Sins of the Father Page 14

  “It’s your brother,” Rachel said, all too happy to explain why she had come. “I’m worried about him.”

  “I know…Sonny Boy has really been having a time with it, hasn’t he? He and Papà were so close.”

  Rachel hid her face behind her cup of tea for a moment.

  “It’s something more. He’s just been…obsessed. It’s all he can talk about. He’s all but ignored his studies. He’s been going to the library to read public records everyday…hoping he’ll find something in them.” Rachel looked down, and her eyes glistened with tears. “I know it’s only natural… I know he’s struggling, but…”

  “It’s okay, girl.” Maria reached forward and took Rachel’s gloved hands between her own.

  “I’m trying to be there for him, trying to be supportive. But it’s like he doesn’t even hear me, like I’m not even there.” Even weeping, Rachel was beautiful. Her lipstick was drawn on in the beesting fashion, and the powder on her cheeks was perfection. She was an it girl if there ever was one, and Sonny was a fool if he let his father’s death ruin it.

  “You don’t need to explain, Rachel. I know how he is…and I know how hard this has been on him. But if he won’t let you be there for him, who will he?”

  “Well, Antonello has been coming around more. I thought, at first, it was because they both grew up with Alonzo and were simply mourning together. But, I don’t know. Now it’s just like they…talk quietly together and don’t want me there.” Rachel stared at the table and dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief.

  “What do you mean?” Maria asked, slightly concerned.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t like it,” Rachel replied, and declined to continue.

  “Well, I’ll talk to him for you—”

  “No, don’t! Excuse me, I’m sorry. But you don’t need to say anything. I just wanted to ask how I might be better for him right now. Or what I can do. Or how to make him happy… I think I love him, Maria.” Her lips began to quiver, and another tear streamed from under her eyelid as her fingers trembled around a handkerchief.

  “Here, sweetie.” Maria scooted her chair to the other side of the table, closer to Rachel, and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “What a fright I must look! How silly.” Rachel laughed even as the tears continued to fall. “Here you are, just having lost your father, and you’re comforting me.”

  “Look at me, Rachel.” Maria gently pulled at Rachel’s chin until those big, wet eyes met hers. “Sonny is good. He has a lot of our father in him. He won’t throw away everything good in his life because of this. Just give him some time. And maybe knock some sense into him if you have to.” The two laughed and wept together. They finished their tea.

  When Rachel left in a taxicab back for Columbia University, Maria was left to wonder if anything she had said was true.

  Vico

  Midtown West, Manhattan—December 2, 1928

  They wore all black, and hid their faces with red bandannas.

  “I look like a cowboy in the pictures,” Enzo had said, but Vico didn’t laugh.

  Enzo was good on his promise, and he’d gotten a job for Vico.

  The twins followed a man introduced as Joe Cargo through the back alleys of Midtown.

  “This is it,” Cargo said, nodding to a green door with chipped paint and Yiddish words painted across it. “Jimmy the lock, Enzo,” Cargo said, and pointed to where he wanted the lookout to stand.

  With expert precision, Enzo opened the door with the skeleton key they had received from a shylock in Harlem.

  “Alright, we gotta hurry up,” Cargo said, straining his eyes to make out the clothing store in the darkness. “Enzo, hit the cash register.”

  “I’m gonna check the back. These Jews like to keep their scratch locked up.” Vico moved with cautious haste to the back, ducking clotheslines like he’d dodged barbwire and bullets in France.

  The door to the back room was locked. Deferring to wait for a key, Vico kicked the door with all the strength he could muster, the wood splintering.

  Splinters ripped through his shin, but he couldn’t feel anything but adrenaline. Vico wedged his foot loose and reached through the hole to unlock it.

  “Stop dress shopping, Cargo! We gotta hurry. The stoplights are running all night now, so if the bulls are tailing us, we won’t get away,” Enzo said, shoving stacks of small bills into a burlap sack.

  “I gotta find a size twelve. It’s what my girl, May, wears.”

