The Capri Lounge: A Family Owned Business

By Anthony Apruzzese and Joey Nadilo

A fictional novel based upon real-life events. The setting takes place in Jersey City, 1968, within an establishment known as the Capri Lounge. Follow the exploits of an unforgettable cast of characters and their family business. Rest assured, whatever can go wrong will go wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499012415

Anthony Apruzzese

Anthony Apruzzese has always appreciated weaving a great tale, and fortunately for us, he has never had a lack of experiences from which to draw upon while conveying his thoughts to paper. Born and raised in Hudson County, New Jersey, there was hardly a scarcity of the stereotypical “hard-edge, smooth-talking, diamond-in-the-rough” character types to whom he frequently refers when creating imaginative and engaging personalities, rife with realism. And more often than not, Mr. Apruzzese draws upon many of the very same locations he’d known and frequented as a youth on the streets of north Jersey and utilizes them as believable and convincing backdrops to his narratives.

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Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Apruzzese.

Story Created By Anthony Apruzzese

Written By Joey Nadilo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/26/2014

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

O nce a month, the Champ would stop by the club. He’d fought for the heavyweight title once and lost. I forget how many years ago it was, but we still called him the Champ, and of course, he’s the Horse’s brother-in-law.

When the Champ came by, he’d always ask for me personally. He’d do so because he knew that whatever it was he needed—or better yet, whatever he wanted—I was the guy that could make it happen.

I didn’t mind helping him out for the most part, but the Champ had this little problem that complicated matters for me considerably—you see, he liked young girls. That wasn’t my gig at all, so I didn’t understand the attraction. In fact, it bugged the hell out of me, but what was I gonna do about it? Business is business, and sometimes you just got to knuckle down and do what needs to be done.

I never got around to asking how young he liked ’em, partially because I knew I didn’t have the stomach for the answer, and partially because where I grew up, you simply didn’t ask questions. Questions could get you hurt. I learned a long time ago, you kept your ears and eyes open and your mouth shut. It was my job to set him up with a room and a girl, and that’s exactly what I’d do. The room was easy. We had lots of those. On the other hand, the girls we had working at the hotel were the problem. Let’s put it this way—they weren’t teenagers. They weren’t hags, but they definitely were not teenagers.

But we did have this one girl named Sandy. She was a brunette with crystalline blue eyes that radiated far beyond the smooth curves of her face, curves that cascaded gently toward a set of full lips that seemed to wear a permanent pout. I always thought she was a real looker. But then again, what the hell did I know, and more importantly, what did it matter? The only thing that mattered is what the Champ thought, and he loved her. With a little makeup and one of those plaid-skirt uniforms with knee-high socks the girls wore to Catholic school, Sandy looked the part. Hell, for all I knew, she was a teenager. But again, that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I could deliver the Champ what he asked for, and I did so each time he came to the club and asked for Sandy. It was all business.

Friday was a busy night for us at the club. The food was good, and we never ran out of booze, and sometimes that’s all it took to run a successful operation. The dining room would fill up early. I liked to see those round tables covered in white linens filled with regulars. I enjoyed watching them stuff their faces full of aglio e olio, full of smiles while ordering another bottle of wine. I always made sure they had plenty of bread on the table to sop everything up. I wanted them full. The more they ate, the more they drank, and that meant we were makin’ money.

While the regulars gorged and made merry, the bar would usually be filled with hotel patrons sucking back gin and tonics. Most of them were middle-aged guys, paunchy and balding, just looking to get laid. They’d plant their asses on one of the red velvet bar stools and would try to look debonair while beads of sweat rolled off their brow and splashed into their highball glasses. I had to laugh as I watched their shifty glances eyeball the crowd for some action.

Sometimes I’d help them out, and sometimes I just let them stare at the fake brick wall behind the bar, sucking back drink after drink until their dough ran out. Fuck ’em. It didn’t matter none to me. I knew in a couple of hours they’d be pushed out anyway by another group of regulars.

Neighborhood guys, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, it was on one of these typical Friday nights when the Champ surprised me and showed up sniffing around for Sandy. I looked at my watch and thought, Jesus Christ, it’s six fuckin’ o’clock. What the fuck is up with this?

