the…my competitors got all kinds of the latest technology. The last thing I need is for them to--"
"Al, I used to do this in our embassies. The CIA and NSA trained us in counterespionage. We were taught all the sophisticated m.o's of the Russians and Chinese. I know what I'm doing."
"Just asking. That's all."
"Somebody will have to ensure that your visitors aren't wired, or that any of them are even carrying portable radios, calculators and other electronic devices. I can sweep them bodily, if you wish." Wentworth pulled out of his black, leather satchel a "magic wand" -- a hand-held instrument used to check a person's body for metal and electrical items.
96 JAMES
BRUNO
"No. I want to make them feel at home, unwind; not make them think that they're here for a colonoscopy. Get my drift? And when they arrive, I want you to keep an eye on Bags and Herman downstairs. Make sure they're doing their job and not getting distracted by re-runs of the
'Flintstones'."
"Sure. I'll finish up at nineteen-hundred."
"Wha'?"
"Seven p.m. In five minutes, I'll finish sweeping the place."
"Yeah. Right. Nineteen-hundred."
At seven sharp Wentworth packed up his gear and proceeded down the stairs. Al had resumed pacing back and forth, his nervous tension radiating like electricity humming from a power line. Suddenly, he bolted toward the stairwell. Cupping his mouth, he yelled after Wentworth.
"Chuckie! You know what calamare is?"
Wentworth turned at the bottom of the stairs. "Ate it all the time in Rome. Why?"
"Do me a favor. Go in the kitchen and make sure those greasers in there aren't mangling the calamare . Should be crisp, not overdone, and light on the oil."
"Roger that, boss!"
"Hey, one other thing."
"Yes?"
"Soon as that no-good-for-nothing nephew of mine shows up, holler. Okay?"
Pironi's was packed. Unusual for a Tuesday night in February. This made Al that much antsier. After all, the object was to keep this meeting as low key as possible.
PERMANENT INTERESTS
97
Al's greater circle of goombahs also patronized the place.
But lower Manhattan's Little Italy was fast becoming a suburb of Chinatown and not many ordinary Chinese knew Al or his associates. Twenty years previous, if you had a business dinner on or near Mulberry Street, chances were good that all the city's families would know about it, if not the content, by breakfast the following day. But as the community dissipated, the likelihood was less.
Like a medieval baronet, Tony Acquello made a point of visiting every table every evening to check on his guests.
Tony was owner, manager, maitre d' and sometimes alternate waiter and assistant chef when the need arose. He inherited the place from his father-in-law, Frank, whose own father, Angelo, had started Pironi's in 1911. The family had kept the restaurant in continuous operation since, closing only for Christmases and on November 22, 1963 when Jack Kennedy was killed. As to the latter event, every ginzo gangster in New York swore on the Madonna to Frank that the mob had nothing to do with it. Many of the old-timers, after all, had had lucrative dealings in the old days with Joe Kennedy. Furthermore, why would the mob want to rub out the first Catholic President, himself a son of immigrant stock? Wise guys might not be great at a lot of things, but one thing they were good at was remembering who was good for them and who was not.
Like his father-in-law, Tony was a paradigm of discretion, an essential ingredient for a successful restauranteur to the rich and infamous. He hired his help with this in mind. The long-termers were generously tipped by regulars like Al. Patrons knew that they could hold sensitive meetings and carry on business at Pironi's without worrying that a vain, loudmouthed host would be blabbing about it all over town. Conversely, Tony knew that such trust meant good business from regulars and the 98 JAMES
BRUNO
parvenus. Violating that trust could be painful -- physically as well as
"Al, I used to do this in our embassies. The CIA and NSA trained us in counterespionage. We were taught all the sophisticated m.o's of the Russians and Chinese. I know what I'm doing."
"Just asking. That's all."
"Somebody will have to ensure that your visitors aren't wired, or that any of them are even carrying portable radios, calculators and other electronic devices. I can sweep them bodily, if you wish." Wentworth pulled out of his black, leather satchel a "magic wand" -- a hand-held instrument used to check a person's body for metal and electrical items.
96 JAMES
BRUNO
"No. I want to make them feel at home, unwind; not make them think that they're here for a colonoscopy. Get my drift? And when they arrive, I want you to keep an eye on Bags and Herman downstairs. Make sure they're doing their job and not getting distracted by re-runs of the
'Flintstones'."
"Sure. I'll finish up at nineteen-hundred."
"Wha'?"
"Seven p.m. In five minutes, I'll finish sweeping the place."
"Yeah. Right. Nineteen-hundred."
At seven sharp Wentworth packed up his gear and proceeded down the stairs. Al had resumed pacing back and forth, his nervous tension radiating like electricity humming from a power line. Suddenly, he bolted toward the stairwell. Cupping his mouth, he yelled after Wentworth.
"Chuckie! You know what calamare is?"
Wentworth turned at the bottom of the stairs. "Ate it all the time in Rome. Why?"
"Do me a favor. Go in the kitchen and make sure those greasers in there aren't mangling the calamare . Should be crisp, not overdone, and light on the oil."
"Roger that, boss!"
"Hey, one other thing."
"Yes?"
"Soon as that no-good-for-nothing nephew of mine shows up, holler. Okay?"
Pironi's was packed. Unusual for a Tuesday night in February. This made Al that much antsier. After all, the object was to keep this meeting as low key as possible.
PERMANENT INTERESTS
97
Al's greater circle of goombahs also patronized the place.
But lower Manhattan's Little Italy was fast becoming a suburb of Chinatown and not many ordinary Chinese knew Al or his associates. Twenty years previous, if you had a business dinner on or near Mulberry Street, chances were good that all the city's families would know about it, if not the content, by breakfast the following day. But as the community dissipated, the likelihood was less.
Like a medieval baronet, Tony Acquello made a point of visiting every table every evening to check on his guests.
Tony was owner, manager, maitre d' and sometimes alternate waiter and assistant chef when the need arose. He inherited the place from his father-in-law, Frank, whose own father, Angelo, had started Pironi's in 1911. The family had kept the restaurant in continuous operation since, closing only for Christmases and on November 22, 1963 when Jack Kennedy was killed. As to the latter event, every ginzo gangster in New York swore on the Madonna to Frank that the mob had nothing to do with it. Many of the old-timers, after all, had had lucrative dealings in the old days with Joe Kennedy. Furthermore, why would the mob want to rub out the first Catholic President, himself a son of immigrant stock? Wise guys might not be great at a lot of things, but one thing they were good at was remembering who was good for them and who was not.
Like his father-in-law, Tony was a paradigm of discretion, an essential ingredient for a successful restauranteur to the rich and infamous. He hired his help with this in mind. The long-termers were generously tipped by regulars like Al. Patrons knew that they could hold sensitive meetings and carry on business at Pironi's without worrying that a vain, loudmouthed host would be blabbing about it all over town. Conversely, Tony knew that such trust meant good business from regulars and the 98 JAMES
BRUNO
parvenus. Violating that trust could be painful -- physically as well as
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