Sicilian Defense (18 page)

“I thought you had her,” said Tony.

“Wrong girl,” said Lloyd; “she was the new barmaid. Your girl doesn't work there anymore.” The fellow who had come in with him was silently looking around at them all. “We had to search through every joint in Harlem till we located her working in another creep joint, the Black Pussy Cafe.”

“That sounds like the first place you should have looked,” said Tony.

“What'd you do with her?” asked Gus.

“Big said she wouldn't do us any good—it was her friends we wanted,” replied Lloyd.

“Did you stake her out?” asked Frankie the Pig.

“Better than that,” said Lloyd. “Big had us grab her right out of the bar, just like the first girl.”

“How'd you go about it?” asked Gus.

“I just told her somebody wanted to talk to her in one of the booths. I told her it was real important, you know. So when she gets over to the booth, Simon here has a gun inside his coat.”

“I had it so only she could see it,” said Simon. His voice was deep and resonant.

“Then we got her outside into the car and took her to a place we have. Big was there waiting for us. He started asking her questions.”

“She know anything?” asked Tony.

“Not much,” said Lloyd.

“Maybe she was bullshitting you,” Tony said.

“Man, I didn't conduct a Sunday school lesson,” Lloyd said quickly. “That female act don't cut ice with me. And we got what we wanted, all right.”

“What?” asked Frankie the Pig. “Come on, for Christ's sake.”

“She's got a boyfriend. A guy named Alfred. He's a small-time junk pusher who's sort of attached to another pusher up in Harlem, you know?”

“He's the guy we're looking for?” asked Tony, restive now.

“We're not sure yet,” said Lloyd.

“What the hell you mean, you're not sure?” said Tony. “Didn't you get it out of her?”

“She was out of town, down in the Virgin Islands for a few days,” Lloyd replied. “Just when this kidnaped guy Mickey was being held in the apartment with the Playboy pictures. She said it sounded like her apartment, all right. But she wasn't there then.”

“Are you sure she wasn't bullshitting you?” said Tony.

“Man,” said Lloyd slowly, “I told you that the dame wasn't bullshitting. She had a knife right next to her pretty face, and she knew, man, she knew, that thing was going to cut my name into her cheek. She was telling the truth when I finished with her.”

“Well, what else did she know?” asked Frankie the Pig.

“She only knows that this guy Alfred has her key and he might have used the apartment.”

“Anybody else have a key?”

“She said no,” answered Lloyd.

“Where's this Alfred now?”

“Wait a minute. There's more,” said Lloyd. “A couple of days after she went down there, Alfred showed up to spend a couple of days fishing. She says that's his thing—fishing for big fish, you know? And she said he had money on him, real money. He was spending it like some fool. She said he rented a captain and boat for two days to take them fishing but they only went for about an hour one day. The rest of the time he was higher than a kite.”

“That sounds like our guy,” said Gus.

“Did she know about the kidnaping?” asked Frankie the Pig.

“No. She said Alfred told her they got the money from some whitey in New York who spent a couple of days with them. She didn't know what the hell he meant.”

“Yeah, but I do,” said Tony.

“So do I. Where's this guy Alfred?” asked Frankie the Pig.

“Did you grab him?” asked Tony.

“No. Big said to come down here and talk to Gianni, tell him what went down. Big said it was Gianni's game,” replied Lloyd.

“Dammit, don't you at least know where Alfred is?” shouted Frankie the Pig.

“Yeah,” Lloyd replied. “A couple of our guys went out to look for him. And they found him.”

“Didn't you grab him?”

“No, I told you—Big wouldn't do anything without letting Gianni know what was happening. But we got a guy keeping an eye on him so he don't fly the coop.”

“What about the dame? Maybe she'll go back and tell him you were interested in him,” said Gus.

“We figured the same thing, so we kept her around. Big said to keep her there until this thing was all over.”

“That's good,” Tony said.

“Yeah, real good,” Frankie the Pig muttered.

“Where's Gianni?” asked Lloyd.

