Glitz

20

LADONNA SAID, “You want me to barf all over the car?” Trying to tell Jackie she was petrified, getting physical about it now. “You know how I feel. How can you even ask me to do something’s going to make me ill?”

With her baby-doll Tulsa drawl and then Jackie speaking in his dialect-a tribe that used to live in the Bronx-like he was suffering, and he probably was, trying to make himself understood, get her to realize the importance of this dinner. “I got a talk to the guy.”

“You talk to him on the phone all the time.”

“Face to face. I got a tell him this across a table. It’s how he wants to do it, fine, it’s how we do it.”

“But I can’t go in there.”

“I got what you need, help you out,” Jackie said.

Now he was pouring her a tequila and lime juice, chilled, from the limo’s bar next to the little TV set.

DeLeon Johnson was catching all this from the front seat, sitting eyes-front behind the wheel; like listening to a radio skit. He’d shift his eyes to the mirror, see shapes, movement; but Jackie’d had him put up the glass separating front from rear, for privacy, and DeLeon was getting headlight in his eyes to make it worse, harder to see anything. The black Cadillac stretch limo was parked on Fairmount Avenue, on the north side, across the street from La Dolce Vita, “Authentic Italian Cuisine” blinking in red neon, making the girl sick. They were supposed to meet Frank the Ching in there for dinner and the girl was fighting it every way she knew.

DeLeon had pushed the button to raise the glass partition, then brought it down a couple inches while they were talking so he could hear the skit. It was anybody else, Jackie would want him to listen, be a witness; didn’t matter if he got dumped on or made to look a fool by some Eye-tie. (Jackie would call them “guinea fucks” and one time DeLeon said, “Excuse me, my granddaddy was Italian,” and had to listen to Jackie explain he meant these wise-guy schmucks, not your real Eyetalians.) But Jackie didn’t want a witness when he was talking to LaDonna, who had these hysterical seizures and little Jackie didn’t know shit how to bring her down.

She said, “You go in. What do you need me for? I’ll wait here.”

DeLeon grinned at the mirror. Tell him, girl.

He’d be at the house talking to LaDonna, giving her advice how to maintain cool-that is, the ability to respect yourself while taking a minimum of shit-and Jackie would come bust in the room like he meant to catch them making it. The fool. There were all kinds of times and places DeLeon knew he could take LaDonna up in the sky; but it would be a glide, it would be to say, yeah, I ride this one-time beauty queen runner-up. It would be a score, was all. It wouldn’t be anything like some little bitty Puerto Rican chicks he knew could take him up laughing all the way and do loop-the-loops, man, get him light-headed with the pleasure of their being there. He wished he was back in Puerto Rico instead of here listening to Jackie saying, no, he didn’t need her, he wanted her at the table because the Ching would behave himself. “Not stick a fork through my hand he doesn’t like what I’m telling him.”

“It’s going to happen,” LaDonna said. “I know it is.”

“That’s in the movies they do that. The Godfather.”

“It’s in the paper, it’s on TV. I see it.”

“That’s in South Philly. Come on, it’s after eight. Christ, twenty after.”

“Why can’t I get you to understand?” LaDonna said. “That fella works for Tommy, he’s the only one of you is the least bit sympathetic. I tell him I can’t eat with those people, he says, ‘I don’t blame you, I couldn’t either.’ “

DeLeon raised his eyes to the mirror as Jackie said, “What guy works for Tommy?”

“The one, you know, with the beard. He’s nice.”

DeLeon heard Jackie say, “Jesus Christ, you talked to him?” Then Jackie was rapping on the glass partition. “Go in and tell Ching we’re gonna be a couple minutes-I got a phone call. Buy him a drink.” DeLeon got out of the car hearing Jackie say to LaDonna, “Okay, when’d you talk to the guy?”

Ricky Catalina had decided, first, he couldn’t use any of his own people. A family deal, it was best to get outside help, scummers with no personal interest, muscle you hired by the pound.

