Sins of the Father Read online

  Sonny knew every word he was about to say, but he still choked on them more often than not. He had rehearsed his sales pitch every morning in the mirror, and recounted it in his mind as he rode the tram each day. It wasn’t what he had expected. Sonny wanted to be one of the Wall Street gurus who sat behind a big desk, following the stock tape and making important decisions. He had never been much for talking, especially with strangers. He was also aware that he wasn’t very good at it. But, due to the sheer number of people he had seen, he was leading the company in sales for the month of May.

  He forced himself to knock on the door before him, the fourth house he had visited that morning on Roebling Street. He had started out visiting tenements much like the one he was raised in, but he knew the money was going to be in these houses.

  A young woman answered the door. She was below average height, with a plump face and a toothy smile. It was gentle and unassuming, unlike the faces of most he visited.

  “Good day, ma’am.” He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and shook hers with his right. He kicked himself for forgetting to lead with his name, as the script ordained.

  “Good morning to you. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Vincente, and I work with Goldberg Funds. I would like the chance to talk with your father or husband about some excellent opportunities we have right now.”

  “Yes, that seems like something my husband would be more interested in hearing. Joseph,” she said, calling into the house while gesturing for him to take a step inside. This was a rare gesture indeed.

  “Good morning, old boy, what can I do for you?” the man said with a wide grin as he approached. He appeared to just be getting ready for the day, but was wearing the finest suit Sonny had seen in Brooklyn. Black, with fine gray pinstripes, and a snow-white pocket square. His head was large, with large eyebrows and a Roman nose. He looked like royalty.

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir. I was just introducing myself to your wife.” He extended his hand and hoped that it wasn’t too clammy. “My name is Vincente, and I work for Goldberg Funds. We have some excellent opportunities right now for a savvy businessman like yourself, if you’d like to hear about them.” Sonny felt his chances were good, since he was already past the door of their home, but the man hesitated.

  “I’m involved in so many ventures right now…” He shook his head. “Perhaps another time?”

  “Oh.” Sonny’s heart sank. Every time he received a rejection, he thought about the bills that were piling up around his mother’s tenement. “Absolutely. Thank you for your time.” He was instructed to schedule a revisit after such rejections, but he just didn’t feel up to it.

  “What did you say your name was, old boy?”

  “Vincente. Vincente Consentino.” The man’s face lit up, and he popped his forehead as if embarrassed.

  “Your English was so fine, I didn’t recognize you as one of ours. I should have known you were a paisano!” He now addressed him in Italian. “Come, sit. I don’t mind to hear about these opportunities, I just choose to only work with Sicilians.” He nodded at Sonny, as if he expected him to understand.

  “Absolutely, sir,” Sonny said, following him into the kitchen.

  “Please, call me Joe. And this is my wife, Fay.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You keep a lovely house, Fay.” Sonny was still no good at talking to strangers, but his comfort was growing due to the amiability of his hosts. He set his briefcase down on their table and began to search for some of his sales materials.

  “Tell me about these opportunities of yours,” Joe said, sitting down beside him. Fay brought them two cups of coffee, cubes of sugar, and some stirring spoons. Even though Sonny couldn’t remember much about Sicily, Joe and Fay’s home reminded them of his early years across the pond. The entire place was decorated like they were Sicilian royalty, if such a thing existed.

  “I would love to,” he said, and laid out some of his sales materials and directed him to the drawing of a pyramid. “This is the financial planning pyramid. We have to start with the base, which is protecting you against all the things that can go wrong”—he moved his pen up the pyramid—“so that we might have the opportunity to plan for everything that can go right.” Joe pulled out a pair of round bifocals and put them on. The married couple was probably only a handful of years older than Sonny, but he felt like a boy in their presence. They were leagues ahead of him, and he hoped that they didn’t notice it as much as he did.

  “I like that. Protect against what can go wrong.” Joe looked across the kitchen to Fay.

  “And once we get the base covered with our affordable life insurance and disability policies, we can begin to invest in the stock market.”

