Gino’s son was born on September 1, 1951.
His son!
The most joyful moment of his life.
They named the boy Dario.
Gino celebrated for a week.
Maria smiled and said, “I told you I’d give you a son, didn’t I?”
He smothered her with kisses, his beautiful child-woman wife, and counted his blessings for finding her.
Dario was a small baby, only five pounds ten ounces, and quite unlike Lucky in looks: bald, skinny, with matchstick legs and arms, pale skin, and blue eyes.
Lucky, now a sturdy one year and three months, was the image of her father. She had the same dark olive skin, the same black eyes, and the same curly jet hair. He loved her very much, but the birth of a son was something else.
Maria spoke to him firmly before she left the hospital. “We must be very careful,” she insisted. “I don’t want Lucky to be jealous of the new baby.”
“Jealous!” Gino exclaimed. “Are you kidding? I love ’em both.”
“Be sure that you love them both the same, then,” Maria warned.
“Of course, of course,” he lied. He couldn’t help it. A son was a direct extension of himself. A daughter could never be that.
“That fuck is like a cat with nine lives,” Enzio exploded. “I’ve never known anything like it.”
“We’ve achieved our purpose,” Gino said calmly. “No more trouble in Vegas. Business is booming. Pinky won’t try to muscle in again.”
“If you think that, you’re wrong,” Enzio said sharply.
“If I’m wrong, we’ll get rid of him once and for all.”
“Shit!” Enzio snapped. “I say we should keep a hit out on him.”
Gino sighed. “You’ve killed his wife. He’s been warned. He’ll stay away.”
“For now, perhaps.”
Gino laughed confidently. “I know what Pinky’s like. Don’t forget, we started out on the streets together. He’s always had a yellow streak, an’ he ain’t gonna start anythin’ else. You can bet on it.”
“I ain’t a betting man.”
“So don’t bet. I’m tellin’ you, Enzio. Just take my word. He’ll stay in Philadelphia an’ never come sniffin’ around us again.”
“I sure as hell hope you’re right.”
“Oh, I’m right. I know I’m right.” Gino lit up a long thin Monte Cristo cigar and grinned. “You wanna see the baby? Come on, I’ll show you. Dario Santangelo. The best goddamn baby in the whole goddamn world!”
Thursday, July 14, 1977
New York
Steven stared after Lucky’s retreating figure, waited until she was out of sight, and set off down the concrete fire stairs behind her. He was tired, dirty, and angry at having been trapped in an elevator for a whole night. Especially for being trapped with a girl like Lucky: rude, arrogant, and language like a truck driver. Some looker, though. Even after a night in the elevator she still shone.
He stopped himself from thinking about her. What was he doing? He hadn’t thought about another female since he had made up his mind that Aileen was the one for him.
Dario regained consciousness slowly. He didn’t know where he was for a moment; then he remembered and sat up frantically, a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He realized with a dull shock that he was on his own bed. His head ached. His stomach ached. His balls ached.
“How are you feeling?” someone asked.
He blinked. A candle was lighting the room. A figure was sitting in a chair by the door. Dario struggled to get off the bed, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, nausea and blackness overcame him.
“It’s all right,” the figure by the door said. “I’m Sal. Costa Zennocotti sent me to help you out. I’m sorry I laid one on you—but I had to be sure of who you were.”
Dario held his head and groaned. “Thanks a lot,” he muttered bitterly.
“No hard feelings.” The figure got out of the chair and walked toward him, and with a shock Dario realized that Sal was a woman.
By the time Elliott Berkely awoke, Carrie was dressed and nervously pacing around the apartment.
“I thought you would want to stay in bed today,” he said disapprovingly. “After all, you did have a nasty shock yesterday.”
“I feel fine.” She managed to sound quite bright. The last thing she needed was to spend a day in bed.
“Damn!” exclaimed Elliott, trying the switch in the bathroom. “Still no electricity? What’s happening to this city?”
She shrugged. What was happening to her life, never mind about the city.
