by Solomon
“Man, pretty girls in here tonight, eh?” Mickey remarked, eying the women spread out around the bar—some talking to his goons, others talking to each other.
“It’s a bar; they come for the two d’s: drinks and dick,” Zev said with a smirk.
Mickey roared with laughter.
“Very good, Zev, very good. I must remember that. Look at that one, Zev, the Black one. She is Black like Cuban, No? Have you ever fucked a Black bitch, my friend?”
Zev poured more vodka.
“Probably in Vegas.”
“I fuck them all. I am like, Russian bull. Black bitches love it,” Mickey chuckled.
Several moments later, Joey walked in. The goon by the door got off his stool and approached him. Joey raised his arms as if he were ready to be frisked. Zev called out something in Russian and the goon looked at him. He waved the goon off and waved Joey over. Joey still opened his coat to reveal that he was unarmed, then walked over to their table. Zev stood up to receive him with a firm handshake.
“It’s good to see you,” Zev greeted.
“I appreciate the opportunity to be heard,” Joey returned.
Mickey leaned back in his chair and gave Joey the once over, wearing a curious smirk.
“So this is Joey Diamonds, eh?”
“Sans the Diamonds,” Joey quipped, adding with a shrug. “I’m currently unemployed.”
Mickey chuckled and accepted Joey’s outstretched hand. His glove-like hand swallowed Joey’s, putting his hand in a Russian bear hug.
Joey sat down and Mickey waved the waitress over. She was a cute blond with a short skirt.
“Bring us another bottle of vodka, and a glass for my friend,” Mickey ordered.
“Sho’ thang,” she replied with a wink and country drawl, as she sashayed away.
The three men watched her swaying ass.
“New waitress,” Mickey remarked. “Never saw her before. When she says she come from Georgia, I get confused. I think she mean country of Georgia,” Mickey chuckled.
Joey smiled.
“They come from all over to take a bite of the Big Apple; what can I tell you. God bless America, huh?”
She brought back the bottle and sat a glass in front of Joey. Again, Mickey watched her walk away. His mind already tasted her country flesh.
“So Mr. Pavlov,” Joey began, but Mickey cut him off.
“Mickey. Call me Mickey. Any friend of Zev’s is a friend of mine.”
Joey nodded with subtle grace.
“Thank you. It’s an honor to call a man such as yourself, a friend.”
Mickey opened the new bottle, poured them all a glassful; he toasted to friendship, drank, then remarked, “I like you, Joey Diamonds, so I’m not going to waste your time…or mine. What you ask of me, I cannot do. I have a deal in place for the X, and I am a man of my word.”
“I understand, but some of the men with which you deal are…less honorable. No disrespect to your judgment, but some of these guys ain’t worth the air they breathe. Now this was my deal; you brought it to me first, but I got…cut out. So I’m cutting back in, and I’m askin’ for this dance if I can clean the dance floor, you follow?” Joey proposed, keeping steady eye contact with Mickey.
Mickey smiled at the metaphor.
“My dance card is full. So please, I hate to tell a friend no. Embarrass me no longer.”
His tone was polite, but Joey could tell he was firmly closing the door on further discussion of the matter. He had come prepared for that. Unfortunately, Mickey wasn’t prepared for Joey.
“I understand,” Joey nodded. “But hopefully, in the future, we can find common ground.”
“To the future,” Mickey toasted, downing his glass.
“Salud,” Joey seconded then did the same. “But listen, I know you guys love vodka. But me, when I celebrate, I do it with champagne and a new friendship is definitely a cause for celebration,” he added, waving the waitress over. When she got there, he said, “Listen sweetheart, you got any Dom back there? Whatever you got, bring me your best, will ya?”
Joey pulled out a wad of money, peeled off a couple of hundreds then handed them to her.
She eyed his bankroll and quipped, “For all that, you got it all…” she winked.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Joey smirked as she walked off. He turned back to Mickey and Zev. “Now listen, I’ve got this thing. It’s not official, but maybe we can work together.”
