Stand-up

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Jack,” he said, picking up on the first ring, “you just caught me. I was on my way out.”

  Shit. I wanted to talk to him now.

  “Do you want to call me later?”

  “No, I can talk. Is this about Tyler?”

  “Yeah, Nick. I hope you found something out.”

  “I did, something that might even help you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Tyler is married to the mob.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, his wife is the daughter of a second cousin—oh hell, it’s confusing, especially if you’re not Italian. What it all boils down to is that Truman Tyler’s wife’s maiden name is Bonetti.”

  “What?” A truck had gone by at that moment and I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “I said, Truman Tyler’s wife, Angela, is—or was—Michael Bonetti’s sister.”

  “And Tyler is trying to help get Danny Pesce off for killing him?”

  Nick hesitated a moment and then said, “Is he?”

  58

  I could have waited for Saturday to go looking for Truman Tyler, but something told me to hop the subway to Brooklyn now and try to catch him in his office. If I waited for tomorrow I’d have to try to catch him at home, and even though Delvecchio managed to get the address for me, I didn’t look forward to that. I wanted to deal with Tyler, not his wife and her family.

  From Delvecchio I learned that the Bonettis were not high ranking in the Mafia, but they were “Family,” and that was what mattered. For killing Michael Bonetti, Danny Pesce would have to pay—he was there—as would Ray Carbone who, according to Pesce, did the actual killing.

  I had to believe that Ray killed Bonetti. Why would he lie about it? It had probably happened just the way he’d said it had, though, accidentally, but the boys wouldn’t accept that.

  Unless . . .

  Unless I could prove that Bonetti was stealing from them. For that, I needed Truman Tyler’s cooperation.

  Willing or unwilling.

  When I got to Court Street, it was starting to empty out. There were many more people going down into the subway stations than there were coming up. Not only were the legal and medical offices belching forth people, but the courthouses as well. It was like trying to walk against a strong tide in some places, but I finally made it to Tyler’s office.

  I mounted the steps to his office and tried the door. It was locked, but the lights were on inside. Standing on my toes I could see that his outer office was as empty and dusty as it had been the last time I was there, but there seemed to be shadows moving in his office. I knocked and the shadows stopped moving. I knocked again and there was no answer. I now figured that Tyler and whoever was in there with him were pretending they weren’t there in the hopes that whoever was knocking—me—would go away.

  Fat chance.

  I pounded on the door, and Tyler finally appeared, looking nervous, and opened it a crack.

  “Jacoby?”

  “You want to pretend you’re not here, Tyler, you better get yourself a real office door, without a window. Then again, a real door would look out of place here, wouldn’t it?”

  “Go away.”

  “Let me in.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I—office hours are over.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said. “You can give yourself overtime. Come on, we’ve got to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Ray Carbone, Danny Pesce, and your brother-in-law, Michael Bonetti.”

  “It’s no secret that Mike was my brother-in-law.”

  “I’ll bet Ray Carbone didn’t know it, did he? When you and Pesce roped him into whatever your scheme was.”

  “No scheme,” Tyler said. “Ray was hired to protect Danny, that was all.”

  “Like Danny Pesce really needed protection from somebody? Come on, Tyler, Ray was your fall guy, but you didn’t expect Bonetti to get killed, did you?”

  “Go away, damn it—”

  “Let him in,” a voice said from inside. I recognized it. Tyler sighed, stepped back, and I went inside. Standing in the doorway to Tyler’s office was a man with a gun. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Didn’t get very far,” I said, “did you, Ray?”

  59

  “Could you point that somewhere else, Ray? Unless it’s meant for me too?”

  “Don’t be an asshole.” He lowered the gun, but did not put it away.

  “He’s crazy,” Tyler said hurriedly. “He’s going to kill me.”

  “Is that right, Ray? Are you going to kill him?”

  “He’s going to tell me who killed Joy,” Ray said. “I mean, who actually tortured her and beat her and killed her.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Tyler said. “I swear.”

  “Oh, shut up, Truman,” I said. “Sure you do. It was you and Danny who set this up and brought Ray into it. That right, Ray?”

  “That’s right. Danny hired me because he said he was afraid of Mike Bonetti.”

  “What happened that night, Ray?”

  “I told you the truth about that, Jack. They came at us and I did what I do, you know? Bonetti died because of it. It was more their fault than mine.”

  “What’s the counselor here have to say about it all?”

  “He says he doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Well, that’s that, then. Let’s go.”

  “What?” Ray was staring at me as if I was crazy.

  Tyler looked relieved.

  “Yeah, that’s right, get him out of here.” He was getting brave. “He’s lucky I don’t call the police.”

  “Jack, are you—”

  “Hey, Ray, if he says he doesn’t know anything about it, then he doesn’t.”

  “Jack—”

  “But I think he’ll have a harder time convincing Mike Bonetti’s family of that.”

  Ray stared at me, then smiled.

  “What?” Tyler asked.

  “Bonetti’s family—I mean, your wife’s family. How are they going to feel when they find out you had something to do with his death?”

