Cindy was fuming. Gino had confirmed the fact that she was just another possession, like his suits and cars. Oh, naturally he hadn’t said it in so many words. But she knew. He had laughed at her because in his opinion she had made a fool of herself at the wedding. A fool indeed! What did he know? Every man at the event was probably still having wet dreams about her.
“You shouldn’t’ve worn white,” he had stated.
“And why not?”
“’Cause only the bride’s supposed t’wear white.”
“Oh, yeah? Who says?”
“I say. It’s etiquette or somethin’.”
“Etiquette! Etiquette! I didn’t even know you knew the word.”
Whack! It was the first time he had ever hit her. She had gone for him like a wild tiger, biting and clawing.
He had fought her off and walked out, leaving her to brood and sulk in the hotel, while he visited the nearest bar and drank himself to a standstill. Unlike him. Usually he believed very much in being in control and staying sober. But he was confused. Cindy—showing him up, acting like a little tramp, wiggling her fanny at every guy in sight. And Franklin Zennocotti—still treating him like some punk kid who didn’t know from shit.
And then there was Leonora. He should have been over her years ago—in fact, he had thought he was. But there she was, with those eyes, that hair, that body, and it was the same old pain all over again.
And she was so cold and brittle—like he had done something terrible to her instead of exactly the reverse being true. He just didn’t understand it.
He couldn’t wait to get back to New York.
Aldo chewed on a chunk of garlic and said, “Thank God you’re here.”
Gino paced around the office, anger dogging his every step. “Jesus Christ! I go away for a few days an’ I come back to some fine fucking mess.” His voice rose. “Can’t you handle anything on your own?”
Aldo flushed a dull red. “The trouble was unexpected, everything’s been runnin’ so smoothly.”
“Sure. I oil enough palms to make goddamn certain of that,” he slammed his fist sharply down on the desk. “Where the fuck is The Boy?”
“He was hurt bad, Gino. They beat him up real good.”
Gino’s eyes glazed to a set hardness. “The dumb fuck. How come he was travelin’ alone anyway?”
“He usually does.”
Yeh. Jacob Cohen. Jake. The Boy. He liked to do things his way. Independent. Sharp as a jagged bottle. Maybe too sharp.
“Repeat the facts,” he snarled.
“But I told you—”
“Repeat.”
Aldo didn’t argue. The anger was flying off Gino in pungent waves. “He makes the pickups Saturday. As usual. Is gettin’ in his car on a Hundred Fifteenth Street near the candy store—”
“Gambino’s?” Gino interrupted.
“That’s right. Well, just as he’s gettin’ in the car three guys hit him from behind—”
“So he never saw them?”
“No. They got him from behind, beat him good, grabbed his piece, the bag, and ran.”
“Where?”
“Huh?”
“Which direction did they run?”
Aldo shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Sixty grand of my money and you don’t know?”
“I only know what The Boy told me.”
“He came straight here, then?”
“Yes. He was bleedin’, shook up. I had Red drive him home.”
“And tuck him up with a comforter an’ a glass of hot milk?”
Aldo looked puzzled. “The Boy’s been with us for seven years. Surely you trust him?”
“I trust I’m gonna take a crap at least once a week—an’ that’s all I trust.”
The realization that Gino might be right crept up on Aldo slowly; then his flush darkened and his voice hardened. “Why that dirty little kike bastard—”
“Hold it,” snapped Gino. “He don’t become a dirty kike just ’cause he’s stealin’ from us. Like I don’t become a dirty wop if I smash your head in with a baseball bat. Come to think of it, that ain’t a bad idea—let some air into your brain. I mean, Jesus—The Boy is settin’ you up. You say this happened yesterday? How much you want to bet he ain’t at home waitin’ for me to get back to the city.” He paused and glared. “Nope. My bet is The Boy has gone into hidin’ with my sixty grand. And you, asshole—gave him a ride home.”
Aldo said nothing. He just digested the facts.
