Johnny Porno

by Charlie Stella

  “Fifty? I don’t have fifty. I barely have twenty.”

  “Then give me whatever you have,” Louis said. “I owe this guy and I’m late.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Nancy said. She looked through her purse, found an extra twenty and three more of the fives John must have given her. She gave Louis thirty-five dollars and lied about the rest.

  Louis took the money to the bar where the big man was sitting. Nancy could hear Louis apologizing. She saw the big man lean over to look at her. She was frightened and turned away.

  She lit a cigarette, then watched in the mirror behind the bar as the bartender handed the big man a short stack of small white envelopes. The big man looked through the envelopes before folding them into a pants pocket.

  A few minutes later the big man left and Louis rejoined Nancy at the table.

  “Who was that?”

  “A guy I owed.”

  “A loan shark?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He looked scary.”

  “He is.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “You really need to know?”

  “Jesus, Louis, how are we supposed to pay for our drinks now? I only have a few singles left.”

  “It’s okay. They’ll put it on my tab.”

  “You run a bar tab? No wonder you’re always broke.”

  “I’m always broke because things don’t happen the way they’re supposed to. The Mets and Yankees last night for instance. They both win on a night I bet them to lose.”

  “You haven’t learned a thing, have you?”

  “A few things,” he said. “They haven’t paid off yet is all. This guy just put me on to something, probably to pay him off, but it might help.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Something to do with a car.”

  She knew something was wrong when he’d called her early this morning. It was an awkward moment with Nathan sitting there reading a magazine, but Nancy had managed to get her message to Louis by saying she’d call him back.

  “You sure?” Louis had told her over the phone. “Say yes or I’ll call right back. I swear it.”

  “Yes, I’ll call you back,” Nancy had told him.

  And so she showed up today and there he was waiting for her on the street acting fidgety about something and so far it had cost her thirty-five dollars.

  “A car?” she said now. “What about it?”

  “Forget that for now,” Louis said. “I need a favor.”

  “And what was the thirty-five I just gave you, a gift?”

  “A real favor,” Louis said. “I mean it, Nan. It’s serious.”

  “What is it?”

  Louis made her wait until he lit a cigarette.

  “I’m in trouble,” he said. “Serious trouble.”

  * * * *

  Nancy’s reaction to the loan shark was what Louis had hoped for. He’d brought her to the bar so she’d see Jimmy and realize what he was up against. He had asked the big man to give her a hard stare as a favor, and when Jimmy leaned over to look at Nancy, Louis could tell she was scared shitless. He figured it was the best way to keep his ex-wife on edge. So long as she thought he was in danger, Louis could count on her help.

  The other thing he had discussed with Jimmy was the car from the porn movie. Last night he’d serviced a woman who personally knew the director. Sharon Dowell was a horny broad who seemed willing to help in his quest to contact the director of Deep Throat. They had gone to a short-stay motel near JFK after meeting at the bar. He’d been more than an hour late, but she’d waited him out. The entire investment had cost him less than twenty dollars in cash and less than three hours time.

  Louis had appreciated her, all business and minimal aggravation. She was certainly experienced and had immediately recognized his rash for what it was.

  “It’s not something I haven’t seen before,” she’d told him. “That’s too bad for you because I’m pretty good with my mouth, I do say so myself. Let’s you concentrate on me for tonight and then we’ll save the goodies for when your doctor gives you a green light.”

  He’d done the deed and she’d made a few phone calls right there in front of him and hopefully in another day or two she’d call him back with something he could act on.

  If Sharon Dowell could get him a meeting with this Damiano guy, Louis might be able to broker a deal for the Cadillac. Jimmy had a buyer waiting in the wings, one of those collector nuts with deep pockets. All he needed was a meeting or even a phone call, or maybe a piece of paper with the guy’s signature.

  Now he was thinking about more immediate issues. In addition to the vig he owed Jimmy, Louis needed to front two bookies enough so they didn’t send an army out looking for him. Until he could rob John Albano of his collection cash there was only one other place he could go for money.

  Why he’d called Nancy as soon as he woke up this morning. She’d given him shit at first the way she always did, but there was no way she’d pass up a chance for sex. Once he took care of her it might be a record, the three times he went down on a muff in two days, except Nancy would count for two so it might require an asterisk like they were talking about giving Hank Aaron if or when he broke Babe Ruth’s record.

  Sunday night the bookmaking offices would close out for the week and Louis was still late with money owed to two offices. Hopefully Jimmy had scared Nancy enough for her to help out.

  Now that he’d told her he was in trouble, serious trouble, it was time to ask.

  Nancy beat him to the punch. “How much?” she said.

  “Five grand.”

  “Five thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where the hell am I going to get that?”

  “How much can you get?”

  Nancy’s face tightened. “You selfish bastard,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”

  “Yeah, you would, only you know I wouldn’t give it to you, not to gamble.”

  “This isn’t to gamble. It’s to keep my legs in one piece.”

  “God damn you, Louis.”

