by Peter Watson
“I can wait. I’m still not twenty-one. You can call me Livio.”
“Well, Livio, if you’re as good with your dick as you are with your tongue, you’ll be very popular here. Like to see some girls now?”
“Yes and no,” replied Silvio. “In fact, there’s a particular girl I’m looking for. A quadroon called Madeleine.”
Carrie stiffened. “What do you want with her?”
“So she does work here?” Silvio was part excited and part relieved.
“She did!”
“What do you mean, did?”
“She’s in jail.”
“What!”
“She stole a client’s watch. He was so drunk she thought he wouldn’t notice, but he did. Called the police and they arrested her. She was carted off last Thursday. I heard she stands trial in a couple of weeks.”
“But she’s just a child.”
“Serves her right. We charge good prices here and the girls are well paid. There’s no need to fleece the customers, even if they are drunk.”
Silvio’s mind was in a whirl. What had come over Madeleine? He had been drunk countless times in her company and she had never stolen from him. When she had worked in Madge Leigh’s, she had been well liked by the customers and by Madge Leigh herself. Something drastic must have happened to bring about this change.
He looked at his watch: ten-twenty. He had to keep his appointment with Nino. In any case, the prison would be closed to the public by now. But he would find her in the morning, to see if there was anything he could do. She badly needed to see a friendly face, of that he was sure.
He took Carrie’s hand. “I’m afraid I can’t stay now—but I’ll be back. As I said, I like redheads.” He finished his drink, paid, and went out.
Madge Leigh’s was crowded. Whatever Silvio felt about the change of personnel at the club, he had to admit that the new band was really hot, and was attracting more and more customers. So was this new drink someone had invented, brandy and bitters, a “cocktail” as it was being called. He threaded his way through the crush to the back. After Priola had decided to go along with Silvio’s idea for reorganization, it had been agreed that, although Silvio would continue to sleep on the lugger for safety’s sake, he would use the back room at Madge Leigh’s for his daily headquarters. People knew where to find him, could leave messages there, he was protected still, he could take his meals there. It made sense. Nino and he had dinner at Madge Leigh’s most nights, before the big card game started—it was no longer confined to Tuesdays and Thursdays. Priola sometimes joined them, with Nogare.
When Silvio reached the back room Nino was already there. Stella, one of the girls, was sitting on his knee and had her tongue in his mouth. When Silvio entered the room he shoved her away. “Okay, we’ll eat,” he said. Nino had finally found a woman he liked, but he could still be cruel on occasions.
As Silvio sat down, Nino poured him some wine. “Madge Leigh just came by, with a message. Seems that Donovan dropped in. He’s agreed to your terms.”
Silvio nodded. “I thought he might.”
Silvio drank the wine Nino had offered. “Things going well with Stella?”
Nino made a face. “I have to slap her around once in a while. To keep her in line. But she’s a good kid—and can she cook!”
Silvio never understood why Nino found it necessary to hit women, but he said nothing.
“Now,” said Nino. “I have some bad news.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough. Vito Liotta has been seen in the Quarter.”
Silvio stopped drinking as Nino nodded knowingly. Vito Liotta was the son of Francisco Liotta, the Mafia Don in Bagheria, the father-in-law of Giancarlo Cataldo. The Liotta family was one of the most influential in the Sicilian Mafia. Vito’s presence in New Orleans meant that the easy times were over. Liotta had arrived to mastermind the fight back.
Nino nodded again as the news sank in for Silvio. “It was going to happen, sooner or later. At least we know who we’re dealing with.”
“What do we know about him?”
“A cruel bastard. He once pulled the fingernails out of someone he was interrogating. And clever. He killed the Bagheria chief of police and they couldn’t lay a finger on him.”
Silvio stared at Nino. This was life. The moment you thought you were settled, the world turned.
Stella burst back into the room with their dinner, two plates of crawfish boiled with pepper, and sweet corn. This was hardly Italian food, still less a Sicilian dish, but both Nino and Silvio had fallen for the New Orleans delicacy. Stella placed a bottle of wine and a huge empty bowl—for the crawfish shells—between them.
