“Nice to meet you.” The Hook Hand extended his hand. Mercifully, it was his good one. “I’m Giuseppe Morello.” Sonny gave a curt nod, but hoped he would walk away.
“He doesn’t talk much to strangers. Come on, Sonny, tell him your name,” Alonzo said, but Sonny could sense that his father was uncomfortable too.
“My name is Vincente. Everyone calls me Sonny.”
“Sonny? Well, if we are going to use nicknames, then you can call me Piddu. It’s what your father used to call me in Sicily.” Morello patted Alonzo’s shoulder with his deformed hand and squeezed it with his few fingers.
“Thank you for letting us eat here,” Alonzo said, mercifully drawing Morello’s attention away from Sonny.
“Of course. You are always welcome here. Make sure you get a few cannoli before you leave. Tell them Mr. Morello ordered it.” He stepped away, and both Consentinos let out sighs of relief.
“You knew him in Sicily?” Sonny asked, twirling his fork around in his pasta. His appetite had dissipated.
“I did. He was a good man…is a good man,” Alonzo said. Sonny wasn’t buying it, and his father seemed to notice. “Things are just different now. I came here to show my respect.”
They finished their food in relative silence. Every so often, Alonzo would ask him about his schooling, or attempt to engage him about sports, but Sonny responded the way he typically did to everyone else: with short, stinted responses.
After their cannoli arrived, wrapped up in a scarlet cloth, Alonzo paid the bill and they exited out onto the cold streets of Little Italy.
Car tires squealed around the corner a block or so down, and two black cars raced forward. Gold stars were painted on their sides. They pulled to a stop beside Alonzo and Sonny, the latter paralyzed with fear. They policemen jumped out and rushed passed them, though, into Morello’s spaghetti restaurant.
“Walk faster, Sonny.” Alonzo wrapped his arms around Sonny’s shoulders and quickened their pace.
A tumult sounded from the restaurant, and shouts rang out. Alonzo walked faster still.
“Dad?” Sonny said, not knowing what he expected to hear.
“Faster,” Alonzo said, breaking into a jog. “I told you once that there would always be good men to protect us, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“Men who fight the bad guys. Those good men are still out there.” Alonzo led Sonny up the steps to their tenement.
“And Piddu is one of the bad guys?” Sonny asked, but Alonzo continued to walk.
“I don’t know, Sonny Boy,” he said at length. “That’s for those policemen to decide.”
Enzo
Sing Sing Penitentiary—December 4, 1918
Serving time in a federal penitentiary wasn’t a walk in a park, but it wasn’t all the bad either. Enzo had heard stories about how things were a few years before. “Hell” was an understatement.
But now they had baseball teams, for crying out loud. Sure, he spent most of his time smashing rocks and going crazy in his cell, but it was still better than marching around in the mud in France, shooting at a bunch of Krauts who had never done him wrong and didn’t owe him any money. Vico was the one who had made the wrong decision.
They even had access to education at Sing Sing. Sure, Enzo had already gone through a few years of school, but he had nothing better to do. He still couldn’t read worth a damn, but at least he’d be able to make out the street signs once he got out.
And that’s what he kept counting down to. The day he got out. Maybe Sing Sing would have been hell if he had to stay there long. But two years was nothing; he could do that standing on his head.
Enzo spit on a rag and wiped vigorously at his black boots. Since everything he wore was assigned, he didn’t have any way to differentiate himself from the other bums in the pin. And Enzo didn’t like that. He had become used to wearing nice clothes and showing up his peers. Sing Sing’s white-and-black-striped uniforms didn’t cut it. The least he could do was make sure he had the shiniest boots.
It had been over a year since he had come to Sing Sing, or “come up the river,” a term Enzo had carefully adapted after he’d heard the other inmates say it, and he was counting down the days to his exit.
Luckily, an Italian who was really in charge of Sing Sing. Sure, the warden came by every few days to strut around and get intoxicated on his power, but he didn’t really run things. The real control belonged to Alessandro Vollero. He was unabashedly Neapolitan, and hated Sicilians, but he kept the bulls at bay, so even guys like Enzo had a bit more freedom.