The driver made good time into New York. Twelve thirty and they were speeding through the crowded Manhattan streets, edging carefully through nonfunctioning traffic signals, roughly riding the potholed roads.
“You’d think they’d get the city streets fixed,” the driver complained. “All the money the government pisses away.” It was the first words he had spoken during the entire journey.
Silence suited Gino. Who needed conversation?
Twenty-seven flights down, and her legs were aching, her feet hot and cramped in the high fashionable canvas boots. Screw fashion. She wished she had on sneakers, shorts, and a T-shirt. She couldn’t help smiling as she imagined Costa’s face if she had turned up for their meeting in such an outfit. Why not? Why the hell not? She was a big girl, wasn’t she? She could do anything she liked, couldn’t she? Anything. No more was Big Daddy in control. Calling the shots. Telling her what to do. Frightening the shit out of her.
Gino Santangelo. Big man. Father. Daddy.
Gino Santangelo. Tyrant.
Christ! He would be back in the country any day now. Any day.
She paused for breath, sat on the concrete steps, and let out a long sigh. A confrontation with her father was an awesome prospect. Awesome but challenging.
She bit on her thumb and closed her eyes for a minute. All she wanted to do was sleep. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the clatter of someone else descending the fire stairs. Steven whoever-he-was. Uptight schmuck.
Wearily she pulled herself up and set off again. Only another twenty flights to go.
“Wait a minute,” Dario managed, “you’re a woman!”
“Well, what d’y’know!” replied Sal mockingly. “I knew there was somethin’ wrong when I got out the shower this mornin’!”
Dario lay back on the bed and groaned. “You sure don’t hit like a woman.”
Sal grinned. She was thirty-four years old, 165 pounds, and strong as an ox. She had close-cut curly hair and a Shirley MacLaine face. She was a free-lance enforcer renowned for her skill in getting any job done quietly and fast. She came expensive but earned every last cent. Dressed in a black track suit as she was, and with her husky voice, it was understandable that Dario had not realized straight off.
“Listen,” she said, “your ‘problem’ in the kitchen has got a bread knife stickin’ straight out of his guts. Who is he?”
Dario groaned again. “I don’t know. He tried to kill me so I…” his voice trailed off helplessly.
Sal shrugged. “No sweat. I guess y’want the body out of here. It’ll cost, of course.”
“It doesn’t matter how much, Costa’ll take care of it.”
“Good. So get some sleep. Stay in here for a couple of hours. By that time we’ll both be out of your life. Right?”
Dumbly he nodded. Soon I’ll wake up, he thought, and none of this will have happened.
“Here, take a couple of these, they’ll help you relax.” He accepted the turquoise capsules gratefully. Within minutes he was in a deep sleep.
Sal regarded him thoughtfully. Dario Santangelo, huh? Son of Gino. Maybe now was her time to take a shot at a fortune.
Costa slumbered the night away in his office. The couch was comfortable. Why, at his age, even contemplate the long climb downstairs? After arranging for Sal to take care of Dario’s problem, he had called the airport and found out that Gino’s flight had been rerouted to
Philadelphia. He knew Gino wouldn’t be pleased. All the years of delicate negotiation to get him back, into the country…. But still… a night in Philadelphia wasn’t the end of the world—and Gino would be foolish if he attempted to get into the city tonight. The Mayor had declared a state of emergency, and it looked like the blackout was not just a short inconvenience.
So Costa had loosened his tie, taken off his jacket, and slept fitfully.
Gino’s 9 A.M. phone call awakened him. “I’m on my way in,” he stated. “Meet me at the Pierre around midday.”
Costa did not think twice about huffing his way down fifty-one flights of hard concrete stairs. Gino wanted to meet. Even after all these years, when Gino wanted Costa jumped.
“I suppose we’d better cancel the dinner party tomorrow night,” Elliott said reluctantly. He hated anything to interfere with his meticulously planned life.
“I’m sure the power failure won’t last as long as that,” Carrie replied soothingly.
