Ruth did just that. Together they stripped off Dario’s clothes and put him between the sheets.
“Who is he?” Ruth whispered.
Sal stared at the sleeping figure. “If I play it right he’s our house in Arizona. Either that or he’s dead.”
Elliott Berkely finally departed for his office. “I want you to think seriously about our getting out of here for a few weeks,” he admonished before leaving.
“Yes, I will,” Carrie replied unenthusiastically.
No. Impossible. Not until I find out who’s blackmailing me. Not until I deal with the situation.
She spent an uncomfortable day nervously pacing the apartment, jumping every time the phone rang.
She was short with Steven when he phoned, not telling him of her ordeal the previous evening.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said at last, sensing her reluctance to carry on a conversation. “You know, I may have good news about that investigation I’m working on.”
“Mmmm, that’s nice. Tomorrow then.” She hung up the phone fast. Didn’t want to block the line. It rang again almost immediately, and she snatched it up.
“How would you like a nice strong charge of electricity?” a voice leered.
“Oh, Jerry. What do you want?”
“What do I want? What kind of a greeting is that? I want…”
She was not listening as he listed what he wanted. Dear sweet Jerry. Dear sweet young Jerry. He had a crush on her which never seemed to fade.
“Jerry, I’m very busy today,” she interrupted. “Can I call you back?”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Jerry was possessive, almost like a lover. He treated her like the princess she was supposed to be. The vast difference in their ages didn’t seem to bother him.
At five o’clock the phone rang. It was a pay station. Her heart began to pound relentlessly. “This is Carrie Berkely,” she said clearly. “Who is calling?”
“Tomorrow. Twelve noon. Same place,” a muffled voice whispered.
“Just a minute—” she began, but the line clicked dead in her trembling hand.
The two old friends had been talking in Gino’s suite for hours, Costa hesitant at first, but more confident as he got into his story.
Gino did not interrupt. He watched and listened intently, noting once again how old Costa had become and thinking to himself, The guy must be getting senile because I just do not believe what I am hearing.
What he was hearing was the story of Lucky’s rise to power. It was unbelievable that the wild young girl he had last seen in 1970 was a cool, tough, clever businesswoman who had taken over and done pretty good—or so it seemed. The way Costa told it, Lucky could walk on water if the feeling took her. He spoke proudly, telling the story of her struggle to build the Magiriano—the death of Marco—Enzio Bonnatti’s help and assistance.
“Are you tellin’ me,” Gino questioned unbelievingly, “that we’ve seen no money from the Magiriano for almost a year—not one fuckin’ red cent?”
“I thought I explained,” Costa said ploddingly. “After Marco’s murder, Lucky didn’t want to stay in Vegas so Bonnatti stepped in. A temporary measure. Then came the investment business. Now that you’re back—”
“You bet your fuckin’ ass now that I’m back! Jeeze, Costa! I told you to go to Enzio if you needed help. I didn’t tell you to hand him things on a fuckin’ plate. You know what he’s like with the drugs an’ the whores…. Jesus! I don’t need those connections in my hotels.”
“No problems we can’t settle. Enzio will withdraw whenever we want.”
“You wanna bet on that, Costa? You wanna put money on it? You couldn’t put your own people in? You couldn’t shift your ass to reorganize things and keep control? You and my smart-ass daughter. I don’t believe this. What about Dario? You don’t mention him.”
Costa shrugged mournfully. “He has no interest in the business.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Costa wiped the sweat from his brow with a clean white handkerchief. “I think Dario needs help.”
“Help?” snapped Gino. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“He has… sexual problems,” Costa continued hesitantly.
“What problems?” Gino laughed sharply. “Too much pussy, huh? Since when was that a problem?”
Costa squirmed. He had hoped that he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Gino about Dario’s predilections, but the truth had to be told. “Dario is a—uh, he likes… boys.”
“Boys?” Gino frowned, his entire face darkening with fury. “BOYS? Are you tellin’ me the kid’s a fuckin’ fairy?”
Costa nodded miserably.
“I don’t believe it!”