  “I’m sorry, babe, but I’m up against it here. I mean it. You saw that guy. Jimmy’s no jerkoff. He wants his money and I have to pay him.”

  “And what happens the next time you gamble and lose?”

  “I’m done gambling, I swear it. No more after this.”

  “I wish I could believe you.”

  “This time you can.”

  “I don’t have five thousand dollars to give you.”

  “I have to give him something.”

  “I can get a thousand. Maybe twelve hundred.”

  Louis grabbed his head with both hands.

  “It’s all I have,” Nancy said.

  “It’s not enough.”

  “How much do you owe them?”

  “I told you, five grand.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “How about half? I could probably work something out with him for half.”

  “I don’t have it. I told you I don’t.”

  Louis sensed it was time to bluff. “Alright, you know what? Forget it. This is my headache anyway. I shouldn’t involve you, you’re right.”

  Nancy was near tears.

  “I listened to some asshole and I should’ve known better,” he continued. “It’s my fault and my problem. I’ll handle it.”

  “How?”

  Step two, he was thinking; blow her off. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

  “No, I want to know. What will they do to you?”

  “That’s my problem. Forget about it.”

  “Louis, damn it! Don’t do this to me.”

  She reached across the table and grabbed both his hands.

  “Don’t worry,” Louis said. “I’ll handle it.”

  Nancy’s eyes had started to tear. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Not without me.”

  Game, set, match.

  * * * *

  John
had bought his son a baseball game for his ninth birthday last year. They were in the middle of a game with Little Jack and the Yankees leading 6-1 against the Mets when they heard Nancy’s footsteps on the stairs.

  “You couldn’t take him out someplace?” she said.

  “He wanted to play the game,” John said.

  “Yeah,” the boy said. “I wanted to play a series.”

  Nancy looked at John. “You don’t feel uncomfortable?”

  “Not until you showed up.”

  “Very funny.”

  John turned to his son. “Let’s go have a catch,” he said. “Why don’t you get your glove, bat and ball. I’ll throw you some pitches, you want.”

  “Okay,” said Little Jack, but he was clearly upset.

  Nancy started to say something. John put a finger to his lips for her to wait. She did, but not for long. As soon as the basement door closed upstairs, she lit into him.

  “My husband is upstairs and you invite yourself in?” she said. “Don’t you have any shame?”

  “I knocked on the door and Nathan was nice enough to invite me inside,” John said.

  “And you go ahead? You’re not embarrassed to be in another man’s house?”

  “You’re amazing, Nan, you know that?”

  “You ever think Nathan and I would like some privacy?”

  “How do you manage something like privacy, Nan? I mean, you’re never home, right?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No thanks, I keep telling you.”

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “I just said, for a catch.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll get something to eat. Why?”

  “I need him home by seven.”

  “Why seven?”

  “Don’t argue with me, John, I have my reasons.”

  John took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said.

  “And I’ll need my money on time this week. I can use an advance if you have it.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Why’d I bother asking?”

  “You can’t help yourself.”

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Fa-uck you.”

  John shook his head as he walked past her and headed up the stairs.

  * * * *

  Eddie Vento didn’t need anyone to chauffeur him around tonight. Nick was grateful for the break. He headed home early with the intention of clearing out his garage. After what had happened at the bar earlier in the day, he would sleep a lot easier knowing his car was locked inside rather than on the street.

  He was close to home when he spotted a big Polack he knew Eddie Vento sometimes used to collect street loans. The Polack was standing outside a bar on Cross Bay Boulevard. Nick pulled to the curb and beeped the horn to get the big man’s attention.

  Stanislaus Bartosz, a six-foot-eight, 245-pound hulk, had a scar running down the right side of his face and was missing both upper front teeth. A twice-convicted felon, Bartosz took his time making his way to the Pontiac.

  Nick saw the big man was squinting to see. He leaned toward the passenger window and waved. “It’s me!” he yelled. “Nick Santorra.”

  The big man stopped in his tracks. Nick put the car in park and got out.

  “It’s me,” he repeated. “Nick. Nick Santorra. Eddie’s guy.”

  It took the big man another few seconds to recognize Santorra. He made his way to the curb when he did.

  “How the hell you been?” Nick asked.

  “Never mind me,” Bartosz said. “Fuck happened your face?”

  “Why I was looking for you,” Nick said. “I got something, you’re interested.”

  “A guy can always use some extra scratch,” the big man said. “Sure. What is it?”

  “Something private,” Nick told the big man. “Something stays between us. Let’s walk around the corner, discuss it.”

  Nick was home twenty minutes later and quickly saw the problem with clearing out his garage was all the crap that had accumulated since they first bought the house. There was no way he could get all the junk out of the way to make room enough for the car, not without throwing out half the stuff in there.

  He had to settle for leaving the car in the driveway. He examined the knot above his right eye again in the rearview mirror and saw it was turning yellow around the edges. It would take another few days before the discoloration completely faded. His in-laws were coming Sunday morning. Nick would have to make up a bullshit story nobody would believe. It pissed him off just thinking about the looks he’d get.

