by Solomon
O’Ryan read his expression and retorted, “I hope not, huh? Because, if I get cancer, so will you.” O’Ryan winked. “We’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll bet you will.”
“You can bet your pretty ass on it,” O’Ryan retorted as the two detectives exited the trailer.
“We love you, Joey.”
“I wanna fuck you, Joey.”
“Joey Diamonds.”
Joey arrived in L.A. in more ways than one. He and his entourage pulled up in front of The Pulse in a stretch limo. He got out with Te Amo on one arm and Marty on the other, the rest of the girls bringing up the rear. As he approached the front of the line, he stopped in front of the guard.
“Remember me?” Joey smirked.
“How can I forget?”
“Me neither. I told you I never forget the guy who gave me my first break,” Joey reminded him.
The guard smiled, happy to be remembered.
“Just doin’ my job.”
“Not anymore, ‘cause you work for me. No more peanuts; we pay in bananas and they come in big bunches, eh?” Joey laughed then playfully slapped the guard on the cheek.
The guard laughed.
“Thanks, Mr. Diamanti. I’m Mike.”
“Call me Diamonds, call me Joey; just make sure you call me in the morning, okay?” Joey instructed him, gave him a card, shook his hand, then went inside.
Inside, Joey watched the team control the crowd, as he sat back in the V.I.P. like a king overlooking his kingdom. While he, Te Amo, and Marilyn were nursing drinks and he was smoking a cigar, the waitress brought over a bottle of Cristal.
“Where’d it come from?” Joey questioned.
“The group of gentlemen to your left,” the waitress gestured with her chin.
Joey didn’t even bother to look. He was already aware of the presence. It was the underboss of the Piazza family, Tommy Scarlata. Joey knew the Piazzas would make a move, sooner or later. Now the move was being made, so he made one of his own.
“Send it back,” Joey instructed her, flicking his cigar ashes in one of the champagne flutes that came with the bottle.
“As you wish, Mr. Diamanti,” the waitress replied, taking the bottle and the flutes away.
Te Amo didn’t say anything, but she questioned him with her eyes.
“You’ll see in a minute,” he replied to her expression.
A few moments later, Tommy and his two bodyguards approached Joey’s booth.
“Hey Joey, whatsa matter wit’ you, eh? I send you the bubbly—the best in the house—and you send me back your disrespect? What am I missin’ here?” Tommy questioned, keeping his tone light with his presence imposing.
Joey wouldn’t even grant him the respect of looking at him. In a tone that sounded bored, Joey answered, “Because you and your boss are a couple of pussies that don’t even deserve an acknowledgement, let alone respect.”
Both bodyguards started to lunge. Te Amo and Marilyn flinched to stand up, but Tommy restrained his bodyguards, and the girls restrained themselves.
“Hey guys, whaddya gonna do, beat up three ladies for mouthin’ off?” Tommy chuckled and his bodyguards did too. “That’s what happens when you try to be nice to a faggot that uses broads for muscle.”
The bodyguards roared with contemptuous laughter. Joey finally looked at Tommy. He always reminded him of Jackie Gleason, but despite what he called him, he knew that Tommy was a seasoned killer.
“Hey Tommy…go fuck your dead mother in the ass,” Joey spat, calmly but with pure venom.
This time, his bodyguards lunged, but Te Amo and Marilyn stood simultaneously, with nine millimeters pointed in their faces. They stopped dead in their tracks. Joey puffed his cigar.
“You–you–you cock suckin’ son of a bitch!” Tommy stuttered, choked with rage. “I’m gonna kill ya!”
“Make your next move your best move, Tommy. Now get the fuck outta here,” Joey hissed in a tone like a rattlesnake.
Tommy eyed him hard.
“You’re a dead man, you fuckin’ son of a bitch! A dead man!” Tommy vowed, then reluctantly let his bodyguards lead him away.
When they were gone, Te Amo and Marilyn sat down.
“One question,” Te Amo asked, “Was that necessary?”
Joey contemplated her question for a moment.
