by Jim Fusilli
The local broads worked out OK, but pretty soon he couldn’t take Canada any more. He had the feeling the bartenders and waiters and bellhops and barbers and taxi drivers and the guys at the newsstands who smiled and said “Good day” and “How are you enjoying your visit, sir?” and “How is our country treating you, sir?” would just as soon put an ice pick in his American spine if they could get away with it. He went for a walk in a park and saw a bunch of guys playing hockey and sure enough, they started beating the shit out of each other. These nice people, the streets so clean you can eat off them, the cops patrolling on foot and nodding hello, and what the fuck is Celsius? He was a nobody here.
So he gave up, went to dinner over in Scarborough and talked in Sicilian to the maître d’ and the waiter, who had a goddamned Canadian accent. He nestled in a corner, kept his eye on the door and ordered chicken cacciatore and a bottle of black-cock Chianti, which was the best meal he had since he was sent to Hollywood. He was thinking about dessert, maybe a little cucidati, and at that moment what should happen but Bebe comes on the jukebox singing that piece of garbage song even Hennie would’ve hated.
Fuckin’ Bebe.
Crooking his finger, Fortune called the waiter over. “Don’t you have any of your own singers up here?”
“Sir?”
“I mean, who’s the Bill Marsala of Canada?” he asked.
The waiter looked down. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“I’m asking if you have your own Bill Marsala. Some Canadian singer who’s Sicilian and the broads go moist over.”
“Sir, I’d have to say Bill Marsala is our Bill Marsala. He’s quite popular.”
Convinced the waiter was holding back, Fortune said, “Get the fuck out of here.”
The check paid, he bundled up to find a taxi. First, he’d have to confront the wind that had people walking tilted over, their scarves flapping like flags on a pole, if it stopped they’d land on their faces. I’ve got to get back to New York, he thought, his hands buried in his pockets. Something’s happening, and I’ve got to—
And then Eugenio Zamarella came out of the shadows and he put the tip of his .45 behind Fortune’s ear, telling him to move onto the side street.
Fortune thought, I’m not dead yet. There’s a chance. “Who sent you?” Fortune asked as they walked into the driving wind.
Zamarella had on that kind of stocking cap that shows only the eyes and mouth. “Corini gave you up.” They turned the corner. “Over there,” Zamarella said, shoving Fortune toward a dark alcove between buildings.
“Corini gave me up?” Fortune asked as he backpedaled, hands at his sides.
“Arrivederci, Frank—”
Suddenly, Zamarella gagged, a stiletto jutting from his throat. With a flick of his wrist, Fortune hit his mark from a dozen feet out.
As Zamarella fell to his knees, his gun discharged, missing Fortune’s shoes by inches.
A Scarborough beat cop saw the muzzle flash from the avenue and had his weapon drawn as he reached the crosswalk. To his surprise, he saw a man on his back, a gun in his hand, looking at the sky.
“You,” the cop shouted. “Right there. Drop your weapon.”
Zamarella rolled awkwardly to his side and pulled the trigger. His shot missed the cop.
The cop returned fire, hitting the masked killer in the chest, the lining of his coat spitting out as he collapsed.
Fortune ran off, clinging to shadows.
Racing in, the cop then saw the knife protruding from the dead man’s throat.
Later, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police told the cop’s supervisor that Eugenio Zamarella, a reputed member of the legendary Carlo Farcolini gang, was suspected in the for-hire murders of at least 15 people in the United States. They congratulated the cop, telling him, in their own way, that he’d taken out the garbage.
While they were glad-handing each other back at the precinct, Zamarella’s gruesome mug shot in the Daily Star, Frankie Fortune crossed the border at Niagara Falls, saying good riddance to Canada.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Mimmo came along Polk Street from the candy store, walking in slow motion, a midmorning stroll, then he paused like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, maybe that merciless joker up there in his head was playing games again.
“What are you doing here?”
“I work here,” Benno said. He was cranking the awning down, shaking out old leaves and other muck from the long winter.
“You’re supposed to be with Bebe.”
