by Martina Cole
Maire’s face softened as she looked at her daughter. ‘It’s a good girl you are. I’m a lucky woman, even if I haven’t a son to me name.’
Deirdra looked out of the window and Maire knew she was being in effect dismissed so left the room and her strange self-contained daughter. Only in her darker moments did she privately admit that getting the girl married and out of the house was in fact a pleasant prospect. Deirdra unnerved people, her sisters especially, and worst of all she unnerved her own mother.
Maria Castellano was listening to her husband’s remarks with only half an ear. He bored her when he insisted on giving her the lowdown on everything he did. As she made herself a Spritzer she nodded her head, making her waist-length hair ripple. Her husband watched her fondly. She was exquisite. Perfect.
He loved her so very much.
John Castellano was a minor Capo in the New York Italian community. His father-in-law was a ‘made man’, meaning he was sworn into Cosa Nostra. It grieved John that he had not been put forward to be made, but he accepted the fact as he knew he had to. Maria’s father was Paul Santorini. He ran a few teamsters, mainly in the construction business, made sure that the sites ran smoothly and that there was no need of a ‘foreman’ to oversee non-union workers. He took kickbacks and dealt in heroin. He loved only two things in his life: his wife and his daughter.
Maria knew her father had been amazed and a little upset over her choice of husband, but as she got everything she wanted, she got John. It had taken her just a week to tire of the muscle-bound mouse to whom she was shackled. But her father and mother would not hear of divorce, so she was stuck with him. For the time being at least. Her father had hinted that at a later date the marriage might be terminated, leaving her a grieving widow?
Maria had a natural Sicilian aptitude for the Mafia lifestyle. Death was nothing to her; she was a devout Catholic who believed that anything confessed was immediately forgiven and a place in Heaven assured. She used this as a sop to her conscience, and as a good way to do what she liked, when she liked.
She also used her father, her mother, and anyone else she happened to think could further her aims.
Maria’s problem was she liked men too much, something her father had worried about when she was younger. She was currently embroiled in an affair with an Irishman - a big handsome gangster type from the Lower East Side. She knew her father would go ape shit if he found out, and that her husband John would kill the man without a second thought if he learned the truth.
It was a very exciting situation, and Maria milked it for all it was worth.
She had even invited her lover to the Ravenite Club in Little Italy. This was a known haunt of the Mafia and she’d wanted to be seen in there. The man reluctantly accompanied her and then fucked her rigid, all the while telling her she was a spoilt bitch.
Nevertheless Maria was falling in love with him and she was frightened and exhilarated by that fact. He was the first person ever to affect her. The first person to touch a chord inside her, deep inside, where her heart lay. He was the first man ever to tell her to shut her mouth. The first man to take her without asking her whether it was OK. The first man who had no fear of her father.
As she looked at her husband and waited for him to go to the club where he worked, she felt like laughing. He was a fool, a stupid ignorant Sicilian peasant. Dio! What on earth had she ever seen in him?
As John walked from the apartment, she kissed him on the lips. It was a wifely, lingering kiss which she knew would arouse him. She knew how much he wanted, needed and loved her, and that was the problem. Once she had her man, Maria didn’t want him any more. It was the chase she craved, the need to conquer. But right now, she was expecting a visitor.
Eamonn Docherty found her naked and yielding as always. He let himself into the apartment with his own keys and went straight to the large bedroom where she lay sprawled awaiting him, sipping a glass of ice-cold champagne and stroking herself in anticipation.
Laughing, he took her there and then. Maria blew his mind. She also blew his cock - a pastime they both enjoyed.
Maria was snoring gently, her hair fanned out around her, making her look unusually vulnerable. Eamonn stared down at her in awe. She was gorgeous. He sighed and dressed quickly, his movements sure and deft after months of visiting this apartment. He could move around in the dark if he had to.
Maria opened one eye as he kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I have to get going.’
Hazy with champagne and sex, she squinted at the bedside clock and said petulantly: ‘It’s only eleven, John won’t be home for hours.’
‘I have a bit of business to attend to.’ His voice was firm, brooking no argument.
She knew by his tone of voice that it was useless to argue further with him. Instead she pouted sexily. ‘Tomorrow?’ Her voice was soft.
Eamonn knew how to play her games. He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
He strolled complacently from the apartment building, unaware of the two men watching from the car parked outside, too busy thinking about what he had to do. Maria was already forgotten.
The two men observed him hail a cab, and then followed him to Brannigan’s Bar in Brooklyn. Stationing themselves across the street, they continued their surveillance.
As he walked inside, Eamonn was greeted by one and all before disappearing up a small flight of stairs. The men settled down for a long wait.
Paul Santorini listened to the two men before him with a mixture of interest and boredom. A small man, he dressed well, looked older than his years and had a razor-sharp mind.
His right-hand man, Ralph Borgatto, listened with more apparent interest. Ralph knew he would be expected to comment and that would take his considerable skills as a diplomat. He would have to agree that Maria was a whore, though one who looked like a madonna. He would be asked for his advice, and had to try and gauge his boss’s own opinion from the few words he spoke now.
