1 Take the Monkeys and Run

by Karen Cantwell

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh! I do!” Peggy raised her hand exuberantly in the air like a kindergartner on caffeine. “You’re Viviana Buttaro!”

  “Give the girl a cookie,” grinned our new smoking fiend friend. She had one hand on her hip, and motioned with the other while she talked, the cigarette just along for the ride. “I’m Viviana Buttaro. I ain’t had an easy life. You ain’t makin’ it any easier, you understand?” I didn’t understand, but again, I wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Frankie,” she said, not taking her eyes off us, “get me an ash tray, will ya? I don’t want to make a mess on my new carpet down here.” Pug Mug moved out of the room obediently, so I took that to mean that his real name was Frankie. Original. I got the distinct impression, from his posture that the Sinatra-loving goon wasn’t too happy about being ordered around. I filed that observation away in my memory bank.

  “It’s a very nice carpet—I love Berber!” gushed Peggy. Roz shot her a look that basically said, “If they don’t kill you, I will.” Peggy moved back against the wall and shut her trap. Viviana sashayed leisurely to the monkey cages. “Hello babies.” She made kissing noises at the chattering primates. “Give mommy some kissums?” She made more kissing noises, eliciting shrieks from the caged animals. “See,” she said, turning her attention to us humans, “you’ve become a real pain in my ass. What's the deal with yous anyway? Things was goin’ real good, except for a mistake here and there. I coulda cleaned things up and moved on just fine—this is what I do, you see. Except for you three bitches.”

  Okay. That was it. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, a man who used three tubes of gel in his hair had thrown me into a basement, and now this ridiculous woman, who growled like a man, had the nerve to call me a bitch.

  “That’s what I want to know,” I said putting forth my best bitchy attitude. “What’s the deal with these monkeys, anyway? Smuggling them into the country, Viv?”

  Viviana just smiled. No answer.

  Moving back over to me, Viviana bent her knees until she was looking me in the eyes, then exhaled her smoke slowly, right into my face. “Don’t get fresh with me,” she said, getting herself back to a standing position. “I’m menopausal. And I’ve got a gun.”

  Frankie returned with a green glass ashtray. He thrust it at Viviana, who took it without any acknowledgement. It fit easily into the palm of her hand. She flicked her ashes into the glass object while Frankie returned to his station as hostage-guard. At the same time, there was a crashing sound, as if someone were being thrown into the door upstairs. There was shouting and then the sound of multiple footsteps. We could hear a, “Come on buddy, move it, move it!” as if someone were being forced down the stairs. It sounded like our friend Elvis. But who did he have with him now?

  Sure enough, Elvis appeared, shoving another body into the room. He seemed proud of his most current prize, presenting it to his spiky heeled boss. “Viv, lookie here what the cat drug in!”

  I was shocked. Stupefied. Beyond stupefied. Aghast. Could this really be happening? It was more than I could handle. I let out a scream as he looked at me with his puppy-dog eyes.

  It was Howard.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HOWARD HELD HIS HANDS BEHIND his head, elbows in the air, while Elvis held a gun to his back. He pushed the gun hard, forcing Howard further into the room. Howard didn’t say a thing.

  “Well,” growled Viviana, “if it isn’t our favorite friend from the FBI.”

  FBI? This woman was very confused. Howard rolled his eyes. I couldn’t understand why he was only rolling his eyes. Why wasn’t he defending himself against the obvious misunderstanding? Certainly a huge mistake had been made, and I needed to set things right.

  “He’s not FBI,” I cried, trying to explain my poor husband’s innocence. “That’s my husband, Howard!”

  Viviana and her crew laughed.

  “Why are you laughing? He’s an engineer. Tell them, Howard!” While words tumbled out of my mouth, I started putting two and two together. Very possibly, they equaled deception. I looked hopefully to Howard, praying that he would jump in and verify that I wasn’t the stupidest wife alive. His eyes drifted guiltily to his shoes.

  Viviana grinned again, blowing smoke out of her nose and snuffing out the remaining little bit of cigarette in the ashtray in her other hand. She handed the ashtray to Frankie, who took it like a good servant as she did her slow stroll over to Howard.

