Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  Castoro laughed.

  The three men re-entered the government vehicle and drove back toward the city. It was now about 1:15 P.M. The entire trip had taken forty minutes, so far. After they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Geraghty drove the vehicle up to Chatham Square, and was about to make a left toward Pearl Street and St. Andrews Plaza where the United States Attorney’s office was located.

  “Would you guys let me make a call to my wife?”, Tony Balls said from the back seat.

  “Hey, Tony, not for nothing,” said Castoro.

  “What’s the big fucking deal? There’s a phone booth right there, fifteen feet away.” He nodded toward a booth on the island in the middle of Chatham Square.

  “Give us a break, will you?”

  “Give me a break. One fuckin’ phone call. Come to the door with me, both of you, stand there right outside the booth.”

  “Use the portable phone here in the car.”

  “Can’t I have a little privacy? Come with me, stand outside the booth. Where the fuck am I going to go in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs?”

  “Make it quick. Go with him,” Geraghty said to Castoro. “Don’t try any funny shit, Tony.”

  “My days of being funny are over,” he said as he exited the car. Castoro held him by the elbow as they walked to the phone booth.

  Chatham Square is in the middle of Chinatown, on the fringes of Little Italy. The phone booth was red, with green metal work on the top making it look like a small pagoda.

  “You got a quarter?” he said to Castoro.

  “How you fixed for socks and underwear?”

  “I’ll give it back to you from my commissary money,” Tony Balls said, taking the quarter from Castoro with his cuffed hands. He shut the folding door of the phone booth behind him, took the receiver off the hook and let it dangle as he tried to put the coin in the slot of the phone. Tony Balls dropped the quarter. “Fuck me,” he spat aloud, squatting, opening the door with his rear end, as he tried to pick up the coin. He put it back in the slot angrily. Then picked up the receiver to listen if he had a dial tone. Suddenly, the phone made a clicking nose, and the quarter dropped down into the coin reservoir, eating the quarter.

  “Son of a fuckin’ bitch,” Tony Balls said angrily. The resignation, the abject contrition of his session with the Government suddenly disappeared, as he began to take his fury out on the telephone. He hit the coin return button several times, vigorously, violently. The coin dropped down into the coin return. He took the coin and reached up to put it into the coin slot again He quickly moved his cuffed hands down and pulled at his crotch. When he had reached up to place the coin in the slot, the revolver in his underwear almost dislodged. He moved the weapon—seeming to be scratching his private parts—then pushed the operator button.

  A female operator answered the line. “Thank you for using A.T&T. May I help you?”

  “I want to make a collect call—7-1-8-2-7-7-3 …”

  “Collect calls may be dialed directly,” said the operator. “Just push zero before the number.”

  “Dial it for me, operator? I can’t dial the phone.”

  “Sorry, sir, you must make that call directly yourself,” the voice repeated.

  “Fuckin’ nigger bitch,” Tony Balls exploded into the black plastic, pounding a finger down on the disconnect bar several times rapidly. When he released the disconnect, there was no dial tone.

  “Scum bag,” hissed the angry operator’s voice from the other end.

  “Get off the fuckin’ phone, you miserable cunt,” Tony Balls screamed, jamming down the disconnect bar again, holding it down forcefully. Castoro, outside the booth, looked quizzically at Tony Balls. Tony Balls released the disconnect bar; there still was no dial tone. “Piece of shit,” the operator’s voice said.

  “You nigger—you ought to get cancer.” Tony Balls stepped back, flinging the tethered phone receiver as hard as he could against the glass side of the booth. The receiver bounced off the glass, and hit Tony Balls in the jaw. In sheer anger he pulled the phone booth door open then slammed it violently closed, pulled it open again, slammed it closed again as hard as he could.

  “What the fuck’s going on, Tony?” said Castoro, taken aback by what he was watching.

  “Fucking operator!”

  Two Chinese men walking together stopped to watch the strange man in orange raging inside the phone booth.

  “Mind your fuckin’ business, you dumb chink bastards,” Tony shouted at the two men. They said something to each other in Chinese, walked a few steps, then stopped again to stare.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Tony Balls bellowed.

