The story of that incident spread throughout Harlem quickly. It wasn’t long before Money, through his network of street workers, was told what had really happened. He warned Red that his nephew was playing him for a chump, using Red’s reputation to strong-arm the kids in school. Red had then, and always since, dismissed Money’s admonitions as unnecessary concern that Red, trying to please Leslie, was too partial to Awgust.
“Still a nice place, Money,” said Red, looking around the Midnight Café. “They’ve kept it nice. You ever come here?”
“Once or twice,” he said, rolling the ice in his glass.
Red chuckled. “Who was the woman?”
“Janette Rouse?”
“Li’l Bit? Is that who you’re talking about?” Money nodded, his eyes fluttering. “No kidding? You brought Li’l Bit here?”
“After you stopped seeing her, Mister Red.”
“Hey, why not? What a gorgeous, I mean gorge-ous, girl she was. Before she got herself all strung out on that shit she was putting in her arms or nose. Li’l Bit.” Red shook his head slightly. “My, my. Pity.”
The waitress brought a drink and placed it in front of Red. “The boss wants to offer you gentlemen something to eat, compliments of the house, Mr. Hardie. What can I get you?”
“You want anything?” Red said to Money.
“If you do, Mr. Red.”
“What do you recommend?” Red said to the waitress.
“The steak tid-bits, little pieces of steak on toast, with tooth picks, and barbeque sauce. Really tasty.”
“An order of that would be fine,” said Red. The waitress left. “This thing with the Judge, about Sandro, today—,” he stopped mid-sentence. “I never knew you saw Li’l Bit.”
“It wasn’t anything. She was just missing you, I think, strung out and all, like you said. Called just to keep in touch with you, through me, make a touch, period.”
“Sure, sure. Figures. Mmmph. You take care of her?”
“Just with some money.”
“How long ago was—” Red fell silent, waiting for the waitress to finish fussing cutlery and a napkin in front of each of them. “What in hell’s wrong with that Judge, anyhow? I mean, we know her brother, some of her family, and all, for years—from over top of the hill, right?”
Money nodded again. “Nice people. But she don’t have much to do with them, especially her brother. Hell, we know her brother good. He used to play the same number, 465, every day, every day, like a clock. He told me she’d put his backside in jail, he ever talked to her about a case.”
Red clucked softly. “Strange woman.”
“I think maybe she needs a little somethin’ keep her occupied at night besides the law.”
“She’s got a husband, a professor of something, over at Columbia.”
“That’s the problem. Needs a real man ’stead of some bookish professor, kind of stir up all her vagasites,” said Money.
“How does she expect we started a nose-bleed?” Red shook his head. “What I’m afraid of, because she thinks that that’s something we did, she might do something real nasty.”
“She’s another prosecutor, sitting right up there on the bench.”
“That Dineen couldn’t fall down even if he wanted to,” said Red. “She’d pick him up ’fore his knees got a chance to bend.” The waitress brought a platter of steak tidbits to the table. “Miss, what’s the owner’s name?”
“Clarence. Clarence Pennington. Anything wrong?”
“No, no, not at all. Would you tell Mr. Pennington I’d like to see him?”
“Will do,” she smiled, turning toward the front. In a few moments, a very tall, portly man in a dark blue suit with a large expanse of white, mandarin-collared shirt, walked to Red’s side.
“Anything wrong, Mr. Hardie?”
“No, no, everything’s fine, Mr. Pennington. Just want to thank you for the snack and to tell you what a nice place you have here.”
The man’s face lit up into a broad smile. “Thank you, thank you. My pleasure.” He reached a large hand toward Red to shake his hand. “Glad you like the place.”
“I have a friend of mine, a lady, Jessye Henry,” said Red. “She’s supposed to meet me here. Probably be with a friend. Can you tell the fellow at the door to let them in. We’re not expecting nobody else, if you understand me.”
Pennington nodded. “I understand.” He looked around discretely. “The Man already tried knocking. My man at the door wouldn’t let them in without a reservation.”
