The Purple Don Read online

  Adrenaline pumping, chests heaving, Joey and Te Amo looked at one another. She could see in his eyes that he was seeing her in a new light, a light he didn’t understand, and therefore didn’t trust.

  “We gotta get out of here,” he announced, and without hesitation they did just that.

  For the first couple of blocks, they drove in silence—a silence she wanted to fill with some sort of explanation, but didn’t know where to begin. At the next light Joey turned to her and said, “Just tell me you‘re not a cop.”

  She blurted out a nervous giggle, less out of humor and more because of relief in seeing which way his thoughts were flowing.

  “No, I’m definitely not a cop,” she assured him.

  Poker faced, he assessed her.

  “Hold out your hand,” he instructed her.

  She held it out, palm down. It was totally steady. The light greened, and they pulled off.

  “Okay,” he said and she lowered her hand. “My uncle Vito taught me that,” he said. “Undercovers are usually high strung on the inside, a bundle of nerves. They just have good poker faces. But the hand…you can’t fake a steady hand, you know? It means the person is of the life,” he surmised, adding under his breath, “or,” but she didn’t catch it.

  “I told you…my family.”

  “The Reyes Family,” he replied.

  Te Amo nodded, gauging his reaction.

  Joey drove in silence a few more blocks, keeping his eye in the rear view mirror, and his gun in his lap, finger on the trigger.

  “So…about this offer of Miami.”

  One year later: Wednesday, February 19th 1991

  The driver of the black tinted Lincoln Town Car cut through the city streets like a true New Yorker. He dipped in and out of lanes, zipping through yellow lights and taking curves with aggression and finesse. But any casual observer would think he was lost, the way he squared blocks by making a series of right turns, until he was right back where he started. Or the way he would abruptly U-turn in the intersection, or suddenly pull to the side of the road on the Cross Bronx Expressway. But every maneuver was part of the plan to make sure they weren’t being tailed, and stretching a 20-minute ride from Manhattan to the Bronx into a two-hour adventure. But the evasion was well worth it. The man in the back would not stand for being tailed to a meeting as important as this. He didn’t even allow his people to say his name in idle conversation. They were to say “that guy” or “him,” or simply point their pinkie finger to signify the expensive pinkie rings he was known to wear. Any mention of his name was a death sentence. No reprieves. He was determined not to go down because his name was mentioned, so the driver knew what would happen if the Feds followed him to the meeting. He hated to think about it.

  He pulled up to a small house in the Hunts Point section of the Bronx. A couple of other Lincolns and Mercedes were already parked.

  “We’re here, Boss.”

  “Everything clear, Jimmy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jimmy affirmed, knowing he had to show 100% confidence in his own abilities.

  “Okay…Is it rainin’? I can’t tell through the fuckin’ tint.”

  “No, Boss, it ain’t rainin’.”

  “Eh, bring the umbrella anyway. You never know.”

  Jimmy knew he wasn’t talking about rain. It was a last precaution, just in case any of the other Bosses were less careful than he was. Jimmy rounded the car, umbrella in hand. When he opened the car door, he opened the umbrella, thereby shielding the Boss from prying eyes.

  The Boss, Salvatore Romano—or “Bill Sally,” his nickname since his bruiser days—rose to his full height of 6’4”. Even at 66, he still had the build of a linebacker, though good eating had given him a considerable paunch. Health-minded, he tried to watch what he ate and worked out three times a week. He wanted to be on top of his game in every way, because he said, “Everybody wants to be the Boss, but me…I just wanna be the best.”

  And it showed. The Romano family was the second most powerful family in the country; second only to the Diamantis aka the Romanos hated archrivals. Before the Mafia war of the ‘70s, Vincenzo Diamanti and Salvatore Romano had been close. But greed, envy, and deception put them at each other's throats. The only thing that kept the fragile truce was the fact that they both loved money more than they hated each other. So the peace held on…

  Until now, which was why the meeting had been called. As he walked the driveway, the 5’4” Jimmy struggled to keep the umbrella over Salvatore’s towering figure.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Maybe if I carried ya, it’ll be easier, huh?”

