"I'm trying to punch up Disco Sluts. Looks good."
"Oh yeah, that's a classic," Al laughed.
"Orson Welles directed that, didn't he?" Charlie wandered over to where Frank was sitting. "How you doing, killer?"
Frank swallowed what was left of his vodka and smirked. "Go fuck yourself."
Charlie sat down next to him. "I know this isn't the best time to bring this up," he said in a hushed voice, "but have there been any developments on that other business?"
"You mean the thing we have to take care of in Philly?"
Charlie nodded.
"I thought you didn't want to know anything."
"No specifics."
"There's no word yet," Frank told him. "I'll see what I can find out and let you know at the party next week."
Charlie's eyes brightened. "We can expect you then?"
"Expect us. Sandy's coming, too."
"Great, look forward to meeting her." Charlie stood up and gave Frank a pat on the shoulder and a conspiratorial wink. "Well, gentlemen, I've had enough of all of you for one night. I'm going to bed."
Once he'd gone, Vincent continued struggling with the box while Al and Larry joined Frank at a small table in the corner of the room. "I'm sorry about tonight," Al said meekly.
Frank waved at him. "Wasn't your fault."
"Strong told me he was going to do at least twenty minutes."
"Don't sweat it."
Al shook his head. "When the Hangman didn't kick out I couldn't believe it. I kept waiting but the bastard never moved. Maybe I should've held the count a few more seconds."
No longer wishing to discuss it, Frank turned to Larry, who was sporting a fresh bandage over the latest gash on his forehead. "How you holding up?"
"I'm fine," he said quietly. Soft spoken when he was sober, Larry became nearly inaudible when drunk.
"It's none of my business," Al yawned, "and I probably wouldn't even say anything if I wasn't shit-faced, but you better be careful about how often you juice, kid. If you get tagged as a bleeder the fans will expect it every time, and a pretty-boy like you - no offense - can't afford to have his face covered in scar tissue. It'll ruin your whole gimmick."
"Hey, Al?" Vincent interjected from across the room.
"Yeah?"
"Shut the fuck up."
Al laughed, and Larry smiled, his eyes searching Frank's. "I'm just a min. I only do what I'm told."
There was a sudden knock at the door. Vincent approached it cautiously. "Who is it?"
A slurred and muffled voice answered, "It's me, man."
Vincent opened the door. David Delvecchio stood before him wearing only a pair of filthy jeans. "It's after two, what's wrong?"
"I'm a couple doors down from you guys," he said. Standing had become a challenge for him, and he rubbed at the track marks in the bend of his arm. "You got me rooming with The Mongolian Crusher and he just clogged the shitter, dude. I gotta hang a dump something fierce, boss. Can I use your bathroom?"
Vincent slammed the door in his face and the others burst into laughter.
Al struggled to his feet. "On that note, I'm going to call it a night."
As Al left Frank turned to Larry. "I think I'll grab a quick shower and hit the rack myself."
"I don't blame you." Larry touched Frank's forearm, his hand lingering there. "I'm tired too, but… I could stay if you want."
Frank laughed then nervously lit a cigarette as he realized the offer had not been an attempt at humor. "Hey, I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't flattered, but - "
"I understand." Larry smiled, stood up, and shook Frank's hand. "No hard feelings. Thanks for the work, boss."
Frank nodded. "See ya on the road."
As the door closed behind Larry, Vincent turned from the TV and grinned at Frank. "Did I hear what I think I just heard?"
"What can I tell ya? The kid's got good taste."
Vincent scratched himself. "I wonder why the bastard never hits on me."
"Don't be jealous. He knows you're straight."
"He knows the same thing about you."
"True, but my magnetism knows no sexual preference."
Vincent chuckled. "You are kinda cute."
"You don't want to take a shower with me, too, do you?"
"Who doesn't?" Vincent gave one of the buttons on the box another try then sat at the foot of his bed. "Fuck it."
Frank leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. "If we take off early enough we can be halfway through Pennsylvania by tomorrow night and home by Monday."
