Chopper Unchopped (178 page)

IT was 1997 and Joey’s second trip to America in the same year. Uncle Hector had a bee in his bonnet again. It was not Joey’s idea of a good time. Nor his bride’s, come to that. Although Tina never mentioned the word “mafia” she did ask “Was Viko Radavic in the bricklaying business as well, Joey?”

It was a fair question. Poor Tina had witnessed three serious acts of violence since knowing Joey and these flights overseas, on which she wasn’t invited, placed a strain on a marriage that Joey held dear.

Tina had other disappointments. She had to admit, for instance, that possibly Cassie Connor may no longer be the dear friend she thought she once was. Cassie had said she was ringing from a mobile phone in Footscray, but she had in fact made the date to meet at the Bagdad Hotel in Abbotsford from the Men’s Gallery Club in Hobart. The whole thing was a Micky Kelly set up with the Albanians to get poor Viko as a payback for Fracoz. The last time Joey had been to New York, it was as a personal favour for Peppie Pisciotta, Gotti’s underboss. Pisciotta was a member of the Aspanu clan, even though he was a made guy in Gotti’s family, the old Gambino family. Joey was to be met at Kennedy Airport by his dickhead cousin Fat Sally Gigante. Joey was all airported out, as he seemed to spend half his life in them, and they all started seeming the same …

The guy in the seat in front of him was trying to run his hand up the legs of a fantastic-looking red haired hostess, and she was trying to be polite. Joey, being the right-thinking married man he now was, got out of his seat and reached around and gave the yuppie with the wandering hands a sharp back hander. “Behave yourself, ya bum.”

The posh passenger altered his Mardi Gras attitude and got solemn, sorry and serious in a second flat. Joey got back in his seat. The smile of gratitude the hostess beamed at Joey was pure champagne, but Joey only wanted to have a nap, not a chat. He put on his headphones, flicked the little switch to country music and went to sleep. He reminded himself Uncle Hector would ring him in that restaurant in Times Square. What was it called? He had to kill someone. Uncle Hector would tell him who.

NEW York was a toilet bowl as far as Joey was concerned. He was collected at the airport by some mob guy named Charlie Fontana, who couldn’t speak a word of understandable Italian, nor English for that matter. He was a comic-book gangster clown, wearing dark glasses and a fucking tuxedo and, believe it or not, a Fedora hat. Joey felt quite embarrassed to even be seen walking with him.

Fontana took Joey to a 1984 black Cadillac Deville. Joey had a reservation at the Waldorf Astoria, but his dickhead cousin had cancelled it and booked Joey a room in some shithole motel in the Bronx.

“Well, you can bash that up ya bum for a start,” said Joey. “Take me to the Waldorf.”

“But Sally said he …” Fontana protested before Joey backhanded him across the mouth. Jetlag had not improved his mood.

“Take me to the fucking Waldorf and tell that son of a bitch I’ll meet him in Times Square. Get him to ring me at the Waldorf. No-one stays at the Bronx. You bury dead dogs in the Bronx — you don’t stay overnight there. This is a fucking insult and you can tell Sally I said so. Okay, shithead?”

“Yes, Mr Gravano,” said Charlie.

“And take that stupid fucking hat off, you imbecile. You look like Al Capone’s brother-in-law. Jesus Christ, no wonder the Colombians fucked you all up the arse. You’re all too busy doing Humphrey Bogart impersonations.”

Joey liked to stay at the Waldorf. It had history. The Gallo brothers shot Albert Anastasia in the barber shop of the Waldorf. His Uncle Hector used to get Jayne Mansfield to kiss the rabbit at the Waldorf. They made a good salad too. All the old mob guys stayed at the Waldorf. The place was a monument to mob history. And the Bronx sucked.

His cousin was a fucking idiot and as for stupid Charlie with the funny hat, the fool had spent the drive from the airport to the hotel telling Joey about some insane hijacking of a truckload of fucking Calvin Klein underwear from the airport, and the truck load of underwear got hijacked off them by Johnny Spatolla and his crew and got sold to the Hudson county crew in New Jersey. There was gonna be a sit-down over this, as Johnny Spatolla and his crew had fucked up … and, by the way, did Joey want a girl?

Charlie had the number of a mob-run escort service that hired off-duty international air hostesses only, real top shelf. Joey took the number and promised to tell the lady on the phone he was a friend of Charlie Batts. Evidently the idiot driver was also a part-time pimp.

