Obediently she climbed from the bed. He liked the fact that she never gave him any arguments.
Naked, she walked toward the dressing table, sat, and began to pin her luxurious red tresses atop her head.
He lay back and watched her, throwing the covers off himself and watching his erection grow at the same time.
By the time she was ready, he was ready.
She stood, locked the bedroom door, and walked sensuously back toward the bed. Then she knelt on the floor and from this position took him in her mouth, sucking methodically while he sat silently on the side of the bed, his hard black eyes open and staring.
After fifteen minutes of this action he was ready, and as he peaked, his fingers scrabbled desperately through her hair, finding the pins and pulling them out, so that at the exact moment of orgasm her thick red hair tumbled and fell around his throbbing hardness.
He had the timing off pat.
“Vera called,” said Aldo.
“Vera?” Gino questioned. “When did she get back?”
Aldo shrugged. “I don’t know, she didn’t say. Just wants you to call her.”
Gino swore softly under his breath. Two years of silence meant all had gone well. He had packed Vera off to Arizona with twenty thousand bucks in her pocket and Paolo by her side.
“I don’t want to see him,” he had told her flatly. “The money’s so’s I don’t ever have to see him again. Get it?”
“Yes, Gino.”
“Now you take him out to Arizona and make a new start. Buy a little shop or something. Settle down.”
“Yes, Gino.”
“If y’feel like writin’ I wouldn’t mind hearin’ from you. But if I don’t hear, I’ll know everything’s O.K.”
She had taken the money and run. Not a word. Not even a postcard. Now she was back. And what the hell did that mean?
“The final payment from The Boy came in. Plus all the interest. It was delivered this morning,” Aldo announced.
Gino smiled. “It did?” When he had put out a hit on The Boy he had received a phone call Jake had been seen in a restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles. Seen. Followed. Shot at. Escaped, The Boy had phoned Gino. “Trust me,” he had pleaded. “I know what I did wasn’t smart. Just trust me an’ call off the contract. I’ll see you get back every dollar. With interest.”
Balls. Gino had always admired them. He had given The Boy a shot.
“You’re mad!” Aldo said at the time.
“We’ll see,” Gino had replied.
Now he smiled. All the money repaid, and The Boy forever in his debt. He liked that. He liked it a lot.
“Where’s Vera staying?” he asked.
Aldo gave him the number of a seedy hotel over on the lower East Side.
He propped the phone under his chin and dialed.
She had lied to him on the phone. She was lying to him now. He had an instinct for such things. “Vera,” he said softly, “do you really expect me to believe that the whole twenty grand went down the drain in a dry-cleanin’ business?”
They were lunching in the Waldorf Astoria grill room, Vera a nervous wreck in a cheap blue costume, her hair limp and straggly, her face bloated and puffed.
“Honest, Gino.” Her eyes studied the tablecloth. “We had a run of real bad luck. Kept pumpin’ money into the business, and things just kept goin’ wrong.”
“What things?”
“Oh, new-fangled machines an’ things,” she said vaguely, her eyes stuck firmly on the cloth.
He sighed. Why question the poor bitch? He would bet money there never was any dry-cleaning business. Paolo had never worked an honest day in his life.
“Your dad really tried,” she added lamely, raising her eyes at last and looking pleadingly at him. “You see, just a bit more dough would’ve kept us afloat.”
“Is that why you came back? For more money?”
She jumped guiltily in her chair. “Well, I knew that if I explained it to you…”
“Where is Paolo?”
“Er”—her bloodshot eyes darted frantically this way and that—“he…er, thought it best… I mean I thought it best… knowin’ the way you feel an’ all…”
“Is he in town?”
She picked up the napkin from the table and screwed it into a ball. “He’s a changed man, honest. I wouldn’t lie to you. And you gotta remember. He’s your father.”
Why the hell did he have to remember that, for crissake? “He’s here, isn’t he?” he asked blankly.
“Yeah,” said Vera, grabbing her scotch from the waiter and gulping it down quickly. “He’d like to see you. You’re his only child, Gino.”
