by Peter Watson
Applause and cheers.
The second orphan was led to the wheel. It was spun a second time and stopped. The orphan took a reddish ball.
“Number nine!”
Seven times this was repeated, and seven times the applause filled the auditorium. People lived in hope that someone right there in the theater would one day be the winner of the jackpot, but Silvio knew that wouldn’t happen tonight. Tonight it had been predetermined that the winner lived in Shreveport. That was hundreds of miles upriver, too far from New Orleans for anyone to suspect that a scam was operating.
The evening wound down. The actor and orphans left the stage, the band went home, and the audience gradually thinned out. Not one of them appeared to know the whole business was fixed. No wonder Liotta wanted a piece of it.
It was a license to steal.
19
It was early evening. Silvio lay in bed at Mamie Christine’s reading the Picayune. He had never been one to read the newspapers, but now, with an election only months away, and with the Cathedral Plan about to go into effect, he needed to stay on top of things. Usually he had sex with Virginia, a blond American whore. No whore could take the place of Annunziata, and no sex could be like the sex he’d had with Anna-Maria, but Virginia was fine. She had good skin, she liked fucking, and she was genuinely pleased with the gifts he gave her. She loved gadgets as much as Silvio did and had been delighted when he had given her a newfangled camera device. She didn’t ask questions. Yes, she was fine.
After sex she would go downstairs in her dressing gown, fetch a couple of drinks and the paper, then come back and doze while he read. He liked to feel a woman’s body close to him while he was reading. It was as close as he could get to those times with Annunziata in the bivio.
After his reunion with Angelo, things had worked out well. So far. The old man—Silvio thought of him as an old man now—had been very fair. He had given Silvio a share of the take on the wharves and, for old times’ sake, had given over his share in Mamie Christine’s. Just as he had been forced to change his name years before, so Silvio had to change it again. He was now Sylvano Priola, a relative of Angelo’s, newly arrived from New York, and publicly referred to by Angie as Vanni. He combed his hair differently and wore spectacles. It wasn’t much of a disguise but he was nine years older, a bit heavier, and because of prison his skin was rougher. It was enough. In the family, of course, he was still Silvio.
He took off his glasses to read the paper. He was looking for anything on the election and anything on the Mafia war. Today both had made it to the front page of the Picayune.
WATERFRONT WAR CLAIMS 24TH VICTIM ran the headline. Silvio read the article underneath.
The body of a Sicilian roustabout was pulled out of the river early today. It was discovered between the Cotton Press and Quarantine. His throat had been cut by a wire, according to a spokesman for the city police department. The victim was later named as Giuseppe Figline, age thirty-two. He lived at 59 Esplanade Street and was a legal immigrant.
The murder of Figline brings to twenty-four the number of killings that have taken place on the Mississippi waterfront this year. To begin with, this newspaper sympathized with the views of the police chief, the redoubtable David Martell, that so long as the brutality was confined to gangland murders, he proposed to do nothing about them. And it is certainly true that all the victims so far have been Italians—and Sicilians at that. Slightly under half of them have been illegal immigrants, and those who haven’t been garroted have been stabbed, which, we understand, is another traditional Sicilian method of murder.
So it is easy to sympathize with Mr. Martell’s views, that there is a gangland war going on at the waterfront and that the rest of us should leave well enough alone.
But is that really so smart? Do we want this fine city of ours to become a violent cesspool, with murder as common here as it is in New York or Sicily itself? While this war continues to rage there is always the threat that it will spill over into the rest of the city and that innocent people will be hurt, or worse.
Twenty-four dead bodies is an awful lot of mayhem. It is surely time that Mr. Martell showed us who is chief of police in New Orleans. We can’t have one law for Sicilians and one for everyone else.
Silvio smiled to himself. He had been waiting for this, or something very like it. Phase one of the Cathedral Plan was working.
Now he turned to the other article he had been looking out for. It was lower down the page and was headlined: MILTON TO RUN ON LAW-AND-ORDER TICKET. It read:
Mr. James Milton, the former mayor, who is expected to be the main challenger to the incumbent, Harrison Parker, in the November election, last night announced that he will make a cleanup of the city law-enforcement agencies his number-one priority if elected.
