by Iceberg Slim
The Bomatos watched Cocio insert his key and unlock the unit that he had completely mirrored from ceiling to wall-to-wall polar bear carpeting.
Ida stepped inside. Immediately she flung her coat on the bed and stood near the door with emotion twisting her face. She was prepping for the familiar scenario with Cocio.
Cocio sat inside the Jag smoking nervously. He was eager to have his fantasies about Olivia become real for him in the scenario.
Inside the office, the sharp-faced Bomato waved his brother to the plastic garbage bag they brought along. They stripped off their clothes, opened the bag, and put on rubber boots and glossy peg leg jumpsuits. They were of a rubbery plastic that had the dull sheen of the rubber aprons worn by the butcher knife masters of the heart shot down in the stockyards.
The Bull took the master key from a board above the desk and dropped it into his jumper breast pocket. He sat down beside his brother. They watched Cocio go inside. Then they lit up strong black cigars to enjoy while waiting for the couple to settle in.
Cocio stepped through the door and frowned annoyance to see Ida. He said, “You goddamn slut. Why have you come here on your wedding night?”
She clutched at him with an agonized face as he shucked out of his clothes. His forty-five automatic fell silently to the fur rug from his overcoat pocket.
She pleaded, “Please forgive me! It was a mistake. I love you.”
He curled his lips. “What can a lousy tramp like you know about love? Get out of here, Olivia! Get out of here before I kick you to pieces!” He was nude and breathing hard.
She knelt, remembering the script, and looked up piteously at him. “Let me rest beside you. Please . . . Your body is so slender and cute . . . so exciting to me.”
She pressed her face into his crotch and sobbed as she embraced his legs.
He slugged the side of her head, and she screamed as she toppled backward. She spread her legs so she’d fall to expose the crimson lining of her organ.
She lay blubbering, begging him over and over, “Please say you love me! Please say you love me!”
He screamed over and over, “Olivia, you slut, I hate you!” He beat himself inside his fist to the rhythm of her wailing.
He climaxed. His legs trembled as he stood over her and fouled the bridal gown. Glistening with sweat he staggered backward and fell panting across the bed.
She stripped off the gown and kissed his lips as she lay down beside him, stroking his temple and dabbing tissues at his brow.
He said breathlessly, “Damn that was good! . . . Ida, you were just great.”
She crooned, “So were you, Larry, sweetie.”
He got up and went to the bathroom for a shower. She lay back to enjoy a cigarette until she would shower. Then for an hour or so they would pet and fondle each other before saying good-bye.
Inside the motel office, the Bull armed himself with a hatchet to carry out Collucci’s beheading clause in the contract. The Fox gripped a length of lead pipe and stuck a thirty-eight pistol, with attached silencer, into his jumper pockets. They locked their street clothes in the office and crept through the darkness toward the only light for miles around.
Ida stiffened in bed, a cigarette dangled from her frozen face. She was almost certain she’d heard a noise above the shower racket. It had been just outside the door, something like the sound a basketball player’s shoes make in sharp braking.
She had one foot on the floor pointed for the shower when they oozed through the door. The Fox scowled and aimed the thirty-eight at the center of her forehead. His brother shushed his own lips with an index finger. She felt a shriek of panic building up.
But she was amused at her last thought before her mind bank exploded. The fat round silencer at the muzzle of the thirty-eight reminded her of her pa at the movies. He had taught her at five to sneak her hand so smoothly under the straw hat on his lap that Ma and none of the kids ever knew she played with Pa’s tool.
She was dead with three eyes staring up at them from the floor. But the Fox pumped a slug into her navel when they passed anyway.
They stood at the half-open bathroom door. Steam swirled around their heads when they stepped inside. They stood loosely watching Cocio’s shadow through the curtain, soaping itself.
Cocio reminded himself to take some mint sherbet home to Mama Victoria. He threw his head back and raggedly sang a few lyrics of her torch song. They laughed out loud to see his pipe stem frame shake with the effort.
Cocio’s throat locked. He stood very still and cocked his head to one side like a baby chick listening to the rustle of a weasel. Tile squeaked their boot soles as they came to the shower. Cocio knew instantly his only chance was to somehow get past them to the forty-five in his overcoat pocket.
