The Purple Don

by Solomon

  “Have a seat, Joey. I’ll be with you in a minute,” Sal told him, cigar clenched between his teeth.

  Joey sat.

  Mattingly struck out. Sal tuned off the TV, stood and rounded the desk. Joey stood.

  “Joey Diamanti,” Sal intoned, looking him over, sizing him up. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Don Romano,” Joey replied politely.

  Sal waved him off.

  “By the time we’re done, you’ll be calling me Uncle Sally, eh?” he chuckled, then shook Joey’s hand, embraced him and kissed both cheeks.

  “Have a seat,” Sal offered.

  Joey sat down in the same seat but Sal took the other seat next to Joey and pulled himself closer.

  “So, how’s L.A., Joey?” Sal inquired, making small talk.

  “The broads’ll do but there’s no place like New York,” Joey responded.

  “Yeah, I feel the same way. I never go any further than Vegas if I can help it, you know?”

  The two men regarded one another with smiles on their faces, but their eyes were poker players.

  “I guess you’re wonderin’ why you’re here,” Sal began.

  “I already know.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because you asked me to come,” Joey quipped with a smirk.

  Sal chuckled.

  “I like wise guys, Joey. A man oughta be able to enjoy a good laugh, ya think?”

  “I agree,” Joey affirmed.

  “It relieves tension, you know? Because in this business, there’s a lot of tension, a lot of bad blood. Like between your father and I. Your father’s a helluva guy, but he could never enjoy a good laugh. He took himself too seriously, and a lot of things that could’ve been avoided weren’t. Am I makin’ sense over here?” Sal probed.

  “I follow you perfectly.”

  “Then I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me you’re your own man and not just your father’s son,” Sal challenged.

  Joey looked him in the eyes and replied, “I am my own man and not my father’s son.”

  Sal didn’t miss the fact that Joey left the word ‘just’ out, nor did Joey want him to. Sal nodded.

  “I heard a lot about you, Joey. I hear you’re a stand-up guy—that you don’t take no shit from nobody, but you’re a reasonable guy.”

  “I try to be, Mr. Romano.”

  “And I hear…you’re, uh…left-handed,” Sal remarked, using the limp-wrist gesture as a euphemism for Joey’s sexual orientation.

  Joey smiled.

  “More like…ambidextrous.”

  Sal chuckled.

  “Then you must have one helluva curve.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Listen, I have no problem with what a man does behind closed doors. This is America, for Christ’s sake. Even in Sicily, I knew a guy that fucked sheep. Forget about it, whaddya gonna do, eh?” Sal remarked. “What’s important to me is loyalty…honor…and respect. You got that, you get no argument from me.”

  “Is that what you’re asking of me?” Joey inquired, looking Sal in the eyes.

  Sal returned his gaze and replied, “Well, first and foremost I’m asking you for your friendship. Let everything else stem from that. I think you and I, we can do some big things together, Joey…big things, starting out there on the Coast.”

  “I thought I was to be under the Piazza protection?” Joey smirked.

  Sal sat down in the chair and waved him off.

  “The Piazzas couldn’t protect their own ass with both hands. Fuck the Piazzas. You’re a smart guy, Joey. I’m sure you already knew that you’d be under my protection, but the Piazza’s responsibility.”

  Joey nodded. “Once I saw Don Massino, I figured as much.”

  “Then you understand protocol. The only reason the whole fuckin’ Commission ain’t gunnin’ for you is because I went to bat for ya ‘cause I don’t believe you’d kill your own old man, and I believe you deserve our respect despite being…ambidextrous,” Sal explained.

  “Then I’m forever in your debt,” Joey remarked.

  Sal accepted his spoken homage.

  “Besides…between you and me, your father’s been…cleanin’ house. Jimmy Casso, Lil’ Joe Pipes, Benny Bagels… That’s just a few of the good souls no longer with us, and if you notice, all these guys were kinda partial to Frankie Shots. So what does that say to you?” Sal quizzed.

  “All I need to know,” Joey answered.

