Chapter 14
I-94, on the road, back in time to July 5th
The drive to Minneapolis was full of memories, both bitter and sweet. She had passed through Madison early on, and her mind raced back to that last moment when she and Eric were still together, about to leave for college and a new life. She had been terrified to leave, unsure of her real abilities, and unsure, truthfully, of her love for Eric. Red's heart attack had given her a brief reprieve, but all too soon she was packing up and getting ready to start the journey alone. Standing by the bus, she'd had a self-serving epiphany that gave her a way out. She could stay! She could stay and tell Eric she would miss him too much! It was perfect. That way she was the noble, loyal fiancee who sacrificed for him; he'd owe her forever and she wouldn't have to face her doubts for a long time.
As the car made its way towards the Wisconsin Dells she wondered, for the thousandth time in the last two hours, what might have been if she'd just gone. Maybe she would have failed at Madison, maybe she would have succeeded without Eric there; the point was that she never tried so she would never know. It wasn't a mistake she intended to make again. Her dad had been so right, this was her chance to start over, to be better than who she'd become. Eric, I know I won't get the chance to apologize for what I said, but I just want to say thanks. If I ever get the chance to make it right, I will.
Much of the drive after the Dells was given over to thoughts about her future. She knew she couldn't stay on the air as a DJ. If her father was right about the people who were after them, they'd find out in short order that she had worked at WFPP. She'd grown tired of the radio show anyway. It was nice at first, having control of the music that was played, and having fans eager for her voice and autograph. It had quickly proved to be utterly exhausting work, though. Entertainment was constantly evolving, and the industry was ruthlessly competitive even in a small town. No, she wanted something meaningful now. Teaching? I really enjoyed classes in high school, maybe college? I can't go back to writing, authors have to do publicity. Maybe law school... Her thoughts continued in this vein for some time.
Crossing over the border into Minnesota, Donna began to wonder if she should stop for food. The drive was wearing on her, but her father's voice echoed in her head again, "Don't stop. Keep driving. If you get hungry, pull into a drive-thru. Gas up in small towns and don't linger. Get to Ben, sweetie, as fast as you can." Spotting a Kelly's she pulled off the interstate and pulled up to order. Her stomach was rumbling, but she also felt an unsettling paranoia begin to sink in. She ordered two hot dogs, some fries and a large soda. Hopefully there would be better food in Minnesota...
July 5th
Fiorello LaGuardia Airport, Queens, NYC
Bob stepped off the Eastern Airlines flight and inhaled deeply through his nose. The smell of New York City was thick in his nostrils, and it smelled like home. He hadn't set foot in the city since 1963, on the day the verdicts were read. He'd missed it so much. Here was where he and Margaret had fallen in love, learned they would have a child (and also learned they were having a shotgun wedding). Clutching his travel bag he headed towards the exit and hailed a cab. He'd withdrawn about $5000 from his savings account for travel expenses, figuring he'd stay somewhere real nice until... Well, he'd never had the money to do the city up in style back then. He'd brought his credit cards too, since everyone seemed to want them nowadays.
A cab pulled up and the driver asked, "Where to?" without even glancing at him.
"The Plaza," Bob said, smiling broadly.
"Sure thing, man," said the gentleman. He was tall, probably close to 55 and African-American. "You sure are travelin' light. Sure ya didn't forget your bags?"
Bob chuckled, "Nah, this is a short visit. Figured I'd treat myself to a nice hotel and a good meal tonight. You know any fancy place I can get into tonight, sir?"
The cab driver smiled, "Name's Parler, Parler Edmonds," he waved from the front, "and if you want the best steak of your life you just give me a call. I'll give you a ride down to Sparks in Midtown. That place is a whole different world, mister!"
"Thanks a lot, Parler!" said Bob, "And my name's Frank, Frank Palermo. You got a card? I'll give you a call soon as I know what's what." He liked this cabbie, and he liked using his real name again.
Parler handed Frank a card with his name, cab number, and dispatch number on it. He told him to request him by cab number, since the dispatch girl could be a real pain if her night wasn't going well. He also mentioned a few new places to go, and one definite no-go. "Listen, Frank," he said seriously, "you been away from the city for a while?"
