by Zev Chafets
Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of man? Flanagan grinned to himself. The dog shit had been a last-minute improvisation, but he had been planning to torpedo the evening ever since his invitation to Spadafore. He wanted to pick a fight with Sesti, that smug, phony Englishman. “Mano a mano, consigliere,” he said softly. “Just you and me.”
Flanagan was aware that he had no good reason for wanting to take on the Spadafore Family, and he was too honest with himself to pretend. He was going to war for the same reasons that men have always gone—to test himself, to assert the force of his will, and for the plain unadulterated hell of it. He tossed the jar of dog shit into the trash basket and began to hum to himself—“Don’t cook tonight, call Pizza Delight”—as he wiped his guilty fingers with a Rinse ’n’ Dry pad.
In the big brownstone in Brooklyn, Luigi Spadafore sat in his padded armchair and waved his heavy arms to Vivaldi. It had been months since his last trip into Manhattan, and that had been a court appearance. He hadn’t been out for an evening in—He tried to remember the last time, but couldn’t. Seclusion was one of the burdens that a don had to bear. Not only was there a safety factor, but there was also his dignity to consider. At this stage of his career, he would no more have eaten in a public place than defecated in the park.
Tonight, he reflected, would be a treat. When Sesti had told him of Gordon’s invitation he had been doubly pleased. It indicated that Gordon respected him. And, although no one, not even his sons or the omniscient Sesti knew it, tonight was his birthday. He was seventy-seven years old. The Don considered birthday celebrations gauche, especially at his age, but he nevertheless was pleased that he would not be alone.
It was his wish to commemorate the event by giving gifts. He had puzzled over just the right thing to bring to Gordon and finally decided on three priceless bottles of Mouton-Rothschild ’29. At the end of the evening, he planned to present Gordon with a gold signet ring that had once belonged to King Emmanuel of Italy. He wondered if Gordon was planning to give him something in return.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Carlo Sesti entered, dressed in his impeccable evening clothes. “The car is ready, Don Spadafore,” he said. He helped the old man into his coat, and held the door for him as he climbed into the rear seat of his armored Bentley. The driver, an ex-prizefighter named Rudy Parchi, already had the address.
The Don and his consigliere sat in silence, side by side, as the big car flowed through traffic. Sesti knew that the old man disliked idle conversation. He was more than a little nervous about the evening. Perhaps, he reflected, it had been a mistake to accept. It had been he, after all, who had brought the invitation to Spadafore, and in their world, that was tantamount to a recommendation. Gordon didn’t worry him, but Flanagan was obviously mentally ill. Nothing else could explain his erratic behavior. Still, he had Gordon’s ear, and at this point he had to be placated.
The Bentley rolled up to Gordon’s building at seven-forty, just as Sesti had planned. Rudy held the door for Spadafore, who looked around him with curiosity, as if he had just been deposited in a foreign country. Jimmy the doorman buzzed them in, and then called up to let Gordon know they were on their way. “You got some company, boss,” he said in his confidential tone. “Real heavy hitters.”
Flanagan wasn’t back yet, and Gordon cursed him as he opened the door for Spadafore and Sesti. “Mr. Spadafore, Carlo, come in,” he said, hoping that they couldn’t read the anxiety on his face. “Please, sit down, let me fix you a drink.”
Gordon was in the kitchen filling the ice bucket when the doorbell rang. He walked quickly through the small apartment, opened the door and saw Flanagan, his arms laden with thin pizza boxes and paper bags. “What the hell …?” Gordon said, but Flanagan winked and brushed passed him into the living room. He set down his packages and turned to face the guests.
“Hello, Carlo,” he said warmly. “And you must be Mr. Spadafore. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, sir. I’m John Flanagan.” He extended his hand to the Don who, still sitting, took it limply.
“I guess you already heard about the shit steaks,” said Flanagan. “Christ, these fucking poofters. Luckily, we happen to be right around the corner from one of the truly great pizza places on the East Coast, Rocco’s Pizza Delight. You know Rocco, Carlo? I mean personally?” The consigliere, icily composed, shook his head.
