Sins of the Father Read online

  Sonny hurried through the crowd to the wall. Now, more than ever, he felt it was where he belonged. He had never been regarded as particularly funny, but he wondered what had he said to defuse the men’s good spirits so quickly.

  At the front of the auditorium, a banister hung with the words “Mary’s Assumption” written on it in Italian. It was the reason for their gathering, and it was all Sonny could do not to think about all the times he had celebrated the Catholic festival with his father. He would have much rather been with him and his family.

  “Vincente.” Maranzano appeared again at his side after Sonny had drained a few more glasses of whiskey. “Can I talk to you privately for a moment?” Sonny’s heart began to race, but he nodded for Maranzano to lead the way.

  When they had exited into the hallway, with nothing but a few guards near the front entrance, Maranzano said, “I made a phone call. And I feel very foolish. Did you say that your father owned A.C. Barbers?”

  “Yes, Mr. Maranzano. That’s correct.” Maranzano lowered his head and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Your father was Alonzo Consentino?”

  “Yes.” Sonny’s hands now trembled in his coat pockets. Maranzano shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “I know your father, Vincente.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. And I believe we’ve met before. Did he call you ‘Sonny’?”

  “Yes, he did. Everyone calls me that, still.”

  Maranzano nodded and finally met his eyes.

  “Your father was an associate of mine. I’m not sure how I misplaced it, but, yes, your father was an associate.”

  “Is that so?” Sonny’s Adam’s apple danced in his throat as he tried to swallow.

  “Yes. And I called him friend. I have so many associates, as you can tell”—Maranzano gestured to the ballroom behind him—“I didn’t connect you to him. I am so sorry for your loss, Vincente. I realize he has only recently passed away.”

  Sonny’s breath calmed, and he looked down at Maranzano’s shined shoes.

  “Yes, sir. That is true. And I appreciate your condolences.”

  “I wish I had been there at his funeral. I should have been there, but business wouldn’t allow it. He was a good man, Vincente.” Maranzano looked up, vulnerable for the first time since Sonny had known him.

  “He was.”

  “And…” Maranzano had pulled the leather gloves from his pocket and now rotated them in his hands. “I know who it was that killed your father.”

  “You do?” Sonny tried to remain calm.

  “I do. His name was Peter Morello.”

  Sonny froze.

  “Yes, his name was Peter Morello. Talk of it spread throughout the men of honor. We were all disgusted.”

  “Giuseppe Morello?” Sonny’s heart leapt in his throat, and adrenaline surged through his veins.

  “Yes, that was him.”

  “That can’t be.” Sonny looked away and shook his head. “He was arrested years ago. My father and I saw it happen.”

  “He has been out of prison, Vincente. He was released well over a year ago, but he’s laid low to avoid police surveillance.”

  “I…I…” Sonny couldn’t think of what to say, but he couldn’t accept it. His mind returned to the fear he once had for the Hook Hand.

  “I know this must be a great deal to bear.” Maranzano reached forward and placed a hand on Sonny’s shoulder. Sonny felt his gaze, and was compelled to meet Maranzano’s eyes. “He was released from prison and had an old debt to settle with your father. It seems that it extended back even to Sicily. Old feuds have a way of resurfacing, even after years go by.”

  “Mr. Maranzano, I saw them together on several occasions. Their relationship, strained though it appeared… I thought they were friends.”

  “Perhaps they were. But old wounds heal slowly. They fester, even as we bandage them. Morello is a violent man who has offended our people in more ways than one.”

  “I see…and how do you know this?” Sonny asked, a small part of him still wanting to disbelieve the news.

  “Morello himself spread the news. He wanted to make an example of your father. He wanted all our people to see that he was not to be underestimated. That even if time passed, he would exact his revenge eventually.” Sonny lowered his head, and Maranzano continued. “When he left prison, his position was weak. He was no longer in control of the organization he’d helped build. He had to send a message that he was still a man who commanded respect. Many knew that he and your father were friends, and by killing him, he let everyone know that there was no one safe from his wrath if he did not get what he wanted.”

  “I see, Mr. Maranzano,” Sonny said, and nodded. In truth, he wanted to beg the man to say no more. His mind was swimming, and he wasn’t sure he could handle anything else.

  “Vincente,” Maranzano said in a low voice, “Morello is not a friend of ours. My associates and I have been looking for an opportunity to punish him for this crime and others for several months now. It has been hard to find him. But I must ask, if the time comes, would you like to hold the gun and the knife yourself? You have the blood right to revenge, if you want it.” Sonny kept his feet planted but moved his body back. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t know what to say.

  “I…I cannot do that,” he said, his voice barely audible. Before now, he hadn’t even believed that his father was involved in the life Maranzano so obviously lived. He couldn’t comprehend it all. And now he was being asked to kill? The desire for revenge had been impossible to ignore since the moment he’d seen his father’s lifeless body on the linoleum floor of his barbershop. Now that he was offered it, he didn’t know what to say. Killing worked better in his mind.

  “I understand. Know that your father will be avenged regardless.” Maranzano nodded until Sonny did the same.