Frank nodded, "About 20 years, give or take."
Parler glanced in the rear view mirror, "Things changed a lot since the '60s. Nolita, Mulberry Street still pretty safe for men like yourself. Stay outta Queens and Williamsburg man. Williamsburg in a gang war right now, and mob guys been tearin' each other up in Brooklyn. You know some of them Gambino boys shot up the Shamrock Bar in April? Killed the guys who owned it 'cause they said someone spilled a drink on their girlfriend? That Gambino family is gettin' out of hand," he finished, shaking his head.
"Thanks for the tips, Parler," Frank said, his ears burning with anger at the murderous thugs, "I'll steer clear of those places." Hate to lie to a nice man like you, Parler, but that's exactly where I need to go.
As they pulled up to the Plaza, Frank thanked Parler and promised to call by 8:00. Parler waved at him and drove off down the street. Staring up at the iconic hotel, Frank thought lovingly of Margaret- his sweet Maggie. Maggie, I'm sorry I didn't get to bring you here like I promised. I'll see you soon, though.
At the front desk, the concierge happily took Frank's card and cash payment and set him up with a nice room overlooking Central Park. He took a long, hot soak in the clawfoot tub and relaxed by watching the game. He'd phoned Ben from Milwaukee to make sure Donna had made it there, and once Ben had confirmed it he'd hung up the phone. He didn't want to know details, or be tempted to join her. Leaving his baby girl alone in this world was hard, but he knew this was the only way she'd ever be safe. He pulled out the photo he'd taken with him and touched the little face forever preserved in black and white. Wiping his eyes a little, he sat up and called the taxi dispatch and asked for Parler's cab by number. He tried to put some extra honey in his voice so the lady would be more agreeable, but it wasn't necessary. A customer at the Plaza gets what they want.
"Hey there, Frank!" yelled Parler, waving to his new favorite client. Frank had slipped him an extra $20 for the airport ride, and that wasn't something he was used to.
Frank smiled at Parler and got in the taxi. He was excited for his fancy steak dinner. The concierge had made his reservations for him earlier, and he had a nice surprise in store. As they pulled up to Sparks Steakhouse, Frank leaned forward to Parler, "Listen, Parler, you got anywhere to be tonight?"
"Nah, think I'll stay here in Midtown until you need me. Might go grab a slice and the Daily," he said genially, "but don't worry, I won't be far!"
"Well, how's about you join me inside?" Bob offered. "Concierge said you can't reserve a table for one, and I didn't come all this way to eat at a bar! So whattaya say? My treat, and don't worry my company expenses the whole damn thing!"
Parler was taken aback. This was an incredibly generous offer. He'd probably never have the chance to eat at Sparks again. "That's a great offer, Frank!" he said, "You sure you don't want to call up some young lady, though?"
Frank grinned, "Nah, you take a broad to a steakhouse and she orders a salad. This place was meant to be enjoyed!"
Parler grinned back and swung the cab back into traffic, "I've been dying to use my parking pass for something good!" As he entered the parking garage, he thanked the good lord he'd picked up his Sunday best from the dry cleaners that morning. As he exited the cab, he took his good jacket out and pulled it over his polo shirt.
Walking into Sparks, the men waited patiently for the maitre d' to escort them to their table. The interior was sumptuously decorated in dark wood, with fine art lining the walls; rich carpet covered the floor and the tables were all pristinely laid. Once at the table, Frank asked Parler if he liked wine.
"I'm more of a beer man, myself," Parler said, "But when in Rome!"
Frank checked the wine list and ordered a bottle that he thought he could enjoy. When the waiter came back Frank asked him, "Sir, how long have you been at this establishment?"
"Since the restaurant opened, sir, 1966," the waiter replied proudly.
"Perfect, then you know the best of the best food on this menu, I'm bettin'" said Frank.
