Case of the Glass Heart

 Chapter Three

Tuesday, July 1st, 1947: 9:26 p.m. A swanky nightclub, West Tampa.

Swing jazz rattled from somewhere in the room, and a sultry voice is heard singing up on the stage.

Beauty & the Beasts

Carmine had set up a meeting with one of West Tampa’s rising bosses. A man named Tony Mariotti. He was climbing the local mob ladder fast, and it wouldn’t be long before the boys in New York called him up to the big leagues.

He ran things out of a swanky little jazz joint off Lisbon Avenue called the Flamingo Club. With the feds tearing up the roads near Catfish Point to build a new Air Force base, Mike decided to take a taxi.

The parking lot of the Flamingo Club was packed, a good sign for a Tuesday night.
Mike tipped the driver, flipped up the collar on his coat, settled his fedora, and stepped out into the rain. He made a mental note to bill the fare to Mr. Alonzo.

At the entrance, he was met by a wall of a man in a smoke-gray pinstriped suit.
Mike tipped his hat. “Evening, Chum, say, is the boss in?”

The big fella’s hair was as flat as his nose. From the way he looked and the way he carried himself it was clear he’d once been a prizefighter.
He squinted one eye, sizing Mike up.
“Who wants to know?”

Mike gave the lobby a quick scan, hoping to spot Carmine or Mariotti.

“Tell Mister Mariotti that Mike Paladin’s asking for him.” He paused to light a cigarette. “He should be expecting me.”

The behemoth stepped forward, blocking Mike’s view of the club interior.

“Paladin, huh? Never heard of him. Now beat feet… chum.” 

Mike could already tell…it was going to be one of those nights.
He shook his head and looked up at the giant.
“Yeah, I’m sure there’s plenty you’ve never heard of.”

He peeled off his raincoat and hat.
“Look, meathead. It’s a simple request. Maybe too simple for the likes of you…”

Before Mike could finish his comment on the doorman’s intelligence…or lack thereof…another guy stepped over. Just as big, just as bulky… and just as dumb.

“You heard him. He said beat it, pal.”

As Dumb and Dumber closed in, one on each side. Mike’s right hand slipped into his front slacks pocket.

He gripped the leather-bound lead ball slapjack and made it ready.

He looked the first guy square in his squinty eye.

“Take another step...pal...and your boyfriend here will be feeding you tapioca pudding through a straw for the next few months.”

They paused for a moment, so Mike continued to press his luck. “Now, go be a good little lap dog and let Mister Mariotti know I’m here.”

Mike wasn’t fooling himself.
Even on his best day, he couldn’t take both of these gorillas, and that wasn’t the plan anyway.

He just needed to stir up enough commotion to draw attention from inside.
Someone cooler. Smarter. With a leash on the muscle.

And right on cue…just as Dumb and Dumber were about to toss his ass back into the rain, a short little blonde dressed in a black bathing suit with matching fishnet stockings stepped in between the men.

She was about five-foot nothing, with a sassy Jersey accent.
She gently placed a hand on the first clown’s chest.

“Calm down, bruiser. No need for any trouble.”

And just like that, like some wild animal tamer at the circus, the hired heat cooled down.

Her sparkling blue eyes trailed up and down Mike’s rain-soaked frame.
Standing between the two gorillas, he felt a little inadequate; luckily for him, she must’ve liked what she saw.

She flashed a million-dollar smile and a quick wink.
“Mista Mariotti is expecting you, Mista Paladin. Now, if you will… please follow me.”

She extended an arm past the doormen in grand, dramatic fashion, ushering him forward like a showgirl on center stage.

Mike returned the smile and the wink.
“You must be the brains of this outfit.”

He couldn’t help himself. As he walked past the thugs, he added,
“This must be your lucky day, boys.”

As the blonde led Mike away from the hired muscle, he tossed out,
“Swell pets you’ve got there. You teach ’em to fetch and roll over all by yourself?”

She let out a giggle as she waved her hand dismissively,

“Pay no attention to Lou and Gus, they mean well. They’re harmless pussycats.”

She glanced over her shoulder and gave Mike a wink.
“That is… unless the boss sics them on somebody.”

Mike followed her through the smoke-filled nightclub.
“Yeah… well, let’s hope Mariotti keeps ’em on a leash tonight.”