  “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Maranzano.”

  “Do not thank me.” Maranzano pulled Sonny in by the neck and kissed his head. “You are one of ours. Your father would have wanted you to know. But he wouldn’t want you to miss celebrating the Assumption of our Lady.” He smiled for the first time since they had entered the hallway, and gestured back to the auditorium. “Let’s return.”

  Sonny followed him, exerting extra strength just to keep his legs stable beneath him.

  “Bring something good for my friend,” Maranzano said to a waiter. As he followed Mr. Maranzano back into the room, his thoughts were numbed by the loud chorus of laughter from the attendees.

  The room now felt entirely different.

  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

  Senator Mundt: Mr. Valachi, you’ve stated previously that Sonny worked exclusively for Mr. Maranzano during the time that you were acquainted. When do you believe their formal relationship began?

  Mr. Valachi: It was certainly by the time I met him in 1930. Or maybe it was ’29. He had been with him for a while.

  Senator Mundt: Vincente Consentino had been working with Salvatore Maranzano for some time before you met him?

  Mr. Valachi: Yes, Senator, that’s correct.

  Senator Mundt: You’ve said that Mr. Consentino was not involved much in Maranzano’s bootlegging operation. Is that true?

  Mr. Valachi: Yes, Senator, that’s correct. He was involved in other ways. He ran a financial racket for him.

  Senator Mundt: Can you explain to the court what you mean by “financial racket”?

  Mr. Valachi: He worked in finance. Stocks and bonds, or what have you. I’m not so sure, I never really understood all of that.

  Senator Mundt: And you believe this was a “racket” in the traditional use of the wor
d?

  (Mr. Valachi laughs.)

  Mr. Valachi: Yes, Senator. Most of the guys in my line of work called it that, anyway. He worked for some big-shot company in Manhattan before that, but the owner of the company “retired early” at Mr. Maranzano’s request, and Sonny began to work for Mr. Maranzano exclusively.

  (Mr. Valachi receives counsel from his attorney.)

  Mr. Valachi: That’s how I remember the story, to the best of my ability.

  Senator Mundt: And the nature of their business together was simply in financial planning?

  Mr. Valachi: Sonny worked exclusively with those in Maranzano’s family, and helped them hide money.

  Senator Mundt: He helped them “hide money”?

  Mr. Valachi: Yes, Senator. He helped them put their bootleg money in places where the government couldn’t take any of it away. This was before Al Capone got caught on tax evasion, see, but Mr. Maranzano was already thinking about that. We called it a “racket” because Sonny and Maranzano both made a lot of money on it. Several of the men in my line of work began to call Sonny “the Bond Father.”

  (Mr. Valachi and the court laugh.)

  Senator Mundt: The “Bond Father”?

  Mr. Valachi: The Bond Father. A “godfather” was your boss, so “bond father” was because of the line of work he was in, and because he was becoming powerful quickly because of the service he provided.

  Senator Mundt: Thank you, Chairman, that’s all I have for now.

  Chairman: Thank you, Senator Mundt.

  Sonny

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—October 29, 1929

  Sonny sat in the speakeasy with his hands over his face. He was always careful to disguise his identity in unsavory locations like this, but that wasn’t his reason today. He was terrified, hoping to blend into the darkest corner of the room, drowning his sorrow in his drink.

  The bar radio played “I Faw Down and Go Boom” by Eddie Cantor, depicting the artist’s failures in the stock market, and it was a fitting song. Every few moments, the bartender’s ticker-tape machine revealed new information about the stock market. The economy was crumbling. The world itself seemed to be falling apart.

  How much money had he lost that day? How much money had he lost his clients in just a few hours? It was impossible to tell. He was afraid that those who shook his hand so pleasantly at Maranzano’s dinner party might now be wanting to cut his hands off.

  Sonny felt like a wanted man. He jolted with fear when Antonello pulled up the chair beside him. He had forgotten he had invited him out for a drink the day before.

  “What’s eating you, fella?” Antonello said, a smirk on his face that revealed he already knew.

  “I might be a dead man, Antonello.” Sonny winced as he tossed a glass of scotch back. “Another glass of brown plaid,” he said to the bartender.

  “Come on, it’ll be hunky dory.” He slapped Sonny on the back and called for a drink of his own.

  “What on the earth makes you think that, Antonello?” Sonny was frustrated. Antonello, with his foolish optimism, was not the person he would seek first on a day such as this.

  “Everyone’s got the screamin’ meemies. It’s just the jitters. The market or whatever will be fine, just wait.”

  Sonny lowered his forehead to the glass before him, feeling like he might throw up.

  “I staked everything on this, Antonello. And my clients aren’t the kind of people to be trifled with. They’ll want their money back, and when they don’t get it, they’ll come after me.” Such a promising start, Sonny thought, just to have his empire crumble down around him as soon as he’d begun building it.

  “What about that big-shot guy, Marinara, or whatever?”

  “Maranzano?”

  “Yeah, Maranzano. Nobody is gonna mess with you while he’s in your pocket.”

  “He might be the most dangerous one.” New reports came in over the ticker tape, and the bartender preached the gloom and doom.

