Sicilian Defense by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

said Compagna. “He was with Jerry?”
    â€œHe controlled one of his banks,” Nat said. “I remembered him when I read about it. That’s all I can tell you.”
    Compagna shrugged. “In this section—Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst—we don’t have much to do with coloreds, you know? You go see Jerry,” he said to Bobby Matteawan; “I’m sure Gianni knows him. Otherwise you can use my name. Meanwhile, I’ll send Sonny around to see all the people we’re friendly with, and I’ll find out if anybody’s heard anything more.”
    â€œThat’s good,” said Bobby Matteawan, rising.
    Compagna extended his hand, looking in Bobby Matteawan’s eyes. “And say hello to Gianni Eagle. Tell him I send him my best regards.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œDon’t forget—my best regards.”
    â€œI won’t forget.”
    Sonny opened the office and nodded to Bobby Matteawan as he made his way toward the stairs. Bobby Matteawan put his hat on as he walked past the secretary, looking at her again as he left. Again she was twisting her head this way and that, looking in the little mirror at the cake on her head.
    Gus was driving along Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. Next to him was a young man whom Mario Siciliano, boss of the Fordham Road section, had sent along to introduce him to a wise guy over on Webster Avenue. Wise guy, in street talk, means someone who engages in illegal activities. This wise guy on Webster Avenue, Charlie Guglielmo, was not connected with Mario Siciliano’s mob or any of the others. He was an independent, an outsider, ostracized because he dealt in narcotics, mostly in the colored sections. None of the connected wise guys openly dealt with drugs; if they ever did, they had to be extra careful—fearful in the first place of the authorities, and more so in the second place lest the mob bosses discover it. In that event, punishment could be less just and more rapid.
    Mario Siciliano told Gus that he had heard through the grapevine that this Guglielmo, called Gugi, had been the victim of a kidnaping extortion involving his grandson and some colored people.
    The young man instructed Gus to turn a corner. He was dark-haired and handsome, wearing a leather jacket and a blue knit shirt and his hair was styled. Gus thought that if some of the older bosses saw him they’d think he was more a riccune than a wise guy.
    â€œThis is the place.”
    The place was a sleazy bar named The Horse’s Tail. Inside, the bartender was adjusting the levers on the beer draughts.
    â€œ Minca ,” said Gus, “he really ought to fix them—this joint smells like they poured the beer all over the floor.”
    The bartender, sleeves rolled to the forearms, white apron tied in front of his barreled torso, looked up.
    â€œGugi around?” asked the young man.
    The bartender wordlessly jerked his head toward the back.
    Gus and the young man walked on. In the first booth was a man about fifty years old. He was not stocky but he had a full jowled face, and when he looked up, one of his eyes was at a weird angle. He needed a shave.
    â€œGugi?” asked the young man.
    The man nodded. With napkin tucked under his chin, he had been bent over a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. He looked up at his visitors as, with fork and spoon, he finished pushing more than a mouthful of spaghetti into his maw. He sucked up the straggling strands, nipping the rest with his teeth.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. He reached for a piece of bread and dipped it into the sauce.
    â€œMario sent me to see you,” said the young man with regal authority.
    Gugi put down the bread and studied the young man warily. He glanced at Gus, then back to the young man, his bad eye rolling sharply.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œNo trouble. We want some information.”
    Gugi seemed relieved. He leaned back and took a toothpick out of