  Castoro signaled Geraghty to join him. People on the sidewalks on the far side of Chatham Square heard the shouting and began to look around.

  “We don’t need this shit, Tony,” said Geraghty.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” Tony Balls said to Castoro and Geraghty, visibly calming himself. “The fuckin’ operator was fuckin’ me around. I’m cool. Let me just finish my phone call.”

  An old Chinese woman carrying a shopping bag in each hand approached the booth and tried to enter behind Tony Balls.

  “Hey, hey,” Tony Balls shouted, “This is my booth. Emergency.” The woman stopped, staring at the weird man in the strange clothing. Tony Balls pushed the folding door closed behind him.

  The woman peered through the glass panels of the door, complaining in Chinese to the two Agents.

  Tony Balls punched the zero button, then the buttons for his wife’s work number as rapidly as he could. He waited impatiently. “Come on, come on, you operator bitch …” A tone sounded on the other end. “Come on, come on,” Tony shouted aloud again.

  “A.T. ’n T, Eric speaking,” said a man’s voice. “May I help you?”

  “Collect call,” exclaimed Tony Balls. “Jesus, now a fuckin’ faggot for an operator.”

  “You’ll have to tell me if you have a name, sir,” said the voice sarcastically.

  “Tony, Tony!”

  “You don’t have to shout, Tony, my ears are very capable of hearing, I assure you,” said the voice.

  “Get me my fucking number, this is an emergency,” Tony Balls demanded.

  “Anyone who answers, Tony?”

  “Yeah, yeah, anyone.”

  “Just a moment, Ton y,” the voice elongated the name tauntingly.

  “You wuz here, you wouldn’t be such a smart ass little faggot,” Tony Balls said as he listened to the phone ring. He heard his wife Vickie say hello.

  “Vickie, Vickie …”

  “This a collect call from Tony the pig to anyone …”

  “What?”

  “Get the fuck off the phone, you fag hard on,” shouted Tony Balls.

  “… will you accept the charges?”

  “Tony, that you? What’s the matter?” Vickie said rapidly.

  “Will you accept the charges, madam?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course. Tony, what’s the matter, Tony?”

  “Fucking faggot,” Tony shouted into the phone.

  “Up yours,” said the operator.

  The old Chinese woman moved around to another side of the booth, peering inside. She put down one of her shopping bags and hit the glass panel feebly with a frail fist, a continual flow of Chinese issuing from her almost toothless mouth.

  “I just hadda call you,” said Tony Balls.

  “What’s that shoutin’?”

  “Some old Chinese dame outside.”

  “I can hardly hear you. Tell her to shut up or something. Where are you that a Chinese lady’s shouting?”

  Tony Balls pulled open the door of the booth. “Shut the fuck up,” he shouted at the woman.

  “Hey, Tony,” said Castoro.

  “Give me a fuckin’ break, okay?” he said as he slammed the door shut again.

  “I don’t have time, Vickie,” Tony Balls said into the phone.

  “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  “It’s just all
over. It’s just finished …”

  “Talk louder, Tony, I can’t understand you.”

  “I just wanted you to know that I love you anyways, Vickie,” he shouted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better husband. I’m sorry about everything, and I forgive you for what you done to me.”

  “About what? What the hell are you talkin’ about Tony?”

  “It’s all over. My whole fuckin’ life. I’m mala figura. Nobody, none of the people, my friends, will talk to me. All they do is laugh at me. Those fuckin’ phone calls on the tapes, you and that fuckin’ disgusting piece of shit, Charlie, whoever he is, him and you, doing disgusting things. And everybody knows. Everybody. Jesus! And Billy Legs! He’s got guys in the Can looking to bust my head if they find me. I can’t go nowhere. And wherever I go, people laugh at me. It’s finished. It’s over. It’s all over. Finud.”

  “Tony, stop. Take it easy. Okay, you, we got some troubles, so what? So I was listening to some piece of shit making dirty phone calls. I wasn’t foolin’ around with him. Not with nobody. Nobody’s like you, Tony. I was just lonely. Christ. I’m as ashamed as you are. More! We’ve had troubles before. You’ve had cases before. It’ll blow over.”

