The Purple Don

by Solomon

  “Out there?” Enrico asked, in a deadpan tone.

  “It’ll only take a second, I promise. Besides, it’s a beautiful night.” Joey smiled, but his eyes conveyed something else.

  Enrico felt like he knew Joey’s game, so he was compelled to play along. He downed his drink and got up, stopping at the bar to fix another. He then joined Joey on the balcony.

  “Welcome to New York,” Joey declared, as he threw up his arms playfully. “Welcome to my City. Now look,” he said, throwing his arms around Enrico’s shoulder and taking a sip of his drink. He pointed at the skyline with the index finger of his drink hand. “I wanna make an observation about New York. This place…it stinks. The only thing that keeps it from being Calcutta is that it’s godless. But it’s beautiful at night. Look at her. The stars twinkle like fairy dust, and somewhere some sucker believes in it, you know? But that’s only because you can’t see the dirt at night, the grime…the rot, eh? It’s like the thing, I forgot the word, but the night. New York wears it like it’s a word.”

  “Façade,” Enrico suggested.

  Joey pointed at him. “That’s a good one. I like that. Façade. Wasn’t the word I was lookin’ for, but it fits well enough. So I take it that you get what I’m saying,” Joey questioned, as he took his arm from around Enrico and looked at him.

  Enrico returned his level gaze.

  “Loud and clear.”

  Joey sipped his drink and watched Enrico for a moment.

  “You know, Enrico, I like you. You’re a smart guy and you’re good at what you do. We may’ve gotten off to a rocky start, but I guess we had to feel each other out, kinda sorta, ya think?”

  “I agree,” Enrico nodded.

  “And me and you…I can see us doing some big things. Sky’s the limit. But to do that, you know what we need, you know what’s missin’?” Joey asked rhetorically.

  Enrico, self-assured that he knew where Joey was going, played his role and said, “What?”

  “Trust,” Joey stated simply, adding “in our line of business, you’ve got to have two things: respect from your enemies and trust from your friends. So I ask you for your trust.”

  “You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you, Joey.”

  Joey smiled with genuine warmth. “That’s good to know. And I hope that continues to hold, because I’m gonna ask you to take off your clothes.”

  The statement took a blink to settle in Enrico’s mind, and when it did, it threw him because he wasn’t expecting it.

  “What?” he asked, confusedly.

  “Your clothes, Enrico. Take ‘em off.” Joey repeated, any trace of a smile now gone.

  “What the hell are—” he started to say, and then it hit him. “You think I’m wearing a wire?”

  Joey made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. “Please…Enrico, this isn’t about you, remember? I’m asking you to trust me.”

  Enrico saw the psychological ploy Joey was using, but it was one for which he had no defense. By wording it—not as a question of Enrico’s trustworthiness, but of his own—Joey had painted him in a corner, the only way out being compliance.

  “This is fuckin’ crazy! I’m not taking off my clothes! I’m not wearing a wire! I’m not a cop!” Enrico protested.

  “I’m not wearing one either. You want me to take mine off too?” Joey chuckled. “Come on, Enrico. Trust me.”

  Enrico eyed Joey hard. He knew this was a test he had to pass. He knew that if he did, the sky was truly the limit. But if he didn’t…it didn’t bear thinking about.

  “This is crazy,” he mumbled as he began to unbutton his shirt.

  Joey leaned back casually against the railing, crossing his feet at the ankles and watching him strip.

  Once his shirt was unbuttoned, it revealed the gun in his waistband. He sat it on a small table just inside the door. He took off his shirt, revealing a toned yet muscular physique. He stepped out of his gator sandals then dropped his pants, revealing his powder blue Calvin Klein briefs.

  “See? No fuckin’ wires,” Enrico hissed indignantly.

  Joey approached him and peered around him to make sure nothing was attached to his back. Satisfied, he said, “Okay,” and then did something Enrico didn’t expect…

  Joey grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled into him and kissed Enrico, forcing his tongue into his shocked mouth.

