The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  Both my mother and father were happy about the marriage. They had watched me sink deeper and deeper into depression and thought this was the answer to snapping me out of it.

  Two days after the second wedding, Tom returned to Vietnam. One month after he left, I discovered that I was pregnant. Just what I needed. The gossips had a field day.

  Sammy G stopped by my new apartment on Empire Boulevard in Webster at least once a week with his arms full of groceries. The suburb of Webster was only fifteen minutes from East Rochester, but my parents still thought I was too far away. My mother was so excited about a new grandchild she found it hard to contain herself. I had continued to work for as long as possible before I began to show, but by the sixth month I had to stop. I spent the days visiting my family in East Rochester. Sharon came over quite a bit, which was a real show of love. To her, leaving East Rochester was like leaving the country.

  “Sammy, I’m okay, really; you don’t need to buy me food. Besides, I’m too fat already!”

  “Ah, shut up. Break out the cannolis and put the coffee on. You got this place lookin’ like it belongs in a magazine,” he said, eyeing my new, ultramodern furniture.

  Since I could no longer spend my money on clothes, I emptied my account on an apartment, furniture, and a new car. When the money stopped coming in, I relied on the $122 a month the government allotted for military wives.

  “Why don’t you go into the decoratin’ business? You got an eye for it, kid,” Sammy said, touching one of the several stands of hanging crystal balls that separated the brightly furnished living room from the dining area.

  “What I’d like to do someday is go to college, Sammy. Really get a good education.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Ah, whatta ya need that for? You got street smarts. You can’t buy that kind of education. Besides, if you get too book smart, you won’t want nothin’ to do with us guys anymore. You don’t need to be smart for your modeling, just beautiful, and you ain’t got a problem in that department,” he said, setting his coffee cup down on the glass table.

  “I don’t have a problem, Sam, not ‘ain’t.’ ”

  “See what I mean? You get educated, and before you know it, I won’t understand a damn thing you’re sayin’.”

  “Well, Sam, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said, looking down at my protruding stomach.

  “It’s gonna be a girl, I can feel it,” he said, gently placing his hand on my belly.

  “I think so, too.”

  “God help me if she takes after her mother. I got enough problems just watchin’ out for you. The last thing I need is two of you.” He paused and pressed his hand over mine. Staring at me with his intense eyes, he gently asked, “Are you happy, kid?”

  No, I wasn’t happy. I was miserable. Stuck in a boring life in a boring city. I hated Rochester. Now that I knew there was more, I couldn’t see living this existence forever.

  The phone rang before I could answer him, saving me from a lie. Evidently Sammy had told someone where he’d be; the call was for him. While Sam was on the phone I busied myself putting the groceries away and thought about the talk I had with Tom on our honeymoon. His plan was to go back to Kodak and work in their factory.

  The thought of being stuck in Rochester for the rest of my life depressed me, and the news of my pregnancy put the lid on my coffin. There was no escape.

  After Sam hung up, his mood became serious. “I want you to do me a favor, kid.”

  “Sure, Sam, what do you need?”

  “You go to Nicky’s place a lot, don’t you?”

  Nicky owned the Overlook, a bar and restaurant next door to my apartment complex. It was another of the many Mob hangouts in the outer areas of the city.

  “Well, yeah, it’s right next door. Great hamburgers. I have lunch there frequently, why?”

  “You ever see Tommy DiDio there?”

  Tommy DiDio was one of Valenti’s boys, the current boss of the Rochester syndicate.

  “Once in a while. He’s usually there at night, though. I’ve seen him there a few times when I’ve run in to pick up an order. They have great baked ziti, too; ever try it?”

  He ignored the question. Pulling back the sheer pale yellow curtains, he gazed out my picture window. “You have a perfect view of the Overlook from here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen some pretty nasty fights from that window a few times.”

  “If you happen to see DiDio pull in, casually walk over there and keep your eyes an’ ears open. I want to know who he’s meetin’ with, and if you can get close enough without being conspicuous, find out what they’re talkin’ about.”

