by Peter Watson
They walked down the room and sat at the table.
Liotta poured water, offered fruit. No one drank or ate anything.
“Angie,” Liotta began, after this ritual had been completed. “The way I see it, this town can go two ways. We can fight, in which case you might win, I might win, but either way there’ll be blood, bad blood. And the law will be involved. Or we can cooperate, work together, divide up the place, keep to our own, relax, enjoy our grandchildren. Me? I go for that. There’s enough for both of us in this town. Plenty.”
Angelo sipped his water. “Vito, let me ask you something. Say I was new in this town and you had been here fifteen years. Say you had built up the wharves, like I have, and then someone like me, just off the boat, comes to you and says what you just said Eh? What would you say, Vito? What would you say?”
Liotta shrugged. “I’d react like a businessman, Angie. I’d say to myself, I’ve had fifteen, sixteen good years with no real competition, with everything my own way. Now the picture’s changing, the world’s turning. Popes come and go. Etna erupts—suddenly you get new rivers where there weren’t any before. It happens. Nobody can keep a whole city to himself, I’d say. It don’t happen in Sicily, it can’t happen here. I’d be realistic. I’d tell myself that I have to give a piece away. If I don’t want a war.”
“You say you’re a businessman, Vito. In business you have to earn things. You don’t get given them on a plate.”
“There ain’t no rules, Angie. You know that.” Liotta paused, and bit into an apple. “Yes, I’m new in town. But that ain’t the point. Point is, I’m here now and I ain’t going away. If it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else. The reason you’re here today, Angie, is you know this town is too big for one Don. The docks are huge. The bars, the gambling, the whores … it’s some town, Angie, but it don’t belong to you. I’m here now and you gotta deal with me. Either we talk or we fight.”
Angelo sipped some water. “Vito, you know what happened to Giancarlo Cataldo. And Alfredo. I don’t fight so bad.”
Vito nodded. “Giancarlo and Alfredo were Cataldos, not blood Liottas. You think I’m gonna be a vittima facile in a war, Angie? A pushover? You think I’m easy, like they was?” He smiled grimly. “I don’t believe you think that, Angie. Oh no.”
He shifted in his seat. He wanted to change the mood. “Listen. I got something for you.” He stood up and turned. “Gianni!” he yelled. “Gianni! Now!”
There was a pause. What was happening? Was this a trick? Silvio was uneasy and looked at Angelo. He was nervous, too.
At the far end of the room, two men appeared. As they approached the table Silvio and Angelo could see that one of the men, presumably Gianni, was clearly Italian. The other clearly wasn’t—he was black. The black man was tall and strapping, but hung back.
Vito had remained standing. Now he said, “Angie, you gotta know two things. Most important, I ain’t Giancarlo or Alfredo. I ain’t a Cataldo. No way. Second, as I say, I’m a businessman. Sometimes, as a businessman, you gotta share. I’m asking you to share with me, but first I’m gonna share something with you.” He pointed to the black man. “This is Nelson St. Joseph. He’s the boilerman on the Memphis steamboat.”
Angelo looked up sharply and Liotta chuckled. “I see you heard about the race.”
As Silvio well knew, everyone was talking about next week’s steamboat race, run from Natchez to New Orleans, between the Memphis and the T. P. Leathers. Bets were being placed on the result all over town.
Liotta stepped across and put his arm around the black man’s shoulder. “Angie, Nelson here is gonna arrange it so the boiler of the Memphis blows during the race. You can make as big a bet as you like on the Leathers. You’ll win a fortune. It’s a gift, from me to you.” He nodded to Gianni, who led the black man away.
Liotta sat down again, picked up the remains of his apple. He chewed for a while. Then: “I ain’t asking for your blessing, Angie. This ain’t no beauty contest. I’m talking to you as one businessman to another. And as a Sicilian. Da uomo a uomo. Man-to-man.”
Angelo remained silent.
“You can see I’ve got power.” Liotta waved in the direction of where the black man had been taken. “You can see I’ve got … well, let’s call it imagination. Like Silvio here.” He tapped his temple. “I’m here now, Angie. I want a piece.” He finished his apple and threw the core out of the window.
