The Purple Don Read online

  “I’m old, Vito, not blind,” Vincenzo replied in his gravelly voice, finally turning to look at his son Joey. “Vito, you can go.”

  “Okay, boss. See you in the mornin’,” Vito replied, closing the door behind him as he left.

  Vincenzo stared at his son, which to Joey felt like an eternity. It was like Vincenzo was weighing Joey’s soul. It made Joey uncomfortable to be scrutinized so intently, yet still not able to read his father’s poker face.

  “What’s wrong, Pop?” Joey questioned with genuine concern.

  “What’s wrong?” Vincenzo answered, picking up a manila envelope from his desk. He slowly rounded it and approached Joey. “This is what’s wrong.”

  He extended the envelope to his son. Joey looked at it, and a stinging premonition told him what was inside. He felt sick to his stomach. Joey could feel his fingers starting to tremble, but he was damned if he was going to give the old man the satisfaction of seeing that, so with supreme effort, he controlled the tremor by looking directly at his father as he held out his hand.

  “Take it,” Vincenzo told him with quiet authority.

  Joey took it. He unclasped the envelope as his father watched him intently. He opened it and let the contents slide out into his hands. They were black and white glossy photos, the kind a private detective would take. They were of Joey and Seth locked in a naked embrace. Another was of them, entangled on the bed. Another and another followed, but Joey already stopped looking. He had never felt more ashamed in his life. He wished he didn’t have to look into his father’s eyes, the eyes of the man he loved and idolized; the man he wanted to be. But at the same time, he had to look into his father’s eyes because he loved and idolized him. But when he looked up, all he saw was unmasked disgust. Where there had once been pride when he looked at his son, there was only contempt. Cold pure contempt.

  “Pop, I’m so—”

  Joey began, but that was all he got out.

  He saw the backhand coming, and if he wanted, he could have easily dodged it, but he took the harsh blow—powerful enough to stagger him and draw blood from his mouth, yet not impactful enough to hurt him. His father’s disappointment had already done that.

  In spades.

  “My own flesh and blood,” Vincenzo boomed, his voice trembling with rage. “My own flesh and blood, a fuckin’ frocio!” His father repeated: “Frocio!”

  Just hearing the word thunder from his father’s mouth hit him like a second blow.

  His father repeated: “Frocio!”

  It was the word he and his friends used to call guys who were too sissy to play football, and instead wanted to jump rope. The guys who threw a ball like a girl and took Home Ec. instead of Shop. They were as his father repeated “frocios,” not him. But hearing the word come out of his father’s mouth made him question his whole premise.

  “Pop, let me explain,” he began in Sicilian, but his father cut him off and bassed, “No! Speak to me in their tongue, speak to me as a stranger!” Vincenzo raged back in Sicilian.

  Language became an unbridgeable chasm between father and son.

  “Who told you?” Joey questioned in English.

  “Does it matter?” Vincenzo shot back in Sicilian. “All that matters is what you are and what you were.”

  Joey braced himself. “And what’s that, Pop?”

  “What you are is this!” Vincenzo barked with cold venom as he motioned toward Joey, then added with a catch in his throat, “What you were…was my son.”

  Although his demeanor did not change, Joey could see his father struggling to maintain his composure for the subtle squeezing of his right fist.

  “You…are no longer welcome…in my home. Your mother doesn’t know. When you want to see her, you will tell me in advance. Arrangements will be made. As for…the family…your crew…do they know about you?”

  “No.” Joey said, almost a broken whisper now.

  “They loyal to you?”

  “To a man,” Joey replied, finding at least a tiny amount of pride amongst the shame. But they would become words he would regret.

  Vincenzo simply nodded pensively, then added ominously in Sicilian, “The affairs of this family are now closed.”

  Joey knew exactly what his father was saying: that he would never become a Made Man. It all felt like an excommunication.

  “Pop, I’m sorry,” Joey blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

  To the naked eye, Vincenzo did not respond to the anguish in his son’s voice. “And now…I’m gonna turn my back. Don’t be there when I turn around.”