Late afternoon he cruised Boystown till he ran into a couple of heavyweight bikers. They were in Snake Alley selling homemade killer weed, parsley flakes sprinkled with PCP, telling a gay couple in jogging suits and headbands how the dust would stretch their minds, their bodies, grow actual fucking wings on them, man. The scummers were dressed sleeveless now that it was fifty degrees out, showing their muscle, their tattoos, their chapter insignia, Hagar the Horrible from the funnies. Ricky got them aside in a bar, gave them the deal with sleepy eyes and they said yeah right away. Anything crazy or destructive, they said, yeah, babe.

One of the pair, called Bad Isham, had been burned when his lab blew up, out in the Barrens; one side of his face was shiny scar tissue and he was missing an ear. The other scummer, Weldon Arden Webster, was known for making explosive devices. He said to Ricky, “You have a diversion, I could blow you a car out front a the place.”

Ricky said, “Yeah, but I don’t want the guy I want to run out-he hears any kind a big explosion.”

Weldon said, “Shit, you want it done right, I wire the guy’s car.”

“I want to do it,” Ricky said.

“Yeah, give you a remote control box.”

“I want him to see me do it. It’s the kind a deal this is, it’s between me and him.”

Weldon said, “You people got queer notions how you have to settle things.”

Bad Isham said, “The guy ain’t the only one gonna see you, Ricky. Lemme think on it.”

The trouble with getting scummers to help, they sat with their big shoulders hunched over the table making muscles jump in their arms, drinking their schnapps and beer chasers, and pretty soon the deal was their idea, how it should be done. Ricky had to give one, then the other, his sleepy eyes. You through? You through?

“That place, all they get now are tourists,” Ricky said, “the way their prices are. Except in the bar there, guys still hang out in the bar; they lay some heavy sport bets. Weldon gets in a fight with some guy, anybody. Make some noise, bust a few bottles. The help comes out from the restaurant part, see what’s going on. Reno, the guy’s driver comes out. You know Reno?… Okay, you belt Reno, be sure. I walk up to the guy”-Ricky wouldn’t say his name-“I come in that entrance from the parking lot, cap him and walk back out. The car’s over on the side street. Isham, you pick up a car. You drive, that’s all.” Wasn’t that simple enough, even for a couple of spazzed-out bikers?

Bad Isham said, “Other way around. Weldon drives, I bust up the bar.”

Weldon said, “Bullshit!”

Ricky finished his glass of red while they argued who was meaner, dirtier, who’d stomped more civilians, hit more cops, got brought up more on charges. Ricky listened, wondering what made scummers the way they were. All that muscle shit. They could come at him with their tire irons, their chains, their big bare arms, he’d say, you guys crazy? And blow holes in them. There was no way to understand people like this. If they asked him to judge which of them was scummier it would be a tie. So he said, “Hey.” He said, “Hey! Goddamn it!” When they looked at him he was settled back. “We leave the car on the side street. You guys want to fight so bad, both a you go in there, fight each other.”

At eight P.M. they were sitting in the bar at La Dolce Vita, schnapps and beers in front of them. They’d start out swinging like a movie fight, coldcock some guy close by and start a free-for-all if they could. But when Weldon turned and threw his beer in Bad Isham’s scarred face it surprised Isham. It seemed a pussy way to get things going. So he faked a backhand fist and came under it with a body punch that sent Weldon and the civilian next to him off their stools. Isham lunged off his, sweeping the bar of bottles and glasses…

The noise caused the people in the dining room to look toward the archway with the red neon sign over it that said BAR.

Ricky moved along the coatrack in the side-door vestibule to the cashier’s counter. He took a mint from a dish sitting there and put it in his mouth as he looked over the room: white stucco walls decorated with paintings of northern Italian landscapes and Venetian canals. Six tables occupied that he could see-no one he knew. Frank Cingoro sat alone at a table-for-four in an alcove, semiprivate, an antipasto tray and a bottle of red on the table. Frank was eating peppers and shrimp, taking a big sip of wine. He didn’t look up until Ricky was standing at the table, his back to the room.

“You can’t bet on the fight, forget it. Hey, Frank?”

“Some clowns,” the Ching said, looking over his black-framed glasses. “Who cares? How you doing, Ricky? You getting much?”

“You don’t look surprised to see me.”

“You want me to?” The Ching used a toothpick to dip a shrimp in the sauce, put it in his mouth. “You can sit down you want, till Jackie and his broad come. He goes to the toilet I’m gonna jump her, that LaDonna.”