Enzo finished polishing his boots and inspected them. He was a bit disappointed that he couldn’t make them look any better. Perhaps he could trade a pack of cigarettes for some polish from one of the penitentiary fences. But he probably wouldn’t do that. The occasional drag of a cigarette helped him get through this shit more than anything else.
“Hey there, fat boy,” a voice sounded from the entrance to his cell. Enzo jolted with fright, which the intruders laughed at.
“You must have snuck up on cat’s paws. I didn’t see you there,” Enzo said, pretending that he wasn’t embarrassed.
He knew these guys. They were Italians, and they were trouble. He saw them looking at him from across the chow hall occasionally, but he hadn’t yet approached him. And he wasn’t pleased that they were doing so now.
One of the Italians began to sniff audibly at the air.
“Smell that? I think he shit himself.”
“Come on.”
“The john’s over there,” another said between snorts of laughter.
“What the hell do you fellas want?” Enzo pounced to his feet, already puffing out his chest and chin before he could think better of it. The three of them together could punish him far worse than the Sing Sing guards could, and they could give a pretty thorough beating.
“Oh, you’re a tough guy now?” one of them said, his brows furrowing. The Italians stepped inside the cell. It was clear why they had swung by for this visit.
“You got a problem with me?” Enzo asked, maintaining the tough-guy act, although he feared his voice had wavered.
“You bet we got a problem with you.” One of the burlier Italians wrapped his bulky arms around Enzo’s head and threw him out of the cell into the common area. Before Enzo could scurry to his feet, several inmates had gathered to watch.
“The hell did I do to you boys?” Enzo said, trying to decide whether to pounce or run. He was unable to do either.
“We know why you’re in here. We heard about your brother,” one of them said as the three of them circled around him. “You must have eaten the lion’s share of the meals. I heard he wasn’t as fat as you.”
“Go chase yourself.” Enzo flicked his hand under his chin.
“That’s not very nice.”
“We want to make sure you understand the rules. You’re only in here for a little while. When you get out, you better be a good boy.” One of them reached across with a surprisingly long wingspan to pat Enzo’s face. Enzo quickly batted the hand away, to their amusement. His head kept swiveling, keeping an eye on each of them as they closed in on him like sharks.
“Go peddle your papers, boys. I don’t have any trouble with you,” Enzo said.
“But we have a problem with you. I think you’re a four-flushing piece of shit. You walk around this place like you’re a big shot. Like you’re better than the rest of us because you’ll get out sooner. You think you’re special because you have friends on the outside? Our friends could bury yours.”
Enzo’s heart rate and breathing quickened. They were closer now.
“Bully for you, then,” Enzo said, fists clenching in preparation.
Enzo shot a quick look to the far end of the cellblock, where the guard was looking away and whistling a happy tune. He didn’t mind making it clear that he was paid for his compliance.
“Let’s do it, then.�
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They stepped in closer and raised their fists. That’s what they had been waiting for.
“Whoa, now.” The voice came from a man who stepped into their midst, his hands raised. “Let’s not be hasty now, boys.”
“What’s it to you?” one of the Italian boys said, more irritated than anything else.
“What’s he to you?” another asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“Nothing in particular,” the man said, and shrugged his shoulders. Enzo recognized him as Dominick Petrelli. He had never approached the man, for obvious reasons. Petrelli was a big shot. His term in Sing Sing was a vacation, and everyone knew it. The minute he was released, he would return to ruling New York’s streets. Enzo eyed him with more curiosity than he had the three assailants.
“Then why don’t you get the hell out of our way?”
“I’d rather not.” Petrelli shot them a smile. He oozed charisma. And these Italian morons didn’t know how to respond.
“Come on, fella. Get out of the way. We have orders just like you do,” the smallest of the three said with a shake of the head.
“I’m not going to.”
“Three of us, two of you. We’ll crush you,” the largest—and clearly the dumbest—of them said.