  Enrico snatched away instantly.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he barked, full of bass.

  “Makin’ an observation,” Joey replied, without a hint of humor, and then reached for Enrico again.

  Enrico knocked his hand away and simultaneously threw an overhand right hook at Joey, but it was off balance. Joey easily ducked it and shot a short jab to Enrico’s kidney that stung a grunt from his lips. Enrico buckled and stumbled, trying to spin and square off with Joey, but that was made more difficult because he had his pants around his ankles—a fact that Joey had anticipated.

  “Like I said, my City,” Joey huffed. “Now let me show it to you.”

  Joey landed a barrage of punches, all body blows, all taking their toll as he pushed Enrico up against the balcony and shoved his head back until he was bent over backwards, looking at New York from twenty-one stories up, upside down. The sight made him dizzy, but also made him fight harder because he felt his life was on the line.

  Enrico brought his leg up fast, to try to knee Joey in the nuts, but Joey twisted his body, and blocked the attempt with his own knee. He gave Enrico two powerful blows to the solar plexus that knocked the wind from his body and the fight from his spirit. Enrico slumped against the railing, gasping against Joey’s chest.

  “This dance ain’t over,” Joey chuckled in his ear.

  He bent Enrico over the balcony rail and ripped his briefs down around his thighs. When Enrico felt that, his whole frame of mind changed.

  Rape.

  The word leapt into his mind and fired up every survival neuron in his brain. He tried to get a footing, but Joey had him bent over the railing so precariously that it was Joey’s weight that kept him anchored to the spot. Nevertheless, he struggled, kicked and cursed, “I’m going to kill you! You fucking cunt!”

  Joey delivered several more merciless kidney shots that made Enrico feel like he might piss fire from the burning pain. But just when he thought the pain couldn’t get worse, he felt an explosion of intense torture as Joey forced himself deep inside his virgin asshole.

  “Arrrgghh!” Enrico bellowed and his scream seemed to blanket New York, but it was swallowed by the angry car horns, traffic, and banter of the New York City streets.

  “I’m going to…” was all Enrico could get out, because he felt like he was being split into from the back. The pain was seemingly unbearable. Every man has a threshold, and Enrico wished he could reach his so he could simply pass out. However, just when he couldn’t take the fresh hurt any longer and he welcomed mindless bliss, he got a glimpse of something beyond pain. It was as undeniable as it was inexplicable, therefore inescapable. It was so overwhelming that it seemed to overshadow the pain, and the pain turned to hatred; hatred of Joey for knowing it was there.

  Joey exploded inside him, filling him with his hot load then emotionlessly let his limp body fall to the ground. Joey pulled his pants up and went back inside the suite. He walked over to the bar and poured himself two fingers of cognac. After several moments, he felt Enrico standing behind him. He turned around and found Enrico with his gun aimed at him. The look on Enrico’s face was one of pure disgust; on Joey’s was one of cold amusement.

  Joey sipped his drink, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “So you gonna kill me now, Enrico?”

  The gun trembled in Enrico’s hand, not from fear but from rage. The hatred Joey had released in him burned in his veins until it tasted like bile in his mouth. Every fiber in his being wanted to pull the trigger, but every fiber in his being prevented him from doing it.

  One look into his eyes and Joey knew it.

 
; “You gonna shoot…shoot,” Joey taunted, knowing he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  “You dirty son of a bitch,” Enrico hissed then gripped the gun with both hands as if to steady it or to stop himself from shooting.

  Joey laughed at his impotence. He sat his drink down and stepped closer. Even though Enrico was the one holding the gun, when Joey stepped toward him, he stepped back.

  “Why did you even bother to fight? You think I didn’t know? You think I couldn’t see? Of course you did, and you knew this day was comin.’” Joey downed his drink in once swift gulp, then added, “You can thank me later.”

  “You…you…you won’t get away with this,” Enrico vowed. “You ever come near me again, I’ll kill you,” Enrico stammered.

