by James Dargan
“Thanks.”
He had decided to go on a whim, and he was nervous: he didn’t want his daughter to forsake him.
After showering, he dressed and headed out.
Sunset Strip’s heyday was over. Now it was a magnet for beatniks and artists. Tourists, too, came in their droves to see if they were lucky enough to bump into a Hollywood star in one of the bars or restaurants that lined the Strip.
“Fancy a drink, partner?” a young blonde, dressed in a white Stetson with matching waistcoat and chaps lined with red sequins, asked Randall as he was passing a bar called The Saloon.
“Why, you offering?”
“Cheapest drinks on the Strip.”
Randall tipped his Fedora and entered the place.
It was bustling with partygoers, younger, hipper, more fashionable than Randall – but he needed a drink.
“A vodka and coke,” he said to the bartender.
“A single or double measure?”
“Make it a triple. I think this is going to be a long night.”
Justin. Justin. He wanted to see Justin once before he committed to the dangerous act he was going to do. He had already told Lyson he would be doing things alone. Lyson, to his credit, tried to persuade his friend out of it, but he knew Randall for the man he was and there was no way he was going to change his mind.
“So, you from outta town, sir?” the bartender then asked.
“Yes.”
“New York?”
“No, Tucson.”
“You don’t sound like an Arizonan?”
“That’s because I’m not.” The bartender handed Randall his drink. “Originally from Bayside City.”
“Bayside City... Gee, mister, I was there only last winter.”
“Pity that. Bayside City’s not the nicest place in the middle of a snow storm.” Randall downed his drink. “Make that another one, son.”
“It was a balmy 59 degrees Fahrenheit when I was visiting.”
“Lucky you... Now, can I have that next drink, please?”
Randall had that and left the bar. Outside, on the sidewalk, a Negro woman, homeless, dishevelled and smelly, stopped him:
“You gotta buck to spare, sir?” she asked politely.
“Wait.” Randall checked his pockets. “Here,” he said, pulling out a bit of loose change and two bills, “take this.”
“Well thank you, sir, thank you, thank you,” the homeless woman replied, examining the cash in her dirty hands.
Randall said goodbye and walked off. Los Angeles was like nothing he had ever seen in his life. Sure, The Big Apple had been impressive when he had visited it, with Greenwich Village and Times Square being two of his favourite places amongst countless, but the biggest city in California had an aura of the unknown about it for him, a place going somewhere though the destination was not indicated - here there were all types of people, too, in every possible condition of the human scale in terms of finances, mental wellbeing and hopes for the future.
He had already visited three more watering holes before he stumbled across another, out of the way from the main drag, down an alley. The only reason he noticed it in the first place was for the green and red fluorescent sign.
Randall walked into The Green Frog Funk House with apprehension because two Californian hipsters tried to offer him marijuana at the door. The place was frequented by poets and artists. Established two months prior by Kermit Shimmin, an Englishman who would punch you if you called him that to his face: the proud, rich Manx – or native of the Isle of Man (an island in the Irish Sea) – was a newly-converted Buddhist who had read all of Jack Kerouac’s works and had become so enamoured by the Lowell native’s prose that he had boarded the next ship out of the Isle of Man and relocated from his rural island to the modernity of America’s third largest state. To do one thing: preach the word of the Beatnik new order and give the gift and magic of the word to the people of Los Angeles.
The ex-cop didn’t care much about that as he approached the bar, drunk but wanting much, much more. As soon as he stepped in, Shimmin spotted him in his James Cagney attire, a generation gone.
“Can I getcha something, mate?” Shimmin asked.
“A drink. And fast.”
“I don’t think so... Hey, can you get this character out of here,” Shimmin said to his head skull breaker, ex-Purdue football defensive end Richie Watkins, now The Green Frog Funk House’s ‘floor manager’ – which was a licence to intimidate and bruise up any clientele Shimmin thought unsavoury.
