The Purple Don Read online
The Purple Don
An Illuminati Novel
SLMN
Contents
Sunday, New Year’s Eve 1989
Saturday, January 4th 1990
Tuesday, January 16th 1990
One year later: Wednesday, February 19th 1991
January 1990: Miami
Present Day, August 1997
January 1990
Present Day, August 1997
May 1990
Present Day July 1997
May 1990
Present Day, August 1997
May 1990
Present Day, August 1997
June 1990
Present Day, July 1997
June 1990
Present Day, August 1997
August 1990
July 1997
Present Day, August 1997
March 1991
Present Day, August 1997
April 1991
July 1997
May 1991
Present Day 1997
May 1992
Present Day, August 1997
January 1995
Present Day, August 1997
July 1992
Present Day, August 1997
Kingston Imperial
The Purple Don Copyright © 2019 by Kingston Imperial 2, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved, including the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Kingston Imperial 2, LLC
Rights Department, 144 North 7th Street, #255 Brooklyn N.Y. 11249
First Edition:
Book and Jacket Design: PiXiLL Designs
Cataloging in Publication data is on file with the library of Congress
ISBN 9780998767413 (Trade Paperback)
Sunday, New Year’s Eve 1989
The wind whipped through the streets of West Chelsea, and the snow felt like confetti as if it were nature’s own celebration of the New Year.
It was bitterly cold, but the bright lights of the big city held it at bay, at least for the people waiting in line to get into Pulse, the newest nightclub in Manhattan. The line was a dragon breathing smoke in the freezing air. All colors, all fabrics. Expectant faces hoping to get inside, and more importantly, be seen. Stockbrokers in Italian loafers and leggy models in miniskirts braved both the elements and slight humiliation of waiting with the commoners. All they wanted was in because Pulse was the type of club where mere money couldn’t grant you access. You had to be somebody with money. So Pulse was the city’s litmus test, and the crowd waited eagerly to pass.
Several limos ejected their content: a ball player, an actor, a rock star; but none elicited more than a curious glance, a stretched neck or two, or the crisp pop of the paparazzi.
Until he arrived.
The milky white limousine slid to a smooth stop, its back door perfectly aligned with the red carpet that led to the front door of the club. The first to get out was a no-neck Italian behemoth in a black suit and mirrored shades, looking like the underworld version of the secret service. He scanned the crowd quickly and expertly, and—once satisfied—reached back and opened the limousine door. A pair of fishnet stockings and pumps stepped out attached to a curvaceous brunette with hair down to her full, rounded ass. Behind her was her body double in blond, followed by Seth Goldstein, a childhood friend of the main attraction, and a man he called his “Meyer Lansky.”
…and then
“That’s Joey Diamonds!”
“I love you, Joey!” called several men and women, each of them meaning it.
Joey emerged from the limo in a tailored silk suit designed by Giorgio Armani. His fashion statement was punctuated by his large four-carat diamond pinkie ring, his diamond-encrusted Rolex watch, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon in his hand for good measure. Many men in the crowd wore similar outfits, but it simply looked better on Joey’s 6’2” toned frame. Everything looked better on Joey because he had the type of beauty Italian sculptors immortalized in the ancient days. His long feminine eyelashes were offset by a pair of cold yet sparkling grey eyes (from which he got his nickname), a square jawline and a dimpled chin, that looked so perfect it may well have been designed rather than created by God. Androgynous in his appeal, yet worn in a rugged New York City sort of way. He reminded many of a young Travolta.
Joey moved as if he were in a movie scene and all eyes were on him, or as if he were in a book and his every action was detailed in poetic prose. Fluidly, smoothly, with economy of effort. He made it look easy.
“Hey Mikey, how you doin’, eh?” Joey greeted the linebacker-built Black bouncer. “Happy New Year, from me to you,” he added, handing him the bottle of Dom.
Mikey took the bottle, nodded appreciatively at the label and smiled.
“Thanks a lot, Joey, and Happy New Year to you too.”
Someone in the line thought a push would get him further to the door, making the crowd inch too closely to Mikey.
“Back the fuck up! I’m not tellin’ you again!” Mikey bassed.
Before disappearing inside with his entourage, Joey turned back and cracked, “And don’t hit nobody with that bottle. It’ll make me an accessory.” Then he winked and hit Mikey with the smile that made even straight men question their sexuality.
Inside, actors partied with rock stars, moguls and models, but it was those in the underworld in attendance that were the stars’ stars, because—as the saying goes—everybody loves a gangster. They represent the best and the worst of American success stories. They are who most men want to be and most women want to be with, but the awe of the law plus the lack of raw nerve keep them from achieving that goal. Partying with them had this voyeuristic appeal. It was like walking amongst panthers, and Joey had the jungle cat on full display.
