Mr. B called one of his boys over and instructed him to drive me home. The driver’s threads were impeccable and tailored, but what ruined the ensemble was the wingspan of the shirt collar and all the garish gold jewelry. Chains encircled his neck, and one of them displayed Jesus on his cross with an Italian horn on his right for a companion. The horn warded off the Evil Eye.
His name was Joe Colonna aka Joey Cologne.
They all had nicknames, some moniker that approximated the sounds of their first or last names, or alluded to a mannerism or some personal quirk, often ironic or sometimes sinister. This Colonna, for example, was called Joey Cologne because he showered in whatever was popular at the men’s counter at Filene’s in downtown Boston. Be it Aramis, Brut. The last time I saw him, it was English Leather. Today, it was some variation on musk. Whatever he wore, he stank. The guys also called him Skunk behind his back.
While Skunk drove, I thought back to the history lesson I had received from Tony Two-Times. Tony named no names. In his inimitable way, he used code and diminutives for deadly men and lethal events. The specific details I’d cobbled together on my own at the library, consulting reels of microfiche.
It was unhealthy as petting a cobra to call a gangster by his nickname to his face because most of them disliked their street names. Joe Bonnano, for example, despised being called Joe Bananas because he said it made people think he was crazy.
He wasn’t. He was treacherous as Shakespeare’s Caliban.
I cracked the window so I could get some air and not die from the wall of muskrat love next to me. It didn’t help that Skunk had lit up and added the Marlboro Man as a passenger.
“Roll that window up,” he said. “You want me to catch a cold, or what?”
One standout about Skunk was that, unlike his colleagues, he drove a car that didn’t attract attention to itself. Instead of a Cadillac, which was the vehicle of choice for mobsters, Skunk opted for a Chevy Caprice. Crimson exterior and interior. Perfect for spilt blood.
While Skunk drove, I recalled the history lesson, thanks to the Boston Public Library and Tony Two-Times as historian. A decade ago, Bonnano attempted a power move, not unlike Michael Corleone’s assassinations of family leaders during the climactic baptism scene in The Godfather. Bonnano tried to have four seated members of the Commission killed. Bonnano’s justification was he had been denied a seat at the table, so like his namesake fruit, he turned black with rage.
The problem was his coup failed.
His chief conspirator, a captain in the Profaci family, delegated two of the hits to his top contractor Joe Columbo, who saw it as an opportunity for advancement and betrayed his captain and Bonnano. The captain was summoned to a sit-down, certain he would die that day, and confessed. Instead of taking a one-way ride to the graveyard in the trunk of a car, he was spared, forced to resign, and pay a fine. Columbo was promoted to boss of the Profaci family, which he renamed after himself. Rather than show up and explain himself to the Commission, Bonnano fled the country.
To Canada.
He lived in Montreal for almost two years, never forgetting the betrayal, and plotting for a triumphant return. It didn’t turn out that way, according to the microfiche at the library. There was a war, people died, or as Tony put it, “You know how this story goes.”
Columbo was tight with Ray Patriarca in Providence, who assigned Boston to Mr. B.
The story did go on, as Tony said. Profaci was dead from cancer and Columbo was in a coma after taking a bullet to the head at a rally, protesting of all things, how Italians were portrayed in the media, especially in the film The Godfather.
In Montreal, Bonnano must’ve formed an alliance with either the Calabrians or the Sicilians, established another base for operations, and harvested a substantial influx of money from all of the cocaine sold in Canada. With the Columbo family weakened by internal dissension as to who would run the family, it’s possible that Bonnano may now think he has both the muscle and the money to take out Mr. B and then square off against Patriarca in Rhode Island for control of New England. If Bonnano made any other assumptions, it was that the other families would sue for peace instead of waging war. If he was wrong and nobody joined his cause, he still had an army north of the border, and he could stay there, in permanent exile.
The car came to a stop. I thanked Joe and exited the car for fresh air. No sooner had I closed the door than he pulled away, almost running over my toes. I was happy to be home and looking forward to a relaxing evening with Bonnie and Delilah. I climbed the few steps to my sanctuary, unlocked the door, and yelled out to Bonnie.
She came at me like Laura Petrie from The Dick Van Dyke Show, all cheerful and with an apron tied around her waist. Her fingers were at work on the buttons to my jacket. “I have a surprise for you,” she said.
“I can take off my own jacket, thank you. What’s the surprise?”
“Dinner and a guest.”
“A guest…who?”
“Your friend from the army.”
I’d worked my arms out of the winter coat in disbelief. “He’s here?”
“In the living room. Go on,” she said and shushed me. “The two of you can talk while I’m in the kitchen. We’re having porterhouse steaks with mushrooms and a Caesar’s Salad. Oh, and we’re even.”
“Even, how?”
“I know his name now. Hunter.”
And she was off, down the hallway, through the door, and back to the kitchen.
I almost wished the meet-and-greet at the door included a Gimlet or Thorazine because I needed a crutch or something. My day went from mafiosi to worse. She said she knew his name now. She didn’t.