Sure. And what if he wasn’t a very rich and powerful only child? Would the son-of-a-bitch still want to see him then?
Like hell he would.
“I told you,” he said wearily, “the twenty grand was for keepin’ him out of my way.”
It was almost as if she didn’t hear him. “He ain’t bin in jail for two years. He’s behaved himself. He treats me real good.”
Yeh. With twenty grand to play with, why shouldn’t he? “What is it you want from me, Vera?”
“Just t’give your daddy a chance.”
“Don’t use that word,” he said angrily.
“What word?”
“My daddy an’ all that crap. Just cut it out.”
“You can’t escape the fact that that’s what he is to you. Your daddy.” She stared very hard at him, her eyes tearing. “I gave him another chance. Why can’t you?”
He picked up his drink, tossed it down.
She sensed a moment of weakness. “I ain’t never asked you anythin’ in my life,” she wheedled. “Give the man a shot. Just for me, at least see him.”
He nodded. He didn’t know why. “O.K. I’ll see him.”
Her bloated face lit up. “I knew y’wouldn’t let me down.”
“I said I’ll see him. That’s all. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna give him a hug an’ a kiss an’ forget old times.”
She stood up. “I’ll get him,” she said.
“You’ll what?”
“He’s in the lobby. I knew y’wouldn’t disappoint me.”
She was off before he could stop her. He cursed silently, fingered the scar on his cheek, and began to sweat.
He signaled the waiter for another drink and flashed onto his last memory of Paolo. How many years ago? Sixteen, seventeen? A long time ago. Not long enough. He had been a boy. But even then, more of a man than his father. With satisfaction he remembered the beating he had given him.
His eyes fixed onto the entrance to the grill room. And Vera came in. Only she wasn’t with Paolo. She was with a skinny old man who walked with a limp and had greasy gray hair plastered across his scalp. And as they drew closer, Gino realized that—yes, it was Paolo after all. And was this what age did to a man? For he always remembered his father as being thin and wiry, with thick brown hair and regular features. The man approaching had the face of a punch-drunk fighter. He was bearing down on Gino, a smile splitting his boozy face, and then he was clapping him on the shoulder and saying, “Hello, son. Long time no see.”
Hello, son? Gino did not believe his ears. Hello, son? What did the creep think this was, some lousy tear-jerking movie?
“Paolo,” he said shortly, shrugging his shoulders to remove the creep’s hand. “Take a seat.”
Paolo sat, Vera sat.
“Well, son,” Paolo began.
“Cut out the son shit,” he said coldly.
The smile wavered but managed to remain on Paolo’s face.
“Gino,” Vera whined, “take it easy, huh? We ain’t got no fights goin’ any more.”
“It’s all right, I understand,” Paolo said magnanimously.
Gino fixed him with his hard black eyes. “What is it you want from me? More money to piss away?”
“We lost that money legit,” Paolo blustered.
“Yeh?” Gino sighed wearily. “You want a job,
I’ll give you one. But y’ain’t gettin’ any more lumps of dough outa me. I’ll find somethin’ for you t’do, but one wrong move an’ that’s it. You understand me?”
Paolo threw him a surly glare.
“He’s a changed man,” Vera interjected quickly. “You’ll see for yourself, Gino. Y’won’t be sorry if y’give him a job.” She nudged Paolo hard. “That right, sweetie?”
The boozy smile was back on his face. “S’right.”
Gino stood. “That’s settled, then. Have him at Clemmie’s tomorrow night at six o’clock.” He clicked his fingers authoritatively for a waiter, “Serve them lunch,” he said brusquely, “and send the check to me.”
“Certainly, Mr. Santangelo, sir.”
Gino left the restaurant without another word. He stopped outside and spat in the gutter. Paolo always had that effect on him.
Carrie
1939
Abortion. Expensive and dangerous and was that what she really wanted? Yes.
A dirty apartment. All her savings. An old black crone with a pair of rusty scissors.
