by Peter Watson
Priola, Nino, and Silvio knew this was only a temporary peace. The Cataldos would regroup and try to hit back, but meanwhile the vast mass of Sicilians in New Orleans, who did the bulk of the unloading and loading on the wharves, were now more afraid of Priola and Nino than of Cataldo. That was all that counted, at least for the moment.
Priola had been as good as his word. Nino and Silvio had been given control of the wharves, a small cut of the turnover, and free use of the brothels that were under Priola control: Madge Leigh’s, Sally Levy’s, and Frankie Belmont’s. They had money in their pockets, new suits made to measure by Rocco Chivasso, and the respect of the men on the piers. In the eleven months they had been in America, they had picked up a lot of English. Silvio’s teacher was a quadroon girl at Madge Leigh’s whom he was becoming fond of. With her help he was also learning to read.
For Silvio, the only shadows in this existence were his thoughts of Annunziata. He had slipped into an easy relationship with Anna-Maria. She came to the lugger every Tuesday afternoon and they fucked for a couple of hours. She also read to him. He found he was interested in the books she had. He liked hearing about Paris and London and the Italy of the Renaissance. Other people, other times, could be so different and yet the same. It was fascinating and, in some strange way, comforting. His mother had liked reading; he remembered that now. There was little chance of Angelo finding out about Anna-Maria and Silvio; Tuesday afternoons he took confession, regular as clockwork, then played cards. Although Anna-Maria was not beautiful, Silvio had come to like the way she looked. She moved so well and enjoyed sex so much that he could really relax with her. Their Tuesday-afternoon sessions were perfectly satisfying in an uncomplicated way—cleansing almost. On the other hand, his love for Annunziata—lovely, unattainable, chaste Annunziata—was idealized.
The problem had been that his existence in New Orleans had grown settled. He was earning money, more than enough of it. Caricato, as they said in Sicily. Loaded. He had friends and acquaintances, far more than he ever had in Sicily, and he was only just nineteen. After the kidnapping he became Priola’s favorite. He was even allowed to address him as Angelo.
The solution was clear: if he was to have Annunziata he would have to give up New Orleans, the wharves, Madge Leigh’s, Anna-Maria, Rocco Chivasso’s suits. He would have to find another town and start again. He simply didn’t know if he could do that on his own, without Nino or Priola.
And then, one day in April, Nino had casually given him the news that Annunziata had been married the month before.
Nino hadn’t been able to keep a smirk of triumph off his face. “I’m not cock’s-blooding you,” he said.
Silvio tried not to show any reaction at all. At first he refused to believe it. Despite his own muddle, he had been so certain of Annunziata’s love for him. Especially after she had given him the ring. He had been in America less than a year and already their pact had dissolved into nothing. He had been unfaithful, and Annunziata had married.
Silvio had of course asked Nino whom Annunziata had married and been disappointed when he found out it was Gino Alcamo. Gino was a good rider, a good shot, cunning and excitable. But he was not a leader, and therefore nowhere near good enough for Annunziata. Yet she had sacrificed her virginity to him.
Silvio went on a drinking binge after that, sating himself on the girls at Madge Leigh’s. For a few days, he even succumbed to the oblivion of absinthe. Then, after allowing himself several sober days of reflection, he tried to get word to Annunziata. Madeleine, the quadroon at Madge Leigh’s who was teaching him to read, could also write. He told her what to say, in a letter, to ask Annunziata why she had gotten married, why she hadn’t waited. He was too proud to describe his own feelings and in that way he knew the letter was incomplete. But in a way it didn’t matter, because he had never received a reply. It took him several months to realize that no letter was coming. Once he did, he stopped carrying her ring. And he hadn’t carried it since.
Silvio’s only consolation was that he now didn’t need to leave New Orleans. He could enjoy the pleasures of the city without any shadow hanging over him. He could put Annunziata behind him forever. He would never go back to Sicily, not now. It had all happened as Anna-Maria had predicted.
