The Starlight Club: The Starlight Club (Mystery Mob Series Book 1) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tarzan walked into The Starlight Club and headed straight to Red’s office. He knocked once, opened the door without waiting for a reply, and took a seat and waited until Red got off the phone. Red cut the conversation short, knowing Tarzan wouldn’t have barged in without a good reason. “What happened? What’s the problem?”

             
“Red, we have a serious problem and it changes everything. I just found out that Larry Gallo has terminal cancer. When he dies, we’re screwed because we won’t have anyone to represent us because we won’t have a made man in our organization. We’ll be dog meat and the Profaci’s will put contracts out on all of us. It’ll be like shooting ducks in a barrel. I’m a captain in this mob and I have to admit, I don’t have a clue what my next step should be. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You sit on the council and you know us. We could become part of your organization. The boys would go for that, I know they would.

Red thought a moment. “No, it won’t work
. I have enough problems handling what I have without takin’ on somethin’ else. But maybe there’s another way this can work. Excuse me a minute.” Red walked to the front bar and looked around. He spotted Trenchie playing shuffleboard and told him he needed to talk to him.

Trenchie and Red sat alongside Tarzan in the office as the three men began to brainstorm. Red laid it out for Trenchie
. “The Gallo’s have a problem,” and he went on to tell him about Larry dying of cancer.

Trenchie looked a little confused. “So what does any of this have to do with me?”

Red continued, “Joey and Larry were made guys but the youngest brother, Albert, isn’t, so they need someone to represent ‘em. This could be an opportunity for you. Look at it this way Trenchie - the Bronx is just openin’ up for them so money’ll be comin’ in from there. Then there’s Brooklyn that’ll begin to make money when this war ends. Joey secretly owned several nightclubs on Eighth Avenue and two sweatshops in the Manhattan garment district where he had forty or fifty women making fabric for dress suits. You’ll get a cut of this when you join their organization.” Trenchie turned to Tarzan.

“Let’s see. You need representation and I can give it to you, but if I understand this correctly, Albert will make the actual decisions and handle the day-to-day operations
. Am I correct so far?”

“Yes, but that’s not all.
”

             
   Tarzan hesitated a moment. Trenchie had no idea where this conversation was going but he understood that it was important so it gave him a moment to think about what he wanted to say. Before Tarzan began to speak, Trenchie interrupted him.

“Before you continue, if I agree to do this, what’s in it for me?”

“We can’t operate without you. With Joey dead and Larry sick, we don’t have any made guys in our crew and we won’t make it on our own without one. This war has to end soon and when that happens, we’ll need someone to represent us. We’ll have to join one of the other families, either the Profaci’s or the Colombo’s or the Genovese family, and a made guy will have to sit down and negotiate that for us. Once this is settled, our territories will be absorbed by the family we go with, so you’ll have to negotiate your own deal to get Joey’s cut, which they’ll agree to. Then once we have an agreement, you can either go your way or join us. The choice will be yours.”

“Why do you say that they have to agree to my getting Joey’s cut?”

“Whoever we go with, all our income will be theirs, minus Larry’s share. So why would they object to giving you a share that was never theirs to begin with? Besides, they want this war to end just as much as we do and by them giving you a deal, it makes them look good. They’ll go for it, trust me.”

Trenchie, still processing all of this said, “I guess it makes sense when you put it that way.
” He paused. “Okay, what’s next?”

“Look, I have to pass this by Albert. He’s the one running the show now and since you agree to represent us, I don’t think he’ll have any problem givin’ you Joey’s share
. Put it this way . . . he has no choice but to agree.”

“OK. If Albert agrees, then we have a deal.”

Tarzan left the room a much happier man than when he first entered. Ten minutes after departing, the door burst open again without so much as a knock and Jimmy the Hat walked in smiling.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Profaci was feared and even hated by members of his crime family
. He required each member to pay him a twenty-five dollars a month “tithe.” This was an old Sicilian gang custom. It was to his advantage to continue this tradition. The money, which amounted to about $50,000 a month, was meant to support the families of mobsters in prison, but Profaci kept most of it. Profaci was rigid with his policies and didn't tolerate dissention regarding them. Anyone who didn’t like the tithing policy or any other matters were dispensed with.