Red guffawed. “Without a reservation. See that, Money. You know Money Dozier?” “I do, indeed,” said Pennington, nodding his head, shaking Money’s hand vigorously.
“You made my day, Mr. Pennington, you made my day.” Red reached and shook Pennington’s hand again. “Miss Henry’ll ask for me when she arrives.”
“It’ll be our pleasure to have any friends of yours, anytime,” said Pennington. “We’re real pleased you stopped in, real pleased.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll go tell my man at the door right now.”
Red nodded, then sipped his drink. He gazed off toward the archway and the near empty bar area beyond. After several silent moments, he shook his head.
“What are you thinking, Mr. Red?”
“Leslie.”
“Your wife?”
“Ex-wife, Money.”
“Right, right. I still think of her, always will, pro’bly, as your wife, Mr. Red.”
“The only other time I was in this place, before this fellow owned it—it was called Avalon then—was with Leslie.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I completely forgot that name until you mentioned it.”
“Leslie and I had dinner here. Was somebody or other’s party.” Red became quiet as his thoughts drifted off again.
“You ever talk to her?” Red heard Money say from a long way off.
“Mmm, Leslie? No, haven’t talked to her in a long time. She’s got no need to talk to me, no need at all.” Red sipped at his drink.
“Still married to that school teacher in Pennsylvania?”
“Principal. Her husband’s principal of the junior high school there. Place called Scotrun, Pennsylvania.”
“I know the place. I mean, I seen it on a sign on the highway when I went down to Lewisburg Penitentiary to see Ol’ Ed Reaves. You been there?”
“To Lewisburg? Yeah, sure, over the years—only visiting,” Red chuckled.
“I meant down to Leslie’s?”
“Leslie’s? No,” Red shook his head. “Passed it once when I went on a visit to see Ol’ Ed myself. Got curious. Drove past the house real quick.” Money nodded. “Man, I haven’t thought about Ed Reaves in a long time. Life was different then, wasn’t it? We were all working for Pops Bussey, remember. Numbers, a little weed. Heavy drugs were hardly around, mostly older folks. I guess they seemed older. We were just kids—”
“I remember, Mr. Red, I remember.” Money nodded.
Red chuckled. “I used, we all used to wear the gaudiest, I mean, gaudiest outfits, standing out there on the avenue, me in a purple suit, hat to match. Big Joe Galiber, had a red suit with matching hat. Man! We were gaud-eeey.”
Money chuckled. “I had electric blue, with pistol pockets.”
“Pistol pockets! Damn. Haven’t thought about pistol pockets in a hundred years.”
“Used to get our suits from Hal’s Clothes, over on Fifty-Fifth” In Harlem, “fifty-fifth” referred to 155th Street.
“That’s right, Hal’s. We certainly were colorful in those days,” smiled Red. “Just dumb kids, showing off,” he added after a moment. Money nodded. “I got my first big Cadillac convertible about then,” said Red, “purple, too. Remember the one with the big fins.”
“I remember.”
“Is it my imagination, or did we have more fun then? I don’t mean because we were young. We didn’t know a damn thing existed below Twentieth Street. But, I mean, life was simpler, we didn’t have The Man
breathing down our necks, bugging our clubs, following us around day and night, doing all the stuff they do nowadays.”
“It seems it was better then, different anyhow,” said Money. “By the way, speaking of Big Joe Galiber, I saw him the other day.”
“You did? You talk to him?”
Money shook his head. “You said we shouldn’t go near him.”
“We can’t.” Red shook his head slowly. “He’s a State Senator, went to law school at night. Doing real good. He can’t afford being seen with the likes of us any more. Shame. I miss the big cheese. But it’s better this way. Where’d you see him?”
“He was having a fund-raising thing over at some restaurant. My sister, Monay, was invited. Asked me to drive her. As I got there, he drove up. Driving a big Cadillac—”
“All black, of course,” said Red.
“It was.”
“As usual, as usual,” laughed Red. “Did you give Monay a donation for her to give him?”
“No I didn’t, Mr. Red. I didn’t know you’d want me to.”
