The Starlight Club 3: The Vendetta,: Goodfellas, Mob Guys & Hitmen (Starlight Club Mystery Mob) Read online

  Tarzan nodded and made his way toward the bar area, trying hard not to seem obvious to the guys who had come out to see their champ beat Bobby. This game had some hefty side bets.

  Bobby was no fool. He knew that Jerome, his opponent, was mortified of being beaten badly. The champ’s frustration was building and Bobby sensed that the guy was about to start throwing punches in another minute or two. It was a three out of five game with the winner taking two hundred dollars – one hundred put up by each side – the pot being held by Moose, the bartender. Bobby handily won and Jerome was less than happy. He had let down all his men who had wagered a lot on these games but most of all, he was mad at himself and made his displeasure known. He sulked and kicked his foot against the leg of a nearby table indicating his frustration. Bobby, noticing this, invited Jerome over to the bar to have a drink with him.

  “Why the hell would I have a drink with you?” Jerome snarled, his face crimson with anger. “Go ahead,” he said angrily. “Give me one fuckin’ good reason why I should have a god damned drink with you.”

  Bobby just looked at him and shook his head slightly.

  “You want me to give you one good reason? Okay, how about this? You lost, but you don’t know why you lost. I’m gonna tell you why you lost and it ain’t because I’m better than you.”

  A couple of things happened then. Jerome’s rage simmered down a notch and his eyes changed to pure curiosity laced with a whole lot of skepticism.

  “Moose,” Bobby called out to Moose who was walking the floor, “would you bring some drinks over, please?”

  Moose looked at Bobby with guarded confusion. Bobby picked right up on it.

  “We have a few things we need to talk about,” Bobby answered. “Bring us a couple of shots, whatever ya got, and some beer chasers.”

  Moose set about making the drinks, walked over to the boys, set down the drinks, and resumed his place behind the bar.

  Bobby looked Jerome dead in the eye and said, “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, but first I have a question for you. You’re the champ of Ridgewood correct?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What’s that got to do with anything?” Jerome snapped.

  “Good question,” Bobby said, “because it has everything to do with why you lost. You see that machine you just lost on?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “That’s Tarzan’s machine and so’s the one you practiced on. In fact, all of the vending machines in Queens are his.”

  “Again, what the hell’s that got to do with anything?” Jerome said, getting aggravated again.

  “I asked Tarzan,” Bobby answered, “to look for the hardest machine he could find and bring it to The Starlight Club, but he didn’t have any. He had to call the factory and special order this one. I practiced on this machine for hours until I got good at it. Your machine can’t hold a candle to this one. You’re a really good player, but you never played at your best.”

  Jerome, oddly, just sat there listening like a student does when the teacher is talking.

  “I suggest,” Bobby continued, “that you come here every day for a week and play on this machine all day, every day, and at the end of the week no one in the world will beat you, except maybe me, and I’m not totally certain that I’ll be able to do that again.”

  “Why?” Jerome asked.

  “Why what?” Bobby asked in return.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Well, there’s nothing that’ll draw a crowd better than a good, fair fight. Let’s give ‘em what they want. We make money, the club makes money, and this thing could get some steam.”

  “Okay, yeah, makes sense,” Jerome said.

  “So, here’s the deal.”

  “Uh oh, here it comes,” Jerome said skeptically.

  “Practice here for the week, like I said, and then I’ll give you a chance to win back your hundred bucks. And next time, if I do happen to beat you, I guarantee you it’ll be much closer,” Bobby said as he slapped Jerome gently on the back. He held up his glass, aimed it toward Jerome. Jerome reciprocated with his glass until the two whisky shots met in a buddy like clink. Jerome smiled, stood there for a moment or two, seemingly a little uncomfortable, not knowing whether to shake hands or what. Finally, he reached toward Bobby and gave him a slight embrace.

  “Bartender, let’s have another drink for my friend here,” Bobby responded.

  Tarzan motioned to Moose that he’d get it.

  “Put your money away, boys,” Tarzan said smiling, as he placed the drinks down in front of the men. “They’re all on the house.”

  “Tarzan, Jerome here and I just made a little deal. He’s gonna practice all week, here at the club,” Bobby said, “and then we’ll do it again. Make it more of fair competition.”

