Whacking Jimmy: A Novel

by William Wolf

  “You were born in Detroit, and you stil talk like fuckin’

  Lit le Lord Fauntleroy,” said Tucci.

  “It wasn’t my idea to send me away to prep school,”

  said Bobby hotly. “I was just a lit le kid—”

  “Your old lady sent you away ’cause she didn’t want you around, and Roberto was too much of a sissy to stand up to her. I gured you for a weak sister like your father, but to her. I gured you for a weak sister like your father, but maybe I got you wrong. Mendy says that underneath the long hair and the faggy accent you’re a tough kid. I hope he’s right, ’cause you’re gonna need to be.”

  Bobby gave his grandfather a quizzical look. “Is it possible you just made me an apology?”

  Don Vit orio grunted. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “It’s a lit le late, but okay. I’m sorry I didn’t pay you more at ention.”

  “Thanks,” said Bobby. This time he meant it.

  “Only I didn’t come out here to make an apology,” said Don Vit orio. He leaned over and, with surprising strength, drew his grandson so close Bobby could smel the olive oil and garlic oozing from the old man’s pores. “I came to give you a warning.”

  I WONDER IF IT would be rude to ask you a question.” said Ann. She and Mendy were sit ing in the rear of the sailboat as Til ie steered in the hot July breeze. The women had stripped down to their bathing suits. Mendy had removed his sport jacket and rol ed up the sleeves of his white-on-white shirt, but he kept his fedora planted rmly on his head. “Were you real y a member of the Purple Gang? You don’t have to tel me if you don’t want to, but—”

  “That’s okay,” said Mendy. “We didn’t have no o cial memberships like the lokshen do, but sure, I bummed around with the Purples.”

  “You’l think this is awful y funny, but when I was lit le

  “You’l think this is awful y funny, but when I was lit le our nanny used to tel us, ‘Eat your supper or the Purple Gang wil come and steal it.’ ”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “Truly,” said Ann. “May I ask you another question?

  Why were you sent to prison?”

  “Which time?”

  “When your wife left you.”

  “A jewel heist.”

  Ann’s blue eyes widened. “That sounds so romantic.

  Like David Niven on the French Riviera.”

  “This one took place in the railroad station downtown,”

  said Mendy. “December of 1950. I was running an after-hours joint o Six Mile Road at the time—not a classy spot, but it made a nice dol ar and I was keeping my nose clean. Then one day I get a cal from Vit orio. He says a rabbi named Farber who works in the diamond business is coming to town with a satchel ful of stones. At rst I didn’t want any part of it. I mean, I’m forty- ve years old at the time, I got a wife, and I don’t wanna go back to the joint. But then I started thinking about it, and I decided what the hel .”

  “How much money was involved?” asked Ann in a hushed voice.

  “Half a mil ion bucks,” said Mendy. “But it wasn’t the dough. I was bored. I did it for the thril . Only it didn’t turn out so good.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened?”

  “When Farber come o the train I grabbed him and said, in Yiddish, ‘We need another Jew for a minyan’—

  that’s like a quorum. At rst he didn’t wanna do it but I told him this guy’s mother just died a few weeks ago and he’s got a say the prayer for the dead only his train leaves for Chicago in twenty minutes. Farber’s a rabbi, he can’t say no to that. I bring him over to where I’ve got a few knock-around guys I hired for ten bucks each. Soon as they see us they start davening—that means praying. What’s Farber gonna do? He starts in too, holding his satchel against his chest with both hands. After a while he forgets himself and puts the bag down between his feet. I got this kid, Shel y the Sneak, over in the corner of the station in a pair of Keds. I slip him the high sign and he comes running up and snatches the bag. Farber tries to take o after him, but I give him the trip. By the time he’s back on his feet, Shel y’s out the door.”

  “Poor man,” said Ann. “I suppose the diamonds were insured, though.”

  “Shel y runs out of the station and bunks right into a cop. Al he hadda do was pretend he’s rushin’ to catch a cab. Instead he throws up his hands and says, ‘Don’t shoot, it was al Mendy’s idea.’

  “Oh,” said Ann. “How awful.”

  “Aw, I can’t blame Shel y,” said Mendy. “He was just a kid, he panicked. I shoulda planned the escape bet er. It woulda saved me six years.”

  woulda saved me six years.”

