“Who’s that, the farmer whose land got took here?” Frank cracked as he crushed out a Camel under his heel on the sidewalk.
“Come and see,” I said softly, beckoning him with a head nod.
He stepped over, put a hand on my shoulder, leaned into my back. Neither of us spoke as we scanned the memorial dedicated to the fallen ace.
I glanced up. Frank’s face was frozen now, too. His eyes slid toward mine. “That was some man, Joseph,” he said quietly.
“You bet he was. Did ya know the president came here to rededicate the airport to Butch a few months back?”
“Butch? You knew him then?”
Before I could respond, a fleet of black limos sailed up to the curb and dropped anchor. Several Guido types climbed out of the middle one, one of them entreating us with a sweep of his arm and a bow.
“Welcome back to Chicago, Mr. Sinatra. Our friend sends his compliments.”
Frank held up a palm. “We’re waiting for Jilly; he’s getting the bags.”
Two men almost tripped over themselves rushing from behind the car. “We’ll get them, sir,” one of them said as they flew past us.
I looked at the muscle, then back at Frank. “Really, Frank? This is your limo service? Outfit guys? I’ll get a cab.”
“Give it a rest, Joe. Sam Giancana’s a friend of mine. Besides, I’m here to do ’ol Momo a favor.”
“Like that favor he just did you by screwing you out of the Cal-Neva Lodge and your Nevada gaming license? Is it ever gonna sink in that these guys are playing you like a penny slot?”
He burned me with his eyes. “Mother, please.”
I threw up my hands, sighing.
A silver-haired rake in a gray hat stepped forward, hand extended. His gold-link bracelet looked genuine, but the mile-wide smile was an obvious fraud. Between the fedora and the ivory exhibit glimmered a pair of disturbingly cold gray eyes that matched his charcoal suit perfectly. It was a fair bet that those orbs had presided over the closing of many others.
“Vincenzo Bo’palazzo,” he announced in a husk of a voice. “Un honore grandissimo, Signor Sinatra.”
Frank shook his hand. “Grazie. You’re the guy they call Vinnie Bop, right? I love that.”
I made a face, felt my stomach churning. I didn’t think it was the Old Crow.
The mobster smiled, sharp teeth glistening in the murky sky. “Vinnie’ll do,” he said, a hint of malevolence coming through his South Side whisper.
Frank’s eyes widened as he sized him up anew. “All right then. Guess you’re moving up in the world then, Vinnie.”
He shrugged his tailored shoulders. “Some guys move up”—he paused, flicked three fingers off his chin, watched them arc slowly toward the sidewalk—“other guys move down.”
He smiled at his boys. The Sicilian chorus chipped in on cue with laughter.
I leaned in toward Frank, whispered, “Nice company you’re keeping, Sinatra. I’m sure the Sons of Italy would be proud.”
He let that slide as I walked off to find some better air.
A couple of the other boys filled in my space, offering Frank deference a cardinal would’ve envied. One of them lit another cigarette for him, the others kissed different sections of his ass by turns.
Frank tired of them pretty quickly, signaling impatiently for me to rescue him. I was in no mood to bail him out, but friendship obliged me. Walking over, I stepped between him and the reception committee.
“Yeah, pal?”
“What was that you were saying about a ceremony at this place a few months ago?”
“Jack Kennedy came here back in March or April or something—I read it in the Press-Telegram. They had a big ceremony, rededicated the field to Butch. His mother, Mayor Daley, they all came out. Music, speeches—the whole nine yards. What . . . didn’t you get an invite?” I ribbed, knowing that Frank had been getting the cold shoulder from the president ever since the inauguration over his high-visibility high jinks with his mob playpals.
“Nah, I think I was making a movie with Dino or something. My loss, I guess.”
One of the goons broke protocol, stuck his oversize proboscis where it didn’t belong. “Dem Irish, always waving their asses in the air. Dose O’Hares weren’t so clean—and neither’s Kennedy.”
Frank stiffened up. I beat him to it, brushing an arm across his chest, letting him know this one was mine.
“Butch O’Hare was a friend of mine,” I said, spelling it out for him through clenched teeth. “And President Kennedy’s a friend of Mr. Sinatra’s.”
The poor guy didn’t read too well. He held his palms out, mining for laughs. “Whatsamatter, you guys part Irish or somet’in’? One of dose guys is a welsher, d’other was a sucker.”
Eyes fell in the semicircle. One guy looked clean away. Vinnie’s glower could’ve melted rocks.
“You know,” I said, “during the war we weren’t Italian or Irish—or Jewish, or Polish, or anything else. We were American. You would’ve known that if you’d been there.”
“Sure, buddy, sure,” he blathered on. “But old man O’Hare was connected. Da kid coulda taken it easy. Dumb mick got himself killed playin’ hero and now dey go and name—”
I’d run out of letters to spot him. Seeing white, I lunged forward, pinning him hard against the side of the car, jerking his tie up tight against his chin. “Shut your ziti hole, guinea,” I seethed. “Eddie O’Hare’s lying on the bottom of the sea. Don’t say another word—not in front of his memorial, not in front of me.”