Searing pain and humiliation.
Bad hooch poured down her throat to keep her quiet.
Back in her room. Huddled. Alone. One day of bleeding and then nothing except despair. She was still pregnant.
Random thoughts. Contact Gino Santangelo, Freddy Lester? Never.
Kill herself? Maybe. She toyed with the thought. Suicide was comforting, always there if you needed it.
She had twenty-three dollars left in the world, and another human being growing inside of her. She couldn’t just lie in the room she was renting and wait. There were no Prince Charmings in her life who were going to come charging up to Harlem on a white horse ready to rescue her. She had conquered drugs and survived. Was she going to crumble now?
She was only in her twenties.
She decided to go on living.
The months went by slowly. Jobs were not easy to get. She had a variety. First a singer in some seedy dive. Then a waitress. Then a hostess in a cheap club. She left them all because eventually each boss at each place decided sex with him should be part of her duties.
Money was tight, and her belly was swelling. Strangely enough, as the baby grew inside her, it gave her hope for the future. Their future. The two of them. She was quite ridiculously excited at the thought.
She managed to get a steady job as a cashier in a restaurant, and it was a job that lasted because now she was very pregnant and called herself Mrs. Brown to discourage advances.
On the night of May 17, 1939, Carrie was admitted to All Saints Hospital, New York. And at 3 A.M. on May 18, she gave birth to an eight-pound baby boy. The birth nearly killed her.
She named the baby Steven.
Gino
1939
Rumblings of a war in Europe were shaking America. Hitler, the German dictator, had invaded Poland, and Britain and France were at war with Germany. President Roosevelt had declared America neutral, but who knew what the future held?
Senator Oswald Duke and Gino Santangelo sat down one day and worked out ways to make money from the situation.
Oswald suggested the purchase of several appliance factories that in a time of crisis could be converted into making machinery and ammunition. Gino agreed. Oswald also suggested that they buy an industrial rubber plant, a chain of gas stations, and, stockpiled in warehouses across the country, coffee, sugar, and canned goods. “You never know,” Oswald decided sagely. “These are the products that everyone will be screaming for if the war in Europe spreads.”
Gino went along with everything the old man suggested. He had never been wrong yet, and it was always a good idea to keep an eye on the future.
On New Year’s Eve, 1939, Gino closed down Clemmie’s for the night and threw a lavish private party. Everyone attended. It was the best party of the year.
As far as he was concerned it was the worst.
Two things happened that he didn’t like.
First, Clementine Duke got drunk, threw a drink in his face, and sneered “Murderer!” for everyone to hear.
He wanted to slap her fine porcelain skin and kick in her skinny ass. Instead he wiped the booze off his face, grinned to show it didn’t matter, and said, “Mrs. Duke is drunk again, folks. Let’s get on with the party.”
His guests surged around him, shutting out Clementine’s white and furious face. Oswald gripped her by the arm and took her home.
The second upsetting incident concerned Paolo. Gino had given him a job as gofer—go for this, that—and so far it had worked out. But now, as Gino took a quiet walk around backstage, he came across Paolo, trousers around his ankles, screwing a petrified young dancer from the chorus line of Clemmie’s.
“What in hell’s goin’ on here?” he asked in a soft menacing tone, trying not to look at his father’s sagging ass.
The girl squealed loudly. “Oh, Mr. Santangelo. I’m sorry. He said I had to do it because of—well, because of who he was. He said if I didn’t I would lose my job.”
Paolo pulled his pants up and hurriedly slouched off.
Gino stared at the girl. She was only a youngster. One of the older ones would never have fallen for such a line.
“Never do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, very slowly. “Never. You understand me?”
He went looking for Paolo but could not find him, so he was left with a gut full of anger and nobody to take it out on. Bee got the brunt. “That motherfuckin’ sonofabitch!” he raved.
When the party was over and they went to her apartment, she pinned her lovely red hair atop her head and did the one thing she knew pleasured him the most.
For once it did not soothe him.
