So is the antipasto,' said Tom.
Would you come and discuss this with my associates?'
Just tell me when and where.'
The Fontainebleu Hotel.' Rosselli pronounced it the French way, a sure sign that he was from out of town. Without exception the locals called it the Fountain Blue. Five o'clock this afternoon? Just ask for the Aloha suite.'
I'll be there.'
The Fontainebleu was the Cadillac of Miami hotels, a great gleaming white confection of modern American styling, with every conceivable extra, at an inconceivable price. Situated right on the golden beachfront, among carefully tended avenues of bougainvillaea and neatly raked gravel paths, it soared twelve storeys above an Olympic-sized emerald of a swimming pool and a series of cool cabanas where wealthy New Jersey widows and skinny Boston matrons worked on achieving the colour of aged Seminole Indians.
It all seemed a far cry from national television debates between Nixon and Kennedy, missile gaps, and a contract to kill Castro. The thoughts occupying the minds of those who occupied the Cabana Club steamer chairs in the late-afternoon orange-blistering sunshine were incessantly quotidian. Were the kids being looked after properly in the Kittekat Club? Was there time for a pre-ablutionary glass of iced tea in the Bamboo Coffee Shoppe? Should dinner be eaten in the Fleur de Lis or the La Tropicala? In the event of which, and assuming there was change out of fifty dollars a head, would they try and end the evening in the Rendezvous Bar or the Boom Boom Nighterie? Such, reflected Tom, as he made his premature entry into the hotel, was modern philosophy, Miami-style.
With ten minutes to kill before his appointed meeting in the Aloha suite, Tom went down to the hotel's Pineapple Shopping Arcade and bought a Playboy magazine and copy of the Herald to wrap it in. The front cover of Playboy flagged the Girls of Hollywood and Hunting for the Urban Male. Tom reckoned he knew all there was to know about hunting the urban male; with the girls of Hollywood he thought he could use a little tuition. The front page of the paper included a story about Khrushchev losing his temper at the UN General Assembly and thumping his desk during the speech of the British Prime Minister. Tom thought the Russian probably needed the company of the girls of Hollywood or maybe a few days at the Fontainebleu to unwind a little. Just passing through the lobby it was hard to think of thumping anything other than a floor button on the elevator.
He rode up to the twelfth floor and walked along the blue-carpeted corridor to the Aloha suite. It was easy enough to spot. Outside the door to the suite stood a man the size of an exhibition stand at the World's Fair, wearing a light-blue Dacron suit and beige driving gloves. Tom, dressed in a lightweight blazer, sports shirt, and slacks lifted his arms and let the bodyguard check him for weapons. Then the guard knocked and opened the door.
Thanks,' grunted Tom, and stepped into a small lobby to find another guard and another door. Tom hardly looked at the second man, only the Colt .45 automatic he was carrying openly in his hand. Once again the door was opened for him. Muscle had better manners these days, mused Tom, and went into the suite.
Two hundred dollars a night bought you a quarter-acre of high ceiling, split-level floor, a CinemaScope-sized window with balcony, and furniture scaled long and low to encourage a relaxing frame of mind. Tom felt anything but relaxed, especially when he saw one of the men in the room. He had a good memory for faces and thought he recognised this one from a movie theatre newsreel. The Senate Select Committee on Improper Activities in the Labor or Management Field, chaired by Senator John McLellan, had been formed to investigate links between unions and organised crime. Both the Kennedy brothers had been on the committee, with Bobby its chief counsel. A number of the leading figures in organised crime had been subpoenaed to appear before the committee, including, Tom thought, the man who was standing by the window. The radiogram was playing Henry Mancini's Mister Lucky'.
The telephone rang and the man by the window waved at someone to get it. Get that will ya, Fifi?'
Tom smiled. The man who got up off the sofa and dragged his knuckles over to the Grundig could not have looked less like a Fifi if he had been wearing sixteen-ounce boxing gloves. He turned off the record, picked up the phone, listened for a moment, and then said, Hey boss, it's Frank.'