“Hmmm.” He frowned. “You know what I feel like doing?” “What?” she asked, hoping that it was getting out of the apartment and spending the day at his office.
“I feel like going somewhere: the Bahamas, Hawaii, maybe the Virgin Islands. What do you think?”
What did she think? She thought it was a terrible idea. To go away and know that someone somewhere in New York was waiting to expose her? Impossible.
She forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly. We can’t go away now.”
“Why not?”
“Because we just can’t. We have a full social calendar right through until September, dinners we’ve promised to attend, openings, parties—” She was talking too fast and she knew it.
Elliott interrupted her. “Nothing that can’t be canceled.”
“You know you hate letting people down.”
“A few weeks away. You need it, my dear.”
“I’m quite happy to stay in the city,” she replied quickly.
“I don’t understand you,” he began. “After what happened yesterday—” The telephone interrupted. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?… Hello?”
“Who was it?” she asked tremulously as he replaced the receiver.
“A wrong number. Even the telephone system is failing. This city is falling to pieces.”
Carrie shivered. It had been her blackmailer on the phone. She knew it. She was sure.
Gino strode through the lobby of the Pierre to the reception desk. His walk was slower, his step more tempered. But he still generated a certain raw energy.
“Mr. Santangelo, we’ve been expecting you, sir,” the desk clerk said, handing him the key to his suite.
A woman standing by the desk turned to stare at the sound of his name. When her husband joined her, she nudged him, whispered something, and they both stared.
“Mr. Zennocotti is already upstairs, sir,” the desk clerk continued. “I have it on good authority that the power will be restored soon. If you require anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call.”
Gino nodded, looked around, and took a deep breath.
New York. It had a certain smell. Like no other city.
He was home.
He finally felt it.
And what a feeling it was!
BOOK
TWO
Lucky
1955
Memories up until the age of five were fragmented happy blurs. Warmth. Security. And beautiful gentle mommy with the soft pale hair and velvet skin. Beautiful mommy who always smelled good, laughed a lot, and wore pretty dresses with cuddly furs.
Daddy. Bigger. Rougher. The bearer of gifts. Dolls and teddy bears. And hugs so tight that sometimes Lucky thought her breath had been squeezed right out of her body.
Baby Dario, smaller, delicate. Lucky learned early to look after him.
He cried a lot. She was a happy baby. He was difficult to feed. She grabbed at anything that came her way. He was a slow walker. She was toddling around at fourteen months. At four he barely spoke. At five she garbled on about everything and everyone.
On her fifth birthday her parents threw a big party. Fifty children. Clowns. Donkey rides in the garden. A huge chocolate cake shaped like her favorite doll’s house.
She was so excited she could hardly breathe. She wore a frilled pink dress, ribbons in her curly black hair, and short socks with white patent-leather shoes.
Gino swept her up in his arms and called her his little Italian Princess over and over. Then he gave her his present, a fine gold chain with a tiny diamond- and ruby-studded locket. Inside the locket was a picture of the two of them together.
“Daddy!” she squealed, smothering him with kisses.
“You spoil her.” Maria smiled indulgently.
“Some kids are made to be spoiled.” And he threw Lucky into the air.
She screamed with excited terror, but he caught her and hugged her to him. She breathed deeply the smells she liked best. Daddy-smells. Snuggling close to him, she said, “Good boy, daddy, good, good boy.”
He put her down and winked at Maria. “This kid’s the greatest, takes after her old man.”
Maria smiled sweetly. “Looks like her old man—has all my best qualities.”
Lucky clung to his leg, begging to be picked up again, but she had lost his attention, he was grinning at his wife, “Oh, yeh?”
Maria was grinning back. “Oh yeh,” she mimicked.
“Oh, yeh,” Gino roared happily, shaking Lucky from his leg and throwing his arms around his wife. “Says who?”
Lucky jammed her thumb into her mouth and watched her parents silently. Silly grown-ups. When they got in this mood they never took any notice of her, and it was her birthday.
