The Prince (37 page)

Her behavior only heightened the newly single man's interest in her. Martin Fisher began going to the Strange Fruit almost every evening, and every evening he waited for Isabel's shift to end so he could take her home in his new Ford, the first gift he'd given himself after the divorce. He must have a good job if he could afford a car like that, Isabel remarked one evening. That's when Martin told her that he worked at the Irving Trust Company, the skyscraper completed just eight years earlier, and the pride of all Manhattan. Isabel gave an admiring whistle, but Martin Fisher was honest with her, explaining that he was just a custodian.

When Isabel quit her job at the Strange Fruit due to incompatibility with the owner, who demanded her services after hours, she couldn't find work anywhere, and in desperation, she enlisted in the Salvation Army. Although she'd lost touch with Martin Fisher, she knew where to look for him when the time came. So one day she went up to the forty-fourth floor, where he'd told her he worked, and, much to his delight, dropped in on him.

T
he following Saturday, Saro met the lemon merchant at the Irving Trust Company. Johnny Scalia was his name; he was a second-generation immigrant, also of Sicilian origin. He still spoke Italian, though he mangled a lot of the words.

They entered the immense lobby and headed purposefully toward the elevators. There were few people around. It was not a workday, and those they met were executives or diligent employees who had unfinished business to complete or reports that had to be on their bosses' desks by nine o'clock Monday morning.

They rode up to the forty-fourth floor and followed the corridor leading to the offices of the National Blue Joy Company. Saro rang the bell, and shortly afterward, the door was opened by an elegant secretary in a black suit, her red hair done up in an austere bun. A pair of glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Good morning,” Isabel greeted them. “Are you Mr. Ragusa?” When Saro said yes, she nodded. “Mr. Marangoni told me he was expecting you. Please come in.”

“I hope it's not our fault you've had to work overtime,” Saro said. “Have we ruined your weekend?”

“I spend Saturdays in bed.”

“I don't doubt it,” Saro joked. But he quickly added, “Forgive me, I like to tease.”

“What I meant was that there's nothing I have to do. But once in a while, one can make exceptions, especially if Mr. Marangoni asks you.”

“He's not a heartless boss, is he?”

“Not at all, he's always very kind. That's why one can't say no to him.” With her index finger she adjusted the glasses on her nose. “Kindly make yourselves comfortable. I'll go and tell him you're here.”

She walked off, hips swaying, down the long corridor, and Saro thought that Isabel was perhaps overdoing the role of perfect secretary.

Johnny Scalia had not let himself be distracted by Isabel's appeal and her clinging suit. He looked around the office: a large room with windows, which held about a dozen desks and several drafting tables. Mahogany doors marked the long corridor, and the overall impression was that of a sizeable firm.

“What are those drafting tables for?” he asked Saro.

“Drawing up plans. For those who request it, Blue Joy can also design casino interiors.”

The merchant nodded, interested. A few minutes later, Isabel returned to the reception room. “Mr. Marangoni is waiting for you. Would you care for something to drink? Tea, coffee . . . ?”

“Nothing for me,” the merchant replied.

“I'd like some coffee,” Saro said. Isabel gave him a withering glance. Then she smiled briefly and beckoned them to follow her.

The executive's office was as large as the room that housed the employees. File folders, documents, and personal items were neatly arranged on an enormous desk. To one side stood a bronze statuette of a golfer, a testimony to the office occupant's enthusiasm for the game, and in the corner, a few boxes of Cuban cigars, a penholder, fountain pens, a large Art Nouveau table lamp, and a leather portfolio. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the New York Harbor.

As soon as they entered the office, “Mr. Marangoni” rose from his imposing chair behind the desk and, removing his cigar from his mouth, held out his hand to the merchant, who shook it, somewhat in awe. In his linen suit, which, like Isabel's, had been borrowed from the shop of a friend named Gallo, a
paesano
from Aversa, Dixie looked impeccable.

“Please, Mr. Scalia, sit down,” he said, motioning to a chair in front of the desk.

