by Jim Fusilli
“The clock?”
“A gift,” he replied.
“Ashtray?”
“Ditto.”
He had a few books, some magazines, toiletries. A photo of him and Bebe snapped outside the Paramount in ’42 stood on the dresser.
“Take it,” Rosa said, looking at the picture. “One day, when you’re not mad at him, you’ll wish you did.”
He nodded and it went on top of pillows he’d bought for his cranky neck. “That’s about it. Ten years on the road and it fits in one suitcase and a couple of tomato crates.”
She said, “If you were married to him, half of everything would belong to you.”
Terrasini closed one eye and gestured like he was chopping the bed in half, the chest of drawers, too.
“Show me his bedroom,” Rosa said.
“Come on, Rose—”
“I want to see the notches on the bedpost.”
“What did you tell me? ‘Quando è tempo di andare, è tempo di andare.’” When it’s time to go, it’s time to go.
“You’re going, I’m gone,” she said as she retrieved her handbag. “But I want to see.”
Terrasini waited behind her as she stood in the doorway and surveyed the crisp, orderly room.
“Not a single photo of Bill Jr.”
“It wouldn’t serve the mood.”
“I wonder if he would’ve brought me here. You know, if we weren’t married.”
“You?” Terrasini laughed darkly. “This is no place for a woman like you, Rosa.”
She turned, went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. Then she said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
As he followed her across the living room, Terrasini dug into his pocket and withdrew the gold money clip Bebe had given him. He tossed it on the sofa and watched it bounce and tumble to the floor.
Fortune opened the door to Farcolini’s suite. He waved Marsala in and told Benno to wait.
“Sure, Frankie,” Benno said as he retreated. He didn’t know what his role could’ve been in the meeting, other than to tap Marsala on the face after he fainted from fright. All night the guy had paced and whined, Benno reminding him it was a pretty good bet they wouldn’t throw Mimmo out of the plane into the ocean and besides, there was the matter of $500Gs he had to earn, which he couldn’t do if, say, Zamarella put one between his blue eyes.
To Bebe, a sit with Farcolini was the same as seeing St. Peter at the pearly gates. He took a deep breath and put on his best smile.
Farcolini and Corini sat at opposite ends of the sofa and neither stood as Marsala approached.
He dropped the smile and adopted an expression as somber as his black suit.
Farcolini pointed toward a chair. Marsala sat. Fortune did, too. They were both facing the boss.
To protect Marsala, whom Enna had described as fragile as a fresh egg, Corini had tried to explain to Don Carlo that celebrity corrupted even the most reasonable man. Farcolini didn’t buy it. He felt the pursuit of fame was a sign of weakness and having known Hennie Rosiglino, Farcolini now understood he should’ve expected nothing more from Marsala than what they got: a needy, unreliable child who sought approval from strangers because he didn’t approve of himself. A man of such low self-regard could never respect others, particularly those who professed to love him. Mimmo, who had become more ineffectual as the years wore on, tried to treat Marsala like a nephew, failing to see that family meant nothing to the singer, who humiliated his own wife and child. Farcolini wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
“William Rosiglino,” Farcolini said.
Marsala swallowed hard.
“What will you do to make things right?”
“I—What do you suggest, Don Carlo?” Marsala said.
Corini replied. “Did you have some problem with the plan, Bebe?”
“No. But I—”
“Then why did you try to destroy it?” Corini asked.
“It wasn’t my intent—”
“The plan Rico brought to you,” Corini said. “Didn’t you agree?”
Marsala wasn’t sure how to answer. “I agreed,” he said finally.
“Then you follow it to the letter.”
“Yes, Anthony. Sure.”
“Rico Enna will manage you personally. He’s going to find you a new record company and put you back on the radio.”
In fact, Enna already had completed both tasks.
“You will begin your tour as soon as we can arrange it. In between, you will contact your friends in the music industry and introduce them to Saul Geller.”
“Saul Geller? I don’t—”
Corini said, “Geller will manage the Sandpiper for us.”
Marsala knew better than to ask where Ziggy Baum was going.