“Unfortunately, it is true.”
Gino got up from the chair he was sitting on and stalked around the room, furiously hitting his fist into the palm of his hand. “So what you’re fuckin’ tellin’ me is that I got a pretty boy for a son, a daughter with cement balls swingin’ between her legs, and you gave away my hotel. Is that it?”
“I didn’t say that about Lucky,” Costa interjected quickly. “She’s a wonderful businesswoman—quick—a mind like a razor. She’s like you, Gino, you should be proud of her. Without her, the Magiriano would not exist. I think that when the two of you get together—”
“Where is Dario?” His voice was like ice.
Costa had forgotten all about Dario and his frantic phone call. But Sal should have taken care of things by now. “He’s in the city. He has an apartment near the river. Shall I arrange a meeting?”
“Don’t arrange nothin’. Just give me his address. I’ll take care of him.”
Costa shuddered. He wouldn’t want to be in Dario’s shoes. But still, someone had to show the boy some sense. If Gino ever found out about the pornographic movie Dario had starred in… Lucky had taken care of that. It had cost, and she had been as angry as Costa had ever seen her, but she had taken care of it. Maybe he should tell Gino. If he found out elsewhere… some other time, perhaps. Right now he was in no mood to hear about his son’s movie career.
“So where’s Lucky?” was his next question.
“She has her own apartment too. Sixty-first and Park.”
“I thought she’d be living in my place.”
“That was sold—six years ago. I have two realtors standing by when you’re ready to decide where you want to live.”
Gino’s eyes were deadly. “She didn’t sell the East Hampton house, did she?”
“No. Of course not.”
“And it hasn’t been touched?”
“Absolutely not.” Costa remembered a heated discussion with Lucky about the house. She had wanted to sell—for once he had blocked her way.
“Maybe I’ll live there,” Gino said unexpectedly. “I kinda got used to livin’ in a house….”
“Good idea,” Costa agreed, relieved that he was no longer screaming. “Of course, it’ll need a great deal of work.”
“So what? I’ll take a drive tomorrow—have a look at the place. You got me a good driver?”
“The best. He was working with the Vittorio family in Chicago—came into town a year ago. Enzio’s personal recommendation.”
“Enzio’s personal recommendation, huh?”
“He’s delighted about you coming back.”
Gino stared thoughtfully into space. “Delighted. I bet.”
Costa cleared his throat. “Enzio says whenever you’re ready to meet. Two weeks, a month, whenever you’re ready. He knows you’ll want time to settle in, get used to being back. He—”
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Gino screamed suddenly. “You losing your marbles or what? I’m back. As of this minute I’m back. I don’t like what’s bin goin’ on. I want a meet arranged with Enzio for tomorrow. And when I’ve found out what the fuck he’s up to, then I’ll deal with Lucky an’ Dario.” He paused and
glared. “They know I’m in town yet?”
Costa once again mopped his forehead. “I thought it best to wait, tell them when you actually arrived. Now, with the power cut, the city has been in a turmoil. I haven’t spoken to either of them since yesterday.”
“That’s good—that’s O.K. Don’t tell ’em yet. I want to surprise them.”
Costa nodded weakly. He could keep no secrets from Lucky.
“I’m tired now,” Gino said dismissively. “I want to get a good night’s sleep.”
“Certainly,” Costa said quickly, watching his old friend pace around the room like a caged lion.
“Arrange the meet with Bonnatti. I want it tomorrow. No excuses.”
“I’m sure Enzio will be only too happy to—”
“Yeh, yeh. We’ll see.” He walked to the window and stared out. “It’s strange bein’ back,” he mumbled, almost to himself.
“It’ll seem so at first—” Costa began.
“Shit! One day and I’ll feel like I never bin away.”
Costa could believe that. He nodded his agreement, then said, “So, nothing else for tonight then?”
Nothing else. He had heard enough for one day. He wanted action, not more talk. “You go home, Costa.”
“I’ll do that. I am tired. Russo’s in the adjoining room should you want him.”
“Yeh, I know, I know.”
