Lullaby Town Part 11

"Very good, sir."

Thomas climbed into che Taurus and pulled away. I said, "I never heard anyone say 'very good, sir' in real life before."

"I keep trying to break him of it, but, you know, he's working his way through Columbia Law."

Roland and I turned off Barrow onto Fourth. To get Maxie going, Roland had to lift him to his feet, then give little tugs on the leash to point him in the right direction. Maxie's tongue stuck out and a ribbon of drool trailed along the sidewalk and his back legs lurched along with a mind of their own. The arthritis.

As we walked, Roland's eyes flicked over faces and storefronts on both sides of the street, sometimes lingering, mostly not. Still a cop. He said, "Sal DeLuca is your old-line dago. Came up as a hitter through the Luchesi mob back in the forties, and by the time that broke up, he had a big enough crew and enough power to form his own family. Sal the Rock, they call him. These dagos are big on the names."

"What are they into?"

"Gambling and loan-sharking and the labor rackets here in lower Manhattan. We're in DeLuca family territory right now."

I looked around for shadows lurking in doorways or people with tommy guns, but I didn't see any. "How can you tell?"

"Over in OCCB they got a territory map hung on the wall with New York carved up so it looks like its own little United States, here to here the DeLucas, here to here the Gambozas, here to here the Carlinos, like that. A bunch of guys called capos capos each have their own crew of soldiers and run their own businesses, but the each have their own crew of soldiers and run their own businesses, but the capos capos all answer to the all answer to the capo de tutti capo capo de tutti capo, the boss of the bosses."

"The G.o.dfather."

"That's it. In the DeLuca family, that's Sal. Charlie's got his own crew, and his own business, but he's still got to answer to Sal. Most of the time, the capo de tutti capo capo de tutti capo retires, he pa.s.ses it on to his kid. He's lined things up so that the kid has the biggest crew, the most money, like that. Sal bought Charlie a meat-packing plant." retires, he pa.s.ses it on to his kid. He's lined things up so that the kid has the biggest crew, the most money, like that. Sal bought Charlie a meat-packing plant."

"I've been there."

Rollie made his hand like a gun and touched his temple. "He's a nut case. Absolutely out of control. They call him Charlie the Tuna. You see, with the names? They call him the tuna because he's put so many guys in the ocean."

Great. Just what you want to hear.

We turned off Fourth onto Sixth and started south toward Little Italy. When we were waiting for a light to change, Maxie suddenly growled and ran sideways, back legs moving faster than his front legs, drool trailing from the corners of his wide shovel mouth like wet streamers, trying to bite something that wasn't there. A couple of guys in watch caps waiting next to us traded looks and moved out of range.

Roland looked sad and said, "It's hardest when their minds go."

Maxie snapped at the air until he wore himself out and then he broke wind again and sat down. One of the guys who had moved away frowned and shook his head. I said, "Sounds like digestion problems, too."

Roland made more of the sad nod. "Yes."

When the light changed, Roland helped Maxie up and got him pointed in the right direction and we crossed.

We turned off Sixth onto Spring and went into a little place called Umberto's. A bald guy in a vest hustled up to Rollie with a lot of smiling and a lot of buon giorno buon giorno and brought us to a booth across from the bar. A couple of dozen people were already eating and more than half of them were speaking Italian. Dark eyes moved with Rollie and voices lowered. The maitre d' snapped his fingers and a kid with spots on his face brought water. Maxie sat on the floor next to Rollie and panted. When the maitre d' and the kid were gone, I said, "They don't mind the dog?" and brought us to a booth across from the bar. A couple of dozen people were already eating and more than half of them were speaking Italian. Dark eyes moved with Rollie and voices lowered. The maitre d' snapped his fingers and a kid with spots on his face brought water. Maxie sat on the floor next to Rollie and panted. When the maitre d' and the kid were gone, I said, "They don't mind the dog?"

"Max and I been eating here for years. When I was with the cops, I kept book on half the guys in this place. We nod, we smile, it's like a game we play. This place is owned by the Gamboza family."

"Here in DeLuca territory?"

Rollie sipped his water and nodded. "Used to be there were only five core families, with everybody killing everybody else over territory and business, but now there's eight, nine families and these guys all like to make like they're Lee Iacocca, everybody polite, everybody doing business with everybody else as long as the other guy pays rispetto rispetto. You know rispetto? rispetto?"

"You want to do business in another guy's territory, you don't just move in. You pay respect. You ask permission and you give him a piece of the action."

"Yeah. Vito Ratoulli, the guy owns this place, he's a soldier for Carlino. He pays the DeLucas six percent of his gross to do business here. Vito makes the best calamari diablo around, he treats DeLuca with respect, old Sal even comes here to eat sometimes. Works both ways. Some of DeLuca's people have businesses in Carlino territory."