  When they were ready to eat, Nick learned Angela had cooked baked ziti for dinner. He told her to freeze it for another night; he would barbecue instead. At least that way he could keep an eye on the car.

  He lit candles to keep the gnats and mosquitoes away while they ate dinner in the backyard. Afterward, Nick went to the basement to sign the new boxes of Deep Throat posters. He was careful getting the spelling right this time, except for once when he’d started to daydream about shooting John Albano.

  Chapter 19

  It was still humid out when Detective Levin returned home at the end of his workday. A set of surveillance tapes waiting for review had been left in his mailbox. Levin set them on the kitchen table, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and began unbuttoning his shirt as he headed for the air conditioner. He turned it on high, removed the rest of his clothes, and finished his beer before using the bathroom.

  He stood under a hot shower a full five minutes, his face taking the water full force until he turned and let it massage the back of his neck. It was how he preferred to relax, a hot shower followed with a cold beer in a cool room. He looked forward to sitting on his couch with his feet up.

  He wrapped a towel around his waist when he was finished in the bathroom, then went to the kitchen for a second beer and frowned when he saw the tapes.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Levin grabbed another beer and brought the tapes into the living room. He smirked at the dates on the labels.

  “A month old,” he said. “Lotta good these’ll do.”

  He set up the recorder on the cocktail table, popped one of the tapes in, picked up his beer and a notepad and sat on the couch. He set his feet up on the edge of the cocktail table, leaned forward, pressed PLAY, and sat back again.

  An unfamiliar voice narrated the first conversation:

  The following recording is from Tuesday, July third, nineteen-seventy-three, between Edward Vento and Bridget Malone, a weekend barmaid at Fast Eddie’s in Williamsburg. The following was recorded in the apartment above the aforementioned bar.

  Malone: You okay?

  Vento: Fine, yeah.

  Malone: Want another hit?

  Vento: No. Whattaya wanna kill me?

  [The sound of someone inhaling.]

  Vento: You’re gonna kill your brain cells you don’t take a break with that shit.

  [The sound of someone exhaling.]

  Vento: I’m serious. You should learn to go a little easy with that crap.

  Malone: I don’t do it every day.

  Vento: You do it every time you’re with me.

  Malone: Want some coke instead?

  Vento: What I just say? Leave it alone for half an hour.

  [The sound of rustling.]

  Malone: A cigarette okay?

  Vento: Yeah, gimme one.

  “Regular health freak,” Levin said.

  Malone: Who’s the new guy comes in weekends?

  Vento: What new guy?

  Malone: The one your idiot nephew’s always giving shit. The one counts the perverts who see the movie.

  Vento: Oh, Albano. John Albano. Why?

  Malone: Just curious. He’s a new face.

  Vento: He’s the guy knocked the cop out. Eugene said one punch.

  Levin wrote “Hastings.”

  Malone: Your nephew keeps giving him shit.

  Vento: He’s not my nephew, the dip-shit. He’s my wife’s first cousin.
>
  Malone: He’s got a big mouth on him, your nephew. Calls the new guy Johnny Porno.

  Vento: He’s not my nephew.

  Levin wrote the name “Johnny Porno” on his notepad. He stopped the tape and referred to notes he’d taken off another tape, then drew a line connecting June 14 to July 3.

  He hit the PLAY button.

  Malone: I was thinking maybe I should talk to him.

  Vento: Talk to who?

  Malone: Johnny Porno. He must have connections there, your nephew calls him that.

  Vento: He’s not my fuckin’ nephew and the guy, Albano his name is, John Albano, is a fuckin’ head counter is all he is. What is it with you and this porn shit?

  Malone: You’re supposed to hook me up, remember?

  Vento: Hook you up. Nice. Ever think I don’t want some broad I’m banging fucking the perverts they use in stag films? Those guys’d fuck farm animals you paid them enough.

  Malone: You said you’d talk to the guy.

  Vento: Rothenburg? Yeah, well, he’s dead.

  Malone: How?

  “Murdered,” Levin said.

  Vento: Whattaya mean how? What’s the difference?

  Malone: He was supposed to help me, you said.

  Vento: If you really wanted to do it, yeah, he was the guy. There are others, don’t worry. There are plenty leeches out there looking for broads dopey enough to think it’s glamorous sucking dick on film.

  Malone: Maybe it has to do with earning a living, Eddie. I don’t wanna live off bar tips the rest of my life. You said you’d help me with this. When?

  Vento: When I say so. Until then don’t talk like some skank.

  Malone: I’m not a skank.

  Vento: No, you’re not. You’re still a good-looking broad. You could get somewhere, marry somebody with that, but you wanna make a fuck film. Makes no sense. You were my daughter I’d kill you first.

  “Father of the year,” Levin said.

  Vento: Anyway, guys like Rothenburg’d ruin you before you knew what happened. You don’t need that shit in your life.

  Malone: Except I don’t wanna bartend the rest of my life.

  Vento: Yeah, you said. You’re twenny-three years old. You got plenny time to fuck up your life. Vada lento. Go slow.