“Got something for you,” Benny Bats said, and handed Little Benny a business card. “Go see them. They know who you are.”
***
Decca Records, a studio band, sixteen, twenty pieces, depending on who showed up. Benny on tenor and baritone. He did a few gigs with some of the guys, bass, guitar, drums, pulled Bobbi in on piano, got to calling her Bobbi Mercer — sounds showbiz, said an agent. And vocals, if you want to sell records.
After doing back up sessions for Ruth Brown and Laverne Baker, the Ben Burgundi Band featuring Bobbi Mercer released a few sides of blues, jump and swing, got the jockeys to spin them, Benny sensing a kind of persuasion he didn’t need to know about.
Billboard called it Rhythm and Blues, and Rock ‘n’ Roll. They did one night stands, north, then south, where one guy said: “We didn’t know she was colored.”
“You been hearing our records, you been hearing her sing. Sure is pretty, huh?”
“That don’t matter. Take her through the back.”
“She goes where we go.”
“Through the back, man.”
“Goodbye, man. We get back in our bus and you tell all the shit kickers coming to this barn to spend their money, that Bobbi Mercer ain’t here because she wouldn’t go through the back.”
“Look, it ain’t me.”
“Me neither.”
“Bring her in, hurry up.”
***
Through the forties and into the fifties, Patsy Cogootz would not be far from songs. If he couldn’t hear them, he sang them — wailed some of the string and horn lines too, and the rhythm sections.
Sometimes all the radios in the house made music. A small one in the music room, one in his bedroom, or the big one in the living room, where he sat, fingertips on the tuning knob, eyes on the lighted dial, finding one particular sound from way out in Cleveland. Songs drifted in, faded, came back. Records with growling saxophones, heavy back beats, men’s voices in heartbreak harmony that he and the other guys would be singing under the schoolyard stoop on the day Red Vest took a header onto the ash cans.
Like mob guys, they never talked about things like Red Vest. But Charlie Fish and Vinny Blond never stopped arguing about an end to the neighborhood. They got the big Cogootz boo-hooing to his mother about it, who told him that as long as his songs came from his heart, the neighborhood would thrive.
His father told him the same thing, and wonder jumped to wide-eyed certainty for Cogootz. He told Charlie and Vinny and Mike about it. But when harmony under the stoop got real tight, Mike got drafted, the group broke up and Cogootz almost did too.
But then he got the job, thanks to his father and the Mezzogiorno guys, at the Patarama Funeral Parlor, keeping the halls and parlors and embalming room clean. And with sadness and grief all around him, he never let the songs stop, and the songs, at least for a while, didn’t allow the dead to die. Really die.
Pablo Picasso Does the Right Thing for Philomena
After days of discussion, Philomena and the saints agreed to deliver Don Camillo’s dinner and bring the painting that had been in the hatbox under her bed. The priest, the number of his years evasive beneath quick eyes and snappy moves, listened as he finished a pork chop with potatoes and rapini.
After dinner, with saucers of ice cream and cups of coffee on the table, and Philomena looking on, he wrote to the Archdiocese of New York.
He believed, he wrote, that a devoted and trustworthy parishioner, “has come into contact with an early version of Picasso’s Blind Man’s Meal, of which I know little, but understand that it has been missing from the Church, specifically from Barcelona’s Cathedral of the Holy Cross, since the beginning of the century, and that its worth is not measurable.”
He went on: “But for the consideration that includes no request for money, but a reward valuable only to this parishioner, will assure a return of the painting to the Church.”
Phone calls and meetings, inspections, appraisals and agreements followed before Don Camillo, Philomena and the saints pulled Father Laurio Matruzzo from a small parish in upstate New York, where they called him Father Louie, to Christ the King Church, where he got his name back, never learned how he got there, but lived pleasantly among the good people of the neighborhood.
