Inherit the Mob (16 page)

But Gordon was not easy to dismiss. Not that he was perfect. He snored, for one thing. He talked about himself too much. And he was a little too mannish, too much like the sweaty boys she had necked with in high school. But she liked his humor and his direct manner, enjoyed his sardonic, self-deprecating stories about the life of a foreign correspondent and respected his basic honesty. Most of all, she was drawn to his absolute belief in her as a woman.

Jupiter was cautious with Gordon, but not as cautious as usual. She let him come closer than any other man, allowed him to glimpse her fears and phobias. She let him touch her wounds, expecting him to be repelled; instead, he loved her, wanted her, told her that if she let herself go she would learn to love him. This was something she wanted desperately to believe. The truth was that, no matter how trendy it became, no matter how much she needed the warmth and intimacy that she found from other women, Jupiter Evans never got over the feeling that being gay was a sad abnormality.

Evans walked up Madison Avenue, aware that her look-alike was following her on the other side of the street. For a moment she was tempted to stop and wave, perhaps embarrass the young woman into turning around. But she repressed the urge. Three days was a long
time, even for a fan; the world was full of loonies, and some of them were dangerous. She stepped off the curb and raised her arm for a taxi. Inside, she looked out the rear window and saw the girl staring. She gave the driver Gordon’s address and sat back gingerly on the cracked leatherette seat.

“I know you,” said the cabbie, looking into the rearview mirror. “Jupiter Evans, right?”

“Nope,” she said. “I just look like her. A lot of people say that.”

“She’s some actress,” said the cabbie. “You could be her double, you know that?”

“Sometimes I wish I were,” she said softly.

F
lanagan arrived at Umberto’s early. A table in the middle of the room was free, but he asked for one along the wall. “I like to sit facing the door,” he told the waiter, who shrugged.

“Would you like me to check your hat, sir?”

Flanagan shook his head. “I’ll wear it,” he said. “Religious reasons.”

He was just sitting down when the door opened and Carlo Sesti walked in. The lawyer was dressed, as usual, in a sober business suit and carried a briefcase. Flanagan noted with satisfaction that he was bareheaded.

“Hello, Sesti,” Flanagan said, shaking hands.

“Mr. Flanagan, how good to see you again.” Sesti gazed around the spare, simple restaurant. Umberto’s had been Flanagan’s choice. “Charming,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been here before.”

“Of course not,” said Flanagan with heavy sarcasm. He had
picked Umberto’s because it had been the scene of the gangland slaying of Joey Gallo in the early seventies.

Sesti ignored the remark and took a seat, back to the door, without evident discomfort.

“How are things with the Teamsters, Carlo?” asked Flanagan amiably.

“You don’t mean to say that you’ve invited me to dinner to talk about that?” he said. “I have nothing whatsoever to do with the Teamsters Union, as you well know. If you’re still working on that story, you’ll have to find information elsewhere, I’m afraid.”

“Naw, I’m not here as a reporter,” drawled Flanagan, chewing on an olive. “This is a business meeting. I’m here as William Gordon’s consigliere.”

A glint of amusement sparkled in Sesti’s cold, pale eyes. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Flanagan, mimicking Sesti’s British accent. “Who are you supposed to be, Evelyn Waugh?”

“As a matter of fact, I was at school with one of Evelyn Waugh’s sons. At Downside,” said Sesti.

“Yeah, well, I went to school with Phil Rizzuto’s cousin. At St. Benedict’s High, old chap.”

Sesti picked up his briefcase, which was resting on the chair next to him. “Mr. Flanagan, if you’ve asked me to dinner to mock me, I assure you that I have no intention of—”

“Sit down, Carlo,” said Flanagan, staring hard into his eyes. “I already told you why I wanted to meet with you, to talk about the deal between Big Luigi and my boss. Or don’t you know who Luigi Spadafore is?”

“Mr. Spadafore is one of my clients,” Sesti said stiffly.

Flanagan snorted. “Yeah, right. Look, Carlo, let’s not jerk each other off. Mr. Gordon asked me to sit down with you and work out the details of his arrangement with Spadafore. You don’t believe me, drop a dime and ask him. But you do believe me, because otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to meet me in the first place. From now on, you deal with me, consigliere to consigliere. That’s the way Mr. Gordon wants it.”

