CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Chi-Town:Part 2

“I have a funny feeling about tomorrow, Greg.”

“Good or bad?”

“Let’s just say a good problem. I expect that we will get just what we asked for. Maybe a thousand bodies. Maybe two.” Douglass and Greg were alone, watching the glow move from one number to the next, as their elevator car rose upward. The hotel manager had just briefed the two about the excitement which the Black Beauty Day campaign generated. Phone calls. Visits. More visits. Some women showed up on the day they heard the announcement instead of waiting for the date that was advertised. One parent was so irate, she phoned the Better Business Bureau and they in turn phoned the hotel for more details about the who, the what, the where and the why. Always gonna be a mom who’s a wannabe, Douglass thought.

“We can handle it. Our team is smooth. Remember . . . Team Gilmore!” Greg was being facetious, but Douglass was seriously tightlipped. “Besides . . . you’ve done bigger events by yourself.”

“I guess . . . just last minute jitters. The biggest entertainers have told me the same thing. Even though they’ve performed in front of thousands, every experience is a new one . . . with new, nervous energy. Still, we need to be on our P’s and Q’s.”

The elevator was moving past the 20th floor now.

“By the way, what floor are we headed to?” Greg had made all of the preparations with the hotel and it made Douglass feel like a third wheel, ever since Greg became more of a fixture by his side.

“We’re all staying on the twenty-eighth floor. I got you the double room that you asked for. The same hook-up like in South Beach. Everybody else is doubling up. Demetrius is watching Destiny at night. As for the auditions . . . that’s all going on in the penthouse. The top floor. We’re gettin’ classy, with hors d’oeuvres, wine and cheese . . .”

“For the older—”

“Of course, Doug. Only for the afternoon session. It’s fruits, veggie snacks and Kool Aid in the morning for the children. In the afternoon, after the hotel staff freshens up the rooms, it’s age eighteen and over. That’s when we pour it on heavy. I’ll show you the layout of the penthouse later . . . it’s not too far from all of our discussions. Just turned up a notch. As for now, we’ll need the rest. The setup will most likely be all night. There will be a couple of hours for rest, then we’re up and at ’em, like at six AM tomorrow.”

“Do I get the feeling that you’re starting to like this more than me?” Greg smiled back and cut the conversation by stepping out of the open elevator doors first, searching for their assigned rooms. The rest of the staff was close by, if not just behind them, toting the various equipment, registration forms and other accessories for the presentations. While resting in his hotel room, with eyes half drowsy and half awake, Douglass considered the turbulence of activity that was taking place all because of his ideas. The hotel was already flagging dozens of callers inquiring about Black Beauty day. Douglass was familiar with the frenzy, not unlike his days while handling “TALENT WANTED” responses with his ex-girlfriend. Some naive, some meticulously curious, but everyone hungry for more information. Hotel receptionist had to be somewhere caught between lack of patience and utter frustration, while straining for the event organizers to show up. When they did, they did, and the hotel staff just couldn’t wait to redirect the inquiries. In fact, as Douglass was swiping his room’s key card through the digital reader on the door for the first time, the phone was already buzzing. And there it was again, with the girls busily putting their feminine touch on the room and juggling responses while in motion.

A Swarm of Black Beauties

Thursday, December 5th

Darryl maneuvered as inconspicuously as he could with a broadcast video camera balance on his shoulder, recording all night long as the various rooms on the top floor were organized and prepared for the expected crowd. Balloons and orchids were the pink and canary accents that brought fresh color and fragrance to the atmosphere. Tables and chairs and velvet ropes were arranged in the lobby and foyers to create a reception area and to control the movement of applicants so that they’d be directed to the banquet halls. Inside, a VCR and five TV monitors were positioned for optimal view. Come 6AM, the staff was rested and hungry. After one last, quick run-through (as if the night before wasn’t already filled with exhaustive rehearsals), the staff sat together for a 45-minute breakfast. The 4-course, catered meal was a particular large one for the hungry, anxious staff. They savored the eggs that were cooked to order, and the orange juice that was freshly squeezed, all right before their eyes. A bulky, Oriental chef moved quickly, with a flair about him—you knew he did this every day. Just about everyone dug into the modest heaps of fresh pastries and drowned themselves in coffee. Everyone, that is, except for muscled men one and two—Demetrius and Danni—on the job throughout the trip to Chicago, during the setup, and now on the morning of the event. They maintained communication like pros, with earphones and miniature microphones attached to the lapels of their sporty blazers. They were disciplined and poised enough to be Secret Service agents.

