“All set, boss,” Red informed him. “I got a plane booked for six o’clock.”
Pippa Sanchez was not in Vegas with The Boy. She had a small part in a Clark Gable movie coming up and was spending the week in Hollywood getting into shape. That’s what she had told Jake. In point of fact she was servicing an elderly casting director who put the occasional interesting cameo role her way and in return expected energetic appreciation. If The Boy ever found her screwing anyone else he would kill her. Or so he had told her on many occasions.
Pippa was a girl used to her freedom. When Jake had instructed her to sleep with Gino Santangelo she had been surprised, yet secretly pleased. Variety was the spice of life as far as she was concerned, although that didn’t mean she wasn’t very fond of Jake. He was good for her image. And in the long run, image was more important than anything. She was ever hopeful of persuading Gino or Jake to finance a movie. For over a year she had been working on Gino, sending him scripts, telling him of the fortunes to be made out of a successful production. No results as yet.
She was thinking about this as she parked her pink Thunderbird in the driveway of the house she shared with The Boy. Thinking, and biting on her lower lip, and wondering if the screenwriter she had secretly hired was any further along with the script she had commissioned. Not being able to interest Gino in a story was one thing. Having one specially written about him was another. Of course it would have a wonderful woman’s role, for which she would be perfect.
Inside the house it was quiet, except for the whir of the huge refrigerator in the kitchen. How Jake hated that refrigerator. “Throw it out!” he was always screaming. “I can’t stand the fucking noise!”
The refrigerator stayed. It was the only one she could find big enough for all The Boy’s needs. He had this fear that Tiny Martino, Errol Flynn, or some other big film star would drop by and request something to eat that he might not have. As far as Jake was concerned, that would show him up as just an East Coast bum with no idea how to run a proper home. It didn’t matter whether Jake was in town or not, his large noisy refrigerator was always kept full.
Pippa slipped off her dress. Underneath she wore a small shiny black bikini imported from Europe. It suited her voluptuous form admirably.
She padded through the white living room and out to the inviting swimming pool. For a moment she poised on the side, sucking in her breath, and then she dived, sleekly, smoothly, cutting through the bland chlorinated water like a scythe. Pippa was an excellent swimmer.
Gino watched her. He sat on the window seat of the pool house silently observing. He had arrived at the house fifteen minutes before, given Jake’s manservant a hundred bucks to make himself scarce, and settled down to wait. The wait had not been as long as he had expected.
She swam the length of the pool twenty times and then stepped out.
He emerged from the pool house. His clothes were incongruous for the hot California sun: a dark suit, vest, blue shirt, narrow conservative tie. He made a sinister figure in the afternoon light.
She gasped in surprise. “Gino! My God! Where did you come from? You frightened me.”
Slowly he said, “I’m disappointed in you, Pippa.”
She grabbed a short terry-cloth beach wrap and threw it across her shoulders. Her mind was racing. What was he doing here? Did The Boy know?
“Disappointed?” She attempted a laugh. “I don’t understand….”
He wasn’t sweating. He should be, dressed like he was in the boiling sun. “Aren’t you hot?” she asked, toying with a gold crucifix that hung between her breasts.
“I want you to get packed,” he said. “You have exactly one hour.”
She was sweating now, the tiny beads of perspiration mixing with the water from the pool still on her body. But Pippa was not a nervous type. She led too hard a life to be intimidated easily. “Something wrong, Gino?” she inquired, pulling herself together.
“Very,” he replied coldly.
She pulled the terry-cloth wrap about her and tied the belt tightly. “Why don’t we go inside, have a drink, and you can tell me about it.”
“You don’t have time,” he said evenly. “You’re wasting minutes. You have under an hour now.”
“What’s going on?” she snapped, dark eyes flashing dangerously. She was over the fear of him sneaking up on her and ready for battle. He might tell The Boy what to do, but he certainly wasn’t about to take over her life.
“You stole from me,” he said, without a flicker of emotion. “You took my money and reported to me each week about Jake and told me nothing. Nothing.”
