Crime Incorporated. William Balsamo
“Listen, Frankie,” Altierri cut in, his enthusiasm increasing visibly. “It’s gonna be a setup. One of his own boys will help us—”
“Madonn’!” Yale exclaimed. He took in Altierri with a level, measured gaze. “Now I know you’re loco. What you say, Willie, we gonna get an Irisher to help us?” He shook his head in disgust.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Altierri persisted, undaunted by Yale’s put-down. “Let me tell you why, okay?”
Yale was still shaking his head. “Speak—but make it fast. We don’t have time to listen to such shit.”
“It ain’t shit, Frankie,” Two-Knife protested. “Because…you know that Patrick Foley—well, he’s…in my pocket.”
Now the words came out of Altierri’s mouth hesitantly and in a whisper. He looked apprehensively at Yale and the others because he sensed how suspicious they had suddenly become. How could he have a White Hander “in his pocket”?
“Lemme explain,” Altierri said defensively. “You see…Foley…well, he’s…he’s been dating my sister.”
The statement hit the gathering like a shot.
“You better make this real good. Willie,” Augie the Wop murmured under his breath.
“I’m tellin’ ya the truth,” Altierri stammered nervously. He forced a smile. “It’s a real hot romance. I didn’t know about it until last Christmas when he came over to the house. I almost shit when I saw him there. Then I found out he was going with Anita for a whole year. Foley wants to marry her…”
“And Denny Meehan wants to give the bride away, right, Willie?” Yale interrupted hoarsely, his glare now more intense.
The sarcasm irritated Altierri. His thin lips pressed together in an angry line. “Goddamn you, Frankie, what the fuck am I to do if my sister goes with Foley? I got no control over that. But what I’m trying to tell you is I had a talk with Foley and he told me he was fed up with Meehan and some of the other boys. He wants to call it quits. He swore to me that he was going legit…”
“Did he kiss you, Willie?” Balsamo wanted to know.
“I don’t get you, Don Giuseppe,” Altierri said, puzzled.
“Because,” Balsamo said slowly, “you shouldn’t let nobody jerk you off without kissing you.”
“All right, let’s cut the friggin’ crap!” Yale snapped pounding his fist on the table. “We don’t forgive Willie for letting his sister hook up with a mick, but if that’s gonna help get Meehan in a setup, I wanna hear how.”
Turning to Altierri with a benevolent smile, he demanded, “Draw us a picture, Willie.”
Altieri sighed, relieved. “I told you I talked to Foley. He filled me in on the layout of Denny Meehan’s flat on Warren Street. Believe me, I pumped him plenty and I got a pretty good picture of the place. Denny and his wife live on the second floor in the back. What makes this a real trap is they got a window which looks out into the hall. What better do you want? Somebody goes to the window when Denny’s in bed and puts him to sleep permanent.”
“You kill his wife, too?” Balsamo wanted to know, his interest now aroused.
“We don’t have to,” Altierri replied casually. “But if she’s gonna happen to see what’s happening…well, what are you gonna do? Too bad, that’s all. So Denny has a wife with him when he goes to heaven…”
“I like it, Willie,” Yale said, nodding his head. “Very good. Smart boy. We have a drink and make a toast to your beautiful mind. You are a genius.”
As Yale poured red wine into everyone’s glass, Altierri turned to him to solicit more praise. “You don’t think I’m crazy anymore, eh, Frankie?”
“A genius, I called you, a genius you are, Willie,” Yale said as he lifted his glass for the salute to Two-Knife. “Here’s to Willie, viva Willie!”
Everyone joined in the toast, which was followed by several moments of banter—mostly questions about Anita and Foley: how they met, and how Altierri’s sister managed to keep the boyfriend a secret from Willie for so long. Yale put an end to the small talk soon enough. He was itching to get on with the plot to execute Denny.
“What boys go on this job?” Yale asked. “Any volunteers?”
“Sure, Frankie,” Balsamo said quickly. He turned to Johnny “Silk Stocking” Guistra, who was seated next to him, and wound a fat arm around the slender bodyguard whose nickname came from the unique way he dispatched his victims into their next life. Guistra didn’t believe in stabbing or shooting a condemned man, because he had no tolerance for the sight of blood. He believed strangulation was a potent yet pleasant way to put people out of the way. And the tool of his trade was a silk stocking.
“It’s soft and pleasing to the touch,” he’d say. “I wrap the stocking around the neck and I whisper, ‘Bye, bye, sleep tight.’ I never got one complaint from any customer. It work every time.”
Being selected by his boss to be one of the hit men pleased Guistra, who turned to Balsamo and smiled, “Grazie, Don Giuseppe, I will not let you down.”
“Who else you say, Frankie?” Balsamo prodded Yale.
“I been thinking,” Yale replied. “You are very generous to offer Johnny and I appreciate. But this ain’t a silk-stocking job if we go by what Willie said. If Denny Meehan gets it through the hallway window, we need a gun. But that doesn’t mean we don’t use Johnny. He goes, but only to show the way and make sure there’s no fuckup.”
Yale leaned back in his chair, and gazed at the murals on the ceiling.
“Hey, whatever happened to Michelangelo?” he asked, lowering his head and looking purposefully at Fury Argolia.
“Couple of years ago he went to Cleveland,” Argolia replied. “I don’t know if he’s still there. Why?”
“I like that you mentioned Cleveland,” Yale smiled. “That is where my thoughts are now…”
“Hey, Frankie!” Augie Pisano blurted as he caught onto what Yale was driving at.
“You capish, eh, Augie?” Yale said, pleased at his lieutenant’s alertness.
“What an idea, Frankie,” Pisani chortled. “Two of the best hit men in the business—Ralphie DeSarno and Giovanni Sciacca! Oh, you are using your head, Signore Yale!”
That was Frankie Yale’s cue. He stood up and bowed slowly from the waist. The gathering clapped enthusiastically.
“Please,” Yale smiled, extending the palms of his hands, “no more applause.” Then he sat down and asked everyone to pay close attention to what he had to say.
“I wanna have a real good laugh on Denny Meehan when this comes off,” Yale began, his face lighting up at the thought of what he was planning. “We burn him April first and what a laugh we all gonna have on that Irish son of a bitch.” Yale smacked his lips as if savoring a tasty morsel of pasta. “I’m gonna send him an April Fool’s card. And you know what I’m writing to him?”
Yale looked around impatiently for an answer. There was none.
“It’s going to say on the card, ‘Buona sera, signore,’” Yale said, bellowing with laughter. The others joined in.
When the snickering subsided, Pisano said, “Frankie, that mick bastard don’t understand Italian.”
“That’s my little joke, Augie,” Yale parried with distinct edge of pleasure in his voice. “His wife reads Italian. She translates for him. But he don’t know even then what the fuck the message is all about—until after he go to bed. Then he find out because, for sure, it’s gonna be for him, Good night, mister…”