by Peter Watson
When Silvio and the others arrived, Anna-Maria and her mother were already in the nave, as was the archbishop. They were standing at the top of the main aisle, where the actual ceremony would take place.
“You stand there,” the archbishop said, addressing Silvio. “That’s exactly where you will stand tomorrow, with your best man on your right.” Nino, grinning sheepishly, stood where he was shown, near the pulpit.
The archbishop then ran them through the ceremony, including the signing of the register and the music.
“I understand there will be several civic dignitaries, Mr. Priola. Where would you like them to sit?”
“As near to the front as possible, but there’s no need to keep them all on the bride’s side. Silvio hasn’t got any of his family in America, so we’re going to have to help him out.” He smiled fondly at Silvio. It seemed that the experiment had impressed him, as well as his future son-in-law’s readiness to put business before pleasure. Presuming marriage to be a pleasure.
The archbishop spoke again. “Let me just check the routine things. The ring?”
Everyone looked at Nino.
He reached inside his collar and pulled out a piece of string, on which was threaded a thin gold band. Silvio suddenly thought: Where have I put Annunziata’s ring?
“I must say that’s an original way to make sure you don’t forget it,” said the archbishop, smiling. “Now, flowers?”
“All organized,” said Mrs. Priola. “Patrick Donovan will be here at nine tomorrow morning. And so will I.”
The archbishop nodded. “That just leaves the various fees….” He trailed off, looking at Priola.
“Yes,” Angelo replied. “I’ll see to that now. Shall we go into your office?”
The archbishop led him out of the nave. Anna-Marià and her mother followed.
As he went Priola turned and called to Silvio. “Why not get some ice for the wedding breakfast? You know, those blocks with flowers in them. Since we’re going into refrigeration, we may as well start in style.”
Smiling, Nino and Silvio strolled down the aisle toward the main door of the cathedral. “I was never married,” said Nino. “I cared for Annunziata’s mother, though, and I suppose we might have married if she hadn’t died.” This was as near intimate as Nino ever got. He stopped just before they reached the door. “I’ll make sure Annunziata knows about the wedding.” When Silvio said nothing but merely looked at him, he added, “It’s best this way, Silvio. Believe me. Listen to an older man. Learn from his mistakes. I can send for her now. Now that it’s safe. She has a family, a boy, named after me.” He didn’t mention his grandson’s second name.
Silvio didn’t know what to think. Part of him was touched by Nino’s intimacy, but part of him was repelled by the calculation that lay behind what he had said.
They went on through the door of the cathedral, into the square outside. Two covered carriages stood alongside the trees. One was Priola’s.
Silvio reflected that Nino need not have told him he intended to send for Annunziata, and presumably Gino. He could just have gone ahead and done it. Silvio would have understood and it would have been kinder. Nino really did have a cruel streak. Mostly it was Stella who bore the brunt of it, but not always. Not for the first time, Silvio wondered if after his marriage to Anna-Maria the link to Nino might be broken. It wasn’t such a bad idea. There would always be a use for a violent man like Nino, but Silvio believed that he was cleverer, and that was what counted. If he got away from Nino he would also be getting away from Annunziata, if she was brought to America. He had been too young and too slow thinking to prevent the death of his parents, but now, now his wits were beginning to—
“Excuse me?”
Silvio was jolted out of his reverie.
Two men stood in front of them.
“What? What is it?” Nino was already very nervous.
“Are you Antonino Greco?” The taller of the two men was speaking. He had a mustache and wore a fedora hat.
“No, I’m not,” said Nino, and made to walk past the men.
“Just a minute,” said the other man, barring his way. “I think you are Greco, and that you are wanted in Italy, for murder.”
Silvio’s heart seemed to do a somersault. This wasn’t happening, please God. Instinctively he reached for his gun, as did Nino, but the other men were too quick for them. They already had their guns out.
