Beirut Incident (12 page)

Joseph maintained — still did — that after they visited Alfredo's New Jersey place, he drove his brother back to the city, leaving him off on Sullivan Street — the spot where he'd picked him up. No one had ever been able to prove otherwise. Officially, Alfredo Franzini had been kidnapped off the streets of New York by persons unknown. Unofficially, the authorities knew better.

Only Joseph Franzini could support their suspicions, and Joseph Franzini never wavered from his story.

Joseph had made a great show of vowing vengeance against whoever had abducted his brother. He took Alfredo's wife, Maria Rosa, into his own home — "for protection," he said — along with her daughter, Philomina, who was just three years old at the time. Maria Rosa had died two years later of cancer, but Joseph had continued to care for his two brothers' children as if they were his own. He had never married.

Popeye Franzini continued to talk, an articulate mountain of flesh encased in a chrome and canvas cage with spoked wheels.

"…So then I sent Louie on to Columbia and he graduated
magna cum laude.
Since then, he's been running the Franzini Olive Oil business, and that's just about the only thing we have going that is producing the amount of revenue that it should."

"What did you study, Louie?" I was curious.

He grinned self-consciously. "Business administration. That's why Uncle Joe thinks I might be able to straighten out some of our operations."

"What operations are we talking about?" I asked the old man.

He glared at me.

"Look," I said. "If you want me to work with Louie, I have to know what we're getting into. You forget, I just got here yesterday."

He nodded. "All right. We're talking right now about porno, securities, numbers, trucks, vending machines, laundry supply, and narcotics."

"No prostitution?"

He waved the idea away disdainfully. "We leave that to the flashy black pimps." He looked thoughtful. "We do have other operations, of course, but those I named are the ones we're having trouble with."

I turned to Louie. "You done your homework on these?"

He sighed and looked a little embarrassed. "Well…"

Popeye explained. "Louie's never been in any of the operations. I worked hard at keeping him out, except for olive oil, and that's legit."

I tried to keep from smiling. In the Red Fez in Beirut, after I had pulled my trump with the tube of heroin, Louie's manner had implied that he was right in there, one of his Uncle's men behind all the Franzini rackets. In reality, he knew almost nothing about their inner workings. And Franzini wanted him to straighten out the «operations»? My skepticism must have shown.

"Yeah. I know," Popeye said. "It sounds crazy, maybe. But the way things have been going… something has to be done. I think Louie can do it by streamlining our business practices."

I shrugged. "It's your ball game. Where do I come in?"

"Louie here is my efficiency expert. I want you — somebody new to the organization — to provide the muscle. These guys all work for me, and they do what I say. But sometimes they have to be convinced more directly. They're not going to want Louie poking around in their operations because they're probably cheating me somewhere along the line — I know that. If Louie goes by himself, they're going to try to bamboozle him. If you go along, they'll know I sent you just to let them know this is coming straight from me and no shit about it."

For the job I was supposed to be doing for Uncle Sam, it was a heaven-sent opportunity. "Okay. Now, you mentioned porno, securities, numbers, trucks, vending machines, laundry supply and narcotics. What is 'trucks'?"

The old man grasped both wheels of his wheelchair with gross hands and moved himself back from the desk a foot or so before he answered. "Trucks' is what we call our hijacking operation run by Joe Polito. It's mostly garment district stuff, once in a while a little hardware like TV sets or stoves. We took three hundred stoves out of Brooklyn the other day. But it's been going bad. The cops, the feds, even the Ruggieros, everybody's cracking down."

"The Ruggieros?" I was amused. If he thought he was having trouble with the Ruggieros now, wait until he got that package with Larry Spelman's clothes in it!

He dismissed the Ruggieros with a wave of his hand. "Nothing big. Some of our boys picked up a garment truck the other day, then a couple of Ruggiero's boys hijacked
our
boys."

"I thought things were coordinated between the families in New York."

He nodded a massive head. "Usually. This time, Ruggiero said it was a mistake, that his boys pulled the job independently."

