The Purple Don

by Solomon

“Okay, go.”

  Mike left. The Russians tied the four men to chairs. One handed Joey a .45. He walked up to the first man who was Italian. He shot him in the kneecap without warning. The man bellowed in pain.

  “You guys recognize me, huh? I’m the guy you tried to kill, but you obviously missed as you can see. I wasn’t killed. Now…who ordered the hit?”

  No one said a word. They all stared ahead, all resigned to die. Joey shot the same guy in the other kneecap. He bellowed like a beached whale, but didn’t say a word. Joey put the gun in his mouth and hissed in his face, “You fuckin’ piece of shit, who ordered the goddamn hit?”

  Joey looked in the guy’s eyes and could see absolutely no fear. He slowly extracted the gun from his mouth then blew his brains all over the Italian next to him. Joey stepped back and eyed the three remaining men. His eyes stopped on the other Italian.

  “Was that your brother? Because you guys look alike. But I’m sure you don’t want to look like him now, do you Guido?” Joey taunted, but despite the man’s obvious fear, he kept his mouth closed.

  “You had a little accident, huh?” Joey remarked, referring to the urine running down the man’s leg, forming a puddle at the bottom of the leg of the chair.

  Joey’s crew laughed.

  “Your brother, now he was a tough son of a bitch,” Joey snickered, referring to the dead man. “Even after I blew off both kneecaps, he still kept his mouth shut. What a waste. I would’ve loved to have him in my crew. Oh well.”

  Joey stepped closer to the dude.

  “Hey, you got brains on your face,” Joey remarked, using the dude’s shirt to smear it even more, as he put the gun between his eyes.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t look so tough no more. I can imagine what’s going through your mind right now. Probably, ‘I fucked up’ has crossed your mind,” Joey chuckled. “Now I’ll ask you like I asked your fuckin’ brother down there: you cock suckers tried to kill me. I wanna know who ordered the hit?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” the dude hissed.

  Joey laughed.

  “You Goombahs outta Cleveland got balls, I’ll give you that. So let’s see what happens here,” Joey said, then pointed the gun at the guy’s testicles and blew them off.

  The guy bellowed and slumped in the chair. Joey grabbed a handful of his hair then began to savagely pistol whip the man’s face. When he finished, the gun and Joey’s hand were covered with blood. He wiped it on the guy’s shirt.

  “Who…ordered…the…fucking…hit?” Joey barked in the guy’s face.

  The guy just glared at him through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “Fuck you.”

  Joey raised the gun and blew the guys brains out. His lifeless body slumped and twitched in the chair. When Joey pointed the gun on the third man, he wasted no time in blurting out, “Frankie Shots, it was Frankie Shots that gave us the hit!”

  Just hearing the name made Joey’s blood boil. He had figured as much, but hearing it made it worse.

  “Smart guy,” Joey remarked, referring to the third guy. In return, he made his death quick by putting two in his head at point blank. The fourth guy, Jimmy Callahan started laughing. Joey aimed his gun at him.

  “I never thought I’d see somebody die laughing,” Joey cracked, with a straight face.

  “You dumb Italian fuck,” the man roared with a pronounced Irish accent. “You can’t see the forest for the trees! You think that was a hit?” Jimmy guffawed. “You don’t know jack!”

  “So introduce me,” Joey shot back.

  Jimmy spat at Joey, the spit landing near his shoes.

  “Go fuck your mother!”

  “So be it,” Joey replied then pumped three slugs into Jimmy’s face, the force of which blew him and his chair backwards.

  Joey looked at the dead men with disgust. He hadn’t broken them, so all he had gotten was revenge.

  “Burn it to the ground,” Joey growled, heading for the door.

  “You look like Te Amo.”

  Those were the first words Joey spoke when he first laid eyes on Enrico after the operation, but that wasn’t what Enrico heard. What he heard was, “You’re a fake, you’re a fraud, you’re not Te Amo, nor could you ever be!”

  It was said with the intent of ridicule, as if to humiliate and add insult to injury; it was said in front of Te Amo. The irony was that Enrico hadn’t wanted to look like Te Amo; he simply wanted Joey to see him like Te Amo. He had achieved the form without the substance.

