by Jim Fusilli
When one of his inside guards approached, Geller was in his wicker chair reading an article about Bill Marsala in the entertainment section of the Miami Herald. He’d been dropped by his record label, the company claiming it was a matter of artistic differences, but the columnist said it was the bad publicity Marsala had brought on himself—leaving his wife and child, taking up again with Eleanor Ree, first in Madrid and now back in New York City, and his reply to a telegram from Louella Parsons, in which she asked for a comment about the death of Phil Klein. “Phil who?” Marsala cabled, causing Hollywood to turn its back, too.
Geller sighed. Marsala’s declining popularity would put at risk any possibility of salvaging the mess Ziggy Baum had made of the Sandpiper in Las Vegas. Also, the strategy to build a series of nightclubs across the country based on the Palm Tree model depended on high-end talent willing to perform at less than their customary rates. Marsala was to lead the way and invite his show business friends to follow.
“Mr. Geller, excúse me.” The guard had a telephone in his hand and he asked permission to plug it into an outlet in Geller’s office. It was Anthony Corini, he said.
Geller took the call, asking the guard to wait.
“Someone took a shot at one of my guys,” Corini reported from a pay phone in the cafeteria at the Museum of Natural History. The victim was the uncle to Marsala’s wife, who tallied the take in Hudson County. Corini speculated that Bruno Gigenti had sanctioned the hit. Geller knew this was a possibility: Gigenti resented the power Corini had accrued while he avoided a murder prosecution in Argentina.
Corini explained that one of Gigenti’s men robbed the Hudson County bagman, who busted up Gigenti’s social club in return. And there was the matter of the Pellizzari hit and the note found on his body.
“A note?” Geller asked. “I don’t understand.”
“The note, it said, ‘AC is downstairs. Move.’ Like I wanted him put down.”
Geller had seen the police report on the murder of Fredo Pellizzari. There was no mention of a note.
Corini asked for advice.
Geller said he would reply in due time. “Stand your ground,” he added.
When he got off the phone, Geller reached into his desk, pulled out his stationery and wrote a brief message. It read, “El Malecón. January 15. Three items.”
Ten days later, the same guard returned with a reply. The message had come from Vallelunga, Sicily, via Havana. Geller recognized Farcolini’s handwriting and saw he had understood the brief notation. “Sí, tre. New York soltanto e la musica.” Meaning there would be three items on the agenda. Corini, Gigenti and their deputies would attend, and Marsala. But Ziggy Baum would remain in Vegas.
Geller dispatched an aide to call Rico Enna at the talent agency and instruct him to arrange the event at the Hotel El Malecón.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Back at the Hampshire House in the suite Ree’s flying billionaire boyfriend had bought her, Marsala settled in and ordered up a new wardrobe, the handmade suits and topcoats in deep blues and charcoal gray reflecting his desire to stay in New York. Rosa had filed for divorce. “My husband has no interest in upholding our sacred vows.” Jesus, queste donne Siciliane, Marsala told himself. They go for the jugular. A judge threw her $3,000 a month in temporary support, even though the prick knew nothing was coming in. Meaning I’ve got to sing, to hell with the clits on my pipes. To hell with the label, too; do you know how many record companies would love to have Bill Marsala on their roster?
But without advisors, he soon walked into quicksand. Only the sound of Ree’s voice purring his name or the glimmer in her emerald eyes took his mind off his tumble toward desperation. When he ran his hand along the firm curve of her calf, kissed the inside of her thigh, he could tell himself everything was just about all right again, at least for a little while. He wondered when his spine would return.
Ree had a piano brought into the suite and Marsala sat slumped on the bench, trying to sing along to lazy scales he tapped out with an index finger. His voice sounded like Bill Marsala’s might’ve after he hadn’t slept for a week. She listened as he played a chord and tried to dooby-dooby scat as it rang, but he couldn’t center a tone. This went on for days.
