“If you weren’t so cheap, you would have taken Tatiana to Lago Como for her birthday, instead of the slightly less attractive Finger Lakes.”
Sandro glanced at Tatiana. “She has bad memories of Italy.”
“Ohh?”
“My mother died there.”
“I forgot. I’m sorry,” said Marini.
“It’s all right.”
In that incredible way that the human mind can skew instantly forward and backward through time and space, Tatiana’s mind now flashed through the moments after she, her mother, Inga, and her father, Vasily, fled down the stairs from their apartment into Prokophyeva Ulitza in Leningrad. Ironically, she now thought, rather than her parents giving her a thirteenth birthday party, the K.G.B. staged a raiding party, storming into their apartment just as she and her family were saying goodbye to Aunt Vlada and Uncle Boris. And now she was celebrating her birthday in America, with Sandro Luca and his friends. Tatiana now heard ringing. It was the phone in Sandro’s kitchen. Her flood of memories left her as she picked up the portable phone from the counter.
“Tell them nobody’s here,” said Marini.
“Hello?” said Tatiana. She listened. “It’s your answering service,” she said, handing the phone to Sandro.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Luca. I have a woman named Flor on the line,” said the operator. “She says it’s an emergency.”
“Can you patch us together?” he asked.
“One moment.” There was a pause. “Go ahead.”
“Hello, Sandro? This is Flor, Tony’s girlfriend.” Flor was affectionately known as the “cummad,” or girlfriend, of Tony “Balls” Spacavento, a client of Sandro’s. Tony Balls was a knock-around guy, and a close friend of Johnny G., the reputed head of the Gambino family. Tony Balls was part of ‘the life’, often referred to in the media as a “reputed Captain in the Gambino organized crime family”.
“Something wrong with Tony?”
Marini half-listened to Sandro’s conversation as he added copious amounts of cheese on top of the pasta as Tatiana continued to stir.
“It’s not Tony. It’s my son, Ray Ray. He was arrested early this morning,” said Flor. “I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t even get a chance to tell Tony. He’s at home—you know—I can’t get in touch with him until he gets out of the house later. I thought they’d let him go, ‘cause he’s only a kid, and he’d be home by now. But now it’s a long time, and I’m worried about him in that stinking jail with all them perverts and punks. I hope you don’t mind I called you.”
“Not a problem. What was he arrested for?”
“They went to a dance, him and some friends, and you know how kids are—he’s only eighteen, nineteen—oooh, I’m gettin’ so old—they were driving, and a cop stopped them, and there was a marijuana roach in the car. He tells me it wasn’t his. It was just in the car. It’s not his car. He was just at a dance at Xavier.”
“Your son goes to Xavier?”
“I wanted to get him away from the neighborhood kids. I know you went there, too. Tony told me. I tell my son I want him to grow up and be a big-shot lawyer like you. What’s this going to do to him, Sandro?”
Marini was making signs to Sandro that the pasta was ready. Sandro pointed to the dishes that Tatiana had warmed in the oven.
“What time was he arrested?” said Sandro.
“About two-thirty this morning.”
“Don’t worry—he’ll be all right in the system. It takes about twenty-four hours to get through.” Sandro looked at the clock on the wall. It was 10:30. “When he gets to court, I’ll be there to get him out.”
“I don’t like to bother you, but I’m worried—you know how mothers are.”
“He’s probably a little scared right now, but that’ll be good for him. It’ll keep him from making the same mistake again.”
“Where should I go? I don’t even know where to go. Do I have to bring bail money or something?”
“There’s nothing for you to do at the moment. He won’t come up until after midnight. You won’t need any money; he’ll be released in his own recognizance—without bail. I’ll make some calls and find him. I’ll even call Tony and tell him.”
“No, don’t do that. He’ll be furious. He wants the kid to be so straight. He’s more strict with him than my ex.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Ray Ray—Raymond Guitierrez. He’s really a good kid.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I’ll get him out. Tell him, if he calls you, that he’ll be out in a few hours. I’ll call you back.”
“Oh, God, tfianks, Sandro.”
