Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  Buster

  Times Square, Manhattan—January 5, 1929

  Maria fingered the leather of Buster’s car seats as she watched the city lights pass them by.

  “Did you enjoy the nickelodeon?” he asked, realizing he had been watching her more carefully than the road.

  “You know I always wanted one of these?” she said, distracted.

  “Wanted what?”

  “A Ford Model A. It was my dream. I used to draw pictures of them in class. I even wanted the same color—Niagara Blue.”

  “I guess it was good luck you and I met, then.”

  Maria smiled. “Don’t take me home yet,” she said, becoming more forthright every moment they spent together.

  “Where else did you want to go?”

  “I want to see your apartment.”

  Buster found himself blushing.

  “Why? Not much to see, really. I’m not much of a decorator.”

  “I want to see where you live, what it’s like.”

  “Your mother will worry.”

  “I bet you keep it as clean as your car.”

  “Fine,” he assented, “but I’ll have to sneak you in. Your brothers share a place down the street. No telling what they would think if they saw you coming over at this hour.” She leaned forward in her seat in anticipation.

  She had never been so charming. She wore a cloche hat, pulled over her forehead and covering her eyes mysteriously, a brooch hanging atop it. Her fitted dress was pulled up around her knees, revealing taupe stockings and unfastened galoshes.

  Buster’s heart rate picked up every time he looked at her. The longer she kept her eyes from him, the more his were drawn to her. He had to summon all his willpower to keep his eyes on the busy city streets ahead of them.

  It took them some time to make it to the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn, but Maria didn’t seem to mind. As time passed, she leaned back in her seat and put her feet on the dashboard. At first, he was nervous that it might leave a scuff mark, but the sight was so damned enticing, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

  “Here we are. I’m on the first floor.” He hurried out of the car to open her door.

  “It’s not as crowded as Little Italy,” she said as she looked around the neighborhood.

  “Come on, before someone sees you.” He threw his overcoat around her shoulders and walked her to the door. As they walked, she reached out and took his hand. After a moment, she interlaced her fingers with his.

  “So this is it,” Buster said, locking the door behind them. She looked around as if she were visiting a fine museum. She analyzed everything from the texture of the furniture to the light fixtures on the ceiling. “Don’t keep me waiting, say something!”

  “You’re cleaner than any man I’ve ever met.” She continued her inspection. “Very…Spartan.” He was a bit embarrassed. It was true. He didn’t have a single accent piece in the entire place. Utility was the byword for his little domain. “You’re a perfectionist, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

  She peered into his bedroom down the hall. “Not a woman in the house, and your bed is made up like that? I’m impressed, I’ll admit.”

  “You seen what you came for? Did I pass the test?”

  She didn’t reply but continued to administer the exam. She spotted a piano in the corner of the room, and her face lit up with excitement. Buster sighed as she ran across the room and sat down.

  “Can you play? You can’t play?” She looked at him in disbelief.

  “As a matter of fact, I can. I’m a teacher.”

  “A teacher?”

  “That’s what I do. I give music lessons to kids. Done it ever since I got back from France.” She broke into laughter, and Buster flushed with embarrassment.

  “No, no, I like it! I’m just surprised, is all.” She had noticed that she had embarrassed him, so she reached out for his hand. “With rough hands like these, I just figured it would be something different.”

  He pulled his hand away and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Got those in the war. Music…calms me.”

  “Play something for me.” She patted the bench beside her.

  “Come on, really?”

  When she wasn’t to be dissuaded, he sat down and spread his hands. He played a few notes, but he felt his hands trembling like they had when he had a Kraut in his sights in the Argonne.

  “Buster.” He stopped and looked at her. “Why have you not kissed me yet?” Her face was so serious, so intent, that he had to smile.

  He began stammering and tried to explain himself.

  “Stop that, and just kiss me,” she said. She draped her hands around his neck and pulled him close. He stood and leaned over her, against the piano, accidentally hitting a few keys as he did so.

