Costa thought quickly, his mind raking for an instant solution. “The cops—” he began.
“Forget it,” Dario interrupted. “My father wouldn’t like the publicity.”
The picture became clear. One of Dario’s pickups had turned on him. “I know someone,” Costa said slowly. “You just stay put.”
“Oh God!” Dario’s voice filled with panic. “Oh God! I think he’s getting… out. Costa! You’ve got to help me—he… he is… Oh Christ!”
The line went dead in Costa’s hand.
Wide-eyed with fear, blood dripping from her torn earlobes, Carrie backed into a corner as all around her the noise and commotion grew. Her long black hair fell around her face, and the sour taste of bile filled her mouth. I’m going to throw up. Oh, Christ, I’m going to throw up.
The sound of glass shattering filled her ears, and two excited women ran past her, yelling, “Let’s go git us a free Tee Vee.”
She staggered out of the supermarket after them, surrounded by men, women, children, all loaded up with as much food as they could carry. One thought filled her head. Get to the car. Get out of these mean streets.
“Hi there, sister, y’all take these.” A giggling fat woman thrust a package of paper towels at her. “I cain’t carry ’em, an’ I sure ’nuff ain’t leavin’ ’em.”
Carrie held the package dumbly. Where was her car? Where had she left it? She shook her head. Goddammit, woman. Pull yourself together. You’ve got to get out of this place.
Of course. Her car was in the parking lot. But if she got in her car and left, what then? She had come up to Harlem for a reason. Protecting Steven was more important than getting out of this place.
But then she remembered that her gun was in her purse, and her purse had been grabbed.
She hurried to the parking lot, just in time to see her car speed past her. Her beautiful dark green Cadillac Seville, all the windows open, the stereo radio blasting out, and her two young assailants sitting comfortably in the front seats. Of course. The keys to her car had been in her purse.
She wanted to cry, to scream, anything. Instead, she just stood stock-still, allowing the hate to course through her body. Deciding for sure that whoever had lured her back here was going to die—one way or another.
“Mr. Santangelo.” The pretty stewardess bent and whispered in his ear. “There’s been a total power failure in New York so the pilot is taking us to Philadelphia, where we can land. I do hope it won’t inconvenience you too much.”
Before he could reply, the captain’s voice came booming through the cabin speakers with the same message.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Santangelo?” the stewardess asked solicitously.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. He was pissed off at not being able to set foot in New York. Seven years away and now this.
The woman who had chosen to sit beside him came staggering back from the toilet. “Philadelphia!” she moaned. “Can you imagine?”
Yeh. He could imagine. Total chaos.
Gino
1923-1924
The job Gino did for Charlie Lucania—wheelman on a bootleg hijack—was to change his whole life. It was a grudge set up against people who had doublecrossed Lucania. Gino was chosen to replace Zeko because they needed someone clean; if the gang was caught there would be no threads leading back to Lucania.
So Gino found himself out on the road behind the wheel of a brand new Packard which he had picked up at a designated spot. Two freelance hoods rode with him.
He was nervous as hell, but when the King of Booze asked you to do something you couldn’t exactly turn him down. Anyway, it was his fault that Zeko was out of action, although the creepy little bastard deserved more than a busted arm.
In a way, Gino was flattered to have been picked out. The fact that he had a reputation was a buzz—and he certainly wasn’t about to let anyone down. It was a well-known fact that Charlie Lucania was always on the lookout for fresh young talent. “You build an empire out of loyalty—” he had been known to say, “catch ’em young and treat ’em right and they ain’t gonna stab you in the balls.”
He drove the Packard well. The job went without a hitch. And the next day Eddie the Beast turned up at the garage and handed him a packet containing fifty crisp one-dollar bills. “You done good,” Eddie stated. “We’ll be callin’ on you again.”
Gino was knocked out. Fifty bucks! For driving a car! Shit, he had never had fifty bucks in his life.