New York, thought Joey, as he checked-in to the Waldorf and went up to his room. They all watch too much television. The whole town was a Disneyland for wannabe gangsters. He expected Quentin Tarantino to jump out at any moment and yell “Cut! Can we try that again, but this time with feeling?” New York was a city where life desperately imitated art, and the art wasn’t much in the first place. There was something surreal about the place.

Joey looked at the name and phone number Charlie the driver had given him. Decided to shower and sleep first, then ring it. His fool of a cousin could wait. “This is the fucking twilight zone,” he thought. “This is Gotham City.” He headed for the bathroom with the Waldorf’s complimentary bottle of Suntory Whisky. He’d flown all the way to America to get a free bottle of Japanese whisky, he thought to himself.

Joey showered and with the help of his complimentary bottle of Suntory he slept solidly and awoke at approximately 9 o’clock that night. He decided to ring his uncle in Palermo to find out what he was meant to be doing in New York, and who to. For a highly organised criminal network things could be quite disorganised at times. After being told off by his uncle, and shocked at the coded instructions given, he received a phone call from Fat Sally and arranged to meet him at the Gotham Health Club, New Jersey.

He hung up only to be rung back by Fat Sally to say that he had to attend some family trouble in Monro Street, Hoboken, and later a sit-down at the Park Avenue Athletic Club, again in New Jersey. But he would be at the Little Sicily Club in Knickerbocker Avenue in Brooklyn by 1pm, and would Joey like to meet him there? Joey smelt a rat and, considering Uncle Hector’s phone call, said no. Sally then said he had other stop-offs where he could meet Joey. Jackson Street, Hoboken? The Crystal Ballroom, Hoboken? Joey didn’t like all these come over to Jersey hints. Not at all.

“Look,” said Joey, “I thought we was gonna meet in Times Square at the Times Square Brewery Restaurant. What’s with all this come to Jersey, the Bronx and Brooklyn bullshit?”

Then Sally broke down.

“What’s going on, Joey?” he whimpered. “What have I done to upset Don Hector? Please, Joey.”

Joey knew Sally was a little bit paranoid.

“Look, Sal” said Joey, “in this world there are two kinds of ants — soldier ants and piss ants — and you’re a fucking piss ant. In other words, don’t get paranoid, because in the end, Sal, ya just not that fucking important. Okay, cousin?”

Sally was offended but, strangely enough, the insult put him at ease.

“Relaxio,” said Joey. “Ya got nothing to worry about.”

“Okay,” said Sally. “Thanks, Joey.”

“Times Square tomorrow. Okay, buddy?” said Joey.

“Okay,” said Sally. “See ya.”

Joey hung up. Poor Sally, he thought. I’m no fucking rocket scientist but, compared to Sally, I’m a fucking genius. He made two more phone calls, one to a gunsmith named Bruno Brunelleschi, who ran a Mexican restaurant on Eighth Avenue, not all that far from Madison Square Garden. He would deliver the correct firearm, a nice clean throwaway.

The second call was to the number Charlie had given him. After explaining that he was a friend of Charlie Batts he was shocked when the woman on the other end of the phone cooed, “Oh, certainly, Mr Gravano. We have been expecting your call. We have a lovely lady, an English girl named Donna. She will be in a cab and at the Waldorf in fifteen minutes. Oh, and by the way, Mr Gravano, there will be no charge. Donna is available for however long you like. Mr Batts will take care of the expense. I do hope you enjoy your stay in New York.”

Well, thought Joey, the funny-hat gangster did something right. Joey then ordered up a little room service.

“Hello, do you have any non-Japanese whisky available? Yeah, good. Well, send up a bottle of French champagne and Irish whiskey — that’s one of each,” said Joey. You had to explain things slowly to Americans in case they sent up a bottle of champagne and whiskey mixed together in the same bottle. Five minutes later room service arrived with a magnum bottle of ‘French’ champagne, but a quick glance at the fine print revealed it a product of Israel. The large bottle of Irish whiskey was a product of Mexico.

Fifteen minutes after the booze was delivered there was a knock on the door. He opened it to find a strangely familiar face belonging to a raunchy-looking redhead with a sparkling smile and green eyes. The same redhead hostie he had helped on the flight over.

