by Peter Watson
“This is what we’ll do,” she said, appearing to make up her mind. “I’ll think of something to tell Father when he comes home this evening. Later people are coming for dinner, and cards—my father loves cards. Around ten, I shall say I’m going to bed. Half an hour later I shall be able to slip out. It will take me another half hour to get to Madge Leigh’s. I’ll meet you there at eleven.”
He nodded, finished his lemonade, and made to move. He definitely didn’t want to be here when Angelo Priola arrived home.
“One thing,” said Anna-Maria as he stood up. “If I do this for you, what are you going to do for me?”
He looked down at her. She was smiling.
Suddenly he laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I went to Annie’s last night, and Lulu’s. There may be one or two things I can teach you now.”
The two cornets blared out in unison. Underneath them the trombone pulsed a steady beat. Over and around them the piano swooped like one of the seagulls Silvio had seen following the Syracusa. This new music fascinated him. It was so brisk and he liked the strong rhythms. He longed to move his body in time to the beat.
The music was only one aspect of Madge Leigh’s that held his attention. Everything, from the engraved mirrors at the back of the bar to Baptiste Moret, the fat Negro playing the piano, from the corsets worn by the girls to the oysters heaped on the bar counter, from the carnival masks that adorned the walls to the comings and goings of couples up and down the stairs … he was fascinated by all of it.
Then there was the drink. Silvio, who had drunk only local wine before leaving Sicily, had acquired a definite taste for champagne aboard the Syracusa. Here at Madge Leigh’s he noticed that no one drank champagne, certainly not the men. There were a few wine drinkers, but most of the men drank either beer or something called rye whiskey, which, he understood, was made from a special kind of grain. He hated it, but had ordered one because everybody else did. It tasted like soap.
One of the girls came up to Silvio. She had creamy skin, black hair, and brown eyes. Brown lips. Close up, her face had freckles, like the marks on the trout in Lake Arancio. She said something in English. He just stared at her. She tried a second language, French perhaps. Silvio just stood and smiled, but she stormed off.
Francisco laughed. “You’ve got to learn English, Silvio. She called you handsome. Said this was a five-dollar house but you could have it for three. Can’t afford to miss a chance like that. Incidentally, she’s a quadroon—remember you were asking? Part European, part Negro. Great coloring, huh?”
Silvio blushed. But Francisco was right; the girl was beautiful, that skin especially.
He looked up at the clock near the bar. It was ten past eleven and Anna-Maria still hadn’t turned up. He was growing edgy. If she didn’t show, Nino would blame him. To take his mind off Anna-Maria he tried to concentrate on the dancing. It appeared that some of the women were paid for dancing with the men. That was new, too.
“There she is!” Nino pointed.
Anna-Maria, wearing a cape, was standing inside the main door, searching the room with her eyes. Silvio drew her attention by waving. She smiled and came toward them.
“Well—?” Nino started to say, but Silvio nudged him.
“There’s no champagne here, but what else would you like? Bourbon?”
“Yes. Lovely.” She looked around. “Ah! Bruno and Baptiste. Great band.” She waved to the pianist, who waved back.
Silvio handed her a drink. He felt very nervous.
She drained it in one gulp. “Well,” she gasped, catching her breath. “You’re in luck. I overheard my father talking to his friends, or at least the people who work for him. He has trouble on the luggers’ dock.”
“What sort of trouble?” Nino, Silvio thought, was just a little too aggressive. He was a bit like one of those bantam cocks himself.
“The only kind there is. Exactly the same kind of trouble as in Palermo. My father has been running the labor gangs, the roustabouts who unload the fruit and oysters and load the cotton, but another family is trying to move in. Things are getting rough. Some tough action is called for. I heard Father listing the people he thought could do it. I mentioned your name.” She looked at Nino. “I said you’d been on my boat, incognito, and that I’d also heard you made it safely into New Orleans. He told one of his employees, Teresio Alfatti, to go and look for you.”
“Why didn’t you say you were seeing us tonight?”
