by Peter Watson
Nino was silent, and Silvio thought he was about to get moody. But all he said was: “I’ll need some money now, somewhere to live, a few men, and some technical help. I don’t know where to find explosives here.”
Priola looked at Nogare. The younger man spoke for the first time. “I’ll give you whatever money you need.” He tossed a bundle of notes onto the desk. “Here’s a hundred dollars to begin with. As for men, how many do you need, and when? We have four hundred, maybe five, in the labor gangs. All Sicilian. Let me know. I am here, in this office, every morning. As for explosives, I’ll look into it. This is not quarry country, but new railroads are being blasted all the time. As for living quarters, we have something special—a boat.”
“A boat? Not another—”
“No, no. Don’t worry. This boat isn’t going anywhere. There’s a very nice flat-bottomed houseboat moored to the end of this pier.”
“What’s wrong with the French Quarter?” Nino scowled at Nogare.
“Everything. Think about it.” Nogare tugged at his shirt cuffs. He obviously cared about his appearance. “Once this business gets started and people figure out who’s behind whatever you make happen, you aren’t exactly going to be the most popular man in New Orleans. If you lived in the French Quarter, you would be hard to protect. On a houseboat, where the only access is by pier or the river itself, you are much safer.”
Nino didn’t like it, but he could see it made sense. He drained his glass.
“Now,” said Nogare. “Bodyguard—”
“I’ve got one.” Nino nodded his head in Silvio’s direction.
“Are you sure he’s old enough? Can he shoot?”
“He’ll do.”
Nogare looked at Priola.
The older man said, “Nino, this is a tough town—”
“He’ll do.”
Priola shrugged. “If you insist. That’s most of the details sorted. Now let me tell you who you’re going to be doing business with.” He wiped his mustache.
“Two brothers, Alfredo and Giancarlo Cataldo. Giancarlo is the clever one, the fox. Alfredo is older but less wily. Giancarlo is about forty-five and comes, as I say, from Solunte, near Bagheria. Began collecting protection money in the fruit market there. Bagheria is run by the Liotta family, as perhaps you know. Giancarlo rose in their ranks, but not being a blood Liotta, his prospects were limited. Until he married into it. He was promoted again, not only because of his marriage but also because he killed the head of the Freemasons in Solunte, who was trying to ‘reorganize’ the fruit market.
“I tell you, Giancarlo had a bright future back home in Bagheria, but although I called him clever, he did one stupid thing. Refused to keep his dick in his trousers. Two years after his marriage to Giulietta Liotta, he knocked up the wife of an orange farmer who was under Liotta protection. The farmer went to old Francisco Liotta and asked for justice. The old man liked his son-in-law but could not refuse the farmer—too much honor was at stake. Giancarlo was given a choice: he could either leave Sicily or be killed.”
Nino, showing impatience, shifted in his seat.
“I’m giving you this background, Nino, because I don’t want you to underestimate Giancarlo. I’m telling you he is clever, furbo, cunning, and he had a future in Bagheria until his dick went to his head. In Bagheria he got used to having money and power, and I can tell you that he wants them again. He will expect someone to come for him; he knows I will retaliate. It is up to you to surprise him, outfox him.”
“Where does Giancarlo live?” Nino asked.
“On Burgundy, between Hospital and Barracks Street,” replied Priola, looking at Nogare, who nodded. “It’s an area of town known as Little Palermo. His weaknesses, apart from his family, are colored women and bourbon. At times he can’t get enough of either. Most nights, I’m told, he passes out on top of one of Lulu White’s quadroons at Mahogany Hall.”
“But he’ll have a bodyguard,” Nino replied. “That’s too obvious. We’ll have to think of something else. What else can you tell me about him?”
Priola looked at Nogare. “Giovanni?”
Nogare shrugged. “I’ve heard he’s very superstitious. He has his fortune told every day, through the cards. He never does anything unless the cards tell him it’s safe.”
Nino smiled at Priola. “And you call this guy clever?”