Removing her thumb from her mouth, she said, “Gotta tummy pain.”
Maria pushed Gino away and bent to her daughter. “Oh, no! Not today. Where does it hurt, darling?”
“All over.”
Maria gave Gino an accusing look. “You shouldn’t have thrown her about. You’re too rough with her.”
“Yeh?” Once more he swept his daughter up into his arms. “You got a pain, kid? You got a pain?” He began to tickle her. She screamed with laughter. “Where’s the pain? Huh? Huh?”
“Stop it, Gino,” admonished Maria.
“Aw, c’mon. She loves it.”
And Lucky did love it. She laughed so hard that tears formed in her eyes and slid joyfully down her cheeks. “Pain all gone, Daddy, all gone,” she yelled happily.
He continued to tickle her.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she cried.
“Yeh? You want Daddy t’stop?” he joked. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to. How does that grab you?”
“Gino, she’s getting too excited,” Maria said mildly. “She won’t enjoy her party.”
He stopped the tickling, squeezed her tightly, and whispered, “Daddy loves ya, kid.” Then he put her down.
At that point Nanny Camden appeared with Dario. She held the blond toddler’s hand firmly. Dario had a habit of wandering off and getting lost.
“Hey,” Gino exclaimed, “I know it ain’t your birthday, but I got somethin’ for you too.”
Dario did not let go of Nanny Camden as Gino handed over a large gift-wrapped package.
Lucky jumped for joy. She was not a jealous child, and the thought of her baby brother getting a present too only served to delight her. “Open it, silly,” she instructed him, and when he made no attempt to grab at the parcel she opened it for him, pulling and ripping at the colorful paper with much enthusiasm. Inside was a large model car, shiny red with whirling black wheels. Lucky seemed more fascinated with it than Dario. He gave it a cursory touch, then swapped nanny’s hand for his mother’s warm grasp.
“Hey—hey—hey!” Gino exclaimed. “Y’like it?” And now he swooped on Dario, picking him up and throwing him in the air just like he had done with Lucky.
The child burst into tears, bawling at the top of his lungs. Then he was sick.
Gi
no handed him back to nanny, wishing that the kid would toughen up—be more like his sister.
“He’s only just finished his lunch,” Maria reproached. “What do you expect when you throw him around like that?”
Gino shrugged and returned his attentions to his daughter. Together they zoomed the shiny red car around on the floor.
Maria got out her camera and photographed them. “Smile,” she instructed, and two identical grins beamed up at her.
A week later Gino set off on a trip.
Lucky didn’t mind his going away too much because he always brought back wonderful presents. She did miss him, though. Sometimes mommy let her talk to him on the telephone. That was a big treat.
When daddy was away the house filled up with people, and mommy didn’t like that. Lucky knew, because she had heard them fighting about it. This time there were no other people in the house. When she asked why, mommy said it was because daddy was only going to be gone one night. Lucky wondered if this meant no presents.
In a small house in the garden lived Red and another man. Lucky liked them. They gave her piggyback rides and threw her in the swimming pool. Nanny Camden didn’t like them. She called them “uncouth louts.” Lucky didn’t know what “uncouth louts” meant. Dario cried when they tried to play with him. He cried a lot. Lucky was the only one who could get him to laugh.
Daddy gave her a big kiss when he left and an even bigger one to mommy, who later took her into the big bedroom and let her try on her clothes and shoes and jewelry. Lucky had great fun playing dress-up. It was one of her favorite games and only allowed as a special treat.
She hoped that she might get two special treats and be allowed to sleep in the big bedroom. But it was not to be. Nanny Camden bustled her off for a bath at six o’clock, and at seven o’clock mommy came into her bedroom to kiss her good night.
She reached up and held a strand of her mother’s silky pale hair. “Why haven’t I got yellow hair?” she inquired.
“Because you’ve got lovely black hair, just like daddy,” Maria said softly. “That makes you lucky twice. Once for your name, and once for your nice curly hair.”
Chances Page 44