by Martina Cole
‘I can only apologise, Don DeMarco,’ Paul said lamely. ‘This has been a wearing day. I have tried to uphold my family’s honour . . .’
The Don interrupted him. ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sakes. What honour? Your daughter, may God forgive me for saying this, is the cause of all your problems. You know what my Don used to say to me: “Get rid of the cause and you solve your problem”.’
Paul Santorini felt his heart sink down to his boots.
The old man walked around the study, his hands in the air. ‘Honour, honour. That’s all I hear about these days. But there’s no honour among thieves. I have lived seventy years and that’s all I have really learned.’
Paul listened respectfully; he could not do otherwise. He knew the old man would talk a while and then eventually get to the nub of what he wanted to say.
‘I listen to everyone, I hear everything that goes on. I know that Maria has always liked the men.’ He held up his hand as if Paul were going to disagree and carried on talking.
‘This trouble with the Irish - she is behind it all. A man is dead by your hand. I understand that: he was violent to your child, it was all you could do. But a passer-by murdered in cold blood? The days of the family murdering in the street are long gone, I hope. Since Al Capone moved out of the Bronx and settled himself in Chicago, we have striven for respectability. The five families of New York are the most important families, you know this. We must set an example. Today I have had calls from all the other Dons. They want to know what is happening. Why all this bloodshed. And, more importantly, they want to know where it leaves them. They want to meet and discuss this matter. I can understand their worries. I would feel exactly the same. Things like this can escalate.’
His voice changed imperceptibly and Paul was reminded forcibly of the threat this man could pose to him.
‘I want this dealt with in the next twenty-four hours. If it isn’t and I have to get involved on a personal level . . .’ Don Pietro shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.
‘Now, a glass of Grappa, perhaps?’ He poured the drinks slowly, giving Paul time to take in what he had said. As he placed the glass before him, Don Pietro smiled and said genially, ‘I think Las Vegas is just the place for Maria.’
Paul jumped as he realised this man knew everything, had always known everything and always would.
‘Despatch her soon, that’s your main priority. That and settling things with the Irish. Mahoney is a force to be reckoned with in his own way.’
‘Do you think I should meet them and try and build some bridges?’
Don Pietro smiled. ‘I think that’s exactly what you should do. This young man Docherty, I hear he is a good soldier, solid. Mahoney and his brothers all seem to think he is a man of substance and integrity. You’ve burned out their business in Queens, you’ve burned out their night club. Now you have to try and make good that damage as best you can. I will not have a war, not with the Irish anyway. Let them fight among themselves, they like that. We have enough trouble keeping our own ranks in order. We don’t need to fight the Irish - not because of a woman anyway. Even if she was my daughter.’
He laughed then, a rollicking sound, and Paul smiled along with him. He was being told to get everything back on an even keel or pay the price personally. He had to make reparation and swallow his pride while he did it.
Everyone who’d heard about Docherty seemed to take his side in the affair. The Italians liked men’s men. Docherty seemed to be that and a bit more. He was what everyone wanted their sons to be: tough, strong and likeable.
Paul bowed to his mentor’s command and set his mind to working out how to emerge from this situation with the least possible humiliation.
Eamonn walked through Little Italy with his hand inside his coat pocket. Cheek by jowl with Chinatown in Lower Manhattan, here the different cultures encroached upon one another and gave the area an almost carnival appearance. The commercial buildings and walk-ups were all brownstones with gaily painted fire escapes; many shady businesses hid behind respectable fronts here.
Eamonn’s heart was in his mouth as he made his way to a restaurant on Canal Street - Angelo’s, where the main people from the DeMarco family hung out.
He knew that to stop any more trouble from breaking out, he had to make himself known to the people involved and apologise. He owed that much to Jack and Petey Mahoney. If it meant sacrificing himself, then that’s what he would have to do. He knew that his chances, whether running away or facing his antagonists head on, were not really very good.
Five minutes later, Eamonn was walking up the stairs to the private function room where Paul Santorini and his men sat discussing the current situation. All knew that the Don wanted it fixed as quickly as possible. All knew that Paul had already lost a substantial amount of face. As Eamonn entered the room they were all silent, watching him warily.
He was frisked by two men and again by a third before he was allowed to approach the table that held the ten hoodlums Paul Santorini held closest to him.
Maria was forgotten as the two men made eye contact.
Paul was impressed by the stranger before him. It took guts to walk into what could be termed a lion’s den and he acknowledged that fact with good grace.
Eamonn stood before them respectfully, hands clasped in front of him, on show to all, his head hanging just low enough to show remorse without its looking as if he were frightened. His striking good looks and heavy physique were taken in and noted by the men around the table. However, they could say nothing until their Capo had had the first word.
Paul took his time. Then, sighing heavily, he said: ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
Eamonn looked the man in the eye and said truthfully, ‘I thought I would come and try to salvage the situation. I realise I have caused you and your family grave offence. For this I apologise, and ask respectfully that you take your revenge on me personally and leave my Irish family alone. They asked for none of this. I feel doubly responsible to have been the cause of their losing both money and prestige.’