Anna-Maria shook her head. “I’m his daughter, stupido! I don’t get involved in business. And in theory I’m not allowed in here.” She pulled her cape around her. “Now, I had hoped to be able to stay a little longer, but if Alfatti is looking for you two, I don’t want to be here when he arrives. My father would soon be told.” She turned to Silvio. “Walk me to Canal Street. I can catch a cab there. It won’t take long.”
She led the way out to CustomHouse Street, walking as quickly as the crowds on the sidewalk would allow. Silvio eventually caught up. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth as they hurried along. “There’s something I wanted to say, out of earshot of that asino.”
“You mean Nino.”
“Well, I don’t mean Madge Leigh, do I?”
Silvio was silent.
“First, learn English. You’ll never get anywhere in this country unless you do. You’re stupid if you don’t. The other thing is: Get out of Nino’s shadow as soon as you can.”
“What!”
She stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face him. “Silvio, you’re now in New Orleans, the second city in the greatest and fastest-growing country in the world. You have a good brain but you haven’t learned to use it yet. You’ve got to think for yourself. Once you do, with your looks, you could do almost anything.” They moved on and came to the corner of CustomHouse and Dauphin streets and stepped off the sidewalk into the dust. They crossed the street and remounted the sidewalk. “Nino is a violent, unstable man. Miope. Shortsighted. Stay with him, and sooner or later, and very probably sooner, you will be in trouble. Or, more likely, dead.”
They came to Canal Street. “I can get a taxi here,” she said.
“When can I see you again?”
“In a few days, after what’s going to happen has happened. I’ll know where you are and will send for you. But remember what I said, Silvio. Learn English and dump Nino. Otherwise your life may be a short one.”
“Francisco! Are you awake? Francisco.” The voice called up in Italian to the balcony from the courtyard below. “Francisco Faldetta!”
Silvio, still in bed, looked at Nino. Nino gestured for him to keep quiet, at the same time finding the gun in his trousers, hung over a chair. “It could be the immigration department,” he whispered. “They could be on to us.”
They both watched as Francisco ambled to the balcony.
“Yes? What? It’s early. Who are you?”
“It don’t matter who I am, Francisco. Have you got two malandrini hidden up there, two Sicilian guests who came over recently on the Syracusa?”
Francisco turned his back on the other man. “You’re crazy,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Go back to the whore you slept with last night.” It was a good performance.
“You see them, Francisco, tell them Angelo Priola wants to meet them. Tell them Angelo Priola has a job for them. Tell them Angelo Priola thinks they are tough malandrini from Bivio Indisi. You and I know they are cowards, though, eh? They hide and whisper, like chickens when the fox is near. Tell them, Francisco. If you see them.” He turned to leave.
“Stop!”
Nino stood on the balcony, in his underwear. “You are looking for me.”
The other man grinned. “So. The Quarryman. Mr. Explosives. You don’t look like dynamite to me. More like—”
“Say what you have to say, and go.” Nino had shown the other man his gun. “This is no cock’s blood.”
The grinning stopped. The man stared at the revolver. “Noon today. The luggers’ wharf. Priola
will be in his office. It has a flagpole with an American flag and, below it, an Italian flag.” He turned away.
“Stop!”
The man turned back.
Nino rested his gun on the top of the balustrade. “I haven’t dismissed you yet. What is your name?” The menace in his voice was unmistakable.
“Teresio Alfatti.”
“Well, Alfatti, next time you run errands for Mr. Priola, do so with more courtesy. Is that clear?”
The other man said nothing.
Nino picked up the gun. Speaking very quietly, he repeated, “Is that clear?”
Still the other man didn’t speak.
Nino cocked the gun and took aim.
“Yes.”
“Yes? Yes what, you mezzatacca?”
“Yes … sir.”
Nino put down the gun. Now he grinned. “See how easy it is to learn some manners?” He waved the man away.
Back in the bedroom, Silvio at last allowed himself to breathe again. He remembered the warning Anna-Maria had given him the night before.
Silvio stood on the corner of Basin and Canal streets and enjoyed the rain. He had never seen clouds so low as they appeared just now, almost within reach. He marveled yet again at those fine balconies on so many of the buildings. Not only did they look good, they afforded shade when it was sunny—and were now offering dry shelter when it rained.