He was further comforted by the fact that, as it turned out, he had quite a good business brain. Perhaps it was because Nino and he now received a small share of the take at the wharves, but he began to develop a keen eye for the goods that shifted most quickly, and for which demand was growing. That was why he was at the market today. Sometimes a chance remark or encounter could be a useful guide to the fluctuations in trade. He had been in the French Market when he first heard a woman ask for oranges “but not blood oranges.” These, of course, were the very red oranges that came from Italy, the ones Nino thought symbolized their way of life. “Even the oranges bleed in Sicily,” he had once said. But they were clearly unpopular in America. It was difficult for a Sicilian to admit so much to himself, but Silvio wasn’t sentimental. He made a recommendation to Vito, the foreman of the roustabouts, who then made a recommendation to the shippers, that blood oranges be avoided. As a result, their turnover in oranges last month had risen by twelve percent. In the French Market on another occasion he overheard a vendor shouting the praises of “European apples.” Again, Silvio advised Vito to reduce their intake of South American apples and import more from Spain, France, and England. The turnover of apples had since improved by seven percent. Priola and Nino were delighted and now Silvio had three tailor-made suits.
Silvio could read numbers, and simple arithmetic was no longer a problem. He could also read all the signs and notices in the French Market. He knew from those when the itinerant dentist was expected. He had never needed him—not yet—but he sometimes enjoyed watching the show. He still couldn’t read the bulk of the body type of the Daily Picayune or The Delta or The Mascot, though he could decipher most of the headlines.
All in all, apart from the news about Annunziata, life was good. He was no longer a clumsy virgin. He had learned to become a proper lover who could give pleasure to women as well as himself. Quadroons, he had found, were special. They were languid, voluptuous, succulent. They never made you feel you were paying for it. Their skin—a pale caffe latte—and their dark hair and eyes were a distinctive mix. Quadroons were of mainly European descent, but had one Negro grandparent. Madeleine, like Anna-Maria, was a few years older than Silvio, but unlike Anna-Maria, and although she was a whore, Madeleine managed to convey the impression that she was an innocent. She appeared genuinely fond of Silvio and let him do anything with her. He wouldn’t marry Madeleine; he wouldn’t even be faithful. But for a while she consoled him while he got over Annunziata.
“You gonna stan’ there all day?”
Silvio realized that his mind had wandered. A big black woman, her arms full of peaches, was bearing down on him and he was blocking the way. He moved to one side, to the edge of the covered part of the market. As he did so he noticed a stack of crates of rotting fruit, which had been moved out into the rain.
“What are those?” he asked the vendor at the nearest stall.
“Shaddock,” said the woman. “Can’t give it away these days. That’s the last lot I’m buying.”
Silvio made a mental note to mention this to Vito. He had no idea why tastes changed. Sometimes there was an explanation, often there wasn’t. But that tastes changed there was no doubt.
He looked at the shaddock, the large round fruit pale and pathetic in the rain. Then he looked at the rain, which was falling so hard the drops bounced back up again when they hit the ground. But he couldn’t avoid the weather any longer. He had a rendezvous with Anna-Maria.
Anna-Maria put down the book. “That’s enough about London for now,” she said. “This Dickens is a bit gloomy, don’t you think?” She pulled a sheet around her and took two cigarettes from her silver box. She passed one to Silvio and lit them both.
“I count you as one
of my successes,” she said, blowing smoke into the room. “When I met you on the Syracusa, you didn’t know what to do. Now I love our afternoons. Fucking and reading, smoking and fucking.”
“Who taught you?” replied Silvio. He enjoyed these lazy afternoons on the lugger just as much as he enjoyed his times with Madeleine. The bodies of the two women were very different, but that, surely, was the point.
“Never you mind. An older man, of course. But that’s not saying much. I was fifteen.” She exhaled more cigarette smoke. “Am I better than your quadroon?”
Silvio stopped smoking, and blushed. Concime! Horseshit! “How did you know about her?”
“Silvio! My father owns the place.” She turned on her side, to look at him. “Well … is she good?”
“You’re not jealous, I hope.”
