by Jim Fusilli
“Anthony Corini,” Bamberger said.
“That’s him.”
Satisfied, Bamberger moved on. “Mr. Mistretta, you also have a stake in several restaurants in the area.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Frankie’s joints.”
“This would be Frankie Fortune. Fortunato Spaletti.”
“Frankie Fortune.”
“You are close to Mr. Fortune, are you not?”
He leaned close to the microphone. “I know Frankie since we were kids.”
“How did you meet?”
“At the reformatory in Chemung.”
For the next several minutes, Mimmo was walked through his history. Alert again, he replied carefully, avoiding incriminating himself. The chief counsel helped. He didn’t want the man who was giving testimony that would implicate Corini to be exposed as anything more than a corrupt nightclub owner who had interests in businesses that laundered money from the Farcolini crew’s illegal activities. Nor would he want it known that the witness suffered from an advanced case of syphilis.
“Does Mr. Corini have a stake in these restaurants as well?”
“As well as who? Bruno?” Mimmo shook his head. “Bruno’s not interested in lounges and laundries and restaurants. Bruno likes the gutter.”
“Excuse me?” Dunney said.
“Bruno likes the gutter. What, you think Zamarella could decide who he wants to hit?”
“Mr. Mistretta,” Bamberger said, “are you telling the commission that Bruno Gigenti ordered Mr. Zamarella to kill?”
“Absolutely.”
The press looked at each other as they hurried their notes. Mimmo’s attorney struggled to protest.
“Quiet,” Dunney said. “Let the man have his say.”
Bamberger wanted to move on, but Dunney waved him off. “Mr. Mistretta, you know this as a fact?”
“Come on, Senator. Who don’t know this? You think Zamarella wakes up and thinks, ‘Today, I’ll shoot Ziggy’? What do you think he was up in Canada for? Sightseeing?” Mimmo waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, this guy didn’t piss without Bruno saying go.”
“Senator, may we have a short recess?” said Mimmo’s lawyer, red-faced. “I need—”
“Sit,” Dunney said.
Bamberger pressed. “Mr. Mistretta, about the restaurants—”
Mimmo pointed a thumb to reporters’ row. “Ask them. They’ll tell you. Bruno likes the gutter.”
The senator from Rhode Island whispered to Dunney, who nodded.
“Mr. Mistretta,” Dunney said, “I think we have a sense of your activities and your relationship with Mr. Anthony Corini. I thank you very much for your time and your frank—”
“Wait a second,” Mimmo said. “Ain’t you going to ask me about Bebe?”
“I’m sorry, sir…”
“Bebe. Bill Marsala. I know things about him, too.”
Bamberger sagged at the new detour. He hadn’t yet asked Mistretta about the cement companies, carting businesses, trucking firms, garbage haulers and talent agencies from which Corini, Fortunato Spaletti, Mistretta and others were paid salaries that seemed impossible given the firms’ revenues.
“Bill Marsala the singer?” Dunney asked, feigning surprise.
“Bill Marsala the singer. We call him Bebe. Short for ball buster.”
“I see.”
“Oh no, no, you don’t.” Mimmo wagged a finger. “This guy, Mister Hollywood Big Shot, he’s…Que cosa fastidiosa.”
“I’m sorry—”
“You know. A regular pain in the ass.”
“All right, then.”
Mimmo sat back triumphant.
Marsala woke from his pre-show nap at the Caribbean to find Enna with a hangdog look, holding a newspaper behind his back. And there was Benno, the Sicilian Speedy Alka-Seltzer, drooping like somebody let the air out.
“What?” Marsala cleared his aching throat and threw off the towel around his neck. “What is it?”
“Bill,” said Enna.
“Bebe,” said Benno.
Marsala shot up in the chair. “Eleanor?”
“No, no, Bill.”
“Better give him the paper, Rico,” Benno said as he leaned against the dressing room door.
Marsala stood and, though he wasn’t wearing pants, wriggled quickly into his loafers. He held out his hand and Enna surrendered the Daily News.
