Chances

  Apart from the money Gino handed over to Senator Duke for investment, he had also accumulated safe deposit boxes crammed full of cash in many of the city’s banks.

  He realized that he couldn’t spend his money without showing a source of income, so early in 1933 he bought himself a nightclub with money he claimed to have won at the racetrack. By the time Prohibition was repealed the place had been renovated, and with a brand new liquor licence, Gino was ready to open with a splash. He called the place Clemmie’s, and it was an instant hit.

  He finally persuaded Vera to give up whoring and come to work for him behind the hat-check counter. She had agreed; it gave her more of a steady income to save for Paolo’s return. He had received a five-year sentence for assault with a deadly weapon after only a week out of jail, a week during which he hadn’t even bothered to visit her. “He musta bin busy,” she insisted, now firmly convinced that Paolo was the love of her life instead of a violent petty criminal.

  “You’re nuts, waitin’ for him,” Gino insisted.

  “You live your life, I’ll live mine,” Vera had replied primly.

  Clementine, of course, loved the fact that Clemmie’s was such a huge success. Her appearances triggered off visits by most of New York’s social set, and as owner and front man Gino became a minor celebrity. Women adored him. Clementine was not thrilled by this new development. It was her suggestion that he marry Cindy. “The girl knows everything about you. With federal tax agents sniffing around, you simply must protect yourself. Marry the girl. That way she cannot testify against you should they ever get anything on you.”

  It was a smart idea. “Yeh,” Gino had said. “I think I will.”

  So here he was, in the blue guest bedroom in the Dukes’ Westchester mansion, lying on the bed, smoking a cigar, waiting to get married.

  Time had not withered cute little Cindy. It had put a sparkle in her eye and jewelry on every available appendage. Diamond Lil had nothing on Cindy. One thing about Gino. He was a generous bastard. And so he should be. How many live-in girl friends would put up with his two-timing activities? Not many, that was for sure.

  O.K., so she had moved in with him of her own free will. But that didn’t mean he had to lie to her. Pretend he was engaged, when all the time his San Francisco flower was married to another guy. Cindy had acquired that information when the baby was born. Ten months after she moved in with Gino. Costa had telephoned the news. “Tell Gino, Leonora gave birth to a baby girl.”

  She couldn’t wait. “Oh, Gino sweetie, your fiancée had herself a baby today. I guess the engagement is off, huh?”

  He had turned white and stalked from the apartment without a word. They never discussed it. But it was obvious he was not about to be a married man.

  Cindy continued to make herself a strong part of his life. She knew he was on the way up and she planned to accompany him. Which she had done. And very successfully too.

  Now they were to be married, the final step. And she should be happy as a lark. But she wasn’t. She was mean and miserable and in the black dumps.

  Gino Santangelo was not about to become hers. He belonged lock, stock, and cock to that fucking Duke bitch.

  Costa Zennocotti knocked tentatively on the door of the blue guest bedroom.

  “Yeh. Come in,” Gino yelled.

  Balancing a tray that held two glasses, a bottle of white wine, and a dish of crackers, Costa entered.

  Gino sat up. “Hey, what’s with the wine crap? I told you to get me a drink.”

  “Mrs. Duke said you were to have wine.”

  “Fuck Mrs. Duke.”

  Costa put the tray on a table. “That’s what she said. I wasn’t about to argue with her.”

  Gino laughed. What was it about Clementine that inspired such awe and devotion in young men?

  “So pour me a glass,” he said, inspecting his newly manicured nails. “What you waitin’ for?”

  Costa obeyed. He had arrived in New York the previous day, flattered and delighted that Gino had asked him to be his best man. They had not seen each other since his trip east in 1928, and although they had corresponded, the change in his friend was quite startling. Costa could not quite place what the difference was, but it was there. Gino had that air of unshakable confidence that comes with age, not the twenty-eight years that he now was, but the confidence a successful man in his forties or fifties possesses. He was no longer the rough street kid. From the top of his head to the tip of his shoes he was groomed.

  He had stopped plastering his jet black hair down with grease. He had cut it short and allowed the natural curl to come through. Also, he seemed to have grown taller. Costa didn’t know it, but elevator lifts in his handmade shoes helped there.

  He wore only the finest clothes. Tailored dark three-piece suits Italian silk imported shirts, fine cashmere sports clothes, vicuna overcoats. Gone were the pinstripes and flashy-colored shirts of earlier days.

  Even the jewelry he wore was tasteful. A diamond stick pin in his tie. Solid gold cuff links to match his expensive Cartier watch. And on his little finger a pinky ring—very simple—just one magnificent diamond solitaire.

  Only the scar on his face belied his beginnings, that and the hard black eyes which still made a flat statement of uncontrolled wildness lurking somewhere within.

  Costa consulted his watch. “Exactly half an hour left,” he said nervously. “How do you feel?”

  “Pretty good, kid.”

  “Not nervous?”

  “What’s to be nervous about? I’ve been livin’ with her six years.”

  Costa nodded. Of course he had. Ever since Leonora married someone else….

  As if reading his thoughts, Gino asked casually, “How’s Leonora these days?”

