by Jim Fusilli
“He can’t tell you what he doesn’t know.”
“We’ll see,” Bamberger replied.
Marsala said, “Ask the kid.” He was standing now, his palms on the table. “He’ll tell you.”
Bamberger looked at Marsala. “The commission is more likely to ask you.”
The singer trembled. “Oh, Jesus. How rough do you guys have to play? It’s four in the morning and I’m doing what you asked.”
“Don’t leave town,” Bamberger said as he went back to his notes.
“I was going to London.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Archibald said, “Bill—”
“I need to travel,” Marsala protested. “It’s part of the job.”
“Leland,” Bamberger said, “tell Mr. Marsala we can seize his passport. Tell him we can stop him at the airport with the press in tow. Or tell him he ought to continue to cooperate.”
“You want my career. That’s it, right? You want to take my career.”
Bamberger sighed wearily. “Mr. Marsala, you may be surprised to learn that there are a great many things in this world more important than your career.”
“Not to me, fella.”
“No,” Bamberger said. “Apparently not.”
Having no way to get home until morning and stunned by his own stupidity, Benno walked all the way down to the Washington Market. Amid the hustling vendors and shouting drivers, he warmed his hands near a garbage can fire and waited for his bumbling cousin, who now could be considered the smartest American-born Benno, seeing as he didn’t put his faith in a lifelong shit heel like Bebe Marsala.
They got back to Narrows Gate around 8 o’clock, Benno insisting on driving and for good measure, he told his cousin to sit in the back and shut up. When they caught a red light coming out of the Holland Tunnel, he turned to apologize. “It ain’t your fault I’m a fuckin’ dope,” he was going to say, but his cousin was asleep, his head nestled among the lettuce and escarole.
He pulled the truck in front of the store. His uncle came out, looked up and down Polk Street and beckoned Benno inside.
There was Imogene O’Boyle with his aunt, who was rubbing little circles on her back.
“Sal, have you seen Leo?” Imogene asked.
“I been out all night. No.”
“Sal, I’m worried. We were supposed to meet. Leo wouldn’t stand me up.”
“No, I know that. You checked his house?”
She nodded. “I went to the apartment, too.”
“By yourself?” It was dangerous under the viaduct at night.
“He said he might clean it out. But there was no answer.”
“What about school? Maybe he falls asleep in the library, he’s behind in his studies because of me and his father.”
“Sal, something’s wrong. You said you were out all night—”
“No, I was with Bebe.” Benno thought for a moment. “I got an idea,” he told her, trying to hide his concern. “Don’t worry about nothing.”
He gave her a hug, kissed her on the side of the head and then he left the store to go see Mimmo.
CHAPTER FORTY
And there was Frankie Fortune in Mimmo’s usual spot in the candy store, reading the bad news in the morning paper, his handsome face saggy and worn, the California tan all gone. His suit was wrinkled.
Meanwhile, Tutti was drinking coffee from a container. He hoisted out of a chair when Benno entered.
“Where’s Leo, Frankie?” Benno asked.
Fortune said, “Maybe he’s at the fuckin’ synagogue.”
There was nobody behind the counter and there weren’t any kids wasting time on the funnies and pinball before school.
Fat Tutti locked the door.
“Now I know it’s you,” Benno told him. “What a dumb play.”
Fortune said, “Sit down, Sal.”
“I like it fine where I am.”
“Suit yourself,” Fortune replied. Then he looked at Tutti, who grabbed Benno by the shoulders and jammed him into a rail-back chair.
Benno adjusted his glasses. “Something’s grinding you down, Frankie. You need a vacation and I don’t mean Canada.”
Fat Tutti smacked Benno so hard his hat flew off.
Fortune said, “You want to see Ding, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Benno stared across the table.
“Your buddy’s a Jew rat bastard, Sal. The government comes to his house.”
“You know that, huh?”
“And so I say you’re a rat bastard, too.” Fortune pointed at him.
“Me?” Benno raised his voice in frustration. “The feds are squeezing Bebe about the suitcase he gave you in Cuba and I’m in the middle.”
