weeks, or months.
âThere may be somebodyâ¦â La Bruna interrupted. âHeâs still a kid ⦠but heâs smart ⦠Do you know Frank Erra, of Erra Productions?â
âNo, John, but if you tell me heâs somebody you can trust, I believe you.â
âOkay, Lou, let me talk to the kid, Iâll call you back.â
âOkay, John, talk to you later!â Don Lou said in conclusion. Then, turning to his men, âThatâs enough fucking around for now!â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âChaz!â Frank Erra shouts again in Lou Sciortinoâs former office. âWhat the hell is this?â (In one of Lou Sciortinoâs former drawers heâs just found a knife.) âJesus! Who can you trust? What were they doing with this knife?â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Frank Erra is short (not much more than five feet tall), fat, and bald, with a rubbery neck. Right now heâs wearing an elegant gray flannel suit too pale for a man of his bulk, but only six years before he was a waiter at the Sarago, a restaurant where every evening they sang Autunno, Maruzzella, Cristo è o paese dâo sole, and where the prominent customers were Vicienzo Arpaia, Carmine Quagliarulo, Benny Gravagnuolo, and, of course, John La Bruna. Later he became the manager, and that meant keeping the books. Frank was very careful about keeping the books. He had a healthy terror of the books not balancing, and that terror has taken him far. When everybody threw themselves into movies because there was a lot of money to be made, and you needed companies that spent a lot to launder it, Frank became the figurehead for the La Brunasâ company. Erra Productions had a beautiful, spacious office in Manhattan, with a huge white leather couch Frank used for banging young actresses who wanted to hit the big time. He didnât have much influence, but he always managed to get them a walk-on.
When they put him in charge of the Sciortinosâ Starship Pictures, Frank was really touched, the way his nephew Al had been the day Frank lovingly showed him how a gun was made. He was only a figurehead, his name meant less than nothing in New York. But they knew that, even if he didnât count for shit, he was practically one of them. Madonna, theyâd put him, not illustrious sons and nephews like Angelo La Bruna or Alphonse Quagliarulo, at the head of a business that took real balls. Frank would have liked to get to know one of these sons or nephews whoâd been pushed aside to make way for him, and show him his office and sit him down there, at his desk, and say, âDonât worry about it, kid, everybody in the family has his place according to his abilities, and thatâs why Iâm here and youâre doing something else, but if you want to come here and sit in this armchair behind this desk you can do it whenever you like, because Frank Erra is someone who knows the meaning of gratitude.â
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Frank gets up from the desk and waddles to the door, the seat of his pants caught between his buttocks. âChaz!â he calls again. âCHAZ! Come here!â
Chaz is his bodyguard. But heâs also his confidant. Chaz listens to his stories and nods. When Chaz nods, it means his stories are okay. A good kid, Chaz. Doesnât say much, just nods.
âCome on in, Chaz. I got something to tell you.â
Chaz comes in, sits down on the other side of the desk, rummages in his pockets, takes out the lighter, lights Frankâs Cohiba, then nods and listens in silence.
âHe phoned me!â Frank says. âIn person, capish, Chaz? âFrank,â he said, âweâve never spoken on the phone, but I know youâre a smart kid, Frank, because thatâs what they all tell me.â I was shitting my pants, Chaz, so I stammered, âBut ⦠who is this?â And he said, âWho is this?â and started