Russo was Gino’s appointed bodyguard, again recommended by Enzio. All the old guys were gone. Retired or dead. Russo wasn’t of the old school; he was only in his twenties, sharp and well dressed. Gino had already decided he didn’t look like he could hit a fly on the wall.
He walked Costa to the door. “Hey, take no notice of my screamin’. I know y’did your best.”
Costa left hurriedly. It was past seven o’clock, and he needed to have a long serious talk with Lucky. Once she realized that her father was indeed back… Well, something would have to be worked out. The two of them were just going to have to learn to live together.
Gino watched his friend depart, lit a cigar, and paced restlessly around the room. Why hadn’t the idiot told him about Lucky and Dario sooner? What the fuck was he waiting for? Then he remembered why: his own instructions. Don’t bother me with anything, just get me back. Shit! Something was wrong. He felt it. It was a physical feeling, a gut reaction to something in the air.
But what?
He would have to wait and see. Just be extra careful and watchful—which reminded him. He picked up the phone and requested a number. An hour later he had a new driver and a new bodyguard. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Enzio’s personal recommendations, but rule number one was surround yourself with people whose loyalty was to you—and you alone.
The years in exile had not dulled his senses. If anything, he felt fitter and more alert than when he had left. Seven years was a long time to sit still in one place, but Israel hadn’t been so bad: a nice house, the sea, the beach, his dogs, an occasional female visitor when he felt like it.
During the third year of his exile he had met a woman. No spring chicken. In her early forties. But what did a man of his age need spring chickens for? They gave him indigestion with their silly questions and bouncing around.
The woman he met was an attractive widow with upswept blondish hair and clear blue eyes. It surprised Gino when she told him she was Jewish—she didn’t look Jewish. Israeli girls were devastatingly gorgeous, but all that smoldering darkness had never appealed to him. He liked his women fair. Rosaline Glutzman was fair. She was also a great cook, a great listener, and a great lay for a man who no longer wished to do it ten times a night. She moved in at his invitation and stayed until he departed, never once making demands of any kind.
He had not asked her to accompany him back to New York. She had not asked if she could. They had parted like two civilized people. He had given her a full-length mink coat. End of that episode.
Now he found himself wishing he had brought her with him. Rosaline would have been the perfect person to talk to about Dario and Lucky. His children. Two strangers.
Lucky. What was she like now? From all accounts, just like him. He smiled grimly. Was it so bad to be just like him? He remembered her as a little girl, always strong, always wild. Always so much sharper than Dario.
He frowned. A son of his a fag? It had to be a mistake.
Costa was confused somewhere along the line.
He stripped down to his shorts and lay on the bed. The room was still hot, in spite of the fact that the air conditioning had resumed service.
What the fuck was Bonnatti up to? Word had reached Gino that he and the Kassari twins were tight. Enzio knew how he felt about the Kassari family. But what did he care? With Gino out of the country, all he had to contend with was a girl and a senile old fart—excuse me, Costa, but it’s true.
Taking over the Magiriano must have been easy. Especially with Marco out of the way. The true test of Enzio Bonnatti and his loyalty and friendship would be how easily he relinquished control of the two Vegas hotels. Costa seemed to think it would be easy. Gino wasn’t so sure. His instinct told him trouble. His instinct had never been wrong.
He closed his eyes, and Lucky and Dario were back in his thoughts. Lucky and Dario. They danced across his mind like two puppets on a string until eventually he fell into a troubled sleep.
Friday, July 15, 1977
New York,
Morning
Lucky slept badly, waking every hour to check out the time. She dismissed Costa when he phoned right after Boogie with a curt “Tomorrow—I don’t want to be bothered now.” He did not try and pursue the conversation. It was not the right moment to tell her that Gino was back; he knew that by the tone of her voice.
Since she was up early anyway, she decided to go to the airport and meet Boogie’s flight. The suspense was driving her crazy. She called down to the doorman for a cab, then had the cab take her over to the basement garage where her Mercedes waited. As she was opening it up with a spare set of keys, she saw a note stuck on the windshield. Tearing it open quickly, she read the neat script. I’ll give you three days—then I’m checking out your license plate and calling YOU—Steven.
