Permanent Interests (12 page)

101

amethyst broach, the size of a baby's fist, which hung heftily from her bulimic neck.

Next stop was the table of Johnny Diosordi. Known by friends and acquaintances by his boyhood moniker of

"Johnny Blues" for the color of his eyes, Johnny was the complete opposite of Carl Giovanezza. Thin, wiry and given to talking too fast for most human beings to understand, he made his mark in the garment trade. Or, to be more precise, persuading garment manufacturers to buy fire insurance from him. His wife, an unnatural blonde with equally unnaturally large breasts, remained glued to her cell phone most of the evening while chug-a-lugging Tia Marias. She, by appearances, had an oral fixation.

Johnny, a voracious eater, as is often the case with small, thin, fast-talking men, devoured an antipasto, cheese manicotti with meatballs, veal Fra Diavolo, a salad and two baskets of bread. Soaking up the last traces of sauce with the last crust of bread, Johnny muttered with his mouth full,

"Hey, Tony, thish ish great shtupp. Fantashtik. Never better!" Washing it all down with the last drops of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, Johnny then asked disingenuously, "Hey, Ton', need any fire insurance?"

Seeing shock setting in in Tony's face, Johnny guffawed and playfully boxed his host in the stomach. "Hey, just kiddin'! Heh, heh! Hey, Ton' what's for dessert?"

Tony continued to make the rounds. Eighty-year old Sam Dellanova, once the king of juke box operators and reputed fixer of horse races, graciously complimented Tony on the "greens and beans" -- escarole and cannellini beans cooked in oil and garlic. His doctors approved of this particular Italian soul food dish. Good for the bowels, they said.

Tony was nearly bowled over by a young man barreling off the stairway. It was Wentworth.

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Regaining his balance, Tony asked politely if he could offer any assistance.

"You the manager?" Wentworth asked breathlessly.

"I own the joint. What can I do for you?"

They shook hands and exchanged names. "I need to check on how the vittles are coming along for the party upstairs."

"Vittles?! Vittles??"

Wentworth

blushed.

"Hey.

The

calamare
will be excellent just like always.

Al always worries about the
calamare
when he's hosting guests."

"How'd

you

know--?"

"Like I said, I own the joint. Some things I don't want to know about. But customers, I always know who's coming.

So, like I said, the
calamare
will be delicious. So will the veal and
cavatelli a pesto
. I got some great almond cakes which you'll love. Russians really like Italian pastries--"

"But, you're not supposed to know…" Wentworth was awestruck.

"Hey, like I said--"

"Yeah, I know. You own the place."

"One detail further, Chuck." Tony jerked his head toward Bags and Herman at the bar, nursing Cokes, eyes glued to "Tuesday Night WWE-RAW Wrestling."

"My clients, a lot of them carry around their own security. I can appreciate that. All I ask is that you keep them presentable and at a safe distance from the rest of the customers. I run a respectable place and I don't want to scare people away. Know what I mean?"

Wentworth

nodded.

"Anything

else?"

Wentworth shook his head. This man impressed him.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

103

Tony caught Wentworth as the latter began to move toward Al's TV-fixated henchmen.

"Don't worry about those Russians coming here. I got them going upstairs the back way. Nobody'll know." He finished with a wink.

Impressive.

A few minutes after seven, through the upstairs dining room window, Al saw two cars pull into the rear parking lot. The lead car was a black Lincoln Town Car, the second, a dark red Cadillac Deville.

"Fuckin' Russians!" Al said. "Here I'm trying to do things quiet and they pull in like some kinda gypsy parade."

He was beside himself. An important meeting was about to take place, at his request. And his
consigliere
was nowhere to be found. Al thought, should he merely fire Ricky, or garrote him slowly? Blood is blood and business is business. When you combined the two, results were often disastrous. Italians are hung up on family, Al tsked.

They never learn.

Out of the Lincoln emerged Yakov, resplendent in a black seal skin coat and matching fedora. The driver rushed to open the left rear door. A pair of shapely legs thrust out first, followed by a hatless head of radiant blonde tresses done up in a complex hairdo of delicate braids held in place with tiny pearled pins. Clad in a black evening dress that stopped short of the knees, the woman pulled up a full-length coat of dark fur, mink, Al thought. He had never seen Yakov with a woman. And the Russian rarely talked about them.