  “Sorry for not being taller, Boss.”

  “You being a wise guy, Jimmy?”

  “No, Boss.”

  “Too bad,” Sal chuckled. “I like wise guys.”

  By the time they got to the side door, a short, pudgy man with a receding hairline opened it and stepped aside.

  “Nicky Four Eyes, c’mere. How you doin’, huh?” Sal greeted, as he stepped aside, giving Nicky a hug and a kiss on each cheek. “It’s been too long.”

  “Hi ya, Sal. How are ya?” Nicky returned. “Everybody’s waiting for ya in the basement. Whatcha drinkin’?”

  “Whatever you got,” Sal replied, as he descended the stairs.

  Jimmy went upstairs to wait with the other soldiers, because they weren’t allowed in the basement during the meeting between the Bosses.

  The basement was sparse yet neat. The floor was covered with an old, plain blue carpet. In a semicircle, several armchairs had been arranged. It was obvious that the chairs had to have been brought in to appease the ego of the Bosses. Each would be given a similar chair. Had an inferior chair been substituted and offered to one of them, that alone could be taken as a snub that could snowball disastrously.

  Waiting for Sal was Joe “Joe Pro” Provenzano, the acting Boss of the Casini family, who stood for Sal when he came in a crossed the room to greet him.

  “Big Sal, good to see you,” he gruffed in his trademark gravel toned voice.

  Six feet and rail thin, it looked like Sal could wrap his arms around Joe Pro twice.

  “Joe Pro, whaddya know, huh? It’s good to be seen,” Sal chuckled good-naturedly, then he looked to the man who didn’t stand to greet him.

  Vincenzo Diamanti.

  The two men sized each other up coldly.

  “Vinnie,” Sal said in greeting with a slight nod.

  “Sal,” Vincenzo begrudgingly returned, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching subtly.

  “Have a seat will ya, Sal, so we can get started!” Joe Pro requested, and Sal obliged. Joe Pro slid to the edge of his seat and said, looking from one to the other. “I wanna thank you both for agreeing to this sit down. I called it because it pains my heart to see what’s going on. I’m almost 80 years old, almost older than the two of youse put together. I remember when both your fathers sat where you sit now. God bless their souls. I remember, ‘cause I’ve seen it all. Me and the Boss. The Boss is the last of the original Bosses. Luciano, Bonanno, we seen ‘em all. So I see where this thing is headed, and I wanna know what can we do to stop it…please.”

  Sal leaned forward to take his drink from Nicky Four Eyes, who then headed back upstairs. He took a sip and said, “Uncle Joe, you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and Don Braza, but I did not start this…situation. This in an internal affair of the Diamantis, which I as a man of honor have become compelled to mediate for reasons already known. Now, blood has been spilled on both sides. But I’m a reasonable man. All I ask is that it be approved by the Commission for me to open the books to a man I’ve opened my home to. A solution, incidentally that would solve both Vincenzo’s and my problem,” Sal concluded.

  Joe Pro nodded, then turned to Vincenzo.

  “Vincenzo,” Joe Pro began, “I know the situation, and speaking on behalf of my Borgata, I have no objection to the Romano book being opened. But how do you f
eel about your son becoming a—”

  Vincenzo cut him off.

  “I…have…no…son,” he seethed.

  Joe Pro dropped his head and raised his hands. “I meant no disrespect. But the fact still remains.”

  Vincenzo tented his hands in front of himself and said, “It pains me to think such treachery would be condoned by a body as honorable as yours. An attempt was made on my life; a Boss, an act that demands the swiftest of justice. But not only are the culprits not pursued, but the only man to whom all fingers point is to be rewarded by my approval?”

  Sal looked at Vincenzo and addressed him directly.

  “Vincenzo, we have had our difficulties in the past, but I swear on my grandchildren that I had nothing to do with that. You must remember, that this man too—in the company of my own daughter—barely escaped an attempt on his life as well.”

  “Vincenzo, as a member of the Romano family, Joey will be the responsibility of Salvatore. If anything were to happen, we will hold Sal responsible,” Joe Pro said to Vincenzo, then gave Sal a warning look that Sal accepted with a nod.