The maitre d' came back and put a large white plate between us. There was a little white bowl of olive oil and basil in the center of the plate and a dozen paper-thin slices of prosciutto fanned out around it and a row of small hot rolls around the edge of the plate. The rolls were warm and slick with olive oil and little pieces of garlic. Rollie folded up a slice of the prosciutto, swirled it in the olive oil, ate half of it along with one of the little rolls, then gave the rest to his dog. He said, "You like spicy food?"

"Yes."

Rollie told the maitre d' that we wanted the calamari. The maitre d' went away. I said, "What part of Italy are your people from?"

Rollie made a booming laugh. "You eat enough macaroni, you lose your taste for red beans and fat-back."

I said, "Why'd the families make peace?"

Rollie spread his hands. "Organized crime isn't just the dagos and the kikes anymore. The brothers up in Harlem used to be under the mafia's thumb, but now you got civil rights. The black man figures he can do his own crime and not have to pay the dago. You got your Crips and Bloods and they ain't just street punks anymore. You got your Jamaicans and your East Indians, and those cats come up here believing in voodoo and s.h.i.t. They don't give a d.a.m.n about no Sicily. You got your Cubanos and your Chinese Triads and all these little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds from Southeast Asia. s.h.i.t." Rollie frowned and thought about it. "The families knew that if they didn't hang together, they'd be run out of business, but it ain't an easy peace. There's still plenty of bad blood. No one likes showing polite, and no one likes showing respect, and a lot of bodies were buried before the families decided how they were going to divide up the crime and the territory. Your DeLucas and your Gambozas hate each other all the way back to Sicily, but they hate the n.i.g.g.e.rs and the c.h.i.n.ks worse. You see?"

"Anybody do business with the other guys?"

"s.h.i.t."

"I want Charlie DeLuca to turn loose somebody he owns."

Rollie ate another piece of prosciutto. "Charlie the Tuna isn't a guy you can talk with."

"They never are."

Rollie smiled. "You got anything to give him?"

I shook my head.

Rollie made a little shrug. "I'll ask around. Maybe I can help you out."

"I figured I'd go talk to him, see how he feels about it. You know where I can find him?"

"Try the meat plant."

"I did. He's sorta tough to see."

"Probably ain't there most of the time, anyway. The wiseguys own these businesses, but they don't like to work. Try a place called the Figaro Social Club up on Mott Street, about eight, nine blocks from here."

"Okay."

Rollie frowned at the last piece of prosciutto, picked it up, then swirled it in the oil. "This guy, he gets hot, he ain't so good at controlling himself. That's why he's always in trouble. That's why his daddy has to clean up after him."

"I know."

"He's a nut case, Elvis. Certifiable." He spoke slowly. "This ain't L.A."

I said, "Rollie, in L.A. we got Richard Ramirez and the Hillside Strangler,"

Roland stared at me for a minute, then nodded again and ate the prosciutto. "Yeah. I guess you do."

Maxie suddenly charged sideways, snapping and barking at something that only he could see. Roland George got the sad look again and gendy reeled him in and mumbled soft things that the dog could not hear and petted him until he was calm. I thought I heard him say Liana.

After a while the little dog took a deep breath and sighed and sat at Roland's feet. He broke wind loudly. Everyone in the restaurant must have heard, but no one looked. Showing polite, I guess. Paying respect, I guess.

When the calamari came, it was excellent.

Sixteen.

The Figaro Social Club was on Mott Street, squeezed between a shoe repair shop and a place that sold fresh ground coffee, looking sharp with one of those padded doors upholstered in red naugahyde. The naugahyde was cracked and had maybe been wiped down in 1962 but not since, and the doorstep and the gutter were littered and oily and wet. A small CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC sign was hanging on the door. I thought it all looked sort of crummy, but maybe I was just suffering from West Coast Bias. On the West Coast, big-time mobsters spent a lot of money and lived in palaces and acted like they were related to the Doheny family. Maybe on the East Coast such behavior was considered gauche. On the East Coast, the well-established mobster probably went in for the rat-hole look. sign was hanging on the door. I thought it all looked sort of crummy, but maybe I was just suffering from West Coast Bias. On the West Coast, big-time mobsters spent a lot of money and lived in palaces and acted like they were related to the Doheny family. Maybe on the East Coast such behavior was considered gauche. On the East Coast, the well-established mobster probably went in for the rat-hole look.

I pushed through the red door and stood in the entry for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. Charlie DeLuca and a couple of guys built like bread trucks were sitting at a bare wooden table, shoveling in pasta with some sort of red sauce. Behind them, Joey Putata and a short, muscular guy were wrestling a full beer keg onto the bar. An old guy in a white barman's bib yelled at them to go easy with the G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing. In the back of the place a tall bony man with a long face and a hatchet nose was shooting pool by himself. His shoulders were unnaturally wide, as if he should have been twins but wasn't, and he was X-ray thin, with pale skin pulled tight and lean over all the bones. His hair was black and s.h.a.ggy and stuck out in spikes on top, and he wore black Ray Ban Wayfarer sungla.s.ses and black roach-killer boots with little silver tips and tight black pants and a black silk shirt b.u.t.toned at the neck. All the black made the pale skin look as white as milk.

