The Prince (42 page)

“My compliments, Prince. Italians never disappoint. A girl could be in danger of falling in love with you,” the woman flirted.

Though he knew she was just playacting to please him, the prince was flattered by it. “Love is nothing to be scared of. Would you be afraid to fall in love with me?” he teased her, encircling her waist with his strong arms.

But she released herself from the embrace and straddled him, immobilizing both his wrists. She leaned over him, so that her breasts brushed against his face. “You haven't yet told me what line of work you're in.”

“I work at being wealthy,” he said with a crafty smile, trying to lick a nipple.

“You make it sound easy. Will you teach me how?”

“Sure, I'll give you my card before I leave. There are people with millions in the bank who don't know how to invest their money. I have the ability to increase their capital a hundredfold in just a few days.”

She pressed against him and began sucking his earlobe. “I'll call you Croesus, then. Whatever he touched turned to gold.”

“Well, my gold is drugs.” He whispered the last words and smiled at seeing Marta's face. “Disappointed?”

“No, I'm surprised. I never would have thought . . .” Marta turned over on her side. The magic was over.

“They've given me a lot of money. A hundred thousand dollars. I have to buy some stuff, and I'm scrambling to find the right dealer. So far I've only come up with small fry. I need one dealer who can provide all the goods at once. That's how I always play it safe with the law.”

“A hundred grand is quite a lot of dough.”

“One deal, and it's done. That's why I only want to talk to a distributor. But I want premium goods, I'm willing to pay a higher market price, but it has to be top-quality stuff—and I have two weeks' time. If I can't find it here in New York, I'll go looking for it in Chicago.

“Now you know why I'm so rich. But remember . . .” he said, putting his finger to his lips.

All the same, he knew that type of woman perfectly well, and was fully aware that she would relay everything to her pimp, who in turn would inform the middleman who was in direct contact with the family. A tip that juicy might be worth an extra share of drugs for everybody. Fernando Licata decided it was time now to move out of his room at La Tonnara and rent a room somewhere so that his niece and her family wouldn't be associated with his new activities.

The bait pitched by Ferdinando Licata was immediately sniffed out by one of the big shots in the Bontade family: “big” in the true sense of the word, because Big Jordan in his youth had been an Olympic rowing champion. Over the years, his body had turned into a mass of lard, probably as a result of performance-enhancing drugs consumed in large doses during his years of competition. Over six feet tall and weighing 330 pounds, he looked like a lumbering giant or, worse yet, a frightful fairytale monster. Big Jordan's cousin Joe Cooper, on his mother's side, was one of Tom Bontade's bodyguards. And Tom held him in high regard because, since the time they were kids, they had never lost touch. He was a kind of brother to him.

Marta, the peppery French girl, was the only one who could satisfy Big Jordan's libido. It was during one of the long, exhausting nights devoted to the peculiar erotic rituals necessary to awaken the big man's desire that little Marta told her client what she had learned from Licata.

“He wants a hundred thousand dollars' worth of drugs?” the giant repeated, his interest piqued.

“That's right. But he wants to make one single purchase. He does that to cut down on the risks,” the young woman said, and then went back to business.

Big Jordan told Cooper about the tip, and together they informed Tom Bontade.

The bid was quite unusual. Furthermore, proposing a price that was drastically higher than the going rate violated all the rules. But the deal was too attractive for Bontade to pass up. One hundred thousand dollars was a considerable sum: one-sixth of a full year's sales. But where to find twenty kilos of cocaine in less than two weeks?

In underworld circles, news like that travels at the speed of light. Within a few hours, the request to purchase a huge amount of pure cocaine made the rounds of the families in New York. To meet such a demand, it would be necessary to combine the supplies of two or three families.

The Bontades were approached by the Stokers. They too had heard about the exorbitant request and wanted to form an alliance with their perpetual rivals.

Hugh, one of Damien Stoker's bodyguards, met with Cooper, and together they arranged a meeting between their respective bosses: Tom Bontade and Brian Stoker.