As the 8AM hour neared, Demetrius greeted mothers and their daughters as they stepped off of the elevators and up to the registration tables. Mechelle orchestrated the operation in the lobby, making sure that applications were completed and that registrants were provided with a questionnaire. After registration, it was into the banquet hall where the presentation was about to begin. Surprisingly, those who responded to the advertisement adhered (for the most part) to the scheduling—youngsters only in the morning. By 9AM, the presentation began with a sea of eager faces as attentive as could be. Debbie and Valerie kicked the day off with an introduction and Greg followed them, offering the “Opportunity Of A Lifetime.” There were scores of females looking on; either older, with responsibilities on their minds, or younger, with stars in their eyes and not a care in the world. Some dads were also in attendance when no mother was available to accompany their child. And in very few instances, both parents were there in support. Greg covered the various areas of the Internet gallery, using a laser pointer and diagrams projected onto a large screen. The diagrams were complete with graphics, photos and descriptions that explained how the program worked. Greg then ventured into the possibilities of being chosen for Face Of The Month, where a $100 prize was to be awarded to the winner of a monthly vote by website visitors. Finally, he segued into a video presentation that had a commercial appeal and which drove home the bottom line so that the adults, young women and girls alike were compelled to take advantage of the one opportunity that required the least experience; a way to get into Black Beauty International’s “Black Beauty Gallery.”

When the video ended, Debbie and Valerie stepped up to the platform again to introduce the program founder. Douglass made it short and sweet, basically welcoming all into the BBI family. That was his job, to close the sale and to provoke the next step—if it hadn’t been done already. For the next 4 hours, the event staff processed and photographed more than 350 candidates for the website. A lot of the young mothers (quiet as it was kept) also signed up and got in on the action. By 1 o’clock, before the first shift of registrants were even completed, the second group had begun to fill up the adjacent ballroom. These women were 18 and over, trickling in, spilling in, and finally pouring into the penthouse ballroom. The large space reached capacity within 30 minutes, and a partitioning wall had to be opened to accommodate another 300 registrants. With the hotel staff scurrying to clean up the more obvious debris, the transition turned into one big juggling act for the Black Beauty Day staff. But it went along considerably well. The subsequent presentation commenced for a standing-room-only crowd.

By 2PM, the entire penthouse floor was wall to wall pussy. The kids were gone. In with the weaves and perms, clogs and stilettos, skirts, ponytails and makeup. Perfumes of varying fruits, flowers and other illusions penetrated all common sense. And the perky titties and tight asses were in outrageous abundance. The floor was consumed with an all-adult crowd of 2,100 applicants, with presentations happening simultaneously in separate wings. In another room, snapshots were being taken and downloaded to a computer hard drive. Greg and his journalist comrades were helpful (to say the least), very absorbed in orchestrating and navigating the women between dressing rooms, photo rooms and bathrooms. Demetrius was steadfast, with groups of women gloating over his physical perfections. Meanwhile, Douglass charged through completed questionnaires, red flagging hot picks and pointing out those women whom he wanted to speak to. His confidence was swollen something like shopping with an unlimited credit line at a market that sold only the juiciest fruits. Doe-eyed dolls didn’t hesitate to respond when Douglass curled his finger at them, or when in passing, he simply said to “Come with me.” He was the man to watch as he searched for 40 new dancers, 40 bright personalities, with beautiful bodies and (of course) that ever-alluring smile.

His objective wasn’t hard to match, browsing through those endless lures for his attention. There were short ones and tall ones, thick boned and frail. There were females who thought they were pretty and others who underestimated their own impact. The damned penthouse had to be shut down, for God sakes, with candidates still downstairs in the lobby grieving for access to the top. However, Douglass put a stop to any more participants, asking the hotel management to block access from the elevator. Now, the only way to the floor was via the roof.

By 10PM, Douglass had spoken directly to more than 100 women whom he hand-picked according to their questionnaire and (what he recognized as) their vibe. The key factor that brought him to say yea or nay was if a candidate was ready to pick up and go. After all, what good was a lollipop if you couldn’t suck it? It was a long event and Douglass knew that the women and his staff were edgy from being on the floor all day. So he surprised everybody, having the hotel staff cater dinner for everyone. Before a lamb could shake its tail, there was a massive banquet going down. A long table was set out front on the platform, and dozens of round tables were arranged all throughout the hall. Douglass presided over the feast as a king would his kingdom and he smirked. It was interesting to see his own girlfriends react to the room full of competition. They had been exercising their given authority all day long, but suddenly their faces expressed humility, perhaps realizing that any number of these top picks in the room (the top 100 respectively) might replace them. Sometime later he pulled them to the side.