He spoke in the flowery Italian way and the men warmed to this. His voice was strong; it did not in any way betray the fear they all knew he must be feeling.
‘The friendship between our two peoples has been a source of pride to my Irish counterparts. We have all lived side by side for many years, each with our own interests. My selfishness in falling in love with your daughter was wrong and for that I offer to make reparation to you and your family. I ask you now, humbly, what I can do to make you forget what has happened and get us all back on our old footing?’
The Englishness of his accent surprised them. He had none of the Irish drawl they had expected. His strength of character was noted too, and approved of. He reminded them of themselves.
Paul was elated. Docherty coming and talking to him this way had saved him a lot of face - something that was dear to all Italians. After all, they were businessmen with a great deal to lose and it was up to him to make a gesture, an overture that suited everyone, especially Don Pietro.
Standing up, he walked around the table and advanced on the man who stood there. Eamonn held his breath as he saw Paul’s approach, waiting to see what it signified.
Paul Santorini stood before him for about fifty seconds before embracing him, a gesture that was applauded by his men and which made Eamonn’s heart race with relief.
He had done the right thing; he had come into the lion’s den and with his flowery bullshit had made amends. The sweat under his armpits was drying even as he smiled at Paul Santorini. He had taken this man’s married daughter and had fucked her rigid for months, and now the sap was letting it go. Eamonn had been the cause of two deaths and the man was letting it go. He could not believe his luck.
The thrust of the knife blade as it ripped through his clothing and then his belly didn’t hurt at first. Eamonn was too shocked to realise what had happened.
As he dropped to his knees, he felt the blood seeping through his hands as he t
ried to press his insides back into his stomach where they belonged. When the blade was drawn across his cheek, he sank to the floor and into blessed unconsciousness.
His last thought was that the Italians were a race of slippery bastards and he should have realised that long before. He had come prepared to die, and it seemed that was exactly what he was going to do.
Jack and Petey sat in the waiting room at Lincoln Medical Center, waiting to hear the outcome of Eamonn’s operation. Both were on tenterhooks; both realised that the situation with the Italians had now reached the point of no return. If they didn’t retaliate, hard and fast, the other Irish families would see it as a sign of weakness.
Petey looked grey with worry and Jack felt a second’s sorrow for his little brother. ‘It’s all right, Petey,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’ve sorted it all out now.’
Petey shook his head in distress. ‘Sure Eamonn was a good man, Jack. This has all got out of proportion, for Christ’s sakes.’
Jack nodded and draped an arm sympathetically around his brother’s shoulders. They looked alike despite their different shapes. Jack, big and cumbersome and heavy-jowled as he was had still some vestiges of his former good looks. Petey - small, bull-necked and round - looked what he was: a bruiser, a fighting man. But now his face was defeated at the thought of losing the one man he’d come to regard as a friend.
‘I’ve asked Ireland for help. Someone’s flying in the night.’
Petey was shocked at his brother’s words, but knew better than to say so. Both men waited in silence to find out whether Eamonn Docherty would live or die.
Not many people knew where Don Pietro DeMarco lived on Long Island. Few of his Capos had ever visited his house. The Don believed that a man’s home was his castle; he was with the English on that one.
He had brought up his children, and now tended the garden on his estate and liked to enjoy a glass of the wine he made there himself.
Once inside his compound he was no longer the Don, just a kindly husband, father and grandfather. He had three full-time bodyguards but these days he didn’t really need them. After all, he was a respectable businessman now.
As he walked in his garden he admired the green shoots of the plants coming up after winter, plucking a dead leaf here and pulling up a weed there. He was at heart a peasant, knew this and relished the fact. It amused him to think that he had been responsible for many murders, and many illegal acts, yet inside he was interested only in the simplest things.
When the day came to meet his God, he would meet Him proudly and with a twinkle in his eye. If the God of his church was as corrupt as His messengers on earth, the Don would be all right.
He walked into the house through the French doors, thinking at first that the man sitting in the chair was his eldest son Salvatore. But it couldn’t be, he had been in Vegas for the last few years, looking after their holdings there. It was only when the Don walked into the light that he saw that the man in the chair was a stranger - and that he was also holding a small Sten gun.
‘Mr DeMarco, my name’s Daniel Connell and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
The thick Irish accent threw the elderly Don for a second and he faltered, all at once showing his age. His voice failed him as he tried to speak.
Daniel Connell laughed. ‘Sure, don’t worry, I haven’t come to kill you, sir. I’m just here for a little chat. I understand that you’re a man of sense. Well, I’m here to reason with you, having travelled all the way from Beirut. We’re training an army out there, you see. But I understand there’s been a small piece of trouble here that needs sorting out. So . . .’ he opened his arms wide in an expansive gesture ‘. . . here I am.’