“There was nothing to tell.” She shrugged. “Nothing… honestly….”
And as she said it she was lying, and what was worse he knew she was lying. Why had she ever confided in The Boy, told him about the money Gino Santangelo was paying her to report on him? Fool! But she hadn’t thought so at the time. Not when Jake bought her a diamond necklace and showered her with other gifts and gave her five thousand dollars’ worth of chips to play with at the Mirage tables. Any time she wanted. Any time at all.
She had known he was stealing all along, but so what? She and The Boy had spent many an evening in bed giggling over the fact that Gino Santangelo would never be able to prove how much was being siphoned into The Boy’s pocket. Never.
“I don’t want to hear your stupid excuses,” Gino said harshly. “If you were a man, we wouldn’t even be discussing this. You would be lying at the bottom of that pool, or your face would be through the windshield of a car. You understand what I’m saying?”
She understood, and the fear and the sweat came rushing back. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m really sorry….”
“Sure you are,” he said amiably, “an’ that’s why I’m letting you off so easy. Let’s go. I’ll watch you pack.”
“Where am I going?” she whispered.
“Spain.”
“Spain?” She was horrified. “I can’t go abroad, I have a movie to do in a week. I—”
He cut her off. “Spain. And you’ll stay there for at least two years. If you come back before that—”
He didn’t need to say any more.
The Boy loved Vegas and Vegas loved him. They were compatible, The Boy and the garish tinsel city in the middle of the desert.
The Mirage was everything he had expected and more. He strutted around the place, and in his mind he began to plan something even bigger and better. What a coup! Hotel after hotel, and each one even more magnificent than the last.
When Pinky Banana Kassari had approached him about selling out his piece he was ready. He asked a ridiculous price, and to his surprise Pinky agreed immediately. He knew he should consult Gino, get his permission—but what if he said no? In the end he decided to make the deal and tell Gino when it was too late to stop it.
It was too late to stop now, and Jake and Pinky celebrated with a magnum of champagne, a tableful of stars, and three showgirls who could balance ten-cent pieces on their nipples. All the same, Jake wished that Pippa was with him to share the evening. She drove him mad with her goddamned career. He was going to have to do something about that. Maybe invest some of his newfound fortune in a movie vehicle for her. Christ knows she had been carrying on about it for long enough.
“What’s the little redhead’s special trick?” Pinky leered.
“You wanna take her upstairs an’ find out?” Jake leered back, secretly hating the prick but grateful to have the first half of his payment in cash safely installed in his bedroom safe.
“Maybe I’ll take all three,” guffawed Pinky.
“Be my guest.”
“I plan to.” Pinky wiped saliva from the side of his mouth. He had not improved with age. His eyes seemed small and meaner, his lips more fleshy, and his greasy hair had receded, making his face seem bigger and even more oafish.
He dressed in flashy bad taste, and had gone through three wives. He was currently on his fourth, a brassy blond former stripper who w
aited in Philadelphia with three Pekingese dogs whom she refused to leave for short trips. The only children he had produced were fat boy twins from his first marriage—who held the promise of turning out exactly like their father.
Pinky was vicious, powerful, greedy, and corrupt. And for twenty-two years he had harbored a grudge against Gino Santangelo. Buying out The Boy at any price was a good way to finally get close enough to do something about it.
Gino slid into Las Vegas as unobtrusively as he had hit Los Angeles. Surprise was an element he enjoyed, and he wanted to see the surprise on The Boy’s face when he joined him at the celebration dinner he was having with Pinky Banana.
Yeh. He knew what was going on. Now.
Once Pippa started to talk, she talked. So did others, anxious to save their necks because they knew the shit was about to hit the fan—and they wanted to be well away from the splatters.
A dark limousine met his plane on the runway and whisked him straight to the hotel. He strode through the lobby, Red and Little Willie in close attendance. Eyes followed him, voices whispered. He was a recognizable face.
The casino manager rushed over to greet him, but Gino was not about to be delayed. “Later, later,” he muttered brusquely.
