After lunch the men went into the parlor. Gennaro was very hospitable. His operation in terms of square miles was the biggest territory in the country and, pound for pound, he made it pay off in big numbers. He was a powerful man and a good friend to the Prizzis as well as a steady franchisee and a relative. He offered Charley one of his houses, well back in the Mississippi state bayou country about seventy miles away, or an apartment out on St. Charles. Charley said he thought it might be better to be right in New Orleans, in a downtown hotel, where he could get messages and send out his laundry.
“The only messages you’re gonna get are from me or Angelo, right? And we got a staff of three out in the bayou. You can have the real Cajun cooking or Italian. They don’t care.”
“I can’t get used to the country, Gennaro. It’s noisy. The bugs sing, the birds make a racket, and it’s hard to figure out where things are coming from when they’re coming at you.”
“I can set you up with people—a cook, like, and cleaning people out on St. Charles.”
“I’d only have to talk to them, Gennaro.”
“I know what you mean. Good. I’ll put you in a nice, clean hotel in the Quarter. It’s noisy, but it’s the right kind of noise. You want a little company?”
“Broads?”
“Sure.”
“I already got my hands full.”
“Angelo said you’ll be here a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah.”
“What name you traveling under?”
“Frank Arriminata. And hey, Gennaro, I wanna thank you for making room for me here.”
“You are always welcome in my house, Charley. But you didn’t just land here because I like you, you’re here for a reason.”
“Yeah?”
“You remember George F. Mallon, the reform guy who hustles Jesus wholesale and who is running for mayor of New York?”
“Yeah.”
“Angelo sent a man down here Friday, Al Melvini, you know him.”
“The Plumber?”
“He gave me the message from your father, then he went back. George F. Mallon’s son is coming down here to go to a big church convention next weekend. Don Corrado has some plans for him. Corrado wants to make sure Mallon is knocked out of the race before Election Day. We got the son’s hotel here, the New Iberia, and when he checks in he’s gonna get room number eight-twenty-seven, which is at the end of a hall, away from traffic. Angelo wants us to give him a little surprise there.”
“How does he want him set up?”
“Seed him with a coupla ounces of smack. Plant a gun on him—we got just the piece for you. We’ll provide a stand-up broad and you’ll handle all the details.”
“When?”
“Next Sunday afternoon. In the meantime enjoy yourself, and if you need anything just call.”
29
Gennaro got Charley the whole top floor, three rooms, at the New Franciscan Patio Hotel and Restaurant in a safely nonmusical part of the Quarter. Natale said if you were on the wrong street in the Quarter the Dixieland noise could drive you crazy; it never stopped. Gennaro had the telephone company put a private line in Charley’s room so his calls wouldn’t have to go through the switchboard.
Every room was furnished in dark, solid mission style. The bedroom didn’t have closets but two enormous carved-wood armoires and a canopied four-poster bed which was so high from the floor that it could only be reached by climbing a four-step ladder.
Monday night Charley ate in the hotel restaurant, a real Italian joint with a terrific stuffed artichoke and a sensational veal involtini. Gennaro had to own this place, Charley decided, except that this wasn’t any Calabrese cooking, this was Italian-international and it was only one grade under the real thing. He was lucky enough to notice on the menu that the veal came with polenta so he made sure he changed that part to manicotti. Now he knew Gennaro didn’t own this restaurant. Polenta was that bland northern Italian food. Jesus, he would bet they didn’t even know about garlic, but they knew. He couldn’t figure it out.
The place was run by two Italian families, and he got talking to the woman of one of them. She was crazy about the idea of the Crown of Thorns pasta thing he had picked up in New York for next Easter. He asked her where she was from. She said Calabria. He asked her how come the polenta. She said her husband thought polenta was more European-like. She said people who came in from out of state were very respectful about northern Italian cooking. Charley snorted. Marketing, he thought. Whatta you gonna do?
The weather was still nice so he ate in the patio, which had a big tree and good service. He drank a whole half-carafe of wine with the meal. After that he had his meals in his rooms. He didn’t feel much like going out and walking around, because on the first night in the place, after he went upstairs following that terrific dinner, Maerose called him from New York. He kept thinking he better be there at night in case she called back again because the woman had flipped her wig.
She started out cordial—“Cholly? Mae.”
He leaped out of the chair and took the call standing at attention. “Hey, Mae!” he said.
“How come you didn’t call me?”
“Well—maybe Pop told you—this was an emergency trip.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Your father told me a beautiful story.”
“Whatta you mean?”
“I thought maybe your woman told you that you shoulda made an emergency call to me.”
“My woman?”
“Are you going to tell me you didn’t take a woman with you from New York to Miami? Because I got it all in front of me—the limousine ticket for the pickup of you and the woman at the Miami airport, the hotel registration—which it was very considerate at least that you didn’t check in as mister and missus—so save it, Charley.”
