Permanent Interests Page 9

  Ever the epitome of cool, Wentworth ignored Al's blustering and proceeded to sweep the room methodically with his electronic detection equipment.

  Al shook his head and slowly turned to Wentworth. He visibly untensed. No explosion after all.

  "Chuckie, you sure what you're doing will do the job?

  The FB-…uh, I mean the…my competitors got all kinds of the latest technology. The last thing I need is for them to--"

  "Al, I used to do this in our embassies. The CIA and NSA trained us in counterespionage. We were taught all the sophisticated m.o's of the Russians and Chinese. I know what I'm doing."

  "Just asking. That's all."

  "Somebody will have to ensure that your visitors aren't wired, or that any of them are even carrying portable radios, calculators and other electronic devices. I can sweep them bodily, if you wish." Wentworth pulled out of his black, leather satchel a "magic wand" -- a hand-held instrument used to check a person's body for metal and electrical items.

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  "No. I want to make them feel at home, unwind; not make them think that they're here for a colonoscopy. Get my drift? And when they arrive, I want you to keep an eye on Bags and Herman downstairs. Make sure they're doing their job and not getting distracted by re-runs of the

  'Flintstones'."

  "Sure. I'll finish up at nineteen-hundred."

  "Wha'?"

  "Seven p.m. In five minutes, I'll finish sweeping the place."

  "Yeah. Right. Nineteen-hundred."

  At seven sharp Wentworth packed up his gear and proceeded down the stairs. Al had resumed pacing back and forth, his nervous tension radiating like electricity humming from a power line. Suddenly, he bolted toward the stairwell. Cupping his mouth, he yelled after Wentworth.

  "Chuckie! You know what calamare is?"

  Wentworth turned at the bottom of the stairs. "Ate it all the time in Rome. Why?"

  "Do me a favor. Go in the kitchen and make sure those greasers in there aren't mangling the calamare. Should be crisp, not overdone, and light on the oil."

  "Roger that, boss!"

  "Hey, one other thing."

  "Yes?"

  "Soon as that no-good-for-nothing nephew of mine shows up, holler. Okay?"

  Pironi's was packed. Unusual for a Tuesday night in February. This made Al that much antsier. After all, the object was to keep this meeting as low key as possible.

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  Al's greater circle of goombahs also patronized the place.

  But lower Manhattan's Little Italy was fast becoming a suburb of Chinatown and not many ordinary Chinese knew Al or his associates. Twenty years previous, if you had a business dinner on or near Mulberry Street, chances were good that all the city's families would know about it, if not the content, by breakfast the following day. But as the community dissipated, the likelihood was less.

  Like a medieval baronet, Tony Acquello made a point of visiting every table every evening to check on his guests.

  Tony was owner, manager, maitre d' and sometimes alternate waiter and assistant chef when the need arose. He inherited the place from his father-in-law, Frank, whose own father, Angelo, had started Pironi's in 1911. The family had kept the restaurant in continuous operation since, closing only for Christmases and on November 22, 1963 when Jack Kennedy was killed. As to the latter event, every ginzo gangster in New York swore on the Madonna to Frank that the mob had nothing to do with it. Many of the old-timers, after all, had had lucrative dealings in the old days with Joe Kennedy. Furthermore, why would the mob want to rub out the first Catholic President, himself a son of immigrant stock? Wise guys might not be great at a lot of things, but one thing they were good at was remembering who was good for them and who was not.

  Like his father-in-law, Tony was a paradigm of discretion, an essential ingredient for a successful restauranteur to the rich and infamous. He hired his help with this in mind. The long-termers were generously tipped by regulars like Al. Patrons knew that they could hold sensitive meetings and carry on business at Pironi's without worrying that a vain, loudmouthed host would be blabbing about it all over town. Conversely, Tony knew that such trust meant good business from regulars and the 98 JAMES

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  parvenus. Violating that trust could be painful -- physically as well as financially. It was that simple. Whatever problems some of his clientele had with the law, that was their business and Tony was happiest the less he knew, though he invariably knew a lot simply through osmosis.