He stepped from beneath the showerhead and turned off the cold water. Hot water hissed from the head, and a mist of steam enveloped Cocio. He whipped back the curtain at the same instant that he punched up the shower nozzle with the heel of his hand.
They threw their hands up to their faces against the scalding spray as he leaped for the thin space between them at the moment they ducked down and rushed him. The impact knocked him to the flooded tile.
They seized his throat and privates, but their hands slipped off his soapy body. He rolled toward the door as they cursed and stomped him. The Bull hacked down at him with the hatchet and lost his balance on the slippery floor and the hatchet clattered to the tile.
Cocio rolled and snatched up the hatchet. The Fox stepped back and fired at his heart. He turned quickly, and the bullet shattered his left buttock and skidded him through the flood of hot water to the doorway.
He pulled himself to his feet in the mist of steam. The Bull grabbed his ankle. He chopped the hatchet at the Bull’s skull and sliced off a hunk of scalp and hair. The Fox fired again and gouged away Cocio’s right cheek.
The Bull squeezed his wound and rocked on his knees in pain as Cocio reeled into the bedroom. The Fox glimpsed him through the mist and pumped a dumdum that shattered Cocio’s tailbone.
He crashed to the carpet. The Fox rushed and kicked away the hatchet. He aimed down to put a slug though Cocio’s head. The Bull barged from the bathroom patting his leaky head and scalded face.
He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and spun him around. “No! No!” he exclaimed in Sicilian. His black eyes rolled back toward the bathroom. “That one should taste his own medicine.”
The eyes of the Fox oscillated at the idea. The dragged Cocio by his heels to the shower. He sprawled on his stomach moaning as the Fox leaned in to the shower to cut it off and to plug the tub. Then he turned the hot faucet on full volume. The bathroom resonated with Cocio’s high-pitched whimpering and bat-slugging-the-ball kind of pulpy cracking sound as the Fox smashed down the lead pipe on Cocio’s shoulders, back, and ribs. The Bull snatched and wielded the pipe until shards of bone popped through Cocio’s flesh like the quills of a porcupine.
After they hefted Cocio and balanced him on the rim, they stepped back and let him tumble in. His eyes protruded, and he bellowed hoarsely in the boiling shock. His hands feverishly paddled the water pooch-fashion before he lunged from the tub and fell quivering to the floor.
They hefted him into the tub again. He whistled shrilly through his teeth and feebly tried to escape again. His head hung over the tub rim. His tongue lolled out black and bloated. The walls of tile reverberated with their laughter at such a funny sight. The Bull hacked with the hatchet until the head bounced on the tile, free of the stump.
They fished up “its” ankles in the scalding claret with a toilet brush, then pulled “it” out and dolled “it” up with red panties to satisfy Collucci’s faggot clause in the contract.
Next, they drained the tub and stepped in to cold shower their faces and bloody boots and jumpsuits. Once finished, they lashed towels around “its” ankles and hung “it” stump down from the shower nozzle.
They giggled and rained spit and urine on “it” as th
ey had the corpse of Mussolini hanging in the square when they were children.
After that, they went into the bedroom, and Ida Schmidt’s gigantic blue orbs accused them through a mask of gore. They mummified away the ugly sight with the bridal gown.
Next, they went to the motel office where they smeared their burning faces with Vaseline from the motel’s first aid kit. The Fox bandaged his brother’s scalp. Then they cooled their gullets with soft drinks before they packed their working gear and dressed for the street, chattering gaily in Sicilian on the way to their car, concealed up the road.
In the opposite direction, two hundred yards away, Collucci watched them from an abandoned cider stand. A serviceable used Cougar purchased by Angelo under a fake name was parked behind the stand. Collucci left through the back of the stand, carrying a starlight-scoped Magnum rifle he had brought along to use just in case Cocio somehow managed to elude the terrible Bomatos.
He sat listening to the purr of the Cougar until the Bomatos’ tail-lights faded away. In high spirits, Collucci pulled onto the highway. As he approached the motel, he fought off an almost irresistible desire to view the job on Cocio in his mirrored hate nest.