“Don’t move,” said the one with the mustache. “I am a policeman and I have authority to shoot you if you resist arrest. Now raise your arms and turn around. Put your hands against the wall of the cathedral.”
Silvio obeyed immediately. He was sweating in fear. Nino took his time, but eventually followed suit. He uttered one word: “Merda!”
Quickly, expertly, their weapons were taken from them, and their clothing searched.
One of the men—Silvio couldn’t see which—pulled his arms behind him and in no time had fixed handcuffs to his wrists. Already terrified, he now felt he would die of shame. Thank God the square was temporarily deserted and there was no one to witness his humiliation.
Nino, too, was handcuffed and the pair were swiftly led across the square to the second curtained carriage. So that’s where the police had been hiding.
They were helped into the carriage and it immediately set off at a fast clip. The curtains were closed, so they couldn’t see where they were going, but Silvio reckoned they were heading west and north, out of the French Quarter and in the direction of City Hall. During the journey the policemen didn’t speak, but just sat there holding their guns.
Silvio was desperately trying to think. Every so often, the carriage rolled, and the policemen’s guns swayed. But they never quite pointed away for long enough. Any lunge at the policemen would have been fatal.
Then the carriage slowed, almost to a halt. Silvio guessed they were turning into Canal Street and waiting for a break in the traffic. Suddenly Nino let out a great bellow and threw himself headfirst through the open window of the carriage. However, the man with the mustache himself lunged forward and grabbed Nino’s arms, which were handcuffed behind his back. The second policeman, with exemplary training, ignored what was happening and kept his gun trained on Silvio’s heart.
“Don’t dare move,” he hissed. “I promise I’ll shoot you dead.”
Nino exerted his colossal strength, as if determined to turn the carriage over, but the handcuffs held him back. It wasn’t long before he was subdued and pulled back inside. “Try that again,” said the man with the mustache, “and I’ll simply shoot you. It’s all the same to me.”
Nino sat back in the carriage as best he could, breathing heavily. Within five minutes they heard the wheels of the carriage rattle over cobblestones and Silvio assumed they had entered the police yard. After the carriage stopped, they were forced to wait. Silvio heard the gates to the police yard being banged shut. At this point he grew even more worried. Not only were they being arrested; they were being kept away from public view. This was unusual for the New Orleans police, who liked to boast about even their smallest successes in the fight against crime.
Eventually the two men were taken down from the carriage and led into a building. Inside, the building had a smell that Silvio recalled. It didn’t come to him immediately, but when it did he almost gagged. It was the smell of the disinfectant used in the Parish Prison. Was that where they were being taken?
It didn’t seem so. For the time being at least, they were led down into a small cell in the basement of the police station. The cell door was locked and a guard posted outside.
Nino spoke at last. “I want to see a lawyer.”
“All in good time. Then you can see your lawyer, your doctor, your tailor, and your undertaker.” The guard cackled.
“Shithead!” spat Nino. “This man here is getting married tomorrow.”
Now the guard cackled even louder. “I hope the bride ain’t knocked up. If she is, the little bastard’s going to grow up an orpha
n.” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
Then they all lapsed into silence.
After five minutes the two men who had arrested them came back again. “Stand up and come over here,” said the one with the mustache.
Nino didn’t budge.
“Look at this,” said the policeman, and threw a piece of paper into the cell.
Still Nino didn’t budge.
Silvio, however, not knowing what on earth was going on, was not so sullen. He went and stood over the piece of paper. After a moment, realizing what it was, he gasped and choked out, in Italian, “You’d better look at this. It’s serious.”
Nino glared at him, but did move at last, and stood next to Silvio, following his gaze.
He, too, gasped, though he did his best to hide the fact.
The object on the floor was a photograph of a drawing. The drawing Nino had sent to London with the priest’s scalp! The drawing of himself.
“That’s you all right, Greco. It’s a good likeness, even though you shaved off your beard. We were tipped off about you. We’ve been following you and your pal here for some time. We received this photograph in the mail just yesterday. Our little abduction didn’t take long to work out and it went very smoothly.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You’ll get a lawyer, all in good time. When we’re ready for you to have one. The English priest didn’t have a lawyer. You can wait.”
