BEYOND THE HIGH walk Vito Spazzi’s living room had taken on the flavor of a War Room. Smoke swirled thick over the heads of the eight lieutenants gathered. They sat with legs straddled over hard chairs, lounged deep in the two sofas and club chairs. The news was all bad. They did not have to be told the news was bad, but Don Vito, facing them, was not letting them off the hook. Behind him, at the table, were the consigliere and the Don’s two sons, who would one day assume leadership of the Family.
The Don glared out over the room, handsome features dark with fury. With these men, he could vent his anger freely, without fear of contradiction or hindrance. These were his men, his own soldiers; he moved them at will, assigned them to whatever tasks he deemed necessary or fit.
“We pay those bastards,” he was saying, “we pay through the nose ... and then when the heat’s on, you learn who your friends are. We got no friends,” he shouted. “We got a bunch of double-crossing sonofabitch finks, that’s what we got!”
He paused to let it sink in. Mario Esposito, from South Brooklyn, was cleaning his nails with a pocket knife; Cowboy, slim-hipped and lithe under his white Stetson, was in from his station at the Airport. His truck hijacking operation had been hit only hours earlier. Fortunately, he had escaped the police dragnet at the hangars. The others, scowling, tight-lipped, listened to the Don with slow, incandescent rage.
“Three major operations in twenty-four hours!” Spazzi continued. “Gambling, the hotel, the airport ... all bombed out. Hell, we haven’t seen so much heat since that pimp, LaGuardia, was running the town.”
“Somebody’s talking,” Mario said quietly, still concentrating on his nails.
Spazzi snarled deep in his throat. “You don’t have to be a genius to see that. Somebody’s spilling his guts. The question is, Who?”
“Paoli,” Tonto said.
“Sit on that for a while,” Spazzi said. “We’re not finished with them. But the real reason I got you together ... I’m calling a meet for tonight. I want the Capo of every Family in town to be here. We got to work together, or we’re all going to fall together. We’re not just going to sit around and drink vino. We’re going to fight. And while we’re at it,” he added quietly, “we’re going to give everybody a chance to shoot his mouth off. I’m hoping somebody might just put his foot in his mouth, capisce?”
The men understood perfectly. In the course of an open meeting of the kind Don Vito was planning, one false word, one idea that didn’t ring true—and they’d have the man who was betraying them all.
“Okay. Frank and Tony, here,” he turned to his eldest son and the consigliere behind him, “will make sure they all get here. Make it for nine o’clock. And lay off the regular telephones. Go out someplace and make sure you use clean phones.”
He faced the others once more. “That’s all for now. Get back before nine. When you go out, don’t all go together like a bunch of elephants.” He paused, seemed to consider the men. “In fact, a couple of you stay behind. Mario, Tonto ... and, yeah, Cowboy. Stay. I got a job for you. Everybody else, out.”
The three men named remained as the others cleared out. They stretched, wandered about restlessly, curious about the job in store for them.
Don Vito moved among them. “Mario, you mentioned Paoli. I know and you know that’s who it was. Tonight, we’ll find out who else.”
“Nothing we can do about Paoli,” Mario said. “The old man and Carlo, they can’t talk anymore.”
“I ain’t afraid of what they can say now,” Vito said. “I’m afraid of what they already said. If they spilled their guts to the D.A., we’ll have to take some real quick action to save our skins. We have to know how much they talked, the names they named. We have to know who we can get to.”
Mario shrugged. “They can’t talk to us. We can’t talk to them.”
For the first time that afternoon, Vito Spazzi smiled. “But we can. I have a Paoli upstairs.”
Tonto frowned. “I thought we got them all?”
Spazzi shook his head, still smiling. “This one I saved. Antonia.”
The three men facing Spazzi reacted with confusion.
“She—she’s still your wife, ain’t she?” Cowboy asked.
Spazzi grunted. “Some wife. We never lived together. Not for years. I married her for different reasons.”
Tonto looked doubtful. “But ...”
“She’s nothing to me. Nothing, except a Paoli.”
“You want us to sweat her?” Cowboy asked. He wasn’t sure he understood what the Don was getting at.
Spazzi said easily, “I think she can be made to talk. With some special treatment. I’m going up there to talk to her, give her a chance to open up on her own. If she don’t, I’ll call for you guys.”