Charlie Fish Gets Whacked
A Saturday night in September, 1983, the lacy patterns of small white lights arched the street for the opening night of the Feast of San Gennaro. Women sat at their windows watching their neighbors place bets at gambling wheels, crowd food stands for sausage, calzones and zeppoli, or crabs and shrimp.
Behind a pastry stand, a lady with sprays of powdered sugar on her nail polish chuckled under her white apron and called: “Look, look. Look at them here! How many you want, signora? And you, Charlie, how many?”
Charlie Fish Tonno, locked in a cluster of people walking slowly, smiled, shook his head no, and continued, stopping for a smile and a gander at the young girl behind a jewelry counter. Where the crowd thinned, he met up with Fat Cosmo, out on bail on a New Jersey hijacking case.
“Cosmo, hang around,” Charlie Fish said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where you going?”
“Gotta see about a call. Wait for me.”
“Heard about Vinny Blond?”
“I’ll be back.”
The strings, horns and cymbals on the bandstand climbed into an up tempo, and Fish marched from the bright streets of the feast into a side street shaded by a line of old trees.
Father Laurio had just missed him. He had been walking, humming with the band and speaking with ladies who, as young mothers, had known his mother. They told him, as they’d told him so many times before, of being in the church during Mass on the San Gennaro feast day, when she’d fallen dead.
“She had a smile on her face.”
“She didn’t suffer.”
“She prayed so hard for you to come to Christ the King.”
He neared the edge of the feast.
“Going home already, Father?” a man called.
“Mass in the morning,” he called back. “Maybe you should come.”
“Glass of wine?”
“Tomorrow night maybe.”
“And get us some rain,” the man said, and lightning ripped through the black sky.
“Looks like it’s here,” Father Laurio said, looking at the sky and stepping into the same dark that Charlie Fish had entered. The sounds of the feast softened as he walked to the churchyard’s gate, onto a brick walk and up two stone steps to the vestibule door. He shouldered the door open just as the rain broke, its sharp rattle on the slate roof nearly hiding the crack of a gunshot.
But he’d caught that sound, let it go as a firecracker, till two more shots took him to a rear window in the rectory. He picked up the phone on his desk.
“What is your emergency?”
“This is Father Matruzzo, Christ the King Church. I heard shots and saw someone running from our schoolyard. I think someone is on the ground.”
“Describe the runner?”
“Black raincoat.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all.”
He snatched an umbrella and hoofed through the rain to where a bare bulb above the schoolyard stoop cast a circle on a man on the ground, his left knee angled sharply, its foot tucked under the other knee. The elbows held angles too, so did the wrists, at the waist like the paws of a sleeping dog.
Thick head of hair, black going white. White shirt, a fold of money half in, half out of its pocket, and tan pants. On a neck chain, a San Gennaro medal. Father Laurio had blessed that medal — 18 karat, made in Italy, he remembered. It and the face with three pink holes in it, belonged to Charlie Fish Tonno.
Rain slowed and minutes passed when a police car bounced through the schoolyard gate and stopped, headlights on the body. The cops got out.
“Was it you who called, Father?”
“Yes.” Laurio folded shut his umbrella.
“We go
t a black raincoat. Nothing further?”
“He ran out that gate.”
One cop got on the radio, the other took traffic cones and yellow tape from the trunk.
A black Plymouth slid in, stopped behind the first police car. Two detectives, one of them with his suit jacket open and stressed at the shoulders, pants crimped at the waist and bagged at the knees, was Mike Mazzi.
“You called this in, Laurio?”
“It’s Charlie, Mike. Charlie Fish.”
“No shit.”
Mike and his partner, Jim Conroy, quick, tall, young, flanked the body. They looked and pointed, stooped and examined. Mike took the money from Charlie’s shirt pocket, handed it to Conroy.
“You heard three shots, Laurio?” Mike asked.
“Yes, three.”
“Something about a raincoat?”
“Somebody in a black raincoat ran out the gate and that’s all.”