“I only want one drink-”
Watkins grabbed Randall around the neck and pulled him out on his ear.
“And don’t try and get back in or there’s gonna be trouble!” Watkins said.
Randall struggled to his feet, brushed himself off and smiled as a young couple walked past him, chuckling to themselves at the old-timer who had a whole in his pants at the knee and a bleeding chin.
Defeated, he went back to his hotel room. Then, lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
Randall didn’t want to make any mistakes. He had one chance, and one chance only – mess it up and that would be it.
Melissa lived in the affluent Westwood neighbourhood, having moved there two years before after her husband, Max Spillman, a lawyer originally from Seattle, got a job as a partner at a law firm established by a former college friend, Michael Stobart.
Life was good for Melissa Spillman now since she had moved away from Tucson, a city that held good memories of her childhood but so many bad ones more recently, too.
After breakfast, Max Spillman kissed his wife and baby son and left for his office on Figueroa Street, in Downtown Los Angeles. Spillman felt like the luckiest man in the world as he got into his brand-new, black Ford Galaxie.
“Aren’t you a cutey boy, aren’t you, aren’t you?” Melissa said as she sat in front of Justin, who was in his highchair, holding a bowl of a gooey porridge-like substance in one hand, and a spoon in the other. “Come on, darling, eat breakfast for Mommy.” The mother played with the spoon in the air, just like an aeroplane, trying to entice her treasure to eat from it.
There was a knock on the door. Melissa wasn’t expecting anybody – the following day an engineer would be checking the boiler in the basement. She sighed: “One moment, sweety pie,” she said to her son, getting up.
“Hello, Melissa.” It was her father. “Well say something, then?” Randall said as he took off his hat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that all you can say?”
“I’m busy, Dad,” Melissa said as Justin began blurting out.
“Is that Justin?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“You know you shouldn’t be here.”
“He’s my grandson, Melissa,” Randall said with eyes she had seen only once before in her life, at the time of her mother’s death.
There was then a desultory moment of small talk before Melissa exposed him to a statement she thought would be a bombshell to him:
“Max doesn’t want you here.”
“I’m only here to see Justin. I’ll be gone in five minutes.”
Melissa turned to her son - who was in view from the front door – then said to her father:
“Okay, but not for long.”
Randall had been unaware of the rift between himself and the son-in-law he barely knew.
“Thank you.”
“Justin, this is your grandfather, Phillip,” Melissa said to her son.
“Hello, Justin,” Randall said, approaching his grandson in the highchair slowly, crouched down so as not to scare him too much. He touched Justin’s hand, then took it in his hand. “How are you, kiddo?”
Justin smiled at the strange man in front of him.
“He’s like that with strangers,” said Melissa – she was always the one to deflate a wonderful moment.
“I bought you a gift.” Randall took something from his coat pocket: It was a
small jewellery box. “Here, take a look.” He opened the box – inside was a medallion on a chain.
“What is it?” Melissa asked as her father balanced it on his finger by the chain.
“A medallion. Look at the engraving.” He passed it to her.
“To-my-wonderful-grandson-Justin. Love-you-always. Grandpa Phillip.”
“Well thanks, Dad.”
“The pleasure’s all mine... I know it’s not really something he’s going to appreciate until he’s much older, but I thought it the most appropriate thing to give him. It’s a special gift. I’m proud of it.”
“Why did you come?”
“Can I pick him up?” Randall asked, ignoring her question.
“Go ahead.”
“He’s heavy,” Randall commented, lifting him up from the highchair with a struggle.
Randall had thought about Justin’s present carefully because he was already aware how his future was going to pan out. Financially speaking, too, he knew his two daughters were going to be all right, left with the house in Tucson and a life insurance policy the Randalls had been paying into since 1946.
“We feed him well.”
After Randall had briefly played with Justin, he kissed him and put him back in his highchair.
“I suppose it’s time?” he asked awkwardly.
“Yeah, I suppose it is.”
“What time’s he get back?”
