He raised his sleep mask and indulged in an early morning fit of coughing. Then he pressed the buzzer beside his bed and summoned to his presence Big Victor, personal bodyguard for over thirty-five years.
A busy day lay ahead. Gino Santangelo was back in town and there was a lot of work to do.
Lucky watched Boogie’s plane arrive. Then she waited impatiently until he came loping through the arrival gate.
He hadn’t changed. Still the same old Boog—skinny, longhaired—dressed in tight jeans and a battered old army jacket.
She ran forward and hugged him, an impulse which seemed to embarrass him. Boogie was not big on emotional gestures.
He looked around with slitted watchful eyes. “Anyone know I was coming in?”
“You told me not to mention it—and frankly, Boog, who do I know that gives a shit anyway? Now what is this all about?”
He took her by the arm with his strong fingers digging in. “The sooner we talk, the sooner you’re going to be one wise girl.”
“Let’s go, then. My car’s outside. We can talk on the way into town.”
“I’ll drive. When you hear what I’ve got to say, you’re liable to freak. Lucky—you have been played for dumb pussy.”
The words struck home. Her eyes gleamed black and deadly, her tone was pure acid. “Tell me about it, Boog—I can’t wait.”
The morning newspapers announced Gino’s arrival back in America. Not headlines—page three of the New York Times.
Gino read the article and threw the newspaper down in disgust. It sure as hell blew his surprising Lucky and Dario. He called up Costa and instructed him to arrange an afternoon meeting with his children. Children. What a joke. A fag and a ballbreaker. Yet the thought of seeing them again excited him more than he cared to admit.
Lucky and Dario. The offspring of his marriage to Maria. Sweet beautiful Maria. Every time he thought of her the pain was as fresh as the day it happened. Her murder would linger in his mind until the day he went to join her. Maria. So soft, so gentle. Why hadn’t Lucky turned out like her mother?
He spent a busy morning on the phone, renewing old acquaintances, letting the right people know he was back—to stay. Listening, absorbing, hearing rumor, gossip, and truth. By the time he was ready to set off for his lunch with Enzio, he had learned a lot—more than enough to make him certain that Enzio was not going to relinquish his hold in Las Vegas without a fight.
Well, if it was a fight he wanted, Gino was ready. He had taken steps to reinforce his position, and Enzio Bonnatti—if he was smart—would back down before a confrontation. Gino Santangelo always won. It was a fact of life.
This time Carrie drew no second glances. She was black in a black neighborhood—so what? No expensive trinkets adorned her person, although the sunglasses which shielded her eyes had cost over a hundred dollars at Henri Bendel.
The subway was an experience—hot, dirty, smelly, and crowded. How many years since she’d ridden the subway? Enough to make her aware of the enormous difference in her lifestyle from that of the ordinary person. You’re lucky, Carrie, she told herself. You are living the American dream. You have money, style, position. Yet she was a fake, wasn’t she? She was living a lie. Her whole background was a lie.
It was long before twelve o’clock. She wished it was long after. Apprehensively she went into a drugstore, took a stool at the end of the counter, and ordered a coffee.
“Gonna be a scorcher today, hon,” remarked the skinny woman behind the counter, lazily scratching her armpit. “Hotter than Muhammad Ali’s mouth!” She cackled loudly at her own joke. “I sure ’nuff love that boy’s mouth!”
Carrie smiled weakly. Another three hours to wait.
Warris Charters missed bumping into Lucky Santangelo at Kennedy Airport by half an hour. His flight from Los Angeles was early, and he was in exceptionally good spirits. The morning paper carried news of Gino Santangelo’s return to America, and the timing couldn’t be better.
He smiled to himself. It had taken long enough, but he had done it—finally Kill Shot was to be made—and no thanks to Dario Santangelo, although indirectly Warris reluctantly supposed that he was in a way responsible.
