“Right. Hand-picked.”
“I’ll pick ’em myself!”
“Jeeze! It’s hot.”
“You want to go back to the car?”
“Why not? I’ve seen all I need to.”
Jake was sweating, not so much from the heat but from Gino’s nonchalance. When they were firmly ensconced in the back of the car he blurted, “Well? We got a deal?”
Gino smiled. “That blonde wasn’t bad last night. But I’ve had better.”
“I’ll get you somethin’ better tonight. Pippa’s got friends you haven’t even seen yet.”
“Pippa.”
“Huh?”
“Your exclusive property?”
Jake’s smile faltered. “Kinda. We bin together awhile….” He trailed off, and the sweat stood out like pearl beads on his forehead. “Of course—if you want her, feel free.”
Gino grinned. “We could call it a loan for the night. Right?”
Jake smiled in a sickly fashion. “Right.”
“After all, when you ran off with my sixty grand it was only a loan, wasn’t it?”
Jake nodded gloomily. Pippa Sanchez was the only broad he’d ever felt anything for in his life. The rest were tramps.
“So I’ll borrow Pippa. For a night. It makes things fair—don’t you think? Sort of evens up the score.”
“Sure, Gino.” Jake’s voice was strained. The bastard had him by the balls, and they both knew it. “She’s all yours.”
Carrie
1943
She paced around her bedroom, a craving within her that she thought had gone forever. In the closet, hidden in the back, were the drugs. The very thought of them caused a shiver to run through her whole body.
She wondered if Bonnatti knew of her previous addiction. If he was aware of it, why would he send around a supply of dope for her to sell? Could he be that cruel? Or stupid?
Of course he could not know. Her past was her own secret. Or was it?
It was early evening, and only a smattering of clients had arrived. The sound of Frank Sinatra drifted through the apartment. Ever since the girls had gone en masse to watch the skinny Sinatra perform at the Paramount Theater they had all been mad about him, and his records were a constant background to the comings and goings of clients.
Carrie preferred something a little more bluesy herself. Bessie Smith or Billie Holiday. She had often wondered if it was the same Billie she had been at Florence Williams’s with, and upon seeing a picture of her one day in a magazine she had realized with a thrill that it was indeed the very same girl. She hugged the secret to her. Who would believe it if she went around boasting, “I know Billie Holiday—we used to work in a whorehouse together”?
Suzita knocked on her door. “There eez some strange cat askin’ for you. I din’t let him in. He say he good friend of yours. He look like peemp to me.”
“I’ll get rid of him,” she replied, smoothing down her tight yellow dress and walking out of the room.
Through the peephole in the front door she inspected Suzita’s “peemp.” He was a tall skinny black in an absurd pinstripe suit and a big hat. They didn’t get a lot of blacks. The ones they did get were usually musicians. Negroes were not encouraged; the white johns didn’t like it.
She opened up the door a few inches, keeping the sturdy security chain firmly in place. “Can I help you, honey?” she drawled. Charm usually got rid of them quicker than a whole lot of screaming. If this black cat wanted action, she would send him over to Madam Zoe’s on Ninety-fourth Street, where they would welcome him with open legs.
“I wanna see Carrie,” he demanded in a whiny voice.
“I’m Carrie, honey, an’ I’m all booked up for weeks an’ months. But I know a place where you’ll get the sweetest piece of ass this—”
He was peering at her through the dimly lit crack in the door. “Hot jumpin’ shitass craps! You is Carrie?” His voice was filled with surprise.
“Sure am. Now listen, fella—”
“I is Leroy,” he crowed. “You remember me, girl? I is your uncle!”
She thought she would faint. Just drop to the floor there and then. Leroy. It couldn’t be. Leroy. It was impossible. Leroy. Surely the bastard was dead by now.
His very name stirred memories she never wanted to dredge up. Leroy. Son-of-a-bitch. Prick.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” she said calmly, her heart beating so fast that she thought he must be able to hear it.