“You got a cool fucking way about you, Frank. I got a say that. You old guys.”

“How old am I, Ricky?”

“You’re sixty-something, sixty-three?”

“How old?”

“What’re you, sixty-two?”

“How old?”

“Okay, how old are you, sixty? Jesus.”

“How old, Ricky?”

“Sixty, you got a be.”

“I’m fifty-eight, you fuck.”

Ricky said, “Well, you’re not gonna get any older, Frank.” He put his hand in the side pocket of his leather jacket.

The Ching had a shrimp on a toothpick close to his mouth. He hesitated, held it there and said, “Ricky, what’re you doing here?”

“What?” Ricky said. “I can’t hear you, Frank. I’m up’n Brigantine, man, I been there all night.”

He brought a .38 Special out of his jacket, the revolver covered in toilet paper from grip to two-inch barrel, a tissue-wrapped present he extended in both hands, pushed his index finger through the flimsy paper covering the trigger guard and aimed at the shrimp on the toothpick. He shot Frank five times, the toilet paper catching fire; he had to tear it from the grip fast, then held the wad of paper up and let the revolver unwrap to fall on the white tablecloth.

DeLeon saw it, saw Frank go down behind the table, saw Ricky turn and come this way bunching scorched toilet paper in his hand. Tidy little dude, looking away from the tables toward the BAR sign where he could still hear sounds in there like people beating each other up, breaking things. The people out here all with their heads sticking up not knowing shit what was going on.

DeLeon stepped back against the coats hanging in the rack, no way to hide in there head and shoulders above it; but he stood not moving a muscle. And here came Ricky, Ricky coming along cool, looking up now and a little surprised. DeLeon stepped out and let him have that forearm with mostly elbow in it, hunched and threw it hard at Ricky’s face but caught him a speck low and heard bone crack. DeLeon took him by the jacket quick and let him follow his buckled knees to the floor. The boy looked awake but in some pain. Little Ricky the Blade. Shit. DeLeon raised a size fourteen boot to bring it down on Ricky’s knee, render him immobile, tell him wait, help was on the way. But paused. Got a crazy idea in that moment-part of an idea anyway-pulled Ricky to his feet, took hold of him under one arm, Ricky moaning, “My shoulder, my shoulder,” walking on tiptoes as DeLeon brought him out the side door and up to the corner of Fairmount Avenue. DeLeon told Ricky to behave himself or he’d throw him in front of a car. Traffic passed, he took Ricky across the street. Now they came up behind the stretch limo. DeLeon opened the trunk, got Ricky inside, and gently closed the lid.

Jackie didn’t know shit behind his smoked glass windows, sitting on the edge of his seat to look over at the restaurant, at people running out of the bar. DeLeon got in. Before Jackie could ask him anything he said, “You want to watch the police arrive or leave right now?”

At dinner Nancy talked and Vincent listened. He smiled once in a while. Last night in the same glittery room he had listened to Linda talk about music, playing lounges, and had smiled a lot because he could feel what she was feeling and had wondered what living with her would be like, or even being married to her, committed. Tonight he smiled to be polite, not feeling a thing, listening to Nancy describe how she’d doze off as this sweet guy Kip, her first husband, sipping martinis, told long drawn-out stories about dogs with human characteristics, a golden retriever that listened to stock market reports at breakfast… Vincent nodding, thinking, The poor fucking dog. Nancy said, “After Kip died, what was I going to do in Bryn Mawr, play tennis the rest of my life? Join The Gardeners? Hell, no. I came here and got a job.” Vincent nodded in admiration. Nodded in sympathy as she told him about Tommy’s drinking, his macho jock attitude, his high blood pressure. Tommy sounded like a fairly regular guy. She said, “Tommy wanted to have dinner with us, but he’s very busy.” Pause. “I think he’s playing video games on his computer. He loves Donkey Kong.” Listening, nodding, it finally occurred to Vincent that he was going to get seriously propositioned before too long. Nancy was giving him her specs. She had money, position, a line to the Main Line; she had poise, style, outstanding looks. What else? She tended to overkiss, but it wasn’t bad. She was getting ready to dump her husband. There was only one thing wrong…

She brought Vincent to the top-floor Penthouse Lounge, reserved for high rollers and their guests, quiet this evening, almost empty, the room dark in low lamplight, enclosed in glass. She brought him to the top of Atlantic City and said over cognac, “I could make you rich.”

