Sicilian Defense

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Ring it once more, please,” Sandro said.

  The doorman obliged, listening patiently. Suddenly, he nodded. “Hello, Mr.—” He looked at Sandro.

  “Sandro.”

  “Mister Sandro to see you.” He listened again. “Okay. Go right up. Apartment 34C.”

  Sandro took one of the elevators to the 34th floor. He walked to the C apartment and rang the bell. Ginger must have been waiting right behind the door; the peephole was moved, and instantly the door was opened for him.

  Ginger was tall, five-foot-ten, tan-skinned, with almond eyes and long smooth black hair. A sheer shortie nightgown covered her only to the tops of her luscious legs. Beneath the lace Sandro could see her firm, dark-nippled breasts. She wore a sheer pair of bikini panties to match the top. Ginger was leaning against the wall just inside the door, her eyes half-closed with sleep. She was smiling at Sandro. Behind her, the apartment was dark.

  “Come here, you,” she said, reaching out as Sandro closed the door behind him. “I don’t care why you’re here, come on in and give me a squeeze.” She put her arms around Sandro and held him closely.

  Sandro circled her with his arms. “Hello, baby. I wake you up in the middle of your night, and you come out loving and hugging. Who in the world is as beautiful as you?”

  “Nobody,” she said softly, resting her head against his shoulder. “That’s because you’re my baby.”

  “And you’re my baby,” Sandro whispered.

  “Come on and get in bed with me,” Ginger whispered, her lips finding his neck, his lower ear.

  “I just walk in the door, and you proposition me?”

  “I can’t stand up much longer,” she said. “I’ve got to lie down. You might as well lie down with me.”

  “I need some information,” said Sandro. “Really, serious stuff. I’ve got to ask you some questions first.”

  “Okay, okay. But ask them in bed. Come on.” Ginger twisted around so that her arm was around Sandro’s waist, and she walked toward the interior of the apartment. “Watch out for the cocktail table in front of the couch,” she said. “I rearranged the place since the last time you were here. You rat.”

  “How can I see the cocktail table or the couch? It’s pitch black in here.”

  “No ethnic remarks please.” She guided Sandro across the thick pile rug, to the small bedroom on the far side of the living room. She slid down onto the large bed, pulling Sandro gently by the hand until he lay next to her. In the dark, he could smell the deep, passionate fragrance that always surrounded Ginger. She would never say what perfume it was, only that it was Ginger, impure and sinful, coming through her pores. The bed was king-size, and soft, with four pillows. Everything about Ginger was luxurious and soft.

  “I’m still all dressed, in a suit and tie,” Sandro said.

  “I’ll take care of that, lover.” She struck a match. Sandro watched its course through the air, until it lit a candle on a night table beside the bed. Ginger propped a pillow behind her and began to unwork the knot in Sandro’s tie.

  “I really have to ask some questions,” he said. “I’m sure you have some information I need.”

  “Ask away,” said Ginger. She gently eased Sandro’s arms out of his jacket. She stood and hung the jacket in her closet. As she stood in the candle flicker, Ginger raised the shortie nightgown over her head, exposing her taut, full breasts. They weren’t huge, they were just beautiful. Ginger walked to Sandro’s side of the bed, and standing directly in front of him as he sat wide-eyed, she began to unbutton his shirt.

  “How the hell can I ask questions with you undressing me—the most beautiful goddamn woman in the world.”

  “Don’t ask, then,” she said, kissing Sandro’s forehead, her breasts touching his face as she stood straight.

  Sandro slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

  “Uh, uh, let me finish with this shirt of yours.” She pulled his shirttails out of his pants, and opened the cuff links. She eased it off his back. “Better hurry up with your questions. ’Cause when I finish this, I’m going to finish you, lover.” She laughed at him.

  Sandro smiled. The candle was scented, and a pungent, spicy fragrance wafted into the air.

  “I want the names of the other colored bunnies, especially any who might live in Queens,” said Sandro.

  “Other chocolate bunnies,” said Ginger pensively. She bent down and took off Sandro’s left shoe.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Sandro. “I can take off the rest.” He rose and slipped off his other shoe.

