Find Big Fat Fanny Fast

by Joe Bruno

  “Ridiculous,” Louie said. “But I'm not calling you to get insulted. I'm calling to give you an exclusive on the story of the decade.”

  Gordon flipped open a reporter's notebook and grabbed a ball point pen. “I'll put you on speaker so I can write easier.”

  “No need to do that,” Louie said. “This is not something I would care to discuss on the phone.”

  “Where would you like to meet?”

  “There's a bar on the Monroe Street side of Knickerbocker Village. 27 Monroe Street. It's called Patrick Henry's. People who hang out in that bar know enough to mind their own business.”

  “I know the joint,” Gordon said. “I go there all the time. The drinks are cheap and the food ain't bad either.”

  “Meet me at the bar in twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Gordon said. And he hung up the phone.

  *****

  It was a little past 6 pm when Gordon Goldman slipped through the front door of Patrick Henry's Bar and Grill. The bar and dining area was packed with neighborhood people, most of whom lived in Knickerbocker Village, which was right across the street. Louis J. Lombago was easy to spot, since he was a head taller than anyone else sitting at the bar.

  As Gordon approached, the lawyer stood up, shook Gordon’s hand, then whispered in his ear. “Through the kitchen, there's a private room in the back. There we can talk.”

  “You sure that's OK?” Gordon said.

  “Don't worry, the owner is a good friend of mine.”

  Louie led the way past the bar and through a narrow kitchen, wide enough for maybe one person, standing sideways. The kitchen opened into a dark, dusty room filled with rotted folding tables and creaky chairs. Louie flipped on the light switch and a 40-watt bulb barely illuminated the room.

  Louie took two closed folding chairs that were leaning against the wall, opened them and placed them on opposite sides of the only open folding table in the room. “Have a seat,” he said.

  Gordon did, and Louie sat across from him.

  “Do you have a tape recorder?” Louie said.

  “Sure do,” Gordon said.

  “Then place in on the table and turn it on. You won't want to miss a word.”

  Gordon took out a cassette recorder and placed it on the table. He pressed the button to record.

  Louie took out a micro cassette recorder from his pants pocket and placed it on the table next to Gordon’s recorder.

  Louie leaned forward and spoke almost in a whisper. “The voices you are about the hear on my recording are Hung Far Low, the head of the Chinese mob in Chinatown, and the late Police Commissioner Keyshawn Blusterman.”

  Louie pressed the play button.

  Blusterman's voice: “Look, I know it's not seven days yet, But you need to make a decision right away.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “And why is that?”

  Blusterman's voice: “Because the word out on the streets is that Tony B has declared all-out war against all the Chinese Triads. And that the big target is squarely on your back, as the first one to go.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “I find that hard to believe. The Chinese in New York City outnumber the Italians twenty to one. Tony B is not that stupid to start a war he cannot possible win.”

  Blusterman's voice: “Well, be that as it may. But Tony B ain't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer either. And my information is concrete. It comes from several sources and it all says one thing. Tony B is looking to put one right between your eyes.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “So what do you suggest I do?”

  Blusterman's voice: “I suggest you leave all the dirty work to me. I said before I'd take care of Tony B for you and I meant what I said. The Guinea bastard is going down and I'm going to be the one to take him down.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “So let me be clear. By you saying you're taking Tony B down, you mean you're going to have him arrested, right?”

  Blusterman's voice: “No. I am not going to arrest Tony B. I am going to have him killed. Whacked. Eliminated from the face of the earth. Am I clear to you now? You stupid Chinaman bastard.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “Now Mr. Police Commissioner, is that any way to speak to your business partner?”

  Blusterman's voice. “So, I assume you're going for the deal?”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “Of course. I don't see that I have any choice.”

  Blusterman's voice. “You don't.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “Now let me see if I have the details correctly. You kill Tony B, I give you one hundred thousand dollars in cash. Then you give me complete protection in all my endeavors, for the fee of ten thousand dollars per month. Is that correct?”