She waited for the angry Bill Marsala to flash, the feisty Bill, defiant Bill, Bill the cock of the roost. In the meantime, she loved him as best she could and took no joy in seeing him weak, losing weight, worried. For advice, she called his father in Narrows Gate. “Tell him to be safe,” the old man said.
Ree came up from behind, dropped her chin on Marsala’s shoulder and nipped at his ear. “I’ve got an idea. It’s a kind guaranteed to send you right into outer space.” She zoomed her hand toward the ceiling.
He managed a laugh. “I could use a boost, baby.”
She told him her arrogant ex, Guy Simon, was staying in the hotel. “I haven’t said a thing,” she added quickly.
Marsala stood. His shirt matched his eyes. An ascot was tucked to his chin. He knew Simon before Ree did. He’d had Negroes in his band in the late ’30s, a pretty ballsy move. “So?”
“I think he can help you with your voice.”
“No, thanks.”
“Bill, hear me out.”
She’d been walking on eggshells, lazing in the tub, combing through scripts, avoiding newspapers while sipping gin and tonics, as if to hurry the summer. She’d been taking a beating in the press, her lone statement throwing kerosene on a raging fire: “The marriage was over long before I came along. Bill deserves happiness and that’s what I intend to give him.” Home-wrecker was the nicest thing they wrote about her. Behind the scenes, the studio whispered naughty to the columns, seeing how it would help her picture in the can now that the bullfighter stories had died. Even if the picture flopped, which seemed likely, she was going to be a major star. So they arranged a photo of Ree and Marsala shopping at Harry Winston and she gazed in a mirror as she held a snowflake cluster of diamonds to her ear. Forty thousand dollars, it was reported, which was a fifth of what Marsala had to his name if they included the equity in the new house. When the photographer left, the earrings went back into the case. But the day after the photo appeared, Rosa’s lawyer called Louella Parsons and said Marsala had been slow to pay for Bill Jr.’s booster shots.
“You know how he thinks he knows everything?” Ree said now to Marsala, referring to Simon, the self-styled genius.
He’d started to pace the suite, his cigarette smoke trailing him.
“Sometimes he’s right,” she added. “Bill, you have to admit he knows music. He’s employed singers for a good long while.”
“Baby, he takes one look at you—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The whole world knows I’m hooked on you.”
He liked that. It was true. She’s mine. “Get him up here,” Marsala said.
Within the hour, Marsala was eating horseradish with a teaspoon. He felt like his nose was on fire. He had tears in his eyes.
“Breath deep, Bill,” Simon instructed. “Open the nasal passages.”
“You’re giving me nothing but agita.”
“This is all quite delicate, Bill,” the bandleader continued. “You don’t want to callous the vocal cords and yet we can’t risk another hemorrhage.” Simon couldn’t resist a chance to show how superior he was. But Ree was impressed. For a minute or two, she didn’t think of him as a bigheaded toad.
“The challenge is to keep the instrument in proper physical condition without stressing it,” the bandleader said, beckoning Marsala to follow him to the living room.
As the singer passed, Ree latched onto his arm.
Tweedy jacket, billowy beige slacks, Simon went to the piano bench, ran a finger along his mustache in thought and played ornate scales worthy of Horowitz. He waited for flattery.
“Super,” Marsala said without enthusiasm. To his surprise, his head had cleared. He breathed easily.
“You’re a baritone so let’s stay in the lower registe
r. E flat, Bill. And keep it legato. Ready?”
Marsala sang along with the scale.
“Again and gently. Slur the tones.”
The same result, maybe a little better, so the bandleader ran the scale up and down, up and down, and Marsala sang more fluidly with each attempt.
“Not too much, Bill. Not yet. Now, one note at a time.”
Again. Beautiful, almost.
“And B flat…”
Marsala shifted effortlessly.
Delighted, Ree kissed his cheek. Marsala smiled. Simon had lifted a bank vault loaded with gold bars off his shoulders.
“F and we’ll drop back down to E flat. Legato.”
Marsala sounded like Bill Marsala, if only for a few measures.
