Secrets & Lies (5 page)

Phyllis gave me the droopy-eyed gaze and showed me her empty glass. “Hey, Larry,” she slurred, “how about another one?”

I took the glass from her. “The name's Leo, not Larry. And I think you've had enough for now, darling. I don't want you counting sheep before we skip this joint and find someplace more comfortable to get to know each other.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Counting what? Why would I want to count sheep?”

“Never mind.” Suddenly she wasn't as attractive as she'd been an hour ago. Maybe I could pawn her off on one of Sal's guys. I could see them occupying their usual two tables, close to the stage but against the wall, near an exit. Salvatore Casazza liked to be able to leave in a hurry if he had to. He sat there, all three hundred pounds of him, with his signature black cigar and pin-striped suit. Once I suggested he should lose some weight, and I thought he was going to have me whacked. We get along okay, though. He was a good friend to have in this town.

Next to him was some broad I'd seen him with before, Rachel or Ronni or Rosie or something like that. Dark hair, great figure, kind of looks like Liz Taylor. His two goons, Mario and Shrimp, sat at the adjacent table, ready to put the muscle on anyone who might want to approach Casazza. I think I could take them both. On the other side, at a different table, sat two new guys in his crew. Paul
Faretti and Mike Capri had come down from Vegas to help with Casazza's gunrunning operations. They weren't very friendly. Maybe I just have to get to know them. Or maybe I could take
them
both, too.

They knew I was at the club to meet Mookie Samberg. The Jewish counterfeiter came highly recommended from Sal's contacts in New York. Me, I would have preferred we hired someone I knew. But Casazza said the word came down from Vegas that we needed to talk to Samberg first. If his price was agreeable, then that's who DeAngelo wanted. And whatever Vincent DeAngelo wanted, Vincent DeAngelo got. Hell, pretty soon he was going to own all of Las Vegas, the way he was going. Even Casazza, the L.A. boss, was small fry to DeAngelo.

Everybody worked for DeAngelo.

What I wouldn't give to have his job. Jesus, what a life. The guy was richer than sin, he owned one of the big casinos in Vegas, he lived on a ranch on the outskirts of the city, and his crew would do anything for him. I understand Sinatra sang at one of his parties. His daughter, Maria, was a spicy little number, too. Blonde, brown-eyed, delicious figure. A bit spoiled for my liking, but I wouldn't mind a roll in the hay with her. I could tell she liked me, so I might have to consider getting to know her better. Getting in good with DeAngelo couldn't hurt my career, either. My pop and him were pals and business associates. I grew up knowing the DeAngelo family.

“How about that drink, Larry?” Phyllis slurred in my ear just as Darin launched into “Beachcomber,” one of my favorites. I almost smacked her, but instead I gave her the old Kelly charm smile and said, “My name is
Leo
, baby, and if you call me Larry again, I'm going to have Charlie show you the door. Shut up and listen to the music, okay? As soon as I meet with this guy, we'll leave and go have ourselves a good time. Okay?”

Phyllis looked surprised. “You know Charlie?”

“He's my uncle, darling.”

“Charlie Kelly is your uncle?”

I held my hand out to her for the second time that night. “Leo Kelly, ma'am, glad to meet you.” She dumbly shook hands with me and grinned.

“I didn't know you knew Charlie!”

That did it. As good looking as Phyllis was, she was starting to annoy me. I looked around the room, caught my uncle's eye, and jerked my head. He came to my rescue. Phyllis beamed at him and said, way too loudly for Bobby Darin's comfort, “Hi, Charlie! Remember me?”

“Uncle Charlie, could you ask Boone to take Phyllis home? She needs to leave right away, she has an appointment.” I shot him a look that he interpreted correctly. He was to
get rid of her
. My driver would know what to do. “Tell Boone to come right back.”

“Sure, Leo.” He held out his arm for her. “Come with me, dear, I'll take good care of you.”

“What? Where are we going? I don't need to go home.”

He got her to stand and escorted her toward the bar. I looked over at the Casazza boys, and they were all laughing, even Rachel or Ronni or Rosie. I rolled my eyes at them and pretended to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Close call
, I mimed. And at that moment I saw Mookie Samberg enter the club. Looking at Casazza, I jerked my head at the Jew. Sal subtly gave me a nod. I half rose in my seat and waved at the guy. Samberg saw me and headed toward my table.

Mookie Samberg was in his fifties and had worked for one of the New York families for a long time. As I said, he came highly recommended, and DeAngelo knew his work. Supposedly he was the best counterfeit artist in the world. He engraved plates that made very convincing bills, but he was also known to be a pain in the ass. And expensive, too.

“Leo, how are you doing?” he said in my ear, over the music, as we shook hands.

“Good, Mookie, have a seat. What can I get you to drink?”

“Club soda and lime, please, thank you.”

I thought that was odd, but I got Melinda's attention; she came over and took my order. Samberg's eyes went up and down her figure and then raised his eyebrows when she walked away. I didn't blame him. Melinda and I had a thing a few months back.

“Nice waitresses you got here,” he said.

“You bet. Flickers is top shelf. Melinda's a honey. She might even go out with you if you're nice.”

“Maybe you can put in a good word for me, huh, Leo?”

“Sure, Mookie. Sit back and enjoy the show.”

Darin really worked the crowd. Women in the audience were ready to throw themselves at him. If I could sing, I knew that's what would happen to me, too. A lot of 'em tell me I look like that guy in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
.

As expected, Darin ended the set with “Mack the Knife.” The crowd went crazy. Mookie and I stood and applauded with everyone else. Great song.

We got down to business after the music was finished. I explained to Samberg that I ran a warehouse business in Los Angeles, and I did import, export, and storage work for Casazza, and, in turn, DeAngelo.