There was a long pause. Silvio watched Angelo think. At length his future father-in-law said, “Vito, Silvio and me, we’re gonna take a walk.”
“Please,” said Liotta, standing up again. “The gardens here are beautiful. They remind me of Aquasanto.”
Liotta and Natale Pianello watched as Angelo and Silvio headed off down the alley of oak trees. The branches of the trees met overhead, and there was plenty of shade as the two men strolled away from the house toward the river, speaking quietly, their heads bent together.
They reached the end of the alley and stood, still talking. Each was animated. Then, after a few minutes, they began to retrace their steps. Every so often they stopped and talked some more. When they were about a hundred yards from the house, the talking stopped and they walked the rest of the way without speaking. They reentered the room and sat in the same seats they had vacated.
Liotta, who had been smoking by the window, sat down also.
Angelo refilled his water glass but didn’t drink from it. “Vito,” he said at length. “We are both Sicilians, so there is no need for me to say much. I prefer now, as always, to let my deeds, my actions, speak for me. I therefore tell you this and you can make of it what you will. You have made me a gift. You have said that the T. P. Leathers will win the steamboat race and that I can make a fortune by betting on her.”
He raised his eyes and looked squarely at Liotta. “I refuse your gift.”
Liotta drew his thin lips together as Angelo went on. “I further say that the Memphis boiler will not blow, and that she will win the race. If you have already placed your bets, I advise you to lay them off.” He stood up. “We’ll go now.”
David Martell walked into the telegraph room at police headquarters and smiled at the woman seated behind the desk. “Good morning, Sheila.”
“Good morning, Mr. Martell. Something I can do for you?”
“Yes and no. I have a telegram to send, but it’s confidential. I need to send it myself. I hope you don’t mind.”
Sheila did mind. What if everyone did this? She’d soon be out of a job. But Martell was the chief of detectives.
“It’s time for my lunch, anyhow, Mr. Martell. Shall I just leave you to it? You know how everything works.”
“Indeed I do. Thank you.”
She went out, closing the door behind her.
Martell sat at the telegraph desk and took out a piece of paper from his pocket. He spread it on top of the desk and began to operate the transmitter. His message was short.
TO: PINKERTON CHICAGO PLEASE SEND LIVESEY PORTRAIT URGENT MARTELL NEW ORLEANS END
Angelo Priola puffed on his cigar and said gruffly, “Two cards, please.”
He was handed two cards. It was some time since he had played at Mattie’s, but he was here today under instructions from Silvio, who was nowhere to be seen. Next to him was Mattie herself, then came Arthur Cody, one of the nimble pickpockets on the payroll, then Vincent Mistretta, also on the books and no mean poker player, then—between Angelo and Vincent—came Ezra Bell. He took a card.
Arthur took three and Mattie, who had dealt, gave herself two.
Angelo looked at his cards. He had a pair of kings, nothing. He threw his hand in.
Bell said, “A hundred.”
“And fifty,” said Mistretta.
“I’m out,” from Arthur.
“Me, too,” said Mattie.
That left Bell and Vincent.
“Two hundred,” said Bell.
“And fifty,” Vincent immediately countered.
“Three hundred.”
“Out,” said Vincent, and the hand finished without any cards being shown.
Mattie dealt again.
As he gathered his cards up Angelo grumbled, “This cigar stinks. Can you get me another, Mattie?”
Mattie gestured to the waiter, who went out. It was the signal.
“One card,” said Angelo.
“Two,” said Bell.
“Three,” said Vincent.
“Three for me,” said Arthur.
“I’ll take one,” said Mattie.
“One hundred dollars,” said Angelo after a pause.
“Two,” replied Bell.
“Out,” said Vincent.
“Too rich for me,” Arthur added, laying his cards on the table.
Mattie just shook her head.
The waiter returned with a fresh cigar, which he handed to Angelo.
“Three hundred,” said Angelo, holding a match to the end.
“Okay.”
“Four.”
“Okay.”
“Five.”
Bell paused. “Okay.”
“I’ll raise you to five and see you.”
Bell laid down his cards. “Full house, kings and jacks.”
