Once a Crooked Man (3 page)

“Not now, babe,” he said. “Sorry to say, we got to go.”

The long-legged creature slipped off the bed, gathered up her scattered clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

Max pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a denim shirt and a Windbreaker, walked through into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

Five minutes later, Nino opened the doors of the black sedan parked out front. Max got into the front passenger seat, and as they drove off his anonymous female companion curled up like a kitten in the back.

The trip to the Edgewood Boat Marina took only minutes. The waterfront was silent and deserted. Max climbed out of the car and walked slowly across to the edge of the dock carrying his briefcase. Nino, his driver, switched on the radio. The sounds of “Summer in the City” wafted across the empty parking lot. An odor of fish and engine oil rose from the dense mass of flotsam that had collected against the riverbank.

The girl materialized beside him hugging herself in the morning air. Together they watched as an impressive cruiser appeared throwing up a wide bow wave. The helmsman passed upstream, cut back on the power and steered around in a tight circle. Judging the distance perfectly, he glided along the dock and cleared the concrete supports by less than a foot.

Max stepped on board, lifted the girl up and swung her to the deck as if she were a doll. Immediately the twin Caterpillar 475 horsepower engines roared to full throttle and the big boat plowed through the calm waters of the Hudson and headed south towards the city.

A deckhand in a dirty Mets cap held open the aft door.

“Thanks, Karl,” said Max. Taking the girl by the arm, he propelled her inside, where they squeezed past boxes of supplies, life jackets and other marine paraphernalia.

In the main cabin, his brother Enzo was sitting in one of two swivel armchairs before the wide front cabin window. In contrast to Max, he was dressed in a suit and tie.

Max pointed to a ladder that led to the cabins below. The girl reached down, pulled off her high heels and silently disappeared.

Enzo got up and the two men greeted each other with a backslapping hug. Enzo held on to his brother's arms. “Who's the chick? Cora's new girl?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Max.

“She pass the test?”

“Cum lauda.” Max grinned at his own pun. “Coffee ready?”

“Sure,” said Enzo with a nod. He walked to the back of the cabin but turned in the doorway.

“What's up, Max?” he asked. “Why the meeting? Something go wrong with the stuff at Kennedy?”

“No,” Max replied evenly. “They used four intermediaries and clean cash.”

“What about the Times Square construction project?”

“Siegel got his money. Fletcher got his contract. Client was very pleased.”

“Then what the hell is going on?” asked Enzo. “Something's up, right?”

“No more questions,” said Max firmly.

“Okay,” said Enzo with a shrug. “I'll get the coffee.” And he stepped into the rear cabin.

Max stood watching the world go by on either shore and wondered how Enzo would take the news that they were about to change the way they did business. Although they were a close-knit family, Max had never really got to know his younger brother in any depth. Enzo lived a solitary life and kept very much to himself. There were rumors that he indulged in weird sex but Max dismissed these as malicious gossip.

Three weeks earlier he had met with Sal and briefly outlined his plan. His older brother had given him the go-ahead and told him to get back to him when he was ready to talk details. The meeting today was called for ten thirty. Hopefully Sal would be on time. Of the three brothers, age had changed him the most. Punctuality had been one of the first things to go with Sal.

Max wished that he had someone outside the family whom he could talk to about his deeper reasons for wanting these changes. The decision was not simply for medical reasons. He harbored a nagging feeling that that he was missing out on what life had to offer. He couldn't put his finger on what this was, but he was determined to broaden his lifestyle and give it every opportunity to make itself known.

He was also aware that there were serious risks involved in what he was about to do. The past three weeks had been an exercise in anticipating what these might be and taking all possible measures to avoid them. This included discussing his decision with no one. In spite of a fraternal urge to put Enzo in the picture Max decided to wait until they were all together and in a safe and controlled environment.

Enzo carried in two steaming mugs.

“Something's changed in here,” said Max. “What is it?”

