by Peter Watson
“Jerry!” yelled the policeman. “You can come out now!”
A younger policeman appeared from behind a bush opposite the Astoria. He, too, was armed.
There was movement inside the hotel. The policeman had awakened people. That was all part of the plan. Two early risers appeared on the porch.
“Get back, ma’am. Get back, sir. This man is a wanted criminal. Jerry, put the cuffs on him. Quickly now.”
The senior policeman stood in front of di Passo as the younger man grabbed hold of his arms, pulled them behind his back, and handcuffed them together. There were now four or five people just inside the hotel lobby, looking out onto the porch.
“Vincent Russo, I am arresting you in the belief that you are in reality Fabio Verro, a counterfeiter, wanted in the city of New York. I am also arresting you for the circulation of counterfeit U.S. Treasury bills in several denominations, in several states. You will be put aboard a railroad train later today and taken to New Orleans, where you will await extradition.
“Jerry, now that he’s cuffed, I can manage him. Run on ahead and tell the stationmaster to hold the New Orleans train.”
He turned to the spectators in the lobby of the hotel. There were about ten of them. “Okay, folks, you can go back to your breakfast now. The drama is over. Mr. Russo, you come with me.”
But Guido knew that the spectators in the Astoria would not go back to their breakfasts just yet. The sight of him being led away in handcuffs was too much. It would be the subject of their conversation for days, for weeks to come. Their gossip would fuel the local newspapers, and the local papers would tantalize the New Orleans editors. Nothing could better advertise Fabio Verro’s criminal nature than if he should arrive in the Parish Prison already a star of the newspapers.
So Guido judged that a little more was called for. To allow himself to be led away, plain and simple, was just too straightforward for those who were watching.
As the two men crossed the road in front of the Astoria, a cart rumbled by. The policeman’s attention was distracted for a moment, and di Passo suddenly made a run for it. People would be watching, he knew, and it would provide more fuel for gossip if he should try to escape. It would also make him much more credible as a criminal. The policeman wouldn’t shoot, of course, being in on the plot. In any case, after a short “attempt” at escape, di Passo would allow himself to be recaptured.
He ran after the cart, and heard the policeman start to give chase, shouting. Guido thought he would run as far as the levee and then, out of sight of the spectators at the Astoria, give himself up.
Suddenly a shot rang in his ears. The back of his neck was immediately wet with sweat. Was the policeman shooting? Surely not. Was he really in on the plot after all, as he was supposed to be? A horrible thought struck di Passo—that Pinkerton and Parker had changed the plan without telling him. No, Pinkerton would never do that. But Parker might, without telling Pinkerton.
A second shot rang out, and now di Passo stopped. This wasn’t funny.
The policeman caught up with him and grabbed him. “Jesus!” he breathed. “Someone’s shooting from the goddamn hotel!” He turned and shouted. “Stop your shooting! Hold it!”
Di Passo stared at the policeman. It was true. His gun was in its holster.
The policeman, still holding di Passo’s arm, pulled him back the way they had been going. “That’s enough realism for one day,” he hissed between his teeth. “You nearly got yourself killed. Some guy in the Astoria must keep a shotgun under his bed. I’ll deal with him later. Come on.”
“Do you still read like you used to?”
Anna-Maria pulled the bedclothes over them. These days, she reflected, she and Silvio talked almost as much as they made love. “No. The children take up a lot of time. But most nights I read in bed for about half an hour. You?”
Silvio shook his head. “I read when I was in prison. It kept me going. I even read to the other men. Can you imagine? Me. But here in the Quarter, so much is happening. And with Liotta after my skin all the time, it’s hard to concentrate.”
“Where’s your bodyguard when you’re with me?”
“Outside. Don’t worry, he won’t talk.”
“Are you sure? Dick’s been acting funny lately.”
“How do you mean?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on. Maybe I’m making it up.”
“You two still do it?”
“Why? You jealous?”
He smiled at her, and kissed her. “You hear any more from Sicily?”
“You mean about Annunziata?”
“You jealous?” He tried to grin, but his sadness didn’t quite allow it.
