by Peter Watson
They decided to take it in turns. Nino would go with a woman one night, Silvio the next. However, they took their women upstairs a good hour and a half before Giancarlo arrived. As a result, they were back downstairs half an hour before he showed up.
There were fifteen rooms upstairs at Lulu’s and it was not until six nights had elapsed that Silvio, who was “on duty” that evening, was finally taken to the room that Giancarlo used. Inside, it was very basic—a bed, a chair, a mirror on the wall, a washstand with a china basin, and a couple of towels. The only refinements were a bedside lamp with a red shade, which gave the room a warmish glow, and a rug.
Silvio’s problem, now that he was actually in the room, was to get the girl out again so he could be alone there for a few minutes. He had given some thought to this. After he had taken off his shoes and his shirt, he smiled at the girl, reached into his pocket, and took out some money.
“I feel lucky tonight,” he said, trying out a phrase he’d heard often enough.
She was a tall girl, blond. She smiled back.
Silvio held out ten dollars. “You make three plays for me. Roulette table. Your three lucky numbers, okay? I lose, you come back and make me happy. I win, you buy champagne, we drink it together.”
After the many nights spent at Lulu White’s among the girls and the punters, Silvio had by now picked up some English. He found he could understand much of what was said, even though he couldn’t speak more than a few words himself.
The girl took the money. “Yo’ sure yo’ got enough to pay me if yo’ lose?”
He dipped into his pocket again, brandished more bills in front of her nose.
She appeared mollified. “Ah gon’ look forward to that champagne.” And she left the room.
Immediately, Silvio crossed to the window and threw it open. It overlooked a dingy alley that Nino and he had reconnoitered. There was never any guard here, only at the main door to the whorehouse and at the foot of the stairs, inside.
“Nino!” he called softly, peering into the gloom.
“Here,” a voice responded.
Quickly, Silvio unwound the thin rope that was wrapped several times around his waist. He lowered the rope to the ground, retaining hold of one end.
Nino moved out of the shadows, grasped the other end of the rope, and started to tie something on it. Then he tugged the rope twice, and Silvio began hauling it back up. As he pulled, a bundle of dynamite came into view. Now came the tricky part. Nino and he had studied the beds at Lulu’s and they were all the same, built the same and laid out the same. The base of each bed was about a foot off the ground, and large lace covers hung down over the sides of the mattress, reaching almost to the floor.
Nino had designed a package of dynamite sticks that could be slid under the mattress. The most difficult part was hiding the fuse, a long black wire that had to be led from the explosive around the edge of the room, under the carpet to the window, up the wall and outside, down to where Nino was waiting. To help conceal it, Silvio moved the chair from the bedside and placed it by the window. He was able to hide another part of the wire behind the washstand, but there was no escaping the fact that a length of wire that led from the carpet to the washstand was clearly visible. They would just have to hope that Giancarlo arrived tonight too drunk to register anything other than the woman with whom he was about to pleasure himself.
When the wire was hidden as well as it could be, Silvio flopped down on the bed. What a bonus it would be if, on top of killing Giancarlo, they should also win at the tables.
The blond girl returned to the room just two minutes later—empty-handed and glum. She shook her head. “No luck, honey. ’N’ ah was sho’ lookin’ forward to the champagne.”
“What about me? I lose ten dollar. Allora, take … your clothes off.”
Would the girl spot the wire? She was far from drunk and she seemed to be staring at it right now. But then she turned, took off her shoes, hoisted her dress over her head, stepped out of her underwear, and sat on the bed. She put her hand on the inside of Silvio’s thigh and smiled. Immediately aroused, he began to unbutton his trousers.
He thought of Anna-Maria. Wait till he told her he had fucked someone lying on a bed of dynamite.
Slowly, Silvio was acquiring a taste for whiskey. He was standing at the bar of Lulu White’s, discreetly watching Giancarlo. In the last three quarters of an hour, Silvio had downed three shots of Jack Daniel’s; if he wasn’t careful he would soon be drunker than the man he was supposed to be keeping an eye on. Sborniato, as they said in Sicily. Pissed. Drunk as the wind. He asked the barman for a glass of water.
