The Piranhas (20 page)

“No way,” I said. I turned her face up to me and kissed her.

“She’s a bitch,” she said. “She’s been completely done over with plastic surgery. Eyes, face, tits, tummy tuck, asslift, liposuction.”

I was surprised. “How do you know?”

“You told me,” she said. “You said she looked like she did twelve years ago. It doesn’t work like that. Not for any woman. Especially after she’s had a child.”

I started to laugh. “I wonder if she had her cunt done too.”

“It’s possible,” she said seriously. “Would you like to check on it?”

“Not me,” I said quickly. “I’m not interested in time travel.”

She reached down to hold me. “You have a hard-on,” she said. “She’s turning you on.”

“Bitch!” I kissed her and pulled her on top of me. “And you think your hands all over me don’t turn me on?”

“You’re so bad,” she said.

“You’re angry,” I said. “Come sit on my face. I’ll suck all the anger out of you.”

*   *   *

IT WAS ABOUT
three months ago when I saw Uncle Rocco in Atlantic City and we had dinner with Alma and her daughter. The dining room was on the lower floor of Uncle Rocco’s duplex penthouse. Alma was already there, seated at the small bar in the corner, looking out onto the ocean. She turned and rose as she heard us enter.

She smiled and held both hands out to me. “Jed,” she said warmly.

I held her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “Alma,” I said, “it’s a real surprise.”

“Not really,” she said. “I always knew that we would see each other again sometime.”

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “You look just as lovely as you did when we first met. Really even more beautiful.”

She laughed. “French makeup. It does wonders for one.”

“It takes more than that,” I said. “I got older and heavier, but you have found the fountain of youth.”

“Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “Then you were a boy; now you’re a man. You look marvelous.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Uncle Rocco told me you have a daughter.”

A faint shadow crossed her face. “Yes,” she answered. “I never knew that I was pregnant with Angelo’s child.”

I met her eyes. “Life is strange.”

“True,” she answered. “The way we meet again. All because my husband dies.”

I still held her eyes. “I don’t know whether to offer you congratulations or condolences.”

She didn’t turn away from me. “Maybe a little of both.”

A white-jacketed houseman came from behind the bar. He refilled her drink and looked at me.

“Scotch on the rocks,” I said.

He placed the drink on the bar in front of me and left the room. I held the glass up to her. “Cheers,” I said.

“Salúd.”
We sipped our drinks. “My husband was a shit,” she said.

I was silent for a moment. “But you married him,” I said. “Why?”

“There were three reasons. One, he was rich; two, he had the hardest prick I ever felt; three, he asked me.” She laughed. “He was crazy about my Peruvian pussy. He used to say my clit was almost as big and hard as his prick.”

“That sounds romantic,” I said.

“It was romance for him,” she said. “But he was crazy. He really hated women. He wanted to destroy me. When he found he couldn’t do that, he decided to divorce me.”

I was silent.

“I signed a prenuptial agreement. A million for each year we were married, but then at the end he also wanted to screw me out of that.”

“It doesn’t make any difference now,” I said. “You’re his widow, you’ll get everything.”

“It won’t be that easy,” she said. “He has two sons from a previous marriage. One is thirty-two and the other thirty. They’re both officers in his corporation and the only inheritors of his estate.”

“How did you learn that?” I asked. “Sherman Siddely told me that you were the only heir.”

“Well Siddely was wrong. I’ve heard from his Canadian attorneys. He made his will seven years ago. If I cooperate, they said, they would see to it that I would get something out of the estate.”

“You’re going to cooperate with them?” I asked.

“I’ll break their asses,” she said angrily. “I’ll get my share.” She took a deep breath. “It might have been better if he had not been killed.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I thought you went after him.”

A genuine look of surprise crossed her face. “Why should I do a thing like that? I knew that his sons were going to get all of it. It would have been easier for me to fight with him than with his estate.”

“Then who killed him?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Your uncle,” she said quietly. “When he found out that Jarvis was going to screw him, he went into a rage.” She was silent for a moment. “Godfathers don’t forgive.”