"Sounds good."
Frank cleared his throat. "Charlie was asking me about the Turano situation earlier."
"What'd you tell him?"
"That I didn't know anything yet."
Vincent staggered to the bathroom and urinated with the door open. "I figured we could talk about it on the ride home."
"I'd just as soon discuss it now."
"I had Michael check him out," Vincent said with reluctance. He returned from the bathroom and sat at the table, across from Frank. "The rumors are true. Turano's got connections. He's got a reputation for running his mouth and he's been ranting and raving about how he's going to put us in our place. The problem is, if we make a move to scare him and it backfires - which it probably will with our fucking luck - Turano will come after us with everything he's got. Now, that ain't more than we got, in some circles it's less, but just the same, he'll come after us, Frank."
"Then trying to intimidate him is out."
"If you're a betting man it is." Vincent yawned. "From everything I've been able to find out, if Turano had himself a little… accident… his federation would fold like a house of cards in a matter of months."
"But even with Turano out of the way," Frank said, "we'd still have to worry about the other two."
"His brother Marvin has always shied away from the muscle end of things, and his cousin Joey Loomis is stunadz, a real fucking chooch - couldn't find his way out of a bathroom without a blinking light over the door, this guy."
"There's no other way?"
Vincent cracked his knuckles and stared at the table. "Not unless you want to wait around for Turano to come after us."
"Michael can't protect us?"
"He and Fratenzza can't afford to start a major riff here. Turano knows people in Philly," Vincent told him. "As far as they're concerned this is small time crap. But as long as we do everything according to the code we should be all right."
"According to the code?"
"The code of la familia."
"Who are you, Mario Puzo now?"
"You know how all that greaseball crap works, Frank. If we were to go to our connections and arrange for Turano to be hit, it'd have to be cleared with the boys in Philadelphia - the same way any moves Turano makes against us have to be cleared through Fratenzza and Michael. Remember, Philly ain't their turf."
Frank rubbed his tired eyes. "Is there any chance they could side with Turano?"
"Not if we move now," Vincent told him. "Guys like Mike and the boys in Philly usually cut the best deal they can to keep the peace and then deal with whoever's left standing - it's just the way they do business - but I'm Mike's brother, his blood, and that counts for everything with all the ginzos. Besides, in another few years when Fratenzza's out of the way everybody in Philadelphia will be dealing directly with Michael anyway, so at this point, it isn't good business for them to side with Turano."
"So… how would it happen?"
Vincent shrugged. "You and I'd never know the particulars. It's better that way. My guess is Michael will put somebody like Vic DeNicco on it. The boys in Philly will know it's coming and they'll look the other way while the shit goes down. Vic will whack him out somewhere safe, toss him in a trunk and bring him to a chophouse. They'll skin him, cut him up, and scatter the pieces."
"Jesus Christ."
"You wanted to know."
Frank wondered if John Turano had a wife, or children. "
What did you tell Michael?"
"I told him I had to talk with you. You're the boss."
"Couldn't we just have somebody lean on him? Maybe convince him to back off?"
Vincent laughed eerily. "That shit only works in the movies. These are serious men, Frank. They don't fucking play games."
Frank lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring across the room. "When would they move on him?"
"Right after the first of the year," Vincent sighed as if bored. "Turano will be expecting us to hit back a lot sooner than that. When we don't, he'll be real comfortable, which makes him vulnerable. Now what do you want me to tell Michael?"
Frank looked into Vincent's glassy eyes, curious if his own looked the same. "Tell Michael I have no objection."
Several minutes past before either man moved or spoke another word. Vincent left the table first, went to his bed and pulled back the covers.
"Vin?"
He looked back over his shoulder at Frank. "Yeah?"
"I'm sorry about that shit with Nick Strong tonight."
"Forget about it, man." Vincent smiled. "I already have."
Frank nodded, watched him quietly, and hoped at least one of them was telling the truth.