  Vincenzo sat silently, then said, “If this man in question should become a problem…I will hold you both responsible.”

  Joe Pro breathed a sigh of relief.

  “So be it…now…can we renew the truce?”

  Vincenzo slowly rose from his chair, followed by Sal. The two men stepped tentatively forward, then embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. When they broke the embrace, Sal thought he saw a smirk on Vincenzo’s face, a smirk he knew all too well. It was the smirk Vincenzo wore whenever he had won. But Sal looked again, and it was gone.

  Sal thought about it again as he got in the car a few minutes later. He prided himself on being astute, on picking up on the things others missed. But after assessing the situation, he shook it off.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Stop at the phone booth will ya? Call Miami.”

  “And say what, Boss?”

  “Tell him…congratulations.”

  Ten minutes later, Joey’s mobile phone rang. He was out on the patio of a high-rise condo overlooking Miami Beach. Several girls sat around the pool topless. When the phone rang, Joey’s boyfriend Enrico answered.

  “Yeah,” Enrico said, nodded, then hung up. “He said, ‘congratulations.’”

  Joey smiled and caressed his cheek. “C’mere and say ‘hello’ to the next Don.”

  Joey pulled Enrico closely and kissed him sensually, causing Enrico to tingle all over. He hated that Joey could do that to him so easily.

  Joey smiled at him, like he could read his mind, and he wore the smirk like a taunt.

  “Everything is going according to plan,” Joey winked, then smacked Enrico on the ass and walked away.

  Enrico watched him with a hate only love could muster. He had a plan, too—one Joey wasn’t planning for—and he contemplated it with a taunting smirk of his own. As he picked up the mobile phone, he thought about the chain of events that brought him there…

  January 1990: Miami

  The gull wing of the Lambo door flew up and Enrico Valdez stepped one ostrich shoe out onto the pavement in front of Maxia, the hottest club in South Beach. He stepped out fully, giving the crowd a taste of his radiant, boyish good looks: clean shaven, long wavy hair in a ponytail, and an arrogant swagger.

  As he passed the valet and tossed him the keys, he whispered coldly, “You scratch it, you die.”

  The valet took extra precaution, as if he were parking an egg.

  Inside, the club was huge—at least five thousand square feet, and every inch of it was covered with party people. Enrico wasn’t well known in Miami, but his delicious looks and air of wealth were a global familiarity. Women flirted and he flirted back, cutting through the massive crowds. The women were all over him, but he had only one in mind.

  And then he saw her…

  And him.

  They were ensconced in a booth in the back in the dark. They were laughing. He was drinking, she was sniffing coke. The music pounded in Enrico’s ears, as he squinted his eyes to see who the guy was, but couldn’t quite see his face.

  Enrico made his way through the crowd, never taking his eyes off them. The guy whispered in her ear; she kissed him, offered him the coke, but he turned his face away. Enrico quickened his pace, because he wanted to know who the guy with her was. When he got there, the guy was kissing on her neck and she was pawing his prick through the silk pants, a rather large prick he inadvertently observed.

  “Te Amo,” Enrico said, suavely caressing each syllable of her name, “and I thought you loved me.”

  “No querido,” she giggled drunkenly, “that’s only my name.”

  “May I?” Enrico inquired.

  “No,” Te Amo answered dismissively, but Joey smoothed it out with, “Of course, my friend.”

  Enrico chuckled and slid into the booth.

  “Oh, I’m much more than a friend, my friend.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m much less, so you get no argument from me,” Joey shot back smoothly.

  “Glad to hear it,” Enrico retorted, then said to Te Amo in Spanish: “You go to New York and you come back with strays?”

  Before she could answer, Joey replied in Spanish: “In new York, we call them mutts. They like to tag along.”

  The two men eyeballed each other steadily. Despite later developments, their first encounter was a testosterone-filled encounter. Te Amo sensing it, threw her arms around both their necks and said, “Boys, boys, what are you doing? Don’t you know girls just want to have fun? I so love the world right now,” she squealed, then began dancing sensually in her seat.