  Give me your tired, your weary, free-spending nouveau riche seeking refuge from the authorities. In return, I'll guarantee you a reasonably safe, quiet and comfortable place to conduct your affairs, nefarious or otherwise. But leave me out of it. That was Tony's code. And, by the way, the food was the best in town.

  The establishment itself was little touched by the passing of time. The bar, first way-station before dinner for many of Pironi's clients, occupied the left side and featured the restaurant's original, ponderous, curving, dark oak bar.

  Oak wood panels, carved elaborately a fin de siècle, lined the walls. A brass tube rail skirted the perimeter. The centerpiece behind the bar, a large fish aquarium with little medieval castles, was flanked by scores of liquor bottles --

  Strega, Galliano, Vermouth Rosso, Sambucca and assorted

  "digestivi" being prominent. A small clip stand offering little bags of "Beer Nuts" for a buck stood forlornly off to the rear left, sharing little noticed space with a large jar soliciting donations for some crippling children's disease.

  A framed homily on the bar's mirrored rear wall read, "Old Age and Treachery Will Beat Youth and Idealism Every Time." The half-Irish, half-Sicilian bartender, Ralph Madden, had been in Pironi's employ for the past ten years.

  Always ready with a naughty joke and sympathetic ear, he knew the favorite drinks of half of Pironi's clientele without asking. The overall atmosphere was somber yet warm, almost musty, of another era. Unprepossessing old-fashionedness.

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  The dining area followed the same unpretentious, atavistic style. Simple white linen cloths covered nondescript tables adorned with generic candle lights. The walls featured frescoes of the island of Capri and classical Tuscan landscapes painted by some mediocre artist many years before. Framed official portraits of the President and the Pope occupied equal positions over the swinging doorway to the kitchen. A few autographed publicity photos of quasi-famous show business and sports celebrities hung in the waiting area near the entrance. "To Frank and Tony. Great food and service. Your pal, Al Martino," read one black and white glossy. Aging waiters and corpulent waitresses whisked food and dirty dishes efficiently.

  The customers resembled the establishment: dark, modest, rumpled, self-satisfied, alert. By habit and dress, they were as much at home in this habitat as forest creatures were in theirs.

  The older males wore dark suits, often with no necktie.

  They were straight-backed and stately. Old Worldly.

  Several sat at small corner tables -- familiar, staked-out perches habitually occupied by individual regulars. They read their newspapers -- Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Italo-America -- reading glasses cocked upward, their faces held at a comfortable distance, as if the reading material were infused with some unpleasant odor. Most nursed a demitasse of espresso; some with an accompanying shot glass of Grappa; others with a tumbler of sparkling cold Pellegrino with a twist of lemon. None was accompanied by a female.

  Occasionally, two or three could be seen huddled closely together engaged in animated conversation, spoken sotto voce, punctuated by lively hand gesticulations. Was it business they talked about? Or the Old Days? Or, their 100 JAMES

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  grandchildren? If you asked Tony Acquello, he'd answer with a silent shrug of the shoulders. But the answer would be "yes" to all of the above.

  The younger males, ranging from
a few twenty-somethings to those in their forties, most falling in the middle-aged category, generally were slicker, shinier and shiftier looking than their elders. They had stiff, blow-dried haircuts and wore shiny suits, as often as not timeless.

  Chest hair was in. Sedateness was not. These often were escorted by females who appeared to fall into one of two categories: bleached blondes with big boobs and love handles or permed anorexic brunettes weighed down with oversized jewelry. The conversations were loud and centered on football and politics. Johnny Walker Black with soda on the rocks and dry martinis predominated among this group.

  Tony hovered at Carl Giovanezza's table. Carl was with his wife, of the dark-haired, anorexic variety. Carl himself had no hairline to speak of, his graying, wavy locks anchored firmly into his forehead in a semicircle. A former stevedore, he worked his way up the ladder of the Longshoremen's Union, gaining five pounds every step of the way. Carl never smiled, probably not because he didn't want to, but because the peculiar physiognomy of his hardened Calabrian face simply wouldn't permit it. What Carl lacked in articulateness he made up for in vociferousness. But in the same matter-of-fact tone, he might talk about the correct way to de-bone calamare, as how he had sent his former rival in the union, Stan Janoszewski, on a one-way cruise in a cement canoe. Stan used to be good friends with Jimmy Hoffa. Anyway, Carl grunted to Tony how fine the linguini with clam sauce was this evening. "Can't be beat!" he growled. Ever the diplomat, Tony complimented Mrs. Giovanezza on the PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  amethyst broach, the size of a baby's fist, which hung heftily from her bulimic neck.

