Out Read online

‘I don't like being late."

  "If you only knew how you turn me on when you pretend you're afraid I'm going to rape you! Or maybe you really are afraid?"

  Kurt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Renata caught the gesture out of the corner of her eye.

  "My lipstick is kissproof. You want me to try again?"

  Kurt begged off. He was still feeling torn between pride in ins humble origins and a craving for luxury.

  Renata Kloppe was the incarnation of everything he thought he hated: thoughtlessness, wealth, insolent beauty, and a total lack of interest in global problems—world wide hunger, ecology, Marxism, the proletarian ideal In the linguistics courses he taught at the University of Zurich, Kurt Heinz preached sexual freedom and lam basted the family, religion, hypocrisy, the trusts, and the oligarchies and plutocracies.

  But in private, Kurt didn't dare put his theories to the test He never once made the kind of liberating ges ture he was constantly urging on others—and that was a shame, for it probably would have put him at peace with himself.

  From the day they met, Renata's infallible eye had noted just how his contradictory-mechanisms worked. Her unconscious sadism found a happy outlet in the verbal rage she could provoke in Kurt; and she knew that his revolutionary ardor merely hid his lack of sexual daring. So she taunted him at every opportunity, taking delight in shocking him with the crudeness of her vocabulary. She attacked his ideas, his origins, his profession, challenging him in a thousand ways, exulting when she could make him blush by using too vulgar a word, too forthright a gesture.

  In order to, feed this delicious feeling of power, noth ing was beyond her: she would unzip his fly under the table while they were having dinner with the family, walk around naked in front of him when, her chambermaid Manuella was in the room, pull her skirt up over her hips in the back seat of a tad, whose driver, eyes riveted to the rearview mirror, would soon be driving on the sidewalks.

  Paradoxically, his very lack of influence with her kept her from breaking off their relationship. Her power over him, instead of turning her off, incited her to make things more binding, and they had gotten engaged, to the great consternation of both families, who saw this union as the ‘wedding of a carp to a rabbit’. Naturally, Kurt hated his future father-in-law. To him, Homer Kloppe symbolized the worst of the Establishment, being at one and the same time a power in high finance, a good father, a loving hus band, an upstanding-citizen, a fervent Calvinist, a giver of alms, a teacher of lessons, and a tabernacle of certain ties. In a word, Kloppe was nauseatingly happy! He was the archetype of what Kurt taught his students to detest: the banker, the legal robber, the parasite of the consumer society, the wart on the system.

  "I can prove it to you’ he would thunder in class. "The great corporations give their employees their month ly paychecks on the twenty-third of each month. The next day, the money is deposited at the bank. But if you're a worker, just try to draw on it before the first of the next month! The banker will claim it hasn't cleared, that you're, overdrawn, or that the computers haven't credited it to your account yet! During that time, he's using your mon ey to make himself a personal profit The bastard is living by the sweat of your brow. Do you need any more ex amples?"

  To Renata, his revolutionary ardor seemed sensual It was she who had made the advances, and Kurt let her.

  "Kurt, the zipper on my dress is stuck. Will you help me?"

  She was sitting on the bed. The little nothing by Balenciaga that so artfully failed to conceal her body probably cost more than a miner earns in two years.

  He tried in his awkward way to undo the zipper. "I can't get it"

  'It's a good thing I didn't wait for you to strip my clothes off me! I'd still be a virgin. My poor old Kurt Manuella!"

  "What can I do for you?" Manuella said as she en tered the room.

  "Kurt just tried to rape me. And the idiot jammed the zipper on my dress. Can you fix it?"

  Repressing a laugh, Manuella repaired the damage.

  Renata, in the mirror, was keeping her eyes on Kurt: the big lug was pretending to look out the window, so they wouldn't see him blushing!

  "That dirty rotten little redheaded shit of a cop! Was he ever delighted! Having a Volpone in his office. Genco’ll never forgive me for this!"

  Yudelman lowered his eyes, embarrassed. Italo was talking to him as if that leg simply didn't exist Each time Moshe tried to get back to the subject, the younger Volpone shied away from it

  ‘I’m worried, Babe, very worried. I've had people in Switzerland check it out, and mere's no trace of your brother. I’m not looking for trouble, but what if the..’

  "Shut up! It’s not him, I tell you! You think Genco is dumb enough to fall under a train?"

  Moshe Yudelman mumbled as he bit his lip. "What if someone pushed him?"

  Italo grabbed him by the lapels and stared into his eyes. "I tell you ifs not him! He probably stopped off in Italy for a while to fuck some pig! I know my own brother, don't I?"

  But Yudelman couldn't accept that as evidence. This was too serious a problem. He needed to know for sure. Screwing up his courage, he said, "Dont get sore, Babe, but listen to me. You know I’ve been the family's consigliere for over eighteen years. Genco never made any complaint about me, did he?"

  "Oh, cut it out!"

  "Just answer my question, just this one." 'What the fuck is it?’

  "If it were really Zu's leg, would you be able to recognize it?"