“I’m all ears,” Mickey responded.
The waitress returned, carrying a bottle of Dom and two champagne glasses by the stems. When she sat them down, she bent in front of Joey to put one of the glasses in front of Zev. Joey eyed her ass and thighs.
“You part thoroughbred or somethin’, sweetheart? You’re built like a stallion,” Joey retorted. Lustfully and without hesitation, he slid his hand up the back of her skirt. She jumped slightly, then bit her bottom lip.
“You sure you know what to do with that?” she purred.
“Watch me.”
He slid his hand out, but what was in it, Mickey never saw coming.
From the minute Joey walked in, he was set in murder mode. Looking around, he saw the girls spread out strategically around the room. He smiled to himself. When the goon approached him, he had expected to be frisked, which is why he didn’t bring a gun. He knew the meeting would be informal, not a lot of security. There was no need for it…or so the Russians thought.
Amanda had just gotten the job the day before. The owner wasn’t hiring, but it’s hard to say no to a beautiful country girl with a killer head game. She sucked the job right out of him. She was the first one Joey saw when he walked in.
But he wanted to give Mickey a chance. Always give a man a chance. Mickey blew it once the champagne was ordered. That was the cue. Amanda slipped the .380-millimeter into the waistband of her panties, grabbed the Dom and two glasses.
Two glasses.
Zev was the only one to notice. She didn’t bring three glasses; she only brought two. In the back of his mind, he asked why, but in the front of his mind—in the place where one’s attention is located—it got caught up in the facial expression Amanda made when Joey slide his hand up her skirt.
The jump was real, because Joey deftly pulled her panties aside and ran a finger up the length of her pussy and grabbed the gun. Her bent body shielded Joey from Mickey. He was caught up in the moment, too. So once Joey said, “Watch me,” and Amanda quickly pulled away, Mickey found himself fact to face with the abyss of a gun barrel.
Without hesitation, Joey pumped two slugs into Mickey’s face at close to point blank range. The first shot entered his eye and exploded through it, leaving a gaping hole. The second hit him in the forehead, dead center. Then, as Joey stood up, he pumped three more into Mickey’s head. He was dead before his body hit the floor. He didn’t even twitch.
It happened so fast, that by the time Mickey’s goons could react, the girls had their guns out ready to spark. One dude tried to go for his gun, but Maliah blew that thought all over the pool table with three shots from her 9mm. Seeing that, the rest cooperated, handing over their guns and laying on the floor.
After Joey lowered his gun, he looked at Zev. The two men eyed each other squarely. Joey put the gun down on the table, knowingly within Zev’s reach, then picked up the bottle of Dom.
“We both know that had to happen. I gave him a chance. He just went the wrong way.” Joey summed it up as he popped open the champagne. He poured Zev a flute full then himself a flute. “Now, you’re the Boss. I’ll be in touch.”
Joey took his swig straight from the bottle then turned for the door, leaving the gun on the table. Zev watched him walk out.
He had forced Zev’s hand and Zev knew it. He had used Zev to get a meeting with Mickey. Now that he lay dead on the floor, Zev was a part of it, whether he liked it or not. He had two options: go to war over Mickey or accept the crown on Joey’s team. Joey figured Zev for the latter. For one, Seth was the commo
n denominator, and Seth already pledged his support to Joey. To go against that would be to go against his word. Besides, everybody wants to rule the world, and Joey had given him the opportunity to rule his. With one deft move, Joey had eliminated an adversary and secured an ally.
Zev mumbled to himself as he contemplated the situation. He slowly raised the flute and drank the champagne.
At the same time in Manhattan, at a restaurant in Little Italy, Louis “Bananas” Bonanno was having dinner with two of his soldiers, Mike Rizzo and Tommy Lombardi. Louis Bananas was the Capo of the Crew that ran the clubs in West Chelsea for the Gambino family. He was a Made Man that wore his Mafioso ties on his sleeve, decking himself in open collar shirts, wraparound sunglasses, and gold chains.