Giancarlo Cataldo was a big man in a small frame. He had a wide mouth, a flat nose, and dark, receding hair. But his eyes were large and missed nothing—Silvio had to be careful that his quarry did not notice he was being watched.
Cataldo had arrived in Lulu White’s about an hour before and had been playing cards ever since, getting steadily drunker. He drank wine, and by Silvio’s reckoning was already on his third bottle. His voice had grown louder, he laughed more readily at the jokes told by others at the table. Despite the booze, he seemed to be winning the game.
Silvio was growing nervous. About ten minutes before, Cataldo had looked around the room and beckoned to a girl. His chosen companion for the night was thin, with large breasts. She went over to him, bent down to listen as he said something in her ear, and then disappeared. If previous evenings were anything to go by, he had just ordered dinner, which would be served upstairs, by the girl. Sure enough, a few minutes later the game broke up and Cataldo rose and walked toward the door. This was normal, too; he would converse with his bodyguard outside for a few moments, then retrace his steps to the staircase at the back of the room. Silvio was able to keep his back turned the whole time during this chain of events: he could follow Giancarlo’s movements in the mirror on the wall behind the bar.
Cataldo stuck to his routine, climbing the stairs slowly, taking the remains of the wine with him, holding the bottle by the neck. At the top of the stairs he turned to his left, then left again, back along the gallery, stopping at the third door on the right. He was behaving exactly as he should do. A few moments later the girl reappeared, carrying a tray with food on it.
Silvio now knew he would have the most nerve-racking wait of his life. In theory they could have blown up the room right there and then, as soon as Cataldo was inside it. Once the explosives were detonated, anyone near the bed would be killed; and swift action would minimize the risk of Giancarlo spotting the telltale wire. But that would kill the girl, too, and although Nino hadn’t been too bothered about that, Silvio had dissuaded him. It was pointless to make more enemies in New Orleans than they needed. If it ever got out that they had killed one of Lulu White’s girls, they would have two sets of enemies and have all the whorehouses in the city closed to them. Even Nino didn’t want that.
So now Silvio had to wait for Giancarlo to eat his dinner, fuck the girl, and then pass out. As soon as she reappeared, the plan could go into action.
Half an hour passed, three quarters, an hour. Silvio grew restless. If past evenings were anything to go by, the girl should be emerging any minute now. But so far there was no sign of her.
The bar was as busy as ever. Mahogany Hall had a new band, led by the cornetist Theogene Baquet. In the early part of the evenings Baquet played in the Lyre Club Symphony Orchestra, but after ten-thirty he could be seen here at Lulu White’s with his smaller Excelsior group, playing altogether hotter music.
Silvio’s attention was drawn by Baquet’s fingering of the cornet and for a moment he didn’t notice that a girl—the girl?—was standing by his side. He had missed her exit from the room. Or had he? She was thin, with large breasts, but on reflection he couldn’t be sure it was the same girl. He thought it was, but … The whole plan could founder on any miscalculation on his part. Nino would never forgive him, nor Priola, nor Anna-Maria. He had to settle this.
He leane
d toward the girl. “Buy you a drink?”
She looked at him. “Sho’,” she said, “but don’ expect to go upstairs right away, honey. Ah only just come down ’n’ ah need a drink.” She signaled the barman to bring her a beer.
Her reply almost settled it for Silvio, but not quite. Although he understood her words, he could not be absolutely certain this was the girl he had seen go with Giancarlo, and until he was certain, nothing could happen. He began to panic but he couldn’t ask her outright if she had been with Giancarlo. His questions would be recalled later, once the explosion had occurred. If it did occur.
The girl looked at him, and raised her glass. “Thanks, handsome.” She swallowed. “What’s yo’ name?”
“Silvio.”
“Yo’ accent is—”
“Sicilian.”
