On the plane winging its way toward the States from Beirut, I looked at my seat companion, Franzini's nephew Louie. Out of the nineteen hundred gangsters who made up the Franzini family, he was the only one I could call a friend. And for anything besides a nonstop conversation, I doubted he'd be very useful if things got rough.
I looked out the window again and sighed. It wasn't the type of assignment I relished. I picked up a Richard Gallagher novel and began reading it, to get my mind off my immediate future.
After three hours I had finished it, we were still airborne, the immediate future still looked bleak, and Louie had started talking again. It was not a happy flight.
We were met at the airport by Larry Spelman, Franzini's personal bodyguard. Louie, I gathered, was held in fairly high regard by his uncle.
Spelman was at least an inch taller than my six-feet-four, but narrow and bony. He had a long, high-bridged nose and piercing, wide-set blue eyes. Gray speckled black in overlong sideburns, but he figured to be only about thirty-five years old. I knew him by reputation: hard as nails and fanatically loyal to Popeye Franzini.
He had a surprisingly booming laugh as he grabbed Louis by both shoulders in an affectionate grasp. "Good to see you, Louie! The Old Man sent me out here to meet you myself."
Louie introduced Manitti, Locallo and myself and we shook hands all round. Spelman stared at me curiously, the blue eyes unwavering. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
He damned well might have. I could think of any of a dozen assignments on which I might have been pointed out to him. One of the factors in the success enjoyed by organized crime in this country has been its remarkable intelligence system. The underworld keeps as close tabs on government agents as the government does on underworld figures. I had never met Spelman personally, but it was quite possible he might recognize me.
Damn! I thought. I'm in the country five minutes and already I'm in trouble. But I played it nonchalant and hoped the deep tan I'd picked up in Saudi Arabia would throw him off a little. The adhesive tape across my forehead had to help, too.
I shrugged. "Ever been in New Orleans?"
"No. Not New Orleans." He shook his head fretfully. "You any relation to Tony?"
Tony?"
"Tony Canzoneri, the fighter."
Goddamnit again! I'd forgotten my name was Canzoneri now, even after having heard Louie introduce me that way just a moment before. A few more lapses like that and I'd really be in trouble.
"He's my cousin," I said. "On my father's side."
"Great fighter!"
"Yeah" I had the feeling Larry Spelman was keeping the conversation going so he could study me longer. It was a funny game we were playing. He knew that I had just come from Madame Su Lao Lin in Beirut and that Canzoneri would not be my real name.
It wasn't a game I enjoyed. Sooner or later he was going to recall who I was and the whole charade would blow up. But there wasn't much I could do about it at the moment "See you in a minute," I said. "I have to go to the john."
I took my bag with me, and in the privacy of a men's room stall, quickly transferred Wilhelmina and Hugo from the suitcase to their accustomed places: the shoulder holster for Wilhelmina, the spring-loaded chamois scabbard for Hugo. Security precautions being what they are these days in Lebanon, you don't board any airplanes carrying arms. On the other hand, a toilet kit lined with lead foil travels very nicely in a suitcase, looks perfectly innocuous and is impervious to baggage X-ray machines. Any customs inspector might decide to pick it up and look at it, of course, but life is full of chances, and for some reason I've never seen a customs inspector examine a toilet kit. They'll look in the toes of your slippers and smell your tobacco pouch to make sure it's not marijuana, but I've never seen one look in a toilet kit.
I left the men's room feeling a lot more secure.
* * *
The big Chrysler which Spelman drove back Into the city was filled with Louie's chatter. For once, I appreciated his endless, laughing monologue. I hoped it would keep Spelman's mind off me.
It was just a little past 6:00 p.m. when the big blue car pulled up in front of a large, nondescript loft building on Prince Street, off lower Broadway. I was the last passenger to get out, and I looked up at the well-worn sign across the front of the building:
Franzini Olive Oil.
Larry Spelman led us through the small-paned door and then down an open hall, passing a small office area where four women worked attentively over their typing desks wedged between a bank of gray filing cabinets and the wall. None of them looked up as we went past; in some businesses, it's best not to know who's coming and going around the office.