“New York’s been too quiet; somebody’s pulling the Piazza’s strings. I figure we rile ‘em up, we’ll find out who.”
“They’re definitely riled up.”
“Well, we’ll definitely find out who then.”
Present Day, August 1997
“Now, will you please explain to the court what was going on in New York while Mr. Diamond was causing such an uproar in California?” the Prosecutor asked Joe “Pro” Provenzano.
Joe cleared his throat and replied, “The question with all five families was what to do about Joey. See, the Commission asked—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Provenzano, didn’t mean to cut you off but—”
“Then why did you?” Joe Pro said sharply, showing how much he hated to be cut off. A few snickers were scattered around the room.
“Could you explain who and what the Commission is?”
“Why didn’t you say that? Okay, so the Commission is the central body, the government of the underworld, so to speak. The Boss of each of the five families makes up the main body, and then a few families around the Country, too: like Buffalo, Cleveland, St. Louis, and a coupla other places. They all have a vote on who gets made, and if a Made Man can be whacked. It also governs territory, et cetera, et cetera. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” the Prosecutor replied.
“So yeah, where was I…oh yeah, everybody’s like, ‘what the hell do we do about the kid?’ We go to his father, Vincenzo, but Vincenzo wants to give him a pass. Even though he tried to kill him, it’s still his son, so it’s understandable. Only, it’s outta Vincenzo’s hands because Vincenzo is a Boss and the cardinal rule is you can’t kill a Boss without the approval of the Commission,” Joe Pro explained.
“So you’re saying, Mr. Provenzano, that Mr. Diamanti had unilateral power to protect his son, even though he himself was the victim?” the Prosecutor started trying to put it in court jargon.
To which Joe Pro replied, “Uni—wha?”
“Unilateral power to—”
“Look, Mr. Prosecutor, I said what I said, so if you let me say it, you’ll understand,” Joe Pro retorted.
A smattering of laughter scattered through the courtroom.
“Please proceed, Mr. Provenzano.”
“So yeah…you can’t kill a Boss. So Vincenzo’s hands are tied. But outta nowhere, up steps Salvatore Romano, Boss of the Romano family. He says, maybe Joey didn’t do it, but everybody knows he did it! Nobody else would’ve hit the Don. But the Don won’t say either way, and since the Romanos carry just as much weight as the Diamantis, Sal’s non-vote becomes a veto. But it puts us all in a pickle, because no one can touch Joey, and he’s busy putting the squeeze on the Coast,” Joe Pro said, breaking it all down, play-by-play. He stopped to clear his throat then began talking again.
“And it’s obvious he’s trying to spark a war with the Piazzas because of the disrespectful statement he made about the underboss Tommy’s mother. Something had to be done. So it was decided that since Sal wanted to give the kid the benefit of the doubt, he would talk to the kid. Whole time, Vincenzo’s gotta be screamin’ because he and Sal hate each other’s guts. So everybody knows that Sal’s got an angle, but no one knew what it was. And that’s how Joey became a member of the Romano family,” Joe Pro concluded.
But it was much more complicated than that.
August 1990
Vincenzo sat on the back patio, quietly soaking in the scenery. It was a hot day, but not so much under the awning that extended from the house. His gaze ran along the rise and fall of the landscape, and for a moment he was reminded of his childhood in Castellammare del Golfo, a small village on
the west coast of Sicily. At such moments, he often contemplated how his life would have turned out had his father, a respected Don in Sicily, not fallen out of favor with Mussolini and was forced emigrate to the United States.
“Such is life,” his thoughts mused, resigning himself to the man he had become: a man he was proud to be, yet he hadn’t always been proud.
All thoughts were interrupted when Vito escorted Frankie Shots out to see him.
“Boss, it’s Frankie.”
Frankie shook his hand, then kissed him on both cheeks, and sat down beside Vincenzo.
“Thank you, Vito, and if you don’t mind, have the butler bring out some coffee and some of those cookies Frankie loves,” Vincenzo requested.
“Sure Boss, no problem,” Vito replied, then disappeared inside.
“Beautiful day isn’t it, Don Vincenzo?” Frankie remarked.