  Italo exploded. "What do you think I'm hopping over to Switzerland for?"

  "Do you have any way of identifying it?"

  "Yes, goddamn it! When we were kids, the old man gave us a bike, just one for the two of us to share. He won it off a pigeon who got drunk and was wiped out in a poker game. He gave the old man his bike to buy back his marker. Genco wanted to ride it right away, so I sat on the baggage rack, and we took one hell of a spilt Genco got cut under the ankle by the pedal. He's still got the scar. But you have to know if s there!"

  Moshe was more and more embarrassed. He cleared his throat and asked, "Left or right ankle?"

  Babe gave him a killing look. "Right What time's my plane?"

  "You got two hours yet But there's something else. I was supposed to see O'Brion this morning. He wasnt in." "So what else is new?"

  "Nothing. I phoned his house. He wasn't there eith er. His wife hasn't seen him since he left for Nassau." "What the fuck is that to us?" "Wait a minute. O'Brion has a dame, Zaza Finney." "Everybody knows that" ^She's disappeared, too."

  Volpone looked at Yudelman with renewed interest.

  "Moshe, what are you trying to tell me?"

  "I just think it's strange that somebody who deposited two billion dollars in a numbered account should suddenly fade into the landscape. That’s all."

  Italo was nonplussed. "If O'Brion wants to disappear, that's no skin off my prick! Let Ettore Gabelotti worry about where he went!"

  Yudelman shook his head with extreme patience, "lust a second. You know why Gabelotti didn’t go to Zurich with your brother?"

  "Everybody knows that jerk is scared to put his fat fanny on the seat of an airplane!"

  "Check! So he gave Morty O'Brion his power of at torney. Which means there are only two guys in the world who can collect that bread: Don Genco and Mortimer O'Brion."

  Italo started to laugh. A forced, phony laugh.

  "Are you telling me that half-pint is trying to make off with the Syndicate's money?"

  'I’m not telling you anything of the sort. I’m just saying that there's two billion dollars in that account"

  "A dead man can't even use three hundred bucks, let alone two billion."

  "O’Brien's not dead. He's just made himself scarce," said Yudelman in a soft voice.

  Italo shrugged nervously. "Morty O'Brion! That poor cocksucker is scared of his own shadow!"

  "With two billion dollars, nobody calls you a cock-sucker; and you don't have to be scared of a thing!''

  Italo glan
ced at Moshe to see whether he was kid ding. But he looked dead serious.

  ‘Look, you may be the brain and all, but you seem to be overlooking one thing! Do you imagine Gabelotti is stupid enough not to have gotten the number of the ac count from Morty?"

  "Could be," Yudelman conceded. "Yeah, you must be right."

  "So, what's all this big cockamamie scare about?"

  "Okay, forget I ever mentioned it Don't hold it against me. I worked so goddamned hard to bring this deal off. I guess I'm just imagining things. All I can see is fuck-ups-all over the place."

  "Well, Morty doesn't have the balls. Wouldn't dare! Can't you just see him double-crossing Gabelotti? Moshe . . ." Volpone stopped. "Suppose it was that fuckin' Gabelotti?"

  "No, no!" Yudelman shot back. "Gabelotti wouldn't have anything to gain by it. We've been at war with each other long enough. Not Gabelotti! If anything did hap pen, if by any chance Don Genco—Excuse me, I don't know what I'm saying. But it could only come from O'Brion."

  "As long as you feel that way about it," said Italo, "go ahead and talk to Gabelotti. Go ask him. Go ahead."

  "I have to confess to you—if O'Brion did try to pull one on us, he'd be stopped before he even raised a little finger. I contacted Orlando Baretto in Zurich. He's watching out for him. Here, I have men spotted outside his house and others watching his broad's apartment. Don't worry about it, Italo, it doesn't concern you. Just go off to Switzerland and let me know where Genco is now. Are you ready?"

  "Can I ask you to do me a favor while I'm gone? Put a contract out on Biasca."

  "Biasca? Why?" Yudelman asked.

  "He's the stupid jerk that got me called in by the cops."

  "Maybe he didn't have any choice."

  "Screw that. Get rid of him. He could have clammed up and then called me."

  "We'll see, we'll see..."

  Italo gave him an icy stare. "You gonna take care of him or do I have to do it myself?"

  "Take it easy. Well teach him a little lesson. But there are more important things to do."

  "No! I like to settle my accounts when they're hot!"

  "Okay, but what about our money?"

  "It's safe where it is. You just get Biasca knocked off for me. I’ll handle the rest."

  "Okay," Moshe stalled. "Okay."

  The best thing with Italo was never to meet him head on. When he was in a rage, he was capable of anything.

  "Italo," Moshe went on, "call me as soon as you get there. If you have the slightest difficulty, I'll follow on the first plane."

  When such violent anger showed on Volpone's face, retreat was the safest course. "Okay," Moshe added hur riedly, "okay. I'll just see you to the airport."