“Well, I’ll be—” Angelo laid down a full house as well, but with three eights and two jacks. “You lucky—”
“Hold on,” said Vincent. “Look at this.” He turned over his cards, to reveal two sevens, a five, an ace—and a jack.
“Five jacks,” whispered Angelo.
“No,” said Arthur. He turned over his cards. “Six.”
All eyes turned to Bell.
“Don’t look at me,” he growled. “I play straight.”
“Why would we cheat, to lose a hand? Don’t make sense.”
“I do not cheat!”
Angelo turned to Mattie. “This is your house, Mattie. It’s up to you.”
Mattie turned back to the waiter. “Fetch the law.”
“Now hold on!” shouted Bell, getting to his feet.
Mistretta was too quick for him. “Sit down,” he hissed, taking his gun out of his pocket. “Wait.”
Bell stared at him, or rather at the gun. Slowly, he sat down again.
“Everybody leave their cards where they are,” said Angelo, puffing cigar smoke into the room. “The cards is evidence.”
13
Dick Saltram’s enthusiasm was contagious. The ice factory had been his idea, he said. It had taken more than a year to build, but now people were beginning to sit up and take notice. He was leading Silvio, Nino, and Angelo Priola through the factory, showing them every room. They had already seen where the ammonia was condensed. They had seen the water purifier. This was essential, he had explained, because not only did it make the water easier to freeze, but it ensured that if the ice was mixed with food, and later melted, the food was not contaminated. Now they were in the big room on the ground floor where the ice was formed.
“Of course we can produce ice in any shape, and we do. But in general we find this is the most popular form.” He led them to a row of boxes. “These are easy to lift, and the way we freeze them, they last for twelve to eighteen hours, depending on weather conditions. Here,” he said. “Look at this.” He raised one box. Inside the ice, they could see, were three roses.
“What on earth did you do that for?” Priola asked.
“I can answer that,” Silvio said. “This is what gave me the idea in the first place, when I saw it at Donovan’s Garden.”
“Yes, we supply them,” added Saltram. “These blocks are used as decoration for society dinner parties. In this weather, and with all the candles the nobs burn at their dinners, the room gets very hot. So they order a couple of these, to put on the table, to cool the room. To make them look nicer we put flowers in them.” He smiled.
Priola turned to Silvio. “Run through your plan for Saltram. He may be able to spot any snags.”
Silvio faced Saltram. “About three percent of the fruit that arrives at our wharves is already rotten. That’s not a problem for us—we don’t have to pay for it, just throw it away. But depending on the fruit—where it comes from, and the season—as much as another ten percent goes rotten on our wharves, or before it reaches where it’s going. Most of the fruit is shipped out three days after landing, but a lot goes upriver, and those journeys can take two, three weeks. My idea is to have warehouses on the wharf which are refrigerated and to gradually fit our steamboats with refrigerated holds.”
“My point is this, Mr. Saltram: How can you do that if the ice blocks only last for eighteen hours?” Priola looked puzzled. “That wouldn’t make much difference to a two-week voyage.”
Saltram was ahead of him. “No, I can see what Silvio’s getting at—that’s the life of a single block. If you build a small room of blocks, with the walls two or three blocks thick, and if the room’s not too large, the outer blocks preserve the inner blocks. With a two-block wall, say, you get a life of nearly double the eighteen hours you get for a single block—maybe thirty hours. With a three-block wall you might get as much as forty hours.”
“But that’s still peanuts on a two-week voyage.”
Silvio interjected, “So we build refrigerator stations along the river, and restock the holds at every stopover.”
“But think what that would cost. Thousands of dollars!”
“Which is what we are losing anyway.”
Priola shook his head. The idea was too new for him.
Saltram knew that Silvio was convinced but saw the business slipping away because Priola, the boss, couldn’t bring himself to face the issue.
“Mr. Priola, if you don’t make this innovation, someone else will. But I’d prefer not to argue with you. Instead, may I propose an experiment?”
“What sort of experiment?” Priola sounded belligerent, but he couldn’t hide his interest.
“I’ll build one of these rooms here in the factory. A small ice room with two-block walls. Then you can leave one set of fruit inside, and one outside—see what happens. After that, you can make up your mind.”
“Yeah! Okay, I like that.”