“Well, well, well,” she purred in a posh English accent, “I was hoping I might catch you on the flight back. I checked and found out you’d booked a return ticket. My name is Donna Allen, Mr Gravano,” she said, holding out her hand. Joey shook it.

“Please come in,” said Joey. The gorgeous woman walked in and Joey shut the door and locked it.

“I’m told, Mr Gravano, that I’m to treat you as a VIP, and that the cost will be taken care of by others. So, in other words I’m all yours for as long as you like. I’m in New York on a four day lay over, then it’s back to London.”

Joey didn’t know what to say. He asked her if she wanted a drink.

“Champagne,” said Donna.

She was wearing a very expensive, well-cut black suit with skirt, stockings, high heels. She looked bloody fantastic. As she polished off one glass of champagne Joey poured her another and she skolled that back. Then held her glass out for another refill.

“Mr Gravano, I’m afraid …”

“Please call me Joey,” he interrupted.

“Well, Joey, I must warn you that after three to four glasses of champagne, I just have to get out of my things. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” said Joey, “certainly not.”

The third glass was polished off and refilled and the redhead removed her suit jacket to reveal a substantial set of tits held up in a black lace bra. She polished off her fourth glass and was promptly poured a fifth. She then reached around with her left hand while holding her full champagne glass in her right and undid a button and a zip. Her skirt fell to the floor and she stepped out of it. She was wearing high-cut black lace knickers and black stockings and black stiletto high heels. She downed her fifth glass, gave a little burp, giggled and said “Pardon me. Well, Mr Gravano, I mean Joey, I’m afraid after five glasses of champagne I tend to misbehave myself terribly.”

She then reached her hands around behind her back and undid her bra and let loose her spectacular tits. They weren’t watermelons, but a big improvement on grapefruit. She then took off her knickers.

“Would you like me to leave my stockings and high heels on?” she asked.

Joey nodded. He felt calmer than this before he shot somebody.

“Well, Joey, I think it’s high time I met your one-eyed friend. Would you like to make the introductions.”

She seemed impressed. “Oh, my goodness” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees. “I’m afraid you’ll think me a shocking slut Mr Gravano, I mean Joey, but I’m sure I can rely on your discretion. Would you mind terribly if I …”

Joey knew what she meant. “No,” said Joey. “Not at all.”

“Oh, and by the way,” said Donna. “I’m a good girl, but if you wish to mistreat me if I do anything to displease you, then I fully expect verbal abuse and a little physical chastisement.”

Joey had met this kind of masochistic whore before, and he went along with it. He gave her a slap across the face with his open right hand and grunted “You talk too much, slut.”

Her eyes went wild. Joey took off his belt. If this is the way she wanted it, that’s the way she’d get it. He was an obliging chap, at heart. He knew the script she was working to.

“Come on, whore, do it, do it!”

The woman was moaning with lust, then Joey snarled: “Stop it. Get up and bend over the bed. You’re a filthy slut, a nice English girl like you whoring her arse like some crack addict nigger slag. You should be ashamed of yourself. Bend over.”

She bent over.

“Yes, I know I’m a filthy whore,” she whispered. “I can’t help it. I feel so ashamed, my parents didn’t raise me for this,” and with that Joey let go with a welt across her bare buttocks that made her squeal.

“You’re one sick bitch, Donna,” snarled Joey. She threw herself back on the bed and spread her legs wide open and her hips raised up.

“Come on Joey, make me scream some more. Come on, baby.”

Joey mounted and humped her like a mad bull while she sunk her teeth deep into his shoulder.

“You’re one sick puppy, Donna,” he said.

The woman laughed.

“You love it, Joey. I saw the look in your eyes. You liked hitting me. Go on, admit it,” said Donna. “It turned you on, didn’t it?” It was true, but Joey couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“Go on you wimp dago — do it properly,” she spat. “I’m terribly disappointed, Joey, I thought you Italians knew how to handle a woman.”

“Shut up, you sick whore,” he snapped.

He was no longer in the mood for this masochistic bullshit. “Get out, ya fucking psycho,” he snarled.

But she just stood there, smiling at him.

“Joey, you’re nothing but a wimp faggot and no wonder you have to pay for it, you pickle headed ponce.”

The punch caught her on the point of the jaw, and she folded up like a deck of cards. He rang the escort agency and told them to come and get her before he threw her out the window.