“He gave me? If that’s so, I should be on the witness list.”
“For one, you was on the witness list in Hollywood and two, you ain’t on it in New York because we ain’t rolled on you, Leo and me. Jesus, Frankie. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Benno was furious, but what could he do? He slugs everybody and Bell pays. “You know something? The guy nobody can trust, Frankie, is you. You turned me into a bagman. You put me next to Pellizzari when he got popped. You left me in Hollywood when the feds came and you took the suitcase from Bebe.”
“Yeah, but it was you who embarrassed Bruno in his neighborhood, breaking his fuckin’ window over a few Gs. You put yourself on the map.” Fortune made a big deal out of closing the newspaper. “So you’ve got to pay.”
Here it comes, Benno thought.
“Anthony’s been good to you. Am I right?”
“Well, I don’t see he tried to get me killed or nothing.”
“You’re his guy?”
Benno laughed. “I don’t think he remembers me if I sat on him.”
“Don’t be modest, Sal.”
“Leo, Frankie. How do I get Leo?”
“Easy. You take out Dunney.”
Benno snapped back. “What?”
“You put down Dunney.”
“Says who?”
“Who’s testifying on the television next week?”
“Mr. Corini wants Dunney hit?” Benno shook his head. “That don’t make sense.”
“Nobody sees it coming.”
“What, I walk into the courthouse—”
“Dunney’s on the six o’clock back to Washington tonight out of Pennsylvania Station. He’s in a crowd, people rushing home, maybe he’s got somebody at his back, maybe he don’t. You put one behind his ear and Tutti pulls you out of the madhouse. You’re back on Polk Street before nobody knows you were there.”
“I’m hitting Dunney with Tutti?” Scowling, he turned, looked up at the big fat bodyguard and said, “This is a good idea?”
Tutti made a circle in the air, telling him to face Fortune.
“Otherwise, Ding goes off the viaduct,” Fortune said. “Two hundred feet and he lands on his head. Suicide. He’s so confused—his father’s dead, and now he’s a Jew.”
Benno thought, Who’s got more to live for than Leo? Imogene, school, a chance to get away from these mooks.
“Give me what you got in your pockets,” Benno said.
“Nobody’s paying you, Sal. Getting Ding—that’s the pay out.”
“You putting your money with me says I’m coming home. Tutti shoots me in the noodle in the train station and the money goes to the cops. I know the game, Frankie. You couldn’t bear it.”
When Fortune turned over $800, Benno said, “The other pocket.” He wound up with $2,200 and change.
“I ain’t using my uncle’s gun,” he said.
“Tutti takes care of that.” Then Fortune made this gesture with his chin that told Benno he could stand. “Don’t be cute, Sal. Dunney lives and Ding dies. Semplice.”
Simple for you, Benno thought as he retrieved his fallen hat.
Fortune ambled behind the soda fountain to use the mirror. He looked at Tutti. “Cool him down,” he said as he turned on the water t
o wash his face.
Tutti jostled Benno toward the back room and a wooden storage unit maybe six feet high and wide enough for cartons of ice cream, soda, some hamburger and franks, like one of those Hollywood saunas in reverse. As Tutti shoved him, Benno figured the icebox couldn’t be much colder than it was outside, and Fortune don’t want him frozen stiff if he was killing Dunney. Benno saw that maybe the icebox could buy him time to figure out how to help Leo, given that Fortune had already let him know they had him down by the viaduct, no doubt with Boo, that Frankenstein-looking fuck.
Tutti pulled back the handle. The heavy door swung open with a groan. “In,” he said.
A blast of cold air smacked Benno in the face. Through the fog he saw, tucked in a corner, Mimmo, his hat up on his head, his sunglasses at a strange angle, his throat slit from ear to ear, brown blood stains all down the front of his shirt.
“Here you go, Sal,” Tutti said, grabbing Benno’s arm.
Fat Tutti shoved him toward the body and then he yanked the door tight, padlocked it, too.
After a while, Benno turned sideways. To a freezing corpse, he said, “What’d you think was going to happen, Mimmo?” He figured the guy was lucky they couldn’t kill him twice.
