Evan Hunter - Streets of Gold

Jesus, the things I remember!

Jesus.

It is the summer of 1941, and my brother has taken me to the Friday-night dance at Our Lady of Grace on 225th Street and Bronxwood Avenue. We are walking home together afterward. There are roses blooming everywhere. They line the fences outside the two-story houses as we walk in the balmy, scent-laden night.

My brother picks a rose and gives it to me.

The Masters At Forcing Independents to Acquiesence came around to see me in the fall of 1961. The man who ran the Chicago club in which I was playing was a hood. There are some nightclub managers or owners who tell you to play softer or louder or faster or slower or not at all, depending on what their drinking clientele is doing at any given moment, but Al Gerardi never bothered us. He was smart enough to know that we were riding a wave of popularity, and he wasn’t about to mess with music that was causing his cash register to jingle along in counterpoint. I almost liked him. When he said he wanted me to meet a few of his friends, I honestly thought they were fans.

We sat in Al’s office, and they introduced themselves as Arthur Giglio and Ralph Isetti.

“Is it true you’re Italian?” Isetti asked.

“That’s right,” I said.

“That’s what we heard,” Giglio said.

“That makes us ’paesani ,” Isetti said.

I said nothing.

“Your album’s doing pretty good,” Giglio said.

“It’s a nice album,” Isetti said.

“This guy Aronowitz,” Giglio said. “He’s your manager, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Who else does he handle?”

“Well, he’s got a long list of clients.”

“But you’re the biggest one, huh?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Sure, you’re the biggest. What do you want to stay with him for?”

“We’ve been together for a long time now. He’s a good manager. And also a good friend.”

“They only look out for themselves,” Giglio said. “The kikes.”

“My wife is Jewish,” I said.

“Yeah, we know,” Isetti said, and this was the first warning I had that trouble was on the way. I felt my scalp begin to tingle.

“Well,” I said, “I’d better get back outside.”

“No, don’t rush yourself,” Giglio said. “Al’s in no hurry. You ain’t in no hurry, are you, AT?”

Al, who had been silent till this moment, now said, “No, everybody’s happy outside.”

“Everybody’s happy in here, too,” Giglio said.

“We coulda sold a shit pot full of that album,” Isetti said. “That’s a nice album.”

“Victor’s doing a fine job,” I said.

“Victor who?”

“RCA Victor.”

“Oh, the record company, you mean. Yeah, but maybe you ain’t getting the right kind of jukebox distribution, you know what I mean?”

“We lifted three singles from the album, and they’re all doing fine on the jukes,” I said.

“They could be doing better,” Isetti said.

“We got a few record companies of our own,” Giglio said.

“We also got some hotels in Vegas.”

“And of course we could guarantee very good jukebox exposure. Much better than you’re getting now.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. I understood completely. They wanted to get into the dry-cleaning business.

“We’d like to manage you, Ike,” Giglio said.

“I’ve already got a manager.”

“Kiss him off,” Isetti said.

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Try. I’ll bet you could do it if you tried.”

“Why should I?”

“Because we can handle you better. We’re Italian, we understand you better. We like the way you play piano, Ike.”

“Well, I’m very flattered, but...”

“Don’t be so fucking flattered,” Isetti said. “We’re talking business here.”

“If you want to talk business, go see my manager.”

“We will. As soon as we settle this with you.”

“It’s already settled.”

“No, we don’t think so. Not yet, it ain’t settled.”

“Al, we’ve got paying customers out there,” I said. “If your friends are finished .. .”

“We ain’t finished,” Isetti said, “and the customers can wait.”

“Sixty-forty is the deal,” Giglio said.

“Look,” I said, “I’m satisfied with Victor, I’m satisfied with my manager...”

“And I’ll bet you’re also satisfied with Alice Keating,” Giglio said, and the room went silent.

“Yes,” I said. “She’s a very good flute player.”

“Especially the skin flute,” Isetti said, and the room went silent again.

“We’ve got pictures of you and Alice,” Giglio said.

“You like broads, huh, Ike?” Isetti said.

“We’ll get you plenty of broads, you like broads.”

“It’s too bad you’re blind,” Isetti said. “These are nice pictures.” I heard the sound of something being slapped onto the desktop. “It must be a real drag being blind, huh?”

“You can’t even see yourself in action when you’re blind,” Giglio said. “Take a look at those pictures, Al. Go ahead, open the envelope. We had them blown up eight by ten, Ike,” he said confidentially. “Take a look at them, Al. They’re nice pictures, ain’t they?”

Al moved to the desk. He was silent for several moments. Then he whistled softly.

“Listen,” I said amiably, “who do you guys think you’re kidding?”

“Oh, are we kidding somebody?” Giglio said.

“Gee, I didn’t know we were kidding,” Isetti said.

“What do you think of those pictures, Al?” Giglio said.

“Those are some pictures,” Al said.

“You got a nice shlahng for a blind man,” Giglio said. “Ain’t that a nice shlahng , Al?”

“Yeah, that’s a nice shlahng ,” Al said.

“She goes down on it nice, too,” Isetti said. “Almost like a pro.”

“I’ll bet your wife and kids would like to see how this girl plays flute, huh, Ike?”

“Maybe we ought to sign her too,” Isetti said, and they all laughed.

“This is all bullshit,” I said. “You haven’t got any pictures, and you’re...”

“We’ve got pictures, Ike,” Giglio said, and I knew they had pictures.

“We own that hotel you’re staying in,” Giglio said. “You know that mirror across from the bed?”

“How would he know where the mirror is? The man’s blind.”

“Well, there’s a mirror across from the bed,” Isetti said. “It’s a one-way mirror. Like the cops have. It comes in handy sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t ought to fuck in the daytime,” Giglio said.

“We wouldn’ta got no pictures if you fucked only at night.”

“Unless you kept the lights on.”

“He’s blind, what would he need the lights for?”

“What do you say, Ike?”

“Sixty-forty is the deal,” Isetti said.

I decided to pull rank. If there’s one thing Italians understand, it’s somebody telling them exactly who he is. In Italy, it is not uncommon to hear people in every walk of life indignantly demanding, “Do you realize who I am?” In Italy, this has become a joke. Even a street cleaner will get on his high horse and say, “Do you realize who I am?” Rank was very definitely the thing to pull. Who did these cheap hoods think they were fooling around with here? I was Dwight Jamison.

“Do you guys realize who you’re talking to?” I said.

“Yeah,” Giglio said. “We’re talking to Ignazio Silvio Di Palermo.”

“A ’paesano, ” Isetti said.

“A ’paesano who’s going to pick up the phone, and call the police, and tell them...”

“A ’paesano who’ll get his hands broken if he does, that,” Isetti said.

“You won’t break my hands,” I said.