by Peter Watson
He went to interrupt but she motioned for him to be silent. “There’s a door to the right. The key to that is under the wooden Madonna on the windowsill nearby. Lock that door again after you’ve escaped, and leave the key in the bucket of water you’ll find there. I shall return that key, too. All you need do is climb over the wall and you are free. Good luck.”
Sono sognatore? he asked himself. Am I dreaming?
“Why are you doing this? Who are you?”
“Silvio! Don’t you recognize me? I am Maria Camastra. Gaetano Mancuso made a fool of my daughter, brought shame on my house. You gave me justice, when you were with Don Bivona. I say again, Auguri! Good luck!”
25
The events of the twenty-four hours that followed the acquittal of Vittorio Liotta and his mob have passed into history. At seven-thirty that evening, Harrison Parker met Angelo Priola at Pickwick’s. Clarence Foley was not present on this occasion.
“You did well,” Angelo said to Parker.
“It was your idea,” the other man responded.
“It was Silvio’s really. Is everything else in place?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it will work?”
“You’re asking me? It’s all we can do, given the verdict. Let’s hope so. It must work.”
Silvio dipped his hands in the wine and his fingers closed around the key. It was nearly a quarter past nine and the police station was as quiet as Maria Camastra had said it would be. There was no light save moonlight, but it was enough. He placed the tray just inside the door, dried his hand on his trousers, and inserted the key in the lock. It turned but made a grating sound. He froze, thinking back to that evening in Caltabellotta, when they had raided di Biondi’s picture collection.
But Maria Camastra was right, bless her. The guard was at dinner and the peace of the police station was undisturbed. Silvio pushed open the door, went through, and closed it behind him. He relocked the latch, stretched through the bars, and dropped the key into the wine jug. There was a small plop.
He ran swiftly down the short corridor. The moonlight shone in through a window where the rounded silhouette of the Madonna stood out. He reached up and moved the statue to one side. His fingers felt for the key. It wasn’t there!
Yes, it was. In the dark his fingers had been searching the wrong place. He found the lock—then stopped. He went back to the window. He had left the Madonna to one side. He moved it back to the center of the windowsill. He couldn’t let down Maria Camastra.
He unlocked the outer door and went through. After relocking the door he waited a moment until his eyes had adjusted to the light. In front of him, he saw the wooden bucket with water in it. He dropped the key into the water.
The wall around the yard was about ten feet high. He chose his spot, ran at it, and gripped the top. But his fingers slipped and he fell back. He tried again; the same result. He was sweating, his heart heaving. He couldn’t fail now. Please God, no.
He tried a third time. He ran … and jumped. His fingers closed over the far edge of the top of the wall, and his second hand followed swiftly. With his feet he pawed at the wall. This time one foot gained a purchase on the lip of a brick that stuck out a fraction; but that’s all it took. He heaved, and although his foot slipped, he now had his elbow over the edge of the wall and could use that to lever himself up. He brought up a knee next, then heaved his entire torso horizontal onto the top of the wall. Without pausing, he threw himself down the other side.
He landed with a thud that made him wince in pain. His spine seemed to be squashed shorter. He waited a moment to recover himself and to listen.
Nothing.
Now what? The wedding was two days away and he had to get to Alesso before then. He needed to know what the couple’s plans were in the interim—and he needed to know very soon.
There was only one person who could help.
Angelo was up early on the morning after the trial ended. He had his usual breakfast brought in by Anna-Maria, with the paper. An item on the front page caught his eye. He knew it would be there, but he wanted to study the wording for himself. It was a small advertisement that read:
MASS MEETING
All good citizens are invited to attend a mass meeting on
Saturday, August 12, at 10 A.M. at Clay Statue, to
take steps to remedy the failure of justice in the Martell case.
Come prepared for action.
Angelo sat back, thinking. Around him the city was coming to life. Down at the docks, ships were arriving or leaving, loading or being unloaded. Over on Lake Pontchartrain, construction workers would be arriving to start the day, reclaiming bit by bit the shoreline of the lake so that more houses could be built on it. The carnival costume makers, the ice makers in the refrigeration factories, whores all over the city were waking up to another day.
Every morning Angie had delivered the freshest Sicilian oranges he could find. It was good to start the day thinking of home. Except that Sicily wasn’t home anymore. He thought of Silvio and whether he was succeeding. In twenty-four hours he, Angelo, would know whether Silvio’s Cathedral Plan had worked. Even if it did, would Silvio live to see victory? Angelo, who’d never had a son, had come to look upon Silvio as his heir. He himself wouldn’t see the year out—but Silvio? Silvio might have thrown away the prize at the very moment of victory. Not exactly foxy. Angelo reached out and took an orange from the vase on the table. He smelled it, closing his eyes in pleasure. After all this time Angelo could still see the orange groves of Caltasinetta clearly. He dug into the skin with his thumbnail and began to peel.
“Smeralda?” Silvio called across the darkened room. “Smeralda?”
Still sleeping, she stirred slightly. It was just dawn in Cammarata and he had walked all night. “Smeralda!”
She woke. Rubbed her eyes. “You! Get out!”
“Smeralda, please, I need your help. I was your son.”