  The three of them stood in the living room of Joey’s West Coast mansion, three points in a strange triangle. Te Amo could see the pain in Enrico’s eyes, and her heart wept for Enrico. She knew Joey was being intentionally cruel.

  “No. No, not at all, Enrico. I think you look beautiful Enrico…or should I call you something else?” she ventured timidly.

  “Call ‘em Two Amo. Get it, Two…Amo?” Joey snickered, adding, “I mean, what is this all about?”

  “What do you mean, Joey? We talked about this,” Enrico replied, fists clenched, as if that would assist him in holding back the tears.

  “I’m going to go,” Te Amo announced, turning for the door.

  Joey protested, “Go for what? What’s the problem?”

  Te Amo looked at him, shook her head, and walked out.

  Joey shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

  Joey loosened his tie and sat down on the couch.

  “Enrico, Enrica, whateva, get me a drink.”

  Enrico glared at him then fixed him a drink. He came back and handed it to Joey.

  “Now…can we talk?” Enrico questioned intently.

  Joey looked at him. He had his haircut asymmetrically to highlight his newly acquired femininity. His chest swelled with estrogen and his hips curved with shapeliness. He looked every bit a woman, but he was simply a figment of Joey’s imagination.

  “Whaddya want me to say?” Joey asked. “Congratulations, you’re a broad.”

  Enrico smirked with an expression behind which he hid to stifle the pain.

  “I should’ve known you would do this. Why do you do it? Why do you play games with people’s lives like this?”

  “What makes you think it’s a game?” Joey shot back.

  “Because you don’t take anyone seriously enough to acknowledge that they have the right to exist independent of you,” Enrico accused.

  Joey smiled but his eyes stayed cold.

  “Don’t ever think you can figure me out, Enrica,” Joey said, emphasizing the changed ending of the name with a mocking tone. “…because you’ll fail.”

  Joey got up and started to walk away.

  “It’s not my fault that your father won’t accept you for who you are, Joey,” Enrico blurted out, no longer able to hold back the tears.

  Joey stopped and turned around.

  “What’d you say,” he hissed in a dangerously calm tone.

  “Because he won’t accept you for who you are, you want to turn me into someone else so you can reject me too!” he cried.

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Joey barked.

  “No! I won’t! I won’t let you make me into you! That’s where I draw the line! Haven’t I stood by you? I busted my ass to help you build this empire so I’ve earned my rights, Joey! I’ve earned them!” Enrico cried.

  “Right to what?” Joey growled.

  “Your love,” he sobbed. “Is that too much to ask? You broke me, Joey. You win. I’m not fighting it anymore, so why are you fighting me?”

  Despite his rage, Enrico had found refuge in the only emotion Joey reserved for the broken: pity. So when Joey reached to caress his face, what Enrico took as tenderness was really the condescension emanating from Joey’s god-complex. He thought Joey wanted to break him; the truth was much more evil than that.

  Enrico kissed the palm of Joey’s hand and then his wrist, then he seized his mouth with his own with a passion that had him peeling away Joey’s clothes as he fell to his knees to worship at the fleshly temple.
Joey watched this tempest, allowing himself to be ravaged. Enrico took Joey’s swollen manhood into his mouth and began to feast with tongue and lips with feverish abandonment.

  Joey pulled Enrico to his feet, opening his mouth and placing his mouth on his developing breast. Enrico gasped deep in his throat as Joey undressed him then laid his back on the floor. Enrico wrapped his legs around Joey’s back, as Joey slid his dick deep inside him and began to stroke him slowly while running his tongue over his nipples.

  “Oh my God, Joey, I love you so much…so much,” Enrico cried, the long, slow strokes sending vibrations through his whole body.

  For the first time, instead of simply fucking him, Joey made love to Enrico. Out of pity, he felt Enrico deserved a little heaven, because he was headed for a whole lot of hell.

