Sicilian Defense (3 page)

“You? No. But Sal, sure,” said Philly the Splash. “Remember, Gianni owes his life to Sal, and Gianni's always been a stand-up guy.”

“I agree. If anybody can help us, he can,” said Tony.

“I disagree,” said Frankie the Pig.

“Vote on it,” said Philly the Splash.

“What vote—what is this, an election?” Frankie the Pig demanded, looking around.

“It's only a suggestion,” Philly the Splash returned.

“When Sal's not here, I'm boss,” said Frankie, “and I'll decide.”

“I don't deny that, Frankie,” Philly the Splash said very quietly, taking the stub of the black cigar out of his mouth. He looked directly into Frankie's eyes. “But Sal's life is on the line and we need somebody with a cool head, somebody like Gianni.”

“You mean I haven't got a cool head?” Frankie the Pig glared at him balefully.

“Frankie, I was a tough guy too. I may be an old man, but don't try to push me around. I'm just giving you my ideas. If you don't like them, fine. But don't be looking at me like that.”

“I don't think you're being cool right now,” Tony said to Frankie the Pig.

Frankie turned. Tony's steely eyes met his.

“I bet Gianni would help us,” said Joey. “He and Sal have always been like brothers.”

“I think it would be a good idea to have someone like Gianni help you with this, Frankie,” Philly concluded diplomatically.

Frankie sat and looked at them. He thought for a while, then turned to Philly the Splash. “How can we approach him? Should I call him?”

“No,” said Philly the Splash. “Gianni and I are old friends from way back. I think I should ask him to meet me somewhere. He won't come here—Sal wouldn't even want him to.”

“Where, then?”

“What about that bar on the West Side, the one by the piers?” said Tony.

“Right, The Other Place,” said Philly the Splash. It had been popular with the boys when the longshoremen's unions were being organized. “I'll talk to him alone, and explain the situation. Then if he agrees we can all start figuring this thing out.”

“How do we get him to come there?” asked Gus.

“Joey—you can get him to come. Go pick him up and explain it to him,” said Frankie the Pig, taking command now that the plan of action had been agreed upon.

“Okay,” said Joey. “But it'll take some time. He lives in Pawling.”

“Then get going right away,” said Frankie. “Drive as fast as you can and meet us over at The Other Place.”

2:30 A.M.

The silver Cadillac limousine rolled slowly west on 51st Street toward the Hudson River. From the elevated West Side Highway an occasional car catapulted a spray of water over the retaining walls, splashing down into the streets below. The car stopped at the corner.

“Drive across the street and park under the highway between Fiftieth and Fifty-first,” Gianni Aquilino said from the back seat. Joey was sitting next to him.

The car started across the broad avenue beneath the highway. At the edge of the river it stopped. Gianni got out. He was of medium height. His face was handsome, straight-nosed, his hair all gray and wavy. Even though Joey had awakened him in the middle of the night, Gianni, as always, dressed immaculately in a double-breasted suit. He looked around the deserted street. The wind gusted across the river, which here was thick with ice floes between the piers. Even out into the mainstream there was much ice. Gianni hadn't seen the river so frozen for many years. An occasional tug, its running lights aglow, coursed silently past in the dark.

“One of these days, Gianni, I'll be making enough on the books to buy one of these,” said Joey, looking admiringly at Gianni's Cadillac.

Gianni smiled. “I know, Joey, I know. I had my fill of days with plenty of cash to hide but not much to spend—unless I wanted the Internal Revenue to jump all over me.”

Gianni turned toward The Other Place. The old bar was still frequented mostly by longshoremen during the day. Whenever Gianni or Sal or their friends wanted to meet quietly, without attracting too much attention, this was the perfect place, virtually empty all night.

In the shadows Gianni could see men seated in a car near The Other Place. He saw another car half a block away with more shadowy figures within it.

Gianni reached into his pocket and took out a thin gold cigarette case. He snapped a matching lighter into life and, with a motion that had become characteristic, he lit the cigarette with one hand while putting the cigarette case back in his pocket with the other. He took a couple of deep puffs, his eyes further scanning the darkness.