*   *   *

UNCLE ROCCO HAD
dinner at seven o’clock each night. Tonight the table was set for four people. It was beautiful. I’d never thought the old man cared about things like that. Candles. Tall-stemmed glassware. English Coalport dishes and lovely French silverware.

He nodded as he came into the room and looked at Alma. “Where’s the baby?”

“She’ll be here in a moment,” she answered.

“I arranged a special treat for her,” he said. “Hamburgers from McDonald’s.”

He turned to me. “Have you seen the baby yet?”

Alma laughed. “She’s not a baby anymore. She’s eleven years old.”

“She’s still a baby,” he said. He turned to the door as the child entered. “Angela.” He bent down to kiss her.

“Grandpa,” she giggled. “Your whiskers tickled me.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear.”

“You’re not the big bad wolf,” she said. She looked at me. “Are you my uncle?” she asked.

She had green eyes and blondish-brown hair like my mother’s. She was tall for her age, and I was curious about her accent. She sounded British. “I don’t think so,” I said. “Probably your cousin.”

“Grandpa is not your daddy?”

“No,” I answered. “He is my uncle. Your father was his son.”

She turned to her mother. “You said he was my uncle,” she said accusingly.

“In a kind of way, he is,” she explained. “Your father and he were like brothers.”

She thought for a moment then looked up at me. “May I call you Uncle?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You have a funny name,” she said. “Jed. None of the boys in my school have that name. Is that your real name?”

“Jed is an abbreviation,” I said. “The full name is actually Jedediah.”

“That sounds like a biblical name,” she said. “The pastor in Sunday school always told us about names like that when he read to us from the Old Testament.”

Alma cut into the conversation. “Angela goes to school in England,” she said. “There are many things that puzzle her about Americans.”

But the child was stubborn. “I’ve seen pictures of my daddy. He had black hair like yours,” she said, looking at her mother. “Uncle Jed looks more like me than either of you.” She was silent for a moment, then turned to me. “Did you ever fuck Mommy?”

None of us could find an answer for that. Her voice was sweet and innocent. “Mommy went to bed with a lot of my uncles,” she said. She looked up at me again. “There were sometimes she even went to bed with Grandpa.”

I glanced at Uncle Rocco. His face was flushed. I laughed and reached down for the child’s hand. “Forget about all this nonsense and let’s have dinner.”

Dinner was perfect. The child had McDonald’s hamburgers and we had
spaghettini al pomodoro al dente
and rare sirloin steak Sinatra with green and red peppers and onions.

2

UNCLE ROCCO LOOKED
at me quizzically as we walked up the staircase after dinner to the living room. Alma was taking the child to bed. “What do you think of the baby?” he asked gruffly.

“She’s pretty,” I said. “And bright, too.”

“She’s a Di Stefano,” he said.

“I’m sure,” I said.

“I gave her a trust fund for a million dollars,” he said.

I smiled at him. “Fair enough. After all, she is your granddaughter.”

“Maybe,” he answered. “But it doesn’t matter. She is a Di Stefano. And I know Angelo would have liked it.”

He watched me again as we reached the landing. I met his eyes. “Uncle Rocco,” I said, “you did the right thing. Angelo deserved it.”

“I had nothing left of him,” he said heavily.

I pressed his hand gently. “You have now,” I said quietly.

I followed him into the living room and we sat down at a square glass card table. Next to his chair there was a wooden chest with three hand-painted, decorated drawers. He took a key from his pocket and opened the top drawer. Carefully he lifted out a black enameled box. He placed it on the table and opened it.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Just a moment,” he said. Quickly he took out a number of glassine bags. He spread them out in front of him. “This is the biggest business in the United States. More than GM and American Express combined. Over three hundred billion dollars retail.”

I watched him silently.

He tapped the small glassine bags and a little powder came from each. He pointed to the first powder. It was yellowish brown. “This is Southeastern Asian heroin.” The next was pure white. “This is Pakistani-Afghanistan heroin.” Following that was a blue-white crystal-like substance. “South American cocaine.” The next bag held a small amount of shredded marijuana. “This is from Colombia and Mexico.” The last bag he opened had a number of variously colored pills and tablets that he spread onto the table. “This is new,” he said. “We call it ‘designer drugs.’”