‘He definitely has keys to the apartment, Mr Santorini. The janitor saw him let himself in. If John ever finds out . . .’ the informant told him.
Paul Santorini held up his hand and said forcefully: ‘When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, OK? Just tell me where the lowlife went afterwards.’
The bigger man paled at his boss’s words. ‘He went to Brannigan’s, up to the offices of the loan-sharking company he owns. From there he went to his fiancée’s house. She’s Deirdra Mahoney, one of Jack Mahoney’s daughters. He got there pretty late, but she was up and opened the door to him herself. There was some kind of party going on, I think.’
Paul dismissed the men and turned to his friend and confidant, Ralph.
‘What do you think, eh? I give her the best education that money can buy. I give her the husband she wants. I give the whore everything she wants. Now she’s stupping an Irishman. If she wasn’t my daughter, by the word of God Himself, I would break her face.’
Ralph sighed. His great head was covered in thick curly hair, and he had the olive skin and Roman nose of his forefathers. He looked as if he should be a shepherd on a mountainside, even in his thousand-dollar suit. His hands were huge, and he frequently joked he could strangle a man with just one of them. No one who knew him disputed this.
‘Paul, can I be frank here?’
The older man nodded almost imperceptibly, which meant Ralph could be as honest as he liked as long as he told his boss exactly what he wanted to hear.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged in. ‘I think we should let someone speak to her husband in private. That way, he’ll sort it out. It’s a matter of honour. You can bet your life that this Docherty knows who she is and exactly who he’s dealing with. Word on the street about him is good. If he was one of us, he’d be a made man by now.’
Paul nodded. ‘I know what you’re saying. If only she could have found herself the Italian equivalent, I’d be a happy man. I mean, if she had a child with this man it would be Irish, for Christ’s sakes! If her mother knew i
t would break her heart.’
‘Shall I get someone to speak to John or what?’ Ralph urged gently.
Santorini lit himself a Havana cigar. Coughing, he said, ‘Yeah, get the fucking ball rolling. It’s a crying shame, though. From what I’ve heard, Docherty’s a good guy.’ He puffed on a cigar for a few moments before adding: ‘For an Irish prick.’
Ralph agreed and poured them both a large Grappa. ‘We’ll get trouble from the Mahoneys over this, you realise that?’ he commented. ‘He’s marrying one of Jack’s daughters.’
Paul shrugged. ‘So be it. I’ll explain the circumstances if I have to. A man with as many daughters as Jack will be understanding, I know. If he isn’t, I’ll have his fucking brains blown out.’
‘Whatever you say, Paul.’
Santorini knocked back his drink and said reflectively, ‘You know the strange thing? I would have let her marry this Irishman if she had met him first. That’s how much I love her. After this, though, I’ll find her a husband who’ll keep her occupied. I’ll find her a man with the biggest cajones this side of the Hudson. I’ll have her serviced morning, noon and night until she’s pregnant and cowed. Look through the ranks and find me a real good-looking foot soldier. One who’s known for womanising and charm as well as everything else. I’ll give the bitch her match physically, then sit back and wait for grandchildren.’
The two men laughed at how easy everything was going to be, how clever they both were to have this thing sewn up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eamonn’s eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He glanced at himself in the mirror of the washroom and grimaced. His mouth tasted foul and he knew his breath was in danger of being condemned by the health officials. He pulled out some gum and chewed on it for a moment, relishing the taste of the spearmint and the feeling of having liquid in his mouth again. Sluicing his face under the cold water faucet, he tried to wake himself up, feeling a pounding headache begin.
Never again.
He smiled as he thought that. It was the same as usual. He got drunk, seriously drunk, every time he tied one on with Petey, and last night had been no exception.
After a few drinks and a meal in the Stakis restaurant on Broadway, they had adjourned to a topless bar a few blocks east. The girls were ugly, the drink plentiful and the hours negotiable. He had resisted the temptation of a redhead with breasts like lumps of concrete and finally slumped back in his seat unconscious.
He had woken up ten minutes ago as the cleaners arrived. Petey was on the floor next to a blonde-haired black woman with non-existent breasts and buck teeth. He always stayed true to type.
Tidying himself up as best he could, Eamonn walked back out into the club. It stank of cigarettes, testosterone and bad breath. Petey was still blissfully asleep, looking the Irish culchie he was with his face relaxed and smiling. Eamonn noticed with distaste that the woman had wet herself. Making sure his wallet was still in place, he left the bar and walked out into the morning light. It made his eyes hurt.
Making a right, he slipped into a Broadway diner in search of coffee and some breakfast before finding himself a cab. People were already about at five-thirty in the morning. He ordered a large coffee and a Danish, some eggs over easy and pancakes. He needed food, something to fill up the drink-soaked belly that was giving him cramps.
As he ate his mind was on Maria, his job and Deirdra. That was until a foxy little chick with a short skirt, smudged eye shadow and a colourful caftan came into the diner. Within five minutes he had bought her breakfast and was listening to her short life story.
The carefully edited version anyway.
He knew she was hooking; she had the look, even at eighteen. It took something away from the eyes, made them wary yet open. As if they knew something that no one else did. He also knew that once Petey saw her, he would find her a place and then they’d all earn. Himself included.
