by Solomon
The seeds of Joey’s downfall were appropriately enough being planted where it all started: in the clubs in New York City, with a young debutante home on summer vacation from Harrogate Ladies’ College, an exclusive boarding school in North Yorkshire, England.
“Pregnant?” her mother echoed, the force of the word sure to send her back into therapy. “By whom?”
“I…I don’t know, Mother,” the young debutante cried.
She then explained, in graphic detail, how she took “some little pill” and it made her feel really, really good. But made her do really, really bad things with four or five guys—two of whom went to the same country club.
When asked what this little pill was, all she could say was “X.”
“X?”
“X”, she repeated, and then she showed her mother one, much to her mother’s chagrin.
The mother took the pill to the father who, being a very generous donor to the Democratic Party, almost literally dumped the pill on the Mayor’s desk and demanded, “The purveyor of this trash must be locked up indefinitely.” The mayor couldn’t promise indefinite imprisonment, but assured him that the person would definitely be locked up. The police came discreetly to the debutante’s home and had her go through some mug shots of some known purveyors.
“That’s him,” she said, remembering the guy’s face because he had been cute. She flirted and ended up giving him a blowjob in exchange for the pill (which, of course, she didn’t mention).
The guy’s name was Sammy Bilotti, a Gambino wannabe that ran narcotics in and around the clubs in Manhattan for the Gambinos. Two days later, he was picked up and thoroughly interrogated.
“Come on, Sammy, this is bullshit! This is the Mayor’s daughter we’re talking about,” Salley lied.
“I swear to God, I don’t know what X is! I never seen it in my life,” Sammy equally lied.
“What did you do, Sammy? You wanted to boff her, didn’t you Sammy?” Pirelli speculated.
“She’s a real looker; I’da boffed her,” the first Detective chimed in.
“How about it, Sammy boy. Did you boff her?”
“Hey guys, gimme a break. She gave me a blow job, and I…”
Salley slapped the table. “You dumb Guinea fuck! She’s only sixteen!” He lied.
“Huh? No, she was in the fuckin’ club!”
“Ever hear of statutory rape, Sammy? You know what niggas do to sweet Guinea rapists on the Island?”
“Niggas with great big schlongs, Sammy,” Salley added.
They were talking so fast that Sammy didn’t have time to formulate a thought, let alone think.
“Jesus! All this over a little fuckin’ pill?” Sammy shook his head.
“I thought you said you never saw it before, Sammy. How’d you know it’s little?”
“I’ll tell you what ain’t little…the schlongs, Sammy. I swear to God they’re this fuckin’ long,” Salley remarked, holding his hands about two feet apart.
“And that’s not even counting the head!”
“Okay! Alright! Let’s deal! I’ll give you some Russians!” Sammy offered.
“Russians?” Pirelli scoffed. “What I look like, Joe McCarthy over there? Give me Gotti. I want you to run this all the way up the flagpole and give me Gotti!”
“I can’t give you Gotti! How?”
“Guinea punk rapes Mayor’s daughter, marries schlong. Is that the newspaper headline you want lining your cape, you dumb fuck?”
“Okay, okay. Rizzo, I’ll give you Rizzo! That’s the best I can do, I swear to God!”
The two Detectives finally stopped their rapid-fire verbal assault, and stole a glance at one another. Mike Rizzo was a strong Capo for the Gambino family. He had been promoted when Bonanno had been killed. Rizzo was definitely a strong entry into the Gambino hierarchy.
“You willin’ to wear a wire?” Salley inquired, almost openly salivating.
“A wire? Are you fuckin’ crazy? If Rizzo thinks I’m recording him… Look, all I do is turn in the money to this guy. That’s it.”
“So, wear a wire. One time. Get the guy to acknowledge the transaction and it’s a done deal. You’re back at the club boffing the Mayor’s other daughter.”
Sammy thought about it, lit a cigarette and replied, “One time, no more. Any more, and I’d rather be fitted for the schlong.”