I hesitated and undid the shoulder holster, and hung it up. I’d brought it upon myself since I had told Bonnie where he was staying. In my mind, it was the smart move because I would know where he was, and it was a dumb move because I’d shared the detail with her, and she thought she was doing something nice. I wasn’t sure how to tell Bonnie that inviting him to dinner was no different than welcoming a vampire into your house.
I walked into the living room. Delilah was on the footstool staring at him. A fire crackled in the fireplace. He was enjoying a cocktail, an Old Fashioned, on account of the curlicue of orange peel in his glass. Bourbon was cheap and hadn’t been popular since Chandler’s Marlowe drank Old Forester. I sat opposite him. “It’s Hunter, huh?”
“Thought you’d appreciate it.”
“I do. I assume you two became acquainted in my absence.”
“I kept it light as a dusting of snow.” He raised his glass. “You have nothing to worry about.”
He saw that I saw the bottle of Barolo, uncorked and breathing.
I said, “Bottle of wine says she thinks you’re special.”
“Appreciate it,” he said.
“The wine sure beats drinking Black Label beer from Da Nang. Remember those?”
“Breakfast of champions,” I answered and looked at him. “Keep it light, please.”
“Always a gentleman, I promise.”
Bonnie called us to the table. She asked, before she made the salad, if we objected to anchovies since not everyone liked them. I said I was fine with it, and Hunter assured her that he was okay with them. She disappeared into the kitchen again.
I heard the blender in the kitchen. I’d watched her use it dozens of times. She’d add egg yolk for silkiness, the anchovies for salt, vinegar, and lemon juice for acid, and cayenne and garlic for a kick of heat and spice. As the machine puréed the ingredients, she’d slowly incorporate some olive oil for body. I thought of the blades, how fast they turned, and how they reminded me of a Cobra helicopter.
Bonnie returned with bowls and served us. She checked her watch. She said she had placed the cast-iron skillet and our porterhouses into the oven minutes ago. She told us we shouldn’t rush our salads because the steaks needed ten minutes to rest before they were served.
We adjourned to the living room after dinner and listened to Bonnie apologize for not serving dessert, but not before she implicated me. “Sarah Lee cheesecake is Shane’s favorite, even though he won’t admit it. What did you boys have for dessert in the army? I’m curious.”
Delilah lifted her head, no longer napping. I looked to Hunter. He answered for us.
“Tootsie Rolls were the best thing in the kit if we were lucky, otherwise there was a square piece of cardboard somebody called an oatmeal cookie. As for favorites, Shane enjoyed the compressed fruit cake.”
We made small talk until Bonnie rose and said something about coffee. We declined the offer of coffee. She was playing the part of hostess to the T. She asked our guest whether he wanted more bourbon. Hunter asked for another splash of Old Crow.
We sat in chairs near the fire, like we were Alistair Cooke with guests from Masterpiece Theatre. The evening wore on. Bonnie joined us, a glass of the last of the Barolo in her hand. I could tell the long day, the cooking, and the meal had tired her. The wine, while it didn’t make her drowsy, did embolden her. She asked Hunter, “What was Shane like back then?”
Hunter looked at me, not her, when he answered Bonnie. “When you dialed O for operator, Shane Cleary answered. We were always grateful for that.” He lifted his glass.
Bonnie didn’t know what to make of his answer but acted polite and didn’t push for an explanation. If she had asked me to describe Hunter, I would’ve told her that he was a cross between Radar from the show M*A*S*H because he could get us anything we wanted, and John Rambo from David Morrell’s novel Rambo because he was lethal.
“Did you both go through Basic Training together?”
Hunter answered, “No, I met Shane later.”
“In Tiger Force?”
Hunter’s eyes changed. “You know about Tiger Force?”
“I did see some pictures and a few medals, but Shane won’t talk about it.”
“Medals.” Hunter coughed. “Some joke those were.”
“It’s an inadequate form of recognition, but it’s something.”
The bourbon must’ve relaxed Hunter because he had an answer for her.
“Medals were often political is what they were. A lot of guys were cited for one and then were downgraded to a lesser award because some desk jockey in DC complained about medal inflation. Meanwhile, some officers and their buddies wrote citations up for each other that were about as honest as Pinocchio’s nose. Truth be told, we didn’t care about medals because we were happy to have survived, and if we did receive them, we felt guilty because of the guys who didn’t.”
There was a lull, the only sound that of flames in the fireplace. Bonnie apologized.
“No need to apologize. It’s a sign of weakness,” Hunter said. He rose from the chair. “Thank you for your hospitality tonight. It was kind of you.” He glanced to me and told her. “You have yourself a good man here. Shane Cleary taught me everything I know.”
We said our goodbyes. Hunter left. Bonnie closed the front door while I stood at the window and watched him walk down Comm. Ave. I read the street, my eyes taken with one gas lamp, its bright light, and the car parked under it. The driver had turned the engine over and switched on the headlights.
A crimson Chevy Caprice.