Mafioso, page 10
part #1 of The Mafia Chronicles Series
“I thought you’d never ask,” Pignataro said. “And thanks—I mean it. You and me always worked good together. You was always some kind of star, but you never treated me anything but nice. What about the meet?”
“Make it”—Lanzetta looked at his watch—“make it two hours from now. Get together the best salesmen on tap. Not a lot, just the best. Guys that know that end of the business. Yeah, at the place.”
Lanzetta hung up, checked his watch again, then turned the television set on low volume. He swore if the bitch came out of the bedroom he’d paste her. A re-run of Gilligan’s Island cackled to a lousy finish. Jesus Christ!
The news came on. Blah Blah! A lot of deep-voiced bullshit. Then, there it was—Uncle Joe’s street in the Heights. Firemen and cops running around with hoses and bomb-proof vests. What was left of Uncle Joe’s elegant house, still smoking. Some guy with a stern face and constipated voice bullshitting about the tragedy.
“F.X. Macklin, front runner in the race for the U.S. Senate, outspoken foe of the Cosa Nostra, civic leader and father of five, died today—murdered,” the TV speaker said. “Murdered by the killers he sought to unmask ...”
Jesus! Lanzetta swore. It was bad. No wonder the Don was pissed off.
Mrs. Francis Xavier Macklin was shown sobbing into her handkerchief. Macklin’s Fordham-looking son, and assistant D.A on Hogan’s staff, swore to get the Mafia rats who had killed his father.
Then there were cuts of Hogan, Lindsay, the new U.S. Attorney, Whitney North Seymour, Jr. Wary of offending the Italian vote, they didn’t mention the Mafia. But everything they said meant big trouble.
Shit! Lanzetta switched off the set and went into the bedroom. Coakley must be laughing his ass off. F.X. Macklin—killing him, too, was a lucky break for the black. Now the whole fuckin’ country was out to nail what shit-mouth Valachi called the Cosa Nostra. Lanzetta had never heard the term in his entire life. Again, he wondered which FBI smart-ass had put the thing together with the help of an Italian dictionary.
“Wake up, bitch,” he said to Kate Daniello. It took her no time to open her eyes: maybe she had been listening at the door.
“You’re such a tender lover,” she murmured. “Don’t ever stop calling me bitch and whore. If you do, I’ll know you’ve lost interest. You want ficky-ficky as the Arab boy said to the GI in World War Two? My sister very clean gurl.”
She laughed—a clear, ringing laugh.
Lanzetta didn’t know why he didn’t coldcock her there and then. “I got to go out,” he said.
The house phone sounded. The doorman explained that a Mr. Donofrio, a friend of Mr. G.P.’s from Brooklyn, wanted to come up with an important message. “Sure,” Lanzetta said. “Send him up.”
“I got to go out, but you’ll have company for a bit. A real doll, honey. Name of Jimmy Donofrio. You’ll like him a lot.”
Lanzetta knew that Jimmy Donofrio was a church-going killer. Actually, a man who helped killers. Donofrio didn’t have enough brains to be trusted with a job himself. But he was more than useful in a pinch. Donofrio was so ugly he had been forced to marry a young, blind girl from an Italian orphanage in East New York. The blind girl thought Donofrio was the kindest and most handsome man in the world. They had three children—all could see—and Jimmy Don wouldn’t cheat on his pretty, blind wife for the world. Not even if Don Corrasco ordered it. It was a joke on the girl, the bitch, Kate Daniello.
“He sounds nice,” she said.
“A cross between Enzo Stuarti and Robert Redford,” Lanzetta sneered. “You’ll see. If you don’t see—too fuckin’ bad ...”
“Corrigan’s been calling here,” GeeGee Pignataro told Lanzetta when he arrived at the Family headquarters on Coffey Street in South Brooklyn.
Pignataro allowed himself a grin for Lanzetta’s amusement. Lanzetta didn’t return the smile. “The mick bastard says he wants to get in touch with Uncle Joe. Says it’s most important. Nobody on the TV said anything about a Joseph Daniello being killed in the bomb blast—they mentioned Joe, but Macklin’s the boss man in the explosion—so Corrigan thinks Joe’s all right. That he’s here. That’s he’s been here all the time. Only Corrigan wants Joe to return his call.”
