I could see his point "What about the other operations?"
"Pretty much the same thing. Nothing I can put my finger on; things just seem to be going badly. I think it may be because over the years we've gotten too loose, spent too much time trying to do things legit. We did better when we played it tough. That's what I want to get back to. Play it tough! Good business procedures, but tough!"
He paused. "By the way, you can use Locallo and Manitti if you need them. Just give them a week or two to get used to the city, that's all."
"Right."
"That reminds me." He half-spun in his wheelchair, so that he was pointed toward the doorway. "Philomina!" he shouted. "Philomina! Did we get that Beirut report yet?"
She appeared immediately in the doorway. "No," she said quietly. "Nothing yet." She disappeared again.
"Goddamn!" he exploded. "That report was due in yesterday and isn't here yet! I can't find Larry any goddamned place! The whole goddamned business is falling apart!"
He didn't know the half of it yet, I thought to myself.
It was remarkable the way he could switch from one personality to the other, from the cool, self-appraising businessman with the carefully structured sentences to the shouting, fuming Italian tyrant, petulant when things didn't go his way, morose when they did.
Now he pounded a fist on the armrest of his wheelchair. "Goddamn! You got to get this straightened out. Now! And find Larry, too. He's probably on a goddamned heroin nod somewhere. I got to have him. Get the hell out of here and go find him!"
Louie got up and started for the door, but stopped when he saw I'd remained seated.
The old man glared. "Well?"
I shrugged. "I'm sorry, Don Joseph. But I can't work for nothing. I need some money up front."
He snorted. "Money! Hell! You stay with me, you'll get plenty of money." He regarded me somberly for a moment, then turned toward the doorway again. "Philomina!" he yelled. "Give this new guy some money. Give him a big one." He spun his wheelchair again in my direction. "Now get out of here, dammit! I got things to do."
"Thanks." I got up.
"And I want to see you at the party tonight."
"Yes, sir."
He was still glaring as we left the office, a huge old man in a wheelchair, a weird combination of helplessness and power.
I went to where his niece was counting out some bills on her desk and stared at her face — and the white sweater. She paid no attention.
"Here." She handed me a sheaf of bills. I could have been the paperboy getting fifteen cents for The New York Times.
I leafed through the bills. Twenty fifties.
"Thank you, Philomina," I said politely. "Your uncle pays very well, doesn't he?"
"My uncle sometimes overpays," she said snippily, emphasizing the "over."
She looked past me to Louie with a sudden smile. "I'll see you tonight, Louie. I'm awfully glad you're back."
"Sure, Phil," Louie replied, looking embarrassed.
Outside on the sidewalk, we walked along together. "What's with your cousin, Louie? Should I change my after-shave or what?"
He laughed. "Oh, don't pay any attention to Philomina. She does a great job for the olive oil business, but whenever she gets into… uh… other operations, she gets up on her high horse. She doesn't want anything to do with it, really."
"What the hell does that mean? She's old enough to know she can't have it both ways, isn't she?"
He laughed nervously, hands jammed deep in his pockets as we strode along. "Well, it's not really both ways as far as Philomina is concerned. It's just that once in a while she has to give somebody some money or something, like she just did you. Usually, we don't conduct organization business in that office. I guess we did today just because Larry disappeared somewhere and wasn't around to take Uncle Joe over to the Counting House."
"The Counting House?"
"It's over on Spring. It's a big old building we use to keep our records in. Kind of a headquarters."
We walked along in silence for a few minutes. Then Louie spoke up again. "Where do you suppose we can find Larry?"
"Don't ask me. Hell, I just got here yesterday."
"Yeah. I forgot." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Look, why don't you go back to the hotel and get some rest. We'll see you over at the restaurant tonight… about nine o'clock."
It sounded like a fine idea to me. I certainly had no desire to go off looking for Spelman. Particularly since I knew where he was. "Great," I replied with unfeigned enthusiasm.
He went off cheerfully, whistling, his hands in his pockets, heading for the subway, I guessed. I hailed a cab and went back to the Chelsea.
Once back at the hotel, I called Jack Gourlay at the News. It seemed strange giving my right name over the phone td the operator.
"Nick Carter!" Jack's slow voice repeated. "When the hell did you get back to town?"
"A while ago," I hedged. "Listen, Jack, I want a favor."
"Sure. What can I do for you?"
"I wonder if you could slip into a story somewhere that Larry Spelman is missing and that the Franzinis think the Ruggieros might have something to do with it."
The best way to get someone to think something sometimes, is to tell them what they are supposed to be thinking.
On the other end of the line, Jack whistled. "Get it into a story, hell! I'll make it a story! But is it true, Nick? Is he really missing?"
"He's really missing," I said.
"And do the Franzinis think…?"
"I don't know," I answered quite honestly. "But I'd like them to."
He was quiet for a moment, then, "You know, something like that could start another gang war in town. Those two families haven't been getting along so well lately."
"I know."
"Okay, Nick. As long as you're sure Spelman is really missing."
"He's missing. Really."
"Okay, man, you're on. Anything else I should know?"
"No, Jack. But I really appreciate it. I'm kind of busy now; maybe we can get together for dinner or drinks one of these nights when I get clear."
"Love to," he said, and hung up. Get Jack Gourlay started on a story and he doesn't want to fool around with small talk.
I stretched out on my bed and took a nap.
Chapter 10
I arrived at Tony's Garden for Philomina's party at about nine o'clock that night and my first impression was that I should have called the FBI instead of Jack Gourlay. The place was so packed with Italian hoods it looked like a 1937 rally for Benito Mussolini.
Usually, Tony's is a quiet little bar-restaurant that once was a hangout for has-been and would-be writers and is now a mecca for the current crop of Village bohemians and hippies high on philosophy, low on cash. The iron-barred peephole in the back door attested to the fact that it had been a speakeasy back in Prohibition days.
It is always dark, with black walls trimmed in dark brown and all the light subdued. The dining room is fair-sized, but overcroweded with rough-hewn tables. Once past the tables, a small barroom is squared off with elbow-level counters and a row of undecorative coathooks. All in all, it is dark, dingy, and devoid of decor, but for years it has been one of the most popular places in the Village.
My first surprise was the number of people jammed into the place. The tables had all been removed except for three long ones in front of the fireplace which were piled high with Italian pasta of unbelievable variety. It was a standup party with buffet dining and an open bar, everyone with glass or dish in hand. From the barroom a small combo enthusiastically played Italian songs.
Don Joseph Franzini and his guests of honor were the only ones seated, lined up in a row behind piles of long-stemmed roses that covered the top of a single long table set up in the corner. It was Philomina's birthday party, but Franzini held the place of honor, a great mass of flesh enclosed in tuxedo elegance. Philomina Franzini sat on his right and next to her a large, buxom woman I didn't recognize. Louie sat on Franzini's left and next to him a short, portly man with a cherubic face and soft, snow-white hair.