  “Six years seems like a very long time for a robbery,”

  said Ann. “I’m no expert, but you weren’t even armed.”

  “I had a lit le bad luck on that,” Mendy said. “I got a Jewish judge.”

  Ann laughed uncertainly and said, “Is anyone else ready for lunch?” She was hungry, and she felt like a gin-and-tonic. Mendy Pearlstein was old enough to be her father, but to her great surprise she found him exciting. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her glad that her husband was in Switzerland.

  VITTORIO TUCCI SAT with Bobby on the Til mans’ screened porch and watched the lit le sailboat bob on the water.

  The sight of it sent a wave of nausea through him. He wanted to lie down with a wet towel on his head, but he wasn’t nished with Bobby yet. He summoned the wil to keep his voice strong and said, “In a few weeks, things are gonna pop around here. Maybe I’l be dead by then, but it don’t mat er, they’re gonna pop with or without me. And you’re gonna be in the middle. People are gonna come to you—your mother and her old man, Catel o, Rel i, the New York Families, and I dunno who else. They’re gonna promise you big money, tel you about your responsibilities, warn you about each other. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “Why would anyone bother with me?” asked Bobby.

  “Why would anyone bother with me?” asked Bobby.

  “They know I’ve got nothing to do with the Family.”

  Don Vit orio paused, thinking about Maria Mossi. There were certain things the kid didn’t need to be told. “You’re the last Tucci,” he said. “You got the name, and whoever gets you on their side has the strongest claim. In a bat le royale the name’s gonna carry weight. Now do you understand?”

  Bobby nodded. Tucci said, “These people who come to you? Don’t trust any of them. Especial y not your mother.

  This time when she’s done with you, you ain’t goin’ to no prep school. The only guy you can rely on is Mendy. He’s an experienced man, and he’s got your interests at heart.”

  “That’s why you put us together?”

  “Yeah, mostly.” A spasm of coughing shook Don Vit orio’s body and l ed his eyes with tears. Bobby said,

  “Grampa, are you al right?”

  “Fine,” said Don Vit orio. “You lean on Mendy the Pearl, but don’t let him decide for you. He ain’t the smartest guy in the world, and he ain’t no Tucci. You decide for yourself. Got it?” He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and took out an envelope. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?

  “Swiss bank-account numbers and the name of a guy in Zurich. The dough in the accounts is yours. Forty mil ion bucks.”

  “Holy shit,” said Bobby. “I never knew you had that much.”

  much.”

  Don Vit orio’s ravaged eyes ashed. “Kid, forty mil ion ain’t even the interest on what I got,” he said. “But it’s al you get. The legit businesses go to the Roberto Tucci Foundation. I got a crooked judge set ing it up. As far as the action goes, just make sure you stay out of the line of fire.”

  Bobby ngered the envelope. “Does Mendy know about this?”

  “Al but the Swiss accounts,” said Don Vit orio. “Tel him if you want, he won’t give a shit. He don’t care about money. Okay, that’s what I came to say. Do me a favor, gimme a hand back to the car.
”

  Bobby took his grandfather’s arm and walked with him to the limo. “I wish we would have had this talk a long time ago,” said Bobby.

  “Sure, forty mil ion bucks,” said Don Vit orio.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What, you think you would have discovered that I’m real y some lovable old geezer? Bul shit. I’m just who you always thought I was. The money I’m leaving you is blood money. The only reason you’re get ing it is because I got nobody else to give it to. Besides, I want a favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “I want you to come to my funeral with Mendy.” he said, grimacing as he lowered his body into the limo.

  Perched in the plush backseat he looked tiny and pecked-at. “He’s gonna need a friend that day. He’l be the only at. “He’s gonna need a friend that day. He’l be the only guy there who misses me.”

  Bobby wanted to tel his grandfather that it wasn’t true, that he’d miss him. Instead he took the envelope from his pocket and said, “I promise. And thanks for this.”

  “That’s okay, kid,” said Don Vit orio, rol ing up the window. “I hope you live long enough to spend it.”

  Chapter

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  MENDY WAS BEHIND the counter kibbitzing with a downtown defense at orney and a bail bondsman when Rudy walked in. Mendy looked up and grinned. “My landsman from Oakland Avenue.”