  “Conspicuous? That’s a good word.”

  “This is serious, Georgia. I need a little help here.”

  Sammy had never asked a favor like this before, so I knew it had to be important, but I felt uneasy about it.

  “That guy gives me the creeps, Sammy. I hate the way he looks at me with that demented glare. Just the sight of him makes me go cold inside. He looks like the type of man that could stab his own mother and watch a football game while she bled to death. I avoid him, and he knows it. He might get suspicious if I suddenly sit near him, and besides, how do I not look conspicuous with this stomach?”

  “What’d I just get through sayin’, kid? You got street smarts—you’ll handle it. Georgia . . . it’s important.”

  Three days later I spotted Tommy DiDio’s car in the parking lot of the Overlook. I waddled over and sat at a table as close to the bar as I could get. I ordered a double cheeseburger, French fries, and onion rings. To top it off, I had a chocolate milk shake that Nicky threw in on the house. It was so thick I could feel my face turn purple as I tried to sip it through the straw. I finally gave up and used a spoon. I still had a few months to go and I’d already gained close to forty pounds. Nicky watched with amusement as I eagerly stuffed myself. My appetite was enormous—so was I.

  I got only fragments of the conversation, but apparently they were the key words Sammy needed to hear. Something about Frank Valenti and the boys in Utica, and something about money that wasn’t accounted for. None of it made any sense to me, but when I repeated it to Sammy he didn’t look happy. He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it me. It contained five crisp $100 bills.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “Buy somethin’ for the kid, or put it away for the schoolin’ you never got.”

  He kissed my forehead and walked out the door.

  In October of 1969, a few months after my nineteenth birthday, I gave birth to my daughter, Toni. Tom had returned from Vietnam shortly before she was due. At eighty miles per hour, he sped me to the hospital at three o’clock in the morning. I continuously cursed him for driving so slow. Less than an hour after we arrived, Toni was born.

  Everyone thought she was beautiful. I thought she looked like Mr. Magoo. But she did get cuter. Her full head of pitch-black hair fell out and grew back in platinum blond, but her eyebrows and thick, long lashes remained black. It was the oddest thing. Within a month’s time she became strikingly beautiful.

  Because I was a child myself, the reality of motherhood didn’t come as naturally as it would have if I were more mature. But as Toni grew, so did my motherly instincts. Children have a way of penetrating your heart, ready or not.

  Even with the miracle of a child, I still felt trapped and robbed of my youth. I struggled with my selfish thoughts, but so much of the life I’d envisioned had been painfully lost. I had missed out on the publicity tours that went along with the title of Kodak’s Summer Girl. By the time the poster came out I was so fat that I could stand directly next to the cutout and no one could recognize me. Everyone said I had that radiant glow that expectant mothers get, but the truth was, I was a tub. It really didn’t bother me—I actually loved being pregnant.

  Marriage was another story. I wasn’t adjusting well to the blandness of routine. The only thing I liked about being married was the amount of s
afety it provided from the advances of men. Not that I couldn’t handle them; it just got old.

  I started back to work six days after Toni’s birth. Since I was still a bit heavy, they shot me only from the shoulders up, but it didn’t take long before I was working as much as I had before my pregnancy. Toni worked, too. Kodak loved to take mother-and-baby photos. We shot department store ads and a number of other assignments together. In a flash, Toni became Rochester’s most photographed child.

  Two months after Toni’s birth, I got a booking in New York City. I’d been looking forward to escaping Rochester and tasting New York once again, especially at this time of year. I loved 5th Avenue at Christmastime: the Santas ringing their bells on every corner, the store windows so beautifully dressed with holiday decor. It put me in the spirit.

  While I was away,Tom decided to visit his brother, who lived out of town. Toni wasn’t a problem—my mother was more than willing to take her while I worked. The problem was tearing Toni away from my mother once she got her hands on her!

