The Mobster’s Lament

by Ray Celestin

  Faron grinned at Sarah.

  He said something to the girl that Ida couldn’t hear over the howling wind. Sarah screamed and fired off two shots. The second hit Faron on his torso. He staggered backwards. Ida fired, emptied her gun. One bullet caught him side on. He went down. His gun skittered across the ice and disappeared into the black water below.

  Ida walked towards them, keeping her empty gun aimed at Faron, who was thrashing about on his back, trying to get up, slipping, making a blood angel on the pristine white.

  Sarah urged Gabriel to get up, tried to pull him up.

  When Ida reached them, she saw how bad it was – Sarah and Gabriel were standing on a stretch of ice that was now surrounded completely by the jagged black water of the river.

  Ida screamed at them to move back, but they couldn’t hear.

  Another gust of wind hit Ida. She fell onto the ice once more, cracking her elbow. A flurry of snow battered her, stung her eyes. She got to her knees, wiped the snow from her face and looked up at Gabriel and Sarah.

  But they were gone.

  Where the island had been there was now just dark water. The void had consumed them.

  Ida stared at the blackness where they had been just a few moments before, felt herself pierced by a razor-sharp hopelessness. Her muscles went slack, her heart pounded. She screamed along with the wind, till everything was a scream.

  Then she felt something tugging on her, pulling her back.

  Cleveland. She rose, put her arm under his shoulder again and they stumbled down the ice, found a spot where they could climb onto a tug. As they did so, Ida turned to her side and saw an empty red smear where Faron had been, then a trail of blood running parallel to the river’s edge, disappearing into the storm.

  ‘Did you see him?’ she asked Cleveland, gesturing to the blood trail.

  He shook his head. He was frozen, swaying, could barely speak.

  They made it onto the deck of the tug, into its murky cabin. Ida found a first aid kit and bandaged up Cleveland’s shoulder as best she could, buying them time. She looked around for a radio, found one, stared at it, unsure how it worked.

  ‘I know how to use it,’ Cleveland said.

  She turned to see him slumped in the corner, peering up at her through the shadows.

  ‘They taught us in the army,’ he said. ‘Lift me up.’

  She helped him to his feet. He hobbled over to the radio, studied it, turned some switches and it came to life in a hiss of knotty static. He grabbed the microphone from its holder and slumped back down onto the floorboards, lifted the microphone to his mouth and mumbled a distress call into it.

  Ida sat down next to him, prayed someone would hear them, would be able to locate them. She closed her eyes and prayed and wept. For her son. For Michael. For Tom. For Gabriel and Sarah.

  Next to her, Cleveland continued his mumbling, chant-like incantation. Outside, the storm howled on through the blackness.

  PART TWENTY

  DAILY NEWS

  NEW YORK’S PICTURE NEWSPAPER

  City Edition Final Monday, November 17th 1947

  LOCAL NEWS

  BLIZZARD DECLARED WORST IN RECORDED HISTORY

  * * *

  CLEANUP EFFORTS HAMPERED

  * * *

  Manhattan, Nov 16th. – The United States Weather Bureau confirmed that last week’s blizzard was the worst in the city’s history, with the level of snowfall exceeding even that of the blizzard of 1888. Although the damage from the storm is still being assessed, so far it is estimated over fifty people have perished. City officials involved in the relief efforts have stressed that this number is likely to rise as further bodies are discovered as the snow thaws out and more missing people are reported.

  Trains and buses are up and running again in the city, but most suburbs and outlying regions are still isolated – with thousands of cars abandoned and marooned on highways and side streets exacerbating the travel problems.

  Although the effects of the blizzard were felt from Northern Maine to Washington, it was New York City that bore the brunt of the storm’s unceasing snowfall. There is still so much snow to clear no one is sure where to put it. Snow piles from plowing are exceeding twelve feet in height on some streets, and authorities in Manhattan are requesting the Department of Sanitation allows them to shift the snow directly into sewers. Private contractors have been seen dumping snow directly into the Hudson and East Rivers.

