Death Wish

  “So, Ra, you see we building more ‘n more tunnels and piling up guns. We training a army of commandos! It’s all-out time by next Christmas to waste all the Mafia men in Chicago. Then we gonna waste them in New York, Detroit, Cleveland, and everywhere ’cross country.”

  He raised and propped himself up against the headboard. His maroon eyes looked through Rachel.

  He said, “Ra, after me and the Warriors waste the Mafia men ’cross country, I’m gonna . . . Hear me good now, Ra! . . . Me, a convict street nigger, nothin’ is gonna be the greatest, famous nigger the world is knowed, and more’n Joe Louis even.

  “Ra, the people gonna know Jessie Taylor livin’ and dyin’ and dead even, and even white folks eating, crapping, or screwing, they gonna take time and feel sad when Jessie Taylor’s leavin’ and gone. Ra, that’s my dream. What you think?”

  She lay staring at his face through a long silence thinking, How I thought I knew Jessie Taylor from way back . . . and I don’t . . . but I love you.

  He frowned and said, “My dream, Ra, what you think?”

  She said, “It’s such a big one, Jessie . . . I . . .”

  His face was fierce. “Too big for a nigger, huh, Ra?”

  “Hell, no, Jessie, I don’t mean that,” she said, deciding to placate him, certain she would convert him in time to her more practical dream.

  “But hear this, Jessie Taylor, Rachel Taylor will see that you leave this world if you try to trade her in on a fresher model when the glory days arrive. Let’s go to sleep, Jessie, before the sun comes up.”

  He grinned and kissed the back of her neck when she rolled into his arms.

  Just before they fell asleep she said, “Daddy, darling, I’m so sorry we had a fight about past mess.”

  He said, “Ra, I’m sorry too, but sorry even more that dirty nigger Dandy Ike was kilt by his own hand when I got to Detroit looking him up.”

  • • •

  And now in the parsonage office inside the Free Zone, T. saw the massive figure of Kong coming down the church walkway and his thoughts returned to the present and the possibility that Kong and Charming Mills were involved with the dope-jacking gang who had murdered L. C.

  T. remembered Bama’s sound advice about staying cool and springing a psychodrama trap for Mills and Kong to prove them innocent or guilty. But T. was bursting inside to confront and quiz Kong at least in some oblique way and get the matter settled. T. heard Kong’s heavy feet pass the office door and go down the hall toward his quarters.

  T. was about to rise when he heard stealthy feet on the carpet behind him and felt soft hands clap across his eyes. He touched them and said, “Fluffy,” as he spun the chair around and faced his teenage daughter.

  She sat on his knee and fiddled with the blue wool collar of his shirt. “Mama sent me to get you to come to bed so she can sleep,” she said. “Did I find you or what?”

  He grinned, and she slid to her feet as he rose from the chair.

  “You found me, Fluffy, and tell Ra I’m coming.”

  They walked to the door embracing waists. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead and said, “Baby girl, reading late is got them pretty eyes red. You gonna go to sleep now for T. Dad?”

  She smiled up at him. “If I get a big hug and a good-night kiss,” she said with her bright tan pixie face upturned.

  He hugged her fondly and kissed her tip-tilted nose. She pranced her long, shapely legs down the hall a few paces and came back with enormous gray eyes sparkling intrigue. She looked up into his eyes and said, “T. Dad, I’m not nervous and tenderhearted like Mama, and you say I’m very good with a rifle. So promise me I can stay and fight with you if and when they come.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before he said gently, “Fluffy, you ain’t never gonna shoot at no true target ’cause T. Dad gonna keep them too busy for them to come here.”

  He spanked her rump, and she went down the hall beneath a row of cut-glass chandeliers that gleamed her black natural.

  He waited until she disappeared and strode briskly down the hall toward Kong’s door. He stood at the door fighting for control of his rising temper, with hand extended to knock. Suddenly, he heard an insistent hissing sound behind him and spun around to face Bama across the hall outside his apartment. T. stood with mouth ajar watching Bama’s index finger crooking in the air. T. sighed and crossed the hall with a sheepish look on his face.

  Bama whispered, “Man, will you take your ass to the gym or between Rachel’s legs and work that gorilla out of you before you blow our plan?”

