by Jim Fusilli
For the New York engagement, Klein had worked the press twice as hard. “A mature Marsala,” they wrote. “He’s still the voice of our times.” “Can Marsala, the big thing during the war years, be the next big thing, too?” they asked. By showtime, anticipation ruled Times Square. Women who’d once worn bobby socks while they slow-danced to his tunes arrived high-stylish and eager on the arms of their dates, men who had served overseas and come home triumphant. His new followers, kids who felt the promise of romance in his baritone, hurried giddy past the box office.
“A great love song is never dated,” Marsala had said from the stage in Hollywood. When he began to sing, entering tenderly, his voice floating above the reeds and brass, Tinseltown sighed. They would tonight, too. The Paramount lights dimmed. A squeal. A few girls rushed the stage. Men laughed at the spectacle.
Playing soft and warm, the orchestra rose from the pit, the music drifting easy like a summer’s breeze. Four bars into the second verse, a bright spot lit the wings. Marsala appeared, thin and fit in his tux, his blue eyes sparkling. As he glided toward the microphone at center stage, everybody in the Paramount rose from their seats. Cheering echoed throughout the cavernous theater.
As the orchestra let the wistful music unfold, the singer clasped the microphone stand. Radiating confidence and maturity, he gazed into the crowd, a modest smile on his lips. “Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you…”
Women nodded in reply and began to sway.
Deeper, sturdier than during the war, Marsala’s baritone drifted above the silky orchestra. “Above all, I love all the many charms about you…”
Their eyes closed, the women leaned against their dates. They were gone, adrift in reverie. Someone was stroking them, running his thumb along the outer edge of their ears, breathing on their necks, inching closer, his hips touching theirs, heat on their thighs.
Marsala shifted his jaw ever so slightly as he held the note and swept his hand toward the audience. “Don’t be a naughty baby…”
Seven, maybe eight rows from the stage, a gangly man in Navy blues climbed onto his seat, then planted a foot on each armrest.
“Come to Papa, come to Papa, do…”
“Coward!” Navy shouted, his coarse voice rising above the music. “Coward!”
He flung something at Bebe. An egg. It hit him in the chest.
Puzzled, Bebe looked at the front of his tuxedo.
The women snapped back as if stung. They stared up at their dates.
Another egg hit Bebe square on the head and splattered, shells clinging to his shoulder.
“Coward!”
Holding onto his dignity, Marsala backed away from the spotlight, palms open at his sides.
The music stumbled to dissonance and then trickled to stop. The audience murmured in confusion. As the cops rushed in from the wings, Nino Terrasini raced across the stage and pulled Marsala to safety.
Another egg landed harmlessly near the bandstand.
As women pointed, the cops yanked Navy down toward the stage, his heels dragging the carpet. Struggling, his arms locked behind him, he was rushed up a short flight of stairs to an exit. A couple of cops, nightsticks in their fists, guarded the door as a few angry men approached from the audience.
A few minutes later, a nervous announcer in an ill-fitting dinner jacket took the mic and said, “Mr. Marsala, you’ll be delighted to note, ladies and gentlemen, was unharmed. A change of wardrobe and he’ll return shortly. Mr. Marsala thanks you for your patience.”
A fistfight in the balcony spilled into the upstairs vestibule. A woman screamed. At the stage, a cop raised his nightstick to ward off the advancing crowd, officers and grunts side by side, eager to rescue the Navy man.
The spell broken, the women debated whether to stay. The men were ready to leave. They’d seen a man in uniform taken down to protect a singer who’d remained at home.
Nino Terrasini found Navy behind the theater, tossed aside. He pressed his forearm across his throat and drove him between garbage bins until he hit brick. Then he let him go. The kid was drunk. His eyes rolled in his head.
“He’s a coward,” Navy gasped, “Four-F—for fuckin’ coward.” Then he dropped to his hands and knees.
Suddenly, Terrasini was thrown forward.
Boo Chiasso and Fat Tutti filled the alley. Chiasso’s square jaw quivered as his teeth clenched. He turned to Terrasini. “Beat it,” he said.
