“Hey Joey, anybody ever tell ya, you’re supposed to let the Boss win?” Sal chuckled as he stood holding his cue stick, watching Joey run the balls off the table. Joey, getting ready for the next shot, looked at Sal, hit the cue and scratched—obviously on purpose.
“Oops,” Joey cracked.
Sal laughed. Joey rolled him the cue ball. They were in the rec room of Sal’s large mansion. Very few people ever came into the house. To most in the Romano family, this was like the holiest of the holies in Solomon’s temple. Here is where you spoke to god: Sal. Therefore, it was swept for bugs every six hours. Totally clean, and even then Sal took his own precautions.
Sal placed his stick on the table.
“Hey, forget about it, but if you ever tell anybody, I’ll whack youse.”
Joey playfully zipped his lips.
They walked over to the bar. Sal played bartender. He took out two glasses and dropped a cube into each one, then poured two fingers of brandy. He slid a glass to Joey.
“Salud!”
“Salud.”
They drank.
“You know, Joey, you’re doin’ a helluva job out there on the Coast,” Sal remarked.
They clinked glasses, signaling a toast.
“It’s a fuckin’ goldmine, Sal. There’s so much more I could be doin’, only I can’t, you know?” Joey signified.
Sal nodded.
“I know what you mean, and that’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Okay.”
Sal leaned on the bar counter close to Joey and lowered his voice.
“Don’t quote me on this but…I’ve been doin’ this a long time and my gut, it’s rarely let me down. Well, there was the ulcer, but you get my drift.”
“Certainly.”
“Okay, so again, don’t quote me but my gut is tellin’ me, I don’t know. I think…” he wrote Tommy on the bar, the image in the wax just enough for Joey to make out, “…is a rat.”
“Yeah?” Joey responded.
“You don’t sound surprised,” Sal commented.
Joey looked Sal in the eyes.
“Nothing surprises me, Sal.”
“That’s good…anyway, yeah I think he is.”
“So you want me to keep an eye on ‘em?” Joey probed, feeling Sal out.
“Naw, naw; it’s just my gut, you know? Hey, don’t youse got a…” he tapped his chest, right where a badge would be, indicating a cop “…out there on the payroll.”
“Yeah, a coupla of ‘em,” Joey informed him.
“Maybe he could verify what I’m feelin’, ya think?” Sal asked, giving Joey the look Joey understood totally. It was the look that one killer could communicate to another killer.
That’s when Joey knew. Sal wanted him to kill Tommy Scarlata, and he would use the cop to go along and say Tommy was an informant. The Commission then wouldn’t retaliate against him for killing a Made Man.
“Sure, I can arrange that,” Joey replied, using the word arrange to let Sal knew he understood.
Sal’s smirk conveyed that he did as well.
Sal again poured them both two fingers. Sal took a sip.
“But you know…if so and so’s a rat then…” Sal mused then wrote Dominick Piazza on the bar “…he’s gotta know, right? Which makes him a rat too in my book.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Joey seconded. “But what if he don’t know?”
“Then he’s too stupid to be a Boss!”
They both laughed.
“I mean, gimme a break, eh? Your Sotto Capo is a fuckin’ rat, and you don’t know? Minchia!” Sal cracked.
“But being stupid’s not a crime,” Joey reminded.
“I know, which means the cop knows they’re both rats. Capeesh, Paisano?”
“Of course. Then what happens?”
“Well, in the absence of leadership, the Commission will take over the family until a new Boss can take over. Of course, until then, we’ll need a guy out there to run things for us, somebody that knows the Coast. You know the Coast, Joey.”
Joey smirked.
“Like the back of my hand.”
“The only thing is, you’re not a friend of ours. You got no button,” Sal reminded him, then downed his drink, looked Joey in the eyes and said, “So I guess we’ll have to do something about that, huh?”
It could not have been plainer. Sal was offering to sponsor Joey’s induction into the Mafia in exchange for the murders of Tommy Scarlata and Dominick Piazza. It would be a deal Joey couldn’t refuse, but he was in awe of the intricacy of the whole power structure. He was but a cog.
