Narrows Gate

by Jim Fusilli

  Boo Chiasso nodded.

  Mimmo peeled off $100. “Bring the Buick back, too.”

  It took Chiasso less than 10 hours to turn Pop over to Fortune.

  First thing, he went uptown to Superior Baking Supplies, walked onto the noisy factory floor where they took the pits out of cherries, melted chocolate and shredded coconut, groaning conveyor belts moving product. Over the industrial din, he asked for Pop’s girlfriend, Lucy, a kid from the neighborhood, too. The supervisor, this little fat Swede with a pencil behind his ear, told Boo he had no business in the building.

  “Lucy,” Chiasso repeated.

  Furious, the Swede put his hand on Chiasso to turn him.

  Chiasso, who had a foot in height on the guy, grabbed him and rushed him over to a mammoth machine where long blades chopped chunks of dried coconut into pieces to be shredded. One arm around the Swede’s throat, Chiasso stretched the guy until his hand was heading toward the piston-pumping blades. The Swede struggled, but Chiasso had him good. He was born for tasks like this.

  A girl’s voice rose over the clatter. “Wait!”

  Chiasso kept driving the Swede’s hand toward the blades.

  “She left,” the girl shouted. “Freddie called her.”

  Chiasso threw the Swede down.

  The girl, quivering and crying under a hair net, told Chiasso that Lucy had taken a bus to Connecticut.

  As he left the building, Chiasso calculated and he figured it right.

  Lucy went home to grab some clothes and write a note to her kid sister. Then she walked to Buchanan Avenue to take the bus over to the depot on 42nd Street for the Danbury Inter-Urban Line.

  Chiasso was sitting six rows behind her as the bus to Connecticut wheezed and pulled out. Nervous, she kept twirling her auburn hair. Boo knew they were getting close when she pulled out her makeup and applied a fresh coat of lipstick.

  Freddie Pop was waiting at the roadside stop in Milford, cherry Tootsie Roll Pop in his cheek. Connecticut to him was some kind of heaven, rivers and streams, trees, open spaces. Given he had a big, beautiful Buick, he and Lucy could get started good up here.

  Lucy stepped out the front door, Chiasso the back.

  Pop lifted Lucy up, kissed her face and spun her around. He couldn’t wait to open the door to the Buick and let her slide inside.

  He didn’t see Chiasso coming.

  Chiasso punched him once in the kidney. Pop dropped to his knees in pain. Lucy tumbled to the gravel, her cardboard suitcase flying open.

  Frozen in horror, she watched as Chiasso shoved the barrel of his gun so far into Pop’s mouth that he began to gag.

  On the way back south, Pop sat subdued in the passenger’s seat, his left eye bruised and swollen from the short right Chiasso hit him with when he protested outside Bridgeport, the Buick swerving with the blow.

  A bus driver delivered Lucy into Massachusetts even though she was $1.40 short on the fare. He had a 14-year-old daughter at home and hated to see any kid frightened and defeated.

  “Go ahead. Sit down,” Fortune said.

  They were in a storeroom at the Saint Tropez, a club up by the George Washington Bridge, cartons of liquor and cigarettes stacked to the ceiling. Fortune sat at an old wooden desk, a bottle of rye half empty. Two thirty in the morning, the room was lit by a dull bulb overhead in a tin shade. Fortune’s handsome face glowed, his expression cold.

  Freddie Pop sat. The side of his skull still ached from Chiasso’s punch. Plus, he’d pissed blood near Greenwich.

  Chiasso stood with his back against the door frame.

  “What were you thinking?” Fortune asked.

  Pop didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “It don’t make no sense now.”

  “You were making a move?”

  Pop shook his head. “It was the car, Frankie. Just the car.”

  Fortune nodded. He pushed the bottle across the desk.

  Pop declined. Liquor burned his throat down to the belly.

  “Mimmo knew. Right?” Fortune asked.

  “Nobody knew nothing. I was driving and all of a sudden I’m crossing the bridge.”

  Fortune nodded, the liquor failing to ease the strain. Freddie Pop was the least of his woes. With Farcolini still on the lam, nobody knew who was in charge or what was next. Corini and Gigenti needed a fuckin’ referee between them. He said, “Nobody knew, but your girl is waiting for your call.”

