I knew some of them by sight. Ben ‘the Bear’ Mastrogiovanni was Moe’s nephew and one of his premier brunos. His bulky frame hulked over everyone else in the room.
No-Nose Nate was a close cousin of Moe Flacco and a top Capo in the organization. He lost his schnozzle in a deal gone sour years ago. The mug that shot him lost his brains, so it all evened out. Nate wore a prosthetic nose and even had it plated in gold to commemorate the event.
Nate’s sister Electra sat beside him. She was a slim, pretty little dish with baby-doll eyes and a razor-trimmed bob dyed the color of fire. The hair color contrasted with her dark fashion scheme. She went by a more notorious handle: the Black Widow — earned from the three dead men who dared to actually marry her. She was one of Flacco’s chief enforcers, with a vicious streak on par with another lady assassin known as the Red-Eyed Killer. Of course the important difference was that Electra was still among the living. The Red-Eyed Killer wasn’t, on account of getting on my bad side.
I spotted Scars lurking like a shadow in the corner of the church behind the casket. He and I had a bit of history since he was employed with Flacco via a favor bartered between us. Scars ran a tight crew that did pretty much whatever Flacco needed them to, which meant anything from guarding a joint to rubbing out a rival. He was a gaunt, humorless man who looked like he needed a hefty sandwich more than anything, but his skeletal appearance was deceiving. He got the nickname from the scars he left on other people, not the other way around.
There were plenty of other wise guys in attendance as well. Just about every major family head was present, from somber Madame Goryacheva of the Russians to Kane Jackson, a sharp dressed cat who took up the blacktop district vacated by the recently deceased Tommy Tsunami. The sheer number of crime figures in the wings were enough to cripple the economy if the feds decided to pull a fast one and raid the place.
Ironically, a lot of the brass was present as well. While the Commissioner wouldn’t deem to attend, the newly appointed Captain Kennedy sat inconspicuously in the rear. Probably to take note of the off-duty officers in attendance, all of whom were on Flacco’s payroll. But not everyone there had ties to the Mob, at least not obvious ones. Mayor Beck was on hand along with several high-ranking politicians, corporate moguls, and New Haven celebrities like Fats the Jazz man.
I tried to concentrate, but my attention drifted to the one thing that mattered: the gold-trimmed polished mahogany casket. More specifically, the body that lay inside of it. I kept to the rear of the church, not bothering to make a spectacle by approaching the immortalized remains of Sophia ‘Scarlett’ Flacco. I couldn’t stomach the sight, anyway. No matter how well the coroner did his job, it was still just a stiff lying there. Just a husk that used to be someone I held tightly, feeling her breath stir the tiny hairs on my skin.
I couldn’t pretend I was in love with Scarlett. But I couldn’t deny she was special, either. Every dame I know is speciaclass="underline" full of fire and magic that can pull a man into her cosmos and leave the scent of her soul in his skin long after life steps in to push them apart.
That was something no coroner could duplicate. Scarlett was gone the moment the staccato of her heels faded from my hearing. All I could do was stand in the rear of an oversized church, a shadow in the light of ornamental stained glass windows that streamed kaleidoscopic patterns across the casket of a dame that deserved so much better.
After the memorial, I accompanied the crowds that gathered to watch Scarlett’s casket lowered into the earth in a plot behind Flacco’s colossal mansion. In predictable New Haven fashion it rained cats and dogs. Flacco’s people were nice enough to supply umbrellas to keep everyone’s glad rags from getting soaked. Flacco lived on one of the highest residential islands in the Heights, with a breathtaking view of the surrounding Haven. The colossal buildings and lanes of flying traffic actually looked picturesque from the top, granting the city a regal appearance that bottom scrapers like me couldn’t appreciate.
The burial was purely ceremonial, as New Haven sanitary regulations mandated all bodies be cremated. Rich people buy plots for historical significance, a way to memorialize themselves so future generations can stare at their markers and statues and somehow gain a sense of heraldic self worth. The rest of us just get processed. I haven’t bothered to look up what happens to our remains, but I suspect the ashes are used to fertilize houseplants for the fur and feathers crowd.
Once the casket was buried with all the severity of a military service, the guests lingered in the unrestricted portions of the mansion. Many quickly lost their grieving faces and took to peering and sneering — two occupations rich folk perform in their sleep. Counterfeit smiles were scattered around as well, mostly by rubes on the lower rungs of the social ladder trying their best to connect with others who might aid them in their ascendance.
The ballroom area was larger than most folk’s houses. Normally used for the soirées Flacco threw now and again, it was lavishly styled and decorated with all the trimmings: scrolling staircases, mahogany floors, soaring ceilings, and dazzling chandeliers. Works of priceless art decorated the walls and original furniture was arranged throughout, polished and gleaming. Just calculating the cost was enough to set my teeth on edge. I figured I could afford to own half the room if I worked real hard for three or four centuries.
I sat at the bar as far back as I could get so I could watch unnoticed while I gabbed with Fats the Jazz Man. Fats was a staple at pretty much any social gathering that meant anything in New Haven, and performed at a ritzy joint called the Gaiden in his downtime. He saw a lot of stuff in his line of work but had the good sense to keep his mouth reserved for playing his instruments instead of spouting off about other folk’s business. That confidentiality made him a trusted member of many a circle.
Fats got his nickname from his girth, which he affectionately called his ‘love cushions’. His skin was dark as unadulterated coffee, his fingers thick and strong as if he spent his spare time punching through brick walls. But they defied reason when they touched the keys of a piano, nimble and light as he orchestrated his unique sound. His heavy jowls would inflate like balloons and blow pure soul through a trumpet or sax — jazzy grit that got into your skin and ignited memories of past times, dames you left behind, and words unspoken you wished you had the guts to say.
He held his trumpet in hand like a favorite pet as he gestured, laughing rich and loud. Despite the fact he played for snobs, Fats was a true salt. He might wear a tuxedo over his portly keg, but he saw himself as a blue-collar man with a working gig like everyone else.
“I swear, Mick.” Fats flashed a megawatt grin that showed off both sets of pearly whites. His voice was a gravelly rasp. “When you waltzed in the Gaiden dropping the name Tommy Tsunami… ” His shoulders shook with his laugh. “Even I knew it was time to pack it in.”
The barkeep discreetly approached with my Bulleit Neat and a gin and tonic for Fats. I grinned as we took our drinks. “Had to play it by ear with that one, Fats. I was in a jam and did what I had to do to get out.”