  “Yeah, but he also made ‘em actin’ Boss, so I figure, you promote a guy into a position of power, but you take away his strength, that’s like the guys are made king but you cut off their johnsons before they were allowed near the broads.”

  “Eunuchs,” Joey corrected Sal.

  “Yeah, eunuchs; Frankie Shots is a fuckin’ eunuch.”

  They both laughed.

  “But never mind that. You’re my guy on the Coast, so bring me my money personally, got me?”

  “Sure, Boss,” Joey smirked.

  Sal smiled and pointed at Joey.

  “Hey…I’m not your Boss yet. But keep your nose clean and I will be, eh?”

  Sherman Brothers was one of the main investment banks on Wall Street that were investing in movies. They even had a Hollywood Division, and Andrew Wynn was the President of the Division. He was young, brash, and full of himself. He had decided not to give Marty the rest of the money for his Stonewall production, and liked to let it be known that he had such unilateral power.

  “Hey, fuck Marty Latrell. I own that cock sucking weasel,” he bragged into the speakerphone as he swiveled in his leather chair and looked out on the sunset from an office that rivaled Gordon Gekko in the movie Wall Street. In fact, everything about Andrew reminded people of Gekko, down to the suspenders and slicked-back hair, because Andrew tried to pattern himself after the character’s swagger.

  “But Marty’s made you guys a lot of money,” the voice on the other end reminded him.

  “Are you kiddin’? I made Marty! Without Sherman Brothers, he’d be a fuckin’ pariah. Sometimes you just gotta remind a guy who’s boss,” Andrew boasted.

  “Whatever you say. Hey, there’s this new club that everybody’s talking about…”

  “Can’t. Got a date with the twin blonds.”

  The line got quiet.

  “Bob, you still there?”

  “I hate you, Andy,” the voice said, playfully. “I can’t even ask if she has a sister, because you’re fucking her too! You’re my hero.”

  Andrew laughed. “Gotta go. Life awaits,” he replied, then broke the connection.

  Andrew grabbed his jacket and headed out the door for the elevator. By the time he reached street level, an all-white limo was awaiting him. A sexy Latina driver got out to open the door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Wynn.”

  He looked her up and down, tasting her with his eyes.

  “I hope you’ll be a part of it,” he leered.

  She opened the door. The twin blonds said, “Hi Andrew!” simultaneously, then giggled like vixens.

  “Looks like you already got your hands full,” the driver quipped.

  “Always room for one more,” he winked.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she winked back.

  He got in. They peeled off. One twin pulled out the cocaine.

  “Alright! Let the good times roll!” he yelled, taking the rolled up hundred dollar bill from the other twin and scarfing several lines of coke. He loved the way cocaine made him feel. Invincible. All-powerful. They called the titans of Wall Street “masters of the universe.” Cocaine made him really feel like one. Mix that with cognac, plus the jiggle of bare breasts and girlish giggles, and he didn’t even notice that he was in a garage in the Bronx…

  Until it was too late.

  “Hey, where—”

  Click-clack! Click-clack! was all he heard. It was the sounds of the twins—Amanda and Alicia—cocking their twin .45’s that they were holding
. They were just as pretty, but in a lethal kind of way.

  “What the hell is going on? Do you fucking cunts know who I am?” he bassed, the cocaine fueling his narcissism.

  “Do you know who I am?” came the reply, but it was a male’s voice. He looked up and saw Joey looking down on him from outside the car.

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Get out the fuckin’ car.”

  Amanda grabbed him by the collar and guided him out of the car. When he got out, Maria the driver had a gun on him as did Amanda. Alicia took out two pairs of handcuffs and cuffed him to a metal pole on the wall.

  Joey put his hands in his pockets and looked at Andrew.

  “Now…I asked you a question. I said, ‘Do you know who I am?’”

  “Yes,” Andrew said, while nodding nervously. He recognized Joey Diamonds instantly.

  “Do you know what I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what I can do to you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. So we don’t have to play any games, and we can get straight to the point. You owe Marty; Marty owes me. But I can’t get paid unless you pay. You see our problem here, Andy?” Joe quizzed him.