“Listen, I’ve been watching you . . . and I know you’ve been watching me . . . oh yeah! You’ve been watching me . . .” Douglass made a face that was humorous enough to break the tension in the small circle. “But seriously, girls . . . ladies . . .” he put his open palm to Debbie’s cheeks, “I’m not leaving you.” Now he held Valerie’s hand. “I just wanted to make that clear. I’m-not-leaving-you. Do you understand? We are family. I know it’s cliché, but it’s so real. And the more that we believe in family and practice family, then the more faith we’ll have in one another. The more faith you have in me, the more I’ll grow. Got it?” They all nodded, in some cases, a bit silly with tears in their eyes. “Good.” The group returned to the banquet.

Halfway into the meal, Douglass leaned into Greg to bring focus to a few hot spots in the room. It was evident that none of the staff had ever seen so much raw, black beauty in one place. So many shades of brown; even white girls with black features, and other nationalities that embraced the concept of black. Greg’s colleagues were undergoing their own conversations about who was the hottest. After the meal, the waiter poured champagne for everyone and Douglass led in a grand toast for the hundred or so persons in the room.

“To Black Beauties!”

“To Black Beauties!!” the women echoed and lifted their glasses also.

“To Black Beauties!!” Douglass repeated. And they answered him. “Ladies, you are truly the world’s most beautiful women. We’ve photographed you. We’ve interviewed you, and we’ve wined and dined you . . . I feel like I’m on one big ole massive first date!” The crowd chuckled. “But now, we’re gonna hire you.” There was a hush, and an obvious energy embraced the room. “Everyone knows by now that I’ve built an adult entertainment complex in New York. And you also know that we’re looking for a legion of dancers for the club. We’ve reserved this decision for late in the day so that there would be a mood. You see out that window? The darkness outside right now? That indicates money to me. Ours is an evening business. So guess what . . . every time the sun goes down . . . what happens? Exactly. That’s when we make money. I make money and you make money. Like a nocturnal money machine . . .

“On the questionnaire you filled out, the questions were designed so we could get a full understanding of your situations at home, school, your jobs, et cetera. Overall, everyone here is sick and tired of their jobs, you’re childless and you’re ready to make it big in New York. Have I got that right?”

“Yes.” The crowd answered in unison.

“The fact is that we’ll only be selecting forty of you tonight . . .” The voices and whispers hummed and buzzed. “That doesn’t mean that you won’t be involved with us, the website, or other plans that we have. We may someday open a second club and come back to get all of you . . .” He smiled assuringly. “. . . But just so you know, we’ll be keeping your information on file and every one of you is guaranteed to at least be part of the Black Beauty Gallery on the Internet. So give yourselves a round of applause for that accomplishment . . .”

The room applauded. The staff added to the applause.

“. . . But again. Forty girls.” Douglass amused himself, pretending a drumroll. “Now, let me ask you this once and for all. Is there anyone in the room that isn’t ready to go. Don’t be shy. Raise your hand if you’re not ready.” Nobody spoke up, but there were a few heads that were uncertain, as though everyone would be boarding a bus immediately. “Excuse me . . . in the leather jacket. Y-e-s, you. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I . . . uhm . . . I have a dog at home. He . . . well, I don’t know what to do with him if I have to leave tonight.” The young woman must have been 21 years old at best. Douglass smiled to console her, letting her know that her problem was not really a problem at all.

“Don’t worry, honey. We’re not body snatchers, throwing you all on a bus tonight.”

Giggles in the room.

“But seriously, girls, we’re not a kennel, either. No dogs. No babies. None of that. You’ll have to decide to choose this million-dollar lifestyle over the one that’s been tying you down. You’ll have to decide what your true priority in life is. Now, our staff may be able to help you troubleshoot with certain issues . . . if you’re selected . . . and the bus to New York won’t be leaving Chicago until about week or so . . .”

The heads throughout the room seemed to rise all at once, as though there was one deep sigh of relief. “So . . . without further ado, Darryl, the gentleman you’ve seen roaming and crawling around the banquet hall with a video camera, has put together this twenty-minute video for you to watch. It’s a little more in-depth, about what to expect from us, what we’ll expect from you, and how our program works. Going to New York might seem exciting, but please keep in mind that this is a business. A multi-million dollar business. Greg.” Demetrius acted on cue, cutting the lights off, while Greg started the video. As waiters milled about, collecting emptied plates and silverware, the black monitors came to life with the image of a Gulf Stream jet soaring through the sky, descending towards a landing strip. The sound of the engines, a hollow, winded, whiffing noise, and the Miami Vice theme music were effects which underscored the narrative: “Black Beauty International presents . . . Your Million-Dollar Lifestyle . . .” The music bounced on as the jet landed. The graphics transposed over the moving aircraft, affirming the narrator’s words with fancy, platinum lettering. As planned, while the video worked its magic, Debbie, Mechelle and Valerie stepped away from the table, their eyes working a little harder to see in the darkened room.