Frowning, Mario said, “Eh, Vito, she’s a—a girl! You want us to hit a girl?”
Spazzi grinned. “You’ll see. I got it all figured. It won’t be hard on you.” Then, realizing that he had just made a pun, he began to laugh.
He was still chuckling to himself when he opened the door to Antonia’s room.
Antonia Paoli was curled in a chair beside the window, head resting in her hands. She had not put on any makeup; her face looked drawn, and about her eyes, there was a hint of moistness, as if she had been crying.
She looked up as Spazzi entered, gazing at him with unconcealed hostility as he joined her at the window. It looked out onto the superstructure of the Thunderball. By peering through the wooden lattice-work of the ride, she could barely make out the huge Ferris wheel, a giant, spidery wheel with cable cars suspended loosely from its spokes. It revolved slowly, like a coin on end, the cars slithering and rocking along a short bar. Spazzi stared out the window. “Enjoying the view?”
Her eyes were unfocused, glazed. “You killed him,” she said dully. “You killed my brother.”
Spazzi gestured emptily. “It was out of my hands. The organization made the contract.”
“You could have stopped it. One word from you ...”
“Your family betrayed Cosa Nostra. That is the worst crime there is.”
“What proof do you have?” she cried. “Did you talk to him ... to my father? Did they have a trial?”
“The proof is that our operations are being smashed. Left and right, smashed. Your men talked.”
Her body sagged. “All right, it’s all over. Finished. I have no more men for you to kill. Now I want to go home.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Spazzi said. He tugged at his nose. “You tell me what your father said to the D.A.—you can go home.”
“I told you!” she shouted. “I told you a dozen times: I don’t know! And if I did,” she added, “I’d tell them—the D.A.—not you!”
His hand caught her flat across the cheek. “I want to hear!” The pitch of his voice matched hers. “You don’t play around with me, fancy lady. My whole goddam business is going to hell. I want to know, and you’re going to tell me. Y’hear?”
The mark of his open hand burned on her cheek. She rubbed, trying to ease the sting, her head swiveling from side to side. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know.” A hopelessness was creeping over her, a dark realization that the only reply she could give was not going to be good enough.
He pointed a shaking finger. “I told you I am a stubborn man,” he said, face flushed with anger. “‘I don’t know’ is not an answer. But I do know how to get the right words from you. Don’t fool yourself, lady, I know how.”
He strode to the door, flung it open and called out, “Tonto! Mario ... Cowboy!”
Almost immediately, footsteps could be heard clattering up the stairs. The three men appeared in the doorway. To a man, they peered beyond Spazzi, to the girl at the window.
“I want her to talk,” he told them. “She is going to tell us everything her father said to the Feds, y’understand?”
The three of them were staring at Antonia. They began to grin, eyes glistening. The prospect of getting to this girl was not unpleasant to any of them.
“Whatever you want,” Spazzi said. “Anything goes. But she’s gotta talk.”
Antonia heard and grew numb with fear. Cowering in a corner, she began to shudder, as preparations got under way.
Spazzi produced a bedsheet and proceeded methodically to tear it into long strips. He jerked a finger toward Antonia. “Get her over here.”
Tonto and Cowboy moved back to where the girl was trembling with fear. Each grabbed an arm and pulled her to the center of the room. They held her firm.
She felt too weak to stand. “No,” she murmured, “no...”
“You got nobody to blame but yourself,” Spazzi said coldly. “Any time you want to talk, we’ll listen.”
He reached out and quickly, professionally, unzipped her slacks and slipped them down over her legs. In another swift movement, he jerked the sweater over her head. Her breasts spilled free, twin melons quivering with life. Eyes popping, the men gaped at this unbelievably beautiful creature. Mario’s lips worked drily; Cowboy’s Adam’s apple bobbed and gulped.
And then Spazzi’s hands were on her bikini panties. With a flick of his wrist, he ripped downward and let them slip to the floor. And there she was, Antonia Paoli, this woman who was his wife, and not his wife. It no longer mattered. Don Vito Spazzi saw her, in all her loveliness, as a woman to be desired, a woman to be had.
“Put her on the bed,” he ordered the others.