  The hardwood floor subtly creaked as Vincenzo shifted his weight and turned his back to his son.

  Joey stood there, glued to the spot. Every fiber in his body wanted to fall to his knees, grasp his father’s leg and beg his forgiveness. Something told him deep down that his father would relent, but he would never respect him. The only thing that could earn his father’s respect was what he did next…

  With tears streaming down his cheeks, he turned and walked out.

  Vincenzo listened to the receding steps with an equally heavy heart. His glance fell on the pictures. He glanced at the blazing fireplace to his left. He tossed the pictures into the fire, then quietly watched his son burn.

  Saturday, January 4th 1990

  “You want to talk about it?” Joey asked.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  The only answer Seth received was the steady percussion of the speed bag as Joey worked it over. Seth knew he had a lot on his mind, because he always worked out harder on mornings when something was up.

  They were in Joey’s studio apartment in the DUMBO section of Brooklyn. His floor to ceiling windows looked out onto a panoramic view of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “You can always take it out on me.” Seth joked. “Haven’t you heard? The battered look is in for the ‘90s”

  Joey couldn’t help but smile. Seth always knew what to say to make him laugh, in spite of himself.

  “So what are you going to do? Bottle it up inside and just let it eat its way out? You think you’re the only one to have their family turn their backs on them? My mother and father read the k'vod hamet for me, the Jewish way of honoring the dead.”

  Joey, shaking his head, went from the speed bag to the weight bench, then took off his shirt and tossed it aside as he sat down. He listened to Seth’s every word, but didn’t respond. Part of him wholly blamed Seth and the other part felt guilty because he did.

  “I’m good,” Joey replied with a grunt as he lifted the 225-pound barbell and began doing vigorous reps.

  Seth smirked and shook his head.

  “You’re not a rock, Joey,” he remarked, watching him work out, and admiring the flex of his chest and the way his six-pack tightened with each rep. “You may look like one, but you’re not.”

  Joey put the barbell back in the rack with an exasperated sigh.

  “Look, I said I’m fine, okay? What’s done is done. I just…I don’t…I don’t know what I’m gonna do now.”

  Seth sat down on him, straddling his lap.

  “What do you mean, what are you going to do? You’re Joey Diamonds; you can do whatever you want!” Seth smiled, trying to lure Joey’s ego out of its funk. “Maybe you could try out for the Yankees. They’d love a switch hitter.”

  Joey instantly got the joke and laughed.

  “And that face,” Seth added, leaning down and framing Joey’s face with his hands, then kissing him hard on the lips, with a flirtatious flick of the tongue. “On Broadway? Forget about it; you’d be the toast of the town! Believe me, there’s a million people that would love to hire Joey Diamonds.”

  “Hire?” Joey echoed with disgust. “Work a job like the crumbs? I’d rather be dead first.”

  “What’s wrong with being average?”

  “Being average—” Joey shot back, then moved to get up.

  Seth stood up and Joey went to the kitchen counter to get his bottle of water. He took
a sip and said, “Remember that Superman movie when he gave up his power to be a regular guy?”

  “Vaguely,” Seth replied, nonplussed.

  “Yeah, well he did. He gave it all up for Lois Lane. I remember thinking, ‘This guy’s an asshole!’ He gave up the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound for a broad! But in the end, he came to his senses. Of course, they made it seem like he had to come back and save the world, but that was bullshit, because the bottom line is, nobody wants to be a regular guy. Not even a regular guy,” Joey concluded.

  Seth approached him.

  “Then let’s get out of the city. Get out of your father’s shadow and plant your own flag,” Seth suggested.

  Joey looked at him curiously.

  “We? You love New York. You said you could never live anywhere else.”

  “Hey Paisano,” Seth cracked, doing his best De Niro, “We’re in this together. You’re the Don and I’m your consigliore. We’ll remake the Godfather, so instead of Sonny buffing the bride’s maid, he’ll be buffing Tam!”

