Don’t bother reading them, my ass, she thought. If I’m signing, I’m reading.
She had booked a room at the Sherry Netherland, and after checking in she called Costa and said, “Guess what? I’m in town. How about taking a starving girl out to dinner?”
“Why are you here?” he blustered. “Where’s Craven?”
“Craven is with his family in Washington, where he belongs,” she said sweetly. “I am here to do some shopping.”
“That’s nice,” Costa replied hesitantly.
“What’s the latest news on daddy’s situation?” she questioned.
“Slow,” he replied carefully. “No more on the phone.”
“I understand. I’ll see you later.” Instinct warned her to tread carefully with Costa. Play it wide-eyed and innocent.
She was wide-eyed and innocent all through dinner at 21. She ordered the duck as Costa advised, admired the dark wood paneling and the toys hanging from the ceiling, sipped prudently at her wine. “I’ve never been here before,” she enthused. “It’s terriffic!”
He was pleased that she liked his choice of restaurant.
“What do you think?” she inquired casually over prawn cocktail. “When will Gino be back?”
He shook his head seriously. “It’s going to take a while, much longer than we anticipated.”
“How long?” she asked quickly.
“It’s impossible to say.”
“Weeks? Months? Years?”
He shrugged. “It could be a long time. Who can tell?”
Was he mistaken or did he see a smile hovering on her lips? She had certainly grown into a darkly beautiful young woman. It was strange to be sitting in 21 with her. At first he was quietly ill at ease, but as the evening progressed she got him talking, reminiscing about the old days.
She was a good listener, interjecting questions at just the right moments. Soon she was finding out more about Gino and his life than she had ever known before. She was aware of his rich period—after all, she had been born into it—but it was really fascinating to listen to stories about the old days, when he had had no money and lived in a beat-up old room.
“How did you two meet?” she asked.
Costa immediately became cagey. She sensed something was up and dropped the subject.
Uncle Costa. She had known him all of her life, yet this was the first time they had ever sat down and had a proper conversation. She wondered what he was doing for sex now that Aunt Jen had died. Was he too old to bother any more? Was it difficult for a man to continue getting it up year after year, decade after decade? He was pleasant-enough looking. Smallish, thinnish, gray hair on its way to heaven.
The good red wine had really loosened his tongue. He was talking of Leonora, Lucky’s grandma, a forbidden subject over the years. Aunt Jen had always paled at the very mention of her name.
“Gino loved her very much.” Costa rambled on, and then, as if realizing he was saying too much, he shut up.
“Uncle Costa?” she questioned artlessly. “Remember the conversation we had just before Gino left?”
He nodded.
“You said that I’d have to sign a few papers, nothing to bother me. It was complicated—it would take a week to explain.”
He nodded again.
“Well, I’ve got a week, and I’d be really grateful if you would explain things to me.”
How could he refuse? She was no longer the wild Lucky of old. She was a lovely sweet girl, with a genuine interest in things.
Day after day she came to his office and he began—slowly, at first, because he thought her interest wouldn’t last—to explain the workings of the various companies. “Of course you’re only a figurehead,” he said. “You’ll never be called upon to get involved.”
Oh no? That’s what he thought.
“I’ll send you things to sign. You can rest assured that whatever I send you has been checked out and approved by me.”
She nodded. Like a sponge, she absorbed every bit of information she was given.
Craven called her angrily from Washington. “When are you coming back?” he demanded.
“I’m not,” she replied coolly. “Our marriage is over. Please arrange to have my things packed and sent.”
Craven was more upset by what his father would say than by the thought of Lucky divorcing him.
Peter Richmond called her a day later. Casual politician’s bullshit voice. “Lucky? What are you thinking of? Come back and we’ll discuss it.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“If you don’t come here I’ll have to fly in to see you.”
“Fine.”
She had told no one of her plans. Her divorce was her business. Costa did keep on saying, “Shouldn’t you be getting back to Washington?” But she just shook her head and murmured, “No hurry.”
When Peter Richmond telephoned, she arranged to meet him for dinner. She had been dining every night with Costa—probing and learning—so he was disappointed when she said she couldn’t make it that night.
“I wanted to take you to a special place,” he complained.
“Tomorrow, Uncle Costa, I promise.”
“But it was arranged for tonight,” he fretted.
“Where?”
“Ah, it’s a secret.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes.”
Peter Richmond wore his public gear of casual sports jacket, open-neck shirt, and well-fitting slacks. Man of the people. As he walked through the restaurant of the Sherry Netherland, he waved and smiled at everyone as though they were all one big happy family.
Sitting at a table, watching his approach, Lucky felt slightly sick. At home he was a mini tyrant; all of his children were scared shitless of him. Only the indefatigable Betty took none of his crap. In public he was Mister Charm, in private Mister Shitheel.
“Hi, Peter,” she said acidly. “You’re late.”
“Am I?” Boyish surprise written all over his suntanned face. “I am sorry. I hope you’ve ordered a drink.”
Couldn’t the horse’s ass see a hefty vodka right in front of her?