In 1960, Profaci received his first leadership challenge
. It involved mobster “Crazy Joe” Gallo and his two brothers. The dispute was over the disposition of a profitable racket. In 1959, Profaci ordered the murder of Frank Abbatemarco, a Profaci family bookmaker in Brooklyn. The bookie had gotten behind on some money dealings with Profaci and refused to make the necessary $50,000 catch-up payment. Profaci assigned the job to the Gallo brothers. Shortly after Abbatemarco's death, Profaci split the dead man’s bookmaking business among himself, relatives and close associates. This was a sore spot with the Gallo Brothers, who had worked with Abbatemarco, and who carried out the hit. They expected to get the business.

Most of Profaci’s wealth was from traditional illegal enterprises such as protection rackets and extortion
. To protect himself from tax evasion charges, Profaci still maintained his original olive oil business; thus, his nickname the "Olive Oil King.” Profaci owned twenty other businesses that employed hundreds of workers in New York. He lived a life of luxury - a large home in Bensonhurst, a 328-acre estate in New Jersey with its own private landing strip and a home in South Florida.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

A black Chrysler pulled up to the guard booth situated in front of the gates leading to the Profaci estate. The guard ambled over to the car and bent down to see its occupants. The window slowly lowered but a pole on the gate was blocking the sun, casting a shadow over the car, making it difficult to see the man behind the wheel. The driver leaned into the light to show his face. Recognizing him, the guard nodded to his partner who pushed a button allowing the grand, ornamental gates to open. The sedan rolled leisurely through the opening, cruising smoothly up the long blue stone driveway, following its curves around the sloping hills of the estate, until they reached a cul-de-sac. Profaci’s estate home sat majestically on the highest part of the grounds where any approaching car could easily be seen.

The car door opened and a nondescript average sized man stepped out
. He was about forty-five and walked with a confident athletic gait as he ascended the chain of stairs leading to the home’s grand entrance. He rang the bell and waited patiently. He could hear footsteps getting closer. The door opened and he was welcomed inside. As a matter of procedure, the visitor was patted down, checking for anything that might pose a threat or concern. A muscular built bodyguard, disguised as kitchen help, escorted him to a room with floor to ceiling windows designed to display the majestic view of the rear grounds of the large estate.

“I see from the papers that everything went as planned
. Who did you have with you on this job?”

“Porky.”

“Porky? Why him? I don’t trust that guy.”

“I had no choice. If I did, I would have taken someone else, but Porky served in Korea and knows how to make and install a bomb, so I had to take him.”

“I see. Well, it went well and now it’s finished. Good job, Slats. Anthony, please bring me the manila envelope on my desk.”

For his public livelihood, the one for show, Slats drove an oil truck, but when he wasn’t delivering oil, he worked his real job. The professional hit man from Corona, Queens had two rules he lived by. One, he worked alone, and two, he took jobs out of town and tried not to mix the two. His neighbors knew him as a hard working guy who drove an oil truck. Slats hired out to anyone who could afford him, but his clients mostly included mob bosses from around the country. He had worked for Profaci previously. The latest call contained certain words, phrases, and veiled references that had meaning. Phones could be tapped, enemies could be listening and recordings could be made. But there was nothing unusual about two friends talking about old times and the need to get together soon.

“Why don’t you come over for espresso on Saturday morning, around ten and we can catch up on things? I’d love to see you.” The appointment was set.

Slats arrived on time. Profaci got right to the point, telling him he’d pay ten grand for the job - half now and the other half when the job was completed. He’d also spring for another five grand for a second man if needed. Slats agreed to do the job, but he knew he was breaking his self-imposed two rules. Slat’s success was largely because he planned his hits carefully, left nothing to chance. He’d been doing this for twenty years and had never been caught. He was thorough, careful, and he worked alone. He knew who he could trust - himself - and that was the only person he could trust one hundred percent, but for this job . . . he had to use Porky. He didn’t like it but that other man had to be Porky. Porky was okay sober, but Slats worried about his drinking and wondered whether there might be another way to do this. But no matter how much he tried, it all came back to Porky.