  Blusterman's voice: “You've got it right, baby.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “I'm no baby. I'm grown man.”

  Blusterman's voice: “Whatever. Now let me give you the details of how I'm going to kill Tony B. I'll need your cooperation.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “My cooperation?”

  Blusterman's voice: “Yes, I want you to set up a meeting with Tony B. Say you want to make peace. At that meeting, Tony B will be no more.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “I don't know if Tony B would agree to any meeting. And even if he did, he'd insist it would be on his own turf.”

  Blusterman's voice: “I'll have the meeting on his turf. I can whack Tony B anywhere. Even on Mulberry Street. I'm the police commissioner of New York City. I can do anything I want.”

  Hung Far Low's voice: “If you say so, Mr. Police Commissioner. If you say so.”

  Louie switched off his tape recorder. Gordon did the same to his.

  “That sure sounds like Blusterman's voice,” Gordon said. “But how do I know you didn't use a voice impersonator? Someone like Rich Little, for instance.

  Louie smiled. “Because I'll bring Hung Far Low to you to verify the conversation. He'll tell you exactly, when, where and why it happened.”

  “Will he also give that testimony to the police?”

  “I don't see why not. It's the truth. And you know how the saying goes — 'The truth will set you free'.”

  *****

  Tony B sat in the backyard cafe of Cafe Finito on Mulberry Street and read the front page of the New York Post. The headline read: “The Police Commissioner Was a Crook!” Then in smaller letters: Plotted to kill members of the Italian mob for one hundred thousand dollars.”

  A large head shot of Keyshawn Blusterman sat under the headlines, and in a small insert at the bottom of the page, was a photo of two EMS employees putting a stretcher containing Blusterman's covered body into an ambulance.

  “Boy we nailed that bastard good,” Tony B said to his son Junior, who was sitting at the large round table opposite him, sipping a double espresso. Calogero sat alone at an adjacent table, going over the week's receipts.

  Tony B took a sip of espresso. “It was a great idea of mine to set up a tape recorder on top of the stature in the corner of the Supreme Court Building, now wasn't it? I knew Blusterman would pat down Hung Far Low, so that was the only way I could get his voice on tape.”

  Junior smiled. “Yeah it was a great idea alright. But it was me who had to climb on top of that statue, with all the pigeon droppings on it, to tape the cassette recorder, with the boom microphone in exactly the right spot, so Blusterman wouldn't see it.”

  Tony B poured anisette into his espresso. “Well, you didn't expect me to do the dirty work, now did you?”

  “Of course not. And I know you didn't trust Shorty Stitchhead or Bobby the Beak to do the job right. So I was the logical choice to get myself filthy.”

  “Stop complaining,” Tony B said. “We're all in the clear now.”

  “I don't know. The cops have been up our butts all week, basically shutting down all our operations, until they find the killer.” Junior said.

  “That's all a smokescreen. We have the Mayor in our back pocket. He got word to us, that as soon as he appoints a new police commissioner, the
heat will be off.”

  Calogero lifted his head from his paperwork. “I'm doing pretty good here since the PC got whacked. Business has tripled since the story hit the newspapers. Every tourist and thrill-seeker in town has been jamming into my joint.”

  “At least someone is making money,” Tony B said. “So don't forget my cut. I expect a nice fat envelope at the end of the week.”

  Calogero smiled. “Don't worry. You'll get it.”

  Lisa Low and Hung Far Low entered the backyard cafe. Both Tony B and Junior stood, showing the proper respect.

  Lisa kissed Tony B on the cheek. Then she kissed Junior's cheek too. Hung Far Low bowed to the two Italians, then took a seat next to Tony B. Lisa sat between Junior and her father.

  “How the police situation goin'?” Tony B said.

  “Just as we expected,” Hung Far Low said. “They've been raiding many of our gambling dens, but as you know, we have over three hundred such dens, just in Chinatown alone. If they're lucky, they shut down five, or six a day, at most. And a few days later, those dens will be back operating again. So they are barely making a dent in our operations.”