“Le-roy!” he yelled excitedly. “Your uncle, girl!”
“You got things wrong, mister. You’d better get away from here before I call a cop.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Call all the cops you want. I is staying.”
She thought quickly. Could this really be him? And if it was, how could he possibly know it was her? It had been at least sixteen or seventeen years since he had seen her. She had been a child then, no more than a baby. “Mister, you get your ass out of here.”
“Why?” he snapped. “I want a girl. I got money. I kin pay.”
“I can tell you a place t’go where you’ll be welcomed. All my girls are busy—”
“I’ll wait.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’ll wait.”
Stubborn mean bastard. It was Leroy all right. She would never forget the selfish whine in his voice.
Suzita joined her at the door. “Shall I call our protection?” she whispered.
“Yes.” What could he say that would do her harm? She slammed the front door in his face and went with Suzita to call someone from the Bonnatti mob.
“He theenk he know you?” Suzita asked curiously.
“I guess so.”
“You ever seen heem before?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Never seen him in my life.”
Suzita giggled. “He look like real mean peemp.”
“Yes,” agreed Carrie: That’s probably what he still was. A mean pimp. Her uncle. Her only living relative. What a laugh! She walked into the living room and fixed herself a drink.
Suzita rushed back to the front door and remained there, eye glued to the spy hole, until two of Bonnatti’s hoods came and forcibly removed Leroy. “He won’t be back.” She giggled. “They beat zee sheet outa heem.”
As the weeks drifted by, Carrie managed to forget about Leroy. She was too busy to brood about the fact that he was out there somewhere. A beating would have frightened him off anyway. He always was a yellow son-of-a-bitch. She wished the two Bonnatti heavies had sliced his skinny black body up and thrown him in the East River. Any man who made a thirteen-year-old girl take to whoring for him did not deserve to live. If he came back she would kill him herself.
The thought excited her. She bought a small gun from one of her johns and kept it close to her at all times. It gave her a feeling of power. Whenever a man used her body now it was she who had the upper hand. Some white dude lying on top of her, pumping away—he could be the most important guy in America, but when he was screwing her he was inches away from death. She kept the small gun under her bed, fully loaded. Nobody knew it was there except her. Nobody. And even when she entertained Bonnatti—one of the most powerful criminals in New York—her gun was close at hand.
Oh, if he only knew! Enzio Bonnatti, who traveled with three bodyguards at all times. Enzio Bonnatti, who had people taste his food before he ate. Enzio Bonnatti. Pig. They were all pigs. All the same. They couldn’t wait to act out their little perversions.
The men were the whores. At least the women had a reason for doing it.
Black Bitch! It was her all right, with her sassy walk and big tits. She might not be a kid any more but he could recognize her—he wasn’t some dumb asshole.
At first he hadn’t been sure. Wasn’t able to get a real good look at her through the crack in the door. Bitch! Wouldn’t even open up the door and let him into her whorehouse. What’s the matter, Carrie? Black dick not good enough for you any more? He could remember
the time when black dick was all she got, and plenty of it.
Well-known fact—black dick was bigger than white dick. Smelled better and lasted longer.
Leroy cackled as he ducked and weaved down the street behind Carrie, keeping his distance. Mustn’t let her spot him. She had certainly turned into a looker, legs like pistons and hair down to her ass. Shit! Finding her was the best luck he’d had all year!
He extracted a wad of chewing gum from his mouth and replaced it with a fresh piece. Fortunate that he’d gone into that jazz joint a few weeks back and got to sittin’ around and blowin’ a little weed with some of the musicians. Fortunate, because the talk had turned to chicks an’ things, and while he’d been trying to sell them a taste of his live-in piece—sixteen years old, Swedish, and some fast worker—the talk had got around to Carrie’s place, a cathouse on Thirty-sixth Street that had girls a man would cry for. Girls that did anything—for a price—and were the best-looking bunch of slits in the city.
