by Solomon
“I’m not having anything to do with this,” Enrico stated firmly, meeting Joey’s gaze. Although it wasn’t as firm as it once was.
“Look, Enrico…I know this is out of the blue, but somethin’ this big, you keep under wraps ‘cause sometimes words grow wings, you follow? Now this way, there’s no chance of a leak.”
“Count me out,” Enrico replied.
Te Amo stood up slowly and approached Enrico.
“That’s not possible. We’re a team, so we move as one. Never forget, you work for the Reyes family, and this is Reyes business,” she explained calmly, but with unmistakable authority.
“Does your mother know about this?” Enrico challenged.
Te Amo smiled, but her eyes didn’t when she said in Spanish, and close to his ear: “I am my mother’s daughter; you want to see?”
She stepped back and looked him in the eye. Enrico realized that her statement was one of sheer bravado. It was an ultimatum. He knew that if he refused, he wouldn’t walk out alive.
“Enrico,” Joey said, “I know you’re not a killer,” he remarked and the look in his eyes told him all he needed to know. Joey wasn’t taunting him; he was simply stating a fact. “All we need you to do is drive. We’ll handle the rest.”
Enrico eyed Joey coldly, but when he didn’t answer, Joey took his silence as approval, so he turned back to the rest of the crew.
“Pop never takes a lot of bodyguards anymore, especially to church. So it’ll only be him and Uncle Vito. This’ll be quick and simple, nothing fancy. Bianca, you’ll be in a stolen car behind our van. Maria, you’ll be in another one out front. You run interference. Anybody wanna play here, just scare ‘em; if it’s the police, obstruct ‘em. We’ll pull up, bang bang and we’re gone. Five blocks away, Marilyn you’ll be waitin’ with another stolen car. We burn the van, and it’s done. Any questions?”
He looked around. Everyone nodded to themselves, yet remained silent.
Joey then pulled out one of the sawn-off double barrel shotguns and handed it to Te Amo. Then he picked up the other one.
“And this…is what I’m using. I say ‘I’ because this is personal. I shoot my father; Te Amo, you hit Uncle Vito. Don’t take chances; aim for the chest.”
She nodded, looking at the weapon in her hands.
“Lupara,” she said, referring to the Sicilian name for the gun.
Joey glanced at her, mildly surprised that she knew the correct name.
“The other Dons will know what it means.”
“Which is?” Amanda asked.
“Call it, a backhanded Sicilian compliment, eh? Ask me later, I’ll explain it better. So…everybody clear?”
They all nodded.
“Let’s make it happen.”
As they filed out the door, Joey walked beside Enrico and smoothly whispered, “Now that you already know you can trust me, after this I’ll know I can trust you.” He stepped away without waiting for a reply.
Enrico’s first reaction was disgust, but as the words sunk in, he understood them perfectly…
…and he hated himself for it.
“Any word?” Vincenzo asked Vito, as they drove to church that Sunday morning.
“Not a thing,” said Vito. “The kid’s laying pretty low.”
Vincenzo nodded, glancing out of the window.
“Then he knows.”
“Yeah, well he gotta have figured it, you know? I mean, Bananas was a Made guy,” Vito responded.
“Please don’t remind me,” Vincenzo spat back. “He was a junk pusher, and the penalty for that is that you’re done. No questions asked,” he vented, adding, “But all the families, the regimes with ‘no’ on their lips, but ‘yes’ in their palms…this is the result.”
“You think maybe—” Vito began, but Vincenzo knew what he would say.
“No,” he cut him off, with a sigh of resignation, “No. We cannot interfere. Joey has violated our honor, and for that he must pay.”
Joey rode in the back of the van, with his ski mask resting on top of his head and caressing the Lupara, deep in thought. Te Amo, sitting across from him, watched him. She could only imagine his state of mind.
“Hey,” she called to him, giving him a firm but supportive look. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Enrico glanced at them through the rearview mirror.