O
n Second Avenue at Tenth Street, there is an open space with a dense stand of elm trees. At the center of this tiny grove is one of the city's oldest churches: St. Mark's Church in the Bowery, an architectural jewel. Isabel, seeing it the first days after she'd arrived in New York, had dreamed of one day getting married there, and now the dream was coming true.

After three days of passion, never once leaving the house, she had asked Dixie to marry her. They were good together, the sex was great, they were made for each other, and they couldn't turn down their good fortune. Dixie thought it over a moment and then pronounced it an excellent idea. A few days to arrange the paperwork, and by the following week, the priest at St. Mark's was blessing their union.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Saro served as their best man. Beaming with joy after the ceremony, the two newlyweds said good-bye to their friends and left on their honeymoon in a car that Tom Rice had lent them. They drove to nearby Coney Island, where they spent the most intense and passionate few days of their lives.

Saro spent those same days languishing with a bottle of cheap whiskey in an attempt to numb his senses and rid himself of the sense of guilt that cropped up whenever he thought about Mena. The image of the young woman he'd left behind in Sicily was still vivid in his mind. She had promised to wait for him, and Sicilian women are capable of growing old and still honoring a promise they'd made. But now Saro was no longer sure he could keep
his
word.

Since he'd arrived in America, he'd had no news of the girl. At first, when he was bitterly homesick, he had written to her at least once a week. Then he'd gradually taken more time between letters. Why had Mena never responded? Had something happened to her? Or maybe she no longer believed in their love?

These and other worries plagued him from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning until he went to bed. Like all young people, he hoped for a life rich with satisfaction, but fate had not been kind to him since day one, when he'd been rejected by his parents. Ever since he'd found out, he'd felt a great sense of guilt, taking upon his shoulders the sins of those two young people who had decided not to recognize him as the fruit of their love. But misfortune was not yet finished with him.

T
here was a rule in the Mafia that when it came to profits, all personal grudges had to be set aside.

Tom Bontade and Brian Stoker decided to forget the “misunderstandings” that had divided them until then, agreeing to a truce that would last at least until they had concluded their deal with the outsider.

The two heads of family met on neutral ground, at a lounge in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Both patriarchs had witnessed numerous skirmishes in their lives and knew when it was time to stop the violence and call on diplomacy in their common interest: namely, dollars.

The meeting was arranged by Sante Genovese, who appointed his own consigliori, Mike Genna, as moderator.

“Sante Genovese has specifically asked that all hostilities be suspended during negotiations,” Genna began, setting his glass of whiskey on the table. “Our brothers in Sicily want to see if Cosa Nostra can be trusted. They want to know if we are together, if we are a unified body. Luciano, from prison, told them that trade with Sicily can be extended throughout the States because the families are united. For that reason, he doesn't look favorably upon your disagreements.”

Though Genna personally represented Sante Genovese, he was careful to measure his words, because the two men before him embodied two of the leading families of New York, inspiring fear and commanding respect. Genna wanted to shout at them, “Enough of your crap! Thanks to you, business has fallen off in recent months because people are afraid and because the police are breathing down our necks!” But he knew he couldn't express himself freely, so he exhibited all the declamatory arts for which he was well known.

“Mr. Genna, we've already smoked the peace pipe, if that's what you're worried about,” Tom Bontade, the eldest of the three, said with a wry smile. Brian Stoker nodded.

“Good. Forgive my frankness, but I am an ambassador here relaying someone else's words and thoughts. Let's move on now to the actions that must be taken. Sante asks me to tell you that if the amount of stuff you have is not enough, he will arrange to provide you with part of the shipment from his own supplies. What should I tell him?” He waited for the two to respond.

Tom Bontade was the first to speak again: “As far as I'm concerned, I need three kilos to fill half the consignment.”

“We're okay,” the Irishman said with undisguised pride.

That surprised Genna. “May I ask how you happen to have such a supply, Mr. Stoker?”