  “There are only four of us now,” said Ginger. “There were six, but two of them have been gone for a couple of months now.”

  “Any of them live in Queens?” asked Sandro.

  “Let’s see. There’s Ann, Sandy, Jean and me.”

  “You we can forget about. You don’t live in Queens.”

  “Right, dummy.” She pushed him down to a sitting position again and worked at his pants, unsnapping them at the waist. “The others live in Manhattan—Ann by herself on 58th Street, just behind the Plaza; Sandy and Jean live on 74th Street and First Avenue.

  “How about the two who left?” Sandro asked.

  “Kitty and Lucy,” said Ginger. She had his pants open. Sandro stood and slipped them off. Ginger took the pants and carefully folded them over a chair. She rubbed her hands through the hair on Sandro’s chest, then put her arms around him. Sandro could feel her breasts, soft warm mounds against him.

  “Where did they live?” Sandro pressed.

  “Off with those shorts first, come on, the whole thing.”

  Ginger reached down and closed her hand softly on him. “Oh, baby, you are ripe and beautiful,” she said, pushing him gently back onto the bed.

  The room was filled with incense, heavy and warming.

  “Kitty lived in Queens,” she said, moving toward him, mounting onto the bed with one knee.

  “Hold it. Wait a minute,” said Sandro, moving her back. “Is she the only one you know about who’s lived in Queens?”

  “The only one since I’ve been at the club. That’s almost three years.”

  “Do you know where she lives?” Sandro said.

  “I have her address in my book,” Ginger replied.

  “Get it for me, please.”

  Ginger looked quizzically at Sandro. She walked to the other side of the bed and took out a small leather-bound book. Sandro twisted onto his stomach and pulled the pink Princess phone toward him. He dialed the number Gianni had given him, which was the regular number of the garage.

  “Hello, this is Sandro Luca. Is Gianni there?”

  “Just a minute,” said Angie the Kid. “How you doin’, Mr. Luca? This is Angie the Kid.”

  “Fine, Angie, fine. Let me speak to Gianni.”

  “Okay, I’ll put him right on.”

  There was silence, and then the phone was picked up.

  “Hello, Sandro, what did you get?”

  “I’m not sure of that yet. Wait a second.” Sandro looked over at Ginger, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “The only thing I’ve got is Crestwood Village, Wood-side,” said Ginger, shrugging.

  “Gianni, the only thing I can get is Crestwood Village, Woodside.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Kitty—” Sandro looked to Ginger.

  “Johnson.”

  “Johnson,” repeated Sandro.

  “Kitty Johnson, Crestwood Village, Woodside,” Gianni said.

  “She’s the only colored bunny who’s lived in Queens in the last two or three years,” said Sandro.

  “That’s great, Sandro. That’s really great.”

  “Okay, Gianni. I’ll check with you later.” Sandro hung up the phone, as he watched Ginger put the address book away. She hooked her thumbs under the filmy bikini pants, and slid them down her soft thighs. She got onto the bed, lifting herself up on one knee, then the other, until she knelt on the bed close to S
andro. She leaned forward. Sandro reached up, caressing her breasts, one in each hand, supporting her as her weight came forward. He eased her down on top of himself, their mouths fusing as the candle lifted its exotic incense into the room.

  3:00 P.M.

  Joey and Bobby Matteawan found Crestwood Village, a small housing development just off the Grand Central Parkway in Queens, near La Guardia Air Terminal. There were six brick buildings in the development, each eight stories high, each containing 64 apartments. Joey and Bobby Matteawan went to each building and checked the names next to the bells. There were two Johnsons. One was in the first building they went into: c. JOHNSON. The other was in the fifth building: just JOHNSON. They decided that C. Johnson was not the right party, and headed for the fifth building to try plain Johnson first.

  They entered it and stood in the vestibule studying the large, polished chrome bank of apartment bells with names next to them.

  “Here’s Johnson—3F,” said Bobby Matteawan.

  “Ring it,” said Joey.