“I’m telling you, Joey, the script is perfect for you!” Marty gushed. “You said you wouldn’t play anybody but a gangster. Well, this is about a gangster from Italy that comes to take over the American Mafia, and in the midst, he falls in love with a blind girl who teaches him true love. Perfect!”
Marty, Joey, and Te Amo were having dinner at Spago’s in L.A. Joey liked the place so much that he was contemplating becoming part owner. He thought about what Marty said then looked at Te Amo.
“Whaddya think?” he asked her.
“I think you’re nuts. A movie, Joey, really? A little too high profile, no?” Te Amo objected.
“Trust me, it’s insurance,” he replied enigmatically then looked back at Marty. “I’m in. What’s the catch?”
Marty sipped his wine then answered, “It’s my current production for Stonewall, the investment house in New York that’s been bankrolling me, and who my last three films have grossed them over 300 million worldwide. Suddenly, they have cold feet. They say it’s too gay, too controversial. I say, controversy sells, not gay controversy. The fuckin’ pricks. Anyway, I need them to be persuaded to open the spigot again.”
Joey chuckled.
“So you wanna use me as muscle, huh? Multimillion dollar shakedown?”
“For a million dollar kickback, your own production and five percent off my backend, who’s shaking who?” Marty quipped.
Joey laughed.
“Touché,” he remarked, holding up his glass to Marty, giving him a solitary toast. “Touché, eh? Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Should I kiss your ring, godfather?” Marty joked.
“No, but I got somethin’ else for you to kiss, smart guy,” Joey snickered.
A few moments later, Enrico approached the table. Te Amo almost didn’t recognize him. His eyebrows had been waxed and arched. He had taken his hair out of the ever-present ponytail and was wearing it loose. His style of dress was different and his movement more fluid and graceful. He was, in a word, effeminate.
“Enrico?” Te Amo questioned, incredulously.
“Sorry I’m late; we had a little problem,” he explained.
“Where?” Joey wanted to know.
“New York.”
Te Amo was still looking at him. “Wow, you look…different.”
Enrico looked unsure of himself, until Joey said, “I think you look great,” then his face beamed with pride.
“Thank you, Joey.”
Te Amo looked on in amusement. Marty looked on with pity in his eyes.
“Well I guess the crux of my problem has been dealt with; I’ll let you discuss yours,” Marty said as he stood up and looked at Joey, adding, “If you’d be so kind as to see me out.”
Joey dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood up. He and Marty headed for the door. The twins, sitting at a table by the door, caught Joey’s eye. He nodded subtly. They rose and went out the door, both carrying purses that packed a lot more than mascara.
In the parking lot, they spread out to flank Joey and keep an eye out.
“Joey, I look at us as friends; something we will be long after we tire of one another’s embrace.”
“True, so speak freely.”
“Thank you. What I just saw…was appalling. Something like that, you could never do to me, because I know who I am. But that also works to your advantage because you at least know who you’re dealing with,” Marty explained as they approached his Spyder Convertible. “But Joey, if you continue to make people who you want them to be, when the time comes, will you know who they are?” Marty jeweled Joey.
Joey chuckled and nodded.
/> “I got you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re young, and power intoxicates. Just remember what I said, okay?” Marty told him, kissed him on the cheek and got in the car.
Just as he was pulling off, Bianca pulled up. Joey bent down in the window and gave her a kiss.
“What’s up, beautiful?”
“The Piazzas.”
“What about ‘em,” Joey scowled.
“Nothin’ crazy. They say New York wants to have a sit down.”
“Where and when?”
“They said that’s up to you,” she replied.
He thought about it for a minute, then a smile spread across his face.
“Tell them…we’ll meet in the Jungle.”
“How’d I know you would say that?”
He leaned in, kissed her, and playfully bit her lip.
“Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish,” she remarked, with a wink.
“Since when do you know me to do that?” Joey quipped, as he walked back inside.