  “What are you talking about? Who—who’s gonna tell ’em?”

  His Brooklyn accent, the one he tried desperately to hide when he was in lawyer mode, was starting to come out.

  “We are. Look, Truman, we know you were involved and your brother-in-law ended up dead. Maybe we can’t prove it, but you know how your wife’s family is. They won’t need proof. Come on, Ray.”

  Ray started to follow me to the door.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Tyler was waving his arms in front of him as if trying to dispel the words he had just heard. “Wait, wait . . .”

  “For what, Truman?” I asked.

  “Lemme think, lemme think . . .”

  “There’s no time to think, Truman. You and Danny went into business for yourselves, and you were trying to bring Mike in. Mike didn’t go for it, and he warned you not to get involved. Since he was the only one in the ‘Family’ who knew, you had to get rid of him, or eventually you knew he’d spill the beans, brother-in-law or no.”

  “No, no,” Tyler said, “I never meant for Mike to get killed. Jesus, no, Angela would never forgive me.”

  “Being forgiven by your wife would seem to be the least of your problems, Tyler. You told your family that Ray and Danny killed Mike, didn’t you?”

  “No,” he said, looking away, “not Danny.”

  “You guys were going to take up where you left off when he got out?”

  “You sonofabitch!” Ray said with feeling. “He was going to give me up, wasn’t he? After he played the stand-up guy for a while?”

  “Yeah,” Tyler said, still not looking at us. “Yeah, he was, but by then . . .”

  “By then they figured you’d already be dead, Ray,” I finished. “Bonetti’s family would have gotten to you by then.”

  “Or you’d be gone,” Tyler said, “and th
ey’d spend a long time looking for you.”

  “Meanwhile, you and Danny continue your business, whatever it was.”

  “It was—”

  “I don’t care what it was!” Ray shouted. He brought his cannon out again and pointed it at Tyler “I just want the cocksucker who killed Joy!”

  Tyler’s eyes widened as he stared at the gun. He was frightened out of his wits now. Frightened of Bonetti’s family, of his own wife, and of Ray and his gun.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” he said, holding his hands out. “Wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “I can’t think, damn it!”

  “That’s your problem, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “No, that’s not his problem.” Ray closed the ground between himself and Tyler and pressed the barrel of his gun underneath the lawyer’s chin. “This is his problem.”

  Right at that moment there was a knock on the door. No, not a knock, more like a pounding.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Tyler.

  “That’s the man you’re looking for,” Tyler said, looking at Ray. “The man who killed your girl.”

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked. “Jesus, Ray, did you call Tyler before you came?”

  “It was the only way to get him to meet me.”

  I looked at Tyler. “And you called your men?”

  “Not my men. My family.”

  “Truman, open the damn door!” a man called.

  “How many?” I asked Tyler.

  He didn’t answer

  “How many?” Ray repeated, pressing the barrel of the gun so hard against Tyler’s flesh that I knew he’d be wearing a circle in his skin for a while.

  “Four,” he said, “there’ll be four.”

  “What’s the man’s name?” Ray asked. “The one who killed Joy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tyler—”

  “I don’t,” Tyler insisted. “I only know it was one of the four of them. They’ve been looking for you since—”

  “Since you gave him up,” I said. “Is there another way out of here?”

  “Not unless you want to go out a window.”

  “You carrying?” Ray asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I’d clipped my .38 to my belt that morning before I left home. I didn’t relish having to use it, but I wouldn’t have worn it if I wasn’t willing to.

  “Truman, you in there?”

  “What’s his name?” Ray asked.

  “Olivetti.”

  “Olivetti!” Ray called out.

  There was a moment of silence and then the man answered. “Yeah?”

  “This is Ray Carbone. I’m coming out.”

  “Come ahead.”

  “I want you and your men down the stairs, or I’ll put a bullet in Tyler’s head.”

  “They don’t care about me,” Tyler said, resigned.

  “We’re gonna find out if you’re right,” Ray said.

  “We going out?” I asked.

  “We’re goin’ out.”

  I took my gun out of the holster. It felt alien in my hand. I was used to holding it on the shooting range, not in situations like this.

  “Oh, one thing,” Ray said.

  “What?”

  “Here.”

  He took his left hand out of his jacket pocket and handed me some money.

  “That’s the money you gave me,” he said. “Just in case we don’t make it I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  I stared down at my stein money and then shoved it into my pocket.

  “I’m glad you feel better.”

  “Shall we go?”

  60

  I got the door, but Ray went out first, with Tyler in front of him. I don’t think either of us really thought they’d shoot Tyler, so I’ll bet Ray was as surprised as I was when they started shooting immediately. I heard a sound similar to one I used to hear in the ring. Then it was leather striking flesh and tearing open a cut. This time it was lead slamming into meat.

  Tyler cried out and slumped in Ray’s grasp, but Ray held him up with one hand. I came out the door and looked down the steps. There were four men at the bottom, and they weren’t finished shooting.

