Whacking Jimmy: A Novel

by William Wolf

  “Great, I’l see you then. And whatever the bil comes

  “Great, I’l see you then. And whatever the bil comes to, bring me a receipt.”

  “A receipt? What for?”

  “The IRS,” said Catel o. “This was a business lunch. It’s deductible.”

  Chapter

  Chapter

  Five

  BOBBY SPOTTED MENDY Pearlstein as soon as he walked through the door. It wasn’t hard. There were maybe two hundred people packed into Trailers, a club in downtown Ann Arbor. Among the townies and a smat ering of students Mendy stood out; no one else was wearing a straw Panama, a yel ow sport jacket, a white tie on a black shirt, or a pair of black-and-white shoes.

  From the bandstand Bobby watched Mendy say something to Eddie, the bartender. Eddie laughed, took Mendy’s hat, and poured him a drink. Bobby was impressed by how relaxed the old guy looked. He’d seen plenty of old people come into clubs; mostly they hung around for a minute or two with an uncomfortable expression on their faces and then split. The ones who stayed got plastered and acted pissed-o at everybody else for being young. But this guy just leaned against the bar like it was his regular spot, sipping a whiskey and moving his head to the beat of “Driving Wheel.” Bobby decided he must be a promoter or a club owner.

  At the break Bobby went over and introduced himself.

  They shook hands, and Mendy said, “Jeez, you guys are terrific.”

  terrific.”

  Bobby nodded his thanks and said, “We can talk in the back, it’s quieter.” He led Mendy to a table where Til ie was sit ing. “Mr. Pearlstein likes what we’re doing,” he told her.

  “Cal me Mendy.”

  Til ie looked him over dubiously. The rock business was ful of weirdos, but this one looked like a character out of Guys and Dol s.

  Mendy signaled for a round of drinks and said, “What do you cal your combo?”

  Bobby kept his smile to himself and said, “Cold Duck.

  We do a lot of our own stu and some R&B classics—

  Lit le Johnny Taylor, Hank Bal ard, Lit le Wil ie John—”

  “Poor Wil ie,” said Mendy. “He was a nice kid, but he had a complex about his height. Died in the joint.”

  “You knew Lit le Wil ie John?”

  “Sure,” said Mendy. “I had a spot near the old Flame Show Bar, the Greenwood Inn. Wil ie used to drop by every now and then.” He closed his eyes tightly, concentrating. “I guess that would have been about 1950, give or take a year.”

  “A nightclub?” asked Bobby.

  “Nah, it was a gin mil ,” said Mendy. “For hil bil ies mostly. That place was so tough I had a guy working in the basement ful -time just repairing the furniture.”

  Til ie giggled; she was stoned. “You’re just making that up,” she said.

  up,” she said.

  “Aw,” said Mendy.

  “You ever manage any R&B acts?” Bobby asked.

  “Closest I ever came was this one time, I won fteen percent of Jackie Wilson shooting craps.”

  “The Jackie Wilson?”

  “He wasn’t big back then. I traded my share of him to a bookie named One-Eye Finkel for a used DeSoto.”

  The drinks arrived and Mendy raised his glass. “Here’s to the memory of Wil ie John,” he said. “May God bless him wherever he’s at.”

  A pudgy young black man with a pu y Afro came up and said, “Hey, Bobby, starting time.”

  Bobby said, “This is our drummer, Carver Cleveland.”

  “You got a nice hand,” said Mendy.

  Cleveland said, “Thanks. Come on, baby, they don’t pay no overtime in this place.”

  Til ie watched Bobby go up to the smal stage. Then she turned to Mendy and said, “What kind of shows do you put on?”

  “Me? I never put on a show in my life. I’ve got a lit le diner down by the bal park. The Bul Pen Deli.”

  “Bobby thinks you’re a promoter.”

  Mendy opened his brown eyes wide and said, “Jeez, what gave him that idea?”

  “You know Bobby’s mother, don’t you?” said Til ie with stoned insight.

  Mendy nodded.

  Mendy nodded.

  “She’s the one who sent you over here, I bet.”

  “Annet e? Nah, I haven’t spoken to her since just after Roberto died. Bobby’s dad.”

