by Peter Watson
“Have some salami. This is the best in all Sicily.” Ruggiero Priola handed the plate to Silvio.
Taking it, Silvio said, “Angelo still remembers this restaurant. He often talks about it. There’s nothing like it in New Orleans, that’s for sure.”
Silvio’s reception by Ruggiero had at least been better than Smeralda’s. He had walked back from Cammarata to the railroad station, waited a couple of hours, then caught the Terme Imerese train, which connected with one to Palermo. Between Terme Imerese and Palermo the train had traveled through Bagheria and the very cutting where Silvio had planned the ambush, and then been ambushed himself, months and months ago.
Just as he had known Smeralda would be at Mass, so he knew Ruggiero would be at Calogero’s restaurant. The walls and the floor were lined with marble tiles. Noise echoed this way and that. He had sat down at the back, around seven-thirty, and ordered a plate of prosciutto and some red wine. Then he had waited.
Ruggiero had arrived an hour later and found his regular table. As soon as he had finished saying hello to others he knew in the restaurant, Silvio got up, crossed the room, and sat down next to Ruggiero, saying as he did so, “Try not to look surprised.”
Ruggiero had handled it superbly. He had hardly paused, in the middle of dabbing his bread in some olive oil, but gone on eating as though Silvio dropped by every day. His first words were, “You hungry?”
Silvio nodded. “Especially for information.”
“Let’s move, nearer the back.” Ruggiero got up, leading the way. Carrying his bread and wine, he wove a route through the tables to the back of the restaurant, shouting to the owner, whom he obviously knew very well, that tonight he wanted a bit of peace and quiet. He found a table and sat himself against a wall. “You sit with your back to the room,” he said softly. “I think it’s safer.”
He ordered dinner by barking instructions across the tables at various waiters, who didn’t seem to need to write down anything he said.
That done, he looked at Silvio. “You look good. You haven’t come to kill me, I hope.”
Silvio smiled and gripped Ruggiero’s wrist. “No. But I’m here to settle things. You know why.”
“I guessed you’d have to, sooner or later.”
“Where is he? Alesso, I mean.”
“I know who you mean, irato. But it’s all changed up there now, Silvio. After Bastiano was busted, we cleared out from Bivio Indisi. It was too dangerous, and in any case Alesso had made a deal with the Imbriacis and the Liottas. After he set you up, the Liottas in Bagheria gave him a reward, one of their smaller livings around Alia—Valledolmo, Vallelunga, Marcato Bianco. Plenty of olives, almonds, a little wine, figs, some quarries. He pays tribute to them, of course, but he does very well. He lives in a house in Vallelunga and operates from there. He’s the Don in Alia.”
“And Annunziata? They’re going to be married?”
“Yes. August the sixteenth.”
“Where?”
“Where else? The Madonna dell’Olio. They’re hoping to live in Fontana Murata, on an estate that’s coming up for sale. Some Englishman is selling and there’s an auction quite soon.”
“Where is she?”
The other man lowered his eyes, and colored slightly.
“Come on, Ruggiero. Where is she? You owe me, damn you.”
Ruggiero shrugged. “It’s no secret. At Quisquina. She’s helping look after Father Ignazio. He’s dying.”
Silvio relaxed then. At last. After he had seen Smeralda, in Cammarata, he had half feared that the island might be closed to him, that no one would tell him where Alesso and Annunziata were. Now he knew.
That’s when the salami was served.
“What are you going to do, Silvio?” Ruggiero tackled what was uppermost in their minds.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ve got a few days.” He forked salami into his mouth and chewed for a moment. Then he said, “Tell me, Ruggiero, you have always known the truth of what happened in the orphanage in Bagheria. Why didn’t you go for Alesso?”