“Excuse me . . .” A timid voice and hand reached out for Debbie’s attention. Debbie almost brushed it off with a perfunctory, gotta-go response until she looked a little harder.

“Hi . . . oh—hi!!! What’s happenin’?” Debbie spoke excitedly, but at a low, respectful volume. She led Trina, an old acquaintance, to the rear of the room, out of the way from the presentation. They traded brief updates about one another before Debbie had to run and get back to business. It seemed that Trina didn’t expect Debbie to remember her, a neighbor from her block. And, indeed, Debbie had become so . . . so . . . worldly.

“Hey, Trina, I’ve gotta go do something. I’ll be back—we can chat later. Go watch the video. It’s good. And I’m in it!” Debbie smiled proudly and dashed towards the foyer where Mechelle and Valerie disappeared. On the monitors, the jet plane was parked and Valerie descended from its open hatch, down the steps, to the pavement. The music faded out and the narrator supported the the sights and sounds on the video: “And now, here’s your hostess, Valerie . . . ” The video showed Valerie strutting across the blacktop to where a waiting chauffeur and a shiny, white limousine stood. She carried a shoulder bag fancy-freely, with the camera capturing a full body view of her. “Welcome to the world of Black Beauty. I’m Valerie and I’ll be your tour guide on this preview of what we call your Million-Dollar Lifestyle . . . ” Valerie was now nestled inside of the limo. “As you know, we’re conducting a search for the most beautiful women of color. Those who are selected will be on their way to a most successful career in show business . . . ” A close-up showed Valerie’s upper body. She was snug while reaching out to accept a martini that was conveniently handed to her. She sipped and continued her dialogue.

“Whether it’s your dream to model, to dance, to appear in videos and movies, or to be seen in magazines or in our calender . . . Black Beauty is your ticket to a world of desires fulfilled.” The images on the monitors reflected snippets of a model’s photo shoot, an active photographer, as well as there was a syncopated rhythm of hip hop beats. Then the images showed exotic dancers while the camera panned from left to right. More sensual displays, a few dancers with provocative moves. The blitz was classy and surely tested the edge. There was Valerie, back in the spotlight, still in the limo. Now she had magazines and photo calendars in her hands. The hip-hop beats faded out.

“This is an idea whose time has come . . . and the opportunity is now available to women of color who are age 18 or older . . . ” Valerie put the items down at her side, picked up her bag, and the video cut to a view of the limo progressing around a circular driveway, until it parked in front of the entrance to a mansion. Valerie got out of the limo and walked through the front door which was simultaneously opened by a butler. The butler welcomed Valerie with a smile and a bow before she took a strut down a hallway, as if to walk straight though the mansion. Seconds later she emerged out back, approaching an in-ground pool, buxom as ever in a strapless 2-piece bikini. At the pool’s edge, she went on to say, “So what are you waiting for? Join me . . . dive in!!” Valerie took the dive into the pool and classical music accompanied her underwater image. The camera maintained focus on the distorted, watery view of her figure until she reached the opposite end of the pool to come up for air. Except now, the underwater image that appeared to be Valerie was actually Debbie, who came up for air as if by magic. At the pool’s edge, Debbie picked up where Valerie left off.