“I’ll check it out myself,” Gino snapped, marching through to the outer offices. “Sam, Red, let’s go. I wanna pay a visit to The Boy, maybe take him a few flowers or somethin’.”
Red and Sam exchanged knowing glances. Jake may have fooled Aldo, but anyone could fool Aldo. They had known all along it was a setup. Anyone approaching Jake from a hundred yards with felonious intent would get a bullet up the ass. Jake was the fastest gun on the street. They knew that. Gino knew that. Wasn’t it about time someone wised up Aldo?
Of course, it turned out that Gino was right.
Jacob Cohen’s landlady said he had moved out. Suddenly. No forwarding address. “Nice boy,” she mused, “quiet, no trouble, always paid his rent on time.”
“And you’ve no idea where he’s gone?” Gino asked.
She shook her head.
“What about girlfriends?”
Pursing her lips, she said, “My tenants have a right to privacy.”
He slid her a twenty.
“Lots of girlfriends. A different one every week.”
“Anyone special?”
“No. They came and they went.” She sniffed. “A young buck like that don’t want to get tied down.”
Gino nodded. When he found Jacob Cohen he was going to roast his balls over hot charcoal and feed them to the pigeons. Nobody stole from Gino Santangelo. Nobody.
“Do we have to go?” complained Cindy.
“Yes,” replied Gino shortly. His mood, since getting back from San Francisco, was, to put it mildly, black.
“And I guess that means we have to stay the weekend?” She groaned.
“Yes.” He was as unenthusiastic as she was about Senator and Mrs. Duke’s upcoming party. But it was their twenty-seventh wedding anniversary, and there was no way he could get out of that. Clementine herself had insisted, her silky tones mild on the telephone. “If you don’t come, Gino, I am going to start to think you are avoiding me. You missed our last party, and I haven’t seen you alone in over three weeks.” A pause. “I would hate to think that you are avoiding me…. I would hate Oswald to think it….”
Was that supposed to be a hidden threat? Gino laughed. No threat. His imagination was working overtime. If he never wanted to see them again, there was nothing they could do about it.
Only Senator Duke knew plenty. About the numbers racket. About the money skimmed off the top at the club. About the gambling. About the vast sums of cash. Senator Duke could put him away if he wanted to—with one phone call to the Internal Revenue, who were always sniffing around anyway.
But the good Senator would never do that. Because the good Senator had plenty to hide himself. The payoffs he had arranged on Gino’s behalf. The stock transactions that weren’t always on the up and up. The companies that belonged to Gino, and the fat director’s fees the Senator picked up as financial adviser.
Oh, yeh. In a way they were partners.
One more party, Gino decided; he owed them that. And at the party he would tell Clementine. It was great fun… but it was just one… of those things.
Meanwhile he had other matters on his mind. That fucking Jake, running off with his money. Two days gone by and no sign of him—and for a thousand bucks’ reward most citizens would turn in their own mother.
He had vanished. No trace. Little prick. But when he surfaced he would get his, in spades.
“What shall I wear to the party?” Cindy asked.
“Whatever you want,” Gino replied disinterestedly.
&
nbsp; “Maybe the red silk—”
“You look like a tramp in red.”
“Thanks. You sure know how to make a girl feel good.”
“So don’t ask me.”
I won’t, she thought. I’ll wear exactly what I want, even if it’s the red silk. Even if I do look like a tramp.
Aloud she said, “Any word on The Boy yet?” She knew there wasn’t, but she just wanted to watch him burn.
“No,” he replied shortly. “I’m going to the club.”
“Maybe I’ll come, I—”
“Not tonight. I have a meeting.”
“Who with?”
He gave her a look.
She shrugged. She knew when to stay quiet. Anyway, her plans were in motion. Soon she would be holding the reins.
Clemmie’s was packed. The place could do no wrong.
Gino stopped to talk to Vera at the hat-check counter. She was looking better than she had in a long time. She even appeared to be sober. “Guess what?” Her eyes were sparkling.
“What?”
“He’s comin’ out.”