  Enrico took one look at her and surmised her state with one syllable: “X.”

  “No ecstasy,” she corrected him, running her tongue slowly over her lips.

  Joey perked up. He had seen her take a couple of pills, but he thought they were just Quaaludes. Now, remembering the name, he filed the info away for later retrieval.

  “Who needs a pill to give you ecstasy, when you have me?” Enrico crooned as he caressed her cheek, making her close her eyes and enjoy the sensation. Enrico took her by the hand and said, “Come on, dance with me.”

  “Noooo…” she intoned, like a spoiled little girl, slipping out of his grasp. “I’m already dancing…with Joey.”

  She turned to Joey and threw her leg over him. Her already short skirt hiked up, and it was plain to see that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

  “You wanna dance with me, Joey?” Te Amo whispered seductively in his ear, sucking the lobe then running her tongue along his neck.

  “Why not?” Joey replied.

  “No,” Te Amo said, looking into his eyes as she straddled his lap. “I mean…dance…right here.”

  “I want this…” Joey smirked, sliding his hands along her inner thighs and finding it wet and creamy.

  Red-faced and rejected, Enrico got up and stormed away. But he didn’t go far. He couldn’t resist turning around and watching as Te Amo unfastened Joey’s jeans, as his already hard dick popped up. Te Amo let out a lustful gasp.

  “Joey’s a big boy!”

  She lifted up her skirt and impaled herself on his long, hard dick, getting it only halfway in before she creamed all over it—her sensuality magnified by the effects of the X pill.

  “Oh fuck!” She gasped. “Fuck, Joey, I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”

  “It’s all yours, sexy. Show me what you can do with it,” he replied, gripping her hips and forcing her to take the full length.

  He took her by the back of her neck and pulled her down so he could whisper in her ear, “Everybody’s watching.”

  “I want them to,” she growled, riding him harder and grinding him deeper.

  Joey stroked her to the rhythm of “French Kiss,” a song by Lil’ Louie, known to hypnotize dancers with its incessant bass line and shifting tempo. He was in tune with Te Amo, loving the reckless abandon she displayed for life. It was an energy that matched his
. It was so delicious, it felt forbidden.

  Enrico couldn’t pull his eyes away from the spectacle. He was repulsed, he was attracted. He was repulsed by that to which he was attracted. He was engrossed, but it wasn’t just the sex, which he wouldn’t realize until later. The energy spread like electricity around the club. In small pockets across the club, dirty dancing became sex on the dance floor. Not everyone, but enough to act like a conduit to the next pocket, until the smell of sex began to drive the crowd into a frenzy. The camera was turned on Joey and Te Amo, unbeknownst to them. Although the table blocked the view of Te Amo’s juicy ass bouncing with every stroke, it was clear what they were doing, as she rode him—faster and faster, harder and harder.

  “I’m ready, baby,” she cried, “Oh God, I’m about to—” she tried to say, but ended the sentence in a squeal so sensual, it made Joey lose his grip and explode in her hot, wet pussy.

  Heart racing, she pushed her hair out of her face, smiled, and said, “Welcome to Miami,” then kissed him passionately.

  For the next week and a half, Joey soaked up all the sun and fun Miami had to offer. Being a Brooklyn boy, things like water skiing and deep-sea fishing were new experiences for him, and he enjoyed every minute. Te Amo was his guide and constant companion, showing him everything, including how to dress Miami-style.

  “What’s wrong with how I dress?” Joey questioned, arms extended to punctuate the question.

  She took one look at his snazzy outfit that would’ve worked in Manhattan and said, “Everything you wear is so New York,” with a Brooklyn accent, making Joey chuckle.

  She took him to Lincoln Road, a major shopping center in Miami, and outfitted him with soft pastels, linens, and Cuban-style shirts.

  “Thanks a lot, now I look like Crockett from Miami Vice,” he quipped.

  Every day was a new adventure and every night was another party, until Joey woke Te Amo up and announced, “Okay, head’s clear, vacation over. Time to get to work.”