“Cunt is a commodity,” Pinky said expansively. “Merchandise. Only good for a few months on the shelf, then you gotta get in new stocks.”
Jake stifled a yawn. Who needed this asshole’s thoughts on the matter? On any matter?
“I got’a string of whorehouses in Philly with the hottest freshest cunt in town,” Pinky continued, warming to his subject. “Y’see, I know how to run the business. Bring ’em in—work ’em over—an’ ship ’em off to one of my connections in South America. It’s the only way.”
“Sure,” agreed Jake, giving a wink and a nudge to one of the showgirls, indicating that she should go to work on Pinky.
She wrinkled her nose, but Jake was the boss. “Mr. Kassari,” she cooed, “I’ve been admiring your suit. Such fine material.”
He was pleased. “Ya think so, doll? Well I’ve been admiring your tits. How does that grab ya?”
However it grabbed her she never got to say, for at that exact moment Gino Santangelo entered the private dining room and panic hit the table. The Boy went white, visibly paling beneath his suntan. Pinky Banana’s jaw fell slackly open.
“Hiya, fellas,” Gino said easily. “This a private party or can anyone join in?”
The celebrities down the other end of the table were unaware of any happening. They continued to drink and laugh and joke.
The three showgirls figured something was amiss because of Jake’s very apparent nervousness. “Gino!” he exclaimed. “What y’doin’ here?”
“What kind of a welcome is that?” Gino said, pulling up a chair and sitting down.
“B-but we just spoke on the phone,” Jake stuttered. “You was in New York.”
“So now I’m here.” He smiled. “An’ so is my old friend Pinky Banana, I see. How y’doin’ pal? Long time, huh?”
Pinky threw a poisonous look at Jake, then attempted a smile in Gino’s direction. “I dropped the Banana a long time ago.”
“Yeh? Where’d you drop it?”
Pinky glowered.
The Boy knew he was in trouble. He began to wriggle. “Hey, I’m glad you’re here. A lot’s bin goin’ on an’ I wanted to talk to you.” His words were tumbling out fast now. “I’ll take y’into my office an’ lay it all out for you. What y’think? Shall we go now?”
Gino fixed him with deadly black eyes. “You dumb fuck,” he hissed, “it’s too late for any explaining, too goddamn late.”
Three months later, early in the morning, Gino was paying his customary visit to Lucky in her playroom. She was ten months old, a gorgeous baby with black gypsy eyes and a shock of dark hair. “Who’s daddy’s girl?” he crooned, lifting her from her crib. “Who’s daddy’s little princess?”
Lucky gurgled happily. He was holding her close to him, enjoying the warm baby smells, when Maria came hurrying into the room. She looked upset. “Gino,” she said, thrusting a newspaper at him, “didn’t this man used to work for you?”
He took the paper, scanned the headline.
JAKE COHEN DISCOVERED IN DESERT GRAVE
Jake “The Boy” Cohen’s decomposed body was discovered today in a gruesome desert grave ten miles outside of Las Vegas. Two hitchhikers made the grisly discovery at 10 A.M. after a fierce sandstorm had uncovered the makeshift grave.
The story continued. Gino’s eyes flicked quickly across the newsprint. Poor old Jake. He had it coming and he got it.
“Well?”
With a start Gino realized that Maria was standing watching him. “Yeh,” he said casually, “same guy.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He turned back to Lucky and began playing with her again.
Maria did not question him further. She touched his cheek softly. “Breakfast? How about something special today?”
He laughed and grabbed her ass. “I got somethin’ special,” he joked.
“Gino!”
She was always shockable. He loved it.
Riccaddi’s at lunchtime was packed. Barbara and her children zoomed around the place balancing dishes of pizza and carafes of wine.
Gino ordered lasagna in spite of the fact that he had put on a few pounds. Enzio never tried anything except the spaghetti bolognese, and Aldo stuck to plain veal.
“I lose plenty of weight on this,” Aldo said, wolfing the veal down in three great mouthfuls and signaling one of his children to bring over more.
“Yeh,” said Gino laconically, watching his friend go to town on the second serving. “Plenty.”