“Well, you’re gonna love his ’zahs. I didn’t know exactly what you guys like on ’em, so I got an assortment, pepperoni, anchovies and mushrooms, sausage and green pepper and a plain. I know, I know,” he said, holding up one hand, “there’s more here than we can eat, but, what the hell, it’s better to have some left over than not enough. Oh, and I got some side orders of ravioli, and salad. He was out of the cannelloni.”
Flanagan walked to the side table and poured himself a tumbler of Irish whiskey. “Freshen anyone’s drink?” he offered.
“John, let’s take the food in the kitchen,” said Gordon.
When they reached the kitchen, Gordon grabbed Flanagan roughly and pushed him up against the refrigerator. “What the fuck are you trying to prove, John?” he said.
Flanagan loosened Gordon’s grip on his jacket, looking at him steadily. Then he smiled, embarrassed. “Shit, kid, I’m sorry. I went down to the gourmet place but all they had was quiche and soufflés. Can you picture us giving Luigi quiche? I didn’t know what to do, honest to God. I don’t blame you for being pissed, it’s my fault, but let’s not fight about it now.” He gestured with his head in the direction of the living room.
Gordon pushed Flanagan hard against the refrigerator, and walked back into the living room. “Mr. Spadafore, I’m really sorry about this. Let’s go out for dinner. Where would you like to go?”
“I don’t care for restaurants,” said Spadafore, speaking for the first time since Flanagan had come in.
“Obviously this is an inconvenient time,” said Sesti smoothly. “Perhaps we could do this another night—”
Gordon could hear Flanagan opening the stove in the kitchen, whistling the radio jingle for Pizza Delight. He started to laugh. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “Let me send out for something. We could order Chinese food from the Peking Pavilion, or maybe Barney’s would send us over some steaks—”
“Pizza will be fine,” said Spadafore. When Flanagan had come in with the boxes, he had wondered if this was an intentional slight. But the stricken look on Gordon’s face told him that it really was a mishap. More than ever he was certain that the newsman would never succeed in his world, and the thought pleased him. “I’d prefer mine with anchovies and mushrooms,” he said.
To Gordon’s amazement, dinner went well. Flanagan opened a bottle of the Rothschild ’29 and offered a toast to new friendships. Spadafore praised the pizza, and told several stories about the old days, when the dish had first been introduced to New York. Even Sesti lost some of his frosty demeanor, eating three pepperoni slices. When Flanagan chided him about his appetite, the consigliere patted his flat stomach and shook his head ruefully.
Luigi Spadafore realized that he was having a good time. The pizzas reminded him of his last active campaign, more than thirty years ago, against the Marinis and their allies from Detroit and Arizona. He had eaten with the troops then, often out of cardboard containers. Max Grossman had done the same. Now, a lifetime later, he was here, in Max’s nephew’s apartment, and it took him back.
He also found that he enjoyed the company of Gordon and, especially, Flanagan. Italian men, he reflected, were either sweet, like Pietro, or sour, like Mario. But Flanagan was tart, irreverent and yet somehow deferential at the same time. The Don wondered if there might be a use for him; he seemed to be an altogether interesting fellow.
Gordon and Sesti were discussing possible countries of opportunity. “I think that Uruguay is promising,” Gordon said. “I know the president, and I’ve had dinner with his chief of staff a few times. I think he’ll
do business.”
“The chief of staff? Or the president?” asked Sesti.
“Both, but I was thinking of the chief of staff. They say he bribed his way into office.”
“A man who will give in the morning is a man who will take in the evening,” intoned Spadafore oracularly. Gordon and Sesti nodded respectfully but Flanagan looked quizzical.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
Spadafore seemed taken aback. “It is merely a saying,” he said stiffly.
Flanagan laughed. “You guys and your sayings, you kill me,” he said. “Where do you come up with this stuff?” Gordon shot him a warning look, and saw that Flanagan was feeling the whiskey. “What horseshit,” Flanagan mumbled.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. Gordon had no idea who it could be, but he didn’t care. Saved by the bell, he thought. It never occurred to him to wonder why Jimmy hadn’t buzzed.