He said, “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

She hesitated, giving him a serious look. “I mean it.”

So he said, “Why?” It was more important to him than “how.”

“I think it would be fun.”

“Work for you?”

“Work for Spade’s.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“Neither do half the people at the very top in this business. They were something else before, that’s all. You were a police detective.”

“I still am.”

“How did you get hold of twelve thousand dollars wrapped in rubber bands?”

“I was lucky.”

“So am I. That’s why I know you’d be good at this.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “You have no intention of gambling, do you?”

“Listen, I feel like I can’t lose.”

“You’re a crafty guy, Vincent. Easy to misjudge. But I think I know you and my hunches are almost always right.” She sipped her cognac. “I could make you an actor, Vincent, get you a decent part in a film within six months, I guarantee. That’s why I know this would work. I can use you, Vincent.”

That’s what he was afraid of.

“You’ll love it here.”

“Why me?”

“Don’t be coy.”

“I’m serious, I’m a cop.”

“No, you’re one step away from being a senior vice-president in charge of… I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something. Start you at, say, a hundred and fifty thousand. How does that sound?”

“Do I get a car?”

“Of course.”

“I have to wear a regular suit?”

“I’ll help you pick some out.” Giving him her nice smile.

“Where do I live?”

“Wherever you want. Longport’s nice. We’ll find you something.”

“You’re not gonna keep me in an apartment?”

She wasn’t smiling now. “That’s uncalled for.”

“How many times a week do I have to go to bed with you?”

He thought she was going to throw her cognac at him, or try; but she didn’t. She placed the glass on the table and got up, the lights of Atlantic City behind her. As she started to leave he said, “Nancy?”

She stood for a moment turned away, taking her time before coming around enough to look back at him.

“What?”

“Do I still get comped for the suite?”

That wasn’t nice. He could have said it in a different way. A simple no-thank-you wouldn’t have been too bad.

Except that he didn’t feel his remark was any more out of line than her offer. There was no way she was going to make him a casino vice-president based on some gift she had of sniffing out latent ability. On the other hand, how could he assume she was after his body, considering all the slick guys with haircuts and shiny suits hanging around? Unless she wanted to make one of her own out of raw material, use him as a stud kit. He might have made a mistake. Not in his refusal, but in assuming what she wanted.

Vincent went down to his suite to change shirts, get out of the white one he’d worn two nights in a row, put on a blue workshirt-yeah, it ought to look nice with his new sportcoat-and pick up his gun. It was 9:30 and Linda was Now Appearing at Bally’s at 10. He paused to look at the urn resting on the dresser, Iris in stainless steel without diamonds or whatever she had come here for…

The phone rang.

It would be an assistant manager with a cool tone telling him his time was up.

But it was Dixie Davies telling him he’d called it right and should be one of the first to know: “Frank Cingoro was shot and killed an hour ago, in an Italian restaurant on Fairmount Avenue. You’d think those guys’d learn to eat some other kind of food. Heavyset guy with dark hair, leather jacket, walked in and walked out. Nobody saw his face good, but who does it sound like? We sent a car to Ricky’s house, he’s not home.”

“He was in Brigantine at the time,” Vincent said. “With about eight witnesses.”

“Where I should be,” Dixie said, “home watching TV. I got this one, I got another one came in I have to see about soon as I finish here. Elderly woman they found underneath the Boardwalk at Kentucky Avenue. Bum went in there, tripped over her body. She’s from Harrisburg, it looks like. So we got to check the tour buses, see if she was with a group, who saw her last, all that.”

Vincent was thinking about Ricky and Frank Cingoro, but he said, “What happened to her?”

“She was beaten to death, robbed, it looks like, and probably raped, her pants pulled off.”

Ricky and the Ching vanished and a name came into Vincent’s mind without thinking, as a free-association reflex, nothing more. But there it was and he said the name to himself and then out loud, “Teddy Magyk.”