“Hi . . . I’m Debbie . . . ” And from there, the video depicted the man behind the plan, using his growth in the entertainment industry as leverage to further captivate viewers. Then there were images of construction workers laboring and building, and eventually the hard labor images were transcended by an artist rendition of the finished complex. Darryl smiled at his work as the video projected living conditions of comfort and luxury accommodations. Vacations, jewelry, celebrity events as well as other gifts and bonuses were projected as incentives. There were opportunities such as swimsuit videos, magazine layouts, modeling for TV and dancing in music videos. There were 8-hour work schedules, training, orientation and a fitness program to keep dancers in shape. There were also medical benefits and educational quarters for girls who maintained stability and growth as assets to the enterprise. Finally, aside from the weekly salary, there was a profit-sharing program that was available for all participants. All of these elements were detailed briefly; however, enough to paint a picture of organization and structure. At the end of the presentation, once the monitors went dark, the lights were turned up to a dim, gloomy level, and a strobe light was switched on and a multi-colored laserlight show began shooting streams and rays of color towards the platform. The horns and trumpets which introduced Cheryl Lynn’s “Got To Be Real” sounded off and the bass carried the electric vocals, turning the room into an instant club scene. One at a time, for about 3 intense moments a piece, Valerie, Mechelle and then Debbie came to life on stage for the all-female audience. The dancers seduced onlookers as they would a male audience, and it excited them even more to perform for their own sex. Leather and lace, chiffon and silk outfits wrapped in one way or another about their bodies, the girls advertised it, made their pitch and sold the exclusive exotic dance for inevitable applause. And that was the cherry on top. The presentation was over. The lights went back to full blast; Greg ended things by letting everyone know that decisions would be announced momentarily.

The room filled with high anxiety, with everyone wondering who would be chosen. At 11PM, conversations and murmurs carried on as the all day affair had reached its climax. The staff congregated in a semi circle, discussing selections and their whereabouts in the room.

Meanwhile, amidst the settling and adjusting, Debbie indicated to her homegirl Trina that she should meet her in the rear. Trina had her eyes on Debbie all the while, beckoning for her inside help, never missing a blink.

“So what’s it like?”

“Girl, if you only knew. I’m living large. And it keeps gettin’ larger by the day. For real, I feel like Cinderella. That’s how I’m livin’.”

“Wow . . . and that’s your man?”

“You could say that . . . but this thing ain’t like Chicago livin’. You know, like livin’ for yo man and all. I have a family now. A real-live, stick-by-my-side, extended family. And there’s not an empty spot in my soul.”

“Woo-woo-woooo . . .” Trina stared at Debbie like a movie star.

“Debbie, do you think they picked me?”

“I’ll just let you wait and see.” Debbie hid her grin and gave Trina a warm hug. Then she returned to Douglass’s side.

Hot as Hell

Friday, December 6th

Agents Walsh and Hammer took the information from Chief Washington and ran with it. Otherwise, they were getting nowhere. Having attended the Investor’s Day event got them nothing but a business plan and an eyeful of exotic dancers. They couldn’t figure out where Douglass disappeared to, but hung in there for the presentation anyway.

And now things were getting serious again. Another body. Tony the Crow was blackened to a crisp inside of The Pretty Girl and investigators were certain that it was arson. Almost a week after the fire and a tedious morning at the building department, the agents found the rightful owners of The Pretty Girl.

“Babe, could you please get that?” Pauly was down in the basement, fixing the hot water heater and shouting once he heard the doorbell a second time.

“Alright . . . alright already!” Mrs. Givanni was wrapped in a bathrobe, waking out of her lazy slumber. Her hair was wrapped in rollers and a freshly lit cigarette hung from her lips. She pulled the door open, already cringing in anticipation of the winter climate.

“Mrs. Givanni? This is Agent Olgenhiemer and I’m Agent Walsh [they both raised their slim wallets with credentials showing] with the FBI. We’d like to speak with your husband.”

“But moy husband already served his toyme . . .” The missus had a thick accent; like Popeye’s Olive Oil.

“Sorry, ma’am, this is unrelated to any past encounters. May we see your husband, please?” Walsh was direct, while Hammer kept a sharp eye inside the house. She let them in and showed them into the living room. Seconds later, the agents could hear arguing coming from the basement. Meanwhile, they couldn’t help but to notice the lacquered furnishings, mirrors, chandelier, and crystal. The carpet was plush and the couch was inviting. Certainly not the life of a criminal reformed. When the arguing from below subsided footsteps could be heard climbing from the basement. More mumbling. Hammer swore he heard a male voice demand, “Just keep your mouth shut!”

“Oh—hi.. What’s new?”

“Sir, this is Agent Olgen . . .”

“Hammer. Just call me Hammer.”

“And I’m Agent Walsh. We’d like to have a few words with you. Alone, if at all possible.” Pauly got the message and whispered to his wife. She begrudgingly went on her way, now puffing furiously at her cigarette.

Saturday, December 7th

Chucky Bianco was just 3 years into a lifetime bid. The B.O.P. had him buried in Marion, Indiana, under 23-hour-a-day maximum security lockdown. While the elder Bianco anticipated his appeal meeting with a favorable decision, his son Anthony, a headstrong bodybuilder, assumed his father’s role as the head of the family. Mob boss.

