by Peter Watson
“Mr. Priola will be meeting the ship, as usual. I will give him the package as soon as we dock.”
“Thank you.”
Silvio shook hands again with the captain and went back down the steps off the bridge. He was half tempted to sail with the Ustica himself. How he would love to lie in the Sicilian countryside again, reading to Zata. It was extraordinary: she responded to his stories, first intellectually, then erotically. The rain, the mud in the streets, the smells of the cooking, the details of the women’s clothes, his descriptions of the new music … it was, he supposed, a form of sensuality, of immersing herself in fresh, strange details, of escape, just as sex, sometimes, could be an escape. God, he missed her, just as he missed the eagles, the goats, the silver undersides of the leaves on the olive trees, the way the light caught the stonework of the bivio. New Orleans wasn’t the same the second time around.
But he knew that was unrealistic. When he reached the levee he turned and looked up at the bridge. The captain, who had watched him leave the ship, saluted and closed the bridge door.
Silvio sat in the curtained carriage and looked across the square to the main entrance of St. Louis’s Cathedral. It was nearly eleven A.M. He had been sitting here for half an hour, watching. And waiting. A quarter of an hour before, Natale Pianello had entered the building. Vito Liotta’s consigliere had noticeably aged since Silvio had last seen him at Toussaint House. Then Angelo had arrived, with Vincent Mistretta and Luca Cuono, two of his caporegimes. Then Pino Spatole, Angelo’s sottocapo, had appeared moments before Vito Liotta himself, accompanied by his caporegimes, Vanni Brancaccio and Biagio Gela. Carmen Sinagra, Liotta’s sottocapo, had been the last to enter.
Silvio was surprised at the scope of this meeting. Gatherings between Dons sometimes took place in Sicily, but as he now understood things, Angelo and Vito held a top-level conference every year. They aired their grievances, discussed new business projects, settled disputes. Five attended from each side, he had been told, and the meetings were held in the vestry of the cathedral. This was a clever choice of venue: since no mafioso would violate the precincts of a cathedral, there was no need for hostages. Everyone felt safe.
Angelo had instructed Silvio to arrive last. It was still not certain that Vito knew Silvio was back in New Orleans and he wanted to surprise the other Don. The fox goes last, until the kill, as they said in Sicily. The meeting was set for eleven. Everyone else had arrived.
As the cathedral bell began to chime the hour, Silvio got down from the carriage. He entered the cathedral and strode down the nave. The vestry, he had been told, was at the far end of the building, past the altar and to the right. It was, he reminded himself grimly, a part of the cathedral he had never seen.
He found the room and entered without knocking.
Everyone was seated at a huge table covered by a green baize cloth. Angelo and his men sat down one side of the table, Liotta and his down the other.
Liotta fought hard to hide his shock at seeing Silvio, but he failed. His eyes widened, his tight mouth sagged open, he swallowed hard. Vito, Silvio was pleased to note, had not aged well. The sockets of his eyes had darkened, his hair had receded, and a vein in his temple stood out, meandering over his skull like a miniature Mississippi. The flesh on his hands and jaw had grown less tight and shiny—looking more like paper or parchment.
Silvio sat in the empty seat next to Angelo. The old man was savoring the effect Silvio’s entrance had had on the other side. “Vito,” he growled, “this is my new consigliere, a nephew of mine, Vanni Priola.” He paused. “If anything should happen to him, an accident maybe … I’d take it personal, real personal. I, like you, rely on omertà.”
He had said it. The reference to omertà drew attention to allegations, seven years ago, that Liotta was not a man of honor, that he had betrayed the Sicilian code of silence in telling Martell that Nino and Silvio were in New Orleans.
Vito placed both hands on the table, palms up. “Why are you saying this to me, Angie? I would have thought Silvio had grief enough, now that Alesso is marrying Annunziata.”