“We ought to send him a good-size contribution, good-size. Let Monay give it to him. She don’t have to say it’s from us. He’ll know. The man is doing us proud. Send him something good.”
“Yes, Mr. Red.”
“See, that’s what I mean,” began Red. “We all had good times, hell of good times. Nowadays—maybe we were just ignorant, then, didn’t know any better. Today, everything is bigger, faster. But everything goes faster, too. Life goes faster, like in a blur. Remember when you were a kid, your birthday seemed to come around every two years or so. Now, I think I have a birthday every six months.”
“That’s the truth, Mr. Red, that’s the truth.”
“Sometimes, I can’t make myself realize that Leslie’s gone. God, Money, she was the most beautiful woman … I still see her walking on Lenox Avenue the first night I ever saw her. Stopped me cold. Just something about the way we looked at each other. Boom. I was fresh. But she must have known we had something. We started talking, started seeing each other, got married, lived here, there. She was my woman—.” He studied the far wall again.
“I know that, Mr. Red. She was the best. You know I always said that.”
“Yes, you did: yes, you did.” Red sipped his drink. “That’s all gone, now. In a blur, a flash. The product came into our lives like a flood. And everything went with it. Sure, plenty of dough, plenty of new clothes, more sophisticated people, cars, deals, schemes—but you know, somehow it all seems to be made of flimsier material. There seemed to be more quality to life back then, more friends, real friends. But I … what? Got too wrapped up in the action, women, parties, cars, and then planes, clubs, to even notice the changes.”
Money signaled the waitress for another. Red raised his hand to add one for him.
“Didn’t even have time to appreciate anything. Not even time to be home much.” Red paused for a few moments. “Leslie was a good woman. Like you said, the best. Too good for me.” He stared silently off through the archway. He didn’t even notice the waitress walk toward the table. She put fresh drinks down, smiled, then turned.
“Now everything you get, you pay through the nose for, not only with your money—with your life, your soul.” Red nodded slowly to himself. “Well, it cost then, too. Different, though. You just didn’t realize it until too late, but it cost. I guess you have to pay the piper for the dancing you do, whether you pay now or later.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Red, you pay.”
“I paid a lot, my wife, my whole way of life, for those parties. And then it was gone. Leslie threw my behind right out of her life. She was right, too, Money. We sure paid an awful price for this fancy life—” Red shook his head slowly.
“It’s a cute behind. And it still has plenty of good life left,” said a female voice behind him. Red’s mind returned to the Midnight Café, to the table where he was sitting, to the beautiful young woman just bending down to kiss his forehead. Giselle Henry wore a simple, elegant silk dress, a thin diamond bracelet glinting on her left wrist, and a diamond pendant at her neck.
“Hello, Jessye,” said Red, rising. “You look beautiful.”
Route 80, in PA. : June 18, 1996 : 4:25 P.M.
Sandro and Tatiana had driven south from Watkins Glen on Interstate 81 for more than an hour. They had skirted Scranton, Pennsylvania and were now headed east on Interstate 80. Tatiana’s brow furrowed as they approached a large green road sign over the highway. “Scotrun.”
“Scrotum? How can a city have such a name, Scrotum?” Tatiana asked.
“That’s Scotrun,” Sandro laughed.
Tatiana shrugged. “I thought scrotum was a strange name for a city.”
They were silent again as the expansion strips between the large slabs of cement highway played out a monotonous rhythm under the speeding Ferrari. Far ahead, across the wide expanse of a valley, down and up the other side of the long ribbon of Interstate, trucks could be seen moving slowly westward.
“You said something very strange, Sandro, when we were at the racing. You asked the Marshal if he came to arrest you. Why would someone like you, a famous lawyer, be thinking of being arrested?”
“It kind of goes with the territory.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means that in my work I have seen so many terrible things, met so many terrible people, I no longer think like an ordinary citizen. If we are to meet, and you are late, I don’t think, perhaps, you were stuck in traffic, missed the bus, anything like that. I think, perhaps, some madman kidnaped you, is holding you for ransom.”