  Bobby Matteawan rang. They waited. There was no answer. They rang again. Still no answer.

  “Try somebody else,” said Joey.

  Bobby Matteawan pressed the bell next to the name H. Schwarz. They waited.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice inquired metallically over the intercom.

  “Parcel post,” Bobby Matteawan replied.

  A buzzer sounded, releasing the lock on the front door. Bobby Matteawan and Joey walked in. They entered the automatic elevator and rose to the third floor; no one was in the hallway. Joey pushed the doorbell of apartment 3F while Bobby Matteawan watched the other end of the hall and the elevator. No one answered the bell. Joey rang again, and once again.

  “No one home,” Bobby Matteawan said.

  “Okay,” said Joey, attending to the lock with two small metal picks. Bobby Matteawan shielded him from the view of anyone who might have entered the hallway. With his left hand Joey slipped a small metal rod into the lock, using it as a tension bar. With his right he inserted another small sharp instrument and within seconds his deft touches picked the lock. He twisted the cylinder.

  “There it is,” he said.

  They both moved quickly into the silent dark apartment, closing the door behind them. Matteawan searched the living room carefully, without ransacking it. Joey tackled the bedroom. They were looking for the pictures and ashtrays that Bianco had described. Bobby Matteawan searched a pile of mail on a table near the entry. They met at the bedroom door.

  “This doesn’t look like it,” said Bobby Matteawan.

  “That C. Johnson must be Catherine for Kitty,” said Joey.

  “Shit! Let’s try the other place.” Bobby Matteawan spied a small gold box on top of a chest against the wall and put it in his pocket.

  Suddenly, they heard a key being inserted into the front door. They froze. The door swung open. A woman and a man, both elderly, both with grocery bundles in their arms, entered. The man reached out one finger beyond his bundles to flip on the light switch. Their mouths flopped open, their eyes widened with shock as they saw two men in coats and hats standing in their living room.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” said the startled man.

  “Don’t worry, folks,” Joey said consolingly, “I’m Detective Johnson. This is Detective Radmer. We’re from the precinct. We had reports of prowlers over here and we’re just checking everything out. Sorry to frighten you.”

  “You’re the police?” the woman gasped, almost hysterical. “You’re the police?” She was repeatedly pressing her hand against her chest, as if her breath wouldn’t come unless she helped it. Her husband stood numb.

  “That’s right, ma’am,” Joey continued, “we had the superintendent let us into the building. We’re just going up the fire escape here, checking out the other apartments in this line. We had a report of some prowlers around this line of the building.”

  “Oh my God, thank God it’s the police!” the woman exclaimed, still pressing her chest.

  “Is everything all right, officer?” asked the man.

  “Everything is fine,” Bobby Matteawan told them.

  Joey smiled reassuringly.

  “Let’s put these packages down, mother,” said the man. They both moved toward the kitchen, which was just off the living room.

  As the couple entered it, Joey and Bobby Matteawan hurried out the front door. Once in the public hallway, they scampered for the exit door and plunged down the interior stairway, their feet booming on the steps until they reached the bottom. Once in the lobby, they walked calmly to the car. Bobby Matteawan started the engine and the car moved slowly away from the curb, to be lost in traffic on Queens Boulevard.

  “Holy Christ!” said Bobby Matteawan, turning to Joey. “How did you think up that one?”

  “What was I supposed to say, that we’re burglars?”

  “Boy, that was great!” said Bobby Matteawan. “Well, at least I got something in that joint besides almost getting pinched.” He reached into his pocket and took out the gold box. It was small and not real gold. Bobby Matteawan handed it to Joey, who opened it. Inside it were just some ashes. A white piece of paper was attached to the underside of the lid. It read:

  CONTAINED HEREIN ARE THE REMAINS

  OF OUR BELOVED DAUGHTER MARJORY

  JANUARY 7, 1943—JUNE 15, 1959

  Joey read the legend, then slowly shut the box. He looked out the side window quietly.

  “What’s it say?” asked Bobby Matteawan, watching the traffic ahead.

  “That this is all that’s left of their daughter. She was only sixteen. Christ.”