Had Silvio been standing, he would have needed to sit down. What was this? He knew nothing about Annunziata marrying Alesso—Alesso! And Liotta realized that, of course. This information had to be very fresh. It was a typical Liotta barb, one that he had used to regain the ground he had just lost.
Silvio’s mind reeled. Was this information even true? Liotta was quite capable of making it up, simply to disorient Silvio. He fought not to show his feelings, determined not to give Vito the satisfaction of seeing how dismayed he was. But he was sure that he had failed. His package wouldn’t have gotten to her yet. Now it might be too late.
Vito never took his eyes off Silvio as he continued speaking.
“What’s got into Martell?” he growled. “All these arrests of my men! You really think we ambushed you, Angie? Days before this meeting? That ain’t exactly smart now, is it?”
“Someone shot up Enzo Fiorano, made Maria a widow. Someone smashed Gorlasco’s leg. He’s still on the payroll but can’t work, so it’s costing me, same as the widow is. These things happened, Vito. You saying you weren’t involved? What am I supposed to think? Who else gets to benefit?”
“It wasn’t me, Angie. I swear.”
“Maybe you got some freelances, Vito. Maybe you ain’t pulling rank enough.”
Angelo played his part well, Silvio thought. He wasn’t overdoing it. Vito was genuinely puzzled and didn’t as yet suspect a thing. Silvio fought to keep his mind off Annunziata. He had to concentrate on the business.
Angelo held up the palm of his hand. “Vito, we got other things to talk about. I just say this, then we can move on. Maria Fiorano is going to want revenge—or maybe you want to pay her?” It was a rhetorical question and he smiled grimly. “That’s all I’m saying, Vito. There’s a score to settle. Now let’s move on. You got anything new?”
Liotta conferred briefly with Natale Pianello. He nodded and said, “We got one deal for you. Funeral parlors. There are seven companies doing funerals in the central part of the city. None of them does well. Why? Because their chief business comes from the hospitals and there are only three hospitals, two in my area, one in yours. They compete for the business, keeping their costs low. Result—seven outfits, each one making nigger profits. My idea is we can lean on the funeral parlors so that only one outfit services each hospital, gets all the business. Then we gradually put up prices. The three parlors start to make money, we take fifteen, twenty percent.”
Angelo didn’t confer with Silvio but replied immediately. “I congratulate you, Vito. A tidy idea. A little unexciting maybe, a bit—how can I put it?—cipolla rossa, but discreet, good business. The funeral parlors can be sewn up without anybody noticing. I like it. I accept.”
Now it was Angelo’s turn. He helped himself to water from a jug on the table. “Fire fighting is done in this city on a voluntary basis. Volunteers attach themselves to one of ten fire teams and are paid by the city according to whichever gets to a fire first. The most successful teams make a lot of money, hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. Since 1860 the alarms have worked by means of the Gamewell telegraph system: whoever sees a fire presses a button at one of the alarm posts situated around the city, and thirty seconds later the telegraph delivers the alarm simultaneously in the ten firehouses.
“Vanni here has made a map of the alarm posts. Twenty-three are in your area, Vito, twenty-eight in mine. From the alarm posts we have traced the wires and have found a way of intercepting the alarms before they reach the firehouses. This means we can arrange it that some firehouses receive the alarm thirty seconds or more before the others. We can therefore predetermine which fire-house team gets to a fire first, at least in the great majority of cases over any one year. These, of course, are the teams that will make most money.
“Now, we know there’s fierce rivalry between the teams. On average, it takes them anywhere from five to eight minutes to reach a
fire, and you’ve probably heard the stories of firemen reaching a fire before the rest of the team and hiding the fire hydrant under a barrel so that rival teams couldn’t start fighting a fire, and claiming the award, before their own team arrived.
“We believe the teams will pay handsomely for the privilege of having this secret advantage so they have the odds permanently stacked in their favor. We have six teams in our area of town, you have four. It will be more effective if we operate together. We think you should pay us a small part of your earnings since we’ll have to fix the wiring all over town, even in your areas, and that will cost us.”