9
Annunziata had not been to the abbey at Quisquina since that day, weeks before, when she and Silvio had rushed to alert Father Ignazio Serravalle to the Italian soldiers’ capture of her father. She had been sent this time with a message for the abbot.
The journey across the Serra di Leone and the Pizzo Stagnataro had brought back memories of the night when she and Silvio had so nearly made love. She still vividly recalled the smell of the moss in their giardino segreto, the crystal clarity of the stars, her own behavior in taking the lead, Silvio’s confusion and delight. Then there had been that terrible interruption and their breathless dash to reach the abbey. Annunziata frowned to herself as she thought back.
It had been a shock when those events had led to her father’s and Silvio’s departure. But she had hidden her tears. As Nino’s daughter, she had learned early on to hide her feelings. She had realized, long before Silvio had, that he was being taken away for a reason, and she was the reason. Nothing she could have done, nothing they could have done, would have made any difference. On the contrary, they would only have made the situation worse. She had realized, even if Silvio hadn’t, that they had to think long-term. She would follow him to America. There they would be freer to go their own ways, in a new country where the Catholic Church had less power over people’s lives.
So she had behaved coldly toward him, to quell their elders’ suspicions—as if she had learned her lesson. But she had also given him a ring. Silvio could wear that without her father knowing what it meant and it would always remind him of her, of her love for him. And how she loved him! That had not dimmed in the weeks since he had been gone.
The corridor where she was waiting was cool. There was a smell of candle wax, and a carved wooden Madonna stood at the end, under a light. Annunziata liked Quisquina.
The door opposite her opened and Luigi Garofali came out. “Father Ignazio will see you now, child. You may go in.”
Annunziata didn’t like the way Father Luigi looked at her, and she loathed being called a child. But Father Ignazio was different. He got up from his desk, kissed her on both cheeks, and invited her to sit down. He closed the door, shutting out Father Luigi. Then he sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at her. An ivory cross hung over the front of his dark brown habit.
“Now, Annunziata, what have you got to tell me?”
“Elisavetta Scalice has had a baby girl. They would like you to baptize her, and ask for a date.” Both Annunziata and Father Ignazio knew that this request was not quite what it seemed. It was true that Elisavetta had given birth and that the daughter would be baptized by Father Ignazio. But Nino, and now Bastiano, traditionally used christenings, weddings, and funerals to hold gatherings with the abbot, to plan ahead. Annunziata’s visit was the announcement of such a meeting. It was for Father Ignazio to set a date.
He went round his desk and took out a diary. He flipped through the pages. “Let’s see. Not this week, and not next. But … the Saturday after that. The twenty-third. Can you remember that, Annunziata? Or shall I write it down?”
“No, it’s all right. I can remember.” What was so difficult about remembering a date?
He stood up. The meeting was at an end.
But she still sat there.
“Annunziata?”
“Father, will you hear my confession, please?”
He smiled. There was no priest in the bivio where Annunziata lived. He was pleased that a young woman like her was so religious.
“Of course, my child. Come and kneel near me.”
She walked around his desk and knelt by his chair. “Forgive me, Father, for I ha
ve sinned,” she whispered.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“More than a month, Father.” She hesitated. “It has been difficult, Father.… It still is.… When I last came to see you, with Silvio Randazzo, you … you said you would ignore why we were not with the others when they were captured.” She paused.
“Yes, Annunziata?”
“We were together, Father.” It came out in a rush. “We were together—and I … I took the lead.”
Father Ignazio looked straight ahead. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. Nothing! I swear. But I wanted to. I still want to. Very badly at times. This is what I have come to confess. I think all the time about that night. About Silvio.”
The abbot said nothing for a while, until it was clear that Annunziata had finished. But he was thinking hard. These young people, they were so grown up and confident part of the time, yet at other times so at sea. Annunziata’s confession was welcome. He saw a way out of a dilemma.
