by Peter Watson
“My bed, Nino. Why my bed? And don’t call me a goddamn kid!”
“It ain’t your bed. You work for me! You forgot that, didn’t you? You do as I tell you, kid, and if I wanna fuck your whore in your bed, you gotta swallow it. This is my boat, my boat. Get that clear.” He pointed a finger. “You been getting above yourself lately, kid, ringalluzitto, cocky, making all these business suggestions to Vito and Angelo. As if you were thinking, maybe, of taking over from me—”
The rest of their exchange was cut off from those watching and listening on the wharf as Silvio stepped inside the room and kicked the door shut behind him.
Gaspero held his breath. What Nino said was true; Madeleine was a puttana. At the same time everyone knew that she was Silvio’s. As for Madeleine, she had to make a living. What would happen now? Maybe it was true that Silvio wanted to oust Nino. He was an ambitious kid, and bright. Everyone could see that.
Gaspero listened for gunfire but all he heard at first was more shouting. Then, suddenly, there was a huge crashing sound, as if furniture was being thrown around. Had Nino made a dive for Silvio? The lugger began to rock in the water as the two men rolled around inside the bedroom. There were more shouts and squeals from Madeleine. It sounded as if more furniture had hit the deck. Then the door opened again and this time Madeleine ran out, half-naked. She rushed down the gangplank and up the wharf, still screaming, clutching her clothes. A small crowd began to gather.
The shouting and cursing and crashing went on for some time. At one point a chair was thrown through a window, sending shards of glass everywhere. Gaspero winked at the bodyguard. This was one hell of a fight. Una zuffa zaffe, trading punch for punch.
At last, the sounds stopped and there was utter silence from the lugger. Was someone dead? Were they both dead? A few moments later the door opened and Nino appeared. His shirt was torn, there was blood on his face, and his hair went wildly in all directions. He was breathing heavily and sweating. He propped the door open, turned back into the saloon, and bent down. Still bending, he dragged Silvio’s figure out onto the deck. Silvio, so far as Gaspero and the others could see, was virtually unconscious. He, too, had his shirt torn, there was blood on his collar and a swelling on his lip. One eye was colored deep crimson.
Nino dragged Silvio to the gangplank and then down it to the foot of the wharf. Then he went back onto the lugger and disappeared into the bedroom, only to return with a few clothes in his arms, a razor, and some cigarette cartons. These he threw on top of Silvio’s body, which lay where he had left it, half in the Mississippi and half out.
Still panting heavily, Nino addressed himself to Gaspero but pointed to Silvio. He spoke in scarcely more than a whisper.
“He’s out. He’s lost it. No one points a gun at me, or screams at me like that. This ain’t cock’s blood. The kid’s history. Don’t let him anywhere near this boat again, or any of our wharves.” He turned back to the lugger, but then had a second thought. “His dick went to his head and he fell for a whore. He’s still a kid. We can do without that. From now on, he’s on his own.”
He staggered back to the lugger, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
Gaspero looked down to the foot of the gangplank, where Silvio began to stir. He groaned, put his finger to his lip, winced, touched his eye, winced again. He opened his other eye and looked at the people on the wharf, watching him. He glared back but didn’t speak. He struggled to his feet, groaning and cursing under his breath. Then he knelt again to pick up his cigarettes and razor and clothes. Most of them were in the water. Then, slowly, still wincing in pain, he walked up the wharf to the top of the levee, and disappeared.
Silvio lifted the small glass to his cracked lips and downed his drink. He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar of the Old Absinthe House. Through the flowery writing that was engraved on the mirror he regarded his appearance. Sono mostro? he thought. Am I a monster? In the days since Nino had thrown him off the lugger, he had cleaned himself up a bit, but his face still bore the marks of the fight. He felt the cut on his lip and still winced. The flesh around his eye had turned from crimson to black, to yellow, the color of overripe pears. No decent whore, let alone Anna-Maria, would want to come near him in this state.