He turned to go, but spoke on his way out to the guard. “See that they get some food. We’ll be back at nine.”
“Very good, Mr. Martell,” replied the guard.
Silvio caught his breath. They had been arrested by David Martell, the chief of detectives himself. Silvio’s mind went back to what Madeleine had said, to a link between Martell and Liotta. Did Liotta have a hand in this arrest? Should he have mentioned this to Angelo? Would it have made any difference? He kept his thoughts to himself. It was too late now.
And why were Martell and his sidekick coming back at nine o’clock? That was an odd time for police work. The courts would be closed. The Parish Prison would be closed. It would be dark. Silvio’s sense of foreboding grew. As they said in Sicily, the fox was born at night.
But there was nothing they could do. They were given food, as Martell had instructed—some all but inedible gristle—and were forced to sit tight until nine. It was impossible for them to get word out and by now people must be wondering where they were. Somebody would ask questions soon. Tonight there was to have been a boozy party for Silvio at Madge Leigh’s.
Nine o’clock came and went. Ten o’clock Eleven. At half-past eleven there was a commotion in the corridor and Martell and the other man reappeared.
“Get up,” Martell commanded. This time their ankles were tied and they were blindfolded.
“Now, you’re going to be taken somewhere. Policemen are going to carry you. I remind you that I have authority to shoot you, and if you struggle, or try to call out, I will shoot you without any warning at all. Is that clear? Don’t speak, just nod your heads if you understand and agree.”
Silvio nodded. He couldn’t see if Nino did the same.
“Now lie on the ground.”
Silvio lay on the hard floor and after only a few moments he felt himself being lifted by three or four men, who grunted and gasped their way out of the cell, down the corridor, and out into the yard. He was bundled onto a wooden surface, which suddenly moved and which he realized was a wagon, the kind that had been used to carry Giancarlo Cataldo’s remains at his funeral. Where were they being taken?
But he didn’t dare ask. He lay still as the wagon rumbled forward, out of the yard and into the street.
After about half an hour the horse began to pull up a sharp incline. The only high hill in New Orleans led to Metairie Ridge. Metairie Ridge? They had been taken to the cemetery! The police were going to kill them and bury them right away, without any record, any witnesses. By this time it should have been Silvio’s wedding day; instead it was the day he would die and be buried.
The driver made the horse steady. Silvio was manhandled off the wagon. He felt himself being taken down a slope—into the cemetery proper?—but then passed from one set of hands to another. Now, as he was shuffled forward, he heard the footsteps of those carrying him. They rang out, as if they were walking on something hollow.
All at once he realized where he was. That ridge had not been Metairie. It had been the levee, and he was now aboard ship. He was relieved and apprehensive at the same time. It didn’t look as though he was going to be killed immediately—but where were they taking him? Italy—to stand trial? South America? Or was he going to be dumped at sea, as he and Nino had dumped the Orestanos? Again he wondered whether this was all Vito Liotta’s doing. Being kidnapped and abandoned at sea had a terrifying symmetry with what he and Nino had done to the Orestanos. But Vito Liotta would never have contacted the police, would he? That was something no real Sicilian would have done.
A rumble from below told Silvio that the ship’s engines had started. They would be putting out to sea soon, or heading upriver. Nino and he had been spirited out of New Orleans as quietly and as cleanly as they had entered two years ago.
Sono cadavere? he wondered. Am I a living corpse?
For a while the ship’s engines built up steam, the rumble gradually getting louder, the juddering more insistent. Obviously it was not a steamboat but an oceangoing vessel. Then, when it must have been close to two o’clock, Silvio heard the slapping of water on the hull and he realized the ship was under way. Despite his fear, his exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep.
