by Peter Watson
This was the second time—since Silvio’s return to New Orleans—that he and Anna-Maria had slept together in the middle of the day. The small house on Esplanade Street she had rented had been chosen partly because it also had some old slave quarters at the foot of the garden with a separate entrance on Barracks Street. As a result, Anna-Maria could enter the building on one street, Silvio on the other.
Silvio would never have admitted it to Anna-Maria but she was better in bed than ever. She had lost none of her adventurousness and he found the idea that she had sought him out after all the years both flattering and erotic.
Virginia wasn’t pleased. He hadn’t told her what was happening, but he couldn’t spend his entire days in bed with women, so had been forced to cut down on his sessions with her.
He liked the fact that he could relax totally with Anna-Maria. Normally Sicilian men never talked business with their women; but this was America, and Anna-Maria was American almost as much as she was Sicilian, maybe more so. Also, her father confided in her.
“Any news about Liotta?” Anna-Maria said. “The press is full of little else.”
Silvio blew out more smoke. “He’s got a good lawyer, James Falmouth. We’re expecting him to try and reach the witnesses. He won’t make any headway with ours, but he might frighten some of the independents. He’ll almost certainly have a go at the jury once it’s selected.”
“Are you worried?”
“Sono rinoceronte? Am I a rhinoceros? How thick is my skin? Sure, I’m worried. Liotta’s been set up. By us, by me. Liotta knows it but can’t do much about it from Parish Prison. He also knows that I used Martell to get at him, just as he used Martell to get at Nino and me, all those years ago. Siamo pari. We’re equal. That must be as hard for him as it’s sweet for me.”
He drew hard on his cigarette. “The weakness in my plan is that the prosecution has to give the names of their witnesses to the court in advance, whereas the defense doesn’t. Which means that Liotta can intimidate the hell out of our people but we can’t do the same to him.”
“You’re certain he’ll try something like that?”
“He has to. It’s the only hope he’s got. Frank Cassidy’s brainstorm, to say that Martell told him the Sicilians did it, will be the clincher for most juries.”
“But why didn’t Cassidy make Martell say Liotta himself had done it? Wouldn’t that have been more convincing?”
Silvio shook his head. “That might have looked too pat, too obvious, Put Cassidy himself under too much pressure. No, Cassidy’s behavior was perfect. He’ll be getting paid for that. But it does mean Liotta has to fix the witnesses and the jury.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. We’ve got to come up with something special, something that will surprise Liotta and put him at a disadvantage. I have to hit him when he’s least expecting it.”
For a moment they both smoked in silence. There was a bottle of champagne by the bed and Silvio refilled their two glasses. He handed one to Anna-Maria. “I want to ask you a question, and I want you to promise not to get angry.”
“Is it about Annunziata?”
“How did you guess?” He was surprised.
“I’ve been watching you. I’ve been watching you watch my children. Silvio, I always know what’s going on inside you.” She took a sip of champagne. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know what you hear. At our meeting in the cathedral with Liotta, he said something about Annunziata and Alesso Alcamo. Is it true, or was he winding me up?”
She eyed him over the rim of the champagne glass. “If I tell you, will you promise not to get angry?”
He gave her a thin smile. “I’ll try.”
“Alesso is the Don in Alia. Bastiano’s in jail, as perhaps you know. They caught him after the orphanage. People were so incensed, they betrayed him. And there was a reward, of course. Imbriaci is Alesso’s consigliere. They still have the orchard rackets around Bivio Indisi, but they also have the lands around Valledolmo and Fontane Murata.”
Silvio nodded grimly. “And Annunziata? What about her?”
Anna-Maria paused. “She’s going to marry him.”
So it was true. Silvio said nothing. Then, after another long pause: “When?”
“No one knows. At least I don’t. The story is that Annunziata wants to be married by the abbot of some local monastery and he’s very ill at the moment, too ill to perform the ceremony.”
“Are they living together, as man and wife?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anna-Maria!”
“You said you wouldn’t get angry.”
“Anna-Maria … please.”
She nodded. “That’s what I hear.”
Again Silvio said nothing for a while. Then: “Who told you all this?”
“Father still keeps in touch with his Priola cousins. They’re in business together, after all. Like always.”
“So Angelo knows what you’ve just told me?”
She didn’t say anything. The answer was obvious.
There was another long silence. At length it was Anna-Maria who broke it. “I’m sorry, Silvio,” she said in a whisper. “I’m really sorry.”
22
William Pinkerton was a tall man, ferocious looking at times, ramrod straight, with a walrus mustache and a balding head. His office, on East Van Buren Street and South Michigan Avenue in Chicago, was no less imposing, paneled in Canadian maple, decorated with oil portraits of the detective’s Scottish ancestors. At precisely ten-thirty that morning his secretary showed into his office a much smaller, swarthier man, of stocky build and as southern European in outlook as Pinkerton was a highlander. It was April 1891.
Pinkerton and Guido di Passo may have been totally different in physical appearance, but they were very alike in other ways. William Pinkerton had made his father’s agency the greatest detective bureau there was, sought after by law-enforcement agencies all over the world. He himself entertained, and was entertained by, the greatest names in America. But he never forgot who he was, how the family made their money.