  “I’ve seen a few articles about the stock market in the paper. The skies seem pretty bright for you Wall Street fellas.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right. And you can share in that profit.” Sonny began to settle in. “You know what they say: there are two ways to make money.” A smile creased Joe’s face when Sonny mentioned money.

  “What are the two ways, Mr. Consentino?”

  “Man at work, and money at work. You can put on your boots every day and go to work… And what do you do, sir?”

  “I’m an…importer.” Joe shrugged.

  “An importer. You can work each day importing goods, or you can put the money you’ve already earned to work for you. Money making money.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair, listening to Sonny with one eyebrow raised. “Money making money, I like that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That simple?”

  “For you, yes, sir. We take care of everything else. I’ll be your personal representative, and take care of all the boring paperwork and trades. You can just sit back and watch the jack roll in.”

  “Well”—Joe took off his spectacles and twirled them in between his fingers—“in my line of work, I value discretion. You know how it is for us Sicilians. We are inclined to do business with our own. I’m always cautious of having America’s Uncle Sam looking over our shoulders. But we can’t keep this quiet, can we? I’m sure your team will see everything you do?”

  Sonny thought for a moment. His training had not given him any instructions for how to handle such a question. “You’ll be working with me directly, Mr…?”

  “Bonanno.”

  “Mr. Bonanno. You’ll be working with me. Those who analyze our accounts don’t care where your money comes from. They’ll trust my judgment.” He wasn’t entirely sure if this was true. It had never been a problem with the white-collar clients Goldberg generally worked with.

  “Really?” Joe Bonanno was intrigued. Sonny felt he was closing in on the deal.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there any way for me to receive funds, after earning them, without allowing Uncle Sam to…whet his beak?” Bonanno was asking Sonny a question that he most certainly shouldn’t answer. But he knew the answer.

  Thoughts of his mother and their cramped, damp little tenement came to mind. “There are several ways to do that, sir. Yes. There are ways to spread your money in a way that no one would ever be interested in tracing.”

  “Fascinating. I think we will work well together, Vincente Consentino, quite nicely.”

  Bonanno stood up, and Sonny did the same. His heart dropped, knowing now that he wouldn’t get a sale, at least today. Bonanno checked his watch. “I better get going. Duty beckons. Give me a few days to gather up some of my earnings, and I’ll come to your office.” Sonny thought about Mr. Wallingford’s derogatory comments but pushed them away.

  “That sounds excellent, sir. I’ll be preparing the paperwork.”

  “And would you mind if I bring along an associate? He would be very interested in the service you provide.” Sonny nodded, but Joe continued. “He would compensate you well.”

  Sonny thanked Fay for the coffee as Joe led him to the door.

  “It was a pleasure.” Sonny tipped h
is fedora and made his way back to his route.

  Financial District, Manhattan—June 14, 1929

  Sonny didn’t always like it when Antonello visited him at his Goldberg office. The coworkers that sat at desks around him made it clear that they enjoyed it even less. It didn’t exactly bolster the image he was trying to create.

  Antonello didn’t seem to mind the distasteful glances he received, and he tried to make small talk with anyone who would give him a chance. Sonny thought he just liked being in a place where he seemed important, well-to-do. He had been working, less discretely then he should, with a bootlegger in East Harlem. He still lived paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes had to borrow for his rent, but that didn’t stop him from buying new suits and a pinky ring worth more than Antonello’s Model T.

  “Make any sales today?” Antonello asked, smacking his chewing gum.

  “No, not today. Have some closing appointments lined up for tomorrow, though.” Antonello leaned up against Sonny’s desk. Sonny hurried to sweep his things into his briefcase, deciding it was better to leave a bit early than to continue to disrupt his coworkers.

  “Oh, you ready to go? I can wait. I was thinking we can take a trolley car to Harlem. Some pals of mine found a juice joint that serves the good stuff. I figured we could try it out.”

