CHAPTER ONE
If it weren't for the guard at the door, the prison library could be mistaken for one in a big Wall Street law firm.
Ziggey "The Z Man" Zignorelli, was seated opposite Mr. Yoshi at a small, dimly lit corner table. Ziggey was more chewing than smoking a cheap cigar, Mr. Yoshi was savoring a Dunhill 100 cigarette, held between his thumb and forefinger European style. On the small table lamp between two upholstered chairs were the signs of wealth. Next to the gold nugget Dunhill cigarette lighter and gold cigarette case was a half empty liter of Glen Fiddich Scotch. And judging from the body posture and slurred speech, that half bottle had been recently emptied by Mr. Yoshi. "The Z Man" was nursing a Coke.
The contrast between these two went far beyond their choices in tobacco and drinks. Mr. Yoshi was an imposing Japanese gentleman, dressed impeccably in Brooks Brothers Made to Measure, who spoke, when sober, perfect Oxford English.
The "Z" man, on the other hand, well, it helped if you were from the streets of New York to understand the slang, bad grammar and other very localized expressions. As for clothes, Ziggey didn't give a damn. Pants, shirt, shoes and not always socks were applied to his five foot seven inch body with no apparent concern as to color or condition.
So why were these two unlikely types together, particularly since there were others in this country club prison who represented more likely pairings? The answer was simple: Ziggey was working. He was working Mr. Yoshi for information. Any information he might someday find useful in his chosen career of small time con man.
For reasons no one understood and Ziggey never dwelled upon, people talked to him. Revealed things they told no one else. He had developed a knack for extracting information that many regretted revealing, if not the next day, a month or years later. He played the part of sympathetic and concerned listener to Oscar Award winning levels.
And so, on this his final night in the slammer, it was he who sought out Mr. Yoshi with his going away gift of the single malt Scotch. In the six months he'd been incarcerated, Ziggey had discovered all there was to know about Yoshi's background and why he was there, but instincts told him there was more to learn. Something that might be useful someday somewhere. If only to get the name of a relative or business associate that he might drop in the furtherance of some yet to be thought of scam.
"I still don't understand why a guy like you, wit your dough and connections, not to mention the lawyers you must have up the ying yang winds up in the joint? It just don't make no sense to me. Me, I understand. I get caught in a little harmless fun, make a few bucks and they nail me. And I ain't payin' no shyster to get me off. Rather do the six months and save the bread. But you...I just don't get it?" Ziggey said, leaning into Yoshi's ear then taking a long pull on his Coke and relaxing back in his chair.
Mr. Yoshi hunched forward almost sliding off his chair, took the bottle of Scotch and, spilling some, refilled his glass. Still leaning over the table he looked up at Ziggey and said, "I'm gonna tell ya, ole chap. It was merely a case of a misunderstanding and downright bigotry. No, bigotry was all it was. Your bloody government can't stand the thought of some poor yellow skinned immigrant making a decent living. It just galls them. So here I am because of some petty oversight. The Japanese example."
Of course Ziggey, as well as all the other inmates, knew that poor Mr. Yoshi's oversight was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty five million dollars that those bigots in the IRS convicted him of not paying.
Taking a long swallow of his drink Mr. Yoshi continued, "By the way, my good man, oh, first let me again thank you for this most delightful of beverages, just why are you residing in this dingy place? Not some heinous crime against some poor devil I trust?"
"Naw, some people just ain't got no sense of humor. And like you, they made an example of me, not because I'm rich or nothin', but 'cause I'm just a hard working nobody. You really want to know, I'd be pleased to tell ya, but you gotta keep it to yourself. Nobody knows the whole truth. But you're a guy I know I can trust if you give me your word."
Tell a confidence, even if a lie, and get a confidence in return was a formula that had worked well for Ziggey since a kid in the school yard.
"My good fellow, you have both my word as a gentleman, and my undivided attention. Please go on with your story. I still have some friends - although that number has diminished considerably in these last few months - that might be of some help to you when you leave this tawdry place."
"Well, like I told ya." Ziggey, pleased with himself, went on. "I was made an example of. Things hadn't been going too well for me in my profession of choice. So one night I'm doin' my usual thing, sittin' at the bar at Jimmy's joint in the Village havin' a brew, bull shitin' with a coupla buddies waiting for lightning to strike. Well, this joint we go to, Jimmy's, gets a real mixed crowd. You know, a cross section of people, some not so classy and some real classy rich types."
People like the Village' think it's colorful, like to look at the freaks and then go home. Also get some pretty famous actors, what comes in. Lots of 'em started out in the Village and like to come back an' show off. And there's this acting school in the neighborhood, kids who think after twenty classes at five bucks a crack they're gonna be stars."
"That's all very interesting Mr. Zignorelli, but please get to the point. Just why are you here?"
"Sorry pal, once I get started talkin'...anyway I get this job as an extra in a movie they're shootin' in the Village. Another one of them stupid mob movies. Guy comes to me at Jimmy's one night sez he's some assistant director and I'd be perfect for this flick. No lines or anything, but you get meals and $42.50 a day cash five days work. Chump change to a guy like you, but what the hell, two hundred and change plus a week of free food. I ain't doin nothin' else and you never know what
|