Ruggiero nodded. “I thought you’d ask, but the answer’s simple. Affari. Business. I wanted to kill Alesso but was overruled by the family. I can’t blame them. After the explosion, and the deaths, the sbirri and the militia went mad and clamped down completely. Even the foxes stayed home. They closed warehouses, whorehouses, gambling joints, interfered in all the rackets, stopped all kickbacks, at least for a while. I tell you, everybody was hit in one way or another. It was so bad a top-level meeting of all the families was called, in Corleone. There it was agreed that it was too dangerous and too stupid to have more vendettas. Everyone wanted a quiet life, a return to making money. So an accommodation was reached. The Liottas had to give Alesso a living, and they were told they had to look after Bastiano’s family. In exchange for that, there were to be no killings, nothing to keep the police and militia on our backs. It was a business solution.”
The spaghetti had arrived. Silvio was thinking as he ate. What Ruggiero said had all the logic of the Sicilian Mafia, a cynical realism that he knew well. He looked into Ruggiero’s eyes. “I am not part of that agreement.”
“I know. And don’t worry. I won’t interfere. I owe you that.”
Silvio gripped the other man’s wrist again. “Thank you.”
For a while they ate in silence. Then a thought struck Silvio. “Fontana Murata? Isn’t that the estate that belonged to the English priest … Livesey … you know, the man Nino kidnapped?”
Ruggiero nodded. “You’ve got a good memory. Reminds me of something, too. Nino escaped the other day. Tricked his way out.”
Silvio whistled. “Foxy! Still foxy after ten years in jail.”
“Be careful. There’s sbirri everywhere. They think he might come here.”
Silvio shrugged. “Maybe. But America’s safer.” He drank some wine, thinking. Then he said, “Tell me more about Alesso and the deal at Fontana Murata.”
Ruggiero looked uncomfortable. “I have to tell you, Silvio, that we—the Priola family, that is—are backing Alesso in this.”
Silvio went to interrupt but Ruggiero waved him down. “Let me finish. You haven’t heard what I’ve got to say.” He wiped his lips with his napkin. “The government made some geological sweep through the entire island recently. We’ve got someone inside—like always. Seems that the sulfur mines are all played out now, but … but, there’s coal under Fontana Murata, loads of it. With these railroads expanding all the time, there’s going to be a great demand for coal, and Fontana Murata is a mile or so from the Caltasinetta line at Valledolmo. It’s perfect. What’s more, no one else knows what we know.”
He looked hard at Silvio. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I do owe you. What it means, though, is that you’ll get no Priola help—none at all. You’re completely on your own. I’m sorry, but it’s best that you know the truth.”
Now it was Silvio’s turn to stare down Ruggiero. “You mean that Alesso is going to figure in some major way in this deal, largely by accident, because he was put out to pasture at Alia, all as a result of what he did to me?”
Ruggiero sipped his wine, then nodded.
“Jesus!” hissed Silvio. He gulped at his glass. “The house and estate are being auctioned, right?”
“Right.”
“Is it a real auction?”
“So far, yes. We’re leaning on people, of course. A few big local landlords are interested—Tamburello, Mancuso, Librizzi. But they don’t know what we know, so we can’t lean too hard on anyone in case they get suspicious. There’s so much at stake that, for once, we’re leaving well enough alone. The house and estate are valued at two hundred million lire, so we’ve set aside three.”
“Who’ll be doing the bidding?”
“I will. It’s my territory, always has been, since Nino’s day. You know that. It’s why I know so much.”
Silvio refilled their wineglasses and drank more of the red Salaparuto. He was at last beginning to enjoy his
dinner. For the first time since he had landed in Sicily, he thought he saw an opening for himself.
Clarence Foley’s predictions about the duration of the trial were borne out by events. In the final days of the prosecution’s case, their witnesses performed well on the stand, resisting Falmouth’s attacks on their credibility. Each claimed to have seen one or more of the men in the dock near the scene of the shooting at the time that it took place. The newspapers loved all this and the trial remained the main item of front-page news day in, day out.
Toward the end of that second week, Gino Fazio was allowed back into court.
Foley finished his case for the prosecution at about 2:30 P.M. on the Friday of that second week. Judge McCrystal decided to adjourn until the following Monday.