The bartender saw me first and flagged his hand. "Hey, can't you read? We're closed to the public."

"I know. I'm here because I want to see Mr. DeLuca." You give them the mister when you're hoping for cooperation.

DeLuca and the two guys at his table looked over, and so did Joey Putata. When Joey Putata saw me, he stopped wrestling with the beer keg and said, "Oh, s.h.i.t." He hadn't said anything about the clam bar.

"My name is Elvis Cole, Mr. DeLuca. I want to talk with you about Karen Lloyd." I was laying it on thick with the mister.

DeLuca blinked at me, then looked at Joey Putata. "I thought you got rid of this f.u.c.k." Probably wasn't laying it on thick enough.

Joey said, "Hey, Charlie, we gave him the word. I took Lenny and Phil with me. We gave him the word real good."

Charlie turned back to me and went back to work on the pasta. I think he was eating tongue. "You're the creep from Disneyland, right?"

"Nope. I'm the creep from Los Angeles."

"What's the f.u.c.king difference? It's all talking rabbits out there anyway, ain't it?"

The two guys sitting with Charlie and the little bartender thought that was a good one. One of the guys sitting with Charlie had big arms and a lot of gut and a gray sharkskin jacket over a blue shirt. His collar tips were long and stuck out over the jacket. Twenty years out of style. He said, "Hey, Charlie, you think this mook knows Minnie Mouse? You think he plays hide the salami with old Minnie?" Everybody laughed except the guy back at the pool table. He was staring at the pool table and holding the cue stick as if it were a guitar, gently bobbing his head in time with the music.

Charlie said, "You got some nut coming here. Didn't Joey tell you to knock it off and go home?"

"Joey didn't do a good job."

Joey said, "Hey, f.u.c.k you."

Charlie turned back to me with the same hard eyes he was giving Joey. "Joey's a piece of s.h.i.t. I got guys who can do better, Mickey Mouse." He turned enough to look back toward the pool table. "You think you can do better than this piece of s.h.i.t, Ric?"

The guy with the pool cue nodded, still staring at the pool table. Ric. He looked almost seven feet tall.

Charlie said, "You're bothering my friend Karen, Mickey Mouse. That's not good."

"Not anymore, Charlie. Now I'm working for her because she's working for you and she wants to stop. You see?"

Charlie stopped with the knife and fork and said, "Karen."

"She'd like to retire."

"Karen been talking to you?" He wasn't liking it.

"I found out some things and I asked her about them. She's hoping we can work something out."

Charlie put down the knife and fork and made a little hand move to the guy with the twenty-year-old clothes. "Tudi, see if he's wired."

Tudi came around the table and patted me down. I stood with my hands raised and sort of out to the side while he did it. He took out the Dan Wesson, opened it, pushed out the bullets, closed it, put the bullets in my left pants pocket and the Dan Wesson back in my shoulder rig. He took out my wallet and tossed it to Charlie DeLuca. Tudi started at the tops of my shoulders and went down each arm and my back and my front and my crotch and each leg. He took off the G-2 and went over the seams and the fabric, and then he took off my belt and checked that, too. While he did it, Ric knocked pool b.a.l.l.s around and Charlie DeLuca looked through my wallet. Tudi said, "He's clean."

DeLuca closed my wallet and tossed it back to me. "I never met a private d.i.c.k before. Private d.i.c.ks around here know they f.u.c.k with Charlie DeLuca, they end up with the fish. You know what they call me?"

"Charlie the Tuna."

"You know why they call me that?"

"They can't think of anything better."

Joey said, "You see? The guy's a wisea.s.s. I couldn't help the wisea.s.s wouldn't listen." Whining.

Charlie said, "Shut up, you piece of s.h.i.t."

Joey shut up.

I said, "Karen wants to move on. Maybe we can work something out so that you get what you want and she gets what she wants."

Charlie nodded, two guys sitting around a bar, shooting the breeze. "What's your cut? You f.u.c.kin' her?"

"No cut. I'm just trying to help a friend."

"Yeah. You know the old saying, if it ain't broke, don't fix it?"

I said, "There are ways we can work this. You can find another bank to launder your money."

He smiled and spread his hands and looked at Tudi. "Tudi, you know what this guy is talking about, launder our money?"

Tudi said, "s.h.i.t."

I said, "Okay. How about you move someone else into Karen's place. She'll stay on until they're in place, and then she'll leave. That way you don't lose a thing and everything stays just as it is."

Charlie made the smile again and did more with the hands. "I don't get this guy. I say one thing, he says another. Maybe he don't speak English out there in Disneyland. Whatta they talk there, mousetalk?"

Tudi went, "Eep, eep." Everybody thought that was a riot.

I said, "Karen wants out, Charlie. She's leaving."

Charlie pushed his plate of pasta carefully to the side and leaned forward. "Try to get this through your head, mook. What she wants does not matter. Do you know what matters?"