The Case Of The Little Italy Bounce (Woody Stone, Private Investigator Book 1)

by R. D. Herring

  She left. I stayed. The place was filling up.

  Sally Spit stopped on his way to the oval bar. He was wearing a white shirt and tie and carrying a case of Cutty Sark. He put his free hand on the brass rail and looked up at me.

  “Hey, Woody. Sorry I couldn’t get a fix on Gallo. Nobody’s seen him. Still got my feelers out.”

  “I appreciate you, Sal.” I peeled off a fin, bent over and pushed it under his palm. He winked and was off to deliver his goods.

  ***

  I didn’t know Malta from Malt-O-Meal when Sally first told me where he was from. South of Sicily, Malta and several small surrounding islands are little more than barren rock stranded in the middle of the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. Sally Spit was from Rabat near the southwest coast. Nature wasted no resources on those rocky outcrops. The locals had always turned to fishing, stonework and the poorest excuse for agriculture just to stay alive.

  His grandmother had raised him in poverty. His uncle, a stonemason, had arranged for Sally to go to work with him in the quarries. Salvatore was ten years old at the time. They pulled the glowing Maltese sandstone from the ground with strong backs and primitive tools.

  Sally was 14 when his uncle was killed in a quarry accident in 1926. Within weeks, his grandmother had paid twelve British pounds, her life’s savings, for Sally’s passage to New York City. They had no relatives there, but she knew he’d be alone soon anyway; he may as well go to America, the easy place she’d heard so much about. Besides, Australia was on a quota system - immigrants had to be nominated by someone already there.

  Salvatore was a devout Roman Catholic. He would no more have questioned his grandmother than he would have the Pope. His trip on the rust bucket, Ville de Strasburg, was slow and generally miserable. Sally laughed when he told me he didn’t know he was going to starve in America. He said, for the first six months, he ate what he could find in restaurant trashcans.

  “I even got my butt kicked a couple of times for my efforts. If there’d been a bridge to Malta, I would’ve walked home.”

  He fell in with the paisans that spoke one of his languages and started running errands for the wiseguys. They all called him ‘Zip’, their moniker for someone just off the boat. He proved to be especially good at making collection rounds, seeking out longshoremen who were late with their Shylock payments. His baby face didn’t spook the dock yokels until a brick wall fell on them.

  Early on, he discovered that the mantle of rock quarry muscle he carried, plus his natural athletic ability, made him a big man in the local fight club rings. Even as a kid, he had the strength, speed and natural instinct to inflict great damage on an opponent. He picked up the skills quickly, and there was never any doubt about his heart.

  He said he fought to stave off homesickness. He missed it all, soccer, the sea, and people socializing in cafes, sidewalks and alleys. He missed Mardi Gras when every town would celebrate the feast of its patron saint. Celebrations always began with a solemn High Mass in the parish church.

  “I loved the Feast of Imnarja, the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul in June. There were services in all the churches in Malta. The next day, we had the traditional donkey races in my hometown, Rabat. On the third day, the agricultural show opened in Buskett, not far away. Buskett had the only big woodland area in all of Malta, a hunting ground planted hundreds of years before by occupying Christian Knights. Thousands of people came from all over and spent the night singing folksongs and playing guitars under the trees. They were all frying rabbits, eating fruit and drinking wine.”

  Sally’s telling even made me homesick for it.

  ***

  Phil Phillips was being piped into the bar area several hours later when Dan Logan hobbled up the three stairs. I knew Phil was singing ‘The Sea of Love’ about the redheaded dish. Dan plopped down in Kate’s chair.

  “Hey, Lieutenant. Plant ya now, dig ya later,” I might have slurred.

  He grabbed my forearm with his big ol’ mitt and squeezed hard enough to get my attention. “Ain’t ya heard, Wood? Rossi’s gone missing, flat missing. I got the word from the North Side. The wire is, the Five Families know he’s not coming back. There’s a new Boss of the East Side, Crazy Joe Gallo.” I stared at him wondering why he wasn’t listening to ‘The Sea of Love’.

