Knock, Knock! Who's There?

TWO

Melanie Carelli, Johnny’s girl, had been born in a Naples slum. At the age of four she had been sent out on to the streets with other kids to beg from the tourists. Life had been hard for her and also for her parents. Her father, a cripple, had touted postcards, and faked Parker pens outside the better-class hotels; her mother had taken in washing.

When Melanie reached the age of fifteen, her grandfather, who had a tailoring business in Brooklyn, wrote to say he could use her in his tiny factory and her mother and father were glad to see her go: the steerage fare provided for by her grandfather. Melanie was too keen on the boys and her parents dreaded the almost certain prospect that sooner or later she would land them with an unwanted baby.

For three soul-destroying years she had worked in the factory and finally decided this wasn’t going to be her way of life. She stole fifty dollars from her grandfather and left Brooklyn. Arriving at East City, Johnny’s town, she decided it was far enough away from New York to be safe and she settled there. She had no need to worry about safety: her grandfather was only too happy to find her missing.

She got a job as a waitress in a sleazy snack bar, but the hours were killing. She quit and other jobs followed, then after a year she finally got taken on in one of the many cheap stores in town which suited her. The pay wasn’t much, but at least she was on her own with no one to tell her what to do or how to behave and she had a tiny room that belonged to her, and to her only.

Melanie was sexually attractive without being pretty. She had long, coal-black hair, large breasts and solid hips and the hot sun of Naples in her loins. Men, looking at her, knew it. The store buyer, a timid, fat man, living in terror of his wife, became infatuated with her. She allowed him from time to time to put his hand up her skirt, but no more, and in return he put her in charge of the men’s shirt counter with a raise in pay.

It was while Johnny Bianda was buying shirts that he became aware of her. At that moment, he was without a girl, having quarrelled with a pick-up who had been too exacting, and he was in need of a girl. As always, Melanie was in need of a man. He dated her for dinner, proved he was generous and for the past three years, they had been going steady.

Within two months of meeting Johnny, Melanie moved out of her tiny room and into a two-room apartment in a walk-up, Johnny providing the rent and the furnishings.

In spite of being grateful and liking Johnny, Melanie regretted that he was so much older than she, that he was bulky and far from glamorous, but he treated her right, was nice to her and always had money to spend on her. They met three times a week: sometimes he would take her out to dinner and then to a movie, sometimes she would cook Italian food for him at home. Whatever the programme, they always finished up on the big double bed that Johnny had bought for her, and it was then, after so much experience with younger men, that she really appreciated Johnny as a lover. He and no one else could satisfy her.

To Johnny, Melanie, although so much younger than he and with no thoughts in her head, was a girl he felt he could trust and this was important to him. He was sick of the diggers, the cheats and the toughies with whom he had previously associated. Melanie came as a breath of fresh air. To him, she was more than attractive: she was wildly eager in bed and she didn’t yak as all those other women had yakked. She would be content to sit by his side in silence or talk when he was in the mood, and she never hinted of marriage.

Johnny felt in his bones he would never marry. He didn’t want a permanent woman: all he wanted was a boat and the sea and sex when the mood was on him. Sooner or later, he knew he would lose Melanie. Some young punk with a little money would come along and that would be that. Because he knew he would eventually lose her, he had never told her about his urge to own a boat, and now he was committed to the steal, he was thankful he hadn’t told her: that he had told no one. Massino was an expert at squeezing information from anyone when he wanted and if the steal turned sour and Massino even suspected it was he (Johnny ) who had taken the money he would brutally quiz everyone connected with Johnny. If Massino ever got the idea that Johnny was boat mad, it would be goodbye to the boat.

Most of Massino’s mob knew that Johnny’s girl was Melanie. You can’t take a girl out three times a week for three years without running into some of the mob at the restaurants Johnny could afford nor at a movie house showing the latest film. This thought worried Johnny a little, although he kept assuring himself that nothing would turn sour the way he had planned the steal and that Massino would never suspect he was the thief. He was fond of Melanie. Love? No, he told himself, he wasn’t in love with her. He felt that love didn’t come into his life. Love bound a man, but he was fond of her and wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

He lit another cigarette. In the street below a child yelled, a woman called across the street to another woman, the car crawled by in low gear, making a racket of noise. Listening to the noise, he thought of the sea in the sunshine and felt the breeze against his face. His hands closed on the spokes of the tiller and he heard the murmur of the powerful engines. Patience, he told himself. Two or three years and he would be afloat.

