Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  Maranzano smiled and took a sip of his tea. “My thoughts exactly. Unfortunately, many of our associates are not as well versed in these matters. They will find it difficult to understand.”

  “It is difficult for all of us to understand.”

  “That may be true, but those with an even disposition can conquer this. Marcus Aurelius writes that the ‘obstacle becomes that way,’ that the ‘impediment to action becomes the action.’ We can use this for good. Not just overcome it, but profit from it.”

  But only tell me how, and I will do it, Sonny thought.

  “Yes, Mr. Maranzano.”

  “You have earned yourself a great deal of respect for your knowledge of economics. I assume that the community of Little Italy has taken a vested interest in your career?” Sonny wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but they certainly responded to him differently when he returned to visit Rosa.

  “You could say that, sir, yes.”

  “I suggest we use this reputation to provide you with gainful employment while we wait for normalcy to return and new clients to appear at your doorstep.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Maranzano thought for a moment. “Invest in small companies. We still have capital, and you can give back to the community that reared you by investing in small businesses there. In return, they will pay you a small fee for your protection and guidance.”

  “Protection? I don’t feel capable of protecting much of anything.”

  “That’s not a concern. My men will provide the protection. You will have only to collect the money, and be the spokesperson. When one business struggles, you take a bit more from the others and feed it to your struggling brother. It is a system that has worked for the people of Sicily for thousands of years.”

  Sonny had never considered it, but he was intrigued, if nothing else.

  “And what else could I use my experience for?”

  “Well, there is a great deal of money to be made in the mere transportation of alcohol, but I don’t believe that suits you. Someone of your education can be useful in other ways.”

  “I want to be clear, Mr. Maranzano,” Sonny said, finding the courage to look him in the eye. “I am not interested in making vast sums of money. I want only to provide for my mother.”

  Maranzano thought for a moment, then smiled.

  “And that is why I favor you so, Vincente. You are a student of the ancients, whether you know it or not. This is about honor, about family. Not wealth. Let other men pursue the boundless riches that fade when they are gone. Sicilians, we believe in something more, don’t we?” An idealistic glimmer shined in Maranzano’s eye that reminded Sonny of his father.

  “Yes, Mr. Maranzano.”

  “But, if I recall, I offered you the opportunity to exact vengeance on your father’s killer, and you denied it?”

  “I…I want justice. My goal was to bring the man to court, and have him sentenced.” Maranzano’s smile faded.

  “Perhaps. I cannot fault you for trying. But the police in Manhattan have long since ceased to care about the deaths of Italians. ‘Let them kill each other,’ they say. With your father’s past, they would likely call this another in a string of killings, and let the case fall to the wayside.”

  Sonny remembered Detective Gallagher’s words and struggled to swallow. “You may be right.”

  “And speaking of our common enemy, we have new intelligence on his whereabouts.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He’s been spotted. Peter Morello now lives in New Jersey, safe from the law enforcement that so recently placed him behind bars. Although, he has been working out of East Harlem. He has many powerful friends, and ranks high in their organization. Without working together, neither you nor I will find much success in finding justice for your father.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny remembered the Hook Hand, and the thought of him prowling the streets of Jersey the way he once had Little Italy made his skin crawl. “I may reconsider your offer.”

  “You may?” Maranzano seemed surprised.

  “All I want is justice for my father and safety for my mother.”

  “We will need to act soon. Morello is many things, but foolish he is not. He is crafty, and he remains in the shadows far longer than most of his associates are capable of.”

  “I need time to think,” Sonny said, almost disbelieving his own words. Killing someone? He had never considered it, even when Rachel suggested it was his aim, even when he told the detective he would do so if he had to. If it was to be someone, it would be the man who killed his father. The more he considered the pain the man had caused him, the more the urge to agree grew.

  “It is an important decision. Take all the time you need. But if we are forced to act, we will. I simply wanted to offer you this opportunity beforehand.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Maranzano.”

  “It has been nice talking, Vincente, but I must get back to work.” Maranzano reached into his coat and brandished a roll of hundred-dollar banknotes. He flipped through them for a moment and then tossed the roll down on the table. “I suggest we start investing in companies soon. Let them see that we have the capital necessary to aid them in the future, and we have the muscle to make their lives better, or worse.”

  Sonny tested the weight of the money, and slid it into his pocket.

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Calogero will see you out. Let me know if you need anything, Vincente.” Maranzano nodded and picked up the phone for another call.

  Buster

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—December 18, 1929

  Maria had demanded that Buster buy a tree. His family out West had never been very festive, and hadn’t had money to spend on trivial things like Christmas decorations anyhow. This was his first tree.

  “You have to fluff it out, Buster,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to delineate the branches perfectly. He tried to ignore the bristles and tree sap that were now covering his living room rug. Maria’s flowing white gown made that a little easier.

  “Alright, alright, you just have to show me.”

