“I hope it’s not our fault you’ve had to work overtime,” Saro said. “Have we ruined your weekend?”
“I spend Saturdays in bed.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Saro joked. But he quickly added, “Forgive me, I like to tease.”
“What I meant was that there’s nothing I have to do. But once in a while, one can make exceptions, especially if Mr. Marangoni asks you.”
“He’s not a heartless boss, is he?”
“Not at all, he’s always very kind. That’s why one can’t say no to him.” With her index finger she adjusted the glasses on her nose. “Kindly make yourselves comfortable. I’ll go and tell him you’re here.”
She walked off, hips swaying, down the long corridor, and Saro thought that Isabel was perhaps overdoing the role of perfect secretary.
Johnny Scalia had not let himself be distracted by Isabel’s appeal and her clinging suit. He looked around the office: a large room with windows, which held about a dozen desks and several drafting tables. Mahogany doors marked the long corridor, and the overall impression was that of a sizeable firm.
“What are those drafting tables for?” he asked Saro.
“Drawing up plans. For those who request it, Blue Joy can also design casino interiors.”
The merchant nodded, interested. A few minutes later, Isabel returned to the reception room. “Mr. Marangoni is waiting for you. Would you care for something to drink? Tea, coffee . . . ?”
“Nothing for me,” the merchant replied.
“I’d like some coffee,” Saro said. Isabel gave him a withering glance. Then she smiled briefly and beckoned them to follow her.
The executive’s office was as large as the room that housed the employees. File folders, documents, and personal items were neatly arranged on an enormous desk. To one side stood a bronze statuette of a golfer, a testimony to the office occupant’s enthusiasm for the game, and in the corner, a few boxes of Cuban cigars, a penholder, fountain pens, a large Art Nouveau table lamp, and a leather portfolio. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the New York Harbor.
As soon as they entered the office, “Mr. Marangoni” rose from his imposing chair behind the desk and, removing his cigar from his mouth, held out his hand to the merchant, who shook it, somewhat in awe. In his linen suit, which, like Isabel’s, had been borrowed from the shop of a friend named Gallo, a paesano from Aversa, Dixie looked impeccable.
“Please, Mr. Scalia, sit down,” he said, motioning to a chair in front of the desk.
The merchant seated himself, and Saro sat down next to him.
“You must forgive me for inconveniencing you on a Saturday, but, you must understand, I prefer to conduct certain business matters outside of regular office hours.”
“I understand perfectly,” the merchant replied.
“A cigar?” He leaned across the desk and opened the box of Havanas.
The merchant took one out and busied himself lighting it.
Saro, though the invitation hadn’t been extended to him, reached out and took two cigars from the box, slipping one into his jacket pocket and sticking the other in his mouth.
“Well, let’s get down to business,” said Dixie, taking a deep puff. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go back to our families. Saturdays and Sundays are the only days I’m able to see my wife. Are you married, Mr. Scalia?”
Saro threw him a stern look, meaning don’t overdo it.
“My wife died last year.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” the merchant interrupted.
“So, then, Mr. Marangoni,” Saro spoke up firmly, “will you explain to Mr. Scalia what the deal involves?”
“Of course, it’s simple. It has to do with slot machines. I should point out that there is nothing illegal about it—apart from the fact that these little machines have been slightly rigged . . . in favor of the casino management, clearly.” He laughed heartily, and Saro joined him. Scalia, on the other hand, just smiled.
“Do you have a supply of these machines?” Johnny Scalia asked.
“Let me finish; then you can ask me all the questions you want,” said Dixie, serious again. “There are about a hundred of these slot machines, already set up, in a gambling parlor uptown. I’ll tell you the location once we’ve reached an agreement. They’re also covered by a license. As I said, there’s nothing illegal about it. I’m offering you a good deal.”
“May I ask why you haven’t offered it to a friend, if it’s such a good deal?” the lemon merchant asked suspiciously.
“For that very reason.”