  Vico ignored them and entered the office, pushing over shelves and shuffling through papers. Fumbling in the dark, he felt a metal lockbox beneath the owner’s desk. He slid a knife from its hostler around his ankle and bent the flimsy lock until he could pry open the box.

  No one- or two-dollar notes were present, only the big bills. He scooped up the whole box and returned to the main store.

  “Come on, I got it.” Vico paced to the door, declining to take anything for himself, unconcerned with the small hay Enzo was collecting.

  Cargo took a look over Vico’s shoulder as he passed by.

  “Look at that, Doyle,” he said with a toothy grin, “that greedy kike won’t know what hit him.”

  They followed Vico out the door, and tapped the lookout boy on the shoulder.

  “Move, move,” Cargo said like a sergeant on the front line. They stuck to the buildings, avoiding the streetlights as best they could. Cargo’s car was parked around the corner; the driver should be ready to peel out when he saw them.

  A siren sounded in the distance. They continued running, but tried to measure how close the police were.

  “Futz. I told you, Cargo.” Enzo picked up his pace. “Now what?” Vico stopped running.

  “What are you doing, Doyle? Come on,” Cargo shouted, keeping up his speed.

  “Take this.” Vico held out the lockbox.

  “What?” Enzo finally stopped, bouncing on his feet.

  “Take this. Tell the driver to take Eighth Street—I’ll throw them off the scent.”

  Cargo finally stopped, allowing the lookout to shoot past him. “That war must have messed you up, Doyle. You don’t want to end up in Sing Sing. Let’s go.”

  Vico approached and shoved the lockbox into Cargo’s arms.

  “Go on,” he said, “now. I’ll find my way back to Harlem.”

  Enzo looked at him, pleading, but finally turned and followed Cargo. The getaway car rumbled to a start, shooting beams of light across the street.

  Vico stood, surprised to find himself completely composed.

  The sirens were approaching.

  He caught sight of a fire hydrant and approached it.

  He took a knee and ran his fingers over the jagged edges of the hydrant.

  This was going to hurt, but not as much as nine rounds with Rocco Milone on Friday-night fights.

  He slammed his forehead into the fire hydrant, his brain bouncing off his skull. He saw stars. Vico waited to compose himself before doing it again, this time dragging his face across a sharp edge. He grunted as he felt the skin split, warm blood pouring over his eyebrows.

  He stumbled back and groaned.

  The blue-and-red lights of the police car rounded the corner. Two bulls bounced out, hands on the pistols in their holsters.

  “The bastards clocked me, man!” Vico shouted, the blood on his lips spewing.

  “You the guy that called it in?”

  “Yeah,” Vico said. “I tried to stall ’em, but one whipped me with his gun, and I blacked out.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  Vico pointed in the opposite direction of the getaway car’s path. “East. They’re in a black Ford.”

  The bulls nodded to each other and hopped back into the patrol car.

  “Thanks.” The Irish cop tipped his cap.

  “Just doing my part.” Vico smiled, bloody teeth shining in the headlights as the cops sped off.

  East Harlem, Manhattan—December 7, 1928

  “You ready?” Cargo
asked the twins as they stood under the neon lights of the Rainbow Gardens.

  “I hope so. These guys are big shots.” Cargo blew hot air into his hands and bounced on his toes. He was a short man, built like a bull, with a crew cut and a clean-shaven face. He was perceptibly nervous as he opened the door, but he appeared to be nervous doing anything other than breaking and entering.

  “The Gap is a good guy,” Enzo said quietly to Vico as they entered into the warmth and smoky haze of the bar. “He went up the river to Sing Sing just a while before me. That’s where me, Cargo, and him met up. He’ll do right by you.”

  “Can’t wait,” Vico said. The self-inflicted wounds to his forehead still throbbed, and he was anxious to numb them with a drink.

  “Look who it is,” came a shout from across the room. The man stood, tossing aside the waitress who had been sitting on his lap. “Good to see ya.” He gave Enzo a hug and Cargo the same. His clothing was made of fine fabrics, but his suit top was absent and his vest was unbuttoned, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, grinning to reveal a missing incisor. Now Vico understood why they called him “the Gap.”