Silvio sat on the Pratomeno mountain, among the olive trees, and gripped the telescope he had found in Palermo. Behind him the mule he had bought in Manchi grazed peacefully. The new railroads continued to be a boon, enabling him to cover large distances. Pratomeno, which overlooked Vallelunga, was over fifty miles from Palermo, two long, hard days at least on a mule. He had reached Manchi in five hours.
From there he needed to get off the beaten track, and so he had bought a mule. A mule and a telescope were all he needed for the moment.
Below him, Vallelunga was coming to life as the sun rose and the day began to warm up. Vallelunga had one main street, straight, with three side roads that led off it. At one point the main street widened to form a piazza of sorts. Here were the church, the café, and the baker’s. And that was all.
Silvio wanted to get a sight of Alesso for two reasons. He needed first to know how many bodyguards he had. Was he guarded at all? How did he move around? Second, he wanted to see his face. He didn’t know whether the telescope would be powerful enough for that—but he had to try. He had to read that face, to know if … how … Alesso had changed since Bagheria.
All day Silvio sat there in the shade of the olive and almond trees. Vallelunga was like any sleepy village in Sicily. Two dozen terra-cotta roofs, like a rash on the flanks of a mule. It was hardly New Orleans. He found that the telescope did enable him to study the faces of the people who passed to and fro. But there was no sign of Alesso Alcamo.
24
On Monday, July 24, 1891, the defense began its case. James Falmouth’s first witness was Ugo Pagliari. He was a baker, and lived out at Metairie. According to his testimony, on the night in question he was with Solazzo and Vincenzo Liotta, two of the defendants, at his home, celebrating the birthday of a mutual friend. Later that day and on the following days, more and more witnesses provided exactly the same sort of testimony, alibis for one, or two, or in some cases three of the defendants. In some cases, the defendants had three or four alibi witnesses. Parker could sense that the jury was becoming confused by the weight of testimony. They couldn’t all be lying, surely?
Clarence Foley appeared not to make much of these witnesses, not to begin with anyway. However, on the evening of the fourth day, a Thursday, the defense called a Mrs. Aquila. She said that she was a seamstress who made costumes for Mardi Gras and fancy-dress parties, and she testified that on the night Chief Martell was shot, she was with two of the defendants, Carmen Sinagra and Vanni Brancaccio, fitting them for costumes for a party, at her workshop on Carondelet Street. This was a good mile from the scene of the shooting, and she said the men were with her until ten-thirty at least, because they all drank a little absinthe together, after the fitting.
Then Clarence Foley rose to cross-examine Mrs. Aquila. He held some papers in his hand. “Mrs. Aquila,” he began. “Are you absolutely sure that the night Mr. Sinagra and Mr. Brancaccio visited you was the night Chief Martell was shot?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I remember it very well. It was raining.”
“And how much absinthe did you drink?”
“I’m not sure. Coupla glasses.”
“So you remember very well that it was raining, but not how much you drank?”
“I guess so.”
Foley paused. “Do you drink absinthe a lot, Mrs. Aquila?”
“Some.”
“Come now, Mrs. Aquila, you don’t do yourself justice. Isn’t it true that you drink a lot of absinthe, a great deal indeed?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Falmouth was on his feet. “Mrs. Aquila’s drinking habits are not on trial here.”
“Your Honor,” said Foley smoothly. “I believe I can show that this witness was not in a position to provide an alibi for these two defendants, if the court will indulge me a few more moments.”
The judge nodded. “You may continue, Mr. Foley.”
Foley turned back to the witness. “Mrs. Aquila, in my hand I hold several sworn affidavits from people who know you.” He inspected the papers he was holding. “I see the signatures of Charles Harrison, Edna Denegre, James Buhl. Each of them testifies that you are addicted to absinthe, that normally you are dead to the world by eight in the evening—”
“That isn’t—”
“And that the reason you have your own workshop is that you were dismissed from King’s Carnival Costumes; because of your drinking habits.” He held one sheet aloft. “This is the affidavit of Mr. Thomas King, manager of that company. He confirms that version of events.”