There was a knock at the door, and Isabel came into the office carrying a tray with a cup of coffee. They all waited while she set the cup down in front of Saro and then turned to leave, giving Scalia one last chance to admire her curves.
Before she got to the door, Dixie said, “You’re free to go now, Miss Parker. I’ll lock up the office.”
“Thank you, sir, and have a nice weekend.” Then turning to the two guests: “Good day, gentlemen.” With that, Isabel’s role ended, and she left the room.
When the door closed, Dixie whispered to the merchant conspiratorially, “She already put out. She has an ass like marble and a pair of tits!”
The merchant smiled and began to settle comfortably in the chair. He nodded, puffing on the cigar. “Yeah, she’s a great piece of tail. It’s true, her ass is her best feature, with all due respect.”
“Well, let’s get back to business,” Saro said.
“So where were we? Why haven’t I offered this deal to my friends? Well, Mr. Scalia, for that very reason, because as far as my friends know, my line of work lies in another area, import and export and so on. They aren’t aware that I’m involved in several gambling clubs. I’m forced to get rid of them because a friend of mine tipped me off that in a week I’ll have the shipping inspectors underfoot. To get on their lists, you have to be completely clean, you know what I mean. So I need to dispose of them, and fairly quickly, which is why the selling price is very favorable; a real good deal, like I said.”
“What would the price be?”
Dixie leaned forward, looking the man in the eyes. He had established a figure with his friends, but now he wanted to up the ante. “We’re talking about almost a hundred machines with a license, already set up in a gambling parlor. There’s nothing else you have to do except go and collect a mint every day.”
“So, how much?” the impatient merchant asked again.
“Thirty thousand,” Dixie proposed, “made out to cash.”
Saro wheeled around. They had agreed to ask for fifteen thousand dollars.
The merchant slumped back in his chair. “Too much,” he said, discouraged.
“But the price is negotiable,” Saro interjected.
“Twenty-two,” Johnny Scalia offered.
“Twenty-eight,” Dixie countered.
“Twenty-five,” Scalia proposed.
“Twenty-six,” Dixie came back.
“Twenty-five and we close immediately,” the merchant said resolutely.
“You’ll recover the twenty-five grand in a month. Do you realize what a deal you got? Let’s shake on it.” Dixie stood up, followed by Scalia, and they shook hands.
“Where are the slot machines?”
“In Spanish Harlem, One Hundred Seventeenth Street,” Dixie said. He opened a drawer and pulled out two typewritten pages and a license. He handed the two sheets of paper to Johnny Scalia. “I’ve already prepared a contract. See if it looks all right to you.” He left the slot machine license in plain view on the desk. The merchant eyed the license, and carefully read one of the two pages. It was a statement by Marangoni that he relinquished the operation and ownership of all the slot machines set up in the gambling parlor located at 454 East 117th Street. Reading the document seemed to convince the merchant, who handed it back to Dixie. “Sign it,” he told Dixie. Then he took out his checkbook from his bri
efcase and wrote out a check for twenty-five thousand dollars.
Dixie, meanwhile, signed the two copies of the contract and handed them to Scalia, who in turn signed both copies, giving one copy to Dixie and retaining the other for himself.
“Well, Mr. Marangoni,” he said as he rose to say good-bye. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. If you have other proposals, here’s my card; just give me a call.”
Dixie took the man’s card but didn’t have one of his own for the customary exchange. “Will do. You know where I work, so come and see me whenever you want . . .
“Only please don’t mention who you made this deal with,” he added. “Don’t forget.”
“Sure, sure.” Johnny Scalia smiled, pleased to be complicit in their little secret. “You don’t have to worry. By the way, congratulations.”
“What for?”
“Still so young, and already you’ve been able to set up this great organization.”