“The Puerto Ricans are helping us. We're in talks with them. They procured ninety percent of what we were lacking.”

“ ‘We're in talks' means it's not yet a sure thing, right?” Genna pressed.

“It means we have to guarantee the delivery. One of them wants to be present at the exchange.”

“But the Sicilian doesn't want to deal with more than one seller.” Genna grew concerned.

“Don't worry, I'll guarantee it myself out of my own pocket,” Brian Stoker assured him. “The overseer will stay with me while someone else physically makes the exchange.”

“It will be one of my men,” Tom Bontade declared.

“Is that okay with you?” Genna asked Stoker.

“If you're there to watch, it's fine with me,” the Irishman said flatly.

The agreement was finalized. Now they could contact the Sicilian and set up the exchange.

Marta knew the Sicilian's phone number and promptly passed the information on to Big Jordan.

After firming up the arrangement between Bontade and Stoker, Genna phoned Licata to introduce himself and suggest that they meet a few evenings later for a game of poker. The prince declined the invitation. He would send a trusted friend, Jack Mastrangelo, in his stead.

While these events were taking place, in another part of the city Saro was going to meet his bitter fate. His senses dulled by alcohol and his morale at a low, he wandered aimlessly through the streets until he came to Chelsea. He was intrigued by the amusing sign at the Blue Lemon and went inside in search of companionship.

He stopped at the bar and asked the young man who was making cocktails, “Do you have a ‘Juicy Woman' for me too?” The drink was advertised as the house specialty.

“Sure thing, pal, we never run out of her,” the bartender replied with a phrase he repeated at least three hundred times a day.

He brought him a glass and poured a mixture of bourbon, gin, and vermouth, garnished with an olive. Saro drank it in one gulp and felt the fire in his stomach. He saw one of the girls from the club and pointed her out to the barman. “Give one to her too.” Marta moved away from the bar and approached him.

“Lovesick? Or were you fired?” she asked him, taking the glass the bartender had placed in front of her, but not drinking.

“Lovesick? What is love anyway? Have you ever known it?”

“We've all known a little love in our lives,” Marta replied patiently. “At least from our mother.”

“My mother didn't even want to see me when I was born,” he told her, motioning to the young man behind the bar to serve him another fiery mixture.

“Then you're in big trouble,” said Marta, starting to look around again. “You'd better knock back that rotgut and go to bed. You'll see, things will look different tomorrow.”

A Gary Cooper–type came over and took the glass out of her hands. “What's a doll like you doing in a place like this?” He took a sip of the cocktail and gave the glass back to the woman. “Can I buy you a beer instead of this crap?”

Saro felt humiliated. He knew he was in bad shape, but he couldn't let that bully get away with it.

“Hey, buddy, the young lady is with me,” he said, getting in his face.

But the man shoved him aside with unexpected force. “The young lady can be with whomever she likes.”

“Now, don't fight,” said Marta, stepping between the two. “I already told you, handsome,” she said to Saro, “go home and sleep it off, okay?” With that, she turned to the tough guy and took his arm. “Where to, pal?”

“Call me Joe.”

“Okay, Joe. Let's go to your place, or are you scared of your wife?”

“What's my wife got to do with it? We'll go to your place, of course.”

“Hold it! The young lady was talking to me!” Saro again tried to insist, but he knew he was making a fool of himself.

“And now she wants to fuck with me! Get away, you filthy dago,” he hurled back at Saro, calling him one of the offensive names the Americans had given the Italians.

Marta led the man out of the club before something nasty flared up.

The girls who worked at the Blue Lemon had the use of several rooms upstairs, which the owner made available to them in exchange for half of what they earned. The rooms were reached by a service stairway. That way, public morality was safeguarded, or so they said.

Marta and the tough guy went to the building's alley and climbed the metal staircase. The man, following her, massaged her shapely behind with the excuse of giving her a push to boost her up. Marta laughed, enjoying it, and the client laughed too as he touched her again, this time pushing his middle finger into the crack of her buttocks.