“You agree to this, Mr. Rosiglino?” Farcolini asked.
“I do. Yes.”
Corini pointed toward Fortune. “Frankie is going to take a personal interest in you on our behalf.”
Marsala looked at Fortune. “Anything I can do to make it easier for you, Frankie?”
Fortune didn’t respond. The assignment still made him sick to his stomach.
Farcolini said, “This situation with your wife…It’s a disgrace.”
“I handled it poorly, I admit. But the marriage is beyond repair.”
“From now on, keep it quiet,” Corini said. “We’ll send you the right lawyer.”
“Thank you.” He turned to Fortune. “Do you mind if Terrasini stays?”
“Terrasini’s moved out. You broke it. He’s through with you.”
“You’re in a fix, Bebe,” Corini said. “By our accounts, when the divorce comes in, you’ll have less than one hundred thousand dollars to your name—and you have to pay off the mortgage on your wife’s home.”
Marsala laughed nervously. “I guess I’ll be working awfully hard.”
Fortune rose from the chair.
Farcolini said, “You’ll be doing what a man in your position is supposed to. You’ll take care of your career and the people who are supporting you.”
“Yes, Don Carlo.”
“What you did to your wife and said about Phil Klein, this offends any man.”
Marsala slumped.
Fortune said, “Bebe, look at these two men,” gesturing to Farcolini and Corini. “They stood by you. What you’ve done, it won’t happen again. Hear what I say, Bebe. It won’t happen again.”
Marsala turned to Farcolini.
Corini dismissed Marsala with the back of his hand. “Go on. We’re finished.”
Farcolini said nothing.
Fortune led Marsala to the door and told Benno to keep him in his suite.
“Sure thing, Frankie,” Benno said, but he was pretty sure Bebe would pass out before they made the elevator.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The weekend came and went, then Monday, then Tuesday and no Benno. Dropping by the store, Bell said, “Gemma, do you need a hand?”
No, Benno’s aunt said, her other nephew was filling in. “He’s a good boy,” she added sadly and Bell figured the putz took a wrong turn with the truck and wound up in Pennsylvania.
On Thursday, Benno returned. “Hey, fella,” he said as he entered the A&P’s produce aisle.
Bell was stacking the last of the pumpkins, hiding their dents and scars.
Benno opened his new black topcoat to display an ocean blue sharkskin suit, a slim blue tie and a crisp white shirt.
“Bebe gave it to me. New.” Benno pirouetted. “You dig?”
“Do I dig?” Bell asked incredulously. “With a fuckin’ shovel I dig. What are you supposed to be?”
“Oh, you can dress up like Joe College, but I make a move and it bothers you.”
Bell tried to follow the analogy. “What? You’re Frankie Fortune Jr. now?”
“No. But he loves me, too.”
“Ah. I guess I don’t have to ask how Cuba went.”
Benno looked around. An old humpy guy was feeling up the bananas, but Benn
o guessed he couldn’t hear if they shouted in his ear. “Frankie’s in charge of Bebe,” he said, stepping closer to his friend. “Mimmo’s out.”
“Out out?”
“No, like, ‘go sit in the candy store and shut up’ out. Also, Carlo Farcolini kicked the shit out of Gigenti. Broke his ribs.”
“You saw this?”
“Mimmo, yes. Gigenti, no.”
“So no one said anything about you, the money, Gigenti’s window?”
“Nope. And I ate a coconut.”
“I’ll order you a crate.”
“Nah. I brung one back for Gemma, which is enough, seeing as nobody I know owns a machete. I got some perfume for Imogene, too. Bebe says it’s the best.”
“Speaking of which, Sal, you either declare on her friend Nina Esposito or she’s looking elsewhere.”
“I don’t know,” Benno said thoughtfully. “You swim with Bebe and a different school of girls come—”
“Saturday night. They get off the hospital at six. Dinner at eight.”
“I pick the joint?”
“The joint? Sure. Pick.”
“You drive.”
Bell nodded. “Don’t make me compete with that suit.”