  He had been waiting a long time to do this. He didn’t know if it was right. It probably wasn’t. But he couldn’t help it.

  She slid his suspenders over his shoulders, and he unbuttoned the back of her dress.

  He led her to the bedroom, and she lay down on top of his made-up bed, which had hospital corners like he had learned to make in the army.

  They struggled to get his shirt off as he kissed her neck. He had completely lost control of his senses. She had him mesmerized.

  Suddenly, she stopped, his dog tags dangling on her bare chest.

  “Sorry…” He paused and then began to pull them off. “I can’t ever seem to get away from them.”

  “No.” She ran her fingers over the words and numbers imprinted onto them, inspecting them as she had his home. “I like them. Leave them on.” He did so, and leaned in for another kiss.

  Enzo

  South Bronx, New York—February 12, 1928

  Enzo, Vico, and Cargo had trailed LuDuca for over a month.

  He wasn’t a very hard man to find, prone to pageantry and excess, but he had a cortege of bodyguards around him most of the time.

  After a few days, they were able to determine his exact schedule. He was a creature of habit, and creatures of habit can become easy prey.

  On Tuesday nights, he threw a high-stakes poker game at a speakeasy on Murray Street. Every Thursday afternoon, he enjoyed a lunch on Coney Island that could have fed a small family. He faithfully returned to the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan to have dinner with his wife and two boys. On Sunday mornings, he was sure to be present at Mass at St. Peter’s Church in the Financial District with the rest of New York’s players.

  On Monday evenings, though, he stayed at his office in the Bronx. After all his workers left, he would stick around for a few hours. At first, Enzo, Vico, and Cargo had assumed that he was catching up on the work he neglected the rest of the week. It didn’t take long to figure out that this was his favorite time to screw.

  Most connected guys had goomahs on the side. He wouldn’t have been judged by his peers for infidelity, but his penchant for underage women would have been shunned.

  “Even a guy like Masseria wouldn’t want to associate with a scumbag like that,” Cargo said, assuming the boss of bosses didn’t know.

  For Enzo and Vico, the fat bastard’s deviancy made the thought of killing him even more desirable.

  Every Monday when a girl walked out to the prearranged taxicab, sore and deflated of life, Enzo thought of new ways to make LaDuca suffer.

  After three weeks of watching his weekly infidelities, they knew exactly when they could strike.

  One guard, who LaDuca called “Charlie,” protected the entrance until nine p.m., when the guard was changed and a new man would appear. Charlie was out of shape like his employer, and obviously less aware of his surroundings than the unknown second guard, so they determined eight o’clock was their prime time. After everyone left but before anyone else could arrive.

  Cargo pulled the car to a stop a block away from the fat bastard’s command station.

  “I’ll take care of Charlie,” Vico said as they ens
ured their pistols were loaded. Enzo was relieved to hear him say that. The close-quarters stuff made him squeamish, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

  They crept in the darkness as they had during their heists.

  Charlie was propped up beside the entrance eating a hoagie wrapped up in a paper bag.

  “He makes any noise, you gotta come help me shut him up,” Vico whispered, and then stepped off without waiting for confirmation.

  Enzo strained his eyes in the darkness, feeling for the first time like he was in a war zone like Vico had been. His twin brother was clearly in his element, moving swiftly but on feet as silent as cat’s paws.

  Vico propped himself behind the building, around the corner from LaDuca’s guard. Enzo saw him fiddling with something in the dirt. Finally, he realized Vico had picked up a glass bottle, and he launched it past the guard.

  “Hey,” Charlie said, jerking to attention. He stepped away from the wall and craned his head to make out something in the darkness.

  Vico rushed forward and wrapped a cord around the guard’s neck. They struggled to the dirt, and Charlie pushed his feet into the ground, leveraging his weight on Vico.