Every Friday night he took Melanie out to dinner and then to a movie. This night—he glanced at his watch—he would be taking her out. Next Friday would be different, but he wouldn’t tell her tonight. He would jump it on her. Although she wasn’t a talker, if she knew beforehand that next Friday was going to be special, she might worry.

He spent the next two hours going over his plan again and again, then finally, realizing the futility of this constant rehashing, he got up, stripped off and took a shower.

An hour later he picked Melanie up outside her apartment and drove her to Luigi’s restaurant.

They had a good Italian dinner. They didn’t have much to say to each other. Melanie always seemed to be hungry and when the food was placed before her, she ate happily and in silence while Johnny, now thinking of Friday 29th, pushed his food around on the plate and didn’t eat much. He kept looking at her. His eyes took away her clothes and saw her olive-skinned, lush body naked and he thought of the wasted three hours ahead of them when they would sit in a stuffy movie house and watch some goddamn film before he could lay her on her back on the big double bed.

“Have you something on your mind, Johnny?” Melanie asked suddenly. She had devoured an enormous plate of spaghetti and was sitting back, eager for the next course, her big breasts forcing themselves against her cheap skimpy dress.

Johnny jerked his thoughts back to her and he smiled.

“Just looking at you, baby,” he said and put his hand over hers. “Right now, I’ve got the hots for you.”

She felt a hot rush of blood to her loins.

“Me too. Let’s skip the movie tonight. Let’s go back and have a real ball.”

That was what he wanted and his fingers closed tightly over the back of her hand.

“You have yourself a deal, baby.”

Then a shadow fell across the table and Johnny looked up.

Toni Capello was standing there. He was wearing a black suit, a yellow-and-white striped shirt and a yellow kipper tie. He looked very dressy, but his flat snake’s eyes remained snake’s eyes.

“Hi, Johnny,” he said and his eyes shifted to Melanie and then back to Johnny. “The boss wants you.”

Johnny turned hot with anger. He knew Toni was almost as good as he was (had been?) with a gun and he hated Toni as he knew Toni hated him.

He sensed Melanie was scared. He glanced at her and saw she was looking at Toni with wide, frightened eyes.

“What do you mean… he wants me?” Johnny demanded.

A waiter hovered to change the plates, then moved away.

“Like I said… he wants you and pronto.”

Johnny drew in a long deep breath.

“Okay. I’ll be along. Where?”

“At his place and right now. I’ll take the doll back to her pad.” Toni smirked. “A pleasure.”

“Get the hell out of here, you cheap punk,” Johnny said quietly and dangerously. “I’ll be there, but in my time.”

Toni sneered.

“Okay, if you want to cut your throat… that’s fine with me. I’ll tell the boss,” and he walked out of the restaurant.

Melanie turned, her eyes wide.

“What is it, Johnny?”

He wished he knew. He had never been called to Massino’s house before. He felt cold sweat start out on his forehead.

“Sorry, baby,” he said gently. “I have to go. Suppose you finish your dinner, then take a taxi home and wait for me.”

“Oh, no! I…”

He got up and was moving around the table.

“Do it, baby, to please me,” he said, a hard note creeping into his voice.

There was something now about him that frightened her. He had lost colour, seemed to have shrunk a little and there were sweat beads on his forehead.

She forced a smile.

“Okay, Johnny, I’ll be waiting for you.”

He had a word with the waiter and slipped him a bill, then giving her a wave, he went out on to the street.

It took him some twenty minutes in the heavy traffic to reach Massino’s house on 10th street. He found parking with difficulty and walked up the marble steps leading to the massive front door.