He wanted to celebrate, and what better way than buying himself a new outfit? He had seen a suit he wanted in a tailor’s window, black with a white pinstripe, the sharpest goddamn suit he had ever set eyes on. And now he could have it!
He didn’t wait until work was finished, he just walked, with Pinky Banana calling after him, “Hey, Gino, what’ll I tell the boss?”
“Tell him he can shove his job up his ass,” he replied confidently. After all, hadn’t Eddie the Beast said “We’ll be callin’ on you”? Why the hell should he be busting his ass fixing other people’s cars for a few lousy bucks a week, when he could pull in fifty crisp new singles for a couple of hours’ work?
He bounced off down the street, walking on air. He felt his eyes had been opened. Suddenly he knew what he wanted in life. Money. Plenty. And you didn’t get what he had in mind working your balls off nine till five. No sirree. Charlie Lucania had had no golden beginning, but he had grabbed opportunities when they came his way—and look at him now. A big man. A hero. Tough, sure, but when you were brought up on the streets, tough was the only way to survive.
The tailor took the suit out of his window reluctantly, and then only after Gino had flashed money before his eyes. It was too big, the jacket ludicrously long and the pants at least three sizes too large. He stared at himself in the tailor’s mirror, frustration mounting. “It don’t fit,” he stated blankly.
“I can alter it,” the tailor offered. He had seen the money and wanted it. “A week. You come back and it’ll fit you perfect.”
“Tonight.”
“Impossible.”
Gino narrowed his eyes. “Tonight,” he said in his toughest voice. “How much extra?”
A deal was set, proving to Gino that if you had money you could buy anything.
He swaggered off down the street well pleased with himself. He had money to burn and time to spare.
He headed for Fat Larry’s, but there wasn’t too much action there. Sliding into a booth, he ordered himself a double chocolate soda.
He hardly noticed the pretty little blonde at first, but she kept on swaying past his booth, firm breasts jutting purposefully out. Then he remembered. Little Miss Cuteness from the other night. He fingered the ugly black stitches still holding his cheek together. “Hey, you!” he called to her.
She stopped beside his booth, eyes wide and very blue. “Me?” she questioned innocently.
“Yeh, you.” He pointed to the scar on his cheek. “See what I got on account of you?”
Her big blue eyes didn’t waver. She was uncommonly pretty. He had a sudden hot desire to get his hands on her magic button.
“Ain’tcha gonna say thank you?”
She tossed blonde curls imperiously. “Thank you so much for stopping one of your friends from attacking me.” She had a breathy soft voice which didn’t quite match the sarcasm she was trying to inject into it.
“One of my friends!” He was incredulous. He pointed to his cheek. “You think I got this from one of my friends?”
“I don’t really care where you got it.” She stared at him. “It looks pretty horrible—that’s all I can say.”
As she turned to walk away, he was on his feet. “Hey, you!” he yelled, furious at her sassy attitude, “don’tcha know who I am?”
She smiled sweetly. “Some punk, just like your friends.”
She walked over to where two girl friends waited nervously by the door.
“I’m Gino Sa
ntangelo!” he shouted. “G - I - N - O. Remember the name, you’ll be hearin’ a lot about me.”
“Oh, sure,” she said sarcastically, and the three of them exited.
He shook his head in disbelief. Smart-ass broad. And for that he had gotten his face ripped up? He should have let Zeko have her, knock some of the shit out of her.
He wondered what her name was. Where she lived. Who she was. He finished his ice-cream soda.
Time enough to find out.
Gino had never visited a whorehouse. Unlike his friends he had never needed to—fresh young pussy was plentiful on the street for him. He had his choice and he took it. He had heard about the girls at Madam Lola’s, though. Real hotshot whores who charged twelve dollars for opening their legs. Some price. What did they have, fur-lined pussy?
Catto and Pinky Banana usually got it on with a band of hookers who looked like they’d give Dracula a fright. Three bucks for maybe a dose of the clap. That was one trip Gino would never go on. But a real high-class whorehouse…. With tramps who charged twelve bucks…. Well, he figured he should try everything once. Besides which, he had a free afternoon—and carrying a big bankroll around certainly got you hot.