“Marsala’s Uncle Sings” screamed the headline. Underneath, it read, “Mob Turncoat Rats Out Corini, Gigenti.” The rest of the front page was covered with a big photo of Mimmo, in his sunglasses, coming down the courthouse steps, uniformed cops on either side. He looked like a vulture that’d just finished a satisfying meal.
Benno watched as Marsala opened to page three to follow the story. He read it, then sat and read it again, bobbing his head as he scanned the text.
“It doesn’t say what he told them about me,” Marsala said finally.
“I don’t believe he said anything, Bill.”
Marsala read a quote. “‘I know things about him.’”
“But they didn’t follow up. Bill, they’re not interested in you. They want the mayor. Congressmen.”
“And Corini,” Benno said. “Mimmo was ready to fuck him good.”
“Maybe they talked to him afterwards. In chambers,” Marsala said.
“I don’t believe so, Bill.”
“What does Corini say?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t reach him.”
“Isn’t he here?”
Enna shook his head.
Marsala leapt from the chair. “Don’t you know what that means? I’m fucked. Corini’s washing his hands of me. That’s it.”
“Bebe, don’t get fucked up over this,” Benno said. “One, you got a show and two, how can Mr. Corini be in public with you after Mimmo and this Dunney son of a bitch?”
Marsala’s eyes darted from Benno to Enna, Enna to Benno. “Did he send a message, at least?”
Enna said no.
“He knows something. Mimmo talked to them.”
“Bill, it doesn’t make sense. The—”
“Of course, it does. Of course.” He grimaced as he coughed. “Look what they asked him: What does Corini own? Then Mimmo tells them Corini owns Marsala.”
Enna said, “They aren’t after you. The politicians and Anthony and Don Carlo’s operation, but not you. Bill, listen to me, you go out there tonight and you kick ass. There’s not a soul in that audience who isn’t behind you.”
“They don’t give a fuck about all this,” Benno added. “You’re their guy.” He felt for the singer, whose panic was mounting.
Eyes wide, Marsala flung the News on the dressing room floor and kicked it into the air.
“That’s it, Bebe. Get mad.”
“Bill, when Dunney and the commission leave town, you’ll still be here at the Caribbean. Knockin’ them dead with your number-one hit record.”
“Hey, Bebe,” Benno said, “you’re from Polk Street. Tell them where they can stick it.”
Marsala stared at Benno. Then he relaxed and let out a chuckle. “You’re right, kid.” He turned to Enna. “You know something, Ricky? This kid knows. He knows.” The singer went to the mirror and began to unbutton his shirt. “Ricky, do me a favor and get them to give you some hot tea.”
Enna nodded and left the dressing room. As soon as Benno closed the door, Marsala spun and said, “What can you find out, kid?”
“Maybe you could get your father to talk to Mimmo. But I think you’ve got to say ‘Fuck it.’”
“Can you call Corini?”
“Looks desperate. He knows I’ll be doing it for you, no?”
“There’s got to—”
“You know, your voice sounds worser by the minute, Bebe. You OK?”
“My throat’s raw.”
“No shit.”
“But this thing. Sal, this thing…These guys want to fuck me. They want to fuck me.”
“What guys? The feds? They want infor
mation. You know how cops work. They squeeze you until you give up a guy they’re after. You don’t, then they fuck you.”
Benno pointed Marsala toward a chair and sat across from him. “Maybe you could tell your buddy Winchell that Mimmo’s got the syph and remind him he’s Rosa’s uncle, not yours. Tell them the Mistrettas hate you and that explains everything.”
“You tell him.”
“Me? You want me to talk to Walter Winchell?” Benno laughed. “Holy shit, Bebe.”
“It’s easy, kid.”
“For you, maybe. Look, call him on the QT. Tell him. It’s the truth, ain’t it?”
Marsala nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. Fight back, Bebe.” Benno stood and tapped Marsala on his bony knee. “I’ll see you after the show.”
“Sal. Thank you.”
He meant it sincerely and Benno knew it. As he went to find a good spot in the balcony where he could mind his own business, Benno worried. Leo was right. They’re going to pressure Bebe unbelievable. And right now, Bebe’s got one thing—his career—and they can take it. They can take it like that. Benno snapped his fingers. Like that.
