Find Big Fat Fanny Fast (11 page)

CHAPTER 11

1962 — Year of the Tiger

Tony B was suddenly awakened early Sunday morning by a sharp kick in his side from his wife Ann. Since their wedding and the subsequent funerals of their fathers, Tony B and Ann had split their time between Tony B's two-bedroom apartment in Chatham Green and their lakeside house in Greenwood Lake. But since Ann was in the last month of her pregnancy, they stood in the city to be near Lenox Hill Hospital, where Ann's maternity doctor, Dr. Goldberg, did his extractions.

“It's time!” Ann screamed.

According to Dr. Goldberg, whom Ann had seen just yesterday, the baby was not due for at least another week.

Tony B sat up in bed. “It can't be time. The doctor said so yesterday.”

Ann was already out of bed and putting on her clothes. “He made a mistake.”

Tony B slipped off the side of the bed. “Some mistake.”

Tony B had never actually seen Dr. Goldberg, because every time he drove Ann to Goldberg's office on the Upper East Side, he had to sit outside in his car, either double-parked, or by a fire hydrant, so that he wouldn't get a parking ticket. It was almost impossible to park anywhere on the street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan during the week. Tony B's only alternative was to park in a parking lot, but there was no way was he going to put money in some creep's pocket just to park his freaking car. So he sat in his car and read a newspaper, ate a sandwich, smoked a cigar, or listened to the car radio, until Ann came back, usually about an hour later.

“I'd like to strangle that Dr. Goldberg,” Tony B said.

“Strangle him after I give birth,” Ann said. “Now get dressed and go get the car. I'll call the doctor and tell him we're on the way.”

It was a mid-summer night and the temperature had been in the humid 90's all week. Yet as Tony B glanced through his 10th floor bedroom window, it looked like a Key West monsoon outside. He quickly dressed, grabbed an umbrella and headed towards the front door.

“I'll meet you with the car downstairs in front of the entrance to the building,” Tony B said.

He took the elevator down to the ground floor and with a half-broken umbrella over his head, he sprinted to his car that was parked in the outdoor parking lot in front of the building.

In minutes, Tony B and Ann were on the FDR Drive heading north, in rain so hard, he could barely see ten feet in front of him. Good thing there was hardly any traffic on the road, or Tony B would have surely sideswiped another car.

He got off at the 61
st
street exit, hurried up First Avenue and made a left turn at 77
th
Street.

Lenox Hill Hospital was located on 77
th
Street between Lexington and Park. With the rain coming down in sheets, Tony B dropped Ann off right in front of Emergency. He watched as she staggered inside, while fighting off the slanting rain. Then he sped down the block, looking for a parking spot, which on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, was remotely possible in the middle of a weekend night.

He got about fifty feet from the emergency entrance, when suddenly someone wearing a raincoat and rain hat dashed between two parked cars and ran right in front of Tony B's car. Tony B jammed on the breaks. The car slid sideways, like a jackknife, almost hitting cars on both sides of the narrow one-way street. Tony B had barely clipped the pedestrian in the side, knocking his eyeglasses off his head. The jerk stopped right in the middle of the street, staring dumbly at Tony B, as the wind blew his hat off his bald head. The man cursed Tony B, grabbed his fallen hat and glasses, and without putting either back on, he rushed into the front entrance of Lenox Hill Hospital and disappeared.

Tony B got out of the car and cursed back at the bastard. Then rather than risk getting arrested for assault on the night his child was born, he got back into his car and drove away.

After about fifteen minutes of circling the streets, Tony B finally found a spot three blocks from the hospital. By the time he hiked it back, he was soaked, angry and itching for a fight.

The nurses directed Tony B to the expectant father's waiting room, which was nothing more than a small cubicle, with a few padded arm chairs scattered about, a small black and white TV in one corner and a candy machine in another.

When Tony B sat down, he noticed the big black and white hospital clock on the wall said 3:45 am.