“Man, woman, black, white?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I saw from that window.” Father Laurio pointed.
“You okay?” Mike asked.
“I’m okay. Can I anoint the body.”
“Think he cares?”
“He will soon.”
***
Sunday morning. No sleep, no shower, no shave, cardboard coffee cups on the dashboard.
Sammy Pepe, a skinny man with big ears and lonely strands of gray hair, had been stepping in and out of the Mezzogiorno Social Club, as San Gennaro watched from the window.
Inside, men playing cards, drinking coffee, looked up when Mike and Jim walked in behind Sammy.
“Hello, Sammy,” Mike said.
Sammy turned. “Hey, Mike, how you doing?”
“Good, Sammy.”
“Madonn’, you look more like your father every time I see you.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say. Listen, we gotta talk to Dominic. He’s here?”
“Yeah, he don’t stay home no matter what. He figured you guys would be around. I was just looking out for you. I’ll go get him — oh, here he is.”
Dominic Tonno stepped from the kitchen. Nothing about him looked like he might be Charlie Fish’s father except his hair, full and wavy, bright white. Too many pounds, but solid, filled the white knit shirt. The same kind of shirt his son had worn to his murder.
The detectives stood, Mike introduced Jim.
“Michael, just like your father you look. How’s your mother?”
More grit had accumulated in Tonno’s voice since the last time Mike heard it. “She’s good.”
“Good. Sit down.”
They all sat at a table behind San Gennaro.
“Sorry about Charlie,” Mike said.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“We have to talk about it.”
“I figured.”
“Anything you could tell us, any problems?”
“Problems all the time. Stick ups, husbands, fathers, forget about it. If he woulda behaved, he coulda had the world by the cogliones.” Tonno looked at Jim, back to Mike.
“Any problems lately?” Mike asked.
“Not that I know, but you could bet he was making some.” Tonno almost yelled, sounded annoyed. “He was fucking everything. He didn’t care who, whose wife, nothing.”
“How’s your wife doing? Your daughters?”
“My daughters are doing good. My wife, what could I tell you?”
“We could use help.”
Dominic Tonno shrugged, held it. “For you I do what I could, Michael.” He let go the shrug. “Within reason. Hey look, the black car. You’re getting a ticket. They give you guys tickets?”
“Cops ain’t what we used to be, Dominic.”
“Fucking meter maids.”
“Jim, make sure we don’t get banged,” Mike said.
“Yeah, sure.”
Jim scooted out, Mike leaned, looked around the San Gennaro statue, watched Jim make the meter maid smile.
“How old are you now, Mike?” Tonno asked.
“Forty two.”
“Sure, like my son.”
“How old are you, Dom?”
“Social Security. Michael, look. I don’t know who whacked my son. Nobody came to me with a problem. You understand?”
“Three in the face,” Mike said.
“Don’t sound like business.”
“Anything about it mean something?”
“Only what I said. Husbands, fathers, jealous fucking women. I find out something, then two things could happen. Either we tell you, or we don’t, but you’ll figure it out.”
***
Mike ducked into the Plymouth.
“Anything?” Conroy asked.
“Cooperation.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s says he’s gonna find out who killed his son.”
“Then what?”
“He’s gonna whack him. Let’s go eat.”
Jim moved the Plymouth, stopped at a light.
Mike rolled down his window. “Cogootz,” he called out.
“Aye, Mikey, aye, Mikey.” Cogootz waved a long arm, threw a shiny grin.
“This is the guy I told you we want to see,” Mike said to Conroy. “From the funeral parlor.”
Jim pulled to the curb near the schoolyard, a softball game, a hundred spectators looking through the tall chainlink fence.
Mike and Jim got out of the car, stood near the fence, waited for Cogootz to cross the street.
“This guy’s still in the fifties,” Mike said. “Look at him.”
Old jeans, clean, rolled cuffs, faded black t-shirt, pack of cigarettes in its small pocket, feet in black leather shoes, a bony hand at the Yankee cap on his head.
