Killer at the Ambassador Hotel

By Richard Joseph Zazzi

Joseph is back! Called out of retirement by his Mafia family, he has to abide by Family rules and get ready for his next target - the future President of the United States.

This time, assisted by his buddy, Lenny, and his beautiful cousin, Angelica, Joseph’s assignment leads him into the world of horse racing and hypnotism.

This novel, as most of Richard's books, is based on historical events with the final outcome of the story established long ago. It spins a tale around true occurrences and adds an alternative twist to the reality that we all have learned to accept.

Many of the facts are true, but the overall storyline is entirely a work of fiction where the main character and anti-villain, Joseph, thrown into the midst of a period in US history shaped by political turmoil and assassinations, again has to do his family's bidding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Joseph Zazzi
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476033785

Richard Joseph Zazzi

RICHARD JOSEPH ZAZZI was raised at a winery in northern California owned by his traditional Italian family and was a therapist for nearly twenty years. Now retired, he and his wife have three grown sons and live in a remote part of Hawaii. They share their home with Bobo, a German Shepherd/Border Collie mix, and Tiggy, an alley cat. Writing for several years now, he has published four fiction novels. Currently, he is working on a sequel to the Arctic Rose, a light-hearted mystery with characters from Hawaii. Richard likes to incorporate elements of history or political/societal conflict into his work. An avid reader himself, he enjoys fiction and non-fiction alike. When he is not reading or writing, he loves to pass time playing his guitar or listening to music. His favorite musical performers, among many others, are Eric Clapton, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Neil Young, Pink Floyd, and many of the old Blues artists. Finally, his most treasured activity is to spend time with his wife and, whenever possible, the rest of his busy family.

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Killer at the Ambassador Hotel

Richard Joseph Zazzi

Killer at the Ambassador Hotel

Copyright © 2012 Richard Joseph Zazzi

All rights reserved

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Dedication

To my family and friends.

Content

Acknowledgments

Author's Note

1 Joseph out of Retirement

2 Finding a Suitable Patsy

3 Tempest in a Teapot at the Circle T

4 Manchurian Candidate & Unwelcoming Committee

5 Mafia and CIA

6 Girl in the Polka Dot Dress

7 Ripples in the Water and the Backlash

About the Author

Other Books by Richard Joseph Zazzi

Soon to be Released

Acknowledgments

I want to acknowledge with appreciation all of those who again were involved with the development of my manuscript. My special thanks go out to the staff at the Naalehu Public Library, who helped me obtain much of my background research material. My deepest gratitude goes to my wife, who supported me in my creative process and again was instrumental in bringing this book to life. Finally, I would like to honor my family and all of my readers. I hope that you will enjoy this book and find it interesting and worth reading.

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Author's Note

This is a fiction novel. Some characters are based on historical events but the surrounding storyline is entirely fictitious. I hope no one is offended by this book, and those who take the time to read it, will find it entertaining.

I strongly believe that the Manchurian Candidate is still being used by the US Government as well as the USSR.

Lee Harvey Oswald was the patsy in the John Fitzgerald Kennedy killing on November 22, 1963. Oswald was twenty-nine years old.

James Earl Ray shot and killed Martin Luther King on April 4th, 1968. Ray was thirty-nine years old.

Sirhan Bishara Sirhan was the patsy in the Robert Francis Kennedy killing on June 5th, 1968. Sirhan was twenty-four years old.

John Brinkley, Jr. shot and wounded Ronald Reagan on March 30, 1981. Brinkley was twenty-six years old.

Lynette Squeaky Fromme and late Sara Jane Moore, both made separate attempts to kill President Gerald Rudolph Ford during his presidency.

Jared Lee Loughner shot and wounded Gabrielle Gifford on January 11, 2011. Loughner was twenty-two years old.

Other politicians who had attempts on their life while in government office: Andrew Jackson, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, Robert McNamara, George Corley Wallace, Jr., and William Jefferson Clinton. This is a list of less than one half of the names documented in US history.

