by Joe Corso
“I builda you something niceuh, something uh special,” Angelo stated confidently. “It mighta takeuh me a little longer because I’mma not the younga boy I used to be,” he stated in his deadpan humor, “so if you’re notta in a hurry, I take uh it on. If you uh inna hurry, then you need uh looka somebody else uh.”
“Angelo, you thinkin’ of doin’ this yourself?” Red asked. “I thought you retired Angelo, you know, stopped doin’ the manual stuff.”
“I amma pretty much,” Angelo answered. “But you know uh Red, I learnna my trade from the finest in Italy, and we created masterpieces all throughoutta Europe. It’s uh been years since I uh had the opportunity to use uh my imagination, to go a little wild uh, to do something truly magnifico. I will uh make uh this room into uh something people willla talka about, something breath uh taking, but I cannotta be uh rushed,” he said firmly.
Funny, how this guy stood up to Red. He was a true ‘artiste’ and Red got a bit of a kick out of him. It was agreed. Angelo would use his creativity to bring this room to life and Red would let him do it without seeing the first sketch. However Red, being the ever astute businessman, did manage to inquire, “How much is this gonna’ cost me?”
Angelo answered, “Money in thesa case notta important. You uh pay for materials, and when all issa finito, pay uh me like other estimate by other men uh you uh called.” And the men shook hands. That was all it took – old style business – a hand shake and your honor. No need for more.
That ballroom took Angelo a full year to complete. The elder artisan’s handiwork filled every inch of the walls and floors. In the rear, near the bandstand, there were four hand–carved columns. The columns showed scenes of Roman Legions marching through the Arc of Triumph in Rome and Knights Templar on their horses, posed for battle in front of a castle fortress. Another depicted Venice and her canals and a fourth column was a carving of Cleopatra, with Caesar beside her, looking out at the pyramids from her palace. There were murals on the ceilings and tiny lights that sparkled as stars against the blue sky that Angelo had painted. The walls were reminiscent of the Sistine Chapel with scenes remarkably similar to The Last Supper. Mosaic tiles that had been imported from Carrera, Italy decorated the walls. Angelo himself had installed the genuine oak floors which had been polished to a glassy sheen, providing the best dance surface a club could imagine.
All throughout the renovations, Angelo had insisted that no one be allowed inside, other than delivery guys unloading materials. Well, the long and short is that when the day came for the big reveal, Red was almost speechless. It was as if Angelo had looked right into his mind and read his thoughts. The room was exactly as Red had envisioned it and he was thrilled. Red walked around the room, touched the walls, gazed at the murals, stared at the ceiling. He was in absolute awe of what he saw. And that solidified his and Angelo’s relationship – so much so that he tried to pay Angelo three times the highest quote that he had received, but Angelo would have no part of that. He was old school. He had honor.
“A deal is a deal,” Angelo said, and that just endeared him more to Red. He was touched by the elderly man’s code of ethics. That ballroom became Red’s refuge. Whenever he needed a place to retreat, he would just go into his ballroom and stare at it. Meanwhile, Angelo became a Sunday morning regular at The Starlight Club. He would sip espresso while sitting in the newly renovated great room. It reminded him of a little place in Italy, near his home town of Sciacca in Sicily, a place that brought back fond childhood memories. Angelo was the only person Red allowed into that room when there wasn’t a party or event going on. Strict orders were given to the staff – Angelo could order whatever he wanted at the club, whenever he came to the club, and no one was ever to collect a copper penny from him.
Red’s Sunday morning ritual was to sit at his favorite table, opposite the bar by the window, and read the Sunday edition of the newspaper. The morning sun rising in the east always beamed through the glass and highlighted his paper, making it easier for him to read. One particular morning, Angelo approached Red and asked if he could spare a few minutes. Red offered him a seat. The club wasn’t officially open for business yet. Moose was busy cleaning the bar while Tarzan played solitaire at nearby table. Swifty the boxer was there as usual, working off some of his past debts to Red.
“Moose, make us a pot of espresso and bring over a bottle of black Sambuca when the coffee’s ready,” Red instructed.
