by Peter Watson
The Chinese man sat on his feet. Despite Silvio’s kicking, the clown managed to prize the boot off his right foot. Then he set about the left one.
Silvio gave a heave and kicked at the same time. The Chinese man clung on, but the clown was dislodged. This was the only chance Silvio would have. He slipped his left foot out of his boot and broke free. The devil, with both hands on the garrote, was slow to intervene but shouted, “Stop him!”
Too late. Silvio was on his feet and running. He couldn’t go west, toward the parade, because the devil blocked his way. So he went east. Exchange Place gave onto Iberville Street, which ran north-south. It was deserted; everyone was watching the parade. South of where Exchange Place joined Iberville, Exchange Alley ran off, going east Silvio dashed in there.
Just as he reached Iberville, however, his right foot struck a nail in a horseshoe that must have fallen off a mule. He gasped in pain and had to stop to pull the nail clear of his flesh.
The others reached the end of Exchange Place. Silvio ran, limping now, down Exchange Alley, his mind still spinning. He couldn’t keep running indefinitely, not in his stockinged feet in these streets, not with his right foot bleeding. He had to find a sanctuary, had to find help. He was approaching Bienville Street when the idea came to him.
At the corner of Exchange Alley and Bienville Street there was a bar and restaurant. Outside were crates of garbage—bottles, old food that had been scattered about by scavenging dogs and rats. He ignored it. The others were too close. If he was right, if his memory hadn’t failed him, what he wanted was a block away, on the corner of Bienville and Royal.
He turned left as he reached the end of Exchange Alley. Or he would have if he hadn’t slipped on some of the garbage in the alleyway. His feet went from under him and he threw out an arm to break his fall. Straight onto some shards of broken plates. The ball of his left hand was sliced, and for the second time he yelped in pain. His spectacles fell off.
But he could now see what he wanted, and he forced himself to his feet. Bienville Street was as deserted as Iberville had been. The new electric lights on the parade floats were as popular as the new street lighting on Canal Street itself.
The others were close behind but Silvio forced himself forward. There was only a block to go. Twice on the way his foot struck something—tiles fallen from roofs? more horseshoes?—but he willed himself to ignore the pain.
Then he was there. At the meeting with Liotta, Angelo had mentioned the plan to infiltrate the fire teams. As part of his research for this, Silvio had compiled a map of firebox alarms in the city. And he had remembered correctly: there was one at the corner of Bienville and Royal. He ran up to the box and punched the button. He punched it again, and again, and again, then sagged, exhausted and in pain, against the post supporting the firebox alarm. Now he was in the hands of the fire teams. Normally, he knew, they took five to eight minutes to reach a fire. He had to hold out that long.
The devil and his two cronies knew that, too, however, and they were now upon him, circling him, moving in. The clown threw himself at Silvio, and when he tried to punch him away the man hung on to Silvio’s wrist The Chinese followed up and grabbed Silvio around the waist. This time the devil joined in, too. Their immediate aim was obvious—to drag Silvio off the street to a small alley near a boarded-up cobbler’s shop.
Silvio kicked out to stop them, tried to hook his leg around part of the firebox alarm, as a delaying device. But the clown grabbed his foot and twisted it free. Silvio was hauled away from the post. He judged that a minute had elapsed since he had pressed the alarm.
As the Chinese man and the clown dragged him along the sidewalk, the devil aimed a kick at Silvio. The pain was exhausting, rendering him less able to struggle. His face and hair were now matted with dirt and grit.
Two minutes had surely elapsed.
Once they had Silvio in the alley, the Chinese man held him down while the other two men began to rain kicks on him. They kicked his face and neck, they attacked his kidneys and aimed at his groin. He felt his lip punctured and one of his eyes began to swell. At one point, however, he managed to grab the devil’s ankle as his foot came toward him. Silvio pulled and twisted the ankle at the same time. The devil, upended, squealed in pain as he fell, striking his head on the wooden shack that formed one side of the alley.