Marsala cut the set short again, his voice faltering, and Ronnie Oliver signaled the band to cover the raspy notes. Even when he was on target, he sounded like he did on that piece-of-shit pop tune, like some ordinary guy. Benno knew Bebe was distracted—he hardly spoke to the audience; none of this, “We’re on a hell of ride, folks” and “Ain’t life grand?” The capacity crowd knew, too, and an uncomfortable murmur rippled around the room. Say something, Bebe, Benno thought. They love you, they want you to do good. Explain. Mimmo’s got a worm in his melon and you feel bad for Rosa and Bill Jr.—they’re embarrassed by her uncle’s behavior. Make it water off a duck’s back.
But from the back of the house, it looked to Benno like Bebe was going to forget the words to songs he’s been singing for about a decade, his eyes blank, his mind racing like a squirrel. He did a pretty good job on the new hit, but then he rushed through the Cuban “All or Nothing at All.”
Marsala waved, blew a kiss and he was gone.
Benno scuttled between tables to the dressing room while Oliver and the band continued the song. When he knocked the code and Enna sprung open the door, he saw the mirror was in pieces on the floor and so was the teacup and saucer, the Daily News a soggy mess, like somebody put it down after a bad dog.
“Sal, get the car,” Enna instructed as Marsala toweled off.
Slipping into his coat, Benno waited, knowing Marsala’s habits. The singer quickly took off his tux and though he was rushing, his face frozen hard in anger, he folded his slacks and carefully placed them on the hanger and then the jacket and into the suit bag they went. Benno grabbed it, crunching glass underfoot.
“I’ll be around back,” he said to Enna. He opened the door and found a cop standing there and a guy in a suit and topcoat, his face red from the harsh night wind.
The guy stepped in. “Mr. Marsala,” he said, “my name is Charles Tyler and I represent the Department of Justice.”
“Good for you,” Marsala said as he continued to dress.
“Senator Dunney would like to speak to you.”
Marsala stopped.
Enna said, “Can’t this wait? Mr. Marsala isn’t feeling—”
“When?” Marsala asked, looking over his agent’s shoulder.
“Tonight.”
“Where?”
Tyler told him the commission had offices at Rockefeller Center.
“They’ll recognize me,” Marsala said.
“We’ll address that.”
Benno knew Tyler was the guy Leo worked for in the Army and the son of a bitch who wanted him in front of Dunney because of the fuckin’ suitcase.
“Give the guy a break, huh?” he said. “Ain’t it bad enough you put him in the papers with crazy Mimmo?”
“Sal, let it go,” Marsala said in Sicilian. He looked at Tyler. “What’s your plan?”
“After midnight, through the garage, up a private elevator. In and out.”
Marsala knotted his tie. “And if I say no?”
Tyler took a subpoena out of his inside pocket. “You’ll precede Mr. Corini on the stand. Or you’ll be cited for contempt of Congress.”
“You must be desperate,” Marsala said, as offhandedly as he could muster.
“Actually, we had a very good day, Mr. Marsala.”
A light rain had begun to fall and the windshield wipers on Bruno Gigenti’s car pumped erratically as his driver waited on Mulberry. The door to the club opened and a guard nodded, his hat dotted with moisture. Gigenti emerged, sliding quickly into the backseat.
“Williamsburg Bridge,” he said, sounding like he’d gargled broken glass.
“South Street OK, Boss?”
Gigenti grunted.
“Broadway to Myrtle?”
“I’ll think about it,” he replied.
Soon they were coming off Bushwick Avenue, a left here, another left, a turn against the traffic light. Gigenti’s house was on the right.
“Arresto,” said Gigenti, who had been thinking in Sicilian.
The car skidded on the damp street.
Gigenti stepped out. Turning up his collar, he started toward his home, his head down.
When he looked up, he saw, coming toward him out of the cold mist, a man in shirt sleeves, a tie and slacks, no coat, no hat, his hands high, palms open.