Te Amo pushed her hair out of her face and sat up, straddling Joey. The room smelled of sex as the rain beat against the windowpanes in sheets. Te Amo studied Joey’s face for a moment then asked, “What have you done to Enrico?”
“What has Enrico done to himself?” he shot back.
“You know what I mean, Joey.”
Joey shrugged.
“I despise weakness.”
“Love’s not a weakness.”
“That depends.”
She cocked her head to the side and traced the contour of his face.
“How can such beauty be so ugly?”
Joey smirked.
“I guess it’s really in the eye of the beholder, huh?”
Te Amo shook her head.
“If you destroy him, who will take his place? You need him. He’s one of the best,” Te Amo reminded him.
“This is true, but don’t worry. I know when to say when.”
She slid off him, and lay beside him, propping her head up with her hand so she could continue to look him in the eye.
“And what about me? I’m starting to feel…shut out of things.”
“Whaddya mean, ‘shut out’? You’re with me all the time.”
“Exactly my point.”
“I can’t keep you close?”
“That’s what you do with enemies.”
“You watch too many mob movies.”
“You are a mob movie.”
Joey laughed, but Te Amo wasn’t trying to be funny.
“I’m serious, Joey. Everything with you is so calculated, so…scripted. I feel like I’m being written out,” Te Amo admitted.
Joey returned the seriousness of her gaze, and replied, “Things are different than they were in the beginning. Stakes are higher. I got a lot more to lose, so I gotta play things closer to the chest.”
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
“Baby, sometimes…I don’t even trust myself.”
With that, he got up and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
New Orleans. Another successful delivery.
Enrico sat in the hotel bar, nursing a drink. As usual, everything came off without a hitch. Success had become commonplace. There was no longer elation or relief; that had long ago been replaced with anxiety. It was like, the longer the streak of success, the longer a mistake loomed. Enrico was a stickler for details. Everything had to be perfect because Joey would have it no other way, and the thought of letting Joey down made Enrico physically ill. He had to get it right every time, just to prove himself worthy, just to bask in Joey’s approval, not wallow in his ridicule. Enrico understood the game Joey was playing, but when you’re in love, you mistrust your head and over trust your heart, which tells you, if only I can do better, be better, then he’ll see it and understand. You keep chasing that carrot, oblivious to the pain of the stick. But slowly, it takes its toll and soon you start to crack, and that’s when things fall apart.
“Um…excuse me?”
Enrico heard the voice. He looked up from his thoughts and into a friendly, smiling face. He was moderately handsome. Average: average brown hair, average brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles, but his smile was warm and inviting, so Enrico couldn’t help but return it.
“Yes.”
“How are you? I hope I’m not imposing, but I saw you sitting alone and well, I was sitting alone and I was wondering…” he let his voice trail off, hoping that Enrico would fill in the blank.
“I’m not what you think I am,” Enrico replied, downing his drink.
The guy continued to smile.
“No, trust me, I know exactly who you are. Can I join you?”
Enrico looked at him, studied him for a moment and answered, “Sure.”
He sat and extended his hand. Enrico shook it.
“I’m Paul Simms.”
“Celeste Myers,” Enrico replied with his alias.
They engaged in the type of small talk that people do when they’d rather be talking about something more in-depth, but must keep up appearances. It’s the kind of small talk that lingers on until the liquor gives you the excuse to say what you wanted to say. It’s the why you drank the liquor in the first place: to give you the courage to say it.
Talking to Paul was a relief for Enrico. He hadn’t talked to anyone in so long. He lived in a world where nobody trusted anyone enough to talk, lest something slips. And on top of that, the one you need to talk to the most is the one you can talk to the least.
Paul may have not been Joey, but he was a welcome relief from the loneliness.
Paul checked his watch.
“Listen, would I be out of line if…”
Enrico cut him off, not so much out of eagerness, but out of not wanting to name the thing, so his mind wouldn’t know what to name it and feel guilty about it.