  “And then you drape the garlands like this”—she looked over her shoulder to ensure he was watching—“and you have to weave it through the branches, to make it look like fresh snowfall.”

  “I haven’t seen a tree since I left Chicago; I don’t remember what they look like,” he jested. “Now where do we put these?” He held up the three glass ornaments they had purchased in Manhattan the day before, little snowmen painted on one, and angels on the others.

  “Three isn’t very many for a tree, so we’ll have to do it just right.” She took them from him one by one, and studied the tree like an architect would a partially constructed building.

  “Want me to play some tunes?” He walked to his radio and began to fiddle with it. He could never seem to operate it correctly.

  “What I want you to do is pay attention, Buster,” she said, giving him a look. “But, yes, music as well.”

  “And do you want some eggnog? I’ve got some nutmeg around here somewhere.” He left the radio and began searching through his cabinets.

  “Buster, stop worrying, I’m fine!” It was true that he worried. When he was with her, he wanted her to be happy. When she went more than a few minutes without smiling, he nearly fell apart. Even after a year of spending time together, she made him feel alive. No matter how much she insisted, he refused to believe he could do the same for her.

  “Come on, you’ve told me how important decorating the tree was for you and your family. I want to make sure this is special.” He continued to rummage around until he found the chosen spice. He hoped that this was their first Christmas of many, and he was careful to construct it as the perfect memory. “Here.” He handed her a glass of eggnog and toasted it with his own. She took a sip, and he laughed as she ignored the thick white line it left above her lips.

  “Sure you don’t want a kiss?” she said when she
noticed.

  They continued to decorate as he partially feigned ignorance so she had to explain every step. He managed to get the radio working, and they sang their favorite holiday hymns with Eddie Cantor. When he hoisted her up by her hips to place the decorative angel on top, he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Come on, open your first gift.” He retrieved the wrapped shoebox from his closet and presented it to her as proudly as a dog brings its master a bone.

  “Buster, presents can wait! We still have a lot more days of Christmas, and you can join us with Mamma again this year.”

  “No, no, I want you to go ahead and open this one, Maria. I have a few other things for you, and for your mother too. This one is just begging to be opened today.” She pouted in mock rejection, but hurried to sit down on his couch.

  She shook the box a few times, utterly perplexed. Buster felt quite clever. He had filled the box with socks for weight, and a fistful of nickels for a sound effect. She would never know what to expect.

  She took her time peeling back the tape, and watching his reaction as she did so. Buster bit his tongue and did all he could not to shout out what she might find inside.

  When she finally removed the top, only a small velvet box remained inside. Her mouth dropped.

  “Go on, open it.”

  Her tiny fingers lifted the lid of the small box. They trembled when she saw what was inside.

  She brought a hand to her mouth, and looked up to find that Buster was already down on one knee.

  “I’ve already asked your mother. I want you to be my wife, Maria.”

  She gasped for air, and fanned air across her flushed face.

  “Oh, Buster.”

  “Do you like it? The jeweler said it was one of a kind. It’s real and everything.”

  “Shut up, you foolish man, and kiss me!” She threw her arms around his neck as he stood. She jumped and wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed his neck and face again and again. “I love it. I love it.”

  “And I love you,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers.

  “We’re going to have a family!”

  “A family, yeah, little Marias running around everywhere.”

  She kissed him again, her hands holding on to his face.

  He could still hear the gunfire of the Argonne Forest. He could still hear the whistles and orders given, the sound of dying comrades and foes. But now, more loudly, he could hear Maria’s voice saying, “Don’t be afraid,” as she had told him so many nights when he had woken up from a nightmare. He finally had reason to believe those words.

  Part IV

  Turridru

  Castellammare del Golfo—April 1, 1907

  Turridru buried his mother on February 18. His father had been stoic, almost angry, about his wife’s death. Turridru was thus tasked to find the location, and then dig the grave himself. A small hill outside the city limits, overlooking their home, under the ancient oak tree he had used to climb as a boy. That was where he had buried her. Without honors, without a funeral, without a procession of mourners. All alone. Quiet. She’d welcomed death silently.

  Turridru’s father didn’t want to share the moment with the community that had disrespected them.

  Turridru wept when he thought about it. Not tears of sadness but of anger. He hated that city. He hated Sicily. They had done this, they had done all of it.

  He hated the Armettas and what they had done to his family. He hated the villagers that had let his mother bleed out with a stillborn wrapped in her arms. He hated Alonzo Consentino for abandoning them to this fate.

  He even hated himself, or who he had become. When he looked at the reflection in his water pail, he didn’t know who looked back. He was consumed. He had dark thoughts. He couldn’t even bring himself to pray for his mother because he refused to address a God who had allowed his mother to die while evil men lived.

  “Need a ride?” the carriage driver asked.

  “To Palermo.”

  “Palermo? That’s some ways. It’ll cost you quite a bit.”

  “I have the money.” He climbed into the back of the carriage, and the driver snapped the reins.

  He had collected the money from the bodies of two dead men.