Nino waited until she had gone out again before proceeding. “Liotta alone doesn’t bother me. He ain’t got the power here he has in Sicily. But he’ll obviously team up with the Cataldos, what’s left of them. There’s a family link between them, just as there is between us and old Angelo. Vito’s smart. He can provide leadership and brains; they can provide muscle and local knowledge.”
“So what do we do?”
“This time, little nephew, the answer is obvious, even to me. We hit Vito before he’s settled, before he has a chance to get organized and come at us.”
“And how do we do that? Where’s he living?”
“I don’t know, but Gaspero and some others are trying to find out.”
Nino bit into his food, picking up the crawfish shell with his fingers. Silvio did likewise, but thoughtfully. He didn’t like the sound of this. Of course, he had always expected the Cataldos to regroup at some stage, and he and Nino had their own men secretly in place in the opposition’s camp. It was costing a fortune but it might now pay off. That must have been how Nino learned about Liotta in the first place. There was little the Cataldos could do without Nino and Silvio knowing about it right away. But Liotta’s arrival was a surprise—and a good move from the Cataldos’ point of view. Silvio had to admit it.
Just then the door to their room was thrown open a second time. Thinking it was Stella come to take their plates, Nino, who was still eating, looked up, ready to shout at her to clear off.
But it wasn’t Stella. It was Angelo, and he looked extremely angry.
“Angelo—” began Nino.
“Shut up!” hissed Priola, striding across the room, to stop and stand over Silvio. “Get up, you little runt,” he muttered menacingly.
Silvio wasn’t sure what “runt” meant, but it obviously wasn’t flattering. He got to his feet. What was all this about?
Without warning, Priola lifted his arm and slapped Silvio across the face. It was a hard slap, with all the force of his considerable weight. Added to that, Silvio wasn’t expecting it, so he was knocked off balance and fell across the table, sending the cutlery and plates and crawfish all over the floor.
Priola bent over Silvio and slapped him again, less hard this time but still hard enough to hurt.
Silvio covered his head with his arms as Priola picked up the chair Silvio had been sitting on and crashed it over his head.
“Nano!” he cried. “Runt! Runt!”
“Angie!” Nino screamed. “What the fuck—?”
“Taci! Shut up!” shouted Priola as he searched around for something else to hit Silvio with. There was nothing, so he took off his shoe and started hammering on Silvio’s skull.
“Have you been fucking my daughter?” he yelled. “Have you? Have you?”
Priola was still beating Silvio with his shoe, although Silvio had now crawled into the corner of the room.
“I asked you a question, runt. Have you been sleeping with Anna-Maria? Answer me! Yes or no?” He stood over Silvio, breathing heavily and holding his shoe in his right hand.
Nino wiped his face with his napkin. He had never known Angelo Priola this angry. It was something to see.
Gradually, Silvio took his arms away from his head. He, too, was breathing heavily. His head felt sore and his lip was swollen where the heel of Priola’s sho
e had caught it. He was still bestraddled by the other man.
Their eyes met. Priola rubbed the sweat off his cheek with his free hand. He sniffed. “Well? Yes, or no?”
Silvio put his hand to his lip. It was sticky with blood.
“Yes, or no?”
“Yes,” Silvio said softly.
He ducked as more blows rained down on his head, but he crawled quickly across the floor and hid under the table. Probably he could have stood up to Angelo Priola, but sheer brute strength was not what this was about. Anna-Maria was the jewel in Priola’s life.
Priola didn’t follow Silvio under the table. Instead, he was talking to Nino. “When did this all start, Nino? Come on, I want to know. The runt’s going to pay. He’s too foxy by half. When did it start?”
Silvio held his breath while Nino answered. What would he say?
“I don’t know, I’m not his keeper—”
“The fuck you don’t know! Anna-Maria recommended you to me. Does that mean you met on the boat?”
Nino’s silence proved that the answer was yes.