Madam Lola was a thin high-yella woman with flinty bloodshot eyes and a snapdragon mouth. She looked Gino over from head to toe and snapped a sharp “Yes?”
He was suddenly aware of his appearance: scuffed work clothes stained with oil and grease and thick dirt under his fingernails. Maybe he should have waited until he picked up his suit. But what the hell. He knew enough about whores from Vera. If you had the money it didn’t matter what you looked like. He reached into his pocket and flashed a few bills.
Madam Lola snatched, but he was not about to get conned. “How long do I get for twelve bucks?” he demanded.
She laughed. “How long? Sonny, two minutes is about all you’ll be able to manage. It’s come and out” She beckoned him with long red-laquered nails to follow her, leading him through a beaded curtain into a musty room full of velvet couches and small tables piled high with illegal booze. Madam Lola took care of all the right people in all the right places.
The room was disappointingly empty. Gino had imagined a selection of gorgeous girls lying around ready for him to inspect.
“Sit,” Madam Lola said. “I’ll get you a girl.”
“I’d like a drink first.”
“You’re too young to drink.”
“I’m too young to fuck, but you’re letting me. So make it a double scotch.”
She pursed dragonfly lips. “A tough little guy.”
“The name is Gino Santangelo. Remember it. You’re gonna hear a lot about me.”
“Really?” The sarcasm was thick.
“Yeh, really. And for twelve bucks I get to choose, don’t I? Wheel in the girls.”
Humping a whore was different. Gino’s choice, a small pretty blonde, was matter-of-fact and businesslike. She led him into a bedroom, stripped off her thin kimono, and lay expectantly on the bed, legs parted. This was a very different situation from doing it in back lots and on rooftops. Gino hesitated, then took off his trousers and shorts and was surprised that he wasn’t as hot as he’d thought he was. In fact he was disappointingly limp.
“First time, honey?” the whore questioned sympathetically.
“You kidding?” he replied belligerently.
“No need to be embarrassed.”
Him—embarrassed? What a laugh. Gino the Ram. The first time in his life he wasn’t able to get it up.
The whore sat up. She had very small breasts, one of them faintly bruised. She reached for his penis.
He backed away. “No,” he said quickly, “I wanna do somethin’ else.”
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“I wanna tongue you.”
“Huh?”
“Tongue you—lick you—suck you.”
She looked alarmed. She had been a whore for six whole months and straight fucking was all that had ever been required of her.
“Lie back, spread your legs open,” he demanded.
The small blonde was unsure of herself now. “It’s probably extra,” she whined. “I’ll have to ask Lola.”
“Oh no,” replied Gino, gaining in confidence every minute, “cheaper, I would think. But I’ve paid the twelve bucks an’ I’m not lookin’ for a refund.”
“How old are you anyway?” she muttered, lying back and opening her legs.
“Old enough to take care of you.” He took a deep breath and plunged in.
The sensation was strange. He explored her stickiness with his tongue, reveling in the smell and taste of her while she lay very still, her legs rigidly spread. Instinct took his tongue to the magic spot, and he knew he was on target when she let out a small involuntary groan. He worked his tongue diligently. If he was to learn something new, he wanted to be sure he learned it good.
Soon her legs relaxed, and the stickiness turned to a hot smooth wetness, and her groans became louder.
A brisk knock at the door interrupted them. “Everything all right in there?” Madam Lola’s voice sang out.
“Everything’s fine,” he replied. “Just fine.”
The whore was rolling around on the bed now, and Gino returned to his work. He opened her up with his thumbs and she loved that. Then he plunged his tongue deep inside her and felt her spasm.
He was good and hard now. He came up and moved his prick into her.
She was out of control and moaning loudly. Gino joined her in her climax, and they moved across the bed stuck firmly together. They stayed that way for minutes; then gradually the whore realized what had happened and, embarrassed, extracted herself and slipped into her kimono, not looking at him.