The merchant seated himself, and Saro sat down next to him.

“You must forgive me for inconveniencing you on a Saturday, but, you must understand, I prefer to conduct certain business matters outside of regular office hours.”

“I understand perfectly,” the merchant replied.

“A cigar?” He leaned across the desk and opened the box of Havanas.

The merchant took one out and busied himself lighting it.

Saro, though the invitation hadn't been extended to him, reached out and took two cigars from the box, slipping one into his jacket pocket and sticking the other in his mouth.

“Well, let's get down to business,” said Dixie, taking a deep puff. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go back to our families. Saturdays and Sundays are the only days I'm able to see my wife. Are you married, Mr. Scalia?”

Saro threw him a stern look, meaning don't overdo it.

“My wife died last year.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to—”

“It's okay,” the merchant interrupted.

“So, then, Mr. Marangoni,” Saro spoke up firmly, “will you explain to Mr. Scalia what the deal involves?”

“Of course, it's simple. It has to do with slot machines. I should point out that there is nothing illegal about it—apart from the fact that these little machines have been slightly rigged . . . in favor of the casino management, clearly.” He laughed heartily, and Saro joined him. Scalia, on the other hand, just smiled.

“Do you have a supply of these machines?” Johnny Scalia asked.

“Let me finish; then you can ask me all the questions you want,” said Dixie, serious again. “There are about a hundred of these slot machines, already set up, in a gambling parlor uptown. I'll tell you the location once we've reached an agreement. They're also covered by a license. As I said, there's nothing illegal about it. I'm offering you a good deal.”

“May I ask why you haven't offered it to a friend, if it's such a good deal?” the lemon merchant asked suspiciously.

“For that very reason.”

There was a knock at the door, and Isabel came into the office carrying a tray with a cup of coffee. They all waited while she set the cup down in front of Saro and then turned to leave, giving Scalia one last chance to admire her curves.

Before she got to the door, Dixie said, “You're free to go now, Miss Parker. I'll lock up the office.”

“Thank you, sir, and have a nice weekend.” Then turning to the two guests: “Good day, gentlemen.” With that, Isabel's role ended, and she left the room.

When the door closed, Dixie whispered to the merchant conspiratorially, “She already put out. She has an ass like marble and a pair of tits!”

The merchant smiled and began to settle comfortably in the chair. He nodded, puffing on the cigar. “Yeah, she's a great piece of tail. It's true, her ass is her best feature, with all due respect.”

“Well, let's get back to business,” Saro said.

“So where were we? Why haven't I offered this deal to my friends? Well, Mr. Scalia, for that very reason, because as far as my friends know, my line of work lies in another area, import and export and so on. They aren't aware that I'm involved in several gambling clubs. I'm forced to get rid of them because a friend of mine tipped me off that in a week I'll have the shipping inspectors underfoot. To get on their lists, you have to be completely clean, you know what I mean. So I need to dispose of them, and fairly quickly, which is why the selling price is very favorable; a real good deal, like I said.”

“What would the price be?”

Dixie leaned forward, looking the man in the eyes. He had established a figure with his friends, but now he wanted to up the ante. “We're talking about almost a hundred machines with a license, already set up in a gambling parlor. There's nothing else you have to do except go and collect a mint every day.”

“So, how much?” the impatient merchant asked again.

“Thirty thousand,” Dixie proposed, “made out to cash.”

Saro wheeled around. They had agreed to ask for fifteen thousand dollars.

The merchant slumped back in his chair. “Too much,” he said, discouraged.

“But the price is negotiable,” Saro interjected.

“Twenty-two,” Johnny Scalia offered.

“Twenty-eight,” Dixie countered.

“Twenty-
five
,” Scalia proposed.

“Twenty-
six
,” Dixie came back.

“Twenty-five and we close immediately,” the merchant said resolutely.

“You'll recover the twenty-five grand in a month. Do you realize what a deal you got? Let's shake on it.” Dixie stood up, followed by Scalia, and they shook hands.