“No more.”
“Please, Smeralda. I didn’t kill those children. Surely Don Bastiano knows that.”
“You are unnatural, Sylvano. Disumano. Annunziata is safer with Alessandro.”
“He is a murderer, a liar, and a coward. Un codardo! He deserves to die. I need to know where he is today. I must find him before the wedding.”
“Why? Why bother? Annunziata will never marry you now.”
“Why? Why not? What has happened? Has she changed?”
“She can tell you why herself.”
Silvio was growing angry. He needed the information, that’s why he had come back here. Smeralda had held her peace so far. She would do so again. But why wouldn’t she help him? He grew more angry. Unfortunately, those sbirri had taken his gun, otherwise … He checked himself, ashamed. What kind of man had he become, to even think of threatening his own mother? Sono serpente?
“Smeralda, if you know where Alesso is today, why don’t you tell me? If Annunziata won’t marry me, what difference does it make? But you know Alesso deserves to die. For what he did to Bastiano, if for nothing else.”
“Annunziata deserves to be happy, to have a proper family.”
So that was it.
It was growing light outside. People were stirring.
“Smeralda, how can you be so sure I’m bad, and that Annunziata will be happy with Alesso? Zata could have chosen him above me, but she didn’t.”
“Save your sweet words, Sylvano. They’re lost on me. I’ve shut you out of my heart.”
Silvio was growing weary. Smeralda was stronger than he was.
A figure was moving across the courtyard, outside the window. “Smeralda?” called out a voice. “Are you awake?”
“I’m awake, Kostanza.”
“Good. I was afraid you’d oversleep. What time is the rehearsal?”
Smeralda didn’t reply.
“Smeralda? Is it eleven o’clock?”
“Yes!”
“Then we should leave no later than seven. I’ll have breakfast ready in
half an hour.”
Smeralda stared at Silvio. He glared back. Daylight was filling the room now. Slivers of sunshine lit some washing on a line. It reminded him of flags on a steamboat. He suddenly noticed a clean dress hanging in front of a cupboard, and some new shoes.
“Is that what you’re wearing to the wedding?”
She nodded.
“At the church of the Madonna dell’Olio?”
She nodded again. “Hundreds are going.”
He couldn’t kill Alesso at his own wedding. Not if he was to escape afterward.
Then he gasped. He had it. “Il ripetizione! The rehearsal. There’s a rehearsal today, isn’t there?”
He could see from the dismay on her face that he was right.
He knew all about wedding rehearsals. And one of the things he knew was that only a few people would be there, in the church. Perfetto.
At Clay Statue, on the corner of Canal and Royal streets, a crowd had begun to form. By ten o’clock there were perhaps nearly six thousand people massing near the monument.
Clay Statue was about thirty feet high. The figure of Clay himself stood about fifteen feet, above a pediment of about ten feet, on a base that rose some three or four feet from the roadway. At about five minutes after the hour, Harrison Parker climbed on the stone blocks that formed the base. He wore a dark frock coat and a wing collar. As he mounted the stones the crowd cheered, but he raised his arms and people were silenced so he could be heard.
“Gentlemen!” He had a soft voice, normally, but when he shouted it hardened. “Gentlemen of New Orleans. I stand before you today, not as your mayor but as an ordinary citizen, who has no desire for favor or prominence. But, like you, I am concerned—devastated—at the crisis which threatens to overwhelm this fine city.
“Affairs have truly reached a crisis when men living in an organized and civilized community, finding their laws fruitless and ineffective, are forced to protect themselves. When courts fail, the people must act! What protection, or assurance of protection, is left to us, when the very head of our police department, our chief of police, is assassinated in our very midst by the Mafia society, and his assassins are again turned loose on the community?
“Gentlemen, the time has come for the people of New Orleans to say whether they are going to stand for these outrages by organized bands of assassins, for the people to say whether they will permit them to continue. I ask you to consider this fairly. Are you going to let it continue?”
Parker turned first one way then the other so that all the people assembled could see his face. He raised his voice. “Will every man here follow me, and see the murder of David Martell vindicated? Are there men enough here to set aside the verdict of that infamous jury?
“Gentlemen! Fellow sons of New Orleans … follow me! I will be your leader!”
More cheers erupted as Parker finished his speech, and someone cried out, “Hang the dagos!”
Parker did not immediately get down from the statue, however, but instead helped someone else up. This was Thomas Whitgift. He, too, raised his arms, to quiet the crowd, to make himself heard.
“Friends,” he said. “Many of you know me. I have lived in New Orleans all my life and I love this city as much as any man on earth. I cannot stand by and watch as it sinks beneath this mass of dago violence, corruption, and filth. Last night, I want to tell you, there was a celebration in the Parish Prison—and not only in the Parish Prison. In that part of New Orleans known as Little Sicily, there were feasts, with wine and good food, music and laughter. Laughter! Friends, I don’t need to tell you that this is no laughing matter. Anyone who heard the Pinkerton agent give evidence in court knows what sort of people were acquitted yesterday.
“Acquitted!” And he spat. “Come with me and follow Harrison Parker. Come with us to the Parish Prison and do your civic duty!”
