Actually, the details were pretty boring.
Until the thing happened with Momo’s wife.
It started out okay.
Frank was hanging out one day when Momo came out and told him to wash the Caddy and wax it, ’cause they were going to the train station to pick up a special visitor.
“Who, the Pope?” Frank asked, because he thought he was a funny guy in those days.
“Better,” Momo said. “The boss.”
“DeSanto?”
Old Jack Drina had finally died and the new boss, Al DeSanto, had taken over in L.A.
“Mr. DeSanto to you,” Momo said, “if you open your mouth at all, which you shouldn’t unless he directly asks you something. But yeah, the new king is coming down to visit the provinces.”
Frank wasn’t quite sure what Momo meant by that, but he picked up this tone, and he wasn’t sure what that was, either.
“Jesus, I’m gonna drive the boss?”
“You’re going to wax the car forme to drive the boss,” Momo said. “I’m gonna bring him to the restaurant; you’re going to go pick up Marie, bring her over after.”
After they’ve discussed business, Frank knew.
“And dress decent,” Momo added, “not like a surf bum.”
Frank dressed up. First he polished that car until it shined like a black diamond; then he went home, showered, scrubbed his skin until it hurt, shaved again, combed his hair, and changed into his one suit.
“Look at you,” Marie said when she answered the door.
Look at me? Look atyou, Frank thought. Her black cocktail dress was cut low, practically down to the nipple, her full breasts pushed up by what had to be a strapless bra. He couldn’t help but stare at them.
“You like the dress, Frank?”
“It’s pretty.”
She laughed, then went to her dressing table, took a drag on her cigarette and another swallow of the martini that was sweating on the table. Something in her manner told Frank that it wasn’t her first drink of the night. She wasn’t drunk, but she wasn’t exactly sober, either. She turned back to Frank and gave him the whole view, then patted her frosted hair to place it perfectly on her neck, picked up her little black bag, and said, “So you think they’re done with their business now?”
“I don’t know about that, Mrs. A.”
“You can call me Marie.”
“No, I can’t.”
She laughed again. “Do you have a girl, Frank?”
“Yes, Mrs. A.”
“That’s right,” she said. “That little Garafalo girl. She’s pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“Youhad nothing to do with it,” she said. “Does she put out?”
Frank didn’t know what to say. If a girl put out, you didn’t tell, and if she didn’t, you didn’t tell that, either. Anyway, it wasn’t any of Mrs. A.’s business. And why was she asking, anyway?
“We better get to the club, Mrs. A.”
“There’s no hurry, Frank.”
Yes, there is, Frank thought.
“Can’t a girl finish her drink?” she asked, setting those bee-stung lips into a pretty pout. She reached back and picked up her drink and sipped on it, never taking her eyes off his, and it was like she was giving him a blow job, which Frank had never had but which he’d heard about. In fact, this was just like a scene from one of those dirty books he’d read, except reading one of those books wouldn’t get him killed and this could.
She finished her drink, looked kind of hard at him, then laughed again and said, “Okay. Let’s go.”
His hand was shaking as he opened the door.
She saw it and it seemed to make her a little happier.
They didn’t talk on the drive to the club.
It was the most expensive supper club in town.
Momo wasn’t going to take the L.A. boss anyplace but the best; plus, the club was owned by a friend of his. A friend oftheirs. So they got a big table in the front, right by the stage, and most of the wise guys in San Diego were there with their wives, the girlfriends having been left in their apartments for the night with strict orders to wash their hair or something, but not to go anywherenear the club. This was a state visit, Frank knew, to establish that DeSanto was the new boss of Los Angeles, and therefore also the boss of San Diego.
Except DeSanto hadn’t brought his wife. Neither had the handful of guys he’d brought down with him. Nick Locicero, DeSanto’s underboss, was there, and Jackie Mizzelli and Jimmy Forliano, all very heavy guys sitting at that table, all guys who were going to expect to get laid that night. Frank was glad he didn’t havethat job, but he knew it was all set up, that a few of the cocktail waitresses had already agreed to go with these guys after the party but were supposed to stay away from the table in the meantime.
So was Frank. Not that he’d expected to be at the table. He knew he was about thirty-seven rungs down that ladder and his job was to hang around the edges of the room in case Momo looked up like he needed something.
Momo was sitting at the center of the table, next to DeSanto, of course.
Except DeSanto wasn’t talking with Momo.
He was talking with Marie.
And saying something funny, too, because Marie was laughing real hard, and leaning way over and showing him a lot of tit.
DeSanto was looking, too, not even bothering to disguise it. And she was giving him lots of chances, leaning over so he could light her cigarette, so he could smell her perfume, leaning in real close, pretending she couldn’t hear him over the music and the conversation.
Frank was watching this; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
There were rules about wise guys and their women, different sets of rules for sisters, cousins, mistresses, and wives. You wouldn’t treat a made guy’sgumar the way DeSanto was acting toward Momo’swife. And if a guy’s girlfriend flirted with another guy the way Mrs. A. was flirting with DeSanto, that girlfriend was letting herself in for a good beating when they got back to her place.
There are rules, Frank thought, even for a boss.
He had certain privileges, but this wasn’t one of them.
So Frank was pissed off for Momo, and he also had to admit he was a little jealous. Shit, Frank thought, she was making a move on me two hours ago. Then he felt guilty thinking that about Momo’s wife.
He watched her laugh again, her tits jiggling, then saw DeSanto lean into her neck and whisper something in her ear. Her eyes widened, and she smiled, then playfully slapped him on the cheek, and he laughed back.
DeSanto’s not abad -looking guy, Frank thought. He’s no Tony Curtis, but he’s no Momo, either. He wore glasses with thick black frames and had his graying hair Brylcreemed straight back, with a little widow’s peak in the middle of his receding forehead, but he wasn’t ugly. And he must be kind of charming, Frank thought, because he’s sure as shit charming Mrs. A.
Momo didn’t look so charmed.
He was steaming.
He wasn’t stupid enough to show it, but by this time Frank knew Momo well enough; he could tell the man was pissed off. Frank could feel the tension coming from the whole table-all the guys were drinking a lot, laughing a little too loudly, and the wives-the wives were torqued off. It was hard to tell if they were angrier at DeSanto or Mrs. A., but their necks were stiff from not looking even as their eyes couldn’t stay off the little scene. And they were leaning down and whispering to one another, the way wives do, and it didn’t take any imagination to know what they were talking about.
When Momo got up to go to the men’s room, one of the San Diego guys, Chris Panno, went with him. Frank waited until they went in; then he wandered down the corridor and stood outside.
“He’s your boss.”
“Boss or no boss, there are rules!” Momo said.
“Keep your voice down.”
Momo lowered his voice a little, but Frank could still hear him say, “L.A. pisses on us. They piss all over us.”
“If Bap was here…,” Frank heard someone say.