“Te Amo,” she said softly to Joey.
He smiled.
“I know your name,” he cracked.
“I wasn’t saying my name,” she told him, looking him in the eyes.
He returned her gaze and replied, “I know.”
“You think I made a mistake?” Vincenzo asked Vito.
Vito glanced over at him, and knew by the look on his face exactly what he was talking about.
He shrugged.
“You know, Boss, every man has to decide what his own mistakes are. If this life was good enough for you, then why not give it to your kid? If we were doctors or something, we’d send our kids to medical school, right? So, what’s the difference? Otherwise we’d be sayin’ this life is no good, right?” Vito surmised.
Vincenzo nodded, taking in the wisdom of a friend.
“Just be glad you had all daughters,” Vincenzo remarked, and the two old friends shared a laugh.
Joey could see the church ahead as they approached. Everything was in place. Everything was going according to plan. He held the Lupara in his gloved hands and looked at Te Amo.
“Here we go,” he said, pulling the ski mask over his face.
Vito pulled into the church parking lot and began to look for a parking space.
“Make sure you get one up front. Okay? My knee’s been acting up lately,” Vincenzo remarked.
“No problem, Boss.”
Neither of them paid any attention to the beige van idling beside the rear entrance of the church. Nor did they pay attention as it began to inch forward as they parked at the end of the front row, the passenger door exposed.
Vito got out first and walked around to open the passenger side door for Vincenzo. He took a cursory look around, but it was more out of habit than vigilance, because he failed to pick up the slow roll of the van, not even twenty-five feet away. But as Vincenzo got out, the presence of the van could not be ignored.
Enrico briefly accelerated the last ten feet as Joey slid open the van’s side door. Vito spun around, just as Enrico stopped right in front of the two men.
Vincenzo looked into the cutout holes of the ski mask and knew instantly that he was looking into the eyes of his son. There was no surprise, no fear, not even anger. Vincenzo’s look was one of contented resignation.
Joey knew his father knew, but he didn’t hesitate. He met his father’s look of resignation with one of determination. He leveled the Lupara and pulled the trigger. The first blast hit Vincenzo high in the chest, throwing him off his feet. The second hit him center mass, crumbling him against the vehicle door. Then he fell, facedown on the pavement.
Te Amo’s shot hit Vito in the stomach and chest, pushing him back against the car, as he slumped to the ground.
“Go!” Joey barked at Enrico.
Enrico skidded off.
Mission complete.
“Breaking news: Godfather of the Diamanti crime family, Vincenzo Diamanti, was shot this morning.”
“Details are sketchy, but sources close to the investigation are saying Vincenzo Diamanti is dead.”
“…is alive in critical condition.”
“It is unclear as to his status.”
“It is believed to be in retaliation for the Bonanno hit, which left the reputed mobster and his son dead.”
It didn’t take long for the word to get out, and once it did, it was all that New York was talking about.
The hospital that they took Vincenzo and Vito to was flooded with reporters and cameras, almost before they themselves got there. Frankie Shots brought along twenty guys just to secure the floor where they were being treated,
away from reporters and cameras. But the one face he didn’t expect to see was Joey’s. Joey, Enrico, Te Amo, and Maria got off the elevator and began walking toward Frankie. Several of Frankie’s men closed ranks around him and repositioned themselves until they had Joey and his entourage surrounded.
Joey took a casual glance over both shoulders then looked at Frankie Shots.
“Call off your dogs. I’m just here to see my father,” Joey said.
“You got a lot of nerve comin’ down here, Joey,” Frankie remarked, closing the distance between them.
Joey did the same until they were almost nose-to-nose.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about…”
“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Like I said, I’m here to see my pops.”
“Too bad. No visitors,” Frankie seethed.
“So if you’ll excuse me, I’m goin’ in now,” Joey informed him, disregarding his words as if he hadn’t even heard them.