“Jesus! So it’s been going on for two years. It’s only a wonder Anna-Maria hasn’t been knocked up.” He sighed heavily and kicked at Silvio under the table. Then he slumped into one of the chairs. “Give me a drink.”
He seemed to be calming down, but Silvio remained where he was. Angelo Priola could explode again at any time.
Priola swigged his drink.
“Silvio’s a bright boy—” Nino began, trying to help.
“No, he’s not. He’s twenty, a man. And he’s behaving like a man who’s just discovered his dick and thinks he can stick it wherever he likes.” Now his temper was rising again. “Well, he can’t. He can’t fuck my daughter and escape the consequences.” He was fuming again now.
“What consequences?” Nino asked. “You yourself said she ain’t knocked up.”
“Anna-Maria wouldn’t fuck just anybody. She must like the runt!” He poured himself another drink. “No, Nino, it ain’t right. The runt’s a man and is going to go through with this like a man.”
“What do you mean, Angie? Silvio ain’t a bad kid.”
“He’s not a kid. He’s always telling us he ain’t a kid. Well, he’s right. He’s a man and he’s going to behave like one.” He raised his glass to his lips and finished his bourbon in one gulp. “I’m not having my daughter disgraced. This ain’t Sicily, but it ain’t Africa either. We do things here like we do in Palermo.” Again he kicked at Silvio under the table. “He’s going to marry her.”
12
Silvio had never been in a prison before. Normally he was as superstitious about prisons as any of his kind, and normally nothing would have made him go near New Orleans Parish Prison. But he had promised himself he would help Madeleine.
The Parish Prison was on Treme Street between Orleans and St. Ann, not far from Widow Milan’s. It was a four-story, block-sized stone building, with two bell towers above the main entrance porch. It was one block away from the Basin and three from the Catholic cemetery. The guard at the door had directed him to an office just off the main corridor on the ground floor. There he explained whom he had come to see, and was told that the women’s section was on the third floor. There was a staircase at the end of the main corridor.
Inside the prison, the dominant sensation was the smell, a strong disinfectant, no doubt masking numerous other odors. Silvio ran up the stairs. On the first two floors he saw corridors leading off in either direction, closed off by gates made of huge iron railings. Off the corridors he could see large barred cells, each one with a window. There were half a dozen prisoners to each cell.
Like everyone else in New Orleans, he had heard stories about the Parish Prison, how it was really two prisons, one for the rich and one for the poor. Anyone who was rich could send out for the best food and the best wine and dine every night in comfort, visited by friends and relatives. All the newspapers were available, and even girls from CustomHouse Street. But if you were poor it was very different. Prison food was not just bad, it was rancid. The bread was moldy, it was not unknown for the gruel to have maggots growing on it, and people had died from drinking the water. There was no fruit. Silvio had little doubt which sort of prison Madeleine was in.
He reached the third floor. Anyone could come and go in the prison provided he or she had a good reason. But the regime was extremely arbitrary. Pickpockets could be punished by hanging, whereas certain murderers were allowed out to run errands—and sometimes absconded while doing so. The fact was, the jail administration in New Orleans was as corrupt as the rest of the city’s system of justice. Silvio hoped to be able to take advantage of that.
He rattled on the bars of the gate to the corridor. Eventually a female guard appeared. She was fat with a very white skin. Rivulets of sweat ran down her face. “Yessuh?”
“I want to see one of your inmates, a quadroon named Madeleine.”
The guard grinned, showing an alarming lack of teeth. “The whore? Who are you?”
“I’m a relative.” He held out a dollar bill.
“Are you? Are you indeed? You better come in, then.” She took the proffered bill.
She fetched some keys and opened the door, then led him down the corridor, past cells crowded with white women, most of them skimpily dressed. “Show us your dick, big boy,” someone shouted, and several of the women cackled. “Hi, handsome, a dollar says you can come in my mouth,” shouted someone else. For the first time in his life Silvio did not find such talk erotic. In one cell an old woman was on her own. She was urinating-on the floor, standing up. As Silvio went by she lifted up her dress.