CHAPTER 10
People seldom remember things as they actually were. Either times were too happy, or simply awful. Frank would later recall that week off the road as perhaps the best of his life. It was a welcome break, but nothing at all extraordinary happened. Frank spent most of his time puttering around the apartment, shaking off the effects of the road and doing his best to drink as little as possible. He and Sandy went out to dinner a few times. They made love. They looked at a couple of houses that were for rent in the area. Sandy made it a point of not paying too much attention to the second or third bedrooms in the houses they inspected. But just watching her, Frank knew she was thinking of what color to paint the walls, where a crib might fit snuggly in a room, and if the rocking chair in her parents' house would look nice near the window, to sit in and rock a baby on those tender crying nights.
Late Saturday afternoon he and Sandy left for the party in New York. During the long drive Frank let her do most of the talking, preferring instead to listen thoughtfully and occasionally take his eyes from the road just long enough to admire her. Because Charlie had stressed that everyone dress casually, Sandy wore a pair of dainty sandals, and a simple cotton summer dress patterned with impressionistic flowers. She had applied only a little lipstick, and clipped her tawny, summer-lightened hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Frank had no special interest in women's fashion, but he loved watching Sandy get dressed, from the damp towel she casually wrapped around her slender figure after her shower to the final fully dressed young woman people recognized. His wife's beauty seemed effortless, as if it existed without her knowledge, and Frank often wondered what she had ever seen in him. In jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt, Frank couldn't help but feel pale in comparison.
***
Charlie and Beth Rain lived in a modest house at the end of a quiet lane in Weygard, New York, a sleepy little town just moments over the Connecticut border. Four cars were parked in the driveway so Frank parked on the street.
"Now remember," he said patiently, "these may not exactly be the kind of people you're used to."
"I'll certainly do my best not to embarrass you."
"You could never embarrass me."
Frank leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. When he pulled back, she looked at him and crossed her eyes. "Don't worry, I think I can sip a glass of wine without spilling it down the front of me."
Charlie greeted them at the door. "I wasn't sure you'd show up," he said. "Come in, come in. You must be Sandy." Sandy nodded. "What're you doing with this bum?" Sandy smiled in an odd sort of way, to indicate that she appreciated his joke, if that's what it was, but didn't want to continue the conversation in the same direction. "Pretty and shy," Charlie chuckled. "You're a lucky man, Frank. Come on, let's get you guys a drink."
Charlie led them down a short hallway to a spacious living room, the obvious center of the house. Dark-colored vertical blinds shielded what appeared to be two sliding-glass doors. An enormous velvet sectional sofa dominated one end of the room. Charlie went to a professional-looking bar and began to fill glasses with crushed ice. "What'll it be?"
"Just a beer for me," Frank said.
Sandy glanced around. "Do you have any white wine?"
"Great, I throw a party and the Pope and Mother Theresa show up."
A cool, dark-haired woman with hazel eyes and a paper-white complexion appeared from another room, carrying a bottle of gin. "Don't pay any attention to him," she said. "Nobody does."
"Meet Beth," Charlie said evenly. "My adoring wife."
Beth smiled and shook their hands, revealing lovely white, even teeth. Sandy liked her instantly and was relieved there would be at least one other person besides Frank whom she could talk to. While Frank stood near the bar and talked with Charlie, Beth introduced Sandy around the room. The music was just loud enough to make it difficult to hear people's names as they were introduced.
Luther was sitting on the couch, one of his massive arms draped over his wife Claire's shoulder. He rose to greet Sandy, taking her small hand gently into his own which Sandy thought was roughly the size of a baseball glove. Claire was about Sandy's height, ten years older, perhaps fifteen pounds heavier, and infinitely worldlier. She also shook Sandy's hand, if for no other reason than to extricate it from Luther's grasp. Claire's thick brown hair was stylish, her designer eyeglasses unmistakably expensive and her manner bubbly and anxiously friendly, which seemed somehow to overshadow her rather average looks and slightly chunky figure. It was clear from her sassy attitude that Claire was more than a match for the towering man at her side.