That bought time for Silvio, but the devil was now fuming with rage. He brandished the garrote. “Okay, hold him,” he growled. “Let’s do this thing.”
The clown now added his weight to that of the Chinese man and Silvio’s body was pressed hard to the ground. Silvio struggled but the kicking had achieved its intended effect; he was much weaker now. Surely four minutes must have elapsed?
Silvio felt the devil behind him. He struggled to free his arms, but the clown held on to one of them and the other was pinned by the weight of his body. Silvio pulled and pulled. One arm came free, just as he felt the garrote going around his neck. He grabbed the rope just under his ear and wedged his fingers between it and his flesh.
“His hand!” hissed the devil. “Grab his fingers.”
But it wasn’t easy to unravel Silvio’s fingers, and after a moment he felt the weight on his body slacken. The clown had moved. Silvio heaved himself upward, but he was too weak now for it to mean anything.
Then Silvio smelled burning. What was happening? He saw the clown putting a cigarette to his mouth and, moments before it happened, realized what they were going to do. The clown held the burning end of the cigarette to Silvio’s hand.
Jesus! The pain was scalding. But he still didn’t let go of the garrote—he didn’t dare. Within seconds of doing that he would be dead. He’d never get a second chance, not once that rope started to bury itself in his neck.
But the pain from the cigarette was getting worse. He could smell burning skin and his whole hand seemed to be swelling. He had to stop it—he couldn’t endure it any longer.
And then he heard the bell of the fire team. It sounded about four blocks away.
But the devil had heard the bell, too, and had tightened his grip on the garrote. Could he strangle Silvio even with his fingers inside the rope? He was certainly trying to. The cigarette still ravaged his skin. Drying tears caked the corners of Silvio’s eyes.
The sound of the fire bell was getting closer. He had to hang on, maybe another thirty seconds. The pain in his hand, though, was beginning to outweigh his fear of the garrote. Was the rope beginning to starve his brain of blood, making him light-headed? He wanted it all to stop; he wanted to sleep. Please God …!
Silvio heard voices. Firemen sometimes ran ahead of the engines. Were those firemen’s voices that he could hear? He tried to shout for help but was too weak.
Suddenly the burning at his hand stopped and the weight was lifted from his body. The rope around his throat went slack. The three men in costumes got up. Two gave him a final kick and then, casually, so as not to draw attention to themselves, they sauntered away. The devil, Silvio noticed, was limping.
From the Times-Democrat:
AMBUSH CASE PUT BACK FOR THIRD TIME
The trial of the fourteen Sicilians arrested in the wake of the shooting at Claiborne and Esplanade streets in May last year, when one faction of roustabouts was ambushed by another, with guns, and when an innocent bystander lost an eye, has been delayed for a third time. The trial was originally scheduled to take place last September; it was then put back a month, then to January, and will not now take place until the second half of February, according to sources inside the district attorney’s office.
The reason for the delay, according to the source, is that a number of witnesses have changed their stories and two of the defendants are too young to appear in court.
The defendants have now been held in prison, without trial, for eight months. Their defense attorney, Mr. James Falmouth, described this chain of events as “a disgrace. My clients are innocent and should either be brought into court, to rebut the charges agains
t them, or released. If the trial does not take place in February, as now scheduled, I intend to petition the governor to have all charges dropped.”
It is understood that some of the witnesses who changed their story now claim that in the wake of the ambush they were pressured by the police, who were anxious to make rapid arrests to satisfy public opinion. Many citizens were outraged by the attack, made in broad daylight, and which seemed to indicate that a waterfront gang war had spilled over to the rest of the city.
Several witnesses, the Times-Democrat has been told, are now less confident of the identifications they made at police request either on the day of the attack or the following day.
Whatever the outcome, it is noticeable that since the arrests, criminal activity on the waterfront has fallen remarkably. All concerned citizens will be thankful for that.