“Bebe don’t need me. You got Enna, who follows him like a dog. You did good, Mimmo. You straightened Bebe out good.”
Shuffling to stay warm, Mimmo nodded. “Tell me about Ding. You still think he’s a stand-up guy?”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Twenty-something years in the neighborhood and he don’t tell nobody who he is.”
“We know who he is, but now he’s a Jew. Like Cary Grant.”
Mimmo stopped. “Cary Grant?”
“Cary Grant.”
“Cary fuckin’ Grant?”
“So help me,” Benno said, holding up his hand. “So how about you put out the word: Leave Leo alone or else.”
Puffing up, Mimmo nodded thoughtfully. “I could clear his path.”
Changing the subject, Benno said, “Mimmo, tell me. What’s gonna happen? I mean, say, Don Carlo can’t come back, already Cy Geller’s dead, Frankie’s on the lam, who knows what’s going on with Gigenti and I heard the radio says this commission wants Corini’s ass. For Christ’s sake, you’re all we got.”
Mimmo liked that. He nodded slowly. Then he stroked his chin. Then he walked away, unsure of where he was going.
Benno sighed in relief. He went back to cleaning the awning, knowing he kissed Mimmo’s ass for a while, like Leo asked. But, Jesus, the day they let Mimmo run the thing is the day we shut off the lights.
Bill Marsala stopped in the Hampshire House corridor when he heard rummaging in Ree’s room. Certain it was Fortune or one of his men, he considered an escape down the corridor toward the elevator.
The door swung open.
“Bill!” Eleanor Ree jumped into his arms. She kissed him frantically, happily. Squeezing him tight, she wrapped her leg around his calf and felt the winter’s chill on his clothes.
“What are you doing in New York?” he said. Smiling bright, he tossed his hat and scarf aside. “I had no idea.”
“I wanted to surprise you. I did, didn’t I? I surprised you.”
Two upright steamer trunks were tucked against the far wall, tugging the curtains on the windows onto Central Park. “How long do you plan on staying?” he joked.
“I want to look my best every night.” She wore slacks and a pearl silk blouse. Her hair was back under a kerchief.
He said, “You look fabulous now, baby.”
She grabbed his hand and yanked him toward her bedroom.
Marsala let his topcoat fall to the carpet and to hell with his aching throat and the worries.
Bell entered Benno’s as the shop set to close. Aunt Gemma put down the broom, hurried over to kiss him and started crying. Then Sal’s uncle walked over sad-eyed, shook his hand, but then cupped his cheeks too as he offered his condolences.
“You go to see Bebe?” Gemma asked in English.
“Indeed we do. At a nightclub.”
“With your girlfriend?”
“I want her to meet you, Aunt Gemma. I swear you’ll love her.”
Gemma smiled. “Maybe she has a friend for Salvatore?”
Bell crossed his fingers.
Then Benno appeared wearing a suit Bebe bought him, its smoke gray double-breasted jacket cut trim with an expertise Albino the Tailor couldn’t match.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Bell replied, winking at Gemma.
Benno waved as they exited.
Engine purring, they turned onto Observer Road, driving alongside the Lackawanna yards. Benno said, “I was thi
nking of introducing Nina to Bebe.”
“Sure, but go easy on the ‘Bebe said this’ and ‘Me and Bebe did that’ tonight. Maybe it’s better Nina gets to tell her story this time.”
“How about Corini?”
Bell looked at him. “She wants to meet Anthony Corini? This is a good kid, Sally. Going to the Caribbean, seeing Bebe, that’s enough. She’s dazzled.”
“You sure? I take it she sees me ordinary.”
“Be ordinary. Don’t be selling Bebe, Eleanor, Hollywood.”
“I got to say hello to Corini.”
“Maybe you nod, huh?”
A night wind whistled through the car’s windows. “Your in-laws are set for Sunday,” Benno said. “The cover, drinks, the meals—they’re on the arm.”
“Thank Bebe for me, OK?”
“I meant to ask. What did they say when you told them?”