“That’s enough for today,” Simon said, sealing the piano lid for emphasis. He stood, put his arm around Marsala. They were the same height, but with the singer sick with worry, the bandleader was more robust, his skin golden with that California glow.
Ree watched her ex begin to work his inevitable scheme.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now chew some ice. Repeat once an hour. Avoid hot beverages. I’ll check in before supper but we won’t vocalize until the morrow.”
“Thanks,” Marsala said.
“So they dropped you. Morons.”
Ree padded close to Marsala. “Complete morons,” she said.
“I hear you’ve made some recordings,” Simon said. “Jazz, I’m told. Have them sent to me. I want to hear what they missed.”
“Call the label,” Marsala told him. He didn’t much like the snob fuck and now that their work was done, he wanted him out.
Simon reached for Ree’s hand and kissed it gallantly. He said, “Bill, you made her happy, I can see. Good for you. Good for both of you.”
When she closed the door behind him, she said, “What does he want?”
“You,” Marsala said as he lit a cigarette and passed it to her.
“No. Really.”
“He wants to impress you,” Marsala repeated.
“With horseradish? Bill, he wants in. He knows your voice will be back. He’ll listen to the recordings and he’ll tell you he can make them better.”
Marsala shrugged. Jesus, his throat felt great.
Benno was in the store’s back room, eating a mammoth capicolla and provolone sandwich Gemma had put together, the bread loaf bloated to football shape. She’s so happy he wasn’t shot like Mimmo, who now made his rounds with Fat Tutti in front, Boo Chiasso in back.
Benno took a long hot pepper off the plate and holding his head back, let it slide down his throat like some college strunzo swallowing a goldfish. When he dropped his chin, there was Frankie Fortune, gorgeous in a steel-gray topcoat.
“You got a passport?” Fortune asked.
“What’s a passport?”
“It’s a document the government gives you. It says you’re allowed to go into other countries.”
“The American government?”
Fortune nodded wearily.
“Why does the government give a fuck what I do?”
“Sal, huh? Go to the post office and get a passport.”
“It costs?”
Fortune dug into his slacks, peeled off a fifty and threw it on the table.
The second week of Guy Simon’s lessons and Marsala was singing fine. Better than fine: With a ruptured hemorrhagic vocal cord nodule on the mend, Marsala once again sounded like dark honey pouring from the clouds, like sex on a platter, like the score to a magical stroll with your best girl at your side under the most beautiful night sky of your ever-loving life. And he knew it.
“My God,” Ree said, eyes wide in wonder. “Bill…”
He winked at her.
She thought, he sings and my skin tightens and tingles. No wonder they loved him. They’ll love him again.
Simon had brought in a pianist. A fourth for the asylum, Ree thought when the bearish man lumbered in. But he was nimble on the keys.
“Let’s confront the number that revealed the injury,” Simon said from an armchair, pipe clenched in his teeth. “‘Sweet Lorraine.’”
Marsala knew Simon had heard the cuts over at the label’s West Side studios. To bust Marsala’s balls, they played Simon the take where his voice broke. The bandleader called it “a cheap shot, Bill, after what you’ve done for them. Unacceptable.” But he’d listened and laughed.
“OK, baby?” Marsala asked. “‘Sweet Lorraine.’”
Bare feet on the coffee table, a script perched on a thigh, Ree smiled, her Bill in an up mood.
Simon turned to the piano player. “Go ahead,” he instructed.
“Hey,” Marsala said. “The singer calls the tune, buster.” He turned to the pianist. “Give me the chorus as an intro, kid. Let it swing.”
Ree sat up, closed the script and feeling Simon’s gaze, casually slipped her feet into her flats.
Halfway through the breezy introduction, there was a knock at the hotel room door.
Marsala said, “I thought you put a Do Not Disturb—”
“I did,” said Ree, as she left the sofa. “Damn it.”
Still playing, the pianist looked to Marsala, who raked a finger across his throat. The music stopped as Ree pulled the knob.
