Narrows Gate by Fusilli Jim

Author:Fusilli, Jim [Fusilli, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2011-11-15T05:00:00+00:00

After midnight, all calls for Mr. Marsala went to Terrasini’s line. House rule.

Terrasini sat up at the first ring. Maybe it was Metro. Or Klein, forgetting the three-hour difference.

“Yeah,” Terrasini said, as he cleared his throat.

Mimmo gave it to him straight.

“Oh, good God,” Terrasini replied. “Yeah. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him now.”

Terrasini threw on the robe he kept at the foot of the bed. He hurried across the living area and knocked on the door to Marsala’s room.

“Bebe,” he said.

He knocked again.

“Bebe.” He had a sudden thought he’d taken his sleeping pills.

He opened the door. The room was empty, the bed made. The bathroom door was open, the light off.

His mind raced.

Somebody had already called Bebe, he thought. They sent the call up and he knows his mother’s dead. Jesus Christ.

Terrasini raced out of the room and down the hall. The window to the air shaft was open.

“Bebe, damn you…”

He reached the open window and stuck his head out, expecting to see Marsala in a crumble down in the courtyard below.

But only a few pigeons nesting on the ledges.

He rang the switchboard, identified himself and asked for a list of the telephone numbers Marsala called. Maybe he was with one of the broads he had stashed in town, maybe that Broadway actress again.

Then he asked for a long-distance operator. Certain Mimmo had contacted his niece, he requested person-to-person to Phil Klein. Knowing Klein, he told the operator to try his office first.

“Phil. Nino.”

Klein stood. Hearing those two words, he could tell Terrasini was forcing himself to stay calm. “What is it?”

“Hennie’s dead.”

Klein slipped a pen out of the desk set and scribbled while Terrasini told him what he knew.

“Can I speak to Bill?” he asked.

Terrasini told him Marsala was out. He had to locate him before the papers and the radio heard the news.

Klein thought quickly. He’d have to release a statement on Marsala’s behalf, expressing his gratitude for his fans’ prayers and sympathy. In the morning, he’d contact Louella Parsons. She knew Marsala had been close to his mother. The entire country deserved to be reminded. He’d propose that she speak to him, an exclusive. She could convey his enormous sense of loss and devastation. People would see Bill Marsala for the sensitive man he was under the swagger and bravado, stardom’s ebb and flow.

“I don’t envy you, Nino.”

Terrasini nodded. He’d already put away the sleeping pills and stashed the straight razor. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Call Rosa and tell her I’ll be with Bill. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

“Of course,” Klein said as he completed his notes. “I’ll drive out. She shouldn’t be alone.”

A bellman rapped on the door and Terrasini crossed the suite, the long telephone wire snaking behind him.

He took the slip of paper. Two phone numbers, the second one Minton’s. Terrasini could see it: He’s surrounded by musicians, nobody gives a shit he’s Bill Marsala, something sweet’s playing and he’s bought himself a few minutes of peace. I tell him one sentence and everything blows to bits.

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