  T. said, “Bama, you right. I gotta come to myself.” He turned away and went toward his apartment. But he quickly stopped and came back to Bama.

  Bama said, “Well?”

  T. said, “I wonder if Love Bone Larry’s sister is in the phone book?”

  Bama said, “Why?”

  T. said, “ ’cause I’m gonna have her called to wire her straight about the dago being the one behind Love’s wasting.”

  Bama nodded, and T. leaned forward and said, “How’d you know I was gonna get on Kong’s case?”

  Bama grinned and said, “It was easy, nigger. Your moniker is Tit For Tat, ain’t it?”

  They laughed, and T. went away shaking his head.

  13

  Tonelli, with his arm around Collucci’s shoulder, had seated him at the conference table in the glare of a ceiling lamp. Collucci knew it was done to humiliate him.

  Collucci had slipped on sunglasses and listened for many minutes to the programmed mouth of underboss Cocio spew a thinly veiled attack on him. His dark face was bland, but his eyes were slitted in hatred and contempt behind the black windows of his glasses.

  Family consigliere Louis “Papa” Bellini was seated near the end of the table with Collucci. Bellini fidgeted and pressed his gnarled fingertips against his temples as if in pain.

  Joe Tonelli was smugly neutral.

  Cocio paused to sip from a glass of water. Collucci stared at his widow’s peak slashing down the olive forehead toward his hooked nose and thought, That little cocksucker sure looks the part for where I’m sending him.

  Frank Cocio set the glass down and locked his unblinking black eyes on Collucci’s face. He said in Sicilian, “Giacomo, tell me, does your ambition roar so loud inside your head it drowns out your hearing to the truth I spoke about the lousy drug business?”

  Collucci lifted the corners of his mouth in a barely perceptible sneer. “Please, sir, excuse me, but in defense of my ambition I am forced to . . . remind you that many years ago under your hand and teaching I became ambitious enough to lead a mob that snatched a thousand cars a year for you.”

  Collucci paused, shrugged, and said, “Excuse me again please for saying that since that time I was inspired to my present ambition by your example. I thought I heard you say the hard drugs have more value and profit in the smallest package than gold, and even money in most of its denominations. If my hearing is not good then I apologize.”

  Cocio said, “You heard me say that, but you could have assumed I was aware of the profits in narcotics. Are you denying that the blood and the trouble of the drug business outweigh the returns?”

  Collucci shrugged. “Sir, how can I deny what Mr. Tonelli said earlier was decided by the National Commission?”

  Cocio tented his fingertips beneath his pointed chin and stared balefully at Collucci. Cocio tapped the Love Bone Larry Flambert death account on the front page of the black Daily Defender on the table before him. “This is what I mean, narcotics and killings on the front page of this colored paper. It’s already hinting dope and Mafia and stoking the kind of heat that the Commission and everybody wants to avoid.”

  Collucci said, “We . . . The Commission can’t be hurt because some spick broad and her jigaboo get knocked off.”

  Bellini said, “Francesco, aren’t the white press and police buying the jealous spick theory?”

  Cocio said, “Yes, Luigi, but maybe his sister or somebody
will dig up a connection that some hungry bastard from one of the white dailies will run down to ‘publishable substance.’”

  Tonelli said, “We got real stand-up political friends from the big city and state governments all the way into the White House.” He shrugged and lit a cigar. “As a member of the National Commission, I can assure that anybody who affects adversely any of our important friendships will be finished quickly.”

  Cocio said to Collucci, “The girl . . . was it necessary to . . . ?”

  Collucci said, “Excuse me, sir, but at his trial she heard too much. I ask you respectfully to trust my judgment and efficiency since you yourself guided me in the old days in matters of this kind.”

  Cocio said, “The old days are gone, and your romancing around with dope and blood must stop before you make the headlines.” Cocio glanced at Tonelli and continued, “You want to be a fucking star, go to Hollywood. And you’ll find more broads than even you can handle.”

  Collucci glared venomously at Cocio and thought, The lovesick bastard wants the Commission to hit me so he can beg to suck Olivia’s shit through a straw. So, snake, here’s a kick in the ticker.