“Mae, lissen—”
“I might have been able to take it if you just got hot for some little local broad you happened to run into down there, but you took this one with you. You didn’t take me with you, Charley. Then I have some people check out this woman in New York and the news comes back that you are at her place half the time you are in New York, when you weren’t with me you were with her, so don’t hand me any shit, Charley.” Her voice broke.
“Mae, you been drinking?”
“Aaaaash, whatsa difference.”
“You’re never yourself when you drink that stuff. Nobody is.”
“Listen, Charley—”
“Mae, I gotta see you. It’s no good talking like this on the phone. I gotta look at you and you gotta look at me while we say what we gotta say.”
“What do we have to say?”
“That’s it. I don’t want to say it on the phone.”
“How else can you say it?”
“I have to stay away until after the election. Then, when I come back, we have to straighten everything out.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I am not going to wait around until you get back. I am coming to New Orleans and I’ll look in your eyes and tell you what I see.”
“Mae! Wait! Check it out with Pop before you make a move. This is a tricky thing, the reason I’m in New Orleans.”
“Whatta you think? I just got off the boat? I know why you’re in New Orleans. You are in New Orleans because you want to duck me until you think this whole thing has blown over. It ain’t going to blow over, Charley. Either it’s going to be on or it’s off. For good and forever. I’m coming to New Orleans.”
“Mae, listen. I got a job your Uncle Gennaro wants me to do. I won’t have any time to see you—as much as I want to see you.”
“Either this whole thing matters to you or it don’t. If you won’t come to New York then I’m going there. I’m gonna make you drop the other shoe either on her or on me, Charley. And you know something else?”
“What?”
“I hate big, sloppy broads.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“She may be
big, but she ain’t sloppy. And I’d say the same for you, Mae, if anybody ever said that about you.”
She slammed the phone down on the receiver from somewhere high over her head. He was bewildered. What did he say wrong this time?
30
On Saturday afternoon at 4:23 P.M. Keifetz, George F. Mallon’s chief investigator, and shadow Minister of Defense in the event that Mallon’s destiny would one day call him to the highest office in the land, brought the news that Charles Partanna had disappeared.
“He’s not in New York?” Mallon said, dismayed. “He’s got to be in New York.”
“He left La Guardia on Eastern flight twenty-one a week ago Wednesday for Miami, our investigators say.”
“They are saying that now?. Where have they been?”
“Partanna hasn’t been under surveillance, G.F. You ruled that out. Too expensive. This was just a check to have him ready for the big strike tomorrow morning.”
“Well—where is he?”
“He left the Miami hotel at about six ten that Friday morning, our people tell me, and a car took him.”
“Took him? Took him where?”
“That’s the big blank space, Chief. It was so early in the morning they couldn’t find a cab to be able to follow him.”
“Then, by God, we won’t pay them! That is gross negligence. How are we going roust him out of bed and arrest him at dawn tomorrow morning if we don’t know where he is?”
“I have people working on it at the Miami airport, and with the flight attendants.”
“What attendants? What flight?”
“Well, that’s hard to say, Chief. Miami is an international airport. He could have gone to South America, or Europe, or a couple of dozen cities in this country. But they have pictures of Partanna and if we get very lucky we might run him down.”
“He ran, then. Well, great. That’s something.”
“Pardon?”
“It could be better than nabbing him in New York, TV or no TV.”
“Better?”
“He’s a fugitive. It’s an admission of guilt. We have all night tonight and all day Sunday to fine-tune this thing. Cancel the arrest at Partanna’s apartment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going on the air with the whole story at seven o’clock Monday night and accuse him of being the mayor’s tool in a capital murder. We’ll sensationalize the city with front-page stories. It will rock City Hall back on its heels and right out into oblivion.”
“Yessir!”
“Get Marvin in here. I want him to set up mass sermons from every pulpit in Greater New York on Sunday morning deploring the extent of corruption and vice at City Hall and throughout the police department of this city.”
“Marvin left this morning to prepare for the New Orleans convention meeting.”
“Then put his assistant on it. We’ve got them at last, Norman. I can’t believe that a seasoned hoodlum like Partanna would lose his nerve and run. He’s not only made my day—he’s made me mayor of this city! Good God—the accidents of history. A man kills two policemen, there is a confrontation, the mayor appears on the scene to take advantage of a photo opportunity, and the whole thing leads to the election of a new mayor—and who knows, Norman, that new mayor may go onward and upward—perhaps to the highest office in this land, and then we’ll see if the Commies in our government are going to be able to keep prayer out of the schools.”
“God bless you, G.F.”
“Tell my chief of staff to notify every leader of the Electronic Evangelical Church from coast to coast so that they can point the finger at the mayor of New York, castigate his police, and warn America. And Norman—”
“Yes, G.F.”