He sat down, greeted the wine waiter like a long-lost friend, and ordered himself a spritzer—a combination of white wine and soda. “Well, well,” he said, leaning back in his chair and studying her. “So the bird wants to fly.”
Her voice was steady. “The bird never wanted to get trapped in the first place.”
“You have to be kidding, dear. Any bird would want to marry into the Richmond family.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re full of shit?”
He bridled, but only for a moment. Over four years their relationship had been nonverbal. Now she had developed a mouth. “You’re just like your father,” he said coldly.
“Yeh. I guess I am. Only daddy would never have allowed himself to be conned into a boring marriage. I can see I’m going to have to develop balls—just like dear old daddy.”
“Christ! You’re vulgar.”
“And you never put a foot wrong. It’s a well-known fact in Washington that you screw anything that moves.”
“You can’t divorce Craven,” Peter said tightly.
“Can’t?”
“No. It’s impossible. I made an agreement with your father. Only he can give you permission. Only then would I allow it.”
“You really are full of shit. I’m almost twenty-one, you asshole. I can do what the fuck I like.”
“What a lady you are.”
“And what a phony creep you are.”
The wine waiter arrived with the spritzer and presented it to Peter with a flourish and a friendly “Nice t’see you in our town, Senator.”
The smile was back on Peter’s face in a flash. “It’s certainly nice to be here.”
“You ready to order yet, Senator?”
“Marvelous idea.”
“I’ll send the waiter right over.”
Idly Lucky dipped her finger into her vodka and twirled
the ice cubes. “What did Gino blackmail you with?” she asked curiously.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said stiffly.
The waiter arrived with the menu, and they both ordered.
“I suggest we wait until your father gets back to town and we all sit down sensibly and discuss this divorce business in a civilized fashion,” Peter said. “After all, if it’s what you want, I don’t see how he can object. And quite frankly, I myself would be relieved.”
“Well, hot toasted titty for you! Only Gino is not coming back to town for a while—maybe a long while—so prepare yourself. I am divorcing Craven, and I don’t give a camel’s crap what anyone says. Not even you.”
“We’re going to Riccaddi’s,” Costa announced proudly as he drove his black Lincoln through the New York streets.
Lucky frowned. “Riccaddi’s? Never heard of it. Where is it?” Costa had been taking her to all the best New York restaurants, and she was enjoying every minute of it. It was pleasurable to be out with a man who treated her in such an old-world courtly fashion. Uncle Costa was a genuine antique, and she loved him for it.
“Riccaddi’s is a very fine Italian restaurant. It’s been around for over twenty years.”
“Really?” Lucky stared out of the car window. “Where is it, New Jersey?”
Costa laughed softly, “Don’t be impatient, we’re nearly there.”
“Can’t wait!”
Costa had been unusually excited about the evening’s excursion. He had refused to reveal where they were going until now. Somehow, Lucky had known that Riccaddi’s was more than just another Italian restaurant.
She was right. As soon as they entered the small cozy place set in the middle of a run-down neighborhood, Costa was afforded a king’s welcome. An elderly woman greeted him with a warm hug. “Costa! Why do you wait so long to see us?”
“Barbara! Always the same, always beautiful.”
“Older, grayer, tireder.” She stepped back and regarded Lucky in a kindly fashion. “So this is Lucky,” she said. “If I had not known you would not have had to tell me. She looks just like him.”
“Lucky,” Costa said, “this is the famous Barbara Dinunzio—best pasta cook in the whole of New York.”
Lucky grinned and extended her hand politely to the elderly woman.
Barbara ignored the hand and hugged her. “From Gino’s daughter I expect a kiss. I haven’t seen you since you were five years old, but I remember you always. Come.” With her arm around Lucky’s shoulder, she guided her to a corner table where two men sat. One was grossly fat; he struggled to stand. “Your Uncle Aldo,” Barbara said. “When you were little he changed your diapers and taught you nursery rhymes in the old language. You remember?”
Lucky glanced around desperately for Costa. What had he brought her into? Why hadn’t he warned her? “N-not really,” she stammered, feeling out of place and awkward with these strangers who were all looking at her with such warmth and kindness.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said Barbara mildly. “Any child who went through what you did… your poor beautiful mother…”
“You knew my mother?” Lucky asked quickly.
“We all loved your mother,” said Barbara softly, “everyone did.” She touched her lightly on the cheek. “Now sit down. We will drink wine and talk of happier things.”
The other man at the table said, “So, little Lucky. You know who I am?”
She shook her head.
He laughed. “I’m Enzio Bonnatti, your godfather. With Gino gone, you got me t’look out for you. You want or need, y’come to me—never strangers.”
She stared at him. Was this old man really the notorious Enzio Bonnatti, her true godfather, this man with sunken cheeks, deep-set eyes, and a benevolent smile?
Costa was beside her now. “Lucky, these people are Gino’s closest and oldest friends. Be nice to them, because they want to be nice to you.”
She had not quite understood what he meant at the time. But as the months passed she began to understand. Costa had taught her certain things, but there was so much more to learn. To have a man like Enzio Bonnatti as her godfather was a gift to take advantage of. She accepted the weekend invitations to his Long Island mansion and enjoyed listening to the stories he had to tell.