We came to a frosted glass door, neatly lettered with
Joseph Franzini.
As though we were all army draftees, newly arrived at boot camp, we filed in and lined our suitcases against one wall, then stood around looking self-conscious. Only Louie was immune to the regimental nuance the group had assumed; he vaulted over a small wooden railing and seemed to swarm all over a prim-looking secretary who had half-risen from her desk when she saw him enter.
"Louie!" she squealed. "When did you get back?"
He smothered her with kisses. "Just now, Philomina, just now. Hey! You're beautiful, honey, just beautiful!"
He was right. As she disengaged herself with some difficulty from his gorilla-like grasp, I could see that. Despite her appearance — rimless glasses, black hair pulled back in a tight bun, high-necked blouse — she was a true Italian beauty, tall, slim, but with exciting breasts, a remarkably small waist, and full, rounded hips. Her oval face, highlighted by huge brown eyes and a perky, defiant chin, was straight out of Sicily with its olive skin, sculptured features, and heavy, sensuous lips.
She smiled self-consciously in our direction as she stepped back of her desk, tugging her skirt straight. Momentarily, our eyes met across the room. Met and held, then she was busy sitting down again and the moment was gone.
Spelman had gone on by the desk and disappeared into an open office door behind and to the right of Philomina's desk. Louie perched on the corner of the secretary's desk, chatting with her in low tones. The rest of us found seats on the brightly colored plastic chairs just inside the door.
Larry Spelman reappeared, pushing a chrome wheelchair in which sat a huge old man. He was gross, filling the oversized wheelchair and spilling over the sides. He had to weigh three hundred pounds, perhaps more. Out of the mound of fat that formed his face glared baleful black eyes ringed strangely by dark circles, a classic example of the moon-face syndrome usually associated with cortisone treatment.
Just then I remembered something I had read a long time ago: Joseph Franzini was a multiple sclerosis victim. He'd been in that wheelchair for thirty-seven years — shrewd, defiant, ruthless, brilliant, powerful, and crippled by a strange neurological disease that strikes the central nervous system. It distorts or disrupts the motor impulses so that the victim can suffer loss of vision, lack of coordination, paralysis of the limbs, dysfunction of the bowels and bladder, and other problems. Multiple sclerosis doesn't kill, it just tortures.
There's no cure for MS, I knew, no preventive, not even any really effective treatment. Like most multiple sclerosis patients, Franzini had been struck down by the disease when he was young, at the age of thirty.
Looking at him, I wondered how he had done it. Except for a few short periods of spontaneous remission, Franzini had been confined to that wheelchair ever since, growing fat and bulbous from lack of exercise and his fondness for gorging himself on Italian pasta. Yet, he headed one of the most powerful Mafia families in the world with a business acumen and a reputation in underworld circles second only to Gaetano Ruggiero.
This was the man I had come to New York to work for, and to destroy if J could.
"Louie!" He barked, his voice raspy but surprisingly loud. "It's good to have you back." He glared malevolently around at the rest of us. "Who are these people?"
Louie hastened to make introductions. He gestured. "This is Gino Manitti."
"Bon giorno,
Don Joseph." The Neanderthal man half bowed toward the crippled giant.
"
'Giorno."
Franzini looked at Franco Locallo.
There was a quaver of fear in Locallo's voice. "Franco Locallo," he said. Then his face brightened. "From Castellemare," he added.
Franzini grunted and turned to me. I met his gaze steadily, but it wasn't easy. Hatred burned in those black eyes, but I'd seen hatred before. This was different Popeye Franzini hated with a fervor I had never encountered before.
Suddenly, I understood. Franzini's hatred was so malevolent because it wasn't directed at one man, or group of men, or at a country or an idea. Franzini hated himself. He hated his diseased body and because he hated himself he hated the God he had created in his own image.
Louie's voice cut across my thoughts. "This is Nick Canzoneri, Uncle Joe. He's my friend. I met him in Beirut."
I nodded toward the old man, not quite a bow.
He cocked one white eyebrow, or tried to. The result was more of a maniacal grimace as one side of his mouth gaped open and his head tilted to one side with the effort. "A friend?" he rasped. "You weren't sent over to make friends. Ha!"
