Toughs Page 40

  "Maybe," Mike said, as if he hadn't heard a word Augie said. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

  "Where? Where are we going?"

  "Hotel somewhere. Seedier the better." Mike winced and stopped. "If you could try to get word to Loretto about where I'm staying, that'd be good. But only Loretto, Augie. Nobody else."

  "Loretto," Augie said. "Are you even sure he's still alive?"

  "I'm not sure of nothin', but like I said, if there's a way to get word to him, that'd help."

  Augie was tempted to smack Mike yet again. If he thought it would have done any good, he would have. Instead, he put his arm through his brother's arm and helped him out the door.

  Thursday - February 4, 1932

  9:00 a.m.

  The below-zero cold spell of the previous days had given way to temperatures in the low teens, still cold enough, though, for Saint Raymond's to discourage long graveside ceremonies. Mama, Gina, and Augie waited in the back of a limousine while the cemetery staff carried Freddie's casket to the plot of earth where he would be buried once the ground thawed. When the site was ready, Augusto Balzarini came to the limo door and opened it for the family. Once Mama exited the limo, followed by Gina and Augie, three more cars emptied of family and friends and neighbors who joined her as they walked in a solemn procession to the grave site. There the priest said a brief prayer with the family gathered around, and then stood aside as the cemetery workers once again lifted the casket and carried it off to the same stone building where Ercole Baronti had been carried a little more than a month earlier.

  Gina held Mama around the waist on one side while Augie held her around the shoulders on the other side. Mama had cried silently at times, loudly at others, throughout the previous day of viewing and through the following night. If she had slept at all, it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. In the funeral parlor, she had wailed every time she looked up to find the casket closed, as if she couldn't bear being denied a final chance to see the body of her son. Now, graveside, she appeared to be so worn out and exhausted from her mourning that both Augie and Gina were taken by surprise when she flung them aside like a pair of scrawny children and screamed after the casket, "Go! Go! Be with your papa!" In an instant, Mrs. Esposito and Mrs. Marcello had taken Augie and Gina's place at Mama's side, each of them whispering in her ear and patting her hair, kissing her on the cheeks and holding her. With everyone in the gathering, priest and funeral director included, holding tissues or handkerchiefs to their eyes, the women took Mama by the arms and led her back to the waiting limousine.

  Augie had closed his eyes and looked up to the sky as if he might find some strength there. When he opened them again, he saw that Gina was watching one of the cemetery workers, a young guy in denim overalls under a bulky winter coat with a knit cap pulled low over his forehead. The worker was walking toward Gina, who was also walking toward him, and when they met, they embraced before Gina quickly pulled away and looked around worriedly—and Augie realized that the cemetery worker had to be Loretto. He didn't recognize him, though, until he was standing between him and Gina in a small circle. "You're crazy to be here," he said to Loretto, and he pulled Gina away from him. At first Augie was furious with Loretto—but when he saw his face, it was so stricken that he relented and touched his shoulder in a gesture that made Loretto struggle to swallow his tears.

  "I had to be here," Loretto said. "I'm sorry."

  Gina asked Augie to give her and Loretto a minute, and Augie agreed, but first he pulled Loretto aside to have a private word with him. "Don't be long," he said. "It's too risky."

  "Just give us a second."

  "Sure," Augie said. At the curb, the last of the guests were climbing into their cars. "I need you to do something for me," he added. "When you see Vince, tell him I want to work for him. Tell him I want the chance to put a bullet in whoever it was that killed Freddie. You understand?"

  "Augie—"

  "Shut up." Augie moved in closer to Loretto. "Tell him I need the money, too. For the funeral and the loss of Freddie's income. We've got to eat. Tell him. He'll understand."

  "I'll tell him," Loretto said, though he was pretty sure he wouldn't.

  "And I've got a message for you from Mike. He's staying at the Breslin. He says you know the place. He's registered under the name of Wilson."