He laughed, pleased with his first effort. “Good, huh?”
“Where’d you learn that?” she couldn’t help asking. “With you,” he replied, climbing off the bed and getting dressed. “Now I can go out and try it on the real world.”
The suit fitted excellently, and Gino gave the tailor an extra buck for doing such a fine job.
He admired himself in the mirror. Very sharp indeed. But a black shirt would be better. And new shoes would not hurt. He fingered the ugly black stitches cutting a swathe down his cheek, smelled the whore still on his thumbs, and smiled.
“Come back any time,” the tailor said eagerly, “any time at all.”
“Yeh. I might just do that.” He swaggered somewhat self-consciously out onto the street. He felt like a king. New suit. Madam Lola’s. Money still left in his pocket.
As he walked his mind buzzed. He did not want to become like his old man, a fucked-up two-bit gangster whose greatest kick in life was beating up on women. Being locked up was not an experience he wished to repeat. The Protectory had been bad enough; he had no illusions about jail.
But then again who wanted to spend their life lying around under other people’s cars? Getting covered in oil and dirt and grease? Getting paid peanuts?
Not Gino. He wanted money. He wanted all the good things that money could buy. And no way was he going to get what he wanted legitimately.
Paolo was a fool—and fools got caught. Gino had different plans. He was going to be a big man like Charlie Lucania. And the time to start was now.
The job he had done for Lucania had gone like a breeze. All it had taken was a couple of hoods with rods, a driver, and a car. Easy pickings. Fifty bucks for him. Probably twice that amount for the others. So the overall haul must be worth plenty.
He made his way to Fat Larry’s, where Pinky Banana and Catto pounced on him.
“Wow-wowee, where’d ya get it?” Catto sang.
“I want one too.” Pinky Banana rolled his eyes and fingered the material. “Mama, I want one too!”
“No reason why ya shouldn’t get one,” Gino said. “I got an idea. All we gotta do is get us a couple rods, steal a motor, an’ hey-hey—we’re in business!”
“Rods.” Catto blinked. “I don’ want any part
of that.”
“Not to use,” Gino said quickly. “Just to threaten with—works like a dream.”
Catto wiped his nose on the side of his sleeve. “Whatcha talkin’ ’bout, Gino?”
“Money,” he replied. “There’s plenty about. What the fuck we workin’ our asses off for? Whyn’t we get out on the street an’ take it, just like everyone else?”
It could all be worked out, of course—if you had enough money. And that was his problem. With the new suit and the whore, there wasn’t that much change left over from the fifty. To get money you needed money. Maybe if he told Vera what he had in mind she would bankroll him…. He could cut her in on the action, certainly pay her back with a profit.
Later that night he decided to pay her a visit. He had promised he would drop by, let her know how he was getting on. And if he was in luck Paolo would not be around.
Vera was not working. She was also not sober. She lolled on her bed, the only illumination in the room coming from a street light near the window. At Gino’s knock she said, “Come in, put your money down, an’ get on with it.”
“Hey, it’s me,” he said quickly. “Just dropped by to see how you’re doin’.”
“Doin’ fine,” she mumbled, “jus’ fine.” She paused to reach for a bottle beside the bed, took a swig, then added, “Who the hell’s me?”
“Gino, of course!” He reached for the light switch, clicked it on, and wished he hadn’t. She was not a pretty sight. Her dirty satin nightdress had been ripped off one shoulder and exposed her breasts, which were covered with livid red cigarette burns. Her face was almost pulped, both eyes swollen and slitted.
She stared at him lethargically and attempted to smile. Several of her front teeth were missing.
“I look a mess, don’ I?” she slurred. Tears welled up in her eyes and slid silently down her bruised cheeks.
He had no need to ask who had done this to her. He only knew that she should get to a hospital immediately.
He went over to the bed and cradled her body in his arms. She smelt like a brewery, and on top of this there was the pungent odor of sweat and urine.