“Give me your number. I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening.” Sandro wrote her telephone number on a pad and hung up the phone.
“Some dope gets himself in the slam is no reason for the pasta to get cold. Come on,” said Marini, carrying three plates of pasta out to the garden. Tatiana did the same. As Sandro emerged with more plates of pasta, greeted by cheers and applause, the phone rang again.
“Forget it,” said Marini.
Sandro put the plates down and hustled back to the kitchen.
“Sandro?” said Joe Galiber’s deep voice.
“What’s happening? Is whoever it was still hanging around?”
“I don’t think so. I can’t see anyone from my windows. I went downstairs and was looking around. I didn’t see them. Is Emma still there?”
“Yes. We’re just about to eat. If you hurry you can have some pasta.”
“I’ll go downstairs. If they’re gone, I’ll come down. Don’t wait for me. Tell Emma—don’t tell her about the tail. Just tell her I’ll be there in a bit.”
“If they’re still there,” said Sandro, “don’t worry about Emma. Angelo is going to the restaurant to count his money. He’ll drop her off. You want me to come up and meet you?”
“Not necessary. I didn’t do anything, and I’m sure as hell not about to run scared. I’ll take a look and give you a call back.”
Sandro went out to the garden and sat next to Tatiana. He told Emma that Joe was running late and would probably come down to pick her up in a little bit. Not knowing what Sandro and the Senator had discussed, she looked somewhat miffed. “He’s having a little problem,” Sandro added. “He’ll explain when he gets here.”
“A problem? What kind of problem? You’d better explain now,” said Emma, rising. She and Sandro walked into the kitchen where Sandro explained what he had spoken about with Joe. Emma nodded and said she wanted to leave immediately to go to meet Joe.
“Let’s wait to hear from him again. He said he would call shortly to see if it was for real or if he was being paranoid,” said Sandro. “No sense getting upset over what may turn out to be nothing.”
Reluctantly, Emma agreed and returned to the table, anxious and impatient.
Champagne flowed, the pasta was terrific, there was a great deal of laughter, and many toasts. Even Emma began to relax as she waited for Joe to call. Marini insisted that he prepare the salad for everyone.
“I’ll help clear,” said Sandro.
“Will you sit and relax,” said Marini, rising.
“I have to call the courthouse anyway.” Just as he stood, the phone rang.
“That damn phone of yours,” said Marini.
Sandro picked up the phone. It was the Senator. “There’s nobody here. I’m on my way,” he said.
“Emma’ll be relieved.”
“Don’t wait supper for me. I’ll catch up when I get there.”
Sandro put down the phone and searched through a phonebook he took from a kitchen drawer. He dialed a number. The phone on the other end rang many times. Finally someone picked up.
“Clerk’s office,” said a man’s voice.
“Clarence there?”
“Whose calling?”
“Sandro Luca, a friend of his.”
“I’ll see if he’s around.”
Sandro waited, listening to
the sounds of far off voices, phones ringing, drawers opening or closing.
“Sandro?” said a man.
“Hey, Clarence. How are you?” Clarence was the night Supervising Clerk of Criminal Court.
“Good, thanks. You have someone here?”
“Yeah, a kid named Ramon Guitierrez. He was arrested about two-thirty this morning. How long is it taking for them to come up?”
“It’s a light night for some reason. We’re averaging about twenty hours.”
All arrests in Manhattan, from public urinating to murder, were initially processed through the Criminal Court. Day and night, twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year, the system kept devouring, digesting, and regurgitating the bodies. Not many years back, fingerprints were hand sorted at the Bureau of Criminal Identification, in the basement of Police Headquarters on Centre and Grand Streets. Despite the manual sorting, a defendant arrested in the morning, would be arraigned by early afternoon. After the world became computerized, with fingerprints sorted electronically in Albany, the arrest process stretched out to forty eight then to seventy two hours. Detainees were stacked like cord wood in Central Booking, in every police precinct cage around the city, as the system waited for fingerprints. Finally, the Court of Appeals had ruled that detainees had to be processed within twenty-four hours, or summarily released, and somehow the system began to work more quickly.