It was a quarter of an hour before midday and Silvio was waiting for Nino, who was getting a shave and haircut. Despite his tough talk and general lack of manners, Nino was sprucing himself up for this meeting with Angelo Priola. He had even bought a clean shirt.
Silvio, no less than Nino, was intrigued about meeting Priola. Everybody seemed frightened of him, even Anna-Maria, who, on the Syracusa, had seemed without fear.
Nino came out of the barber’s shop. He stopped on the sidewalk and lit a thin cigar. With a clean shirt and tidy hair, he seemed quite transformed. He turned into Canal Street and set off for the docks, dashing from balcony to balcony, to avoid getting soaked. Silvio ran after him.
The rain made no difference to the activity at the docks. The loaders, ships’ crew, and immigration people all wore coveralls, and some had large floppy hats. Silvio counted two passenger liners, seven fruit vessels, and fifteen steamboats. The area of the dock opposite the end of Canal Street was known as Picayune Pier, but in general the piers did not have numbers or names, since few of the stevedores—the roustabouts—could read. Instead, all locations had a sign taken from a deck of playing cards. Everyone knew what the queen of spades or the jack of diamonds looked like.
Nino and Silvio climbed the levee near Picayune Pier and looked down. Nearby, a large white ship with a yellow-and-red flag was unloading melons, pale green. The rain lashed down now and a mist had settled in. The far bank of the river, a quarter of a mile off, was almost obscured from view.
Nino and Silvio made their way past several gangs of roustabouts unloading oranges and bananas. Sure enough, at the near end of a pier marked with a jack of clubs, there was a small flagpole, near the top of which flew the American flag. Just beneath it was the green, white, and red tricolor of Italy. Through the rain they suddenly heard the noonday “gun.” This, Francisco had told them, had been a real gun many years ago; now it was a steam hooter farther upstream.
Nino ran down the levee. Silvio followed.
A man in a large overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat was standing outside the door to the office. Nino announced himself, and the man, after frisking them, stood to one side. They were expected.
Inside was a room with three desks and a small gate that led to an area with a much larger desk. Two men were there, one seated at the large desk, the other looking out of the window at the rain and the river. The man standing was about thirty, thin, with a sallow skin. He had receding hair and high cheekbones and wore a suit and a stiff collar. The other man was older, thicker set, with a full head of dark hair and a bushy mustache. He wore a frock coat, which showed off his cuffs to advantage, and expensive-looking boots. His fingers were curled around a cigar.
“Sicily could use some of this rain, huh?” he said by way of greeting. “I’ll bet you’re missing the smell of olives, figs, the sound of bells, the taste of fettuccine.” He smiled. For some reason his voice made Silvio think of chocolate. “I’m Angelo Priola. This is Giovanni Nogare.”
They all shook hands.
They sat down and Priola fiddled in the drawer of the desk he was sitting at. He took out a bottle and some glasses. “Whiskey?”
The others nodded.
He poured and they drank. Priola wiped his mouth.
“Tell me, Nino, how is Ruggiero? Still boxing, eh? Still chasing everyone else’s wife?” He grinned. “And Calogero’s? Some restaurant! Is their tagliatelle still the best in Sicily? I remember it, I really do, even after all these years.”
“Still the best,” replied Nino, smiling back. “Ruggiero spends more time there now than chasing women.” He tapped his stomach. “He’s putting on weight.” He paused. “How long you been here, Angelo? Ten years? Twelve?”
“More! A lot more. I came over in ’sixty-four, on the Rometta. What a hellhole she was. I was thirty-five. Fifteen years it has taken me to build this business, and now they are trying to take it away. Like the cholera, they suddenly show up on my territory. Mine! Before you know it, the disease is everywhere.” He glanced briefly at Silvio, then back at Nino, and refilled their glasses. “Tell me, Nino, how many people you killed?”
“Enough.” Nino swallowed the whiskey.
Priola looked at him hard, all the while drawing on his cigar.