“Annunziata, for your penance I want you to devote prayer three times a day to Gabriel. It was he, you remember, who announced to the Holy Mother that she was to bear the infant Jesus. I want you to marvel at the miracle of birth, its precious nature. Do you understand?”
Annunziata nodded.
“Very good. You have my blessing, child. Now get up. You may go. We shall give you some water and some fruit before you leave.”
“Thank you, Father.” Annunziata got to her feet and walked back around the abbot’s desk. She crossed to the door.
“Oh, Annunziata,” said Father Ignazio, as if an afterthought had struck him.
She turned. “Yes?”
“Confession is always good for the soul, but I think that on this occasion I am free to tell you something that you appear not to know.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“You are obviously very much in love with Silvio.”
She said nothing but reddened slightly.
“I think it may help if you understand why Silvio went to America.”
“My father needed a companion.”
“Yes, but it was more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Father Ignazio put on his best smile. “This will come as a shock, my dear, but, you see, Silvio asked to go. He wanted to go. I’m not an expert on these matters, but doesn’t that suggest he never loved you?”
Silvio bit into a banana and gazed across the river. When he had heard they were going to live on a boat, he had been as doubtful as Nino, but after his first night he was beginning to change his mind. It was not exactly luxurious, yet it did have more space than most living areas in the French Quarter, and the view couldn’t be bettered.
There were now three of them, Nino, Silvio, and a man of about twenty-five, called Garcia Furci, tall, with crinkly black hair and huge, strong hands. Garcia was to work nights. Silvio would protect Nino during the day, but at night, while they slept, they both needed a bodyguard. Garcia was a Sicilian from Trapani but had been in New Orleans for five years and spoke passable English. Having been one of Priola’s own bodyguards, he was not overjoyed with his new assignment. Still, he knew better than to question it.
Silvio and Garcia were sitting together on the small deck. There was a bowl of fruit between them, and two mugs of coffee, brewed by Garcia. Nino had not yet appeared, though it was already eight-thirty.
“How long do you think this business will take?” Garcia asked. He had put his gun on the table.
So Garcia knew about the plan. Silvio wondered how many others knew. “It’s early days,” he replied. “And I don’t ask Nino what he’s thinking. He keeps his thoughts to himself until it’s time to go. What’s the English for ‘river’?”
Garcia stared at him. “I’m not a fucking schoolteacher,” he growled.
Silvio shrugged. “How long did it take you to learn the language?”
“A couple of years. I began working in a shop, a grocery store run by an Italian. I swept up, but I could listen. You find it comes if you’re a good listener.”
“I need to learn, and fast,” Silvio said.
“There is a school, you know, on Claiborne Street. A lot of immigrants go there. But it costs money.”
Silvio reflected that he was being paid now. At least he assumed he was. Nino had been given that bundle of notes by Nogare. He, Silvio, must remind Nino to give him his share. Tricky.
Garcia finished his coffee. “Time for me to go. When shall I come back?”
Silvio weighed the question. “Around eleven. Not before. I’m not sure what’s going to happen today. This is our first proper day as … well, on this boat.”
Garcia got up. “Eleven it is, then. Ciao.” He climbed down from the lugger, onto the small jetty where the boat was moored. He was soon out of sight.
The minute he had gone, Nino appeared. “Make me some coffee,” he said gruffly as he sat down and reached for some fruit.
Sono schiavo? Am I a slave? Silvio asked himself, not for the first time. But he did as he was told. When he came back, and placed the coffee in front of Nino, the older man grabbed his wrist. “Silvio,” he hissed menacingly, “we need to talk. Freshen your own coffee and come back. Be quick!”
Silvio was back in no time. He sat down across the table from Nino.
Nino swallowed what was left of Silvio’s banana. “So, the first part is finished. We’re in America, without being caught. We have a job and some cash. Therefore, my friend, it’s time for a little plain speaking. Listen. You are a child no longer, and pretty soon we’re going to find out just how much of a man you are. Killing the Mancuso boy was easy compared to this job. How’s your arm?”
“It’s mending.”