  “So what, you just happened to stumble in the door?”

  “Aw,” said Mendy. “Bobby’s grampa told me about him and I decided to catch his act.”

  “Bobby know that? That his grandfather sent you?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tel him, is al .”

  “But you wil ?”

  “Course.”

  Bobby played a blues ri and began to sing a slow song about his best friend’s woman. “This is one he wrote,” said Til ie.

  Mendy nodded, rose, and held out his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

  There was no dance oor in the Trailer. Here and there people swayed in their seats, but no one was on their feet.

  Til ie giggled. “Sure, why not?”

  Mendy took Til ie in an old-fashioned clutch, right arm around her waist, left arm extended. She was an inch or two tal er than he was, but he held her easily and rmly, leading her with surprising grace through a step she guessed was the fox-trot. They danced between the tables in the back of the room, Mendy’s smooth cheek pressed against hers. “You got a nice light step,” he said.

  “And you used to dance with Ginger Rogers, right?”

  They both laughed.

  They both laughed.

  “Hey, watch it, gramps, you bumped my arm,” a voice said. Mendy turned and saw a beefy townie in his late twenties, with a red crew cut and a puddle of spil ed beer on the table in front of him.

  Mendy said, “Sorry, buddy.”

  “Yeah, buddy,” said one of the men sit ing with the crew cut. There were three of them, and they were drunk.

  “Hey, you fucked up his tuxedo,” said the other. “Least you can do is pay the cleaning bil .”

  “Aw, let’s just have a good time,” said Mendy.

  “He your sugar daddy? You make him take his teeth out before he goes down on you?” said the crew cut.

  “That’s not the right kind of language to use in front of a lady,” said Mendy evenly.

  “What you gonna do, wash my mouth out with soap?”

  Til ie made eye contact with Eddie the bartender. She saw him move around the bar, and she said, “Big ugly motherfucker. I bet you kil ed lit le babies in Vietnam, didn’t you, you muscle-bound chicken shit.”

  The crew cut clambered to his feet, but Eddie intercepted him. “Time to leave, fel as,” he said calmly.

  They looked at the Colt. 45 in Eddie’s left hand, climbed noisily out of their seats, and swaggered out the door.

  “Sorry,” said Eddie. He knew who Bobby’s grandfather was.

  “You done that like a pro,” Mendy said to him.

  “Thanks. I’l send you over some drinks.”

  “Thanks. I’l send you over some drinks.”

  They went back to their table. “You al right?” asked Til ie.

  Mendy blinked. “You got quite a way with words.”

  Til ie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re adorable, you know that?” Grass and adrenaline had given her a very nice buzz.

  Mendy smiled and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “You ain’t bad either, toots,” he said. “You’re the berries.”

  The last set ended at one. “How about we hit a blind pig somewheres?” Mendy suggested.

  “What’s that?” asked Til ie.

  “It’s what you cal an after-hours joint.”

  “Blind pig,” repeated Bobby. “Cool expression.”

  “Let’s just go back to our place,” said Til ie. “It stays open al night, and the booze is already paid for.”

  “You go ahead,” Bobby said. “I’l give Carver a hand breaking down the equipment and meet you a
t home.”

  Til ie fol owed Mendy into the parking lot. Ten yards away the crew cut, a quart bot le of Blatz in his hand, was urinating on her van.

  “Get away from there, you asshole,” she snapped.

  The crew cut turned and faced them.

  “And put that thing in your pants.”

  “You put it in.”

  Mendy said, “Aw, buddy, it’s late. Why don’t you just go home?”

  “Why don’t you suck my dick, grampa?” He waved the

  “Why don’t you suck my dick, grampa?” He waved the bot le drunkenly.

  Bobby walked out of the bar carrying his Fender in a leather case. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Hey, it’s Fabian,” said the crew cut.

  Bobby made no reply. He had an expression on his face that Mendy couldn’t read.

  “Let’s take a ride,” the crew cut said to Til ie.

  She shot him the finger and said, “Take a ride on this.”

  The crew cut took a step forward and said, “You talk like a ve-dol ar whore, you know that? Is that what you cost, five dol ars?”

