Sins of the Father Page 13

  “Thanks for coming, Domingo,” Vico said, patting the man on his back.

  “You know my brother?” Maria managed to say.

  “We served together in France.”

  “Did you come all this way just for the funeral?” Domingo smiled, and then sadness flashed across his face.

  “Well, I’ve been back from France for ten years. My people are out West, though. I just moved to New York recently.” She handed the handkerchief back to him. “No, keep it,” he said.

  “Thank you. And thank you for your kind words,” Maria said with a sad smile.

  “I wish you all the best.” He touched her hand and joined the rest of the procession.

  Sonny

  Little Italy, Manhattan—November 22, 1928

  Sonny tapped his feet as he waited in the gymnasium of the New York City Police Department at 240 Centre Street. The rest of the room was filled with convicts waiting in line for their mug shots.

  He was quite aware that there was a luxurious lobby available for waiting visitors, and wondered if his ethnicity had anything to do with the clerk’s decision to have him wait with the convicts.

  That lobby was conspicuously luxurious too, especially since the police department was primarily tasked with looking after the poor districts surrounding it.

  And they say crime doesn’t pay. Well, it clearly pays for someone.

  Sonny wondered if his brothers were right. Enzo and Vico had said the bulls wouldn’t be of any use; they didn’t give a damn about dagos. Rosa had said nothing as he’d put on his best coat and left for Centre Street.

  “Mr. Consentino?” A pretty girl with curly hair and gray rayon pantyhose approached from his side.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” Sonny stood and flipped the brim of the hat in his hands.

  “The detective is ready to see you. If you’ll follow me.” She led the way from the gymnasium, careful to stay away from the convicts who gazed at her hips like they were peaches at a Mulberry Bend fruit stand.

  “Have a seat, kid,” the detective mumbled, tapping out his cigar, as the secretary opened the door for Sonny.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Detective.”

  “Just sit down.” The detective was a typical New York cop, tall and bulky, Irish, with a nose that wheezed from being broken a few too many times.

  He picked at the leftover bits of his lunch and chewed with his mouth open.

  “So, your father. Tell me about him.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Did he like daisies or roses?” The detective cracked a smile, revealing a missing incisor. “Did he have any enemies?” he asked when he realized Sonny had been oblivious to the joke.

  “Not that I know of. He got along with pretty with much anyone.”

  “Not everyone.” The detective formed a gun with his fingers and pulled the thumb trigger, aiming at his head.

  “Maybe it wasn’t personal…”

  “Nothing was reported stolen.”

  “There was a car. No one’s seen it since my father’s…murder.” It was still hard to say out loud.

  “A car? We looked into it. No record of purchase.”

  “I talked to him a few days before. He’d just bought it for my sister.”

  “Sorry, kid. Maybe he hadn’t picked it up yet.” The detective obviously didn’t realize what an honest man Alonzo had been. He wouldn’t have claimed to have something unless he actually did.

  “So there’s no chance he was killed for the car?”

  “He had cash in his wallet. There was an expensive gramophone in the back. Neither were taken. It doesn’t fit the bill.” The detective flashed the first bit of sympathy since Sonny had walked in, and then he picked up the smooshed cigar and attempted to relight it. “I need you to be honest with me here, kid. I need you to think hard. Was there anyone you think might have wanted your father gone?” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the cluttered desk between them.

  “I really don’t know. I’ve been away at university for a few years… Everyone seemed to respect and like him.” Sonny regretted saying “respect” immediately, as he saw something shift in the detective’s eyes.

  “No old feuds?” The detective finally got the cigar lit, the smoke stinging Sonny’s nose.

  Sonny remembered his childhood fear of the Hook Hand, but decided not to mention it. He had seen the man get arrested. And, anyway, he had no reason to assume anything bad about the man aside from foolish childhood fears.

  “Maybe someone from the old country,” Sonny said after a delay.

  “That’s what I’m looking for. Who from across the pond might want your father dead?”