“I get it,” Samberg said. “You're a smuggler.”

That raised my hackles a little. “That's not very polite, Mookie. The word doesn't describe what I do at all.”

“Sorry, Leo. Go on.”

I said I'd be supplying Samberg with the space, equipment, and personnel he would need to make the counterfeit dough. I needed exact specifications of what he wanted and how much his fee would be. Samberg nodded, took a pen and small pad of paper out of his jacket pocket, and wrote down a figure. He then tore off the sheet and slid it across the table. I glanced at it and nearly choked, but I kept my poker face. No one I knew wanted to play poker with me—I was that good.

“I'll see what the boss has to say, Mookie. In the meantime, get me that list.”

“You'll have it tomorrow. When do I get to meet DeAngelo?”

“You don't get to meet DeAngelo.”

“What about Casazza?”

“That's possible.” I didn't let on that Sal was right there in the club.

“Well, tell him the hundred dollar bills I'll make will be so perfect they'll pass anywhere. The plates will be beautiful. What do you do with the funny money you make now?”

“We sell it to the Mexicans. The bills pass all right down there, but they don't fly in the U.S.”

“That's what I'm talking about, Leo. I guarantee you'll be able to pass my stuff here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Christina enter the club, looking fabulous as usual. She went over to Charlie and gave her uncle a kiss on the cheek.

I held out my hand. “I'll speak to you tomorrow, then? We get the list, we talk, we figure out how much all this is going to cost, and we'll come to a decision.”

He clasped my hand and said, “Don't take too long. Chicago is interested in hiring me, too.”

After he got up and left, I stood and went over to Casazza. Sal told Rachel or Ronni or Rosie to go powder her nose for a minute, and she obediently vanished. Sal relit his cigar and said, “Well?” I showed him the piece of paper with the figure on it. Casazza grunted and said, “I'll have to take it up with Vince.”

“I figured.”

“What else does he need?”

“I'll get the list tomorrow.”

Casazza nodded and then lightly slapped my cheek. “You done good, Leo.” I hated it when he did that. “If this operation turns out to be a good earner, Vince will be very pleased. Your father, may he rest in peace, would be very proud. You set this up, Leo. Vincent won't forget that.”

All I could say was, “Thanks.”

“Your pop and me, and your pop and Vince, we go back a long way.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Then he dismissed me. “Speak to you later.” I looked over at Shrimp and Mario, who nodded at me. Then I turned my head to Faretti and Capri. They had sneers on their faces, as if I was something they'd stepped in. I decided then and there I didn't like those guys. I wanted to break their noses. Uncle Charlie would have to clean their blood off the nice tablecloths.

I got up and found Christina at the bar. “How was your meeting?” she asked.

“Good. How was the range?”

“Fantastic. I beat my score. That semiautomatic you gave me for my birthday is becoming my weapon of choice.”

She was talking about a Smith & Wesson model 39 I bought her. I think it was the seventh gun she owned. I've never known a girl who liked guns so much as my crazy sister. She was one tough cookie, too. That's not a surprise, since she did twelve months' time on an armed robbery rap. If it hadn't been for DeAngelo's lawyers, she'd have been slapped with fifteen years. That's the good thing about the friendship our father had with DeAngelo. The two were like brothers. They knew each other since they were kids. Ever since Mom and Pop died, DeAngelo had kind of looked out for us kids, and we looked out for each other. I still looked out for Christina. We shared a house in Hollywood and she had a job at Pop's company—now mine—in the Wholesale District. I owed her, and I always would. When she was popped, Christina didn't give up the names of her fellow armed robbers. She knew the score. That's why I loved her. As she was four years my junior, she would always be my baby sister, no matter what.

“I'm surprised you don't have some starlet on your arm, Casanova,” Christina said. “What's the matter? You slipping?”

I laughed. “I had business, doll.” I surveyed the bar and saw a shapely brunette finishing a glass of something. “But watch this.” I
went over to the woman and offered to refill her drink. She smiled and her eyes grew wide. I had to tell her I wasn't that actor, but I hoped she'd still allow me to buy her a beverage. She accepted. Her name was Carolee. I sat on the stool beside her and ordered two martinis. Then I looked back at my sister, who smirked, shook her head, and turned to chat to Gary, one of the bartenders.

Christina was used to staying on her side of the house at night.

1961

J
ANUARY
18, 1961

I'm feeling much better and am back to full strength, I think. It's still cold outside, but not as bad as it was. That freezing wind finally died down, so maybe I'll try going out again as the Stiletto in a day or two. Or maybe not.

When I went into the kitchen for breakfast this morning, Freddie showed me the newspaper. The police commissioner announced that a task force was formed to “catch the Black Stiletto.” More police officers will patrol the streets, not only because crime is rising, but also to keep an eye out for the “vigilante.” Squads are being trained to use “quick response and trap strategies” to catch me.

“I just don't understand it, Freddie,” I said. “Why do they hate me so much?”

“You should know the answer to that by now, Judy,” he replied with a sigh. “A: it's against the law to be a vigilante. B: you make them look bad.”

“But I get results. Usually. You'd think they'd want me around. If Superman or Batman were real, they'd be welcome in the city.”

“Real life isn't a comic book.” He put the paper down. “Judy, it's going to get more dangerous for you out there. I worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself, Freddie.”

“You can't ward off a bullet. Or if you're captured alive and unmasked, you'll go to some women's prison. There's no telling how many other crimes they'd try to pin on you.”

I tried to make light of the conversation. “You know any good lawyers?”

“It's not funny, Judy. I'm serious. Maybe it's time you should start thinking about retiring the Black Stiletto. It's just not worth it.”