July 17, 1974, Federal Hill, Providence, RI.
Frankie didn’t like that son of a bitch the moment he first saw him, and now loathed the bastard and wanted him dead.
He frowned when he pulled up to the Sons of Italy clubhouse on the north side of the Hill. Black Caddies were parked in the lot, so his would get lost in the shuffle with the rest. He could see the drivers, all dressed in shirtsleeves and crisp pants, their jackets in the cars. All of them had lines of sweat down their backs, their chests, and many were constantly wiping their brows against the heat. All except one.
Frankie could pick the bastard out of a crowd easily. First, his shock of blond hair. The man was built like a rock, but moved like a gazelle, said Don Ettore. They all knew he wasn’t Sicilian, but he spoke Italian like a purebred. He supposedly could speak mainland Italian, and all sorts of dialects as easily as he could speak English. The bastard had an Irish name, Casey Donovan.
Frankie hated him. He hated the way Don Ettore called him inside whenever something was going down, and the man they called “Irish” took a position behind the Don – a position he should have had! Don would never turn Irish into a made man. And the bastard didn’t seem to mind, which made it even worse.
Word went around that Irish was his first choice as a hitman. Frankie thought that would be possible, since the bastard was constantly cool, calm and collected. Don Ettore could go off into a pure rage and the man would stand impassively behind him, watching with flat blue eyes, waiting patiently for a direction. Some people called him Irish Ice behind his back.
Frankie hadn’t got to sit at the made men’s table, until today. Supposedly he was in line. Supposedly, there was going to be a meeting of made men and there was going to be a few changes. Everyone was nervous, even the drivers. Some of these drivers would no longer have a job. If they were lucky. If they were unlucky, hopefully they’d have a few hours to make out their wills and say goodbye to their mothers.
Alexander opened the door for Frankie. Frankie picked Alex because he was built like a brick shithouse, and had as much brains as one. Alex drove away as Frankie straightened his shirt and walked past the drivers. The door of the club opened – “Eddie!” Frankie yelled. Some men turned to see Don Ettore’s right-hand man in the doorway.
“Irish,” he yelled, then nodded to Frankie uttering his name. The big blond man stubbed out his cigarette and headed into the relative coolness of the club. It took a moment for Frankie to adjust to the dimness. He saw the table that he usually sat at. Irish moved like a snake, weaving his way through tables to stand behind Don Ettore.
In the dimness, he could see Don Ettore relax when the blond stood behind him, hands folded in front of him at his waist. Irish looked relaxed, but ready to move, since he had room around him. Frankie sat with the group, started drinking sambuca, and waited his turn. He and others glanced toward Don Ettore’s table. Don Ettore smoked huge cigars, so his table was constantly crowded with others who did the same.
Then someone beckoned toward Frankie. He and Luigi – “Undertaker” – both stood up. The man looked directly at Frankie. Frankie hid the smile and sauntered over to the table. He kissed the Don’s ring and waited until he told him to sit down. The Don waved his hand, and Frankie sat.
“Sing for me.”
Frankie blinked. “Whaddaya wanna hear?”
He shrugged, turned to Irish. “Whaddaya think?” he said in Italian.
“Volare.”
Don Ettore nodded. “Sing it.”
Frankie had to stand up to do it. He belted out the song in perfect pitch, in perfect Italian. Don Ettore nodded again when he finished. “You’re gonna sing at my daughter Teresa’s wedding.”
Frankie nodded and went to sit down. The Don looked at him as if to say, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Frankie stumbled up. Others chuckled. He flushed red. Irish just watched, eyes empty.
The wedding was in three months. Frankie practiced singing many of the Italian standbys and some of the songs that were popular. In the meantime he still stuck around Don Ettore’s place. One of his cohorts had disappeared one night, never to return, and was allegedly found in an abandoned warehouse owned by Jews. Rumors abounded. Little Nickie had taken some money, snuck away with Don Ettore’s youngest daughter and played hanky-panky with her, slept with another man’s wife, slept with another man’s mistress, slept with another man. It didn’t matter.
Frankie moved up a step in the ladder. He was invited a few times to sit with the Don.
Now, it seemed, the Don had a mistress. He was married, but this girl’s brains were gone somewhere around the bottom of her ass. She was cute, of that there was no doubt. And the Don let it be known that the bitch was his. However, Frankie got some information that he thought would certainly put him in his right place.
Irish Ice had picked gone to pick up the mistress on the way to picking up the Don. The girl came bounding out of her apartment, and planted a longing kiss on Irish Ice’s lips. Irish put a hand on her hip, and then guided her to the car. Frankie’s brother’s friend had seen this , and passed it on to Frankie. Frankie wasted no time going to the Sons of Italy. He walked into the place, and it was empty. He waited around, and the Don showed up with a train of men. Frankie practically jumped onto the Don’s lap to tell him everything.
The Don listened, impassively. He glanced at Eddie. “Go get Irish.”
Eddie nodded, and then went outside. The blond man stepped in, still in shirtsleeves. “Irish. Tell Frankie what you told me yesterday.”
“About the bimbo?”
“Yes, about the bimbo.”
Irish looked at Frankie and said in perfect Italian. “I went to pick up the bitch at her house. She kissed me and wanted to tongue me. I put her in the car. All the ride in she teased me, how she wanted to suck my cock, that it was probably better than her Don’s. I dropped her off, she grabbed at my crotch. There were plenty of witnesses. I took her hand and held it, and told her not do that anymore. She laughed at me. She went upstairs. I called the Don and told him what happened. I took her bag shopping.”
Frankie knew what that euphemism meant. Body bag shopping. He swallowed, looked at the Don.
“Now, Frankie,” said the Don in a very patient voice, “I donna like tattletales. You’re lucky you’re singing in Teresa’s wedding, or I’d show you what we do with tattletales. We make sure they don’ tattle no more, capisce?”
Frankie nodded vigorously. He got up, and came face to face with Irish. His countenance changed to pure hate. Irish looked back with nothing in his eyes.
That man will die, Frankie thought, probably loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
Words: 1237
Comments: Combining my baby, with a Quantum Leap scene, and the hitman story I attempted.
Music: Billboard top 100, Summer, 1974