“Okay,” I said. “What has this got to do with me?”

“All of this is processed in Sicily. The families used to control the streets, but now they are upset because there are many small dealers bringing in their own material and selling it on the street for less than the families.”

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“Men became greedy. The agreement with the families fell apart and war came. Many died and the government took advantage of the situation and moved right in. Now life is very different for the families.”

“You’re retired, Uncle Rocco,” I said. “You have nothing to do with it.”

He looked at me. “I thought that. But now they have other ideas.”

I looked at him without speaking.

“Many years ago,” he said, “after the war, Luciano arranged that there would be a commission. Nothing could be done without the agreement of the commission. No territories could be invaded, no businesses could be taken out, and most of all, no killing of capos or heads of families unless agreed to by the commission.” He took a deep breath. “For years, everything was quiet, we all did well and profited. And then everything fell apart.”

“Why was that?” I asked.

“Luciano died. Costello became the judge, but he wasn’t Lucky; he was good but he couldn’t hold the line. Gambling, unions, street banking, business-protection service—he could handle that. But then there were drugs. That was a new business. More money than anyone could ever imagine. And everyone became greedy and tore at each other like animals.” He fell silent.

“What do they want from you, Uncle Rocco?” I asked.

My uncle was quiet. “The Sicilian commission knows that I am a man of honor. And so do the Americans. They both agree that they want me to be head of the commission. They say I would be the Capo di Tutti Capi, and whatever I would say would go.”

“Jesus,” I said. “What kind of money would you get for that?”

“More millions than you can ever imagine,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want it. I told you before that I wanted to die in bed. If I do this I will die in a year. In the street. Like Castellano, Bonanno, Galante.”

“What can I do to help, Uncle?” I asked.

“You talk to them,” he said quietly. “You tell them that I am an old man. I have problems with my head. I forget things. That I can’t handle the complications of a responsibility like that. Tell them I am now getting ready to go into a rest home.”

“And they’ll believe me?” I asked incredulously.

“Maybe,” he said shrugging.

“But they don’t even know me,” I said.

“They know,” he said confidently. “They knew your father. They knew that he was straight and honest. And they know that you are your father’s son.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “And when am I supposed to do this?”

“You have some time,” he said easily. “After you straighten up the business with the film company.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get that finished. Jarvis’s sons won’t even acknowledge my offer for their stock.”

Uncle Rocco smiled. “We’ll get the stock,” he said confidently. “They took my money for that stock. The money came from my Canadian bank. The bank has asked them to pay the money back. That’s four hundred million plus interest, and the Jarvis Corporation hasn’t got it. They have agreed to turn over the stock to the bank in return for cancellation of the loan without penalties.”

Alma’s voice came from behind us. I hadn’t heard her come into the room. “I also waived my suit against the Jarvis estate. They insisted on that.”

Uncle Rocco looked at her. “You will still get three million from the estate. And if this all works out, you’ll get a good commission.”

“I want five million dollars,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re nothing but a Peruvian
putana.
”

She laughed with him. “I’m also the mother of your grandchild.”

I turned to my uncle. “You’re both having fun,” I said. “But I’m the only one who is short on this deal so far. I laid out eighty-five million cash and went on the line for four hundred million; so far I haven’t received a penny back.

Uncle Rocco met my eyes. “If you’re worried, I’ll give you the money the first thing in the morning.”

“Uncle Rocco,” I said, shaking my head, “you know I won’t be here in the morning. I have to leave at five
A.M.
to be back at eight o’clock in the morning for meetings.”

“Then I’ll send you the money when you return to L.A.,” he said.

“Sure,” I said. I knew he wouldn’t send me the money tomorrow. That wasn’t his way.

“I am a man of honor,” he said quietly. “When you wanted to get money to start your business, I gave it to you. You will get this money too.”