“You’re late!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Priola,” said the doctor, letting himself into the back room of Mamie Christine’s. “But it’s my day at the orphanage and we never know how many patients there will be.” He lifted Silvio’s foot and carefully unwrapped the bandage. It was nearly forty-eight hours since he had trodden on the nail while being chased in Iberville Street.
“Orphanage?”
“Yes. All the doctors from the Charity Hospital help out there. Free of charge, of course.”
Silvio watched as the doctor went to work on his foot. Orphans—and orphanages—had played a big part in his life, he reflected. He winced as the doctor applied some iodine to his wound. The attack on him by Liotta’s men had shaken him, but not in the way that he expected. Silvio wasn’t a coward, he wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t old. He still loved the whores and the music of CustomHouse Street—he would never get tired of that. He loved having fancy clothes and people to do things for him. But he had never been the same since he had been forced to return to Sicily, and had been rescued—if that was the word—by Annunziata.
“You work free?”
“Sure. Who’s going to pay us—the orphans?” The doctor smiled.
“Where is this orphanage?”
“Top end of Esplanade.”
“How many?”
“Hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty maybe.”
“What sort of treatment do you give?”
“It varies. Today I had to stitch a scalp. Someone had their hair pulled out in a fight.”
Silvio winced again.
The doctor was rebandaging his foot. “You’ll live. The wound’s quite clean.”
“What else? What other treatment, I mean?”
“Well, the big thing right now is to get them some fresh lemons, oranges, fruit.”
“That’s a treatment?”
“Sure. You see it a lot in poor people—scurvy, it’s called. Bleeding gums, pains in the arms and legs, anemia. It’s obviously caused by a deficiency in the diet. We don’t know what, but lemon juice, fresh oranges, grapefruit clear it up in no time. I take what I can, and so do the other doctors, but there’s never enough.”
Silvio’s thoughts went right back to his first lesson with Nino, that day in Bivona, when—who was it?—yes, Frederico Imbaccari had been made to send half his orange crop to the orphanage at Santo Stefano.
“There,” said the doctor. “You can put your shoe back on again now. I’ll come again in a couple of days, to take the bandage off and check. But I don’t expect any problems.”
“I want you here tomorrow—”
“It’s too soon. You’re fine until—”
“No. Come tomorrow. At this time. I’ll take you down to the docks, to the Priola wharves. You can have all the lemons and oranges you want.”
From an editorial in the Times-Democrat:
SICILIANS MAY BE RELEASED TODAY
Is the peace that New Orleans has known these past months about to be shattered? The rumors coming from judicial circles that the fourteen Sicilians held after the shooting at Claiborne and Esplanade streets in May last year are about to be released, for lack of evidence, will be a cause of concern for all right-thinking people in this city.
The law is a fine thing, and must be upheld. But who can have failed to note that while these men have been in Parish Prison, violence on our streets—and on our wharves in particular—has all but disappeared? This, surely, is evidence itself, a silence far more eloquent than any words we could offer.
The law must be followed. But the citizens of New Orleans will be watching events from here on, and paying particular attention to what happens on the wharves. If a return to violence should now occur, on anything like the scale that took place before, we will know who to hold responsible: those who are about to be released—and those who release them.
Silvio gazed down at the carnival ball. It was three days since the attack on him and he had recovered most of his strength and composure. This evening the French Opera House was rendered as ancient Egypt, and the carnivalgoers were all decked out as Egyptian gods and goddesses. The band of the 71st Regiment was playing “If I Ever Cease to Love.” Many of the women at the ball, on Shrove Tuesday itself, were debutantes, being presented to society by their parents for the first time, and they wore white ball gowns.
In Silvio’s box were Angelo’s wife, Anna-Maria, and Dick Saltram. Silvio had not forgotten his promise to Virginia, and she accompanied his party. The older women were dressed in long ball gowns, in any color but white. Silvio had bought Virginia a new gown for the evening and she was happier than he had ever seen her. Vincent Mistretta and Luca Cuono, Priola caporegimes, stood nearby, acting as bodyguards for the evening. Angelo had not yet arrived. His health had not been good lately—liver trouble—and he had a doctor’s appointment. Another tradition of the carnival ball was that once you had left it you were not allowed to reenter.