  “I don’t know… Occasionally, my brothers said they thought there was some kind of feud back in Sicily… I don’t know, Detective. Maybe some other family that didn’t like him.” Sonny fidgeted nervously. He didn’t like talking about it. It was the same reason he had never inquired further. “That’s not who my father was anymore. He was a good, decent, hardworking man.” Sonny felt as if he were pleading. If only the detective knew what his father was like, he wouldn’t assume the worst.

  “People don’t ever really change, though, do they? You work my beat for twenty-three years, and you’ll realize that.”

  Sonny stood, the chair scraping against the linoleum.

  “I should have known. Thank you for your time, Detective. It’s true what they say, though. The police don’t care about the Italians.”

  The detective leaned back in his chair and clicked his tongue.

  “If we didn’t care about the Italians, we wouldn’t care about anyone in this neighborhood. I’m not saying I’d invite you over for a mug of ale, but we want justice for you too. Sit back down.”

  Sonny contemplated leaving but finally returned to his seat.

  “I’m just asking you to be reasonable here, kid. Even if he did have new wheels, did he afford that by shaving grocers and shop clerks?”

  Sonny lowered his head and stared at his wing tips. The same thought, especially about the money for college, had eaten away at him for years.

  “If your father was involved in any illicit activities, we need to know. That won’t keep us from searching for his killers. It’ll give us more leads, lad. That’s it.”

  Sonny nodded and inhaled deeply.

  “There was a guy who used to come around sometimes. When I was a kid.”

  “Alright.” The detective smiled triumphantly and pushed aside his papers to find a legal pad to take notes.

  “Sometimes he’d give me dad an envelope. And then we could afford…I don’t know. Good things occasionally happened afterward.” Sonny felt ashamed as he spoke, as if speaking life into that fact brought dishonor upon his father. He could only imagine his mother’s judgment if she knew.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Bushy mustache. He wore a black overcoat sometimes. Sicilians don’t really wear black, it brings bad spirits, so I found that odd… I don’t know. It’s been a long time. Maybe I’m misremembering.”

  “Trust yourself, lad. What else?” The detective scribbled everything down as quickly as Sonny could speak it.

  Sonny looked up and locked eyes with the detective. He waited for him to stop writing.

  “He had a mutilated hand.”

  The detective lit up briefly and tapped the tip of his pen on his chin.

  “Now, that’s what I’m looking for. Not many stump hands running around Little Italy.”

  “Detective, I really don’t know if this fellow had anything to do with this. He might have—”

  “Kid, relax. We’re not gonna send a guy to the chair just because you tell us he used to visit your dad when you were a babe. We’re just looking for leads.”

  “Alright. What else can I do to help?”

  “I think that’s it, boyo. We’ll do our job and keep you informed.” He nodded his head toward the door.

  “That’s it? There’s nothing else I can do?”r />
  “I’ll call on you when I need you.”

  Sonny stood and slipped the fedora back onto his head. He left the police department no more confident that his father’s murderer would be brought to justice than he was when he’d entered.

  Vico

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—November 29, 1928

  Ever since he had started boxing in ’21, Vico he had been drinking more. Sometimes he drank to dull the pain of his perpetually broken nose; sometimes he drank because he was mad that no one wanted to talk about his fights, choosing instead to talk about the Long Count Fight between the “college kid” Gene Tunney and the “champ” Jack Dempsey.

  Tonight, Vico drank because he couldn’t sleep. Weeks had passed since his father’s death, and Vico still couldn’t sleep. So he took long pulls directly from his bottle of rotgut and tried to close his eyes.

  The booze usually helped him shut down his thoughts, but tonight, they seemed to continue in a haze. He should have been there. Enzo too. They could have done something. He should have made things right with his parents, should have begged Alonzo to forgive him after he’d returned from the war.

  He tried to open his eyes wide enough to find his cigarettes. He lit another, already on to his third pack since that morning. His lungs felt sunburned.