But as he tried to walk back, Frankie put his hand on Joey’s forearm.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me…”
“No, maybe you didn’t hear me,” Joey spat back, “but I’m goin’ to see my father, Frankie. If you wanna stop me, we can settle it right here, right now. When the smoke clears, whoever’s left standin’ wins.”
The tension spread across the hallway, radiating from the two of them, until every eye was on them. Frankie’s guys slowly reached for their weapons, just as Joey’s crew did the same. It was beginning to look like a Mexican standoff with Joey and Frankie locked in an eye-to-eye boxing match. But Frankie blinked.
He gave Joey a smile that was more like a sneer then said, “Okay, tough guy. I can still call you that, right?” Frankie quipped. Joey knew exactly what he was trying to say, but he didn’t bite. “Be my guest. But one day soon, I’ll take you up on that ‘settle it’ offer. How’s that?”
“I can’t wait,” Joey retorted then walked away, leaving Frankie’s gaze to burn a hole in his back.
He walked toward the door at the end of the hall. He stopped before he went in, took a deep breath, knocked softly then entered.
“Joseph,” was the first word he heard, from a voice whose sound could still soothe his soul.
It was his mother.
As soon as he entered the room, she crossed the room from her husband’s bedside to her son’s arms and embraced him. Even though she was a full foot shorter than Joey, it still felt like he was hugging her knees like when he was little and it felt good…almost too good, and his guilt made him pull back.
“You went away. How come I don’t see you anymore?” she asked him, with tears for her husband in her eyes, but a smile for her son on her face. “I miss you.”
“I missed you too, Ma. Things…” His voice trailed off, because he couldn’t find the words to even describe the situation.
She nodded and squeezed his hand, then took a deep breath.
“Look at what they’ve done to your father,” she whispered, holding back the tears, but not the anguish.
The words cut through Joey like a knife, because he was the “they” of which she spoke. Therefore his guilt was her anguish, and it was killing him inside. He looked at his father in the hospital bed and tears welled up in his eyes.
“I’m…I’m sorry, Pop.”
His mother hugged him. “No Joey, this is not your fault. If you had been there, I know you would’ve done all you could to stop it, but then…I dread to even think about what could’ve happened to you,” she sobbed.
“No, Mama, you don’t understand,” Joey replied, head bowed.
“These animals…in a church?” She questioned, crossing herself then sent up a quick prayer in Sicilian.
“Don’t pray for me, Mama,” Joey mumbled.
“Only God can save us from the Devil, Joseph.”
“That’s just it, Mama,” Joey stammered, looking at his mother, his cheeks streaked with tears. “I am the Devil because…I shot Pop.”
By the time Joey rendezvoused with his crew, he had his game face back. There was no trace of the remorse he felt in the presence of his parents. They were waiting for him just across the New Jersey border on the other end of the George Washington Bridge, at an open-faced motel that has seen better days.
When he walked in, all conversation ceased and everybody turned to him, the collective question in their eyes.
Stone-faced, he answered it:
“He’s gonna make it,” he announced in a tone laced with trepidation.
Te Amo was the first to speak.
“So what does that mean?” she asked.
“It means trouble, so we gonna have to get out of town for a while. Regroup,” he explained.
“So what…go back to Miami?” Te Amo suggested.
“Naw,” Joey shook his head. “If they find out you were involved, your mother’s already gonna have questions to answer. We go to Miami, they’ll see it as being under her protection.”
“But…does he think you’re involved?”
“I’m here, ain’t I? If he did, that wouldn’t be so,” he lied. “But chances are that he will, eventually. We wanna be regrouped, if and when he does.”
He looked around the room. Every soul present was a cold-blooded killer, yet they all knew what they had unleashed upon themselves, so Joey could sense the apprehension.
“Look, this is a setback, no doubt about it. But it ain’t the end of the world. Trust me, I still got a couple of aces up my sleeve,” he cracked, then gave them a reassuring smile.
“So where are we going?” Enrico questioned.