“What’s up Angelo?” Red asked.
In broken English, Angelo began to speak. He told of how some teenagers had been playing street hockey and how a hockey puck had crashed through a large casement window in the front of his house.
“Imma notta unreasonable man Red and I uh know accidents happen,” Angelo said, “but I try uh talkin to thesa boys butta thesa kids are wisa guys. They notta listen to me. They laugh uh, throw uh rocksa atta my door. They spray uh paint uh my house. I come uh to see you when they no stoppa.”
Moose poured two cups of espresso and carefully counted out three coffee beans (health, happiness, and prosperity) for each of two brandy sniffers. Angelo looked at Red, raised his cup and said in perfect Italian “un centinaio di anni,” the affectionate toast meaning “may you live a hundred years.” Red smiled, raised his glass and reciprocated. The men enjoyed a few minutes of light chatter and as Angelo rose to leave, Red looked at Swifty and said, “Go with Angelo. He has a little problem that you probably heard us discussin’. Don’t use any muscle unless you have to, unless they leave you no choice.”
Swifty walked with Angelo the two blocks to his home. He examined the damaged window. It was the large plate glass window in the front of his house that was shattered. Angelo had attempted a makeshift temporary solution, using duct tape and an old blanket. Swifty walked around the outside perimeter of the house. He found shards of glass lying on the lawn and saw the spray painted walls on the sides of Angelo’s house. He shook his head and was becoming angry.
“Come on Angelo, let’s go see these guys,” Swifty said, all irritated. The two of them walked up the block to a house on the corner, at the intersection and Swifty knocked loudly on the door. A big man in a sweat stained tank top, sporting a couple of days of facial growth, opened the door and stood there staring menacingly at the two strangers.
“What do ya want?” he huffed.
Swifty replied pleasantly to the man, “Your son broke my friend’s window and now your son and his friends are comin’ to his house and botherin’ him. They spray painted the sides of his house and it looks like they’re enjoyin’ harassin’ my friend here and that ain’t right. It just ain’t right.”
“So?” the man asked. “What you want me to do about it?”
Once again, Swifty remained calm as he answered the man. “I want you to pay for his window and pay for the cost of gettin’ the paint off the sides of his house and . . . I want you to tell your kid and his little buddies to all stay away from Angelo, this man here,” he said as he nodded his head Angelo’s way, “and his house.”
The man just laughed at him. It was obvious why he had such a hellion for a kid. He found all of this amusing. “Get outta here before I call the cops and have you arrested,” the man barked.
Swifty tilted his head, made a little ‘tsk, tsk’ sound with his lips and tongue and said, “It’s too bad you feel that way. We tried to do the honorable thing, ya know.”
“Hah,” the man snarled. “Honorable thing. Kids just havin’ fun. Get outta here.”
“Come on Angelo I’ve heard enough,” Swifty insisted.
“That’s right. Go. Run!” the sweaty man yelled. “Pansies. Just a couple of pansies,” he seemed to mutter as he just had to get in the last words.
Angelo and Swifty now had their backs to the man and they were headed down the walkway from the house toward the street sidewalk. Swifty stopped in his tracks, calmly turned around and asked in a sarcastic sort of way, “You like your house?”
The man was totally confused by this question. “What are
you talkin’ about?” he asked. “What do you mean ‘do I like my house?’”
Swifty smiled and said, “I’m just askin’ if you like your house. Ya see, my friend here likes his house. Most people really wanna take care of their house ‘cause it’s where they live. It kind’a violates a person when somebody does somethin’ to your house. Hmmm . . .,” Swifty paused and pondered. “Wonder how this house would look in pink? What do you think, Angelo? Is pink a good color for this house?” Angelo nodded stiffly. He wanted to play along but really wasn’t quite sure where all this was headed. “I think he might need a little air conditioning, too – you know, some gentle breezes comin’ in through open windows,” he smiled.
The man’s eyes opened wide, his jowl tightened and he yelled out, “Is that supposed to be a threat, punk?” and he started down the steps toward Swifty and Angelo.
