“Don’t worry, it’s legit.”
“Says you.”
“You wanna come, or not? My treat all the way.”
“Vegas,” Max said, deeply tempted. “Tina’ll kill me.”
“Run it by her,” Michael said as the girl behind the counter slid their orders in front of them. “Maybe she wants her own night out with her friends.”
“You think?” Max said hesitantly.
“Yeah,” Michael said, reaching for the ketchup. “I’m sure she does.”
“Maybe . . .”
“Look, you’re comin’. I don’t want no argument.”
Later, Michael hooked up with his hot date, an Asian waitress with a penchant for gymnastics.
She arrived at his small, one-room apartment carrying cartons of takeout food and an insatiable sexual appetite. They fucked, then ate, three times in a row. She was so agile that she managed to tire him out, and that was some feat.
Eventually she went home. He liked a girl who knew when it was time to leave. Clingy females were not for him; he appreciated his freedom too much.
Now that he’d invited Max to Vegas he had to figure out a way to mention it to Mr. G. Then he decided no way was the best way. Since he was paying for his friend to make the trip, there was no reason he had to tell.
A week later he picked Max up in a cab and they headed for the airport.
Max was excited. “I didn’t tell Tina where we’re goin’,” he confessed. “She thinks we’re on our way to Atlantic City.”
“Atlantic City?” Michael said, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“Yeah, an’ let me tell you—she wasn’t too happy about that.”
“How come?”
“Considers you a bad influence.”
“Jeez!” Michael exclaimed. “She got you by the short and curlies already?”
“It’s not like that,” Max said quickly. “It’s just that I don’t want her feelin’ left out. She’d kill t’ go to Vegas.”
“She would?” Michael said, not convinced. When he’d been dating Tina she’d never wanted to go anywhere.
“Yeah, she’s into all those rat pack movies, so I couldn’t let her know I was goin’ without her—right? An’ who knows, maybe I’ll get to take her one of these days.”
“On your salary? Forget it.”
“I ain’t always gonna be workin’ in a shoe store,” Max responded indignantly.
“I should ask Mr. G. to hire you, that way you can make some real money.”
“I wouldn’t work for that scumbag.”
“You wouldn’t, huh?”
“No way.”
“He’s sure been good to me.”
“Read the papers. Mr. Giovanni is bein’ accused of all kinda shit.”
Michael knew exactly what Mr. G. was being accused of—extortion, blackmail, loan sharking, even murder. None of it had been proven, so he chose to ignore it.
“Aw, c’mon,” he said. “You don’t believe that crap they write, do you?”
Max thought it prudent to drop the subject. Pissing Michael off was not a good idea—especially since he was paying for the trip.
By the time they arrived in Vegas it was late afternoon. Michael swaggered off the plane feeling quite proud that he was about to show his friend the sights. “I got a room at the Estradido Hotel,” he announced, showing off. “You’ll bunk in with me. An’ if you score a little honey to have fun with before Tina cuts off your nuts, I’ll hang out in the casino till you’re finished.”
“I’m not lookin’ t’ get laid,” Max objected.
“You’re not, huh?” Michael said, poking him in the ribs. “Wait till you get a load of the girls in Vegas. Not only will you wanna get laid, but believe me—you’ll be beggin’ t’ spend the rest of your sorry days here.”
“Not me,” Max said firmly.
Michael grinned. “We’ll see.”
Vito Giovanni’s right-hand man, Tommaso, had issued explicit instructions about how Michael was supposed to handle delivery and collection of all packages. The package on this trip was bigger than usual, so instead of carrying it on his person, he’d had to stuff it in a nylon carry-on bag. “Do not let it outta your possession,” Tommaso had warned. “Not until you make the switch.” Boldly, Michael had inquired what was in it. “Ask Mr. Giovanni,” was Tommaso’s cryptic reply.
Yeah. Sure. Like he’d dare to do that.
The routine was always the same. Meet Manny Spiven for a drink and dinner, spend a few hours with him, make the switch, and be on the early morning plane back to New York.