“No…no, you wouldn’t.”
Their eyes met, gazes full of hunger.
“Are you…staying here?” Paul asked.
Enrico nodded, a sexual lump in his throat.
“Are you?”
“Your place or mine,” Paul quipped, being cliché-like on purpose.
“Whichever is closer.”
“I’m on the ninth floor.”
“Then it’s your place.”
Paul paid for the drinks, and they headed for his room. Once they got through the door, they were all over one another. It felt so good for Enrico to be ravaged with anticipation; every part. His breasts sucked, his ass crack licked, his asshole sucked and then to be fucked passionately with all the intensity that makes a one-night stand worth doing again.
When he woke up wrapped in Paul’s arms, he felt guilty—not for having done it, but for fully intending to do it again.
They exchanged numbers. Paul tongued him down at the door.
“When will I see you again?” Paul questioned intently.
“I travel a lot. I could be anywhere.”
“I’ll find you.”
They kissed again. Enrico left, feeling renewed. He drove to the airport, never knowing that he was being followed…
It was Dominick Piazza’s 67th birthday. Every Capo and Made Man of the Piazza family was present, but many from New York who were supposed to come declined at the last minute.
That should have been a sign.
But, as they say: a just man sleeps soundly. Dominick was a just man, soundly asleep to the footsteps in the dark. Joey arrived with Detective O’Ryan, but didn’t introduce him, and nobody asked for an introduction. It was a gathering of old men, a celebration of the old ways and not all of them pleasant. Joey sat next to Tommy Scarlata, to his left. To Tommy’s left at the head of the long, rectangular table sat Don Piazza. As the night wore on and the liquor worked its way into everyone’s systems, Joey stood up to toast Piazza. He clinked a fork against his glass to get everyone’s attention. Once he had it, he said, “I wanna toast the Don…since coming to the Coast, this man has opened his home to me, his family, his respect to me, and I wanna thank him.”
The majority of the men clapped. Joey turned to the Don and continued, “Don Piazza, you are a prince among men. Happy Birthday!”
“Salud!”
Everyone drank up. Then Joey turned to Tommy.
“And this guy? What can I say about this guy? Stand up, will ya Tommy? Let the family see you.”
Tommy waved Joey off at first; then as the cheers continued, he relented. He stood next to Joey. Joey put his drink down then put his arm around Tommy.
“Tommy, some things just can’t be put into words, you know? So why try? Sometimes you gotta let the moment speak for itself,” Joey remarked. Then he pulled Tommy to him and kissed him on the mouth. Hard. There was nothing sexual about it. It was Sicilian tradition: the kiss of death.
Tommy felt it in his bones. He tried to push Joey away, but Joey grabbed him tightly by the collar. While he kissed Tommy, he had reached down and grabbed the steak knife that he had placed in front of himself during dinner and plunged it into Tommy’s chest. Tommy grunted and tried to break away, but Joey was relentless. Over and over Joey stabbed Tommy in the neck and chest. With each thrust, Tommy sank lower and lower, until Joey sat him back in his chair and proceeded to stab him six more times. When it was all said and done, Joey had stabbed him over seventy times. Blood was everywhere—all over the tablecloth, all over Joey’s tuxedo and sprinkled on Joey’s face like freckles.
Winded slightly, Joey sat down and tossed the knife on the table. He smoothed his hair, lest anything was out of place. Then he remarked, “Tommy was a rat…a stinkin’, filthy rat. And this…is what happens to rats. Any questions?”
Don Piazza jumped to his feet, livid.
“You fuckin’ piece of shit! You disrespect me like this!” Piazza looked around, spit flying from his mouth, “And no one does nothing? Kill this piece of shit!”
No one moved.
Joey wiped his bloody hands on the end of the tablecloth.
“They don’t work for you anymore, Dominick. As of now, the Piazza regime is under the control of the Commission until new leadership can be found.”
Pizza looked around the room. Many couldn’t meet his gaze, and didn’t speak up. The coup was complete. Every Capo in the family had signed on so as not to get signed off.