“Mr. O’Boyle said he’s been working with Jews his whole life and they’re no cheaper than anybody else.”
“And Imogene’s mom?”
“She said, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ She’s been crying in church since, wearing down her rosary beads. She’s got me shooting dice with Pontius Pilate.”
“At least she ain’t asked if you got horns,” Benno said.
St. Claire’s was across the boulevard. Bell could see the girls in silhouette as they waited in the vestibule.
Anthony Corini and his wife were in a prime spot—since he owned the Caribbean that stood to reason—and Rico Enna sat with them, smiling but torturing his napkin. Actors from Broadway and radio circulated, prizefighters, too. Winchell held court and there was this kind of electricity in the air, Imogene and Nina gawking, the nightclub packed like the A train at rush hour, even the balcony. Maybe everybody knew Bebe was in a spot and they saw a chance at a bargain double bill. Tonight, Marsala sings, Marsala loses his temper and throws a punch. Marsala entertains, Marsala explodes. Though Benno would’ve bet if Bebe exploded, it would be with sadness, not anger.
Poor Bebe.
Then Benno felt a hand on his shoulder and he got a kiss on his cheek. There’s Eleanor Ree in this unbelievable blue dress, cleavage you could wriggle in nice. “Sal, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
Bell stood up. Oh yes, this was the most beautiful woman in the world. “Hello,” he managed.
“Are you the lucky girl who’s with Sal?” she said to Imogene, who, mouth open, pointed to Nina.
“Take good care of him,” Ree said. “He’s a keeper.” And then she was over there with Vincenzo the Fireman and Hennie’s two sisters and if that ain’t a smart move I don’t know what is.
“Told you,” Benno said. “She loves me.”
Ronnie Oliver brought the band to the stage, the combo in tuxedos. They gave the audience some Basie so they would settle down and then came one of the tunes from Bebe’s long ago done with pep. Benno snapped his fingers on the two and four, and he wasn’t the only one.
The music went quiet and then only the bass pumped.
Spotlight.
Bebe.
The crowd cheered him good and solid; here and there, people rose to their feet. Bebe had a bounce in his step, the California sparkle, his blue eyes twinkling in the spotlight. He went right into “All of Me,” Billie Holiday style, crooning along with the bass, keeping his voice steady and low.
Then “Sweet Lorraine,” but when they came to the tricky bridge, Bebe let the trumpet take it. Holding the mic down by his thigh, he did a little dance spin to hide a cough. But then the ballads went beautifully. Imogene leaned against Bell and Benno and Nina exchanged this cute look. Maybe a little heat was building between them. Taking a chance, Benno reached for Nina’s hand and she surrendered. And when Bebe went into the “Casablanca” song, Nina snuggled against him. From across the room, Ree gave Benno a smile he knew he’d never forget.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t tell you how good it is to be back home,” Marsala told the audience. “New York City. Bright lights, big town. Our town.” He took a sip from a teacup and returned it to the velvet-topped stool they had there for him. “Memories, huh? So many beautiful memories.”
The saxophone player came in low and bluesy. Marsala said, “They tell me you like this one. I do, too.” And then, he sang that old familiar tune Ree’s ex rearranged and it went over like milk chocolate, the audience on their feet when it was over. “Thanks, folks. A hell of ride. Thank you.”
Then came the Cuban-style number and halfway through Bebe waved and said, “Good night” with a big smile and blew everybody a kiss. The band kept playing as he left the stage.
“He cut it short, Sal?” Bell said across the table.
Benno watched as Enna excused himself and walked calmly through the cheering crowd to the dressing room. Then Benno did the same, telling Nina he’d be right back. Like Enna, he kept his expression cool, like he didn’t suspect nothing, and he didn’t look at Corini neither.
“Lightheaded,” Marsala said as Enna settled him into the dressing room’s armchair. “I couldn’t work through it.”
Benno stood by the door. He heard the band at work, keeping the crowd entertained.
“No encore?” Enna said, a note of hope in his voice.
“No can do.” Marsala coughed into his handkerchief. “I hope I’m not coming down with a flu.”