Di Passo was, without question, his best agent. Born in Genoa, he spoke his native Italian, French, and Portuguese as well as English. It was di Passo who laid the groundwork for the location, and killing, of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It was di Passo who solved the Philadelphia insurance fraud and the Cincinnati lottery scandal. When William asked him to his private office, it was usually for an important job.
Di Passo was faintly surprised on this occasion to see that there were two other people with Pinkerton.
“Guido,” the boss said, “I’d like to introduce Harrison Parker, the mayor of New Orleans. He’s the reason I’ve asked you in here today, when I know you should be on vacation. And this,” he said, turning to the other man, “is Angelo Priola, the chairman of the Concerned Citizens of New Orleans, a committee that supports the mayor. They have asked for our best man and I’ve told them you’re it.”
They all shook hands. Parker, di Passo could see, was a stocky creature with a thick neck, a bulbous nose, not much hair, reddish what there was of it, and, he noticed, very thick fingers, like carrots. Priola was elderly, gray-haired, obviously Italian.
The older men had stood up when di Passo had been shown in. Now they all sat down again. Coffee was brought and then Pinkerton got down to business.
“Guido, Mr. Parker has a problem, a difficult problem, but he believes he may also have the solution, which is where you come in. I have to tell you that the solution is very dangerous. I’ll let him give you the background and then we can all discuss the feasibility of his solution.”
Di Passo nodded and sipped his coffee.
Parker cleared his throat. “Mr. di Passo, a couple of months back we had a very bad crime in New Orleans. Our chief of police was murdered.” Parker had a deep but not unpleasant voice. A smoker’s voice. “He was shot in the street on his way home from dinner, and he died
the next day. We are pretty certain that we know who did it—in fact, a number of arrests were made within a few hours of the killing. Unfortunately, the evidence against them is collapsing. We had a number of witnesses who claimed to have seen the shooting. In the last few weeks, however, several have changed their minds and now say they don’t think they would be able to identify the people who fired on the chief. Two have simply disappeared.
“We still have a few witnesses who are willing to testify, but it begins to look as if these mafiosi, or people on their behalf, have been intimidating witnesses. Now, our fear of course is that once the trial starts, they will try the same tactics with the jury, all of which makes our job harder, much harder.
“Therefore, Mr. Pinkerton and I have worked out a plan. What we need is someone on the inside, someone who is not afraid of these men, who is tough and does not live among them, who can obtain an unequivocal confession out of one of them, a confession that will put their guilt beyond any doubt and that it would be impossible for a jury to ignore or go against.”
Pinkerton himself took up the story. “Guido, the plan is as simple as it is risky. We have prepared an alias for you. You will become a north Italian counterfeiter named Fabio Verro. There is such a person, currently doing time in Holland for counterfeiting, put away by one of our men. We’re going to send you to Amite, a small town in upstate Louisiana. There you’ll live in a small hotel, as if you were on the run and in hiding. You’ll have with you a bag of counterfeit money. One of Mr. Parker’s most trusted policemen will ‘recognize’ you there one day and ‘arrest’ you. He’ll make a fuss about it so that your arrest will be in all the papers. You will then be taken to New Orleans, where you will be put in the Parish Prison awaiting extradition to New York.
“The prison governor will be aware of our little … deception and he will put you in a cell with some of the criminals on trial for the murder of Chief Martell. After that it’s up to you.
“Only five people, apart from you and I, will know about this plan. Mr. Parker here, Mr. Priola, the arresting officer, the prison governor, and the attorney appointed to represent you. He will come to see you every few days, as an attorney would, apparently to discuss your case. Of course, the real reason he’ll be there is for you to describe any progress you’re making in the investigation. He can pull you out as soon as you’re ready.
“This is a very risky venture, Guido. I can’t force you to do it against your will. If your heart’s not in this one, don’t do it. If you get found out once you’re inside the prison, you’ll be killed, no doubt about it. What I can say is that Mr. Parker has offered a fairly hefty fee for doing the job—so I can offer you twice your normal rate of pay. If we get going right away, we should be able to have you arrested in two weeks’ time. The trial is about three months away, so that gives you … let’s say two months, to get the job done. Now think about it very carefully, and let me know your decision. These gentlemen and I will stroll around Grant Park and the lakeshore for half an hour. When we come back, I’d like you to give us your decision.”
Pinkerton stood up, and Parker and Priola did likewise. They took their hats from the hat stand.
“Any questions before we go?” Pinkerton looked at di Passo.
The detective shook his head. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
They went out.
At first di Passo sipped what remained of his coffee. Then he got up and inspected the portraits of William Pinkerton’s ancestors. Then he went to the window and watched his boss and the men from New Orleans emerge from the building and stroll over to Grant Park, across the street. Lake Michigan lay beyond, gray and uninviting. His emotions were mixed. This job could not have come at a worse time. Di Passo had been married six months earlier and his wife was already irritated that, in his job, he spent so much time away from home. Her feelings had been compounded by the fact that just three weeks ago she found out that she was pregnant.