14
Courtroom number six was high and circular, with brown marble columns to match the wood of the court furniture. The public was so close you could reach out and touch them. All the benches were packed. This trial was attracting a lot of attention. Every time he turned to look at the crowd, a score of heads craned toward him. Silvio was now a celebrity.
It was ironic, he thought. New York was to have been the place where he honeymooned with Anna-Maria. They had planned to see the hotels, the theaters, the shops, the areas where the Italians lived. Instead, all he had seen were the insides of the Bowery Jail, and courtrooms. His only glimpse of real New York was that small area of Manhattan outside the courtroom: Foley Square.
It wouldn’t be much longer now. The trial was nearly over and they should have a verdict by the end of the week. Martell and his men had been very clever—to begin with. Nino and Silvio had been spirited aboard ship without anyone knowing. Technically this was illegal, but no one was about to argue Nino’s case, that he wasn’t Antonino Greco, the Quarryman. However, in sending Nino and Silvio to New York, Martell had made a mistake. If the two men had been put on board an Italian ship and dumped in Palermo or Naples two weeks later, then that would have been that and no amount of legal niceties would have rescued them. But Martell had chosen the first ship to leave, the City of New Orleans, a coaster bound for New York, stopping off at various Atlantic ports on the way. This had provided time and opportunity for Nino’s cunning. The moment they had been released from their ropes and blindfolds, once they were out to sea, Nino had begun to proclaim loudly that he was not Antonino Greco but Domenico Grado, and that he had always been Grado. He was so convincing, he persuaded two seamen to send messages for him, to Angelo, from Fort Pierce and Newport News. They were assured that they would be handsomely repaid later for their cooperation.
As a result, by the time the City of New Orleans reached New York, a week after it had left the Mississippi, a campaign had been begun in New Orleans to get Nino and Silvio released on the grounds that they had been abducted by mistake. Angelo Priola, using all the influence at his disposal, managed to round up more than twenty witnesses, each of whom traveled to New York at his expense, to testify that Nino and Silvio were who they said they were. Angelo had already been organizing passports for them, as he had promised when Silvio agreed to marry Anna-Maria. This process was prese
nted as evidence in the extradition hearings.
Some of the witnesses had been very effective indeed. There had even been a written affidavit, sworn by the Archbishop of New Orleans and submitted to the court, that Sylvano Razzini had been due to be married the day after his abduction. That had been extremely dramatic.
While they were cooped up in the Bowery Jail, they had been able to receive visitors and were provided with decent food. Vincent Mistretta had visited once. He had been sent on ahead by Angelo and he brought clothes, and money. The cell Silvio shared with Nino was tiny, about the size of the cabin they had occupied on the Syracusa but without natural light. The walls were similar to the yellowy green he had seen in the Parish Prison in New Orleans when he had visited Madeleine—but the smell was far worse.
“Vinnie,” Silvio had hissed, after the guard had left and the money had been handed over, “what about Liotta? He went outside the code, told Martell. He don’t get no respect for that.”
Mistretta shook his head. “Ain’t what I hear. Liotta owns Martell. The Cataldos did business with Milton, the mayor. Milton owned Martell. Liotta takes over the Cataldos, he takes over Martell. All that happened, as I hear it, Martell had someone—a cop—working undercover in Madge Leigh’s. He heard Nino fighting with Stella, and she called him a bandit—”
Silvio looked at Nino and groaned.
“Anyways, the cop tells Martell. Martell, I hear, had some picture sent from Chicago, from some detective agency, but that weren’t enough. Nino’s shaved his beard, after all. So Martell weren’t sure and asks around. Of course, it ain’t long before Liotta hears. The whole thing plays into his hands. But he says he ain’t gone outside the code and most people are too scared to disagree with him.”
“Bullshit!” Silvio shouted. “Concime! I don’t buy that. Nobody could buy that. Liotta can’t bend the rules. People got to know, Vinnie, you got to make sure people know. We get out of this—Vito’s dead. Omertà?” He spat.