American Gangster (41 page)

“I'm thinking about the future, the next generations,” Jason says from his un-air-conditioned prison dorm. “I think I have a chance to do something good before I die. Who knows, the answer to the question ‘Who is John Galt?' could be ‘Jason.'”

As for Natalia, she is “keeping a low profile.” Last week, she went to see Jason again. Thankfully he didn't talk too much about getting married inside the prison. Mostly they talked about the strange times they'd been through and how, even if it turned out the way it did, somehow it was worth it.

“I was a young actress who came to New York like a lot of young actresses, and I wound up with the role of a lifetime. I was the Perfect 10. I totally was. It wasn't the rabbit hole I expected to tumble down, but Jason and I … we were happy … for a time, really happy.”

Since she received hardly any of her booking money and is pretty broke these days, people ask Natalia if she's planning on coming back to “work.” The other night, a well-known provider, who said she used to hate Natalia when she was getting those 10/10s, offered to “pimp her out.”

“That would be a feather in my cap,” said the escort. “To be the one who brought back the famous Natalia.”

“No, thanks,” said Natalia, which is what she tells her old clients who call from time to time. “I say I'm retired, in repose. They say, ‘Come on, let me buy you a drink. I'll be good.' I tell them, ‘Look, we had fun and I love you. But that is over.' Mostly, they understand. Some are willing to stay friends, some can't wait to get off the phone. They've got other numbers in their book.”

That doesn't mean a girl has to stay home at night. New York, after all, is a big place, full of opportunity. In a way, things have gone back to the way they were before she met Jason. “Wiser, but not necessarily sadder,” Natalia says. Tonight she's going downtown. It is always good to look good, so Natalia goes through what was a familiar ritual back in the days when she was the Perfect 10—getting her nails done at the Koreans' on Twenty-ninth Street, combing out her wavy hair. For old times' sake, she's got on what she used to call her “money dress,” a short satin pink number with gray jersey inserts, with the shoes to match. About ten, she's ready. She goes out into the street, lifts her arm, gets into a cab, and disappears into the night.

I like to keep up with people I write about, the ones that are still talking to me. That's most of them, because truth be told, I try to find the good in my subjects, no matter how difficult that may be to locate. As for the bad stuff, that will ooze out on its own. This said, I regret to report that George Schultz, and, alas, my mother, have passed away in recent years. Marta Bravo's cigar storefront has closed. Ditto Mustafa Hamsho's deli. Dover garage is long gone. Father Sudac has returned to Croatia. Nicky Louie apparently lives on, last seen in Toronto. Patty Huston was never, ever apprehended. Natalia, the Perfect 10, spent a month on Riker's Island and is now back in her Montreal hometown. Jason Itzler remains in jail, currently in the state of New Jersey, which did not appreciate him running a whorehouse while on parole. But that's how it is in the Big City: here today, gone tomorrow. You should see the corner of Fourteenth Street and Third Avenue now; the whole block is NYU dormitories.

As for Frank Lucas, he called me just the other day. Now seventy-seven years old, more or less permanently in a wheelchair, but still sounding like Satan, Frank wanted to complain that the
American Gangster
movie people were running him ragged, dragging him around for “some publicity shit.” He had to talk to some radio people and some “other motherfuckers from the TV.” The whole thing had him pooped out, Frank whined, adding that if this is what it took to make him big again, maybe it wasn't going to be worth it. What he wanted—because Frank Lucas is not the sort of guy who
calls you just to say hello—was that I should come with him on his next PR junket.

“You should come with me. Give me someone to talk to,” Frank said. It would be like old times, when I used to drive over to Newark three times a week to write down the old gangster's life story. It was the least I could do, Frank said. “Because it was you that got me into this shit to begin with.”

I could have argued that point, but what would have been the use? So I said, sure. If Lucas wanted someone to talk to, I could listen. I told him to call me anytime. He had my number.