  Seth could tell that Joey was touched by his profession of solidarity, but he didn’t let it show. His father had instilled in him to never let anyone get close to you, especially your enemies.

  Instead of words, Joey answered him with a kiss that Seth readily devoured. When they broke the kiss, Seth looked deep into the other man’s eyes and said, “I love you, Joey.”

  Joey winked and replied, “I know you do.”

  It used to bother Seth that Joey never said “I love you” back, but he had come to accept the fact that he wasn’t ready to say it, even though he knew he felt it.

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “To feed Mitzy. I haven’t been home in two days; I’m probably a cat murderer by now,” Seth joked as he put on his coat. “But think about what I said, okay? This could be a good thing.”

  Joey frowned. “A good thing? How about that!”

  Seth gave him a forlorn look, mustered a smile then shrugged, “Wishful thinking.”

  Seth walked from the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Joey contemplating his fate…

  Leave New York? Plant the flag? Get out of his father’s shadow? The last thought made him shake his head. How could he get out of his father’s shadow, when the old man’s tentacles expanded like a compass in all directions? The five families of New York were the epicenter of the Mafia, controlling families as far away as California and Canada, and the Diamanti family was at the epicenter of the five families. Not since Carlo Gambini had one boss been closer to being the Boss of Bosses like Vincenzo Diamanti. It was often said that if the old man stood up and spread his arms, his shadow would cover half the country. Getting out of his father’s shadow couldn’t be done geographically; it had to be done willfully. At the moment, Joey didn’t have the will. All his life, he had idolized his father; wanted to be his father. He wasn’t only in his father’s shadow; his father’s shadow was in him.

  He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. The news popped on. He went to the refrigerator, only half listening, until he heard:

  “Yes, Carol, I’m here in Brooklyn, where the New Year has come in with a bang. Three, actually. I’m in Sheep’s Head Bay, the scene where the third gangland style hit has taken place.”

  Joey’s ears perked up, as he turned to the TV. Bob Weather of Channel 4 News was standing in front of Smiley’s, a bar that Joey knew very well.

  “Police are tight-lipped, but we know that one Thomas Maselli was gunned down outside of this bar. His murder happened only minutes after James Braza and an unidentified woman were murdered execution-style in a Queens motel. The third man, yet to be identified, was shot at a stoplight on Avenue U. Sources close to the police say that too is believed to be mob-related…”

  Joey couldn’t believe his ears. He stared at the screen. Maselli and Braza were a part of his crew, and if the third man—yet to be identified was killed on Avenue U—his gut told him it was Fat Nicky Boselli, another member of his crew. The first words to pop into his head were his father’s:

  “They loyal to you?”

  “To a man.”

  With those three words, he had signaled their death warrant. His father always believed in a scorched Earth approach. Vincenzo didn’t believe in leaving bad blood to rot. If Joey’s men were loyal to him, with him gone, it would leave a seed in their hearts that any ambitious Capo could exploit against the Boss, and Vincenzo brooked no dissention. Not to mention the fact that the crew may have known his son’s dirty secret, and that would’ve embarrassed the Don. Joey read his father’s train of thought like a musical composition, the logical harmony forming the melody of murder. Joey knew that since three of his men were dead, the other two were as well; they just hadn’t been found yet. And if his crew was dead, then…

  Without hesitation, Joey grabbed his keys and his gun and shot out of the door, wearing nothing but sweatpants and sneakers. He flew down the stairs, three at a time, and then burst out into the freezing New York morning. His breath visible as he ran, jumping into his black Cadillac Eldorado and lurching into traffic. The blanketing snow and ice sloshed under his wheels as he sped along the street, heading for Atlantic Avenue, the route he knew Seth would take home, and the route he knew the killer would take…waiting for Seth. He thought about the photos and the type of surveillance it would have taken to get them. They had been watching, so if they could shoot pictures, they could shoot bullets. The inevitability of his thought made him mash the gas, making illegal turns on right, and bursting through red lights, the angry blare of cut off drivers’ horns left in the wake of the intersections.

  He was just in time to be too late.