He could not sleep. He lay beside Bee’s warm body and listened to her deep contented breathing. It was her goddamn deep contented breathing that was keeping him awake. Who the hell could be expected to sleep with that racket going on?
He got out of bed, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and filled a plate with ice cream.
He thought of Clementine: the tight lines on her face, the bitterness around her mouth as she had drunkenly screamed “Murderer!” at him.
Bitch. What made her think she could get away with behavior like that? He would have to talk to Oswald about her.
Murderer. Nobody could prove a thing. The newspapers had speculated about Cindy’s untimely death. He had hit them with a slew of lawyer’s letters. After all, he was a bereaved widower, for crissakes. And what is more, he had an alibi tighter than an ant’s ass.
Scavengers. They were always tracking him for this or that. It wasn’t bad enough that he had the tax authorities continually breathing down his neck, he had reporters coming out his ears. They loved to create scandal, and he was a natural. There would probably be a report of the entire party in one of the New York rags tomorrow: “GINO THE RAM SANTANGELO AND THE SENATOR’S WIFE.”
The ice cream failed to satisfy him, just as Bee had failed to satisfy him earlier. He went back to the fridge and piled his plate high with more. As he spooned it into his mouth he reflected on Paolo. Why he had ever allowed Vera to talk him into giving the prick a job was a mystery. Six weeks later and he was using the “I am Gino Santangelo’s father” line to screw the help. Great. Terrific.
And where was Vera anyway? She had been the one he had invited to the party. Where was Vera? The question began to bother him. He hadn’t seen her in weeks.
“Hi.” Nine-year-old Marco stumbled into the kitchen, hardly able to keep his sleepy eyes open. “Can I have ice cream too?”
“Go back to bed, kid. Your mom’ll bat your ass.”
“Aw, please,” Marco wheedled. “Mom promised to get me some paper hats an’ balloons. Did she?”
He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Yeh. She got them.”
“Where? Can I have them?”
“No, you can’t,” Gino replied firmly. “And keep your voice down or you’ll wake your mother.”
“
Aw, please….”
“No. Sit down, have some ice cream, and shut up.”
The boy grinned and sat at the kitchen table.
Gino went to the refrigerator and fixed yet another dish of ice cream which he placed in front of Marco. Bee would be furious; she said he spoiled the kid. But who wouldn’t? Marco was one of the main reasons he hung out at her place so much anyway.
“Hey,” Gino said suddenly. “How about you an’ me takin’ in a movie tomorrow? I heard a lot about Stagecoach. John Wayne. Cowboys an’ Indians. Watcha think?”
“Really?”
“Sure, really. We’ll see it together, just the two of us.”
Marco beamed and stuffed his mouth.
“Listen,” Gino said, “I’m gonna get dressed an’ get outa here. Tell your ma I’m gonna get some work done while there’s no one around to bother me. An’ I’ll pick you up at noon. Now you finish up in here an’ get your ass back to bed. It’s four o’clock in the mornin’.”
He went into the dressing room and dressed hurriedly. It might be four o’clock in the morning but he was going to pay a little visit to Vera and check out her health. Christ! He should have done it before.
He was also going to tell her the truth about Paolo and the girl—and if that didn’t open her eyes…
Nothing would give him greater pleasure than watching Vera tell Paolo to take a hike. And if she did, he would set her up in any little business she wanted. Vera—on her own—could soft-touch him as much as she wanted.
He pulled on casual clothes and left the Greenwich Village apartment, whistling tunelessly. He had a gut ache, usually a warning signal of trouble, but he ignored it. After all, who wouldn’t have a bellyache after two big dishes of ice cream?
The hotel they were shacked up in was a dump. A real fleabag on the East Side with a broken neon sign that flashed an occasional Rooms Available. As if the clients who frequented such a rat trap would even know what available meant.
New Year’s Eve revelers were still wandering the streets. Blowsy women blowing paper horns and wiggling their fat asses. Aging drunken men in shiny suits with bloodshot eyes and false teeth.
Chances Page 32