“Yes, I heard something.”
“Sono vulcano?” He looked at her levelly. “Tell me.”
She stared back. “They set a date for the wedding.”
“When?”
“August sixteenth. Three months from now.”
Di Passo—or rather Fabio Verro—did indeed arrive in New Orleans as a celebrity. The press had done their work well. Several residents of the Astoria had contacted the Amite Gazette, and the editor of that organ, mindful that Verro’s journey to New Orleans would take him overnight, had telegraphed the New Orleans Picayune, which had printed news of Verro’s arrest, and the “shoot-out” at Amite, on its front page. Prominently displayed also was the fact that Verro was due to arrive in New Orleans on the Amite train later that day.
By the time he arrived, the afternoon papers had picked up on the story and there was a small welcoming party to see him descend, still handcuffed, from the railroad car. He was transferred—swiftly—to the Parish Prison, where the arresting officer was instructed to report immediately to the governor.
Governor James Tucker was a portly man, with a pale skin, a round face, and heavily oiled hair.
“Why have you brought this man to my prison?” he demanded of the Amite policeman.
“For speed, sir. He’s a wanted man in New York. I propose to begin extradition proceedings today. Once the documentation comes through, he can be put aboard a coastal steamer, and be in New York in a matter of days.”
The governor appeared to think this over. The chief warden was also in the room and Tucker wanted no suspicion to attach to himself. “How long will the extradition take?”
“A month, maybe two. Depends on his lawyer.”
Tucker addressed di Passo. “You. Do you have a lawyer in New Orleans?”
“Why would I have a lawyer here? I ain’t never been before.”
Tucker regarded di Passo with a measure of distaste that was clearly not an act. “You are Italian, yes?”
Di Passo nodded sullenly.
Tucker addressed himself to the head warden. “Put Verro with the other dagos. Then send out for Ralph Freemantle. He’ll do as a lawyer.”
The policeman took back his handcuffs and went off to give interviews to the press about how he had caught the counterfeiter. Di Passo was led back down to the ground floor to the long-term wing. Here the cells were smaller, and mostly housed just two men. He was led along the corridor that linked all the cells until the head warden stopped at a cell occupied by just one person.
“Room in here for another, I think. Make way, you’ve got company. A celebrity, the man you all read about in this morning’s Picayune, Vincent Russo, alias Fabio Verro. Another Eyetie.” He clanged the door shut behind di Passo. “Watch your back, Verro. Your cellmate is one of Liotta’s mob. Name of Gino Fazio. Here on a murder rap. Sweet dreams.” He laughed and was gone.
“It’s slow, real slow. But we’re making some progress.” Silvio, Angelo, and Harrison Parker were breakfasting in Parker’s club, the Pickwick, which was located well away from the Quarter, in the Garden District. They were in a private room and could not be overheard. Parker was doing the talking.
“Di Passo has been put with Gino Fazio. There’s no point in putting him in with Liotta himself. He’ll never crack. But Fazio is unstable. Worse, or rathe
r better, from our point of view, he’s got dysentery. It’s draining him and he’s getting weaker. The only risk from our point of view is that di Passo himself might catch the disease. If he does we’ll have to pull him out.”
“And how is Liotta? Do we know?” Silvio was still certain Vito would try something.
“As you would expect. He’s living well. He has all the best food and wine sent in. Even a few glasses of absinthe. But he works most of the day. People come and go all the time. He has his people in the jail, of course, and he’s spending money like water. His tactic is obvious, but effective. He will intimidate or buy off as many of your witnesses as he can. He’s already gotten to a few, and may get to more. He won’t get to all of them, but maybe enough. Obviously, he doesn’t know about di Passo.
“His other tactic is to ‘find’ new ‘witnesses’ of his own. They’ll provide convincing alibis for himself and his people. In the end, all these witnesses may just cancel one another out. I suspect that it may come down to what di Passo finds out. If he finds out anything.”
A week later they met again. Another breakfast in the Pickwick. This time Parker had more news. “Fazio is definitely cracking. His health is going with the dysentery, and di Passo has managed to convince him that the others are trying to poison him. That has turned Fazio against the rest.”