  I happened to mention the job to Sammy G over lunch at a diner near my apartment. Sam seemed distant; he was bothered by something. He tried to look interested.

  “Really,” he said, looking gloomily over his coffee cup at the rows of snow-crusted cars parked outside the diner. Turning back to me, he said with a little more enthusiasm, “This may be good timing. You could do something for me while you’re there, Georgia. Is it possible for you to leave a day earlier?” he asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” I answered.

  “Good. I’ll set up a meeting. I can’t discuss anything on the phone. You’ll need to personally sit down with these guys and deliver a message. I’ll make your reservations and arrange to have you picked up at the airport.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, I can have the studio take care of that.”

  “I said I’d do it,” he retorted with authority. “Georgia, this is heavy information I’m trusting you with. No one—and I mean no one—is to know about this, you understand? As far as anyone knows you’re going to New York to work. Trust no one.”

  “Of course I understand. Why would you even question that?”

  “If word about this gets out, they’ll be dredging my body out of the Genesee River. I’m trusting you with my life here—”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t worry,” I assured.

  Not many women were allowed in this world, and it gave me a sort of sick fascination to be trusted at this level. In some strange way I felt connected to fear, but the thought never crossed my mind that I might be in any kind of danger. I was too engrossed in the intrigue.

  A man waited at the airport, holding a sign with my name on it. He led me to a black limousine. I tried to conceal a surge of excitement. I’d never ridden in a limousine before. Power. The chauffeur opened the door and I slid in. The slender man inside leaned forward, extending a diamond-clad hand. His white, starched cuff bore the embroidered initials S.J.R. He was even more polished than Sammy G, not a hair out of place or a single crease in his obviously expensive European suit.

  “Hello. I’m Salvatore Reale,” he said with no expression.

  “I’m—”

  “I already know who you are,” he said in a deep, raspy voice.

  With the tinted windows and his dark sunglasses, I couldn’t really see his eyes. We sat silently as he studied me. I found his shadowed gaze unsettling.

  “Were you ever called Georgie Girl?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, when I lived here,” I answered.

  “Didn’t you work at the Sundowner on 23rd Street?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Yeah, right, you’re Frank Conti’s girl. Never forget a face.”

  “Was—I’m married now,” I answered.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s coming back; you’re the girl that saved that Harlem slimeball from getting his due. He got it anyway; didn’t matter,” he said, disguising a smile.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He passed away in his sleep one night from natural causes. His heart stopped beating when two men slipped into his room and stuck knives into it,” he answered without a hint of compassion. “But I remember the talk about your driving that night. You’re regarded as a pretty good wheelman.”

  “I am? Well, I don’t do that for a living,” I replied, still not feeling at ease.

  “You oughta think about it then,” he answered, searching my face for a receptive glint. He must have seen the thought take shape in my eyes, but I didn’t want to endorse it.

  “Where’re we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll find out when we get there,” he answered with a perfectly straight face. Asking no more questions, I transferred my gaze straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield, wondering what dark and tangled path lay ahead as the limousine inched silently forward in the congested traffic.

  The sleek stretch limo crawled to a stop a block away from our destination, an Italian restaurant somewhere in Brooklyn. Four men waited in a quiet corner in the rear of the dining area. It wasn’t as fancy a place as I’d expected, but more of a neighborhood hangout.

  The men eyed me suspiciously as Salvatore and I approached. I remembered seeing the gray-haired man with the cold, beady eyes before on one of my outings with Frankie, but I thought it wise not to make reference to it. I didn’t know his name, but I knew he was important. The heavyset guy dressed in a dark green pullover sweater eyed me nonchalantly while poking at his gums with a toothpick. The place wasn’t brightly lit, but the other two guys wore dark sunglasses and no expressions. I couldn’t get an immediate sense of them.

