Dinner With The Mafia

“He was worried about his son, Benito. No, not worried. He was terrified that his boy would end up like him. As he'd sworn to his wife on her deathbed, he made me swear that I would never, ever tell Benito about him and that he would never have anything to do with the 'family'. He told me that not knowing would protect him. So I made that promise.”

Finished with his monologue, Joe punched the table hard, making the three men jump. “And now I'm asking you to do the same! Swear on your cousin's corpse that you will respect his last wish. Swear it!” They hesitantly stood up, looked surreptitiously at the dead body of their cousin and one by one, swore themselves to secrecy.

It was Johnny who broke the silence, formulating the question that he, more than anyone, wanted to ask. “So now that we've all sworn our honor, did he tell you where the loot is?”

The other two men shook their heads, appalled at Johnny's disrespect and materialism. Frank, especially offended, said, “You never change! How can you think of money at a time like this?”

Johnny didn't even try to justify himself. He just carried on accusing Frank of being a hypocrite. “What do you want from me? Don't tell me that you're not thinking the same thing?”

Joe held up his hand to stop the argument. “Let him ask, he has every right. Business is business. I only wanted you to swear on your honor, and you did.”

They all held their breath, waiting for what was to come.

Frank urged him on, “So? What did he say?”

Joe turned and stared at Carmine. “You know, Carmine, before he passed away, he mentioned you a few times and then he stammered his final, delirious words just before he died.”

Carmine was surprised that Angelo had thought of him at the moment of his death. “Joe, what words?”

“Words?” asked Joe, looking as dazed and confused as ever, paused as if trying to remember something. “He said, 'the diamonds… the key… the angel.'.”

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” asked an exasperated Carmine, with no thought at all to foul language.

A roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightening illuminated the tableau: the lifeless face of “The Comedian” went aglow for the last time, displaying a strange grimace that no one was likely to ever forget.

Chapter 1

Thirty-three years later

There are times when you suddenly feel that inexplicable, magical, electric moment where you know that your life is about to radically change forever, for the better. Some have experienced this feeling upon hearing their newborn's first cry; for others, the sound of the clerk tearing off a thick strip of colorful winning lottery tickets; or at the altar, feeling that thrill when your bride pronounces “I do”, even if that prelude to your happiness will require confirmation later down the road.

Whatever it is and wherever it happens, the fact is, if you're able to hear that enchanting little voice, it doesn't always mean that you will be able to associate it to the actual circumstances. There is always a risk that your mind will alter and transform how the events truly played out.

Completely by surprise, on the day of his thirty-fifth birthday, that little voice boldly made itself heard in Ben's mind, whose given name was Benito (a great source of embarrassment to him). What he thought he was hearing, was in reality, what he wanted to hear; his big moment had finally come. According to Ben, this was the moment he would be launched to stardom.

He sat excitedly in front of the mirror of his squalid, third-rate dressing room, not bothered in the least by his dreary surroundings. This was part of paying his dues, the price that all artists happily pay. At least that's what he was counting on.

“You're on, Ben. Concentrate and do your best. All the fame and success that you've always dreamt of are about to come true. The audience is waiting and they expect the best of the best. You gotta blow 'em away, but keep 'em on the edge of their seats. You want them begging for more, so they don't know if they should applaud you or just listen. Your father will be proud of you! Knock 'em dead. You can, you…”

The monologue was abruptly interrupted by two men entering the dressing room. One was Karl Grimm, the manager who had interviewed Ben for the job. The other guy, heavyset with a greasy beard, must have been the owner. Completely oblivious to his own rudeness, he pointed his finger at Ben and said, “Who the hell is he talking to? I told you he looked like a moron.”

Unsure if he should defend Ben or be seriously worried, Karl decided to intervene. “He's an artist. He was rehearsing, right?”

Frightened, Ben stuttered, “Y-ya… sure, I was… was rehearsing, sir.”

It was an awkward moment, the three of them staring at each other in silence with Ben's eyes darting between the two men, hoping for some kind of signal. The situation was uncomfortable and he didn't dare speak, while at the same time worried that he would appear incompetent.

The owner finally broke the silence. After readjusting his ridiculous toupee and lighting his smelly cigar, with an air of provocation he said, “I don't see the showgirl. Where's the showgirl?”

“What showgirl?” asked Ben, taken aback.

“Whaddya mean, 'What showgirl'? The one with the big tits and her ass hanging out. What are ya, a queer? For fifteen years, I been payin' that dried up magician, Jeff McPride, who couldn't get a trick right if his life depended on it, only because he brought a floozy every night. Now I'm asking you, where's yours?”

The man stared hard at Ben, like a bulldog ready to attack. Luckily, Karl stepped in, in an attempt to subdue him. “Bill, relax. The kid is good, trust me. About the girl, you can't see her because…,” Karl cleared his throat, stalling for time while trying to catch Ben's eye to let him know that he was on his side, “…here's why, he wants to bring her on as a surprise! Ya, it's a surprise. He wanted to make a good impression, a great impression, eh! Eh?” Making a vulgar hand gesture, he burst out in laughter, goading Bill with his elbow.

