It was January the twenty-third, nineteen ninety-two, a Thursday, and as always on Thursdays Vito was on his way to join Salvatore for the weekly family dinner. For sixty years they’d had their family dinner every Thursday; it was a ritual which had begun when they were both nineteen and newly married. He to Angelina, God rest her soul, and Salvatore to Theresa.
Such a long time. He wondered how many more dinners they would enjoy on Thursdays. They were both old men. Seventy-nine years old. He didn’t feel it, though, just a touch of arthritis in his hip and a bit of extra weight. And he didn’t look seventy-nine, he knew that. Neither did Salvatore. Grey hairs they had, yeah, and deep lines scoring their faces, but they were in good shape, everything considered. And neither of them had lost their marbles, thank the good Lord.
His old goombah was a wonder, still goin’ strong, still holdin’ his power, reigning over all the families on the East Coast. Capo di tutti capi. How proud he was of Salvatore, just as proud of him as he was of Johnny.
That song Johnny was singing, he liked it.
‘You and me we wanted it all,’ Johnny sang again.
Wasn’t that the real truth about the whole world? He and Salvatore, they had wanted it all, had wanted everything. They had taken it. And by force, whenever that was necessary. Some said he and Salvatore were dangerous, ruthless, evil men. But they weren’t. They were just men trying to pull themselves out of the gutter, out of the bitter poverty of the lower East Side where they had come as immigrant boys, speaking no English, half starved most of the time, with no chance of making it. They had had to do what they had done to survive.
Vito smiled to himself. Life had turned out all right for them. A few headaches now and then, a few glitches, but nothing they hadn’t been able to handle. And they had managed to avoid trouble with law enforcement most of the time—and for over sixty years. They’d been lucky, perhaps. But crooked cops on the pad helped; Salvatore paid off every week, but pay-offs were meaningless. What did a few envelopes stuffed with cash mean to Salvatore and him? They could afford it. They still paid; they were for ever protected that way.
Nobody’s clean, Vito thought, and laughed out loud, a raucous laugh that shook his plump body and filled the car. Everybody could be bought. The only thing that differed was the price. Sometimes it was money; sometimes it was power they wanted, or a special favour. Whores, the lot of ’em. It was only the price they haggled about.
People stank. The world was full of shits. He didn’t think much of the human race. The amici, the men of the ‘honoured society,’ were blamed for a lot that ailed the world. I doan know why that should be, Vito thought, frowning. We ain’t done worse than nobody else. Graft, theft, crimes of all kinds and even murder were commonplace, part of big business, part of all walks of life, even government. Politicians stink, he added to himself. They’re out for themselves, just like cops, just like everybody… Everybody but his Johnny. Me and Salvatore, we did it our way, he muttered under his breath. We made our own rules. We followed the code of the Brotherhood, but we did it our way, oh yeah, that we did. He smiled inwardly. He had a few good memories.
Johnny Fortune.
Big star.
His pride and joy.
His nephew.
More like a son than a nephew.
Johnny was in New York this week. He was coming to the family dinner tonight. Driving out from Manhattan in a limo. Salvatore was happy; he was happy. It was gonna be a grand evening.
***
Salvatore Rudolfo’s house was set back from the road, surrounded by a high brick wall, with large iron gates at the front. Electrified gates. And it was guarded like Fort Knox.
Vito knew that there were men everywhere, men packing heat, but they were not visible to the human eye. Except for the two guards at the gate, who appeared as if from nowhere the moment the car came to a standstill outside it.
The gates slowly opened after the guards had checked him out, made sure it was he. Carlo rolled the black Cadillac sedan up the short circular drive to the front door, braked, and came to help him out. Carlo, a soldier in the organization and assigned to him as a driver-bodyguard, then returned to the car and took it around to the back as Vito climbed the front steps.
Once he was inside the hall, shrugging out of his overcoat, Vito realized that something was different here tonight. Usually on Thursdays only Salvatore’s closest aides and family were present. He noticed a number of extra capi hanging around at the far end of the hall; two more were positioned near the door to Salvatore’s study.
The door of this room suddenly opened and Anthony Rudolfo, Salvatore’s cousin and the consigliere, came out. Walking forward, he kissed Vito on both cheeks, and said, ‘The big man’s waiting to talk to you before we have dinner, Vito.’