“That has nothing to do with you being arrested.”
“These terrible people, after they get arrested, sometimes make up stories about their lawyers so they can make things better for themselves. When the Marshal came, I immediately thought of that as one possibility.”
“That’s a terrible way to live, thinking like this all the time,” said Tatiana.
“I agree. But it was certainly a possibility.”
“Why do you stay in this strange business, then?”
“It’s better than being a dentist, standing in one spot, looking into people’s decaying mouths all day long, or a drill press operator, pulling the handle of a machine for a paycheck that wouldn’t permit me to buy you that wonderful fox coat you want.”
“Now that you say it that way, I understand completely,” Tatiana laughed. She touched Sandro’s arm, her hand sliding to his shoulder. “How did you decide to do this kind of work in the first place?”
“It’s not interesting,” said Sandro.
“Yes, it is. When you want to know things about me, I tell you. I want to know this. How Sandro Luca starts to become a famous lawyer so he can buy Tatiana Marcovich a beautiful fox coat.”
“I told you that my father was killed in an accident unloading a ship when I was nine years old, right?”
“Yes, this was terrible,” Tatiana nodded, waiting.
“My mother’s brother, Sal Angeletti, became the man of the family.” Sandro looked out across the valley ahead, studying the flat landscape as he spoke. When Sandro envisioned Uncle Sal Angeletti, whose name had been used to identify one of Organized Crime’s major families in New York, he did not think of him as the Capo de Tutti Capi of Organized Crime, nor even the head of a single crime family, but at the head of the long table of twenty five or so people who would attend Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner at Uncle Sal’s large, brick home with white columns in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.
Boss of All Bosses: Capo de Tutti Capi, thought Sandro, his eyes steady on the interstate ahead. He hadn’t known what any of that meant, had never heard or seen any of it, until one Sunday, when he was about twelve years old, as he lay stomach down on the floor in Uncle Sal’s living room, reading the comics from the Sunday Mirror. Annette, his cousin, Uncle Sal’s only child, was on the floor next to him. Andrea Maria, Sandro’s older sister, was lying on the floor on the other side of Annette.
; “Look at this,” Sandro had exclaimed in surprise. Part of the front page of the Sunday Mirror was visible, and there was Uncle Sal’s picture. It was not a flattering picture; he held out his hand in front of his face, and his eyes were half closed, but it was definitely Uncle Sal. Next to him was a sharp-featured man with a goatee and shaved head, and a double breasted suit with a flamboyant white handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“Yes, it’s daddy’s picture,” Annette said knowingly.
Sandro looked at Andrea Maria. She, too, looked at Sandro, without surprise.
“You two knew that Uncle Sal’s picture was in the paper?”
“Mommy showed it to me before,” said Annette. “She said she wanted me to know it was there, so I could ask her any questions if I wanted.”
Sandro looked at the picture of Uncle Sal again. He read the headline. “What does it mean, ‘Reputed Big Boss takes Fifth’?” asked Sandro.
“I don’t know,” said Annette.
“Did you ask Aunt Tess?”
“No, I didn’t.” Annette didn’t offer any explanation as to why she had not.
“Who is the other man?” asked Andrea Maria.
“It says that he’s Joseph E. Brill, Sal Angeletti’s lawyer,” read Sandro.
Sandro was quiet as he passed a tractor trailer on the interstate. The boom of air as they sped past the big rig shook the car. “He must be doing at least seventy five,” Sandro murmured.
“And you are doing more than one hundred and five. Are there no speed limits in Pennsylvania?”
“I can see pretty far ahead at this point. And radar detectors under the hood will sound an alert if the radar police are about to ambush us.”
“Your Uncle Sal was one of the terrible people?”
“No, Uncle Sal was the greatest—a little strange, perhaps. Definitely a character. He’s the one who started me toward being a lawyer. After he took on the responsibility of my family, he made sure that I knew I was going to be a lawyer or some other kind of professional man. He made it very clear that I was never going to be like he was, or like his friends—street guys.”
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