The name stayed with him. Carrie. It couldn’t be, could it? The name wasn’t that usual…. He found out that the chick running the place was black. Carrie… what hot luck if it was.
Now he had checked her out…. It was. Sizzlin’ crap! He was onto a good thing.
He whistled as he bopped along the street, chewing on his gum. Things had not been going his way of late. Ten good sunshine years in California sellin’ pussy had been followed by six bad ones in San Quentin gettin’ dicked by the residents. On his release he had skipped out of the state before he got drafted, run on back to good old New York City, and spent his time boppin’ around the bars and dives. Miss Sweden he had discovered serving chicken à la king in a cheap restaurant off Times Square. Now he had her sellin’ ass—enough to just about support both of them in a dingy Harlem walk-up. Not the lifestyle Leroy had imagined for himself. In California he had been drivin’ a Cadillac, for crissake. And he had been runnin’ ten girls. He was thirty-six years old. Time to start lookin’ out for his future. As far as he could see, little niece Carrie was his future. After all, he had taught her everything she knew. Didn’t that mean she owed him? In his book it did.
He stopped behind a fat woman while Carrie lingered in front of a store window. Bitch! She had got him beaten up good. She would pay for that. He didn’t like mean white dudes messin’ with his features. A man could get hurt that way.
Next time he approached her things would be different.
Next time she would crawl to him, kiss his feet, even suck his balls if he wanted her to.
He had a plan.
It would work.
She moved away from the shop window, pushing the cute little kid in the blue stroller.
Leroy bopped right along behind them, whistling softly to himself.
Gino
1949
After the blue skies of sunny Los Angeles, New York City in July was hot, muggy, and depressing. For the first time in his life Gino thought about buying a house. A nice spread out of the city with grounds and a pool. Somewhere to spend his weekends. Long Island, maybe.
He could understand why The Boy liked Los Angeles. He lived like a king there, surrounded by beautiful broads and all the trappings of success. Like Bugsy Siegel before him, he was treated with a mixture of respect and fear. His unsavory reputation created an aura of glamour around him. In Hollywood, if you were glamorous, you were in.
Pippa Sanchez had confided to Gino that The Boy liked to kick his women around. She had shrugged nonchalantly when he asked her if she minded. “Why should I mind? Being with Jake gets my name in all the columns. It’s better than dating some stupid actor. Besides, he doesn’t mean to do it. It just makes him feel… strong.”
“Strong, huh?” He decided that The Boy needed a watchful eye kept on him at all times. After all, he was going to be sinking a lot of dough into the Mirage, and he wanted to know where every dime went. Pippa seemed the ideal person to tell him.
He propositioned her. In exchange for certain monetary rewards, would she be prepared to split her loyalties?
Yes, she would. She would continue to live with Jake, and she would report to Gino, by telephone, once a week.
She did not come cheap.
He had never imagined that she would.
They spent one long languid night together. But her smoldering sensuality did not turn him on as much as he had thought it would. She was back in The Boy’s bed the following night, and Gino tried a few more Hollywood blondes before flying back to New York with Costa.
He had made up his mind. No more long affairs. There wasn’t one woman he would even consider spending a week with, let alone a month or two.
The thought of buying a house appealed to him. A Gatsby-style mansion where he could entertain. He missed having Clemmie’s and playing at being a host. He enjoyed having important people drink his booze and eat his food. Yeh. He could throw great parties just like Clementine Duke used to. Now that he was out of jail and back in action and loaded, big-shot friends were no problem. They had all come flocking back, and more besides. Sometimes he wondered if there was one true friend among them. He knew that there wasn’t. Money bought you a lot of things—but real friendships were not for sale. The secret was: Never trust anybody. That way you could never get hurt.
Gino found it the only way to operate.
Jennifer and Costa Zennocotti had rented a house in Montauk for the summer. Nothing fancy, just a comfortable roomy place near the beach, with a swing in the scented garden and two resident dogs. Jennifer loved it. She took off her New York clothes and lived in a summery cotton shift and bare feet.
