by Peter Watson
Not in Sicily. But in America it would be different. Old Angelo, after all, owed him a thing or two. Once he settled in, Silvio could send for Annunziata. They could start fresh. As man and wife. Have children.
It wouldn’t be easy to get there, of course. His first task was to reach Palermo. Ruggiero Priola surely owed him something after the fiasco of the last few hours. The opium job had been his idea.
All at once Silvio saw the way out of his predicament. Why had he been so slow? Salvation was only a few miles away, moored in the harbor at Porticello. The Ustica was preparing to leave for Marseilles, her captain and crew unaware of what had happened in Bagheria. All Silvio needed was a package that looked as though it contained opium. He could take it on board and insist he stay with it until they arrived in Marseilles. Then he could work out a deal to get him ashore.
Marseilles wasn’t America, but it was a long way from Sicily. In Marseilles he would have time to plan his second emigration. Ruggiero would help.
At least he was thinking again. He had put the awful events of the past few hours behind him, at least for the time being. He felt better already, now that he had an immediate aim and a long-term goal.
He threw down the remains of his cigarette and went back out into the street. He turned away from the orphanage and walked back to the cathedral square. He even had the nerve to approach a militiaman. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can you tell me, which is the road for Porticello?”
PART FOUR
Consigliere
1890
18
Silvio stood at the corner of Canal Street and Chartres and pulled his oilskin coat more tightly about him. He pulled down his wide-brimmed hat, not to hide his face but to keep the rain out. New Orleans hadn’t changed much in seven years, he thought. The streets still turned to quagmires when it rained, the horses pulling the streetcars still slithered all over the place. You could still hear loud music at all hours of the day, no matter what the weather.
He walked along Chartres, keeping to the sidewalk. As he passed CustomHouse Street he noted the signs. Madge Leigh’s was still there, so was Mary O’Brien’s. Mamie Christine’s—that looked new. He reached Bienville Street, then Conti. There were more balconies now, and more streetlights, by the look of it. Who operated the rackets around here? he wondered. Priola or Liotta?
He walked into St. Louis Square. He felt … curious. It was more than half a decade since he had been here, that day when Nino and he had left the cathedral after the wedding rehearsal. He rarely thought of Nino now. Had he learned to read and write yet?
He didn’t linger in the square. The rain was still fierce, driving in from the west, and in any case he had an appointment, of sorts. He walked straight into the cathedral. It was not quite two o’clock. Inside, it was dark. He could hear the rain outside and see it slapping against the lunette windows that lined the dome, where the nave crossed the transept. The cathedral was virtually empty. Two or three people sat near each other, but not together, on one side of the nave, about halfway down. They were waiting their turn for confession.
Silvio took a seat, in the rearmost pew, next to the main aisle. He waited.
The cathedral had changed hardly at all since the last time he was here, all those years ago. The pulpit looked as though it had been cleaned, and some of the pews were new; but that was all. The smallest sound still echoed around the entire building.
He heard footsteps behind him, firm, substantial. A figure went by him without stopping. Silvio followed the figure with his eyes. Yes, that was Angelo Priola. He must be in his late sixties by now, but as Silvio had guessed, he still came for confession every Tuesday. Angelo stooped a bit now, and was definitely grayer—there were snail’s trails everywhere—but he still carried his hat in his hand, still knelt in the pew in the same way and crossed himself. His was not a bad memory, Silvio told himself. All those years and he still remembered that Angelo took confession on Tuesdays.
Silvio had quite a wait. The confessors went in one by one and were there for anywhere between three and ten minutes. The rain still slashed against the lunette windows high above. An occasional hoot from the steamboats on the river could be heard.