  Rudy took a seat at the counter, gave the white men a friendly nod, and said to Mendy, “You get a free minute, I got something to show you.”

  “Sure,” said Mendy.

  “Over on Oakland.”

  “I nish in about an hour,” Mendy said. “Stick around, have some lunch. I got nice brisket.”

  “Brisket be ne,” said Rudy. He gestured to the kitchen.

  “You got any produce back there? Tomatoes, let uce, shit like that?”

  “You want a salad?”

  Rudy shook his head. “You got some extra, I’d like to carry it over there with us,” he said. “It don’t have to be fresh, you know what I mean?”

  Mendy shrugged. Al his life he had heard strange requests from guys like Rudy. “Finish your lunch, you can go back in the kitchen and take what you want,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, I got plenty.”

  “Don’t worry, I got plenty.”

  At three-thirty, when Mendy closed the diner, the vegetables were already loaded in the trunk of Rudy’s car.

  “You wanna ride with me?” Rudy asked.

  “Nah, I’l fol ow ya,” Mendy said. “That way you won’t have to bring me back.”

  “Hey, that’s cool, I don’t mind.”

  “Aw, you’re a young guy, you got bet er things to do with your time,” Mendy said, climbing into his Plymouth.

  It took fteen minutes to reach Oakland Avenue. They parked and Rudy led Mendy toward the row of stores that had once belonged to the Purple Gang. “Check this out,”

  he said proudly.

  Mendy whistled and said, “Hey, not bad.” The dirty cinnamon brick had been scrubbed clean, new plate-glass windows protected by iron gril work instal ed, and there was a handsome wood door. Over it, in Old English let ering, were the words: DETROIT EAST SIDE PURPLE HEART

  ASSOCIATION. Rudy read them to Mendy.

  “This be the place where folks with a Purple Heart from the war against American racism can retreat for a healing hand.” he said. “I came up with that shit for the grant people at the Ford Foundation. What you think?”

  “Sounds good.” said Mendy. “How much they give you?”

  “Hundred thousand to start,” said Rudy proudly.

  “Nice scam,” said Mendy. “Very nice.”

  “Thanks,” Rudy said. “But you know what? I real y

  “Thanks,” Rudy said. “But you know what? I real y chose that name in y’al ’s honor. The purple part. Since you the one pul ed my coat to the fact that this is a historical spot and al .”

  “Jeez, that’s a hel of a gesture,” said Mendy. “Y’know, there’s a few of the boys stil around. I’d like to bring ’em by sometime. They’d be touched.”

  “That’d be real nice,” said Rudy. He opened the front door with a key and said, “Come on in. I got another surprise for you. Something you gonna appreciate.”

  Once again Mendy whistled. The room was freshly painted and spotlessly clean. Delbert, a black beret perched on his mushroom Afro, sat at a metal desk reading a copy of Jet. When he saw Mendy he scowled.

  “Don’t pay Delbert no mind,” said Rudy easily. “He’s just sore cause he got an ass-whuppin’.”

  “I hope you got in a few licks at least,” Mendy said to him.

  Delbert exhaled a long “shit” and returned to his magazine. Rudy went to the trapdoor, popped it open, and said, “Hey, looka here.”

  Mendy heard loud thumping noises. “What’s that?” he asked, peering down into the dark basement. Rudy ashed a light, and Mendy blinked in amazement. He was looking at a seven-foot kangaroo.

  “Just like the one y’al had,” said Rudy. “I cal him Ali,

  ’cause he’s so quick and bad.”

  “Jeez,” said Mendy. “He’s a beauty. Where’d you get

  “Jeez,” said Mendy. “He’s a beauty. Where’d you get him?”

  “Detroit Zoo,” said Rudy. “Me and Delbert picked him up last night. That’s who kicked Del’s ass, the kangaroo.

  Ain’t that right, Del?”

  “Shit.”

  Mendy started chuckling. “What’re they, givin’ away kangaroos out there?”

  “Al you need’s a big van and a Uzi, the man out there give you any damn animal you want,” said Rudy. He ipped Delbert his keys. “Del, man, I got a trunk ful of green groceries. Go on out and fetch Ali his dinner.”