By the next week the Pickwick breakfasts were becoming routine. Now Parker had even better news to report. “Fazio’s mind has gone completely. He has begun to talk. He rambles, but di Passo is beginning to get some pure gold. For example, Fazio has told him about the initiation ceremonies of the Liotta family. How they have to prick their forefinger to draw blood, then hold it over a candle while someone reads from the Bible. Fazio also said that he helped torch Fanny Decker’s whorehouse back in ’eighty-eight. And he helped plan some of the Liotta mayhem directed at the Priolas. He even told di Passo that he began in New Orleans by collecting protection money on Rampart Street.”
“That’s perfect for us,” said Angelo. “Di Passo’s real foxy. If the judge allows him to say all that, and he then goes on to describe how Fazio confessed to the murder, we’re home free.”
The next week Parker was less cocky. “Di Passo’s still getting good stuff. Mainly Liotta’s link to Deveraux, the former chief of police. That’s good because it goes to motive, makes out that Liotta wanted Martell out of the way so he could replace him with Deveraux.”
“So why are you worried?” Angelo, despite the early hour, was smoking a big cigar.
“Di Passo’s got dysentery himself. He’s growing weak. Yet he’s getting such good stuff, he doesn’t want to pull out. He’s crazy. He could kill himself in there, or make himself so ill he can’t give evidence. We’ve got enough now, don’t you think? It’s time to pull him out.”
That proved easier said than done. Di Passo insisted on staying another week—by which time the trial was only two weeks away. Then, when he was ready to be released, the prison governor, Tucker, was away on a training course that he couldn’t avoid. His deputy was not part of the plan and so could not be asked to sanction di Passo’s release. All of which meant that the Pinkerton man was not released from the Parish Prison until a week before the trial began, by which time he had lost thirty pounds and was extremely ill. When Parker first saw him after di Passo had been “extradited,” he was shocked. In addition to the weight loss, his skin was pale and he was unable to stand. He was obviously too ill to give evidence.
“We’re going to need him,” Parker told the others at one of their now regular breakfasts. “Liotta’s men have been working hard on the witnesses. Clarence Foley, the D.A., says that our original fourteen witnesses have now shrunk to eight. And that could shrink further.” He turned to Silvio. “Isn’t there something you can do?”
Silvio shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. For sure, we can’t do anything until the damn jury is selected. Do we have a judge yet?”
“I was coming to that,” said Parker. “The answer is yes. Old Tom McCrystal.”
Silvio looked at Angelo, who returned his gaze. They both smiled.
“Now that,” said Silvio, “is what I call a break.”
“Silvio, what you doin’ here? You never go to confession.”
It was Tuesday and Silvio was seated in the rearmost pew of St. Louis’s, the very place where he had sat, months ago, when he had first arrived back from Sicily and outlined the Cathedral Plan to Angelo. He patted the pew beside him. “Sit down, Angie.”
Angelo slumped onto the pew.
“I like it here, Angie. Reminds me of Sicily. That painting over the altar. There’s one just like it in Palermo.”
“You getting homesick? After all this time?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” He turned to the older man. “You knew things about Annunziata, about her and Alesso. But you didn’t tell me.”
Angelo’s expression changed. “It was for the best, Silvio. What could you have done?”
Silvio looked away, back toward the altar and the picture above it. “Sono ragazzo? Am I a child? You should’ve told me, Angie. I had a right to know.” He paused. “And I found out anyway.”
“And what good’s it gonna do you? It ain’t as if you could go back to Sicily and stop it happening.”
Silvio said nothing, but turned his gaze back to Angelo.
The older man was startled. “Is … is that what you’re thinking of doing? You’re crazy! You gotta stay here till the trial’s over—and by then Annunziata will be married.”
“Wrong. No one in Sicily will expect me to go back. They’ll think like you, that I’d have to be crazy. Once the trial starts here, there isn’t a lot we can do. Almost everything that can be done I’ve already thought of.”