Swifty held up his palm in a non–threatening way and warned, “Don’t take another step down those steps or I might have to hurt ya.”
The man did not heed Swifty’s warning. “Oh really?” he snarled as he continued to walk toward the men. Swifty waited to see just how close the man would get before, in Swifty’s mind, his personal space had been completely invaded. The man crossed that limit – that Swifty limit of no more than four feet away from him, his space – not much different from the boxing ring. Swifty didn’t even wait for the guy to stop. As quick as a rattlesnake he launched a right uppercut that landed the man on his ass, half on the ground and half on the concrete. He then took a large stone and smashed one window, grabbed another rock, smashed another, and was in the process of tending to a third when he heard, “Okay, okay.”
“I hear ya,” the man grunted from his horizontal position on the front lawn. “No need for this to get out of hand. I’ll take care of it. Send me the bill for everything and I’ll have a talk with my son.”
Swifty nodded and answered, “Great. Angelo here will bring you a bill in a little while. Make sure you’re home and make sure you open the door to talk to him and when you do open that door, have a check signed ready to just fill in the total. Cash is even better, but either one will do and . . . make sure you keep that kid of yours and his little buddies away from his house. The next trip I make here won’t be as pleasant as this one.”
“Hey, it’s all right. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything,” the man replied.
“Good! See that you do. Come on Angelo,” Swifty remarked and the two men walked back to Angelo’s home. Angelo thanked Swifty many times and Swifty headed back to work.
Red was waiting for Swifty when he returned to the club. “I wanna hear it all, everything from the beginning,” he instructed the moment Swifty’s feet crossed the doorway. When Swifty had finished his story, Red asked, “So you think you worked it out?”
“Yeah,” Swifty answered, “Angelo shouldn’t have any more problems with those kids.”
“Good! Great job Swifty. You handled it by givin’ a warning first and usin’ your head. Unfortunately, you had to use your fist; however, I like what you did. It only took one punch to get the message across. Ya know, somebody else mighta’ kept hittin’ and beatin’ the guy even while he was down. I’m proud of you Swifty. You let your head prevail. You got the message across and left him alive,” he laughed. “That’s good thinkin’. In my business, or any business actually, it’s always better to solve problems peaceful–like, if possible. You only use violence if left with no other choice. Understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” Swifty answered. He didn’t know that this was gonna be some kind of test. Hell, he had come real close to breaking every bone in the man’s body and having him eat a little concrete with his missing teeth. Something was happening to Swifty. He was maturing. Swifty was happy because Red was happy and Red’s approval meant something to him, meant everything really.
“I’m not gonna get you involved with the day–to –day of the business, Swifty,” Red added, “and none of the wet work, but I may have you handle little problems like these when they come up. My main concern right now is makin’ you a champion. Capiche?”
chapter five
Larry Bernstein put down the letter for the moment. Remember him? He was the movie guy – the one who made Jimmy the Hat’s career. Well, he sighed, picked up this letter again and read it a second time. This was the third one this month. The letter stated that the author had damaging information on the movie studio’s number one star, Lana Thomas.
Bernstein thought all had been settled back when Jimmy the Hat and Lana were co–starring in the movie “Mob Enforcer.” Jimmy had fought the man who was blackmailing Lana with some video and he forced him to tell him, where he had hidden that film. The man swore that there were no other copies. Bernstein had destroyed that film. Now, he wondered if there were others – other videos that he wasn’t aware of. The letter stated that the sender had damaging ‘eye witness’ affidavits. The letter also insisted that the sender had information on three other Bernstein stars – two females and one male – that would wreak havoc on the stars and the studio. One female, the letter stated, was using heavy drugs. The writer claimed to be in possession of a female star’s arrest record for shoplifting and stated that he or she had proof that the studio’s leading ladies’ man was gay, stating that there were pictures to prove it. The sender ended the letter saying that two million dollars was all it would take to contain this information. A time and place for the monetary exchange would be given in the next letter.