They knew Ziggy Baum had built an escape route into his suite at the Sandpiper, a tunnel facing the truckers’ highway. It was originally designed to help him flee the feds, but it would also help Baum dodge someone like Eugenio Zamarella, who this morning was dressed like a member of the construction crew that paraded through pounding noise and clouds of dust in the hotel’s otherwise-empty halls and casinos.
Baum, who took to the sunny lifestyle the moment he was assigned to LA almost 20 years ago, came out of his room wearing a canary-yellow sweater over a lime-green shirt and green slacks. He’d had plastic surgery that gave his skin an eerie sheen that was even more ghostly as he walked under the bare light bulbs that lined the ceiling. Right now, he was thinking maybe he should go down to the garage, jump in the big Buick and head south through Arizona and over the Mexican border, $375,000 hidden in the side panels, another $800,000 split between Banco de Mexico and the Cayman National Trust Company. The only thing holding him back was his unwavering belief that the Sandpiper—and the scheme Geller and Corini conceived—would pay off bigger than big. In his dreams, he saw machines that printed money, $100 denominations and up, the key in his pocket.
Since Geller and Corini were refusing his calls, last week Baum reached out to Frankie Fortune back in Jersey. The guy who answered the phone at Fortunato’s said he wouldn’t be back for days. He was out of the country.
Buy me six more months, he was going to tell Fortune. Talk to Carlo. I’m telling you, Frankie, if that son of a bitch Bebe comes through—if Bebe brings in Crosby, the Andrews Sisters, Peggy Lee, the movie stars and you see them at the tables. Glamour and gambling and it’s a hideaway, Frankie. Who’s to tell people they shouldn’t do what they want?
Like Fortune didn’t know Baum had turned the Sandpiper into a money pit he scooped from for his own pleasure. Baum was a button, not a businessman. To put him in charge of constructing a storage shed would’ve been stupid, never mind a hotel and casino 80 miles from nowhere.
Wearing his mask to cover his pockmarks, Zamarella walked up behind Baum as he approached the elevators. Within 20 yards of where they stood, maybe a dozen workers, their sweaty arms coated in asbestos and grime, shouted and sledgehammered through walls. As Gigenti had instructed, Zamarella jammed a .38 against the back of Baum’s head below his right ear.
Baum felt the bump.
Then his head exploded and his brains splattered against the top of the elevator door. The shot’s echo was lost in the din of construction.
Zamarella spun to leave. The workers continued their noisy demolition. Baum’s body was discovered maybe 10 minutes after his killer had driven the dead man’s car onto Route 91, heading toward Long Beach, the gun going into the desert. The cash was going to be shipped to Gigenti, who was recovering back in New York.
Rico Enna set up a luncheon at the Polo Lounge, a table in the sun for three. As he and Fortune were killing time, he looked up and there was Bebe and on his arm was Eleanor Ree. Under the dappled sunlight, she was stunning, an ivory dress off her tanned shoulders and a satin sinamay hat as cute as hell.
“Look at this,” Fortune groused. He wasn’t talking about Ree’s beauty, though every head in the restaurant had turned, the sun following her like a spotlight of spun gold. He meant that clown fuck Bebe. The ciuccio was starting off the new life exactly like the old one.
The men stood.
“Frankie, Rico, say hello to Eleanor.”
Ree jutted out a hand. As the maître d’ slid in a fourth chair, she said, “Mr. Fortune, I’ve heard a lot about you.” Smoke in her voice, a twinkle in her emerald eyes, she couldn’t help but notice Fortune was the best-looking man in the place. “Can it all be true?”
She’s halfway to drunk, Fortune thought, his mood souring even more.
A story she heard on the morning’s news had sent her to breakfast gin. “Reputed mobster Sigmund Baumstein, aka Ziggy Baum, was found murdered at the Sandpiper Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. Workers at the hotel discovered the body of Baum, an associate of underworld crime boss Carlo Farcolini…” Coming out of the shower, Marsala listened as he toweled his hair. Naked, Ree sat up in his bed. “Bill—”
“Hey, it happens, kid.”