  “I look forward to the next game,” Tarzan answered. “Let’s make it for next Sunday. How’s that sound?”

  Jerome patted Bobby on the back. “I’m coming here every day to practice and next Sunday . . . I’m gonna whip your ass,” he said, smiling all the way out the front door as his pals followed closely behind.

  Bobby looked at Tarzan.

  “Man, I thought I had trouble there for a minute. He’s some bad loser. I need another drink.”

  Tarzan laughed and so did Red, who was now standing alongside Bobby.

  “That was good thinking Bobby,” Red said. “I thought we were going to have some trouble with the guy and his gang. The way you explained why he lost, was a stroke of genius – very logical explanation and it made sense to him because why else could you beat him so badly?” Then Red looked at Bobby quizzically. “Did Tarzan really get us the toughest machine he had?”

  Bobby laughed. “No. That was bullshit. But I did play on the machine Jerome practiced on and I knew this machine was a much tougher one to beat. It was the luck of the draw because Tarzan could have provided them with this machine and we might have gotten theirs. Who knows? But no question about it – this is a much tougher machine and if he practices on this machine for a week, he’ll be a tougher guy to beat.”

  Red was impressed. Jerome was almost as big as Trenchie.

  “You handled that real good, Bobby. He didn’t lose face in front of his friends. That was brilliant, Bobby – really was.”

  “Well, thanks, Red. All he needed was a reason plus hopefully, he won’t be so hostile next time, especially when I beat him again,” Bobby smiled.

  Chapter Two

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Tarzan walked into The Starlight Club and headed straight to Red’s table.

  “Jimmy Hoffa called me last night and told me to tell you that he’d like to meet with you as soon as possible at his hotel. He’s at the Waldorf.”

  “What’s he want to meet with me for?” Red asked.

  “He didn’t say but from the conversation we had, it sounds like he has a business proposition for ya,” Tarzan answered.

  “I don’t know what kind of business proposition he could be thinking of, and I certainly don’t think it’s wise to be seen with him right now. Every fed in the world is following him. I keep a low profile and I like it that way.”

  “Look, Red,” Tarzan responded, “do what you want, but I’m tellin’ you Jimmy’s a stand up guy. When we had that trial in Mineola, Jimmy sent his personal attorney, Edward Bennett Williams himself, to represent us and Jimmy picked up the tab for the whole trial. Now you and I both know that was the most expensive trial in history. That’s the kind of guy he is. I think you should see what he has to say.”

  Red thought for a moment, looked at Tarzan, and nodded.

  “Okay. Set up the meet and let’s see what he has to say.”

  Twenty–four hours later, Red, Trenchie, and Tarzan entered the grand lobby of 301 Park Avenue, the world famous Waldorf Astoria Hotel. James Riddle Hoffa was sitting in the lobby waiting for them. Ever the gentleman, he rose as they approached.

  “Good to see you again, Tarzan,” Hoffa said.

  �
��Same here, chief,” Tarzan said respectfully.

  Hoffa eyed Red and the other man beside Tarzan. Red stuck out his hand.

  “Jimmy, this is a friend of ours, Trenchie,” Red said. Each of the three men took turns shaking the hand of the legendary teamster boss.

  “Come on,” Hoffa said, “I have a table away from the crowd.”

  The men walked to the rear of the room to a table where a cleaning woman stood with a vacuum cleaner. Immediately after the men were seated, she began to vacuum the area by the window near the table.

  Hoffa pointed toward the woman and said, “If the feds have a parabolic mike set up to record us, that vacuum will blot out our voices.”

  Hoffa began to speak in a low voice.

  “I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you . . . important things. You read the papers. You know this rat bastard Bobby Kennedy won’t stop until he puts all of us in jail. Well, let me ask you this – did you know that Frank Costello put a contract out on Joe Kennedy, the father?”

  Hoffa could tell by the looks on their faces that they didn’t.