The waiter leaned in close, "The stand-alone steaks are the best, don't try to order the ones with fancy toppings. Avoid the hashbrowns, this ain't the South and they don't know how to do 'em. The lobster is primo, but order one to split, the smallest are 3 pounds, and the shrimp cocktail and tomato salad are the best appetizers." He stood back up straight and smiled. It always gave him a boost of confidence when customers trusted his advice.
"Parler, that sound good to you?"
"I can't imagine a better dinner!" said Parler enthusiastically.
The waiter nodded and left to coordinate the dinner. As Frank looked around he saw a few men enter who looked vaguely familiar. Not their faces, but their look, their demeanor, their dress- it rang a bell to him. Figuring it was just his imagination in overdrive he chatted with Parler off and on until the first course arrived. The waiter hadn't been wrong. The tomato salad was damn good and the shrimp cocktail was the best he'd ever had. As the first course was whisked away, Frank glanced around the small dining room again. The Vineyard had been the fanciest restaurant in Point Place and Sparks made it look like a school cafeteria. He'd forgotten how cosmopolitan Manhattan could be. The steaks arrived and both men looked like they'd been transported to Heaven. Perfectly cooked and seasoned, with just a touch of butter on the top. Before they could dig in, however, the waiter returned with the lobster and shelled it tableside for them. It was easily the best meal of his life, and the company was damn good. By the time the steaks were finished, Frank and Parler were both stuffed to the gills. The waiter tactfully suggested a coffee course and then a liquid dessert. Both men agreed and enjoyed their drinks immensely.
Frank glanced at the check when it arrived and stuffed twice the total into the check jacket without hesitating. Parler had tactfully looked away, pretending to admire the ornate ceiling. As they rose the waiter smiled and bowed them out, wishing them a pleasant evening.
"Frank, if I was a man on death row, I'd have requested that as my last meal and gone singing to my grave," he said happily, cuffing him on the shoulder.
Frank couldn't take offense to his friend's words; they were too true. He might not go singing, but that had been the finest meal of his life.
"So, where can I take you now?" asked Parler, hoping to convey his gratitude to Frank.
"I think I'm gonna turn in, Parler," he said, "I gotta get up early and finish this business trip!"
"Whatever you say, boss!" and he drove Frank back to the Plaza, reminding him to call when he needed a ride.
"Thanks for everything Parler," said Frank, "I hope you have a great rest of your year!" With that he paid the fare, against Parler's insistence, and surreptitiously dropped an envelope into the front seat. He'd written Parler a note of thanks and instructed him to retrieve a manila folder from the concierge in 2 days time and deliver it to a certain address, along with a considerable 'delivery fee' for his troubles. He hoped it made the old man smile for a long time to come.
Feeling a bit more light hearted, Frank made his way to his room and stretched out on the luxurious bed. He closed his eyes and focused on seeing Maggie again, picturing her just the way she looked on their wedding day.
July 6th
Brooklyn
"I swear, Boss, it was Frankie!" said Eddie, wide-eyed and slightly frightened. The last word they'd received was from the man in Malibu. He'd said he was finishing the job in 2 days. They'd assumed that meant he'd located all of them, but clearly he'd been mistaken.
"You're absolutely, 100%, no-fuckin'-doubt-about-it, sure that the guy you saw in Sparks was Frank Palermo?" the boss said.
"I wouldn't say it if I wasn't certain, Boss" Eddie replied. "Me, him, and Joe used to run together before... Well, anyway, I'd recognize him anywhere, even with that stupid Afro."
The Boss nearly choked on his breakfast. "Whattaya mean 'Afro'?" he said.
"He's got his hair all poofed out. Like a poodle" Eddie gestured.
The Boss rolled his eyes. If this was WitSec's idea of a disguise, he'd have no problem finding the rest of the snitches out there.
"Find him. Bring him here. And once we got him here, find Joe. I wanna know why he ain't here and Frankie is."