  IN THE GENERAL SESSIONS COURT, MANHATTAN

  STATE OF NEW YORK

  STATE OF NEW YORK ) Indictment no.: 47GSC-21883

  )

  VS )

  )

  TALBOT )

  (Defendant)

  MOTION TO DISMISS

  COMES NOW the State of New York and moves that a motion to dismiss be entered in the above captioned case as follows: New evidence has come into the possession of the prosecutor to suggest the defendant’s innocence in the crimes listed in the indictment. Summary of evidence is attached hereto as EXHIBIT A. Based upon the foregoing, the State has determined that a dismissal be entered in this case.

  This 20th day of November, 1947.

  Frank S. Hogan

  District Attorney

  New York County

  DAILY NEWS

  NEW YORK’S PICTURE NEWSPAPER

  City Edition Final Thursday, November 20th 1947

  POLITICAL NEWS

  LOCAL REPRESENTATIVE ADDED TO THE HOUSE COMMITTEE ON UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES

  Washington DC, Nov 19th. – Congressman Paul J. Helms has agreed to replace departing House Committee on Un-American Activities member Herbert C. Bonner (Dem, NC) after he stepped down last week. Committee chairman Edward J. Hart (Dem, NJ) announced the appointment today, saying the Congressman from New York would be an excellent addition to the committee, which is tasked with combating subversion and propaganda that threatens the state.

  The move comes as something of a surprise as it was thought the Congressman was edging towards a seat on the committee congressman Estes Kefauver (Dem, TN) is attempting to form to investigate alleged nationwide organized crime. Congressman Helms said, ‘The real threat to this country is not from any so-called organized crime syndicate, for which there is no evidence, certainly not on a nation-wide scale, but from Communists and agitators, the presence of whom the committee has so clearly demonstrated with its ongoing investigations of Hollywood. For these reasons I am happy and proud to do what I can in my new role in the house committee. I wish Congressman Bonner all the best.’

  The Committee’s investigation led to ‘the Hollywood Ten’ being cited for contempt by the House of Representatives and their being blacklisted by the Association of Motion Picture Producers in what has become known as ‘The Waldorf Statement’, issued from the Waldorf-Astoria earlier this month.

  62

  Friday 21st, 11.30 a.m.

  The hospital had something it called a garden, but it was nothing more than a courtyard at the center of the building with some shrubs and benches in it, and dreary cement walls on all four sides. So when Michael wanted to get some fresh air, or to smoke, he went to the sidewalk in front of the hospital. The doctors had told him it was too cold for him to be on the street, that he was risking infection, but he had no interest in heeding their warnings, so even when there was a bitter wind sweeping in off the East River, he’d ask a nurse to push his wheelchair outside.

  Michael had been there fifteen minutes already that morning, eyes glued to the direction from which he guessed Tom would be arriving. He hoped again that he and Tom could patch up their differences, go back to how they were before the case, be honest with one another. Michael checked the time on the clock of the bank on the corner. He smoked another cigarette. He watched the pigeons huddling together on the wrought-iron lampposts. Traffic glided up the street, passing the great blackened lumps of snow dumped either side of the road by the ploughs. New Yorkers hurried down the sidewalk next to him, ignoring his presence, making him wonder
how close to a beggar he looked.

  He’d wanted to be there at Rikers Island when Tom was released. He’d wanted to be there on the ferry, too, when he landed in Manhattan. He’d imagined it all, a reunion on the waves. But it wasn’t to be. The bullet to the chest and pints of lost blood and streams of morphine had seen to that.

  So Tom had been released and it was Annette who’d been there instead. So Michael imagined that. His wife waiting for Tom on the glowing marshes of Rikers Island, the two of them traveling back on the ferry, going to the apartment, then Tom coming to the hospital to see his old man.

  He checked the time once more, watched the men in the deli opposite, as they hung up a poster about their Thanksgiving promotion in the window. It felt like only yesterday it was Halloween. He finished his cigarette and tossed it into the gutter.

  Then he saw Tom walking down the street, dressed in the navy-blue suit he’d worn for his court appearances. His face was marred by cuts and bruises, was swollen still from the beating he’d taken. He was walking with a slight limp that Michael hoped wasn’t permanent.