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1 Joseph out of Retirement

It was a warm day at the water's edge. I'd completed my daily swim out to the buoy and back. The ocean water was as pure as anyone could find in the world. The greenish-blue and turquoise colors only added to its splendor. The air was crisp and full of life. Several sea birds broke the peaceful silence and tranquility of the day with their squawking while fighting over a fish one of them had found. A gentle breeze brought with it the sweet smell of wild flowers blooming. The beauty of the island of Sicily was beyond description.

I was thinking about things in nature and how they were in a constant struggle to survive, kind of like humanity, when I saw a fishing boat with several men come up on the channel that led to the open ocean.

One of the fishermen waved enthusiastically, at first I thought at me, but then I realized he was waving at my companion on the beach. The sand was as fine as sugar, and I had to work my legs to walk out of the water. As I waved back, I noticed he was being told to back off by his fellow fisherman who probably explained whose private beach this was. Most of the boats that went by, kept their distance, leery of the rumors surrounding the ownership of this beach property. Actually, no one knew for sure who the owner was but nobody dared to ask any questions.

Swimming against the current out to the buoy and back took about an hour of aggressive, hard swimming. The tides dictated the strength of the current in this extremely deep water going away from shore. I was still one hundred ninety-five pounds and had been since turning seventeen. My running had improved, and my best time was a little over fourteen minutes for two miles. That's flat out running, not your leisurely jog, and still no weight reduction. But muscle mass was heavier than fat. One gains weight and gets thinner, it doesn't come easy.

Letting my hair grow to shoulder length was Rose's challenge. She bet that I could make it in less than fourteen minutes for that two mile run. Once I got under that time, she told me I could get the hair cut.

Rose, whom I'd never seen without an apron, had been with our family for years and was a fabulous cook. She was only five feet tall and round, totally loveable. Her dark skin and hair accented her deep set features that years of hard work in the fields and vineyards here in Sicily had carved into her face.

Unfortunately, I still didn't need to shave and didn't have much hair on my body. I wanted a mustache, had this very thin bit of hair working above the upper lip. They kept telling me that was common for Sicilian men, being hairless, but then being tall was not exactly Sicilian, maybe that was as indication that there was hope. Brown hair and brown eyes without identifiable marks on my body made me fit in just about anywhere. Being mostly white with good tan, straight teeth, wide shoulders, and in pretty decent physical shape, I could claim to be from a dozen European countries.

I finished drying off and turned my attention to the pretty girl they had sent me for my day's entertainment. She had rich, dark eyes, jet black hair, and couldn't be more than twenty years old. There was a special charm about her. I liked her for her ability to listen and not say too much. She sported this tiny number, barely an excuse of a bikini, which accentuated her remarkable figure, but didn't go in the water. While we struck up a meaningless conversation in Italian, I helped her apply some tanning oil and instantly became mesmerized by the sunlight glistening off her perfectly rounded breasts. My mind had just started to drift toward activities in the bedroom when Angelo suddenly emerged on the edge of the beach.

Angelo was my main man at the villa and provided what little contact I had with the outside world. Joseph, you are wanted at the villa, at once.

Angelo had been with me for three years now and was as close to a friend as I could have. He was almost fifty years old and had worked for my great uncle, Victor Castinetti, all his life. His Italian came off with a gusto that made the language sing, and his handlebar mustache wiggled when he spoke. He always wore the traditional wardrobe of a chauffeur, his shoulder-length, sandy hair tied neatly in a ponytail, but he had yet to drive me anywhere. I was not allowed to leave the villa.

Angelo didn't have any family which I found extremely unusual. He at least didn't talk about mothers or fathers, sisters or brothers. When I asked about his family, he usually shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. He was a great chess player and had taught me how to play and speak Italian over my last three and a half years here, a prisoner in my own home.

I expressed softly, Very well, and Angelo, can you take my lovely guest back to town for me?

Turning toward my beach beauty, I said, I'll send my driver, and we can resume our activities tomorrow.

My Italian had gotten better, at least good enough for her and others to understand me. She responded with a fabulous smile and sexy blink of the eye. I'll be there at your beckoning - just give me your tiniest signal. You know, I am yours.

The girl appreciated my concern for her and fully understood not to ask questions. She was one of many they brought me, hoping to satisfy my urge to roam.