Michael failed to understand why he was supposed to spend time with Manny. It was dumb, but Tommaso had assured him it was necessary.
This time he’d make the exchange and split. Manny wouldn’t care; their dislike of each other was mutual. That way he could spend the evening showing Max the town, and nobody would be any the wiser.
After checking in, he got the usual message to meet Manny outside the entrance to the Starburst Lounge at eight.
Crap! Now they’d get stuck with the jerk. And what was he supposed to do with the nylon bag—lug it around with him all night?
“We gotta go meet this guy,” he explained to Max. “It won’t take long.”
“What guy?”
“Relax. You’ll have a few drinks, eat good, see a show . . .”
“I wanna gamble,” Max announced.
“How much you got to lose?”
“Who said anythin’ about losin’?” Max joked.
“Shit!” Michael said. “Amateur gamblers are what this town was built on.”
“Lead me to the tables,” Max said confidently. “I’m gonna bust the bank!”
By the time they met up with Manny Spiven, Max had lost every dime he had with him and was in a miserable mood.
“Told you,” Michael couldn’t help saying. “Gambling’s a mug’s game.”
“You gotta lend me fifty bucks,” Max begged. “You gotta do this for me.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Then what chance I got of gettin’ even?”
“No chance,” Michael said grimly.
“Aw, give the poor bastard fifty bucks,” Manny said as Max went off to the men’s room.
Michael shot him a look. He didn’t need Manny Spiven’s advice; he knew what was good for Max, and there was no way the idiot could afford to lose one more dollar.
“He’s through,” Michael said. “This’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Who is he, anyway?” Manny asked.
“A friend.”
“Mr. G. know he’s with you?”
“Sure,” Michael lied.
“That’s funny. Mr. G. usually likes t’ keep things tight.” Manny slurped his drink. “I heard that when his old lady was makin’ the Vegas run she wasn’t allowed no company.”
“Mrs. Giovanni used to do this?” Michael asked, surprised.
“Sometimes. Only she didn’t meet with me. She dealt with Mr. Estradido.” Manny lowered his voice. “Rumor is she was into dyke city.”
“What?” Michael said blankly.
“Dyke city. Suckin’ pussy.” Manny pulled a face as if to say, How stupid can you get? “Gettin’ it on with snatch, for crissakes.”
Shocked as he was, Michael didn’t let on. He kept his expression blank while wondering if Manny Spiven was lying. Mamie Giovanni a lesbo. If Mr. G. ever found out he’d go ape shit.
As soon as Max came back from the men’s room they headed into the lounge, in time for the start of the show. Manny knew the maître d’, so they always got a front table, and Michael never had to show his fake ID, which he carried on him at all times just in case.
He ordered a beer. So did Max, who was still busy bemoaning his losses.
“Snap outta it,” Michael said in a low voice. “You gonna enjoy yourself, or what?”
“Lend me the fifty an’ I’ll enjoy myself,” Max muttered. “I gotta get even.”
“No freakin’ chance,” Michael a
nswered, figuring he was doing him a favor.
Then the music started, and on came the girls clad in their scanty, gold-fringed toy soldier outfits, boobs and legs out front.
Michael immediately spotted the one he liked. Dani, that was her name. Dani with the long blond hair, blue eyes, and dazzling smile. Not to mention a body to die for.
Manny leaned over. “Y’see the cooze with the big tits?” he said, leering and pointing at Dani. “I had her, an’ she ain’t so hot.”
“What?” Michael said, frowning.
“You heard,” Manny responded. “She fucks like a dead fish an’ smells like one too.” He guffawed, rubbing his hands together.
“No shit,” Michael said, his expression impassive.
“I’ve had ’em all,” Manny boasted. “An’ this one was a real dud.”
Michael stared straight ahead, refusing to give Manny the pleasure of questioning him about the girl. She’d fucked Manny Spiven. End of story. He wouldn’t go near her with somebody else’s cock.
“Fifty,” Max pleaded in his ear. “Fifty lousy bucks. You gotta do this for me, Mike. I gotta get even or Tina’ll kill me!”