Standing there in sunglasses, fedora and a topcoat was Mimmo, his arm in a sling.
“You remember me?” he said to Ree.
She felt a chill. “Yankee Stadium.”
“I need only Bebe.”
Marsala joined Ree at the threshold. “Mimmo, ciao.” He greeted him with a kiss on both cold cheeks. “Come il suo va?”
Mimmo stepped into the room, oblivious to the bandleader and the piano player.
Marsala threw a thumb toward the door. “Boys…” he said.
The pianist left immediately, dragging his coat by the collar. But Simon insisted on sticking his hand out and introducing himself.
“Good for you,” Mimmo replied.
Simon went quietly.
Ree said, “Bill, I’ve got some things…” Scooping up her script, she retreated toward the bedroom.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Marsala said.
Mimmo sat where Simon had been. When the bedroom door shut, he pointed toward the piano bench and gestured for Marsala to tug it toward him. Then he told him to sit. Their knees were inches apart.
Marsala said, “I heard what happened. It’s awful.”
Mimmo tossed his hat aside. “No, we’re going to talk about you, Bebe,” he began in Sicilian. “I’m disappointed what you done to Rosa and little Bill.”
“I know you are,” Marsala said. “But it’s over, Mimmo. We’ve got to face it.”
“You embarrassed her. You embarrassed us.”
“I didn’t mean to. But I had to go.”
“Carlo is unhappy.”
Marsala dropped his arms on his thighs and leaned in. “I don’t want that, Mimmo,” he said in English. “Never would I want that.”
“You know why I’m here? I’m here because Bruno Gigenti ain’t. You understand?”
“I’m not sure—”
Mimmo reached, put his index and middle fingers against Marsala’s temple and said, “Bruno comes and it’s boom, Bebe. Boom.”
Marsala shuddered. He tried to find Mimmo’s eyes behind the smoky lenses, but only saw his own reflection.
“Carlo wants to see you,” Mistretta said, returning to Sicilian.
Marsala was confused. Farcolini was in Sicily.
“He talks to you, you listen. And it ain’t going to be advice, Bebe. The movie studio drops you, the record company. The tour you cancel. You walk out on the radio program and you run off to Spain for this one.” Mimmo raised his hands. “What is this?”
Marsala knew a bullshit excuse wouldn’t play. “I can fix it,” he said.
“Maybe. But don’t do nothing until Carlo talks to you.”
Marsala paused. “I put you in a spot, didn’t I?” he asked.
Mimmo tugge
d on his sling. “Carlo’s going to talk to me, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You fucked up, Bebe.” He shoved off the sofa. “You fucked up good.”
As Marsala followed him to the door, Mimmo nestled his hat on his head. “Be ready and don’t tell nobody.”
“Sure, Mimmo—”
“Nobody,” he said firmly, jabbing a finger toward the bedroom.
“Havana?” Bell said. “What the fuck are you going to do in Havana?”
They were at the crook in the crowded bar at the Grotto, leaning on their elbows as they shared a pot of thick zuppa di vongole, dipping in bread, a couple of beers nearby, sawdust underfoot.
“Sssh. For Christ’s sake, Leo.”
“I’m surprised, is all.” He lowered his voice. “Havana.”
Benno looked at the noisy four-to-midnight crew on lunch from the piers. Frozen to the bone, the men huddled by the Franklin stove and threw down whiskey like it was liquid heat. “Where’s Havana?”
“Cuba.”
“Which is?”
“Off the coast of Florida.”
“I can drive?”
“A boat or a plane. They speak Spanish, you know.”
“Not the guys I’m going with.”
“Who else?” Bell asked.
Benno had a dab of the tangy tomato gravy under his bottom lip. “Frankie, maybe Mimmo. Corini.”
“What? No Tutti, no Boo?”
“I’m thinking maybe a plane can’t take off you put two giants like Boo and Fat Tutti in it.”
Bell speared an errant clam with his fork. “When?”
“Frankie won’t say. He goes, ‘Be ready.’”