Slat’s rap sheet consisted mainly of petty crimes, mostly when he was younger
. His first collar was for holding up a bank. He did two years for that one. When he got out, he was arrested again for running numbers. The business of killing was an accident. Slat had owed his bookie a substantial amount of money and just couldn’t seem to come up with the cash. The bookmaker, sensing that it was going to be an almost impossible task to get his money back presented him with a proposition to wipe the slate clean. Slats wanted nothing more than to be off the hook and jumped at the chance. The bookmaker explained that he needed to “eliminate” someone, his fierce competitor. Then, and only then, would the debt be forgiven. The competitor vanished and Slats discovered a way to make a lot of money. This job with Porky, though, was a bit uncomfortable. It was a local job and he would have someone with him. It would be a bit easier if the job was out of town. Slats was a superstitious man, so he began to wonder that perhaps by changing his routine, he just might change his luck from good to bad. But money is a great equalizer when there is doubt. Money messes with logic. Slats accepted the contract without asking details and Profaci purposely withheld them. Anthony handed Profaci the manila envelope who passed it to Slats. Done. The deal was sealed.

Slats knew Yip from the neighborhood
. Profaci knew there was a chance he might refuse the job if he knew it was Yip, but once front money was accepted, he knew Slats couldn’t back out - just not the way things were done. Profaci was right. Slats discovered the name of his intended target and felt like he had sucker tattooed on his forehead . . . but a deal was a deal. He was locked in. He justified it: it was just business, friendship can’t get in the way of business, not with this kind of money.

Slats had brief misgivings about the other two men who were with Yip
. Yip had been the primary target and it was unfortunate that the other guys were there. Slats thought philosophically about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I may have more work for you in the next thirty days
. Will you be available?”

“I have nothing on the books right now
. If you need me, you know how to contact me.”

With their business completed, the two men shook hands and parted.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Two weeks earlier

Porky was jubilant having just made $5,000 for making and rigging a bomb to a car. He celebrated by making the rounds buying drinks for his pals. After a long night of heavy drinking, he passed out on one of the unoccupied tables at the Zebra club. Jake the owner of the club helped Porky to his feet and was about to send him on his way when Porky with difficulty took his car keys from his pocket with the intention of driving himself home. Jake looked at him like he was crazy and he almost lost it

“Porky you better sit back down, you’re in no condition to drive. Who do you want me to call to come and pick you up?”

Porky slurring his words said loudly and drunkenly. “Nobody, I don’t want anybody to take me anywhere just get me a cab I have plenty of money so don’t worry about anything just call a cab.” Porky pulled a wad of 100’s out of his pocket to show him he had money and some dropped on the floor as he drunkenly held his hand out to show him. “There you see, I have plenty of money so get me a cab.” With that his head fell heavily back onto the table as if it were too heavy to hold up.

Jake was curious and asked him after seeing the wad of bills he flashed. “Geez Porky, that’s a lot of money you have there. Where the hell did you get it?”

Porky as drunk as he was lifted his head and began talking about things he shouldn’t have.
“Sheet Jake, The old boy still got it, it brought back memories. Yep I can still build a hell of a bomb, yes sir I sure can.”

Jake stiffened when he heard him say that and he brought a bottle over from the bar and poured another drink for Porky … a large stiff one. Then he took his bartender on the side and told him to watch Porky and whatever you do don’t let him leave. Then he went to his office, picked up the phone, and called Big Red.

Porky woke up with a huge hangover and his eyes felt as if they were glued shut and he had the damnedest time opening them. His mouth tasted like dragons breath, like it was filled with cotton and he was sure his head had an anvil laying on it. He started to get up but for some reason he couldn’t move his body. Strange he thought, then he tried to stand and that didn’t work and neither did his arms when he tried to stretch them so with an effort he managed to open his eyes and he was surprised to find that he was in what had to be a cellar. He was tied to a chair, and in a moment of clarity he knew he was in trouble. He looked to his left at his surroundings and the place looked like it belonged in the last century. Pipes were hanging from clamps attached somehow to the ceiling and as he looked closer he noticed there were gas fixtures attached to the pipes now unused but active if someone decided to turn the valve and light the fixture. Then his gaze shifted to his right and he thought to himself wow this place is old. As he stared into the darkness trying to look through the dust which hovered in the cellar clinging to the air giving the area a misty look. Then he noticed an anomaly - something that shouldn’t be there. He found himself staring at a single lane bowling alley that ran alongside a wall with a door that he thought could lead to the surface, wherever that was. Then a familiar voice came from somewhere behind him and snapped him out of his reverie. “So you’re finally awake eh?” Then Red stepped out from the darkness behind him like a wraith and walked into his view and he stopped in front of him.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the cellar of the Starlight Club Porky, That’s where you are.”