  “Did you see a paper last night? There’s a half page shot of Spillazzo’s body full of daylight at the Washington Hotel. Guess that bit of publicity drove the Gambino’s over the edge. Seems Vittorio Rossi’s been on thin ice for a while. Now he’s probably under it.”

  He lit a Camel and motioned to the waiter. “His wife, or widow, felt it necessary to take a flight early this afternoon. She suddenly has sick relatives in Palermo. By the way, that picture of the Spillazzo corpse?”

  “Yeah...”

  “It was laying there beside a severed tongue.”

  That came in over the transom. Good ol’ Weegee had struck again.

  “Who’s good for that murder?” I managed.

  “Murder?” Dan almost grinned, “The DA’s willing to look at that as a very determined case of suicide for the time being. We’ll see... Guess we know how that vote at the Rao’s Restaurant sit-down went, huh?”

  The rise in Crazy Joe’s stock gnawed at my gizzard, but 86’ing that insane thug, Rossi, was gratifying to me. It was a monster news story that should have eclipsed the ongoing ‘Broadway Blackout’ in the local fishwraps.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  (Wednesday, June 15, 1960.)

  With that scumbag, Rossi, getting his hash settled, I slept like a baby and slept in Wednesday morning. It felt good, like an anvil dropped off my shoulders. For the first time in weeks, I got my sit-ups and daily twenty-five push-ups accomplished on the same morning. After a hot shower, I grabbed a newspaper and stopped in at the Hotel Taft Coffee Shop. I ordered up some fried eggs and a stack of wheats. I waited for my java, lit a Lucky and unfolded the Journal American.

  I found the story on Page Two. The headline, ‘The Little Italy Bounce’. They got the story as good as they could get it without having their offices firebombed, ‘Well-known local businessman, Vittorio Rossi, missing for two days. His business associates fear wrong doing on his part... embezzlement suspected. Informed sources say he may have been under investigation... may have fled the country’.

  Investigation would have been better than what he was really under I was willing to bet. No reprieve from 60 feet of saltwater! It would have been a nice touch if they had noted the bright future forecast for Joseph Gallo, esteemed local thug. The story was big. Even though it affected 60% of the people in Manhattan and beyond, the front page was taken up with the follow-up story of what they called the ‘Broadway Blackout’.

  The Broadway producers had been deadlocked with the union since the first of the year. ‘Actors Union President Ralph Bellamy states: “Pensions are our first and uncompromising demand.” However, producer David Merrick says, “We can’t possibly exist with a pension plan,” stating that any such plan would mean an increase in theatre prices’.

  Sure enough, June first, the contract deadline, the union closed down ‘The Tenth Man’ and promised to close another show every night until their demands were met. The League representing the producers immediately closed down the rest of Broadway. The lights were dark for the first time in forty years. Two days prior, June 13, Mayor Wagner had stepped in.

  ‘Mayor Wagner offers a solution: he will repeal the Amusement Tax and the producers will instead pay a percentage of box office receipts into a fund to finance pension plans for the various Broadway unions’.

  The New York Post had called it ‘The Cold War on Broadway’.

  That evening, the organized crime story took wings when the tabloids picked up on the ‘Little Italy Bounce’ headline. Their copy was a lot grittier; they generally called a spade a spade instead of a long handled shovel. Some did go on to mention the new political prominence of Joseph Gallo.

  The PM Daily even re-ran the p
icture of Spillazzo’s body that lay beside the telltale tongue, bless their hearts. The caption left the dear reader to draw his own conclusions.

  ***

  I grabbed a cab to my office after I secured the Studebaker in her alley stable off Delancey Street. I cleared the top of the stairs about 10:45 and lit a Lucky Strike as I walked towards the open office door. I saw Gina’s empty desk as I walked in.

  No, not empty. The bottle of Jack Daniel's from my bookshelf stood on top of it at attention. My coffee cup, sporting the eagle, globe and anchor, seemed to be reporting its post. Gina instantly appeared from my right side; scared the crap out of me. She was holding a loaded cardboard box and had booze on her voice.

  “I got a call from Dan Logan just when I was leaving last night. He asked if I knew where you were. He said he needed to talk to you right away, said it was about a homicide. I didn’t tell him anything, but I called the Taft and then went to Dempsey’s Restaurant looking for you.” She was talking very fast.