The house was always full of different relatives and friends. His two sons, Carlo and Santino, attended on alternate weekends with their respective families. They did not speak to each other, a fact which both infuriated and saddened Enzio. “A couple of clowns,” he called them. “There are enough enemies in the world. Family is blood and should be treated with respect.”
He took a strong liking to Lucky. Not only was she Gino’s daughter, but she was sharp as any man and he admired her style.
She in turn quickly grew to respect him. He had strength and power, the qualities that impressed her most.
Soon she was dividing her time between the two old men: Costa in the city and Enzio most weekends. Sex, once so important, didn’t seem to matter any more. Drinking up the knowledge that these two men had to offer was far more important. She was enjoying herself and learning everything she wanted to know. It was enough to keep her satisfied.
One hot afternoon in New York, a contact arranged for her to go into the musty depths of a big daily newspaper. There she sat and studied the press clipping file on her father, Gino the Ram Santangelo. A vicious killer, the newspaper called him.
There were headlines when he was arrested and tried for the murder of his own father. There was a small paragraph on page three when he was released years later with a full pardon.
She read about his first wife’s death… and wondered. Was he everything they said he was? He was described as “Infamous Bootlegger,” “Violent Criminal,” “Numbers Racketeer,” “Notorious Gangster.” According to the newspapers he was a friend and associate of Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, all the big criminals of the day.
When she reached the clippings from the fifties she found a picture of herself, a small frightened girl being bundled into a car by a grim-looking nanny, SANTANGELO CHILD DISCOVERS BODY OF MOTHER GRUESOMELY MURDERED IN GANGLAND REVENGE screamed the headline.
Her mind clicked shut. She didn’t want to look any more. She ran from the place upset and disturbed.
Her divorce went through with the minimum of publicity, thanks to Richmond pull. Once Peter realized that there was nothing he could do to stop her, he cooperated in every way to get her out of the family as quickly as possible.
She was delighted. Costa was shocked. “Your father will be very upset,” he worried.
“So we won’t tell him,” she reasoned. “That way he can’t be upset, can he?”
Costa nodded, unsure, and without mentioning it to her he phoned and told Gino.
“There is nothing I can do,” Gino said shortly. “When I return I’ll deal with things. You know I can’t make waves while I’m here. You gotta take care of everything, and the most important thing you gotta take care of is gettin’ me back to America.”
“I’m working on it,” Costa replied guardedly.
Gino was paranoid about communication. He felt that there was a wire tap on his phone and a survey on his mail, and that the quieter he stayed the better. “Sure you are, I know, I know.” He sighed wearily. By special courier, Costa had sent him the information that he had gathered together a team of expert tax lawyers who were looking into the whole situation and coming up with recommendations on how to move. It was nothing that could be dealt with in a hurry. The subject of Gino Santangelo was a delicate one. He had received so much publicity in his lifetime. Whatever he did was news. If a deal was to be worked out with the Internal Revenue Service it had to be a watertight one that would stand thorough investigation at any level.
“So listen,” Gino added, “you keep an eye on Lucky. I don’t want her runnin’ around New York like a wild one.”
“I’m with her all the time,” Costa assured his friend.
> This was true. Lucky seemed happy enough to be in his company. He was glad that he had introduced her to Barbara and Aldo, and that she was spending time with Enzio. People like that were true friends of Gino’s and would look out for her.
“I’ll talk to you again soon,” he said warmly. “You take care.” Gino laughed dryly. “Yeh, I’ll take care not to overdose on gefilte fish and apple strudel! Jesus, what this food is doin’ to my ulcer is nobody’s business! Get me home, Costa. This quiet life is no good for a man like me. Do it soon.”
Dario was due to arrive in New York any day after finishing the semester at the art institute. This fact didn’t seem to please Lucky very much. She chipped away at Costa constantly. “He doesn’t want to come…. It’s stupid of Gino to force him…. He just won’t understand things…. He’s young for his age, immature….”
By the time Dario arrived, Costa had been thoroughly brainwashed. Why was Gino forcing the boy to do something he didn’t want to?
Lucky had moved out of Gino’s large apartment where she had been staying. “Why?” Costa asked. “There is plenty of room for both of you to live there.”
“Gino wanted it to be Dario’s. I’d sooner have my own place anyway.”
She found a nice little apartment around Sixty-first and Park and was installed by the time her brother arrived.
To survive in business you have to be tough, committed, ready to make instant decisions. Lucky had all the right qualities. Dario didn’t. When he got to town, Costa put him in a small office and gave him some minor chores to take care of. He screwed every one of them up and merely looked indifferent when Costa berated him.
Costa was perplexed. What was there to teach a boy who did not want to learn? “Why don’t you relax,” he told him finally. “Get to know the city. We’ll get together soon. In the meantime, you take it easy.”
Dario did just that.
Eric had stayed in San Francisco sulking.
“When it’s cool I’ll send for you,” Dario had promised.
Now he began to sample the joys of being free. New York was not cool. New York was hot. Soon Dario forgot all about sending for Eric.
Chances Page 58