Addressing the Women’s Association of Metairie Suburb, at a fund-raising dinner ($10 a plate), Mr. Milton pledged to put more policemen on the streets, to pass stiffer penalties for convicted criminals, and to strengthen the customs and immigration department so that far fewer immigrants enter the country illegally and settle in New Orleans.
In part, Mr. Milton said: “This once-fine city is in danger of becoming a second New York, where the gangster has a free run, where the ordinary, law-abiding citizen is afraid to leave his house, and where, even if he stays at home, he is apt to be burgled. I aim to put a stop to that. When I was mayor we captured people like Nino Greco, notorious villains who were also illegal immigrants, and we sent them back to Europe, where they belong. Elect me and we’ll do the same again.”
Silvio lay back on the bed and let the newspaper slide out of his fingers to the floor. He reached for his cigarettes and lit one. Beside him, Virginia stirred slightly. He blew smoke into the room, a half smile on his face. It was time for phase two.
“We got a problem with the lottery.” Angelo looked old today, Silvio thought. His skin was pale and it didn’t look as though he had shaved properly, as though he couldn’t be bothered. They had taken to meeting in the back room at Mamie Christine’s. It was private.
Silvio put down the paper he was reading. The weeklong rain showed no signs of abating and the Mississippi had burst its banks at Doheny’s Plantation, an hour upriver. Two people had been drowned.
“Yellow fever’s broken out at Shreveport. The whole area’s quarantined.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“No one can get in or out. Nineteen people have died. They’re burning tar in the streets to fumigate the place, and they’ve let the gas out of the street lamps. Bodies are being burned on the sidewalk, right where they fall. Nine people from a traveling Mexican circus have died—so they may have brought the fever with them. People are fleeing in droves, those who’re outside the cordon.”
Silvio thought of Annunziata, losing her child in the cholera outbreak. Sicily, they used to say, was a long way from God. So, it seemed, was Shreveport.
“Our man, the winner, hasn’t been in touch. He may be dead; he may have fled.”
“I still don’t see why you’re so worried.”
Angelo groaned. “A winner’s good publicity. People grow suspicious if there are no winners. They want to know where the money goes. Even if the winner’s a patsy, we gotta have one.”
“Can’t you have someone go look?”
“I asked Mistretta and Cuono. Refused. They ain’t stupid.”
Vincent Mistretta and Luca Cuono, he remembered, were two of Angelo’s caporegimes.
“So there’ll be a delay.”
“It don’t work like that. The new license comes up next week. We know that the commission that awards the lottery franchise is split, almost fifty-fifty. If we can’t administer it right, can’t even come up with a winner, it’ll count against us. We could lose the vote. What’s more, Liotta will get it—and with the money he’ll make he could overtake me.” Angelo shook his head. “We gotta think of something.”
Bourbon was brought in. In Sicily, Silvio had missed the bourbo
n. Now he missed the red wine from the hills of Montemaggiore. That was life for you.
The bourbon didn’t help. An hour later they still hadn’t solved their problem. Their muscle and money didn’t matter. Yellow fever was yellow fever and no one would risk his life, no matter what threats or promises were made.
Two hours passed. Another bottle of bourbon was carried in, and the afternoon paper. The incessant rain had created a disaster at Doheny’s Plantation. The levee had flooded and the death toll now stood at four.
“Jesus!” Angelo whistled, looking at the front page of the Delta. “I don’t know which is the worse way to go, flood or fever.”
“What did you say?” Silvio played with his eyeglasses.
Angelo pointed to the paper. “I said I didn’t know which is worse, to die of a disease, or be drowned. Why?”
Silvio’s eyes were shining. “Which is more important to you? To find a winner this week, or get a new license?”
Angelo stared at him, uncomprehending. “To get a new license. But we can’t get one without the other. I don’t see—”
“The man in Shreveport, the patsy who won the scam, he’s on the payroll, right?”
“If he’s alive, sure. But—”
“And he’ll do as he’s told?”