Enzio ate his spaghetti slowly, stoically, his bib tucked carefully in place.
The three men sat at a corner table in the back of the restaurant. By the door two tables were occupied by their various bodyguards. Taking chances was a thing of the past.
“We got a war,” Enzio said at last, “and I for one want to put an end to it.”
Gino nodded his agreement. “We take out Pinky—no more war.”
“It has to be done,” Enzio said, “no son-of-a-bitch is going to screw around with me. I don’t care who he is.”
Gino nodded. “Right.” Pinky Banana had given them nothing but trouble over the Las Vegas deal. Gino had tried to handle it fairly. He had even offered Pinky his money back—and, when he refused, made sure it was delivered via messenger. The messenger had turned up two days later in the Mirage parking lot with a bullet in his head and the money still on his person. “You ain’t cuttin’ my balls off this time. Y’got rid of me once, an’ it ain’t happenin’ again. I got a piece of the Mirage an’ I aim to keep it,” Pinky had told Gino on the phone. The struggle was on.
Gino’s people were firmly installed in the Mirage, but Pinky was determined to take over—by force, if need be. Three murders took place: the casino manager, a cocktail waitress, and a croupier. Murder was bad for business. Takings at the Mirage began to slump as the publicity began to grow.
“I’ll arrange a contract,” Gino said. “There’s a headhunter in Buffalo who’ll take him out.”
Enzio agree. “The sooner the better.”
On April 1, 1951, Pinky Banana woke late. His current wife—whom he had lovingly nicknamed Piranha—was asleep beside him. She snored, a fact which drove him crazy.
The bedroom smelled of dog shit. Pinky kicked his wife awake. “Your fucking dogs!” he screamed. “They’ve done it again!”
Piranha rubbed her eyes, which were heavily caked with yesterday’s mascara. “What?”
He was enraged. “Your fucking dogs have shit all over the fucking carpet!”
Piranha sat up in bed. She was naked and sported the most pneumatic breasts in the whole of Philadelphia. Sometimes Pinky thought he hadn’t married a woman, he had married a pair of tits.
“So what?” she whined. “A stink never hurt no one.”
/> “You should know,” sneered Pinky. “When was the last time you took a bath?”
Piranha sprang into action. “Don’t you call me dirty, y’ filthy slob.” She went to whack him across the face, but he caught her by the arm and held her off. “Let me go!” she yelled. “Leave go of me!”
Her three Pekingese dogs reacted to the sound of their mistress’s voice and roused themselves from their slumberous positions around the room. Two of them leaped on the bed, while the third stood on its hind legs against the side and barked excitedly.
“Shut those fucking animals up!” Pinky screamed.
Piranha encouraged them. “Come on, sweeties, come to help poor mommy.”
All three dogs began to bark, and the two on the bed leaped on Pinky. He threw them off with a roar, letting go of Piranha, who took the opportunity to claw at his face with her lethal long red fingernails.
“Cunt!” Pinky screamed.
“Prick!” she screamed back.
The dogs joined in. Pinky took one of them by the scruff of the neck and hurled it across the room. It landed in the corner with a broken whimper.
Piranha stopped her attack and rushed to the dog. “You bastard,” she shrilled, “you’ve hurt Puff Puff!”
“Fuck Puff Puff!”
“Fuck you!”
Pinky jumped off the bed into a mound of dog shit.
“Je-sus Chrieeest!” he yelled, hobbling into the bathroom.
Piranha was busy flinging a coat over her nakedness. Then she picked up the whimpering dog, took the keys of Pinky’s Cadillac from his bedside table, and ran out of the house. “Don’t worry, pet,” she whispered to the little dog, “momma’s gonna get you to the vet real quick.”
Pinky was busy washing his feet when he heard the explosion. At first he thought it was an attack of some sort and threw himself to the floor double-quick. Then, when he realized it wasn’t, he got up, cautiously left the bathroom, and saw the smoking wreck of his Cadillac burning outside the bedroom window. “Holy shit,” he muttered reverently, “that coulda bin me!”
Chances Page 43