Soon, the butler came out with a tray of coffee, cookies, and two cups. He poured them each a cup of coffee then left.
“Do me a favor, Frankie, indulge an old man. Speak to me in Sicilian; I’m feeling homesick,” Vincenzo asked.
Frankie knew he had something heavy on his mind, because he only spoke freely in Sicilian.
“Whatever you wish, my Don,” Frankie said in Sicilian.
Vincenzo felt more comfortable speaking in his mother tongue.
“Frankie, over the years I’ve seen a lot. This thing of ours is changing; it’s not what it was. I’m not saying it’s good or bad; I’m just stating a fact. A man must deal in facts, don’t you agree, Paisano?” he said in Sicilian.
“Of course, my Don.”
Vincenzo nodded.
“For me, facts are simple. The hard part is facing them as they are and as you wish them to be. I am old, but this is a young man’s game. I can no longer keep up with the changes, nor do I want to. As the sun sets for me, I would like for it to be over the hills and plains of Castellammare del Golfo.
Frankie’s chest heaved, but he maintained his composure to make sure he was hearing correctly.
“What is it that you ask of me, my Don?”
“My friend, it is you who may ask of me. Yes, you have been like a son to me. I have taken you in, and you have made me nothing but proud. You may be sottocapo, but one day you will be capo de tutti capi, eh? Mark my words, until that day, I ask you to take over the Diamanti family.” Vincenzo explained.
Inside, Frankie was charged, but he kept his composure.
“For you, my Don, anything.”
Vincenzo smiled at him warmly, then patted his hand.
“I know you won’t let me down. Just know, being the Boss is not easy. You must be a fox and a lion. But knowing when to be which is the key to success.”
“I understand, Don Vincenzo.”
Do you? Vincenzo mused to himself, but he kept his own counsel and said, “Now…there are some things that we must discuss.”
Frankie stayed silent and attentive, so Vincenzo continued.
“The books are not to be opened at this time, because for now you are only acting Boss. I don’t want the other families to feel…put upon.”
“I understand,” Frankie nodded.
“Also, we have several problems within the family—problems that I want dealt with right away.”
When he said “problems,” Frankie knew that Vincenzo meant he wanted some people killed.
“I’ll handle it,” Frankie assured him.
Vincenzo leaned over and whispered nine names in his ear, several of which sent a chill down Frankie’s spine.
“Don Vincenzo,” Frankie began slowly, looking the Don in the eye, “several of these men are close to my heart, and I fear that if they have fallen out of favor, somehow I have fallen out of favor. And if I have, please tell me how, and I will correct it.”
“Frankie,” Vincenzo replied, wearing the warm smile of a killer you could call a friend, “I just made you a Boss and you think you earned my displeasure? These men are not your responsibility…but the problem is.”
“It will be handled,” Frankie reiterated, even though his jubilance was not tempered. To be made a king, but to lose your army leaves you more vulnerable.
“Lastly… I withheld my true intentions from the Commission only because I didn’t want them meddling in our family affairs. But I am giving you a free hand to deal with the situation as you wish,” Vincenzo explained.
“Then I will hold to outward appearances until the time is right to react,” Frankie responded.
Vincenzo playfully slapped Frankie’s cheek.
“That was the decision of a fox,” he remarked, and Frankie took it to be a compliment.
Vincenzo started to get up, so Frankie rose quickly to assist him. Once they were both standing, Vincenzo took Frankie by both shoulders and said, “You’ve earned this day, Frankie. May you always get what you deserve.” Then he kissed him on both cheeks and embraced him.
Joey’s operation was expanding across the country. He had already set up distribution in San Francisco and Seattle. Then he moved across the Midwest and Texas. He benefitted from the gang infrastructure, so wherever the Bloods were, he had a ready-made retail operation, and the Russian Jews kept him supplied. His hands never got dirty; he simply made millions connecting supply with demand, taking a hefty cut for the trouble.
He moved into a beautiful place in Beverly Hills that he bought for seven million dollars.