This was highly unusual. His regular routine would consist of coming in on Saturday night around ten, after the dinner crowd had died down and he wouldn’t draw too much attention. His testosterone must’ve overridden his common sense on this night. Truth be told, it didn’t really matter to me what night he came in or what time. I’m not big on surprises, but it was a pile of cash in my pocket just for making sure things didn’t get messed up, and that’s the way I intended to keep it. Smooth as silk. Trouble is, it always sounded pretty simple but rarely was. I knew I had one small table left in the back of the place where I could put him without causing too much of a commotion.

Before I greeted the Champ, I told the busboy to prepare the table. Then I motioned to one of the waiters to get a bottle of the club’s best French champagne because the Champ typically liked to polish off a bottle with dinner.

Champ, great to see you tonight, I said, extending my hand and deftly concealing my irritation with his surprise visit. Come this way. We have a table all ready for you.

Hey, Richie, how’s it goin’? he asked in that thick north Jersey accent of his. Didn’t mean to catch you off guard, pal. I had some time on my hands and I thought I would stop by for my usual— He hesitated. Well, ya know.

Not a problem, Champ. Always good to see you.

I walked to the back of the restaurant with the Champ following closely. He was probably about a hundred pounds heavier than in his fighting days, pushing 325 at least, and I could hear his every labored movement waddling behind me. I found it fascinating how he sounded like he was attached to a pair of oxygen tanks when he walked. But even with his best days behind him, his fists were still quick and as big as a catcher’s mitt, and he wasn’t one to be fucked with.

A couple of old-timers stood up, shook the Champ’s hand, and patted him on the back as he walked by. He enjoyed the attention and more so the fact that he still commanded respect in the neighborhood for his twenty knockouts. The guy never forgot where he came from, and in my neighborhood, that meant everything.

But attention or not, I could tell the Champ had one thing on his mind tonight, and it sure as hell wasn’t food. So do ya think you can set me up tonight, Richie?

Of course, Champ, I said. "Just give me some time, and I’ll set everything up for you.

Relax and enjoy some dinner."

He took off his overcoat, which was the size of a small tarp, as well as his hat, and handed them to the busboy. He was sweating profusely and dabbed at his bald head with a handkerchief that read Champ in embroidered red letters. He unbuttoned his sports coat, sat down, and continued to give that damned handkerchief a workout, this time along the bulging ripple at the back of his neck and his glistening jowls. It never ceased to amaze me how somebody could perspire that much in a ten-second walk from the car to his table.

I had his champagne poured and walked over to the hotel next door where we kept the girls. If things went according to plan, I knew I had a bit of time because the Champ always liked to have a plate of capellini before he went next door. Also, he rarely left before having a shot of Sambuca with espresso and coffee beans, three to be exact.

My cousin Dominic usually runs the hotel during the week, but on Friday and Saturday Nights, he’d be behind the bar. While Dominic poured booze, we had this broad, Judy, taking care of things on weekends. I guess you’d call her a madam, though she didn’t like the term.

Judy was one tough cookie. She knew how to keep the girls in line, could turn a trick with the best of them, and she could handle a Saturday Night Special better than some wise guys I know. And at nearly six feet in heels, she also didn’t blend well into a crowd. But it wasn’t just her height that made her stand out. It was also hard to miss how her black hair fell across her shoulders in silky waves that fell just short of her breasts and her bright eyes swirled like green pools of seduction. To complete the package, the broad was blessed with a set of legs a Rockette would kill for.

Knowing the Champ clock was ticking, I looked through the hotel for Judy. I couldn’t find her anywhere upstairs and quickly descended to the first floor. Finally, from behind a closed door downstairs, I heard her familiar voice, Stand still, dammit. You’re acting like a child!

I knocked and opened the door just enough to peek inside.

Yeah, come on in, she quipped.

Judy was on her knees helping one of her girls slip into a French maid outfit for her next client, both with their backs to me.

God dammit, Charlotte, stand still, she reprimanded as she tugged the strings of the corset tighter, already having forgotten I was standing behind them.

Ouch! Charlotte complained. Why do you have to pull it so damned tight when I’m only going to take it off?

Quit your bitchin’, girl, and stand still.

It was all I could do to suppress a laugh at the comical scene unfolding before me. I stole a quick glance at Charlotte’s voluptuous ass and felt slightly embarrassed in a voyeuristic kinda way. Hands in my pockets,