  “Not this other thing, with Sally. That was against the rules. Against the rules. Everybody knows the rules. And that’s against the rules. Out and out. No excuses. I know that. And now, because of it, this fuckin’ babagna, the spiru come and get me—that’s who’s got me now—I’m turned into a rat, a fucking rat!”

  “You’re not a rat Tony. Everybody knows that.”

  “I am now, Vickie. Can you imagine? The government wants to know about me, about babagna, about Russians, next they’re going to be asking me about my friends. You know that’s where this is going. No question. That’s where this is going. It’s all over, Vic, all of it, over!”

  “Tony, you can talk to Billy—”

  “No, I can’t. What I done is unforgivable. That’s the way it is.” Tony cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder as he reached his two cuffed hands into the front of his jump suit. He felt the small handle of the .38 revolver.

  “You been friends with Billy all your life. Okay. You made a mistake—”

  “This is a mistake that people like me oughta know better than.”

  “You know, they know, those friends of yours, that everybody’s doin’ it. Everybody’s doing drugs. Johnny G’s brother done it. Those rules, they were written for the dinosaurs.”

  “They’re still the rules,” said Tony balls. His fingers rubbed the smooth metal of the weapon inside his jump suit.

  “Those rules of yours are a lot of old Moustache Pete bullshit, Tony. That’s what those rules are. They don’t put nothing in your pocket. Not in mine. Not in yours. We had to live. We needed the money. Don’t do nothin’ because of the phone calls. I made a mistake Tony, a mistake. But I didn’t do nothin’ with nobody, Honey. You know that from the calls. It was just stupid talk.”

  “Not so much the drugs. Not the calls, either. Not Sandro—listen, be sure to give Sandro back his brief case. And his pen. The briefcase is in the bedroom, next to my side. The pen is inside. It’s important.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him and tell him I got it.”

  “And now they want to know about Russians. What the hell do I know about Russians? Because some rat they’re using tells them about Russians, and they see me with them once or twice, they think I know something. But it’s not that, either. It’s Billy’s kid. I’m indicted, in a conspiracy with Billy Legs’ kid! And we’re gonna go to the Can. He’s going to the Can. And I’m going to get killed in the Can because of it. One way or the other, it’s all over Vickie, no matter where I turn, don’t you see? It’s all over.”

  “Sandro will work something out …”

  “Nothing can be done. It’s all fuckin’ over!” Tony Balls shouted as he pulled the revolver from his jumpsuit. Geraghty and Castoro jumped back when they saw the weapon. They took out their own weapons.

  “Come out of there, Tony,” commanded Geraghty.

  Tony Balls turned his back on the two Agents, wedging himself back against the middle of the door to the phone booth so the Agents couldn’t open it.

  “I shoulda kept the kid as far away from it as possible. I just didn’t think. It’s my fault. It’s my fault,” shouted Tony Balls. “The kid’s going to the Can because of me. Billy’s right. He oughta break my fuckin’ legs, my head. If it was my kid, I’d do the same thing.”

  “Put the gun down and come out of there, Tony!” Geraghty commanded again. The two agents were on either side of the phone booth, pointing their weapons at Tony Balls.

  “Who’s that shouting now?” said Vickie.

  “It’s not important, Vickie. It’s all over. Don’t you understand? I’m a laughin’ stockin’. I’m a fuckin’ laughin’ stockin’. My whole life is in the shit house.”

  “Everything can be straightened out, Tony. I’ll come to see you. We’ll talk about it. We’ll talk to Billy. Things happen. People in this life do stupid things sometimes. I’ll call his wife, Rosie. She’ll talk to Billy.”

  “He ain’t goin’ to listen to no women, not in this thing.”

  “Talk to me, Tony. Nothin’ is that bad, Tony. Nothin’.”

  Tony was looking at the revolver. He heard voices. Vickie’s voice. The Agents. The Chinese lady. A couple of passersby stopped to watch the two men pointing weapons at the man inside the little pagoda.

  “Tony?”

  “Tell Theresa … tell Theresa that her Daddy loves her … tell her …” Tears choked Tony’s voice.

