Inherit the Mob (25 page)

At three, the dining room was empty, but there was a crowd at the bar in the wood-paneled saloon. Gordon joined a group of reporters, who greeted him with good-natured banter about the soft life he was living as a columnist. No one seemed surprised to see him. None of them had any idea of the life he had been living for the past few weeks, or that right now swarthy men with weapons under their topcoats were cruising the city looking for him. He wondered what they would do if a couple of hoods burst into the cozy room. Who would stand up for him, defend him? He looked at his colleagues and felt an inward chill. None of them would lift a finger. He was on his own. The only person he could count on was his father.

Gordon sat listening to the reporters brag and bullshit. Once, long ago, he had been flattered to be included in these sessions, and anxious to hold up his end with combat stories and rueful tales of memorable benders. He had seen something colorful and heroic in these men, insiders who knew the secrets of the world, intrepid witnesses to history. Now, listening to them drop the names of overrated Third World hotels—the Commodore and the Colony, Raffles and Mena House—they sounded to him like so many Midwestern tourists with stickers on their suitcases.

“I was in Cairo one time and this U.S. senator was supposed to check into the Sheraton,” said Wharton, a bibulous Texan with a red nose and walrus mustache. “So I gave the desk clerk a ten and told him to call when the guy arrived. One hour, two hours, I don’t hear anything, so I call him up. Anything happening, Mohammed? The senator get there yet? All of a sudden, Mohammed says, ‘Wait a
minute,’ and leaves me on the phone. A few minutes later he comes back on and says the senator isn’t there yet. The next day I found out where Mohammed went.” He paused, allowing them to wonder. “Seems somebody just assassinated the prime minister of Jordan, Wasfi Tal, on the steps outside. He went out there to see what happened, but he didn’t bother to mention that. It wasn’t part of the deal.”

There were chuckles from the other reporters. They all had a headful of tales about the Mohammeds and Pedros and Shin Lis of the world. “Fuckin’ wogs,” said the Texan, savoring the story.

“Hey, Jack, you ever been to the Hobbit in Manila?” a man in a bow tie and suspenders asked the Texan. “What a place. Everybody’s a midget. Bartenders, band, waiters, even the bouncer—all midgets. One time I was over there, and we went over to the Hobbit, me and Harvey McKenzie and Gary Lauffer, from the AP. Anyway, we walk in and see all these midgets, and McKenzie goes over to the bar and says, ‘Double bourbon on the rocks, and go easy on the thalidomide.’ ” The reporters laughed. “Easy on the thalidomide,” the bow tie repeated, eyes dancing with mirth.

“Fuckin’ midgets,” said the Texan.

“Gordon, remember the time we were in, where was it, Tel Aviv, or Jerusalem, must have been in Jerusalem because we were with Cy Vance, staying at the King David, I think, which has got to have the worst fucking room service in the world, nothing but cold little kosher sandwiches after midnight. Anyway, we’re in the bar and these two hookers come in, and Dave Gershenson from the
Post
takes one upstairs. So, about half an hour later, he comes down with this shit-eating grin on his face. Turns out the hooker’s got a stack of telex receipts she picked up from her sister, who works at the post office. Gershenson’s got one, made out for international telex charges, one hundred dollars. Remember that, Gordon? ‘I’ll take the whole thing off expenses,’ Gershenshon says. And, you know what? Three days later, he comes down with the clap. And you know what Artie Simms told him? He says, ‘That only proves that when it comes to pussy, you get what you pay for.’ ” The group roared once again.

“Fuckin’ Israelis,” said the Texan. “No offense, Gordon.”

“Yeah, right,” said Gordon. He looked around and saw Todd
Dorfman rush into the room. “Hey, you guys, you hear what just happened?” he said. “John Flanagan got stabbed on Forty-ninth Street on the way to lunch.”

Gordon felt a freezing terror in the pit of his stomach. “Stabbed? What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I don’t have all the details, but apparently he was walking down Forty-ninth and someone tried to mug him. He’s in critical condition.”

“Is he going to make it?”

Dorfman shrugged. “They don’t know yet. He lost a lot of blood, they said. It’s on the radio.”

“Where is he?” asked Gordon, hoping no one could hear the panic in his voice. Dorfman shrugged again. “Didn’t say. Hey, Gordon, I’m really sorry.”

“What for, you didn’t stab him,” said Gordon. “I gotta get back to the paper.”