Still crossing, Cogootz called: “Hi Mikey. What are you, working now? On Sunday?”
“Gotta keep guys like you out of trouble. Get outta the street.”
Cogootz strode past Mike and Jim, looked in the Plymouth’s side window. “You got a police radio and a regular radio too.”
“Told them I don’t work on Sunday unless I could tune in the Doowop Shop.”
“You didn’t say that. They’d say up your giggy.”
“How you doing?” Mike asked.
“Something about Charlie, huh?”
“How’s your wife, your daughter?”
“Good.”
“How old is she now?”
“My wife?”
“Your daughter.”
“Sweet sixteen. Something about Charlie, huh? Think the neighborhood is gonna end now, with no more Charlie Fish?”
“You serious?”
“Yeah.”
“As long as we could sing, we got no problem,” Mike said.
“That’s what we used to say. Remember?”
“I remember.”
“But years now we don’t hit harmony.”
“You know all the parts. You could sing them, one at a time.”
“Come on, Mikey. You know that ain’t the same.”
“But it’s good enough.” Mike stepped, turning to Jim. “Patsy, this is my partner, Jim Conroy.”
“Hello Patsy, glad to meet you.”
“You could call me Cogootz, Jim.” He stuck out a hand. Jim’s hand got lost in it.
“Something about Charlie, huh?” Cogootz said again.
“You shake Jimmy’s hand, you don’t shake mine?”
“Oh, yeah.” Cogootz grabbed Mike’s hand. “Charlie sang great bass, right Mikey?”
“Great bass. What do you know about what happened?”
“With Charlie? I don’t know nothing. Father Laurio saw the guy, ask him.”
“How you know that?”
“Everybody knows. But I know who Father Laurio saw. I mean, I bet.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“Who?”
“What everybody says.”
“Who?”
“Don’t make me say. I ain’t going to
say.”
“Cogootz, it’s me. Who?”
“Cosmo.”
Cheers from the schoolyard made the three men look through the chain link fence, runner rounding first, going for second.
“He around?”
“He was at the feast last night. Nobody says they seen him, because he’s the guy who killed Charlie and they don’t wanna say.”
“Okay, hold on. When did you last see Charlie?”
“Two, three weeks ago, going in the club, but I didn’t talk with him.”
“What about before that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Why would Cosmo want to kill Fish?”
“Because he’s a fat bastard.”
“How long since he’s been around?”
“Since I seen him last.”
“When was that?”
“Two, three weeks ago, going in the club, but I didn’t talk with him.”
“That’s what you said about Charlie.”
“Yeah. Him and Charlie. Hey, hey, hey. Mike the cop’s grilling his friend. Don’t give me a beating, Mikey, huh?” Cogootz ducked make believe head shots.
“What about Vinny? What’s he doing?”
“Vinny don’t come hardly around no more. Neither do you.” Cogootz folded his arms over the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “We all used to be together. And you know, Mikey, this new music ain’t shit.”
“I know.”
“Well, I gotta go to work. Hey. You know Charlie’s name is really Carmine?”
“Yeah, we knew that. His grandfather was Happy Carmine.”
“Yeah, now I remember. Happy Carmine.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, gotta go to work, see what Charlie’s got to say. Get it, see what Charlie’s got to say?”
Mike said: “He says anything good, you call me.”
“Okay, Mike. See ya.”
“If anybody says anything good, call me.”
***
Cogootz went through the alley to the back stairs of the Patarama Funeral home, pushed open the door into the preparation room, and stepped to the cadaver of Charlie Tonno.
“What’s up, Cogootz?” Charlie Fish didn’t sound sad, or afraid.
“Hi, Fish. Well, good to see you.” Cogootz shot Fish with a finger. “Somebody got you, huh?”
“Cogootz, why’d you kill me?”
The Mezzogiorno Social Club Page 19