To Richie, the coat’s owner seemed ill at ease, and yet there was something commanding about this presence, an undeniable charisma that had no trouble competing with the likes of Sammy Davis and Joe Louis.
In the arena itself, Richie was seated with the press photographers, so taking pictures of organized crime celebs with his long-lens Leica was no more suspicious than eating a bag of popcorn. He was intrigued to note that the striking, lanky dude in the chinchilla coat and ridiculous fedora had snagged second-row ringside for himself and Miss Puerto Rico, just behind the sportswriters.
Not just anybody got seats like that.
The odd thing was how uneasy the decked-out Nicky Barnes imitator seemed, like he’d rather be anywhere but next to a stunning woman in the best seat at the hottest ticket in town.
Filing that away, Richie and his camera roamed the faces of other prime ticketholders ringside, assorted celebrities, politicians, and organized crime figures... and of course stacked trophy dolls with platinum hair and plunging necklines.
To get a better shot of the mob figures, Richie got out in the aisle and, almost immediately, a massive figure brushed by, saying, “Excuse me.”
Joe Louis.
Stunned, Richie felt like a ten-year-old and managed to blurt, “Mr. Louis!”
The Brown Bomber in his black tux glanced at Richie as the eager figure moved alongside him.
Grinning like a fool but unable to do anything else, Richie let the words tumble out: “I’m sorry, sir, but I just have to tell you, you were my hero growing up, my absolute hero. To this day I still push elevator buttons eight times for the rounds you beat Billy Conn in. You know, for luck!”
Louis met Richie’s face but not his eyes and something that might have been a nod — maybe an eighth of an inch worth — was all Richie got for his trouble before the great champ moved on to catch back up with his friends moving down the aisle.
Richie’s smile froze on his face, his eyes glazing, his expression a death mask of disappointment, as a very old dream withered and passed away in the aftermath of his hero’s disregard.
And so he got back to work, taking pictures of various Italian wise guys, including Dominic Cattano himself (and his bodyguard), edging into the third-row ringside, behind Miss Puerto Rico and her chinchilla-coat escort. Cattano and the handsome black dude spoke to each other, friendly — the mob capo even seemed to be kidding the guy.
Richie’s surveillance-bred lip-reading skills confirmed as much, Cattano saying: “Hey, Frank, you keep that hat on, I’m gonna miss the fight!”
Somebody next to Richie leaned in to get his voice above the din of the arena: “Only in America, huh?”
Richie turned and Detective Trupo was grinning at him, the Zapata-mustached, devilishly handsome SIU cop resplendent in a black leather sportcoat.
Taking the bait, Richie asked him, “What is?”
Trupo nodded toward where the celebrities were seated. “That spade-in-chinchilla’s seat is better than the guineas. Makes you wonder.”
And Trupo was gone, heading down the aisle, taking the identity of Miss Puerto Rico’s date with him, if indeed the crooked piece of shit knew it.
But Trupo had a point. As Richie watched through the telephoto lens, he saw top Italian OC guys came over to the stranger in chinchilla and pay homage. So did various showbiz types and sports world figures, from Sammy Davis to Don King.
Then fate turned its knife blade in Richie’s belly: Joe Louis himself came up to pay his respects to the man in the chinchilla coat, punching at him playfully, smiling warmly. Richie’s hero, who hadn’t had the time of fucking day for him, kissing up to some... some what?
As much as he’d studied the guy through his telephoto, Richie hadn’t yet snapped any shots of Miss Puerto Rico’s dream date, and he was about to correct that when a roar came up from the crowd and the lights went down but for a spotlight on the ring. An announcer’s voice echoed throughout the massive arena unintelligibly. Then other lights found Ali and Frazier coming down the steps through the crush of fans and reporters, preceded by an honor guard of soldiers bearing American flags.
Between the lack of lighting and all those flags, Richie lost sight of that chinchilla-coat dude; but then, would you believe it? Ali himself stopped to shake the bastard’s hand!
Flashbulbs popped throughout the arena as Robert Goulet sang the national anthem, while Ali in his corner pointedly did not sing along.
And dim lighting or not, Richie caught the chinchilla-coat dude in his camera sights and, focusing as sharp as possible under these conditions, snapped the shutter; and snapped it again, and again...
On Monday morning, the best photo Richie had snapped of this new player got tacked to the table of organization — low and off to the side with other puzzle pieces that didn’t fit in just yet, other new faces needing names.
Richie handed a slip of paper to Spearman, seated on top of a desk, not his own.
“What’s this?” Spearman asked. “A number you’re hoping to hit?”
“Kind of. It’s the plate on the limo Mr. Chinchilla climbed out of. Check with the company, see who rented it.”
Spearman smirked humorlessly, unimpressed. “What, you think there’s a new Capone in town, a black one?”
Richie shrugged, smiled.
Spearman made a farting sound with his lips. “Just a small-fry with a big head. Supplier, at most, or just another fuckin’ pimp. Otherwise we’da heard of his ass.”
Richie had started shaking his head halfway through Spearman’s spiel. “No, Freddie, he’s bigger than that. His seats were phenomenal — better than Dominic goddamn Cattano’s. I saw Joe Louis and Ali both shake his fuckin’ hand.”
And Spearman, taking this more seriously, nodded over at the bulletin board and pointed at Cattano, up top, and the new face whose name, Frank Lucas, they did not as yet know, low, to one side.
“How do you get from down there,” the skinny, scruffy cop said, “to up there?”
Richie said, “I don’t know. But we better find out. ’Cause Cattano was sitting behind that dude, and the dude did not take off his hat...”
17. Swear to God
Frank Lucas took Dominic Cattano’s advice and did not let the “girl” get away — barely two months passed between Frank’s presentation to Eva of the engagement diamond and a wedding day that, for a while at least, was so perfect his North Carolina momma might have conjured it in a dream.
In the biggest Baptist church in Harlem, his brother Huey at his side as best man, Frank — in a beautifully tailored sky-blue tuxedo — stood on the altar looking out at a sea of ladies’ hats, all coral and pink. Eva’s family and friends were on one side of the aisle, and the extended Lucas family on the other, Frank’s mother gazing up at her eldest son with teary-eyed pride.
As expected, Eva was a vision in radiant white as her father escorted her down the aisle; then, in a blur, Frank was slipping the simple gold band on next to the honking diamond, and Eva was putting a gold band on his finger. The minister pronounced them man and wife, Eva lifted her veil, and their first married kiss was to applause so resounding you’d have thought Jesus Christ himself had made his long-promised return visit.
Charlie Williams, Bumpy’s old friend and a current associate, was at Frank’s side when Eva threw her bouquet.
“Most beautiful bride I ever saw, Frank,” Charlie said.