The old expression “he slept like the dead,” wouldn’t have been far off. I was so beat from the last couple of days with the cops and Danny’s murder that it took a loud banging at my office door to wake me back to life. That old door, like me, had too many nicks and cracks to take much more of that kind of abuse and would be torn right off its hinges in no time.
“Okay, Okay!” I think I said out loud, but that was up for grabs as well. I finally got up, groggy, and looked through the peep-hole.
All I saw was a purple button. I shook my head and peaked through again. Same button.
I opened the door and indeed it was the button that was in the middle a really ugly shirt belonging to an even uglier mug, someone who probably passed six feet tall by the time he was twelve. I looked up, and then up some more. His face finally came into view; the button had been a much more pleasant sight.
“Can I help you?”
I thought a little humor would be appropriate at the moment.
“You Johnny Stone?”
I kept the banter going.
“None other,” I said, giving him my fifty dollar smile. The big guy just looked at me funny,
“Mr. G wants to see you.”
I really hated when people (mostly tough guys with bad suits) referred to other people’s names using the first letter of the last name. But I get it. Sounds tough. Goes well with the ugly mug and cheap buttons.
Of course, I knew who “Mr. G” was. His full name was Victor Gaglioni. Gaglioni been involved in the ILA for years but a forgery rap put him out of the picture for a while. But he’d managed to keep his hands in the business even behind bars. He’d been around a long time; he knew my old man, they weren’t friends, but some kind of old-world cousin, brother, priest mystery somehow kept my dad from becoming dead before his time. I never asked him about it; and I always asked my old man everything. But somehow, I knew to keep my mouth shut. Victor also knew Danny Alonzo. These days he owned a joint called The Blossom Club. I had met him only once at the first place he managed called The Starlight Lounge. I didn’t like him then and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like him now.
“Okay, let me throw some water on my face and get out of my pajamas,” I said to my new friend.
“Make it quick,” was his answer. He pulled out one of the two chairs in front of my desk and sat down, it just about held his weight. If the guy’s pockets had been full of change, it may not have gone so well. It didn’t really matter because I grabbed the other chair and broke it over the guy’s head. He went down like a ton of bricks.
I was pissed and I was tired of being pushed around. I checked his pulse; still going.
Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved and dressed, I woke King Kong up. He looked around, shook his head, growled or something close to a growl, and looked at me as if I was going to be his breakfast. Then he saw his pistol in my hand.
“Look,” I said, “In the last day or so I’ve seen a murder, got pushed around by the cops and lost my girlfriend. It’s nothing personal pal, but I needed to shave and shower before my little meet with your boss. I do hope you understand, but I’m just gonna keep this shooter as insurance against you’re trying to cripple me.”
“Why you…” he got up, I pointed the gun at his belly, he moved back.
“You got a car?” I asked.
He nodded.
“So, let’s just take a slow walk down the stairs and you can drive me to your master,” I said.
I guess even apes have some common sense and he did was he was told. Suffice to say there wasn’t any light banter during our trip uptown. When I walked in behind my new friend, Mr. G, who had been talking with his head waiter, Albert, turned his attention to Kong and said, “What took you so long?” The ape moved to his right to reveal the answer; me.
Victor Gaglioni was in his mid-forties. Even though it was early afternoon he was dressed in evening clothes. While many of his mob buddies battled the bulge from all the pasta and fried calamari they could consume in one sitting, Gaglioni was thin, well-tanned, with just a little grey in his combed back hair. He looked like an Arrow shirt model except for a red scar that started at his right eyebrow and ended mid cheek, but rather than ruining his face it made him look like a pirate in modern clothes. He let out a laugh. I wondered to myself why these mob guys always laughed when they should be embarrassed or pissed.
“Marvin, go check on tonight’s inventory.”
Kong’s real name was Marvin, now that’s funny, I thought to myself.