Don Pietro’s eyes went to the door and the Irishman grinned. ‘Locked. I know all your movements, sir. It’s my job to find out these things, in whatever way I can. Now, if you’d be so kind as to sit down, I have a few things to say to you that I hope will clear up this mess once and for all.’
Don Pietro sat down in his old leather chair by the window. Daniel Connell got up from his seat. He locked the French doors, closed the heavy curtains. After pouring them both a large brandy, he settled himself comfortably once more in his chair and began to speak.
‘The IRA are an organisation like your own, except we’re political, we fight for a cause. Not that I’m saying anything against yourselves, just stating a fact. The Mahoneys gather money for us and we class them as good men. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?
‘Now you have what I understand is a loose cannon called Santorini. Forgive me for being blunt here, but he’s dead already. I saw to that as soon as I got off the fecking plane. Docherty’s a good man, and your lad had no business to be tearing him open and murdering the life out of him. What I want to tell you is this: we will keep you all in our hearts if this is left alone now. But if there’s any retaliation, any single step out of line against the Irish, then you’ll have a fecking war on your hands the likes of which you’d never believe. You’re interfering with us, you see, and believe me, the fucking British Army are having trouble keeping us down so what chance would you have?
‘We’re linked with Baader Meinhof, the Libyans, every terrorist organisation in the world. Be sure to listen to me now because I do not want to be coming back here and having to explain it all again. Involved as we are in our own war, we don’t really need another, but that’s beside the point. If we came here to New York we’d finish you all off in a week. Now you get by because you have the politicians and the government agencies in your pocket, but they wouldn’t be there for long if we waged a vendetta against you. I’m sure you can see the logic of what I’m saying?
‘So I want your assurance that everything will go back to normal and will be left that way. No revenge attacks, nothing.
‘If I have to come back here, I’ll kill you slowly and with so much pain you’ll wish you had never been born. This is no idle threat. Ask around about us with your European contacts - they’ll tell you all you need to know. We have men training in Beirut, South America and Libya. We’re everywhere, and like I said before, we’re political, not out for money or any kind of gain. That’s the difference between us.’
Don Pietro DeMarco was a sensible man. He knew he had been outfoxed and, if he were honest, outclassed. This man even knew what his movements at home were and exactly where to find him. He was apparently alone, yet with no one to help him he was in the Don’s house, where his wife was resting and his grandchildren played.
Don Pietro knew when he was defeated and he knew it now. This man had vanquished him without even raising his voice. It was a sobering reversal for a man who had represented the full might of the Cosa Nostra for over twenty years.
‘How did you dispose of Santorini?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice level.
Connell smiled. ‘It was an IRA execution. I nailed him to the floor and after I’d crucified him, shot him in each knee and elbow. I stayed with him until he died - I like to see a job through. You’ll find him at his house, in the games room.’
Don Pietro closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I will do as you ask because I did not want this trouble myself. It was a domestic matter really. Men and their daughters, eh?’
Connell was impassive. ‘In the IRA we leave family behind. We have to, we are soldiers. That’s the difference between us, as I said before. We have women in the Cause who’d make your hit men look like pussy cats.’
The Don bowed his head silently and wondered when the other man was going to leave.
Connell tossed back his brandy and rose from his seat. He held out one large hairy hand and smiled benignly. ‘No hard feelings, sir, it was just a matter of business.’
The Don shook his hand.
After Connell had left he sat down, drained his brandy and wondered what future there could be for a world where men like that roamed free.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Eamonn opened his eyes and looked around the room. It was full of flowers and c
ards. He tried to focus but found it difficult.
As he made a move he felt a tube coming from his side and realised he had to be in hospital. He remembered then what had happened to him and felt tears of relief that he was still alive sting his eyes. As they rolled down his face, a fresh-faced nurse came into the room and smiled at him.
‘You’re awake then?’
Eamonn tried once more to focus, and failed. The girl laughed. ‘You’ve been awake on and off for the last week. Just relax, everything will be back to normal before you know it.’
Eamonn felt desperately weak, but his mind was alert. He struggled to keep his eyes open, sure that there was something he should be doing, a battle still to be won.
He drifted off to sleep. Petey and Jack were informed of the improvement in his condition by phone and breathed a collective sigh of relief.
The Mahoneys were trying to make sense of what had happened. Santorini’s death was so bizarre it had made all the headlines. The men of the Mafia were talking about it everywhere. These men knew of death scenarios that would shock and repel, but the blasphemous attitude of the IRA in crucifying Santorini had amazed even them.
The Mahoneys were looked on with new respect and a certain reluctant admiration, and this augured well for the Irish.
The story of the home visit to Don Pietro was kept under wraps; that could have caused a major incident by a few loose cannon who would have found such disrespect too much to stomach.
Meanwhile Petey Mahoney was picking out the girls he wanted to work in his new enterprise. He was determined to prove himself to his brother and open another bar, similar to their one in Harlem but far more salubrious.
To Petey this meant the girls should be clean, have big tits and nice faces. He had the cash, he had the muscle and he had the knowhow. Jack would think it was a grand idea and the pats on the back would be great.