Louie hastened to reassure him. "He's one of us, too, Uncle Joe. Wait till I tell you what he did one day."
It seemed strange to hear a grown man calling another one "Uncle Joe" but I guess it was all part of Louie's somewhat juvenile approach to life. And as for what he could tell about what I had done one day, he didn't know the half of it.
I smiled at Franzini as sincerely as I could, but I really couldn't think of anything to say so I just shrugged. It's a marvelous Italian way out of any situation.
The old man stared back steadily for a moment and then with a quick flick of his hands, half-turned the wheelchair so that he faced Louie. It was a remarkable move for a man who a moment before had had a difficult time cocking one eyebrow.
"Book these guys into Manny's," he ordered. "Give them tomorrow off, then tell them to report to Ricco." He looked over his shoulder at us. "Goddamn!" he said. "They don't even speak English, I bet."
He glared up at Louie. "We got a party at Tony's Gardens tomorrow night. It's your cousin Philomina's birthday. You be there."
Louie grinned happily. "Sure, Uncle Joe."
His cousin Philomina blushed prettily.
The old man spun his wheelchair deftly and headed back into his office under his own power. Spelman looked me over coolly one more time, then followed his boss. If he'd ever known who I was, one of these days he was going to remember.
As Manitti, Locallo, and I followed Louie out of the office and down the hall, I had a very uneasy feeling about Larry Spelman.
Chapter 8
Manny's was the Chalfont Plaza, one of the grand old hotels on the east side of midtown Manhattan. The Chalfont Plaza had had more than one member of European royalty as a guest during its long history. It is still one of the standard stops for out-of-town businessmen visiting New York, and the Skycloud Room on the roof is a regular watering hole for the jet set.
Years ago, a group of prominent businessmen had bought the Chalfont Plaza from its original owners as a business investment, then later sold to Emmanual Perrini, a young, ambitious businessman with a lot of ready capital.
The sign on the front still says Chalfont Plaza, but the Mafia, to its eternal ego, refers to it as Manny's.
"Want to stop and have a drink, Nick?" Louie asked just before I stepped into the elevator after registering.
"No thanks, Louie," I groaned. "I'm exhausted."
"Okay," he agreed cheerily. "I'll call you tomorrow afternoon and let you know what's going on."
"Great." I mustered up one final friendly grin and waved goodbye as the elevator door closed. Exhausted? It wasn't just "jet lag" that made me forget to tuck Wilhelmina under my pillow before I went to sleep. Instead, I dropped her in her holster on top the heap of clothes I had left lying on the floor when I undressed.
When I woke up she was just four inches from my mouth and pointed directly at my left eye.
"Don't move, you son of a bitch, or I'll kill you."
I believed him. I lay perfectly still, trying to adjust my eyes to the momentarily blinding light from the bed-table lamp. Wilhelmina is only 9mm, but at that moment I felt as if I were staring down the muzzle of a sixteen-inch naval rifle.
I followed my line of sight up Wilhelmina's barrel to the hand that was holding her, then on up a long arm until I came to a face. Predictably, it was a familiar one: Larry Spelman.
My eyes burned from fatigue and as I came more fully awake I could feel the aches in my body. I had no idea how long I had been asleep. It felt like about thirty seconds.
Spelman jerked his hand and the steel-plated grip of my own pistol slammed against the side of my face. Pain welled up my jawbone. I managed to keep from crying out.
Spelman smirked and pulled back, still keeping the gun trained on me. He stood up, groped behind him with one hand for the nearby chair, and pulled it to him without ever taking his eyes off me.
He sat back in the chair and gestured with Wilhelmina. "Sit up."
Raising myself up cautiously, I tucked two pillows behind me. Nice and comfortable, except for that damned pistol. I glanced at my watch on the bed table. Three o'clock, and since no light showed through the blinds it had to be three o'clock in the morning. I had been asleep about four hours.
I looked at Spelman questioningly and as I became more awake decided he must be drunk. There was a strange look about his eyes; they didn't seem to be focusing properly. Then I saw that the pupils were contracted. He wasn't drunk, he was riding high on junk!