She couldn’t help smiling. He must have made a special trip to leave her the message. She would call him… she wanted to call him… just as soon as she found out what Boogie had on his mind.
Gino was up at six, dressed and breakfasted by seven, on the phone to Costa soon after. “Well?” he demanded. “What time is the meet with Bonnatti?”
“Enzio suggests one o’clock. A restaurant he frequents in Brooklyn. It has a garden—he says you’ll enjoy the cassata. He also says—”
“What’s wrong with Riccaddi’s?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Costa replied nervously. “If you would prefer it, of course I will speak to Enzio and—”
“Good. Riccaddi’s—at two o’clock. I’ll see you there.”
Dario struggled to wake up, but his eyelids were holding him back. They felt so very heavy….
It was early, he knew that. He could hear garbage being collected and the sound of kids going to school. He wasn’t in his apartment…. He didn’t know where he was…. Slowly he drifted back into a deep sleep.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Sal kissed Ruth lightly on the cheek and said, “You sure you know what to do?”
Ruth nodded and smoothed down the top of her dress. “I know exactly what to do.”
“Good,” Sal said, holding up two fingers firmly crossed for luck. “Go to it, then.”
Carrie arose before Elliott—an unusual occurrence, but one that had happened two days in a row. This time she dressed down in a plain black pants suit with no accompanying jewelry. She brushed her glossy hair thoroughly and twisted it back in a tight knot. She was ready and set to go at eight o’clock in the morning.
“Carrie,” Elliott snapped testily, “where are you off to?”
“A new gym—marvelous place.”
“I want to get
out of here today and you’re off to a new gym.”
She attempted a smile but felt that it was frozen on her face. “I’ll be back before lunch.”
He snorted with disgust. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you lately. Ever since the blackout—”
“Nothing’s the matter with me. I just like to keep healthy.”
“I’m making reservations for the Bahamas. Be prepared to leave tonight.”
She nodded obediently. Maybe. Only maybe.
“How are you getting to the gym?” he inquired, just as she reached the front door.
She stopped for a moment, her mind blanking out. “I’ll walk,” she said at last. “It’s only a few blocks.”
“Where?”
“Oh, near,” she replied vaguely, opening the door and hurrying from the apartment.
Out on the street she took a deep breath and headed for the subway. Her nerves were taut. The sooner this meeting was over and done with, the better.
Steven was always up by six thirty. He had a routine that he didn’t like to deviate from. An ice-cold shower, half an hour of punishing calisthenics, then fresh orange juice, wheat germ, bran flakes, honey, hot coffee, and he was ready for anything and anyone.
Today he was ready for Enzio Bonnatti. Today was the day the papers would be ready to serve. Two years of meticulous punishing work was finally reaching a peak, a peak which both elated and frightened Steven. Elated him because a man like Bonnatti deserved to spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars. Frightened him because even now so much could go wrong.
He finished dressing and thought briefly about his own life. Aileen—so much a part of it. So capable, organized, and attractive. Perfect wife material.
One night in an elevator with a kooky ballsy girl called Lucky—and he knew that Aileen was not for him. He did not wish to spend the rest of his life with her; it was as simple as that.
He sighed deeply. How to tell her—that was the thing.
Enzio Bonnatti woke with the lingering feel of a hangover. His mouth tasted of stale chicken turds, the back of his head ached, and his body felt stiff and unclean. It had been a good evening though. Plenty of fine red wine and lusty blond females prepared to do whatever he wanted. Women. What puttanas they all were. Nothing new about that, he had always known it. But somehow—in the seventies—they had changed. They almost seemed to enjoy the fucking and the sucking and the other things. He could remember a time—not so far off—when only whores indulged in perversions. Now it seemed that women liked sex—actually liked it. It was almost enough to ruin his watching pleasure. In the future, he decided, girls recruited for his entertainment must be of a more innocent nature altogether. Virgins, perhaps. Were there any left?
Chances Page 67