  “It scared the hell out of old Joe Kennedy,” he continued. “He was shittin’ his pants so he went to see Joe Accardo. Sam Giancana, Accardo’s underboss, was at the meeting. Sam listened to Kennedy plead with Accardo to pull the contract and asked him, ‘If we do this for you, how does that help us? We pull the contract – what’s in it for us?’ Joe Kennedy was in a pool of sweat. ‘Help me get my son Jack elected President and I’ll make sure he lays off all of you,’ Kennedy says. ‘But first you have to get rid of the contract Frank put out on me.’”

  Red and his men listened attentively. The man opposite them was telling them things they didn’t know. Amazing how in their small mobster world where everybody knows everything, that somehow this news hadn’t made its way to The Starlight Club.

  Hoffa continued, “Giancana listened as Kennedy spelled out what Jack, as President of the United States, would do for them. This was something you couldn’t make up. It was a deal made in heaven and they knew it. Accardo agreed. It made sense. Kill Joe Kennedy – have nothing to show for it. Get his son into office, have a friend in the White House. Well that was priceless – a fuckin’ no brainer. The deal was done.”

  Hoffa went on.

  “The mob worked their balls off gettin’ that son-of-a-bitch elected and then those rat bastard Kennedys went back on their word. They think that they’re in this bullet proof bubble because Jack’s President, untouchable. And they figure that Bobby’s next in line for the throne and even that little prick Teddy might follow him. Now I’m just a union organizer, and I have my own power base, but whatever I do and whatever moves I make, it’s always for the betterment of my members. What the Kennedys have done is they’ve declared war on a powerful organization who will not take their betrayal layin’ down. The boys have put out a contract on them. Someday, maybe even soon, they’ll pay for it. When the boys give their word, good or bad, you can take it to the bank. Those Kennedys violated honor, something sacred to us. You know, since I became the President of the Teamsters, my men now have a great health care program. They have eye coverage and a decent pension. A truck driver is now a respected member of the community. Yeah, sometimes I took from Peter to pay Paul but I always did it to benefit the membership. I’m just about to borrow pension money to buy Florida property that’s a few feet underwater. I’ll get hammered for that, I’m sure, but in a few years, that property will be worth a fortune. But that’s not what I wanna talk to you about.”

  Red, Trenchie and Tarzan just sat there, not saying a word. Hoffa was just going on and on and doling out some interesting information along the way.

  “I saw The Starlight Club in the movie The Prize Fighter. I want to open one on the Teamster Union property we own in South Florida. We’ll call the place “The Starlight Club South,” and it will be entirely yours, but the teamsters will hold the mortgage. The interest from the mortgage will bring a large profit to our treasury and I can hold our yearly convention there. It’ll be a special place my members can go to when they’re in Florida. We’ll build a high class hotel on the property next to the club and you won’t have to put up a dime because we’ll fund it all and like I said, we’ll hold the mortgage – a thirty year mortgage – and when it’s paid, the entire complex will revert to you. By that time, the Teamsters will have made three times their investment and everybody will be happy. Whatta you say?”

  “Well,” Red said as he sighed, finally able to speak, but completely caught off guard by what he was hearing. He quickly collected his thoughts. “So you say after thirty years it’ll all be mine? I’ll own everything?”

  “That’s right,” the teamster head replied. “Look, everybody knows that Bobby boy is after me. I beat him in 1960 and 62. In fact, I beat him in court twelve times and it’s aggravatin’ the hell out of him. He seems determined not to lose a thirteenth time. I heard through the grapevine that he’s takin’ an enemy of mine out of jail – promisin’ him his freedom if he testifies against me. There’s no way I can get around this one. This time he’ll convict me. The guy’s a vindictive fuck who’d rather die than see me free. Maybe he’ll get both of his wishes because I have a long memory too. That’s why I’m puttin’ a rush on this. I’d like to do this before I go to prison. Do we have a deal?”

  Red thought a minute and that was just about all it took.

  “Have your lawyer draw up the papers and tell him to overnight them to my lawyer. Then have your lawyer call mine and let ‘em hash it out. As soon as my guy gives me the go ahead, I’ll do it.”

  “Fair enough,” Hoffa said smiling as he sat back in his chair. “Do you guys want coffee?”

  “I don’t think so, Jimmy. We better be going,” Red answered.

  “Sorry, Red,” Hoffa said, cutting him off, “but you can’t go anywhere until I finish telling you somethin’ very important, somethin’ you don’t know.”