Two days later, the Italians arrived in the Jungle—three carloads deep—full of soldiers along with the Underboss of the Piazza family and the representative of the Commission. When they got there, Animal and several other Bloods blocked their entrance.
“All y’all ain't comin’ in here,” Animal informed them with a menacing look. The Italians, far from intimidated, didn’t push the issue.
“No offense, but we didn’t know what to expect,” Tommy Scarlata remarked. “How’s about somebody get Joey for me?”
Animal got on the walkie-talkie. A few minutes later, Joey walked out. He looked at all of the soldiers standing around the cars.
“You sure you guys just came for a sit down?” Joey quipped with a smile.
“Just…coverin’ all bases, Joey. You’re kinda unpredictable,” Tommy commented, holding his tongue.
Joey chuckled.
“I understand, Tommy, and it’s no problem with me. You coulda brought an army, I’m only a guest over here, same as you. So I tell you what: you can bring a soldier apiece, how’s that?”
“No. No soldiers, Joey. Can you guarantee our safety?” the representative asked, looking Joey in the eyes.
“You have my word, Mr. Massino,” Joey replied, solemnly.
Joey knew exactly who the massive fat man was: Peter Massino, or better known as Peter the Pope. He was the Consigliore of the Romano family. He was a legend and helped Salvatore Romano take over what was the Colombo family. Joey knew that if they sent the Pope as the rep, the Commission was taking him very seriously.
“That’s good enough for me,” Massino replied, as he turned and whispered in his bodyguard’s ear.
The bodyguard nodded, made a gesture to the other soldiers and they all got back into the cars.
Joey, Tommy, and Massino walked under the breezeway and entered the Jungle. As they walked, Joey put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and said, “Mr. Scarlata, I want to apologize about the other night. I was totally out of line. I understand if you don’t accept it, but I offer it with all my honor.”
Tommy looked at Joey. He knew what Joey was doing; Joey wanted to set the tone to show Massino he wasn’t a hard man to talk to. Still, looking in his eyes, it was hard for Tommy not to at least want to believe him.
“Forget about it, kid; I already did,” Tommy replied.
The two men shook hands. Joey led them to Bone’s apartment. They entered and sat down around the kitchen table.
“What can I get you guys to drink?” Joey offered.
“Some coffee,” Massino replied.
“Make that two,” Tommy added, following Massino’s lead.
Joey sat three cups on the table then filled them up. Once done, he put the coffee pot in the middle of the table and sat down.
“First off, allow me to say…Don Massino, it is an honor and a privilege to sit at the same table as you, as well as you, Don Scarlata. I am young, eh? Full of piss and venom, but one thing I’m not is insensitive. So please, take my words in that vein,” Joey said showing that he could be just as respectful as disrespectful.
Massino sipped his coffee, looking at Joey the whole time. He had the kind of gaze that lesser men called chilling. He put his cup down and said, “The ruthless are never insincere. They mean everything they do. So tell me: what is it you’re doing, Joey?”
Joey shrugged.
“Just trying to wet my beak.”
Massino snorted. “Is that what you call it? Seems to me that you’re pushing for a war out here, huh? It’s not enough that you bury the Chechnyans, but now you’re pushin’ into territory clearly belonging to the Piazza regime? So Tommy sends you a gift: a peaceful prelude to a sit down and you tell ‘em to fuck his mother. Tommy, no offense.”
“None taken.”
“Is that what you call wettin’ your beak?”
“Don Massino, I saw an opportunity, and I took it. I mean after all, I’m an outlaw, right? Why do you expect me to play by the rules?” Joey shot back.
Massino pointed a fat, savage-like finger at Joey.
“We didn’t make you an outlaw. That’s between you and Don Diamanti. The Commission has yet to vote on your status. Until then, I’ve been sent to make you an offer.”