  “Yes, I – I – I do. I had no idea, Mr. Diamonds, that you were involved.”

  “So, now that you know, whaddya gonna do?”

  “Marty will get the rest of his money, you have my word.”

  Joey playfully teased Andrew.

  “I can see how you got so rich, Andy; you’re quick. You like to get to the point, which saves a lot of time and keeps me from playin’ hardball. Besides…you don’t want the pictures to get out.”

  “Pictures?” Andrew echoed, confusedly.

  Joey smiled and nodded over Andrew’s shoulder. He looked and saw Alicia strapping on a black, 12-inch dildo while Maria took the lens cap off a camera.

  Joey walked up to Alicia, looked at the dildo then said, “Hmmm, interesting choice of color,” then he ran one finger along the dildo. “Wow…no Vaseline. I’ll see ya, Andy.”

  Joey walked away as Amanda snatched Andrew’s pants off.

  “No – no – no – please – no,” Andrew begged.

  As Joey left, all he could hear were Andrew’s glass-shattering screams and the incessant click of the camera in action.

  July 1997

  “But my question, Joey, is: are you a gangster?” Diane smiled, yet her gaze was intense.

  Joey threw his head back and laughed.

  “Diane, come on. Gimme a break, huh? I’m an actor, I’m an entrepreneur, a self-made man, but a gangster?” He shook his head. “But I get it, you know, because we’ve been doing this since the beginning. Adam blamed Eve, God blamed the Devil, and Americans blame gangsters: outlaws, the bad guys. Somebody so you can also say, “Hey at least I’m not that.” But at the same time, we still admire the bad guy. So it’s a love-hate relationship. We need to feel good about our own BS,” Joey surmised.

  “So you’re simply society’s scapegoat?”

  “The modern-day version of the horned one himself.”

  “Well, aren’t you capitalizing by putting out a movie called The Purple Don during your trial?” Diane probed.

  “That was totally the decision of the studio,” Joey replied, but leaving out the fact that he was part owner of the studio.

  “Tell me, Joey, if you weren’t an actor, what would Joey Diamanti be? Who would Joey Diamanti be?”

  Joey shrugged nonchalantly and replied, “A plumber.”

  “A plumber? Why a plumber?”

  He smiled, devilishly and answered, “I like to lay the pipe.”

  Present Day, August 1997

  “Please state your name for the record.”

  “James O’Ryan.”

  “And, Mr. O’Ryan what do you do for a living?”

  “Well, for the last eight years, up to about six months ago, I was a Detective with the LAPD.”

  “And what happened to change that?”

  “I was arrested for possession of cocaine and ecstasy,” O’Ryan admitted.

  “I see,” the Prosecutor mused, as he paced in front of the witness stand. “And at any given time during your eight years as Detective, did you know the defendant, Joseph Diamanti?”

  “I did.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I worked for him,” O’Ryan answered.

  Rollins stood up.

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled.”

  “When you say you worked for him, could you be more specific?” the Prosecutor probed.

  “Yeah. I was a dirty cop, and I was on Diamanti’s payroll. It’s not a fact that I’m proud of, but it’s a fact.”

  “And how long did this arrangement go on?”

  “Between a year and a half to two years,” O’Ryan estimated.

  “What were some of your duties for Mr. Diamanti?”

  “I would tell him if any of his illegal interests were under investigation, or if any of his people were working with the police. I also helped Mr. Diamanti plan and carry out the murder of Dominick Piazza and Tommy Scarlata, Boss and Underboss of the Piazza crime family in L.A.,” O’Ryan explained.

  Rollins jumped to his feet.

  “Objection, Your Honor! My client is not charged with the murders Mr. O’Ryan refers to.”

  “But he is charged with drug dealing and racketeering. I simply want to establish a pattern of conduct,” the Prosecutor rebutted.

  “Tread lightly, Counselor,” the Judge Bartholomew warned the Prosecutor, and then he turned to Rollins and said, “Overruled.”