  Cargo and Enzo shot off as quickly as they could, terrified that some noise might escape the victim.

  When they arrived, they helped restrain the guard, but Vico seemed to have it under control. Charlie’s face was swollen and purple, his eyes darting around rapidly like a trapped animal’s.

  Vico was calm, breathing only a little harder than usual.

  “It’s too late. You’re gonna die,” Vico whispered into his ear. “Shh, shh.”

  Charlie’s legs squirmed against the dirt as his hands swatted at Vico behind him and tried to pull the cord away, but his strength was waning. A thin stream of blood escaped from under the cord where it had begun to dig into his throat.

  Vico rolled the bodyguard over onto his stomach and mounted his back, straining until Charlie’s body fell still.

  “Let’s go get this fat bastard,” Vico said, and brushed the dirt off his suit.

  They entered the building silently, Vico leading the way. Their pistols were drawn, fingers already on the triggers.

  LaDuca was straight ahead. He was facing away from them, his hairy back glistening with sweat as he humped like a donkey in heat. It was a wonder a fat man like that could even get it in, Enzo thought.

  They took a few steps forward, but Cargo got spooked. His pistol barked. A scream erupted from the girl bent over on LaDuca’s desk as the bullet ripped through the fat bastard’s excess flesh. He collapsed to the floor, and the girl shot off running, her screams echoing behind her.

  Vico shot Cargo a look of irritation.

  “Trying to be a hero or something?”

  “He was gonna hear us, Bobby.” Cargo shrugged, still shaking.

  Vico rolled his eyes.

  “What about the girl?” Enzo asked.

  “What about her? She isn’t gonna talk. She isn’t gonna say shit about this to anyone. And neither will that bitch mother who brings her here for a few bucks.” Vico picked up his pace to LaDuca, who was clawing at his desk, trying to get to his feet. “See, this…this is why you get caught.” Vico stepped over LaDuca and sat him up.

  The bullet had entered above his kidneys and somehow managed to exit through his rotund belly. Blood was bubbling from his lips, and his eyes wept in fear.

  “You get caught ’cause you’re sloppy.” Vico tugged at LaDuca’s hair, forcing the fat bastard to look at the other two assailants. “Man is a hard animal to kill, see. When you go to pull the trigger, your finger twitches, your hand shakes, your eyes lie to you… You watching, Enzo?” he said, looking up at his brother. He waited for confirmation.

  “Yeah, I’m watching, Bobby,” Enzo said after gulping. The look in Vico’s eye unnerved him.

  “You gotta put the barrel right up to ’em like this. You gotta see the flesh billow up next to it. I mean, you gotta…” He looked up. “Cargo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gotta be close enough to get cuts from the bits of skull you’re about to send flyin’.” Vico buried the pistol in the flesh of LaDuca’s forehead, and moved it around in circles to make his point.

  The shot ignited, and the fat bastard collapsed against Vico like a sack of potatoes.

  Vico stood up. And started to step away.

  “Let’s go,” Cargo said, his voice shaky.

  Vico turned around and emptied the rest of the clip into the fat man’s chest and stomach.

  He tossed the weapon across the room and turned to leave, adjusting his suit as he did so.

  “Was that necessary?” Enzo asked.

  “Gotta make a point. No one is gonna mess with Reina again. I’d say the next fat pervert whose got squirrel fever for kids will look over his shoulder too.”

  Vico paced past them and led the way to the car.

  Cargo got behind the wheel and started it up. Enzo looked at Vico in the front seat, and wanted to hurl. Blood was spattered across his face, and he didn’t seem to mind. He seemed as calm as a parishioner on Sunday morning.

  Vico turned and noticed the look on Enzo’s face.

  “It ain’t like it is in the pictures, huh? This is what you wanted, Enzo,” he said, to which he received no response.

  When they arrived at the Rainbow Gardens, Vico wiped away the majority of the blood at Enzo’s request.