  “Where is it, honey?” she asked. Howard rolled his eyes again.

  “Back pocket. Right,” he said. She moved her hand slowly around to his back pocket, keeping her face close to his and smiling.

  “Nice butt,” she said, as she pulled out a black leather wallet. He coughed. “You need to quit smoking, Viv. It’s gonna kill you.”

  Hold on! What was going on here? Howard acted like he knew this flagitious floozy. Roz and Peggy looked like two chickens ready to lay eggs. Viviana flipped the wallet open and shoved it in my face. In fact, she had it so close I couldn’t read it—I could see that it was gold and it definitely looked like an official badge—but, of course, the words were a blur.

  “I don’t have my reading glasses—would you mind backing it up a bit?”

  “It says ‘Federal Bureau of Investigation. Department of Justice,’” Peggy whispered into my ear.

  “I think I can figure that much out, Peggy!” I screamed, surprising, even myself as I started to lose it. “Do you think I’m stupid?” Peggy cowered against the wall again and Howard warned me, “Barb, calm down. Be careful.”

  I glared at Howard. How dare he tell me to calm down. My temper was boiling over. “Calm down? Did you just really say that to me? I . . . I . . . I don’t even know how to respond to that! My blood sugar tanked out two hours ago, I’ve had huge wads of hair pulled out of my head, and now this fire-breathing, monkey-killing reject from the sixties tells me you’ve been lying to me for our entire married life—maybe longer? Calm down? Did you really say that?” Howard started the eye roll, but I intercepted, quick on the draw. “Don’t you ROLL your eyes at me!” I was shaking and realized that during my rant, I had stood up. Everyone was quiet as lambs. Even the chattering monkeys were silent. Viviana just smiled and tapped her foot. She evidently thought I was a hoot. A quick “psst” from the floor brought me back down to earth. It was Roz, trying to get my attention and patting the floor next to her. “Maybe you’d better just sit back down,” she said soothingly.

  I looked around the room and realized why she was making the recommendation. Pug Mug had moved his hand to the butt of his gun. He looked ready to pull it out and whack me at a moment’s notice. Sitting, I decided, was a good idea.

  When I sat back on my rump, I looked at Peggy. I felt terrible for yelling at her. “I’m sorry, Peg,” I said, feeling my face get hot and my eyes fill with tears. “I’m just having a really bad day.”

  I was trying to choke back the tears because, obviously, bravery was something we all needed at the moment, but then I started to realize that not only had my husband of seventeen years been lying to me for at least that same amount of time, but now it was very likely that we had just succeeded in orphaning our three beautiful daughters. I thought of my precious little bouncy Amber with her gorgeous red head of curls, my more serious Bethany who always had to act like she was in control, and my dear nearly-a-woman Callie who would likely grow up to marry a Japanese man, and I wouldn’t be there to drink sake at their wedding. No Howard to walk her down the aisle. All because I had watched too many action movies and thought I’d become a character in one.

  Which caused me to think. My eyes stopped filling up with tears. I sniffed a little. What would one of my action heroes do in this situation? What would Mel do? Or Bruce? Chuck? Stall. That’s it. Stall. Hold them off then catch them off guard. I looked over at Howard. Was it possible he had reinforcements coming in? He worked for the FBI, after all. Maybe a SWAT team would be dropping on the roof any minute, and all we
had to do was stay alive long enough for them to arrive. Think. Think. I needed a plan for stalling a bad guy. Talk! That’s how they always stall in the movies. Keep the bad guys talking. Evidently, criminals love to blather on and on about their ingenious crimes.

  The room was still quiet and everyone’s eyes were on me—probably waiting for another freak-out. “I’m okay,” I said, looking to my two friends who were with me on the floor. Then to Howard I said, “And I’ll be careful.”

  I proceeded with Operation: Stall the Bad Guys. “So, Viviana,” I said, pulling myself together, “I think you were about to tell me about the monkeys—you said you were smuggling them into the country. . .”

  “You ain’t too smart, are you?” Viviana sneered, lighting up again. “Elvis, let Agent Marr here join his friends. So, you wanna explain things to your snoopy wife here?”

  “His name is really Elvis?” I cried. Wow. That was kind of cool.