Costa spent the weekends there. He found it so relaxing. The moment he drove up on a Friday night he felt every bit of tension leave his body. And working with Gino meant a tension-filled life. The man was a dynamo, with a mind as sharp as a knife. Take the Las Vegas deal, for instance. Gino needed no papers—the deal was in his head. Of course there were papers, legal documents signed by Gino and The Boy. The venture was going to cost plenty. But if indications of the action at the Flamingo and Thunderbird were anything to go by, opening the Mirage was going to be like opening a bank.
The third week in August, Maria came to stay. She was bubbling with excitement, full of questions, and obviously delighted to be away from home.
“How is Leonora?” Jennifer asked. “It’s been such a time since I’ve seen her.”
“Mother’s fine,” Maria replied, and thought of the screaming argument she had overheard between her parents on the eve of her departure.
“I’m going to have a big party for your birthday,” Jennifer decided. “It’ll be such fun. There are a lot of young people I want you to meet.”
Maria nodded brightly and wished that she could forget all about her birthday. She did not want to be reminded of the fact that she was going to be twenty-one years old. At twenty-one you had to make decisions about life, and Maria had no idea what she wanted to do.
All through July and August, Gino viewed houses on the weekends. Big ones, small ones, island retreats, country cottages, mansions. He found nothing that satisfied him from the green pastures of Connecticut to the wilder shores of Long Island.
He was getting fed up with looking. And the real estate brokers were getting fed up with him.
The last Sunday in August he took off on his own, dispensing with driver and bodyguard. He viewed a large property in East Hampton. The woman realtor showed him around proudly. “I think you will find, Mr. Santangelo, that this is just the house you have been looking for.”
He checked the place out carefully. She could be right. It was an old house in a state of disrepair. But the potential was staring him in the face, and he had the money to spend.
The main structure was Victorian, white paint flaking off pillars and balconies covered with intricate trellis work. The rooms were large and numerous, with big bay windows and an outdoor veranda that ran around the entire upper floor.
“I like it,” he said.
“It is unique,” the realtor replied. “Only on the market because the old lady who lived in it all her life died, and the family wish to sell.”
“Kinda run-down.”
“Ah, yes. But the price does take that into account. And fixed up it will be magnificent.”
He could not make up his mind. He had looked at so many places he was getting confused. Moodily he kicked at some rubble lying on the floor of the glass conservatory that stretched across the rear of the house. “I’d hafta spend a bundle on it.”
“Oh, I’m sure it would be well worth it.” The woman glanced at her watch. She had another appointment for which she was already ten minutes late. “Well, Mr. Santangelo. What do you think?”
“I don’t know yet. If I decide yes, I’ll give you an offer on Monday.”
“Other clients have seen it.”
“Monday.”
“Of course.” She looked at her watch pointedly again. “I do have to be on my way, Mr. Santangelo. Have you seen enough?”
“Sure. You can go. I’ll just take a walk around the garden.” As the sound of her car faded into the distance, he realized how peaceful it was. Just the birds chirping, no other sound at all. What did he need all this peace for? Maybe the place was too quiet.
He wandered around the gardens, noting the overgrown grass and the roses growing wild everywhere. He tried to imagine how it would look when it was all fixed up. Maybe a big marble terrace leading off the conservatory, tennis courts, and a large blue Hollywood-style swimming pool. Yeh. The place could look sensational. Still, he couldn’t make up his mind. It occurred to him that he needed somebody else’s opinion. Costa and Jennifer. Jennifer had good taste; she could tell at a glance what the place would turn out like. And he wasn’t that far from Montauk. He could just drive over to their rented house and fetch them.
Maria dived into the swimming pool, swam vigorously for ten lengths, climbed out, and collapsed onto a lounger. She felt marvelous. Six days with Jennifer and Costa was a revelation. No fights. No long drinking bouts. Just peace and harmony and two people who obviously cared for each other very very much.
Chances Page 37