  Costa’s left eye twitched. “Just fine.” He didn’t want to reveal the truth: that Leonora drank, screwed around, and spent no time at all with her baby daughter.

  “And the kid? How old is she now?”

  “Nearly six, pretty as a doll.”

  A lump formed in Gino’s throat, but his voice remained throw-away casual. “Yeh. I bet. What’s she called?”

  “Maria.”

  He stubbed out his cigar. “Nice name.” He thought he might knock Cindy up immediately.

  “Shouldn’t you finish getting dressed?”

  Gino stood up. “You’re right.” He squinted at Costa. The kid looked good. Clean-cut. A typical Joe College who had completed three years at law school and graduated with honors. Now he was working in his father’s office. “You got a steady girl yet?”

  Costa grimaced: “Don’t you read my letters?” he complained.

  “Sure do. Wouldn’t miss ’em.”

  “Then how come you’re asking me if I have a steady girlfriend? I wrote you six months ago that I was engaged to Jennifer Brierly.”

  “That letter must’ve gotten lost in the mail. What’s she like?”

  “Jennifer? You met her. Leonora’s friend when you came to stay that time. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeh… sure… very nice.” He had totally blanked out on Jennifer what’s-it Couldn’t remember her at all. “When you gonna take the big step?”

  Costa looked serious. “I don’t know. We have to wait until I establish myself. A year, maybe two.”

  “Hey”—Gino nudged him slyly—“you remember that cathouse we went to—your first time, wasn’t it?” He started to laugh. “I’ll never forget the look on your face when you came out. You looked like you just discovered ice cream! I bet you never went back to her, though.”

  Costa grinned. “I did!”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  A knock on the door interrupted their reverie. Costa opened up.

  Clementine stood in the hallway, chic and elegant in a Chanel suit of pale pink with a black binding. “May I come in?” she asked sweetly.

  Costa jumped. “Certainly, Mrs. Duke.”

  “Do call me Clementine.” She swept past him and over to Gino. “Hello,” she said softly,
taking his hand in hers. “Is the bridegroom nearly ready?”

  “For what?”

  She licked her thin lips. “For your wedding, of course.”

  “How long I got?”

  “Twenty-five minutes exactly.”

  “Hey, Costa,” Gino said casually, “do me a favor an’ come back in twenty minutes. I got to have a private word with Clemmie.”

  “Anything you say.” Costa threw Clementine an admiring look and exited.

  “The kid loves you,” Gino stated mildly.

  She walked over to the dressing table and inspected her perfect makeup in the mirror. “He does?” she murmured disinterestedly.

  “You can bet on it.” He followed her to the dressing table and put his arms around her from behind. “And so do I—in my way.” Slowly he started to rock back and forth against her body.

  “You do?”

  He continued to rock.

  She felt his erect penis through her clothes. “Gino!”

  He was unbuttoning his trousers. “I want to fuck you one more time while I’m still a single guy.”

  “Don’t be so silly! We don’t have time. I’m all dressed. Not here, anyway. It’s impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” he said, fiddling with the hook on her skirt, “you taught me that.”

  Clementine realized he was not joking. “This is ridiculous,” she objected weakly.

  “Yeah. Ain’t it just?” He had her skirt off and threw it on the bed. Then he was peeling down her pink lace french panties.

  “Be careful of my makeup… my hair…”

  “Bend over the table. I won’t disturb a thing.”

  She did as she was told, anticipation flooding her whole body. He entered her from behind, slowly, luxuriously, as though they had all the time in the world.

  “Ooooh…”—her breath fluttered—“you certainly learned your lessons well….”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  And as he pumped away he thought about marriage, and Cindy, and having a kid.

  And he thought about Leonora for the first time in months.

  And when he came it was an explosion that shuddered through him, wiping out all memories of the past.

  Today was his wedding day. He wanted it to be a new beginning.

  Carrie

  1928-1934

  It was all a total blank: doctors, nurses, hospitals. Faces. Voices.

  Who cared about any of them? They could all burn in hell for all she cared.

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Who are you?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Where is your mother?”

  “Who is your father?”

  “How old are you?”

  Questions. Questions. Questions. Until screaming and screaming finally drove them—the faceless ones—into silence.

  The very next day it was the same old story.

  And all the time her body aching and retching and moaning and stiffening.

  Scream. Agonizing cramps. Scream again and again until finally, one day, they wrapped her in something white and stiff and took her away from the hospital.

  Another world. A room where nobody cared if she screamed, tore at her hair, scratched at her face.

  No questions.

  Still the agony, the cramps, the feeling of impending torture.

  She lived like an animal, grabbing at the food a uniformed guard brought her, stuffing lumps of bread down her raw throat, drinking water like a dog from a bowl fixed to the floor.

  For two years she knew no reason. She was out of her head, her mind an absolute blank.

  Then one night she awoke at 3 A.M. and it was quite clear to her that her name was Carrie. Why wasn’t she at home with her family? She ran to the barred door and called out for help, but nobody came. She was confused and frightened. What had happened to her?

  In the morning when the guard arrived with her food, she hurried to greet him. “What am I doing here?” she demanded. “What is this place?”