  “You know that and the cops know that,” Tony B said. “But with me, it's been a little tougher. We have only a few social clubs left in the neighborhood. I told my guys to forget about even opening. I told them to take a vacation down to Florida until the smoke clears. The worst that can happen is that they get a bad case of sunburn.”

  Junior smiled. “So right now, Florida is a sunny place for shady characters.”

  “You got a point there,” Tony B said.

  Junior turned to Lisa. “Show them the little present I got for you.”

  Lisa reached into her purse and took out a small, black jewelry box. She opened it, pulled out a huge diamond engagement ring and put in on her left ring finger. “We are now officially engaged to be married,” Lisa said.

  Junior smiled broadly. “That's right. You can now legitimately say, the Italians and the Chinese in Chinatown and Little Italy are now one big happy family.”

  Tony B turned to Hung Far Low. “You knew all about this?”

  “Of course,” Hung Far Low said. “Your son asked my permission for my daughter's hand in marriage, before he even bought the ring.”

  “That's wonderful news,” Tony B said. “Now I've got a surprise for you too.”

  “And what may that be?” Junior said.

  Tony B straightened his tie. “Me and the big lady are getting married too.”

  Junior felt a little sick. “You and Big Fat Fanny are getting married?”

  “That's right.”

  “When did you decide this?”

  “About ten seconds ago, when you told me you and Lisa were getting married.”

  “Does Big Fat Fanny know about this?”

  “Not yet. I didn't know about it myself until just now.”

  “Suppose she says no,” Lisa said. “Suppose she's not ready for marriage.”

  “She's can't say no,” Tony B said. “I'm her boss and they only way she can refuse a direct order from me is under penalty of death.”

  “I like your rules,” Hung Far Low said. “It's the same way for us in China. In China, you tell a woman to sit down, she doesn't even look for a chair. You tell her to jump into the air, she don't come down until you say 'down'.”

  The color was now totally drained from Junior's face. “So, do you and Big Fat Fanny plan to have kids together?”

  “What are you, nuts?” Tony B said. “She might roll over while she's sleeping and crush the kid to death. No kids for us.”

  “But suppose she wants children,” Lisa said.

  “That's impossible,” Tony B said. “I once asked her if she liked kids. You know what she told me? She said, she did, but only if they were cooked properly.”

  “W.C. Fields said that,” Junior said.

  “W.C. Fields? Sounds like a department store to me?” Tony B turned to Calogero would was still immersed in his paperwork. “Hey Calogero, you got any champagne in this joint?”

  “Yeah,” Calogero said. “I have a case in the cooler, just in case of emergencies.”

  “Well, break open the case,” Tony B said. “I want to propose a toast to me and my son getting married.”

  “While I was going over the receipts, I thought you said something about marrying Big Fat Fanny,” Calogero said. “But I thought I was hallucinating.”

  “Just get the champagne, before I crack you in the head,” Tony B said. “This is a wonderful day in Chinatown and in Little Italy. Like my son said before, we're all now one big happy family.”

  Calogero stood and put his arm around Tony B's shoulder. “With you marrying Big Fat Fanny, it's going to be a lot bigger family, that's for sure.”

  Tony B was not smiling. “Get the champagne, like I said.”

  CHAPTER 21

  2010 – The Year of the Tiger

  Junior and Lily Bentimova sat facing each other at a large desk, in their office located in their huge four thousand square-foot condo on Centre Street, right in the heart of Chinatown. The Beaux-art building, built in 1905, was the old Police Headquarters, which was converted into uber-expensive condos after Police Headquarters moved to One Police Plaza in the early 1970's. This condo cost millions and Junior paid for it in cash, which for some reason, did not send up any red flags to the IRS. Maybe the one hundred grand Louis J. Lombago slipped under the table to the right people had something to do with that.

  Junior and Lily were busy counting the week's receipts from their respective gambling operations, by shoving stacks of bills of all denominations into state-of-the-art money counters.

  Junior finished counting first. “Our end from the Italian gambling is just over fifty grand this week. Fifty thousand, two hundred fifty dollars, to be exact.”