A sudden sense of self-preservation welled up in the girl. She kicked out, legs lashing, arms flailing within the grasp of the men. “Pigs!” she cried. “Lice!”
Struggling, they managed to throw her onto the bed. Spazzi handed Mario the strips of cloth. “Spread eagle,” he said, as the Thunderball thundered by outside the window.
Mario knotted a strip around the bedpost, then grabbed her right ankle and secured it. He crossed to the other side of the bed and secured her left leg. Her legs were spread, the dark hairs parted to reveal a voluptuous centerpiece.
“Her arms,” Spazzi said. He was unable to tear his gaze from her.
Antonia ceased struggling. She lay there, whimpering, while Mario tied her wrists to each end of the headboard.
The job was done. Antonia lay spread on the bed, pinned helpless as a butterfly. And quite as beautiful. The men gaped, their breath coming in heavy gasps. Each fancied himself a specialist in this kind of work.
“Me first,” Spazzi said. It was difficult for him to speak, but the hunger was upon him, the hunger as he used to know it. He motioned for the others to clear out. But even before they roused themselves and moved to the door, his hand was on the zipper of his trousers.
Outside, at the door in the high wall, a buzzer sounded. Tommy Trip, on duty, peered through the narrow slit and saw a man in coveralls with a belt containing telephone equipment. The man had long hair, a heavy mustache, and carried a box.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
“Telephone Company. Gotta check your lines.”
“Nothin’s wrong with the phones,” Tommy said.
“There sure as hell is, mister. Half the phones are out in the neighborhood.”
At the door, Tommy scowled. “I don’t ...” But he opened the door. The phone repairman slipped inside.
“Hell, buddy, I ain’t gonna stay for supper. I just want to check out your lines.”
Tommy led him across the patch of yard to the house. “Stay here,” he said. “Don’t move from here.”
He opened the door, called inside: “Hey, somebody! Commere!”
Spazzi appeared in the doorway. Behind him, Mario and Cowboy, both with hands in the pockets of their coats.
Tommy said, “Eh, Vito, you send for the telephone company?”
Spazzi studied the repairman. “Yeah? Who sent for you?”
“I gotta look at the phones, mister. Lines are out all over the neighborhood.”
“Stay here.” Spazzi disappeared into the living room and picked up the nearest phone. It was dead. “What the fuck happened to the phones?” he said aloud. He didn’t want anybody in his house. Not now.
He returned to the door and motioned the repairman in. Then he suddenly lunged for the tool box. “Open it,” he said.
The repairman shrugged, opened the box to a mess of wires, wrenches and telephone parts.
“Frisk him,” Spazzi said to Tommy, who immediately ran his hands over the repairman’s body: chest, side and back pockets, his thighs.
“He’s clean,” Tommy reported.
“Okay, mac,” Spazzi said. “We got phones all over the place, but don’t go wandering around, y’hear? You want to check a phone, we’ll take you. And make it fast.”
Outside, the Thunderball rumbled by; the house shook on its foundation. And almost simultaneously, there was a horrendous shriek from somewhere near at hand. A woman’s terrified cry.
The men exchanged startled glances. The telephone man said, “That’s one hell of a ride, ain’t it?” and gave his attention to the tool box. “What I gotta do,” he explained, “I gotta trace every line, from the instrument to the main trunk. There’s a break someplace, shorting out the juice.”
Tommy returned to his post outside, as the repairman moved into the living room and headed for the phone on the table. He picked up the instrument, jiggled the receiver, then set it down again. He kneeled and began to trace along the line leading from the phone to the wall connection.
Behind him, Vito Spazzi was saying, “That fucking phone company. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another.”
Another voice said, “Tonto’s sure taking his sweet time.”
“He’s smart,” from another voice. “I don’t know why I was in such a fucking hurry.”
The repairman was fumbling in his box. He found a screw driver and opened the wall connection. Then, preoccupied, he crawled along the wall. When he straightened up behind Vito Spazzi, there was a snub-nosed .38 Colt in his hand, pointed straight at Spazzi’s head.
“Freeze!” he hissed, “or your leader’s dead.”
Mario froze, his mouth hanging open. In a reflex, Cowboy’s hand automatically went for his gun. Too bad, really, because he caught the .38 slug in the left ventricle of his heart. Even before he completed toppling, the blood was spurting out in a deep red jet.
