Frankie the Pig walked up quickly and lifted Hartley by the shirtfront. He started screaming as Frankie the Pig lifted him into the air. “Man, I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t do nothing,” Hartley squealed.
“You went bowling tonight,” said Frankie the Pig, “and I don’t like bowling.” He lifted Hartley bodily and looked around for a place to throw him. Yank moved from the table to grab Frankie the Pig. Bobby Matteawan sprinted up and leaped through the air across a table onto Yank.
Frankie the Pig lumbered toward the bar with Hartley over his head. He threw him over the bar, hurling him into the bottles and the glasses lined neatly at the rear. Hartley screamed as he crashed. He landed behind the bar as glass and mirrors and broken whiskey bottles kept cascading upon him.
Bull was on his knees, reaching for the wall, trying to rise. Tony brought the bat down on top of his head. It sounded like Cookie Lavagetto connecting for that ninth-inning double against the Yankees. Bull went down, full out.
Bobby Matteawan had taken Yank down with him. Yank grabbed him and wrestled Matteawan to the ground. Matteawan struggled to get his hands on Yank’s throat as Yank sailed a couple of good punches into his face.
Frankie the Pig waded into Duck. He grabbed him by his lapels and jerked him forward, lowering his own head as he pulled him. Duck’s face mashed against the bone on the top of Frankie the Pig’s head. His nose broke and two teeth came out instantly. Frankie the Pig rammed Duck backwards into the wall.
Angie the Kid steered around Frankie the Pig, who was now pummeling Duck’s stomach. He gave Yank, who was sitting on Bobby Matteawan’s chest, a vicious kick in the back. Yank screamed and reached for his back. Matteawan laughed evilly and reached for Yank’s throat.
Gus had moved on Alfred. Alfred pulled a knife from his leg and started to circle. He didn’t see Tony, a .400 hitter for sure. Tony swung for the seats on a low inside pitch. He took Alfred right at the knees. Alfred screamed, falling backwards onto his rump in the crowd. The crowd scrambled away. Gus ran over and grabbed Alfred, lifting him up. With his free hand, he punched him quickly in the stomach, then gave him a right hook, and a follow-up straight to the mouth. Alfred was out.
Frankie the Pig now had Duck against the wall in a headlock. He squeezed him until Duck let go of his waist. Frankie the Pig twisted Duck around, picked him up over his shoulder and began running toward the front of the bar. Sal and the others moved out of the way as Frankie the Pig wound up like a javelin thrower and heaved Duck through the front window out into the street. The front window, the neon tubing, the curtains, all crashed out into the street with him.
Bobby Matteawan was on top of Yank now. He pulled a cleaver out of his waistband. Laughing, he lifted the cleaver over his head, ready to split Yank’s skull in half. He started his forward swing as Yank, paralyzed, watched the glitter of razor-sharp steel start to descend.
“Stop, Bobby!” commanded Sal. He was still standing with the attache case in his arms.
Bobby Matteawan heard his master’s voice and stopped, turning around. His free hand instinctively went to Yank’s throat, so he would know where his prey was while he was distracted.
“Don’t kill him,” said Sal.
Bobby rose backward, standing over Yank, the cleaver hanging motionlessly at his side, his fingers twitching on its handle. Yank rose to his knees slowly, moving to get up. Matteawan dropped the cleaver to the floor. It was right in front of Yank’s hands. Yank moved suddenly toward it. Matteawan reached for a chair he knew was right next to him, hoisted it overhead, and with a gleeful scream, let it come down on Yank’s head with all his force. Yank sank to the floor in a crumpled heap.
“Throw this joint out in the street,” Sal ordered.
“We didn’t do nothing, mister,” the bartender said from the rear.
“This’ll keep you from ever thinking about it,” said Sal. “Wreck the joint. Get these bums into the cars,” he said, pointing at Bull and the other four. “Put them in the trunks.”
He turned to the others. Tony was already at work, splintering chairs on top of tables. Angie the Kid swept the shelves of glasses and bottles. He then threw a chair through whatever mirrors were not already broken. Bobby Matteawan was heaving furniture through the side windows. Gus was breaking the tables against the walls.
“Wreck this lousy joint,” Sal demanded, his fury reaching a crescendo. He kicked at a table. “Ouch, my corn, Putana,” he howled.
The bar was in a shambles. The people in the rear nervously pressed back, shifting around so as not to get in the way, watching every usable piece of furniture, everything in the place, being pulverized and thrown into the street.
“Come on, we’ve got more work to do,” said Sal, satisfied finally that the place was wrecked. “Let’s get out of here.”
Gus was in front with his boys, shoving the battered kidnapers into the trunks of the three cars.
“Keep your hands off, white bastard,” Bull hurled out as they pushed him over the rear bumper of Matteawan’s car.
“Get in there you punk, or I’ll split that rock you call a head,” Matteawan said, slapping the flat side of the cleaver against Bull’s back.
“Why are we putting them in the trunk?” one of Gus’s boys asked him.
“Sal wants it that way, that’s all,” Gus answered. “He’s got something on his mind.”
“This ain’t the end man, this is the beginning,” said Bull as they began to close the trunk lid down on him. “We ain’t finished, man.”
“You’re shit, man,” Matteawan mimicked, pushing his hand in Bull’s face, shoving him back, then slamming down the lid on top of him.
The contagion vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving the people in the bar staring at each other in disbelief.
11:00 A.M.
Gianni was seated in his glass-enclosed sunroom, which faced south. In the pond, at the foot of the sloping hill on which his stone house stood, a swan was slowly preening its feathers. The warm sun shone in softly; the astronauts were safe and in isolation. Gianni was dressed in slacks and a shirt open at the neck. He was reading the Times over a cup of cappucino.
The phone rang. His mind immediately jumped back to the events of the night before.
“It’s Mr. Luca,” said Louisa, the housekeeper.
Gianni got up and went to the phone.
“Good morning, Sandro.”
“Hello, Gianni. Did you see the Times this morning?”
“I’m reading it now, but we only get the early edition up here. What’s in it?”
“Well, there’s a big report on your hearings.”
“That figures.”
“The reporters got a big kick out of your answers. They didn’t believe your testimony, but they apparently enjoyed your giving Stern a rough time.”
“I did too, though I’m sure he didn’t,” said Gianni. “You think he’ll try to get me for perjury or contempt?”
“Gianni, I told you: you can’t be in contempt if you answer. And as for perjury, you didn’t lie about anything.”
“Okay,” Gianni said. “You’re the lawyer.”
“And you know, a strange thing happened last night in the Elizabeth Street precinct,” Sandro continued.
“What was that?”
“The Times says some unknown people threw five very beat-up but live colored men onto the steps of the precinct house about one o’clock this morning. And it just so happens that those five men are wanted on kidnaping and murder charges in the Bronx. They were all booked and are being arraigned this morning.”
Gianni smiled.
Books by John Nicholas Iannuzzi
Fiction
Condemned
J.T.
Courthouse
Sicilian Defense
Part 35
What’s Happening?
Non-Fiction
Handbook of Trial Strategies
Handbook of Cross Examination
Trial: Strategy and Psychology
/> Cross Examination: The Mosaic Art
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1972 by John Nicholas Iannuzzi
Cover image, New York Cityscape, by Kurt Schumann
Cover design by Neil Heacox
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Sicilian Defense Page 18