Frankie Fortune.
Gigenti produced a .38 Special and without breaking stride, he pointed it at Fortune’s face, the hammer already cocked.
On the other side of the street, a man stepped to his porch, a rifle raised and aimed at Fortune’s head.
“Sono venuto a chiedere scusa,” Fortune said so everyone could hear.
Gigenti kept walking. “Apologize?” he said in English. “Beginning when?”
“You win, Bruno.” Rain soaked through Fortune’s shirt. “It’s over. You win.”
“I win.” He said it plainly, a fact.
“Let me straighten out this mess.”
“What mess? There’s no mess.”
They were a few feet apart now and the .38 Special was still fixed on the center of Fortune’s flawless face.
“Mimmo.”
“He’s a dead man.”
“As a token of my esteem, Bruno. As an admission of my guilt.”
“And then what?” Gigenti asked.
“Anthony.”
“Ah,” Gigenti said as he put the cold nozzle of his gun against Fortune’s forehead.
“You don’t want him talking to the commission,” Fortune said as he pulled down his hands. “He’s not Mimmo, but…”
“But what?” Gigenti still didn’t know why he shouldn’t kill Fortune right here and now.
“They won’t think he’s insane, Bruno.”
“Like Mimmo.”
“Like Mimmo.”
“Maybe I put one in your brain and Anthony understands everything.”
“Not in front of your house, Bruno,” Fortune said, shivering.
Gigenti slowly released the hammer. “Maybe Anthony’s not the problem.”
“Dunney,” Fortune nodded. He let out a long sigh of relief. “Let me offer you a solution there, too. Another thing that won’t touch you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
There wasn’t much in the apartment under the viaduct, but as he packed away his books and started to take down the travel-magazine photos Imogene pinned to the wall, Bell felt a rush of sentimentality. It had been their little haven, a broke-down sanctuary, and he was swept by vivid memories not only of their lovemaking but the conversations afterward, the tenderness, jokes she’d made or how she’d put on his shirt when she ran to the rusty bathroom down the hall and he sat on the bed waiting for her return. There was no need for the apartment now—his father gone, he and Imogene were free to be together at his home—but in his mind, here was where they fell in love.
/> Lost in his reverie, at first Bell didn’t hear the thud on the steps and the groan of the old wood. When he did, he was annoyed that Tyler found it.
Bell opened the door. “Charlie, goddamn—”
It wasn’t Tyler. It was Boo Chiasso, his face all shadows and angles, his wide shoulders filling the landing. He pushed back his hat and took a long, deep breath.
“Did something happen to Sal?” Bell asked.
Chiasso dug into his topcoat pocket like he was feeling for his cigarettes. Seconds later, he had a .45 in his fist.
“Back up,” he said. “Get back in the room.”
“Boo?”
“Move, Ding.”
Bell retreated, hands up, palms open.
Chiasso nudged him and Bell banged into the bed.
“Sit down,” Chiasso said.
“You’d better think this through.”
Chiasso raised the gun and brought the butt down above Bell’s forehead. A gash opened, blood spurted and Bell collapsed, slamming against the edge of the bare mattress and bouncing to the floor.
Coming to two or three minutes later, Bell blinked and felt for the blood on his face before he rolled over. He struggled to the old chair in the corner, knocking aside a crate half-filled with books.
Chiasso sat across from Bell on the mattress. “Fuckin’ cozy in here,” he said, looking around.
Bell felt his brain pounding under the wound. When he bent to retrieve his glasses, blood spurted again. Chiasso had gotten him good.
“What’s going on?” Bell asked again.
“You talk to the feds.”
Bell dabbed at the gash in his head. “You mean the guy who tried to serve me in Beverly Hills?”
“The guy who came to see you at your old man’s house,” Chiasso replied. “This guy we know. He’s with the commission and he talks to you.”
“Tyler,” Bell said. “We were in the Army together.”
“You told him about the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Ding. The thing. Our thing.”
Bell said, “I don’t know the thing. I don’t know shit.”
“You know Benno and Benno tells you. And you, being a Jew, sold us out.”