He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past midnight. Late; he had better go. He left a few coins on the bar and made his way, a trifle unsteadily, to the door. This was the fifth—or was it the sixth?—bar he had been in tonight, and he’d had a couple of drinks—or maybe more—in each one.
He stood outside on the sidewalk, adjusting to the gloom of the evening. He patted his jacket pocket, to make sure his gun was where it should be. Then he set off home.
Home? He grunted to himself. It was three days since his fight with Nino and there had been no word to come back. He had found accommodation in a shack on Dumaine Street, but spent most of his days in the bars—certainly all of his nights.
Silvio made his way along Burgundy, turned right at Orleans, left on Bourbon, headed two bocks east, and arrived at Dumaine. His shack was three doors along here. His gait was unsteady and uncertain. He reached the shack and stopped. Propping himself against the wall, he felt inside his jacket pocket, took out his gun, put it back again, then found his key. He searched for the keyhole. After a while he turned the key in the lock and let himself in.
Inside, he lit the gaslight, took out his gun, removed his jacket, rolled it up, and put it under the bedclothes. He went out the back, to where there was a patch of earth, and peed. That felt good. Then he went back inside, took off his shoes, turned off the gaslight—and then very quietly crept back out into the garden. He stood against the back wall, in the shadows, holding his gun. Outside in Dumaine Street, a late-night carriage rumbled by; in the distance, a ship’s siren could be heard from the river. Somewhere, someone whistled.
Suddenly he heard the front door creak open and he was instantly alert. A moment later he heard whispered voices coming from his bedroom. He could wait no longer and whispered himself.
“Now!”
There was a short pause, during which he crouched and turned to face the wall behind him. Then there was a slight hissing sound, and suddenly the whole garden was illuminated as his room, his new home, exploded. Splinters of wood and glass showered over him as the bed, the gaslight, his rolled-up jacket and shoes, and the three men who had arrived to kidnap or kill him were blown to God knows where. In the brief flash that followed the explosion, he saw the grin on Nino’s face.
They had done it again.
1881
11
William Pinkerton stood on the steps of City Hall, on Lafayette Square, and looked about him. St. Charles Avenue, which ran east to west, was an important thoroughfare. Three lines of streetcar rails, the most luxurious hotels, the gasworks, and the French Opera House all lay along this one street. Pinkerton had not been to New Orleans before, but—so far—he liked what he saw. It was quite unlike other American cities, much more European. He looked at his watch and cried out in dismay. His sightseeing had gotten the better of him. His meeting with the mayor was scheduled to begin in four minutes, and if he didn’t hurry he would be late.
Moments later he was being shown into the spacious office of Mayor James Milton. Milton was a tall man with a high forehead and a hooked nose. He rose, walked around his desk, and shook hands with Pinkerton. He then turned to another man in the room, who had a mustache and wide blue eyes. “This is David Martell, my chief of detectives. From what you said in your telegram, Martell might be the man for you.”
Pinkerton and Martell shook hands, then they all sat down.
“Gentlemen,” Pinkerton began, “thank you for seeing me. As you know, Pinkerton’s is a private detective agency and I am here at the behest of the Italian government. I am presently engaged in a tour of several U.S. cities—New York, St. Louis, New Orleans, San Francisco—where the population of Italian immigrants, Sicilian immigrants in particular, is very large. The Italian governme
nt is especially concerned about its reputation abroad and is worried by the fact that in recent years, a large number of refugees from justice have sought freedom by immigrating, illegally of course, into this country.
“I have with me a list of some one hundred and ten criminals who are believed to have crossed the Atlantic, which I would like to leave with you. Many of them, of course, will have changed their names, but the list may be useful nonetheless.
“I’m also able to tell you that one especially notorious villain, Antonino Greco, may be here in New Orleans. As you may or may not know, Sicilians are a prideful people who allow themselves to be governed by this maddening code of silence, omertà as it’s called—so information is hard to come by. However, I’ve been told by the Italian government that one of their informants has said that Greco is here in North America and is living in one of our big cities. All the informant knew was that the city where Greco is living has a name that begins with ‘New.’ New York, New Jersey, New Brunswick, New Orleans maybe.