No one else was in the garage on the first floor of the building on Coffey Street. Lanzetta was in a savage mood, and it bothered him. Conveniently, he cursed the girl. “Maybe he will. That spirit shit is big right now. You called the boys?”
“Upstairs,” Pignataro said. “I got four. You said ...”
“Four’s enough, and if we don’t do it right—too much,” Lanzetta said. “Let’s go up.”
The four men were waiting in the big room on the second floor. Pignataro said the rest of the button men—the soldiers—had been sent to do other things. These four guys were the best fuckin’ guys on tap.
Lanzetta knew some of them. He knew all of them by sight, two of them by what they had done. Only one was his own age—thirty-six—and that guy was a silent, moody guy called Yap DiUrso. Years before someone had called him “Yup,” after Gary Cooper, and later the Yup had somehow been changed to Yap. The other three Family gunmen were Frankie Flash, George Lombroso, and Vinnie Pareto.
GeeGee Pignataro spoke the unnecessary words of introduction. Lanzetta nodded. All but Frankie Flash were American born. No one knew his real name. Lanzetta knew something about the over-dressed Italian hood. The clothes gave him the name. A frogman in the Italian Navy during World War Two. They said he had helped to sink the British battleship Watts Dunstan. Lanzetta thought Frankie Flash would go far if he ever learned to speak English properly.
“How goes it?” Lanzetta asked.
They murmured okay.
“GeeGee fill you in, did he?”
They nodded. Only Frankie Flash spoke. “Fuckin-a black bestid.”
Lanzetta was used to working alone. It embarrassed him to give a pep talk. “We got to hit Coakley. That’s the word from the Big Boy. Forget about Shimmy Melendez and his spics. Coakley’s the target we hit. We hit Coakley, the spics go back to mugging elevators.”
Pignataro got up from the table to answer the listed phone. He made a face, handed the receiver to Lanzetta. It was Corrigan calling back.
Lanzetta told the others to stay where they were. The Irishman was one guy Lanzetta really didn’t like. Corrigan spoke in the code and Lanzetta said, no, he hadn’t seen that other party lately. Maybe he took a trip, or something. Sure, he’d have the guy call back—as soon as he saw him he’d deliver the message.
Nerves pushed Corrigan to say it. “The word is you’re the new district manager. But nobody told me. If it’s true, we got to have a talk. There’s big pressure and I got to have advice how to handle it.”
Lanzetta could almost smell the Irishman’s sweat, the once handsome face now sagging with fat and fear. “This is a bad time,” Lanzetta said. “We’re all under pressure right now. There isn’t time to talk about it.”
Lanzetta put a sneer in his voice. “Take a drink—relax and sit tight. I’ll get back to you.”
“No, it’s got to be now …”
“Later I said. Don’t shit your pants.”
Lanzetta knew he should have handled Corrigan another way. The son of a bitch was useful. He cursed the girl for making him so fuckin’ edgy. The rule was always to make time to talk to cops. Corrigan wouldn’t like the way he’d been treated, but what could he do? Lanzetta knew that was no answer. Screw it—he’d get back to Corrigan later.
There were photographs and rough drawings on the big table. “That’s Coakley’s house on Vanderbilt Avenue,” Lanzetta explained. “Pass them round, GeeGee. A four-story house. Coakley and his family live on the two top floors. Since the trouble started he’s had button men living on the bottom floors. The first floor windows have bars and gate shutters. You have to get through three steel doors to get into the building. The best we know, he’s got two or three guys, maybe more, across the street in another building he owns. There may be other guys we can’t see. It’ll be like taking a bunker, but that’s what we got to do.”
“He’s got to show himself sometime,” George Lombroso said, not liking the idea of making a raid in Coakley’s own territory where it was dangerous for a white man to even walk down the street.
“Coakley’s counting on that,” Lanzetta said. “Every jig in Bedford-Stuyvesant is on his side, so maybe he feels safe down there. A lot safer than he would anywhere else. So that’s where we hit him. If that’s where he is.”
Pignataro said, “He’s there. We were able to reach a black social worker runs some kind of storefront agency across the street. Coakley went home before the bombing and he ain’t been out since. The alibi bit.”
