Chances

  “What, honey?” she drawled lazily.

  “Whitejack wants us to give these two guys some real hot thrills.”

  “Huh?”

  Lucille indicated the two musicians lying around on the cushions. “I think we’re back in business.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes. “You may be, honey, but me—I don’t think Whitejack would want that. Oh, no, that ain’t the life for me any more.”

  Lucille shifted uneasily and, keeping her voice low, said, “He told me to tell you.”

  “Mistake.” She yawned and stretched. “Must’ve bin a mistake.” A fine Bessie Smith record was playing on the Victrola, and a nice mellow throb was all around. She had no intention of moving, none whatsoever.

  “Here.” One of the musicians was giving her a turn on the weed.

  She took the cigarette gratefully, inhaled the strong potion deeply into her lungs, then rolled over to give Whitejack his turn. He was not there.

  “You’re really something you know that?” The younger of the two musicians said. “I had my eye on you, but I wasn’t sure I could get near the honeypot. I thought you was tight with Whitejack—but he told me you an’ I can swing any way we want.”

  She struggled to sit up. Her head was buzzing. “Listen,” she slurred, “you’re wrong.”

  “Aw, come on, I gave that man twenty bucks says I’m right.”

  Slowly it was getting through to her that Lucille was correct. They were back in business.

  But it would have been nice if Whitejack had mentioned it to her himself and not sneaked away like a thief in the night.

  Love. Love was shit. Life was shit.

  The musician had his hands on her, peeling down the top of the red silk dress Whitejack had bought her that very week.

  “Wow!” he said. “You got the greatest pair I ever seen in my life!”

  She knew that it shouldn’t get to her. After all, she had long ago lost count of the number of men who had paid for the use of her body. But Whitejack should at least have asked her. If they really needed the money she would have understood. He should have let it be her decision to go back to work, goddamn it!

  The musician’s tongue was on her nipples, but he never tasted the salt from her tears as she silently began to cry.

  It was 2 A.M.

  She had been fifteen for exactly two hours.

  Gino

  1926-1927

  The rise of Gino Santangelo and Aldo Dinunzio in the bootlegging business was solid and steady. They started off small, investing their combined money and bringing in several truckloads of high-quality whiskey from Canada, taking no risks with strangers but driving the trucks themselves, only using a few hand-picked associates to make sure their assignments did not get hijacked by other mobs.

  There was no problem obtaining the supplies, but it was a long and difficult trip getting safely back from the Canadian border to the heart of New York City. The dangers were many: trucks breaking down, police making random stops, and, of course, numerous hijackings.

  Gino calculated all the risks, and in spite of the fact that a lot of consignments got lost along the way, his always made it.

  Aldo and he worked well together. They trusted each other, and slowly, as they could afford it, they surrounded themselves with a loyal group of henchmen.

  A year passed quickly. Gino was now twenty, but he looked and acted much older. His tough swagger gained him respect in the neighborhood. He and Aldo were looked up to and treated royally.

  Pinky Banana was the enforcer for the gang. He rode shotgun on the trips and blasted the hell out of anyone who tried to stop them. He took a pleasure in his work that was unnatural but useful. He was still with Cindy of the blond hair and cute ass. Cockteaser was a name invented specially for Cindy.

  The long hauls up to Canada and back were creating a strain. Tempers were becoming frayed. The Santangelo Gang, as they were known, were beginning to fight among themselves. A bad sign. Gino realized the tensions were caused by the trips always full of dangers, so he decided to investigate other possibilities. It was a well-known fact that the laws of prohibition had loopholes. One of the biggest was that liquor was allowed to be consumed for medical reasons. If doctors could prescribe it, somebody had to make it. So government licenses were issued to certain companies who could then legitimately manufacture alcohol.

  Aldo’s cousin, Enzio Bonnatti, had infiltrated several such companies in and around Chicago. And rumor had it that his influence stretched even farther than that.

  “Why don’t we arrange a meet?” Gino suggested to Aldo. He had always wanted to get to know Bonnatti.

  Aldo, on the other hand, seemed to want to steer clear of him. “He’s a difficult guy,” he hedged.

