by John McEvoy
Nora, sitting next to Doyle in the passenger seat, gently laid her hand on his. “That’s to Mickey’s lad back home. She’s very much in touch with him.”
They kissed. “I’ve missed seeing you,” Doyle said. “How about you come with me into the city Saturday night? We can have dinner. The great Chicago piano player Willie Pickens will be at the Jazz Showcase. Then you can stay over at my place.”
Nora brushed her hand across his mouth. Her eyes were merry. “As you people say over here, ‘sounds like a plan to me.’” She turned back at the doorway to give him a final wave.
Chapter Thirty-four
Doyle drove rapidly to his Chicago condo that evening after the races. He grabbed a Harp’s out of the refrigerator. Turned on his television, feeling restless and lonely.
The American Movie Channel was showing one of Doyle’s favorites, The Commitments, a film about a collection of talented Dublin misfits who come together to make a successful entrance into the world of popular music.
One of the best scenes came up. A young man was leading a fairly good-sized horse into the freight elevator of a Dublin public housing project, whose Irish residents earlier had been described as “the niggers of Europe in this Third World country.”
The young man, holding the horse’s halter, is asked what he is doing taking the horse into the elevator. The reply was, “Sure, the stairs would kill him.” Where the horse was going was never explained, which Doyle thought was great.
Doyle’s phone rang. He recognized Kellman’s number on the screen.
He said, “Yes, you’ve reached the hotline for unhappy purchasers of items made of animal skins. Do you have a question?”
“Very funny, Jack. Is that the end of your humor for tonight?”
“Probably,” Doyle said. “What’s happening, Moe?”
Kellman said, “Sunday evening. I want you to go with me to talk with Fifi Bonadio. Can you make it? I’ll have Pete Dunleavy pick you up around six.”
“Meet where? Why?”
“On Feef’s yacht in Belmont Harbor. Jack, this is important. Otherwise I wouldn’t be calling when I should be sitting with my wife Leah in front of our television drowsing myself through another Masterpiece Theater rerun.”
“Okay, Moe. I’ll see you there. At Belmont Harbor. Anchors away.”
Doyle smiled at the ironic conclusion of The Commitments. Made himself a Jameson’s nightcap. Went to bed wondering what Fifi Bonadio had on his mind.
***
Doyle and Kellman walked up the short gang plank to Fifi Bonadio’s massive yacht in Belmont Harbor.
“Most of these big boats, of which there are not all that many around here, have to anchor farther out in the harbor,” Kellman said. “Feef got around that arrangement. Like he gets around a lot of things.”
A pleasant breeze stirred the nautical flags on the long, white, motor yacht. It was an impressive craft with an aluminum hull, carefully swabbed and polished teak decks, gleaming brass. The retreating evening sun glinted off the wide top level windows in the pilot house. Looking up, Doyle saw one of Bonadio’s bulky assistants waiting for them so he could open the gate onto the boat. Doyle smiled up at the man. His smile was not returned. “Why does Bonadio keep using these bozos?” he said.
“Is Feef still alive and well? After all these years? Maybe that’s why.”
Once aboard, the assistant said, “This way, Mr. Kellman.” He ignored Doyle. Led them to the front of the motor yacht on the first level. It was a large area with comfortable wrap-around leather seating, a table in the middle that held an elaborate variety of snack items. Cavier and crackers, plates of cheeses and vegetables, assorted fruit, cocktail meatballs and wieners. They sat down.
Kellman plucked a toothpick from its holder, impaled two of the small wieners and swiped them across the bowl of hot mustard. He chewed appreciatively. “This reminds me,” he said, “of the phone survey call I got today at the office. This very polite woman says, ‘Do you know the approximate shelf life of a Hebrew National hot dog?’ I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. I asked her to repeat the question.”
He paused to pluck a piece of mango from the fruit platter. “I told her, ‘My dear, when I was a kid and my old man once in three blue moons managed to bring home to his large, hungry, poor family, a package of those hot dogs, the ‘shelf life’ of the Hebrew Nationals was about fifteen seconds. We didn’t wait for them to be cooked.”
“How big is this boat, Moe?”