Vito nodded and immediately went into the Don’s private sanctuary, frowning, suddenly worried that something was wrong.
Salvatore was sitting in a chair near the fire. He rose when he saw Vito, came to greet him. The two men, friends since their births in Palermo, embraced, kissed each other on each cheek in the Sicilian way, and then they drew apart.
Vito nodded slowly. ‘Ah, you look good tonight, Salvatore. For an old man.’
Salvatore laughed. ‘And so do you, my old goombah.’ He shivered slightly. ‘It’s a cold night, Vito. Cold enough to freeze a witch’s tits, turn ’em into icicles.’ He laughed again, a deep belly laugh. ‘Remember when we were kids, shivering in them cold winters in our thin threads? Remember how we tried to keep each other warm in them rat holes we called homes in lower Manhattan?’ He shook his head. ‘Them were some days.’
‘Sure I remember. I doan forget nothin’, Salvatore.’
The Don put his arm around Vito and walked with him to the fireplace. ‘Them days are long gone. Just a memory. But we’re getting old, you and me, and once again the cold is hard on our bones. Makes ’em creak. So, come, sit, thaw out near the fire.’
As he spoke the Don lifted a bottle of red wine from the small table set between the chairs, poured two wine glasses full to their brims. ‘The fire will warm your flesh, the vino your blood.’
The two men clinked glasses, said softly, in unison, ‘To the Brotherhood.’ And then each took a deep swallow of the wine, rolling it around in their mouths, savouring it. It was one of the few pleasures in life left to them. Then they sat back in their chairs and looked at each other for a long time, their old eyes exuding knowledge, wisdom and power. And everlasting friendship.
Eventually, Vito said, ‘Why the extra capos tonight? You expectin’ trouble, or what?’
Shaking his head, Salvatore Rudolfo murmured, ‘Just a precaution. I don’t want no nasty surprises, or to get caught off guard. That’s our old rule, Vito. Why change it?’
‘What’re ya gettin’ at?’ Vito asked, his dark eyes narrowing.
‘Too many problems in the other families. The Gambinos are drowning in trouble, Sammy the Bull been doin’ too much singing.’ He stared at Vito and hissed, ‘Shirru, stool pigeon! He’s just a yella canary, that one. Then there’s the Colombo family, they’re crazy, at each other’s throats, killing each other. I hope there ain’t gonna be a war between the families. Like in the past.’
‘I doan think the violence’ll spread.’
‘Who knows what’ll happen.’ Salvatore raised his hands in a helpless gesture and shrugged. ‘One of the other families in New York might take advantage of this situation, try to take over the Gambino or Colombo territories. It could be a war. Yeah, better we’re prepared, protected should trouble come.’
‘That’s right, Salvatore. Ain’t nothin’ wrong in protecting ourselves.’
Salvatore leaned forward and his eyes, faded now and rheumy, were suddenly the piercing bright blue of his youth as they focused intently on his oldest friend and confidant. ‘Mebbe I’m gonna call a meeting of all the families, bring the bosses together—’
‘You mean like in Appalachia in 1957?’ Vito exclaimed.
‘Yeah, a conference. To decide what to do. There’s too much focus on us, Vito. On the Brotherhood. The cops, the Feds, the press are breathin’ down our necks. It’s dangerous.’ He sighed. ‘Suddenly we’re very visible, and that’s bad. Capisci?’
‘Yeah, I’m with ya all the way.’
‘Then there’s Joey Fingers,’ Salvatore announced.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s gettin’ too big-headed, and he’s trigger-happy. He’s connected to us… so he’s a threat to us. Scrutiny, Vito, that’s what I’ve always detested. Too much scrutiny is not good for our business.’ The Don paused and, even though he was in his own home and was positive it wasn’t bugged, he added in a hoarse whisper, ‘It’s bad for Cosa Nostra.’
Vito nodded, reached out, touched Salvatore’s hand, signalling his understanding.
After a moment of silence, Vito asked, ‘Who’s gonna handle Joey Fingers?’
‘Nobody. Not yet. We wait. See what he does next.’ A deep sigh rippled through the Don and he shook his head sadly. ‘It’s not the same, my old goombah, times have changed.’