  Next stop was the table of Johnny Diosordi. Known by friends and acquaintances by his boyhood moniker of

  "Johnny Blues" for the color of his eyes, Johnny was the complete opposite of Carl Giovanezza. Thin, wiry and given to talking too fast for most human beings to understand, he made his mark in the garment trade. Or, to be more precise, persuading garment manufacturers to buy fire insurance from him. His wife, an unnatural blonde with equally unnaturally large breasts, remained glued to her cell phone most of the evening while chug-a-lugging Tia Marias. She, by appearances, had an oral fixation.

  Johnny, a voracious eater, as is often the case with small, thin, fast-talking men, devoured an antipasto, cheese manicotti with meatballs, veal Fra Diavolo, a salad and two baskets of bread. Soaking up the last traces of sauce with the last crust of bread, Johnny muttered with his mouth full,

  "Hey, Tony, thish ish great shtupp. Fantashtik. Never better!" Washing it all down with the last drops of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, Johnny then asked disingenuously, "Hey, Ton', need any fire insurance?"

  Seeing shock setting in in Tony's face, Johnny guffawed and playfully boxed his host in the stomach. "Hey, just kiddin'! Heh, heh! Hey, Ton' what's for dessert?"

  Tony continued to make the rounds. Eighty-year old Sam Dellanova, once the king of juke box operators and reputed fixer of horse races, graciously complimented Tony on the "greens and beans" -- escarole and cannellini beans cooked in oil and garlic. His doctors approved of this particular Italian soul food dish. Good for the bowels, they said.

  Tony was nearly bowled over by a young man barreling off the stairway. It was Wentworth.

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  Regaining his balance, Tony asked politely if he could offer any assistance.

  "You the manager?" Wentworth asked breathlessly.

  "I own the joint. What can I do for you?"

  They shook hands and exchanged names. "I need to check on how the vittles are coming along for the party upstairs."

  "Vittles?! Vittles??"

  Wentworth

  blushed.

  "Hey.

  The

  calamare will be excellent just like always.

  Al always worries about the calamare when he's hosting guests."

  "How'd

  you

  know--?"

  "Like I said, I own the joint. Some things I don't want to know about. But customers, I always know who's coming.

  So, like I said, the calamare will be delicious. So will the veal and cavatelli a pesto. I got some great almond cakes which you'll love. Russians really like Italian pastries--"

  "But, you're not supposed to know…" Wentworth was awestruck.

  "Hey, like I said--"

  "Yeah, I know. You own the place."

  "One detail further, Chuck." Tony jerked his head toward Bags and Herman at the bar, nursing Cokes, eyes glued to "Tuesday Night WWE-RAW Wrestling."

  "My clients, a lot of them carry around their own security. I can appreciate that. All I ask is that you keep them presentable and at a safe distance from the rest of the customers. I run a respectable place and I don't want to scare people away. Know what I mean?"

  Wentworth

  nodded.

  "Anything

  else?"

  Wentworth shook his head. This man impressed him.

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  Tony caught Wentworth as the latter began to move toward Al's TV-fixated henchmen.

  "Don't worry about those Russians coming here. I got them going upstairs the back way. Nobody'll know." He finished with a wink.

  Impressive.

  A few minutes after seven, through the upstairs dining room window, Al saw two cars pull into the rear parking lot. The lead car was a black Lincoln Town Car, the second, a dark red Cadillac Deville.

  "Fuckin' Russians!" Al said. "Here I'm trying to do things quiet and they pull in like some kinda gypsy parade."

  He was beside himself. An important meeting was about to take place, at his request. And his consigliere was nowhere to be found. Al thought, should he merely fire Ricky, or garrote him slowly? Blood is blood and business is business. When you combined the two, results were often disastrous. Italians are hung up on family, Al tsked.