  “This is Bobby Doyle.” Cargo made the introduction, and Vico accepted the Gap’s hand.

  “Good to meet you.”

  “Any pal of Cargo and ‘the Thief’ is a friend of mine. I’m Dominick Petrelli”—he looked at Enzo and Cargo—“but I bet these two have already told you my nickname. World’s worst-kept secret.” He smiled like a dental patient.

  “I could hardly notice.” Vico shrugged.

  “Yeah? Well, you’re as crazy as Cargo told me you are.” He slapped Vico’s shoulder and sized him up. His eyes fixed on Vico’s poorly stitched forehead. “True you did that to yourself?”

  “It made more sense at the time. Had to throw the bulls of the scent.”

  The Gap looked impressed.

  “You boys done good. You got out with the loot. That’s all that matters.” He looked over his shoulder and received a nod from a man at the table he had previously been sitting at. “Somebody wants to meet you.”

  “The big man?” Cargo said, visibly nervous again.

  “Yeah. He wants to meet him.” He pointed to Vico. “Word about Bobby Doyle has been spreading. The boss wants to meet you.” Enzo and Cargo looked deflated. “You boys get some drinks, chase some skirt. He just wants to ask some questions.”

  “Go on.” Enzo patted Vico’s arm, a tinge of jealousy in his voice. As far as Vico knew, Enzo had never met the leaders of the organization, despite working for them for nearly ten years.

  Vico followed the Gap across the room. “You, the Thief, and Cargo fall under me. So be on your best behavior, capisce?”

  Vico nodded the affirmative, and approached the table.

  He already knew the men sitting there. He had done his research. He had found pictures of their old mug shots and newspaper clippings at the library. Regardless, he could have identified them by their easy presence of command.

  “Mr. Gagliano, Mr. Reina, this is Bobby Doyle.”

  They looked him up and down, and then glanced at one another.

  “Scram, kid,” Gagliano said to the waitress kissing at his neck. Once the girls had left the table, Vico was invited to sit.

  “My name is Gaetano Reina.” Vico accepted a handshake before sitting down across from him. “Dominick tells me you’ve made a name for yourself. What you did in Midtown was impressive.” He spoke in a low, calculated tone.

  “Not many of our boys would have gone to such lengths,” Gagliano said, his voice even deeper than Reina’s. He appeared like a candidate for political office, or a commodities broker. A giant of a man, even seated at the table, he was the perfect second-in-command. Vico had learned that both men were businessmen to their core, cold and impartial, but good people to have on your side, and good people to serve.

  “I did what I felt I had to,” Vico said, and shrugged.

  “Just like you did in the war?” Reina leaned across the table, extending a gold cigarette case, one separated from the rest, just for Vico.

  “I did a lot worse than that over there.” He didn’t smile, nor did the others.

  “That is precisely why we wanted to talk,” Reina said, just a trace of an Italian accent in his refined English. “Did you kill in France?”

  “I killed a lot in France.”

  “For your country?”

  “For my pals.” Vico accepted the drink offered to him by a waitress, who winked at him and touched his shoulder as she left.

  “Would you raise a gun again? Would you pull the trigger to protect your new friends?” Gagliano gestured to the table.

  “Would you do the same for me?”

  After a moment, Reina nodded.

  “Then, yes, I would.”

  “You’re a good shot?”

  “The best in the Fighting 69th,” Vico said, although Buster had always been a better sharpshooter.

  “We may need your services. Most of these guys talk like tough guys, but they fall apart when it comes down to it.” Gagliano pointed to some of the other men seated around the room.

  “We have a problem.” Reina leaned across the table. “There are other organizations like ours in New York. We have existed peacefully for a long time. My interests in Manhattan are limited—to Harlem, in fact. My business is done in the Bronx. Most of the other families stay in Manhattan and Brooklyn. But, one of the other families is causing trouble.”