“Now, if it should happen that you come across Greco, but aren’t sure, then I have this, which may help.” Pinkerton took out the wrapping paper with Greco’s image drawn on it. “Here is the man we are looking for. I can’t leave this with you—I have to show it to others—but if you have any luck I can always send it to you as a matter of urgency. With the latest scientific techniques, I may even be able to have some photographic copies made.”
He sat back. “I hope what I say is of interest.”
Martell leaned forward and nodded. “We have lots of dagos here, Mr. Pinkerton, most of them Sicilians. The worst problem is that they simply won’t talk to the police. Omertà, you call it? I hadn’t heard of that.”
“A private code of honor. Rivals might kill each other, but they will never talk to the proper authorities. It makes our life very difficult. We in Pinkerton’s have our informers everywhere—but not among the Sicilians.”
“Well, I think something of that sort must be happening here in New Orleans,” said Martell. “There was an explosion here just a few weeks ago. Three Sicilians were killed. But do you think we can find anyone who saw or heard anything? Nobody will talk, nobody at all.”
He shook his head. “Look, we know that a lot of Sicilians work in the docks, unloading fruit. I’ll make sure we keep an eye out there.” Again he studied the drawing Pinkerton had brought with him. “He’s tough looking, this Greco. To be honest, I hope to God he’s in New York and not New Orleans.”
“Hush up, now, ladies and gentlemen. Hush up, I say!” The barker waited while the crowd quieted. He glared at the people in front of him from the back of the wagon where he was standing.
“That’s better,” he cried at length. “Some people don’t got no manners.” The barker was a big man, with a barrel chest and weather-beaten skin. His Stetson hat threw a shadow across his face, wherein lurked massive, shaggy eyebrows. “All right. All right. Now we come to the main attraction of the day, the man you’ve all heard so much about—”
At this, there was a murmur from the crowd.
“Yes, people. The man who found the Lord one rainy night in Sherman is here in Memphis to entertain you. Chickering’s Wild West Show preesents with pride the person who—I can say without fear of contradiction—was once the wickedest man in Oklahoma.”
The barker took off his hat. “The one! The only! The man whom the Lord has chosen to come among us … Colonel J. P. Gutelius! Yes!”
Applause broke out as the barker leaned down, held out his hand, and pulled onto the wagon another man, slighter built, with a wispy gray beard, a less imposing hat, a frock coat, and a string tie.
He beamed his smile at the people beneath him, bowed slightly, and raised his arms. “Let us pray!”
The people fell silent, lowered their heads.
Silvio looked about him. He had never been to a Wild West show before and wasn’t sure what to expect. Until very recently Memphis had been a Wild West town, so he had been told. He and Nino had seen one or two cowboys on horseback in the streets, but maybe they’d been from the show, rather than real.
Nino and he were in hiding, while the Cataldo business blew over. Memphis was several days from New Orleans by steamer, they were staying in a hotel under assumed names, and Angelo had given them more money than they could spend. They’d had whores galore, were shaved every day, tried all the casinos, had been to the floating circus—on board a huge steamer—and even visited the Civil War battlefield at nearby Shiloh, though Nino had found that really boring.
“A-men,” cried the colonel, finishing the prayers.
“A-men,” called out the crowd.
“Good people, thank you for comin’. I ain’t as young as I used t’be, ’n’ I know Memphis is changin’. So today, I got somethin’ special, somethin’ wonderful, somethin’ dangerous!”
“Yes!” cried some of the crowd. They knew what was coming. Despite the patter, they’d seen all this before.
Silvio craned forward to see.
“People! You’re gonna see a horse—”
“Yes!” cried out part of the crowd again. “Yes!”
“But this ain’t jes any horse, y’hear? This is a stallion, an outlaw stallion. A stallion which, if I were to take him back to Dade County in Kansas, or Cheyenne, Wyoming, or Sioux Falls, Dakota, would be arrested, and then shot. This stallion—which I call Old Spanish—is probably the most feerocious horse that ever lived. He killed—he kicked to death, or trampled, or threw off at high speed—seven people. He killed James Cotton in the Dakotas, Hull Galloway in Independence, Ivar LaFollete on the Chisholm Trail. I never ride Old Spanish. I got more sense. But so long as I don’t ride him, we’re friends, him and me.