“Very good,” replied his brother. “It's the chairs. I had them re-covered. And the curtains are new too.”

“What was wrong with the old ones?”

“Nothing. I just like to take care of my
Gazelle
. Makes us both happy.”

For a while they both stood side by side.

“Gonna rain later,” said Enzo.

“Yeah,” replied Max.

The
Gazelle
passed beneath the immense span of the George Washington Bridge. Headlights flickered on the road. Max was glad he was down on the water. He liked his bridges like his women, young and pliable. The older structures were to be mistrusted. They'd been around too long and had begun to creak.

The helmsman steered into the Harlem River between the buildings of the Bronx and the island of Manhattan. They glided under the Triboro Bridge and alongside the green fields of Randall's Island. Finally they bobbed alongside the rickety dock of an abandoned factory and the two brothers jumped off. Max led the way around the building and across Vernon Boulevard. A thin man in a brown suit waited at the side of a Town Car.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, opening the door.

“Everything in order, Benny?” asked Max.

“All present and correct, my friend” was the answer. Once the brothers were safely inside, Benny slid into the driver's seat and locked the doors. The car sped off down the road in a cloud of summer dust.

 

6

A paper taped to the door fluttered in the breeze. Harry held it down and read:
Far Far Audition 2nd
Floor.
The casting instructions below were to
be on time
and for actors to
read carefully
the monologue that made up the last two pages of Act I. Pushing open the graffiti-covered door, he climbed the narrow stairway to the theater lobby.

On the ride from the city, he had removed the bloody handkerchief and put pressure on his cut finger. Thankfully the damage was minimal; it could easily have been so much worse. Once the bleeding had stopped, he had taken out the script pages and gone over them again. Although he had memorized the lines the night before, he wanted to make sure he had them word for word.

Eight people were standing around the little space. An unsavory odor from a unisex toilet at the far end pervaded the atmosphere. Two actors sat on the floor. A tall actress spoke her lines aloud with her head pressed against the shutter of the refreshment counter.

A blonde came out of the auditorium. “Fucking asshole!” she muttered, and headed down the stairs.

At 10:50 he was the last one called up to audition.

The casting person, as Lenny liked to be called, gave him a warm smile and apologized for keeping him waiting. A young man with a shaved and polished head sat in the second row scribbling notes on a clipboard. Harry climbed up and walked over to center stage. Lenny settled back in the shadows.

After a long pause, bald-head looked up and gave him a cursory glance.

“Don't you have the sides?” he asked testily. His accent was from somewhere in the Midwest.

“Yes,” replied Harry. He touched his forehead. “Up here.”

“Oh,” said the young man. “I like to work with my actors from the script. But never mind, just show me what you can do.” He returned his attention to the clipboard.

When he arrived at the theater, Harry had been nervous. Now he was mad. He lay down on the floor, curled into a fetal position and delivered the lines with venom. If there had been an audience present he would have received a standing ovation. For a moment he felt the euphoria that comes to actors when they are performing well on a stage. The young man leaned on the seat in front of him.

“No, Harvey,” he said with a theatrical sigh. “Not that way.”

“Harry,” said Harry.

“Harry,” the man said as if it could matter less. “Imagine you are totally bored with life. Take all the energy out of your voice. Give me the feeling you have accepted your fate. Try it again. And slower.” He sat down. “And get up off the floor; we can get to all that crap later.”

Harry had come across this type before. A petty dictator who wanted to know up front which actors would conform and submit. A control freak who had no doubt worked at a university or in regional theaters where young inexperienced minds could be impressed by his bullshit.

But Harry needed to get this part. He could put up with being paid less than $400 a week. He could stand being confined for two hours in a crate and overcome his dislike of this tedious, egotistical director. The theater was remote and drab. The stage cramped. But Harry felt an affinity to Tex. With any luck the cast would be supportive. He might even get a favorable review in
The Times.
It could be a wise career move.

He delivered the text just the way the man asked and hurried down the stairs into the real world.