  “Masseria,” Vico said confidently. He had done his research. And most importantly, he kept his ears pinned back. The “boss of bosses,” Joe Masseria had made a name for himself.

  “Yes, Masseria,” Gagliano said with distaste as he threw back a glass of whiskey.

  “You’ve heard of him?” Reina asked, measuring him.

  “Yeah. I’ve heard of him.”

  “We’ve never had any quarrel with Masseria’s people. I leave the bootlegging and the gambling and the loan-sharking in Manhattan to his people. All I want is my ice,” Reina said, taking a sip of his drink.

  “Your ice?” Vico asked.

  “There isn’t a block of ice sold in New York City that I don’t get a cut of. I own it all. And everyone needs ice. This allows me to avoid the troubles of bootlegging. Keep my nose clean.”

  “I see.” Vico already knew this but nodded like he didn’t.

  “Masseria wants a cut now. He wants to muscle in on us. He feels he is entitled to a piece of everything.” Gagliano lit a cigar.

  “You want me to take care of Masseria?”

  Reina gave a faint smile.

  “If only it were that simple. That would cause a war. A war we wouldn’t win,” Reina said.

  “He’s also pretty good at dodging bullets,” Gagliano said.

  “I don’t miss.” Vico took a sip of his drink.

  “We don’t need Masseria. He can continue to roll in his hay and shove Italian cuisine down his gullet. I want the guy he is pushing on us. His name is Giosue LaDuca.”

  “Tell me where he is.” Vico knew better than to ask questions. Reina and Gagliano shared a look of approval.

  “You can find that fat bastard in the Bronx,” Reina said. Gagliano wrote down the address and slid it across the table to Vico.

  “That’s his office. Most of the time he’ll be there trying to steal from us. He is spineless, so he might run.”

  “I won’t give him the chance.”

  “Take Cargo and Enzo with you. They can help, but you’ll be the point man,” Reina said.

  “I’ll get it done.”

  “You do this, you’ll have an extra merry Christmas,” Gagliano said.

  “There is actually something specific I would ask in return,” Vico said. He hoped he wasn’t revealing his hand too early, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “What’s that?” Gagliano asked.

  “A friend of mine was killed in Little Italy. His name was Alonzo Consentino. I want
the guy who killed him.” The Gap, who had been silent up until then, stood and walked away. Gagliano deferred to Reina, who took a moment before replying.

  “He was a ‘friend’ of yours? He was a great deal older than you,” Reina said.

  “He was the best barber in Manhattan.” Vico pointed to his hair. “Can’t get that good of a cut for double the price.”

  “What did you say your name was again?” Gagliano asked, eyes narrow. “Your real name?”

  “Girolamo. Girolamo Santuccio.” The name belonged to a friend of Vico’s in the army who had died at the beginning of the Argonne Forest offensive, but the name appeared to him, and Vico went with it.

  “You can find a new barber,” Reina said.

  “If I kill LaDuca, can you tell me who killed Alonzo?” Vico made it clear he wasn’t budging.

  “If you kill LaDuca, you will have earned our trust. And our gratitude. We can work something out.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Doyle,” Reina said, pulling a cigarette away from his lips. “Don’t bother coming back here if the fat bastard isn’t dead.” Vico nodded. Killing LaDuca was the least of his concerns.

  Sonny

  Staten Island, New York—December 12, 1928

  “Ouch!” Sonny shouted as one of the crates landed on his index finger. Some of the other workers laughed.

  “It’s just picking up and putting down crates, kid. It doesn’t take a college degree,” one of them said.

  When Oscar had said he didn’t need any help at the barbershop, Sonny had headed to the Staten Island Ferry to work, where he carried crates on and off freighters for two dollars a day. It wasn’t much, but it would keep food on his mother’s table.

  A bell tolled in the distance, and a few birds squawked overhead. Sonny picked up another crate.

  “Vincente?” came a voice from behind him. Sonny tried to locate the source but couldn’t see over the box.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “It’s Detective Gallagher.”

  Sonny set the crate down where he stood and turned to the detective with fresh vigor.