It was evening again, not necessarily the required setting for any such power meeting; it just so happened to work out this way. And also, this wasn’t just power. A man was killed; a Bianco solider. There were indications of a territorial violation behind this . . . a man down and a 900 G’s investment, all gone up in smoke.

A few earners stood by while, one by one, 4 weighted-down Lincoln town cars and two limos swooshed through the entrance, parking at various degrees in the open area of the warehouse. A plane could be heard taking off overhead since Newark Airport wasn’t far away. And that was a great edge for the big shipping business that the Biancos operated here.

A ballet of activity ensued; car doors opening and closing. Large and small suited men in dark colors and sunglasses decended on one particular area, the center of the warehouse. One of the men escorted a slinky white girl to the forefront.

“This is her, boss. Sally.” Sally looked a slight bit apprehensive standing more under the light than anyone else.

“Sally, we need to know exactly what happened . . .” Sally started slow, but eventually spilled it all; her evening of pleasuring Tony and the men she ran into in the dark driveway.

“Are you sure you heard somebody say kapish?”

“Yes,” she said, frightened.

Fat Jimmy wagged his head, and Bruno took Sally and put her in the back of a car.

“That does it. It’s definitely the Toccis . . .”

“How do you know, boss?”

“Because nobody uses ‘kapish’ any fuckin’ more. That’s Salvatore’s funny ways. Besides, Jimmy, didn’t you tell me that he had an issue about us being in New York?”

“Yep.”

“Well, now we got issues wit dem. Mikey . . . you take that girl somewheres. Keep her at your house if you have to. I don’t want her talking. I don’t want a word of this to reach the street. We got work to do. Now my pop always taught me, an eye for a fuckin’ eye! So, we’re gonna fight fire with fire. Those fuckin’ Toccis are gonna roast—Jimmy.”

“Yeah, boss. . . .”

“You sure that Black Beauty club is their thing?”

“Gotta be, boss. It makes sense. What kind of coincidence is it for our spot to catch fire out of nowhere and all of the sudden a brand-new club opens across the street. Across the fuckin’ street! It’s like they’re burnin’ us out and then pissin’ on our grave. I want revenge. And I want it now!!”

“Calm down, Jimmy. I call the shots here. I want revenge. And I want it now!!” Anthony had spoken.

“Cipriani.”

“Sir, we’ve got news . . . I think you should set up the three-way.”

“Okay. But I hope you’re not cryin’ wolf.” Cipriani put Walsh on hold and buzzed his boss, Bobby Zeal. Hammer was on an extension in the same office with Walsh.

“Okay, Walsh, Cipriani says this is urgent. Talk to me.”

“Sir, I’ve been keeping Mr. Cipriani updated all along about our movement on the Bianco-Gilmore associations. Recently there was a fire in the Bronx. It was a club called The Pretty Girl. We did some investigating and found that the owner was just a front. His name is Pauly Givanni, an ex-con who had done eight years up at Allenwood Penitentiary for embezzlement. We visited him and pressed him. He spilled the beans—told us about money laundering that he was carrying out for the mob and some other things. He’s laying sweet, up in a Scarsdale home . . . doesn’t want to go back to prison and agreed to testify against Anthony Bianco.”

“Theee Anthony Bianco?” Nobody could see it, but that buzz word made Bobby Zeal’s eyes light up. Bobby’s former boss, the U.S. Attorney whom he’d succeeded, was responsible for putting Chucky Bianco away. Now, Bobby could get the son! The next generation of mob bosses would be his before he even got his feet wet!

“Yessir! I believe we can meet the standards for racketeering, tax evasion, money laundering, wire fraud and extortion.”

“Well . . . now we’re finally getting somewhere. What about this Gilmore character? And the murder in the Bronx?”

“Sir, quite honestly we don’t see how that ties in. I’d like to say we made a mistake, as much as I don’t want to say it, but there’s still the issue about the dead dancer. It’s hitting too close to home. Too close to this case.”

“Well, I’ll think this over. You all keep an eye on things and I’ll see if we can get us a few warrants.”

Sunday, December 8th

It was almost cold enough to see spit freeze in mid air. The 1AM darkness seemed to make it that much colder. There was a gusty wind that changed directions and a sprinkle of snow was just beginning.

“There she is . . . let’s see if’n we can’t make ’er blacker than she is already.”