At length, he went on. “Nino, I have a problem. You can help, maybe. Until now New Orleans has been a quiet town. We Sicilians have controlled the fruit trade, and the oyster trade, and that has given us a strength here. I got nine ships at the moment. Two liners, sailing mainly between Sicily and America, and seven other ships, importing fruit, some from Italy, more from South America. The Syracusa is one of them.
“People, with one or two exceptions”—here he smiled—“are not a problem. Nearly all have papers and they unload themselves. The liners bring people to America and take cotton back. It works. Fruit, my friends, is different. Fruit is delicate, fruit is fragile, it begins to decay the minute it is picked. That is the opportunity and the problem. People like fresh fruit, the fresher the better. The fact that it goes bad so quickly means that it’s pricey, and that demand continues—you can’t store it or lock it away to be eaten later on.
“It also means fruit has to be moved quickly at all stages of its journey. And that means the business is wide open to sabotage. Someone takes it into his head to interrupt the flow, that soon gets expensive for us. For me.”
“And someone is doing just that?”
Nodding, Priola drained his whiskey glass, wiped his mouth again. “Until now, I’ve had control of the labor gangs who unload the ships, the roustabouts, and we’ve had years of peace. They get a wage I can afford, and if anyone else tries to import fruit, either they accept my gangs and pay me a small commission or their ships don’t get unloaded and their fruit rots on the dock. It’s as simple as that. It suits everyone. It keeps Sicilians in work—and let me tell you nearly all the Italian immigrants in New Orleans are Sicilians. Also, with the money I’m making I’m beginning to have some political clout in this town. So—better prospects for all Sicilians.”
“But …?”
“But, as you say, someone is trying to change all that. Someone is trying to take me on.”
“Who?”
“I’ll get to that. I want you to have the full picture so you know what the job entails. The trouble began on the piers upriver from Canal Street, when a few Sicilians from near Solunto moved in, one at a time. Eventually they formed a group, large enough to intimidate the other labor gangs on those piers. Their first move was not to pass on the commission I was due for the unloading of another company’s ship. We’re not talking
big money, but it was an important change, and pretty soon the entire docks knew about it.”
He helped himself to more whiskey. “The next move was the murder of my foreman. Officially he fell into the river late one night after a few drinks, but I saw the body and he must have been drinking with a broken glass, because his throat was cut. Garroted. As a result of that, all the other gangs in that part of the docks threw in with this new group. Now they had complete control of the area upriver from Canal Street, and they refused to unload my ships. Word got around, and now the other fruit importers are unloading their fruit upriver, paying a commission to the new group and lifting their hind legs on me. My reputation and my income have been hit, hit bad.”
“But you’ve still got the area downriver of Canal Street?”
Priola nodded. “But last week there was a fire in one of the warehouses on Old Levee Street. Arson. A lot of cotton went up and one of our night watchmen was roasted to death. Couldn’t get out of his office.”
This time Nino said nothing. Priola poured more whiskey, though Silvio hadn’t finished his second glass yet.
“As I keep saying, we’ve had peace in New Orleans for years. I’m not a violent man. I’m a businessman. Ma non sono lombrico! But I can’t stand by and watch these malandrini take it all from me. These Soluntese need to be hit, Nino, and hit good. I want my piers back. I’ve helped create this goddamn town and I’m not having it stolen from under me now. I need a spectacular job here, and soon. Something cunning. The fox eats while the wolf howls, eh? I don’t care who you have to hit, or how many, but I want those labor gangs back in line and the other fruit companies in my pocket.”
“And if I do this?”
Priola drank more whiskey and again wiped his mouth. “Whatever. I’ll give you your own ship, if you like. Or a half share in one of the whorehouses in the French Quarter. Madge Leigh’s or Sally Levy’s. You’ll have all the money, all the girls, all the booze you could want. And respect.”
“Would I be number two to you?”
Priola looked at Nogare, then back to Nino. “Not yet, Nino. If we were back home, Giovanni would be my consigliere. You know what they say in Sicily: greed swells the belly but narrows the mind. I’m a generous man, I will reward you well. But let’s take our problems one step at a time.”