  “Joey ‘Elvis’ Scarletti,” said Howard as he hit the floor next to me.

  “It’s my hair,” smiled Elvis. “You like?”

  I grimaced inwardly.

  “I saw a picture of him on the Internet too,” said Peggy. “He worked for Tito Buttaro—he’s a hat.”

  Everyone, including Howard, looked puzzled.

  “I’m a what?” asked Elvis. He looked like he didn’t know if he should be insulted or not.

  “A hat,” she repeated.

  Howard gave her one more quizzical look, shook his head and dismissed her. “Elvis is a soldier—he worked under Buttaro—Tito ‘The Butler’ Buttaro. Butarro was a capo.”

  “That’s the word!” Peggy said pointing her finger to the air. “I knew it was something you put on your head.”

  “The Butler?” I queried.

  “Wiseguy rumor has it that he whacked Jimmy Hoffa. The name is a sort of code.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “The mystery of who killed Jimmy Hoffa . . .”

  “Oh! I get it!” cried Peggy. “The Butler did it! Cool.” She smiled and sat back again, satisfied that she’d made up for the “hat” comment.

  “So, getting back to the capo thing,” interrupted Roz, “is a capo the same as a boss?”

  I answered that one. I knew my Mafia movies. “No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure a boss is at the top of a family. A capo works for a boss and a soldier works for a capo. Money flows uphill to the Boss.”

  “Whoa,” said Elvis. “She knows her shit. She musta read Mafia for Dummies.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Viviana. “Let’s open up a school and let Snoopy be the Professor of Wise-guys.” The four of them laughed.

  “Except in this case,” continued Howard seriously, “maybe the money flows a little differently. Right, Viv?” Viviana just shrugged. She wasn’t giving up a lot of information yet, but at least we appeared to be stalling okay. I took a moment, watching Howard, considering him nearly a stranger as he talked so knowingly about these gangster hosts of ours. Unfortunately, for all of my upset, I didn’t have the luxury of pondering my husband’s deceit. I was keeping my ears alert for the sound of those SWAT helicopters landing on the roof.

  “Well, I’m confused,” I said, working to keep the conversation going. “I thought Tito has been missing for a few years.”

  Howard nodded affirmatively. “Oh, he’s been missing alright. Dead missing, we’re pretty sure. According to one of our informants, Viviana ‘Smoky’ Buttaro had her own husband killed, chopped into little pieces and fed to the sharks.”

  Viviana smiled, so I assumed this to be at least in the ballpark of the truth.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Viv didn’t miss a beat in answering. “He was an idiot. Plain and simple. Didn’t know his head from his ass. I should-a had him whacked sooner. The moron nearly broke the Crooks operation right from the beginning. I kept him around anyway. Thought he had potential. I was wrong.”

  “What’s the ‘Crooks operation’?” Roz asked. She was taking quite an interest.

  “Should I tell them,” Howard asked, “or would you like the honor, Viv?”

  Viviana waved her nicotine-stained hand in the air. “Oh, you’re such a good storyteller. Go ahead. None of you is gonna live long enough to tell another soul, anyhow. Spill it. Let’s see if you know your stuff, Signor Federali.”

  Howard went on to explain that twenty-nine years ago, Tito and Viviana Buttaro had grown tired of sending all their hard-earned money up to the Boss, who was then Vinnie Cuccinelli of the Cuccinelli family out of Philadelphia, and devised their own money-making scheme. The problem, Howard said, was two-fold. Tito really was an idiot. Turns out, Viviana was the brains behind the capo. That was number one. Number two: if Cuccinelli found out that Tito had a secret profit venture on the side, and had put a woman in control, both Buttaros would end up with egg on their faces and bullets in their backs. Cuccinelli, along with a majority of the mobster world, did not agree with the ideas of self-employment or feminism. Bottom line, they had to be stealth. According to Howard, stealth wasn’t Tito’s strong suit.

  “So what was the scheme?” I asked.

  “Real Estate. It’s the place to be,” answered Viviana, who was clearly enjoying the story of her life in crime. She was basking in self-regard.

  Howard went on. “Tito and Viviana created a man named Fred Crooks, but he only existed on paper. Crooks was really just a front name for the Buttaro alliance,” he said.