  Trenchie looked around, searching for any signs of anything unusual. Jimmy caught him doing it.

  “No, nothing like that,” Hoffa added. “It’s only that we haven’t discussed the main reason I asked for this meet. My contact, the one who told me about the guy that Bobby is taking out of jail to testify against me, also told me that once he’s put me behind bars, he’ll be comin’ after you, Red. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Red’s face fell. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Hoffa looked at Tarzan. “Tarzan here is one of the few people in the world that I trust. When I heard this, I decided to let ya know before I go away.”

  Red leaned over, placed his lips almost on Jimmy’s ear, and whispered, “If that prick comes after me, I’ll kill him – Kennedy, no Kennedy.”

  “Well, get in line then, Red,” Hoffa laughed half heartedly, “because when I get out of prison – and I will get out – he’ll pay for what he’s done to the teamster rank and file and to me. Watch yourself, Red. Bobby’s using a special team of assassins to go after his enemies and right now, you’re one of them. These guys are touting themselves ‘officially’ as federal agents. They’re not official shit. They’re killers who work under the radar. Be careful. They won’t take you alive. And remember, this is not just a mob or a family you’ll be fightin’. This is the United States government – unlimited resources, deep pockets, never ending supply of money. They’re relentless.”

  “I don’t get it, to be honest,” Red said. “I keep a low profile, try not to create problems, I don’t deal in drugs, and I’m almost a hundred percent legit now, so why is Bobby Kennedy targeting me?”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Hoffa chimed in. “Because he’s a vindictive bastard who’s made his mark by takin’ down the mafia. You’re part of it. You have a club that’s well known, your guys have been in the movies, your people and club are in the news. You may be low profile by your standards, but you represent the success that being a Mafioso brings.”

  “How soon?” Red jumped in. �
�What’s the word? How soon before I need to vanish for a while?” he asked.

  Hoffa leaned back and stated quite matter-of-factly, “I’d disappear soon. According to my source, it’s in the works now.”

  Red stood up.

  “Excuse me a minute, Jimmy. I have to make a phone call.”

  Red looked around for the pay phones and spotted them by the elevators. He made his way over to them, placed a call, spoke only for seconds, and returned to the table. He reached into his pocket, looked at Tarzan, and threw him the keys to the Caddy.

  “Bring the car up front. We’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.”

  Red then turned to Hoffa.

  “I appreciate the heads up, Jimmy. Have your lawyer overnight the contract. I’ll be unreachable after that. Tomorrow night, I’m going to the mattresses until this blows over.”

  Hoffa stood up.

  The meeting now over, Red added, “Jimmy, it was good talking with you. I like the deal in Florida. I hope we can make it happen before the feds stop us and I wish you luck in your upcoming trial. If you need to speak with me, call Tarzan. He’ll know how to reach me.”

  “Thanks, Red. Watch your back. Bobby’s a bloodthirsty shark – won’t let up until he eats you, me, all of us . . . alive.”

  “Will do, Jimmy. Good luck.”

  Red and Trenchie headed out the front entrance and into the car waiting on Park Avenue.

  Chapter Three

  While at the meeting, Red had excused himself briefly from Hoffa and had called Moose, asking him to have someone get Angelo, his architect and builder. Angelo was waiting for him as he walked into The Starlight Club. He was a bit anxious as he spotted Red walk through the door.

  “What is it, Red? What happened that you need-uh me so quick?”

  “I need you to do me a big favor, Angelo. Take a walk with me.”

  The two men slipped out the back door and cut through the backyards of some nearby houses until they came to an alley. Red instructed Angelo to do as he did and they hugged the wall until they reached the street. Once there, they walked away from the club for about a hundred yards, crossed the street, and headed back in the direction of the club. They walked past the lot where Red’s car was parked without looking right or left. Red didn’t know if the feds were watching or not, but he was taking no chances. They crossed One Hundred Eleventh Street and kept walking along Forty–Third Avenue until they reached the Corona Gentleman’s Club, which had sat vacant since his Uncle Yip’s death. Red unlocked the door and put on the lights. The windows were blacked out so no one could see in. The dust was an inch thick. Red swept his arm in a wide arc, motioning around the structure.