At 24, he was becoming the best-known underworld figure in New York, partly because he was the only son of Vincenzo Diamanti, Don of the Diamanti crime family—the most powerful of the five New York families. To the streets, he was a true Diamanti: a cold-blooded killer that committed his first murder before he was old enough to drink. But to the world, he was that too beautiful to be real kid with the million dollar smile and diamond eyes. The kid that had an illegal fireworks display on the Fourth of July every year in Brooklyn and regularly brought gifts to the neighborhood old folks home.
He was a true gangster and a gentleman.
The girls headed for the dance floor, while Joey and the rest headed for the dark booth in the back, so they could see without necessarily being seen.
“Joey!”
He heard a female squeal his name like she was sneezing it. He turned around to see a redhead with a pageboy haircut quickly approaching. She gave him a hug and a kiss on the lips.
“Thank you, Joey! I got the part!”
Joey’s eyes crinkled and he looked confused.
“The commercial,” she reminded him, bubbling with excitement. “Remember, you called the guy who owed you a favor and he—”
Joey chuckled at the recognition.
“Okay, right, the commercial!” he said, still only slightly remembering her. “Congratulations, sweetheart. I know you’ll knock ‘em dead.”
“Deader than dead,” she snickered.
“Okay, just when you’re a star, don’t forget us little people, eh?” he smirked.
She palmed his dick, gave it a squeeze, and whispered in his ear, “There’s nothing little about you, Joey. Call me so I can thank you properly, hu
h?”
“I’ll do that,” he replied in a soulful whisper.
She sashayed away, looking over her shoulder, doing her best Monroe imitation.
As they slid into the table, Seth remarked snidely, “Six months and she’ll be a fuckin’ fluffer in a porno.”
Joe chuckled.
“Jealous?”
“Should I be?” Seth shot back.
Before Joey could respond, the waitress arrived with a bucket of Dom Pérignon and four glasses. Joey smirked at the irony.
“Courtesy of the guy over there,” she said, nodding toward a table with three super cool Italians. They all raised their glasses. Joey raised his.
“Friends of yours?” Seth suspiciously questioned.
“Friends of the family. Coupla foot soldiers of the Genoveses,” Joey replied as he popped the Dom. He looked up at his bodyguard, Rocco.
“Rocco, do me a favor. When nobody’s looking, bring me a real drink, eh? Who the fuck drinks this stuff?” Joey poured himself and Seth a flute full, but set it on the table, untouched.
Seth looked at him, and he knew he wanted an answer to his earlier quip. Instead, Joey changed the subject.
“So tell me about the Russians…”
Seth knew what he was doing, but let it go and replied, “They’re in Brighton Beach.”
“Of course.”
“Of course, but the brunt of the operation is in Israel. They call it ecstasy, or X for short.”
“Sounds sexy,” Joey snickered as Rocco slid over to the bar.
“It’s ‘sposed to do just that. Designer drug. It’s been out on the West Coast for a while, but now they wanna bring it back East and work the clubs,” Seth explained.
Joey listened as Rocco brought him back a double vodka.
“They say they can manufacture it for twenty cents a pill and getting it out of Israel is no problem, but they need your connects at JFK to get it through customs—not to mention the blessing to operate in Manhattan.”
“But the Gambinos control the clubs. Not us,” Joey reminded him.
“The clubs, yes; Manhattan, no. Remember, these are Jews,” Seth replied. “They cross their T’s and dot their I’s. They know nothing moves through the City without the Diamanti approval. They know how it works, and that’s why they’re offering it to you.”
Joey nodded and sipped his drink.
“Whaddya think about this X? Will it move?”
“People on the Coast swear by it. They say it makes you wanna fuck all night,” Seth answered, eyeing the nearby men like he wanted to test it out right now.
“Yeah? Maybe we oughta try it,” Joey cracked with a wink.
“Don’t try to appease me,” Seth shot back with a straight face but a glint of a smile in his eye.
“What?” Joey asked, playing dumb.
“Anyway,” Seth began, ignoring the feint. “I think we can get a three, maybe even a five-year run before the cops will even put it on their radar. It’s harmless; not like crack and the Blacks.”
“Okay, I’ll run it by the old man. If he gives the nod, set up a meeting,” Joey told him.
Seth nodded, downed his flute, then refilled it.
“So now, you wanna test me? What’s eatin’ you?”
Before Seth could answer, Joey’s beeper went off. Joey reached down to look at it.
“Irony,” Seth replied sarcastically.
“Huh?” Joey asked, listening with only one ear.
“Nothing.” Seth said, draining his drink.
“Naw, it’s the old man,” Joey informed him, with slight confusion in his tone.
“It’s fuckin’ three in the morning… I’ll be right back.”
Joey slid out of the booth and headed for the bathroom hallway. As he approached, a short bull of an Italian guy came staggering out of the bathroom and bumped Joey hard. Joey waited half a beat for an apology, but the guy had already turned to walk off.
“Hey,” Joey chuckled with his palms up and a shrug. “What, am I invisible?”
“Naw, just in the fuckin’ way,” the drunken bull spat.
Joey chuckled again, but this time it sounded more like boiling water. The bull was too drunk to detect the difference. Joey took one step closer.