  “Nothing getting oiled can’t fix.” Antonello raised his glass of whiskey and tossed it back.

  “I’ll have to go see him, Antonello. And I’ll need a clear head.” He pushed away the glass in front of him, ignoring his desire to comply.

  “What are you gonna say?”

  “I’m going to tell him the situation, and hope he doesn’t break my legs.”

  “Want me to come with you?” Antonello sobered at the thought of Sonny being hurt.

  “No, I’ll be fine. He’s a reasonable man. Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Well, make sure to ask if he needs a handsome young bodyguard like myself.”

  Sonny shook Antonello’s hand, then paid his tab, adding a tip he was no longer sure he could afford.

  He stood at the doorway, peering out into the city streets, unsure if he would see them again.

  Midtown East, Manhattan—October 29, 1929

  Sonny got vertigo simply looking up at the Eagle Corporation Building. He had never visited Mr. Maranzano at his place of work, and hoped that he was not breaking protocol by doing so now.

  “What floor?” the elevator boy asked as he entered.

  “Eh, ninth, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bellhop said proudly.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Maranzano. Is that the right floor?”

  “Yes, sir. He is located in room 925.”

  The elevator crept upward, but it was still too fast for Sonny’s liking. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to say. He tried to formulate something, but the words kept fading into the ether.

  “Thank you.” Sonny handed the elevator boy a nickel and stepped off. He read the signs pointing him to “Maranzano Real Estate Offices,” and allowed his feet to propel him on even though his mind begged him to stop.

  “Yes, two shipments should be arriving from rum row this evening. The coast guard shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve made arrangements.” Maranzano’s Sicilian voice poured through the office. Sonny craned his head to see the man propped up against his desk, his back to the entrance. “That is correct. Mr. Caruso will deliver them to Brooklyn by tomorrow. Yes, the same location.” He seemed cool and confident, which eased Sonny’s nerves, but only a little.

  “Who are you?” The voice caught Sonny off guard. An Italian man stepped into his path, looking him over.

  “I’m Vincente Consentino,” Sonny said, beginning to think that Maranzano didn’t receive many visitors at his place of work.

  “Am I supposed to know who you are?” the man said, pointing at Sonny with his beaked nose.

  “I work with Mr. Maranzano.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “He should be,” Sonny said derisively, which was lost on the man. He didn’t have an appointment, but Maranzano seemed shrewd enough to expect him on a day like this.

  “He doesn’t like to be interrupted,” the man said. They both heard Maranzano offer a farewell and set down the receiver to his phone. “Alright, this way.” The man waved him on. Sonny felt like he was being searched by the watchful eyes of the other employees.

  “Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny entered and lowered his head.

  “Ah, Vincente. I was expecting you,” Maranzano said, to Sonny’s relief.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard?”

  “Yes, I have. I’m certain that every pigeon in Manhattan has heard by now.”

  “It’s been an unfortunate day, Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny waited for a response, but found none for some time. Declining to look at Maranzano directly, he admired the perfectly ordered bookshelves behind him, and the entire set of Webster’s dictionaries and world atlases that they contained. A crystal chandelier hung in the center of the room and lit up Sonny’s face more than he would have liked.

  “That is business, Vincente. Whenever money is involved, we are gambling. Are we not?”

  “Y-yes, Mr. Maranzano,” Sonny stuttered, disbelieving that Mr. Maranzano was receiving this news as coolly as he projected.

  “We still have the li
fe insurance in force, yes?”

  “Yes, Mr. Maranzano.”

  “Good. Then we shall live to fight another day.”

  “You are very wise, Mr. Maranzano,” Sonny said, keeping his head bowed. He was so relieved, he felt more like prostrating himself before Maranzano and kissing his feet.

  “You told me once that it was wise to be greedy when others are fearful, and fearful when others are greedy. Well, Vincente, everyone seems terrified right now, so that means we should be ravenous.” He smiled and patted Sonny on the shoulder, seeming to notice his fear. “Would you care for some tea?” He pointed to a stainless-steel vase surrounded by china teacups.

  “No, sir, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Vincente, I’m not upset with you. This is how the economy works. I’ve seen my fair share of financial crises in Sicily.” He gestured for Sonny to raise his head.

  No one could wear a suit quite like Maranzano. It was double-breasted with defined shoulders, fitted across his chest and arms. It was a deep blue, and muted compared to the extravagant suits of Maranzano’s dinner guests a few months prior. A red rose pinned to his lapel was his only accessory.

  “I appreciate your understanding, Mr. Maranzano. I’ve been sick thinking about this.” Sonny finally exhaled in relief.

  “Of course. We are business partners, Vincente. You do not answer to me. Unfortunately, you may find some of our other clients to be less agreeable.”

  “I had imagined as much.” Sonny bit his lip.

  “Don’t be too anxious. They are quick to anger, but quick to forgive, as most Sicilians are. They will not harm you. Of that, you have my word.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maranzano. I read that Rockefeller began to amass his fortunes after the crash of 1911. I hope that we can imitate his response in regard to the current crisis.”