“Call my butler, and tell him we have Charles Partanna on the run. It will make him proud to be a righteous Sicilian-American. Tell him I’ll be bringing all the news home tonight.”
31
Pop called him just after eight o’clock Sunday morning.
“How they hanging, Charley?”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Who?”
“Who? Fahcrissakes, Pop—”
“I took her to dinner.”
“Then you saw her. How is she? Did she look all right?”
“She looked any better and I’d have to build a museum around her. She is a masterpiece, Charley.”
“Did you see Maerose?”
“They didn’t neither one of them believe me. And Mae was on the sauce.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told Mae you had a big job in New Orleans and I told the other one the same thing, except it took longer.”
“What am I gonna do?”
“You got to give it time. Sooner or later the going is gonna get too tough for somebody.”
“Me, you mean. I’m gonna fall apart. Mae called me. She said she’s gonna come down here.”
“Charley—what can I tell you? What can you do? Nothing. In the meantime, Mallon is getting ready to throw the book at you. He’s gonna make his big announcement on all the networks tomorrow night. All bullshit. But very dangerous, Charley. You gotta tuck the son in down there this afternoon.”
“Pop, what do I care about that? I’m in deep trouble. What am I gonna do if Maerose shows up here?”
“So you’ll come back here. After the media finishes with the story on Mallon’s son, it’ll be all over and you can come back to New York.”
“That would really fix it, if she gets here and I’m gone.”
“Well, sooner or later you gotta see her.”
“Well, I ain’t ready for a meeting with Mae anytime this year, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll call her and tell her nobody wants to upset the don, that she shouldn’t go to New Orleans. I’ll tell her you’re on your way home.”
“Call her in the morning when she’s sober.”
“Charley—one other thing.”
“What?”
“The other girl—Mardell—”
“Yeah?”
“She picked up a little pneumonia.”
“Whaaaat?”
“She’s all right! Don’t get in an uproar! I got her with a good doctor in a nice hospital and she’s gonna be fine.”
“What hospital?”
“Santa Grazia.”
“In Brooklyn?”
“Why not? We know every doctor and nurse in the place.”
“What doctor?”
“Cyril Solomon.”
“What room?”
“Three-eighteen.”
“I’m going back to New York.”
“Charley!” Angelo’s voice went harsh. “You got a job to do in New Orleans. You think this ain’t a serious thing with Mallon? At the very least you could get fifteen to thirty. Now lissena me. The girl is in the best hands and she’s getting better. Are you a doctor? I see her every day and we talk aboutchew. There is nothing you can do to help her. You stay where you are. Be a man!” Pop slammed down the phone.
Charley stared at the telephone. He understood what Pop was telling him. What kind of a freaked-out thing was getting pneumonia at a time like this?
He called the long-distance operator. He told her he wanted her to get the number of the Santa Grazia Hospital in Brooklyn, New York, and to put in a person-to-person call to room three-eighteen.
“I am sorry. We cannot place a person-to-person call to a number, only to a name.”
“Whoever answers.”
In twenty seconds the number was ringing. The hospital answered and the operator asked for room three-eighteen. Some voice answered. The operator put Charley on.
“Miss Mardell La Tour,” he said.
“Miss La Tour can’t speak on the phone. You shouldn’t have called this room.”
“Where is she?” Charley’s voice panicked.
“She is in an oxygen tent. Who is this?”
“Tell her Charley. Charley Partanna.”
“What? This is Angie Aragona.”
r /> “Angie? Jesus.” The nurse. He had once been very close with this woman. She hadn’t lived in the neighborhood. Nobody in her family was in the environment so they had been very close, in an intimate way.
“Gee, it’s swell talking to you. Like old times.”
“How is she?”
“She’s gonna be all right. A little congestion, a little fever, but the lungs aren’t filling anymore. It’s okay. If she’s a friend of yours I can tell you she’s going to be okay.”
“Then why can’t I talk to her?”
“She’s not that okay. Two or three days. Call back and she’ll be able to talk to you.”
Charley was dazed. He knew he couldn’t override orders from his father and the don, but he also didn’t see how he couldn’t jump on a plane and go back to New York. But what could he do? He might only agitate her and make everything worse if he forced himself into her room. How could he say what he had to tell her talking to an oxygen tent? He didn’t know what to do. He was standing in the middle of the most important thing of his life and he didn’t know what to do. He wired her ninety dollars’ worth of flowers.
32
As Angie Aragona hung up the phone she turned to Mar-dell, who sat in a big, upholstered armchair and was wrapped in a blanket. Angie looked dazed by the forces of memory. “That was Charley Partanna. How come he calls you?”
“It’s a small world,” Mardell said.
“I haven’t seen him myself for like eight years. Not since I’m married. I know you said you wouldn’t take any calls, but if you know Charley and he knows you’re here—how come you don’t wanna take his calls?”
“He hurt my feelings, Angie.”
“Charley? How?—if it’s not too personal.”