  “Difficult!” Gino scoffed. “He’s your cousin, for crissakes. He’s as big as fuckin’ Capone. Use your blood connections.”

  Reluctantly Aldo agreed, and several phone calls later the two of them set off by train for Chicago.

  Sitting on the train was relaxing. Aldo fell asleep, and Gino stared out of the window reviewing his life. It was looking good. He had managed to put by a stash of money. It was almost looking good enough to send for Leonora. He still wrote her regularly every week with the help of Mr. Pulaski. Her replies were intermittent but, when they came, so terrific that he never got angry at her for not writing as often as he wanted.

  His letters were full of love and plans.

  Her letters were rather childish, dwelling on school and home rather than their future together.

  This was understandable. She did not want to look forward to something that as far as she was concerned could not happen for years. What a great surprise it would be for her when he told her their marriage was only just around the corner.

  He had found an apartment on which he had paid a healthy deposit. It was small but in a good neighborhood in the upper Forties just off Park Avenue. Leonora would love it. She could furnish it herself. All he was planning to buy before her arrival was a big comfortable double bed.

  He almost groaned aloud at the thought. Bed. Sex. A woman’s body.

  It had been so very very long. But he had made Leonora a promise, and Gino Santangelo’s promise was his bond.

  He took Vera to see the apartment and she declared it perfect. “Gino, your lil’ lady gonna love it,” she slurred. “Best goddamn place I ever seen.”

  Vera was drunk as usual, but it didn’t bother him. She was entitled to drink if that’s what got her through the day. He had offered her money to move out of her room and into a better place, but she had refused. “I got a lot of regular johns—can’t leave ’em,” had been her excuse.

  Gino knew it was just an excuse. He had heard that Paolo was back in jail, and for some reason Vera wanted to be where he could find her when he got out.

  “I ain’t gonna watch out for you if y’take him back,” he warned.

  “Sure, honey, I can take care of myself.”

  Yeh. Like last time. Gino hoped it would be a long time before Paolo was back on the street again.

  It was snowing when they arrived in Chicago. Thick flakes of snow that settled on hair and clothes and then melted into tiny puddles.

  “We had to come all this way for weather like this!” Aldo complained. The truth of the matter was that he never liked to be too far away from his stormy relationship with Barbara Riccaddi. Since their first meeting over a year ago he had pursued her relentlessly. At first she had sent him packing with her sharp tongue. But gradually he had melted her down enough for her to break off her engagement to the cop and spend time on a regular basis with him. She still verbally harassed him at every opportunity, but he seemed to thrive on it. “First real dame I ever came across,” he would say with a faraway smile.

  They took a cab straight to the hotel where the meet with Enzio had been arranged. At the reception desk they were told to take the elevator to the fifth floor, where two of Enzio’s gang waited to body search them.

  Aldo w
as most insulted. “He’s my fuckin’ cousin. What kind of sucker ya think I am? Here—ya want my gun, it’s yours.” He handed his small .25-caliber pistol over, but they insisted on searching him anyway.

  Strapped to the side of his leg, just above the ankle, they found a six-inch hunting knife.

  Aldo shrugged. “Whatcha think? I’m gonna slit my own cousin’s throat?”

  Enzio walked in then, a powerful figure, soberly dressed in a dark suit. Aldo had always reminded Gino of a squirrel. Twenty years old, but small and prematurely gray, he had prominent teeth and a passion for eating. Somehow Gino had imagined that Bonnatti would look the same. Wrong. Enzio Bonnatti was a good-looking man. Twenty-two years old, tall, with a body in prime physical shape, straight dark hair, heavy-set eyes, and a reputation for being tough. When Capone was mentioned, Bonnatti was mentioned. Between them they had a pretty strong hold on Chicago.

  He shook hands formally with his cousin and Gino, then nodded to one of his hoods to fix drinks. No requests. Just hefty tumblers of straight scotch.

  “So.” He sat down. “What you two shitheads come sniffin’ ’round Chicago for?”

  Gino did the talking, Aldo sat silently beside him.