Sesti regarded Flanagan through expressionless eyes. He took in
the Borsalino hat, set firmly on the Irishman’s head. He saw the tiny red boozer’s veins in his nose, his thin lips and the square set of his jaw, the bony fingers resting spread on the table. He sighed inwardly; somehow he would have to get rid of Flanagan. “All right,” he said in his clipped accent. “Let’s talk, then.”

“That’s the spirit, Carlo,” said Flanagan. He raised his hand for the waiter. “Try the fried clams, you’ll love them.”

Sesti ignored the advice and asked for a rare steak and a salad. Flanagan, in an extravagant Italian accent, ordered minestrone and an order of clams. “And a bottle of dago red for my friend,” he said with a broad wink. “He’s a tourist.”

When the waiter was gone, Flanagan leaned forward, resting his face on both hands. “Right about now you’re thinking, Christ, this guy is a clown. He’s fucking around, wasting my time by playing gangster. Well, that’s what I want you to think. Then, by telling you that I know what you’re thinking, I let you know that I’m not a clown after all. Now you’re thinking, this guy’s more complex than I thought. Or maybe you’re still thinking that I’m a clown, because I’m explaining my strategy as I go along. Either way, I got you puzzled.” Flanagan was pleased to note that Sesti did, indeed, look perplexed. “You following me so far, bambino?”

The consigliere nodded, listening.

“I know all about the little play you put on in Brooklyn the other night,” said Flanagan. “Tuxedos, candlelight, Christ, I’m surprised you didn’t have somebody throw a trout through the window during dinner. ‘Lucca Bracci sleeps with the fishes.’ We’ve already seen that movie, Carlo. You think you’re dealing with Julius LaRosa? We been to the big city, pal. We’re laughing at you. So, point number one, no more bullshit, OK?”

“This is your speech, Mr. Flanagan,” said Sesti evenly. “Please go on.”

“That’s the second thing, I don’t like your attitude,” said Flanagan. “It’s disrespectful. You want to call me something, call me John, or consigliere. You can’t help that Brit accent of yours, but don’t look at me like I’ve got shit on my shoes. Don’t patronize me. That’s not a threat, it’s a warning.” Flanagan paused, and for a long moment there was silence. Finally he grinned. “Good line, huh? Non
sequitur. It’s supposed to be ‘That’s not a threat, it’s a promise.’ You missed it, didn’t you, Carlo? Tell the truth.”

Sesti was making an effort to keep his face expressionless, but it wasn’t working. Involuntarily, he nodded, and then looked annoyed.

“Fifteen-love to Consigliere Flanagan,” intoned Flanagan in an announcer’s voice. “Now, Carlo old chap, let’s understand one another. What exactly did you have in mind for my boss?”

Speaking with a chill precision, Sesti reiterated his plan, while Flanagan, Borsalino still on his head, noisily ate his soup. It was the same basic idea that Gordon had outlined. When Sesti was finished, Flanagan wiped his mouth with the red-and-white checkered napkin and stifled a belch.

“That sounds good,” he said. “Now, maybe you’ll quit fucking around and tell me what you really want. It’ll save us both a lot of aggravation later on.”

Sesti gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve just told you what we have in mind. There is nothing more. It’s a straightforward business proposition. Surely you see that?”

“Surely you see that?” Flanagan mimicked. “What I see is a fucking goombah with a law degree and a good tailor. What I hear is bullshit in a butler’s accent. I expected more from you, Carlo. I really did.”

“There is no more, consigliere,” said Sesti, allowing himself to get angry. He rose to leave, and this time Flanagan didn’t try to restrain him.

“Here’s what I think, Carlo,” said Flanagan, looking up into Sesti’s face. “I think you’re trying to set us up. I think you want my boss, Mr. Gordon, to open some doors for you overseas, and then you plan to dump him. And me. Don’t bother to deny it, just listen. I think you and your pal Big Luigi are going to screw us out of our strawberries.”