“You think you could find an arrest number for me, and let me know when you think he might come up?” asked Sandro.
“Let me look at the computer. How do you spell his name?”
Sandro spelled ‘Guitierrez’. “Yeah, here it is. Arrest number 134566. Arrested about two-thirty this morning.”
“That’s the one.”
“Yeah, we’ve got him. You coming in?”
“Yes. Could you drop a Notice of Appearance on the desk for me, in case he comes up early?”
“For you, my man, all things can be done.”
“Black, right?” Sandro said, remembering that Clarence liked Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch.
“That’s not necessary,” said Clarence.
“Yes, it is,” said Sandro.
“You’re the best. Call me back in about half an hour.”
“Perfect.”
“You have to go to court?” Marini asked as Sandro put down the phone. The salad was ready.
“Later,” he replied, dialing the number he had written on the pad beside the phone. “Flor?”
“Is Ray Ray okay? What’s happening? I’m on pins and needles.”
“Everything’s okay. He should come up before midnight.”
“So long? My God. Where should I go?”
“To bed. There’s nothing you can do, and I’ll get him out.”
“I can’t go to bed. I’m too nervous. I spoke to Tony, he called me. He said he was going to be around the club—probably the game. You know how he is—so he said he’d meet me. Tell me where and when. Ray Ray’ll want to see a friendly face.”
“One-hundred Centre Street.”
“That’s right downtown there?”
“Exactly.”
“What time?”
“Just to be sure, around eleven.”
“Thanks, Sandro.”
After everyone had finished their pasta and salad, Senator Galiber arrived. Marini brought out a cake with an array of lighted candles on top. Every one sang “Happy Birthday” to Tatiana, “Happy Anniversary” to Sandro, and the two of them blew out the candles together. Another bottle of chilled champagne was opened, and more toasts were made. After bidding their guests good-night, Sandro and Tatiana took a cab—the Ferrari wasn’t for mere transportation—to the Criminal Courts Building.
At 100 Centre Street, Sandro brought Tatiana to the Arraignments courtroom where she sat on a bench near the front. He told her she would be able to watch the entire city pass before her eyes while he went to the holding cells to find Ray Guitierrez. The detention area, in the basement, on the north side of the courthouse, was called Central Booking, the place where every arrestee in Manhattan was brought to await arraignment.
“Guitierrez,” Sandro shouted as he stood in the center of a wide corridor between many large cells each holding at least thirty prisoners. Some of the prisoners were on the floor, others were leaning against the walls, most of them were in a state of terminal drowsiness.
“Hey, here I am. I’m your client,” a black prisoner shouted.
“Yo,” called a voice from another cell. A young man with long, dark hair, an open shirt revealing a thick gold chain around his neck, came up to the bars.
“Raymond Guitierrez?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Sandro Luca. Tony’s lawyer.”
Other prisoners were milling around in a semi-circle, curious, listening.
“You wanna give us a break or what?” Guitierrez said, turning to glare at the other prisoners.
“Yeah, big man,” said a large black man in tattered clothes, without shoes. “You lucky your feet too small.”
“Yeah, really.” Guitierrez stared at him.
The black man moved back into the crowd of prisoners.
The young man reached through the bars to shake Sandro’s hand. “How long before I get out of this rat-trap?”
“An hour or so.”
“Anything I have to do, besides say ‘not guilty’?”
“I don’t think we’ll even get that far. You ever been arrested before?”
“I had a Y.O. a few years back. Selling fireworks.”
“Youthful Offender? For selling fireworks?”
“It was a truckload, a big truckload. It belonged to somebody else, you know? But seeing how I was a kid and they’d give me a Y.O., I took the heat for the whole load.”
Sandro nodded. “I’ll go upstairs, see if I can speed things up.”
“Great. The room service here sucks.”
Very nice young man, Sandro thought to himself as he made his way up the steel staircase toward the courtroom. He thought about Flor wanting her son to be a lawyer. Probably save his family from having to pay fees to get him out of jail.