The reason was that Flanagan had given the doorman ten dollars to let four men in tuxedos and a six-foot cake on a dolly come upstairs. Gordon opened the door and saw the men and the giant cake. “Mr. Flanagan sent us,” said one.
Gordon was too astonished to protest. He merely stepped aside as they wheeled the cake into the living room. Spadafore and Sesti looked with uncomprehending eyes as the four began to snap their fingers, harmonizing doo-wop style: “Birthday, birthday ba-ba-ba-birthday, birthday, birthday, ba-ba-ba-birthday.” One of them stepped forward and began to sing in a flat, nasal tone: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, Luigi, happy birthday to you.”
Suddenly a young woman, totally nude, burst out of the cake. In a Marilyn Monroe whisper she crooned, “How o-old are you, how o-old are you, how old are you cappo di tutti cappo, how old are you?” She broke off a piece of the white cake, lowered herself onto the broad lap of the astonished Spadafore and popped it into his open mouth.
“Many happy returns of the day, Luigi,” said Flanagan expansively. “You thought we forgot, right? I got the date from a pal of mine at the FBI.”
For a long moment Spadafore said nothing. Then, his face mottled with rage and vanilla frosting, he turned to Sesti and muttered something in Sicilian. The consigliere stood, and helped the old man to his feet. Without even bothering to pick up their topcoats, they walked out of the apartment.
Flanagan shrugged and staggered a little. Gordon had never seen him so drunk. “If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em,” he said. “You know who these guys are?” He pointed to the singers.
Gordon looked at him blankly, still trying to grasp what his friend had done. He shook his head. “Sunny and the Original fucking True Tones, that’s all,” Flanagan said proudly.
“Sunny and the True Tones!” screamed Gordon, reality sinking in all at once. “Goddamn you, Flanagan, you set me up! You’re a fucking lunatic!” He grabbed the tall Irishman by the shoulder and spun him around. Flanagan, still grinning, pulled back as Gordon threw a looping right hand at his head. Flanagan shifted his weight, slipping the punch with surprising agility, and clipped Gordon on the jaw with a straight right. He was out cold before he hit the beige carpet.
Flanagan bent down and put his head against his friend’s chest to make sure he was still breathing. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pushed himself upright, turned toward the stunned doowop singers and raised his clasped hands over his head in a champion’s salute. “The winner, in a knockout over the Pulitzer Kid, and still champeen, Mad Dog John Flanagan,” he proclaimed in a ring announcer’s voice. “Put him to bed, Sunny. And, fellas—thanks for the memories.”
CHAPTER 13
It was past eleven when Gordon woke up. He had a splitting hangover and the feeling of dread associated with irrevocable setbacks.
Gordon couldn’t remember much about what happened after Spadafore left but he did recall taking a punch at Flanagan, and felt the tender spot on his chin where Flanagan had socked him. He vaguely recollected awakening in the middle of the night, vomiting and throwing an empty bottle of Wild Turkey off his balcony. He had no idea what had happened to the True Tones or the naked girl.
Gordon felt a stabbing headache and a wave of nausea. No more drinking, he said to himself. Ever. He gingerly climbed out of bed, massaging his eyelids tenderly, and went to the bathroom for three extra-strength Tylenol. The water made him gag, and he staggered to the kitchen for a glass of cola. Then, hoping that relief was on its way, he crawled back into bed and tried to decide what to do next.
As Gordon saw it, he had three options. First, he could try to patch things up with Spadafore and Flanagan and go on with the plan. Or, he could get rid of Flanagan and carry on alone. Finally, he could ditch the whole idea.
The first option was out of the question. Even if Luigi Spadafore was prepared to forget what happened—a big if—Gordon no longer wanted to do any kind of business with Flanagan. Last night he had seen just how out of control his friend was. No matter what, Flanagan was out.
Which led to option number two. Getting rid of Flanagan might well appease Spadafore. The old man liked him, after all, and Sesti obviously was hot to do business. The problem was, Gordon did not want to be on his own, adrift in their world without allies. In his penitent hung-over state it was easy for him to admit the truth—he was scared to death of the possible consequences of becoming Spadafore’s partner.