  “I saw you kissing that perfectly awful redheaded thing at Dempsey’s last night. I was never so embarrassed in my life. The idea of my boss doing something like that in public!”

  “Is that all, Sweetie? It wasn’t real,” I heard my voice trailing.

  “Don’t Sweetie me, you big jerk. What else would it be? It was a long kiss. Shame on you! You’re a terrible boss. I hate you. I mean, I quit!” Her blue eyes flashed between her pillbox hat and the box full of stolen office supplies.

  “I just quit. I’m gonna find a real job,” she repeated herself. “And I certainly never want to see YOU again!” was tossed back over her shoulder, in case I misunderstood. She stomped past the black and gold lettering on the door glass. If she had noticed the purple around my eye, it ranked very low on her list.

  Probably just as well. She did deserve a real job. I thought our friendship would survive my lack of professionalism. Maybe...

  How hard could it be to find a secretary? Besides, at that point, I was thinking maybe I had finally found ‘Miss Right’. At least I had the memory of her perfumed red hair and her business card in my pocket. Oh yeah, and a skip in my heartbeat at the thought of her name... Kathryn. Beautiful Kate. I was staring out the window at Manhattan across the river and the ringing phone startled me.

  “Woody, it’s Rita. Gee, Woody, I’m sorry but it really wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t filed right and I actually found it by accident…”

  “Rita Mae, s’okay. What are we talking about?”

  “I found the file on Kathryn Margolies, but only because I got a request for a different file.”

  Eventually, Rita Mae told me that Mr. Logan had a skinny file on the redhead stuck in with the file of a six year old homicide of one, Frank Smith, said homicide having taken place in the state of Vermont. The files showed that Miss Margolies made repeated inquiries about the case until a couple of years back when notes about her contacts stopped.

  “Hope that helps, Woody. Gee, from her persistence, maybe she was a reporter.”

  The words seemed to fit the music, but something wasn’t right. No wonder Logan’s head snapped up when I mentioned Kate Margolies’ name a couple of days before.

  I sat on the corner of the bare desk and pulled a drag from my Lucky. I realized the brown Bakelite Motorola was playing. The Skyliners were singing…

  Mid-afternoon, I saw Dupree Davis walking along the prison wall on the other side of Wythe holding an unfolded newspaper like a tent against the afternoon shower. I yelled out the window for him to grab a jug and come on up. Thought it might be a good idea to discuss current events. Turns out, there was nothing new in his life. Good ol’ Dupree.

  On my way to the Taft that night, I stopped by Dempsey’s thinking I might run into Kate. Sally Spit confirmed that the Five Families had finally had it with the loose cannon, Vito Rossi. He wouldn’t be coming back with a suntan.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  (Thursday, June 16, 1960.)

  I grabbed some fried eggs and sausage on my way in to the office. Rain had fallen overnight, just enough to grease the streets. It was time to settle back into the business of being in business. I knew about a couple of cases - one, a marital infidelity. Another, a hardware store owner named Moisuk suspected his partner, David Tomski, of skimming the till and betting the bangtails.

  It occurred to me that I needed Gina to go over the files with me. Dan Logan called and said to stop by the next week. He would have some bread that belonged to me. That sounded good after pissing away a week waltzing with the Eyetalians.

  I’d had it in mind for a while that I needed a couple more suits. I thought seriously about taking off and doing some shopping. I bought my suits at Sears Roebuck in the Bronx. It sat right across the street from the Fordham University Rose Hill Campus. There were newer stores around, but that store’s men’s department was always well stocked with good quality and at Sears Roebuck prices.

  ***

  I had graduated from the Police Academy with Jimmy Brennan who had gone to high school at Fordham Prep. After an Army tour of duty in Korea, Jimmy decided he didn’t want to be a Jesuit Priest anymore. He lay on his mother’s couch for a year then enrolled in the Police Academy.

  He remembered the phenomenon of the Men’s Department in the Bronx Sears Roebuck. He checked it out, found it to still be up to snuff, and posted the scoop on our Academy Class Bulletin Board.