“Why am I tied to a chair Red? What do you want from me? Come on untie me you had your little joke so now untie me.”

“Porky you’ve been a bad boy. I’d like to know where you got all this money?”

“I earned it, it’s mine.”

“How did you earn it Porky? What did you have to do to get it?”

“That’s none of your business.

“That’s where you’re wrong Porky I want to know who you were with. I want to know his name and where I can find him because one guy couldn’t do this job alone. I did a little digging Porky and I’m told that you served in the army, seen some action in Korea and while you were there you had become something of an expert with bombs. This is not looking good for you Porky because you were real drunk last night and you talked a lot. You told a few people that you can still build a bomb so I know you were one of the guys who killed Yip. What I need to know is … Who is the other guy?”

Porky felt the noose tightening around his neck. He didn’t remember talking to anyone last night but he had lost count after the third or fourth bar and who knows what he might have said. He asked himself did I get that drunk where I talked to people and can’t remember what I said or to who I said it to? Probably, he thought. You’re a jerk
, he said to himself, knowing that he was in a world of trouble. He quickly ran different scenarios through his head trying to figure a way out of this mess. There was no explanation he could offer Red that he would believe … except one and that just might get him off the hook and that was to come clean and tell Red everything that happened. That’s what he would do he’d tell him what he wanted to know and he’d put the blame squarely on Slats then maybe he’d let him go. Maybe there was a chance that he might live through this nightmare.

“Ok, Ok I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just untie me and get me a cup of coffee to clear my head and I’ll tell you everything.”

After his second cup of coffee Porky started spilling the beans and once he started talking it was as if the floodgates opened. He mentioned that he was paid $5,000 and Slats $15,000 and Profaci was the one who put the hit on Yip. He blamed everything on Slats saying that he was never told that the target was Yip.

“Do you think I would have gone along with it if I had known Yip was the target?”

As he looked at Red with large cow eyes he told him what he knew trying very hard to look convincingly innocent but it didn’t work. Red tried not to show it but he was out for blood and Porky was a dead man only he was the only one who didn’t know it. Porky was still clinging to the hope that because he talked, Red would let him live but that wasn’t going to happen. After the discussion ended they both sat looking at one another then apparently satisfied with the information Porky had given him Red stood up and thanked him and put his arm on his shoulder and told him how much he appreciated the help Porky gave him. He said it cleared up a lot of loose ends then he apologized to Porky for having treated him the way he had. Red concluded the meeting by telling Porky that he forgave him but as punishment I’m keeping your money because you don’t deserve it. Then he looked at Ralph and said to him.

“Porky’s in no shape to walk back to his car. Do me a favor and drive him there Ok?”

Ralph put on an act where he appeared to be put out as if he had something better to do but he reluctantly agreed to drive him and he glanced at Porky. “Come on let’s go. I want to get back here in time for the ballgame.”

Red like most of the mob bosses had Slats phone number. He called a contact at the phone company as soon as Porky left. He gave Slats phone number to his contact and he got an address in return then he gave the job of tailing Slats to Vinnie and Moose.

“We have to do this fast because in a day or two Porky’s body is going to be found and Slats will go undercover and we’ll never find him. Do any of you guys know where he hangs out?”

It was Frankie who answered. “He usually hangs out in the pool hall in Corona Heights when he’s not driving his oil truck.”

“Good Frankie. Now can you get a patrol car for a day?”

Yeah I can take one home with me. I’ll tell them my car’s at the shop and I need a loner and they’ll do me a favor and assign one to me for the day.”

“Then we’ll grab him tomorrow. Frankie you’ll be in uniform and we’ll have to get a uniform ready for Vinnie then when you’re both in uniform you’ll pick Slats up for questioning either when he leaves his home or when he’s at the pool hall. Frankie do me a favor and call and confirm that you’ll have the car tomorrow.”