As she tried to corral her thoughts, a mundane question popped out of her mouth. “What about your engagement at—”
“Don’t fret, babe,” Marsala replied. “It’s all taken care of.”
“I hope you won’t be bored by the conversation, Eleanor,” Enna said now as they sat. He moved the leather folder on the table to his lap.
“I’ve met with agents before,” she said with an ironic smile. “It’s not too terribly bad.”
His spirits soaring, Marsala beamed. “What are you guys having?” He offered Ree a smoke and lit one for himself.
Ree ordered a gin gimlet while Marsala told the waiter he’d take a rum cooler.
“Bebe,” Fortune said, leaning in. “It’s time to go to work.”
“Did you listen to the music I sent you?” He wore a baby blue jacket over a dark blue shirt and baggy khakis. He fit in with all the other finochios in the place.
Fortune nodded curtly. “Rico says nobody wants jazz but you.”
Ree looked sideways at Marsala.
“One or two numbers in the act,” Enna offered.
“Fair enough. Can you get me Sweets?” The trumpeter.
“I can get you Basie for the Sandpiper,” Enna replied.
“The entire orchestra? Now that’s a swell idea.”
“Bebe.” Fortune spoke in Sicilian. “Since when do you bring your mistress to a sit?” he said, using crude slang to describe Ree.
“Non è il mio cumare.” In English, Marsala added, “We’re in this together.”
Fortune turned to Ree. “Excuse me, but I need to be precise with Bebe.”
She reached for her drink.
In Sicilian, Fortune said, “You ought to know better than to think this is a game with me, Bebe. I’m not Mimmo and I don’t give a fuck. You understand? You’re going to do what you’re told.”
“I understand, Frankie, sure—”
“I don’t care if you fuck goats. Keep it quiet and do what Rico tells you. You don’t change one fuckin’ thing.”
Ree was fascinated. The gorgeous man seethed and smiled at the same time.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “before you begin your meeting, let me apologize. I asked Bill to introduce me to Mr. Enna. Not that I’m unhappy with my representation.” She got up to leave, her fingers groping for her clutch. “Mr. Fortune, forgive me for intruding.”
Enna stood, his chair scraping the brick. Marsala did, too. But Fortune barely stirred.
“Bill, I’ll be in the café.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
> As she crossed the pavilion, heads turned again.
Marsala sat. Frowning, he said, “Frankie, Jesus. She doesn’t know how we operate.”
“Go ahead, Rico,” Fortune said.
Enna had the contracts in the folder. “I understand you’ve been informed of the terms of the agreements.” The agency would now take 15 percent of everything—recordings, radio, live performances and endorsements. With Klein, it was seven.
Marsala nodded as he fished in his jacket pocket for a pen. “I won’t question Don Carlo.” He thumbed through the contract, searching for the dotted line.
“The Basie offer. Bill, it’s legit,” Enna said.
“You’ll get what you need,” Fortune added. “We don’t want any excuses.”
“No excuses,” Marsala echoed as he signed his name.
Enna said, “I’m thinking Joey Aaron to open.” A wacky Jew comedian from back in Jersey.
“Great, Rick,” Marsala mumbled as he kept writing his name. When he finished, he passed the papers to the agent.
“We start a week from Friday,” Enna said. “Kansas City, then Saturday and Sunday in Chicago.” He dug into his folder again, bringing sheet music to the table. “When you get back, we can talk about songs for your next session. I think we have a couple of hits there.”
“Are these hits, Frankie?” Marsala asked as he pushed the sheets across the table.
“They’d better be,” Fortune replied.
Benno came out spiffy in a double-breasted camel suit and his familiar brown fedora, matching shoes, tie with little red streaks. Then he stopped dead. Imogene was in his seat—front passenger’s side. And then he stopped dead again. This Nina Esposito was a knockout. Thick black hair cascading down to her shoulders, gorgeous black eyes, a perfectly prominent southern Italian nose, healthy olive skin. Plump lips. Long legs crossed at the ankles. Her violet dress fit her like paint.
“Nina, this is Sal Benno,” Imogene said as she let him wriggle into the backseat.