  Salvatore Reale introduced me as Georgie Girl, Frank Conti’s ex-girlfriend. The gray-haired man lifted an eyebrow and nodded in recognition. Seemingly more comfortable now, feeling as though I weren’t a total stranger, he began to speak.

  “I understand you have a message for me?” he asked, fixing me with his steely gaze.

  “Yes, I do,” I answered, handing him the letter in a sealed envelope.

  He took the envelope and examined it suspiciously. I got the distinct feeling that he didn’t trust that I hadn’t read it. As he opened the letter and read its contents he shifted in his chair with obvious agitation. His eyebrows arched more than once as his eyes moved down the page. He was clearly not happy with what he was reading. Passing it on to the guy with the sunglasses, he waited for his reaction. The man raised his blacker-than-black shades and stared at me in disbelief. My curiosity was piqued.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m just the messenger here. I have no idea what this is all about.”

  The guy with the green sweater let out a small laugh, but quickly contained it when the gray-haired man shot him a disapproving look.

  “Tell Mr. Gingello he’s gonna hafta discuss this in person. I’ll arrange a meeting in Utica for next week. How long you gonna be stayin’ in New York?”

  “A few days,” I answered.

  “You’ll be contacted with a time and place.”

  The meeting was over and Salvatore Reale escorted me to my hotel via taxi. I later understood why he had dismissed the limo. It attracted too much attention.

  “The old man liked you, Georgia. I could tell.”

  “Which one? They were all old,” I replied.

  He laughed loudly, displaying a warm personality that had been absent on the ride in. “Carlo Gambino, the one with the beak and the gray hair.”

  “That was Carlo Gambino?” I asked, genuinely impressed.

  “The one and only,” he answered, amused by my ignorance. “Y’know, I wasn’t kidding about what I said on the way in from the airport. You’ve got a style, a certain way you handle yourself that could be an asset t’me. An’ from all I’ve heard, you’re not bad behind the wheel. If you’re interested in making some real money, maybe we should talk.”

  I left the meeting never knowing what resulted from it, but what eventually came out of this adventure in New York was my official indoc
trination into the workings of the underworld and the groundwork for my future involvement. I was cast in a part that I would play throughout my life in one form or another.

  It began as an innocent side job, delivering messages and packages. As their comfort level with me increased, so did the seriousness of the job. I wasn’t just a dumb kid anymore; I was a dumb kid who could be trusted.

  I was taken in by the intrigue. My venturesome nature sailed into this world without much thought of consequence. Number one rule: Never ask questions. That served only to fuel my attraction. With my thirst for adventure, I’d join a posse going in any direction, especially if it was heading away from Rochester.

  Over time I began traveling to the city a couple of times a month on so-called “modeling jobs,” leaving my daughter in my mother’s care. Many of the jobs I performed for the Gambino crime family were dropping off and picking up money from cargo planes at John F. Kennedy Airport. Millions of dollars, I was later told. Not that I knew this at the time or gave it much thought, but the path had been cleared by the CIA. Our government was setting up bank accounts for the Mob in Swit zerland, among other countries, and getting paid quite handsomely for their involvement—not only in the form of money.

  Part of my duties was to drive some “goodfellas” around to make pickups, or so they called it. The money I made was just as good as standing under hot lights all day, and it was a lot more exciting, that’s for sure.

  Though I was never really told any details, I had my suspicions. The day came when my unvoiced questions were finally answered. I waited around the corner from a construction site with the engine running, as usual, while my two passengers were inside collecting money. I assumed they were probably breaking legs or whatever they do when people don’t pay the “vig,” interest paid to loan sharks.

  Watching in my rearview mirror, I saw them charging toward the car. Out of breath, they flung open the doors and yelled at me to floor it. In my naive mind I thought maybe the men inside had outnumbered them and they themselves were running from a beating. But that thought quickly disappeared when I heard the sirens. My adrenaline shot into orbit when I saw they had pulled out their guns. The desperation in their faces left no doubt that they were prepared to shoot.