  “No,” the kid said.

  “But she knows where you are.”

  Pop said, “She didn’t know, Frankie.” He looked over his shoulder at Chiasso. “There was no reason to leave her on the side of the road.”

  “So you’re thinking we’re even, seeing as Boo wasn’t nice to your girl.”

  “I’m thinking at least the car is all right,” Pop said. “I know I’ve got to settle up with you, but at least the car is all right.”

  Fortune sat back, Pop staring at him like maybe his expression would crack, maybe he would send a signal that said it could work out. It was so quiet in the room that Pop could’ve sworn he heard crickets in the surrounding woods.

  “You have one of those Tootsie Pops in your pocket?” Fortune asked.

  Pop nodded, dug one out, held it high.

  “Go ahead. Calm your nerves. We’ll find a solution.”

  Pop took the wrapper off and shoved the lollipop in his mouth.

  Fortune sprang across the desk. He grabbed Pop and, as they toppled to the floor, used his palm to cram the candy so deep into Freddie Pop’s throat that the little white stick disappeared.

  As Pop gagged, Fortune straddled his chest.

  Pop tried to throw a punch. He pawed for Fortune’s face but couldn’t reach it.

  Fortune kept pressing on Pop’s mouth, one hand on top of the other, his arms trembling from the pressure. A thick vein pulsed in his neck.

  Pop’s eyes bulged. He banged his head against the floor, once, twice, several times. He was dying and he knew it, choking to death. He was thinking about the goddamned Buick shining in the sun, Lucy in the passenger’s seat shining too, when he stopped struggling and collapsed, dead.

  Fortune stood. He dusted dirt from the knees of his slacks. Fixed his tie.

  Chiasso stepped in to remove the body.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rosa Mistretta: bright, quick-witted, attentive, warm, polite, confident among strangers. You could take her anywhere and she knew how to fit in. Didn’t need the spotlight, stood comfortably in the shadows. Wasn’t a gold digger. Didn’t see Bebe as a stepping stone, didn’t want to be a singer herself or an actress. Didn’t want to meet Captain Bridges. Didn’t ask him if he knew Crosby or Gable. She was solid. Whole.

  Hennie approved. Vincenzo joked, nudging his son with his elbow. “Bebe, she’s the one, huh?” Up in Bayonne, her family welcomed him when he called. Fearing a band of morons like Mimmo, he went in filled with dread, but no, they were fine. Told him he sang like an angel. Mentioned his clothes. No third degree. Nobody staring him up and down. He relaxed.

  In Narrows Gate, Hennie made a big show of greeting Rosa in the street. “Rosa!” Hugs. “Benvenuto, cara!”

  “She’s proper,” she told her son. “The kind of woman you marry, Bebe,” she said, wagging a finger in warning.

  All this after two weeks. Four dates, not including the double with Nino and Ruthie at the Blue Onyx. Cocktails at the Union Club. Dancing at Lubanski’s Casino in Clifton. He asked her to come along when he dropped in on WHOM. The radio station sat above the Stanley Theater in Jersey City and broadcast throughout Manhattan, Brooklyn, and northern New Jersey, in Italian in the a.m., in English in the afternoon and at night. Their fourth date was at the Rosiglino home, Hennie at the head of the table, her sisters Rosalie and Dee running the kitchen like servants. “Rosa, dear, sit next to me,” Hennie said, taking the girl by the hand.

  While his mother chewed the girl’s ear off, Bebe studied her. Maybe she loses the baby fat, cheekbones emerge, legs become long and fir
m. She fills out. Four dates and he hadn’t touched her but to kiss her goodnight, with passion after the night at Lubanski’s. The girl liked good music. To his surprise, she mentioned Ellington before he could. In reply, he said he’d take her to the Cotton Club in Harlem. “I’d like that, Bill.” He told her his goal was to grab the singer’s chair in a group led by a Dorsey, a Pollack, even a pompous bastard like Guy Simon. The exposure, sure, but what those cats can show a man about music. Better than a degree from Juilliard, baby.

  Soon, he saw her four, five times a week when he was free, no matter his mood. Up, he showered her with flowers. Down, his neck stiff with anxiety, they shared a pot of coffee and she listened.