Frankie made the phone call and when he hung up he told Red a car was reserved f
or him for tomorrow morning. Red instructed Frankie to take Vinnie to a Police supply store and get him a uniform. Two hours later they returned and Red took them into his office and they brainstormed for the next hour and eventually they forged a workable plan. They decided not to pick up Slats when he left his house because neighbors might be able to identify the two cops. Also decided against was picking him up at the pool hall because there were too many witnesses with long memories. They decided to pull him over for a traffic violation put him in cuffs, place him in the backseat of the patrol car, and then leave his car at the curb where it would be one of many cars parked along the street. Once he was cuffed and safely confined in the car they were to take him to the city dump wait until it was safe and then kill him. Red usually kept Frankie out of the wet end of the business but he had no choice. If he had the time he would use Tarzan or Ralph even Trenchie or Gibby but this had to be done fast so he made a small concession. Instead of Frankie doing the hit Vinnie would do it and Frankie would be his back up.

The police cruiser was parked six houses down the street from Slat’s home.
It was now nine fifteen in the morning. They had been waiting patiently since seven am. Frankie was an old hand at stakeouts and he knew from experience that having a thermos of hot coffee and a bag of mixed Donuts handy was a necessity so he told Vinnie to reach over and get the bag of donuts from the back seat while he poured two cups of coffee. The coffee and donuts broke the boredom of the last few hours and shook the lethargy from their bones because waiting in a car for hours slowly sapped a man’s strength if he didn’t counter it with coffee and donuts. Frankie was just screwing the top onto the thermos when Slats came bounding down the steps and got into his car and drove off. Frankie put the car in gear and followed from a safe distance until they got to Queens Plaza. They decided to pull him over because it was obvious that he wasn’t heading towards the pool hall. Frankie flipped a switch and their lights suddenly lit up the darkness of the street caused by the tracks overhead blocking the sun. Then he hit the siren for a second or two until Slats got the message and pulled to the curb in front of a bar under the el in a desolate part of Queens. The trains running to and from the city high overhead were noisy as hell but it didn’t bother them because they would be gone in a minute.

Frankie walked over to Slats car and said authoritatively. “Would you please step out of your car sir?”

Slats couldn’t figure why he was stopped. He couldn’t think of anything he did wrong, but he did as the officer requested and got out of his car. “What did I do wrong officer?”

It was nothing unusual to see a squad car pull someone over for a traffic infraction so no one paid any attention to the man standing outside his car talking to a policeman.

“Can I see your license and registration please?”

“Sure.” Slats took out his wallet and handed his license and registration to the officer who looked at his picture
, then at him, as if to confirm this was the man in the picture.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us. Please turn around and put your hands on your car.” Having done as he was told
, Slats was handcuffed and placed in the backseat of the cruiser. Once he was safely confined, the hard part was over.

“What’s going on? What did I do wrong
?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t worry
- this won’t take long.”

“But my car’s parked in a no parking zone. I’m liable to get a ticket.”

“You’ll be alright. Your car will be safe there; nobody will give you a ticket.”

Frankie left the area and drove towards the Ridgewood dump. It took 45 minutes to get there and when they pulled through the entrance there were three Sanitation trucks dumping garbage in a designated area and one pickup truck unloading construction debris from a job they were working on. The cruiser drove further into the interior of the dumpsite until they found a spot where bulldozers had pushed d
ebris on two sides as high as two small mountains. Frankie pulled between them and told Slats to get out of the car. Slats knew that something was very wrong but he was professional enough to understand that something like this was bound to happen someday. But in his gut he never believed it would happen to him and as he walked he didn’t show fear. He let them know he was a man who lived by the gun and was not afraid to die by the gun. So he calmly asked.

“Just tell me why this has to happen. I deserve that much.”

“Sure Slats I agree. You do deserve to know. This is for killing Yip and two of my friends.”

“How’d you know it was me that did the job?”

“You chose the wrong guy to take with you on that job.”

“Porky? That sonofabitch. He talked? I’d kill him with my bare hands if he were here.”

“Don’t worry about that Slats. We saved you the trouble - he’s already dead.”

This was it then, there was nothing more to say, so he lifted his head and said to no one in particular.
“Tell Red that it was nothing personal it was just business.”

“Sure Slats, we’ll tell him.”

Vinnie brought his gun up and squeezed the trigger putting six 45 caliber slugs into Slats face blowing the back of his head clean off splattering chunks of bone and grey matter from his brain which left him without a face bleeding among the garbage and the rats. Then they got back into their squad car and left.