Mr. Tony Mariotti

The place was packed.
Mike thought he recognized a few of the patrons as they passed every type, race, and class from all around the Bay Area.

He had to hand it to Mariotti. The guy didn’t care where you came from, as long as you paid your tab and didn’t start trouble.

The little blonde fireball ushered the gumshoe past a set of red velvet ropes to the left of the stage, guiding him toward a private table.
Waiting there were his cousin, Carmine Gabori, and mob boss Tony Mariotti.

They were sipping colorful mixed drinks while Mariotti kept his eyes locked on the stage, where a stunning redhead was mid-song.

The two men stood as the blonde led Mike to the table.
Mariotti extended a hand.
“Mikey! Good to see you. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

It was clear Tony Mariotti was a man used to giving orders.
He didn’t wait for Mike to answer.
Turning to the blonde, he said,
“Betty, sweetheart bring us another round of Manhattans. And grab Mikey here anything he wants, will ya?”

She flashed that million-dollar smile again as she turned to Mike.
“Sure thing, boss. What can I get you, sugar?”

He shook his head and waved her off.
“Thanks, but none for me… Betty, I won’t be staying long. I’m on the clock.”

She winked.
“Suit yourself, handsome,” she said, sauntering off into the crowd.

Mike took a seat across from his cousin, next to Mariotti.
“I appreciate you meeting with me tonight, Mr. Mariotti. I know you’re a busy man. I’ve just got one quick question.”

Mariotti waved him off.
“Nonsense. I’ve always got time for the grandson of Ernesto Paladino.”

He leaned in close…close enough for Mike to name the gangster’s aftershave… and what he’d had for dinner.

“Sorry to hear about your Pops. He really was a great guy.” 

Mike gave a small nod.

His old man had been in the ground going on five years, but this was the first time most of Ernesto’s old associates had seen Mike in person.

So the condolences still came, fresh as the flowers on the grave. 

Mike gave a small nod, eyes low.
“Pops was one of a kind.”

Mike’s idiot cousin bobbed his head, in what one could only assume was agreement.
Carmine was a sleaze. Most people who knew him didn’t like him. Mike included.

He was a leech; made his place in the organization by tossing their grandfather’s name around like it was a passport.

But he was family.
And he had set up this meeting.
So Mike told himself he’d tolerate Carmine…at least for tonight.

Mariotti drained his drink and fished a fat Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket.
Mike smiled when he saw the wrapper: Alonzo’s Premium Cigars.

Carmine nearly flipped the table scrambling for his lighter, eager for the privilege of lighting Mariotti’s smoke.

And once again, Mike reminded himself: I’ll tolerate him… for tonight.

Mariotti let out a slow roll of white-blue smoke as he leaned back in his chair.

It was obvious to Mike, from the muscle at the door, the pricey cigar, the flashy three-piece suit, and having his cousin sitting there like his own, personal little cocker spaniel, that Tony Mariotti was trying to make a point.
He wanted Mike to see just how powerful and important he was.

Which only made the gumshoe wonder…why?

He smiled at Mike through the fog of his cigar.
“I was really glad to hear from Carmine here; that you were interested in seeing me.”

Carmine cracked a huge grin when he heard Mariotti say his name.

Mariotti went on.

“I’m assuming you’re here to tell me you’re stepping into your grandfather’s business, and you want to come work for me.”

Mariotti grinned wide, pointing his cigar at Mike.
“That’s great news. I could really use a guy like you, Mikey.”

Mike gave a polite nod.
“I appreciate the offer, Mister Mariotti…I really do. But I’m not here looking for work tonight.”

He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag.
“In fact… I’m already on a job.”

Disappointment, and a flicker of distrust, climbed across Mariotti’s face.
Tony Mariotti wasn’t used to being turned down.

He shook his head.
“Mikey, don’t tell me you went to work for Tampa’s finest…with your cop old man?”

Mike raised a hand.
“No, no… nothing like that,” he said. “To be honest, I’m not sure our boys in blue would even have me. I’m in the private detective racket now.”

Betty returned to the table with a tray of mixed drinks and a beautiful smile; one that faded fast.
She set Mariotti’s glass down gently, then slipped away without a word.

The mood at the table had soured.
Mike wondered how long he had before the goons at the door came to collect.

Mariotti snatched up his drink and took a long swig.
He was stalling, working something out behind those eyes.
You could almost hear the hamster wheel turning.