Steve and Pepper Dalton were both in their thirties. Steve seemed to constantly smile with his blue-gray eyes, as if easily amused. He struck Sandy as the kind of man who knew he was attractive to women and made it obvious that the feeling was more than mutual. His light-colored hair was brush-cut, and he possessed the square-jawed good looks of a comic-book superhero. Just over six feet tall, he had a body that could have been sculpted from Grecian marble, and was dressed in tight black jeans, an even tighter tank top and a pair of cowboy boots. A former wrestler, Steve had worked briefly for Frank and Charlie before moving to the big league circuit. On the verge of stardom, a severe back injury had forced him to retire from the ring. He had recently signed with a major federation as a manager to several big name heels, and also occupied his time with a strip club he owned in Hartford. Sandy remembered seeing him on television, a loud-mouthed character not at all like the soft-spoken man she had just met.
Pepper was a former dancer at Steve's club, only recently retired, and the white spandex body suit she wore with a paisley sash cinched around her waist explained why she had been such a popular dancer. Red Hot Pepper, as she had been known, was a tall peroxide blonde with a blinding smile and a chest that could have had its own zip code. Her eyes were heavily made up with blue eye shadow, and she wore the sort of lipstick that is applied with a brush, the color a startling red.
Sal Leoni was the final guest at the party. He was a sickly-thin, fortyish man with thinning, gray-brown hair. He wore dark glasses and sat by himself in a chair in the corner, oddly content to stare down the hallway at the front door. He seemed to be expecting something, or someone. "Nice to meet you," he said. He shook Sandy's hand formally, as though at a cocktail party at a European embassy. He all but clicked his heels. Despite the late August heat he wore a brown herringbone wool jacket, buttoned tightly. Sandy did not rule out that this odd man might be concealing a weapon.
Having circled the large room, Sandy and Beth found themselves back at the bar. It was obvious that Charlie and Frank had stopped talking about whatever serious matter they had been discussing as the women approached. Sandy noticed that Frank had put aside his beer and was now drinking some amber liquor on
the rocks, probably scotch.
"Did you meet everyone?" Charlie asked Sandy with a smile. She nodded. "And you're still here?"
Beth rolled her eyes. "After Charlie has a few drinks he thinks he's Johnny Carson. More like Ed McMahon, I'd say. We'll be in the kitchen if you think of anything interesting to say." She led Sandy down another small hallway to the kitchen. Turning the corner, Sandy noticed Luther and Claire were now dancing together, more like hugging, really, as they swayed to some music other than that which was now on the stereo. Charlie and Frank had resumed their discussion, drinks and cigarettes in hand, their heads bowed conspiratorially together.
The kitchen was all white and stainless steel, immaculate and oddly intimidating. It looked like an operating room. Bread and vegetables were spread over a large butcher-block table. "I always wait until the last minute to get things done," Beth sighed.
"Can I help?" Sandy asked.
"You don't mind?"
"Don't be silly, not at all."
Beth folded her arms across her chest and smiled. "I'm glad you came."
"Thanks."
"Why don't you make a salad while I cut up the potatoes." Beth walked behind Sandy, around the side of the butcher-block to the refrigerator.
"Tell me about yourself," Sandy said quietly. "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a nurse."
"What area do you work in?"
"ICU."
"That must be fascinating."
"At times." She smiled. "It's nice to have - I don't know - a direct impact on people. Especially kids. But it's never easy dealing with death, even when it's a constant aspect of what you do. After a while you force yourself to accept it as a part of life. If nothing else, death certainly doesn't discriminate."
Sandy found herself surprised at how articulate Beth was, particularly after having met her husband. They seemed an odd pair at best, and acted as if the main point between them was more tolerance than love.
"What about you?" Beth asked.
"I'm a receptionist."
"With a face and body like that, I would've thought you were a model, maybe an actress," Sal said suddenly. Neither woman had seen him enter the kitchen and were now surprised, unpleasantly. Sal grinned behind his dark glasses. It was a smile that didn't show his teeth, just a thin grim line of a mouth. His face was lined and unhealthy-looking.
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