  “What?” Bobby Matteawan turned quickly toward Joey.

  “Their daughter died when she was sixteen years old. They cree-mated her.”

  “Holy shit!” said Bobby Matteawan. “That box’s worse than a mal-occhia—throw the goddamn thing out the window.”

  “No,” Joey said firmly. “Take me back there.”

  “Hey, I’m supposed to be crazy, not you.”

  “We got to bust the other apartment anyway,” said Joey.

  “The cops’ll be all over the place,” Bobby Matteawan protested.

  “You’ll keep look-out. I’ll go in. Take me back,” Joey repeated.

  Bobby Matteawan saw the determination on Joey’s face. Bobby Matteawan knew how determined Joey could be. He made a U-turn and drove back to the house, stopping at the corner. An empty police car stood at the curb, its red light revolving.

  “They must be upstairs,” said Joey. “You wait here. I’ll be right back.” He entered the building and pressed a random bell, again announcing himself as parcel post. The buzzer sounded and Joey entered, heading toward the emergency stairway. He put the gold box in a corner, and walked back to the bell panel. He buzzed apartment 3F.

  “Who is it?” asked a female voice.

  “Your gold box is in the corner of the emergency stairway on the ground floor.”

  There was silence for a moment. “What? Who is it?”

  Joey repeated his curt message and walked out of the building and made his way back to the car.

  They drove around for about a half hour, then returned to Crestwood Village. There were no police visible now. They went to the first building. “Let’s get going,” said Joey. “I’ll stay down here and keep an eye on things outside. You go ahead in and bust the apartment. If the cops come, I’ll get in and ring the bell three times. You come right down.”

  “Okay,” said Bobby Matteawan.

  Separately, the two men crossed the walks. Bobby entered the building and rang the bell marked C. JOHNSON, 6F. There was no answer. Using the parcel post dodge on a random bell, Bobby Matteawan entered the building. He went directly to apartment 6F and rang the bell. There was no answer. Quickly he took out his picks, and with lightning speed opened the apartment and disappeared inside. He took off his hat and coat and began his search. He saw several photographs of a colored bunny with some other girls and me
n. He wanted to be sure. He was searching the bedroom when he heard the bell ring three times. He had to move quickly. This must be the place. He moved toward the wall to grab a picture to take with him. He heard footsteps pounding in the hallway outside. Bobby Matteawan turned in a panic—there was no place to hide. The police pushed open the door, their guns drawn.

  A split second before the police entered, Bobby Matteawan switched on the lights and lit a cigarette.

  “Okay, hoist them,” said one of the cops.

  “What? Are you talking to me?” Bobby Matteawan sounded totally surprised.

  “Listen, punk,” said the other cop, bearing down on Bobby Matteawan with his pistol drawn.

  “Are you policemen crazy?” Bobby Matteawan asked incredulously.

  “What do you mean, are we crazy?” the first cop said. They looked at each other quickly.

  “This is my apartment. What are you doing here?” Bobby Matteawan said calmly. He sat on the sofa, flicking his ashes in an ashtray on a side table.

  “Your apartment?” the second cop asked.

  “Of course it’s my apartment. What do you think I’m doing here? Sit down, officers. And please, your guns aren’t necessary.”

  The cops stared at Bobby Matteawan. “We’ve got a report of a burglary in progress and we find you in the apartment. That’s good enough for us.”

  “I sure appreciate your responding so quickly. Usually you can’t find a cop when you need one. But I really live here.” Bobby Matteawan rose and walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Would you fellows like a beer?”

  “What’s your name?” the police demanded, unconvinced.

  “Johnson. Charles Johnson,” Bobby Matteawan replied. “Look at the bell outside.” He took out a can of beer and opened it. He took a glass from the sink, and poured the beer into it. He walked back to the living room and sat down.

  The cops watched him wordlessly, their drawn pistols beginning to drop.

  “I think you fellows are doing a fabulous job. Really terrific. Except that I really do live here. I appreciate your coming over, though.”

  “Let me see some identification,” demanded the second cop.