“Okay, fair enough. So I’ll apologize. Everybody’s happy,” the bull snorted.
“Yeah? I got a better idea. Why don’t you suck—”?
That was all he got out, because the punch Joey threw knocked the other half of the sentence right back down his throat. The punch dazzled the bull, but didn’t drop him.
He charged at Joey with a drunken bellow, but Joey easily sidestepped him, grabbed him by the back of his hair and slamming his face into the wall, breaking his nose on contact. After seeing blood, Joey went into a trance—slamming the guy’s face into the wall three more times, until he slid down the wall, unconscious and leaving a trail of blood all the way down. The ever-vigilant Rocco was on his way before the first punch was thrown, but by the time he got there, the guy was already asleep at Joey’s feet.
“What happened?” Rocco asked.
Joey shrugged with a smirk. “I was in the way.”
“Who is he?”
“A fuckin’ nobody. A piss ass Bonanno.”
“You want me to take care of it?” Rocco asked, looking Joey in the eyes.
He knew exactly what Rocco meant.
Joey looked down on the guy with the power of life and death. Wondering if it was the same feeling Caesar had when he stood above the vanquished gladiators in the colosseum, deciding which way to turn his thumb. Joey adjusted his cuffs, chuckled and replied, “Eh, it’s New Year’s Eve. Let em’ wake up so he can tell his friends how he got knocked on his ass by Joey Diamonds.”
They laughed and walked away.
Joey gathered up the entourage to leave and found that instead of two girls, there were now six. He made a joke about the Pied Piper and made everyone laugh as they stepped out into the frigid early morning air. As they approached the limo, a black tinted Lincoln pulled up and the passenger side window went down. It was one of his father’s men.
“Ay Joey, the old man wants to see you.”
Joey thought about it, but stopped short of climbing into the limo.
“Yeah, I know. I was just about to go somewhere and call him,” Joey replied.
“No, he says he wants to see you now,” the man emphasized.
Joey glanced at Rocco, then Seth, who looked away. Joey raised his eyebrows as if to say, “How should I know?” Then he turned to the Lincoln and said, “Yeah, okay; let’s go.”
The back door was opened from the inside. Joey disappeared inside, closing the door as the Lincoln pulled off.
Vincenzo Diamanti stood at the window of his study, looking over the Diamanti Estate in Staten Island. From his window, he could see the waters of the Upper Bay, and it made him think of simpler times. He was 68 years old, yet he looked 48, with a craggy type of handsomeness one might expect to find amongst longshoremen and dockworkers.
Vincenzo had massive hands and had actually made his bones in the Brooklyn Naval Yards, running the union rackets, when the Diamanti family was the weakest of the five New York families. Under his father, Anthony Diamanti or “Pizza Tony,” the Diamantis were basically confined to Brooklyn and the petty rackets. But during the Mafia wars of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, Vincenzo came into his own and proved himself a modern-day Caesar when it came to strategizing the demise of his adversaries. When finally the smoke cleared, the Diamantis sat atop the five-family hierarchy and Vincenzo ruled with an iron fist, minus the velvet glove. He was a man who fully understood the power of violence, which made even his allies fear him. Old age arguably mellowed him, as his plethora of accomplishments left him nothing else to prove. Now he spent his time with his beloved wife of 48 years and groomed his son to take over the family. That is until…
Nothing about this situation sat right with Joey. The abruptness of their arrival, the brusqueness of
their demand, the terse silence as they rode. In that instant, on that long trip in the dark of night, Joey imagined how it would be when the end came. Stone-faced, hidden in passing shadows. A silent death. His only question was, would his own father be the one to give the nod?
They pulled the Lincoln into the circular driveway that wrapped around an exquisite marble fountain of Poseidon. A pristine replica of the one in Italy. The house sat above the Todt Hill section of Staten Island—one of the five highest points in New York, and it was built to look like it owned the entire view.
When he went to knock, the front door was opened by Vito, his father’s trusted doer and bodyguard of the past twelve years. Whenever Joey saw Vito, it always made him smile because Vito was the spitting image of Yogi Berra. Joey stepped inside, gave Vito a tight hug and hit him with a Yogi-like line that he always did. “It’s like déjà vu all over again. How you doin’, Uncle Vito?”
“How are ya, kid?” Vito returned, reciprocating the hug warmly.
“You tell me,” Joey probed. Whenever he got in trouble as a kid, he could count on Vito to gauge the old man’s mood for him.
Vito shrugged.
“I don’t know nothin’. The old man says to bring you directly in.”
Joey smirked.
“Good ol’ Uncle Vito. Never learned to whistle ‘cause he kept his mouth shut, huh?”
Joey punctuated the crack with a snicker, but it was only to cover his nervousness.
Something wasn’t right.
Vito walked Joey to the study, where Vincenzo stood at the window, looking out onto simpler times. When he didn’t acknowledge their presence, Vito announced, “Boss, Joey’s here.”