  “Happy now?” Vico asked as he stepped out of the car. They walked in without hesitation.

  Gagliano was waiting by the entrance. They had sent word that today might just be the day.

  “How’s that fat bastard doing?” Gagliano asked, a smile already creasing his face as he noticed a few stray drops of blood on Vico’s lapel.

  “We bought him a cement overcoat,” Cargo said, anxious for his share of the credit. Gagliano nodded, impressed.

  “I’ll tell the ice man.”

  “He’ll tell me what I want to know?”

  Gagliano squinted and looked away, drawing on his cigarette.

  “He’ll call you.”

  Vico nodded. Cargo sat down for a drink, pleased with their night’s work, but Vico turned to leave.

  “All I care about is that phone call,” he said as he passed by Enzo, who stood still beside the door, unsure who to follow.

  Sonny

  Financial District, Manhattan—March 12, 1929

  Sonny tried to keep his feet still, but they tapped against his wishes. He tried to pray the rosary, as his father had taught him, but after eight job interviews in as many days, he was becoming more nervous with each one.

  Each day, he put on his only suit and set out for Wall Street. Each time, he was turned away, most of the time before actually sitting down with anyone. Then, he would hurry home, take off his suit, and either head to A.C. Barbers to help Oscar, or to the Staten Island Ferry to load more crates, neither of which paid very much.

  “Mr. Consentino?” the rosy-cheeked receptionist said.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

  “Mr. Wallingford will see you now.” She ushered him into the boss’s office on the third floor of the Eagle Corporation Building.

  “Hello.” Sonny extended his hand, which was only accepted after Mr. Wallingford peeled his eyes away from the documents before him.

  “So you’re here for a job?” Mr. Wallingford leaned back and gnawed on the butt of an unlit cigar.

  “Yes, sir. I think I would be a good fit, and have plenty to bring to the table.”

  The man lowered his spectacles to the tip of his nose, and chuckled condescendingly.

  “You do? And what makes you think that?”

  Sonny dried his palms on the hem of his britches and tried to clear his throat.

  “I didn’t graduate, but I have three years of education at Columbia University studying business and econo—”

  “Let me stop you right there.” Mr. Wallingford waved him to silence. “Why in God’s name do you think I wou
ld want to hire a greaseball like you?” He leaned forward in his giant office chair, feigned sympathy etched across his face.

  Sonny tried to offer a retort but was again silenced.

  “Look, my clients don’t want to work with a dago. Plain and simple.”

  “I can bring my own clients,” Sonny said, avoiding eye contact. He felt himself stiffen when the man began to laugh.

  “You mean other Italians? They don’t have any money. What little they do have, they probably took from good, hardworking Americans.”

  “I know Italians with money.” He now made eye contact, and held it. He actually didn’t know any Italians with money, but he was convinced he could find them.

  “Go tell it to Sweeney, kid.” Mr. Wallingford pointed to the door. Sonny began to stand and then sat back down.

  “You’re a businessman, Mr. Wallingford. Am I correct to assume that you’re a fan of Dale Carnegie?”

  The man exhaled in frustration. “Yes, I am. What’s your point?”

  “Mr. Carnegie says a good businessman should never turn down an opportunity. And this is quite an opportunity. You can get a sharp, smart young salesman with a college education before any of your competitors have a chance.” He noticed that Mr. Wallingford was finally intrigued, so he continued. “And I’ll do it for less.”

  “You’re damned right you will. Half the commission of the rest of my employees. That’s for the damage hiring a dago will do to my reputation.” He shook his head, as if surprised at himself.

  “So we have a deal?” Sonny said, more wishful than confident.

  Mr. Wallingford continued to chew on his cigar.

  “You’ll start your training next Monday.” Sonny stood, shook his hand, and turned to leave. “And if you can, borrow a suit from somebody else. Looks like you just raided your old man’s closet. You’re not going to sell shit looking like that.”

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—May 30, 1929