  The Prosecutor walked back over to the witness stand.

  “And for what reason were these two men murdered?” the Prosecutor questioned.

  “Because Joey’s—I mean Mr. Diamanti’s Boss—Salvatore Romano wanted them dead. Romano is the Boss of one of the biggest crime families in New York. He’s been wanting to control the action out of L.A. for a long time, but L.A. is what you call an open city.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, any family can set up operations out there, as long as no toes get stepped on. The Piazza family was the only family in L.A., but they had no power in New York. Romano wanted to get them a vote on the Commission, and then have the Bosses whacked so he could move his people to control the vote. It’s all a whole bunch of greaseball stuff. Anyway, once Romano finagled this, he had Mr. Diamanti whack the Bosses,” O’Ryan told a spellbound jury.

  “What role did you play?”

  “I was to claim that Tommy Scarlata was my informant, so Romano could justify killing a Made Man to the Commission. Now if the Boss’ crime family, the Piazzas, knew their Underboss was a rat…that makes them a rat by default. If the Boss was too blind to spot the rat, that makes him too dumb to be the Boss. Either way, they had to go,” O’Ryan concluded.

  “And how did Mr. Diamanti benefit?” the Prosecutor asked.

  “The double murder is how he got his button.”

  “His button?”

  “How Joey Diamonds became an official Made Man in the Mafia.”

  March 1991

  Enrico stood nude in front of the full-length mirror. He didn’t know if he liked what he saw because he didn’t know who he saw. Was this the new him, the him he’d always been or was it the him Joey had created? He didn’t recognize his own mannerisms, his own style. His walk felt artificial and uncomfortable; even his thoughts felt as much as implants as the implants he was contemplating to fill out his hips.

  Enrico had begun to take hormone supplements, estrogen, and he could see his breasts starting to come in. He anticipated them like a girl on the verge of puberty, combined with a cancer watching the burgeoning of a growth. He was torn emotionally. But one thing he was sure of was his love for Joey. All of this was for Joey. It was what Joey wanted, or rather what Enrico discerned that Joey wanted. Joey only smiled encouragingly or remained impassive, which Enrico read
as disapproval.

  They would lie in bed and Joey would tweak his nipple and remark, “If you had a little more to grab, eh, I’d have the best of both worlds.” A few days later, Enrico told him, “I’m going to start taking estrogen.” Joey would smile and kiss him passionately.

  So gradually, Enrico came to the idea to announce to Joey, “I’m going to have a sex change operation.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Enrico searched Joey’s eyes to find his own sense of certainty. When he thought he had found it, he answered, “Absolutely.”

  Joey took him to bed and fucked him royally.

  So as he stood in front of the hospital mirror, about to undergo surgery, he didn’t know what was looking back at him, but he knew whoever he was, he wanted to be loved.

  “Mr. Valdez,” the nurse began as she entered. After seeing that he was naked, she turned her head, adding, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were…”

  “It’s okay,” Enrico replied in an apologetic tone, as he slipped back on his hospital robe. “I was just…saying goodbye, I guess.”

  She gave him a matronly look.

  “It’s a big step.”

  “I know.”

  They exchanged an awkward glance.

  “The doctor will be in momentarily.”

  “Thank you, nurse.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she smiled warmly then walked out and closed the door behind her.

  As they whizzed him into O.R., Enrico wished Joey was there to hold his hand. But Joey was becoming a big star. His bit role in Marty’s movie had gotten the town, as Hollywood insiders called it, buzzing. So Joey was off negotiating another film.

  “Count back from ten,” the doctor told him.

  “When I wake up, I’ll be who he wants me to be,” his heart told him, but his head was saying something different.

  “10, 9, 8, 7…”

  Meanwhile, Joey was in New York, doing what he did best: living the Diamond life. His role in the movie may have been small, but since he was already larger than life, the perception was only magnified. Everybody wanted to take a picture with him, be seen with him, and party with him. But everywhere he went, he kept Te Amo with him.