  Hennie saw it was the right move. Bebe and Rosa: They looked like two sweet American kids. “Bebe, take her to meet the Ear,” she told him.

  He was in his boxer shorts, ironing a shirt. Nobody could iron a shirt like Bebe Marsala. “I don’t think so, Ma.”

  The Ear—Eddie Moran—owned the Lakeside Inn, a half-hour’s drive north from Narrows Gate. Moran was also a high-ranking official in the New Jersey chapter of the musicians’ union, but as far as Hennie knew, he was connected to nobody, running his own action. A sly operator and a glad hand, he gave himself the nickname the Ear, which he threw at musicians who didn’t bow to his taste, which, admittedly, was first rate. Hennie thought him smart for grabbing onto Bebe while he was still riding the high from the Captain Bridges road show.

  “You bring her, Moran sees you’re serious. You’re ready.”

  “I bring her and she sees I’m a singing waiter,” he said, his doe legs sticking out, his ribs like a xylophone against his undershirt.

  “You tell her it’s how everybody starts out.” Hennie dropped her ass on his bed, the creak echoing. “It’s how you earn your keep.”

  Bebe made a face.

  “This girl, Bebe. I’m thinking maybe you don’t know how to handle a girl like this.”

  “Ma, stop. OK?”

  “You talk to her. You make it so she understands. People see you together and they know you’re serious. You’re a serious person.”

  “Yeah, all right, Ma.”

  “Besides, you planning on being a waiter for long?”

  “It’s out of my hands.”

  “Or you could go sing at the Saint Tropez.”

  A club owned by Farcolini; Anthony Corini was the front. They’d let Mimmo run it, and it’s a miracle it survived. Fortune stepped in and turned it around, though the Lakeside was still number-one on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge.

  She added, “I’m surprised you didn’t go there in the first place.”

  “Good that you’re surprised.”

  “I’m saying you date Mimmo’s niece, but you don’t want to sing at one of Farcolini’s nightclubs.”

  “Ma, are you going to let me iron this shirt?”

  “Bebe—”

  “The Saturday Dance Cavalcade on WNEW. Where’s it broadcast from?”

  That stopped her. “The Lakeside,” she said finally.

  “All right?” he said, staring.

  “As long as you got a plan.”

  “I got a plan.”

  She pushed off the bed. “Still, you bring Rosa to meet the Ear. He sees you as something more than a singing waiter.”

  Bebe sprinkled some starch on the cuffs.

  “And don’t let me hear you’re back with that puttana from Fairview—”

  “Ma, for Christ’s sake.”

  Sal Benno was sitting up in his hospital bed, a funny book on his lap. For the past few days, the nurses came in and showed him flash cards with letters so big maybe they fell off a movie marquee. Then colors. Shapes. Animal drawings next, cute ones for little kids. “Bunny,” Benno said. “Correct,” the nurse replied. Next one. “Bunny,” he said again, though it was some sort of monkey, a gorilla or chimpanzee. “Bunny,” he said a third time. The nurse, catching on, went back to the bunny. “Chimpanzee,” said Benno. They took his eye, but not his spark.

  “Would you like something to read, Sal?” said the nurse, also a Jew.

  “Not if you gave me my eye back.”

  “Mr. Benno…”

  “OK. The funnies,” he said. She was only doing her job.

  Every day Leo Bell came to visit. Between school and stopping by the store to help Vito and Gemma, he didn’t have much free time, but he took the tubes to 14th Street and walked all the way across town, arriving just as the sun began to set, just as Benno was losing his will to pretend like he wasn’t the only one-eyed 13-year-old in the world. They were going to stick a marble in his head and maybe if that son of a bitch over at St. Patrick’s didn’t make him wait seven hours and then throw him into the street…Ah, fuck it. What’s the point? I ain’t drawn a good hand yet, Benno thought. But there’s Leo.

  “Hey, Sal.” Bell reached under his topcoat like he was going to pull a .45. Instead, he came up with a fat sandwich from the store, which he brought whenever he came. Tonight’s dinner: prosciuttini, provolone, roasted red peppers, bread from Dommie’s.

  “The drawer,” Benno said, nodding to the nightstand. He’d like to keep the thing a secret from Moskowitz, the only other guy in the six-bed ward, 58 years old with a hernia removed. He had a bloodhound nose—even if he was dead asleep he woke up when the food arrived. Thanks to Benno and Bell, he was going home from Beth Israel fatter than when he came in.