Out on the sidewalk Harry had a sudden urge to take a leak. It was not surprising after two cups of coffee, a bottle of water and the adrenaline pumping through his nervous system from the encounter with the cab. But relief was a few steps away.

Across the road was a convenient Chinese restaurant.

 

7

Max told Benny to pull the car up opposite the Fiery Dragon and take the usual look around before he and Enzo went inside. A red neon sign flashed:
Good Food! 24 Hours!

Benny crossed the road and disappeared briefly inside. Both brothers waited until he came back. “Just Sal and the kitchen staff,” he reported, opening the door.

Salvatore Bruschetti was in the farthest corner at a table allowing him to keep an eye on the whole room. Red-striped pajamas poked out from beneath a gray sweatshirt and baggy trousers. A bottle of Cutty Sark stood on the table in front of him with three empty glasses. An unlit cigar butt dangled from his lips. Max and Enzo threaded their way through the tables.

“You look like shit, Sal,” said Max. “Someone steal your clubs?”

“The way I been playing lately I should be so lucky,” Sal croaked. Years of cigar smoke had wreaked havoc to his vocal cords.

Max slid into the booth opposite his older brother. Enzo pulled a chair up to the end of the table.

The waiter hurried over. “You like to try the special?” he asked. “We got spicy shrimp on menu today.”

“Bring me a cup of black coffee,” said Max, “and then disappear. Don't come out until I call you. Savvy?”

The cook called out something in Chinese from the kitchen. The waiter twitched in understanding and scampered through the beads. He came back with the coffee, set it down with a trembling hand and looked inquiringly at Enzo who shook his head. The little man bowed and withdrew. Max poured a stream of sugar into the mug and gave it a stir.

Sal unscrewed the cap on the whisky and filled the glasses. He pushed one over to Max. “You want to tell him, or shall I?”

“Why don't you?”

“Max and I have been talking about getting out,” said Sal. “Putting an end to everything illegal. Calling it quits.”

“What!” said Enzo.

“Bastard put up a good argument,” added Sal. “In the end I agreed with him. I told him to put some figures on paper. Give us an idea of what we got.”

Max lifted the clipped papers out of his briefcase. He handed one to each. Sal took out a pair of half-glasses from a pocket and perched them on the end of his nose.

“Page one,” said Max, “is a summary of our current investments. The figures are from the end of March. Pages two and three show where our income comes from: bonds, real estate, overseas investments, stocks. Page four is what we're worth. This doesn't include any cash we got stashed away. As you can see, the Bruschettis are in pretty good shape.” He took a swallow of coffee. “Page five is why I decided to talk with Sal.”

All three turned to the last page. “Seven percent!” said Enzo. “Is that all it is now? I work my ass off for seven percent? I spend my life updating the books, handling the payouts and keeping this organization running for seven percent?”

“Yeah. That's all it is. Take a good look. It's the last time you're gonna see it on a balance sheet.”

Enzo was irritated and bewildered. “That smart-ass moneyman put you guys up to this?”

Before Max could reply the front door banged open. All three heads turned. A rugged individual stood in the doorway, blinking at the dimness. From the beaded curtain the waiter trotted out carrying a menu.

“We're closed,” said Max.

The man declined the offered menu. “No. Sorry. I just need to take a leak.”

There was an awkward pause.

“You heard,” said Max. “We're closed!”

There was a moment of silent confusion.

“Get the fuck out!” yelled Sal and Max in unison. The waiter and the man in the doorway obeyed fast.

 

8

Harry had no desire to pee his pants. Out on the sidewalk he frantically looked around for somewhere he could relieve himself without being seen. Mercifully there was an alley on one side of the restaurant. He hurried down it unzipping his fly as he ran.

A heap of black plastic bags of garbage were piled up beside an overflowing Dumpster. Harry squeezed past them, leaned against the wall and soon became oblivious to the world as all the tension and discomfort of the past minutes flowed to the ground.