She nodded. “Thought so. That Cataldo is Sicilian, too. D’yo’ know him?”
Silvio shook his head.
“He’s very generous. Yo’ generous?”
Sono munifico? Silvio wondered. Am I generous? He’d never had enough money even to pose the question. But his doubts had been resolved. She was Cataldo’s whore. Yet he couldn’t just cut off the conversation. He would draw attention to himself, and that would be remarked upon later.
“How much this Cataldo pay you?”
“Five dollars.”
“I don’t have five dollars—but I go get it. You wait here?”
“Don’ worry, yo’ bet’ lookin,’ ’n’ younger. Yo’ can have it fer three.”
“I only got two.” Please don’t let her do it for two.
“Two’s kinda insultin’, sir. If yo’ wan’ to come back.”
“Okay. Wait here. Back in five minutes. Three dollars, okay?”
She nodded. “Ah’ll nurse mah beer fer ten minutes. But no mo’. Yo’ ain’t that han’some.”
Relieved, he went out. He turned right out of the main entrance, rummaging in his pocket for cigarettes. At the edge of the building, he stopped, took out a match, struck it, and lit his cigarette. He waited a moment, puffing to make sure it was going. This was the signal to Nino, hidden in the alleyway at the side of Lulu White’s—the signal that he could go ahead. When Silvio was sure his cigarette was lit, he sauntered off in the direction of Royal Street, toward the river.
Their plan was carefully timed. Nino would count to two hundred. By then, Silvio would be two and a half blocks away, near the corner of Chartres and CustomHouse Street, where Priola was playing cards.
Silvio passed Dauphine and Bourbon streets. At Royal he crossed to the other side of the roadway. At the junction of CustomHouse and Chartres he paused. In this area there were many balconies. He stopped under one of them and leaned on the metal pole supporting it. He looked for all the world as though he were enjoying his cigarette and taking the evening air.
Giancarlo Cataldo turned on the mattress and puffed the pillow. He groaned. He was fucking tired. There were some men, he knew, who were as stiff as a ripe banana skin after a few drinks, but he’d never had that problem. That whore tonight, for instance, had had trouble accommodating him at first, he was so big. A little more whiskey had done the trick. They had rutted like water rats after that, fucking to a standstill. Then they had finished the bottle, before she left.
Whiskey, he thought. It ran through him. He turned again on the mattress. He wanted to sleep—Christ, how he wanted to sleep—but right now he needed to take a leak even more. He swore under his breath.
Groaning, he heaved himself off the bed. There was a bucket in the corner and, naked, he crossed the room. He lifted the bucket and held it next to his thighs. Murmuring in pleasure, he voided his bladder. He placed the bucket back on the floor and turned back to bed. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something he had never seen in this room before—it looked like a wire. His eye followed it. One end led from the carpet under the bed, the other end led up the wall and out the window. He frowned. What was this?
He knelt down and peered under the mattress.
The explosion separated Giancarlo’s head from his body at the neck. His right arm was also dismembered and on the wall behind him blood, urine, and soot disfigured the wallpaper in a huge, vivid spray. Fluff from the mattress clung to any wet or sticky surfaces and the bucket was mangled virtually beyond recognition.
When people from downstairs eventually plucked up courage to venture into the remains of the room, they discovered that the body hair on Giancarlo’s skin was all scorched. And his flesh smelled as if it had been cooked. His penis was never found.
“Nino, I want you to meet my tailor, Rocco Chivasso. Not a Sicilian but the next best thing, Milanese.” Priola made the two men shake hands. “You, too, Silvio.”
Priola ushered the tailor to the door. “Rocco, I’ll be sending these two to you in a coupla days. Look after them, will you?”
“Certainly, Mr. Priola. It will be a pleasure.” As he went out he closed the door behind him.
Priola turned back. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. Please. I thought it would be more comfortable, and more private, to meet here at my house than on the waterfront.” He took out a bundle of notes and threw it at Nino. “Five hundred. Give the kid what you think he’s worth. And keep anything Giovanni gave you for expenses.”