  As he turned onto the street, he saw Seth’s red Saab 9000 at the light, beside a brown work van with its roll door wide open and the sounds of multiple guns exploding simultaneously. The barrage of bullets rained with such force that the Saab was rocking on its axle, while Seth’s body danced in the passenger seat as if he was being juiced with live electricity.

  “Nooo!” Joey roared furtively, as he sped down the block. By the time he was in range, the van was skidding off. He pointed his pistol out of the window and let off shot after shot, skipping to a halt behind the Saab and continuing his assault as he climbed out of the car. He managed to bust out the van’s back window as it disappeared around the corner. His gun sat back on its haunches, empty and smoking. He watched the van disappear around a second corner when he turned back to Seth. He knew at first sight that he was gone.

  “Fuck!” Joey grumbled at the heavens. “Fuck!”

  He looked through the shattered windshield at what was left of Seth’s face. He staggered, dropped his gun and grabbed his head with both hands. The world seemed to spin, faster and faster, making everything around him seem out of focus. He opened the car door and Seth’s body leaned out. Joey caught him in his arms.

  “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” he stressed, cradling his dead lover in his arms. In the distance, he heard sirens. His mind told him to go, but his heart told him to never leave. Reluctantly, he obeyed his mind. He gently laid Seth’s lifeless body on the cold ground. He kissed the top of his head.

  “I…I,” he mumbled, but hearing the sirens come closer, he didn’t attempt to finish his statement.

  He started for the car, remembered the gun, went back to get it. Then he jumped in the car and sped off, heading straight for his father’s social club.

  The Italian American Social Club was on Pleasant Avenue in Harlem, in the heart of the Italian enclave. His father ran his empire from a modest office in the back of the spacious building. Made Men and their associates came in to play cards, drink coffee, and wreak havoc on the rest of society.

  Joey skidded up, double-parked, and left the door open as he stalked across the street—blood covering his neck, chest, and sweatpants. Standing outside was Frank D’Amato, who was called Frankie Shots, and four of his goons. Frankie had just become th
e underboss of the Diamanti family after his father’s trusted underboss, Teddy Ruggiero, had died. At 38, Frankie was one of the most feared gangsters in New York. He had risen quickly through the ranks, from street thug to button man to Capo, and then he was underboss to the most powerful family in New York.

  He and Joey hated one another.

  On Joey’s part, it was because Vincenzo treated Frankie like a second son, and wanted Joey to look at Frankie as an older brother. Vincenzo wanted Frankie to take Joey under his wing. They both resisted, because—on Frankie’s part—he knew he was being asked to groom the next Don of the family, but Frankie had too much ambition for that. So he relished in his current role as he watched Joey cross the street.

  Joey stepped on the curb and one of the goons got in his path. Joey shoved him out of the way.

  “Get the fuck outta my way,” Joey spat, as the other three goons closed rank.

  “Hey hey, Joey, calm down, okay? Calm down,” Frankie told him from the third step of the club.

  “Then get the fuck outta the way, Frankie! I’m here to see the old man,” Joey seethed.

  Frankie stepped down and approached Joey. Flatfooted, Frankie was barely 5’5”, but he was built like a bull.

  “I can’t let you in, Joey. The old man says he doesn’t want to see you, okay? So why don’t you go home, clean up, eh?” Frankie advised him.

  “How’d he know I was coming, Frankie, huh? How’d he know I had a reason to come?” Joey surmised, then made another attempt to go in. One of the goons put his hand on Joey and he pushed it away. Out of fear and reflex, the goon reached inside his coat.

  “Oh, you gonna shoot me, Liuni? Huh?” Joey growled, getting in Liuni’s face. “You fuckin’ cock sucker, I’ll make you eat that gun!”

  “Hey Joey, you’re way outta line here,” Frankie warned, but kept his tone friendly. “We’re just doing what the old man said, okay? Just following orders. It ain’t our fault.”

  Joey looked at Frankie, and the glint of a smile in his eyes told Joey all he needed to know.