“But what are you gonna do, Silvio? Alesso will be protected. Soon as the sbirri find out you’re back in Sicily, they’ll be after you like a buncha weasels. Every policeman on the island will want the reward and glory of capturing the beast of Bagheria. Ordinary people will turn you in. You can’t take on the whole island. That ain’t foxy.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Angie. I’m the one who’s going to give you this city on a plate. I’m the guy who’s outthinking Liotta—remember? So don’t lecture me. Don’t!” He paused, to calm himself. “I can go back as a deckhand on one of the fruit boats. I can go via North Africa. All I need from you is a boat and a set of false papers. Easy. Just make sure the boat leaves the day after the trial starts. I’ll do the rest.”
“Professor Perran?”
The judge looked up. He was sitting with Kitty, drinking bourbon and listening to the Tio brothers. “Yes?”
“I’m Vanni Priola. I own the place.”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I might talk to you for a moment.”
“No, I’m busy. Go away.”
Silvio stood without moving, looking down at the man.
“I said: Go away.”
“Kitty works for me. She’ll do as I say.”
The judge clenched his fist. “I thought I—”
“It won’t take long. Five minutes. Then I’ll leave you in peace. It’s important.” He nodded to the back of the bar. “In my room.”
“It’s okay,” Kitty said softly, playing her part. She stroked the back of the judge’s hand. “I’ll be here when you get back. Don’t worry.”
Silvio led the way as the judge rose to follow. When he reached the back room he held the door open as His Honor walked through. He closed the door behind him.
“Now, what is all this? I was just beginning to enjoy—”
“You don’t remember where we met before, judge?”
“What do you mean? Where did we meet?”
“At a baptism, in the cathedral. Angelo Priola’s daughter—and granddaughter, of course.”
The light of recognition suddenly shone in McCrystal’s eyes. He nodded. “I thought the name was familiar.” But then he frowned. “So? I still don’t see why—”
Silvio threw a photograph onto the table between them.
McCrystal looked down casually—then scrutinized it more closely. “What is this?”
“You, Your Honor. Drunk, sborniato, as we say where I come from. Dead to the world, and slumped across Kitty Clarke, half-naked.”
“When … when was this taken?” The judge grabbed at the photograph, but Silvio was too quick for him.
“What does it matter when it was taken? What matters is what you are doing. What matters is what your wife will think of this, or the mayor.”
“You’re blackmailing me!”
Silvio paused before replying, “Yes. That’s right.”
McCrystal said nothing. He looked outraged, then sad, then angry all over again. Finally he sat down and rubbed his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Nothing. At least, not yet. There will come a time when I—or friends of mine—need a favor, maybe. But for now I just want you to know what I have. And don’t worry. No one else, apart from Kitty, of course, and the person who took the photograph, will ever know what I know. Unless …” Silvio let the sentence trail off.
The judge glared at Silvio. It was half fury, but also half self-pity, and Silvio began to despise him. Why couldn’t he take the consequences of his actions like a man? He watched as McCrystal rose, left the room, and wove his way back between the tables to where Kitty was sitting. He grabbed her arm and pulled her from her seat, toward the stairs. It was difficult to see if he was angry or excited by what had just happened.
Silvio smiled to himself. Another part of the Cathedral Plan had slipped into place.
On the Sunday of that weekend, Silvio was early for his time with Anna-Maria. For him, Sundays were no different from any other days; he worked and played as normal. He left Mamie Christine’s at two-thirty. His bodyguard, Eduardo, fell in behind him. They walked down CustomHouse Street and turned onto Royal. It was then that Silvio suddenly spotted Dick Saltram coming out of a tobacco store, smoking a cigarette. Silvio was just about to shout to Saltram when a gesture by the other man caught his eye.
Saltram patted his breast pocket. Silvio himself often made the same gesture—when he was checking that his gun was in place. He was puzzled and alarmed. Saltram was not a violent man. Why did he have a gun, and where was he going? He watched as Saltram turned off Royal into Toulouse. Silvio became more alarmed when he observed Saltram turn off onto Chartres and walk purposefully in the direction of the house on Esplanade where Silvio and Anna-Maria were to meet.