Terrasini retreated toward 43rd Street.
The two big men began to stomp Navy, mashing him into the murky concrete. Grunting, they pounded his spine and the back of his head. Blood spurted from a fractured nose. Tutti flopped to his knees, clamped Navy’s wrist, and held his throwing arm hard against the ground. Chiasso drew up, inhaled and with a bestial grumble, stomped Navy’s elbow. It snapped.
Navy howled. Then he fainted.
The two big men looked at each other. Clapping their hands like they were knocking off chalk dust, they headed west, lost in the crowd in Times Square.
Marsala came out casual as the band resettled, the house lights still up. The milling, murmuring audience grew quiet when they saw him.
Strolling to center stage with a fresh jacket draped on his arm, his collar undone, he took the microphone.
“What do you say, folks? How about we take it from the top?”
“We love you, Bill,” shouted someone up in the mezzanine.
“That goes double for me, baby,” he replied. The remaining crowd cheered.
Ten minutes later, the lights dimmed, he returned dressed in a fresh tux. As the strings ushered him to Gershwin again, he eased across the stage to the spotlight as if nothing had happened. “Embrace me…”
Marsala’s voice retained its honey tone. But he’d lost his swagger. He hurried the set, and when he left the stage, he told Terrasini to get the car now, no encore, and he went back to the St. Regis Hotel without changing his clothes, pancake makeup on his cheeks, sweat dribbling down his back. He waved off Terrasini’s suggestion of dinner at Leone’s, though they loved him there, his picture hanging in the vestibule.
“I show my face after what they did to me?” Marsala barked.
“Bebe,” Terrasini said. “One kid with a grudge.”
Showered, Marsala paced the hotel suite in his slippers, his robe fluttering. He chain-smoked Chesterfields and threw back the Johnny Walker.
To distract him, Terrasini said, “Mimmo came through.”
“Nobody dies of a broken elbow.”
“I’m saying you got friends. Instead of boiling over, why not take it easy? Call Rosa.” He looked at the clock on the mantle. “It’s still early out in California.”
“And tell her what? Tell her they pelted her husband with rotten eggs?” He stopped at the ashtray. “That gets me off her shit list?”
“How about we go over to see your mother?”
Marsala shot him a look.
Terrasini dropped on the sofa. “I’m fresh out, Bebe,” he said. “Maybe you got an idea.”
Marsala hurried to his bedroom and returned with his address book, quickly thumbing through pages.
Terrasini sagged. “Which, Bebe?”
Marsala threw out a name. An actress who played supporting roles in Hollywood but was big on Broadway. Tall and stately, she had 10 years on Marsala, maybe 15 for all they knew, but she was firm, quietly flirtatious and a demon in bed. Her husband, who was old enough to be her father, was overseas making a picture for RKO.
Marsala tossed the address book to Terrasini. “You call,” he said. “Get her to come to the phone.”
“Bebe, is this the way to go? Somebody sees you—”
“Nino, make the fuckin’ call.”
Marsala came back to the St. Regis around four in the morning, took a shower and threw himself into bed. When he was on the road, he needed a pill, sometimes two, to get in the required eight or nine hours. Waking up was an unpleasant chore, no longer the reward for a quality sleep sweetened by a few extra minu
tes shaking it off. No dreams either, at least none he could recall.
Midafternoon, he creaked out of bed, went to the dresser and avoiding the mirror, withdrew a fresh pair of boxer shorts. Knees and ankles cracked as he walked into the adjoining room. The curtains were drawn.
Nino Terrasini and Phil Klein stood as he entered. Klein’s face was etched with trepidation, though he was relieved that his client hadn’t brought the married actress back to the hotel after drinks in public at the Rainbow Grill.
Marsala ran his tongue over his teeth. A Chesterfield, and Klein offered a light. “So,” he said, “how bad?”
“Nothing in the morning papers,” Klein replied. He looked every minute of his 58 years on earth. “Afternoon papers…It could be tough. The Journal American.”
“Fuck Hearst,” Marsala said, as he picked a tiny tobacco leaf from his bottom lip. “Winchell?”