  He saw Michael and smiled as much as the bruises allowed.

  ‘Pop,’ he said when he’d reached him.

  ‘Tom.’

  Tom reached down and they hugged each other. Pain rippled through Michael’s chest, but he didn’t care. People walking past stared at them – the scarred old white man in a wheelchair hugging a beaten-up colored man.

  They let go and looked at each other, at the injuries yet to heal.

  ‘Aren’t we a pair?’ Tom said.

  Michael smiled. ‘But we both got through it.’

  ‘Sure we did. You wanna go inside?’ Tom asked.

  ‘That place?’ said Michael, gesturing to the hospital behind him. ‘It’s full of crepe-hangers.’

  Tom laughed, then he looked up at the building.

  ‘I did some of my training here,’ he said wistfully, as if remembering a lost world.

  There was a bench a little way off. He wheeled Michael over to it and sat. They watched the traffic, the people, the Thanksgiving display going up opposite.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tom, turning to look at Michael.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you and Ida I’d still be locked up. Dead maybe.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me and Ida,’ said Michael, ‘you wouldn’t be looking like that.’

  Tom smiled again in that pained way.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want to do now you’re out?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Honestly? Have a hot shower. I feel like I’ve been cold the last three months. Have a shower then get into bed and sleep. Sleep for days and days.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Michael said.

  ‘Then I was thinking,’ Tom continued. ‘I might move back to Chicago. See if I can get work.’

  A warm feeling filled Michael, that perfect joy that was both uplifting and calming all at once.

  He smiled, and Tom smiled back, and Michael got the impression that Tom felt it too; the sense that just at that moment, just at that place, all was right with the world.

  ‘Good,’ Michael said.

  They watched the street a little more. A wintry wind gusted down it, rattling awnings, making the shop-signs swing. Michael had debated over the last few days, whether he should say anything. At first he’d thought he should keep his mouth shut, but slowly he’d realized that that had been the problem all along, and he needed to end it, or rather, start afresh.

  ‘I know why you moved to the flophouse,’ he said. ‘The prosecution got hold of your discharge papers, spoke to your old landlady.’

  Tom froze. Then his gaze darted to the paving stones of the sidewalk. Michael wondered if he’d made a mistake bringing it up.

  ‘You could have told me, son,’ said Michael.

  Tom shook his head. He looked up and Michael saw his face was wet, the bruises glistening with tears. He put his arm over his son’s shoulder and for all it was costing him in pain, pulled him close. Tom turned, accepting the embrace.

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to hate me,’ Tom said through the tears.

  ‘How could I hate you?’ Michael replied. ‘Look at what me and your mother had to face.’

  Tom absorbed the words, nodded, stifled a sob. Tears formed in Michael’s eyes, too. They cried at their mutual pain, but also at the strength of the embrace. Stronger than any bullet, stronger than the wind blasting down the street, the oncoming winter.

  They stayed like that, locked in their embrace, as the people rushed past, two stones in the river.

  IDA YOUNG INVESTIGATIONS LTD.

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  CONFIDENTIAL

  HIGHLY SENSITIVE. USE RESTRICTED.

  Transcript

  Date: Monday, November 17th, 1947

  Time: 10.35

  Location: Room #403, Manhattan Criminal Courts Building, Manhattan, NYC

  Participants: Ida Young, Gene Cleveland, Lieut. Det. David Carrasco, NYPD

  IY: Thank you, Lieutenant.

  DC: All set.

  IY: This is Ida Young. State your name, please?

  GC: Gene Cleveland.

  IY: Thank you. Also here is Lieutenant Detective David Carrasco of the NYPD. Mr Cleveland. This is purely a voluntary statement. None of this will be released publicly. You understand that?

  GC: Yeah, I already told you that. How many times?

  IY: It’s for the purposes of the recording.

  GC: Yeah, all right.

  IY: You’re set …

  GC: I’m all set. Let’s go.

  IY: Start at the beginning?

  GC: With Helms?

  IY: Wherever you think the beginning is.