  Present Day, August 1997

  The bad blood between the NYPD and the FBI is legendary. When you add the external tension between the New York District Attorney’s office and the Justice Department—the layers of bureaucracy, backbiting, and jealousy—it’s a wonder how cooperation ever occurs. But to do so, you have to do what Detectives Salley and Pirelli did: you have to cut across enemy lines and go straight to the boss. The head honcho. The U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. Even though there is a Southern District and an Eastern District, the Southern District covers Manhattan. Geographically, it receives the more high-profile cases, ergo the accolades, political appointments, and the all-around spotlight. So, coming to the U.S. Attorney (Southern) made the most sense. Besides, this U.S. Attorney was formerly an Assistant D.A. in Manhattan under Robert Morgenthau, the legendary New York District Attorney for what seemed like a millennium, so they were familiar with him.

  His name was Steven Rein, but everyone called him the Prosecutor. He was tough and unbending; some would even say unscrupulous. But he almost always got his man, with a conviction rate nearing 100%. No other name was needed, although his appearance belied his reputation. He was balding and bespectacled. He spoke with a slight lisp. But for any lawyer and/or defendant to underestimate him was a veritable death sentence. Sometimes literally.

  The detectives were ushered into the Prosecutor’s office. It was an impressive ensemble of mahogany and gilded decor. It reminded them of the New York Public Library. The Prosecutor sat behind a large mahogany desk. The office seemed to swallow him, as the Prosecutor sat somewhere in the back of its throat. But they weren’t fooled by appearance; they knew that this was Oz and the Prosecutor was the Wizard.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How are you?” the Prosecutor greeted, as he rose and shook their hands.

  “Fine, sir, fine. I’m Detective Salley, NYPD,” Salley said.

  “Detective Pirelli,” the other introduced himself.

  “Pirelli? You worked the double homicide of those two models in ‘87, right?” the Prosecutor recalled.

  Pirelli smiled, happy to be remembered.

  “Right.”

  “Helluva job,” the Prosecutor complimented, as they all sat down. “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We’ve got an offer you can’t refuse,” Pirelli joked, doing a bad Brando impression.

  The Prosecutor chuckled politely.

  “My favorite kind.”

  “Ever heard of Mike Rizzo?” Salley asked.

  “Not offhand.”

  “He’s a Gambino Capo. We got ‘em six ways to Sunday, so we can easily wrap a bow around him and deliver him,” Salley offered.

  “If?” the Prosecutor quipped.

  “If he can get witness protection,” Salley answered.

  “What can he give us? Gotti?”

  “We’re still working our way up the wiretaps. As of now, he can tie the Gambinos and the Russian Mafia to an ecstasy ring comin’ out of Israel. Really big,” Salley explained.

  The Prosecutor nodded, contemplating. He knew the FBI was working an angle in the ecstasy craze. There were a lot of missing links, so if this Rizzo could plug the holes…

  “So, what’s the catch?” the Prosecutor probed, knowing the horse trade process like the back of his hand. “Why me? Why didn’t you take it to the State Task Force?”

  Pirelli shook his head.

  “Because they’re a bunch of buffoons, the whole operation has been compromised. Besides, you’re the best and most of this shit falls under your jurisdiction.”

  “And?” the Prosecutor smirked.

  The two Detectives looked at each other. Salley nodded subtly, a gesture that the Prosecutor didn’t miss.

  “And…maybe soon, we’ll be looking to move up in the world, and we know, a word from you over at Justice wouldn’t hurt,” Pirelli admitted.

  The Prosecutor chuckled.

  “A man once said, ‘never trust a guy unless he’s got a horse in the race.’ Listen Detectives, I’d like to talk to Rizzo. If I can pick his brain, if he’s the little train that could, then we’ve got a deal.”

  The three men stood up and shook hands.

  “We can set it up for tomorrow morning,” Salley suggested.

  “Sounds great,” the Prosecutor replied, and just like that began the journey to the biggest showdown of his career.

  April 1991

  He named her “Giuseppe” after his favorite Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, and whenever he took her out, he had Giuseppe’s chef flown out to the Coast to cook his favorite dishes.