Out of the second car leapt Dimitrov, easily identifiable by his stiff posture, quick, furtive sideward glances, 104 JAMES

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resembling a carnivorous lizard, and, of course, the nasty gash across his face. Another flunky stood by, hands thrust deep into a discount rain coat, also very alert and on guard.

Al saw Wentworth appear from the restaurant to greet them, shaking the hand of each business-like, except for the woman's, whose hand he held lightly in an upward motion.

Very gallant. Wentworth spoke some words with Yakov and motioned the retinue toward the rear entrance. He could be a protocol officer in a foreign ministry.

Al was mildly concerned about Wentworth's involvement with this crowd in these circumstances, but found himself yet again grateful for the young man's stabilizing intervention into a situation almost out of control.

Bags and Herman waited passively, but on guard, at the rear entrance door.

Four wine buckets at each corner of the elaborately set table chilled
Bolla Soave
, to be served with the antipasto.

Two waiters and a wine steward stood by quietly. Tony, in his usual, efficient way, had seen to all the details. The room, set aside for reserved parties, had none of the atmosphere of the restaurant proper. Comfortable but functional.

Al fidgeted, alternatingly preening his hair and straightening his collar with each hand.
Ricky'll be looking
for work, I swear,
he thought.
Damned spoiled little
peacock. He'll be sweeping floors and cleaning toilets at
Al-Mac.
These thoughts, emanating from true, heartfelt anger, nonetheless, resonated hollowly within Al's brain.

He needed a back-up whom he could trust completely, and Ricky was it despite his undependability in other areas. He also had been the cut-out maintaining communications with the Russians, through Dimitrov. In the bottom of his heart at this moment, Al felt vulnerable.

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105

He heard the shuffling of feet up the stairs. Al awaited his guests at the top of the stairwell, next to the door to the private room.

Yakov led the troupe, hat in hand, his face sporting a stiff smile. Seeing Al, he skipped up the remaining upper six or seven steps and embraced Al with a bear hug.

"Old friend!" he exclaimed. "In Russian, we say, 'When old friends meet, spring cannot be far away.'"

"In Italian, we say, 'When old friends meet, it's time to eat!" Al motioned him into the room.

Yakov wagged an admonishing finger at Al. "Always make jokes, you funny guy!"

The blonde was next. She was even more dazzling up close. Tall, erect, regal yet demure. The golden hair, fairly blinding in its radiance, framed a face of strawberries and cream complexion, the natural blush of which was accentuated from the cold night air. A black satin dress with traditional Russian filigree around the upper breast formed deliciously over her tall, lush figure. But it was the marvelous, beaming, deep blue eyes that commanded Al's total attention. Riveting and inviting, yet betraying a hint of sadness or guardedness. Al couldn't be sure.

"May I introduce this, my gracious lady," Yakov gestured. "-- Lydia Yekaterina Puchinskaya."

Al gently kissed her hand, more out of instinct than conscious intent. He knew how to squire a lady, but wasn't so much into continental manners. This was that rare female who, through vibes of some sort or other, triggered a mechanism in men that caused them to behave either like Lancelot or Genghiz Khan. Gallant or wantonly lustful.

"Very pleased. Though I'll never be able to say your name," Al said.

Al then correctly shook Dimitrov's hand. The warm feeling instilled in him by Lydia was immediately replaced 106 JAMES

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by an icy chill. He had never taken a liking to this Russian.

And after Ricky related to him the incident at the warehouse, gory details and all, a cold dread added itself to his instinctual dislike for the man.

Wentworth brought up the rear.

"What do you want me to do, boss?" he asked.

Al faced a dilemma. No Ricky to be seen. He wanted somebody to share the table with him from his organization, if only to impress on Yakov that he headed a solid and united outfit. One elementary lesson he learned long ago was that you never, never betrayed any hint of weakness to your rivals or potential rivals. Those whose organizations exhibited cracks invited destruction.