While he had been driving, his mind had been racing. What in God’s name, he wondered, did Massino want him for at this hour? Never before had he been summoned to this opulent house. He rang the bell, and as he was wiping his sweating hands on his handkerchief, the door opened and a lean, hard-faced man wearing a tail coat and a winged collar ( for God’s sake! ) aping an English butler from the old movies, stood aside to let Johnny enter the vast hall, lined on either side with oil paintings in gilt frames and several suits of polished armour.

“Go ahead, bud,” the butler said out of the side of his mouth. “First door right.”

Johnny entered a large room, lined with books and full of heavy dark furniture. Joe Massino was lounging in a big wing chair, smoking a cigar, a glass of whisky and water at his elbow. Sitting in the shadows was Ernie Lassini, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood.

“Come on in, Johnny,” Massino said. “Sit down.” He waved to a chair opposite him. “What’ll you drink?” Johnny sat down stiffly.

“A whisky will do fine, thank you,” he said.

“Ernie, get Johnny a whisky and then get your ass out of here.”

There was a long pause while Ernie fixed the drink which he handed to Johnny, his fat, scarred face dead pan, then he left the room.

“Cigar?” Massino asked.

“No, thanks, Mr. Joe.”

Massino grinned.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“Yeah.” Johnny stared at the big man. “You sure did.”

Massino laughed, then leaning forward he slapped Johnny on his knee.

“It’ll keep. She’ll be all the more eager when you get to her.”

Johnny didn’t say anything. Holding the drink in his sweating hand, he waited.

Massino stretched out his thick legs, drew on his cigar and puffed smoke to the ceiling. He looked very relaxed and amiable, but Johnny didn’t relax. He had seen Massino in this mood before. It could change into snarling rage in seconds.

“Nice little pad I’ve got here, huh?” Massino said, looking around the room. “The wife fixed it up. All these goddamn books. She reckons they look fancy. You ever read a book, Johnny?”

“No.”

“Nor do I. Who the hell wants to read a book?” The little cold grey eyes moved over Johnny. “Well, never mind that. I’ve been thinking about you, Johnny. You’ve worked for me close on twenty years…

Here it is, Johnny thought. The kiss-off. Well, he had been expecting it, but not quite as soon as this.

“I guess it’s around twenty years,” he said.

“What do I pay you, Johnny?”

“Two hundred a week.”

“That’s what Andy tells me. Yeah… two hundred. You should have squawked long before now.”

“I’m not squawking,” Johnny said quietly. “I guess a guy gets paid what he deserves.”

Massino squinted at him.

“That’s not the way these other punks think. They’re always moaning for more money.” He drank some of his whisky, paused, then went on, “You’re my best man, Johnny. There’s something in you that gets to me. Maybe I remember your shooting. I wouldn’t be here with all these fancy goddamn books around me if it hadn’t been for you… three times, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Three times.” Massino shook his head. “Some shooting.” Again a long pause, then he said, “If you had come to me two… -three years ago and said you wanted more money, I’d have given it to you.” The red tip of his cigar suddenly pointed at Johnny. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’ve told you, Mr. Joe,” Johnny said. “A guy gets paid what he deserves. I don’t do much. I work off and on. Friday is the big day… so…”

“You and Sammy get along okay?”

“Sure.”

“He’s scared. He hates the job, doesn’t her

“He needs the money.”

“That’s right. I’m thinking of making a change. I’ve had a beef or two from the boys. Times change. They don’t seem to like a smoke picking up the money. I want your angle. Do you think I should make a change?”

Johnny’s mind moved swiftly. This was no time to support anyone, even Sammy. In another six days—if it worked out—he would have something like $150,000 hidden away.

“I walk it with Sammy,” he said woodenly. “That’s been my job for ten years, Mr. Joe. I’ll walk it with anyone you pick.”

“I’m thinking of making a complete change,” Massino said. “You and Sammy. Ten years is a hell of a time. Can Sammy drive a car?”

“Sure and he knows cars. He started life in a garage.”

“I heard that. Think he’d like to be my chauffeur? The wife has been nagging me. She says it isn’t good class for me to drive the Rolls. She wants a uniform for God’s sake! She thinks Sammy would look real good in a uniform.”

“Top can but ask him, Mr. Joe.”

“You talk to him, Johnny. What does he get paid?”

“A hundred.”