Angrily Michael reached into his pocket. “Take the lousy money,” he said, thrusting some bills at Max. “An’ when you blow this, don’t come runnin’ back for more.”
Max grabbed the money and took off.
Michael shook his head in disgust. This wasn’t turning out to be the evening he’d planned.
Dani—1964
Guess who’s sitting at one of the front tables,” Angela said as they changed costumes.
Dani already knew. She’d spotted Manny Spiven the moment she’d hit the stage for their first routine, and it had taken all her willpower to block out his offensive presence.
“Manny,” Angela continued. “And he’s with that cute guy I told you about, the one from New York.”
Who cares? Dani wanted to say. Manny Spiven is a rude, horrible, disgusting pig.
“Want me to set you up?” Angela asked, adjusting her feathered headdress.
“No thanks,” she answered coolly. I wouldn’t go out with one of Manny Spiven’s friends if he was the last man standing.
“Then I’ll bag him,” Angela said, quite happy at the thought. “I’m not letting this one slip away.”
As far as Dani was concerned, Angela could do what she liked.
Unfazed by her complaints about Manny, Angela had tried to fix her up on several more blind dates, all of which she’d declined. It seemed that Angela had an endless supply of men, and unfortunately, most nights she brought one or the other back to the apartment.
Lying in bed at night, Dani could hear the vigorous sounds of Angela’s lovemaking coming from the next room. Had she made a mistake moving in with Angela? Sam could be right—maybe she wasn’t ready to be out on her own.
One morning she’d noticed money on the kitchen table. When Angela emerged from her bedroom, wrapping a satin robe around her, she’d asked her where it came from.
“That’s from Petey,” Angela had answered casually. “He told me to buy myself a present. What a guy!”
Dani was naive, but not that naive. Was her roommate getting paid for sex? Everything seemed to indicate that she was.
“I still don’t understand what Manny did that was so terrible,” Angela said, leaning into the dressing room mirror and adding more blush to her already overrouged cheeks. “He’s a man, honey, they’re all horny. What’s the big deal about that?”
“I told you,” Dani answered patiently. “He grabbed me, then yelled all sorts of rude insults when I pushed him off.”
“The guy’s feelings were probably hurt,” Angela said. “Y’see,” she added knowledgeably, “you gotta baby ’em. Deep down they’re all little boys.”
“I don’t have to baby anyone.”
“You sure babied that Sam guy,” Angela remarked. “By the way, he called this morning.”
“He did?” Dani said. “You never mentioned it.”
She hadn’t heard from Sam in over two weeks. She’d been wondering where he was and why he hadn’t called. She really wanted to see him. He was her safe zone—always there to protect her.
“Sorry,” Angela said, pushing up her cleavage.
“Showtime,” yelled the stage manager. “Get your asses onstage, ladies.”
No time to call Sam back now; he’d have to wait.
“Don’t forget to take a peek at the cute guy,” Angela reminded her as they lined up at the side of the stage. “And remember—you blew it, so now he’s all mine.”
In the next number some of the girls were topless. Dani had elected not to go that route, although she was certainly tall enough and the director had urged her to do it, claiming she would make more money that way.
“I prefer to stay dressed,” she’d insisted.
“Hey, babe, your call,” he’d replied. “Although what difference it makes beats me—you can see everything you got as it is.”
This was not exactly true. Minuscule as her costume was, it still covered certain body parts that she didn’t care to put on view.
Angela was contemplating going topless. “I gotta get a tit job first,” she’d said. “My boobs ain’t what they used to be.”
“You’d actually do that?” Dani had asked, quite shocked at the thought of parading half naked in front of hundreds of strangers every week.
“Yeah, maybe. I got me a surgeon friend who promised he’d do it for nothing, only I gotta do him a small favor in exchange.” She’d winked. “Know what I mean?”
Unfortunately, Dani was beginning to realize exactly what she meant.