“This city’s a goddamn jungle,” said Warden. “It’s worse than Beirut. Fuckin’ New York.”

“Hey, speaking of Beirut, did I ever tell you about the time the Shi’ites tried to kidnap Cassie Rutherford, when she was with Reuters in Lebanon …?”

P
ietro Spadafore walked into the Palm Court of the Plaza a few minutes after one, and he was immediately warmed by the appraising gazes of several of the women waiting for tables. After his grim getaway scene with the old man, he needed female company and admiration; Debbie Hearns, a red-haired actress with long legs, an upturned nose and a way of listening with her lips slightly parted, would do nicely.

Pietro was pleased and a little excited to find her with Jupiter Evans. The two women had made a movie together the previous year, and Debbie sometimes spoke of her. Pietro couldn’t help contrasting Debbie’s pert, somewhat shallow beauty with Evans’s strong, sensual face and piercing eyes. He had heard that she was gay, but Pietro didn’t really believe that there was such a thing, any more than he believed in nymphomaniacs or ball busters. To him, each female was a unique fascination; unlike other men, Pietro never classified them.

“Peter, I have bad news and good news,” said Debbie with a smile.
“The bad news is that I have to stand you up—my accountant has something urgent to go over with me, and it’s now or when he gets back from Jamaica two weeks from now. The good news is that Jupiter is my stand-in this afternoon.”

“That is, if you don’t mind,” Evans said in a low, melodious voice.

“Delighted,” said Pietro, meaning it. He had wanted to meet Jupiter Evans for a long time.

“Don’t be too delighted, Peter,” said Debbie Hearns. “I’ll call you later. Maybe we can get together tonight.”

“I’ve got something to do tonight,” said Pietro, keeping his eyes on Jupiter. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And good luck with the accountant.”

Pietro and Jupiter used Debbie Hearns as a conversational shoehorn, agreeing at more than normal length that she was a delightful girl. Another man might have wondered if the two actresses were lovers, but Pietro knew they weren’t. His instincts about women were almost never wrong. He had once read about certain baseball players whose eyesight was so good that they could actually see the stitches on the ball on its way to the plate. That’s the way it was for Pietro with women; he saw and understood them in slow motion, as though they were larger than life.

For twenty minutes or so they kept the conversation light, chatting about new films and the sensational divorce of a local tycoon. As they spoke, Pietro watched Jupiter’s brown eyes soften, and her body lean involuntarily toward him across the table. It was time, he sensed, to lead things in a more personal direction.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” he said, speaking in an easy tone. “I feel nervous just sitting here with you. I’ve admired you for a long time.”

“Really? What have you seen?” she asked.

“It’s not the plays and movies, it’s you,” he said. “Sometimes I watch you act and I feel that you’re special, a person with a secret.”

Evans searched Pietro’s face for signs of stupidity. Only a very stupid man, or a very smart one, would say such a thing. She had been eager to meet Pietro Spadafore because Gordon had talked so much about his father; she thought it would be fun to surprise him with some inside information of her own. She had been expecting a
Brooklyn hood, but Pietro, with his blue eyes and long lashes, soft skin and well-made sensitive hands, was anything but a greaser.

Jupiter followed Pietro’s lead, allowing the conversation to take on a more intimate tone, and she found him almost eerily attuned to her moods. When she came to a difficult subject, he opened the door for her with a graceful word, and then stood aside to allow her to enter. Unlike most men, who tried to impress her with their anecdotes and opinions, or attempted to play on her vanity, Pietro drew her out, made her want to reveal herself. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to lick the smooth skin of his neck, run her hands over his body. It was a sexy thought, and scary; for the first time in many years, Jupiter Evans truly wanted a man.

Pietro leaned forward and looked intently into her eyes. “I know who you are,” he said. “I know you.” Those were the words that Claudette Lawton had said to her at camp, near the lake. Jupiter felt light-headed, a bit dizzy. For a moment it seemed to her that Pietro was Claudette reincarnated in a man’s body.

“Would you like to go to my place?” Jupiter asked suddenly, not even trying to hide the sudden urgency she felt. She had to find out right now about Pietro: whether she was simply responding to his charm and technique, or if her attraction was more profound. “We could have a drink, or, well, we could make love.”