“No idea. I try to stay away from boats and water. How do you measure something like this? In square feet or length? Or what it cost?” He picked up a celery stick from the table. “I’ve only been on this thing a couple of times. I think Feef said it has a permanent crew of four, sleeps eight, has a restaurant-worthy kitchen. He takes it to Florida every winter. Then flies back in the spring. The crew brings it back up here. An expensive project. He can afford it.”
“Gentlemen! Welcome aboard.” It was their host coming nimbly up the stairway from below.
Bonadio went right to Moe and embraced him. He nodded at Doyle. “Take a seat, men,” he said expansively. “I’ve got to make one quick phone call. I’ll be back shortly. Raul will be here to take your drink orders.” He walked to the rear of the boat, cell phone in hand.
Doyle looked at the retreating Bonadio, a wry smile on his face. Bonadio wore full nautical whites, shoes, trousers, shirt, under a blue blazer, a gold-braided cap on his large, handsome head. His face featured a large nose that would have been appropriate on an ancient Roman coin.
Doyle said to Kellman, “Who does your pal think he is? Commodore Vanderbilt? Ted Turner?”
Kellman shook his head, refusing to reply. Doyle persisted. “With that sailor’s tan Bonadio has overlaying his natural Italian coloring, he reminds me of a couple of my mother’s favorite movie stars. Rozzano Brazzi. No, maybe Ricardo Montalban.” He was chuckling at his own wit. Kellman sighed and looked off into the sunset. “Keep quiet, Jack,” Moe advised.
Raul came hustling up the stairs from the galley, adeptly bearing a Negroni for Moe, a Jameson’s on the rocks for Doyle. He carefully placed the glasses on the table. Right behind him toting a tray with napkins and bottles of water sashayed a gorgeous, young, wonderfully tanned woman wearing a sailor suit of considerable briefness. The skirt was short, the blouse revealing. She smiled at Kellman and Doyle. Placing her tray down, she displayed impressive cleavage, before pivoting and shaking her impressive ass on the way to the stairs.
Doyle laughed. “All right, Moe. I’ve got to ask. Who was that dusky beauty?”
Kellman drank from his glass of Negroni. “I don’t know, Jack. These knockout young women seem to come and go here on Admiral Bonadio’s flagship. They are never mistreated as far as I know. He has a full roster of applicants for this, what would you call it, nonmarital maritime duty?”
“He’s still married, right? To that beautiful woman who looks a lot like Sophia Loren?”
Kellman said, “Of course. Italian Catholics for the most part don’t favor divorce. The Bonadios have a marriage of what you could call convenience. She conveniently spends most of each year back with family and relatives in Calabria. Feef keeps about his business here. Pass me the caviar.”
Doyle said, “Whatever happened with Bonadio’s son? That nice, kind of dumb kid who was a very good football lineman at Wisconsin?”
“He’s in the family business.”
Bonadio joined them, apologizing for the delay. “You fellows need anything else?”
“Yes,” Doyle said. “An explanation, if you don’t mind, as to why I’m here.”
“You know, Doyle, I’ve only met you what, maybe, three or four times. You’ve always impressed me as being a major pain in the ass.” He paused to empty his glass of wine, signaling to Raul for a refill. “And I wouldn’t be looking at you here now unless I had an excellent reason for doing so. Believe me.”
“So, what’s the reason?”
Bonadi
o said, “I know you’re close with Ralph Tenuta. The Tenuta family and mine go back a long way. Came over from the same Sicilian town and settled on Taylor Street. Eighty years ago or so. I think maybe once, at a christening or a funeral, I met Ralph Tenuta. But our grandfathers were goombahs even though they hardly spent any time with each other. Dario Tenuta, Ralph’s grandfather, made a good living in the produce business on South Water Street. My grandfather, Emilio, got into a lot of different enterprises. But they stayed friends. When you come from a dirt-poor place like they did in Sicily, and make it in Chicago, there’s a bond. Capice?”
“Yeah, I can see that. But what does any of this have to do with me?”
Bonadio leaned forward. “Ralph has a young cousin named Lenny Ruffalo. This douche bag is on a mission to hire a killer to take out Ralph Tenuta. I told Moe about this, I mean it was so crazy it was almost funny. But maybe not. Then Moe told me about your connection to Tenuta. So, I figured I should talk to you about this situation.”
