Standing at the Scratch Line (23 page)

There were assents all around the table. Small pieces of paper were passed out and each man wrote in a name. It was a formality. Everyone knew that Antonio had enough votes to take the position as Don. He had started lobbying quietly for position as soon as Don Vito had spoken. Oscar Bonaviti read the results. There were six votes for Antonio and one for Don Pascarella, which meant that someone had voted for the Minetti family to merge with the Pascarellas.

Don Antonio stood up and pointed to Marco Volante. “Get out! I don’t trust you and you won’t be part of my inner council!”

“You’re wrong, but I guess in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king!”

Don Antonio started around the table, his face purple with rage. “I’ll kill you myself, you impudent dog! You’ll never insult a Minetti again!”

Don Fredo Pascarella stood up, his silver hair shining in the light. “Don’t let your temper rule your thinking, Don Antonio. Remember, you are now the leader of the family! You do nothing with your own hands that would endanger the leadership of your family! You think and rethink every decision to ensure the welfare of your family! These things you know. You must now apply them.”

Don Fredo ruled one of the larger branches of the sprawling interrelated Minetti family, and though he did not wield the power of Don Vitorio, he was a man to be respected and feared. Even Don Antonio, with his new authority, knew that he did not want to come into conflict with Don Fredo during the first days of his reign.

Don Antonio was stopped in midstride. He realized he was on the brink of losing face. “Take this fool out of my sight before . . . before I have to do something he’ll regret!”

“I think I can find him a position with my cousin in Chicago,” Don Fredo said smoothly. “I can understand your distrust, Don Antonio, and certainly he should not be part of your council. If his father had not been a long and loyal soldier for me, I would not now make this effort, but I owe the memory of his father at least this.”

As Don Fredo and Marco Volante were gathering their coats to depart, they heard Don Antonio give his first orders. “I want the owner of that building dead by tonight! We’re going to hit the Milanos with everything we have. We’ll write the name of Minetti in their blood!”

Later, in the car with Marco, Don Fredo said, “You did two extremely foolish things today, Marco. First, it was stupid of you to insult Don Antonio. He will remember it and, when time permits, attempt to exact his vengeance. I thought you had been trained better than to make unnecessary enemies.”

“Pardon me, Don Fredo, but he has always disliked me. He is not a new enemy.”

“But now you have given him an excuse to seek you out.” Don Fredo patted Marco’s leg. “You must never give a man who has been accorded the position of Don a reason to look in your direction in anger.”

“Thank you, Don Fredo. I will not make that mistake again,” Marco said humbly. “You said I had done two stupid things, Don Fredo. What was the other?”

“Voting for me of course,” answered the Don gruffly.

“But I voted for you because I thought you would be the best leader for the family. Don Antonio will just lead us blindly into a war. I thought that others would vote along with me.”

“Then you didn’t do your homework. Everyone knew that Antonio had the votes, so they voted for the man who would win. They did not expose themselves or their loyalties, nor will they be regarded with suspicion. I could have taken the vote if I had been foolish, but I knew that Antonio would attempt to fight if he was not elected. I could not afford to fight both the Milanos and Antonio, so I conceded without argument.”

Marco was unable to contain himself. “But this war with the Milanos was started by blacks. We need not lose more lives—”

“I know that!” Don Fredo said sharply. “What you do not realize is that this war is good for us. First, we are stronger than they are. Don Vitorio had been preparing for a long time for this war. We are ready. The second reason is that there may be many casualties. In war there are many opportunities to reward brashness with its due.”

“I hope that I will be around to see it,” Marco said with a smile.

“You will not, if you value your life,” Don Fredo advised. “You will go to my cousin’s in Chicago after you have taken care of these blacks. I will give you whatever you need, but I want it done quietly. I have no wish to explain to the new Don what we’re doing. So, no blown-up buildings, no firebombed cars. Only bodies. Bodies are always being found in Harlem. You have ten days, no more.”

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King was at Mamie’s apartment when Smitty brought him the news that Professor had been shot outside the Rockland Palace. King and Mamie were just about to sit down to eat her home-cooked smothered chicken with gravy and biscuits. It was going to be a quiet evening for both of them. The mood was romantic: there was a Bessie Smith record playing on the phonograph and lighted candles on the tables. The ambience was disrupted by an insistent knocking at the front door. Mamie stood still by the table, a frightened look on her face, her body trembling. King moved swiftly and silently, collecting his pistols and checking his double-barreled shotgun. He blew out the candles, turned the light off in the kitchen, and then stood next to the window, peering down at the street below. There was no evidence of unusual activity.

The knocking continued. The apartment was in darkness except for the pale light that glimmered through the lace curtains. King picked up his shotgun and crept over to stand beside the door. He beckoned to Mamie to speak.

“Who is it?” Mamie squeaked, her throat so tight she almost couldn’t speak.

“It’s me, Smitty! I got to talk to King!”

“You by yo’self, Smitty?” King asked through the crack of the door.

“Yeah, man! I knows I’s interruptin’ but, man, somethin’ bad’s happened!”

King cocked both barrels of his shotgun and opened the door.

A flood of light from a bulb in the hallway washed away the darkness of the apartment. As Smitty rushed in King stepped out and checked the hallway and the stairs, then returned to the apartment. As he closed the door, he spun on Smitty. “What the hell do you think you’s doin’ bangin’ on my do’ like that?” he growled, staring at Smitty’s eyes.