The television was totally useless, since all six New York TV stations had closed down for the night and would not resume broadcasting until 6am. So Tony B closed his eyes and went to sleep. He dreamed about playing ball with his new son. Teaching him the rackets. How to calculate the vig. Shylocking points. Important things like that.

Then Tony B dreamed,
what if it were a girl?

He started to tremble in his sleep, when suddenly he was awakened by a shake from an ancient, fat nurse, with white hair sprouting out of a huge pimple on her chubby cheek.

“Wake up, Mr. Bentimova,” the nurse said. “The doctor has to see you immediately.”

Tony B looked at the hospital clock. It said 7 am.

Before he could wipe the cobwebs from his head, a bald-headed doctor wearing glasses walked into the room.

Tony B jumped from his chair. “It's you! You're the jerk I almost killed with my car in front of the hospital!”

Knowing full well about Tony B's reputation on the streets, the doctor feared the new father might do something reckless, like strangling the good doctor to death. Dr. Goldberg took a step back and hid warily behind the ancient, fat nurse.

Dr. Goldberg peeked from behind the nurse's right shoulder. “Mr. Bentimova, I have good news for you. You are the proud father of a bouncing baby boy.”

That said, the doctor rushed from the room, leaving Tony B alone with the nurse, who reminded Tony B of the nuns who used to crack his knuckles with a ruler, at good old Transfiguration Grammar School at 29 Mott Street.

“When can I see my son?” Tony B asked.

“Soon, Mr. Bentimova,” the nurse said. “First someone has to see you.”

The door of the father's waiting room opened and a tall, matronly-like hag, who looked more like a man, entered the room. She was holding a clipboard.

“Mr. Bentimova, I'm from accounting,” the woman said. “I'm here to discuss the payment of your bill.”

“Don't worry about the bill, “Tony B said. “I'm a member of the United Seafood Workers Union. Local 359. I'm fully covered.”

Tony B pulled out his wallet, found what he wanted, and handed his union membership card to the hag.

She copied down the information, then said, “Thank you Mr. Bentimova.” Then she did an abrupt about-face and exited the room, like she couldn't leave fast enough.

The ancient, fat nurse opened the door to leave. Tony B grabbed her arm. “When can I see my son?”

“Soon Mr. Bentimova,” she said. “A doctor will be here in a few minutes to assist you.” Then she exited the room too.

Tony B sat down and fumed.

A few minutes later, a tall elderly doctor, with an angular face and a nose the size and color of an apple, entered the room. He had the demeanor of a funeral director and Tony B soon found out why. The doctor was followed by a half dozen of New York's Finest.

Tony B stood up from the chair and put up his hands up in the air. “What is this? A bust?”

The doctor folded his arms in front of him.

“No, Mr. Bentimova,” the doctor said. “The police officers are here at my request.”

“So what's the problem?” Tony B said. “When can I see my son?”

“Soon, Mr. Bentimova,” the doctor said. His face remained impassive. As did the police officer's faces who were standing behind the doctor like they were ready to bum-rush a mountain of jelly donuts. “But first I have some bad news. Unfortunately, your wife passed away during childbirth.” The doctor paused. “I'm sorry. We tried to save her, but there was nothing we could do.”

Tony B felt the room spinning. Suddenly, he shrieked and lunged forward, surrounding the doctor's throat with both hands and squeezing so hard the doctor's eyeballs looked like they were ready to pop from his head. Six angry cops sprung forward.

In seconds, the lights went out for Tony B.

CHAPTER 12

Junior Bentimova – 1985

Tony Bentimova Jr., called Junior by everyone in the Lower East Side, knocked on the 6
th
floor apartment door, in the K Building of Knickerbocker Village, a 1400-family, state-subsidized housing complex, located on Monroe Street, one block north of the East River and directly between the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges.