“He’s my husband, father, and his name’s Max... After five.”
They talked briefly. Melissa even asked him if he wanted a bite to eat and a coffee, but Randall refused, made his excuses and left, without kissing his daughter goodbye.
THE WRATH
Dimissio had left Silvestri tied up on the beach overlooking Jamaica Bay – even stealing his car for the ride to the airport. Silvestri knew that Dimissio couldn’t kill him ‘just like that’ and think he could get away with it. The Mafia code was centuries old and had been written in stone when men in the Old Country were real men with real morals and real consciences. That wasn’t going to change because two Brooklyn punks had a disagreement.
For days afterwards, Dimissio lay low at a motel just outside Tucson. He knew once somebody ‘found’ Silvestri he would go back complaining to Parrino who would do the same to the Quatrocchis.
Dimissio called his wife when he arrived at the airport, informing her he would be away for a few more days (without explaining the reason). Now, though, three days in, he was getting worried about his wife and two children’s wellbeing. Dimissio respected his boss but knew Quatrocchi’s patience and fuse only lasted so long before the spark ignited hell on earth.
He had to act.
As he pulled up outside Quatrocchi’s house, Dimissio noticed two cars parked outside, one which he had never seen before: a car that Dimissio knew didn’t belong to any of Quatrocchi’s Arizona accountants, masseurs, handymen or swimming pool cleaners.
He knew it wasn’t going to be good whichever way he looked at it.
Knock. Knock.
Quatrocchi Junior opened the door.
“You got a new car?” That was all Dimissio could say to the Underboss, almost shitting his pants, expecting the worst.
“Come in.”
Surprisingly for Dimissio, only Quatrocchi and his son were in Quatrocchi’s study.
“And-a where the fuck have you-a been, cocksucker?” Dimissio’s boss said, behind his desk, his face more pensive than normally - that didn’t bode well for a man who had subjected one of his boss’s capos to four hours of mental torture on a windy beach on Long Island.
“Away, boss,” Dimissio answered.
“You don’t fucking say-a... Come in, place your ass down, take a seat.”
Dimissio sat down, opposite Quatrocchi. Quatrocchi Junior stepped forward, from behind, and put his hand on Dimissio’s shoulder. The door then opened to the study. Dimissio glanced behind him. Fortunato walked in.
“How you doing, kid?” Fortunato said as he sat down in the chair to the right of Quatrocchi’s desk. The Family consigliere lit a cigarette and just looked at his subject with contempt.
Fortunato was an imposing man: at six-five and 250lbs he made the Philadelphia Eagles center Chuck Bednarik look like a boy scout. Fortunato had played ball himself as a youth but got kicked out of the team in high school for ill-discipline.
“What’s he doing here?” Dimissio asked Quatrocchi.
Quatrocchi said something in Sicilian to Fortunato, which Dimissio didn’t understand.
“We’ve gotta talk,” Fortunato said.
And talk they did, for more than five hours. No matter what Fortunato said to vouch for Parrino’s innocence, Dimissio didn’t believe him. All he wanted to do was whack the sonofabitch and have it done with. But there were ancient rules that had to be obeyed.
Quatrocchi Junior proposed to change the scenery from the stuffy confines of his father’s study to his favourite Tucson restaurant, El Charro, a Mexican joint with great tamales and beef & bean Chili.
“Well I dunno,” Dimissio said, answering Quatrocchi Junior.
Fortunato rose from the table, his eyes like a mad bull at a matador, and said as he lumbered towards his quarry, Dimissio:
“The underboss of this family said we’re gonna eat Mexican, so we’re gonna eat Mexican – so shut the fuck up about it!”
*****
They were at the El Charro thirty minutes later.
The manager, Pablo Fuentes, knew Quatrocchi Junior from his previous visits. For Quatrocchi and the others, this was their first time.
“Please, gentlemen,” the Hermosillo native said, “I have a very good table for you around the corner.”