Pietro smiled—it was the most disarming, gentle smile she had seen in her life. “We’ve been making love all afternoon,” he said, and Jupiter had to admit that, yes, that was just what she and Pietro Spadafore had been doing.

W
hen Gordon saw his father sitting in his usual rear booth in the Emerald Isle, he was so relieved that tears sprang to his eyes. Thank God he’s here, he thought; he’ll know what to do.

“Dad,” he blurted out, “they stabbed Flanagan.”

“I heard,” said the old man. “On the radio, coming in.”

“He’s going to pull through, though,” said Gordon. “I talked to Rosen at the paper, and he said that he’s going to be OK. Apparently the knife missed his heart by an inch or so.”

His father said nothing, and his face remained expressionless. “Dad, it was Spadafore who set this up,” Gordon continued. “I went out there today to pay a condolence call, and Sesti told me that he thinks we had Mario killed. He practically said that they were going to take revenge.”

“Yeah, I figured it was Spadafore,” said Grossman.

“And?”

“And I was right. I wouldn’t want to be the goombah who messed up the hit, I’ll tell you that.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say? I’m telling you that they tried to kill Flanagan and they want to get me too, and you’re feeling sorry for some Mafia guy you don’t even know?”

“It was just a figure of speech, Velvel. What the hell do you want me to say? I warned you, goddammit. We sat right here, in this booth, and I told you to keep away from Spadafore. I told you he was poison, but you’re a hotshot, you know everything.”

“OK, you were right,” said Gordon. “You want me to kiss your ass, fine. But right now I’m in trouble. I need your help, Dad. Don’t make me beg for it.”

“Last time we talked you called me a bastard for helping you, if you remember.”

“That was different,” said Gordon, trying hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I was talking about interfering with my career. This is a matter of life and death. Jesus, listen to me, I sound like a soap opera, only it’s not, it’s real. There could be guys out there right now, waiting for me.”

“Yeah, and I could get caught in the cross fire, ever think of that?”

Gordon stared at him. The thought that he was endangering his father had never entered his mind. Grossman saw it in his son’s eyes. “How old are you, anyway? Forty-one, forty-two?” he demanded gruffly. “You got important friends, you go to dinner at the White House. Why don’t you get Ronald Reagan to give you a hand? Get him shot.”

Gordon squeezed his fingers together until the knuckles were white. He longed to reach across the table and grab his father by the throat and choke the arrogant meanness out of him. “You’re not going to help, fuck you,” said Gordon. “I’ll fight these guys myself.” He rose to go, but Grossman signaled with a nod of his head for him to remain seated.

“If you want my help, Velvel, from now on we do things my way. You send me out to Katmandu, wherever, I’d probably screw up, spell the names all wrong. But this ain’t South America, boychik, it’s New York, and Luigi Spadafore ain’t some Hottentot. So, you want me in, I’m in, but I run the show. Deal?”

Gordon could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. All his life he had
resisted this domineering man, and now, in the prime of his adult life, he was turning himself into his father’s little boy again. But there was no choice, really; no one else to go to. “OK,” he said thickly.

“OK, what?”

“OK, goddammit, it’s a deal.”

“Fine,” said Grossman. “Now, first thing, I want you to tell me what’s happened. I want to know everything, every little detail. Don’t leave anything out. You can take your time; I already sold the Rangers tickets.”

Instinctively, Gordon organized his story into a news report, giving a full, concise account of the events of the past two weeks. At every turn he could see how his greed and his inability to control Flanagan had led to disaster. “I just don’t understand John,” Gordon said. “I mean, he’s always been a wild man, but never like this. That stunt with the cake, threatening Spadafore—it’s like he was looking to start a war or something.”

“Now you’re talking, boychik; that’s exactly what he was trying to do.”

“But why? Flanagan knows we wouldn’t have a chance. Two reporters against the Spadafore Family? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Why?” said Grossman. “I’ll tell you why. Because your buddy Flanagan is a burnt-out alcoholic Irishman who probably can’t get a hard-on anymore.”

“Dad, I don’t think that ethnic generalizations—”

“Who’s generalizing? You think I don’t know about generalizations. Jews are supposed to be smart, and look at you. I got nothing against Irishers who drink. The bars are full of sweet old guys with watery eyes playing darts and singing Toorah Loorah Loorah. But your pal Flanagan ain’t one of them. He’s got a death wish. Look, Velvel, I seen this plenty of times before. You ever hear of Ben Siegal?”