  Enzio listened. He really didn’t need them: two small potatoes from New York with no muscle to speak of. What he did need was men around him he could trust. The bigger he got, the more trouble came his way. A running feud with Capone made his life a misery. He couldn’t even take a simple crap without two of his men checking out the crapper first.

  Aldo was blood. So he hadn’t seen him since he left Chicago to live in New York ten years previously. But he was blood. Had to be worth something.

  And the deal Gino was suggesting wasn’t half bad. Could mean big bucks without lifting a finger. A couple of phone calls… put out the word to a key connection that it was O.K. to deal with them.

  “Listen—no offense, Gino. I like to talk to Aldo alone.”

  “Sure.” Gino stood up. They had been with Enzio two hours. He knew they were in.

  Salvatore, one of Enzio’s hoods, took Gino to the hotel room booked for them to spend the night. “Anythin’ you want, just buzz the desk,” he remarked amiably. “A dame, anythin’—no charge.” He also knew which way things were going.

  Gino lay on one of the comfortable twin beds, hands behind his head. With Bonnatti behind them they would be into the big time. They would have the clout to be bigger and better. In no time at all they could be up there with Lucania, the Meyer Lansky mob, Siegel, and Costello. There was plenty to go around—it was just a question of breaking balls to get it.

  Gino could understand why Lucania was always hunting around looking to recruit new young blood. He needed loyalty; they all needed loyalty. And that’s why Bonnatti would help them. Aldo was his cousin. He would be unlikely to stab him in the back…. Or at least less likely than a stranger.

  When Aldo returned he was jubilant. “We’re in!” he exclaimed. “You were right, you smart bum! He wants us to have dinner with him tonight—a little celebration. I should’ve brought Barbara.”

  Gino grinned. “I knew it was all gonna work out. I told you a year ago we should contact him.”

  “So I like to be sure. This way we don’t come crawlin’. We got our own setup an’ he likes that.”

  Gino clapped his friend on the shoulder. “We’re joinin’ the big league, pal.” And as he said it he realized he could safely send for Leonora. Money would be rolling in. Bringing legitimate booze in from Chicago on a regular basis would mean a fuckin’ fortune!

  The Satin Club, located in the loop district of Chicago, was one of the plushest speakeasies around. The clientele was of the highest quality. Politicians, society folk, high-up officials, and, of course, beautiful women.

  Enzio owned a sizable piece of the action. He also owned a sizable piece of Peaches La Moore, the featured entertainer.

  Gino and Aldo sat at a table with Enzio, Peaches, and two of her girl friends. At an adjoining table sat five of his hoods—minus girls.

  Enzio figured he had done the two boys a favor. Juicy Chicago pussy. Little did he know about Leonora and Barbara. Neither Gino nor Aldo were in the market for Chicago pussy, juicy or otherwise.

  “You like the joint, fellas?” Peaches squeaked. She was blond and stacked, with a voice that could curdle cream.

  “Yeh, really a swell place,” Gino replied. He meant it. He had never been in a place like the Satin Club before. The very plushness of it was impressive. And the smell of expensive cigars and perfume got him to thinking that this was the life. What a kick to bring Leonora here and show her off. She would knock spots off any female in the place. She wasn’t all powder and paint. She had true natural beauty.

  “I’m gonna sing soon, boys.” Peaches wiggled in her chair. “You all are in for a treat!”

  “Some treat!” joked Enzio.

  “Don’t be nasty.” She pouted and stood up. “After all, it was my singin’ first got you lookin’ in my direction.”

  Enzio winked and leered at her bosom. “Sure it was, honey, sure it was!”

  “Come on, girls.” Peaches beckoned her two friends. “It’s showtime. Well see all you big boys later—have a nice cold bottle of champagne waiting. You know how thi-i-rsty little Peaches gets!”

  Enzio laughed as he watched her undulate her way through the room. “Dumbhead!” he said affectionately. “They’re all dumbheads. Love ’em and leave ’em—fuck ’em and duck ’em—that’s my slogan.”

  Gino realized that had once been his slogan too. Before Leonora, of course.