“I’m listening…”
“Your aggression ends today. You will respect the Piazza regime’s interests and relinquish any and all operations that impede on such interests, without their consent. The drugs you can keep, but you’ll kick back thirty percent to the Commission and ten to the Piazza regime. In return, the Commission will recognize you as under the protection of the Piazza regime as long as you’re in California, until we rule on your status,” Massino proposed.
Joey sipped on his coffee. What Massino proposed was really no offer at all. And on top of that, they wanted nearly half of his California money in return. But he understood the ways of the elders. They wanted to see if he was willing to submit to an order from the Commission, to see if he would agree to such humiliating terms as penance for past sins. The two older men watched him, impassively but closely. Joey sat his cup down.
“Don Scarlata…Don Massino, I accept whatever conditions the Commission imposes. I will comply totally. I ask only one thing in return.”
“Which is?” Massino inquired.
“That the two of you both accept my sincerest apologies that this meeting even had to take place.”
Massino smiled.
“Apology accepted.”
Joey turned to Tommy.
“As for you, Don Scarlata,” he said—getting up and grabbing a briefcase that he had by the refrigerator. He sat it on the table, popped the clasps, and opened it. It was filled with money. “This is from me to you. It might not be a bottle of champagne, but I hope it conveys the message of my friendship.”
Tommy’s greedy eyes scanned the money. His estimate was that it was at least $100k. He was right. He got up, shook Joey’s hand, embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“You’ve got class, kid. Keep that up and you’ll go a long way.” Tommy advised him. Massino got Joey’s message. It told him that he had anticipated such a situation and was ready to put the cherry on top. Massino nodded approvingly.
“Tommy, do me a favor. You can go. Let me speak to Joey alone,” Massino requested.
Tommy shook Massino’s hand, then Joey’s, grabbed the briefcase, and left.
Massino pulled out his cigar. Joey pulled out his lighter and lit it for him. Massino puffed until it was lit then sat back and said, “I liked how you handled that, Joey. Tommy’s right. You’ve got class.”
“Comin’ from you, Don Massino, that’s a real compliment,” Joey answered. He could tell that Massino caught the subtle dig at Tommy.
Massino puffed and smiled.
“You’re a lot like your old man. Brutally honest, without having to be brutal, you get me?”
Joey nodded.
“Do you know why I was sent out here as representative?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Because you’ve been vouched for by Big Sal,” Massino informed him proudly.
Salvatore Romano, his father’s archenemy. The picture was becoming clearer, but still not yet in focus.
“My thanks to the Don, but I’m confused.”
“Don’t be. What’s between your father and Sal doesn’t have to be between you and Sal…or does it?” Massino quipped.
Without hesitation, Joey answered, “No, not at all.”
“That’s good, because he wants you to come back with me and meet with him personally. Will you do that?”
“I’d be honored. All I ask—”
“He guarantees your safety,” Massino interjected. “As a matter of fact, it’s been his vote that kept the hit off your head.”
Interesting, Joey thought.
“Then I guess my only question is: when do we leave?”
Massino and Joey flew into JFK the next day. They were taken via a black Lincoln directly to a diner in Queens. It was called Andy’s.
Now, Joey understood.
He got out of the car and Massino was driven away in the Lincoln. A Romano foot soldier stayed with Joey.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” the soldier suggested.
They went inside, ordered two cups of coffee. By the time they took one sip, the soldier looked outside.
“Our ride’s here.”
They left without paying.
The two of them got into a dark blue Buick and were whisked away. They shot through Queens—running red lights at the last minute and making a series of right turns, until they were back where they started. They took the Expressway into Manhattan and switched cars in Chinatown. Joey got into a silver Mercedes-Benz, driven by a small, quiet man that reminded him of Joe Pesci. Two hours later, they ended up at the same diner, only this time they entered through the back door, through the kitchen and into a small office.
Sitting behind the desk was Salvatore Romano. He had been there the whole time.
He sat, smoking a cigar, hands folded over a protruding gut while he watched the Yankee game on a small black and white TV sitting on the desk.