“That’s Edith,” said the guard out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t take it personal. She does it all the time. Tha’s why no one will share a cell with huh.… This is where the black prisoners are kept.”
They had reached the far end of the corridor, where, on either side, there were two cells packed with black women, and a few quadroons.
Silvio looked, but at first could not see Madeleine. Then he noticed her, sitting on a bench, her legs drawn up to her chin.
“How ’bout some black pussy, white boy?” said one of the women nearer the bars. “Two dollars, honey,” said someone else. “And yo’ can stick it anywhere.”
Silvio stood to one side so that Madeleine could see him. At first she didn’t recognize him. Then suddenly she looked up. Was it really him? he could see her asking herself. He beckoned to her.
Tentatively, she stood up, rearranged her dress, and patted her hair. She walked forward.
Silvio turned to the guard. He pressed another dollar bill into her hand. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
She quickly pocketed the bill. “Sho’ thing, honey. In mah office.” She went to the door of the cell. “Stan’ back, girls, stan’ back. Let Miss Madeleine out Huh rich sug’ daddy done come fer huh.” She opened the gate and Madeleine stepped into the corridor.
“What yo’ wan’ wit’ her, han’some? She done suck the governor’s dick all las’ ni’. Make sho’ she wash her mouth out.” They all cackled.
The guard led Madeleine and Silvio back down the corridor and showed them into a small room, with a desk and window. The guard’s cell was hardly better than the prisoners’. But they were alone.
“Fer a dollar, I can give yo’ ten minutes. If yo’ wanna come twice, the price goes up to three dollars.”
With a start, Silvio realized that the guard thought he had come to make love to Madeleine, and was offering him the opportunity.
“We just want to talk.”
The guard grinned. “Sho’, honey.”
Silvio led Madeleine into the office and closed the door behind them.
She stared at him like a frightened water rat, trapped in a gulley, and didn’t move until he stepped forward to embrace her. As he enfolded her in his arms she began to sob.
“What happened, Maddie?” he said softly. “I was told you stole a watch.”
&
nbsp; Between sobs, she nodded her head. “We was thrown out of Madge Leigh’s without no warning. I never told you, but … but I gotta son. He ain’t well, and I needed to pay the doctor. If … I’d still been at Madge Leigh’s, I could’ve borrowed the money, but … at Carrie’s, I was new. No one would’ve lent me nothing. I was desperate … and I was found out.”
The sobbing had not subsided. Silvio hugged Madeleine closer to him and then lifted her face to his. He kissed her. He was hardly the sentimental type, but he could believe her story all too well.
“Do you know the name of the man whose watch you stole?”
Still crying slightly, she nodded. “I think he’s known as Cooney … James Cooney.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
This time she shook her head. “All I know is, he’s a tailor, makes religious clothes, fer priests an’ choirboys. Why you wanna know all this?”
He ignored the question. “Where’s your baby now?”
“Wit’… wit’ Stella … She weren’t fired. Anna-Maria knew Nino was sweet on her.”
“Anna-Maria?”
Madeleine looked frightened all over again. She knew that Silvio slept with Anna-Maria. “She was there that day, when we was all … made to go.”
This only confirmed what Silvio already knew, but it still made him angry. He lowered his voice and spoke more gently. “I need to know how much time I have, Maddie. When do you stand trial?”
“Monday, I been told. Why? Why, Silvio?”
“I’m going to find this Cooney. To get him to withdraw his charges.”
“Oh, Silvio! D’you think you can do that?” Her body sagged against his, and for a moment he thought about the guard’s invitation. But no, screwing in the jail was too sordid.
He disengaged himself from her embrace. “I have to go. But I’ll be back, with good news, I hope.”
She put her finger to his lips. “I’ll be stronger now. Thank you.”
Silvio opened the door and watched as the guard took Maddie back to her cell. He heard the other women call out. “My, that was quick.” “How much did he pay yo’, girl?” “Where yo’ hidden the money?” The cackling started all over again.