“Okay, so he’s in there,” Lanzetta said. “There’s no other way but go at it head-on. But first we got to keep the cops busy. It’ll take time to crack the house and we don’t want a regiment of cops on the scene. We got to create a diversion, more than one. Enough to keep the cops tied up with trouble of their own ...”
It was a desperate plan, but Lanzetta couldn’t think of anything better short of hijacking an Air Force jet fighter and blasting Coakley’s house off the map. Or renting a tank to do the job. “We’re going to start a riot,” he said. “A couple of miles from Coakley. You got anything looks like an unmarked police car, GeeGee?”
“No, but I can get it. Black—fix it up with a telephone aerial. No problem.”
“All right then, which of you guys looks most like a plainclothes cop?” Lanzetta asked. “Not you, Flash—you’re too loud even for Miami Beach.”
The button men laughed. Vinnie Patero said Flash was too loud even for the old George Raft movies.
“You could be a cop, Vinnie,” Lanzetta said “Didn’t you once take the exams or something?”
“Yeah, I was doing fine until they dug up the time I got nailed for breaking and entering. Shit! I was just a kid but they said no soap. All right, I’m the cop. So what do I do?”
“You got to kill a couple of blacks. Flash some kind of a badge. Anything from a joke shop—special deputy, marshal of Dodge City. It won’t make a difference. Kill a couple of blacks look respectable, then take off. The car, the badge, and you look like a cop. The blacks down there’ll go wild. That’s all they’re waiting for. As soon as they start burning down that part of black town, we’ll go after Coakley.”
The button men nodded. “Sounds all right, Nick,” Pignataro said. “How long do we give the job?”
“Not more than ten minutes. Less if we can. But more than ten we fall back. Now here’s how we do it …”
By now the bar tab was more than fifteen dollars and Corrigan was drunk. The Chinese bartender in the restaurant on Mott Street wrote down every drink as if the detective intended to pay for it. It was a formality, something of a ritual. Later Corrigan would pick up the bar tab and reach for his wallet and the Chinese bar-keep would respectfully decline to accept the policeman’s money, saying they were most honored to have him as their guest.
“Give me another one, Lukey,” Corrigan said. He rolled a page from a notebook between his fingers. Six hours had gone by since he talked with—tried to talk with Lanzetta. The bar clock said six forty-five. That meant six thirty. It was getting dark outside and Corrigan was angry and depressed and drunk. He no longer had any doubt that Uncle Joe was dead. The way Lanzetta spoke to him was proof of that. For a moment, Corrigan thought he’d be better off dead himself. He was in big trouble—Captain Clifford’s own words. Clifford tried to make a deal with him. Said if he cooperated, named names and places, they’d let him off easy. He could turn state’s evidence and maybe get off with a suspended sentence. Clifford said he’d better think about it. The FBI was on to him and there might not be another chance. Sucking bitterly on the vodka and lemon, Corrigan wondered why Clifford didn’t go the whole movie route—hand him a loaded revolver so he could kill himself in the bathroom.
Maybe killing himself wasn’t such a bad idea. He patted the bulge of his holstered revolver and felt sorry for himself. He thought of the official commendations he had received over the years. There had been none lately, but, shit, he was tired of shooting it out with hopped-up gunmen. Sure he took money, but he did his job.
The bartender brought him another drink. Corrigan decided he liked the Chinese. At least you could trust the bastards. He’d like to see Clifford or the FBI try to get information out of his Chinese friends. Working with Italians had been a big mistake—he knew that now. That son of a bitch, Lanzetta, talking to him that way. Don’t shit your pants, Corrigan. Have a drink, Corrigan. Sit tight, Corrigan.
The bartender switched on the color television in time to catch the seven o’clock news. Corrigan found it hard to focus on the garish greens and yellows. Yeah, color television. They had three at his house in Sheepshead Bay. His fucking wife didn't know when to stop spending. The kids were just as bad. Spend was all they knew—and here he was, drowning in shit.
Lukey, the bartender, adjusted the set, making it louder. “Another riot in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Lieutenant,” the Chinese said. “Hey, look at that!”