  Cheeks red, the tip of his nose, too, Bell rubbed his hands together to shake off the cold. He took off his coat and draped it across the foot of the bed. “Mrs. O’Brien wants to bring the class over,” he said as he pulled up a chair to Benno’s good side. “A field trip.”

  “The zoo’s closed?”

  “How’s the headaches?”

  “Not worse. But I could die from boredom.”

  Bell said, “They gave you a new patch. It’s better.”

  “A new patch. A funny book. A Spaldeen I can throw at Moskowitz when he snores. It’s fuckin’ Christmas.”

  “Not in here it ain’t,” said Bell.

  Benno shifted, his pillow sliding. “Now that you brung it up…” The conversation was inevitable from the moment his father decided to seek help from his boss, Mr. Kreiner, who had influential friends.

  Benno lowered his voice so Moskowitz over there didn’t hear. “All the doctors that come in, the nurses, the guys they bring the food. They’re all Jews, right?”

  Bell nodded.

  “They know your father from the shop?”

  “They know his boss. Eli Kreiner.”

  “And what? Somebody owes them and I’m the chit? The nurse told me I’m getting some kind of super treatment over here.”

  “They go to the same temple in Brooklyn. Mr. Kreiner and some of the doctors and administrators,” Bell said. “And my father. It’s my father’s temple, too.”

  Benno stayed silent.

  Bell figured the information didn’t hit. “My father’s temple,” he repeated.

  Benno tilted his head. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s a Jew,” Bell replied, his stomach in his throat. “Me too.”

  Benno stared at him.

  “You angry?”

  “Wait. I seen you make confirmation,” Benno said.

  “I went along with it.”

  “Whoa. I don’t think that squares with God.”

  “The point, Sal, is a secret’s no good between friends. True friends.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I ain’t never kept a secret from you.”

  “Sal, how about you let me explain?”

  “Do me a favor first. Go give Moskowitz half the sandwich. He’s drooling.”

  Benno knew he was supposed to say, “You don’t have to tell me nothing, Leo.” The Bells saved his life, for Christ’s sake, and it was more than that. Leo being like the other half of the coin, Benno and Bell, like they were one, not two. And as far as being a Jew goes, he’d met more Jews in the past week than he had his whole life
and all he knew was they didn’t bust his balls because his mother came from Sicily. Turns out all those stories he heard on Polk Street—Jews this and Jews that—were bullshit.

  But the truth of it was, right now, here in this hospital bed, sitting with a new hole in his head and he don’t know if he has a big scar or what, Benno was feeling a little stung by the idea that Bell could keep such a thing from him. He couldn’t figure out how to feel, which was strange since he never had a doubt in his life. His opinions popped into his head already fully formed like boulders nobody could move.

  Bell returned from across the room, the scent of peppered ham and red peppers in the air. As he sat, he said, “No way in hell my father thinks I’m going to find a friend like you. After he took the job at Kreiner’s, he figured we’d move to Brooklyn. We’d go back to being, you know, ourselves.”

  “Which is?”

  “My real name, it’s Józef Herlitz. My father’s is Abraham Herlitz.”

  “Herlitz.”

  “We’re from Rabka. It’s in Poland.”

  His father was a typewriter repairman who’d lost his young wife to the Spanish flu and a beloved brother to the Battle of Warsaw. They had no reason to stay in Rabka. Abraham Herlitz sold everything for forged documents, and soon he and his baby son had a new name, a new nationality, a new everything.

  “So we went to Irpino and then Naples to sail to America—on a steamship named the American, believe it or not.”

  “You remember this?” Benno asked. All this information had his brain spinning. “You remember coming here?”

  Bell shrugged. In the sanctity of their home, his father repeated the story so often that Bell no longer knew memory from legend. The Italian women on the American smothered him with affection. They helped his father improve his Italian enough so it would satisfy the officers at Ellis Island.

  “That’s some accent you got there, Mr. Campanello,” said the uniform at Immigration.

  “My wife was Polish. I think I spent too much time with her family,” he replied. “So maybe you could put ‘Bell’ as our name. It’s better for America, no?”