“You!” the man from the phone company said to Mario. “Where is she?”
Mario started to shake his head.
“On second thought,” the phone man said, “I don’t need you. Say goodbye.”
The shot went unheard, because at that moment, the Thunderball, true to its name, thundered by overhead. Mario’s eyes went wide; he stiffened for an instant, then went limp as he crashed to the floor, 200 grains of high grade compacted powder and lead lodged in his brain.
“Okay, Vito,” the repairman said in the Don’s ear, “lead the way. And remember, my finger is twitching.”
The barrel of the gun was pressed against Spazzi’s skull, just below the little round bald spot he tried so hard to cover. The Don moved forward, but it wasn’t fast enough for the telephone man, who brought his knee up for a shot square into Spazzi’s tail. This time, the Don moved faster, propelled by the man with the gun at his head. Up the stairs together, where Spazzi hesitated once again. But now, the visitor didn’t need him. He could hear Antonia whimpering through the door, mingled with the sound of a man’s heavy grunting.
Robert Briganti kicked in the door. He saw a man on top of Antonia, her body spread-eagled on the bed. The man, who turned out to be Tonto, twisted his head, saw the gun aimed at him, and fell to one side. The slug caught him at the juncture of his elongated dong. He let out a scream and fell from the bed, hands clutching at the bloody thing he had so recently enjoyed.
With his free hand, Briganti produced a pocket knife, and quickly slashed at the bonds holding Antonia. She lay there, too stunned, too shaken, to move.
“Let’s go, honey,” Briganti said. “This is express.”
Dazed and gasping for equilibrium, Antonia staggered from the bed.
“Quick!” Briganti urged. “Into your clothes. Do it, girl!”
She peered at him, unable to connect; yet, she did as she was told. Shakily, she drew on her slacks and sweater. She became aware of Tonto, sloshing around in a puddle of blood from his own loins, and she pulled back in horror.
“That’s one guy who’ll never need a vasectomy,” Briganti said. “Let’s move!”
Then, for the first time, Antonia seemed aware of the man who had come for her. She stared, transfixed, unable to take her gaze from him. A weak smile broke over her face. She pointed at him ludicrously.
“Get a move on!” he urged.
She started past, then paused in front of Spazzi. Rage filled her being, giving her a sudden strength.
“Kill him!” she said. “Kill the sonofabitch!”
“No,” Briganti said. “Leave all that to me.”
“Let me do it!” she persisted. “I’ll kill him!”
Briganti was getting very impatient. “Will you please get the fuck out of here?”
She started forward, then thought better of it and turned back to face Vito Spazzi. All at once, her arm went back, and her fist came up with a roundhouse to the Don’s jaw. His head snapped back against the barrel of the gun at his head. If Briganti hadn’t been as steady as he was, the gun would probably have gone off. That would have been a shame, because he had other plans for Don Vito Spazzi.
“Let him be,” Briganti said, his voice tight.
She strode past, to the door.
“Wait!” he called. “Who else is in the house?”
“Three that I know of,” she said. “Mario ...”
“Dead.”
“Cowboy ...”
“Dead.”
“That sonofabitch, Tonto ...”
“Good as dead. Who else?”
“Tommy and Dino. Maybe more. I don’t know.”
Briganti nodded. “I’ll go first. Stick close.”
He went out the door and started cautiously down the stairs. One hand held tight to Spazzi at the scruff of his neck, in case he should get any stupid ideas. The other, of course, was rammed against his head. They were at the bottom of the stairs when Dino Martin came charging into the house. “Hey, Vito,” he called. Dino Martin departed this world with a .38 bullet between his eyes. He did not suffer, but went quickly, without pain.
That left Tommy. Briganti said to Spazzi, “You want to call Tommy in? It’d be a shame to leave him out there in the sun with all the flies.”
But Tommy had heard the sharp bark of the .38. He came tearing in, gun drawn, only to come up short, mouth gaping open. His only target was Spazzi. Still, it didn’t really matter, for he only had a second or two for the scene to register, before he joined his friends in another world.
Briganti gave his attention to the Don. “Let’s see, now. What are we going to do with you, Don?”