“He’ll play ball.” Klein brightened. “I told MGM the boy who threw the eggs had a screw loose. Shell-shocked from the war. It’s a disgrace they let a kid like that in the Paramount.”
Terrasini said, “We leave in ninety, Bebe. Three shows today.”
On stage, 40 minutes of peace. Marsala walked away on stick legs.
“The photos, Bill,” Klein said hurriedly. “Seven hundred to kill them. Nino burned the negatives.”
Last thing Marsala needed were pictures of him in the press wearing egg yolk and shells.
“And Bill…”
Klein’s mother hen routine annoyed the living shit out of him. Halfway across the suite, Marsala stopped and told Terrasini to order breakfast.
“Bill,” Klein repeated.
Marsala stared at him.
“Rosa’s here,” Klein said.
Shit. “Where’s here, Phil? New York? The hotel?”
“She’s at your mother’s.”
Marsala exhaled wearily. “Oh that is just fuckin’ fabulous.” He hit each word with flawless diction, just like he did a Larry Hart lyric. Then he headed for the shower.
Benno arrived at the candy store at the appointed time, the sun way up in the sky. Boo Chiasso sent him through the back, past pisser boy and the stout brown birds dipping in the fountain. And there in Mimmo’s kitchen was Frankie Fortune.
“Where’s the food?” Fortune asked.
Confused, Benno said, “What food?”
Fortune nudged him back toward the door. “Mimmo didn’t tell you?”
“I guess not, Frankie,” Benno replied earnestly.
“Look,” Fortune said, his voice low, “put together a bundle for three guys and take it up to the Palace Motor Lodge. You know it?”
He did. On Tonnelle Avenue in Jersey City, two stories, painted a beigy pink. Truckers spent the night. It had hourly rates, too.
“They usually get from Santucci’s, but they’re closed this week. It’s a break for your family.”
“Three guys…”
“Two cops. Don’t let anybody see you’re making a delivery.”
“I can use my uncle’s car.”
“Make it good, Sal. Better than Santucci’s.”
“You got it, Frankie.”
Fortune gave him a thin envelope, sealed. “For the third guy.”
Benno put it in his jacket pocket.
“Ask for Corduroy,” Fortune said, as he went to open the door.
Shortly after noon, Benno took his uncle’s rasping Ford and rattled up the plank road into Jersey City. After going local streets, he started down to Tonnelle Avenue, a steep grade, but the brakes held pretty good. He had his elbow out the window, his jacket folded nice on the passenger seat. If he could get some business for his aunt and uncle, swell. He put together something different—a pound and a half of sliced prosciutto, a pound of provolone, some hot meatballs in aluminum foil in case they don’t want a cold sandwich, and frying peppers stuffed with mushrooms in oil. Six loaves of fresh bread from Dommie’s. He was going to throw in some Chianti for good will, but then he remembered cops.
To make a left across Tonnelle Avenue, Benno straightened his arm and when he caught a break in traffic, he bounced the Ford into the courtyard. A few cars were parked here and there, away from the trucks big enough for the long haul. Cutting the engine, he jumped out and slipped into his jacket; maybe this Santucci comes with gravy stains on his apron. Then he went to the manager’s office, put the box on the counter and said, “I’m here for Corduroy.”
The manager stunk like iodine. Looking over his magazine, he said, “Where’s Vinnie?”
“Santucci? They’re closed.”
He rubbed his scruffy chin. “Who’s got mine?”
“Vinnie,” Benno replied. Fuckin’ dope.
“Room 231,” he told him. “Second floor. I’m supposed to call.”
Benno trudged up the stairs. The room was all the way on the other side of the lodge, over by the soda machine. Halfway there, Benno saw the door open and a uniformed cop came out. Hand on his service revolver, he walked toward Benno.
“Who are you?”
“This is for you guys,” he replied. “Santucci’s is closed.”
They drew closer. “Put it down,” the Jersey City cop said.
Benno laid the box on the walkway. Then he put his hands up by his hat.
The cop patted him down.
“OK?” Benno asked.