Parker and Whitgift led the way out of Canal Street and along Royal. The others fell in line, cheering and singing. As they walked along Royal still more joined in and women waved to them from the balconies.
At Bienville a second group of men was waiting for the first. These had been organized by Parker the evening before, and about thirty men had been provided with repeating rifles and shotguns by the local gunsmiths, Baldwin & Co. They fell in immediately behind Parker and Whitgift.
The procession reached Congo Square, in front of the prison. This was a predominantly black area, and many Negroes looked on. One old black woman was heard to say, “Thank God it wasn’t a nigger who killed the chief.”
Parker instructed the crowd to spread out and surround the prison, on all four sides. He waited while the people followed his orders.
Inside the prison, Governor Tucker looked grim. Some of his men had obviously been warned what might happen, because they had failed to turn up for work. He was ten short. Hearing the commotion outside, and seeing the crowds, he had immediately issued his remaining men with rifles and told them to man the two heavy doors of the prison, one on Congo Square, the other on Treme Street. Then he went down himself to stand by the Congo Square entrance, where Parker was.
“Tucker!” Parker yelled. “Tucker! Open up these gates.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Parker. You know that.”
“Open up! It’s your duty.”
“Don’t speak to me about duty, Mr. Parker. Only the state governor has authority over me.”
“Speak to the governor, then. He approves of what we are doing.”
“I tried to telephone. He’s away from his office.”
“I won’t stand all day talking, Mr. Tucker. We’re going to force our way in.”
Parker gave the order and a group of men from the crowd rushed at the gates of the prison. However, despite two further attempts, the gates held firm.
Whitgift, seeing that their campaign risked running out of steam, tugged at Parker’s sleeve. “There’s the other entrance on Treme Street,” he whispered.
Parker nodded. “Come on.” And he led the way quickly around the edge of the building, to Treme Street. On the way, Parker noticed a huge black man sitting on an old railway sleeper. “You!” he screamed at the black man. “Can you lift that?”
The black man nodded.
“Come on, then.”
The gate on Treme Street was not as big as the main gate on Congo Square and it was clear from the very first thrust, with the sleeper being used as a battering ram, that it was a good deal weaker.
Inside the prison, as soon as he heard the smash of wood upon wood, Tucker dispatched his men to the Treme Street entrance. He himself again tried calling the governor, once more without success. He then went to the cells where Liotta and the others were held. He took out his keys. He spoke to Vito Liotta.
“The prison is surrounded by a mob,” he said. “You must have heard. I’m releasing you from your cells. You’ll never escape from the prison, but you might just find a place to hide—it’s up to you. Try the women’s prison, on the third floor.” And he went from cell to cell, unlocking the gates.
Liotta led the others out. They had heard the shouting and were growing agitated. They split into several groups of two and three, some going upstairs, where Tucker had indicated, others going outside, into the prison yard.
The Negro with the sleeper had others to help him. Five men, in unison, battered the sleeper rhythmically against the gate. Each time the wood of the gate gave way a little more. Then, finally, it collapsed.
A huge cheer went up and the crowd surged forward. The prison guards hesitated to fire on fellow citizens whom they would have to live among later, so they stood aside.
Parker watched as perhaps fifty men entered the jail, more than half of them armed. “That’s enough,” he said, turning to Whitgift. “Keep a guard on this gate. No one goes in or out until I say so.” And he disappeared inside the prison with the others.
Inside, in the main corridor, Parker divided the men into three groups, one for each floor. They soon discovered that the cells had
all been opened.
“Where’s Liotta?” Parker addressed himself to a warden standing nearby.
The man was too terrified to answer but glanced upward.
“Follow me,” shouted Parker, rushing for the stairs. On the second floor the cells were still locked, with ordinary criminals inside. Parker continued climbing.
On the third floor, the women who were still locked in shrieked and yelled at the sight of so many men with guns. Parker ran down the corridor to the far end, where there was a door to the outside staircase that led back down to the exercise yard. Tentatively, he pushed open the door. There were three men halfway down the staircase and another three in the yard itself.
“Yes!” he hissed, turning to the others behind him, and beckoning them forward.
As his group crowded down the stairs they saw another group of men with guns emerge into the yard on the ground floor. Parker shouted down. “Here!”
The others looked up and waited as Parker and his group descended the stairs. By now, the six Sicilians had crowded together at the far end of the exercise yard. Parker was relieved to see that Vito Liotta was among them. He wore gray trousers, held up by braces, over a blue shirt. He hadn’t shaved that day. The others cowered, but he stood up straight and met Parker’s eye.
Parker returned his stare. Without looking at the men around him, the mayor didn’t wait. “Do your duty, men,” he said. “This is what we came for.”
The rifles around him barked out—short, sharp sounds. The Sicilians were flung back against the wall behind them, their clothes spattered with blood. Some of them cried out, others just sagged as they were hit. They fell across one another.
Hearing the sounds of shooting, another cheer went up from the crowd outside the prison.
Parker stepped forward to inspect the corpses. He saw an arm move. “Finish him off,” he instructed.
“I can’t,” breathed the man nearest him. “I feel sick.”