Sesti stood with his briefcase in one hand. With the other, he sketched small circles on the tablecloth. He wondered if Flanagan could have possibly bugged Spadafore’s house, and made a mental note to have the place gone over the next day. “I’m not responsible for your fantasies, Mr. Flanagan,” he said. “If that’s what you believe …”
He shrugged, a Sicilian gesture that contrasted strangely with his frosty Anglo-Saxon demeanor.

“Put yourself in my place, Carlo,” said Flanagan in a tone of utmost geniality. “Imagine you were dealing with a couple of slimebags like Luigi and yourself. Would you trust them? Be reasonable, old chap. You want a deal, OK, we’re ready to make a deal. The conditions you outlined with Mr. Gordon are acceptable. I tell you right now that I would have driven a harder bargain, but what’s agreed to is agreed to. That’s a sacred principle in our Mishpocha. You don’t know what that is, ask Luigi. Anyway, the terms are settled. But I want assurances, Carlo, something ironclad that guarantees you won’t stiff us. What assurances, you ask? I don’t know. You decide, make me a proposal. You’re better at this kind of thing than I am, after all; I’m just an Irish hack. But until I hear something that calms my jittery nerves, we won’t help you do business.
Capisce?
”

Sesti stood over Flanagan, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “In that case, Mr. Flanagan, I’m afraid we have no business to conduct. Mr. Spadafore would consider your demand demeaning, and so, frankly, do I. If that’s all, I’ll be going. Thank you for dinner.” He turned and started for the door.

Flanagan let him walk five or six steps before calling out to him. “Yo, Carlo,” he said, loudly enough for people at nearby tables to overhear. Sesti turned to Flanagan with a look of anticipation; he had been expecting the Irishman to call him back. For all his tough talk, Flanagan would be a pushover.

“Yes?” he said.

“Carlo,” said Flanagan, “I hate to tell you this, but you got a bugger in your nostril.”

On the night of Flanagan’s dinner with Carlo Sesti, Mario and Pietro Spadafore met in the basement rumpus room of Mario’s split-level in Great Neck. The upstairs was decorated in Catholic modern, but downstairs Mario had built himself a fantasy room. There was a white leather wet bar along the wall, a gigantic television screen, a pool table and two pinball machines. There was also a bar bowling game, a refrigerator stocked with beer and soda, a candy machine
and about ten thousand dollars’ worth of stereo equipment on which he played Rosemary Clooney records. In the basement of his $750,000 suburban home, Mario Spadafore had created a Brooklyn cocktail lounge.

Recently, however, he had almost stopped using the room. He had long since figured out how to cheat the pinball machines, quit drinking the hard stuff on his doctor’s advice, and had grown to hate the sound of Rosemary Clooney’s voice. There was no one to play pool with, either; Mario had no friends. Occasionally he came downstairs to see a ball game on the giant screen, but there were too many blacks in professional sports these days for him to really enjoy it. When he thought about the rumpus room it was with regret: one more fine dream down the drain. I should be a prince, he said to himself; instead, I’m a fuckin’ frog.

Pietro stood over the pool table, a cigarette dangling from his lips, banging balls into the pockets with a crisp, professional stroke. Mario watched his brother with wonder. Everybody else in the family looks like Mussolini, he thought; this guy’s built like Travolta. He watched Pietro rise on tiptoe, skinny ass cocked, and blast the seven ball into the side.

“Will you get away from the fuckin’ pool table and sit the fuck down?” he said in a thick voice. “This is serious.”

“I can shoot and listen at the same time,” said Pietro, chopping in the nine ball with a soft stroke.

Mario rose from his seat, grabbed the cue out of his brother’s hand and pushed him hard in the chest. Pietro stumbled backward, hit the couch and plopped down. Since they had been kids, this had been their primary mode of communication. “That’s better,” said Mario. “Stay put.”

“You got fifteen minutes, Mario,” said Pietro, unperturbed by the shove. “Then I’m gone like a cool breeze.”

“I wanna talk about the old man, Pietro,” said Mario petulantly. Instinctively he looked around. Even here, in his own dream room, he was afraid that his father might overhear him.

“Yeah, what about him?”

“He’s gonna cut us out, Pietro, that’s what about him.” Mario hoped that his brother would deny it, but he merely looked bored. “Maybe you don’t give a shit about being uninherited, but I do.”