  Ray began firing, and I pointed my gun and started pulling the trigger, probably with less results. Ray’s gun was larger, made more noise, and was probably being fired more accurately. I still didn’t hold out much hope for us surviving this, until suddenly the four men looked around. One of them spun and staggered, one of the others catching him before he could fall. I realized then that someone besides us was firing at them, and they realized it too.

  There was a big man among them and he shouted at them something that could have been, “Let’s get out of here,” or “Go fuck yourself in your ear.” Whatever he said, they all turned and took off, leaving us standing at the top of the stairs with a bleeding Truman Tyler.

  “Stand up, Tyler,” Ray said, roughly. “You’re not hit that bad.”

  Ray released Tyler, who slumped against the side of the building clutching his bleeding right arm.

  “You hit?” Ray asked me.

  “No.”

  “Good, that makes one of us,” he said, and then he fell.

  61

  On a plane to Las Vegas Sunday I was thinking back to the events of Friday night. It was difficult to do, because on a charter people are gregarious and want to talk. Also, it seems many of them know each other. However, once I convinced my seatmate that I didn’t want to talk—a dirty look did it—I was able to close my eyes and concentrate .

  As it turned out, the slug I heard hit ended up in Ray’s right shoulder. His wound was worse than Tyler’s, but I got both of them inside and seated and called for an ambulance. Shots fired on a Brooklyn street—especially one like Court Street—bring the police fairly quickly, but when I called 911 for the ambulance I also asked for the cops.

  While I was doing that, Nick Delvecchio came into the office. He was the one who had been shooting at the four men downstairs. He waited until I got off the phone to speak, taking the opportunity to try to help Ray with his wound.

  “They left one behind. He’s dead.”

  “Me or you?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “I got him, Jack. You all right?”

  “Thanks to you. What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged and said, “I had a feeling you’d be coming here without backup.”

  “What made you think I’d need backup?”

  He shrugged again and said, “Instinct.”

  “Good instincts. Thanks, Nick.”

  “Any time.”

  He waited with us for the police, who arrived before the ambulance. They started taking statements, and when the first ambulance crew arrived I made sure they took Ray before Tyler. When the second crew removed Tyler, the cops went to the hospital to continue taking statements. A morgue wagon came and took the dead man. Later he’d be identified as a “low-ranking” member of the Mafia.

  Delvecchio and I gave statements at the scene to two detectives Nick knew. Their names were Weinstock and Matucci. He seemed friendly enough with the first, but at odds with the second.

  We all went down to the precinct then, and sat around talking for most of the night. They also took the opportunity to check both Nick’s and my carry permit for our guns.

  When they finally let us go, Weinstock assured me that he’d be checking with the Manhattan cops on the Danny Pesce and Joy White cases.

  By the time I boarded the plane this is what I knew: Ray was now in custody for his part in the Bonetti murder. He’d never intended to run. Before he gave himself up, he only wanted to find the man who killed Joy. Now that he had a name—Olivetti—he was willing to go to court to clear himself, knowing that he could find the man when it was all over. Heck Delgado agreed—in the Saturday phone call to his house placed by me—to represent Ray.

  Truman Tyler was still professing his innocence in both of the murders, but he was admitting t
o being partners with Danny Pesce rather than simply his lawyer. He also didn’t want to be released from the hospital without police protection.

  I left New York feeling certain that Heck would do his best for Ray, and that things would be sorted out, maybe even by the time I got back. I had done my part, I had found Ray, and now I was going to concentrate on fulfilling whatever obligation I had left to Stanley Waldrop.

  I managed to get off the plane without having to have a conversation with any of the degenerate gamblers getting off the plane with glazed eyes, heading directly for the slot machines in the terminal. Since I had taken a small carry-on bag, I was able to head right for a cabstand and get a taxi to the Aladdin. The marquee outside the hotel announced the appearance of George Thoroughgood and Depeche Mode during that week. I felt certain they would not be there on the same night, and that they would not draw the same crowd.

  The Aladdin is one of the midsize casino hotels in Vegas, certainly not in a class with the new MGM Grand—which was just down the street—or the Luxor, or the old standbys like the Golden Nugget, the Stardust, the Riviera, or Bugsy’s place, the Flamingo. Still, I couldn’t fathom what a stand-up comic of Stan Waldrop’s stature had been doing performing here. A David Brenner or George Carlin maybe, but Stan Waldrop? Somebody must have pulled some strings to get him here, and probably for a reason other than his comedic talent.

  The Aladdin had a high-rise section and a three-story annex. I managed to get a room in the annex for $29.00 a night on special, thanks to the travel agency that had booked the charter. Geneva had saved me a bundle with that suggestion. The hotel probably felt they could offer a room rate that low because their guests would be dropping a bundle in the casino.

  They hadn’t figured on me, though. I didn’t gamble much, and being in Vegas wasn’t going to change that a whole lot. I enjoy an occasional poker night with friends, and a bet on a horse during a big race like the Kentucky Derby. I’ve even been to the track with the friends once or twice—Henry Po once, and Nick Delvecchio once—and I’d gone with Po because he worked for the racing association and got me in for free.