  Loretto said thanks, and Augie told him again not to be long. Then he went to join Mama in the limo.

  When Loretto was with Gina again, he found he had nothing to say beyond I'm sorry and then repeating himself. He searched her face, hoping to see forgiveness—but all he saw was grief.

  "Augie tells me to forget about you," Gina said. "He tells me you and Mike, both. You're good as dead."

  "Maybe," Loretto said. "I hope not."

  "You hope not," Gina repeated, and on her lips the words were a rebuke.

  "How are you?" Loretto asked. Gina was wearing a scarf, and he pushed it aside to reveal the white bandages that covered her chin. "Is it too bad?"

  "It's not too bad," Gina said. She glanced back at the cars. "It hurts to talk."

  "But you'll be okay?"

  "Sure, I'll be okay. A little deformed, maybe, once the bandages come off. But nothing I can't live with it."

  "It won't matter to me," Loretto said. "It won't matter a thing to me."

  Gina only nodded and said, "I've got to go." She turned once again to the waiting cars. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something more—and then she gave up and walked away.

  Loretto watched her get into the limousine. The cars pulled away and drove off, leaving him alone in a feld of headstones and frozen ground and empty paths. He went to the stone building that held Freddie's casket and stood beside it in the shadows. Up close, he could see that the stones were covered in a thin layer of ice. He took a glove off and held his hand to a stone and felt his body's heat sucked out of him. His only thoughts were the two words I'm sorry, which repeated themselves again and again in a mindless litany. When he put his glove back on, he thought he was ready to leave. Instead, he found himself observing a barren tree, its branches spread over a line of grave sites. It was quiet and peaceful in the empty cemetery, surrounded by the dead, and he stayed as long as he could, quiet, leaning against the stone wall, looking out at a single tree and a line of graves. He stayed until the cold urged him on, and then he walked back slowly among the gravestones to his waiting car.

  Friday - February 5, 1932

  10:00 p.m.

  Here they are," Mike said. Vince and Lottie had just pulled up, the headlights of their big Buick first lighting up the trees and the gravel path and the bright red face of the nearby barn before cutting off with the engine, the car disappearing again into the night. Loretto, in the kitchen, slipped into his jacket as if preparing for the arrival of guests. He had picked up Mike at the Breslin after Freddie's funeral and taken him back to the farmhouse, where they'd both been waiting for Vince's return. Lottie had called from a gas station two hours earlier and said they'd be at the farm in an hour.

  Mike found a flashlight in the foyer and went out to meet them at the car while Loretto watched from the window. At Mike's approach, Vince put his suitcase down, and the boys shook hands and patted each other on the back while Lottie walked on as if she had nothing to do with either of them.

  Loretto met Lottie at the door and tried to take her suitcase.

  "Thanks," Lottie said. "I've got it." She continued on to the stairway to the bedrooms, climbed a couple of steps, sighed, and turned back to Loretto. "It ain't you," she said to Loretto. "Me and Vince been fightin' all week, that's all." She gave Loretto a wink and then trudged up the stairs and disappeared into the master bedroom.

  When Vince and Mike came through the door, they were already talking business. Vince had plans to recruit a dozen guys from a gang he knew that operated out of New Jersey. "They're strictly small time," he was saying to Mike, "mug named Tony Nannini runs the show—but they're all tough enough, and once I tell
'em how much cush they'd be making, they'll be all for it." At the sight of Loretto, he dropped his suitcase to shake hands. Upstairs, Lottie was banging around in the bedroom. It sounded like she was tearing the place up more than unpacking. "Don't mind her," he said. "She didn't want us to come back."

  "Speaking of that," Mike said, "where's Florence and Joe?"

  "Look at this guy," Vince said to Loretto, talking about Mike. His eyes lit up with a mixture of amusement and joy. "I was worrying he might be dead, and here he is, like nothing happened."

  "Ain't exactly like nothing happened," Mike said. "Every time I take a deep breath, it's like someone's sticking a knife in my back."