Joey turned to him and answered, “L.A. It’s an open city. Nobody controls the rackets there. We’ll see it comin’ a mile away.”
Bianca chuckled.
“What’s the punchline?” Joey asked her.
“Nothing. It’s just that I’m from L.A., born and raised there, and my whole family is Blood. L.A. may be open for you spaghetti heads, but we run it!”
Her joke broke the tension and made everyone laugh, gaining a second wind, especially for Joey. He knew having a gang like the Bloods with you was like an army. He grinned and replied, “Cali is looking even better already.”
Present Day, August 1997
He blew into the courtroom like a breeze, with a powerful whoosh, but as light as a feather. He knew the importance of a good entrance, and in his mind this was a courtroom drama that he had come to be choreographed to perfection. Several actors in attendance exchanged waves and air kisses as he walked up the aisle and headed straight to the witness stand. Joey watched him impassively, following his movements with his eyes. His hand propped up under his chin. He struck a strong contrast to the somberness of the courtroom with his streak of platinum blond hair worn asymmetrically and partially covering one eye. His face as youthful as a 12-year-old boy; yet he was 45. He was enviably thin and his colorful yet tasteful combination of pastels made his presence feel like a smile. The bailiff brought over the Bible, and he was sworn in.
“I do,” he replied with an impish grin, then took his seat on the stand. The Prosecutor stood, approached the stand, and said, “Please state your name for the record.”
The blond leaned into the microphone, tapped it lightly to make sure it was on, and replied, “Martin Latrell. But my friends call me Marty.”
“And Mr. Latrell, what is your occupation?”
“I’m a movie producer; a very successful movie producer, if I may add,” Marty arrogantly declared, sweeping his bangs out of his face and trying unsuccessfully to hook them behind his ear.
“And in your profession, have you ever had any reason to know Joseph Diamanti?”
“My God, yes,” Marty quipped, hand to his chest, mimicking a clutching of pearls. “It was horrible; that man’s a monster.”
“And do you see him here today?”
“He’s sitting right over there in the dark Brioni. Look at him! So beautiful! What a waste. I could’
ve made him a star,” Marty remarked wishfully. A few people, including some jurors stifled giggles. The Prosecutor cleared his throat.
“Yes, well be that as it may, what were the results of your interactions, Mr. Latrell?”
“Therapy. Lots of therapy,” Marty replied, and this time people couldn’t stifle their snickers, even though Marty said it with a straight face. “My therapist suggested that I write a book. I’m still considering it.” More snickers.
Joey could see the testimony wasn’t going as the Prosecutor might have planned. Joey figured he wanted to get a homosexual on the stand as a prosecution witness so he didn’t come off as being prejudicial toward homosexuals through his prosecution of Joey. But no gay guy in his circle was going to take the stand against him except for Marty. But Marty was a little too over-the-top, and choreographed to perfection. He reeked of bullshit. Joey smiled smugly at the Prosecutor and the Prosecutor averted his eyes.
“My round, I think,” thought Joey.
“Mr. Latrell, could you relay to us how your acquaintanceship with Mr. Diamanti affected your business?” the Prosecutor asked.
“He tried to take over my production company with his strong-arm tactics. I woke up every morning expecting to find a horse head in my bed,” Marty huffed.
More snickers.
“He was really lookin’ for another part of the horse,” Joey joked, whispering in Rollins’s ear.
“So you feel that you were in danger all the time?” the Prosecutor probed.
“Incessantly. It’s like in the movies, when you know something is going to happen, but you just don’t know when. I make movies; I don’t want to live in them,” Marty affirmed.
“And how specifically did he create this constant fear in your life?”
“He extorted several million dollars from me and tried to take over my company,” Marty replied.
“And had you refused?” the Prosecutor pressed.
“He said he’d kill me, and I believed him.”
The Prosecutor showed several exhibits to the jury, including a picture of Marty with a bruised face, taken by the police after he filed charges for assault.