Sins of the Father Page 23

  “Is it any good?” Sasa asked, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stomach much, no matter what it tasted like.

  “The best in Detroit. I had Paulie make a reservation for us. Back room should be empty.”

  Milazzo was the first to step out into the road, throwing up a middle finger as the halted traffic blared their horns.

  “How we doin’ today, Sammy?” Milazzo said as the owner waddled to greet them.

  “Blessed and healthy, Gaspar. Good to see ya.” He kissed Milazzo on the cheek and gave Sasa a nod. “Follow me.” He led them to the back room where a single table was set with a snow-white tablecloth and dishes that looked as expensive as the entire worn-out building. “It’s all yours. I got some tilapia cooking up, caught this morning.”

  Milazzo reached into his suit pocket and brandished a roll of dollar bills. He slapped it into Sammy’s hand without counting it.

  “Take a seat, kid. I’ll pick up the tab,” Milazzo said. Sammy’s assistant uncorked a bottle of wine and poured them both a glass. Sasa checked his watch again: 2:57.

  Someone put on a record, and a beautiful Italian sonata filled the room.

  “You ever miss New York?” Milazzo sat back in his chair and took off his cream-colored fedora.

  “Yeah,” Sasa said. He had been waiting on word to return since he had arrived in Detroit. Although born in Castellammare del Golfo, Sasa found anything outside of Brooklyn foreign.

  “I know I do. Somethin’ about Gotham. Detroit just doesn’t have it.” Milazzo fiddled with his diamond cuff links.

  Sasa took a gulp of his wine, hoping it might calm his nerves. It was 3:01. One hour and fifty-nine minutes until the two of them had their scheduled meeting with Big Chet LaMare and his West Side gang.

  “Something is about to break in New York, though. You know that, right?” Milazzo asked.

  “I’ve heard the rumors. What have you heard?” Sasa said, fearing that Milazzo knew something he didn’t. Sasa’s brother, Joe, was an important man among the Castellammarese in Brooklyn. If a war popped off, Joe would certainly wind up involved.

  “Our people back home…they don’t back down. And that Manhattan boss, Masseria, he’s getting too big for his britches. He won’t like it when we don’t get down on bended knee.”

  “Cola can settle things down,” Sasa said, referring to the boss of the Castellammarese Borgata, Nicolo Shiro, who he had known well in New York.

  Milazzo shook his head. “Old Shiro has lost his marbles. Gone soft. He doesn’t run shit anymore. My old pal Vito Bonventre is the real mover. He and Salvatore Maranzano are the ones calling the shots, and they aren’t gonna let Masseria get the best of ’em. So we go to war, and there’s gonna be a lot of blood.” Milazzo shrugged, resigned to their fate.

  The fat chef entered with his assistant and placed two plates on the table, a mound of pesce spada on each.

  “Thanks, Sammy,” Milazzo said. He dug in, moaning with each bite. “Better than sex.”

  Sasa picked at his fish and vegetables abstemiously, careful not to offend either the chef or his own stomach.

  A bell jingled from the entrance. Someone had entered. Sasa turned to the door like a frightened deer, but Milazzo was unperturbed.

  “I told Sammy no one is allowed in. He’ll turn them ’round,” he said through a mouthful of swordfish.

  “Yeah, but what if—” The door to the back room busted open, and two masked men entered.

  A sawed-off shotgun blasted, the noise ringing off the walls. A bloody mist filled the air as Sasa pushed away from the table, collapsing on the floor beside his chair. Milazzo hit the ground, a gaping hole the size of a cannon ball in his chest. He gagged on the swordfish wedged in his throat until the gunmen stepped over to Milazzo and shot again, and Milazzo’s face dissolved into chunks of skull and brain matter.

  Sasa reached into his belt and pulled out a pistol. Then another gunshot ignited. He felt his teeth shatter as a bullet passed through either side of his jaw.

  Sasa scurried to his feet, pain suddenly burning hot from two more bullets that ripped through his lower back.