  GC: I guess it’s Helms. I dunno. I thought it’d be an easy squeeze. I didn’t realize he still had Mob backing. I didn’t mean for all this killing.

  IY: But you knew he was involved with Genovese during the war?

  GC: Yeah, during the war. I didn’t realize they were still buddies back in New York. None of us did. Plus, we were supposed to keep things hidden, you know.

  [PAUSE]

  IY: How about you start with the war? That’s where you met Arno Bucek and John Marino, right?

  GC: Right. Met them in Naples. 1944. Operation Husky.

  IY: Can you tell me about that? About Naples?

  GC: Sure. Naples was something. I ain’t never seen a hell like Naples in 1944. I mean that, hell. The Nazis took everything they could before they ran away. The Allies bombed the shit out of it before we invaded. We turned up and the place was like the world had ended. No water, no electricity, half the buildings demolished. People looked like skeletons, eating rats.

  We set up on the docks and all the ships start coming in. All the supplies for the invasion of Italy, all coming through Naples. Our battalion was part of the Quartermasters Corps. We were a colored battalion, so weren’t allowed to fight. All that back-of-the-bus shit. They put us in charge of looking after cargoes, running distribution out to towns and villages. Shit work. Fine by me.

  IY: And it was in the docks you met Arno Bucek and John Marino?

  GC: Yeah. We’d heard rumors, you know. About how the local mobs were paying servicemen to help ’em steal shipments, drive the trucks out of the base and into the countryside, where the local mobsters picked ’em up. I’d heard about it. Then Bucek approached me. Told me he had someone on the outside that wanted the food packages, the clothing parcels, medicine, anything we could get our hands on. Offered a kickback if we’d help them. All we had to do was load up the trucks and sign the dockets.

  You gotta understand, we had warehouses full of the shit. Every day there were ships coming in. All the supplies for the troops. All the reconstruction packages. All the sweeteners for the locals. Me and a bunch of the boys in the platoon agreed. Every week we loaded up trucks and got paid in cash. No one got caught ’cos everyone was on the take. The white boys, the black boys. Even t
he top brass was in on it. You know who the Allies put in charge of Occupied Italy?

  IY: No.

  GC: Charles Poletti. Former New York Governor. Associate of Lucky Luciano. We put a New York mobster in charge of Occupied Italy. And one of the first things he did was hire Genovese as his main advisor. It was like they were telling every single GI out there it was OK to go steal what you wanted. One third of everything Uncle Sam brought into that port ended up on the black market. Courtesy of Genovese and Vizzini, the local Camorra boss. They were making millions while people all around ’em were starving, dying of infections ’cos the penicillin had been stolen.

  IY: Did you know the black marketeer you were passing the goods off to was Vito Genovese?

  GC: Hell, no. Not back then. I thought we were passing the things over to Vizzini. I didn’t know he was Genovese’s partner till later. Genovese used his job in the administration to pay off the big-wigs, so everyone was looking the other way while he looted the military cargoes. And what did the administration care? Most of the Americans there hated the Italians, looked down on them like they were rats. These people had been our enemies a few weeks earlier. The only ones losing out were the tax-payers, all those suckers back home buying war bonds. And if they were too pussy to come out and fight with us, who cared if they lost some money?

  IY: And how did you meet Congressman Helms? Was he part of the black-market operation, too?

  GC: [LAUGHS] I never met Helms. I saw Helms. Difference.

  IY: Was he part of the black-market operation?

  GC: Maybe. Like I said, everyone was involved in the black-market operation. It was like the gold rush over there.

  IY: Then what were you blackmailing him over?

  GC: Shit. You sure you wanna know?

  [PAUSE]

  GC: One day out on the docks, Bucek and Marino come to see me all het up. They’re supposed to be driving two trucks out to the hills, to the drop-off point for Vizzini, but their buddy who’s supposed to be driving the other truck has gone missing, and they don’t know what to do. I tell ’em I can drive the truck and they look at each other like it never entered their heads before that a colored man could drive. Once they get over the shock, they agree. Marino drives the first truck and Bucek and me follow him in the second.