  ***

  True, I could have afforded better threads, but why waste the money? They were always getting torn up, blood soaked, powder burns or, worst of all, bullet holes.

  Besides, Freddy Wong was a master at alteration. I found his shop in China Town by accident back when I first started working for the DA’s Office and counting pennies and nickels. Back then, I discovered I could buy a serviceable second hand suit for five dollars. For a few more dollars, Freddy would reshape the lapels and make it fit like an import. So, why waste the money?

  I stayed in the office all morning, cleaning weapons and checking my facial swelling, thinking Kate might call. After walking up to the Bridge Deli for a sandwich, I’d had it. I decided to grab a cab over to Delancey, borrow some coveralls and give the Studebaker a wash-down.

  ***

  Ray Tasker owned T & J Auto Repair. He had been my platoon sergeant and instructor in the art of the machine gun during pre-deployment training at Camp Pendleton, California in 1951; he was the one who lost the tip of his nose to the Korean winter in ’50. The business was housed in a three-story brick building that occupied a quarter of a block at 277 Delancey Street South, Lower East Side. Ray said that when Wall Street got FUBAR’ed beyond hope in 1929, the property was going for nickels on the dollar. His father, Joe Tasker, and uncle, Whitman Jamison, were Irish immigrants with a talent for automotive repair and a flair for business. They had scraped, borrowed and, yes, cheated to put their hands on the down payment for what they thought was the most beautiful building they’d ever seen.

  I first saw it in 1954 and agreed with that. Judged against all the grand architecture and the creeping glass-sided monsters in New York City, the sight of the simple lines, mass and obvious utility of that old brick building brought me peace. It was a long time before I realized that the old girl put me in mind of any one of a dozen cotton warehouses spread along the river on both ends of the Memphis-Arkansas Memorial Bridge.

  Tasker’s building shared the block with Public School 110 to the east and the Hillman Apartment Building that rose up thirteen stories on the south side. Across Delancey, to the north, the high-flying naked underbelly of the Williamsburg Bridge reached six blocks from the East River before touching down. The Bernard Downing Park, where the young played basketball and old folks played checkers, stretched to the west on the other side of Columbia Street; the locals knew it as Sheriff Park because Sheriff Street used to run north-south through the middle of where the park sat.

  The building had large garage door entrances on both Delancey and Columbia and a couple of smaller gar
age doors that opened onto the alley by the Hillman Building. I kept my Studebaker Hawk there, behind one of those smaller alley doors. Ray let me hold the key and didn’t worry about my coming and going.

  The swell thing about the building was the enormous space inside - three stories and a basement. Ray, never idle, had most of it filled with some ongoing project. In addition to car and truck repair, Ray and his crew sold used vehicles and had a fledgling British Royal Enfield Motorcycle Sales on the Columbia Street side.

  He had recently told me about his plan cut a Lincoln Continental in half behind the driver seat, then weld the halves back together on each end of a center section cut from a second donor vehicle. Ray said it was foolproof; he would end up with something he called ‘after-market stretch limousines’. I asked him what he was drinking, cause I’d sure like to have some.

  ***

  The sun was breaking out of the clouds when I jumped from the cab on Columbia Street. I wanted to walk through the new Royal Enfield showroom and eyeball the hardware. I stood on the sidewalk looking in the display window at the remarkable black motorcycle with the all-chrome fenders and the chrome-sided gas tank. It had twin cylinders, and each cylinder had a carburetor. The poster told me it was a 1960, 700cc Interceptor and a sign hanging above proclaimed the maker’s motto, ‘Made like a gun, goes like a bullet’.

  I was standing there smiling and nodding when, with a roar, one of the cycles shot out of the big garage to my right and barely made the left turn onto Columbia. Out ran Ray’s motorcycle sales manager, Butch Townes. He screeched to a halt and slapped both hands on top of his head as he watched his merchandise disappear down the street.

  “Hey Butch, another satisfied customer?”

  “Hello, Woody. I sure hope so. We have got to make a decision about these Goddamn test rides! I never had this kind a’ stress in automobile sales.” He smiled and shrugged with both palms up. “Come on inside the candy store; I got one with your name on it.”