’t stop her, nothing would.
Pinky Banana frowned. “What shipment? I didn’t—”
Gino kicked him sharply under the table.
“Hmmm….” Clementine looked thoughtful. “My husband is interested in the shipping business. Perhaps you should meet him.”
Gino didn’t believe her line.
Henry Moufflin Jr. didn’t believe it either. He had invited Clementine Duke out because she was the most desirable, tempting woman in the world. He had not expected to end up in some cheap dive with Clementine making eyes at a short two-bit hood. Her behavior was inexcusable. “Clementine, dear,” he said quickly, “why don’t we move on from here? I know a m-m-most amusing cafe—”
“Do shut up, Henry.”
His acne glowed.
“Now, let me see.” Clementine was searching her purse for something. “Ah! Here we are.” She produced a small neatly engraved business card and handed it to Gino. “This is my card. If you are interested in doing business with my husband, do please call on me and we can discuss it. I receive visitors between eleven and twelve most mornings.” She smiled. “When you return from San Francisco, or even before you go.”
Pinky Banana’s mouth hung open. Friggin’ bitch. What the frig was the matter with him? Friggin’ Gino. Didn’t want it and was getting it thrown right at him. Always had been the one with the dames.
Gino took the card and stuck it in his pocket. Before Leonora this would have been an experience not to be missed. Now… what the hell. Some classy broad come slumming, looking to pick herself up something for the night.
She stood up. “You will call on me, won’t you?” Her eyes lingered on his. She licked her thin lips and smiled graciously at Pinky and Aldo. “Thank you so much for allowing us to sit at your table. I did enjoy meeting you.”
Henry Moufflin Jr. got up abruptly, rocking the table and almost spilling the drinks.
“Careful, college boy,” Pinky Banana muttered darkly.
“S-s-sorry,” stammered Henry. “Clementine, I m-m-must get the check.”
“Forget it,” Gino said quickly. “The champagne’s on me.”
Mrs. Clementine Duke swept off without so much as a thank-you.
Gino had not expected one.
At the door Fat Larry blocked her path. “Mrs. Duke, you’re leaving before the show. You always stay for the show.” His fat cheeks shook with indignation. “If those punks bin insultin’ you—”
“On the contrary, Larry. I had a perfectly delightful time. Your friends were more than charming.”
“They were?” Fat Larry’s jaw sagged in surprise.
“They certainly were.”
“Hot shit!” whooped Pinky Banana, standing up and watching Mrs. Duke depart. “That was somethin’, really somethin’. An’ hot as a friggin’ pistol! Didja get a load of those bedroom eyes?”
“They weren’t signaling in your direction,” laughed Aldo. “Gino the Ram makes it again!”
Pinky scowled. He honestly could not understand how any woman could possibly prefer Gino to him. Cindy had assured him time and time again that there was definitely no contest. “Gino the friggin’ Ram!” he spat in disgust. “He must’ve forgotten the color of pussy, it’s bin so long since he’s seen any! Some friggin’ Ram.”
Now it was Gino’s turn to scowl. “Shut your mouth, fuckhead,” he warned.
“Says who?” sneered Pinky Banana.
“Aw, come on, you two jerks,” Aldo interjected, “let’s cut out the crappin’ around and enjoy the show. It ain’t every night Barbara lets me off the hook.”
Costa Zennocotti sat in his father’s study in San Francisco, gazing out of the window while his adopted father droned on. It was a lecture that would continue for at least another ten minutes, and Costa had tuned out. All he heard were the key words: “Respect,” “Love,” “Ambition,” “Loyalty.” The usual words Franklin liked to jam down his throat. It didn’t bother him. He understood his father, and he knew that every word coming his way was dealt out of a genuine love and concern.
Franklin Zennocotti really had no need to worry about Costa. He did love his adopted parents. He did respect them. He had great ambition, and his loyalty was fierce. In fact, loyalty was the reason he was sitting in his father’s study: loyalty to Gino.
Costa had requested and received permission for a trip to New York. Not an easy goal to accomplish, but he had managed it, and in two hours he would be sitting on a train. He was now getting a final lecture on how to conduct himself in the big city. Not that he would be exactly running wild. It was all arranged that he was to stay two weeks with Franklin’s sister and her husband. Then he was to return to San Francisco, attend college, attend law school, and eventually start work as a fully qualified lawyer in his father’s firm.
It seemed as
if his future was very neatly planned. But he didn’t mind. It was what he wanted as well as what his parents wanted. And he felt that he owed it to them to turn out to be as much of a credit to the family as possible. Especially after what Leonora had done to them. His mother was still reeling from the shock and disgrace of it all.
Leonora. What a devious little miss she had turned out to be. Stringing his friend Gino along. Receiving his letters and giggling over them with her girl friends. And at the same time going out with any boy that asked her. Sneaking out of the house at night. Playing truant at her ladies’ college. She was a wild one, for all her innocent looks, big blue eyes, and delicate airs.
Costa had said to her one day, “Why don’t you tell Gino to stop writing you?”
“Why should I?” she had replied.
“Well—” Costa had hesitated. “I don’t think it’s fair. After all, he thinks you’re his girl.”
She had widened her beautiful eyes. “Maybe I still am. What do you know?”
He knew plenty. He knew she had the reputation in town of being “easy” and that several boys claimed to have slept with her. He also knew if Gino found this out he would go berserk. He was not proud of himself for having done so, but he had invaded Leonora’s room while she was out and read some of Gino’s letters. They left no doubt about his feelings and intentions.
Costa had not known how to handle the situation. He felt it was not his business, but he also felt a strong sense of loyalty toward Gino and he did not wish to see him hurt.
Eventually the situation had resolved itself. Sweet innocent Leonora got herself pregnant. Mary and Franklin Zennocotti went into an advanced state of shock when their darling daughter confessed to her condition. When they recovered they insisted a wedding must be arranged as soon as possible. Fortunately the father-to-be was the son of an acceptable San Francisco family. Plans were made immediately, and within two weeks Leonora was walking down the aisle, radiant in white silk.
As she was leaving on her honeymoon she threw Costa a look. “You’d better tell your friend, Gino, I don’t want any more of his mushy letters.”
The day after she left two letters arrived at the house, one addressed to her, the other to Franklin. Costa, recognizing the hand-writing, had pocketed them both. When he read them later in the privacy of his room he knew there was only one way to deal with things. He would have to tell Gino personally. An unenviable task, but surely better than a letter. Hence the trip to New York.
Chances Page 14