Joe Gores - Menaced Assassin

He had killed twice more, but only to show he had coglioni, quello! — big enough balls for the Pittsburgh underworld. After those three, he had never personally killed again, which meant his brains were as big as his balls. Martin Prince had never spent a night in jail, and had made a solemn vow to himself that he never would.

That was why he was phoning certain specific invitations for purposes having nothing to do with the mini crime summit he had decided St. John’s phone call demanded. Should the FBI be somehow listening this fine day, they would get nothing useful.

After speaking with Salvador Madrid, whom he had opposed for the council but had been overridden, his last call was to Enzo Garofano, one of the old-timers whose advice he valued and who still ran his own quadrant of the nation at the age of eighty-two. A little frail, perhaps, but only of body, not of mind or will.

Enzo’s passion was Italian opera, so Prince said, “Don Enzo, vi aspetta una cosa favolosa nel Showcase Lounge del casino, Abbiamo una nuova cantatrice.”

“Martin, io le cantatrici le sento ogni giorno.”

“Non come questa, vi assicuro. E meglio di Callas.”

“Meglio di Callas non c’e.”

But Martin Prince knew he had the old Mustache Pete in his pocket. Just in case the girl in the Showcase Lounge was as good a singer as Maria Callas the fiery Greek had been, Don Enzo would not be able to keep himself from coming to Vegas. Prince switched to English.

“That is why I implore you, Don Enzo, come and hear her for yourself. I insist on sending my jet to pick you up.”

Enzo agreed. Prince hung up and went to the window and looked out at his city. His city. Bugsy Siegel might have built it, but Martin Prince ran it-and would have called Bugsy “Bugsy” to his face if the stronzo had been around today.

Prince’s name had once carried extra syllables; after his father had somehow scraped up enough money to send little Marcantonio Princetti to St. Paddy’s across the river, rhymes with spaghetti had been the schoolyard taunt of the predominantly Irish lads at the school.

Sweeney.

Kiley.

O’Malley.

He’d never forgotten these ringleaders of the taunts during his formative years, so just about the time the extra syllables had been dropped to make Marcantonio Martin, faith an’ be jaysus, and those poor Irish boyos each had a wee drap o’ bad luck.

Martin Prince had never called to gloat. He’d never had to. They knew. At least Sweeney and Kiley did. O’Malley didn’t know much of anything anymore except how to piss down his pant leg. None of them could ever do anything about their misfortunes, but they would know.

Respect. Enzo Garofano still held his important meetings in the back room of an Italian restaurant, but he got respect. Martin Prince demanded it too. But on a much grander scale and with great personal pride in the safety measures that were his secret passion. He believed in careful evaluation and planning, and had a great deal invested in Atlas Entertainment; the company’s continued profitability depended on its connection with the Mafia remaining secret.

He met the four undercapos in the executive boardroom on the top floor of his Xanadu Enterprises hotel, casino, sports and entertainment complex. The three who were associated in greater or lesser degrees in the Atlas Entertainment affair, and the fourth, Spic Madrid, who was not involved but would serve as protective coloration should the feds belatedly realize these men were in Vegas for more than pleasure. Others might meet in a drafty warehouse or upstairs over a pizza joint; Martin Prince had flown in an interior decorator from Via del Babvino to furnish the suite with exquisite appurtenances from declining Roman estates and a lighting system developed in Cine Citta.

Prince had imported San Francisco’s most famous private detective to oversee the security arrangements. The place was swept twice daily for bugs, and waves of electronic vibrations washed inaudibly across the surfaces of the windows during meetings, so the latest laser mikes couldn’t pick up voice-shimmers off the glass and turn them back into human speech through a complicated electronic process.

“Enzo, mio caro amico. La cantatrice e brava, no?”

The old man nodded his seamed and shrunken head. Even in Las Vegas he wore a wool suit, vest, tie, polished shoes.

“Maria Callas- mai! But a good opera singer…” He shrugged and made a gesture of approval with the fingers of his hand pinched together at the tips. “You should encourage her.”

“Perhaps, Don Enzo, you would like to tell her personally how much you enjoyed her singing…”

By the look on Don Enzo’s face, he knew he had made the perfect suggestion. He would make a couple of suggestions to the cantatrice, too. What the hell, he owned her contract.

He turned to Salvador “Spic” Madrid, who controlled street drug sales in four upper Midwest states and had recently been elevated to the board after winning a rather messy internecine war on his own cold northern turf.

“Salvador-you find the floor shows pleasing?”

Spic couldn’t quite keep the gleam out of his eyes.

“Magnifico!” he exclaimed. “Last night… there was one blond showgirl… she looked seven feet tall…”

They all carefully laughed with him, not at him. Martin Prince nodded sagely. “I believe she might be waiting in your suite when this meeting is over.”

Spic tried to look man-of-the-world, but his eyes had gone round at the prospect of feasting on a woman two feet taller than he, one who outweighed him by fifty pounds and carried no extra flesh at all except where it counted.

To give Spic time to recover his poise without anyone seeming to be overtly aware he had lost it, Gid Abramson chirped up, bright as a bird.

“Martin, that golf course! It is a dream, a treasure! I almost had a hole in one on my first round!”

“And your stud farm is impeccable,” said Otto Kreiger. He sincerely meant it-and lusted after it. If Martin should ever stumble, Kreiger would pick up the pieces. If he stuck out a foot for Prince to trip over, Kreiger wondered, would he have any allies on the board to help him take over?

After the waiters had brought drinks and had departed, Martin Prince pushed a button to play back his phone conversation with Skeffington St. John.

“Mr…..Mr. Prince, this is Skeffington St. John-”

“Skeffington! Always a pleasure.”

“I thought I should notify you-that policeman from San Francisco was here yesterday. Dante Stagnaro. Trying perhaps to enlist me by suggesting that the Organization might be involved with Atlas Entertainment and also… also with… Molly’s, ah… my daughter’s, ah…”

“With the death of your daughter? My God, man, I felt about Molly just as I do about my own daughter!”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Prince, I understand that totally! But I felt you should know so appropriate actions could be taken.”

“Well, Skeffington, I want to thank you, and tell you again how keenly I feel for you in your loss. I hope to get you over here to Vegas soon, cheer you up a bit.”

“Then you don’t think-”

“That this Stagnaro is anything to worry about?” Martin Prince chuckled. “He knows Gounaris is connected to Atlas Entertainment, and he knows you are. But he doesn’t know any of you are connected to us. And he won’t know.”

“But the things he said about my daughter-”

“He’s just manipulating you, Skeffington. Shaking the box to see if anything rattles.” He added, with malice too delicate to be identified, “Unless you can think of something in your personal life that makes you vulnerable…”

“Oh, no, no, there’s nothing like that, Mr. Prince.”

“Then don’t give him another thought,” said Prince heartily. The tape clicked off. There was a long silence.