“Sandro,” Tony Balls exploded loudly from the middle of the lobby. The sobriquet derived from Tony Balls’ brazen, outspoken ways. In a sense, Tony Balls was flamboyance, personified. He was tall, thick of frame and face, with alert eyes, rough voice, manicured finger-nails; his hair was stylized, parted on the side, and combed up over the top to cover his baldness. His clothes were loud, making the same statement as everything else about Tony Balls: Here I am! So What?
In a sense, Tony Balls was a dinosaur, a throwback to an era when large men roamed the earth, men who were known as ‘wise guys’, ‘the boys’, ‘the Syndicate’, the ‘Mafia’. Those men stood on top of the crime world, keeping everything in order with military structure and discipline, containing under man-hole covers beneath their feet, all dis-organized, sleazy, penny-ante criminality. In turn, the authorities kept constant tabs on the giants of the underworld: they knew who the wise guys’ wives were, their children, their girlfriends, their meetings, their associates, their activities; they even knew what days they met their girlfriends, what they liked to drink. The world was in order then. There was an efficacy to Organized Crime; it kept its collective eyes on riff-raff criminals, kept them in their place, and the Government, in turn, kept their eyes on its members, careful that they did not overstep the invisible chalk-mark. Occasionally, examples had to be set for brazen violations, of course, but all-in-all, everyone knew his place under the sun. The world was relatively peaceful.
Then, an unnatural cataclysm occurred, a rash of prosecutions spearheaded by Gaspar Mastrangelo, a ruthlessly ambitious U.S. Attorney, a mean-spirited, obsessive compulsive, whose father had been ‘half-a-wise-guy’, who had an overwhelming need to bend over backward to “clean up the streets”. All the ‘boys’, particularly the leaders, were rounded up and prosecuted. The prosecutions succeeded up to a point: John Gott
i was convicted and given ‘life’ for conspiring to kill Big Paul Castellano in order to take over the Gambino crime family; ‘Fat Tony’ Salerno was given fifty years, which, because of his age, was, to all intents and purposes, life; Junior Persico of the Colombos was in the Can as well; so was Vic Amuso of the Luccheses. The media reported that the Genoveses were ruled by an incompetent who roamed the streets in pajamas and bathrobe, too addled to be put on trial.
By blowing the megaliths off the manhole covers that contained the cesspool of disorganized crime, law enforcement could no longer count on criminals to act with any semblance of order. Now, hordes of unknown and unorganized criminals oozed out of every sewer: Albanians, Asians, Russians, Pakistani, Uzbekestani, Ukraini—law enforcement couldn’t name them all, much less know anything about them. These new world criminals committed depredations and disappeared faster than officials could pronounce their names.
When Tony Balls returned from his seven year stint at F.C.I. Lewisburg, he found himself in a disorganized world. Nothing was the same. There was no crew to speak of left in the streets. He was outside now; his ‘friends’ were all in. There were no easy pickings. There were no friends to hang around with all day. What’s more, he was broke. If it weren’t that his wife and kid were working—Christ! his wife working. An infamia. And, what was worse, there was no respect from the suckers in the street. Working stiffs and shop-keepers didn’t run, jump, stumble at the sound of his footsteps. The world was very different, and Tony was struggling, trying to revive, or at least, relive it the way it was.
Flor, Tony’s cummad—Hispanic, with jet-black hair, bright red lips, loud pants suit—was standing next to him in the lobby of the Criminal Courts Building. During the years Flor had been with him, through meeting her family and friends, Tony Balls had learned to speak Spanish creditably. Tony Balls hugged Sandro, kissing his cheek.
“I’ll be right with you,” Sandro said to Tony Balls and Flor. “My friend Tatiana is inside.” Sandro walked to the courtroom and signaled to Tatiana. She came out to the corridor, and the two of them joined Tony Balls and Flor.
“Tatiana, meet Tony and Flor,” Sandro said,
“Glad to know you,” Tony Balls said, smiling. “Tatiana? What a name. Beaut-aful, right, Flor?”
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