  Joey laughed.

  “Well kid, that horse has already left the barn, but don’t worry… This’ll be our little secret.”

  Joey put down his glass, then turned and walked out the door.

  Present Day July 1997

  “You’re set to go on trial for your life. The government says they have an airtight case, and that several of the most notorious people in organized crime have agreed to testify against you. Aren’t you just a little worried?”

  Joey gave Diane Reynolds, the host of Night Talk his most charming smile and with a light chuckle answered, “Diane, when the truth is on your side, whom should you fear? What the government wants to present to the American people is a gangster movie, starring me as the bad guy. But I’m not the bad guy, Diane. I’m a simple Brooklyn boy who made good. I think the American people will see that. I trust them, and I think they trust me.”

  Joey winked at the camera, knowing that several million people—including members of the potential jury pool—would be tuned in, hanging on his every word. His plan was to try the case in the court of public opinion, because he knew if he won there, the trial was over before it even got started.

  “But, Mr. Diamanti…”

  “Joey,” he corrected her.

  “Joey…the government has charged you with some pretty heinous things. On top of drug smuggling and money laundering, they also have accused you of several murders, including the 1990 slaying of six-year-old, little Andrew Bonanno and—”

  “Excuse me, Diane, I’m sorry, but I really have to stop you right there,” Joey objected, leaning forward toward the camera, a solemn look on his face. “To be accused of being a gangster or a drug dealer is one thing, but to be accused of actually taking the life of an innocent child…” he shook his head after letting his voice trail off then concluded, “No Diane, I would never do anything like that, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to have anything to do with such a heinous crime. I think it truly shows the government’s desperation in even charging me.”

  Joey pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, playing to the camera like the pro he was.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Mr. Dia—I mean—Joey, I’m sure this is tough, but…”

  “I mean, where do you draw the line, you know? I just think it’s disgusting,” he remarked, frowning as if the word tasted like it sounded.

  “But it’s not just that, is it, Joey? The government has even implicated you in an attempted murder much closer to home. So I have to ask, did you put a hit on your own father?”

  May 1990

  “Joey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You remember that thing with Peter Amuso?”

  “Of course. How could I forget?”

  “He just met with a man in Queens, at a diner called Andy’s.”

  “Thanks, and Zev…”

  “Yes?”

  “I owe you one.”

  Present Day, August 1997

  “Listen … I know Joey Diamanti had Louie Bananas and his kid killed!” Joe Provenzano stated adamantly from the witness stand, slapping the wooden rail with his palm.

  “Objection, Your Honor! Speculation!” Rollins interjected, rising halfway out of his seat.

  “Overruled. Please continue, Mr. Provenzano,” the Judge Bartholomew answered.

  Joe Pro nodded.

  “See,” he began, looking at the jury, “there’s things you just know, you know what I mean? It’s a gut instinct. Now I’ve been a gangster all my life. I’m now 55, so if I know anything, it’s La Cosa Nostra: this thing of ours. We’re men of honor, men of respect, and no true Mafioso would ever kill a kid! But Joey, he ain’t a man of respect; he’s an animal. I curse the day we inducted him into this thing of ours!” Joe Pro remarked with disgust, eyeballing Joey hard.

  Joey simply smiled and gave a little nod.

  “Mr. Provenzano, if you would, please tell the court why you feel the way you do,” the Prosecutor led him.

  “Yeah, I was getting to that. You see, Joey wanted to send a message. One that would not be misunderstood. He wanted us to know he didn’t respect the old ways, the tradition. He knew by including the kid in the hit, the police would put pressure on us, which would mean we couldn’t move on him right away. It was cowardly, smart…but cowardly.”

  “So he hid behind the boy’s vicious murder, knowing in the environs of heightened police scrutiny, none of the crime families wanted to get involved—thereby isolating the Gambino family to act alone,” the Prosecutor interpreted.

  “Exactly,” Joe Pro nodded.