“Of course. What is this?”
“Announce that he’s dead. Announce that under the circumstances—yellow fever in Shreveport and a burst levee at Doheny’s Plantation—a prize this week is inappropriate anyway. Announce that you’re donating the winnings to establish a relief fund for the victims of the Shreveport disaster and the Doheny Plantation rescue. You could even send the lottery steamboat to help.”
Silvio smiled grimly at the other man. “It’s a lot of money, Angie, and you’re going to give it all away. But believe me, it will get you that new license. Who could resist you after such a gesture?”
Angelo grinned, and let out a soft whoop. “Real foxy, Silvio. I’ve been wondering whether you still had it in you. Now I know. You’re my consigliere from now on. I don’t know if Vito knows you’re back yet, but he won’t be in doubt for much longer, that’s for sure.”
Silvio could never approach St. Louis’s Cathedral without trepidation. However, on this day at least, he knew where Martell was and it was nowhere near Chartres and St. Peter’s streets.
He entered by the main door, accompanied by two or three other people, the women in hats. Silvio didn’t know why women always wore hats to baptisms, but in America they did. He walked down the main aisle and turned off toward a group of people gathered near the font. He looked at his watch: ten minutes to noon.
Angelo saw him and halted his conversation with the man he was talking to. He shook hands with Silvio, then turned to the other man. “Judge, this is a relative of mine from New York. Thomas McCrystal … Vanni Priola. Vanni Priola … Judge McCrystal.”
The two men shook hands.
“Excuse us, judge,” said Angelo, leading Silvio away from the crowd. The judge nodded and turned back to the baptism.
“I didn’t tell Anna-Maria you’re coming,” Angelo whispered. “Don’t worry, she’s family. Even if she recognizes you, she won’t show it. She’s a good girl.”
Silvio nodded. “And Saltram?”
“He knows. I’ve already told him. I had to.”
They moved toward the font, the service about to begin. Silvio kept out of the way, though. He had his own reasons for being here and they did not include being a godfather to Anna-Maria’s first daughter.
At one point in the ceremony Anna-Maria did look his way. Their eyes met, she looked away—then suddenly looked back again. Silvio took off his spectacles, smiled, and almost imperceptibly, nodded. Then he put his glasses on again. For a moment Anna-Maria looked shocked and may even have swayed slightly on her feet. But then she recovered and turned back to the service.
Silvio transferred his attention to the judge. He had recognized his face but had not known his name. He had seen him in Mamie Christine’s. Here was a judge who liked whores. That was New Orleans for you.
As soon as the baptism was over, Anna-Maria gave the baby to her mother to hold and came up to Silvio. “I gather you are new here, Mr. Priola,” she said loudly.
“Yes.”
She hooked her arm in his and they strolled down the aisle together. “This is what we missed, Silvio,” she whispered.
“It’s Vanni in public,” he whispered back. Then: “I haven’t forgotten—or forgiven.”
She hugged his arm. “It’s good to have you back. Father’s missed you.” She hesitated. “I missed you.”
He looked down at her. “How is it with Saltram?”
“He’s a good man. Safe. A good father. Not the lover that you were—I never had sex like I had with you. We were like rabbits—huh? But … it was lucky for me we didn’t get married—” She felt him stiffen and hugged his arm again. “No, Vanni, it was hard on you, I know. But you would never have wanted to be the father Dick has turned out to be. I miss the sex but I like being a mother. That’s growing up, I suppose.”
He stopped and looked down at her. “We all grow up, Anna-Maria.”
They walked on. “Saltram knows I’m back. Angie told him.”
She nodded. “He’s as safe as I am. Don’t worry.”
They had reached the main door of the cathedral. People were standing outside in the sunshine, talking. There was to be a reception at Angie’s, but no one seemed in a hurry to move. Anna-Maria leaned forward to kiss Silvio. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered. “Come and have dinner. We can talk.” As she said “talk” she pressed his hand.
She left him and went back to her mother, to take the newly baptized baby.