  Collucci calmly said, “I was through with the drug business the instant Mr. Tonelli told me the Commission’s wishes.” He glanced at Tonelli and said to Cocio, “Excuse me, sir, but you have perhaps insulted the father of Olivia Tonelli Collucci when you suggest my unfaithfulness. If you could but imagine yourself the husband of the magnificent Olivia, you would realize the impossibility of my unfaithfulness.”

  Cocio darted an embarrassed look at Tonelli and said, “Mr. Tonelli knows I meant no insult.”

  Tonelli smiled and pushed his palms in the air toward Cocio. “Francesco, I would advise my son-in-law to dally with broads here and there along the road.” He shrugged. “After all, how otherwise can any guy fully appreciate a truly superior woman?”

  Cocio studied a report of raids made on the organization-protected enterprises on the South and Westsides by Tat Taylor’s Warriors.

  Tonelli said, “Giacomo, your respect for the Commission pleases me very much.” Then Tonelli put his elbows on the table. He clasped his hands together and compassion flooded his face. “The dope is bad . . . very bad,” Tonelli said.

  Collucci stared at him in awe as he remembered Tonelli’s long track record of cold-blooded nonfeeling.

  Tonelli went on with great pain on his face, “The kids, Giacomo . . . I saw little colored kids in Harlem no older than Petey with a habit. I am saddened at the thought my beautiful twin girls could one day be poisoned with the dope. You, myself, all fathers, a wise man said, ‘must realize their obligation of fatherhood to all children.’ Think about it, Giacomo, and feel proud to drop the goddamn dope business.”

  Collucci smiled and nodded assent. A thrill of superiority and power shot through him to hear and see the softness and vulnerability of Tonelli crop out. For the first time at the table Collucci felt some of his tension drain away. He lit a cigarette and stared at Tonelli with a warm smile. He thought, You senile old cunt, soon I will put you out of your misery.

  Bellini’s heart galloped wildly. He had seen the imprint of the derringers when Collucci lit his cigarette. Bellini sat smiling his perpetual half smile and scrutinizing Collucci’s performance, determined to seize him if he moved to use them.

  Cocio glanced up from the report of Warrior attacks and said to Collucci, “Taylor and his Warriors will soon attack this place if they are not stopped. You brag of learning from me how to handle urgent problems like Taylor. Those at this table know how I kept the coloreds in line.

  “Mr. Tonelli before me also kept a lid of steel on them. Taylor goes on and on shoving his black ass in our faces. Every day he is allowed to live is an insult to your responsibility.”

  Cocio paused, his black eyes bright with triumph. Bellini, with eyes a-twinkle, switched his attention to the smug face of Tonelli and back to Cocio.

  Cocio waved his hand airily and said, “Giacomo Collucci, if you can handle only rabbits perhaps someone who can handle Taylor the lion should fill your position, eh? Perhaps you should exchange positions with the little tiger Momo Spino on the Westside and handle the soft craps and loan businesses.”

  Collucci carefully removed the dark glasses and locked his yellowish eyes on Cocio. Collucci shaped a smile as he languidly inhaled, and then exhaled a blast of smoke. “Mr. Cocio, I agree Taylor is overdue . . . more than twenty years overdue,” he said. “For a month after we gave Willie Poe the big salute, I begged your permission, I even wept, so much did I want to put Taylor to sleep. But, do you remember your words, Mr. Cocio? You laughed when I showed you my crooked wrist and the scars Taylor gave me. You told me to write off my kid grudges. ‘And anyway,’ you said, ‘I have much more important work for you to do than getting the harmless flunkey of Willie Poe.’”

  Collucci looked deliberately at Tonelli who darted an evil look to Cocio.

  Collucci went on, “But, Mr. Cocio, I will take all the responsibility for that mistake. Awkward as it would have been, I should have appealed above you for permission from Mr. Tonelli, or if necessary, somehow to Mr. Bellini. Forgive me, friends, for poking into the unpleasant past, but it is better than confusion.”

  Cocio stared at Collucci with insensate hatred.