Marvin did what he was told, but not before turning his neck toward me, (his body didn’t move) and grunting which I took to mean ‘if I ever get you alone, you’re dead.’
Victor Gaglioni then turned his attention back to me, specifically the 45 colt I was holding. He raised both hands.
“I give up,” he said with a smile.
Then he said, “What are ya drinkin?”
I put the gun in my pocket.
“Nothing for me,” I said, “You wanted to see me, so I’m here.”
He walked to the table closest to the two of us.
“Johnny, relax. I apologize for Marvin. Sometimes he’s a little rough around the edges. I told him to invite you to meet me.”
“I guess he didn’t get the memo,” I said, “or maybe it’s because he can’t read.”
He made that laugh again. “You’re funny, Johnny. You see the humor in the human condition,” he gestured around the club with his perfectly manicured hand, “some of my clients, and I have to admit, my colleagues, never seem to see the humor in things. I think that’s too bad. Always serious, always working at something. Don’t you agree? Life’s too short not to enjoy our bounty. Now, paesano, have a seat and let’s talk,” he turned back to Albert and said, “two rye whiskies, couple of ice cubes.” He pivoted toward me in almost a whisper, “You speak Italian Johnny?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in closer and said in Italian “I know your father, did you know that, Johnny? He’s one of the good ones.” Then he went back to English, “How’s he doing?”
“He’s doing okay.”
“Good!” He clapped his hands together, “Good!” He said again.
“Could we get to the point Victor? I’ve got a plant I need to water,” I said.
The thin well-dressed man, pointed his perfectly manicured finger at me.
“What’d I say, you’re funny, very funny,” he said, looking around as if he had an audience, his perfect finger still pointing at me, steady as a rock, “maybe a little too funny, eh?”
I thought it was time to play tough guy, I’ve been practicing in the mirror so it was about time I tested it out.
“Okay, Vic. I’m funny. Now what the fuck do you want?”
Victor’s smile took a powder and was replaced by a look that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
He looked me and leaned so close I felt his breath, which was not his finest attribute.
“What I want, Stone, is for you to keep the fuck out of things that you have no business poking around in. What I want, Stone, is for you to stop playing the war hero and get back to snapping pictures in lousy motels for some schmuck from Bensonhurst who thinks his mangey salary is enough to keep his little woman at home and get a little more on the side. Back to your sleazy world, war hero.”
“Who killed Vincent Santelli?” I asked.
“I’ve no idea,” said Victor.
“Who shot Danny Alonzo?”
Vincent nodded his head back and forth, very slowly.
“I think you got a cop on the payroll of at the 25th, am I right?” I asked.
The well-dressed man got up.
“You’re a stupid young man. A stupid young man,” Victor said, as the waiter brought the drinks to the table. He picked up his rye and took a long pull. As he placed it down, he looked in my direction and with a slight nod from Victor, my head suddenly connected with something very hard, and my world went dark.
I must have been out all night, because the sun was just above the horizon, which I could barely see as I was laying on top of a mountain of garbage in a very large dumpster. I shook my head trying to clear it as I picked the lettuce out of my hair, and stumbled on to the pavement. I did the best to wipe myself off. Then I noticed Marvin leaning against the wall on the other side of the alley.
“Mr.G says to mind your own business.”
“Or else?” I suggested.
“Mr.G says to mind your own business,” the big man repeated.
Then he turned and went inside the club. While I was thankful that the Marvin hadn’t beaten the living shit out of me, I was pretty unhappy about the recent events. I hobbled out of the alley and took the Lexington Ave subway to Brooklyn. I must have smelled pretty rank because I cleared out my subway car in about ten seconds. Meanwhile, I had one hell of a headache, plus the bump to prove it, and maybe even a little blood. But while the #4 train was squeaking happily down the track, making all the right stops along the way, I was going nowhere fast, and I pretty sure I wasn’t even on the right train line. I was definitely the worse for wear. Something had to change. And then, like that, the preverbal light snapped on. And I didn’t even have to change trains. Sure, the #4 was on its way to Brooklyn, this time, without me. I got out of the subway while still in Manhattan. One block from the Evening Sun building in fact. Then the earth shook below me, with a crack from the corner newsie.