Bernstein was a smart businessman who, like many successful executives, relied on part street smarts, part schooling, and a whole lot of gut instinct. That was his gift and that’s why his studio was so successful. As he read the letter for yet another time, he knew that once money had been exchanged, this would not prevent any future demands. It was damnation any way he looked at it if this information was true – ruin the studio by discrediting its stars or bleed the company dry through blackmail. Either way, the press would have a field day over this and Bernstein risked having his image shredded right before the very patrons responsible for what some might consider a fat cat salary.
Larry had a number of competitors in the industry who resented or even hated him, but who would go to such lengths, he thought. The logical move was to take this to the FBI but Bernstein thought of his family and their safety. These people were nuts, he thought and nuts meant dangerous. There was no one in Hollywood he could trust. This was a gossip columnist’s dream scoop. As he was about to place the latest letter into the safe with all of the others, it dawned on him. There was someone – someone in New York. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? He opened his desk drawer and pulled out his private little address book. He scanned it searching for the one name he knew well. Yip, Yip was always his man in New York. They had known each other since childhood, growing up in the same neighborhood. He recalled the time Yip helped him when some schoolyard bullies threatened him, and Yip had helped him again when his father, who owned a jewelry store, was having trouble with a local pack of wise guys. Yip straightened them out. Bernstein and his father never knew what Yip did or how he did it. They just knew that he did it and in both cases, the problems went away. But Yip was dead and Larry hadn’t talked to his nephew, Big Red, now in charge, since his biggest star, James Roman, (ne Jimmy the Hat) had been killed. And yes, Bernstein always used the word ‘killed’ because in essence, that’s why he died. He died from an infection from the wounds he received trying to help while Mary’s crazy ex-husband was on one of his maniacal binges, hell bent on hurting Trenchie, Mary’s new husband, and Jimmy’s dear friend. What a shame that was.
Larry had benefited from Roman’s death for a while – Jimmy’s movies had sold out, his memorabilia commanded premium prices – the theatres were packed anytime the name James Roman was publicized. But it had been hard for Bernstein to find another James Roman. They were few and far between.
Bernstein knew that he could trust Big Red. Red was the man who had worked, thro
ugh Yip, to get Jimmy the Hat to California, into the offices of Larry Bernstein and on the road to stardom. Hell, he’d rather give Red the two million than some crazy blackmailer who might never end his demands. Besides, when Red became involved in something, he always got results. Red had interceded and saved one of Larry’s stars from being killed during the filming of To Love A Thief starring the Hat. That thought brought a smile to Bernstein’s face for the first time since he had started receiving the letters. It was time to call in some muscle, some old–fashioned, New York style, street muscle.
Two Years Earlier
Moose drove with Swifty sitting in the front seat. Big Red, Tarzan and Trenchie sat in the back as they drove back from the Swifty–Velasques third and ‘final’ fight.
“Great fight Swifty,” Red said.
“Thanks Red,” Swifty responded. “Boy, that kid is a good fighter. I never fought anybody as good as him.” Swifty was still pumped up and even though he had said that these three fights with Valesques were enough, he made somewhat of a Freudian slip. “Next time I’ll get him,” he said. Big Red looked at Tarzan and Trenchie. They just stared back. The car pulled into the parking lot of the club and Tarzan and the other men hesitated and decided to stay in the car.
Red picked up on the awkward silence and said, “Swifty, I have a letter for you – mailman dropped it off at the club. I don’t know what it says ‘cuz I’m not in the habit of openin’ other people’s mail, but I think I might recognize the envelope and address. Why don’t you open it and then just let us know?”
The men sat motionless as Red took an envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it to Swifty in the front seat. Swifty opened it and read the first word of the first sentence. “Greetings!” it said. As his eyes moved line by line down the letter, Swifty’s face changed from uncertainty to confusion to sheer terror.
The letter was an official notice from the United States government informing Swifty that he was to report for an Armed Forces Physical Examination – the first step in the draft process. He was to be at Thirty–Nine Whitehall Street in Manhattan on June seventeenth at eight am. Swifty was silent for a moment and then, “Jesus – just when my career was starting to take off,” as he looked to Red for help.