“Where are the slot machines?”

“In Spanish Harlem, One Hundred Seventeenth Street,” Dixie said. He opened a drawer and pulled out two typewritten pages and a license. He handed the two sheets of paper to Johnny Scalia. “I've already prepared a contract. See if it looks all right to you.” He left the slot machine license in plain view on the desk. The merchant eyed the license, and carefully read one of the two pages. It was a statement by Marangoni that he relinquished the operation and ownership of all the slot machines set up in the gambling parlor located at 454 East 117th Street. Reading the document seemed to convince the merchant, who handed it back to Dixie. “Sign it,” he told Dixie. Then he took out his checkbook from his briefcase and wrote out a check for twenty-five thousand dollars.

Dixie, meanwhile, signed the two copies of the contract and handed them to Scalia, who in turn signed both copies, giving one copy to Dixie and retaining the other for himself.

“Well, Mr. Marangoni,” he said as he rose to say good-bye. “It's been a pleasure doing business with you. If you have other proposals, here's my card; just give me a call.”

Dixie took the man's card but didn't have one of his own for the customary exchange. “Will do. You know where I work, so come and see me whenever you want . . .

“Only please don't mention who you made this deal with,” he added. “Don't forget.”

“Sure, sure.” Johnny Scalia smiled, pleased to be complicit in their little secret. “You don't have to worry. By the way, congratulations.”

“What for?”

“Still so young, and already you've been able to set up this great organization.”

They stood up and the merchant noticed Saro. “Oh, I almost forgot the friend who introduced us . . .” He took two hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and slipped them into Saro's jacket pocket. “You deserve them, pal.”

“That's very generous of you.”

Johnny Scalia's feet were itching. He thought he'd just made the biggest deal of his life, and he couldn't wait to hurry over and claim it. “I know the way, my friends. Don't trouble yourselves.” And with that, he opened the door and left.

Saro and Dixie both held their breath and didn't say a word until they heard the door close behind the merchant. Soon afterward, the door opened again, and Isabel appeared. The three friends joined in a single embrace, jumping for joy. Isabel waved the check, and Saro brandished the two C-notes.

“You were terrific, better than Errol Flynn. You look like him too.” Isabel hugged Dixie and planted a kiss on his mouth.

“Hey, hey, what about me? Who baited the hook?” Saro asked, feeling left out.

Isabel broke away from Dixie and hugged him too. “You were superb.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “But now we have to beat it, Martin told us we could stay till noon at the latest, then the cleaning crew comes in.”

“We also have to return the clothes,” Saro reminded them.

“And then, on to the Savoy! They play the most explosive swing in all New York there!” Dixie said excitedly.

Johnny Scalia raced as quickly as he could to East 117th Street in Spanish Harlem, with the contract and license safely in his pocket. He found a club, the Crazy Strass at number 454, but the doors were closed. Scalia knocked, hoping to get in, but a team of painters was renovating the place, and the foreman told him that they were working overtime because the place had to be ready to open Monday morning at ten. Scalia saw rows of slot machines lined up against the walls, along with pool tables and various devices intended to fleece the suckers who went there. He was encouraged when the foreman said that they were painting the place because a new manager was supposed to be coming in to take over the machines. Scalia smiled at the thought that the man he was talking about was himself, and for a moment he pictured the tons of coins he would collect each week. He offered the workers a drink at a nearby bar, and then said good-bye and went back to his deserted house. Two strokes of luck in just one week; he couldn't ask for anything more.

There was such a crowd that Saturday at the Savoy Ballroom in Harlem that they couldn't even buy tickets. Someone had spread the word that Duke Ellington himself would play there that night. Dixie suggested to his friends that they go somewhere else, since they'd never be able to get in.

They took a cab down to the Onyx Club on West Fifty-Second Street. To get in, all they had to do was say the watchword to the guy who looked out from the large peephole in the door.

“I'm from Local 802,” Dixie recited, and to his great satisfaction, the door magically opened. “See that?”