  The Giuseppe was a 120-foot yacht that cost Joey a mint. It was a major expense, but it was actually Marty who was footing the bill because it was in the name of his production company. Marty had recently been named head of Climactic Pictures, and with his promotion came more power in Hollywood for Joey. It was no secret that Joey was the real power behind the throne.

  Joey had taken the Giuseppe out with Marty, Enrico, and Andrew Wynn aboard. Joey helped the Sherman Brothers make a lot of money and therefore helped make Andrew more powerful at the firm. So despite the nature of their initial meeting, the next several had been pleasant enough.

  “See, the secret to great spaghetti,” Joey began, leaning around the table to fill everyone’s glass with red wine, “Is not the sauce… No. It’s letting the starch from the pasta enrich the sauce and the sauce soak into the pasta, you see? This is why I love spaghetti with just butter and Parmesan; it’s clean, it’s honest, eh? Everybody thinks it’s the sauce, right? But the sauce is like a beautiful, red dress on a broad. You take it off and whaddya have? Fuckin’ clumps and rolls all over the place. You’re askin’ her, ‘how the fuck did you get all that in the dress?’ Fuckin’ disgusting. I like ‘em nude so you know what you’re gettin’ into.”

  “I happen to like red dresses,” Marty smirked, taking a bite of his linguini in clam sauce, “as long as it matches my heels.”

  They all laughed.

  “And you look good too, huh? Salud!” Joey toasted and drank his wine.

  “So Andrew, now that I’m running the show over at Climactic, what can I expect from Sherman Brothers?” Marty probed.

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t finance a full slate,” Andrew replied cheerfully, cutting his eye at Enrico, something he had been doing all day.

  “I’m going to hold you to this,” Marty warned him playfully.

  “Hey, you keep churning out those numbers you have had the last few quarters, and a full slate is a worthy investment.”

  “And speaking of worthy investments,” Joey remarked, as the waiter came and cleared away the dishes and as he handed out cigars. Everyone took one except Enrico. “Whatsa matter, you watching your weight or something?” Joey quipped, eyeing Enrico.

  “No, I just rather not,” Enrico replied.

  Joey shrugged.

  “Suit yourself. These are ‘imported’ from Cuba. Illegal in America and they say that crime don’t pay,” Joey smirked.

  They laughed and lit up.

  “Smooth…but a slightly peppery something,” Marty remarked.

  “You gotta get me some of these, Joey,�
� Andrew requested.

  “Not a problem, Andy. Remind me.”

  “I will.”

  “Hey, Andy.”

  Andrew looked up.

  “You know, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been checking out Enrico. I mean it’s been happening all night, so I couldn’t help but notice.”

  A lump formed in Andrew’s throat.

  “Oh, hey Joey, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Of course you did, but it’s not a problem; she’s fuckin’ beautiful,” Joey said, looking at Enrico then ran the back of his hand, lovingly over Enrico’s cheek.

  “No really, Joey I don’t…go that way. No offense,” Andrew assured him.

  “You sure?” Joey smirked. “You coulda fooled me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Marty looked at Joey and saw the glint in his eye. He knew he was about to be devilish.

  “You know Andy, I’ve never been in Missouri, but in many ways, I’m a Missourian,” Joey told him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Show me,” Joey retorted, then turned to Enrico and said, “Baby…take off your clothes.”

  Enrico slowly rose and, without hesitation began to remove his top and khakis.

  Marty looked in Enrico’s eyes and could see, even though he didn’t hesitate in complying with Joey’s command, that his eyes were full of trepidation.

  “Joey, you don’t have to do this,” Marty said.

  “And you shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Joey told Marty suavely, but the ice in his tone totally froze any response Marty could have made.

  Joey looked at Andy, who seemed to squirm under Joey’s direct gaze.

  “You say ‘absolutely’, but if all your spaghetti’s been cooked in sauce, then how would you know?”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “Joey, this really isn’t necessary.”

  Enrico stood beside Joey’s chair, stark naked. His breasts, perky and firm, his hips those of an alabaster Venus in Venice.

  “Look at her, Andy…ain’t she beautiful? My creation. I’m like Michelangelo, only I used human flesh, huh.” Joey chuckled.