What, that fucker again? Tell him to call back another time. I'm busy.'
Fifi shrugged and handed on the message. Meanwhile Rosselli, wearing the blazer but with a neat ascot this time, was coming out of the bathroom drying his hands on a towel. He smiled his smooth white smile, like a big silver fox, and placed a welcoming hand on Tom's shoulder.
Tom,' said Rosselli. Here you are. Right on time.'
Time is money. That's what Karl Marx says anyway.'
Jesus fucking Christ. He did?'
Not in so many words. Matter of fact it was a lot more fucking words.' Tom grinned. I guess more people would read him if he'd been a little more to the point.'
You've actually read that shit? I'm impressed.'
Some. In my line of work I have to read all kinds of shit. I even read that fucking book you gave me. I liked it.'
I'm glad. It's one of my favourite books.
Hey, Johnny.' The man talking was the man Fifi had called Boss. Can we cut with the critic's choice and make a fucking start here?'
Sure, Sam, sure.' Rosselli's tone became momentarily unctuous. Okay, Tom? Let me introduce you to everyone.' Indicating Fifi's boss, he said, This is Mister Gold.
Gold was wearing an olive silk glen plaid suit, a round-collar shirt and a patterned silk tie; he looked like an older, meaner version of Frank Sinatra. Tom nodded and shook Gold's outstretched hand.
A real pleasure to meet you, Mister Giancana,' he said coolly.
Sam Momo' Giancana, the boss of the Chicago outfit and one of the most feared men in America, said nothing for a moment, his weasel-like face flickering on the edge of anger before the cruel mouth spread slowly into a wry smile. That's good,' he said to Rosselli. Any man who's gonna work for me has to have balls in his pants. It's nice to meet you too, Tom.'
I like to know who I'm working for,' said Tom. In my line of work it's best to avoid any opportunity for misunderstanding. Especially when I'm dealing with an organisation like yours, Mister Giancana.'
I can understand that. And I appreciate your candour, Tom. If I use a different name it's not because I want to deceive you. Not at all. I use the name Gold because Miami is a Jew town, and a Jew name gets you the proper respect.'
You got that right, Momo,' said Rosselli, ushering Tom toward the sofa where a trio of men were waiting to be introduced.
The first to extend his hand was a short, dark man with a receding hairline and a lawyer's sharp appearance. Tom thought he looked like a sleazier version of Bob Hope. Most lawyers looked like a sleazier version of someone. Bob Maheu,' he said. And you can relax, fellah. That's my real name.'
Next was a large, lugubrious man with a hound dog's face and the smell of a cop, none too cool in his Mister Cool sports coat, shoes just a little too clean, feet just a little too large.
This is Jim O'Connell,' said Rosselli. We call him Big Jim, for obvious reasons.'
Tom caught a look passed between O'Connell and Maheu as the big man shook him by the hand. These people weren't quite used to each other, he thought.
The third man by the sofa had the face of a retired boxer - Jake La Motta after he put on weight and went on the club circuit: broken nose, small scar on right cheek, and a jaw that was as square as a box of Wheaties.
And this is Frank Fiorucci, also known as Frank Sorges, although I dare say Castro has a few even choicer names for him now that he's working for us and not the Cubans. Eh Frank?'
Sorges took Tom's hand and grunted a greeting. Tom couldn't decide if he was smiling any more than he could tell if the man was Cuban or American.
And the guy by the door is Fifi Buccieri,' continued Rosselli. You already met Butch and Chuck outside, so now you know everyone, Tom.'
Everyone except you, Mister Ralston,' replied Tom. Or should I say Mister Rosselli?'
The smile vanished abruptly from Rosselli's Tanfastic face as if Tom had taken an eraser and rubbed it off.
Better not take the fifth on that, Johnny,' laughed Giancana. This guy's liable to figure you for a double-