  “No, I’m ready to go. Those places are clip joints, though, Antonello. I can’t afford those prices.” He lowered his voice. He assumed some of his coworkers partook, but they would have probably objected to one of their own attending one of the disreputable speakeasies of East Harlem.

  “Mr. Consentino?” The secretary leaned into the shared office room where the salesmen made their calls, which they dubbed the “war room.” “You have a visitor at the front desk.” Antonello looked the secretary up and down.

  “What a peach.” Antonello winked. Sonny shot him a discouraging look. “Go ahead. Pretend I’m not here.” Sonny stood, and Antonello took his chair.

  Out in the lobby, Sonny saw Joe Bonanno.

  “Mr. Bonanno, it’s good to see you.” Sonny kissed his cheek. He was excited to see the man; he’d been afraid he wasn’t going to make a sale after he hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks.

  “You too, you too, Vincente,” he said. “I’d like to introduce you to someone. This is Mr. Maranzano.” Joe stepped aside and gestured to a man in a fine suit. He was tall and full-bodied, with a thick head of black hair styled to perfection.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Vincente.” The man accepted a handshake as Sonny pondered why the name sounded so familiar. Holding on to Mr. Maranzano’s arm was an elderly man, who looked confused and only partially aware of his surroundings. “This is my uncle. He is in need of some of your services. Joseph says you are the man to see.”

  “Absolutely, absolutely.” Sonny looked at the secretary, who nodded to the open conference room. He led Mr. Maranzano and his uncle to the room, and offered them a cola. Mr. Bonanno remained by the door.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Sonny asked, his senses heightening when Mr. Maranzano looked at him.

  “What are we doing here?” the elderly man asked, distressed.

  “It’s alright, little uncle,” Maranzano soothed his uncle, speaking in an educated Sicilian dialect. “Joseph tells me that you value discretion, as I do. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir. I do. My father taught me to handle my business hand to mouth.” Maranzano smiled. Sonny was compelled to do the same.

  “My uncle has a great deal of money,” Maranzano said. “A very large sum. He needs somewhere to place it so that his family can receive it when he passes away. He doesn’t want anyone taking a cut. Right, Uncle?”

  After a moment, the old man nodded.

  “There are several ways to do that, Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny found himself naturally speaking in Sicilian. It felt more pleasant than forced, as it was when talking with some of the men in Little Italy.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Well”—Sonny thought for a moment—“a life insurance policy provides a lump sum of money to the beneficiaries, upon the death of the insured, tax free. And the IRS will see it as an inheritance and nothing more. Regardless of how the policy was paid for.”

  Maranzano nodded. “And you could get a life-insurance policy on a man his age?” Sonny considered the question for a moment. It was a fair question. Their ideal client was a young man with health and wealth. Then he remembered his mother.

  “Was your uncle born in the States?”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was born in the motherland—Palermo, as a matter of fact.” Maranzano was listening intently. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to slow.

  “Well, I’m assuming he doesn’t have a birth certificate, then. Perhaps we don’t remember how old he is, exactly.”

  Maranzano laughed in a low, compelling voice. “That is probably true. Sometimes Uncle still thinks that the Bourbon kings are in control of Sicily, don’t you, Uncle?”

  “Bastards,” the old man snarled.

  “Our other options, and one that I would suggest would be to put any remaining funds across the pond.”

  “Across the pond? In Sicily?”

  Sonny shook his head. “No. Great Britain. It’s more difficult to track, and after that Mr. Churchill fellow changed up the gold standard, you are buying with pennies on the dollar.”

  Maranzano leaned back and considered, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “I’ve heard that the economy is turbulent overseas. I’ve overheard the real money is made in this lovely, savage country we now call home.”

  “That is true, Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny reached forward to his coffee mug to steady his hands. “But the best advice I can give you is to be fearful when others are greedy…and to be greedy when others are fearful.”

  Maranzano chuckled. “Sage advice. I like that. You must be a reader of the ancients. Marcus Aurelius? Seneca, perhaps?”