It had taken Silvio more than two months to reach America, and another four to make it to New Orleans. The Ustica had dropped him in Marseilles just three days after leaving Porticello. Organizing a deal to get himself smuggled ashore was no problem, except that it involved rendering various services to the captain of the Ustica, who had business associates in Marseilles. Silvio spent a month working for nothing as an enforcer in a protection racket by the docks. He worked for a second month at the same racket to earn enough to pay for his passage, steerage, on a ship bound for New York. On arrival in New York, he had again been smuggled ashore, in New Jersey, again on condition that he allow himself to be sold by colleagues of the ship’s captain to the highest bidder. An Italian clothier who specialized in uniforms had won the auction. For four months Silvio pretended that he couldn’t speak English, and gradually convinced his bosses that he could never survive in America all by himself. As a result, over that time, they gradually relaxed their supervision of him. He was in no hurry anyway. He wanted to see New York, the bits of it outside the courthouse and the jails, and he guessed that after he had escaped from Sicily, the authorities in New Orleans would have been alerted to be on the lookout for him. He didn’t want to go back too soon.
After more than three months in the uniform factory, however, he had sufficient money in his pocket for what he planned, and judged that enough time had elapsed. One evening after work, he went to a local bar, leaving his few meager belongings by his bed, and never came back. Later that night he took a train to Pittsburgh and the next day boarded a steamboat down the Ohio River, bound for Cairo, where the Mississippi was reached. At Cairo he changed to a bigger boat, and sailed for 1,200 miles down the Mississippi, past Memphis, Vicksburg, and Natchez, arriving at New Orleans nearly three weeks after he had left New Jersey. He bought fresh clothes along the way.
He had not contacted Angelo immediately. He had been away from New Orleans for nine years and he had to be certain of his facts before he broke cover. For all he knew, there was a warrant out for his arrest.
He did not think it prudent to get a job on the docks. Someone might recognize him. He knew the clothing trade a little by now, so he finagled something at a workshop that specialized in making fancy costumes for Mardi Gras. The work was seasonal and he would be fired as soon as the carnival had come and gone, but that suited him. By then he would be ready to move on.
He had found a room on North Rampart Street and started to drink and screw systematically in the bars and brothels on Bourbon and Burgundy streets. Whores had always been the best-informed gossips.
Angelo, he found, had reached a most interesting accommodation with Vito Liotta. Angelo had the raw muscle still, but Vito had brains, and Angelo recognized that. There were now two Dons in New Orleans, pretty evenly matched save in one respect: refrigeration. Angelo’s partnership with Dick Saltram, now his son-in-law, his genero, had been an enormous success, and the shipping business had gone from strength to strength. The Priolas still had the lion’s share of the river, whereas Liotta took most from the rackets in the Quarter. Both Dons were doing well, and for the moment at least, Liotta seemed to have lost his vindictive streak. He must be feeling sure of himself. Good.
A turning point had been reached, however, in the election of 1886, where Priola’s candidate, Harrison Parker, had beaten Liotta’s Milton. Martell had promptly changed sides—and succeeded in having himself reappointed chief of police. Angelo’s business interests were able to run uninterrupted until the next election.
Martell’s defection, though good for Angelo in the short run, was not beneficial in the longer term. Martell, being of Irish stock, could not be expected to think like a Sicilian. However, Silvio could see, as surely as Angelo must, that Vito Liotta would now need to act. Martell was in a posi
tion to lean on Liotta’s gambling interests and on his girls. Martell’s defection had disturbed the status quo and a new Mafia war now seemed likely, especially as fresh elections were due at the end of 1890. It was time for Silvio to move.
Silvio watched as Angelo rose from his pew and entered the confessional. As he gazed around the cathedral he thought of Anna-Maria. Whore gossip had told him she was pregnant; already a mother of two and in her mid-thirties, she was becoming plump and matronly. Dick Saltram was a faithful husband and generally given credit for having the refrigeration idea in the first place. Silvio would remember that. His thoughts drifted from Anna-Maria to Annunziata. Christ, he missed her! This last six months he had lost count of the times his body had ached for hers. Most of all he missed their nights together in the bivio. Sex, talk, Sicilian wine, a cigarette, more talk, more sex, more wine, sleep, sex, talk, breakfast. The sound of goats and sheep on the hillside nearby, the sweet smell of olives and figs.