It took him a few seconds, but finally Bill snorted with laughter, too, ending with a phlegmy and hacking cough. For a minute, Ben thought his boss was going to collapse dead on the floor just before he was about to go on stage. Karl saved the day, pulling out a flask and making him drink until he stopped spluttering. Still out of breath, Bill carried out his warning, “All right, do your damned performance, but I hope for your sake that there'll be plenty of female flesh, otherwise I'll personally kick your ass out of every club in New York! Understood?”

While Ben listened with shock to what seemed like absurd ranting, he caught a glimpse of Karl's hands shooting up behind Bill's gigantic bulk, signaling him to be calm. So he didn't utter a word, only nodded his head repeatedly in affirmation to Bill's request.

The smelly and sloppy boss finally left, leaving him disheartened and at the mercy of Karl's false smile. “Would you explain what I'm supposed to do now? Where in the heck am I going to find a… an… assistant? What do I need an assistant for anyway?” he whispered worriedly.

“Don't worry about it. Relax. I've already got an idea how to save the cow and the cabbage.”

“The cow? The goat and cabbage, not the cow!” said Ben.

“Who cares? Same thing, they're all animals. Anyway, listen, I want you in top form. Don't think of anything except the show. And above all, relax.”

Karl's words seemed to have the desired effect. “You're right, all I have to do is stay focused and give them an unforgettable show. You'll see, I won't need any half nude woman on the stage,” said Ben. So he straightened his jacket, licked his fingers and combed his eyebrows and took one last look in the mirror, feeling satisfied with his appearance and sure of himself.

The manager watched Ben and decided that he was going to be all right. Just as he was about to leave the dressing room, he asked him the question he was dying to know. “By the way, do you use a rabbit or a dove in your show?”

Ben's explosion was more visual than verbal; his big, green eyes turned into red spheres ready to pop out of his head. Enunciating through clenched teeth, he said, “I. Am. A. Stand. Up. Comedian. A showman. I don't use a rabbit, let alone a dove. Listen up, I'm not a damned magician! You got that?”

Karl realized that Ben's outburst had cleared the kid's head of any nervousness that had been building up till then. “All right already, you're not a magician. No need to lose your cool. You artists are all a bunch of weirdoes. Go figure…” He limped off, grumbling all the way.

The last hard jazz notes of the piano played away, mixing with the stale air in the club. The ventilator was probably broken again, but that didn't seem to bother anyone. The feeble applause coming from who knows where, accompanied the indignant musician off the stage with him not even bothering to look at the public.

From the dusty red slit in the curtain that had swallowed up the exiting musician, the smiling head of Karl Grimm appeared, followed by the rest of him, decked out like a circus ringleader.

He took off his flashy and inappropriate top hat and took a deep bow to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause to our great Albert Alba for his amazing piano exhibition.”

The only response was a loud thud from a drunkard who had fallen unconscious off his chair. His white t-shirt slipped up, leaving his huge belly exposed as it swayed back and forth like a mass of jelly, none of which appeared to disturb anyone in the club.

“I know you've all been waiting impatiently for our great Jeff McPride to amaze you with his magic, just like every Wednesday. Unfortunately, something a little unexpected came up, so this evening he won't be able…”

Karl was suddenly called backstage. He peeked through the curtains to speak with his assistant and then stepped back to his place on the stage wearing a concerned expression on his face. “Ah! I see… ladies and gentlemen, I've just been informed that the little 'something unexpected' has transformed into fulminating cirrhosis of the liver. God rest his soul. Now I would like all of you to join me in memory of this great artist, who gave us his last magic trick, disappearing from this world only to reappear on the other side. I would ask for five minutes of silence to commemorate him, but I know time is precious, so we'll just do five seconds. I know he would have done the same for all of you…” During the five seconds, a few knocked on wood, but most chose to avoid any bad luck by touching something else a little more explicit.

“All right. For one great man who has left this stage, let's make room for another artist, of whom I'm sure you will all grow very fond of. It is my honor to present Ben Santini!”

Ben made a shy appearance, encouraged by Karl's energetic applause that filled the embarrassingly lifeless silence of the club.

“One last thing before I leave him to it.” Karl leaned toward the audience and held his hand next to his mouth, and whispered loudly, “He's a good kid, but whatever you do, don't call him a magician! He's a tiny bit sensitive.”

Resigned to his fate, Ben tried to display his best smile. “Hey everyone! My name's Ben, Ben Santini. And as Karl, our Master of Ceremonies mentioned, I'm here tonight to give you a couple of laughs, even if Jeff McPride's unexpected passing has certainly upset you, as I can see. All right! Enough sadness now. If you're here tonight, then you're here to party, enjoy some good company, have a drink… even if Jeff had done his share of that, just like that guy over there laying on the floor. I guess he's gotten plastered one too many times. Either that or he's feelin' really down in the dumps. But don't worry about it, 'cause I'm pretty sure that tonight, he won't be driving. It's a blessing in disguise when they tow your car away the same day you decide to get smashed.”

The spotlight suddenly moved to his right, leaving him in the dark. Ben looked up and tried to get the technician's attention to no avail, so he stepped over back under the light.

“No worries, here I am. That was the electric company getting revenge cause I was late paying the bill. And don't tell me you've never been late paying a bill… like you! Ben pointed to a guy wearing a muscle shirt with a bushy beard and tattooed forearms.