Tonelli’s next, and I’m doing the job on him. Sweet it will be! he thought as he flogged the Cougar toward Hilda’s blueberry pancakes.
22
The morning after Cocio’s death, his employees arrived and discovered his corpse. The police were called in, and Lieutenant Paul Porta notified Tonelli immediately.
Tonelli and Bellini hastily arranged a conference. They sat on the penthouse patio in the womb of the tinted plastic bubble that retracted for balmy days. The filtered sunlight was golden damask on the alabaster tabletop at which they sat conferring in Sicilian.
The crystal goblet of ruby vino at Bellini’s lips shot sparkle like a diamond chalice as he paused in his defense of cool objectivity, in consideration of Cocio’s death, and the probability of Jimmy Collucci’s hand in it.
Tonelli said with an agitated face, “I’m asking, who the hell in all of Chicago . . . in the world, would have the nerve and filthy hate to do a job like that on Francesco? . . . except Giacomo Collucci? For years I have caught, in his eyes, his hate for me.”
Bellini shook his head. His fingers crawled the goblet. “I know him. He’s a dandy. He wouldn’t slop himself up on a job like this.”
Tonelli leaned forward. “Then he put the slop in the contract he gave the sonuvabitch that did the job on Francesco, which is going to kill Victoria Cocio.”
Bellini smiled. “Then you admit there could be one other than Giacomo who could have done the job on Francesco? There could be more . . . like fleas on a mutt. That is why we must move with cool heads.”
Tonelli sailed his hands through the air. “You sound like his lawyer, Papa Luigi. Don’t forget a tiger gone insane will destroy anyone. And especially his trainer.” He lit Bellini’s cigar and a cigarette for himself. Then he said with a rueful face, “What a shame my soldati didn’t kill him when he did that job on Olivia. A young girl’s heart can mend quickly.”
The remark raised Bellini’s eyebrows and Tonelli’s caution. “Not always, Giuseppe. He didn’t hit her pants and run. They got married. But we are dancing in wasteful circles around our problem . . . I’ll go along with your argument that he is sick and dangerous with the power fever. Any solution ideas?”
Tonelli’s caution was overridden by his generation of hatred for Collucci. “Let’s broil the names of the others out of him and have him finished like Francesco was.”
Bellini’s eyebrows took flight again. “Olivia and Petey?” he said softly.
Tonelli took a deep breath. “Petey can forget him, and Olivia stopped swooning years ago . . . He’s just a bad habit they can break.”
Bellini said, “No, Giuseppe, our first move must be smoother than that. This affair is rotten with many unknown pitfalls and threats, not just for ourselves here in Chicago, but also for the National Commission.
“I know him inside out, and if Giacomo made the move on Francesco, he’s dreaming beyond just the control of Chicago. He’s not so stupid he’d do the job on both bosses, one a member of the Commission, unless he was dreaming the biggest dream there is . . .”
Tonelli said, “You mean . . . try for the Commission?”
Bellini nodded solemnly. “I mean that. He’s got to know he wouldn’t stand a shine’s chance with just local soldati. So, he has put together, or must put together, a plan for a mass setup of the Commission with other greedy turks in all of the families across the country.”
Bellini shook his head. “No, we have no proof to show the Commission that he threatens them. And too, you and I are in a most delicate position . . . You allowed him elbow space to become a threat . . . And I brought him into the Honored Society.”
Bellini sipped from the goblet before he went on. “We must keep his actions covered around the clock until we get the hard proof for the Commission.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’s clean. Maybe he’s just dirty with Francesco’s death and has not put together the big plan yet. I’ll put the best spy firm in town on him . . . Maybe we can solve our problems ourselves in a quiet way.”
Tonelli nodded and said, “What firm?”
“Barrantino’s the best, and as you know, the size of his debt to you means we will have insurance that nothing of the investigation will leak.”
Tonelli suddenly grimaced with pain, and he rested his head on the table.
Bellini rose and went around the table. “What is it, Giuseppe?”