He missed it—he longed for it—but he had done nothing about contacting Annunziata. Non sono matto! He wasn’t stupid, for God’s sake, and she would be guarded, by Alesso Alcamo and by Father Ignazio, if not by the police. No one knew where Silvio was and it had to stay that way, at least for the time being. Annunziata had been so odd the last few days before he had been forced to leave Sicily that he couldn’t in any case be certain how she would respond to overtures on his part. In a year, when he was more settled, and if he could be certain of the intermediary, then he would get word to her. Then he would convince her to come to him. Meanwhile there were always whores to satisfy his physical needs. The other ache he would just have to get used to.
Eventually Angelo was done. He left the confessional, walked across the nave to the main aisle, turned to face the altar, dipped his head, and crossed himself. Then he turned and marched back down the aisle toward the exit, looking straight ahead.
Silvio waited until he was level with his pew. “Hello, Angie.”
Angelo stopped, turned, and looked down. His mind was miles away and he didn’t recognize Silvio.
Then, slowly, it registered. “Silvio!” he breathed after a minute. He sat down on the pew, side by side. “I thought you’d come. Maybe sooner, maybe later.”
“I’ve been here awhile. Watching.”
“That figures. You always were foxy.” He started to offer Silvio a cigar, then remembered where he was. “You got a place to stay? You need money? That was some dumb job you pulled in … where was it? Bagheria?”
“I was set up, Angie. Alesso Alcamo. It was a plan to force me out.”
“That was dumb, too, then. Allowing yourself to be forced out.”
Silvio sniffed. “That’s three times, Angie. First the steamboat race. Then outside this very cathedral. Then Alcamo. Three times I’ve been tricked. I would never have hurt kids in an orphanage, Angie. Tell me you believe that. I’m an orphan myself, for God’s sake.” He put his hand on the older man’s arm. “Tell me!”
“Sure. Sure, I believe you. But the point is, you’re here now. And you’ve got to figure out what you’re gonna do. Things have changed since you went away, Silvio. The city’s bigger, the river’s busier ’n ever. There’s more graft, more kickbacks, more people to pay. The politicians have moved in. We gotta real good scam now. The lottery. We’re skimming more than twenty percent off that. Fourteen grand a month. But we got people to pay. The lottery license has to be renewed. That takes tact and graft. We gotta spread it about, make friends.
“New people all round, Silvio. Nogare’s out. He caught the clap and his brain’s gone. There’s Saltram, of course, the genero. He don’t have your balls or your brains but he’s nice enough to Anna-Maria.” He held out his middle finger and forefinger. “Two kids now, you know, two boys.” He shook his head. “And another kid on the way. That lovely daughter of mine’s gonna be like her mother in five years. Maybe it wasn’t so bad you got arrested.” He was going to smile until he saw the look on Silvio’s face.
Silvio shifted in his seat. “What do you think I’ve been watching these past weeks? Who do you think I’ve been listening to—the alligators? Things have changed, Angie, but maybe not as much as you think. People still get frightened, don’t they?”
Angelo’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“It means that’s why I’ve come to you now. You have to move on Liotta. The election is months away, and between now and then there’s going to be a war. Am I right?”
Angelo looked at the younger man curiously. “It’s started. The refrigeration factory was blown this morning.”
Silvio tried not to show his surprise. Instead he nodded his head, as if to say “I told you so.” As if to say he still understood New Orleans. “Liotta’s going to war because Martell changed sides. He got greedy. You had the river sewn up, the fruit and the cotton, you had your rackets in the Quarter, but he had more, thanks to Martell.”
Angelo sighed, and nodded. “I should never have let Martell come across.”
“Which means Liotta has to either take on Martell in the Quarter, or you on the wharves. Yes?”