“I am if she’s better than me.”
“She’s not better. Just … different.”
“How? Tell me.”
Silvio got out of bed and, totally naked, stood looking out of the window of the lugger, across the river toward Algiers, the town on the other bank. He watched as a steamboat put out from the wharf where it had been tied up, bow end on. Steamboats left at all times, but now, around four o’clock in the afternoon, was the favored hour for many of them. If they left now they arrived at Baton Rouge, the next town of any size upriver, in time for breakfast. It always took the boats a few minutes to get up their full head of steam and in the meantime the boat was swept downriver on the current. The exercise could not be performed at the wharves because from time to time steamboat engines blew up. Only when it was almost out of sight around the bend did the boat start to make headway.
“Silvio, tell me. How is the quadroon different?”
Sono sposo? Silvio asked himself. Am I a husband? Do I have to explain? He knew he had to be careful. That much was instinctive. The last thing he wanted was for Anna-Maria to be jealous of Madeleine. The truth was he liked them both and wanted the arrangement to continue. Anna-Maria had a firmer body and was more adventurous in bed, often taking the initiative. Madeleine was more languid, more pliable, her body softer, juicier. Where Anna-Maria was a leader, Madeleine was a slave. To say all that might change Anna-Maria forever. But he had to give an answer of some sort.
“She’s there. I only see you once a week. I don’t pay you, I pay her. She makes no demands.”
“And I do?”
“No! No.” He was mishandling this. “No, you don’t. But … you’re more of a personality, more forceful. You’re more invigorating. She’s more … relaxing, I suppose.”
“And which do you prefer?”
Christ, Anna-Maria wasn’t giving up. But he knew he had to be firm. He was learning how to deal with women. “I like both, Anna-Maria. I need both.” He turned to face her. “When you think of that first man you had, what feeling comes over you?”
She smiled. “Ah! The first is always special. In some ways the best.”
“Exactly. Never forget that you were my first.”
That, he could see, had pleased her. She threw back the sheet and beckoned to him. “Come here. I’ve thought of something that will really invigorate you.”
He went toward her, but at that moment heard footsteps and movement outside. There was a sense of urgency about the noise and he quickly reached for his gun, in his jacket pocket.
There was a knock on the door. Three rapid taps.
“Yes?”
“It’s Gaspero,” said the voice. He was one of the senior roustabouts. “Sorry to disturb you, Silvio, but Nino sent me. You have to come right away. It’s urgent. Vito’s been stabbed. He’s dead.”
Ten minutes later Silvio was looking at the body. Vito had been garroted. There was a piece of wire around his throat, the traditional Sicilian method. The weapon had been left with the body, to show that the killer was also Sicilian. This was a vendetta killing.
“Where was the body found?” Silvio asked.
“In the hold of the Goya.”
Silvio understood. Vito’s killing achieved two things. Most immediately, it scared the management of the Spanish company that owned the Goya. They didn’t want this kind of trouble, and in the future they would almost certainly use wharves owned by companies other than the Priola piers. Equally, the location of the killing showed that the Cataldos had infiltrated the Priola gangs. From now on, no one on the Priola wharves could trust anyone else.
Nino turned to Gaspero. He drummed his fingers on his lips. “What family did Vito have?”
“A wife, two boys.”
“Give the wife this.” Nino handed Gaspero a roll of dollars. “It will pay for the funeral and more. Ask her to come to me when the funeral is over. And make sure it’s not too elaborate. We don’t want to draw attention to this. We’ll settle it our own way.” He turned to Silvio. “Come with me.”
He led the way up the boards of the wharf to the top of the levee, then set out along a path that ran the length of the raised bank.
It was the custom in the evening for New Orleans people to promenade along the levee, taking the air, nodding to other walkers they knew. In the case of Nino and Silvio, they were accompanied at a distance by two other men, their bodyguards.
They headed south toward the Mint and the Pontchartrain railroad. To their right, across the river, the lights of Algiers were just appearing.