  "Yeah, but here you are," Vince said. "Let's get a drink." He started for the kitchen. "I'm still freezin'. The heater in the Buick is on the fritz."

  "It's this cold," Mike said. "Probably something's frozen somewhere."

  In the kitchen, Vince found a bottle of bourbon under the sink and three glasses in the cupboard. He went about pouring everyone a drink. Loretto and Mike pulled up seats at the table while Vince tossed his coat over a chair and then joined them. He lifted his glass. "To the boys," he said, and the three of them clinked glasses and drank. "Florence and Joe ain't comin' back," he said. He finished off his bourbon and poured himself some more. "They're headin' up to Canada. They're gonna lay low there till things cool off."

  Mike said, "No offense, Vince. I know she's your sister, but she wasn't doing us much good."

  "Yeah," Vince said, "but she and Joe were good for taking care of the little stuff."

  Loretto said, "We are in a bind," meaning he could understand why Florence and Joe took off for Canada. "It's just the three of us left now— and Lottie."

  "Don't worry about that," Vince said. "There's a dozen guys in this New Jersey gang, and I'm gonna get them all to come in with us. We'll be stronger than we were before."

  "I don't know," Loretto said. He was fidgeting with his drink. "You think we can trust a bunch of new guys? Small-time hoods from New Jersey?"

  Vince's good humor faded. "You sound like Lottie," he said. "She wanted to run to Canada with Florence. She figured that was the right move."

  Loretto sensed the atmosphere in the room shifting with Vince's mood. "All I'm sayin' is—"

  "Pete always really liked you," Vince said, cutting Loretto off. "He thought you were a smart guy. Once he told me he thought you were almost as smart as me." Vince grinned, and Loretto knew better than to say anything more.

  Vince topped off Mike's and Loretto's drinks. "To Patsy DiNapoli," he said, and they all three emptied their drinks.

  Vince refilled their glasses. "To Frank and Tuffy," he said, and again they drank up and slapped their glasses down.

  Then he refilled only his and Mike's drinks. "To our brothers," he said.

  When Vince and Mike slapped their glasses down once again, Loretto refilled his own drink and followed suit. "To Freddie and Pete," he said, and he downed his drink.

  Vince nodded to Loretto, acknowledging his gesture. He leaned close to him, his eyes bright with whiskey. "We had Madden on the ropes before he got to us at Gina's party," he said. "And what did he do? He took out two of our guys." He turned to Mike. "So what do we do? We come back with a dozen more guys." To Loretto he said, "You see? This ain't the time to back away. They're not beatin' me. I'll beat them and bleed them, take their money and kill their men, till they got no choice but to cut us in. Understand?"

  "Sure," Loretto said.

  "Nothin's changed," Vince went on. "Madden's got till Monday. If he don't cut us in, we're going after the big man himself. In the Cotton Club. He thinks he's safe there? He's not safe anywhere. He's not tough as us, not anymore, he ain't. Maybe once but not anymore."

  Mike said, "Listen, Vince. Another thing. My brother, Augie. He wants to join up with us, at least until we find out who got Freddie. He wants to kill the son of a bitch."

  Loretto sipped his drink and was quiet. He'd regretted telling Mike what Augie had said to him at the funeral as soon as the words were out of his mouth and he'd seen Mike's reaction, like he was proud of Augie. Now there was nothing to do but shut up.

  "I didn't think Augie liked me," Vince said.

  "Augie don't like anybody, but he's tough as they come—and we know we can trust him."

  "We'll see," Vince said. "Sunday night we'll take the ferry over to New Jersey and meet Nannini's gang. Tell Augie to come along—and tell him to make sure he's heeled. We can talk on the ferry." Vince's hair was sandy blond again, the last traces of black dye finally faded away along with the mustache, which he'd cut off soon after his trial ended. He looked like Vince again, like Irish, down to the mixture of mirth and murder in his eyes and the distinctive dimple smack in the middle of his chin. "I'm beat from the drive," he said. "Lottie'll make us breakfast in the morning." He lifted his glass to the boys and started for the stairs.