The calls began arriving at Ree’s hotel in Lourenço Marques, Mozambique, shortly after noon. The operator, who spoke English with a Portuguese accent, did as she was instructed: She told Marsala Miss Ree was at work in the jungle where she could not be reached for several days. On the fifth try, Marsala offered her $1,000 to “drive a Jeep, ride a camel, do whatever the hell it is you people do and tell her I need to speak to her now.” The man sounded so desperate that she almost put the call through to the actress’s room upstairs, where she was resting after a hectic morning.
Ree’s agent sent a cable that arrived last night as she, along with the picture’s male lead, the female costar and the director, returned from dinner. “Bill implicated at Senate hearing. Trouble ahead. Will advise ASAP. Mal.”
Not a half hour earlier, the director, a grizzled Hollywood veteran who’d relish his time on the veld, said, “Ree, I need you happy and carefree. Your smile brings this picture to life.”
Which was true. Earlier, the blonde female costar, whose character was as prim and dour as Ree’s was salty and bright, said, “You wouldn’t consider trading parts, would you?”
The male lead grabbed a handful of Ree’s ass. “Rehearsal, my dear,” he said with a trademark wicked grin.
Then the cable.
“Oh, Bill,” she said as she retired to her room and began to undress. She thought to call him in New York but fatigued from travel, she fell asleep.
The next morning was dedicated to an early safari across the border in Tanganyika. She thought of Marsala the moment she awoke and was eager to reach him. But as she was about to shower, a knock on her door brought another cable from Weisberg. “Bill dropped by Chesterfield. Record deal gone. Tour? Stand by. Avoid press. Mal.”
She couldn’t understand if Weisberg was telling her not to read the papers or to dodge calls from reporters. She wondered if Bill was screaming at the Hampshire Hotel staff or curled up on the carpet in a fetal position. Looking at the liquor cabinet, she almost broke the promise she’d made herself not to drink before noon.
“I heard your singer’s past is catching up to him,” said the male lead as they boarded a Jeep for the trip to the heliport. “Don’t worry. There’s enough out here to keep you occupied.” By 10 o’clock—two in the morning back in New York—they were spying on a pride of lions in the bush, the females lounging in shade trees. Two hours later, a herd of zebras galloped across the plain perhaps 200 yards from where the cast and crew enjoyed lunch. The sky was endless, a perfect baby blue.
Marsala told no one he was fleeing to Los Angeles. Enna, who catnapped in his office, found out when he arrived at the Hampshire House. From the lobby, he telephoned his boss at the agency and then called Corini, who told him to come to his apartment on Central Park West.
Corini met him at the elevator, closing his apartment door behind him like he had guests. Annoyed, he resembled an older version of the thug he’d once been.
“What did he say?” he snapped.
“I haven’t spoken to him since he left New York.”
“Rico, what the fuck did he say to Dunney?”
“He said you run nightclubs.”
“What about Carlo?”
“He’s like an uncle.”
“You’re saying he didn’t sing?”
“He gave up Benno.”
“Who?”
“The delivery boy. The kid who got your money back.”
Corini shook his head slowly and made a face like he could spit.
Enna said, “I’ll book Joey Aaron at the club. All right?” The comedian ran around like a 2-year-old on sugar, made like a walrus with chopsticks in his mouth, told a few moss-covered jokes and sang a couple of tunes. Obnoxious, but he went over.
“Tell the press Bebe was fired.”
“We could put it on his sore throat,” the agent suggested.
“Fired,” he said angrily. “And you dump him face-to-face. Then you go see Geller’s son at the Sandpiper and come up with another singer for the resort.”
Enna waited for further instruction. Hearing none, he said, “Good luck on Monday, Anthony.”
Corini shook the agent’s hand, then he pressed the elevator button. “Those Washington bastards are going to find out I ain’t Mimmo or Bebe. They won’t lay a glove on me.”
In the lobby, the doorman flagged Enna a cab cruising the sunny, frigid avenue.
“LaGuardia Field,” he told the driver. He was thinking Corini was underestimating his opponents.