They stood up and the merchant noticed Saro. “Oh, I almost forgot the friend who introduced us . . .” He took two hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and slipped them into Saro’s jacket pocket. “You deserve them, pal.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
Johnny Scalia’s feet were itching. He thought he’d just made the biggest deal of his life, and he couldn’t wait to hurry over and claim it. “I know the way, my friends. Don’t trouble yourselves.” And with that, he opened the door and left.
Saro and Dixie both held their breath and didn’t say a word until they heard the door close behind the merchant. Soon afterward, the door opened again, and Isabel appeared. The three friends joined in a single embrace, jumping for joy. Isabel waved the check, and Saro brandished the two C-notes.
“You were terrific, better than Errol Flynn. You look like him too.” Isabel hugged Dixie and planted a kiss on his mouth.
“Hey, hey, what about me? Who baited the hook?” Saro asked, feeling left out.
Isabel broke away from Dixie and hugged him too. “You were superb.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “But now we have to beat it, Martin told us we could stay till noon at the latest, then the cleaning crew comes in.”
“We also have to return the clothes,” Saro reminded them.
“And then, on to the Savoy! They play the most explosive swing in all New York there!” Dixie said excitedly.
* * *
Johnny Scalia raced as quickly as he could to East 117th Street in Spanish Harlem, with the contract and license safely in his pocket. He found a club, the Crazy Strass at number 454, but the doors were closed. Scalia knocked, hoping to get in, but a team of painters was renovating the place, and the foreman told him that they were working overtime because the place had to be ready to open Monday morning at ten. Scalia saw rows of slot machines lined up against the walls, along with pool tables and various devices intended to fleece the suckers who went there. He was encouraged when the foreman said that they were painting the place because a new manager was supposed to be coming in to take over the machines. Scalia smiled at the thought that the man he was talking about was himself, and for a moment he pictured the tons of coins he would collect each week. He offered the workers a drink at a nearby bar, and then said good-bye and went back to his deserted house. Two strokes of luck in just one week; he couldn’t ask for anything more.
* * *
There was such a crowd that Saturday at the Savoy Ballroom in Harlem that they couldn’t even buy tickets. Someone had spread the word that Duke Ellington himself would play there that night. Dixie suggested to his friends that they go somewhere else, since they’d never be able to get in.
They took a cab down to the Onyx Club on West Fifty-Second Street. To get in, all they had to do was say the watchword to the guy who looked out from the large peephole in the door.
“I’m from Local 802,” Dixie recited, and to his great satisfaction, the door magically opened. “See that?”
“What does it mean?” asked Isabel, not at all impressed.
“It’s the New York chapter of the Musicians’ Union,” Dixie disclosed. “I joined it. Someday I’ll be able to play the cornet in one of these clubs.”
Isabel and Dixie seemed to be a steady couple for most of the night, even though he was captivated by the trumpeter’s phrasing and watched ecstatically, not caring much about the girl’s attentions. She got bored and asked Saro to dance, but he said he had two left feet and would rather sit than have the whole room make fun of him. Isabel laughed loudly, got up, and forcibly dragged him to the center of the dance floor. Even without heels she was taller than Saro. She put her arms around him and said simply, “Follow me.” Fortunately, a languid blues number had started, and the two held each other close, letting themselves sway to the notes of “Mood Indigo” by the great Duke Ellington. When the last note faded away, the two lingered in each other’s arms a moment, in the middle of the floor. Then they broke apart, looked at each other in silence and smiled. Out of the blue, Isabel kissed him passionately for a few brief seconds, and then stepped away and headed back to the table. But Saro stopped her as the other dancers were coming back to the floor for a new number, this time a livelier arrangement with a beat.
“What was that about?” Saro asked, completely bewildered.
“Nothing, I just wanted to feel if you gave me a thrill,” she said.
“And did I?”
“What do you think?”
Isabel went to the table and sat down next to Dixie, who, unaware of what was going on, was accompanying the piece the orchestra had begun, drumming along on the tablecloth.