When Te Amo first walked in with him and the realtor, she quipped, “Take out the ceiling, expand the walls, and it just might be big enough to fit my ego.”
It stayed unfurnished for weeks. When Enrico returned from expanding the operation into Chicago, he came to see the new place for the first time. When he arrived, he saw Joey’s newest toy: a black on black Ferrari Testarossa with the license plate that read Vapors. He smirked to himself as he went to the door and found it cracked. He pushed it open and walked inside. His footsteps echoed on the marble floors and bounced off the cathedral ceilings of the atrium. He admired the double set of stairs that hugged both walls and headed up the one to his left. The place was gigantic; so big that it swallowed the sounds that Enrico started to hear as he headed down the hall to the master bedroom. The sounds were muffled, yet unmistakable. In his mind, he stopped and refused to go any further. The guttural moans were that of a man in the throes of passion, not a woman. But he hadn’t stopped. He kept going, right up to the door and pushed it open.
Inside, the room was totally bare except for the single mattress in the middle of the floor on which Joey was fucking Marty. He had him on all fours like a dog in heat, pounding away at his ass from the back. Marty’s eyes were closed and he was oblivious to the voyeur, but Joey was looking directly at Enrico. His smile told him Joey had meant for him to see this scene. That’s why the front door was open. The sparseness of the room and the raw energy of the act made the whole scene dirty, like the room was in an abandoned apartment in a condemned tenement in the Bronx and not a multi-million dollar mansion.
“Come to Daddy, my little Spanish rose,” Joey remarked, taunting him.
“Fuck you,” Enrico hissed then stormed out of the room.
He made it halfway up the hallway before he stopped, balled up his fist and turned back. He stopped when he heard Marty exclaim, “Oh my god, Joey! Oh yes!”
The passion in Marty’s tone made Enrico sick to his stomach. He felt tormented. Part of him wanted to go back and beat the shit out of both of them, while a part of him wanted to cry. He hated the way that Joey could toy with his every emotion. At the same time, it brought him closer knowing that he was so connected to another human being that they could bring out his deepest and darkest, despite the pain. In that moment, Enrico felt truly alive.
Before he met Joey, he knew he was attracted to men on some level. It wasn’t a conscious admittance, but a subconscious acceptance that he buried and Joey easily found. Now, he realized he was falling in love with a man that would ultimately destroy him. Enrico slid down
the wall and sat with his head in his hands. He heard the shower water go on. He heard the muffled voices, the laughter then silence, and the moans began again under the sizzle of the shower. Enrico stared off and zoned out, focusing on a single ray of heat that came through the window and cut across the hall. His trance was only broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. He looked up and saw Marty—fully dressed—coming up the hallway. He refused to make eye contact or to even acknowledge Enrico’s presence as he walked by and disappeared down the stairs.
Then Joey stepped out of the bedroom, wearing a white, terry cloth robe and smoking a cigar.
“So, how you like my new place?” Joey asked, openly toying with Enrico’s emotions.
“Dígame,” Enrico seethed in Spanish.
“Because I’m going to break you,” Joey answered, coldly and truthfully.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
The raw bluntness of Joey’s statement struck a nerve and Enrico lashed out. He swung at Joey with every ounce of hatred, love, and pain he had been bottling up. Joey weaved, easily avoiding the wild blow then pushed Enrico’s face firmly against the wall and pinned him there with his body.
“Still think you can fight it, huh Enrico?” Joey growled lustfully in his ear.
“Get off me,” Enrico protested weakly, but he liked the feeling of Joey’s body pressed against his, and he was strangely turned on by the thought that Joey had just been inside another man.
“Is that what you really want, Enrico? Huh?” Joey asked, kissing Enrico along his neck.
“What I want is for you to stop playing these games.”
“Stop fighting and I will!”
”What’s in it for me?”
“Freedom.”
Enrico laughed.
“All you want is a slave.”
“Joey released Enrico then turned him around to look at him.
“Slavery is freedom,” he quipped.
Looking in his eyes, Enrico understood the power of hypnotism, as Joey urged him lower and Enrico bent slowly to his knees.