  “Bull! No alliance!’ shouted Viviana. She defiantly cocked her thumb toward her chest. “It was me! All me! I was Crooks. Alliance, my ass! I came up with the name, I arranged the hijackings that got us the investment money, I did the research and the leg work. All me, baby! He was just a grunt—a stupid, fucking grunt. He worked for me. Don’t you forget that.”

  “I won’t,” smiled Howard. I knew that smile. He’d just gotten something he wanted.

  I was beginning to understand, to some degree, what Viviana had been up to. One of my favorite movies was Donnie Brasco, so I knew when she mentioned “hijackings” that she meant she was sending her thugs out to stop freight trucks by force and steal the goods being transported. Those goods were then sold to any number of places for cold, hard cash. Evidently, she was reinvesting that money in real estate, rather than sending it up to Cuccinelli. A big-time “no-no” in the world of organized crime.

  “Who is Grumpy Lawn Mower Guy? How does he play out in all of this?” I asked.

  “Hired worker. Simple enough,” explained Howard. “He takes care of all of the properties. Turns out, over the years, Viviana’s enterprise had acquired over twenty properties, mostly in Northern Virginia, and then a couple in the western side of Pennsylvania. Northern Virginia was prospected by analysts in the seventies to be ripe for real estate growth, and they were right. Viviana chose the right money train.”

  Roz shook her head as if she didn’t understand. “How do you make money buying houses that stay vacant?” Roz asked.

  “Most are rentals, paying for themselves legitimately. Only three are vacant and come into use whenever Viv needs them.”

  “To smuggle monkeys?” I asked. Viviana looked disgusted, throwing up her arms and sending ashes flying.

  “Where does she get this ‘monkey smuggling’ thing from, anyway? What? You think I’m really this stupid?” She took a deep, calming drag on her cancer stick.

  “Oh, they’re not smuggling,” corrected Howard. “They’re disposing.” Viviana smiled big and blew out a puff of smoke. I was beginning to think my demise wouldn’t be by a gunshot to the head, but by second-hand smoke.

  “Yeah. It’s been my best and smartest financial venture. Better than the real estate. Quite a nice set-up, if I do say so myself,” She replied. She was a proud criminal.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Oh!” Roz lit up—figuratively, not literally—“I get it! The testing lab—Meadowland has been paying her to dispose of their testing monkeys. Am I right?”

&nbs
p; “Wrong,” said Viviana. “You gotta think bigger baby. See, this is why I’m a Wiseguy—emphasis on WISE—and you’re just a stupid little housewife. No offense. Meadowland is a nothing company. They can’t pay the big bucks.”

  “Who, then?” I asked Howard.

  “Pharmaceuticals,” he replied.

  “Biggest industry in these fifty-one United States outside illegal drug trade,” said Viviana, stamping out another ciggie.

  “Fifty,” said Peggy.

  “What?” asked Viviana.

  “Fifty. It’s fifty states. Not fifty one.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup,” quipped Peggy.

  Viviana pointed her finger at Peggy. “You! Shut up. You’re makin’ me mad,” she said.

  Howard went on to tell us that Viviana had shown up on the FBI radar a little over five years ago, after an informant had mentioned that there was a lady wiseguy operating on her own and doing business with at least two different pharmaceutical companies. She supplied the means to discreetly dispose of primates that were used in the testing process of all sorts of drugs, but, in the case of Meadowland, mostly “new and improved” anti-depressants, sleeping aids and other mind altering drugs that were currently Pharma’s biggest source of income. In return for the favor, the pharmaceutical companies supplied her with brand-name drugs to sell for profit. Big profit.

  “We planted a guy on the inside of Parks and Rowe,” said Howard. “They were one of the companies cited by our informant. Our undercover guy was gathering evidence against both Parks and Rowe and Viviana and her mini-mob. We were making good progress, but then he got found out.”

  I put my hand to my mouth, suddenly realizing something. “Was he . . .” I started to say.

  “Yeah,” he nodded, his face grave. “The guy you found in the house.”

  I started to feel sick again, remembering the grisly scene. Luckily, there was no food in my stomach to throw up.