  A baby grand piano next to the dance floor was drumming out an introduction, and on strolled the MC. He told a few bad jokes, crooned a love song, and introduced the chorus line of girls who high-kicked their way across the floor.

  “Wow!” muttered Aldo, Barbara suddenly forgotten in the flurry of silver-stockinged legs and seductive feather boas that teasingly nearly covered ten pairs of assorted bouncing bosoms.

  Gino found himself developing an embarrassing hard-on. Who wouldn’t with the life he was leading?

  Then Peaches appeared, spectacular in a sequin frock that oozed over her body like a second skin. She stood in the front and squeaked her rendition of “I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate.”

  Gino immediately understood why the voice didn’t matter. Every male in the place was mesmerized by the body.

  Enzio sucked contentedly on a Havana cigar. “Somethin’, huh?” He sighed proudly.

  Aldo kissed the tips of his fingers. “Cousin, you know how to pick ’em. I think—”

  He never got to finish his sentence. With no warning all hell was let loose as a group of men carrying machine guns burst into the room. They didn’t hesitate; they sprayed the room as if they were watering roses.

  There was total confusion—what with the panic, the screaming, the people running this way and that, and the relentless splatter of bullets hitting flesh.

  Enzio moved like flash lightning as he hurled the table over and sheltered behind it. Aldo was hit in the arm, but Gino was lucky; natural instinct threw him to the floor the moment the first shot was fired.

  “Fuckin’ bastards!” Enzio screamed. “Get the pricks!”

  His men were already returning the fire. But two were down and out, and the remaining three were no match for the group with machine guns, who were now backing out of the room, their work well done.

  Gino dragged Aldo to a safe spot behind him.

  Enzio had his gun out and was shooting around the side of the table. He threw Gino a pistol. “Give it to the bastards,” he roared.

  A woman was wailing louder than anyone. “My husband! My husband! Oh, God, they’ve shot his face away! Oh, my God!”

  Gino caught the pistol and aimed at one of the retreating figures. It was the first time he had ever used a gun, but Pinky Banana had given him pointers on what to do.

  “You got a hit!” Enzio yelled. “Fixed the bastard right
in the guts!”

  The machine-gun fire stopped as the group reached the door and turned and ran for it. They left behind two of their men: the one Gino had shot and another, wounded in both legs, who was trying to drag himself out.

  Enzio didn’t hesitate. He raised his gun, fired, and the man, with one final piercing scream, was dead.

  “Come on,” Enzio muttered, “let’s get the hell outa here before the cops arrive.”

  Gino stood and looked around. The place was a shambles. Broken glass and bodies everywhere.

  “You can’t do nothin’,” Enzio said sharply, as if reading his mind. “Get a hold of Aldo and move it. We’ll stick you on a train—you’ll get him patched up in New York.”

  Gino grabbed Aldo, who, although bleeding profusely, was well enough to curse his way out of the place while hanging onto his friend.

  Enzio led them through the back way into a waiting car. “Move it,” he yelled at the driver, who obeyed immediately.

  “You all right, boss?” his driver asked anxiously.

  “No thanks to the mugs out front. How the frig they get past Big Max and Shotty?”

  “They jumped ’em. There was a lot of shooting. I just got in the car and came to the back like you always told me t’do when there’s trouble. Right, boss?”

  “Sure, right.” Enzio’s voice was hard. “Head for the station. I want these two outa here.” He turned to Gino. “You did all right. I like your style. You’re a pretty good shot.”

  Gino nodded. He was afraid to speak. He was afraid the trembling in his gut would come puking out with any words he spoke.

  They were at the station, and Enzio was almost pushing them out of the car. He wanted them long gone; he had a lot of fish to fry and needed no distractions. “Get Aldo into the toilet—fix him up. Here—take my jacket.” He removed the jacket of his suit and handed it over. Then he clasped Gino warmly by the hand. “I’ll be in touch. We’ll work good together. You proved yourself tonight. I like that—you know when to act and when to stay quiet. I like that a lot.”

  Gino managed to nod. He watched the car roar off, leaving himself and Aldo standing outside the railway station in a heavy fall of snow.