Tony sped to Broadway, then turned uptown. There was only one car headed downtown toward them. It started to flash its lights to warn them they were going the wrong way.
“Fuck you, Mac,” said Tony, flooring the accelerator. The car hurtled to Broome Street, slashed across the intersection with screeching brakes and blocked the street, just as Angie the Kid was about fifty yards from the corner, approaching fast.
Angie swerved and mounted the sidewalk, aiming his car around them. Joey jumped out, right into the oncoming headlights, waving his arms.
Angie, his eyes bulging, his hands locked on the wheel, kept coming. Suddenly a bellow filled the night: “Stop! You dumb Kid!” It was Louie the Animal frantically twisting the wheel. The car came to an abrupt halt.
“Jesus Christ,” Louie gasped. He eased out of the car, putting the pistol in his belt.
“It’s us,” said Tony.
“Yeah, and it almost wasn’t,” said Louie, looking back into the car.
Angie the Kid had his head down on the wheel.
“Don’t die now, Kid,” said Tony. “You’ve got to get Frankie the Pig. Get him back to the restaurant right away. Bobby, you and Louie drive this stiff to the river.”
“Okay,” said Bobby Matteawan. “You’re sure you don’t want to make a cappuzell’ out of him?”
“Come on, let’s get going,” Joey ordered abruptly. “It isn’t funny anymore.”
Tuesday, February 9
12:15 A.M.
“Those lousy fucking tutzones,” said Frankie the Pig, the veins bulging on his massive neck. He was pacing the length of the Two Steps Down Inn. At various tables were seated Tony, measuring Frankie the Pig with his steely eyes; Gus, his feet up on a second chair; Bobby Matteawan, who was sharpening a butcher’s cleaver on a honing stone; Angie the Kid, who was watching Bobby Matteawan; Joey and Philly the Splash.
Philly the Splash was an old-timer, gray and thin with age, one of the lieutenants who was no longer very active but who, because he knew the ways of the street, was asked for his counsel. So far, the only thing accomplished was that Frankie the Pig had made Mike nervous, because Frankie was ready to break everything and anything in his way.
“Those lousy niggers, I’ll kill them with my own hands,” spat Frankie the Pig between clenched teeth. “What did that son of a bitch say? Tell me again.”
“Frankie,” soothed Philly the Splash, who had got his name by diving off the piers into the East River when he was a kid. In those days, he was the only one in the neighborhood who could swim. “We all know what they said. It’s more important to know what we’re going to do. That’s what we should be talking about.” As the old man spoke, his head nodded involuntarily.
Frankie the Pig looked at Philly the Splash, his eyes filled with the strength and anger that made him both feared and vulnerable. “We should find these miserable bastards and kill them,” Frankie the Pig said icily.
“I’ll go for that,” chimed Bobby Matteawan, not looking up from the keen edge of his cleaver.
“I agree,” said Philly the Splash. “And where do we find them to kill them? That’s the sixty-four dollar question.”
Frankie looked out the front window. The rain had washed the blood from the street. “I don’t know,” he said. “But when we get them, we’ll crash them—I can’t wait to talk to that guy on the phone tomorrow night.”
“You talk like that and they’ll kill Sal,” warned Philly the Splash.
“Splash is right,” said Tony. “First we’ve got to get Sal back—then we’ll worry about getting them.”
“If only we had some word from him,” said Gus.
“Maybe we should send someone to talk to our friends uptown,” Joey suggested. “They might be able to get a line on these niggers for us.”
“No,” countered Frankie the Pig. “This is something we have to work out ourselves. I mean, how does it look if our boss gets grabbed from under our noses by some niggers?” Frankie looked at them. “We have to figure it out by ourselves, like a matter of honor.”
“That’s true,” said Philly the Splash. “It’s something you should work out among the lieutenants.”
Suddenly Frankie the Pig picked up a chair and began pulling at the back struts to which the cushioning was attached. His teeth bared as he strained to rip the chair apart.
“For Christ’s sake, Frankie,” said Mike. “That chair cost me eighteen bucks.”