“He's not here. He went out late last night, and hasn't been back since. He's busy,” replied Frankie the Pig.

“He's probably going to go right to that hearing he's got today,” said Gus.

“That's right, he won't be back for quite a while,” said Frankie the Pig. He turned to Lloyd. “Where do we get our hands on this Alfred?”

“You want him
now
?” asked Lloyd.

“Time's getting short. We got to move,” said Frankie the Pig.

“Maybe we better wait for Gianni,” said Gus.

“What am I, popcorn?” demanded Frankie the Pig. “I'm here, and time is running out—tonight's the payoff. And I say we get this guy and find out where Sal is before it's too late. We'll get it out of him, don't worry.”

“Yeah, but maybe Gianni—” Gus said.

“I said we go,” Frankie the Pig said with cold authority. “Gianni's not here, and we've got our man sitting like a pigeon. Lloyd, you lead us in your car. We'll follow you.”

“I don't think you need so many people,” said Lloyd. “It's only one guy and we got him staked out. And if there are too many whites up there, it'll look funny. Besides, we got our own men to handle it.”

“I'll go with them,” suggested Tony. “This way you'll be here to follow up.”

“Okay,” said Frankie the Pig, “but don't fuck it up. We need this guy, and we need him right away.”

Tony just looked at Frankie the Pig with his cold eyes, his thin lips pressed together. “I won't fuck anything up.”

11:30 A.M.

Gianni and Sandro walked down the short stairway of the Criminal Courts building, across the small plaza to Centre Street.

“It's quick work, all right,” said Gianni. “They bring in the committee chairman to tell the judge I was given immunity this morning and refused to testify, and then the D.A. makes an application for an order from the judge, and the next thing, I'm in jail if I don't testify. How come the committee's willing to give me immunity?”

“Because they probably know you're not involved in anything,” said Sandro, “so they'd rather have your testimony.”

“Isn't this a son of a bitch,” said Gianni. “They can't put me in jail for something, so they want to put me in jail for nothing.”

“And it usually works, Gianni,” said Sandro. “They're convinced certain people are no good: you're one of them, and any way they can get you off the street is perfectly fine. I hope you've had some time to think about my suggestion.”

“Had some time—look at me, what do I look like this morning?” asked Gianni.

“You look tired, as if you've been up all night.”

“I have, first on this business of Sal's, and then I went to a round-table meeting starting about three o'clock this morning. I asked all the big guys to get together,” said Gianni. “I told them what I wanted to do about testifying. You know I couldn't just go and do this on my own. First, out of respect. Second, they might not understand. I had to explain it to them.”

“And? What happened?” asked Sandro.

“They didn't go for it at first: they said I was taking a chance, and I'd get in difficulty. I explained to them, it was the only way to stop playing right into the cops' hands.”

“And?”

“They thought it might work, but they were skeptical. That's when I put in the clincher. I told them I was the perfect guy to do it, because I wasn't involved in anything, so they'd have a tough time pinning anything on me.”

“Were they convinced?”

“Convinced is too strong a word, Sandro,” said Gianni. They had reached the building where the hearing was being held. The newsmen started to descend upon them again. “They thought it was worth a shot,” Gianni continued, “but they weren't interested in taking it themselves.”

“How did it end up?” asked Sandro as they walked up the steps. The cameramen were closing in. “Not now, please,” said Sandro, stepping in front of Gianni.

“Come on, counselor, not again,” said one of the photographers.

“As soon as it's over,” said Sandro. “That's what I said the other day, and you got your pictures, didn't you?”

The photographers moved off reluctantly. One of them snapped a picture quickly as he moved away.

“You know, you feel like smacking a sneaky bastard like that in the mouth just because he's a sneak,” said Gianni calmly. “I hate sneaks.”

“So how did it end up, Gianni?” Sandro repeated. They reached the far end of the anteroom and sat down against the wall.

“It was left that if I wanted to chance it, it was up to me. If I got trapped, it was my own fault.”

“Were they worried about your getting them in trouble, testifying about them?” asked Sandro.