  Bobby stepped in front of Til ie.

  “What’s your problem, Fabian? Five bucks ain’t enough?”

  Bobby said, “Hey, I don’t want any trouble.” His left hand was outstretched, beseeching. His right held the Fender by the neck.

  “Too fucking bad,” the crew cut said. He moved toward Til ie. Bobby swung in a short arc. The guitar hit the crew cut on the side of the head with a thump, like a basebal bat smashing a pumpkin. He crumpled to the asphalt.

  “Cocksucker, I’l get you for this,” the crew cut mumbled.

  Bobby knelt down next to him. “Fuck with me and I’l kil you. I’m tel ing you this in al sincerity.” Then he slapped him across the face, bringing tears to his eyes.

  Mendy blinked and swal owed hard. He had something Mendy blinked and swal owed hard. He had something to report to Don Vit orio. His grandson was a Tucci.

  Chapter

  Chapter

  Six

  MENDY PUT A dish of scrambled eggs and salami in front of Bobby. It was four in the morning, and the Bul Pen Deli was empty. They had dropped Til ie o , but Bobby had been too wired to sleep. He and Mendy had driven down to Detroit together, Bobby gunning his Porsche up to 110

  and talking nonstop.

  Bobby ate a forkful of eggs and said, “Hey, not bad.

  Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “Jackson.”

  “Mississippi?”

  “Prison. I learned in the joint.”

  “What were you in for? I mean, if you don’t mind saying.” It was the kind of question he had been raised never to ask.

  Mendy shrugged. “Nah, that’s okay. Which time?”

  “How many times were there?”

  “Two,” Mendy said. “Once for rebombing cleaning plants back in the thirties and another time for boosting some jewels. I did a couple years when I was a kid, too, but I don’t count that ’cause it was juvenile farm. Hey, you want something to drink?”

  “Maybe cof ee,” Bobby said.

  “Maybe cof ee,” Bobby said.

  “I’d skip the co ee if I was you,” Mendy said. “You’re het up enough already.”

  “I haven’t hit anyone since grade school,” Bobby said.

  “I’ve never been in a real fight in my life.”

  “Wel , you showed good stu ,” said Mendy. “I got a bot le of Seagram’s, you want a snort?”

  “I’d rather smoke a joint,” said Bobby, extracting one from his shirt pocket. “If it’s cool with you.”

  Mendy frowned. Bobby said, “Hey, it’s a lot bet er for you than booze.”

  “Aw, it’s not that,” said Mendy. “I just don’t think it’s such a hot idea, you walkin’ around with drugs in your pocket.”

  “What are they going to do, arrest me for possession of a couple joints? They’d have to lock up the whole campus.”

  Mendy shrugged. “You’re not a regular col ege boy. You got a be more careful.”

  ‘“Cause my last name is Tucci?’ ” said Bobby, lighting the joint.

  “You got a lot of your grandfather in you, y’know?”

  “You two are old friends, huh?” said Bobby.

  “We was in prison together, my rst stretch. He was up there for, I think, armed robbery. Yeah, I know him pret y good.”

  “I hardly know him at al ,” said Bobby.

  “That’s too bad. More eggs?”

  “That’s too bad. More eggs?”

  “No, thanks. Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Hey.”

  “Are you in the mafia?”

  “Nah,” said Mendy. “There ain’t no Jews in the ma a.

  Besides, I’m retired.”

  “But you were a mobster.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “A boss like my grandfather?”

  Mendy laughed. “I’m a knock-around fel a,” he said.

  “You’re grampa’s a bril iant man.”

  “That’s one word for it,” said Bobby.

  Mendy frowned. “You look around Detroit these days, you see a mess. But when your grampa was coming up, this place was hopping. Booze coming across from Canada, cars rol ing out of the factories, money everywhere. I bet there was ve hundred cathouses and carpet joints downtown. Nightspots, fancy restaurants, burlesque houses, opium dens—”

  “Opium dens?”

  “Sure, in Chinatown.” Mendy shut his eyes for a moment, a sweet memory animating his face. “We used to boost cars down there on Saturday nights and sel ’em back to their owners on Monday. See, back then they didn’t have no autotheft insurance.”