I laughed. "You believe that?"

He glared back at me. Levity was not part of Popeye Franzini's way of life. "Yeah, I do. Once in a while you have to let the boys go off on their own. You try to control them a hundred percent, and you're asking for a lot of internal troubles."

I could see his point "What about the other operations?"

"Pretty much the same thing. Nothing I can put my finger on; things just seem to be going badly. I think it may be because over the years we've gotten too loose, spent too much time trying to do things legit. We did better when we played it tough. That's what I want to get back to. Play it tough! Good business procedures, but tough!"

He paused. "By the way, you can use Locallo and Manitti if you need them. Just give them a week or two to get used to the city, that's all."

"Right."

"That reminds me." He half-spun in his wheelchair, so that he was pointed toward the doorway. "Philomina!" he shouted. "Philomina! Did we get that Beirut report yet?"

She appeared immediately in the doorway. "No," she said quietly. "Nothing yet." She disappeared again.

"Goddamn!" he exploded. "That report was due in yesterday and isn't here yet! I can't find Larry any goddamned place! The whole goddamned business is falling apart!"

He didn't know the half of it yet, I thought to myself.

It was remarkable the way he could switch from one personality to the other, from the cool, self-appraising businessman with the carefully structured sentences to the shouting, fuming Italian tyrant, petulant when things didn't go his way, morose when they did.

Now he pounded a fist on the armrest of his wheelchair. "Goddamn! You got to get this straightened out. Now! And find Larry, too. He's probably on a goddamned heroin nod somewhere. I got to have him. Get the hell out of here and go find him!"

Louie got up and started for the door, but stopped when he saw I'd remained seated.

The old man glared. "Well?"

I shrugged. "I'm sorry, Don Joseph. But I can't work for nothing. I need some money up front."

He snorted. "Money! Hell! You stay with me, you'll get plenty of money." He regarded me somberly for a moment, then turned toward the doorway again. "Philomina!" he yelled. "Give this new guy some money. Give him a big one." He spun his wheelchair again in my direction. "Now get out of here, dammit! I got things to do."

"Thanks." I got up.

"And I want to see you at the party tonight."

"Yes, sir."

He was still glaring as we left the office, a huge old man in a wheelchair, a weird combination of helplessness and power.

I went to where his niece was counting out some bills on her desk and stared at her face — and the white sweater. She paid no attention.

"Here." She handed me a sheaf of bills. I could have been the paperboy getting fifteen cents for
The New York Times.

I leafed through the bills. Twenty fifties.

"Thank you, Philomina," I said politely. "Your uncle pays very well, doesn't he?"

"My uncle sometimes overpays," she said snippily, emphasizing the "over."

She looked past me to Louie with a sudden smile. "I'll see you tonight, Louie. I'm awfully glad you're back."

"Sure, Phil," Louie replied, looking embarrassed.

Outside on the sidewalk, we walked along together. "What's with your cousin, Louie? Should I change my after-shave or what?"

He laughed. "Oh, don't pay any attention to Philomina. She does a great job for the olive oil business, but whenever she gets into… uh… other operations, she gets up on her high horse. She doesn't want anything to do with it, really."

"What the hell does that mean? She's old enough to know she can't have it both ways, isn't she?"

He laughed nervously, hands jammed deep in his pockets as we strode along. "Well, it's not really both ways as far as Philomina is concerned. It's just that once in a while she has to give somebody some money or something, like she just did you. Usually, we don't conduct organization business in that office. I guess we did today just because Larry disappeared somewhere and wasn't around to take Uncle Joe over to the Counting House."

"The Counting House?"

"It's over on Spring. It's a big old building we use to keep our records in. Kind of a headquarters."

We walked along in silence for a few minutes. Then Louie spoke up again. "Where do you suppose we can find Larry?"

"Don't ask me. Hell, I just got here yesterday."