“Yeh?” He didn’t need to ask who. His stomach turned at the thought.
“S’wonderful news, ain’t it?”
He nodded blankly. What could he say? That he wished they would keep the slimy son-of-a-bitch locked up forever?
“Gino.” Vera was squeezing his arm. “I know things ain’t never been that great between the two of you…”
Ha! Talk about gross exaggeration.
“…but it’s important t’me that you get along now. Paolo’s changed—bein’ locked up all this time is enough t’change anyone.” She paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “He really admires you. Talks about you a lot. He’s proud of you, real proud.”
Yeh. Of course he was. Paolo was just about smart enough to realize which side the jam was on.
“I thought,” Vera continued hesitantly, “that the two of you could get together—talk about things.” Her voice quickened. “He’ll need a job, somethin’ straight. Now that Jake’s taken off—”
Gino realized what she was suggesting. “Forget it,” he said incredulously. “Just forget it.”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. He’s your father. Surely that means somethin’ t’you?”
He could honestly say that it didn’t. “When does he get out?” he questioned coldly.
“Coupla weeks.”
“And I suppose you’re taking him in?”
“Of course I am.”
He shook his head, “You’re dumb, Vera, you know that? What’s gonna happen? You gonna hold his hand until he beats the crap outa you again?”
“I’m tellin’ you, he’s a changed man.”
“We’ll see. Just keep him away. I don’t want t’see or hear about him.”
She glared. “You can be a heartless bastard at times. You know that?”
“Sure. How do you think I got where I am today?” He strode off through the club, hard black eyes checking out the action. Nodding briefly at acquaintances and friends. He noticed Bee sitting at a table with another hostess and two men. She caught his eye and looked away.
He flashed onto a memory of her stripped naked and standing before him in her high-heeled shoes and stockings. Big white smooth body. You would think she would have told him about the clap before she took her clothes off. Nice breasts. Very nice breasts.
He strode by a hostess named America. Raven hair and long legs. He had honored her once. Not a memorable experience but passable. He stopped at her table, leaned over, and said, “I’ll drive you home tonight. Meet me in my office at twelve.”
She glowed. “Yes, sir!” Obviously more memorable for her than him.
Broads. A dime a dozen. All the same whether they wore Givenchy silks or cheap glad rags.
Cindy wore the red silk dress defiantly to the Dukes’ party. It plunged between her breasts, dipped at the back, and was split up the front. Her blond hair tumbled around her pretty face in soft curls, held back on one side by a fake red flower.
Gino made no comment on her appearance, but the look he gave her was enough.
She did not care. She tossed her blond curls and proceeded to flirt outrageously with every man in sight.
Clementine—chic in basic black—took Gino to one side. “I think you had better speak to your wife,” she murmured. “Our little Cindy seems to have found her feet in no uncertain fashion.”
“Yeh?” His eyes were flat as he followed Clementine’s gaze and observed his wife in action. “If she wants to have a good time it don’t bother me.”
Clementine swallowed her aggravation. “You should be bothered. Her behavior reflects on you. She makes you look a fool.”
“Oh? If that’s the case, what do you think you make Oswald look like?”
She tried to keep her voice steady. Gino was getting to her, the bastard, she who was always in control. “That’s different.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Sure, I know why. But I thought the fact he was a fairy was supposed to be a well-kept secret.”
“Don’t use that word.”
“You used to like it.”
“Yes, and you used to like spending time with me. What happened, Gino?”
He shrugged. “I bin away. You know that.”
Yes. She knew that. But she also knew that before he left he was avoiding her. And no man had ever avoided Clementine Duke. Not unless she wanted him to, that is.
She did not wish to pursue the conversation. “Cigarette,” she demanded coldly.
“Don’t have any. I can offer you a cigar.”
She glared at him. Cocky little bastard. If it wasn’t for Oswald and her he would still be another ten-cent hoodlum working the streets. They had given him everything. Class. Acceptability. Social graces.