  Bobby laughed.

  Bobby laughed.

  “Seriously.” said Mendy “In those days everybody wanted a piece of Detroit. Lansky, Luciano, Capone, al of

  ’em. Henry Ford had his own private army under Harry Bennet . Then later there was the union guys like Ho a.

  The biggest hoods in America fought over this city, but it was your grampa who walked away with the pie. Hey, speaking of pie, you want some? I got apple and blueberry.”

  “No, thanks,” said Bobby. Al his life he had avoided the secrets of the Tuccis. Now here was Mendy the Pearl revealing them with the blithe unconcern of a man gossiping over the back fence. “I wonder how many people my grandfather had to kil to get his pie.”

  Mendy gave Bobby a mild look and said, “There’s no statute of limitations on that.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Lemme tel you a story,” said Mendy, resting his elbows on the counter and assuming a con dential tone.

  “There’s a guy used to come in here every morning for breakfast. Back in Pro’bition he did the job for the Purple Gang on a sthinker named Hyman Rivkin. A sthinker means a stool pigeon in Yiddish.

  “Anyways, this guy got caught and spent years in the joint. When he come out he liked to have his breakfast here, shooting the breeze with the guys. He was a nice fel a, good sense of humor, and he knew a mil ion stories.”

  stories.”

  “Just your average, ordinary murderer,” said Bobby.

  Mendy shook his head. “What the hel , he paid the price. He was entitled, y’know? Anyways, about ve years ago a story gets published in the paper. Some professor says he found out that, back in the thirties, a warden up at Jackson let a guy out one night to do a mob hit on a Detroit police captain.

  ‘That morning this guy I mentioned comes in for breakfast. One of the other fel as asks him wasn’t he up at Jackson at the time? This guy just gets up and walks out.

  That was the last time he ever came in here. I see him around the neighborhood. He’s eighty years old, but he stil dresses sharp as a tack. Has his breakfast someplace else, I guess.”

  “You’re saying this guy is the one who kil ed the police captain?”

  Mendy shrugged. “Nah, I dou
bt it. But see, since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, that’s the one subject that talking about it don’t make sense.”

  “In other words my grandfather’s a murderer but you don’t want to say so.”

  “You want some more eggs?”

  “I guess you’d say it’s just business.”

  Mendy sighed and said, “Tonight, when you smacked that guy with your guitar, you coulda kil ed him, y’know?”

  “That’s dif erent. It was self-defense.”

  “That’s dif erent. It was self-defense.”

  “Self-defense? He never even laid a hand on you.”

  “You were there. You think I just happened to at ack a giant biker for the fun of it?”

  “Course not. But a judge might not look at it the same way. See, he comes from a di erent world, maybe he ain’t never been up against a greaser in a parking lot. So he might not understand that it was self-defense.”

  Bobby relit his joint and took a drag. “And I don’t come from my grandfather’s world, so I don’t have the right to judge him?”

  “You got the right,” said Mendy gently. “You ever been to Oakland Avenue?”

  “Never even heard of it.”

  “Oakland Avenue’s where your grampa started out,”

  said Mendy. “You oughta have a look sometimes.”

  “He barely even talks to me,” said Bobby. “I don’t think he’s going to take me on a guided tour down memory lane.”

  “Prob’ly not,” said Mendy. “He’s not feeling too good these days anyway. But you want me to, I’l do it.”

  “Why would you want to?” asked Bobby warily.

  Mendy picked up Bobby’s dirty plate and said, “Same reason I’ve done everything else my whole life. For the fun of it.”

  Chapter

  Chapter

  Seven

  JOHNNY BALDINI STOOD, trans xed, before a bin of fresh asparagus. The sight of a large young man, six foot three, 250 pounds, with a goatee and wire-rim glasses, wearing Bermuda shorts and a rapt expression as he gazed at vegetables was not as unusual at the Livingston farmers market as it would have been in a Grosse Pointe supermarket. The open-air stal s at racted the Johnny Baldinis of three counties, perfectionists wil ing to drive two hours for extra fresh arugula or individual y grown honey dews.