The girls hit the stage to the sound of Sinatra singing “Come Fly with Me,” a perennial favorite. Dani managed to scrupulously ignore Manny, who appeared to be leering up at her. However, she couldn’t help taking a quick peek at the guy with him. Angela was right, he was exceptionally good looking, young, dark, and extremely handsome.
He caught her looking and averted his eyes. No sign of interest there, which was fine with her. Angela could have him; she couldn’t care less.
By the time they finished their third number she was tired and her feet hurt. Two shows a night was tough and she couldn’t wait to get home.
As soon as they hit the dressing room, Angela was on the move. “I gotta get going,” she said, grabbing her street clothes and hurriedly dressing. “I’m saying hello to Manny, then he’ll have to introduce me to the stud, and who knows what’ll happen then?”
Dani knew exactly what would happen then.
Idly she wondered if Angela would get paid for it, although Manny’s friend hardly looked the type who’d have to pay. He was too movie-star handsome; girls were probably tripping over themselves to get near him.
“See you at home, sweetie,” Angela called, racing from the dressing room.
“She’s such a whore,” remarked Ellen, one of the dancers—a flat-faced, thirtyish redhead.
“What?” Dani said.
“I repeat—she’s such a whore,” Ellen said, carefully peeling off her black fishnet stockings. “I can’t imagine why you hang around with her.”
“I don’t,” Dani said flatly. “I share her apartment. And you shouldn’t call people names.”
“Doesn’t do much for your reputation, dear,” Ellen remarked, wriggling her toes. “You seem like a nice girl.”
I am a nice girl, she wanted to yell. I’m a nice girl caught in a difficult situation.
But she didn’t say a word.
After she’d changed out of her costume, she called Sam from a pay phone. He wasn’t home.
She couldn’t help wondering if he’d found himself a girlfriend. Part of her hoped that he had, because he deserved to be happy. On the other hand, she wished that he hadn’t, because even though she no longer lived in his apartment, it was comforting to know that she was the most important person in his life. Like her, he had no other family.
Once she got home it w
as nice and quiet. When Angela was around, everything always seemed chaotic. She enjoyed having the apartment to herself; it was cool and tidy.
After fixing herself a can of Campbell’s vegetable soup, she curled up on the couch and watched half an hour of TV before taking a shower and climbing into bed.
An hour later she was awoken by loud music: “Baby Love” by the Supremes, followed by Dean Martin crooning “Everybody Loves Somebody,” and then the Beatles’ “A Hard Day’s Night.” Willing herself not to listen, she finally fell back to sleep, ignoring the noises now coming from Angela’s bedroom.
In the morning she awoke early, jumped out of bed, and wandered into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge, poured herself a glass of apple juice, and was just popping a piece of bread into the toaster when a male voice said, “Uh—’scuse me.”
She spun around, cheeks flushing, well aware that the baby doll nightie she had on was totally transparent.
The guy who’d been sitting with Manny Spiven stood there, the handsome one from the previous night.
“Who are you?” she blurted, crossing her arms across her chest, soon realizing that it didn’t do much to cover her lower half.
“Uh . . . name’s Michael. I’m a friend of Angela’s.”
Sure. I heard you moaning and groaning last night. Did you have to pay?
“You startled me,” she said accusingly, backing toward the door.
His dark eyes were all over her. “Bein’ startled suits you,” he said.
Michael. Nice name. He does look like a movie star.
She hesitated for a moment before taking flight, running past him to the sanctuary of her bedroom, where she grabbed her robe and quickly put it on, belting it tightly.
“Your toast’s burnin’,” he called from the kitchen. “Want me to pop it out?”
Summoning all the dignity she could muster, she returned to the kitchen, where he was now pouring himself a cup of instant coffee. He’d placed her toast on a plate.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“Coffee?” he offered.
This was supposed to be her kitchen, and he was taking over like he owned it. He had some nerve. “No,” she said stiffly.
“Sorry about walkin’ in on you,” he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I was lookin’ for Max, an’ the front door was open.” He chuckled. “Guess they must’ve been in a hurry.”