  Lily placed her final bills into her counter, then waited for the total to pop up on the screen. “I've got sixty three thousand, three hundred seventy five, total,” Lilly said. She banged a few keys on a small calculator. “The Chinese gambling made fifteen thousand, one hundred twenty five dollars this week more than the Italian gambling. Divide that by two, so I owe you seven thousand, five hundred sixty two dollars and fifty cents.”

  Junior smiled, “Keep the fifty cents. Make it an even seven thousand, five hundred, sixty two dollars.”

  “Big sport,” Lily said.

  Twenty three year-old Tony Bentimova III, called Junior Junior by his pals, sauntered into the room carrying a sack of cash over his right shoulder. Right behind him followed his sister, twenty one year-old sister Tonya, carrying a slightly larger sack of cash. They placed the bags on the table in front of their parents.

  Tanya turned to her brother and smiled. “My bag is heavier than your bag.”

  “What do you expect?” Junior Junior said. “There’s ten times as many Chinese in New York City than there are Italians. I think, considering the odds, the Italians are holding up their end of the bargain pretty good.”

  Tonya was not amused. “Yeah, but you got the Dominicans, the Puerto Ricans, the Russians, the Albanians and every other ethnic groups in the city too. We've only got the Chinese.”

  Junior Junior smiled. “Yeah, but you got about an extra three millions illegal Chinese people living in the five boroughs.”

  “So?”

  “So you know as well as I do that Chinese people only bet with other Chinese people. We have to compete against the Dominican gangs, the Russian gangs, the Albanian gangs, yata, yata yata...”

  Tanya smiled. “You sound like Elaine from Seinfeld.”

  Junior put his hand up, like a cop stopping traffic. “Come on kids, stop this baloney.”

  “But she started it,” Junior Junior said.

  “I don't care who started what,” Junior turned to his son. “Phone both your grandfathers and tell them to come over for their weekly splits. Then I want the both of you to set the table in the dining room, while your mother and I finish preparing t
he meals.”

  “Aye-aye, pop,” Junior Junior said. “Consider it done.”

  A half hour later there was a knock at the front door. Junior opened the door and in walked Tony B, now seventy five years old and counting. With him was his lovely and now almost svelte wife Big Fat Fanny, who over the years had slimmed down to a mere wisp of a girl, presently at just a bit over 400 pounds, which she carried well on her six-foot, six-inch frame. She was wearing a smart black, pin-stripe pants suit, favored by lady lawyers.

  “Fanny, you look beautiful.” Lily said.

  “Thank you,” Big Fat Fanny said. “I got it at Lane Bryant.”

  “She's lying,” Tony B said. “She bought it at Omar the Tentmaker.”

  Big Fat Fanny silenced her husband with a sharp elbow to his ribs.

  Junior handed his father an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. “Ten grand, your weekly cut as usual.”

  His father slipped the envelope into the inside breast pocket of his sports jacket. “Now I have just enough moolah to buy steaks for my wife for almost an entire week,”

  Big Fat Fanny elbowed him in the ribs again. “You know I eat mostly chicken and fish now. Steaks only once in a blue moon.”

  Tony B rubbed the pain from his ribs. “Yeah, so I'll buy a large lake stocked with fish and a small chicken farm. That should feed you for a few weeks.”

  Before she could reply, someone knocked at the front door. Junior opened the door and in walked an aging, but now slender Hung Far Low, with his thirty year-old blond wife Heather, who was built like the personal fitness trainer she actually was.

  Junior handed his father-in-law a stuffed envelope. “Ten grand for you too.”

  Hung Far Low took the envelope and handed it to his wife. “Buy shrimp this week. The jumbo ones. And lots of boneless pork spear ribs.”

  Heather took the envelope and put it into her purse. She addressed the room. “Don't forget guys. 8 am tomorrow morning. In my gym. We have one hour of power cycling to do.”

  “How many bikes did my wife break already?” Tony B said.

  “Five,” Big Fat Fanny said. “But who's counting?”