  Once Loretto heard the bedroom door close, he turned to Mike, drink in hand. "You think we've got a chance?" he asked. "Really?"

  Upstairs in the bedroom, Vince and Lottie's voices could be heard faintly. Mike shrugged as if to say he didn't know. He took his drink and started up to his room.

  Loretto poured himself more bourbon, turned off the lights, and sat in the living room chair by the window. He drank his bourbon and concentrated on the dark until he was able to see the branches of a nearby tree wavering in the breeze. Later, when his eyes adjusted, he could see the clouds, dark and tumbling. He watched the sky as if it might have a message for him, and every time a thought of Freddie or Patsy or Dominic or Gaspar came to mind, he sipped some more bourbon, till finally he fell asleep drunk in the living room chair, facing the darkness beyond the window, the glass falling from his hand and rolling along the rough wood planks of the farmhouse floor.

  Saturday - February 6, 1932

  8:13 p.m.

  Augie got up from his place at the table and shook hands with Owen Madden first, then around the table to Lucky Luciano, Big Frenchy, and Bo Weinberg. Dutch didn't stand for a handshake, and Augie acted as if he didn't notice. He tipped his hat to the table, and Frenchy led him down a narrow staircase and out to the street, where a crowd was waiting to get into the club. He hailed a cab and as he drove away he looked back at the Cotton Club's glaring lights. He thought that it was the first and last time he'd ever enter the premises.

  He gave the cabbie the address for a twenty-four-hour diner he knew downtown, in the meat-packing district. He figured it to be a quiet spot, even on a Saturday night. When the cabbie let him out and drove off with his fare and a tip, he found himself on a deserted street, looking into the long window of the diner, where a young couple—a dame in a red dress and a swank-looking mug in a dark suit with a steel-gray fedora—were talking with the counter attendant, a blond kid in a white uniform. Other than Mike, they were the only people in sight. The polished wood countertop formed a curvy triangle, and Mike sat across from the couple, facing them, with his back to the window. He was hunched over what looked like a half-eaten sandwich on a white plate, his hat pulled low on his forehead.

  Augie knew there were a couple of quiet booths at the back of the room, and when he entered the diner, he didn't take a seat on the stool next to Mike. Instead, he put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "We need to talk in private," he said. He gestured toward one of the booths. To the counter boy he said, "Bring us two cups of coffee." Then he took a seat in the booth and waited for Mike to join him.

  11:25 p.m.

  When Madden saw Winchell crossing the crowded dance floor and heading in his direction, he lowered his head and muttered to himself that he'd like to lay a lead pipe across the creep's skull, but when he looked up, he was smiling. He'd been having a pleasant night, enjoying a quiet drink with one of the dancers, a new girl, and he was about to take her upstairs to his private rooms. They were seated next to each other at his table, listening to the band playing "Night and Day," a brand-new Cole Porter number. She wa
s light-skinned enough to pass for white, a beauty with big round eyes and soft lips. Though she'd given her age as eighteen, he didn't figure her for more than sixteen, if that. He was looking forward to getting her upstairs.

  "Big Owney!" Winchell leaned over the table and winked at the dancer. He wore his fedora pushed back high on his head, and he tipped it to the girl before turning back to Madden. "Looks like you got better things to be up to than talking to me!" he half shouted. "Say, give me something for my column and I'll skedaddle."

  "I got nothing for you tonight, Walter," Madden said. "You'll have to find your gossip someplace else."

  "Sure," Winchell said, "but a little bird told me a bunch of you tough guys got together a few weeks ago at the Forest Hotel. A big powwow, I hear, with mugs flying in from all over the country. What about that? I already got the story. I was figuring you might add to it, that's all."