  “That kangaroo put another hand on me, I’m gonna shoot him in his motherfuckin’ ass,” grumbled Delbert, picking up the keys.

  Rudy shut the trapdoor and led Mendy to a smal room in the back. A sign on the door said, EXECUTIVE OUTREACH

  DIRECTOR. “This is my of ice,” he said. He produced a bot le of Chivas and said, “Care for a taste?”

  “Sure.” Mendy raised his glass in a silent toast, tossed down the whiskey, and smacked his lips. “This is a hel of a setup you got here.”

  “Yeah,” Rudy said softly. “You know what I told you out there? That I picked our name as a tribute to you? I meant it, man. You one inspiring old dude.”

  “Aw,” said Mendy.

  “I ain’t never met no real gangster before. You ever know Al Capone?”

  know Al Capone?”

  “Nah, I never met him,” said Mendy. “I knew a cousin of his, though. Ralph.”

  “Ralph Capone?”

  “Yeah. He was a cat burglar, worked a lot around Bat le Creek, Grand Rapids, up in there. Good guy.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Rudy. He seemed disappointed. “How about er, ah, Dil inger?”

  Mendy shook his head. “I think you got the wrong idea about me,” he said. “I was just a knock-around guy, like Delbert out there. I banged heads, I hauled booze, I did a few stickups, some loan-sharking. Once I ran a crap game at a hotel downtown. Another time I was the security guy for a whorehouse. I made a good living, I’m not complaining. But I was never big-time.”

  “Yeah, but you was there,” said Rudy. “You seen it al .

  Fine foxes sel ing Cuban cigars in nightclubs, private casinos where you got a say, ‘Joe sent me,’ al that shit from the movies.”

  “Oh, sure, I seen it,” said Mendy.

  “Y’al had style,” said Rudy. “Capone and Lucky Luciano and them. They didn’t play this Super y bul shit we got today.”

  Mendy said, “I dunno. Seems pret y much the same to me. When you come right down to it, it’s stil tough kids tryin’ to make a crooked buck. Take you. You woulda t right in with the Purples, except you’re a colored guy. We didn’t have no integrated mobs back then.”

  didn’t have
no integrated mobs back then.”

  “Say I would have fit right in?”

  “Sure, I seen it the rst time we met,” said Mendy. He gazed around the refurbished headquarters. “Look what you done here, it’s beautiful. You’re usin’ your head, ripping o the Fords for a hundred grand. Hel , al we ever got out of ’em was twenty bucks a day for strike-breaking.” Mendy looked at his watch. “Hey, I got a scoot, I got a hot date with a banker’s wife and I need a manicure.”

  Rudy said, “Man, how old are you?”

  “Just turned seventy.”

  “And you stil chasin’ pussy,” said Rudy with admiration. “You my role model, man. You ever need anything from the New Breed Purples, you let me know.”

  “I’l keep it in mind,” said Mendy.

  On the way out they ran into Delbert, whose mood had brightened considerably. “You feed Ali?” asked Rudy.

  “Yeah,” Delbert said with a satis ed laugh. “I threw the food down there, and then when he come to get it I pissed on his got-damned head. Showed that motherfucker who’s boss.”

  “You the boss of a kangaroo,” Rudy said dryly.

  “Damn right.”

  Rudy turned to Mendy and said, “This kangaroo-pissing motherfucker ain’t gonna make it to thirty That’s why you an inspiration, man. You may not be no Al Capone, but you got over. Seventy motherfuckin’ years old and you stil you got over. Seventy motherfuckin’ years old and you stil alive.”

  Chapter

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  SO, BOBBY, YOUR mom tel s me you’re a musician,” said Alberto Rel i. “Whaddya play? Disco?”

  Bobby looked around his mother’s living room. Even Annet e would have been a welcome diversion, but she had dumped them together and gone into the kitchen, where she and Johnny Baldini were preparing dinner.

  “Mostly rhythm and blues,” he said. “Soul music.”

  “Sammy Davis, Jr., like that?”

  “Not exactly.” Alberto Rel i was a man Bobby had known very slightly for the bet er part of his life. He didn’t know much about him, but he knew enough not to get smart. “Bobby Blue Bland? Hank Bal ard? Et a James?”