Spazzi believed his life was over. He had seen his soldiers die, one by one at the hands of this stranger. He had to be next. He may have been inured to it all by now; or, like so many Mafiosi who spent their lives with death, totally accepting the inevitable. He stared defiantly at Briganti. “Tell me one thing: who sent you?”
Briganti chuckled, glanced over at Antonia. “Vincent Paoli,” he said, just before sending the butt of the .38 crashing down hard on the Don’s gray head.
On the street heading toward Surf Avenue, Antonia wanted to run, but Briganti held her arm. “Honey,” he said, “we’re just two young lovers out for a day at the beach.” He put her arm in his, and together, they strolled, like any other tourists, up the street.
Daylight was fading fast, and the million lights of the Island were being turned up for the evening.
“I want to get away from here,” Antonia said. “We’ve got to. They’ll be out hunting for us.”
Briganti smiled, patted her hand. “Nobody’s hunting for us, because they don’t know who we are. And the cops won’t be around for a long while because Spazzi, when he comes to, won’t talk to the cops.”
“Why didn’t you kill him?”
“Because our day’s work is still not done.”
“He deserves to die, like the others.”
“There’s a time for everything. Spazzi’s time has not yet arrived.”
“If you say so,” she said doubtfully. “Now, where to?”
“I want to get out of this masquerade. Then we’ll see.”
“You’re the captain,” she said. “Lead on.”
At the subway terminal, Briganti retrieved the canvas bag he had checked in a quarter locker.
“What’s in there?” Antonia asked.
“Dirty socks,” he said, and headed toward the men’s room. At the entrance, he faced her. “I wish you could come in with me. I hate to leave you, even for a minute.”
“I’ll be here.”
He grunted. “I’ve heard that one before. I don’t believe it.” He paused for a moment, then his face under the mustache brightened. “Brainstorm,” he announced. He propelled Antonia along the ramp to a door marked, “Ladies.”
“Inside,” he said. “And don’t show your face for the next five minutes.” He gave her a gentle shove, saw that she entered, then went himself, into the men’s room.
When he emerged, three minutes later, he was wearing his suit. The mustache and long hair were gone.
Antonia appeared shortly, smiling at the transformation. “Jimmy Corsaro,” she said. “What a surprise.”
Briganti did not correct her.
Arm in arm, they moved up the Avenue. Coney Island, too, was undergoing a transformation. The family trade, so much of the Island’s daytime business, was giving way to a more raucous, free-wheeling patronage. At the concessions, the cry was, “Hey, Sport, win a kewpie doll!”
“Ride the Tunnel of Love ... the Road to Paradise ...” At the shooting gallery, .22’s plinked and bonged into a parade of wooden ducks and swinging pendulum targets. The rides whooshed and vroomed and dipped and careened; and the girls screamed their terror and delight.
They were outside the neon-lit Hangover Club. Briganti paused. “Have you ever been in here?”
Antonia shook her head.
“Great little place,” he said like a native, and showed her through the door.
It was livelier at this hour. The TV had been turned off, and in its place, they were greeted with a blast of trumpet, brass and 4/4 rhythm. The Dixieland Stompers were in their seats on the stand grinding out a chorus of Muskrat Ramble. Couples and foursomes were at the tables, pounding, nodding to the beat. A couple of waitresses in micro miniskirts and dark pantyhose were delivering trays of drinks. They moved past the bar. Briganti was glad to note that Beth had taken her itch elsewhere.
Briganti chose a table in a darkened corner near the bandstand. As they were getting into their seats, one of the miniskirts materialized over them. “Four dollars minimum,” she said by way of greeting.
“What took you so long?” Briganti said, shouting over the blast of music. “We’ll take two.”
“Two what?” Already, the girl was annoyed.
Briganti shrugged. “Two minimums. No, scratch that. Make it two Cinzano on the rocks.”
The girl disappeared, slithering past the tables. Antonia said, “How did you know I drink Cinzano?”
“I didn’t. But you’re with me.”
“M.C.P.” she said, but she was grinning.
“Hungry? We can get something to eat.”
“I’m too excited. The drink’s the thing.” Then her face clouded; a look of worry nagged at her. “Should we be here? I mean ... there’s a price on our heads.”
