Robert Kennedy wouldn’t let it go.
Same for his brother John. At least that’s what every bookie, hustler, loan shark, hoodlum and low-level gangster in the French Quarter was saying. Hints, whispers and rumors about an unplanned trip to Guatemala were floating around smoke-filled pool halls, strip joints, backroom gambling dens and the private room on the second floor of Tujague’s Restaurant on Decatur Street in New Orleans.
Amid the scattered cards, Jax beer bottles, and stacks of currency, Sammy Goldoni flicked the heavy ashes of his Cuban into a near-empty glass of stale beer, taking in the other three cardplayers. Despite the 3 hours of drinking, swearing, smoking, card playing and of course lying to each other, the mood became serious when Sammy looked toward the closed door to the private room, leaned in and said, “Carlos is madder than a mosquito in a mannequin factory.”
Goldoni’s comment got a few somber chuckles from his cohorts but all four men knew better than to be caught laughing too loud about something that had Carlos’ name in the punch line.
“So, I guess what they are saying about ‘The Little Man’ getting hauled out of the country and dropped from a plane in the jungle is true,” said Frankie Rico, a low-level mafioso who ran a bookie operation out of a liquor store in the Faubourg Marigny.
“You ain’t heard that from me,” Goldoni replied as he stood up and walked to the large cypress double doors that separated the private room from the upstairs bar and dining room.
“You know these walls got ears, especially when old lady Castet is running the show,” Goldoni continued before taking a peak into the other room.
Over the years, the owners of Tujague’s knew their success came not only from serving quality food, but also by looking the other way when a nefarious deal or two may have been conducted within its plastered walls. Many an agreement and disagreement had been made standing in front of the ornate bar and mirror that had been shipped over from Paris the same year the restaurant opened. Prohibition didn’t even slow down business.
Occasionally a hurricane or tropical depression interrupted business and the decadence of the French Quarter but never stopped the lowlifes and aristocrats, mulattos and moochers from coming out of their hiding places to resume their lives. Although a storm was on the horizon, the four men playing cards appeared indifferent to the growing concern on the streets below.
“I’ve swam in Lake Pontchartrain when the wind was strong enough to push a mallard backwards.” Goldoni bragged to his poker buddies. “This ain’t nothing but a little squall that will be gone faster than old lady Castet can bake a pan of bread pudding.”
“Dit mon la verite’,” said Sleepy Eye Sonnier, a crusty Cajun man who made his living placing bets for the trappers and shrimpers who called nearby St. Bernard Parish home. Speaking in English, Sonnier said, “tell dese boys the truth Goldie. You swim like a crawfish trap weighted down with beef melt sinkin’ in the marsh behind my huntin’ camp.”
“I got a better idea you lazy-eyed coonass. Why don’t you go swim with those hippies who are bathing in those fountains across from Jackson Square and let the real men play cards!” Goldoni shot back, trying to sound tough, with little success.
A knock on the dining room door interrupted the barrage of insults being thrown around the table. The polished wood door swung open even before the knocking ended and without being invited in, a most unusual looking man waltzed across the room like he owned the restaurant, grabbed a half-finished beer from the table, and dropped a roll of bills on the table.
“Well, look what the storm washed out of the sewer,” Goldoni said to the newcomer. “Here in the flesh it’s Pete ‘the peter puffing transvestite’ Franklin.”
Taking the sarcasm in stride, Pete simply said, “Hello girls, deal me in.”
Pinball & Preachers 