American Gangster

16. Capone

Saturday afternoon, at the narcotics squad’s church HQ, the guys had given up paperwork and sorting through surveillance photos to gather around the portable TV, watching a press conference where Muhammad Ali was telling the world that he was the black man’s black man, whereas Joe Frazier was the white man’s black man.

“Frazier is gonna kill that conceited clown,” Spearman said.

“What odds you give me?” Jones asked.

Richie Roberts wasn’t paying any attention to the TV. He was studying the bulletin boards, specifically the work-in-progress that was the table of organization of drug suppliers and their higher ups. Only the lowest level included black faces — one of them Charlie Williams — but Frank Lucas (whose name Richie had never heard) was not among them.

The other faces were white, mostly Italian, and stopped midway up — the top slots remaining empty. The squad had hit a wall, and Richie didn’t know where the hell he was going to find a ladder.

He was still preoccupied with the problem that evening, attending the Ali/Frazier match via a press pass as he and his camera blended in with the media crowding the rear entrance of Madison Square Garden.

Celebrities were arriving in their limousines, including showbiz figures like Sammy Davis, Jr., and his wife, Altovise, and sports figures like Joe Louis and his wife, Marva. Some celebrity gangsters attended, too, like Nicky Barnes and Joey Gallo, all with flashy jewelry and flashier girls hanging off of them.

But one VIP couple — also likely belonging to the gangster category — Richie did not recognize. The beautiful Hispanic gal in a showy white dress — according to buzz among the press photographers around him — was a recent former Miss Puerto Rico. She stepped out first and basked in the flashbulbs, but then seemed to have to coax her escort from the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car.

“You want to miss the fight?” she was saying. “Come on, baby. You look great...”

A black patent leather shoe poked out of the vehicle, followed by a tall, handsome black guy in a floppy wide-brimmed pimp fedora and full-length chinchilla coat so ostentatious, Nicky Barnes would’ve thought twice about being seen in public like that. Miss Puerto Rico, casting a dazzling smile on the media boys, hooked onto an arm of the chinchilla-coat character like she thought her squire might make a break for it.

To Richie, the coat’s owner seemed ill at ease, and yet there was something commanding about this presence, an undeniable charisma that had no trouble competing with the likes of Sammy Davis and Joe Louis.

In the arena itself, Richie was seated with the press photographers, so taking pictures of organized crime celebs with his long-lens Leica was no more suspicious than eating a bag of popcorn. He was intrigued to note that the striking, lanky dude in the chinchilla coat and ridiculous fedora had snagged second-row ringside for himself and Miss Puerto Rico, just behind the sportswriters.

Not just anybody got seats like that.

The odd thing was how uneasy the decked-out Nicky Barnes imitator seemed, like he’d rather be anywhere but next to a stunning woman in the best seat at the hottest ticket in town.

Filing that away, Richie and his camera roamed the faces of other prime ticketholders ringside, assorted celebrities, politicians, and organized crime figures... and of course stacked trophy dolls with platinum hair and plunging necklines.

To get a better shot of the mob figures, Richie got out in the aisle and, almost immediately, a massive figure brushed by, saying, “Excuse me.”

Joe Louis.

Stunned, Richie felt like a ten-year-old and managed to blurt, “Mr. Louis!”

The Brown Bomber in his black tux glanced at Richie as the eager figure moved alongside him.

Grinning like a fool but unable to do anything else, Richie let the words tumble out: “I’m sorry, sir, but I just have to tell you, you were my hero growing up, my absolute hero. To this day I still push elevator buttons eight times for the rounds you beat Billy Conn in. You know, for luck!”

Louis met Richie’s face but not his eyes and something that might have been a nod — maybe an eighth of an inch worth — was all Richie got for his trouble before the great champ moved on to catch back up with his friends moving down the aisle.

Richie’s smile froze on his face, his eyes glazing, his expression a death mask of disappointment, as a very old dream withered and passed away in the aftermath of his hero’s disregard.

And so he got back to work, taking pictures of various Italian wise guys, including Dominic Cattano himself (and his bodyguard), edging into the third-row ringside, behind Miss Puerto Rico and her chinchilla-coat escort. Cattano and the handsome black dude spoke to each other, friendly — the mob capo even seemed to be kidding the guy.

Richie’s surveillance-bred lip-reading skills confirmed as much, Cattano saying: “Hey, Frank, you keep that hat on, I’m gonna miss the fight!”

Somebody next to Richie leaned in to get his voice above the din of the arena: “Only in America, huh?”

Richie turned and Detective Trupo was grinning at him, the Zapata-mustached, devilishly handsome SIU cop resplendent in a black leather sportcoat.

Taking the bait, Richie asked him, “What is?”

Trupo nodded toward where the celebrities were seated. “That spade-in-chinchilla’s seat is better than the guineas. Makes you wonder.”

And Trupo was gone, heading down the aisle, taking the identity of Miss Puerto Rico’s date with him, if indeed the crooked piece of shit knew it.

But Trupo had a point. As Richie watched through the telephoto lens, he saw top Italian OC guys came over to the stranger in chinchilla and pay homage. So did various showbiz types and sports world figures, from Sammy Davis to Don King.

Then fate turned its knife blade in Richie’s belly: Joe Louis himself came up to pay his respects to the man in the chinchilla coat, punching at him playfully, smiling warmly. Richie’s hero, who hadn’t had the time of fucking day for him, kissing up to some... some what?

As much as he’d studied the guy through his telephoto, Richie hadn’t yet snapped any shots of Miss Puerto Rico’s dream date, and he was about to correct that when a roar came up from the crowd and the lights went down but for a spotlight on the ring. An announcer’s voice echoed throughout the massive arena unintelligibly. Then other lights found Ali and Frazier coming down the steps through the crush of fans and reporters, preceded by an honor guard of soldiers bearing American flags.

Between the lack of lighting and all those flags, Richie lost sight of that chinchilla-coat dude; but then, would you believe it? Ali himself stopped to shake the bastard’s hand!

Flashbulbs popped throughout the arena as Robert Goulet sang the national anthem, while Ali in his corner pointedly did not sing along.

And dim lighting or not, Richie caught the chinchilla-coat dude in his camera sights and, focusing as sharp as possible under these conditions, snapped the shutter; and snapped it again, and again...

On Monday morning, the best photo Richie had snapped of this new player got tacked to the table of organization — low and off to the side with other puzzle pieces that didn’t fit in just yet, other new faces needing names.

Richie handed a slip of paper to Spearman, seated on top of a desk, not his own.

“What’s this?” Spearman asked. “A number you’re hoping to hit?”

“Kind of. It’s the plate on the limo Mr. Chinchilla climbed out of. Check with the company, see who rented it.”

Spearman smirked humorlessly, unimpressed. “What, you think there’s a new Capone in town, a black one?”

Richie shrugged, smiled.

Spearman made a farting sound with his lips. “Just a small-fry with a big head. Supplier, at most, or just another fuckin’ pimp. Otherwise we’da heard of his ass.”

Richie had started shaking his head halfway through Spearman’s spiel. “No, Freddie, he’s bigger than that. His seats were phenomenal — better than Dominic goddamn Cattano’s. I saw Joe Louis and Ali both shake his fuckin’ hand.”

And Spearman, taking this more seriously, nodded over at the bulletin board and pointed at Cattano, up top, and the new face whose name, Frank Lucas, they did not as yet know, low, to one side.

“How do you get from down there,” the skinny, scruffy cop said, “to up there?”

Richie said, “I don’t know. But we better find out. ’Cause Cattano was sitting behind that dude, and the dude did not take off his hat...”