  The door opened and closed, and he heard Enzo’s footsteps approaching. Vico leaned up over the couch and peered into the kitchen to ensure that he had cleaned the remains of his vomit in the sink.

  “Hey, champ. How was the fight?” Enzo asked, more reserved than usual. Vico rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “Madonna mia, you look horrible.” It was true that Vico’s nose was once again cut and swollen, his eyes hidden behind purple knots. But Vico could feel himself sweating and assumed it wasn’t just his battle wounds that Enzo was talking about.

  “I got my ass kicked,” Vico said, then rolled to a seated position and took another pull, using his shirtsleeve to dab away at the excess that poured over his chin.

  “You can’t win ’em all. There are more pebbles on the beach.”

  “No, I can’t fight no more. I’m sloppy. Getting hit too much.” Vico felt for the ice pack beside him on the couch, which was now melted.

  “You’re fighting twice a week now, brother. You need to give yourself some rest.”

  Enzo set the keys to his new Packard down on the kitchen table and took off his coat.

  “Gotta make money somehow. I’m not sitting pretty like you,” Vico said.

  Enzo plopped down on the couch beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. Vico could tell by Enzo’s hesitation that he considered offering him work, but he had long since given up. To ask Vico to join him in his criminal activity would insult him.

  “Go on, just say it,” Vico said, wincing at the burn of his whiskey.

  “I’ll say this: you’ve had enough to drink. Put that shit down before you end up in the hospital.” Enzo tried to wrench it from his hands, but, even drunk, Vico’s grip was too strong for him to do so.

  “My big gangster brother telling me when to stop drinking. Your friends are the ones selling it. Just say it, Enzo. Say I’m a stupid two-bit punk and I should just give up fighting. Say I should come work with you boys in Harlem.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, I’m serious. Say it. I make eight dollars when I win and four dollars when I don’t. I’m a loser, Enzo.”

  “You’re doing what you think you’re supposed to, Vico.” Enzo’s voice was far more consoling and tender than usual, and something about it concerned Vico.

  “What? What’s wrong?” he asked. Enzo stood and turned his back to his brother.

  “Nothin’. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Leaving already? Tell me.” Enzo had moved to East Harlem a few years back to be closer to his new associates, but he still visited whenever he could.

  “We shouldn’t talk about it when you’re like this.”

  “Like what? Come on, Enzo. I’m not a kid anymore.” Vico was a head taller than Enzo by now, and carried more strength in his pinky finger than most did in their arms.

  “You’re drunk, Vico.”

  “Tell me,” Vico said firmly. He composed himself long enough to make it clear he wasn’t giving up.

  “I heard a guy talking about the old man today.”

  “What?” Vico managed to get to his feet.

  “Yeah. They said Papà got knocked off by a gangster. I tried to ask who, but they said they didn’t know. Said they know someone who does.”

  “Did you go find him?” Vico was suddenly sober and alert.

  “No, it’s not that simple. They told me it was better I didn’t know. Over my head.”

  Vico breathed heavily through his broken nose, a whistle following each exhale.

  “Tell me who. I’ll go find ’em.”

  “Vico, come on.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Vico, it’s complicated. They don’t share that stuff with just anyone. You got to be one of them.”

  “Like you?”

  “No, not like me. I’m just a button guy. A nobody.” Enzo waved his hands. He had become known as “Enzo the Thief,” a title that meant that he was good at his job, but one he didn’t have a particular affinity for.

  “What do you have to do to get in? I’ll do it. If it means we can find out who killed Dad, I’ll do anything.” Enzo refused to turn around, so Vico pulled his shoulder forcefully. “What do you have to do?”

  “You wait until you’re called, Vico.” Enzo freed himself and stepped away. “It’s complicated. You have to earn their trust. I heard one guy say you have to kill someone. I’m no killer. I just earn the way I have to.”