  He dropped the pistol and tried to cover his face, trembling like an epileptic and gasping for air like a fish out of water. The gunman with the pistol stood over him.

  Sasa lost control of his bowels and his bladder as he waited for the shot. He looked up when it didn’t arrive. The gunman standing over him smiled and met his eyes.

  “See you in hell, Parrino,” he said, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Buster

  Westchester County, New York—June 1, 1930

  “Come on, Maria, put that down! It weighs more than you do.” Buster laughed as he hurried to take the box from Maria’s arms. Ever since they had begun moving into their new apartment in Westchester, Maria had been determined to carry the heaviest boxes. He was equally determined to stop her, but she was stubborn.

  “Hush, you silly man. Leave me alone.” She was flustered and panting, her hair in an uncharacteristic mess. He had downgraded to an undershirt and suspenders, but was still burning up. It made their first night in their shared home uncomfortable.

  “I’m here to take care of that. You do the decorating stuff, I’m not good at that.” He pried the box from her hands and carried it into their bedroom.

  Setting it down, he turned to admire her. Even in an old summer dress, she was as lovely as she had been on their wedding day. They had tried to make it a quiet affair, inviting her mother and brothers and only a very few close friends of his. Before it was over, though, many of his New York associates had stopped by to visit. Maria was surprised to find such thick envelopes in her bridal purse by the end of the afternoon, perhaps even suspicious, but she didn’t raise any questions or complain about it.

  The extra cash would cover their first year’s rent, and it had allowed him to select a nice place away from the city, away from those very associates. So he didn’t complain either.

  “You look beautiful,” he said. Irritated and disbelieving, she shook her head.

  “Don’t lie to me, Buster.”

  “No, really.” He chuckled. The more flustered she became, the more he laughed. “You’re the most beautiful girl in New York.”

  “Say that again with Clara Bow in the room. Now stop pining and help me.” He swept her up in his arms, and held her until she exhaled and hugged him back.

  She accepted a kiss, less eagerly than on their wedding night, but not without a flush of desire.

  The phone rang behind him, disrupting them both.

  “Damn it.” He let her go, knowing the moment was over.

  “Who could that be? I haven’t even told anyone the number.”

  “I had to give it to some of my associates,” he said, hurrying to pick it up. “Hello?” There was silence for a moment on the other end of the line.

  “Buster Domingo?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Write this down.” The voice was deep and monotone, serious enough to pique his interest. He grabbed a notepad and a sharpened pencil and flipped to a blank page.

  “Go ahead.”

  “One Hundred and Twenty-First Street, Poughkeepsie, New York. Be there by seven sharp.” Buster looked at his watch, realizing he would be pushing it even if he left immediately.

  “Got it.” The line clicked, and he hung up.

  “Who was that?” Maria put a hand on her hip.

  “A work call, I got to go.” He pulled down his suspenders and hurried to put on a shirt.

  “Emergency piano lesson?” she teased.

  “Real funny. My other work,” he said. They had never discussed his various streams of income. With a brother like Enzo, it made sense that she valued discretion. She didn’t ask questions, and that suited him just fine. He didn’t want to involve her in any way.

  He turned from the door and returned to give her a quick kiss.

  “I’ll take the Buick,” he said.

  She smiled. “Da
mn right you will.” He had given her the keys to his Model A as a wedding gift. His friends called him odd for it, and laughed at the thought of a dame driving a car like that. But he was happy to drive a junky 1907 Buick if it meant he got to see her driving the Ford with a big grin and the wind blowing through her hair.

  “When will you be home?” she asked as his hand reached the doorknob.

  “I’m not sure. Might be a while.”

  She stared at him, and to his surprise, she didn’t seem angry.

  “Buster, be safe. Okay?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” He blew her a kiss and turned to leave. He had never lied to her, but he wasn’t sure if that was a promise he could keep.