“Professor been shot!” Smitty blurted out. “We was at that charity thing that Professor helped organize at the Palace for his church. When we came out, some white mens was waitin’ for us in a car in front of the Palace! They used machine guns! We’d all be dead if Cap hadn’t thrown a hand grenade on ’em!”

“Where’s Professor now, and how bad is he?” King demanded while putting away his shotgun. He pulled the pistols from his belt and donned his holster and jacket.

“At the colored hospital, Saint John’s of Zion. They got that good colored doctor, you know that old one—I can’t remember his name. Anyway, they say Professor’s got a chance, but he been gut-shot. So, I don’t know. And Professor’s actin’ crazy too; he won’t even let them give him no morphine.”

“Long as he’s alive, he’s got a chance!” King asserted. “I’m goin’ there right now!”

“But what are we gon’ do? They know who we is!”

“Anybody else hurt at the Rockland?” King asked, ignoring Smitty’s question.

“Yeah, they shot some big-time society white people! I think they got more’n a couple of colored folks too! I know Wilkie, the doorman, got hit in the leg!”

“How you know it was you they was after?” King asked as he pulled all the shades on the windows.

“They was lookin’ directly at us! They shot them other people ’cause they was behind us when we ducked. We was lucky! I just got nicked here an’ here.” Smitty indicated the side of his rib cage and his outer arm. “Cap came up on the car from the street side and shot the driver and then dropped the hand grenade in there sweet as pie.”

“Then the people makin’ the hit is all dead?” King asked, lighting a cheroot. He quickly went through a methodical check of his guns.

“Yeah, they was blowed up!”

“Then ain’t nobody told nobody exactly who was hit. We got time to hit them back! Twice over!” He turned and walked toward the bedroom. “Mamie, I want you and Leah to take a couple of suites at the Theresa Hotel and wait there for me and Big Ed.”

Mamie opened the door. “Where are you going?”

“I’m gon’ go see Professor and then meet with the boys. Don’t worry. Everything is gon’ be alright!”

“Please don’t treat me like a fool,” Mamie said without rancor. “Tell me why I have to stay at the Theresa. Who should I be afraid of?”

“The Minetti family may have identified us. If that’s so, it’s only a question of time ’til they find this place. Now, I got to go!”

On the way down the staircase King directed Smitty to contact the whole team for a meeting at midnight at the warehouse that had been rented at the edge of Harlem. He also told him to have Big Ed meet him at the hospital. Smitty nodded quietly and drove off.

When King entered the hospital he did so through the delivery entrance. Although the drive to the hospital was uneventful, he saw no reason not to take precautions. He inquired as to Professor’s location at the registration desk. He was given a ward number by a crisp young dark brown–skinned woman dressed in a heavily starched white uniform. She gave him directions quickly and efficiently then returned to her filing. He made his way to the third floor ward and entered a huge room with beds in rows along the walls as well as in the center of the ward. King walked down the aisles between the beds, looking both left and right for the shine of Professor’s glasses. Near the back of the ward, there was a row of beds screened off from the rest by curtains. King saw a couple of nurses and a doctor standing outside one particular curtained-off bed and went to speak to them.

King waited for a break in the conversation and then politely asked, “Pardon me. I’m lookin’ fo’ my friend, Darwin Morris. I was told he was on this ward.”

“He’s over there,” a nurse answered. She gestured to one of the enclosed beds. King nodded his thanks and walked over to the enclosure.

Professor’s face seemed ashy pale when King entered the curtained area around his bed. He did not have on his glasses and his eyes looked unfocused. A low-wattage bulb hanging high overhead cast dim light on the bloodstained bandages and bedding around Professor. Everything looked dirty and unwashed. King gritted his teeth and tried not to show his anger. As sweat beaded on Professor’s forehead and trickled down his cheeks, he smiled at King weakly and struggled to mask the pain.

King stepped outside the curtains and saw the nurses in an argument with the doctor and a security guard. King walked swiftly over to them. The conversation stopped when he neared. King strode up to the doctor. “Get my friend in a private room and make sure he gets first-class attention, startin’ now! Money ain’t no obstacle! I’ll pay whatever is necessary!” He took out a money clip with a thick wad of bills and held it up for the medical staff to see.

“We have procedures here,” the doctor answered tiredly. “Just because some country hick comes in waving money, we don’t go run—”

King slapped the doctor and knocked him backward. “You supposed to be here savin’ lives, Goddamn it! And you best put yo’ foot forward now! My friend is dyin’ while talkin’ is goin’ on! He needs medical attention now!” King looked beyond the doctor to the security guard. The guard was a big man, taller than King and stocky, but he showed no interest in taking the doctor’s side. King opened his jacket and exposed his pistols. He looked at the guard. “What are you gon’ do?”

“Nothin’, Mr. Tremain. I’s just tryin’ to do my job. I ain’t lookin’ fo’ no trouble.”

“You know me?” King demanded, a little surprised.

“Yes, suh. Least ways, I seen you at the Rockland Palace. I knows you is one of the owners of the Rockland Palace. Yes, suh, I heard of you.”

“Things is about to get hot!” King advised. He turned to the medical staff. “I need to see some action!” King pulled a bowie knife from a sheath at the small of his back. The nurses gasped when they saw the glint of the blade. The doctor flinched as King put the knife against his neck. “I’m prepared to kill and die for what I want. Are you?” King asked him. The doctor shook his head worriedly.