Warris reflected on the events of the past two years. Dario. A blond beautiful boy with an enormous sexual appetite. Useless when it came to contacting his father re the script. Jealous, insecure, kinky. God! Warris had known enough women with those qualities. Dario—after moving in uninvited—became Mister Possessive. That kind of relationship he didn’t need, especially when there were no bonuses to go along with it. The only Santangelo quality Dario had was his name. Gino and Lucky were the two with the power and the money. He soon found that out.
When he realized that there were no advantages to Dario’s sharing his life, he put him to work. And how he loved the work. Dario Santangelo became David Dirk, porno movie star supreme, a vocation he seemed to have been made for. The only disadvantage was that Dario/ David could not get it up for any female thespians—fellow male actors were the only lucky ones.
“You’re not easy to cast,” Warris complained. “Heterosexual movies are the ones that make the big bread.”
“So write me a movie,” Dario replied airily.
It wasn’t a bad idea. Warris did just that. He called it Cowboy Cruiser and it was an immediate smash on the porno circuits. Dario, a better-looking Robert Redford on the screen, had every faggot from coast to coast falling desperately madly in love. Fan mail began to arrive at the seedy Pasadena studio by the sackload. Dario had made it. He was a Movie Queen.
It was a short-lived career. Early one morning two men arrived at the Marina del Rey apartment Warris and Dario shared. They were the kind of men you did not argue with, so when they said that Mr. Bonnatti requested their presence—pronto—neither of them demurred. Obedient as two puppies straight out of dog training school they accompanied the two men to Las Vegas, where the infamous Enzio Bonnatti received them in a penthouse apartment on top of the Magiriano.
He minced no words. To Dario he said, “You get your faggot ass back to New York an’ keep it there. I ever see your face in one of them movies again, an’ you don’t have no face. Get it?”
Dario got it. He fled to New York without so much as a goodbye.
“You,” said Enzio to Warris, when Dario had departed. “Got any idea who I am?”
“Mr. Bonnatti,” he replied smoothly, “I’ve been a fan of yours all my life.”
Enzio nodded and grunted. “I can take it I ain’t gonna get any trouble from you, then?”
Warris threw up his arms noncommittally. “Mr. Bonnatti, whatever you want, name it.”
“I got the blond faggot’s sister breathin’ down my neck. She wants the movie—so I gotta get the movie. The negative an’ all the prints an’ no bullshit deals or you’ll be pushin’ cactus in the desert. You savvy?”
He nodded gravely. “Of course I’ll be reimbursed.”
Enzio laughed loudly. “Yeah, sure. You got a good touch. You direct that junk?”
“I wrote it, directed it, cast it. That junk is cleaning up, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Thoughtfully Enzio picked his nose. “I want you to write a movie for me. Plenty of tits, ass, an’ blond cooze with drippin’ boxes. You get the picture?”
Warris got the picture.
“I’ll finance the whole thing—how much will it cost?”
“I have no shortage of people willing to finance anything I care to do,” he said mildly, “after the success of Cowboy Cruiser.”
“So what d’y’want?” snapped Enzio. “Don’t fuck me around with speeches I don’t need. Spit it out.”
His eyes gleamed. “I want to make a legitimate picture—a script I have called Kill Shot. I’m sure it’s a subject that will interest you once you read the property….”
That conversation had taken place four months previously. And in those four months Warris had been busier than he’d ever been. Enzio Bonnatti h
ad loved the idea of making a movie based on Gino Santangelo’s life, only he wanted a few changes here and there. Just small changes—such as the friend and mentor of Gino becoming a superhero, and Gino himself becoming a petty violent hood.
Warris agreed to all changes. Screw Enzio Bonnatti. Once the picture was under way Warris would do it his way. He had waited ten years to do it his way.
In the meantime Bonnatti had put up all preproduction costs and had agreed to a four-million-dollar budget. Warris had got together a first-class crew and an exciting cast of undiscovered talent. The stumbling block was the female lead. He knew who he wanted. Bonnatti had other ideas. The trip to New York was to finalize the flow of finance and settle on which girl would get the part. With shooting due to commence in ten days there was no time to screw around.