He didn't like the looks of it, but if Sal needed him, he had to come. Gianni's hand reached to his right temple, his finger feeling along the ridge of scar tissue left by Frankie the Pig's bullet.

The face of Frankie the Pig appeared before him clearly. So did that dark, wintry night, twelve years earlier when, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Frankie quickly enter the lobby of his apartment house right behind him.

The doorman was nowhere in sight. Gianni instantly realized what was happening. Frankie the Pig put his hand inside his coat as he started moving across the lobby. Gianni thought to himself:
I'm not going to stand here like a clay pigeon.
He didn't carry a gun, so he started to sprint toward the mail room and the fire stairway leading down to the cellar. Then he heard a tremendous, echoing explosion. There was a flash of light inside his eyelids, as though, in the dark of the night, the aurora borealis shone white and distant. Only it was hot. And it was horrible pain. Then it faded slowly, becoming dimmer and dimmer.

A siren wailed in the night, as if in some nightmare. Gianni saw a cop sitting beside him, while the siren grew louder and closer.

“What is this?” Gianni asked. “Where are we going?”

“You've been shot, Gianni,” said the cop, who wasn't just a dream character. “You're in good shape. Just dug a small hole in your head.” The cop's badge shone intermittently, reflecting the passing street lights. His face was a shadow.

Gianni reached up.

“Don't touch it, Mr. Aquilino,” said a voice behind him. Gianni tried to look around, but he couldn't move his head.

“That's the Doc,” the cop supplied.

“How am I, Doc?” Gianni asked.

“You'll be all right. Just a glancing head wound. Not serious.”

“Good thing I've got a hard head.” Gianni lay back, trying to laugh.

“Do you know who did it, Gianni?” the cop asked.

“Officer, what sort of people do you think I know? How could I know anyone who would try to mug me?”

The cop smirked and shrugged. “The D.A. 'll be at the hospital. All kinds of brass and everything, Gianni.”

The ambulance kept wailing through the street.

“How about leaving me off right here?” Gianni whispered. “Tell them I ran away while we were at a red light. What the hell—I'm the victim. I didn't do anything. Let me buy you a real good hat.”

The cop looked at the doctor—the doctor looked away—then up toward the driver. “I can't do that, Gianni,” he said reluctantly. “I'd get roasted. Besides, they'll catch up to you later on. You can't go nowhere with your head like that.”

“Yes, I guess you're right. Why make it hot for you? I'll go in,” said Gianni as he relaxed on the stretcher. “But I can't imagine who did it. Maybe it was some broad in a jealous rage. Wouldn't that be something, at my age. That's what I think I'll tell them—it was some broad in a fit of passion.” Gianni laughed. He reached out and quietly handed the cop a bill from his pocket, the first one he touched. It could have been a single or a hundred.

The cop laughed too. He palmed the bill and winked at Gianni.

A heavy cascade of water lifted by a passing car from the overhead highway splattered on the street. Gianni moved quickly out of range and out of his grisly recollection, now walking toward The Other Place. All that past history no longer mattered. Whatever happened tonight would happen. Gianni had little choice of paths. Ordinarily he would have been far more cautious before meeting anyone like this. But Joey was almost Sal's son. If Joey said something for Sal, it was as if Sal spoke. And if Sal spoke, it was as if Gianni's brother spoke.

“Will Sal be here?” Gianni asked. Joey had only told him there was deep trouble and Sal needed him.

“No, he isn't here. That's the trouble. Old Philly the Splash will tell you all about it. We need you desperately. Sal needs you. You know I wouldn't come to you if it was nothing.”

As the two men entered the bar, McMahon the bartender looked up. There were only a couple of old bleary-eyed longshoremen sipping beers at the bar. McMahon nodded toward the back room. Gianni and Joey walked back across the white octagonal-tiled floor. In the light of the revolving Ballantine clock overhead, Gianni saw old Philly the Splash. He looked ancient. Gianni wondered if he looked as old to Philly the Splash.