“You can all meet him presently.” The colonel reached into his pocket and took out a handbell. He clanged it. “But first we got work to do.”
“What now?” hissed Nino, obviously growing bored.
“Wait!” Silvio hissed in reply. He was intrigued.
A woman standing in front of them turned. “Hush now, you two. This is an auction. People bring things they don’t need no more. The colonel sells them, for a small fee. You watch.”
Sure enough, another woman had climbed on the wagon, carrying a violin.
“All right!” shouted the colonel. “Hush up now. This good lady has a violin. Seems her husband died and she don’t need it no more.” He stared down at the crowd and smiled. “Someone out there must need to make music—ain’t no decent home without music. Let’s start at five dollars, five dollars … makita five, makita five.… Oh, let’s take the glory road, people!” He clanged his bell as someone raised a hand. “I got the five, makita six … Six! Thank you, Lord, for the blessings of the day.… The six …”—clang!—“the seven … and the lady makes it eight! Thank you, Mother. I’ll ask Him to give you a double portion of grace.…”
Nino had seen enough and moved away, slipping through the crowd. “A religious auctioneer,” he said under his breath as they escaped. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
Silvio was inclined to agree. At the same time he couldn’t help but admire a clever piece of selling. He found himself wondering if there would be a market for an auctioneer in New Orleans.
They walked on. Past the shooting gallery and the blacksmiths, selling spurs. Silvio wondered if he should buy Anna-Maria something, a gift. Yes, but not spurs, he thought. Something more personal. He’d noticed a bookshop elsewhere in Memphis and he knew she loved to read.
The blacksmith reminded him that they hadn’t waited to see the outlaw stallion. Annunziata had been kicked by a horse once, when they were children. Everyone in the bivio had been very worried for a while and she’d had a terrible bruise and walked with a limp for weeks. But eventually she’d made a complete recovery.
He didn’t think so much about her now. But occasionally he couldn’t help it. He remembered the bruise on her skin vividly. He remembered her skin vividly, too, the blemishes on her knees and elbows where
she had fallen as a child, the fold of her eyelids, the lobes of her ears—none of these memories had faded when he thought back. Did that mean he still …?
There had been a time when they were fishing from a boat in Lake Arancio when Zata had hooked herself. In casting her line, the crude, handmade fishhook had snagged her skin and become embedded behind her ear. Silvio had managed to work it free, but not without cutting the skin and shedding Annunziata’s blood. She had been very stoic, but during the rest of the day they had caught several trout, and put it down to Zata’s blood being on the hook. After that it had become their lucky hook and they always used it. He had brought it with him to America, though it was months since he had been fishing. He decided he must search out that hook when he got back to New Orleans.
“Look at this.” Nino had stopped by a huge, pyramid-shaped tent. A sign read INDIAN MUSEUM.
Nino led the way in, paying the five cents’ entrance charge for himself and Silvio.
Elaborate feathered costumes greeted them. Next to those were some moccasins, made of beaver pelts, according to the note written on a card. Next came a map of where the various tribes—Pawnees, Klamaths, Sioux, and Shoshonis—were located. After that came a range of Indian weapons: bows, arrows, knives and daggers, spears for fishing. Silvio had tried a spear once to catch fish in Lake Arancio: hopeless. Annunziata had laughed at him.
Next came something he didn’t at first recognize. It was about the size of a hand and covered in hair. At first he thought it was some sort of animal, or purse of sorts made out of animal skin.
Then he felt an itching down his spine and he nearly retched. It was a human scalp.
“I’ll have another six oysters, and some more milk, please, Hedi.” The New Orleans chief of detectives, David Martell, didn’t drink alcohol, but he ceded to no one his passion for shellfish. Every night on his way home from the office, he stopped off at Dominick Virgut’s for dinner, and it was always the same: oysters followed by chicken, washed down with milk.