  The guard backed away. These dangerous psychopaths were a pain in the ass. You never knew what they would do next. “Eat,” he commanded sharply, putting down the bowl.

  “I don’t want to eat,” she yelled, “I want to go home.”

  A few hours later the doctor came to see her. “I understand we’re talking.”

  She widened her eyes. “Of course I’m talking.”

  “Who are you? What is your name?”

  “My name is Carrie. I live in Philadelphia with my family. I am thirteen years old.”

  “Thirteen?” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes, thirteen.” She started to cry. “And I want to go home. I want Mama Sonny…. I want my mama….”

  They didn’t release Carrie. They kept her. And now that she was no longer like a wild animal, they put her to work. She cleaned rooms, scrubbed floors, cooked meals, and at the end of the day crept to her cot bed in a crowded ward, where she collapsed, exhausted. And so the years continued to pass.

  Once a month she saw the doctor.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “With my family in Philadelphia.”

  There was no way they could let her out.

  Carrie did not understand what was going on. She cried herself to sleep nights. She missed school, her brothers and sisters, her friends. Why were they keeping her in such an awful place?

  There were mad people in the place. Stark raving mad. Carrie learned to stay away from them.

  She was thirteen years old and she had to be careful who she mixed with.

  Gino

  1937

  “Hey,” exclaimed Gino, “you’re really somethin’, you know that?”

  The redheaded hostess named Bee was not about to fall. “Mr. Santangelo! You say that to all the girls!”

  He threw up his hands in mock horror. “Who? Me? You gotta be kiddin’!”

  Bee allowed herself a smile and tossed back her mane of truly wonderful red hair. “You have a certain… reputation.”

  “All good, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.” He stood up from behind his massive walnut desk and stretched. He wanted this girl, but he wasn’t going to jump through hoops. “How long you been workin’ for me, Bee?”

  She shivered. Was it cold? Or did she have the sudden horrors about getting fired? “Three months, Mr. Santangelo.”

  “You like it here?”

  “It’s a nice club.”

  “You had a raise yet?”

  “Not yet.” So that was it. A raise or get fired.

  “You want me to drive you home tonight and we’ll discuss it?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned. “Yes, huh?” His eyes lazily scanned her from head to toe. “How about yes, please.”

  “Yes, please, Mr. Santangelo.”

  His grin widened. He was going to enjoy this one. That hair. That white white skin. And great breasts.

  “Tell you what, come to my office at twelve o’clock.”

  She turned to go.

  “Oh, and Bee? Wear your hair up. Pin it on top of your head. Run along now,” he added dismissively. “I got some calls to make.”

  She left, and he watched her big ass wriggle out the door. He liked big asses, something to grab ahold of. Clementine’s was nonexistent, and Cindy’s was high and round and small, just like a boy’s.

  Cindy. Married to the broad for three long years, and not a sign of any kids on the way. It pissed him off. She swore she wasn’t doing anything to prevent it, so why wasn’t she knocked up?

  Aldo padded into the office. Thirty-one years old and getting fat as a pudding.

  “When you gonna drop some of that lard?” Gino asked roughly.

  “I like my food
. Terrible thing.”

  “You ever get hit by a bullet you’ll melt in a pool of fat.”

  “Can I help it if my Barbara is a wonderful cook?”

  “What’s happening?” Gino asked brusquely.

  Aldo gave him a rundown.

  He yawned. He wasn’t cut out to sit behind a desk and scoop in the money. He liked a little action and excitement. The only place he got any action lately was with the broads he screwed. And yet, in a way he was fortunate. With Senator Duke behind him he was protected. He had friends in high places, and he moved easily among them. But having important and influential friends did not mean total protection. Lucky Luciano, head of the commission, had been sent to jail the previous year on a trumped-up charge of pimping. Trumped up because Luciano had never actually been out on the street selling girls’ bodies. He had headed a vast crime syndicate, and one of the businesses involved had been organized prostitution. Anyway, the poor bastard had ended up in jail with a harsh thirty- to fifty-year sentence. This had sent a shudder of fear throughout the mobs. If Lucky Luciano could get sent up, who next?

  Gino liked to think that he couldn’t be touched because, since splitting with Bonnatti, most of his dealings were legitimate. He didn’t deal in narcotics or prostitution. And violence was not a part of his operation. A few threats here and there by his enforcers seemed to keep business flowing smoothly.

  “You all set on the trip?” Aldo inquired.

  “All set. Leave tomorrow morning. Cindy’s out buying what she didn’t buy yesterday.”

  “Broads! They sure can shop.”

  “You’re telling me.” Cindy cost him a fortune for clothes and hairdos, jewelry and furs. A cheap wife she was not. But so what? He could afford it. He was worth well over a million dollars from his investments alone. Thanks to Senator Duke. Thanks to Clementine.

  He wanted out. Mrs. Duke still looked terrific, but he had just had enough.

  She wasn’t letting go easy. He made excuses. She gave him an alternative time. He said he couldn’t make it. She said when could he?

  He felt trapped. Here he was, thirty-one years old. He had a wife. A mistress. A series of casual lays. Yet he was more trapped than when he was sixteen years old and out on the street alone.