Priola was obviously highly delighted with the events of the previous evening. “You did well, Nino. You, too, kid. That plan was so neat, so foxy. A real pro’s job, hitting the one guy, no mess, no one else involved. I can quietly repay Lulu White for damage to her property. Very good. I’m very pleased. Ah, here’s Giovanni.”
Giovanni Nogare had let himself in without even knocking. He alone, it seemed, had that privilege.
“Giovanni,” Priola said. “I’ve paid our … lieutenants here. A job well done. What have you heard?”
This morning Nogare looked as though he had just come from his own tailor. He was so spick-and-span he could easily have been mistaken for a lawyer or a banker or an accountant.
“The sbirri have rounded up a bunch of Sicilians. Some are our men, some are theirs. But Cataldo was Sicilian and the police are mainly Irish, so they don’t give a damn for Italians in general and Sicilians in particular. They know who Cataldo was and that he wasn’t exactly the Virgin Mary. They are probably saying ‘Good riddance.’ They figure it was some sort of vendetta to do with the docks and, since no one else was injured, don’t see the need to get any more involved. As for the Cataldos, there’s a meeting going on at their wharves right now. They know it’s us who hit them, but they don’t know who, exactly. Lulu White is livid that her premises were hit but grateful we spared her girls. So long as we repay her for the damage, and maybe push some extra business her way, she won’t cause trouble. The most important thing is that these rains are causing the river to rise.”
Nino and Silvio looked at each other in amazement. What relevance did that have?
Priola observed their bewilderment. “If it goes on raining to the point where the river breaks the levees, all manpower—army, police, fire brigade, and any able-bodied volunteers—will be occupied trying to repair the levees so that the damage is confined. The police will forget all about this foxy little killing. Pray for more rain.”
“The real problem,” said Nogare, “is what to do next. At some point the Cataldos are sure to retaliate, so do we offer to negotiate before they can organize themselves?”
“Who do we negotiate with?” asked Priola.
“Cataldo’s brother.” Nogare, who had been standing, finally sat down. “Who is a lot less cunning.”
“What’s our best way of making contact with him?”
“You don’t.”
There was silence in the room. No one had expected Silvio to speak unless spoken to.
Nogare turned on him. “Look, kid—”
“No, no,” interjected Priola. “Let him have his say.” He turned to Silvio and waited.
Sono sciacco? Silvio asked himself. Am I a fool? He wasn’t sure e
xactly why he had spoken up, except that he saw the situation quite clearly. He knew what to do. “You’ll get better terms if he comes to you, rather than the other way around.”
“What makes you think he’ll come to us?”
“He won’t. You have to persuade him.”
“And how do we do that?”
“Hit him again.”
Again there was silence in the room. Priola exchanged glances with Nino and Nogare, then said softly, “Go on, kid.”
“One hit signals we’re fighting back after the knocks you have taken. But that’s all. The fight here is not just for physical control of the wharves, but for the power over the minds of the men who unload the ships. All Sicilians. Therefore, you should do two things, both of which Nino taught me.”
Nino sat up and looked harder at Silvio. Silvio looked right back at him.
“The first thing he taught me is to hit hard when you hit. We should try something even more spectacular than last night’s job. The second thing is that at the same time we should give the ordinary men on the wharves a reward for being with us.”
Priola rose, walked to the bar, poured four whiskeys, and handed them around. “I’m still listening.”
“We have to act very quickly, for maximum effect. What I would do is kidnap one of Alfredo Cataldo’s children.”
The others were shocked. But Silvio knew they were also impressed.
“How would we get near him?” Nogare asked. “They’re watched the whole time.”
“How old are the children? They must be taken on walks, when they’re surrounded by relatively few people.”
Priola was nodding. “I like it. If they find their child has been taken by Nino, they’ll be terrified of receiving an interesting body part in the mail. Yes”—now he was smiling—“it could work.”