  They never learn.

  Out of the Lincoln emerged Yakov, resplendent in a black seal skin coat and matching fedora. The driver rushed to open the left rear door. A pair of shapely legs thrust out first, followed by a hatless head of radiant blonde tresses done up in a complex hairdo of delicate braids held in place with tiny pearled pins. Clad in a black evening dress that stopped short of the knees, the woman pulled up a full-length coat of dark fur, mink, Al thought. He had never seen Yakov with a woman. And the Russian rarely talked about them.

  Out of the second car leapt Dimitrov, easily identifiable by his stiff posture, quick, furtive sideward glances, 104 JAMES

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  resembling a carnivorous lizard, and, of course, the nasty gash across his face. Another flunky stood by, hands thrust deep into a discount rain coat, also very alert and on guard.

  Al saw Wentworth appear from the restaurant to greet them, shaking the hand of each business-like, except for the woman's, whose hand he held lightly in an upward motion.

  Very gallant. Wentworth spoke some words with Yakov and motioned the retinue toward the rear entrance. He could be a protocol officer in a foreign ministry.

  Al was mildly concerned about Wentworth's involvement with this crowd in these circumstances, but found himself yet again grateful for the young man's stabilizing intervention into a situation almost out of control.

  Bags and Herman waited passively, but on guard, at the rear entrance door.

  Four wine buckets at each corner of the elaborately set table chilled Bolla Soave, to be served with the antipasto.

  Two waiters and a wine steward stood by quietly. Tony, in his usual, efficient way, had seen to all the details. The room, set aside for reserved parties, had none of the atmosphere of the restaurant proper. Comfortable but functional.

  Al fidgeted, alternatingly preening his hair and straightening his collar with each hand. Ricky'll be looking for work, I swear, he thought. Damned spoiled little peacock. He'll be sweeping floors and cleaning toilets at Al-Mac. These thoughts, emanating from true, heartfelt anger, nonetheless, resonated hollowly
within Al's brain.

  He needed a back-up whom he could trust completely, and Ricky was it despite his undependability in other areas. He also had been the cut-out maintaining communications with the Russians, through Dimitrov. In the bottom of his heart at this moment, Al felt vulnerable.

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  He heard the shuffling of feet up the stairs. Al awaited his guests at the top of the stairwell, next to the door to the private room.

  Yakov led the troupe, hat in hand, his face sporting a stiff smile. Seeing Al, he skipped up the remaining upper six or seven steps and embraced Al with a bear hug.

  "Old friend!" he exclaimed. "In Russian, we say, 'When old friends meet, spring cannot be far away.'"

  "In Italian, we say, 'When old friends meet, it's time to eat!" Al motioned him into the room.

  Yakov wagged an admonishing finger at Al. "Always make jokes, you funny guy!"

  The blonde was next. She was even more dazzling up close. Tall, erect, regal yet demure. The golden hair, fairly blinding in its radiance, framed a face of strawberries and cream complexion, the natural blush of which was accentuated from the cold night air. A black satin dress with traditional Russian filigree around the upper breast formed deliciously over her tall, lush figure. But it was the marvelous, beaming, deep blue eyes that commanded Al's total attention. Riveting and inviting, yet betraying a hint of sadness or guardedness. Al couldn't be sure.

  "May I introduce this, my gracious lady," Yakov gestured. "-- Lydia Yekaterina Puchinskaya."

  Al gently kissed her hand, more out of instinct than conscious intent. He knew how to squire a lady, but wasn't so much into continental manners. This was that rare female who, through vibes of some sort or other, triggered a mechanism in men that caused them to behave either like Lancelot or Genghiz Khan. Gallant or wantonly lustful.

  "Very pleased. Though I'll never be able to say your name," Al said.

  Al then correctly shook Dimitrov's hand. The warm feeling instilled in him by Lydia was immediately replaced 106 JAMES

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  by an icy chill. He had never taken a liking to this Russian.

  And after Ricky related to him the incident at the warehouse, gory details and all, a cold dread added itself to his instinctual dislike for the man.