"You got it, Boss." Eddie replied and left quickly. Seeing Frankie at Sparks had been like seeing a ghost. He'd assumed he was hallucinating. The Boss had been crystal clear on his feelings about Frankie, and Joe had been all too eager to pay him back for snitching on him about the baker all those years ago. Joe had graduated to wet work after his release from prison, and he'd been good enough at it. Eddie preferred to do business, so he'd moved to handling the logistics of the port operations for the family. Still, he'd never forgotten the look on Joe's face the day Frankie testified against him. Joe had been lucky to get parole thanks to overcrowding, but he swore he'd have his revenge against Frankie all the same.
He called Joe's house and left a message with his sister for Joe to call him as soon as he got back. Looking down at his notepad, he read off the names he'd gotten from the waiter at Sparks- "Parler and Frank". He'd followed the two out and watched as they drove a cab away from a parking garage. He'd called the cab company and spoken to the dispatcher, selling her a story about a cab with the same number hitting a parked police car. The dispatcher had said that cab was off duty for several hours, with its only previous pickup at The Plaza. Frankie's stayin' at The Plaza? Wonder if WitSec issues lotto tickets now...
He was just getting ready to round up a few guys when one of the kids who stood lookout came sprinting in to his office. "Mr. Eddie! Mr. Eddie!" he said, gasping for breath, "That guy with the funny hair. I just saw him! He's over by the old Shamrock's Bar!".
Son of a... Frankie Palermo had come home to find them. Eddie decided to take care of this himself. Maybe it was good that Joe wasn't here; he was always to hot-headed when it came to Frank.
"Luca! Georgie!" he shouted into the outer office, "Get your shit and come with me. We got an old friend to greet."
Lucatelli's Italian Bakery
Brooklyn
Frankie walked by the bakery and stared in at the cases. It hadn't changed at all. Rows of Italian cookies, cannoli, tiramisu and more. He even saw an espresso machine on the back counter. He went in and let the heavenly aromas wash over him. He walked up to the counter and smiled at the girl, "What's the best thing you made today?" he asked.
The girl laughed, "Oh man, my uncle told me that was my grandpa's favorite question from his customers way back when!" Her ponytail swung around as she bent to inspect the confections. "Definitely the cannoli, the shells fried up perfect this morning. Strange, normally only my grandma can get them that perfect, but I guess it's your lucky day!"
"I'll take two and a cappuccino," he said. The girl grabbed a small plate and gestured to one of the small tables, "Have a seat anywhere you like, I'll bring it out to you when the cappuccino is ready!"
Frank took a seat and watched out the large front window pane. He'd made sure to get off the subway several stops back so he'd have to walk the whole street. If he was right, they'd be here by the time he finished his cannoli.
The girl brought the sweet, ricotta-filled pastries over and gently set down the foamy drink. "My name's Lucia if you need anything." As she walked away, Frank took a photo out of his pocket. Courage, Frankie, courage to do the right thing for all of them.
"Your grandpa, Lucia, he used to own this place?" he asked.
"Yeah," the girl smiled a little sadly, "but he died before I was born. My uncle said he was a real decent man and the mob took offense to him. Guess that wasn't unusual back then, huh?"
"Nah," said Frank, "but I'm glad your uncle got to keep the bakery open."
"Well, for a little while," said Lucia, "but he died about ten years ago, too. Random shooting. My mom said this city's too violent. She'd leave tomorrow, except this is our whole livelihood. Plus, I love being in this shop. I love to bake. My grandma still does some of the stuff, too, and I think she's real attached to this store."
Frankie smiled warmly. He was gonna enjoy setting this family free from the boys. They deserved it. As he finished his cappuccino and swallowed the last bite of cannoli he saw a Buick pull up across the street. Three men got out of the car; one walked north, one walked south and the other crossed the street to head east. Frank stood up. "Well, Lucia, that was the best cannoli I've ever had. You take care and give my best to your grandma and mother." He waved and walked out into the bright sunshine.
Walking to the corner he headed east towards the warehouse district and turned south into a large alley. The sound of footsteps behind him let him know that one of the morons had picked him up. He kept walking, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his skin. Just as he was approaching the end of the alley and an intersection he saw the other two converge in front of him. Finally. Thought I was going to have to send up a signal flare.
"Frankie Palermo," said the shortest, skinniest one. It was Eddie Lunelli. "Thought you was still on vacation?"