“That so?” Mariotti tilted his head and leaned back.
He gave a casual backhand thump to Mike’s idiot cousin’s chest.
“Get a load of that, Carmine…Mike Paladino, a private dick.”

Carmine leaned across the table, narrowing his eyes as he gave Mike a slow once-over.
“Okay then… tell me, dick; if you’re not here to work for Mr. Mariotti, why’d you ask me to set this meeting up in the first place?”

Cute, Mike thought. Always with the dick jokes.
He didn’t flinch. He’d been called worse by better men.

Before he could answer, Mariotti cut in.
“So what…the mayor hire you to tell me to lay off his wife or something?”

Carmine let out a nervous laugh.

Mike shook his head.
“I don’t know anything about the mayor… or his wife.”

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes drifting for a moment.
That was twice this week someone had mentioned her.
He was starting to wonder; what exactly was going on with the mayor’s wife?

He brought his focus back to Mariotti.
“I’m just looking for any information you might have about someone sniffing around the underground casinos down in Ybor.
Anyone trying to muscle in on the action?”

Mariotti raised a hand calling for silence.
His eyes drifted toward the main stage as the redhead finished her song.

You didn’t need a private detective’s license to see he had it bad for this dame.

A wide grin slid across his scar-marked face as he pointed her out with the fat end of his cigar.
“She’s got the voice of an angel, doesn’t she?”

If Mike were being honest, he’d have told Mariotti he hadn’t really been paying attention to her.

Instead, he took a drag from his cigarette and said,
“Yeah… real nice set of pipes on the gal.”

Without taking his eyes off the singer, Mariotti muttered,
“Ybor, you say? I try to stay outta Ybor…too many hands in too many pies, if you catch my drift.”

Mike caught it just fine.
Funny thing about guys who “stay outta” places, they always seem to know what’s going on inside. Mariotti wasn’t wrong.

Ybor City was the main artery for vice in the Bay Area, gambling, girls, drugs, rackets, take your pick.
Everyone wanted a piece.
From Tampa to Cuba, Jersey to Chicago; they were all in on the game.

He continued to eye the redhead as she made her way across the nightclub. 

“Off the top of my head, nothing or nobody comes to mind.” He turned to look Mike in the eyes. “And I’d know if a major player in town was making a play in Ybor.”

Mike smiled, wondering if Mariotti was trying to convince himself.

Mariotti leaned back, that familiar smile curling across his lips.
“You know what? For you, Mikey…as a personal favor…I’ll ask around. See what turns up.”
He didn’t wait for thanks.
“In return,” he said, smile still intact, “I’ve got a little favor to ask you, Mr. Private Eye.”

He leaned in close, pointing toward the redheaded singer making her way across the room.
“I’m heading outta town for a few days; got some business to handle up Jersey way. What I need is a real stand-up guy… someone I can trust… to keep an eye on my Vivianne. You follow me?”

Mike’s first instinct was to tell him no, he wasn’t anybody’s babysitter.
But nothing came free with Tony Mariotti.

He lived by a simple motto: beneficium pro beneficium.
A favor… for a favor.

The redhead glided up to the table and nestled herself between the mobster and the gumshoe like she’d been born for it.

Mike watched as Tony Mariotti transformed…from tough guy in charge to lovesick schoolboy in the span of a heartbeat.

“Vivianne, baby… here’s an old friend I’d like you to meet. Mike Paladin, meet sweet Miss Vivianne De’Marco.”

She turned toward Mike with a wide, sultry smile and extended her arms as if they were old friends.

Mike should’ve asked Alonzo for four times his going rate.

Still, he played nice. Managed a polite, one-armed hug.
“Evening, Miss De’Marco. Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Please,” she purred, “call me Vivianne.”

Her eyes drifted over Mike’s frame like she was exploring new territory. 

She kept one arm looped around Mike’s waist as Mariotti piped up.
“Vivianne, darling, Mikey here’s gonna be lookin’ out for you while I’m up north on business. As a personal favor, isn’t that right, Mikey?”

Mike nodded, tight-lipped and reluctant.
He arched a brow and didn’t flinch when Vivianne gave his backside a quick squeeze, her voice breathy and sweet as she cooed to Mariotti,
“I’m sure he and I will have just the best time while you’re gone, baby.”

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