There were two town cars and a limo tailing them. All windows of the vehicles were tinted, but this was the same ole likely scene of a mob hit. There were 5 soldiers that got out of the town cars, easing the suspensions for the vehicles. All of the men were in black overcoats. Anyone who didn’t have a wool cap was a fool. They knew that Fat Jimmy was in the limo behind them and wondered if the boss was in the vehicle also. The team of mobsters were at the side of the building, on an off street from Boston Post Road. They faced the massive wall that was the side of the club. It was high enough to be 4 stories and wide enough to fill a half-city block. The men hadn’t been out of their vehicles for a minute when a fuel tanker snailed around the corner. Suddenly, it looked larger up close then it did traveling down the expressway. The driver was one of them, and seeing him brought on a smile or two—meaning the hijack went smoothly. The truck pulled up just towards the middle of the building, in the center of the street and ahead of the limos in audience on the adjacent curb.

The goal was simple . . . they would hose the building down and one match would send it into the depths of hell. The boss wanted a body, yes. But this was a start. And they might even get lucky.

“Alright, let’s do this fast,” Vinny announced.

“Pull that hose out,” Sergio added.

“Which hose?” asked Joey.

“Any . . . both of ’em!” Everyone seemed to be giving orders. Nobody knew how to work the valves, or that they were fucking with over 8,000 gallons of fuel. The truck carried 5,000 gallons of diesel and 3,000 gallons of gasoline. Angelo was one of the cocky ones who liked to throw his weight around. But all he had was fat surrounding his intestines, and besides that, ants probably got in and ate his brain cells.

Angelo pushed past Felix, who was holding one hose, and also Joey, who held the other. While Felix was careful to hold his hose in the direction of the building, Joey wasn’t embracing the nozzle tight enough. He was just pointing it at the ground, waiting for a disaster. Angelo was pressing buttons now, not sure which was which. He started to turn the lever, a steering wheel of a smaller kind. He turned it all the way—full blast—but nothing happened. He began pushing buttons again. Without a hose in his hand and with virtually nothing else to do, Sergio stood back, nearly a car length away, and lit up a cigarette.

Out of the corner of his eye (still pushing buttons all the while), Angelo caught the spark of light that flickered from Sergio’s match.

“PUT THAT SHIT AWAY, YOU FUCKING MORON!” Angelo yelled at Sergio like a football coach on the opposite end of the field, but his voice had scared Joey into seeing what Sergio was up to. When Joey turned, the hose also turned, and it was pointing in Sergio’s direction. It was just then that fuel jumped out of the hose all of a sudden. In a split second, fuel shot alongside of the tanker, out of the hose and onto Sergio’s overcoat.

The fuel splashed all over him.

The match he had tossed ignited the fluid.

Sergio lit up like a narrow flame.

He turned paranoid and ran to the left.

To the right, then left again.

While all of the gombada were amazed at the sensation of seeing Sergio blow up like a torch, they didn’t realize that the fire now spread along the ground. Joey had turned into a flamethrower. He stood still with his bulbous eyes turned to mirrors of fear. In that split second, Joey also became a moving torch as the flames engulfed him. He began to spin around like a bumper car shooting liquid flames in every direction. Now the flames caught Felix, whose hose was also spraying fuel, until all five men were on fire with hoses shooting flames everywhere. The fuel’s direction was as erratic as the screams and hollers that pierced the air. It shot out towards the limo and showered the cars with flames and a thin blanket of fuel. Bruno revved up the engine for a quick getaway. But before he could think, there was an eruption. The tank ignited and there was an explosion that could challenge a volcano blast. The tanker flipped, and all hell let loose at its rear. The long tube essentially took flight, rocketing through the air to hundreds of feet aboveground, until it fell and exploded a second time on the median of I-95. Every last animate or inanimate object in the wake of the explosion was caught in a furnace of fury, incinerated and left in ashes.

“Man, you can’t do with it . . . can’t do without it. This I-95 might be our bread and butter, but there’s not a week that goes by without a major backup.” The staff was returning from their Chicago promotion having just flown into LaGuardia, and they were looking forward to getting back to the townhouse. In the jeep, Demetrius drove, while Debbie, Mechelle, and Valerie were slumped against one another in the backseat. Darryl was in the far rear seats alongside of his video equipment, and Douglass was in the passenger’s seat co-navigating. It was Demetrius who suggested that they turn off of the throughway and Douglass who chose the side streets to take. He was leading in the direction of the club. Anxious to drive past; to see how far it had come along. But snow was beginning to fall, and even Boston Post Road, which ran parallel to I-95, was backed up. It was 2 in the morning and they agreed that later in the day would be better. So they widened their maze, and maneuvered down local streets of the Bronx until they reached the tip of Westchester County and inevitably, the town of New Rochelle. Ironically, the traffic jam kept them so far back on I-95, they never realized that the reason for the backup was an attempt to destroy the club.