  “And is that what happened?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Joe Pro continued. “Joey killed a Made Man, but at the time he wasn’t one. So even though the Gambino regime already had the green light, he basically became the Diamanti regime’s responsibility to get involved out of respect,” he explained.

  “And did they?” the Prosecutor asked like he already knew the answer, and just wanted the jury to hear it.

  “They would’ve, except Joey did the unthinkable.”

  “Which was?”

  “He put a hit on his own old man!”

  May 1990

  “We’re gonna do what?” Te Amo exclaimed, her mouth making a surprised ‘O’.

  She and Joey were lying in bed, naked and sweaty. She was basking in the afterglow, resting her head on his chest, until he said to her: “I think it’s time we hit my old man.”

  She looked at his face to make sure he wasn’t joking.

  He wasn’t.

  “Your own father, Joey?” she questioned.

  He shrugged, but wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Ask him, his own son?”

  “So this is what it’s about? The hit on you?”

  He turned his head and looked squarely at her. “Fuckin’ right! That’s what it’s about. You throw me to the wolves, I eat those wolves, but I still ain’t full. He’s got it coming.”

  Te Amo ran her hand through her hair and sighed.

  “Even I know killing a Boss changes the whole game. It’ll unite the families against you.”

  Joey smirked as if he knew something that she didn’t, or at least something he didn’t know she knew. “Yeah, it may…but I doubt it. Reason being, a lotta people wouldn’t mind whackin’ the Don, but nobody’s got the heart. So here I go! I get the job done, and I make my father’s enemies my friends,” he surmised expertly.

  “But what if you fail? Suppose his enemies aren’t as powerful as his friends?” she countered, knowing joey was not for turning however much she tried to reason him out of it.

  He ran his hand, slowly up and down her back. “Then go back to Miami. Remember me on my birthday, name your first kid after me,” he quipped.

  “You know I would never do that.”

  “What? Remember me or name the kid?”

  “Leave you,” she replied, looking him dead in the eyes.

  He smiled, pulled her to him and kissed her gently then remarked.

  “Loyalty should taste this sweet. Don’t worry, though. We won’t fail. It’s succeeding that’s the problem,” he said.

  Te Amo nodded.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Joey didn’t answer for a moment, as he mentally rolled t
he tape of his father’s routines.

  “Every Sunday, he goes to Mass. Vincenzo is a good Catholic,” he quipped sarcastically. “My mama used to go with him until she got sick. So she stopped. It’s the perfect place.”

  “In a church, Joey?”

  He flashed a toothy grin then asked, “What better place to die?”

  Te Amo laughed.

  “I guess you got a point.”

  “This Sunday. There’s no need to wait. We’ll take the girls through a dry run, but I want you to get Enrico up here. He’s a face no one’s seen, so we’ll use him as the driver. We can’t get the Russians involved. It’s gotta be all us,” he explained.

  “I’ll get him here tomorrow,” she assured him.

  He nodded.

  “Okay. Good deal. But don’t tell him why. No need to let the cat outta the bag before we skin ‘em.”

  Te Amo gazed into his eyes, her head at a curious angle. Her expression was half-admiration, half-apprehension.

  “Joey Diamonds…What will you do next?”

  “Naw, the question ain’t ‘what will I do?’ it’s what won’t I do?” he responded, his smile melting into a sneer of menace.

  In the wee hours of that Sunday morning, Joey gathered his team in the living room. Enrico had just arrived, reluctantly, from Miami. He only came because it was Te Amo who called. Since the rape, he had been dealing directly with Zev, avoiding Joey like the plague. But now that he was in the same room as Joey, he found his eyes kept falling on him. It was like the wound you keep touching, even though you know it is painful.

  No one knew what the plan was, but only Enrico objected vehemently when Joey concluded the explanation with, “Before he goes to church, we hit him.”

  “What?” Enrico barked. “Are you nuts? I’m not killing anybody!”

  “You’re right; you’re driving.”