"Eddie," said Frankie evenly, "Sure been a long time."
"Sure has," replied Eddie, "You seen Joe around?"
"Nope," Frank gave a small smirk, "not since he took a trip upstate."
The taller man next to Eddie made a sudden movement, but Frankie didn't flinch. These guys weren't playing for the endgame, they just wanted to draw this out to feel tough. Frankie didn't intend to indulge them. "You gonna let Il Creeper behind me know that he's in the line of fire? Or is he gonna be collateral damage?"
Eddie smirked back, "Vincenzo, you might wanna stand on this side, ya stupid fuck!" he yelled. The pudgy man with a buzz cut sulked out from behind Frankie and stood next to Eddie. "So, Frank, I guess you know why we're here."
"Yeah, Eddie, I ain't stupid. This ends today, right here, right now."
Eddie looked around warily. Most guys weren't this calm unless they had backup. Satisfied nobody was coming to help, Eddie continued, "The Boss wants to see you, Frankie. We're just here to drive you to the office."
Frankie shook his head and looked Eddie dead in the eyes, "Nah, Eddie," he said, "The butcher's bill gets paid here and now. See, I know how this works. I can keep trying to hide, keep changing my name, but chances are you'll find me again. I could go with you, but if I'm a betting man I'd say you guys are packin' more than enough for lil' old me, and why draw this out? You get me, drag my body back, tell the Boss I tried to escape; hell, tell him I cried and begged like a girl! Then you collect the prize and I get to rest in peace."
Eddie was stunned. "So I'm supposed to just take care of this right here?"
Frank nodded, "That's my offer, Eddie. You do this now, or I set off this flare gun," and he withdrew one from his belt, "and we all have a nice chat with whoever shows up."
Eddie paused to consider the logistics. They were fairly concealed from view, they could always stash the body and come back for it later, or dump it in one of the dumpsters and trust that the sanitation union would keep the workers quiet. He still felt like this was too good to be true, though.
"Tell me why you ratted out the family, Frankie," he said seriously, "The Boss is gonna want to know that."
"Eddie, I never kidded myself about who I was or who I worked for. I knew they weren't saints and schoolteachers. But I was a man of my word, and I expected a bunch of guys who worshipped the Old World to do the same. Turns out I was wrong. There was no honor in this family. Only greed and stupidity."
Frankie saw the red flush rise in their faces. He knew he'd goaded them past their tolerance. These idiots still thought they were better than the other families. All of them thought that- that their family still had the honor of the Old Men, but the rest were just sordid common criminals. He saw the pudgy one and the tall one reach behind their waists and he reached inside his pocket. His movement quickened theirs, but they weren't fast enough. Frank pulled the photo out of his pocket and focused on the faces in it. Then he closed his eyes.
Frank Palermo felt the warm sun on his face, smelled the sweet smell of frying pastry dough, listened to the church bell in the park nearby ring out a 10:00 bell. He smiled a beautiful smile and lived the best moment of his life; his last thought of Maggie and Antonia and he at Coney Island laughing and squeezing together for a photo.
Overhead, perched 20 feet up and observing the entire scene play out without a blink or a hiccup, the Brooklyn First Bank video recorder preserved the minutes for perpetuity. The evidence spooling to a cassette and perfectly capturing the last act of an always great man.
Author's Note: Parler Edmonds is based on a real-life person named Parler Edwards. He was a 71 year-old, African-American taxi cab driver in Buffalo, NY. During 1980, a serial killer named Joseph Christopher murdered Parler and 11 other black and Hispanic men in a months long serial rampage.
1981 was titled "A Most Violent Year" for NYC, and the Shamrock Bar shooting I mention actually happened. Sparks Steakhouse is also famous for its connection to the mafia. Williamsburg, now home to every hipster too broke to live in Soho, was a legit war zone back then with three different gangs (none mafia-related) violently warring with each other. Heroin and cocaine were flooding the market at cheap prices and crack cocaine was being developed in some major cities. The early 1980s were also the rise of John Gotti from capo to Boss of the Gambino crime family.