Eamonn had no qualms about what he was doing, he had long ago given up any hope of being a regular guy. There just wasn’t any money in it.
John Castellano had been up all night, waiting outside the home of his rival on the Lower East Side with a gun, a set of handcuffs and a burning in his guts so acute he felt it would tear through his body and kill him stone dead.
Every time he thought of his wife with this man, he felt the urge to kill. Maria was blameless, her father had told him. She was bewitched by the Irishman, just a naive Catholic girl, brought up to trust and see good in other people. Now this man had taken their precious jewel and soiled her. She’d been too unworldly to see what was happening. Docherty had even talked her into giving him a door key.
His father-in-law had been surprised when his daughter’s husband really seemed to swallow whole what he was saying, and a little part of John’s mind had registered that fact. He knew deep inside who was at fault but he loved Maria and it was so much easier to blame that Irish bastard!
Now John gritted his teeth with annoyance. He had hoped to find his quarry straight off, but Docherty was proving elusive.
Well, John was a patient man, he would wait. He would track down his prey if it was the last thing he did. Lighting a cigarette, he settled himself once more in his car and watched the doorway to his enemy’s apartment house. He would blow the Irishman away and laugh while he did it. This thought made him feel much better.
Cara Bowman was in fact seventeen, not eighteen, and had been hustling for nearly a year. Running away from a small town in Oklahoma, she had arrived in the Big Apple with thirty dollars and a suitcase of unsuitable clothes. She had turned her first trick within eight hours of getting off the bus.
Taken in by a black pimp called Alphonso, she had soon learned the harsh realities of life in New York with no money, no family and no friends to support her.
Meeting this man Eamonn was going to change all that. He had promised her a job - a proper one where she earned her money in comfort and could afford a decent place to live. She was still fresh-faced enough to make a go of her life in New York. She would save, go to classes, try and be somebody.
She certainly couldn’t go home.
As she talked to the man beside her, Cara opened up like a little flower. Making him laugh. It felt more like a date than anything else and that pleased her. He spoke to her with respect, and listened to what she had to say. Better still, he didn’t attempt to touch her once. Most men had to touch, even if it was only her face, her arm or her leg.
This man was different. Even in his crumpled suit, with a shadow on his strong chin and eyes rimmed with red, she could see he was a person to be reckoned with. His gold watch, his carefully cut hair and hand-made shoes told her all she needed to know.
She knew that what he was offering her was still hooking, but at least it was hooking with a bit of finesse. Nice clothes, a nice place to live, a nice enough kind of life. It sounded like heaven to her.
As they left the diner and got into a cab, she felt for the first time in months that life had something to offer her. She slipped her hand into his and felt him stiffen momentarily. As she looked at him, she saw a pained expression on his face, a tired, drawn look that made her feel sorry for him.
‘Are you OK?’ Her drawl was perfect; it sounded so smooth, so easy.
He smiled sadly at her. ‘You’re a very lovely girl.’ Then it hit him: she reminded him of Cathy, with her dainty build and blonde hair. She had the same wary look in her eyes and the same fighting attitude. He closed his eyes and stroked her hair. She even felt the same as Cathy. His Cathy.
She rested her head on his shoulder and he could smell the street on her: fast food, cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. She smelt like a whore. The thought made him uneasy.
How was Cathy faring? Was she in the same position somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic? Were unknown men taking her body and using it in any way they wanted, all for a few seconds’ gratification? He shuddered.
As they drew up outside his apartment building on Third Avenue, Eamonn felt sor
ry he had asked the girl home with him. She reminded him of what he had lost, what he had used and abused. She reminded him of his other life in London, and he’d started to resent her for this fact.
He paid off the cab, and then over the road saw the glint of sun on metal as a gun was pushed through the open window of the Buick convertible parked by the fire hydrant.
As the gun flashed, Eamonn pulled the girl to him.
It was all over in a split second. The car screeched away from the kerb, the cab disappeared round the corner, and Cara Bowman was lying in his arms, the back of her head blown away.
Maria watched her husband as he drank a cup of coffee and smoked another cigarette.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said spitefully. ‘You stay out all night, you come in this morning like a bear with a sore head and I can’t get a civil word from you. Jesus H. Christ, you’re depressing me.’
Her husky voice was higher than usual. Her face, devoid of make-up, showed its flaws. The harsh light revealed the broken veins on her cheeks and the sallowness of her Sicilian complexion. John was seeing his wife as she really was. Her foul mouth, her moods, her selfishness were all apparent for the first time as he looked at her.
‘Shut the fuck up, Maria.’
Her face was a picture of shock as he spoke the words. ‘What did you say?’ she hissed.
Her husband closed his eyes and answered once more through his teeth. ‘I said, shut the fuck up. I listen to you all the time. It’s like a fucking long-playing record. Now shut up, Maria, before I give you something to whine about.’
John Castellano looked at her, his eyes hooded. Maria suddenly saw him as another woman might see him. If he’d married the right person he could have been a good husband. A good father.
‘Fuck you, you bastard!’ she couldn’t stop herself from saying. ‘If my father knew you spoke to me like th—’