  Collucci beamed his most charming smile and leaned forward. “I have Taylor set up . . . Soon now he will be like an aching tooth extracted and we can all get together and celebrate over glasses of good vino.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Tonelli said, “Yes, Carlo.”

  Dinzio, the bodyguard, opened the door a bit and stuck his bearded head into the conference room. “The nurse wants a word with you, Mr. Tonelli,” Dinzio said in heavy Sicilian. “Something about the twins.”

  Tonelli dipped his head, and Dinzio admitted the nurse to Tonelli’s presence.

  The elderly Sicilian nurse stepped inside the room with a harassed face.

  Tonelli said, “What is it, Louisa?”

  She wrung her hands. “The twins, Mr. Tonelli . . . The twins, they are spoiled for only your singing of the Old Country lullabyes. I am hoarse as a goose, and still they lie awake crying for you.”

  Tonelli smiled his pleasure and said, “Tell them I am coming faster than Batman and Robin.”

  Louisa closed the door, and Tonelli shrugged and waved his palms helplessly in the air. “I myself spoiled them rotten, so what can I do?” he said, rising from his chair. He was followed by the others.

  Collucci murmured pleasantries and started to shake hands all around. He had to literally hem in Cocio. He seized Cocio’s hand, limp and hot with anger. He smiled into Cocio’s face and crushed the small hand in his powerful paw for a wincing instant.

  Tonelli looked past Bellini as they exchanged last words to say to Collucci leaving the room, “Take my love to your family, Giacomo.”

  Collucci nodded and followed Dinzio and Cocio down the hallway toward the reinforced steel door. Dinzio manipulated the electronic device in his palm and the steel door, thick as a vault door, swung open.

  Cocio turned down the corridor toward his ancient dwarf of a mother sitting in the living room. She was peevishly cutting her eyes at him for his neglect of her during the long conference.

  Collucci went down the corridor past the guards’ lounge to the elevator. He pressed the “down” button. His Patek Philippe winked two A.M. He felt a presence behind him. He turned slightly and snared Bellini in the corner of his eye. He turned and smiled into Bellini’s frozen face, waiting for it to thaw and blossom for him as always.

  Collucci thought he caught a glacial glint in Bellini’s eyes as he said in soft Sicilian, “Giacomo, you will take time to drop me off to pick up my car at the service station?”

  Collucci said, “Yes, Papa, be happy to.”

  The elevator door slid open and Collucci stepped aside and followed Bellini into the cage. He was surprised by Carl Dinzio getting on as the door w
as closing. As the cage zoomed down, Collucci wondered about Bellini’s first and only coldness toward him in their thirty-year friendship.

  He glanced at Bellini’s face, and Bellini’s eyes avoided him. He shifted his back into a corner to face Dinzio and Bellini. His mind churned up the unthinkable thought that his fit of paranoia forced him to think. Had double-headed snakes Tonelli and Cocio somehow poisoned his old friend and mentor against him, and now on the elevator these two would put him to sleep?

  Collucci stared at Bellini popping the knuckles on his monstrous hands, still powerful at the age of eighty-five. He stared at the monsters and remembered that strong rumor had it that Bellini, in his youth, had crushed thirty or forty throats fulfilling contracts in Sicily and in America.

  Collucci watched Bellini’s hands with one eye and the hands of Dinzio with his other eye. He loosely braced himself in the corner. He jiggled his arms so the derringers tickled the heels of his palms.

  The elevator reached the basement. Collucci thought he caught Bellini giving him a peculiar look as he left the elevator. Collucci delayed stepping out of the cage for the instant it took for Dinzio to split off from Bellini.

  Moments later, Collucci drove Bellini through the tunnel to the street in silence.

  Bellini said, “It’s Del Campo’s station.”

  Three blocks from the penthouse and with the blazing lights of the station in sight, Bellini said, “Giacomo, pull over and park for a few words with me.”

  Collucci parked and snuffed the car lights and engine. All the while he locked Bellini’s hands in the corner of an eye. Collucci fidgeted and listened to Bellini’s chronic bronchitis scratching the long silence and thought, Christ, Papa! Dear friend, don’t turn around on me.

  Bellini said in Sicilian, “Giacomo, I am very sad for you.”

  Collucci laughed hollowly, “Why, Papa?”