Enna folded his arms. “I’d better let Ollie know.”
Marsala nodded. “Apologize to Anthony. Tell him we’ll slay ’em double tomorrow.”
Benno stepped aside as Enna hurried out.
Marsala coughed again. He looked into his handkerchief, then held it up for Benno to see. It was dotted with blood.
“Sal,” he said, “can you get me home?”
“Sure. You want Eleanor, Bebe?”
“Let’s do this on the QT,” Marsala said as he stood, his face pale under the stage makeup.
Benno held out an arm. “Lean on me.”
The doorman flagged a cab. Benno hurried the singer to its backseat.
Thirty-five minutes later, Benno returned to the club to find Bell and the girls nursing coffee. Most of the crowd was gone, including Corini and his wife.
“Where have you been?” Bell asked as Benno sat.
He looked across the room at Enna and gave his head a little shake.
Bell said, “They want the table for the next show?”
“There’s no next show,” Benno replied.
The suite at the Hampshire House was vast and empty. The scent of chicken soup lingered in the air and Marsala, in his silk pajamas and robe, rubbed his neck with a mentholated balm. He felt like shit.
And then she arrived.
Thank God she arrived.
“You were wonderful, Bill,” she said as she tossed her coat on the sofa.
“No, I had to call it a night,” he replied as he came to kiss her cheek. “Could you tell?”
“Not really. Not until Rico said you were fighting a cold,” she said as she continued to undress. “With all the travel you’ve been up to, it’s no wonder.”
By now, she was out of her dress and in her bra, slip and stockings, her shoes kicked across the bedroom. “You want a drink?” she asked.
“I can’t, baby. The pipes are acting up.”
Ree hurried across the living room. “You sounded fine.”
“For half a set, sure.”
“No one minded.”
“The folks who turned out for the second show might.”
“They love you, Bill. They’ll understand. Ordinary people catch colds, too.”
He perched on the sofa’s arm, a slipper dangling on the end of his foot, lit cigarette between his fingers. “How was my father?”
“He only mentioned Rosa twice. But he apologized immediately. Bill, he’s a sweet old man. Your Aunt Dee’s quite the character.”
“Did you talk to Winchell?”
She topped off the glass with a splash of quinine. “He talked to me. Does that cou
nt?”
Marsala watched as she came toward him. She put the cold glass against his lips. He took a sip.
“Finally,” she purred. “Solitude.”
He stood. “What’s with the steamer trunks, Eleanor?” he asked.
“Bill. Not now.”
“The trunks, El.”
She kissed his lips and took his hand. “I have to go. A job.”
“Where?”
“Far away, Bill. It’s killing me.”
He looked deep into her eyes. “Where, baby?”
“Africa. Southeast Africa.”
The news sent a charge from his head to his heels. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I still don’t want to tell you, Bill. Don’t make me. Not tonight.” She pressed against him and hung her arms around his neck, the hissing drink now behind him.
“For how long?”
“Are you angry, Bill?”
He wasn’t. He was melting in sorrow, the world slipping away. “How long am I going to be without you?”
She said, “We’ll have Thanksgiving in London. And a long Christmas break in Rome.”
“You’ll be away a few months,” he said.
She stepped back. “It can’t be. I couldn’t bear it.”
Marsala crushed out the cigarette and without thinking, lit another. Panic rising, he began to pace. “Baby, you’ve opened a trapdoor. That’s one heck of a surprise. A real doozy.”
“I wanted to tell you, but only when you were back on top. And you are, Bill. You’re on top.”
He blew smoke toward the ceiling.
“You’ll knock them dead at the Caribbean. You’ll have another number-one hit, and it’ll be jazz like you wanted. Then onto Vegas. Bill, it’s happening for you and I’m delighted.”
“But what’s it mean without you?”
“Without me? Like I won’t be thinking of you every crazy minute we’re apart.” She intercepted him and grabbed his chin. “Look at me. I love you. I’m over the moon for you. Do you have any idea how proud I was tonight?”