Boston Post Road: Part Two

Monday, December 9th

Chief Washington was called at once, and he wasted no time in getting to the scene on that Boston Post Road side street. This event was definitely FBI-level-shit, he considered.

“What the fuck is going on around here, Sam. These are within a week of each other . . . tragedies . . . death. This area is like fucking Vietnam.”

“Chief, this could be some kind of accident . . . a fuel truck exploded.”

“Yeah, but this happened between one and two in the morning. Bodies are laying out like charcoal in the snow. Then you’ve got three bodies over in that limo laying on its side. That’s eight bodies. Call the feds in, Sam.”

By 8 AM, construction workers showed up to Black Beauty as usual. They were nearly a week into the job, yet they had finished so much. Where 10 or 15 workers might have worked on a nightclub contract, 134 were hired to expedite production. Dino was both diplomat and General in keeping pace and moving fast. His biggest concerns were the bar, the stages, the catwalks, the kitchen and the utilities. Everything else (he felt) would be simple, “usual” work. He also took photos as the work progressed. It started as one empty, cavernous building. Four walls, a roof and a cement floor. Big enough to be an airplane hanger, 10,000 square feet, in fact. But as the major construction took root, the venue developed some character. The centerpiece was similar to a giant hand with only three huge, extended fingers. At the base of the hand shape (where the palm might be), there was a massive attraction made of stones and artificial palm trees stretching up high into the air. Walking in the entrance of Black Beauty, the three fingers were actually three stages with services bars that ran along their perimeters. A brass pole was planted in each of three main stages. Elevated catwalks were everywhere in the complex; along the walls, across the center of the club and down the middle in the rear. Douglass envisioned a tropical atmosphere to emulate a reflection of paradise, something that the original Fool’s Paradise never accomplished. Aside from the main stages, there were seven others. They were round, and seats were built around them for exclusive audiences. Two of those round showcases were actual jacuzzis with their own light shows.

A food bar and café was situated at the far left. Five of the round stages were situated at the rear right, while two others were either at the front right or left. Also at the front right of the club, couches enclosed one stage and a back room where videos and specialty items were sold. Adjacent to that area, on the left, red velvet ropes enclosed the other stage and a series of tall and short cocktail tables and chairs.

Second level entertainment would be available in three corner VIP areas. The fourth corner, in the rear, was reserved as the deejay booth. Finally, there was a kitchen, dressing rooms with showers, a lounge for staff, two offices, a storage room, a coat room, a box office, and a few restrooms. Dino certainly had his job cut out for him, and all of his years of hospital construction would now pay off for something more personal. Once all of the major construction was completed, Dino figured to spend the last week installing the various electronics, TV monitors, touch screens, sound system, special lighting, video surveillance, glass and mirrors, more palm trees and plants, pool tables and the telephone system. Dino woke up every day with a hunger to do more and to do his best. For him, this was the job of a lifetime, where he couldn’t wait to get to work.

On the morning after the tragic explosion, Dino arrived to find the side street blocked off by police and roadblocks. First, he figured that the block was being checked for some kind of oil or gas leak. But closer investigation told him a horror-filled tale. The NYPD was there in force. The FBI agents were obvious in suits and ties. Outside of law enforcement, there was a tremendous black spot and black residue all over the street, the sidewalks, and the side of the building. Strewn about were bodies covered by white sheets. There were other areas with white chalk outlines that were illuminated brightly against the charred pavement. Across the street from the building were three overturned, blackened vehicles. Dino noticed that one was longer than the others, turned on its side. It looked like a bomb had exploded and left no survivors. Instantly concerned with what was happening inside, Dino raced into the entrance of the club. But it was business as usual. Contractors busy and on schedule.

“I’ll tell you what, Hammer. The bodies on the street are burnt to a crisp. But the bodies that were in the car are merely blackened. I’ve seen the photos on the wall back at the office day after day and week after week. I can ID those three like I can ID my own children. Bruno drives his boss around in the limo. The boss was Fat Jimmy and with them . . . Anthony Bianco.”

“You mean theee Anthony Bianco? The mob boss?”

“Yup. And Bobby-boy ain’t gonna like this—I promise you. He’d rather win a trial . . . a conviction. Put his ass in jail like his father. But he won’t get points for this.”

“What do you think happened, Walsh?” The two deliberated and tried to act authoritatively with all of the municipal cops watching every move. Meanwhile, inside Black Beauty, Dino was on the phone with Douglass giving him the full update.