Vito did not say a word, lost for a moment in his own thoughts. Salvatore wasn’t capo di tutti for nothin’. He was a wise man; he spoke the truth and nothin’ but. Vito sat studying him for a moment.
Salvatore was a powerfully-built man, tall, broad, with no fat on him. His face was scored and lined and scratched over with wrinkles, and yet it was not an old man’s face. It was too strong and powerful to be that. The nose was Roman, slightly hooked, the eyebrows arched prominently, and flecked with white above those extraordinary eyes. Pure blue. Like the Mediterranean Sea that surrounded Sicily. They could be filled with the sunlight and the warmth of the Old Country one minute, as cold and as icy as the Arctic the next.
Salvatore cut into Vito’s thoughts. He said, ‘Where’s Johnny?’
‘He’ll be here. Any minute now, Salvatore. Doan worry so much.’ Vito rose and ambled over to the window, stood looking out, and after a moment, he exclaimed, ‘Ah, here he comes now. He’s a good boy.’ Vito glanced at his watch. ‘He’s on time.’
***
Theresa Rudolfo, Salvatore’s wife, sat at the head of the table. She was a tall, thin, stately woman in her seventies, with pure white hair and eyes like chips of jet. As always, she wore a black dress and her three long strands of pearls—real pearls—and she presided with dignity and pride over her table.
This was covered in a starched white cloth, beautifully embroidered, upon which sat the finest china, crystal and silver that money could buy. A silver bowl of flowers, flanked by white candles in silver sticks, graced the centre and the remainder of the table groaned with dishes and bowls of food.
Assembled together around this splendid table, in the formal dining room of the Rudolfo home, were Salvatore’s four children, all grown and married: Maria, Sophia, Frankie and Alfredo, and their respective spouses. Also present were Salvatore’s brother Charlie, the underboss, and their cousin Anthony, the consigliere, and their wives.
Vito sat next to Theresa, on her right.
Johnny was on Salvatore’s right, where he was always seated.
It was a typical Thursday dinner: there was a huge salad of lettuce, tomatoes, olives and sliced onions; red peppers sautéed in olive oil; seafood salad; a baked fish; tagliatelle with tomato sauce; and several roast chickens. Red wine flowed as Alfredo poured it; home-made Italian bread was passed around by the others; everyone laughed and talked and joked. It had the makings of a convivial evening.
Only Theresa was quiet, quiet as the grave, listening intently, watching them all through eyes which were exceedingly wary.
Occasionally she murmured a word or two to her daughters, as they helped her pass the dishes around the table to the men, or returned to the kitchen to replenish the empty bowls with steaming pasta and rich sauces.
Studying her surreptitiously at one moment, Johnny had an unexpected flash of insight. He thought: she’s unhappy because I’m here tonight. She doesn’t like me. Then it hit him like a thunderbolt. His Aunt Theresa, whom he had known all of his life, had never liked him. He suddenly knew, with absolute certainty, that she detested him, resented him. He asked himself why. There was only one answer. Because Uncle Salvatore favoured him. Jealousy. She was jealous because he was so close to her husband, and because there was such affection between them.
Across the table, Vito was harbouring similar thoughts. But the old man shrugged them off at once. Theresa was an old woman now. Her venom was weak, had lost its power with age. Nobody paid any attention to her any more. Least of all Salvatore, who had never loved her.
***
After dinner, Salvatore took Johnny and Vito into his private sanctuary, and closed the door behind them.
‘Have a Strega, Johnny,’ the Don said, pouring the golden-coloured Italian liqueur into slender glasses. ‘And you, Vito?’ he asked, raising a brow. Vito nodded.
‘Thanks,’ Johnny said, taking the glass.
Salvatore handed another one to Vito, who thanked him.
The three men touched glasses and sat down around the glowing fire.
‘Congratulations, Johnny,’ Salvatore said, and beamed at the younger man. ‘Great concert at Madison Square Garden last Saturday. Sensational. We all enjoyed it.’
‘It was a sell-out,’ Johnny pointed out. ‘My most successful concert so far.’
‘We’re proud of you, Johnny. You’re a big star. The biggest. And you did it yourself.’