They were discussing business in Sicilian over linguini with clam sauce, when the waitress came over, carrying an expensive bottle of red wine.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bonanno, this is from the lady.”
Louie took the bottle and looked around the restaurant.
“What lady?” he asked.
The waitress pointed at Alicia, across the room, sitting alone. She gave him a friendly, yet flirtatious finger wave.
“She says it’ll be great with your meal,” the waitress added, then walked away.
“Shit, I bet she’ll go even better,” Louie remarked, staring hard at the Southern belle. He waved her over.
Alicia playfully pointed to herself, as if she didn’t know who he was talking to.
“Of course you,” he called, “Come over here, huh? Join us.”
She got up and crossed the room with a strut that commanded attention, especially from Louie and his soldiers. When she got to the table, Louie told Rizzo, “Hey, Rizz, what’s the matter with you? Get the lady a chair!”
Rizzo grabbed a chair from an empty table and sat it next to Louie. Alicia sat down and giggled, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” Louie returned, turning on what little charm he had.
“You have good taste in the grapes.”
“Well, actually it wasn’t my suggestion,” she admitted.
“No?” he said with a slight frown, “then whose?”
“Joey,” she answered simply.
“Joey?” Louie echoed, his tone getting tense. He looked at his soldiers.
“Joey Diamanti. He says it’s a peace offering for cancelling your deal with the Russians. He says there’s been a misunderstanding, but he’s willing to sit down, at your convenience.” Alicia delivered the message, word for word.
“A sit down, huh?” Louie chuckled, a sure sign that he was boiling and ready to show her why they called him Bananas. “Listen, you fuckin’ cunt, you tell that fuckin’ cock suckin’ faggot, he can suck my dick. Who the fuck does he think he is?” he barked, bringing attention to the table.
Rizzo reached to calm him down, but Louie already snapped. He grabbed Alicia by the hair and twisted it, pulling her out of the chair and to her knees. He leaned down and hissed in her face, “You’re lucky we’re in public. You tell Joey he’s a fuckin’ dead man and you…if I see your fuckin’ face again, it’ll be on a fuckin’ milk carton.”
He released her, flinging her to the ground. Unruffled, Alicia quickly gained her composure and stood up. The whole restaurant was riveted, especially Rizzo. He would never forget the look in her eyes—a look that told him they’d definitely see her again.
“Enjoy the wine,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Then she walked away.
“Fuck you and the fuckin’ wine!” Louie growled, standing up and launching the bottle at her.
It barely missed her, but Alicia didn’t look back or flinch as the bottle smashed against the exposed brick of the interior. She walked out, leaving only the tingle of the doorbell in her wake.
Present Day, August 1997
“And then what happened?” the Prosecutor questioned.
Rizzo shrugged and replied, “and then she just walked out. A coupla hours later, we found out that Joey had whacked Mickey the Russian.”
Rollins shot to his feet.
“Objection, Your Honor. That is hearsay.”
“Sustained,” the Judge, Hendon Bartholomew, agreed. “The jury will disregard the last sentence.”
“To rephrase, a couple of hours later you learned that Mikhail Pavlov had been killed by somebody,” the Prosecutor reiterated.
“Yeah, somebody,” Rizzo replied sarcastically, looking at Joey.
“Mr. Rizzo, could you tell us what the two meetings had in common, in your mind?”
“Certainly,” Rizzo answered, adjusting his tie and leaning into the microphone.
Ever since becoming a Federal informant, Rizzo relished playing the role of mob historian-slash-expert in Federal trials.
“See, the Gambinos and the Russians had a deal. The Russians would be allowed to move the X.”
“X being the designer drug, ecstasy, is that correct?” the Prosecutor clarified.
“Yeah, ecstasy. So yeah, we had a deal because nothing moves in Manhattan without our approval,” he explained rather proudly, even though he was never more than a lowly soldier.