This job would take him well away from home for two months. Perhaps more. Worse, it was in the nature of the job that he would not be able to contact her, and she would not be able to contact him.
On the other hand, the extra money would come in very handy. With Maria pregnant, there would soon be another mouth to feed. With a child in the offing, it would soon become harder for him to get away at all, and he liked traveling. And, when he was honest with himself, he liked the sound of this job. As a northern Italian himself, he knew that these southern men, these Sicilians, could be very slippery and tough, real tough. He relished the chance to test himself against them. This was in some ways the ultimate challenge of his career, to see how he would fare in direct combat with the Mafia.
He was still standing at the window and saw Pinkerton and the other men coming back across the park. He liked William. They went back a long way. It was just like the old man not to pressure him on this one. He had that particularly Scottish attitude to morality: a man must make up his own mind without distractions.
Well, he had made up his mind on this one. Maria wouldn’t like it, but the money would help give their son a better start. Di Passo didn’t doubt for a moment that his firstborn would be a boy.
“How nice to see you again, Silvio. This is a surprise. I’m afraid Edward’s not here. He’s with his father—I mean my husband. They’ve gone to Honey Island, to look at the albino alligators.”
Silvio smiled at Stella. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve come to see you. Can I come in?”
Stella’s small parlor was immaculate, save for the toy railroad train in the corner. When they were seated, she said, “What can you possibly want with me?”
“I want to help with the boy’s education.”
Stella, in the process of fixing a bracelet on her arm, stopped what she was doing.
Silvio removed his spectacles. “I’m serious. I’ve got money—you know I’ve got the money. I want the boy to get a good start.” He paused. “Don’t be offended, please. I know what steamboat captains earn—a good wage, though the river isn’t want it was, with all these railroads springing up everywhere. But let me help. The boy doesn’t ever have to know. I’m doing this for Madeleine. And for me.”
Stella smiled and placed her palms facedown on her knees. For a former whore and bar girl, she looked quite prim. “Silvio,” she said softly, “you ought to put Maddie behind you. Stop harking back. What’s done is done. Edward’s a happy boy. He don’t remember his mother like you or I do and we don’t often talk about her. It wouldn’t be fair. Sure, you can help with his education, if you really want to. But Edward ain’t your family, Silvio. Ain’t you got no family of your own? Ain’t that the way to go? You’re softer than you was. Women gonna find you more attractive. It ain’t my place to offer advice, but that’s what I think. You need your own kids.”
Silvio looked at Stella. He thought back to the fights she used to have with Nino, the screams and the tears when he forgot her birthday. Now she was so calm. And wise.
People changed. And she was right. It was time to recognize the change in him.
“Tell me, Mr. Russo, how long have you lived in America? And have you always lived in the South?”
“This is my first visit to the South. I’m a New Yorker most of the time.”
“And what is your business?”
God, they were pushy, these Southerners. Guido di Passo had been in Amite for three days now and he was beginning to think that Pinkerton and Parker had made a mistake in having him stay at such a small hotel, the Astoria. It wasn’t even a proper hotel, with people coming and going. Instead, some people lived at the Astoria all the time. It was the sort of place where old people retired to. The elderly woman addressing him now, for instance, over dinner—which all the guests took at the same table—was a widow, and lonely. At any rate, she loved to talk. But di Passo wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up. He hoped he would be arrested soon, before he made some major error.
“I’m in the money business. I’m down here lo
oking at likely investments.”
“Oh, my! And do you have anything special in mind?”
He shook his head. Would she never give up?
Amite was a pleasant town. In order to pretend that he was out working every day, di Passo had taken long walks around the financial district, the river, the shopping area. He knew where all the funeral parlors were, and the fire station, and the schools. After dinner he strolled down to the stretch of river near the hotel. He loved the levees and walked along them for about an hour every evening, looking down at the river on one side and the land on the other. There he could smoke in peace.
That night, after dinner, he took his walk as usual, and sat on the levee while he smoked a cigarette. Oceangoing vessels came up the river this far and he watched one marked ROTTERDAM on its stern. Curious. A link between him and the real Fabio Verro.
He finished his cigarette and made for the hotel. He usually turned in early. Parker’s man wouldn’t jump him at night—it was too risky. So there was nothing to wait up for. And he couldn’t write letters. Maria hadn’t liked that. In fact, she hadn’t liked any part of the plan and they had parted with the strain between them showing. But she would get over it. He hoped.
He slept well. He always slept well. No dreams. Next morning he awoke early, as he usually did. Breakfast was from seven to ten and he was always the first down. He liked to have a smoke before eating, so he went to sit on the porch, in a rocking chair. He took out a cigarette. In truth, this was the best time of the day in Louisiana, or so it seemed to him. The air was still, cool, and what dew was left at this hour brought out the smells of the exotic plants. He lit his cigarette, drew on it, and leaned back.
“Freeze, mister.”
At last.
Slowly, di Passo raised his arms and turned his body. A man in a dark blue uniform had emerged from behind a huge pillar that supported the balcony above the porch. He held a gun.