Frank had me from behind then, waving the others off. “It’s all right, boys; back off,” he ordered as he pried my hands off the stunned gunsel, counseling, “Ohh, ohh, easy there, Joey boy,” in my ear as he backed me away. “I’ve got enough troubles with these guys right now.”
Even in my highly charged state that one still registered.
Then Frank took charge of the situation as only he could. “That guy,” he said, pointing to the lingual diarrhetic. “Get him outta here—now!”
His fingers popped like a bullwhip and the boys paid heed, hustling Johnny Stugots off in the last car toward what would surely be a very unpleasant meeting with his boss.
Life’s hard. It’s harder if you’re stupid.
Six minutes, one cigarette, and a lot of blown smoke later, Frank convinced me to ride in the limo with him and Jilly down to the hotel. But I made him promise that Jilly would be the driver for the rest of the weekend while the Outfit boys kept their distance. I didn’t like playing the wet blanket, but Frank had absolutely nothing to gain and literally millions to lose through his foolish and dangerous Mafia associations.
But I don’t know why I bothered harping on him—an FBI interview, a Senate hearing, and two decades of bad press hadn’t gotten through to him. Why the hell did I think another browbeating from a guy with my checkered record would?
Buy My Kind of Town Now!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A very great deal has already been written about the impossible genius and immense contradictions that marked the life of Francis Albert Sinatra. Hey, the man lived big—pal. For me, it has always been about the voice and the passion. Thanks for the music, Frank, it’s gonna live forever.
Of all the many, many people who provided material assistance, inspiration, or both in the creation of this novel, the following stand out.
The Professionals:
David Hale Smith, my agent, who took a flyer on this Joe Nobody and greased in a three-point landing. No author is more fortunate than we happy few working with DHS. Thanks for your brilliant moves, ace. Otto Penz
ler of the Mysterious Press. The Otto Penzler. A great man to share a Manhattan with. Rob Hart, my editor, whose deft touch, cheerfulness, and unabashed enthusiasm for this work provided substantial aid and comfort to this rookie. The first-rate crew at Open Road Media, who hit the trifecta with a spot-on proof, period-perfect font, and stunning cover design.
Friends and Aviation Colleagues:
Leslie Rocha from the old ’hood, for her scary-good proofreading and her many kind words of encouragement. Barbara Hoffman, who chaperoned me around Santa Catalina Island, introducing me to its many fantastic characters, herself included. Diana Chen, for her assistance with Chinese language and culture, and for taking me to late-night places where no English is spoken. Lt. Col. Jim “Snake” Daulton, USMC, and Maj. (Ret.) James “Jake” Elwell, USAF, for their hard-earned expertise on aerial combat and gunnery. Marksman Gerhard Gotzmann, for his splendidly detailed intel on the use and terminology of firearms. Captains Jeff Taylor and Kevin Mullen of Jetblue Airways, for buddy-reads of in-flight scenes, and for being stand-up guys. Captain Sean Parker of Jetblue Airways, for his uncompromising and inspirational life as a man’s man, for the generous use of his Lake Tahoe home, and for being a great wingman. Speaking of which, I owe a very special debt of gratitude to the World War II veterans at the Palm Springs Air Museum, especially P-38 drivers Blaine Mack and Everett Price. How lucky we are to still have this most vital generation of Americans.
Novelists:
The fabulous Laura Caldwell, author, attorney, and all-around smash, for her warmhearted assistance in the formative days of this work and for the many things she taught me. Writing triple-threat J. D. Smith, for a lifetime of friendship, a valuable buddy-read, and sustained support during the long road to this novel’s completion—as well as some very timely visits with Pappy Van Winkle. Bestselling author Henry Perez, whose intensity and drive would bring a smile to Ol’ Blue Eyes’ face. In addition to three decades of collaborations and thousands upon thousands of hours discussing film, writing, jazz, noir, tough guys, and anything else under the moon, Henry made exceptional contributions to the realization of this work. His hard-nosed advocacy, fearless criticism, and unwavering belief in this project became my machetes as I hacked my way through the writing wilderness. Without his help, this novel would not exist. Muchas gracias, amigo viejo, together we are mighty!
Le Donne:
Like most men, I spend my life endlessly beguiled by, indebted to, and eternally grateful for women in general. Three in particular had special influence over me and over this novel’s composition. My mother, Mary Jac Sandrolini, who would not have approved of the violence in this book, but whose passionate love of arts and language are its soul. Miss you, Mamma. Enchantress Brenda Castano. Muse. Siren. Force of nature. Baby, the song is you. And, of course, the lovely, irrepressible Nancy Carriero, who hung gasping on every word, believing always in Joe—and in me. Bless you, bellissima, for all that you’ve meant to me. Sleep warm.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by John Sandrolini
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
Cover photograph of aircraft by Luc Verkoyen
978-1-4532-9795-7
Published in 2013 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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