a yacht and a ten-bedroom house in Miami.
He was at his desk when Johnny and Sammy came in. Leaning against the wall was Toni Capello, one of Massino’s bodyguards: a thin, dark man with snake’s eyes and nearly as fast as Johnny with a gun. Sitting on a hardbacked chair, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood was Ernie Lassini, another of Massino’s bodyguards: a fat, hulking man with a razor ‘Sear’ down the left side of his face: another good man with a gun.
Sammy shambled up to the desk and put the bag in front of Massino who leaned back in his chair and grinned at the bag.
At the age of fifty-five, Joe Massino was massively built. Medium height, he had barn-door shoulders, no neck, a heavy fat face with a flattened nose, a straggly moustache and bleak grey eyes that scared men, but intrigued women. Massino was a great womanizer. Although fat, he was still tough and there had been times when he had personally disciplined one of his mob and that man hadn’t been fit for active service for two or even three months.
“No problems, Sammy?” Massino asked and his small grey eyes shifted to Johnny who shook his head. “Okay… get Andy.”
But Andy Lucas, Massino’s accountant, had already come into the office.
Andy was sixty-five years of age: a tiny, bird-like man with a computer for a brain. Fifteen years ago he had served a -stretch for fraud and when he had come out, Massino, realizing Andy’s brilliance, had hired him to control his financial kingdom. As with most things Massino did, this was a wise choice. There was no one in the State as smart as Andy when it came to a tax form, an investment or an idea to make money.
Andy unlocked the handcuff from Sammy’s sweating wrist, then pulling up a chair by Massino, he began to check the contents of the bag while Massino watched as he chewed a dead cigar.
Both Sammy and Johnny moved away and waited. The count came to sixty-five thousand dollars.
Andy put the money back in the bag, then nodding to Massino, he carried the bag into his office and put it in the big, old-fashioned safe.
“Okay, you two,” Massino said, looking at Johnny and Sammy, “take time off. I don’t need you until next Friday. You know what next Friday is?” His hard little eyes rested on Johnny.
“The 29th.”
Massino nodded.
“That’s it; the freak day: Leap year’s day. It’s my bet the take will be around $150,000.”
“Solly said the same.”
“Yeah.” Massino dropped the dead cigar into the trash basket. “So… Ernie and Toni will go with you. You’ll collect in the car. Never mind the traffic. I’ll have a word with the Commissioner. Next Friday, the cops will look the other way if you have to double park $150,000 is a hell of a lot of money and maybe some hop-head just might try,” He eyed Sammy. “Take it easy, boy, you’ll be protected. Don’t sweat so.”
Sammy forced a sick grin.
“I’m not worried, boss,” he lied. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Out in the drizzle, Johnny said, “Come on, Sammy, let’s have a beer.”
This was the usual ritual after the collection and Sammy walked along beside the short, thickset man, gradually relaxing until they came to Freddy’s bar. They went into the warm darkness, climbed on stools and ordered beer.
They drank in silence, then Sammy ordered more beer.
“Mr. Johnny…” He paused and looked uneasily at the hard, expressionless face. “Excuse me, but have you got worries? You’re sort of quiet these days. If there’s anything I can do…” He began to sweat, scared he had talked out of turn.
Johnny looked at him and smiled. Johnny didn’t often smile, but when he did it sent a glow of happiness through Sammy.
“No… there’s nothing.” He lifted his heavy shoulders. “Maybe I’m getting old. Anyway, thanks, Sammy.” He took a packet of cigarettes, rolled one towards Sammy and lit up. “This is a hell of a lifer isn’t it? No future in it for us.” He let smoke drift down his nostrils, then asked, “How do you feel about it, Sammy?”
Sammy shifted on his stool.
“The money’s good, Mr. Johnny. I get scared, but the money’s good. What else could I do?”
Johnny regarded him, then nodded.
“That’s right… what else can you do?” A pause, then he went on, “Have you been saving?”
Sammy smiled happily.
“Just like you told me, Mr. Johnny. One dollar in ten. That’s what you said and now I’ve got three thousand bucks in a box under my bed.” He lost his smile as he paused. “I don’t know what to do with it.”
Johnny sighed.
“You keep all that money under your bed?”
“What else can I do with it?”
“Put it in a bank, you goon.”
“I don’t like banks, Mr. Johnny,” Sammy said earnestly. “They’re for white men. It’s best under my bed. I guess I’ll have to buy another box.”
Although Sammy looked hopefully at Johnny wanting him to solve this problem, Johnny shrugged and finished his beer. He couldn’t be bothered with Sammy’s stupid problems. He had too many problems of his own.
“Please yourself.” He slid off the stool. “Well, see you next Friday, Sammy.”
“Do you think there’ll be trouble?” Sammy asked fearfully as he followed Johnny out into the drizzle.
Johnny saw the naked fear in Sammy’s big, black eyes. He smiled.
“No trouble. Not with me, Ernie and Toni with you. Take it easy, Sammy… nothing will happen.”
Sammy watched him drive away, then he set off along the street towards his pad. Friday was a long way off, he told himself. $150,000! the Boss had said. Was there that much money in the world?
Johnny Bianda unlocked the door of his two-room apartment. He moved into the big living room and paused to look around. He had lived in this apartment now for the past eight years. It wasn’t much, but that didn’t worry Johnny. At least it was comfortable, although shabby. There were two battered lounging chairs, a settee, a T.V. set, a table, four upright chairs and a faded carpet. Through the door opposite was a tiny bedroom that just took a double bed and a night table with a built-in closet. There was a shower and a loo off the bedroom.
He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and parked his .38 automatic, then pulling up a chair to the window, he sat down.
The noise from the street drifted up to him. Noise never bothered him. He lit a cigarette and stared through the dirty window pane at the apartment block without seeing it.
Sammy had been right in guessing he had something on his mind. This something had been on his mind now for the past eighteen months. It had begun to nag him on his fortieth birthday. After celebrating with his girl friend, Melanie Carelli, and when she had fallen asleep, he had lain in the darkness and had thought about his past and had tried to imagine what his future was going to be. Forty years old! The halfway mark… always provided he didn’t have an accident, got lung cancer or stopped a bullet. Forty years old! His life half over!
He had thought of the years that had moved behind him. First, he thought of his mother who hadn’t been able to read or write and who had worked herself to an early death to keep a roof over his head while his father who had been able to read but not write had slaved in a fruit-canning factory: two decent God-fearing Italian immigrants who had loved him and bad hoped for great things from him.
Just before she had died, his mother had given him her only possession: a silver St. Christopher medal on a silver chain that had been in her family for over a century.
“There’s nothing more I can do for you now, Johnny,” she had said. “Take this: wear it always: as long as you wear it nothing really bad can happen to you. Remember that. I’ve worn it all my life and nothing really bad has happened to me. It’s been hard, but not really bad.”
He had been superstitious enough to have worn the medal and even now as he sat by the window, he put his fingers inside his shirt to touch the medal.
Lying by the side of the gently breathing Melanie, he had thought of the years after his mother’s death. He hadn’t settled to anything. He had got tired of his father’s constant nagging and had left home. Although only seventeen, he had got a job as a bartender in a dive in Jacksonville. There he associated with the wild boys, the