Yet he had gone out of his way to keep Wentworth apart, on the clean, "legitimate" side of his affairs. After all, that was the reason he'd hired him.

A solution hit him like a lightning bolt. Keep Wentworth around till Ricky showed up. Ricky could be sloppy, but, in the end, he really never let his uncle down.

Al would keep the conversation on small talk until Ricky arrived. Then he'd quietly ask Wentworth to attend to other matters elsewhere.

Al put his hand on Wentworth's shoulder and spoke softly into his ear, "First of all, don't call me boss.

Chuckie, stick around for a few minutes. Have a drink.

Look important, but don't say much. I'll have something else for you to do later. Got me?" He winked. Wentworth gave a single nod. Ambassadors and generals used to do this to him. He knew how to be a good aide.

They took their seats. The wine steward promptly poured the Soave.

Al lifted his glass. "To old friends.
Cent'anni!
"

Forgetting protocol, he clinked glasses first with the Princess of Russia, as Al thought of Lydia.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

107

"
Nazdaroviye
," Yakov returned the toast. "May old friends find new business."

Al could see what was coming.

Wentworth followed orders and kept silent, except when spoken to. Al had introduced him simply by his name, leaving a question mark in the minds of the Russians as to his true position in Al's structure. Dimitrov glared at him intensely. Lydia sat directly opposite Wentworth. They smiled politely at one another.

The antipasto arrived. Marinated eggplant, oil cured olives, sliced prosciutto and salami, sardines, sun dried tomatoes and red peppers on a bed of romaine and arugula.

Al served his guests personally.

After some small talk, Yakov began, "Now, Al, I think you know what is on my mind. But first, I let you to talk about why we meet tonight. For example, some problems of supply--"

"Hey, you got problems, I got problems, everybody's got problems. Don't worry about it now. Let's have a good time.
Mangia!
" Al saluted them with another raised glass.

Yakov's face betrayed puzzlement.

Dimitrov, ex-fighter of the Hindu Kush and professional survivor of Russia's cutthroat mafia wars, squinted as if confused. His radar-like eyes coldly locked onto Al's face, minutely scrutinizing every move and gesture, studying him as a cobra does its prey.

Wentworth attacked the antipasto lustily. He and Lydia continued to exchange polite smiles.

"Your associate here." Yakov gestured at Wentworth.

"Mr…"

"Wentworth," he responded.

"Ah, yes. You are new," Yakov said knowingly. "Your duties include…?"

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Al interjected before Wentworth could answer. "Yeah.

Chuckie here's been with us, what, nine months?"

Wentworth

nodded.

"He's been working on special projects, haven't you Chuckie?"

"Ah yes. I see. And, so, where then is Mr. Ricky tonight?"

"Also working on special projects. He should be joining us real soon."

Dimitrov took it all in silently.

The two bosses reverted to talking about New York politics, conditions in Russia, the weather and other non-business-related matters. Al kept looking at his watch. Just where was that goddamn nephew, anyway?

Lydia's eyes kept meeting Wentworth's. He reciprocated. Each smiled faintly. Gentle wafts of a delicate perfume came his way, carried on invisible currents.

The next course, piping hot bowls of
stracciatella
soup, was served neatly by Tony's efficient men.

"You make me eat borscht. Now it's my turn to take revenge," Al joked.

Yakov maintained a jovial demeanor, but his impatience, mingled with confusion, was making itself felt.

Dimitrov definitely picked up that something was not quite right in the Malandrino camp.

Wentworth broke the ice with Lydia in a quiet side conversation.

"Do you speak English?" he asked.

Her cheeks reddened and dimpled ever so slightly with a gentle smile and responded in a voice which was neither high nor very low in pitch. "Yes. I studied English for twelve years. I love English. More than French." She spoke as much with her expressive eyes as with her mouth.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

109

Goose bumps erupted across Wentworth's skin.

"And

I

love
America!" she added.

Wentworth's scalp tingled.

The door swung open, banging against the inside wall.

In sauntered Ricky, dressed in a loud, silk turquoise suit, shirt open to reveal a nest of dark hair. Over this he wore a bold camel hair coat with a huge curved collar.