“Okay, tell him it’s worth a hundred and fifty.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Again a long pause while Johnny waited to hear his own fate.

“Now you, Johnny,” Massino said. “You’re a well known character in this town. People like and respect you. You’ve got a reputation. How would you like to take over the one-arm bandits?”

Johnny stiffened. This was the last thing he expected to be offered… the last thing he wanted. Bernie Schultz, a fat, ageing man, looked after these gambling machines for Massino: had looked after them for the past five years. He had often moaned to Johnny about his worries, how Andy was continually chasing him if the take from these machines fell below what Bernie declared was an impossible weekly target.

He remembered Bernie, sweating, dark rings around his eyes, saying, “The goddamn job isn’t worth it, Johnny. You’ve no idea. You’re always under pressure from that sonofabitch to find new outlets. You walk your goddamn feet off, trying to get creeps to take the machines. Then if they take them, some goddamn kid busts them. You never stop working.”

“How about Bernie?” Johnny asked to gain time.

“Bernie’s washed up.” Massino’s amiable expression changed and he now became the cold, ruthless executive. “You can handle this, Johnny. You won’t have trouble in finding new outlets. People respect you. It’ll be worth four hundred and a one per cent cut: could net you eight hundred if you really got stuck into the job. What do you say?”

Johnny thought swiftly. This was an offer he dare not refuse. He was sure if he did, he would be out and he wasn’t yet ready to be kissed off.

Looking straight at Massino, he said, “When do I start?”

Massino grinned and, leaning forward, he slapped Johnny’s knee.

“That’s the way I like a guy to talk,” he said. “I knew I’d picked the right one. You start the first of the month. I’ll have Bernie fixed by then. You talk it over with Andy. He’ll wise you up.” He got to his feet, looked at his watch and grimaced. “I’ve got to move along. Got to take the wife to some goddamn shindig. Well, okay, Johnny, that’s a deal. You’ve got yourself eight hundred bucks a week.” He put his heavy arm around Johnny’s shoulders and led him to the door. “Talk to Sammy. If he wants the job, tell him to see Andy who will fix his uniform. You two do the next collection and then you start your new jobs… right?”

“That’s fine with me,” Johnny said and moved out into the big hall where the butler was waiting.

“See you,” Massino said and strode up the stairs, whistling under his breath and out of Johnny’s sight.

Reaching his car, Johnny stood hesitating. He looked at his watch. The time was 21.05. Knowing Melanie’s eating capacity he guessed she would be occupied for another half hour. He decided it might pay off to have a word with Bernie Schultz.

He drove across town and reached Bernie’s apartment in fifteen minutes. He found Bernie at home, his shoes off, a beer in his hand, watching T.V.

Bernie’s wife, a big, fat happy-faced woman let him in and then went into the kitchen because she knew these two were going to talk business and she never mixed herself up in any of Bernie’s machinations.

Johnny didn’t hedge.

As soon as Bernie had turned off the T.V. and offered beer which Johnny refused, Johnny said, “I’ve just talked with Mr. Joe. You’re getting the kiss off, Bernie, and I’m getting your job.”

Bernie stared at him.

“Come again?”

Johnny repeated what he had said.

“You really mean that… no kidding?”

“I’m telling you.”

Bernie drew in a long, deep breath and his heavy, fat face lit up with a broad grin. Suddenly, he looked ten years younger.

“Is that great news!” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve been praying for this for years! So, now I’m free!”

“I guessed you would feel that way,” Johnny said. “That’s why I came right over. What’ll you do, Bernie? You’ll be out of the organization.”

“Do? Me?” Bernie laughed happily. “I’ve got money put by. My brother-in-law owns a fruit farm in California. That’s where I’ll be: partners, picking fruit in the sun with not a goddamn care in the world!”

“Yeah.” Johnny’s mind shifted to his dream boat and the sea. “Well, I’ve got your job, Bernie. What’s it worth?”

Bernie finished his beer, belched and set down the glass.

“Mr. Joe pays me a flat eight hundred a week and one per cent of the take, but the one per cent means nothing. All the goddamn years I’ve worked, I’ve never reached the target above that sonofabitch Andy’s target, so you can forget the one per cent. But you get paid eight hundred steady, Johnny, although the job is sheer hell. I’ve managed to save out of what I got paid and you can too.”