“Then put it on my tab,” Frankie grunted as the chair splintered, “before I wreck this whole fucking joint and pay you for nothing.”
Mike turned quickly and walked away.
“Anger doesn’t accomplish anything,” said Philly the Splash. He was silent again. “You know, I was just thinking. I know exactly what would help us. But you may not like the idea—”
“What is it, Splash?” asked Tony.
“I think we could use someone’s help.”
“A minute ago you agreed we should keep it among ourselves,” said Frankie.
“I still think so,” said Philly the Splash. “The man I have in mind is a close friend, not just ours but Sal’s.”
“I think I know who you mean,” said Tony. “I think you’re right.”
“Okay, tell us who it is so we can all get in on it,” said Frankie the Pig.
“I’m thinking of Gianni Aquilino.”
Suddenly, the restaurant was stone silent. All eyes turned to Frankie the Pig. Angie the Kid was too young to remember. But Tony remembered. Philly the Splash remembered. The older ones all remembered Gianni Aquilino—also known as Gianni Eagle, and later, when his hair had prematurely turned gray, as the Silver Eagle. Formerly the top man in New York, he was the one man whose ideas had helped tame the violent excesses of some of the bloody misfits sprinkled among the peasants who had come to the new world. Those misfits terrorized the nearest people at hand, their own countrymen, just as Negro junkies still prey not upon the rich of Park Avenue, but upon their own brothers.
Not that Gianni Aquilino ran the whole show, or controlled the other mobs. He didn’t. He ran his own mob. The others respected him and listened to him, but they kept their own counsel and followed his advice when it suited their own purposes. Thus, when some of the mobs wanted to get in on the lucrative narcotics trade, the Silver Eagle warned against it. In addition to being dirty business, the Silver Eagle cautioned, narcotics were too hot to get involved with. Although other mobs were champing at the bit to deal junk, Gianni’s reputation stood in the way.
Some rebels reasoned that if Gianni were dead, they’d be free to pursue their own vices. And if the other bosses refused to agree to kill him, the rebels intended to declare an all-out war in which many would be killed, energies and blood spent profitlessly. The bosses, except for the Silver Eagle, got together and agreed, some very reluctantly, that it would be easier to kill one man—the Silver Eagle, Gianni Aquilino—than to wage a catastrophic war.
It was Frankie the Pig who had been given the contract to kill Gianni Aquilino.
One winter night, twelve years before, he had staked himself outside Gianni’s apartment house in the posh upper Fifties. When Gianni came home, Frankie the Pig entered the lobby behind him, drew a pistol and shot Gianni in the head. But Gianni had heard him coming and at the last moment moved just a bit—and the bullet only creased his skull. Gianni was questioned by the D.A. in the hospital—and afterwards, when he was well enough, by the Grand Jury. But Gianni always insisted that he had been mugged by someone he didn’t recognize.
While Gianni Aquilino was in the hospital with this bullet wound, another meeting was convened. At this second gathering it was Sal Angeletti who had stood up against the other bosses and argued that Gianni had always been fair—he’d been a stand-up guy and was still a stand-up guy, and he should be allowed to retire as long as he agreed not to have a vendetta. Sal said he would be personally responsible for Gianni. The other bosses reluctantly agreed. And Gianni thereafter retired and went into real esta
te investments, where he made a formidable and legitimate fortune. Yet the Grand Juries continued to subpoena him anyway, mainly because his elegant presence guaranteed good press coverage.
“What the hell can Gianni do for us that we can’t do for ourselves?” said Frankie the Pig finally, breaking the silence. He had been made Sal’s underboss because of his undertaking the contract against Gianni. He could see it in his mind as he spoke, back over the twelve years—Gianni standing there and himself sprinting across the lobby, gun in hand. “And besides, you think he’d help us out?”
“You? No. But Sal, sure,” said Philly the Splash. “Remember, Gianni owes his life to Sal, and Gianni’s always been a stand-up guy.”
“I agree. If anybody can help us, he can,” said Tony.
“I disagree,” said Frankie the Pig.
“Vote on it,” said Philly the Splash.
“What vote—what is this, an election?” Frankie the Pig demanded, looking around.