“It would have taken at least three people to overpower Vito,” said Nino. “It must have happened quickly, or he would have called out.”
“Do we tell Angelo?” asked Silvio.
“No, not yet. He will only say he’s paying us for protection. Now we have to earn it. How many men can we count on?”
“A hundred and fifty in each shift. Say four to five hundred.”
Nino stopped and looked at Silvio. “How do we find the Cataldos?”
Silvio bent and picked up an oyster shell from the path. He threw it into the river. “There’s only one way.”
“How?”
Silvio picked up another shell and sent it after the first. “We have to set a trap, with bait.”
Nino nodded, understanding immediately. “Me.”
“No.”
Nino looked surprised. “Who then?”
Silvio threw a third shell. “You are the better killer. The bait will be me.”
They resumed their walk. At length Nino said, “I’m not sure I can let you take that risk.”
“Give me a better idea, then.”
More silence. Then Nino said, “Let’s think of a plan first. Then decide who plays which part.”
But Silvio had already been thinking. “We have to choose a time when normally we follow a routine. That’s when they’ll come for us. Now, I see Madeleine every afternoon when I’m not seeing Anna-Maria. But I’m always guarded on these occasions, and in both places, the lugger and Madge Leigh’s. It would be difficult for a killer to get away. The same applies to you at Lombardo’s. You have your shave every day, but you’re always guarded.”
They walked on for another hour, passing the Cotton Press and the Tobacco Press, tossing ideas back and forth. Any change of behavior on their part, they decided, would look suspicious and be ignored by the Cataldos. And they couldn’t suddenly get rid of their bodyguards. They returned to the lugger with no plan formulated.
Over the next week three more Priola roustabouts were killed, garroted like Vito. Angelo Priola sent word that he was aware of the trouble and wanted it handled quickly, before it got out of hand. But still no plan emerged.
Then, two nights later, while he was watching Eugene Michael’s Cabbage Band at Mary O’Brien’s, Silvio observed two men gambling at the tables. They suddenly got into a ferocious argument. One accused the other of cheating and would not be placated. He threatened the other man with all manner of brutality if he didn’t receive immediate repayment and an apology. The other fighter was in fact far too drunk to apologize to anyone, and both men were put out by the bouncers on the door.
&nbs
p; When Silvio reached the lugger that night, he found that another Priola roustabout had been garroted.
As Silvio walked down the wharf and stepped onto the gangway to the lugger, Gaspero tried to stop him. “It would be better if you hold on here for a while.”
“Why?” Silvio said belligerently. “Sono disoccupato? Have I been fired? I’m tired. I live here. And I need a drink—”
“Just accept what I say. Get lost for a while.”
Silvio stared at him. Then, quietly, he muttered, “Get out of my way.”
Gaspero didn’t move.
Silvio’s hands clenched. “Get out of my way. I won’t say it again.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Gaspero shrugged and stepped aside.
Silvio trudged up the plank. He stepped on deck, threw open the door to his bedroom—and stopped. Two figures in the bed turned to face him. One was Madeleine. The other was Nino.
Silvio just stood there, so that Nino was the first to speak. “Silvio, listen. Listen to an older man. She’s just a whore. I know you had a soft spot for her but—” He stopped as Silvio reached into his jacket pocket and took out his pistol.
“She may be a whore,” Silvio hissed through clenched teeth, “but she’s my whore.” He turned to Madeleine. “And that’s my bed!”
Madeleine looked crushed. “Silvio, I ain’t been here befo’. Yo’ never brought me. He said it was his room. I swear.”
Silvio turned back to Nino. “What is this?” he screamed. “A game? Fucking my woman in my bed. You sick? Pazzo? Are you mad? You got some problem with me? You wanna fuck all my women, Nino? All of them? What is it? What is it with you?” He suddenly leveled his gun at the other man. “Come on! What is it?”
But Nino wasn’t intimidated. He smirked at Silvio. “She’s just a whore, kid. Don’t get too attached. You gotta learn. Be like a man. She fucks for money. She’s a three-dollar whore, not even a five.”