Eight hundred a week and Massino had offered him only four hundred and one per cent which according to Bernie meant nothing!

A cold, fierce rage took hold of Johnny, but he controlled it.

You’re my best man, Johnny. There’s something in you that gets to me.

That’s what the thieving, double-crossing sonofabitch had said! Well, okay, Johnny thought as he got to his feet, I’ll be a thieving sonofabitch too!

Leaving Bernie, he went down to where he had parked his car. Still raging, he drove fast to Melanie’s pad.

The following morning when Melanie had gone to work, Johnny returned to his apartment and cooked himself breakfast which was his favourite meal. He had the whole day before him with no plans. He was in a surly mood. Massino’s meanness still irked him. He had now no misgivings about robbing him, that was for sure.

As he was sitting down to three fried eggs and a thick slice of grilled ham, the telephone bell rang. Cursing, he got up and lifted the receiver. It was Andy Lucas on the line.

“Mr. Joe says you’re to take over Bernie’s job,” Andy said. “You two had better get together. See him today. He’ll take you around with him and give you introductions.”

“Okay,” Johnny said, eyeing his breakfast. “I’ll do that.”

“And listen, Johnny.” Andy’s voice was cold. “Bernie has been lying down on the job. I’ll expect you to increase the business. We want at least two hundred more machines out and that’ll be your job… understand?”

“Sure.”

“Okay… go talk to Bernie,” and Andy hung up. Johnny returned to his breakfast but he hadn’t the appetite he had had before the telephone call.

A little after moo, he went out and headed for Bernie’s office: a one-room affair on the top floor of a walk-up office block. As he was waiting for the traffic lights to change so he could cross the road, he saw Sammy the Black waiting to cross on the other side of the street.

Sammy grinned and waved and when the traffic stopped, Johnny joined him.

“Hi, Sammy… what are you doing?”

“Me?” Sammy looked vague. “Not a thing, Mr. Johnny. Not much doing on Saturday… just mooching around.”

Johnny had forgotten it was Saturday. Tomorrow would be Sunday. He hated Sundays with the shops shut and people going out of town. Usually he spent Sunday mornings reading the papers and then joining Melanie in the late afternoon. Sunday morning she was always busy, cleaning her apartment, washing her hair and doing all the goddamn chores women seem to find to do.

“Want coffee?” Johnny asked.

“Always say yes to coffee.” Sammy looked uneasily at Johnny. The hard expression on Johnny’s face bothered him. “Something wrong?”

“Let’s have coffee.” Johnny led the way to the cafe and propped himself up against the bar. He ordered the coffees, then said, “I was talking to Mr. Joe last night.” He went on to tell Sammy what Massino had said. “It’s up to you. Do you want to drive his car?”

Sammy’s face lit up as if he had swallowed a lighted electric light bulb.

“Is this straight, Mr. Johnny?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Sure do!” Sammy slapped his pink palms together. “You mean I don’t have to collect any more money?”

Johnny thought sourly: another one! Bernie, beaming from ear to ear, now Sammy. They have it smooth while I get it rough.

“You have to wear a uniform and drive his Rolls. Like the idea?”

“Sure do! Is this good news!” Sammy paused then looked at Johnny. “When do I start?”

“The week after next.”

Sammy’s face fell.

“You mean I’ve got the collection next Friday to do?”

“That’s right.”

Sammy’s eyes rolled and sweat broke out on his face.

“Couldn’t the new man do the job, Mr. Johnny? Who’s the new man anyway?”

“I wouldn’t know. We make the collection together on the 29th, Sammy.” Johnny finished his coffee. “So forget it.”

“Yes.” Sammy blotted his sweating face with his handkerchief. “You think it’ll be all right?”

“Can’t go wrong.” Johnny moved away from the bar. “I’ve things to do. Go see Andy. Tell him you’ll drive for Mr. Joe. He’ll fix everything. It pays a hundred and fifty.”

Sammy’s eyes opened wide.

“A hundred and fifty?”