“This is ‘Jumpin’ at the Woodside’ by Count Basie!” he shouted to Isabel as she sipped a martini. “Feel that rhythm.” He continued along with the orchestra, beating out the tempo with his fingers. He didn’t notice that Isabel’s eyes had grown moist.
Saro, however, noticed a change in the young woman. He had never seen her display her feelings so openly. On the contrary, despite her magnetic allure, he had always imagined her as always in control and capable of concealing the slightest sign of weakness. He didn’t know what to make of her emotion. Was it due to Dixie’s indifference, or was he the cause of her mood?
* * *
For Johnny Scalia, Monday took forever to come. Keyed up over the deal he’d made, he had read and reread the sale agreement, looking for some clause that might have escaped him at the time, but he found nothing. The license specified the number, type, and serial number of the slot machines, everything was according to law—or almost. Tampering with the mechanism that governed the winnings was a detail that the authorities no longer even paid attention to now. All of the slot machines in the country had been tampered with, so that kind of inspection would be highly unlikely.
At ten o’clock sharp, he was standing in front of 454 East 117th Street. He went in and made his way toward the gambling parlor’s offices. The place was in perfect order, all the slots had a stool, the tables stood ready to welcome the patsies, the staff was bustling about. Someone came up to him and said, “We open in half an hour; we’re still setting up.”
“Go right ahead. I’m the new owner.” So saying, he walked directly to the office, leaving the man puzzled.
Scalia knocked and went in without waiting for a response. He saw a sixtyish fellow in shirtsleeves sitting behind the desk. Raising his head from a mountain of papers he was sorting through, the man looked at him questioningly.
“Hi, I’m Johnny Scalia, the new owner of the slots. Are you the manager? Mr. Marangoni’s done a great job sprucing up the place.”
As Scalia spoke, the man with the rolled-up sleeves rose from his chair and came around to the front of the desk.
“Ma chi minchia siete?” he asked in a mixture of American and Sicilian, wagging his joined fingers under Scalia’s nose in a challenging gesture meant to say “Who the fuck are you?”
“Weren’t you informed by Mr. Marangoni?” Scalia’s face was no longer cordial now.
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“Who the fuck is this Marangoni? Who ever heard of him?” the man in shirtsleeves continued in the same harsh tone.
“His office is at the National Blue Joy Company, on the forty-fourth floor of the Irving Trust Company. I’ve been there myself. Look, just a second—” He pulled the license and sale agreement out of his pocket and handed them to the man. “You see? This is 454 East 117th Street. There, see the license? And this is the sale agreement for the slot machines.”
The man read the two documents quickly, turning increasingly livid as he read. When he had finished reading, he looked up at Scalia who was beginning to feel uneasy.
“Everything is in order, I hope—” Scalia managed to say to the man, whose only response was to rip the papers to shreds. “Now everything is in order!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, tossing the pieces of the contract into the air like confetti. “Who sent you? Which family do you belong to?”
The shouts made the staff come running, among them two bouncers.
“A problem, boss?” one of the two asked.
“Ask him,” he said, pointing to Scalia, who was now beginning to fear for his safety.
The bouncer turned to the lemon merchant. “What’s your beef, buddy?”
“Saturday morning Mr. Marangoni sold me the slot—” But he didn’t get to finish the sentence because the two thugs took him by the arms and forcibly lifted him up.
Scalia was on the verge of passing out and felt a vague infirmity spread through his body. He thought he was paralyzed, but when he fully regained consciousness he saw that he was propped up against the wall of a building. A passerby threw a coin into the hat at his feet. Still in shock, Scalia stared at the quarter, and the sight of it made him remember.
He hurried to his bank with his heart in his mouth, glancing at the clock as he went in. It was 10:40—maybe he was still in time. He spoke to the manager, who called over the teller. The teller’s words were a cold shower for the poor lemon merchant: “Yes, a young man came in this morning; he was one of the first customers. I remember that he was well dressed, and he had a mustache like Errol Flynn. Given the amount of the check he cashed, I have a clear picture of him in my mind.”
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