He patted her hand. “Last place in the world they’d think to look.” But his glance went beyond her, to a table at the opposite end of the room, near the washrooms. There were four men huddled over the table, in dark suits, and they were not there for the music.
“Without staring,” Briganti said pleasantly, “do you know any of the men at the conference back there?”
Antonia lifted her glass and drank, but her eyes were fixed on the corner table. She shook her head. “I don’t know them.”
“Think they’d know you?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it. I told you, I live my own life.”
Briganti nodded. “We’re okay.”
“Alone,” she said, “I’d be a thousand miles from here.”
“This is fine. Besides, we need some relaxation before our next move.”
“No, please. No more.”
“You wouldn’t want me to do a half-ass job, would you? I have to finish what I start.”
She still did not know what to make of this man. Who was he? Where was he from? Why had he risked his life for her? She had no idea, but at the moment, aside from her natural curiosity, she could not have cared less. She was deeply drawn to him, admiring his quiet competence, the strong sense of confidence he exuded. He was a professional, and she liked that. It was good to be with him. She felt safe, protected from the dangers that lurked on all sides of her.
He raised his glass in a toast. “A buon ’Taliani.” To good Italians.”
“To you,” she added, and he laughed heartily, but drank.
After two more Cinzanos, Antonia leaned back, staring at Briganti. “You’re the strangest man. We’ve been through so much, yet I don’t know anything about you except your name.”
He chuckled over the irony of that one. “You know a lot about me, if you’d think about it. And who knows? As we go along, you may learn more. Right now,” he said, “I’m going to the john.”
He got up, pointed a finger at her. “Don’t wander,” and moved off. The band was out for a break, and except for the hum of voices and the clink of glass, the room was reasonably quiet. Briganti seemed to be staggering slightly; his walk was irregular, loose-limbed. Before entering the washroom, he flagged a waitress.
“We want two more,” he said, speaking brokenly. He paused, trying to think what it was he wanted.
The girl said, “Two what?”
“Wait,” he said, “wait ... I’ll get it.” Pause. Scratch the head, bite the fingers. “Hell, I don’t know. Ask my girl.” The waitress made a face and moved off. Briganti stood there weaving, looking after her.
It was a good act, not overdone, very natural. It was performed for the benefit of the four gentlemen at the table behind him. They were of different ages, but all carved from the same cookie cutter. Any child in New York grade school would be able to identify them, by occupation, at least.
“Hell,” one of them was saying, “we got an hour yet. Have another.”
A second preferred to speak in Italian. “Stay sober. Vito didn’t send for us without it being very serious.”
And a third, in Italian: “How come Tonto isn’t here to pick up the tab?”
Briganti entered the washroom.
Antonia was still there when he returned, smiling up at him. “You’re not much of a drinker, are you?”
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Just another of my many disguises. Designed for eavesdropping.”
“And did they drop any eaves?”
“As I suspected, there’s going to be a big meet tonight at Vito’s. We’re all invited.”
“It’ll take place without me,” she said firmly. “I’ve already given my all.”
The band was coming back. Briganti patted Antonia’s arm. “Here’s another facet of me.” He got up once again, went to the bandstand and spoke to the piano player. The musician seemed dubious at first, but then shrugged and got out of his seat. Briganti sat down. The other Stompers ignored the transaction. The trumpet player called out, “How Come ...” and tapped the beat with his toe, slow and steady. On the fifth beat, the band took the upbeat. Briganti was right in there with the others, hitting a strong, pounding chord structure. “How come you do me like you do, do, do ... How come you do me like you dooooo...”
The trumpet took one, low and dirty, then flicked a finger at the guest pianist. Robert Briganti took off, in a long stride along the keyboard that made the audience at the tables stop in mid-sentence and pay attention. This was Dixieland with authority; the man knew what he was doing. For the moment, Robert Briganti was Fats Waller with derby and protruding dead cigar; Willie the lion Smith, hammering at the black notes; Lil Armstrong, tickling ivories in the treble. This man was a piano player. He ran through the chorus, but the leader didn’t let him go. The finger pointed, and he took another, this time, with pounding fifths and augmented sevenths way down in the bass. It came out dirty, like good, clean New Orleans jazz should, and Briganti was right on top of it. The trombone took it from there and then they all joined in for sixteen more, and managed to finish all at the same time.