“Now with Mickey—I mean Mikhail Pavlov—being the sorta head of the Russians, our deal was with him. See, the Russians operate different from the Italians. They don’t have families and like…Bosses. Everybody’s pretty much independent, but guys get together and do scores. So, since Mickey had his hands in everything, he pretty much ran the Russian end of things.”
“So how did his death affect relations between the Gambinos and the Russians?” the Prosecutor probed.
“It pretty much died with him. The new kid in town Zev took over, but he wouldn’t deal with us, not without Joey Diamanti being a part of it,” Rizzo answered.
“And then what happened?”
“Well, we had to deal with it, because we had other deals with Zev, especially the gas tax thing and that was bringing in millions for all the families. So we couldn’t just, you know, whack ‘em. Plus, you know, Russians…they ain’t too smart; at least smart like us Italians. So if you go to whackin’ the smart ones, the dumb ones could really become a monkey wrench. So we went to the Diamantis and complained. They said that Joey was no longer a part of that family, so we put a hit on Joey Diamanti.”
“And what were the results of that…hit?” the Prosecutor probed.
Rizzo gave him his, “Come on, really?” look, glanced at Joey and shot back, “Well, obviously we missed.”
The courtroom broke out in laughter. Even Joey chuckled.
Red-faced, and slightly flustered, the Prosecutor said, “I mean, what was the chain of events subsequent to the conversation with the Diamantis?”
“Pardon my French, Mr. Prosecutor, but that’s when the shit really hit the fan!”
May 1990
“Okay, here we go.”
“Showtime.”
“Smile for the camera, you greasy cock sucker.”
The team of FBI Agents buzzed with sarcastic excitement as Frankie Shots pulled up to the Italian American Social Club, his base of operations. The FBI Agents were posted in a dirty faced apartment building directly across the street. The place smelled of cold pizza, corn chips, cigarettes, and determination—the last being the dominant odor because they were relentless in their pursuit. They all wanted the Diamantis so badly they could taste it.
As soon as Frankie Shots and his bodyguard Carmine got out of the Cadillac Seville, the cameras began to click incessantly, shuttering their every step into bite-sized pieces of intel.
Frankie knew they were there. They made no attempt to hide their surveillance, their talks, and their watchful eyes. Frankie looked up at their window and gave them the finger.
It had become such a regular occurrence that on the days Frankie was too occupied in his thoughts to remember to flip them the bird, he liked to think they were disappointed.
Frankie liked the idea of disappointing the feds.
“Fuck! Pictu
re that!” Frankie spat. Then he turned and walked inside.
“I fucking hate that arrogant little prick,” one of the FBI Agents hissed.
Inside, the rest of Frankie’s crew was sitting around, drinking coffee, playing cards and talking. Three TVs blasted around the room in order to drown out the bugs that Frankie suspected were planted in the room. He went through the back door that led to the back steps of the tenement the club was under. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and headed down the hall to the end apartment. He knocked three times at the door. A few moments later, an old man bent with age answered.
“Frankie!” he tried to say, but his hoarse greeting was broken up by a fit of coughing. His eyes bulged like a frog and his chest heaved.
“Uncle Carlo, how are you?” Frankie greeted him with a hug. “You’re lookin’ good.”
“Good? I’m ninety years old. Over here, just to wake up is great,” Carlo replied as he shuffled alongside Frankie.
Frankie chuckled. “Knock on wood, eh?”
Frankie entered the bedroom, opened the closet door, pushing aside Carlo’s clothes and the panel that was propped up to cover the hole in the back of the closet. It was tall enough for a man to walk through, and it led to the next apartment. It was the extra precaution they took in order to beat any bugs. Only the most important meetings and calls took place there.
Frankie picked up the phone and sat on the old bed as he dialed a number. The phone rang twice then Vito, Vincenzo’s bodyguard, answered. “Yeah,” Vito said.
“It’s the kid,” Frankie began, referring to Joey as the kid. “He did the Russian, now he’s tryin’ to muscle his way in on some of the action in the clubs. They feel like they got a pebble in their shoe, and they wanna know what you should do about it.”