Mostly, Silvio knew, Priola liked the fact that this solution postponed a decision. But it was all they could do, for now.
“When would you like the experiment to begin?”
Priola looked at Silvio. “When’s the wedding?”
“Sunday. Four days from now.”
“And how soon can you have the ice ready?”
“That amount? Tomorrow.”
“Fine. Go ahead then. We’ll come back on Saturday. I’ll pay you whatever it costs.”
They made their farewells, shook hands, filed out, and got into Angelo’s carriage. He seemed lost in thought, but after they had ridden a couple of blocks Silvio could keep silent no longer. “Well?” he said. “What did you think?”
“I think you’re a very smart young man, Silvio, real foxy, and we should pay attention to this experiment. Incidentally, what kind of name is Saltram? It’s not Italian?”
“No, but Saltram is. He’s from Reggio di Calabria. His real name is Scalice, but he anglicized it, to make it sound more American.”
Priola frowned. “Is he ashamed of Italy?” Then he smiled at Silvio. “It’s a good scheme, and one day it will work. But not now. Not for us.”
Silvio grew irritated. “Why not? I’ve done the arithmetic—you’ve seen the figures. It makes financial sense.”
“In normal times, yes. But these ain’t normal times, or they won’t be soon.”
“What do you mean? You talk like a Milanese. Talk Sicilian.”
“You’re smart, Silvio. I’m more than happy to have you as a son-in-law. But you’re not yet wise. We’re going to need a lot of extra money in the weeks ahead. It’s not the time to start any fancy undertakings.”
“It ain’t fancy.”
“All right, it ain’t fancy. It’s a good scheme, okay? But we gotta watch our strength.”
“For the fight against
Liotta, you mean?”
“Yeah, for the war. The steamboat race is just round one. If our boat wins, we keep the black businesses and Vito Liotta has to think again. But if he wins, the black outfits swing to him and the war starts sooner rather than later. If he wins he turns his attention straight to us. If he wins the race, we ain’t got long before the fighting starts.”
From the Times Picayune:
FUNERAL OF STEAMBOAT CAPTAIN
The funeral of Ezra Bell, captain of the Mississippi steamboat Baton Rouge, was held yesterday at Metairie Cemetery. Captain Bell, who was fifty-nine, died in a drowning accident after being charged with cheating in a poker game two weeks ago at Mattie Marshall’s club on CustomHouse Street. Suicide had been suspected, but over the weekend the coroner reported an open verdict, saying there was insufficient evidence for the direct cause of death to be established. Captain Bell’s body washed ashore below the Tobacco Press. It was badly mutilated and may have been attacked by eels.
The funeral was attended by Captain Bell’s widow, Mabel, and his two children, plus a small gathering of friends. The Reverend O’Hagan officiated.
“Ersters, suh? Muffuletta?” The waiter squeezed by, carrying the tray high above his shoulder. There wasn’t much room on deck, not with this party in full swing.
Silvio had never adjusted to oysters, fresh or cooked, but muffuletta was different, and he took one. It was, after all, an Italian dish, a sandwich with meat and cheese, all swimming in olive oil. He sank his teeth into the bun and looked out at the riverbank.
The party had been Angelo’s idea, but Silvio was nervous. The whole river was having a party today, in honor of the steamboat race that was due to finish there at Picayune Pier in an hour or so. Hundreds of boats, big and small, lined the wharves, many of them decked out with flags. The wharves themselves were thronged with all manner of people, from clowns to melon sellers, magicians, professional gamblers in their white suits, Negro bands, peddlers hawking nuts, banjo players in bow ties, men selling cheroots, women singing arias from the great Italian operas. Some were even wearing tame snakes or carrying baby alligators in jars.
A lot was riding on the steamboat race, and not just money. Silvio sometimes wondered if he had too many ideas for his own good, and that certainly applied to today’s events. At the meeting in Toussaint House, Angelo and he had taken a walk to discuss their response to Liotta. Inside, Angelo had been livid with Vito, but he hadn’t let it show. All that talk of being a businessman. Bullshit, as Anna-Maria would say. Concime! How dare he come to New Orleans and demand that Angelo give up a piece of his business because he had stepped off the boat. A real squalo, a shark.