All that was left was the third option—call the whole thing off. Since his uncle’s funeral he had inherited and lost a fortune, proposed marriage to Jupiter, bought a pistol, quit his job and had a Mafia chief to dinner. In ten days, he had gone from the secure life of a journalistic celebrity to the dangerous world of Luigi Spadafore. But, he realized, the trip had been largely in his head. He was still here, in his old apartment. The paper would take him back in a second; in fact, he wasn’t due to leave until the first of next month. He could drop the pistol into a river someplace, laugh off his proposal to Jupiter and go back to being the old William Gordon. It was as simple as that.
Of course there wouldn’t be any money, but Flanagan had been right about that—money didn’t mean that much to him. He was making close to two hundred thousand dollars a year, counting lecture fees and magazine articles. Random House was after him for a book on the USSR, and that would bring in at least a hundred thousand. And when his father died, there would be a considerable estate. It was nothing like the millions that Sesti had dangled in front of him, but he wouldn’t wind up with ulcers—or in prison—either. There was only one sensible course. Later in the day he would call Sesti, apologize, and call the whole thing off.
The decision enabled him to forgive Flanagan. Flanagan had seen all along what he was only realizing now: that the very notion of two journalists becoming gangsters was ridiculous. He had treated the whole thing as a joke from the beginning. Gordon, on the other hand, had allowed himself to dream. Now that he was awake, he could see the humor of it all. He thought about the look on Luigi Spadafore’s face when the girl jumped out of the cake and grinned through his hangover. After he talked to Sesti he would call Flanagan and meet him for a drink somewhere. This will become a legendary story, he thought to himself.
Carlo Sesti smashed a hard overhand serve just inside the baseline, inches past Shelby Strothers’s outstretched racket. “Game,” called Strothers, breathing hard. “That’s enough for me. You’re too tough for me this morning, Carlo.”
Sesti smiled thinly. Fifteen years ago, Strothers had played on the U.S. Davis Cup team, but he was out of shape now, and not hard to beat. Sesti felt contempt for the former tennis pro’s lack of discipline.
It was almost noon, and Sesti had a one o’clock meeting at his office. He showered and shaved for the second time that morning, put on his weekend clothes—a white shirt, gray wool slacks, gleaming cordovan loafers and a dark blue blazer—and walked up Madison Avenue. He disliked Manhattan on Sundays; with the stores and offices closed, there didn’t seem to be any real point to the city.
Carlo Sesti’s firm occ
upied the top floor of a skyscraper on Fifty-seventh between Fifth and Sixth. That afternoon the floor was deserted, and Sesti’s footsteps echoed as he walked down the corridor to his office. Although he was the firm’s senior partner, his large room was spare, almost spartan. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the floor was covered with a thick carpet and the room was dominated by a gleaming oak desk. It was Sesti’s trademark that, no matter how much work he had to do, the desk was always clean. Not even a single paper was allowed to remain overnight unattended.
The lawyer’s mind worked the same way. He confronted each problem as it arose, solved it with dispatch and then dismissed the matter. That was what he intended to do with the Flanagan question.
He had already laid the groundwork. On the way back to Brooklyn the night before, when the Don had bitterly cursed Gordon in Sicilian, Sesti had delicately pointed out that it was Flanagan, and not Gordon, who had been responsible for the outrage. At first Spadafore had been unreceptive; he had, after all, a boss’s perspective that naturally fixed guilt on the senior partner for the behavior of his subordinate. But gradually, Sesti could see, he had gotten through. He knew that in his heart the old man wanted to blame the Irishman, and not the nephew of his friend. Sesti, himself, had to protect Gordon. Without him, there was no plan.
Once Spadafore weakened, Sesti knew what had to be done. A less expeditious man might have waited until Monday, but the consigliere did not want to postpone the execution of a decision, once taken, even for a single day.
In this case, Sesti also realized that delay could be dangerous. He had witnessed the humiliation of Don Spadafore. In some sense, because he had brought Gordon’s invitation to the Don, he could even be considered accountable. But the main thing was, he had seen the injury to the old man’s dignity, and this, he knew, Spadafore would find hard to forgive. Only swift, brutal retaliation would mollify him.