Tonelli raised his head and held his jaw in his palms. He mumbled through his teeth, “The root canal I got several years ago to save my lousy teeth is not standing up. For a month I’ve been dropping codeine pills like popcorn to keep down the pain . . . Every one of them has to come out.”
Bellini said, “Until Barrantino gives us a full weather report, I wouldn’t expose myself unnecessarily if I were you.”
Tonelli got to his feet.
As they stepped down into the living room, Tonelli said, “My dentist will do it here, or I will slip into his office after his building is closed one evening soon.”
They shook hands, and Bellini left the penthouse for Barrantino’s firm of sureshot spies.
At the moment of Bellini’s departure, Mayme Flambert sat baldheaded and invisible behind a soot-blackened window on the third floor of a tenement rooming house. Half of her time she spent imploring the voodoo gods to help her arrange Collucci’s death.
They had gabbled the promise that it was already arranged to happen before her eyes.
The rest of her time she spent pressing powerful binoculars against a clear section of window glass and sweeping the front of the Voodoo Palace, half a block away.
• • •
Ten days after Collucci got Cocio scratched, Taylor lay in his bed recovering from his wounds and the amputation of his legs at the upper thighs. His powerful will to live was really responsible for his survival, his doctors agreed.
He had steadfastly refused to let himself slip beyond the pale while Collucci lived. He existed in a constant state of blind rage at Collucci for the helplessness of his ball of a body and deep depression.
He was convinced that as a hopeless cripple, he was not fit to lead the Warriors. He felt that someone whole should succeed him. He thought and lived only to kill Collucci.
He was staring at the ceiling, wondering if the motorized wheelchair Dew Drop and Ivory were putting together could be used somehow to take him to at least gunshot range of Collucci. Bama interrupted his thoughts with homemade sweet potato pie, Taylor’s favorite dessert. Taylor frowned and refused it.
Bama sat on the side of the bed in silence for some time before he said, “Jessie, Rachel and Fluffy have been calling me for days. They want me to reconnect your phone. They also asked me to try to get you to withdraw your order not to let them enter the Zone. Why don’t you let them in, Jessie, so they can stay with you?”
Taylor said, “Fluffy ain’t got no business spoiling her tender life staying around no ugly sight like me. And, Bama, you forget Rachel got in the wind when I was whole . . . ’sides, Rachel’s aching to be rich down South. So, Bama, if you put out some feelers . . . Maybe I can be with the funny peoples in the circus and make Rachel a muckety-muck nigger down in Atlanta, Georgia. I ain’t jivin’ . . . They could call me ‘Beach Ball Boy’ with no legs even.”
Bama shook his head sadly at Taylor’s bitterness. He said gently, “Whether you believe in Him or not, Jessie, you need Him to help you pull back up. Ask for Him . . . He’ll show you, sure as you’re born.”
Taylor glared at Bama. “Don’t throw the ‘Beach Ball Boy’ no shit balls to juggle. If He’s up there, why He let that Mafia man do me like this? Bama, ’splain it! Why He let him, Bama?”
Bama said, “You got nearly the toughest break. But the toughest would have been dying and leaving the Warriors without you. Jessie, He saved you to finish what we started for the people.”
Taylor laughed. “You mean, Bama, He ain’t got the mother wit to know a cripple ain’t in no shape to help nobody, myself even.”
Bama got to his feet and said, “We’ll talk another time, Jessie. Can I get you something? Do something for you?”
Taylor said, “Yeah, Bama, you can leave me alone so I can meditate in some peace. I’m gonna move down to a bunker soon as Dew Drop and Ivory Jones get my special wheelchair together and fix me up some living space down there.”
Bama said, “You know we’ve got a psychodrama test hanging for Kong and Charming Mills . . . I’ll need you.”
Taylor said, “Don’t worry about it, Bama. I’ll be down there waiting when you need me for that.”
Bama turned and went away. Taylor stared at the ceiling and turned his thoughts to Collucci.
• • •
Charming Mills and Kong’s cousin, Buncha Grief, were casing the area around Double Head’s numbers bank for a shifting stakeout of Paul Porta’s gang squad. Mills spotted a stakeout behind a billboard right across the street from Double Head’s pot of heist gold.