Around the corner meant a ‘private area’ far away from the regular clientele, people Fuentes knew had less cash than the moneyed mobsters who had just walked into his joint.
“So,” Quatrocchi Junior began, handing out menu cards to everyone, “I can recommend the Pinto refried beans with Spanish rice...”
It didn’t matter what they ate or what they drank or what jokes were told at the table, Dimissio wanted something done about his brother’s murder, and the only one who had the power to do that was Quatrocchi.
“I’m just going to the restroom,” Dimissio said.
He felt sick to the stomach.
“Where the fuck does he think he’s going?” Fortunato stated as Dimissio walked away.
“You know his issues,” Quatrocchi Junior said. He then looked at his father. “What are we gonna do, Papa?”
The boss scoffed. A capo’s angst at his brother’s death was the least of his worries.
“I’m thinking about it...”
Quatrocchi knew from his son’s reports Parrino was a member of the Family who was a risk to security and easily expendable. The problem was Fortunato didn’t feel the same way. Fortunato had known Parrino since he was knee high.
“Silvestri wants him dead, boss,” Fortunato said as his eyes trailed Dimissio all the way to the restroom, which was in view of their table.
“Who the fuck is Silvestri to say that?” Quatrocchi said with a laugh.
Parrino wanted him dead, too, and the consigliere was fighting in Parrino’s corner today.
“Do you wanna know what the sonofabitch subjected him to?” Fortunato said.
His pecker in his hand at the urinal, Dimissio had the feeling this was going to be the last piss of his life. And that was it, you see, the life, with a capital ‘L’. Once you were in, you were in – the advantages of gaining access to that world far outweighed the disadvantages of it until a moment came which dispelled the myth: like at that very moment. Dimissio took a deep breath, regained his composure and rejoined the party at the table.
“Whatcha ordering?” Quatrocchi Junior asked Dimissio.
“I aiyn’t hungry,” Dimissio answered, sitting back down.
Fortunato had been told to hold his tongue, but he just couldn’t:
“You better order, cocksucker, because-”
Fortunato was hit by a slug in the neck, collapsing onto the table. Before they knew what had happened, Quatrocchi and his son were lying dead, too. Dimissio, meanwhile, had managed to dodge the rapid gunfire and jumped to an adjacent table in an alcove, hiding him from a clear shot. He pulled out his gun, then took a peek. The shooter was visible. A man in his fifties in a smart suit and Fedora.
“I knew it,” Dimissio said to himself, breathing deeply and rapidly thinking what his next move was going to be.
For sure it wasn’t a cop or a Fed.
Dimissio’s only idea was that it was a hired executioner from one of the other New York families, probably the Cammaratta clan, who had been hitting hard on rackets in the Southwest for the last decade and now wanted to eradicate their opposition in one fell swoop.
The mobster checked his gun was loaded, though he remembered loading it (that was nerves for you). He looked again.
“You’re dead, I hope you know that!” Randall shouted, now behind the bar.
Randall knew one man was left, and he wanted him dead. It was no good doing a job and not finishing it.
“Try it, motherfucker!” Dimissio said. He then threw a few sentences to the shooter in Italian, to gauge if he was a Dago or not. Mobsters liked to use non-Italians for their dirty work. That way the trail of guilt would lead to nada.
For his age Randall was still quick on his feet, which was a good trait for a shooter in his current predicament. The restaurant had cleared of customers. Now there was just the ex-cop against the last bad guy standing.
Or maybe not - for the patrol cars’ sirens from the TPD were already in ears’ distance.
“Can you hear that?!” Randall said.
“Hear what?!” Dimissio answered.
“The sweet sound of the law?!”
“It aiyn’t that sweet, cocksucker, ‘cause I can’t hear it!”
“Get yourself a hearing aid then!”
“So what, you gonna kill me?”
“I already told you that.”
A Plymouth patrol car was speeding towards El Charro’s after one of the customers called it in from a phone booth outside the restaurant.