“Let’s go.”
Lifting the box, Benno followed all the way to room 231. A detective was inside, and right away Benno saw they had room 229, too, and whoever was hiding in there had the radio on.
“Freddy,” shouted the detective. “Lunch.”
Fredo Pellizzari lumbered in, no shoes under his gray slacks, no shirt, curly hair sticking out of the top of his undershirt, his suspenders hanging down. He put on about 20 pounds since the feds stashed him after Gigenti’s crew started the clean-up following the hit on the union head Verkerk.
“Hot and cold,” the uniform added. He looked up satisfied. “Where did you say this is from?”
“From heaven,” Benno replied. “Mangia.”
Pellizzari looked at the cops as they peeled wax paper.
Benno tapped Gigenti’s driver on the ass with the envelope. Pellizzari pocketed it quickly as the detective pried open a loaf of bread with his thumbs.
“Fellas, make me a meatball while I wash up,” Pellizzari said with a Sicilian accent. “If you don’t mind…”
The way the cops were going at the food, Benno figured the Santuccis were for shit.
Pellizzari returned dressed, a tie even, though no jacket. He sat on the bed to eat. “Something to drink?” he asked. His meatball sandwich oozed gravy onto a napkin.
Over by the credenza, Uniform said, “Hold on, Freddie.”
“I got it,” Pellizzari waved. “Enjoy.” He opened the door to retrieve the sodas.
And his brains blew out the back of his head, splashing Benno on his face.
Pellizzari collapsed like somebody cut through his knees.
Benno was standing in the doorway.
“You! Get the fuck down!” the detective yelled. He was already by the window, his pistol drawn.
Benno sprang and hid behind the open door.
Crouched on the other side of the bed, Uniform strained to peer through the portal. “I can’t see where it’s from.”
The detective pushed back the curtains with the gun barrel. “Me neither.”
Crawling, Uniform headed into 229.
“You hit?” the detective asked.
Benno said no.
“We got to get that body out of—”
Benno scrambled and pulled Pellizzari’s arm until the body was in the room. The hole in his forehead was no bigger than a dime.
“The door,” the detective added.
Benno slapped it shut.
“I don’t see anybody,” Uniform shouted from the next room.
“Check the roof,” the detective said.
“No. Nobody.”
Meanwhile, Benno r
etrieved the envelope from Pellizzari’s slacks and crammed it back inside his jacket.
“The shooter’s gone,” Benno said, gasping for breath. “Or he would’ve killed me. I was standing right there. One shot only.”
Uniform threw open the door to 229, expecting gunplay. But there was nothing but blue sky, the sound of the rigs on the highway and people gathering in the courtyard below.
“Get in the bathroom,” the detective said. “Go.”
Benno scrambled. Then, looking in the mirror, he toweled the blood and brains off his face.
A minute later, he shimmied out the little bathroom window backward, expecting to drop some 20 feet. But as he hung onto the ledge, he saw the raw earth below and landed almost soft, tumbling sideways. Back on his feet, he adjusted his glasses and scrambled toward Tonnelle Avenue, coming low around the back of the building, then scaling a side fence. When he reached the courtyard, he saw the crowd and the uniformed cop out on the second landing, squatting behind the rail, pistol drawn.
If there was anybody on the roof across the way, Benno couldn’t see him. He decided to jump into the Ford, back the fuck out and get down to Narrows Gate before—
The Ford was gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Benno was walking uphill toward Hudson Boulevard, the crest not yet in sight. He’s sweating and Mimmo better make a guy boost his uncle a car and this was the closest he’s ever been to getting killed, and holy Jesus. Maybe I’m in shock, my brain don’t shut up.
He didn’t hear the car pull next to him, blocking the narrow street.
“Get in.”
Benno bent over to see Leo Bell behind the wheel of his uncle’s Ford.
“Sal, get in. Come on.”
Benno went for the driver’s side, Bell sliding over.
The gear stripped when Benno threw it in first. As they went east, Benno said, “Why are you shaking?”
Bell noted that he was, hands and legs. He clasped his knees. “I thought they shot you.”