Liotta was conferring with Pianello. He looked up. “How much?”
“Ten percent of what you make.”
“More than three would be an insult.”
“I am willing to consider eight.”
“Four.”
“Seven and a half.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Five, Angie. You can’t do it at all without our help. Don’t be greedy.”
Angelo paused. “Five it is. Choose your teams and we’ll arrange to fix the alarms as soon as you’re ready.”
The meeting broke up.
They left the cathedral one at a time so as not to attract attention, but Angelo and Silvio rendezvoused immediately afterward, at Mamie Christine’s.
“You think he suspects anything?” asked Silvio. He wouldn’t mention Annunziata. He didn’t want the old man to see how raw he felt.
Angelo was on his first bourbon of the day. He shook his head. “Not yet, no.”
“This fire fighting business. How long before it brings in any dough?”
Angelo shrugged. “Who knows? All that was just to keep him sweet. So he thinks it’s business as usual. Only you and I know … that ain’t true.”
“Virginia, how well do you know Judge McCrystal?”
“Who?”
“You know, he’s here from time to time, the oldish man who appears so fond of Kitty. He’s got red hair and coughs a lot.”
“Oh, you mean Professor Perran.”
So that’s what he called himself.
“Okay. How well do you know Professor Perran?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Ginnie!”
“Well … it’s awkward.”
“Why?”
She hesitated. “Mostly he likes Kitty but … sometimes … he pays for both of us.”
Silvio pursed his lips. Perfetto. “You haven’t forgotten how to use that camera I gave you?”
“Of course not. You’ve seen me work it lots of times. Why? … No, Silvio, no!”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Silvio, I won’t.” Then: “Please don’t make me.”
Silvio eased himself up on one elbow and held Virginia’s chin in one hand. These sessions with her reminded him of Madeleine and helped him take his mind off Annunziata. “Ginnie, Ginnie. Sono pugilato? Am I a boxer? I thought you’d learned by now. This is a rough town. You’ve got to make the most of whatever hand you’re dealt.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m not asking you to get something too dirty … just something I can use to, well, call the shots if I need to.”
“Such as?”
“A picture of him with you or Kitty. Just enough so he won’t want his wife to know. Or anyone else.”
“But how am I going to do that?”
“Does he drink?”
“Silvio, what’s in that devious mind of yours?”
“Get him drunk. Sborniato. He doesn’t have to be conscious when you take the picture. If he’s passed out, it will be easier for you. Just make sure he’s recognizable and in some sort of … disarray.”
“What are you going to do with the photograph?”
“Bank it. I’ll only use it if I need to. But I can’t let this chance slip by. A fox who isn’t hungry isn’t a fox. There are only four judges in this town. If I could control one … well, that would be something. It would be like being camerlengo when they elect a Pope.”
There was a silence in the room. Virginia was thinking. Then she said, “And if I do it, what will you do for me?”
He eyed her. “How would you like to go to the carnival ball?”
“Oh, Silvio! You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it.”
“I’d love it. Lordy, all the other girls will be green as melons.” She sat up. “Why didn’t you say so before, you silly man.” She gave Silvio a big kiss, on the lips.
1891
20
Standing on the corner of Canal Street and Decatur, Silvio watched the pickpocket go to work. The man—whom Silvio knew to be a small, nimble Negro—was working the streetcar stops. He was dressed in a crimson velvet robe and an elaborate mask that gave him a long pointed nose and a permanent grin. It was the garb of a Venetian courtier.
He didn’t stand out, though. On the contrary, this was the middle of Mardi Gras and a parade was due here at any moment. The street was thronged with clowns, kings and queens, devils and Chinese, sham soldiers, monkeys, Romeos, Hamlets, pages, people selling hot nuts, huge cigars, cotton candy, and rice cakes.