There was silence in the court. Foley stood over Mrs. Aquila, whose eyes were downcast. “How can you say that these two men, Carmen Sinagra and Vanni Brancaccio, were in your workshop at ten-thirty that night, when you had passed out two hours before? How could you have known it was raining when you were unconscious? How, with your condition, could you possibly give an alibi for anyone?”
Again there was silence in the court as people waited for Mrs. Aquila’s answer.
But her eyes remained lowered. She said nothing.
Foley returned to his place and sat down.
He had chosen his target well. By casting serious doubt on one alibi witness, he cast doubt on all of them: perhaps these “witnesses” all belonged to Liotta’s family.
Silvio was learning far more about life in Vallelunga than he needed to know. He knew that the priest, a small, thin, balding man, visited a certain home twice a day, once in the morning and again in the evening. Was someone dying there, or was he having an affair? He knew which women bought three loaves at the bakery, and which ones bought two. He knew which children belonged to which houses. But so far he had not caught sight of Alesso Alcamo.
Was he away? It was possible. Silvio couldn’t wait on this vigil forever. There were things he had to do if his plan, conceived that night in the restaurant in Palermo, during his dinner with Ruggiero, was to be put into effect. But finding Alesso was important.
It was late morning. He watched half a dozen children leave a building near the church. That must be the school, and schools were rare in Sicily. A little later two old women carried buckets to the main square, filled them from the fountain, and waddled back the way they had come.
Suddenly Silvio grunted to himself, almost without realizing it. Three figures were coming toward him, down the main street, from the far end of town. He aimed his telescope at them, and refocused. They were men, that was for sure. Two appeared to be arguing, but he couldn’t see their faces.
They came closer. They were wearing shirts and trousers, no jackets. Silvio felt a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Yes! Alesso hadn’t changed much. The same high forehead, the same rather bony nose, the same self-confident way of standing with his hands on his hips. He was one of those arguing, of course. Typical. He always did like laying down the law.
The three men stood for a moment in the main piazza. Then the man Alesso was arguing with went off in one direction, and Alesso and the third man continued walking down the main street. They reached a house on the outskirts of the village, right underneath where Silvio was hiding, and went through a gate that gave onto a courtyard. They crossed the courtyard and entered the main house.
Silvio kept his
telescope trained on the house. No one came or went. No one was posted outside, in either the courtyard or the street. Alesso did not reappear for the rest of the day.
Had he just returned from a trip? It was impossible to be sure, but what did seem to be true was that he wasn’t bothered by security. He had one bodyguard but no one else. Alesso, it seemed clear, felt reasonably safe. He was cocky as a bantam. One bodyguard could still be a problem, but the situation could have been worse. A lot worse.
At the start of the third week of the trial Parker and Angelo resumed their breakfasts in the private room at the Pickwick. “It’s difficult to know where the balance lies,” said Parker. “They sowed doubt with a lot of our witnesses, and now we have sowed some doubts with a lot of theirs.”
“And?”
Parker shrugged. “Foley says that in a close decision, the defense will always have the advantage.”
“You don’t think Fazio’s confession swayed the jury?”
“A little bit, maybe. The fact that Fazio is unstable doesn’t change the fact that he is a hood, but juries don’t like crazies. They may simply ignore Fazio. In any case, that’s not our main problem.”
“What is?”
“There’s been a burglary at the court office. The list of jurors was stolen. It has to be Liotta.”
“Can’t we tell the judge?” cried Angelo. “Have the trial stopped?”
“If we do that,” said Parker, “Falmouth will ask for his people to be released, pending a new trial. Do we want that?”
Angelo remained silent. Then he said, “Why can’t we do the same? Get to the jury.”
Parker shook his head. “No. A guilty verdict has to be unanimous. So the defense only has to get at one, two, or three people on the jury, induce or bribe them to disagree with all the others—and you have a mistrial. We’d have to get to all twelve. That would be costly, time-consuming—and risky. If it leaked out, Falmouth would go to the judge and claim a mistrial anyway, and again he’d ask that Liotta and the others be released, pending a new court hearing. Do you want to run that risk?”