Philly was smiling. He stood to greet Gianni.

“Hello, Philly,” said Gianni. They clasped hands, looking into each other's eyes momentarily. Floods of memories rushed over each of them.

“You look like a million bucks, Gianni,” said Philly the Splash. “Like a real movie star. I can see the legit life really agrees with you.”

“It's a lot easier than trying to scheme and make scores. It's like a cakewalk.” Gianni lit another cigarette.

McMahon walked in and asked, “What will you have?”

“I'll have a coffee,” said Gianni. “If you have some anisette, put some in it.”

“The same for me,” said Philly the Splash.

“I'll wait at the bar,” said Joey.

The two men looked at each other, Gianni patient, Philly the Splash pausing a respectful moment.

“The last time I saw you was at a hearing, wasn't it?” asked Philly the Splash. “Have they been bothering you with subpoenas lately?”

Gianni nodded. “They want to keep tabs on me for some reason. I have one for the Crime Commission tomorrow morning.” Gianni glanced at his watch. “This morning, as a matter of fact.”

“
This
morning?” Philly the Splash looked anxious.

“That's right. If Joey hadn't said it was an absolute emergency, I wouldn't have come.”

“It's too bad they still bother a man like you, Gianni,” Philly the Splash said, calm again. “After all, you haven't been involved in twelve years; it's a shame.”

“They just want me to know they're aware I'm still around—and to remind me that they're still around, I guess,” said Gianni. “The real shame is that they purposely wait until I leave for the office in the morning, and then they go to my house to serve the subpoena—they want to upset my wife.”

Gianni was eager to hear of the problem that required his presence at two o'clock in the morning, but this preliminary conversation was all part of the protocol. He understood that he was being conciliated by Philly the Splash, who was well aware that Gianni had been not courteously deposed so many years before.

“How is Maria? It's years since I've seen her,” said Philly the Splash.

“She's fine, Philly. And so are the kids. Remember little William? He's just finishing law school. And your son, Bobbie? What's he doing?”

“He's with the teamsters. A business agent. He's doing really well.”

The two men smiled at each other as McMahon brought the coffee. Although The Other Place was an Irish bar in Hell's Kitchen, Gianni and his friends had always felt at home having their occasional meetings here. Hell's Kitchen had no fewer, perhaps more, murders than anyplace else in the city, but here they were done quietly, without emotion, without fanfare, the bodies sinking softly into the river.

“I'm sorry we had to bother you tonight,” Philly started again, “especially since you've got a hearing in the morning.”

“That's all right, Philly. I'll stay in town tonight.”

They fell silent.

Philly puffed his cigar. Then he squared his shoulders. “Gianni, we have big trouble. Some niggers snatched Sal.”

“They
what
?”

“Sal's been kidnaped.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. All I know is they dumped a body in front of the Two Steps Down Inn. Some guy nobody knows. A few minutes later, they called and said they've got Sal, and they'll call back at eight o'clock tomorrow night—that's tonight.”

“Who are they? Did they ask for ransom?”

“They didn't say anything else. I wasn't there, so I don't know first hand. But we all sat down afterward, and Frankie the Pig—well, you know …”

Gianni's eyes studied Philly the Splash as the name floated through the air. Gianni said nothing. He was suddenly aware again of the scar tissue on his right temple.

“Well, he's a hothead,” Philly the Splash continued, “and he wants to go out and kill and destroy. Kill who? Destroy what? We don't even know who these people are. And with the blood Frankie the Pig's got in his mouth, he's no good for figuring out those things. So we all thought, since you and Sal have always been so close, that you'd help us—help us get him back. We didn't want to ask people outside our own—it's embarrassing.”

Gianni studied Philly silently. After a moment, he said, “What do you want from me?”

“Help us. You were a great man when you were with us, Gianni. You were the top. We need some of that old-time good thinking you have in your head.”

“What's the matter with the people you have? Frankie the Pig's a made man. He's a big shot now. Can't he do it?”

Philly the Splash shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “You know that having balls isn't the only thing in this world.”