"Yeah. I forgot." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Look, why don't you go back to the hotel and get some rest. We'll see you over at the restaurant tonight… about nine o'clock."

It sounded like a fine idea to me. I certainly had no desire to go off looking for Spelman. Particularly since I knew where he was. "Great," I replied with unfeigned enthusiasm.

He went off cheerfully, whistling, his hands in his pockets, heading for the subway, I guessed. I hailed a cab and went back to the Chelsea.

Once back at the hotel, I called Jack Gourlay at the
News.
It seemed strange giving my right name over the phone td the operator.

"Nick Carter!" Jack's slow voice repeated. "When the hell did you get back to town?"

"A while ago," I hedged. "Listen, Jack, I want a favor."

"Sure. What can I do for you?"

"I wonder if you could slip into a story somewhere that Larry Spelman is missing and that the Franzinis think the Ruggieros might have something to do with it."

The best way to get someone to think something sometimes, is to tell them what they are supposed to be thinking.

On the other end of the line, Jack whistled. "Get it into a story, hell! I'll make it a story! But is it true, Nick? Is he really missing?"

"He's really missing," I said.

"And do the Franzinis think…?"

"I don't know," I answered quite honestly. "But I'd like them to."

He was quiet for a moment, then, "You know, something like that could start another gang war in town. Those two families haven't been getting along so well lately."

"I know."

"Okay, Nick. As long as you're sure Spelman is really missing."

"He's missing. Really."

"Okay, man, you're on. Anything else I should know?"

"No, Jack. But I really appreciate it. I'm kind of busy now; maybe we can get together for dinner or drinks one of these nights when I get clear."

"Love to," he said, and hung up. Get Jack Gourlay started on a story and he doesn't want to fool around with small talk.

I stretched out on my bed and took a nap.

I arrived at Tony's Garden for Philomina's party at about nine o'clock that night and my first impression was that I should have called the FBI instead of Jack Gourlay. The place was so packed with Italian hoods it looked like a 1937 rally for Benito Mussolini.

Usually, Tony's is a quiet little bar-restaurant that once was a hangout for has-been and would-be writers and is now a mecca for the current crop of Village bohemians and hippies high on philosophy, low on cash. The iron-barred peephole in the back door attested to the fact that it had been a speakeasy back in Prohibition days.

It is always dark, with black walls trimmed in dark brown and all the light subdued. The dining room is fair-sized, but overcroweded with rough-hewn tables. Once past the tables, a small barroom is squared off with elbow-level counters and a row of undecorative coathooks. All in all, it is dark, dingy, and devoid of decor, but for years it has been one of the most popular places in the Village.

My first surprise was the number of people jammed into the place. The tables had all been removed except for three long ones in front of the fireplace which were piled high with Italian pasta of unbelievable variety. It was a standup party with buffet dining and an open bar, everyone with glass or dish in hand. From the barroom a small combo enthusiastically played Italian songs.

Don Joseph Franzini and his guests of honor were the only ones seated, lined up in a row behind piles of long-stemmed roses that covered the top of a single long table set up in the corner. It was Philomina's birthday party, but Franzini held the place of honor, a great mass of flesh enclosed in tuxedo elegance. Philomina Franzini sat on his right and next to her a large, buxom woman I didn't recognize. Louie sat on Franzini's left and next to him a short, portly man with a cherubic face and soft, snow-white hair.

A small crowd pressed around the table, shaking hands, paying their respects, introducing the old man to this one or that one. The attention all centered on Franzini; his niece sat lovely and demure, a set smile on her face, rarely saying a word. But as I edged closer, I saw there were dozens of small white envelopes interspersed among the roses. As I watched, a couple more were tossed onto the table.

I was puzzling over that phenomenon when Louie spotted me on the edge of the crowd. He immediately jumped to his feet and came over.

"Hiya, Nick! How are you? Good to see ya!"

"Hi, Louie." He took my elbow and ushered me into the barroom. "Let's have a drink. I get claustrophobic sitting there with all those people closing in around me."