Whistling softly to himself, Warris left the airport by cab. Under his arm was a can of film containing a test done by his girl. Once Bonnatti saw her there would be no more argument.
Ruth hurried into the large supermarket complex. She was used to the looks she received: first admiration, because she was—had been—a great-looking girl. Then shock, horror, embarrassment. They got a look at the disfigured side of her face and it was all over.
“Hey, cutie—” a guy started to say. His words came to an abrupt halt as she walked by.
She took no notice. Dumb asshole. What did he know? She paused by a pay phone and took a deep breath. Dario Santangelo was asleep in her bed. Sal thought they were sitting on a mint; Ruth was smart enough to know different. Never mess with the big boys—rule one for survival in the big city. Sometimes Sal could be a dumb asshole too.
She extracted some coins from her purse and began to dial a number. “Victor,” she whispered, “it’s Ruthie. I got something I want you to help me out with….”
The street was not familiar in the daytime. But Carrie found the meat market and stationed herself outside, jumping every time anyone walked within a yard of her.
Her eyes swept to the left and the right, anxiously picking out faces, walks, attitudes. Who the hell was putting her through this torture? She would kill them. She would get hold of another gun and kill them.
She wasn’t looking for a car, so she took no notice of the white Eldorado that swept to a stop in front of the market. She didn’t even hear her name called the first time. The second call grabbed her attention, and she stepped toward the car.
The occupant was hidden behind the safety and anonymity of black-tinted windows.
“Who are you?” Carrie hissed.
The rear door swung open. “Get in,” murmured the same voice as her telephone caller. “Quickly, please.”
Boogie had been talking nonstop for an hour. Boogie, who was usually reluctant to string two sentences together.
Lucky listened, not interrupting once as he told his story in a flat expressionless monotone. She believed everything he said. Boogie would never lie to her; he had no reason to. A fury began to build in her as he spoke, a cold hard fury that she knew she was powerless to control. Dumb pussy. That’s what Boogie had said she had been taken for—and Boogie was right. Dumb fucking pussy.
They were back in her apartment now, and she went to a locked drawer in her desk and silently removed a small tin box. Expertly she rolled a joint, lit up, dragged deeply, and passed it on to Boogie. Pot calmed her, cleared her mind. It did not make her mellow and giggly, it had exactly the reverse effect. She didn’t use it all the time, only when she really wanted to be extremely alert and sharp.
Boogie was concluding his story. He stared at her knowingly. “I had to tell you, didn’t I?”
“Absolutely.”
He stretched his lean and lanky body. “I thought so.”
They were both silent then, finishing off the joint, busy with their own thoughts.
“How are you going to move?” he ventured.
“Like a black widow spider,” she replied coldly. “Silently, stealthily—and anyone who gets in my way will get their ass crushed.”
Friday, July 15, 1977
New York,
Afternoon
“So”—Gino beamed—“Enzio, my friend, I bet you never dreamed we would be breaking bread together again—here, in Riccaddi’s, with all our loyal paesanos around us.”
“Gino, my friend. It is something I have thought about every day since you left.”
“Of course you have. Why not? We grew up together—grabbed the world by the balls together—honored each other in every way.” He raised his wineglass. “We’ve had our differences along the way, but nothing we couldn’t sort out. I drink to us, Enzio—you and me. Two old warhorses who have survived with dignity and good faith.”
Enzio picked up his glass and clinked it with Gino’s. The two men drank.
“Tell me,” said Gino offhandedly. “What is this investment you have made with my money from the Magiriano?”
“Ah.” Enzio studied his short blunt manicured nails. “I’m glad you asked. You came back so suddenly it was quite a surprise. I am not prepared—I want to show you papers, figures…. I have done a wonderful thing for you.”
“How wonderful?” Gino asked mildly.
“You’ll see. Later this week I’ll have everything ready.”