“That’s what Mr. Joe said.” Johnny looked thoughtfully at Sammy. “Are you still keeping your savings under your bed?”

“Where else should I keep it, Mr. Johnny?”

“I told you, you dope, in a goddamn bank!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Sammy said, shaking his head. “Banks are for white people.”

Johnny shrugged.

“Be seeing you.” He paid for the coffees and walked out of the cafe. Ten minutes later he was in Bernie Schultz’s office.

Bernie was resting behind his battered desk, his chair pushed back, his thumbs hooked to his belt. When he saw Johnny, he straightened up.

“Andy said I was to look in,” Johnny said. “He said you’d give me introductions and take me around.”

“Sure will,” Bernie said, “but not today. This is the week-end for God’s sake! No business at week-ends. Suppose we start Monday, huh? Come here around ten o’clock. I’ll show you around. Okay?” “Anything you say.” Johnny started towards the door.

“Oh, Johnny…”

Johnny paused and looked at Bernie who was scratching his fat jowl.

“Yeah?”

“I guess I flapped with my big mouth.” Bernie shifted uneasily in his chair. “Andy told me I wasn’t to tell you what I get paid. Can you forget it?”

Johnny’s hands turned to fists, but he managed a cold grin.

“Sure. I’ve forgotten it, Bernie. See you Monday,” and he left the little office and tramped clown the six flights of stairs, swearing under his breath.

As he was within a five-minute walk from the Greyhound bus station, he made his way there. Reaching the station, he paused to look across the street and up at Massino’s office windows. Massino was probably in flight to Miami for a long week-end, but Johnny was sure that Andy was up there in his poky office.

He went into the bus station and made his way to the left luggage lockers. He stopped to read the instructions printed on the door of one of the lockers. The key, he read, had to be collected from the attendant. He glanced around. Seeing no one among the milling crowd he knew, he wandered over to the attendant’s cubby hole. A big, sleepy-looking negro peered at him.

“Let’s have a key,” Johnny said. “How much?”

“How long do you want it for, boss?”

“Three weeks… maybe longer. I don’t know.”

The negro handed over the key.

“Half a buck a week: that’ll be a buck and a half for three weeks.”

Johnny paid, dropped the key into his pocket, then went to locate the locker. It was conveniently placed: just inside the entrance door. Satisfied, he walked out into cold and made his way back to his apartment.

He spent the next hour, sitting before his window, thinking of

Massino. Around 14.00 just when he was thinking of getting a snack for lunch the telephone bell rang.

Grimacing, he got to his feet and lifted the receiver.

“Johnny?”

“Hi, baby!” He was surprised that Melanie should be calling. He had arranged to take her for a drive on Sunday afternoon and then spend the night with her.

“I’ve got the curse, Johnny. It started just now,” Melanie said. “I’m feeling like hell. Can we forget to- morrow?”

Women! Johnny thought. Always something wrong! But he knew Melanie really suffered when she had her period. This would mean a long, lonely, dreary weekend for him.

“Sorry about that, baby,” he said gently. “Sure, we’ll forget tomorrow. There’ll be plenty of other Sundays. Anything I can do?”

“Nothing. As soon as I get home, I’ll go to bed. It doesn’t last all that long.”

“You want any food?”

“I’ll take in something. You have a nice time, Johnny. I’ll call you as soon as it’s over and then well have fun.”

“Yeah. Well, look after yourself,” and Johnny hung up.

He wandered around the room wondering what the hell he would do over the week-end. He took out his wallet and checked his money. He had one hundred and eight dollars of his pay left. This would have to last him until next Friday. He hesitated. It would be good to get in his car and drive down to the coast: a three hundred mile drive. He could put up at a motel and walk by the sea, but it would cost. He couldn’t afford that kind of week-end. Fine for Massino who had all the money in the world, but strictly not for Johnny Bianda.

Shrugging, he crossed over to the T.V. set and turned it on. He sat down before the screen and gave himself over, with bored indifference, to a ball game.

As he watched, his mind dwelt on the time when he would be on his boat, feeling the lift and fall of the deck, feeling the spray of the sea against his face and the heat of the sun.

Patience, he told himself, patience.