“Evening Sun reporter found dead in his apartment! Hot off the presses! Freddie Jackson murdered!”
I threw some money at the kid and grabbed a paper.
“Freddie Jackson, star reporter for the Evening Sun was found shot to death in his apartment around 10pm after a neighbor thought he’d heard gunshots and called the police…
Suddenly my vision became blurry and things started to weave around me. I tried to steady myself; I felt like I was going to pass out, which is exactly what happened. When I came out of it, I was lying on a couch in Ted Tobias’s, the Sun’s editor’s office. Ted and his secretary Meryl were standing over me.
“What happened?” I asked.
I could see the relief on both their faces.
“Lucky Jones was leaving the building when he saw you slumped on the curb,” Ted explained, “he thought the best thing was to bring you up here. You were still half awake and muttering something about Freddie’s murder,” he poured some water into a glass and handed it to me, “drink this.” I took the glass, drank half.
“Now add some whisky please and tell me about Freddie,” I was fast coming back to life.
He took the glass, opened the drawer he kept a bottle in and poured me a shot. I drank it down.
Finally in focus I looked at Ted and saw how drawn and pasty he looked. I was sure he hadn’t slept last night. He poured himself a shot.
“I can’t tell you much, Johnny. We got the news from the police radio. We had a reporter on the scene about a minute after the cops got there. Farentino kept him out so when I got the call I went right over to Freddie’s apartment. They’d gotten the murder photos already so he let me in. Farentino looked tired and pissed off.”
“Farentino always looks tired and pissed off,” I said.
“This was different, Johnny,” Ted poured himself another shot, “We’re in a dangerous business, but getting killed over a story is pretty rare.”
“So, you think Freddie was killed because of the series he’s, he was, working on?”
“No doubt, and I’m pretty sure Farentino figured it the same way,” he looked at me, “You feeling okay now, Johnny? You look like shit.”
I ran my fingers through my very greasy hair,
“Victor Gaglioni happened,” I said.
Ted winced, “Jesus Johnny,” he said, “You need to go home take a shower, burn those clothes and sleep for a couple of days.”
“I need Freddie’s notes, Ted.”
“What?”
“I need Freddie’s notes. He was with me at the St. George, we were working on this together. I need to know what he knew,” I said, “Freddie let me in on what he was doing, and I think he felt he was getting close to something.” Ted looked surprised.
“He never said that to me.”
I caught a look at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the office; I groaned.
“He never said that to me, either. Freddie played things close to the vest,” I said, “You knew that.” Ted nodded, there was real sadness in his eyes.
“Yeah, and it caused me agita. But I don’t know if I can give you his notes, I mean you’re not even a real cop.”
“I’m starting to think that’s the best thing I got going for me right now,” I said, “Something really bad is going down,” I said, “I don’t know who’s involved, or if it means more bloodshed, or if there’s just a rearrangement at the top. But three people are dead and people are starting to lose their voices real quick. It’s the three-monkey routine, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. I knew Freddie for a long time, and Vincent was my best friend. I’m not gonna quit until I find out just what the hell is going on,” I said.
Ted stared at me again, then opened the top draw of his desk and pulled out a stack of paper wrapped in string.
“Okay Johnny,” he said. He tossed the stack on the desk, “you go ahead,” but if you’re on to something, I want to know about it, before you get yourself killed, not after.”
He pressed the intercom, “Meryl, get Lucky to help Johnny get himself into a taxi,” he looked at me, “you got any dough?” Good question, I thought, then pulled out a double sawbuck and some singles, “Yup,” I answered. Then he backed up a couple of feet, pointed to the stack.
“Now take this and get the hell outta here,” he wrinkled his nose, “You smell like a garbage dump!”