“Good, good.” He toyed with a forkful of spaghetti. “I appreciate all you have done, Enzio. Taking over in Vegas, looking after Lucky—I understand you have been like a father to her.”
Enzio smiled. His teeth were badly decayed; he had a fear of the dentist that prevented him from doing anything about them. “She’s a true Santangelo, Gino. You gotta be real proud of her.”
“I am, Enzio, I am. But let us not forget that she is also a woman, the weaker sex. Too bad that some people will always be around to take advantage.”
Enzio’s right eye flickered, an affliction he had always possessed—a sure giveaway that he was about to tell a lie. “No one would dare take advantage of Lucky with me around,” he boomed. “No one.”
“No, not with you around, my dear friend—because you would do as I would do, should it ever happen. You would squash that person underfoot—like a bug—like vermin. Am I right?”
Enzio did not reply. He stared at Gino, and Gino stared right back.
“Tomorrow,” said Gino slowly, “I shall be taking steps to reinstate my people in my hotels.” His finger crept up to the faded scar on his face and he rubbed it gently. “You will tell your people to cooperate. Let’s do this thing smoothly. No sense in waiting—huh, my friend? Huh?”
Carrie did not recognize the old woman sitting in the back of the white Eldorado, but she got in the car anyway. After all, that’s what she had come up to Harlem for—to find out.
The air conditioning was going full blast, and the black-tinted windows made the interior strangely dim. A curtained partition separated them from the driver.
As soon as she got in, the car sped away from the curb. A nervous sweat broke out all over her body. She could feel the dampness under her arms, between her thighs, on the palms of her hands. She managed to keep her voice strong. “Who are you?” she repeated. “What do you want?”
The old woman laughed, a strangely sad sound. She was fat, wrapped in a voluminous white caftan, with plump beringed fingers drumming nervously on her knees. She sported unflattering large white sunglasses, dyed black hair worn in a Spanish upsweep, and a slash of obscene scarlet lipstick. Her olive skin was wrinkled and liver spotted, and her chin hung in crepy folds. A sickly sweet perfume filled the air. “You don’ remember me?” the woman appealed in a raspy whisper.
“I don’t know you,” Carrie said desperately. “For God’s sake tell me what you want. I don’t have a lot of money, but—”
“Ha! You don’ have a lot of money. Look at you, honey—you stink of money.”
“How much do you want?”
The woman’s voice softened. “I don’ wan’ your money. Baby Steven, he certainly growed into one fine-lookin’ man.”
&nb
sp; Alarm filled Carrie’s voice. “What do you know about Steven?”
“I remember heem—you don’ remember me.”
The raspy voice struck a chord. Carrie’s mind ticked over furiously. The accent—something about the accent….
“I loved heem—he was my baby too. When you ran out on me you took little Stevie.” The woman sighed wearily. “But I don’ blame you, Carrie, I don’ blame you. You done so good for yourself, you became a beeg somebody, you—”
“Suzita?” she whispered in shocked amazement. “Suzita?”
The woman grinned. “I got a leetle fat, a leetle old. Time stopped for you. Me”—she shrugged—“I been a workin’ woman all my life.”
Carrie felt like bursting into tears. This obese old crone couldn’t be Suzita—young vibrant Suzita with a body grown men used to fight over. Fate had been cruel indeed.
“I ain’t got you here to blackmail you,” Suzita said quickly. “I guess eet must look that way to you.”
Carrie was confused, a million thoughts kept rushing through her mind. “Why? After all this time? How did you find me?”
“I never lost you, honey,” Suzita said matter-of-factly. “I followed your life—right after I see some photo spread on you een a magazine a couple years after you left. Eet made me feel good, knowin’ you had got away. Not many get away from Bonnatti, not many….”
Bonnatti. The sound of his name brought back cruel memories. Bonnatti treating her like a table, a chair, a piece of meat, an inanimate object to play with.
Chances Page 68