  Sonny

  Poughkeepsie, Dutchess County, New York—June 1, 1930

  Sonny had never seen Maranzano like this. He had stuck by him for six months, following his every move, obeying his every order. Throughout that time, Maranzano had remained cautious, always believing that something was about to happen, something Sonny couldn’t anticipate. When they finally received the news, Maranzano’s demeanor changed drastically. He seemed relieved that he had been correct in his hypothesis that war was approaching, but like a general receiving marching orders, he realized what fate awaited them all.

  They gathered in the same auditorium where they had once celebrated Mary’s ascension. Many of the same faces were present, but the geniality was noticeably absent. The lights were dimmed to match the room’s disposition.

  “Stand close by me,” Maranzano said to both Sonny and Joe Bonanno as they made their way through the whispering crowd. When he had called Sonny to let him know what had happened, he told him to bring Antonello. This surprised Sonny as much as anything, but Maranzano said they would need as much muscle as they could get.

  They found their way to a designated table and took their seats. The room waited patiently.

  “Don Maranzano, I came as soon as I heard,” a man said, approaching Maranzano and kissing his cheek. To Sonny’s surprise, when the man turned around, it was his brother-in-law. Maria’s new husband, Buster.

  They met eyes, and both were equally astonished to see the other there.

  “Piano lessons not been going well?” Sonny asked, flushing with anger. He didn’t want his sister being cared for by someone in this life.

  “Stock market hit you that hard?” Buster retorted, finding a seat beside Maranzano. Sonny looked to Don Maranzano, searching for an explanation. Maranzano only waved to pacify him.

  “Gentlemen, please find your seats,” a man said, stepping to the center of the auditorium. He had to repeat himself several times before he was heard. His voice was frail and cracking.

  Sonny had never met him, but the gentleman had to be the leader of their family, Cola Shiro. He was old, robust, and had a curling mustache that made him look like a nineteenth-century Bourbon king.

  “Two of our own have been killed,” he continued as the room finally hushed. “We have sent some of our people to Detroit to analyze the situation. At this point, it appears that our dear friend Gaspar Milazzo was gunned down as a result of a conflict that is confined to the state of Michigan.”

  Murmuring spread across the room.

  “No!” Vito Bonventre said, louder than the rest.

  “We have no reason to assume that Milazzo’s death was connected in any way to our situation in New York.” Shiro attempted to calm the room. “We must assume neutrality until we are given reason to believe otherwise.”

  Maranzano stood, and the room instantly fell silent. He waited for a moment, all eyes resting on him.

  “Joe Parrino,” he said, waiting until the man addressed stood from a table across the room, “your brother was killed in this attack as well. What do you think about our situation?”

  Parrino was on the verge of tears. He looked down and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. What am I supposed to make of it? It was an accident. He was with Milazzo, and if someone was trying to kill our friend, I know Sasa would have fought back. He didn’t give them a choice but to fight him as well.”

  Angry whispers spread again, and Maranzano waited for total silence.

  “I have been very troubled since I received this news. I sent a few men of my own to Detroit as soon as I heard, and the reports are damning. Our friend Gaspar Milazzo received two blasts from a shotgun. Your brother Sasa had six gunshot wounds.”

  The room erupted into a clamor, but still, Maranzano’s voice was discernible above the tumult. “This was meant as an attack on our people! A message sent from Masseria!” The men began to roar. Shiro tried in vain to calm them, but eventually gave up and stood silently.

  As soon as Maranzano raised a hand, the room stilled. “It is a blemish on the honor of the Castellammare!” Men around the room jumped to their feet and slammed their fists into the tables, Vito Bonventre leading the charge.

  Maranzano assumed his seat.

  “What would you have us do, Don Maranzano?” Cola Shiro asked, shuffling uncomfortably.

  “Why do you ask me? I am only a soldier.”

  The debate continued for hours. Different men of honor around the room stood to offer their analysis of the situation. Many said that war with Masseria was hopeless. In terms of manpower and resources, Masseria dwarfed the scattered Castellammarese. He was Goliath to their David.