“You know how to count. Impressive. But you failed to consider my associate.” Petrelli nodded behind him. Enzo followed his gaze to a man behind them, who stood with his arms folded, tapping a shiv against his massive biceps.
The three assailants backed off.
“You got lucky, fat boy,” the apparent ringleader said as they departed for their own cellblocks.
“Go futz your mother,” Enzo shouted after them, feeling a bit more confident. When he turned to Petrelli, he found the man smiling at him jollier than Santa Claus. “I guess I owe you a token of appreciation.” He lowered his head out of respect.
The other inmates shrugged and returned to their cots, disappointed that there hadn’t been a fight.
“No need for that. Do you know who those gentlemen were?” Petrelli said.
“Italians?” Enzo asked, feeling for the first time like he hadn’t learned as much in Sing Sing as he had believed. Petrelli and his associate both laughed.
“Well, yes, they are Italian. They’re Joe Masseria’s boys. You know who Joe Masseria is?”
Enzo considered whether or not he should answer honestly.
“Maybe I have,” he said, deciding on taking the middle ground.
“He runs New York City, buddy,” Petrelli’s muscular friend said, stepping forward.
“Masseria’s guys are sloppy, so they get locked up in droves. There’s a lot of them to begin with too, so you’re going to see a lot more of them than you’re going to see guys like us.”
Enzo swelled with pride for a split second, but tamped it down.
“‘Guys like us,’ Mr. Petrelli?”
Petrelli smiled and wrapped an arm around Enzo’s shoulder, leading him away from the gawking eyes.
“Call me ‘the Gap.’ Everyone does. I fought it at first, but now it’s a persona. This is Joe Cargo.” He gestured to his associate.
“How do you do?” Enzo shook the man’s meaty palm.
“We’ve heard about you, Mr. Consentino,” the Gap interrupted.
“Enzo the Thief,” he corrected. If everyone else had a moniker, he should too.
“Enzo the Thief, then. We’ve heard about you. We know the heat was on you and your brother, and you stood tall and didn’t sing about any of your associates. We can always use guys like that in our crew.”
“Your crew?”
“That’s right. I have a lot of connections back home. Maybe I could make an introduction?” Petrelli eyed him with curiosity.
Enzo thought about it. He did have Bonventre and Magaddino back home, but those were the same fellas who’d allowed him to get locked up without saying a word.
“I’m intrigued.” Enzo tried to appear more intelligent than he was, and for a moment, he feared this was apparent. But the Gap wrapped an arm around his shoulders and patted him on the chest.
“As long as you’re there for us if any problem with Masseria’s boys come to fruition, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”
Alonzo
Castellammare del Golfo—July 22, 1907
Alonzo hadn’t talked in days.
He had been silent for so long that Rosa had all but given up on trying to communicate with him. At first, it was a sort of defiance, a protest against the way the world really is. After a month or so of near silence, it was becoming a way of life. He spoke only to himself, and he was concocting a plan.
When he arose from a spiteful sleep that morning, he experienced the same hesitation he had been dealing with for weeks, but eventually decided today was as good as any.
He left as the sun was just appearing over the green ocean in the distance, and stuck to the side roads, headed west to Via Segesta. It was hot out, but he wore an overcoat regardless, with the collar up to hide his jaw. A straw fedora was perched on his head, and bent low, almost covering his eyes.
He entered Pietro’s eatery a little before nine and ordered a cup of coffee. He sat in a corner that gave him a clear view of the entire room.
Less than an hour later, the Armettas arrived. Lupe and three sons, the fourth having been buried a few months prior.
“Morning, Don Armetta,” the proprietor said as they entered.
“Pietro, how’s your old woman treating you?” Lupe asked. One of Lupe’s sons pulled out a chair for him, and he sat happily. Food was rushed out, apparently prepared in advance. Alonzo hid his face behind a menu, but he was beginning to receive strange glances from Pietro. He had been there for too long to have not ordered something to eat.
As if reading his mind, Pietro approached.