“If I’m supposed to be flattered, I’m not.”
Bonadio ignored this jibe. “Actually, I’d had an inkling about this. A guy that gathers information for me, no need for you to know his name, just believe that he’s been ninety-nine percent accurate over the years, came to tell me last week about a young punk who was looking to connect with a hit man. This was before this Ruffalo came to my home a couple of nights ago. He bullshitted his way past my two night security men. Former security men, I should say. Those knuckleheads have been replaced. Anyway, when Ruffalo was brought to me, I listened to him for about thirty seconds before having him tossed.”
Bonadio took a sip of wine. The sun continued to descend behind the tall high-rise buildings to the west of the Outer Drive. Raul trotted up the stairs from the galley to look expectantly at his employer and his guests. Moe said, “I’ll have another Negroni.”
Doyle said, “Make mine a double Jameson’s.” He took a deep breath and stood up, and looked at the Chicago shoreline and the impressive buildings behind it. The sky was now a mixture of light purple and orange. The air was clear and cool, a slight breeze from the East causing water to slap gently against the hull of the huge craft. There was a pause in the conversation as their drinks were being prepared. Doyle walked to a railing. Leaning over, he tried again to process what he’d learned about Ralph Tenuta evidently being in danger.
When he sat down again, Bonadio and Kellman were engaged in whispered conversation. Doyle laughed silently as he thought of himself, where he was this beautiful Chicago evening, with the furrier-to-the-mob and the head of the mob, aboard a million dollar craft on Lake Michigan. I wonder what the Sheehan sisters would say if they saw me now, he thought.
Doyle said to Bonadio, “What did your guy tell you about this Ruffalo wanting to kill Ralph Tenuta? Why would Ruffalo want to do that?”
“I’ve got no idea about motive, Doyle. The connection I’ve had with the Tenuta family over the years, that’s the reason I was informed about this. Like I said before, I’ve probably spent less time with Ralph than I have with, well, the Pope. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want him protected.”
“Ralph Tenuta is being fucking wrung through the ringer,” Doyle said. “He’s got the medication violation against him, which I know is bullshit. I can’t figure who would want to destroy Ralph’s business. And reputation. But somebody’s trying. Then there’s this threat from this Ruffalo.
“Ralph is one of the nicest people you’d ever meet. Great friend of mine. Whatever I can do to back him up, I’ll do,” Doyle said. “Believe me.”
Bonadio nodded appreciatively. “Okay, Doyle.”
“So what have you got in mind?”
Bonadio reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. “My people have located the whereabouts of this punk. Ruffalo lives in his mother’s basement in a Berwyn bungalow. He was very briefly in the U.S. Army, which flushed him out. Never married. Never had a long-lasting job.
“Nobody I know knows how seriously to take this whack job. And, at this point anyway, I don’t want to get any of my people involved in dealing with him. The Tenuta family and mine go back is why I’m looking into this. And asking you for this favor.”
A motor boat with a half-dozen half-drunk passengers roared away from the adjacent dock. Its driver waved at Bonadio, who ignored him. Bonadio shook his head. “They’re letting a helluva lot of riff-raff into this harbor. Coke-sniffing traders from the Mart.” Bonadio was obviously offended.
Efficient Raul arrived with another round of drinks. Doyle put his aside. Poured much of a bottle of water into his Jameson’s glass.
“As you might know,” Bonadio said, “there’s a new, very ambitious federal prosecutor here looking to make his mark. He’s put me high up on his list of targets. I don’t want to do anything to make myself vulnerable. Such as sending any of my men to deal with this Ruffalo punk.
“So, Doyle, I am proposing that you make a visit to Lenny Ruffalo. Convince him to forget about trying to get his cousin Ralph killed. I know all about your reputation as being able to handle yourself in tough situations. Like the creep you killed with a pitchfork at Monee Park. Would you do this for your friend Ralph Tenuta?”
Bonadio put his wine glass down on the table. He said softly, “I would be in your debt, Jack Doyle, if you would.”
Doyle said to himself, “The last fucking thing I need is to have the head of the Chicago mob in my debt.” He glanced at Kellman, who was giving him a nod to say yes.