  Others combated this, agreeing with Maranzano that they could not accept these insults any longer. Their own people were being eliminated, and something had to be done.

  Throughout the rest of the discussion, Maranzano remained silent. He had said all that he needed to say. And from the look on his face, Sonny could tell that Maranzano was confident he had already won.

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—June 4, 1930

  Sonny paused at the door and steadied the flowers in his hands. He attempted a breathing exercise he had learned in a Dale Carnegie public-speaking workshop he attended back in college. It didn’t really work.

  Resigned to his fate, he raised his fist. He knocked three times, carefully not to be too quiet or too loud.

  He spent the next few moments contemplating whether he should drop the flowers and run, but Millie was already at the door.

  “Well, hello Sonny.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes unintentionally.

  Sonny had been preparing the dialogue since breakfast, but now that her green eyes were peering into his, he forgot every word.

  “Oh, here. I got you these.” He extended the flowers, careful to watch how she reacted to them. He had spent hours at the florist, more indecisive about what to purchase then he was about trading stocks. Roses were too forward, he decided, so he’d purchased daisies instead. He was careful to ensure that there were a few orange and red ones included, which reminded him of her hair.

  “They’re lovely, Sonny, thank you,” she said, raising them to inhale the aroma. He didn’t say anything, hoping she’d continue. He wanted to hear her voice. Those few words left him wanting more. “I’ll have to put them in a vase. Would you like to come in?”

  “Who’s that?” A thundering voice came from within the apartment before Sonny could reply.

  Millie must have thought he looked spooked.

  “That’s just my father. He sounds meaner than he is.”

  “I wanted to see what you were doing this evening…and to ask you to come out with me,” Sonny blurted out. He was really hoping she’d say yes before he was forced to enter.

  “Who’s this, then?” A man in stained overalls approached from behind Millie. Sonny assumed Millie’s mother had gotten to know the milkman, because he couldn’t believe a peach like Millie came from a hunchbacked brute like that.

  “He’s our neighbor, Papà.”

  “Well, we’re eating dinner. And it’s rude for him to interrupt.” Sonny could tell what they were eating from the peas caught in his gray beard.

  He kept his squinted eyes lo
cked on Sonny, but didn’t address him. Mille exhaled and rolled her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sonny. Bad timing. Maybe another time?”

  Her father grunted.

  “Of course. Enjoy your dinner.” Sonny tipped his hat and watched the door shut before him.

  “Why’d you have to do that, Papà? He’s a nice boy.” The muffled voices came from the other side of the door. Sonny remained planted for a moment, but then admitted to himself that she wasn’t coming back out.

  He turned to the left and entered his own apartment. There was nothing better to do on a Wednesday evening, so he’d just clean the pistol Maranzano had given him and sit on the couch. Like always.

  Millie

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—June 4, 1930

  “He’s a guinea. That’s why! Greasy hair and fancy threads. He’s up to no good,” Millie’s father, Patrick, said as he returned to his seat at the head of the long table. She took the seat beside him, all the other place mats empty.

  “You think the worst of everyone. He was just being kind.”

  “What were those for, then, eh?” He pointed to the vase of flowers on the haberdasher.

  “A kind gesture from a friendly neighbor.”

  “He wants you to spread your legs. And you’d do it if I weren’t here, you whore.”

  “Patrick!” She threw her napkin down on the table and looked hard in his direction, but he looked away on command and took another pull from his flask. He knew just how to work her up, and just when to stop. She had her mother’s temper in her, and she hadn’t been gone long enough for him to forget how menacing that could be. Both of her brothers had fled south to work the coal mines years before, and they’d said it was because of Patrick’s drunken beatings, but the whip of their mother’s broom wasn’t much lighter.

  Patrick burped loudly and munched on his potatoes like a horse chews hay. Millie decided he was doing it just to irritate her, but she lost her appetite regardless.