Knickerbocker Village consisted of one set of six roof-connected and cellar-connected buildings, and one set of six cellar-connected and five roof-connected buildings, surrounding two courtyards. The K Building at 18 Monroe is the shorter building and not connected by roof to the other five buildings in its courtyard. This was good news for Junior, since his present prey could not escape by running up to the roof and down the elevator of another building. There was two seventy five-foot ladders running from the K building's roof to the roofs of the adjoining buildings four floors above. But even a monkey would be dead if he tried to escape by climbing those steep ladders in a rush, with someone chasing with a nasty weapon.

Just in case, Junior had two of his trusted pals, Nicky Knuckles and Billy the Blade, situated respectively on the ground floor of the K building by the elevator, and on the roof. Even though the K Building's roof did not connect to the roofs of the buildings on either side, someone on the roof of the K building, could break a window on the tenth floor of an adjoining building and escape through that apartment. This trick had been done in the past, so Junior wasn't taking any chances. For this reason, Junior had a walkie-talkie in his back pocket, as did his two pals situated top and bottom.

No one was answering Junior's knock on the door and this did not please Junior very much. Junior was now the chief collector for his father Tony B's bookie and shylocking operations and any disrespect for Junior was a reflection on his father, who was still the Boss of Bosses in New York City, but was so on very shaky ground. Not only was Tony B being challenged by certain Italian bosses and underbosses, but now the Chinese gangs were calling Little Italy their turf and were starting to squeeze the profits right out of Tony B's pockets.

In fact, the creep whose door Junior was presently knocking on, was a Chinaman himself, or Chinese/American if you prefer, who had run up a gambling debt of twenty G's with Tony B's bookmaking business. So Tony B, being the kind and considerate gentleman that he was, lent Norman Chung the twenty grand to pay off his gambling debt with Tony B, at three points a week, of course. Meaning Norman had to come up with six hundred bucks a week, just to stay current, which did not even one penny come off the top of the original twenty grand loan. So basically the deal was this: Norman had to pay six hundred bucks a week until he could come up with twenty G's cash all at once to settle the debt. And fortunately for the lender, in this case Tony B, this could take longer than forever.

The word out on the streets was that Norman was screwing Tony B bigtime, by now gambling with the Chinese bookies on Mott Street. And to make matters worse, Norman had conveniently forgotten to pay the twelve hundred clams he had owed Tony B for the previous two weeks.

Tony B had told his son, “Give the Chinks an inch and they'll take over the entire Lower East Side of Manhattan.”

Which in fact, was almost already the case.

One more knock on the door with no answer and Junior was fuming. Just as he was about to start kicking the door in, Norman opened the door a bit, with the slip chain still in place.

“Yes, can I help you?” the Chinaman bastard said.

Junior pushed on the door, causing the chain to creak. “Don't give me that bull. Where's my twelve hundred bucks?”

Norman smiled with cigarette-stained teeth. “Oh, is it that time again? One second and I'll get you the cash from my safe.”

Junior pushed the door harder. “Unlatch the chain. I don't want to wait in the hall.”

A few seconds later, Norman did what Junior asked and Junior entered the apartment. He came face to face with the business end of a 38 caliber, snub-nosed revolver which Norman pointed callously at Junior's chest.

“Screw you and screw your father,” Norman said. “You ain't getting paid. You're getting beat. Understand? I'm with Hung Far Low and he said you and your father can go screw yourselves.”

Now this was not something Junior had liked to hear very much. Hung Far Low was the Mayor of Chinatown and the Boss of Bosses of the numerous Chinese gangs, triads, or whatever the heck the Chinks were calling themselves these days. Tony B and Hung Far Low had an uneasy truce in place the past twenty years. But as the Italians started moving out of the neighborhood, were being killed, or sent to prison, the Chinese had surpassed the Italians in street soldiers and in firepower.

The only good news at the moment for Junior was that because of their slanted eyes, the Chinese were the world's worse shots and could only shoot their intended target by accident, as they sprayed their nines in restaurants and sometimes on the crowded Chinatown streets, killing scores of innocent people. So as Norman pointed his gun, Junior was thinking, “
If I rush this Chinaman, there's a 50/50 chance he will miss me completely.”