  The boy he used to be would have been ashamed of such actions. Not anymore. Not after spending days wondering where his next meal might come from, not after he’d worn the same shirt day after day. Not after half the city had ignored him as a pariah for his association with a murderer and his clan. It was survival now, plain and simple. The dead didn’t need it, and he did. After all, the dead had deserved it.

  A sense of relief came over him when he closed his eyes and remembered the day he’d killed them.

  The Armettas were known as fighters. Strong men who were not to be trifled with, and not simply because of their connections. But after Frederico’s brains were scattered across the dinner table, his little brother had sobbed like a baby boy. He had actually begged Turridru for his life. After receiving teasing gunshots to the shoulder and thigh, he had simply requested a quick death.

  Turridru consented, and put a bullet through his eyebrow. It was better than he deserved, Turridru told himself. But at least their womenfolk wouldn’t be able to give them an open casket. They would have to be buried in dishonor, just like Turridru’s mother.

  For the first time since her death, Turridru was able to breathe. He basked in the aroma of their deaths. After taking what he wanted off of them, he had actually sat down at the table and rested for a moment. He took the time to clean the gunpowder of his revolver with the tablecloth.

  His heart was beating so slowly, he could have gone to sleep. But he couldn’t stop looking at their bodies.

  It was kind of beautiful, in a way. He had never felt better. Never. The power, the sweet power to take life. He’d controlled the world in that moment. He was the Roman emperor, giving a thumbs-down to gladiatorial combatants. He had felt powerless when Alonzo abandoned him. He had felt powerless when his family had to scrape their money together to provide a decent meal. He had felt powerless when his mother screamed from her labor pains. But as he analyzed the blood smeared across picture frames, Frederico’s broken body sprawled over the spilled pasta bowls, the blood that collected in the cracks of the wooden floor…then he felt powerful.

  “So why are you going to Palermo?” the driver asked, distracting him from his pleasant memories.

  “What?”

  “Why are you going to Palermo?”

  Turridru thought about his answer. To escape law enforcement, which would be howling for his arrest. To escape the rest of the Armetta clan, which would be howling for his blood.

  “I’m going to seminary,” he said. Every time he said it, he had to laugh. It was rather funny. But there was nowhere in the world safer for him than in the robes of a holy man.

  “You going to be a priest?” Turridru ignored the man. He had nothing left to say.

  Just like killing. Just like taking money from the dead. Just like burying his mother and saying goodbye to his father. It was survival. Going to seminary was staying alive.

  It was letting all of Sicily forget about him. And when the time was right, he would make them regret it.

  Sonny

  Little Italy, Manhattan—January 8, 1930

  The clerk greeted Sonny when he entered Shapiro’s Used Clothes, but the man turned sour when he saw him.

  “Look, I told you yesterday, I don’t want no part of it.” The man waved his hands and rolled up his sleeves. “Go on. Fellas have been trying to shake down my joint for years. Get out of here.”

  Sonny had been following Maranzano’s orders for a few weeks now, but it hadn’t gotten any easier.

  “Mr. Shapiro, I wanted to offer you a legitimate opportunity. This isn’t a shakedown.”

  “Says you, fella. I’ve never had to pay for legitimate opportunities.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Shapiro, the only kind of opportunity is one
you pay for.” Sonny approached the counter and leaned against it, ignoring the man’s hostile eyes and clenched fists. “My friends are wealthy and powerful. In times like these, you might need to rely on someone else.”

  “I’ve never relied on nobody else. The other business owners have told me what you’re doing, and I want no part of it. You hear me, stronzo?” He gave an unkind gesture as Sonny shrugged.

  “Mind if I take a look around?”

  “I’d rather you leave.” A bell jingled as the door behind Sonny opened. Antonello entered, as planned, but Sonny ignored him.

  “I think you’re making a mistake, Mr. Shapiro. I wish we could be friends.”

  Antonello pushed over a mannequin and then began ripping shirts from their hangers. At first slowly, and then increasing his tempo.

  “Vaffanculo,” the man cursed them. He stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward Antonello, who straightened in response, ready for a fight.

  “Go on, tough guy,” Antonello said. The man sized him up, and determined correctly that he was no match, and stepped back. Antonello returned to his destruction. Shapiro lowered his head.

  Sonny brandished a roll of one hundred dollar bills, and stamped the floor to draw the man’s attention. He counted through them flippantly and then returned the wad to his pocket.

  “Men like this will always exist, and problems are sure to arise. Don’t you want friends to help you in hard times?” Sonny increased his volume over Antonello’s tumult.

  “You son of a whore,” Shapiro said, his words hot. Antonello ripped a blouse marked with a twenty-five-cent price tag.

  “That’s not very nice, Mr. Shapiro. That’s not the best way for us to begin our relationship.”

  “Alright. Alright, just call off your dog.”

  “That’s enough, Antonello,” Sonny said. Antonello straightened his jacket and departed.