  “I’ve probably come across them in my studies.” He hadn’t, but the man seemed so pleased with the connection he had made that Sonny couldn’t deny it.

  “I will trust your advice, then. Is the amount a problem?”

  “Problem? No, no problem. Whatever you would like to invest, I can work with. The life insurance will depend on what he is approved for, but if we handle it correctly, I’m sure he can get what’s necessary to cover his needs.”

  Maranzano stood and gently helped his uncle to his feet.

  “I will be back tomorrow, then, after my uncle prepares his funds. How does three million sound?” Sonny was too stunned to reply. “Four million?”

  “Four million of coverage?”

  “Four million of initial premium. And he can pay whatever afterward to ensure the policy remains in force. Whatever else my uncle has can be invested overseas. As you suggest.”

  “Whatever your uncle has, Mr. Maranzano, I can help him with.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Maranzano reached into his pocket and brandished a business card. “If you need me in the meantime, you can reach me here.” Maranzano departed, leading his uncle by hand.

  Sonny, still too shocked to move, looked at the business card.

  “SALVATORE MARANZANO: REAL ESTATE.”

  The name still sounded familiar, but Sonny couldn’t place it. He couldn’t focus his mind to consider it. The only thing coursing through his mind was: Who in real estate had four million dollars for a life-insurance policy?

  It would doubtlessly be the largest policy ever written by the firm. And the most conspicuous too.

  East Harlem, Manhattan—July 29, 1929

  Sonny was unused to spending this much time with one of his clients. Generally, the adviser-client relationship didn’t extend past his monthly premium collections, but Mr. Maranzano was not an ordinary client. Considering that well over half of Sonny’s salary was provided by the business he had done with Mr. Maranzano, Sonny tended to him as much as was requested.

  When Mr. Maranzano asked Sonny to go to a talkie,
Sonny went to a talkie.

  “That was an excellent tale,” Maranzano said as they walked out of Warner’s Theater in East Harlem.

  “I enjoyed it, Mr. Maranzano. I very much appreciate the invitation,” Sonny said. The Virginian wasn’t his favorite nickelodeon of the year, but Gary Cooper was enough to keep any flick interesting.

  “There is something about these Westerns, Vincente. They remind me a bit of Sicily. The fight for survival, the indomitable will, man versus wild, man versus man.” Maranzano stared off with wild eyes.

  “Mr. Maranzano, I agree with you.” Sonny caught a glimpse of one of Maranzano’s bodyguards following behind them, reminding him that they were never really alone.

  “You understand me, Vincente. You understand what it means to be a Sicilian,” Mr. Maranzano said, and Sonny tried to resist blushing. “There is something about the cowboy riding into the sunset, going out on his own terms. I believe it is why the Romans preferred a noble suicide to dishonor. A man wants only to go out on his own terms.” Maranzano continued to wonder aloud, and Sonny found himself entranced.

  “Yes, Mr. Maranzano. It is the best ending any man can hope for.”

  “I pray that we both may find such an end.” Maranzano’s Lincoln pulled to a stop in front of them, its driver ignoring the blaring horns of the traffic around it. Chauffeurs hurried out and opened the door. Maranzano had stopped walking forward and looked to Sonny. “But why would a man want to die on his own terms, if he refuses to live by them?” Sonny tried to think of something to say in response but couldn’t develop any thoughts clever enough.

  “Do you like where you work, Vincente?”

  “Yes, sir…I do.” Sonny tried to anticipate what Mr. Maranzano was getting at, but couldn’t discern anything.

  “And do you live by your own terms? Make your own rules? Or are you held captive by others?”

  “I…I hadn’t really thought of it, Mr. Maranzano.”

  Mr. Maranzano shook his head, frustrated. “Sicilians have lived through enough captivity. Decades, centuries, of living under corrupt governments that exploit our labors. And now, here, in this great land of opportunity, we subjugate ourselves willingly.” Maranzano held his hands out to the vast, packed city streets of Harlem before them.