  “Tell them you know someone who can kill,” Vico said. Enzo turned and regarded him for a moment. He seemed afraid of Vico’s sudden coldness.

  “I thought you didn’t want to get wrapped up in all this.”

  “I have nothing left to lose. I used to be afraid to lose my life.”

  “You still should be.”

  Vico threw his bottle against the wall. Glass splintered and shot off around the room.

  “I died in France. I just didn’t know it. Tell me who to kill, and I’ll kill. As long as I find the guy who widowed our mother.”

  Enzo gathered his coat and began to put it on.

  “You’re crazy. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Vico barred the exit before he could leave.

  “You tell them tomorrow. Tell ’em you know a guy who knows his potatoes. Can pull his weight. Tell ’em I’m a veteran.” Vico was amazed that Enzo hadn’t lost his patience. Instead, he stood quietly, mulling it over.

  “They aren’t going to tell you shit as long as they know you’re a Consentino. They’ll know you’re out for revenge, and that’s bad for business.”

  “I’ll use my ring name. You’ll have to pretend we aren’t brothers.” Vico had been going by “Bobby Doyle” since he’d started boxing. No one wanted to see a guinea fight, so he’d assumed the identity of a dark-skinned Irishman.

  “There is no turning back if you do this, baby brother.”

  “I don’t want to come back.” Vico looked around the barren apartment. He hated it. It could burn down, for all he cared. It was just a reminder that he hadn’t been there for his father, that he had made mistakes all those years ago.

  Enzo kissed him on the cheek and slowly opened the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He patted Vico’s swollen cheeks and smiled. “Try to sober up before then.”

  HEARINGS BEFORE THE

  PERMANENT SUBCOMMITTEE ON INVESTIGATIONS

  OF THE

  COMMITTEE ON GOVERNMENT OPERATIONS

  UNITED STATES SENATE

  EIGHTY-EIGHTH CONGRESS

  THIRD SESSION

  PURSUANT TO SENATE RESOLUTION 17

  SEPTEMBER 29, 1963

  Chairman: Mr. Valachi, did Sonny Consentino ever say who he believed had killed his father?

  Mr. Valachi: Not wi
th certainty, no. He kept most of that to himself. But we all knew he was searching for answers.

  Chairman: Is it true that he left school after his father was killed?

  Mr. Valachi: Yes. That is true. We all called him “College Boy” because he went, but as far as I know, he never graduated. He quit after his father got hit, so he could provide for his family.

  Chairman: Did Alonzo leave his family with much after his death?

  Mr. Valachi: I always assumed they weren’t left with very much. That’s why Sonny and his brothers done what they did.

  Maria

  Little Italy, Manhattan—November 30, 1928

  “Make sure it’s not too hot before you take a sip, dear,” Maria said as she sat down at the table beside Sonny’s girl.

  “Oh, it’s just perfect,” Rachel said, taking the whiff of the hot tea. Maria had become close to Rachel over the three years she had been dating Sonny, but especially since Alonzo’s death. Sometimes Sonny and Rachel would pick her up to go to a talkie or out on the town, but rarely did Rachel stop by alone.

  Maria waited patiently to hear what the purpose of the visit was. Perhaps she was just checking in on Maria and her mother, but the look in her eyes revealed it might be something else.

  “Hey, Mamma, could you turn that down please?” Maria asked in Sicilian. Rosa sat in the living room with a half-stitched quilt across her lap. She had stopped working on it when her husband was murdered, and hadn’t yet deigned to finish it. A radio show was blaring, but Rosa only stared at the floor. At length, she reached across and adjusted the volume.

  “I hope it’s okay. Maybe I didn’t let it steep long enough,” Maria said, sipping from her own cup.

  “It’s perfect, doll. I love your cloche.” She pointed to Maria’s cap. Rachel was the sharpest dresser she knew, so Maria took this as quite a compliment.

  “You look concerned, Rach.” Maria decided to cut to the nub of it.