Just then Silvio noticed a young man run into the square in front of the cathedral. He stiffened, but the man slowed, and approached Angelo. The two men conferred, then Angie looked across at Silvio. He beckoned him over. As Silvio approached, Angie said to the younger man, “Tell Mr. Priola here what you just told me.”
The young man was still breathless from running. “Some of our men were ambushed this morning. Corner of Esplanade and North Claiborne.”
Silvio’s face betrayed no emotion. “And?”
“Enzo Fiorano was killed. Gorlasco was hit in the leg, someone else in the eye. It’s bad, but that ain’t all.”
“What do you mean?” Angie was belligerent now.
“It was broad daylight. There was a buncha people around. Ordinary citizens. Some saw the attack, one got hit.”
“Bad?” Angelo again.
“I ain’t sure. But not dead.”
Angelo looked at Silvio. “This will change things.”
Silvio nodded. “Now Martell’s got to move.”
Angelo spoke to the man who had brought the message. “You did good. You can go home now.”
“Thank you, Don Angelo.” He went.
Angelo and Silvio walked across the square together, out of earshot of anyone else. They stopped.
“We ain’t never tried anything like this before, Silvio.”
“No. Phase one worked. Looks like phase two is on course as well.”
Martell did move swiftly. One of the bystanders had heard one of the gunmen shout something like “This is for Carona.” The remark was taken to mean that the ambush was a retaliation for the killing of Orazio Carona, one of Liotta’s caporegimes. As a result, now that the gangland violence had spilled over to the general public, Martell made fourteen arrests, all of them known associates of Vittorio Liotta. One, Girolamo Regalmici, habitually wore a yellow oilskin rain cloak. Three witnesses said one of the attackers wore a yellow oilskin. Liotta himself was not arrested, since on the morning in question he was attending a funeral in Metairie suburb.
The speed of Martell’s actions, and the fact that all those arrested were well-known gangland members, pleased the papers. “Who knows?” said The Mascot. “Perhaps these villains have been involved in some of the waterfront killings these p
ast few months. Let them all hang.” Reporters were allowed into the Parish Prison, where they found that, to a man, the accused protested their innocence. Some even had convincing alibis. However—and this was what clinched the argument against them for many people—three out of the fourteen were illegal immigrants.
A week later Harrison Parker was reelected mayor of New Orleans.
Silvio stopped at the top of the gangway and looked up. The liner towering over him had a familiar outline and he allowed himself a half smile.
“Welcome aboard the Ustica,” said the officer before him, dressed in an all-white uniform. “The bridge is this way.”
Silvio followed the man forward. The last time he had been aboard this ship had been in very different circumstances, when he had been fleeing Sicily. Now, as Angelo Priola’s consigliere, he was treated with more respect.
The officer reached the steps to the bridge and began to ascend. Silvio followed. As he rose he looked out over the levee to the roofs and balconies of the city. Then across the river to Algiers. Would Annunziata ever see this? What would she think of it if she did? Mostly he tried not to think of her—it hurt too much—but today was different.
He reached the top of the outside staircase and saw that the door to the main bridge was open. He went in.
The captain came toward him, his hand out. “Happier times than our last meeting,” he said.
Silvio nodded, accepting the handshake. “When do you leave?”
“In time to meet the tide in the Gulf. An hour from now. Mr. Priola said you wished to send someone a message.”
“Yes.” Silvio held up a package. “Give this to Ruggiero Priola in Palermo. He will know what to do with it.”
“And in case customs should ask, may I know what is in the package? It’s not opium this time, I hope.”
Silvio smiled. “It’s a book.”
He had given a lot of thought as to how he should contact Annunziata when the time came. Now that the Cathedral Plan appeared to be working, he judged that the time was right. But he couldn’t send a letter—he didn’t want to put anything in writing about his whereabouts, and in any case Zata couldn’t read. If she had someone read the letter to her, everyone would know in next to no time what he had said. But the book—Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi—was different. Ruggiero Priola could give it to her secretly, and tell her the title. That would convince her that Silvio had sent it, and reveal where he was, that he wanted her to come to him. Ruggiero would do the rest. And it wouldn’t give away anything to anyone else.