Walking up the steep grade past the security gate, I still had those lingering thoughts of us together and had great expectations for the next day. She was by far the smartest girl they had sent to entertain me. With her I knew I had my hands full and loved the challenge.

I had a marginal anticipation of today's meeting - it filled my next enterprising thought as I considered who or what it could be. They had excluded me from most important things, thinking it was part of my reward - I saw it as part of my punishment. The guard didn't say a word and merely nodded as I walked past him.

The light pink villa was almost two hundred years old and had been in my family for generations. It was an exquisite, two story Sicilian mansion right down to the priceless paintings on nearly every wall. Several sides on the exterior of the building were completely covered with ivy vines growing up over the years. The vineyards surrounding the villa had Tokay grapes used for expensive wine and spread for as far as the eye could see in both directions. My ancestors purchased the ground and developed it years ago when Sicily was considered a dumping ground for criminals from mainland Italy.

No one wanted the property because no one could control it; not until my great, great grandfather made the purchase. Italy did not send its criminals to prison where they had to be fed and housed; no, they merely gave them a one- way boat ride to Sicily and dropped them off. Only the strongest hands could grasp this land and hold it for generations to come. Back then, the country was ruled by men carrying out vendettas, and the only people who seemed to grow old were the women.

The land was fertile and the black earth developing for a million years was ready for cultivation and harvesting. My family had put its trust and back into the land, and was rewarded with some of the best wine still on market today.

Now, several hundred years later, the land was as valuable as any offering and still the best for growing grapes. The ground was rich and the weather offered just the right combination of sunlight and rainfall, ideal for growing grapes. This land was what people read about in vacation brochures filled with dreams that only the very few could realize.

As I got closer to the villa, I noticed the two men sitting at the table under an umbrella on the veranda. It hit me; I was going to meet with my great uncle Victor and my grandfather Anthony. We had not seen or spoken to each other for a little over six years, and I didn't know if I should be mad or glad to see them. I approached both men as they stood and turned toward me.

For these men of the world to stand to greet me was a sign of great respect. The heads of Italian families were as respectable as any in the world when dealing with other people and family. But they were also known for what happens when there was disrespect by family members or outsiders. My experience with those Sicilian-born Italians was to not ever get on the opposing end of a gun with these gentlemen. I wasn't sure if this was true with families outside the Mafia, I only had my family as my social compass.

A huge smile came across my grandfather's face and I couldn't help but return the smile. Anthony said, Joseph, come Grandson, let me get a closer look at you.

Victor, my great uncle, who lived on the other side of the island, held considerable power here in Sicily and Italy. He was raised on this island but spoke English perfectly, without the slightest hint of an accent. His parents had sent him to the finest schools throughout Europe where he had learned to communicate in French and German and developed considerable business contacts for the Family. He owned the villa I'd been living in for the last three years and had some of the finest art work in the world adorning its walls. The man was extremely rich and powerful but not as powerful as my grandfather. For being in his late sixties, he was extraordinarily fit and his tall physique was accented by impeccable clothes, and as usual, he was showing his tasteful, expensive jewelry. His white hair was cut to medium length, and he had this air of sophisticated composure. I had never seen the man lose his temper. For that matter, I had never seen my grandfather Anthony lose his temper, either.

Anthony had continued to live in California and was now the west coast Mafia godfather. He was the same, vital man I remembered from three years ago. He still wore his thick rimmed glasses and had full, dark brown hair void of the usual graying one would expect to see on a man his age. Anthony was a short and burly man, about five feet six or seven, who spoke English without betraying his Italian roots. The Dons of New York, Chicago, Miami and New Orleans held him in great respect. There was a glass of red wine in front of him – another usual occurrence with my grandfather. To have these two men here together like this, showing up unannounced, I knew there had to be something big in the makes.

We embraced and I my tear ducts started to become active. I didn't want to admit it, but I had not realized until that moment how much I had missed him. I turned toward Victor, we hugged each other, and a sense of relief washed over me. I didn't care why they were here; I only wanted them to want me. I was a proud man and held my thoughts, but a sense of belonging was building inside of me. From a young