  “Tony? Tony? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “I can’t live like a mala figura A disgratiad. It’s all over. It’s my fault. You stupid, son of a bitch …” he shouted at his reflection on the inside of the glass of the phone booth. Tony lifted the revolver, jamming it hard, angrily against his right temple, simultaneously pulling the trigger. A loud sound, like the backfire from a truck, echoed across Chatham Square.

  “Tony?” Vickie shouted.

  People on the far sidewalk continued to walk, the lights on the restaurant across the street from the little pagoda phone booth were still flashing yellow and red Chow Mein, men were still talking at the newsstand on the far side of the square, traffic flowed across the intersection. But near the pagoda, the old Chinese lady had stopped talking. The two Agents lowered their weapons as Tony Balls’ body inside the phone booth slid down slowly, his back smearing red liquid on the inside of the glass as it descended, pressed against the inside of the door.

  “Tony. Tony. Answer me, Tony.”

  21 Club : August 27, 1996 : 5:15 P.M.

  The 21 Club on 52nd Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues (Sixth Avenue is actually named the Avenue of the Americas, which no New Yorker, with hardly the time to wait for a traffic light to jay walk, calls it) has been one of the most exclusive restaurant-bars in New York City since Prohibition. Surrounded by a tall iron fence, with colorfully painted iron jockey statues on either side of the entrance, customers are ushered into a foyer, immediately beyond which is the sanctum sanctorum, a small dining area where the elite sit at small, red checkered cloth covered tables. To the right of that sanctum is a much larger area with a long wooden bar across one side of the room. The entire ceiling over the bar and the large dining area is filled with hanging models of planes, ships, signs, flags, and other memorabilia. While the decor and the table cloths appear the same in both areas, for those who are ‘in’, anything beyond the sanctum is Siberia.

  The bar was filled with the sound of two deep, shoulder to shoulder, men and women, drinking, smoking, laughing, chattering, letting off steam at the end of their work day or warming up for an evening on the town.

  “What’s yours?” a cheery faced bartender with a bow tie and a bright vest to said to Michael Becker over the heads of the bar crowd.

  “Stoli, rocks, and—” he turned to Awgust Nichols.

  “Alize.�
�

  The bartender nodded and put two glasses on the bar.

  “You wanted certain things to happen. I would think that at this point, everything should be pretty much falling into line according to your expectations?” Becker said to Nichols.

  “Here you go”, said the bartender, passing the drinks to someone in the crowd at the bar, who in turn, handed them to Becker. “That’ll be seventeen,” called the bartender.

  “All’s starting to come together,” replied Nichols, taking a twenty out and passing it hand to hand, toward the bartender. “Keep it. However—”

  “Thank you, gents,” the bartender smiled, looking toward his next customer.

  “Let’s just enjoy the drink for a minute—no business. We’ll take a walk when we finish our drinks and talk.”

  “Cool,” said Awgust, nodding, looking at all the suits and skirts sitting at the tables, or crowding the bar. “Some joint.”

  “Never been here before?” said Becker.

  “No. I heard of it. Who hasn’t?”

  “It used to be a speakeasy, in the old days,” said Becker.

  “Really?”

  “Used to drink downstairs—there are still secret rooms down there, behind the walls. Prohibition went out the window, and all the drinkers came upstairs. I think some of these characters have been standing in the same place at the bar ever since.”

  Nichols laughed. “This fancy joint, used to be a speakeasy? Right in the middle of town?”

  “Right here. Downstairs. Would you like to take the tour?”

  “What’s the tour?” said Nichols.

  “They have a tour of the hidden rooms. For a twenty, Paco, one of the Captains’ll take us around.”

  “Yeah, hey, I’d like to check that out,” said Nichols.

  Becker motioned to the bartender for another. Nichols nodded for another, as well. “We’ll finish our drinks, and then I’ll get Paco to take us.”

  “Cool.”

  “Notice how thick the walls are,” said Paco, one of the tuxedoed Captains from the floor. He stood in front of Becker and Nichols in a corridor of the cement walled cellar. “Go ahead, hit the walls.”

  Nichols tapped the side of his fist on the cement wall. “Mmmm, pretty solid.”