Nino drummed his fingers on his lips. After a while he turned to Silvio, frowning. “The first thing for you to learn is this: Trust no one who is not part of our family. Brains, balls—and blood, remember? Priola is family, Nogare is not. Anna-Maria is family, Garcia is not. Never, and I mean never, discuss our plans with anyone who is not family. If Garcia asks you again, just say it is family business. He will understand.”
Nino paused, then said quietly, “Second, never discuss our plans with anyone unless I am present. In anything we do, only you and I will know. We will both know everything and we will both know exactly the same. Two heads are better than one. That way, mistakes might be avoided. If anyone tells you anything that seems relevant, and I am not there, you can never know if it’s a device to drive a wedge between us. So you ask them to repeat it to me, in your presence. Clear?”
Silvio nodded, though he thought Nino was being hard on him.
“This is going to get rough, Silvio, before it goes away, if it ever goes away. I’m not cock’s-blooding you. Believe me, before it’s over you’re going to need someone to rely on—and we only have each other.”
He paused again.
“Third, I’m going to teach you about explosives. I don’t know yet exactly how we will hit Cataldo, but explosives will be used. I’m relying on you, Silvio, not because you’ve come to America with me, and because we’ve shared … well, you know what we’ve shared. I’m relying on you because you are family. A blood relation. I repeat: never trust anyone who is not family, no matter how reliable they appear. If they are not family, you can be sure they will have some other member of their own family they are being loyal to, before you. Always remember that.”
Nino drank his coffee slowly. “One last thing. Although you are family, Annunziata is my daughter, my flesh. I know all about the two of you. Put her out of your mind. She’s your cousin and you can never have her.”
He made a fist, then uncurled one finger and pointed it at Silvio, very close to his face. “This is not cock’s blood either. If I find out at any time that there’s anything between you and Annunziata, I shall kill you more easily than I kill Giancarlo.”
Over the next days Silvio saw a side to Nino that he’d only glimpsed once, on
board the Syracusa before the fight with the Orestanos. Nino stopped drinking, he forgot his food, and although he traveled about New Orleans at great speed and seemed relaxed, he retreated into himself.
The explosives proved less of a problem than they had thought. Priola’s employees reported that an entire shipload had arrived from Lisbon and was awaiting onward passage up the Mississippi to Memphis, for railroad blasting. A favor was called in, and the dynamite appeared in the lugger late one night.
Giancarlo Cataldo himself presented greater difficulties. He appeared to spend most of his days on the wharves. He spent his nights, five out of six, at Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall, where he had dinner followed by a woman. But Silvio and Nino also noticed that Lulu White’s was heavily guarded when Giancarlo was there. Giancarlo had two bodyguards, and each was armed.
On the few nights Giancarlo wasn’t there, he was home with his brother, his brother’s wife and children, on Burgundy, near Hospital. He was heavily guarded there, too.
But it was this schedule that made Nino so thoughtful. Giancarlo might be heavily guarded but he was a man of routine.
After nearly two weeks Priola asked to see them and they met, as before, in the office on Picayune Pier. Nino reported no progress but said he wasn’t worried. It had taken him three weeks to arrange the Palermo-docks job. Priola was slightly more bothered because he said he had heard that another fire was already planned for one of his piers. The hit on Giancarlo couldn’t be put off forever. “I thought you were a fox, Nino,” he growled. “Show your cunning.”
The breakthrough came, ironically enough, in the most heavily guarded place after the wharves themselves—at Lulu White’s. Assiduous reconnaissance by Silvio established that Giancarlo always arrived late, ate dinner around ten, with huge amounts of wine, then retired upstairs with one of the girls, always to the same room. After an hour of exertions, according to the gossip, he usually passed out, and the girl came downstairs again. Giancarlo therefore spent several hours, alone and unconscious, in that one room. The guards remained in position downstairs, in the saloon and outside. If some way could be found of getting into the right room beforehand, without being noticed, Nino and Silvio would have a chance.