The band had a real audience now. The trumpet player handed the ball to Briganti, for any play he wanted. He chose Way Back Blues; and when he started the Intro, the musicians on the stand exchanged glazed looks and let the new man carry it all the way. He was doing something to that piano that was never written down in any book. It was a lonely ride, and mean and dirty as can be. The men on the stand strained to see what he was doing with that crazy left hand. It was different; if they didn’t know better, they’d say the left hand was playing in a different key than the right! But whatever this man was doing, he was boss. Funky as hell. Behind him, on the third chorus, the trombone slipped in with a counterpoint obligato that started the house clapping with the beat.
Antonia couldn’t believe it. She studied Briganti’s face, bent over the keyboard, and saw what she had seen (was it only last night?) on his face as they had writhed on the carpet like oiled machines. She saw rage and desire; ice and fire. She saw the man exposed in all his needs, his dreams. The vision was so clear, so sharp, she actually felt him writhing within her; and without realizing it, her body responded and a love moisture seeped from within the warm, unfolding lips between her legs.
Eventually, it was over. The audience howled for more, but Robert Briganti had had it. Perspiration beaded his forehead; he was breathing hard. He got up from the piano and signaled for the regular man to take over. The rest of the band waved their thanks, as he returned to Antonia.
The girl was shaking her head in awe. “Let me figure this one out,” she said. “I’ve seen you in several unlikely situations: shooting a gun, screwing a lady, namely me; and now, this. I’m beginning to think you’re larger than life.”
Briganti grinned, shrugged his shoulders. “Everything you mention: shooting, loving, playing the piano. They’re all of a piece, one and the same. Think about it.”
“But you just don’t learn to be this good. It takes talent.”
“I learned. Born and raised in Storyville, where they invented this kind of music. My teacher,” he smiled, “—music teacher—was an old lady named Aunt Emma, who played piano with all the greats. She’s eighty some years old, she’s had a stroke, but she still plays, with one hand.”
“That accounts for the music,” Antonia said. “What about the other two?”
“That’s another story,” Briganti said. “Some other time.”
He was staring across the room. The foursome were leaving the table. One of them, the youngest of the lot, waved across at Briganti as he passed. “Nice goin’,” he said.
“See you,” Briganti waved back. He turned to Antonia. “Feeling rested? Relaxed?”
She nodded happily, made a little move, as if she would like to snuggle closer.
“Okay. We’re going back to work, now.”
Her pretty face fell. “Oh, no, please. I’ve had enough.”
He wagged a finger at her. “Half-ass.”
“Keep this up,” she retorted, “and you’ll wind up with half an ass.”
“You can’t be hurting too much, if you can make a crack like that.” He let the pun sink in, then turned serious. “Listen, Antonia. I’ve got plans for that bunch. Big plans. But I need your help. You come along and contribute your share.”
Despite his easy manner, his puns, she knew he was in deadly earnest. Though she felt herself go pale, she nodded.
Briganti signaled the waitress and paid the check. Then he rose, picked up his canvas bag and waited for Antonia to move. Fearfully, she held back, but his stern look forced her to her feet. He followed her out of the Hangover Club.
Once outside, she let him lead the way. Whatever it was he had in mind, he was not imparting it to her. They walked slowly, side by side, in silence. Briganti seemed to be in a secret world of his own. She was curious about his plans, but he wasn’t about to speak. This was no longer the time for idle chatter.
Someday, perhaps, he might tell her. His business? It would not be far from right to say that he was in the guerrilla warfare business. He was one man, dedicated to an objective; one man, against an unholy army of criminals who burrowed underground, like rat-faced gophers, undermining the foundations of decent society. He was one man at war with this army; the only way to fight them, the only edge he had, was through guerrilla tactics. Surprise them; strike quickly, even outlandishly; then leave yourself a quick escape hatch. It was the only way to hit them and live to hit them another day.
It was he who was selecting the battleground. In his mind’s eye, he was going over every inch of it: the approach, the timing, the assault, and withdrawal. It could work, he concluded. Hell, he amended, it had to work—or his career would be over. And tonight, he had a double reason for insuring that it would work. He needed Antonia with him. She was too pretty, too intelligent, too everything, to die.