Mad Dog and the Sea Dragon

We met at an art gallery one lazy afternoon. I moved in and out of the shadows, gently laying out the play. Let him come to you.
I crossed one ankle in front of the other, making sure he noticed my retro T-strap, two-tone high heels, with their little white leather bows. I smoothed my red silk dress over my curves and let my scarf flutter behind
me.
I studied the artwork, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world, resting my chin lightly on my cupped hand, my elbow tucked neatly into my waist.
I was prepped and ready for him to make the first move. He obliged by doing just that.
“Hey sweetheart, you and me, we could be listening to Frankie singing at The Desert Inn,” he said with a sideways grin. “I always dress like this, what’s your excuse?”
We were standing shoulder to shoulder, and I turned to face him. I let it show that I liked what I saw. He was a handsome guy, with a classic chiseled jaw, hooded eyes, and a sensual mouth. He also had an eerie similarity to Anthony “Mad Dog” Esposito, who was sneering down at us with a twisted smile from the glossy print on the wall.
This man never really left the jungle. New York Daily News, 1941. Picture by Weegee.
“He was crazy,” I gestured to Mad Dog.
“Yeah, but not as much as he would have liked to be. Him and his brother pleaded insanity to try to get off a murder charge. They barked and hit their heads on the table at the trial they howled and cried and behaved like animals for the whole thing.”
“That’s why they called him Mad Dog?”
“Nah. The New York police commissioner called him and his brother ‘mad dog killers’ for what they did. They killed a man in an elevator for a few hundred bucks and then they ran out into the street and started shooting everybody. That’s the nuts part. William, the younger brother, shot a cop. A taxi driver tried to save the cop and then he — the taxi driver —got shot in the throat. He lived and the cab company got him a new car for his troubles.”
He shook his head. “The whole Esposito family were hoods. The father had done time, the third brother was in prison, the two sisters were thieves. But the mother was behind the whole thing. Mothers. The root of all evil if you ask me.”
He fell silent and turned to look at Mad Dog again. I thought I’d lost him. I struggled to think of something to say but nothing came to mind. I panicked. Things had been going well but it had come to a grinding halt.
My sister, Glennis, had coached my lines but my mind was a complete blank. My throat closed. I wasn’t up to the task. I was going to ruin things before they even started. To my relief, he picked up the conversation.
“Look at Ma Barker,” he said, turning back to me. “I don’t care what they said, she made her boys and her husband do what they did. She led the gang. And Violet Kray, Ronnie and Reggie’s mother. It was all her fault they turned out the way they did. She used to dress Reggie and Ronnie up like little girls after her baby girl died. No wonder they both became paranoid schizophrenics. Violet killed Reggie’s wife, Frances, and made it look like a suicide. Mothers are behind most gang wars and crime. Women. You can’t live with them; you can’t live without them.”

I knew about both Ma Barker and Violet Kray, having done my
homework. Violet Kray was a classic East Ender thug’s wife in the 1920’s, obsessively loved by her boys. Ma Barker was born Arizona Donnie Clark, and dubbed by J. Edgar Hoover as the most “vicious, dangerous and resourceful criminal mind of the last decade.”
He shot a glance at me and gave a shrug as if he was about to leave and I fired a question to stop him.
“What happened to the Mad Dog brothers?”
“Their pathetic attempts to look crazy didn’t work. Him and his brother were electrocuted in 1942.”
He looked angry about something and once again, I felt like I had ruined the great start to our conversation. I frantically fished around for a way to get us back on track.
“I love these photographs,” I said with my most practiced sultry voice.
I saw his mood lift. His shoulders relaxed and he smiled an Elvis smile that looked practiced.
“Yeah,” he said. “Weegee. Great photographer. His real name was Arthur Fellig. He got his nickname after the board game for his weird way of knowing where to be when a story broke. He said it was just in his blood.”
“You’re a wealth of fascinating information,” I purred. Why couldn’t I remember what Glennis had told me? We rehearsed it often enough. All I could think about was cigar smoke and Paco Rabanne. Could you even get Paco Rabanne anymore? Obviously, yes.
“Paco Rabanne,” I said appreciatively. He smiled and he straightened his tie. He was wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit with a navy-blue tie and matching pocket square. His shirt was crisp and white, and he shot his cuffs, flashing gold and diamond cufflinks.
“Vincenzo Esposito at your service.” He held out his hand. “Everybody calls me Enzo. Classy, like a Ferrari.” He smiled, his dental work worth a fortune. “But hey, don’t confuse me with Mad Dog over there, even though we got the same name. Makes me kinda fond of the fella, nuts as he was.”
“Jessica Wren,” I replied. His hand was huge and slightly damp, and his grip was solid. I held on a second longer than I should have. “Never Jess or Jessie, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, Jessica. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a dame like you doing in a joint like this?”