They let Benno out of the icebox at noon. Fat Tutti told him to call his aunt and say he’s all right and if he wants to sleep, sleep. But you ain’t leaving and we’re pulling out at 4 o’clock.
“What, no lunch?” Benno said as he sat on cartons of Butterfingers in the storeroom. “Go to my uncle’s and—”
“Shut up, Sal,” Tutti told him.
Benno smiled. If he was hungry, it meant Fat Tutti was starving, the guy ate enough for six. “Tell me you ain’t in the mood for a little calabrese, a nice piece of provolone, some olives, hot peppers…”
Instead, Tutti had Nunzie deliver two of those Irish pizzas. “No thanks,” Benno said, turning away. He had himself some M&Ms.
At twilight, they went toward a cloud gray Pontiac.
“Drive,” Tutti said.
“No.” He pointed to his glass eye. “I want you on my good side.”
“Sal…” Then Tutti said, “Fuck it. Let’s go and get this done.”
Benno jumped in the passenger seat and Fat Tutti, his stomach pressed against the wheel, steered north behind St. Matty’s and toward the viaduct. Benno looked out the window and sure enough, he saw a light shining in the top floor of Bell’s flop, meaning somebody was home and it wasn’t Imogene O’Boyle.
“You got the gun, Tutti?”
Heavy traffic funneling toward the Lincoln Tunnel made them crawl. “Don’t you ever shut up, Sal?”
“I ain’t said nothing since we left the house.”
They inched ahead, Tutti’s bumper ready to kiss the car in front, brake lights flashing like it’s code.
“What happens we miss the train?” Benno asked.
“We got plenty of time.”
“Says you. I see three hundred cars squeezing into one hole up there.”
“Sal, I’m telling you to shut the fuck up.”
“Maybe you should throw me out of the car.”
Tutti said, “If I had my way, you’d be dead, fuckin’ Ding, too, and for good measure I burn down your uncle’s fuckin’ store.” He looked at Benno. “How’s that?”
“Typical.”
A car on Benno’s blind side tried to inch ahead, but Tutti cut him off cold.
“I know you maybe fifteen years, Tutti, and I ain’t heard yo
u say so much. Maybe this thing’s got you in knots like Frankie. Or maybe you’re jealous you ain’t the Jersey bagman. Corini don’t know you from Tonto.”
“Jealous of you when maybe there won’t be no you by tomorrow?” Fat Tutti snorted. “Grow the fuck up.”
Tutti made a sharp, hard move with the wheel. Now the mouth of the tunnel was straight ahead.
Benno curled around in the seat like he was going to nap, his back to the overheated big man, Pennsylvania Station maybe 20 minutes away.
Tutti pulled the Pontiac into a carriageway hectic with taxis and impatient drivers waiting for family and friends, gasoline fumes rising.
Benno said, “You can’t park here.”
“I’m dropping you off.”
“That’s the plan?”
Tutti nodded. “I’m coming in on the Thirty-Third Street side.”
“I got to pop Dunney, find you—”
“I’ll find you.”
“—find you and then we run through this gigantic fuckin’ station, upstairs like a mountain and cross traffic to the car so we can drive back to the tunnel?”
“Right.”
“That’s nuts.”
“If you do it like you’re supposed to, Sal. If not, good that you’re fucked. You deserve it.” Fat Tutti put his hand inside his coat.
“Hold on,” Benno said, nodding.
Up ahead, two cops bundled against the wind patrolled the carriageway, their nightsticks swinging and slapping their gloved hands as they chatted.
“Pull over to the left,” Benno said. “There’s a couple of cars with the engine ain’t running.”
“I’m dropping you off,” he repeated.
“Give me a second to get my head straight, OK Tutti? This is big.”
Fat Tutti huffed ugly, but he put the car in first and drove across the narrow alley, passing under a footbridge to a waiting room.
Benno took a deep breath. “Give me the piece,” he said, thinking of Leo Bell.
Tutti looked into the rearview and seeing the cops moving away, he dug again into an inner pocket and gave a .38 to Benno.