‘Oh come on, Uncle Salvatore! I know how much you and Uncle Vito helped me.’
‘We did nothing.’
Johnny gaped at the Don, and then looked across at Vito, who inclined his head, acknowledging Salvatore’s words as the truth.
Salvatore said, ‘We opened a few doors, that’s all, got a number of clubs across the country to book you. Suggested to the guys in Vegas that they give you a few breaks. We wanted you to do it the hard way, the real way, like anybody else.’
His eyes widening in surprise, Johnny asked, ‘But why?’
‘We wanted to keep you clean, we didn’t want you to be associated with us,’ Salvatore explained in the softest of voices.
‘If we’d done too much we’d have polluted you, Johnny,’ Vito added. ‘We didn’t want to contaminate you. We don’t want you linked to the amici,’ Vito smiled at him, ‘to the Brotherhood. We kinda worked behind the scenes a bit, like Salvatore said.’
‘Well, thanks anyway,’ Johnny replied, and then he grinned at the two older men. ‘And I thought I was under your protection.’
‘You were,’ Salvatore murmured. ‘Always. But we let you make your own way in the business. And we were right to do it our way. And you…’ He smiled at Johnny. ‘You never let us down. But I do have one disappointment.’
Puzzled, Johnny stared at him. ‘What’s that?’
‘You’re not married, Johnny. It’d be better if you had a nice Italian wife.’ Salvatore nodded sagely. ‘A man needs a wife.’
‘I agree with you, Uncle Salvatore, but I’ve never met the right girl.’
‘What a pity,’ the Don said. ‘You’re young… there’s time.’ He sipped his Strega, and the men fell silent for a short while. Finally, Salvatore broke the silence when he addressed Johnny. ‘So you’re goin’ to Europe. Tell me about the trip, where you’re gonna be goin’.’
Johnny began to talk about the short concert tour he was about to embark on, and Salvatore listened acutely, nodding from time to time, asking a few pertinent questions.
Vito was not so attentive, and his thoughts soon began to wander.
Decades fell away.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Salvatore Rudolfo as he had been as a young man in his thirties, as he had been at Johnny’s age. So handsome, as handsome as Johnny was now. The women had thrown themselves at him; he had not been interested. Salvatore had been strait-laced. Well, most of the time.
Vito sighed. Life was funny, littered with loos
e ends, not a bit neat, not tidy at all. He liked things neat and tidy. He wished Salvatore felt the same way. Vito closed his eyes, drifted with his thoughts, enjoying the warmth of the fire, the taste of the Strega sweet in his throat, the satisfaction of a full belly, the comfort of family. Contented, he dozed.
‘I’ll be in touch from London, Uncle Salvatore,’ Johnny said, and Vito sat up with a start.
‘What? What did ya say?’ he asked, looking at Johnny, blinking.
Salvatore laughed his deep belly laugh. ‘You been sleeping, old man.’
Vito smiled self-consciously and, deciding it would be foolish to protest, he said nothing.
Johnny came over to him, helped him out of the chair, and they kissed each other on both cheeks, embraced.
Moving across the floor swiftly, Johnny kissed the Don, and then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.
Left alone, the two old men resumed their seats and sat looking at each other for a long time, comfortable with each other, communicating without words.
At last Vito said, ‘I wasn’t sleeping.’
Salvatore chuckled.
‘I was dreaming.’
‘Of what, goombah?’
‘The past, my old friend.’ Vito let out a long breath, and then slowly a smile spread across his round face. ‘I remember you when you was Johnny’s age, Salvatore. Handsome you were. Just like he is. Same hair, same eyes, same face.’
Salvatore straightened slightly in the chair but he made no comment, merely sipped his Strega.
Vito went on, ‘There’s a picture. In Angelina’s album back at my place. Taken in 1946. You, me, Theresa and her. You are thirty-eight. It could be Johnny in that picture.’
Still Salvatore did not speak.
‘I don’t know why nobody’s never spotted the likeness.’
Salvatore merely grunted.
Vito took a deep breath. ‘Well, Theresa has.’ There was a pause, and Vito added softly, ‘She’s always known.’
‘Mebbe,’ Salvatore finally allowed.
Angel Page 25