“I’ll do everything I can,” Doyle said. Bonadio leaned across the table and tapped Doyle on the hand. “I’ll expect that.”
“It might take me a day or two.”
“I understand,” Bonadio said. “But don’t take too long. Who knows what this nutcase Ruffalo’s got in mind.”
Bonadio turned to Moe and patted him on the knee. “C’mon, old friend. Let’s go down below and have dinner. It’ll be good.”
Jack and Moe followed their host down the stairs to a large stateroom that had a linen-covered dining table placed in its midst. Raul appeared from the galley and pulled out Bonadio’s chair at the head of the table. Bonadio motioned for Moe to the chair to his left. He said, “Doyle, you can sit at the other end.”
Doyle wondered why he was not assigned to sit across from Moe when the dusky beauty emerged from one of the ship’s bedrooms. She had changed her sailor ensemble for a stunning, black, off the shoulder dress. She took the seat next to Bonadio across from Kellman.
“This is Marcella Greco,” Bonadio said. “A great friend of mine.”
The wall behind Bonadio was almost completely covered by a large mirror. What Doyle saw next, in that mirror, made him wonder if he’d had too much to drink. For walking past him to take her place at the table next to Marcella was either an apparition or her twin sister.
Bonadio chuckled at Doyle’s reaction. “This lovely young woman is Marcella’s sister, Gina Greco. You are looking at the Greco twins. They’ve been on staff here for, what, girls, four months?” Getting no response, he repeated his question in Italian. Gina smiled and evidently said yes, for her employer patted her hand. His other hand was under the table apparently on Marcella’s thigh, for she scowled and reached down and slapped that hand away.
Bonadio sat back in his chair, laughing heartily.
“The Greco twins,” he said, “are what you could call spirited.”
Marcella Greco indicated to Doyle she would like him to pass the basket of breadsticks. He did so. Heard her say in a soft, low voice, “Grazie, Signore Doyle, sir.”
“How does this woman know my name, Bonadio?”
“Because I told her your name. Be nice, Doyle. Something good could come to you with the Greco twins if you handle yourself right.”
Raul and another waiter came into the room and placed bowls of steaming seafood soup before the five of them. Kellman leaned forward over his bowl, inhaled, and said, “Nice work, Feef. You still have Luigi Pingat
ore cooking for you?”
Bonadio tapped the service bell next to his place setting. Gave it another tap. Out from the kitchen hurried a white-aproned, middle-aged man so wide he barely fit through the doorway.
Bonadio rapidly said several words in Italian. The Greco twins giggled. The huge man doffed his chef’s cap and bowed. Bonadio said, “This is my longtime cook aboard this craft. Chef, I should say. Luigi Pingatore, from Palermo.” He fired off another couple of sentences in Italian, concluding, in English, with “Let’s eat.”
The chef snapped his fingers and two busboys, herded by Raul, hustled forward bearing platters of steaming Italian food.
Moe had been quiet for minutes, sitting back in his chair, smiling at this scene and at Jack’s reaction to it. Bonadio was talking in Italian to the glowing Greco twins, both competing for his attention. They smiled and, occasionally, each one shot Doyle a quick, interested glance.
Moe, having appreciatively worked his way through the soup course, sat back in his chair. Muffled a burp.
“What do you think, Jack?” he said. “Do I take you to interesting places?”
“No question about that.”
Marcella was talking excitedly in Italian to Bonadio, who barely looked up from his soup. Doyle said to Moe, “I can’t believe how gorgeous these girls are.”
Bonadio must have heard him. “Hey, Doyle, gorgeous is the standard here.” He laughed.
“Which of the twins do you think is the most beautiful?” Bonadio said. “It’s a dead heat as far as I’m concerned,” Doyle answered. “What’s your opinion?”
Bonadio translated Doyle’s response. The Grecos giggled, both blushing. “Some nights it seems to me Marcella. Other nights, Gina,” Bonadio said. “The answer probably lies somewhere in between. Where, on special nights, I place myself.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Kellman and Doyle were ushered off the yacht shortly before ten. Pete Dunleavy was in the parking lot, waiting for them. In the Lincoln town car, Moe said, “Pete, drop me off first. I’ve got some calls to make. Then you can take Jack up north.”