The band changed to a slower tune, a waltz, and Anna-Maria stood up and approached Silvio. “Dance?” she said.
On the dance floor, Silvio whispered, “We haven’t done this since the Syracusa. At least I don’t throw up anymore.”
She smiled. “At one point, back then, I thought it was the idea of sex that made you feel ill.”
He smiled back. “I was really naive, huh?”
“There was a certain charm about it.” She pressed her groin to his.
He was surprised, but immediately aroused. She had always been able to do that to him.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s crowded here. No one can see.” She moved against him. “Have you not noticed I’ve been getting slimmer?”
“Sono cieco? Am I blind? Of course I have.”
“I’ve rented a small house, Silvio. On Esplanade, out of the way. We could go there, on Tuesdays. Like in the lugger. Remember? Remember what I used to do to you?”
Silvio did indeed remember.
“I’ll do it to you again. I’ll bet no one does that like I do.”
It was true. God, it was true. There’d been Annunziata in the meantime, of course. But he didn’t want to think of her. Just then he saw a woman staring at him. He stared back. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite figure out what. Then he had it. He looked down at Anna-Maria. “Will you excuse me? I’ve just seen an old friend.”
“I’ll excuse you only if you agree to come to my place on Esplanade on Tuesdays.”
He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Tell me how to find it, and I’ll be there.” Then he was gone.
He reached the edge of the dance floor. The woman saw him coming. She turned toward him but made no move forward.
“Stella,” he whispered. “Is it you?”
She knew she knew him. That’s why she had been staring. But she hadn’t recognized him yet.
“It’s Silvio,” he said gently. “Remember?”
Her hand went to her mouth. But then she smiled, almost sheepishly. “Oh, my! You’re back.”
He nodded. “Same me, but a new name. Vanni Priola. You can guess why.”
He guided her to a table, taking two glasses o
f champagne from a passing waiter. They sat down and toasted one another.
“You know Nino’s in jail?” he said softly.
She nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m okay. I found a man, a good man. He ain’t here tonight; he’s a captain of a steamboat and he’s working. I’m doing fine.” She sipped her champagne. “I’m sorry about Madeleine.”
“Yes. Vito Liotta had her killed. That’s one reason I’m back. He’s got to pay.”
There was another pause. Then, still in a whisper, he said, “Stella, what happened to Madeleine … to her body … do you know?”
She nodded again. “She’s buried in the cemetery by the Ursuline Convent on Chartres. After the way she got killed, they took pity on her, gave her a decent funeral.”
“And her child?”
“Edward? He lives with me. I adopted him.”
“How old is he now?”
“Twelve.”
“And … does he know?”
“Oh yes. I ain’t hid nothing.”
“Does he look like her?”
She nodded.
He looked across to his own table. Angelo had just arrived. “I’d better be getting back. Where do you live, Stella? I’d like … I’d like to see Edward. Would that be okay by you?”
She smiled. “Sure, Silvio—I mean Vanni. I’m at 421 Dauphine. Come and eat lunch. You know I was always a good cook.”
“I will. Soon.” He rose, kissed her, and moved back across the dance floor. As he went he noticed Carmen Sinagra, Liotta’s sottocapo. He was limping. That answered one question at least. Now he knew who the devil had been.
When he arrived back at the table, Angelo was seated next to Silvio’s place. He didn’t look good, but now was not the time to discuss health. As Silvio sat down, the Capo leaned across and whispered, “Liotta’s men were released today. The doctor told me. He’s physician at the Parish Prison.”
“What reason?”
“Insufficient evidence, according to the DA. Two were too young to stand trial, three illegal immigrants have been repatriated to Sicily. The eyewitnesses have changed their tune. They’re no longer sure they were fired on by the people they first identified. It’s a mess.”