Piazza turned to Joey.
“Can I know for what crime I am going to die for?”
“Come on, Dom, you already know. You’re a rat, too,” Joey spat. “The Detective here can verify that.”
Dominick looked at Joey and then chuckled. He shook his head.
“Well, if that is what our honorable society has come to, then I’d rather die honorably than live amongst such filth,” he spat, then spat—literally—on the floor.
His words brought a tinge of guilt to Joey, because he knew Piazza wasn’t a rat, but his greed for power was stronger than his respect for honor.
Joey held up his drink, which was sprinkled with blood, inside and out.
“Happy Birthday, Dom; now get him outta here,” Joey instructed, then downed the drink. He looked at O’Ryan. “I don’t want either body to be found.”
Then he got up and walked away.
“Vinnie Boom Boom! How are ya? Well, I can see for myself, huh Vinnie?” Joey quipped as he walked into the motel room in Queens.
Vinnie was handcuffed to the bed, butt-naked. Bianca and Marilyn were sitting on each side of him, fully clothed.
“Ay Joey, what the fuck is this all about?” Vinnie asked, trying to sound calm, but Joey could see the nervousness under the facade.
“Vinnie, word on the street is that you really go for the Black chicks. It took us a minute, but I figured Marilyn and Bianca could track you down, and here you are,” Joey remarked as he took Marilyn’s spot on the bed.
“Joey, please. What’s goin’ on? I swear to you, I have no idea,” Vinnie vowed.
“Oh, you don’t? Good thing you’re not a choir boy, Vinnie, ‘cause God don’t hold our kind accountable for the bullshit,” he chuckled. “I’m gonna say one word, and if you don’t start talkin’ then I’ma start with your left nut,” Joey threatened, pulling out a .32 revolver. “Cleveland.”
Vinnie’s body tensed as if he were about to speak, but Joey put the cold steel to his left nut and Vinnie thought again.
“Whatever you wanna know, Joey.”
“The truth. Who brung ‘em in?”
Vinnie sighed.
“Frankie, Joey. Frankie Shots.”
“He wouldn’t have done it without my old man, if somebody else wasn’t backin’ him. Who was the someone else?” Joey probed, jamming the pistol down into Vinnie’s groin and making him see stars.
“I swear, Joey, I don’t know. I only dealt with Bagels. Benny Bagels, but he made it clear he had Frankie’s nod!”
“What about Peter Amuso? Where does he fit in?”
“Pete set it up in Cleveland. He was freelance! A go-between!” Vinnie answered.
“So this wasn’t Gambino? You tellin’ me Amuso set me up, but fuckin’ Gotti knew nothing?” Joey gruffed.
“I don’t know, Joey. I swear to fuckin’ god! All I know is Frankie wanted to send a message!”
Joey frowned. “A message?”
Vinnie nodded vigorously.
“It wasn’t a hit, Joey; it was a message. Bagels made that clear. He kept tellin’ me, make sure I don’t hit neither one of ‘em, make sure I don’t hit neither one of ‘em!”
The clarity of the situation smacked Joey in the face.
“Are you sure? He said neither one of ‘em!”
“Like a thousand times!”
“How long before the hit did he say this?”
“A week, maybe two. I don’t know, Joey. I swear to ya!” Vinnie begged.
Te Amo…
His head was spinning, but he didn’t let it show.
“Joey, I woulda never got involved had it been a hit,” Vinnie tried to explain.
Joey chuckled and patted Vinnie on the cheek.
“Of course. I mean, after all it was only a message, right?”
“Joey. Never!”
“Hey, lemme give you a message, eh,” Joey spat coldly, then gave Bianca a nod.
She spat the razor into her hand, grabbed a fistful of Vinnie’s hair then snatched his head back and slit his throat, ear to ear. His eyes bulged and blood gurgled out. In less than a minute, he was dead.
Make sure you don’t hit either one of ‘em, he thought, because now it all made sense.
Te Amo.