“It’s only a suggestion,” Philly the Splash returned.
“When Sal’s not here, I’m boss,” said Frankie, “and I’ll decide.”
“I don’t deny that, Frankie,” Philly the Splash said very quietly, taking the stub of the black cigar out of his mouth. He looked directly into Frankie’s eyes. “But Sal’s life is on the line and we need somebody with a cool head, somebody like Gianni.”
“You mean I haven’t got a cool head?” Frankie the Pig glared at him balefully.
“Frankie, I was a tough guy too. I may be an old man, but don’t try to push me around. I’m just giving you my ideas. If you don’t like them, fine. But don’t be looking at me like that.”
“I don’t think you’re being cool right now,” Tony said to Frankie the Pig.
Frankie turned. Tony’s steely eyes met his.
“I bet Gianni would help us,” said Joey. “He and Sal have always been like brothers.”
“I think it would be a good idea to have someone like Gianni help you with this, Frankie,” Philly concluded diplomatically.
Frankie sat and looked at them. He thought for a while, then turned to Philly the Splash. “How can we approach him? Should I call him?”
“No,” said Philly the Splash. “Gianni and I are old friends from way back. I think I should ask him to meet me somewhere. He won’t come here—Sal wouldn’t even want him to.”
“Where, then?”
“What about that bar on the West Side, the one by the piers?” said Tony.
“Right, The Other Place,” said Philly the Splash. It had been popular with the boys when the longshoremen’s unions were being organized. “I’ll talk to him alone, and explain the situation. Then if he agrees we can all start figuring this thing out.”
“How do we get him to come there?” asked Gus.
“Joey—you can get him to come. Go pick him up and explain it to him,” said Frankie the Pig, taking command now that the plan of action had been agreed upon.
“Okay,” said Joey. “But it’ll take some time. He lives in Pawling.”
“Then get going right away,” said Frankie. “Drive as fast as you can and meet us over at The Other Place.”
2:30 A.M.
The silver Cadillac limousine rolled slowly west on 51st Street toward the Hudson River. From the elevated West Side Highway an occasional car catapulted a spray of water over the retaining walls, splashing down into the streets below. The car stopped at the corner.
“Drive across the street and park under the highway between Fiftieth and Fifty-first,” Gianni Aquilino said from the back seat. Joey was sitting next to him.
The car started across the broad avenue beneath the highway. At the edge of the river it stopped. Gianni got out. He was of medium height. His face was handsome, straight-nosed, his hair all gray and wavy. Even though Joey had awakened him in the middle of the night, Gianni, as always, dressed immaculately in a double-breasted suit. He looked around the deserted street. The wind gusted across the river, which here was thick with ice floes between the piers. Even out into the mainstream there was much ice. Gianni hadn’t seen the river so frozen for many years. An occasional tug, its running lights aglow, coursed silently past in the dark.
“One of these days, Gianni, I’ll be making enough on the books to buy one of these,” said Joey, looking admiringly at Gianni’s Cadillac.
Gianni smiled. “I know, Joey, I know. I had my fill of days with plenty of cash to hide but not much to spend—unless I wanted the Internal Revenue to jump all over me.”
Gianni turned toward The Other Place. The old bar was still frequented mostly by longshoremen during the day. Whenever Gianni or Sal or their friends wanted to meet quietly, without attracting too much attention, this was the perfect place, virtually empty all night.
In the shadows Gianni could see men seated in a car near The Other Place. He saw another car half a block away with more shadowy figures within it.
Gianni reached into his pocket and took out a thin gold cigarette case. He snapped a matching lighter into life and, with a motion that had become characteristic, he lit the cigarette with one hand while putting the cigarette case back in his pocket with the other. He took a couple of deep puffs, his eyes further scanning the darkness.
He didn’t like the looks of it, but if Sal needed him, he had to come. Gianni’s hand reached to his right temple, his finger feeling along the ridge of scar tissue left by Frankie the Pig’s bullet.
The face of Frankie the Pig appeared before him clearly. So did that dark, wintry night, twelve years earlier when, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Frankie quickly enter the lobby of his apartment house right behind him.