This time Angelo didn’t even reply. He just let Silvio continue.
“You’re easier. He takes you on, he beats you, Martell comes back across anyhow. Martell’s clever—he always goes with the winner. No one is going to hit the chief, huh? This hit this morning, it proves my point.”
Silvio rubbed his face with his hand. Someone else was going by and he didn’t want to be recognized. “You need a plan, Angie. A Sicilian plan.”
“And you got one, I suppose.”
“Sono volpone? Am I a fox? I wouldn’t come here empty-handed, after all this time. Nogare’s out, you say. You’re going to need a good consigliere. You know that. This is going to be a war and you need a general.”
For the next half an hour Silvio outlined for Angie’s benefit what became notorious later as the Cathedral Plan, the chapter of terrifying events that was to shape New Orleans life for generations to come.
Silvio left only one detail unexplained—his real reason for conceiving the plan in the first place.
Silvio stood on the promenade of the St. Charles Theatre and looked around him. The stalls were thronged with people, as were the boxes above the stalls. A band played in the pit. It was the evening of the lottery draw, and if he hadn’t seen it for himself, he would never have believed the number of lottery addicts in New Orleans. Angelo had said the lottery was a new scam, and Christ, was he right. As the night for the draw approached, the entire city seemed to come to a standstill; everyone devoted time, thought, and energy to selecting their numbers. The behavior was weird, fatidico. Silvio had seen grown adults stop children in the street and demand to know their ages. The newspapers printed local superstitions about certain numbers. A stray dog, it was said, signified a six; a drunk man counted fourteen; a dead woman fifty-nine; if a woman exposed too much leg, eleven; to dream of a fish or water, thirteen. Silvio thought about the lottery much as he thought about voodoo, and like voodoo, he couldn’t deny its power over people.
Nor could he deny that it made money hand over fist. The company controlling the lottery was Angelo’s, although he shared it with Harrison Parker, the mayor of New Orleans, and Thomas Whitgift, another friend. The company was allowed by law to hold back thirty-seven percent of its take. Expenses had to come out of that share, but Angelo had, of course, found a way to skim even more money from the scheme. The winning tickets were selected by numbered balls rotated in a wheel. These balls were picked out—theoretically, at random—by two blindfolded boys taken from a local orphanage. Angelo had succeeded in tampering with the blindfolds, and since each ball was a different color, according to its number, the boys could be trained to select the right colors, even if they couldn’t read the actual numbers. As a result, as often as not, the winning numbers belonged to men within the Priola organization, who were paid handsomely for their trouble—but the bulk of the winnings went right back to Angelo, Park
er, and Whitgift.
Silvio was watching carefully tonight, partly to see exactly how the lottery business worked and partly to see if he could think of a way to ensure that when the license came up for renewal, next month, the Priola organization would be awarded a new five-year contract. Liotta wanted a piece of this action, too, of course, but Angelo was determined to hold on to it. “Sono scoiatolo,” he was given to saying. “I’m a squirrel.” And as they said in Sicily, “A squirrel doesn’t share its nuts.”
Outside the theater it was raining. It was raining and had been raining for nearly a week; the levees were threatened in several places. Silvio had forgotten about Louisiana’s problems with the levees, but the lottery people were more than familiar with it, because they had their own steamboat, which stopped off at all the main landing points, selling tickets. The hot, bony hills of Sicily were a long way away.
The band in the pit was building up to a crescendo as the moment for the draw approached. On stage, a local actor had appeared, with the two orphans. Two sexy women brought on the wheel. They were followed by David Martell, the chief of police. He was there to see that everything played out fairly.
Applause broke out in the auditorium.
The music finished, the orphans were blindfolded. There was a drumroll as the first orphan was placed next to the wheel. Silvio could see Angelo, Parker, and Whitgift watching from a box in the second tier.
Another drumroll and the wheel stopped. The orphan leaned forward and selected a greenish ball. The actor took it and called out, “Seventeen!”