Strictly speaking, Silvio was too senior to be patrolling the streets, making collections from pickpockets. But the Mardi Gras was a busy time and manpower was stretched. It was the first carnival season since Silvio had been back in New Orleans and he had heard that the festivities had changed quite a bit. Originally held to celebrate Shrove Tuesday and the period of fasting known as Lent, the carnival season now started on Twelfth Night, January 6, and lasted virtually nonstop until the middle of February. There was a parade most afternoons and evenings, followed by balls in the French Opera House, the Grand Opera House, or the Washington Artillery Hall. Visitors flocked to the city, either down the Mississippi on a steamboat, or on the new railroads. Private railroad cars painted fancy colors stood in profusion in the Carrollton Railroad Station. The visitors brought cash with them—which was what attracted the pickpockets and made their trade a particularly lucrative one during Mardi Gras.
Pickpocketing had long been a protection racket in the quarter. Angelo had the area bounded by Canal Street, Royal Street, Esplanade, and the river. Liotta had the streets in the Quarter to the north of that. The pickpockets paid twenty dollars a day for the privilege of being allowed to work their particular patch, except at carnival time, when the rate went up to thirty a day. Angelo’s outfit was taking 120 dollars a day out of Canal Street alone.
Silvio watched as the “Venetian courtier” stood back from the crowd at the streetcar stop. Sooner or later, someone would pat their pocket where they kept their wallet, to check that it was still there. That would mark him as the courtier’s victim. Then, when the streetcar arrived, the courtier would join the throng as it pushed to board. At the last moment he would “allow” himself to be elbowed out of the way—and make his escape.
Silvio observed, amused, as the streetcar arrived and the scene was played out to perfection. He then ambled after the courtier, who walked north a couple of blocks until he came to a small thoroughfare known as Exchange Place. He ducked in there. Dusk was fast approaching and he could go through the wallet in relative peace.
“Hello, Arthur,” Silvio said.
The masked head turned swiftly toward him. The grin was obscene.
“Jesus, Mr. Priola. Ah thought yo’ was the po-lice.”
“Just enjoying the carnival, and making the collection.”
“Who are your fancy friends?”
Silvio was mystified by this remark, until he noticed that Arthur’s masked face was looking over his shoulder.
Silvio turned—and went cold.
Three figures stood behind him. A clown, a devil, and a Chinese. They must have followed him into the alley as nimbly as he had followed Arthur.
“Get lost, nigger,” said the devil, in English.
Arthur ran.
Outside, in Canal Street, the parade was beginning to pass by. The theme
was “Light” and many of the floats were lit—for the first time ever—with electric lightbulbs. That’s what Silvio had particularly wanted to see. He thought Mamie Christine’s ought to be one of the first outfits to have the new lighting.
Crowds lining Canal Street were cheering and clapping.
“Now, you mezzatacca,” said the devil. He unwrapped something from around his waist. A garrote.
They closed in on Silvio.
His mind was racing. They were Liotta’s men, of course, despite the fact that Vito had agreed at the meeting in the vestry that no harm should come to Silvio. The Cathedral Plan was working its way through, but it now looked as if Silvio would not live to see its end.
The others inched closer, trying to back Silvio against the wall of the alley. If he allowed that to happen—finito.
Suddenly the Chinese lunged at him. Silvio aimed a punch to fend him off, but as he did so the clown threw himself forward and grabbed his other arm. In an instant the two men were trying to drag him to the ground. After a brief tussle he felt his legs being kicked from under him. His back hit the cold and dirty cobbles in the alleyway. The two men were on him and he sensed the third man, the devil, moving behind his head.
Outside the alley, in Canal Street, the parade was passing. The dusk was turning to dark and in any case all eyes were fixed elsewhere.
The clown moved, shifting his weight across Silvio’s body. The Chinese man was at his feet—and Silvio, realizing what was happening, immediately kicked and kicked and kicked. The clown was trying to remove his boots. Silvio knew why. The streets were muddy, scattered with stones, broken glass, broken shells, and splinters of wood. Even if he broke free, he wouldn’t be able to run very fast without his boots.