Gianni just looked at Sandro blankly, coldly. “Sandro, before anybody goes down because of my tongue—anybody—even if I didn't know him, I'd cut the tongue out. That's the way it is. You know that. You've got the same blood we have. These people are my friends. They'll have to put me in jail for a thousand years before I put a friend in trouble.”

Sandro saw Senator Stern walking through the throng. The senator smiled sardonically.

“Hello, Mr. Luca. How are you today?” asked Stern. “I see you have Mr. Aquilino with you.”

“Yes. How are you, Senator?”

“I'm fine. Is your man going to testify today?”

“Yes.”

Stern's eyes lit up with surprise. “He is?”

“Yes.”

Stern nodded thoughtfully, smiling as he turned away.

Sandro turned to Gianni, who was lighting a cigarette. He seemed tired and nervous.

It was not long before the doors of the hearing room closed, and the reporters started to file inside. One of the committee assistants came out and called Gianni's name.

“Well, I guess this is it, Sandro,” said Gianni as he rose. “I hope you're right.”

Sandro hoped so too. “Just tell the truth,” he cautioned. They walked together toward the hearing room. As they reached the door, one of the reporters came over to Gianni.

“I understand you're going to testify today, Mr. Aquilino.”

“Whatever happens, you'll hear about it in a couple of minutes,” said Sandro.

Stern must already have been at work, Sandro thought, drumming up interest among the reporters.

Sandro and Gianni walked to the witness table. Five members of the committee sat behind a long table. Stern, in the center of the five, asked Gianni to rise and be sworn as a witness.

“Now Mr. Witness,” Stern began, “what is your name?”

“Gianni Aquilino.”

“And your address, please.”

“Chickapea Road, Pawling, New York.”

“Are you employed, sir?”

“Yes, I have my own business. Eagle Enterprises.”

“And where is that located, sir?”

“475 Fifth Avenue.”

“What sort of business is that, Mr. Aquilino?”

“Real estate, commercial investments.”

Stern was excited and impatient. “How long have you been engaged in this business, Mr. Aquilino?”

“About 12 years.”

“And before that, what business were you engaged in?”

“I was in real estate even then. I was a real estate salesman with Margo Realty in New York.”

Next to Gianni, Sandro listened intently, ready to come to his aid if it was necessary. His mind was registering the import of the questions. Safe, so far.

Gianni was unperturbed now that he was on the firing line. He watched Stern calmly, coolly.

“Now, Mr. Aquilino, was there, just before you opened this Eagle Enterprises, on April 15, 1959, an attempt made on your life in the lobby of your apartment building?”

The reporters in the room perked up now. They were listening and watching intently.

“Somebody tried to hold me up in the lobby of my building, as far as I know. And I was shot, yes.” Gianni's mind floated back momentarily. Instinctively his hand felt along the ridges of scar tissue on his right temple.

“Now, Mr. Aquilino”—Senator Stern's voice brought him back to the present—“isn't it a fact that you were marked for execution by certain people in the Mafia or Cosa Nostra?”

The other members behind the committee table watched eagerly.

“Let me ask you a question before I answer, Mr. Stern,” Gianni said. “What is this Mafia or Cosa Nostra to which you refer?”

Stern's eyes narrowed. “You're asking
me
what the Mafia is?”

“You used the word, Mr. Stern. I can't answer you unless I understand what you're talking about.”

“Certainly you know what the Mafia is, Mr. Aquilino.” Stern looked up momentarily to see if the reporters were on top of this exchange. They were; their pencils raced across their pads.

“All I know about it is what I read in the newspapers,” replied Gianni. “But I'm sure that you have more scientific information with which you could define this Mafia or Cosa Nostra so that I could answer you.”

“In 1957, Mr. Aquilino, were you at a meeting of the Mafia in Apalachin?” Stern pressed.

“In 1957 I was arrested in Apalachin as I was on the road, driving home with two friends of mine. I was at no meeting of any organization that I know of.”

“Are you saying that you weren't at the Apalachin meeting?”