Class Act

16

Marge Twist amazed Mickey O’Brien. Day after day, she came to the house and cooked for him. She found him a daily maid; she rented the two empty apartments. And she was always ready for sex, any kind he liked — and he liked everything. So did she: front, back, upside down, it didn’t matter, she loved it. It occurred to Mickey that, since he had never had a woman like this, it might be something to do with the fact he was rich. Every day she brought a few things with her, and soon, she was using half his dressing room.

He was also humping Gerry, the bank teller, a couple of times a week. He was on Viagra, like, all the time. Being rich was fun.

Then one day, when Marge was at work, there was a knock on his door, and a guy in a black raincoat stepped inside and put a gun to Mickey’s forehead. “Where’s Johnny Fratelli?” he asked.

“How the hell should I know?”

The guy in the black raincoat cocked the weapon. “One last chance to cure your memory failure.”

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” Mickey said. “I was walking down Lexington Avenue a few weeks ago, and I passed Johnny on the street. I recognized him and followed him. When I got a chance, I turned him around and hit him in the face with a blackjack. Some passersby screamed for the cops and an ambulance, and I beat it out of there. I heard later than he had checked into a private hospital somewhere on the East Side, but I could never find him, because I didn’t have a name. I still don’t, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” Mikey hoped the lie didn’t show on his face.

“If I don’t believe you, I’m supposed to kill you,” the guy said.

“Well, I hope to God you believe me, because that’s all I know.”

“Oh, another question: How’d you get so rich all of a sudden?”

“My mother gave me my inheritance early. It’s about gone now.”

The guy nodded and turned to go. “I’ll pass it on.”

Mickey closed the door behind him and locked it, breathing hard. “What the hell was that?” he asked himself aloud.

Manny picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

“It’s Vinnie. We braced Mickey O’Brien. He told us he passed Fratelli on the street, on Lexington Avenue, and slugged him with a blackjack and then had to run for it. He heard Fratelli was in a private hospital, but he couldn’t find him, because he didn’t have a name. We believe the guy was telling the truth.”

“How’d he get so rich?”

“His mother gave him his inheritance early, and he blew most of it. The consensus is, he’s got nothing left.”

“I want his money, and Fratelli’s.”

“Manny, I just explained he’s blown his inheritance. He’s got nothing. And he doesn’t know what name Fratelli is using, so he can’t find him.”

“I don’t care, I want the money.”

“Whose money?”

“Everybody’s.”

“Well, you can’t have it, Manny, because it ain’t there to have, and nobody knows who’s got it or where he is or what his name is.”

“I want the money.”

“No.” Vinnie didn’t think anybody had ever said that word to Manny — not anybody who had survived the experience — because he could feel the earth shake all the way to Brooklyn.

“Now, Manny, do you still want me working for you at the track?”

“Yeah, sure. And I want the money.”

“I can’t give you the money, nobody can. Now, unless you accept that right now, I won’t be coming back to Hialeah, not to Florida, either. I’ll get out and take what I’ve got with me, and you can find some other guy to look into it and tell you the same goddamned thing. What’s it going to be?”

Manny thought about it. “All right, come back to Hialeah.”

“Are you going to leave me alone about this money?”

“Maybe.”

“Not good enough, Manny. I want you off my back; you’re too heavy.”

“Oh, fuck it. Come on home and get your ass back to work. Your backup guy fucks up every day.”

“I’m going to rest for a day. I’ll fly home tomorrow and I’ll be back at the post the day after.”

“Okay.”

“Goodbye.” Vinnie hung up the phone. He was in the last phone booth on Fifth Avenue, he reckoned. As he stepped out of it he saw Johnny Fratelli. He froze. What was he going to do? He couldn’t brace Johnny; he’d get his head handed to him. So he followed, and at a respectful distance.

Fratelli was skinnier, he thought, and he was wearing expensive clothes. Then, at an intersection, Fratelli made to cross the street and looked both ways. The image of Johnny dissolved before Vinnie’s eyes. From the back, it was Fratelli; from the front and side, it was somebody else.

Vinnie went back to his hotel on Sixth Avenue, flung himself onto the bed, and drifted off. Before unconsciousness came, he resolved not to tell Manny about the encounter; Manny would just put him on another plane to New York, and he’d had more than enough of New York.

Mickey O’Brien went down to Little Italy and found the alley where Tiny Blanco kept an office. As it happened, Tiny stepped into the alley as Mickey approached. Mickey pulled his .38 Smith & Wesson from his ankle holster, walked up to Tiny, and stuck it under his chin. “What the fuck do you mean sending a guy with a gun to my house?”

“Hey, take it easy, Mick. He didn’t shoot you, did he? You look okay to me.”

“I don’t like guns in my face. I don’t like the way you operate. I don’t like you. If you ever pull something else like that I’ll put two in your brain, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Mick.”

“And I know how to do it and get away with it.”

“Okay, Mick. I read you loud and clear. It was Manny, the bookie from Florida, who wanted information.”

“And you sent him to me?” Mick cocked the pistol.

“Never again!” Tiny said.

“You remember you said that,” Mick replied. Then he walked away, having bled off the head of steam he had accumulated.