The doorman was nowhere in sight. Gianni instantly realized what was happening. Frankie the Pig put his hand inside his coat as he started moving across the lobby. Gianni thought to himself: I’m not going to stand here like a clay pigeon. He didn’t carry a gun, so he started to sprint toward the mail room and the fire stairway leading down to the cellar. Then he heard a tremendous, echoing explosion. There was a flash of light inside his eyelids, as though, in the dark of the night, the aurora borealis shone white and distant. Only it was hot. And it was horrible pain. Then it faded slowly, becoming dimmer and dimmer.
A siren wailed in the night, as if in some nightmare. Gianni saw a cop sitting beside him, while the siren grew louder and closer.
“What is this?” Gianni asked. “Where are we going?”
“You’ve been shot, Gianni,” said the cop, who wasn’t just a dream character. “You’re in good shape. Just dug a small hole in your head.” The cop’s badge shone intermittently, reflecting the passing street lights. His face was a shadow.
Gianni reached up.
“Don’t touch it, Mr. Aquilino,” said a voice behind him. Gianni tried to look around, but he couldn’t move his head.
“That’s the Doc,” the cop supplied.
“How am I, Doc?” Gianni asked.
“You’ll be all right. Just a glancing head wound. Not serious.”
“Good thing I’ve got a hard head.” Gianni lay back, trying to laugh.
“Do you know who did it, Gianni?” the cop asked.
“Officer, what sort of people do you think I know? How could I know anyone who would try to mug me?”
The cop smirked and shrugged. “The D.A. ’ll be at the hospital. All kinds of brass and everything, Gianni.”
The ambulance kept wailing through the street.
“How about leaving me off right here?” Gianni whispered. “Tell them I ran away while we were at a red light. What the hell—I’m the victim. I didn’t do anything. Let me buy you a real good hat.”
The cop looked at the doctor—the doctor looked away—then up toward the driver. “I can’t do that, Gianni,” he said reluctantly. “I’d get roasted. Besides, they’ll catch up to you later on. You can’t go nowhere with your head like that.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. Why make it hot for you? I’ll go in,” said Gianni as he
relaxed on the stretcher. “But I can’t imagine who did it. Maybe it was some broad in a jealous rage. Wouldn’t that be something, at my age. That’s what I think I’ll tell them—it was some broad in a fit of passion.” Gianni laughed. He reached out and quietly handed the cop a bill from his pocket, the first one he touched. It could have been a single or a hundred.
The cop laughed too. He palmed the bill and winked at Gianni.
A heavy cascade of water lifted by a passing car from the overhead highway splattered on the street. Gianni moved quickly out of range and out of his grisly recollection, now walking toward The Other Place. All that past history no longer mattered. Whatever happened tonight would happen. Gianni had little choice of paths. Ordinarily he would have been far more cautious before meeting anyone like this. But Joey was almost Sal’s son. If Joey said something for Sal, it was as if Sal spoke. And if Sal spoke, it was as if Gianni’s brother spoke.
“Will Sal be here?” Gianni asked. Joey had only told him there was deep trouble and Sal needed him.
“No, he isn’t here. That’s the trouble. Old Philly the Splash will tell you all about it. We need you desperately. Sal needs you. You know I wouldn’t come to you if it was nothing.”
As the two men entered the bar, McMahon the bartender looked up. There were only a couple of old bleary-eyed longshoremen sipping beers at the bar. McMahon nodded toward the back room. Gianni and Joey walked back across the white octagonal-tiled floor. In the light of the revolving Ballantine clock overhead, Gianni saw old Philly the Splash. He looked ancient. Gianni wondered if he looked as old to Philly the Splash.
Philly was smiling. He stood to greet Gianni.
“Hello, Philly,” said Gianni. They clasped hands, looking into each other’s eyes momentarily. Floods of memories rushed over each of them.
“You look like a million bucks, Gianni,” said Philly the Splash. “Like a real movie star. I can see the legit life really agrees with you.”
“It’s a lot easier than trying to scheme and make scores. It’s like a cakewalk.” Gianni lit another cigarette.
Sicilian Defense Page 2