“Have you decided what you’ll be having? Or will coffee do it for today?”
“Just give me whatever they’re having.” Alonzo nodded to the Armettas across the room. “It looks very good.”
Pietro hesitated before writing down the order. “You got it.”
Alonzo bade his time. Luckily, Pietro and the woman cooking with him took their time in preparing his order. Lupe ate his fill, and then some more, before loosening his belt and leaning back in his chair.
“I’m going to go push.” Lupe stood and walked to the back of the restaurant to the bathroom. Alonzo counted down in his head, and once a few moments had passed, he stood and followed Lupe. Armetta’s sons were too preoccupied with their desserts to notice him. They probably wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. He hadn’t shaved his mourning beard for as long as he’d been silent.
As he entered the bathroom, he heard the grunting of an old man trying to defecate. He experienced some sort of resistance, believing somewhere that it might be dishonorable to kill his enemy while he was on the commode. Before he was forced to decide, Lupe opened the stall door. His face lit up as he recognized Alonzo, who pounced.
He slammed Lupe into the stall door, and the two slipped on the wet linoleum floor. Lupe’s head smacked against the toilet he had just filled, but his grip continued to tighten on Alonzo’s throat.
“You—” Lupe said, spitting the word at the man holding him down, but he couldn’t get out much else. Alonzo tried to hold him steady, a hand placed over his mouth to keep him quiet. With his free hand, he reached back to his boot, where a dagger was hidden in its sheath. Before he could retrieve it, his head jolted to the left on the other side of Lupe’s fist. He fell off of him, and tried to regain his composure.
Lupe scurried to his feet like a man half his age, and broke for the door. Alonzo stretched out and grabbed his foot. Lupe fell again, crashing hard against the ground.
If his sons had any sense, they would be coming soon. Alonzo crawled onto Lupe’s back and wrapped his forearm across the man’s throat. He cracked the back of Lupe’s head with an elbow.
Lupe forced himself onto his stomach, pushing Alonzo off. Blood
was dripping from his lips and forehead, and he no longer bore any arrogance in his eyes. Instead, he wore the look of a cornered animal.
Lupe punched Alonzo twice, once to the eye, once to the mouth.
Lupe reared his head back and tried to shout. Alonzo slammed his hand onto Lupe’s mouth just before he could.
The old man was beginning to tire, and Alonzo reached back and pulled the dagger from his boot. He held it up and plunged it toward Lupe’s chest. Lupe caught Alonzo’s hand and forced it back with the second wind of a fish nearly brought to shore. With a final burst of energy, he headbutted Alonzo, who had leaned too close. Lupe took advantage of Alonzo’s distraction, and sent the dagger spiraling across the bathroom floor.
Alonzo moved off of him, and now it was his turn to be pursued. Lupe clutched to Alonzo’s leg, and kept him in place. He lurched on top of him and placed his thumbs over Alonzo’s eyes. Lupe could have called for help now, but he clearly intended to finish this himself.
Alonzo grunted as his eyes threatened to burst within his skull. Then, in his own final push, he pulled his father’s razor from his pocket and, in one swift motion, sliced at Lupe’s throat. Both of Lupe’s hands left Alonzo’s eyes and clutched desperately to the wound. Alonzo struggled to his feet, panting.
He stepped over Lupe, and stomped on his chest. Then, he leaned down and forced Lupe’s hands away, strength now flowing back through his veins. Alonzo’s eyes were puffy and swollen, but he fumbled until his father’s razor was on Lupe’s jugular. Then he cut deep. He dug in farther, grinding it through flesh and sinew, up against the bone.
Lupe’s face contorted, and he gargled, blood bubbling and spewing from his lips. His head shook violently back and forth, as if disagreeing with the death that was upon him. Alonzo, undeterred, sliced the edge of the razor deeper and deeper, until Lupe’s eyes rolled back in his head, his blood-soaked tongue puffing out and falling over his lips.
Alonzo cleaned the razor on Lupe’s coat, then adjusted his own. He picked his fedora up off the floor and popped it back atop his head.
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