  4

  Pietro Biasca knew immediately that the three men who entered the shop were hoods. They were very young, but there was something hard and cruel in their eyes. The tallest one, as if in parody of an old movie, was carrying a violin case. Biasca wondered what was in it He was in the clear with the police as well as with the big shots of the various New York families. Besides, his close relation ship with Zu Genco Volpone was well enough known so that no one would touch him.

  "Gentlemen, can I help you?"

  "You're Pietro Biasca?"

  "In person," he replied, aware of his power, the use fulness of his high-placed connections, and the many em ployees around him. At his age, with his success, he was not about to let himself be pushed around by third-rate punks.

  "We'd like to order some shoes," said the man with the violin case.

  "You'll have to make an appointment. Before we can fill an order, my workers have to have a mold of your feet"

  "Here's a sample," the hood replied, swinging Biasca around and kicking him in the ass.

  Staff and customers looked on as Biasca blushed with shame to the roots of his hair. But realizing his reaction would determine what came next, he decided to act tough.

  "You don't seem to know who you're hitting,'' he said.

  After taking up a position inside the front door, one of the men took a Colt Magnum out of his pocket and let it dangle nonchalantly from his hand. Another swift ly tore the phone wire out of the wall.

  "Okay, you gonna take our molds?" the violin-case guy asked politely, after which he aimed another kick at Biasca, this one missing its target but getting him pain fully in the groin.

  Biasca was still game. "I don't know who you are, or who was crazy enough to send you after me, but you'll pay for this—and howl"

  Another kick. "You gonna start, or do I have to make your

  "You ever hear of Zu Genco Volpone?" Biasca asked, playing his last trump card.

  The one who had torn the phone wires came to ward him saying, "Listen, I done a lot of walking. My shoes are all dusty. How about shining 'em for me?"

  He put his foot up on the counter on top of a pile of money that the cashier had not had a chance to put away.

  "Go on, start shining!"

  When Biasca didn't move, the man walloped him across the mouth. Then, grabbing the cashier's blouse with out lustful intent, he tore the front of it away and handed it to the bootmaker.

  "Rise and shine!"

  He placed the muzzle of his Harrington and Richard son .22 against Biasca's temple. Fear and anger in his eyes, Biasca took the piece of blouse and wiped the hood's loafer with its three-inch heel. What phony elegance! Biasca could not help thinking.

  ‘Rub harder! Get down on your knees! You'll do bet ter if my toe is under your nose! I want it to shine good!"

  Pietro knelt and rubbed hard at the leather.

  "Enough of that," the violin-carrier said after a few seconds. "Now take our molds."

  One lady customer started toward the door. "I was just passing by. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with whatever's go ing on in here. Let me out!"

  "Tut, tut!" said the man with the Colt Magnum, wav ing her back.

  "Can I at least know what you're after?" Biasca asked, his fear taking shape at last

  "We told you. Some shoes. Now, go ahead."

  "Hey," veiled the guard at the door, "should we lock

  up?"

  The one who had made Biasca get down on his knees said to the cashier, "Go on over and close the curtains."

  Terrified, she came out from behind the cash regis ter, trying her best to make her hands hide the tear in the blouse, behind which the nipple of an overripe breast could be made out He called her back. "Stick this up where people on the street will be sure to see it"

  He pulled a sign out of his pocket that said closed for repairs. His two sidekicks were pushing Biasca toward the back room. Not one of the shoemakers made a move; nevertheless Biasca called to them, "Don't try to help me. These men are armed!"

  "What are those?" asked the violin guy, pointing to the hundreds of foot molds on the shelves. The other one, his back to the door, had the dozen workmen covered; they were wide-eyed and pale.

  "My customers' molds," Biasca answered. "Now, will you tell me—"

  "Gimme one of 'em!"

  Pietro did as he was ordered.

  As he examined it, the hood asked, "You got a lot of 'em?"

  "Twenty-six hundred," Pietro mumbled.

  "What are they made of?"

  "Plaster."

  "Why does this one have Paul Newman written on

  it?"

  "Because if s his footprint"

  "Well, goddamn," the punk let out "You don't come cheap, I bet do you?"

  Biasca, shrugging in exasperation, said, "Come on, what's this business all about?"

  "You and you!" the man said, ignoring him and pointing to two apprentices. 'Take the sticks and knock all those goddamned feet off the shelves."

  "No!’ Biasca cried out. "You can't do that!"

  In two steps, the one who had made Pietro shine his shoes was upon him. Swinging his pistol, he cut open Pietro's cheek. Stunned, Biasca collapsed, groaning, "Don't do that! It's my whole stock!"

  "Well, you gonna do it?" demanded the
violin-carrier in an icy tone.

  The apprentices, after looking at each other help lessly, started sweeping the shelves. The molds fell to the floor with the sound of broken pottery.

  "Come on, the rest of you, help them!"

  Each of the apprentices went to it, carefully looking away so they wouldn't see the tears and the blood on the boss's cheeks.

  "Now, trample 'em. Smash every one of 'em. There's one left, up on the shelf. Knock it down!"