“I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing,” he cupped my face in his palm and aimed my eyes at his.
“I’ve gotta piss, Larry.”
“Over there,” the lawyer pointed absentmindedly to his right and repeated, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing, Larry. Nothing.”
Larry retreated to his office, walking like a rattling bag of bones in a fancy suit.
I looked at sardonic Mary, the suddenly smiling secretary. She’d heard my whisper well enough.
“Do please hurry, Mr. Klein. We don’t want to keep the gentleman waiting.”
I ignored her and escaped into a world of azure tiles, porcelain fixtures sleeker than sports cars and framed prints of petunias in purple and black. I stood over the toilet, bladder exploding, unable to urinate. What was there to be nervous about? I’d done tougher things than confronting New York’s most powerful crime boss. Sure, I’d done tougher things. But oddly enough, I couldn’t recall any. Now I was sick to my stomach and unable to piss. Nice combination, huh?
Stepping out of the men’s room, I noticed Mary had gone from her desk. Too bad, for I’d decided to puke on her lap if she were still smiling when I came out. So much for my plans.
I pushed Feld’s door open without knocking. No one ran or jumped me or went for a gun. There were three of them, counting Larry. One, a man I took to be Gandolfo’s bodyguard, stood between me and the other two men. He bettered me by half a foot and his shoulders weren’t quite broad enough to land an F-14 on. He had a waist like Holly Golightly, legs like bridge supports and a neck with the diameter of a frisbee. He had a machine-made tan, jet black hair tied in a pony tail and wore an expensive suit purposefully loose. He was too pretty to be any good at bodyguarding. His type worries too much about his own goods getting damaged. Gandolfo probably kept him around for show or company or to drive his flashy cars.
Dante Gandolfo sat in Larry’s chair, black leather boots on Larry’s desk. Those boots cost more than what I was wearing from head to toe. Those boots cost more than my entire wardrobe. I wondered if he’d trade them for my football coat. I didn’t put my wonder into words. The “Don” was even more handsome in three dimensions than in his pictures or on TV. But his black eyes, drained of fire and youth, detracted from his full lips, rugged lines and considerable dimple. His suit was a shiny gray, double-breasted Italian affair with a baby red rose pinned to properly wide lapels. His tieless shirt was black silk and he believed in using all of its buttons. In other words, he looked every inch the part.
Larry stood erect against a bookcase, practicing invisibility.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Gandolfo waved me off, closed his eyes in disapproval and shook his head no. I followed his advice.
“Vinny,” he spoke at the pony-tailed muscle head, “why don’t you wait outside for a few minutes?” It wasn’t a question.
“But bosth,” Vinny spoke with a nasal lisp, never taking his eyes off me, “I don’t know about thith guy.”
I raised my arms, opening wide my unbuttoned coat. It was a sign of submission, a sign that indicated I was willing to be frisked.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Klein,” Gandolfo graced me with speech. “Larry vouched for you. Put your arms down.”
I put them down.
“Vinny,” Don Juan returned to his original target, “go outside and keep Mary occupied for awhile. Take her to lunch. Better yet, take her to a motel. Must be ten years since she’s had any.”
“That old bitch!” Frisbee neck turned to his master for the first time since I’d walked in the room. “Sorry bosth, I’m picky about my fish.”
“Then here!” Gandolfo exploded up from his seat and threw a fistful of pocket change at his boy. “Go to a fuckin’ payphone and dial 1-900-Suck My Dick. Just get the fuck outta here!”
Vinny left without the scattered change or a word of protest.
“You,” Dante Gandolfo, still risen and with a raised voice, turned to the invisible man, “wait for me outside.”
“As your lawyer,” Larry started to object, “I must respectfully advise that I remain-”
“You can respectfully kiss my ass. Now get the fuck outta here.”
Larry departed, but I could see revenge in his eyes as he brushed past me. I remembered that look from childhood. It was a dangerous look. People always paid dearly for that look. The trouble was in deciphering for whom that revenge was intended: Gandolfo, for treating Larry like slave meat in his own office in front of me or for me, because I was the catalyst for the meeting? Worrying about Larry’s vengeance was second on my list at the moment.
“Sit down, Mr. Klein,” Gandolfo ordered me, sans histrionics, into a huge, bright red leather chair across from Larry’s desk. “What do you know about me?” he questioned once I’d settled into the red beast.
“I read the papers. I watch TV. I hear things. So I guess I know as much or as little as any schmuck out on the street.”
“Not just any schmuck, Mr. Klein,” Don Juan bowed his head. “Not just any schmuck would know about Azrael or be ballsy enough to drag me down here like this.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I smiled, but nerves made it crumble.
“You take it however you take it,” Gandolfo wasn’t going to make this easy. “You want some coffee? I want some.” He picked up the phone and pushed two numbers: “Hey Vinny, bring us some coffees.” He covered the mouthpiece with his palm. “How you like yours?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
Gandolfo frowned. “God, how do you drink it like that? But I suppose you take it however you take it,” his full lips broke into a broad smile over his repetition of those words. He removed his hand from the phone: “Listen Einstein, one coffee, milk, no sugar and one triple espresso, four sugars,” he paused. “That’s right, genius, the usual.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you know I was a Yale man?” He showed me his perfect teeth.
“No.” I figured one-word-one syllable, if possible-answers were best until I found out how he was playing this.
“Yeah, really. But Skull and Bones wouldn’t have me. I suppose they thought I was already a member of a more powerful club. You see a man in my position has it tough. People fear me, but I get no respect. People are always confusing those two things; fear and respect. It’s a chronic problem, but c’est la guerre!”
“That’s war!” I translated.
“Good, Mr. Klein. That’s very good,” the Don applauded. “I’m telling you these things to help you understand.”
“Understand?”
“Yes, to help you understand that I expect you to honor and respect what I’m about to say. I don’t need you to fear me. You already fear me, but fear has its limitations. Fear didn’t stop you from pulling this stunt. So I want you to pay close attention.”
“Say your piece.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that Judas cunt, Azrael. Are you listening?”
“Very carefully.”
“I don’t care whether she’s dead or alive and living in your back pocket or in Paris with Jacques Brel,” he was shouting now, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his suit.
The Mafioso doth protest too much. I thought it. I didn’t say it.
“But this can’t always have been your attitude about her,” I tried playing shrink for a bit. “I heard you two were in love once.”
“Sure, at first my father was out for blood,” he confessed in an almost placid voice. “She tried to hurt me and my family. But that was a lifetime ago. I can’t even remember what she looked like.”
“Here,” I produced the white-bordered Polaroid of Gandolfo and Azrael taken two decades ago, “maybe this’ll help job your memory.”
“Where’d you get this?” His tone was cool, detached, but his face had gone white.