“Fuck them,” Corrigan said. His bleary eyes tried to take in what was being shown on the screen—crowds running, screaming, burning buildings in the background, rifles and pistols cracking intermittently. The gunshots sounded more like firecrackers than anything else.
“All hell has broken loose down here,” the on-the-spot newscaster was saying, “... the worst outbreak of rioting in recent years. Sparked, black leaders allege, by the murder of two local businessmen by a white detective. A spokesman for the Police Department denies that any of its men were responsible for the double slaying ...”
“What do you think, Lieutenant?” the bartender asked.
“I think he should have killed more than two of the bastards. Who cares? Pour another one, Lukey.”
Suddenly, Corrigan heard the name Lyman Coakley. He wiped his sweating face with a bar napkin and listened.
“In another part of Bedford-Stuyvesant, minutes after the rioting began, six white men attacked the residence of Lyman Coakley, alleged rackets boss and, police say, leader of the underworld forces attempting to overthrow alleged Mafia chieftain Corrasco DiSalvo …”
Corrigan held his breath.
The newscaster continued in his sing-song voice: “Using submachine guns and grenades, the raiders in two cars struck with military precision. Two men police say were posted by Coakley to prevent such an attack were killed almost immediately by grenades hurled through a second-story window. The doors to the Coakley house were blown open by the raiders who entered the building with blazing guns. During a short, but furious battle, five of Coakley’s men and two of the attackers were killed, along with Mrs. Coakley and her two daughters. Mr. Coakley escaped with only minor injuries when he jumped from a third-floor window to a shed behind the house. Police say the two DiSalvo men who were killed have been identified as Charles “Yap” DiUrso and George “Little George” Lombroso. Police now believe there is a connection between the riots and the attack on the Lyman Coakley house ...”
Corrigan wiped his face again and looked at the notebook page he had been rolling and unrolling for the past hour. The shit had finally hit the fan and Coakley was still alive. It was time to make a move, bad or good. Lanzetta had finally fucked up, and the situation was ten times worse than before. Corrigan knew he had to do something or he was finished.
The telephone number written on the sheet of paper belonged to Corrasco DiSalvo’s listed phone. No matter how tough he got with the telephone company they wouldn’t give him the private number. Don Corrasco had friends everywhere.
Corrigan went into the pay phone and waited for someone to answer. The man at the other end spoke with a heavy Italian accent. At first he denied any knowledge of any Corrasco DiSalvo. Finally, he said he would check but …
“Yes,” Don Corrasco said at last.
Chapter Eleven
WAITING FOR CORRIGAN to keep his one o’clock appointment, an appointment asked for most earnestly, Don Corrasco thought about his second talk with Earl Rizzo. This time he had not gone to the liquor store talk-station by invitation. The telegram was signed “Board of Directors,” and when Don Corrasco called his old friend, Jilly in Chicago, to check if the signature included him, Jilly said, yeah—it did. Jilly was apologetic but firm. They were old—ancient—friends from the same back street in Palermo. Jilly was sorry but business was business, and business came first.
Don Carrasco understood perfectly, but the irritation remained. In his way, he had contributed more to the national union of Families than any of them. Except for Jilly, he was the oldest member of the Commission. Rizzo the American, was youngest of all, yet the others allowed Rizzo to speak for them. That was understandable, too, since Rizzo was the only one with whom he had no old ties, no experiences in common. Perhaps they had chosen Rizzo to speak because, except for a business association, he was to Don Corrasco almost a stranger.
Rizzo had been firm in his slangy American way. Respectful, but firm. Lanzetta had caused a crisis by attempting to kill Coakley in that particular way. Had he succeeded in killing Coakley, the crisis—the heat—could be regarded as the high price of victory. But Lanzetta had failed, and in failing he had murdered Coakley’s wife and children. An Italian, a member of some warring Family, might find it possible to overcome his personal feelings—Coakley, never.
Coakley had said so himself, had managed to get word to the Commission that unless Lanzetta died there could be no peace. Coakley’s black allies in the other cities would carry the war to the Commission member, themselves. Coakley held Lanzetta personally responsible for the slaughter of his family. That was stupid of the black man, Don Corrasco thought, but he was thankful for the stupidity. Don Corrasco feared no man, black or white or mongrel, but he had no desire to become the object of a grieving madman’s revenge.