She realized with a sharp feeling in her stomach that she loved him. Love was not peaches and cream. Love was jealousy and possession and gut-wrenching misery.
He did not want her any more. She knew that to be the truth as sure as Oswald was queer.
“Gino,” she said tightly, “Oswald has a matter he wishes to discuss with you. Perhaps you would be good enough to meet him in his study at ten in the morning. It is a very… private matter. I will take Cindy out shopping with me.”
He looked surprised. What was so private that couldn’t be taken care of in town? “Sure,” he said flatly.
“So… I must circulate among my guests…. I know you will excuse me.”
He watched her walk off. Still a knockout broad.
He watched Cindy in the distance. Prettiest girl at the party.
He wondered why he had absolutely no sexual desire for either of them. Maybe he had started in too early. Too many women, and now it was enough already, because even the one-night stands were beginning to pall. Once, making love had been like an exciting game. Now it was boring. Yeh. Boring.
And maybe it was his fault.
He grunted. And thought about Jake. And thought about what he was going to do to him. And smiled. Because The Boy had balls. And he liked that. A good quality.
Yeh. After he had taught The Boy a lesson he would allow him back in the family.
“Why can’t we have lunch?” Henry Moufflin Jr. demanded for the third time.
Cindy tilted her head to one side and gazed up at him coquettishly. “I just don’t want to see you chewed up and spat out by Gino.”
“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Henry. He was no longer the callow youth who had fawned after Clementine Duke for so many years. He was now thirty-one years old. His acne had cleared up, and he had inherited his late father’s very substantial fortune.
“Brave words, Henry,” purred Cindy, enjoying the way his eyes kept on popping down her neckline.
“I mean what I s-s-say,” he insisted. His stammer was still in evidence in spite of years of speech therapy. “I w-w-want to take you to lunch. Just lunch. What harm is there in that if I promise
to behave myself?”
She thought of the private detective’s report she had hidden under the mattress at home. “Mr. Santangelo departed from Clemmie’s at approximately twelve ten at night. He was accompanied by two men, one of whom drove the limousine. A young lady also accompanied him. Tall, raven-haired. They proceeded to…”
“Well?” he persisted.
“Yes,” decided Cindy, surprising herself. “Why not?”
Henry beamed. Why not indeed? He was filled with exhilaration. Gino Santangelo’s wife agreeing to lunch with him. It would have to be the Plaza, of course. Flowers. Champagne. And a suite booked upstairs just in case. Or maybe—even better—a private luncheon served in the suite. “Monday?” he asked anxiously.
“Tuesday,” she replied, wondering what she was letting herself in for but determined to strike out anyway.
“Superb.”
She giggled. “I hope so.”
Gino prowled around the Senator’s study. He remembered their first meeting in the very same room. He remembered thinking Oswald was a mug and dumb. Yeh. Dumb like a fox.
Restlessly he picked up a silver letter opener and weighed it in the palm of his hand. The Senator entered the room.
“Nice party last night,” Gino remarked cheerily.
Oswald nodded. The heavy bags under his eyes seemed to weigh his whole face down. He was in no mood for polite conversation. “Gino,” he began, getting right to the point, “the favors I have asked of you in the past have been small matters easily taken care of.”
Gino placed the silver letter opener carefully back on the desk. He didn’í like the way Oswald was rushing his speech, or the way he was talking over his shoulder, refusing to look him in the eye. “Right,” he agreed cautiously.
“I always mentioned that a time might come when the favor would be… big.”
He was immediately alert. “How big?”
“Very big.”
A silence hung between the two men.
“Keep talkin’,” said Gino at last.
The Senator cleared his throat. “I want a man killed,” he said slowly, “and I want you to take care of it personally.”
Carrie
1937
Bernard Dimes sat in a padded leather chair in the study that Carrie once used to dust. Her eyes darted quickly round the room, noting few changes. The silver frames were still in position, filled with photographs of celebrities. Framed posters still hung on the wall. The large desk was still awash with a clutter of papers that nobody was allowed to touch.
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