“Miz Lansky,” the maid says, “yo mama is callin’.”
Grandma Citron comes face-to-face with the Lansky living room. Her eyes widen. She is a small woman with dark brown hair that is pulled back away from her face. She wears a conservative gray dress.
“Oh my,” Grandma Citron says. “Thank God your grandmother didn’t live to see you with this…this…”
“Say it, mother,” Anne says. “Christmas tree. It’s a goddamn Christmas tree. You know, Christ mass tree. That’s what it is and that’s what I’ve got and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Buddy turns to Grandma Citron, eyes wide, confused by the sudden change of mood in the house.
“Don’t flaunt your disrespect,” Grandma Citron says.
A pile of little boxes containing silver icicles crown Anne’s feet.
The wrapper is in German: “Christbaum—schmuck.” Her mother picks up the box and marvels at the caption. In small letters, under the piercing German, is a literal translation into English: “Christian tree decoration.” But every Jew knows the Yiddish meaning.
“Schmuck,” Grandma says in a tone that would chill even the icicles. “That’s what the gentiles think of you.”
Anne turns an alarming shade of red and says, “Go home! You’re not going to ruin this for me. We’ll talk after Christmas, when you can be more civilized.”
Outside, Meyer and Charlie walk through Central Park under a canopy of trees gone bare for the winter. Meyer keeps up constant contact with Charlie now that the two greasers have escalated their dispute to all-out war. Charlie has tried to locate Maranzano, but to no avail. The leads Charlie’s colleagues have followed up on haven’t panned out.
In fact, Salvatore Maranzano is spending the holiday on the same farm in upstate New York where’s he’s been holed up from the start. He celebrates Christmas along with his victories over Mr. Joe. The holiday offers a small respite from his Spartan life as a warrior. The apartment where he has been dwelling since the war began consists of a main room with stiff chairs and several mattresses laid out for the soldiers’ convenience. The kitchen holds a large, communal table where the men eat, share stories, and play cards. An innocuous stream of brown bags left on the doorstep with a knock keeps the refrigerator stocked. The sole bathroom serves a dozen men. Maranzano insists his home away from home be kept spotless by those inhabiting it.
Maranzano eats, sleeps, and prays in his own austere room containing a single bed with white sheets and a gray woolen blanket, a small table and chair, and a lampstand. To the side is Maranzano’s not so meager arsenal.
Walking through the park, Meyer asks Charlie, “Have you found Maranzano?”
“There’s a rumor he might be with Magaddino upstate. If he is, nobody saw him go. And nobody has seen him return,” Charlie says. “He’s riding high, right now. He ain’t been on top of the world like this since before Mussolini came to power. He calls this a war of liberation.”
“If you found him, you could offer him a Christmas present.”
Charlie says, “I’d be the next in line to go.”
“Maybe he’ll offer Joe one.”
“My luck, I’d still be the next to go,” Charlie said.
“Maranzano must see your predicament. If you can’t go against your boss, how do you let him know you’re all for liberation?”
“Gagliano and Lucchese know. If they know, Maranzano knows.”
“You need to be ready with your terms,” Meyer says. “He has to agree or continue to wage this war.”
“The war chest ain’t what it used to be,” Charlie says. “Soldiers don’t earn. Simple as that.”
“What’s the price he pays for you to end the war?”
“What do I want, you mean,” Charlie says. “I want him to go his way and I’ll go mine.”
* * *
Six men crowd around the table at Maranzano’s Brooklyn safe-house. Maranzano has just returned from visiting Stefano Magaddino and going over their war strategy. Stefano has agreed to allow Maranzano to lead the Brooklyn family that was once his. He returns to Brooklyn the victor.
A loaf of half-eaten bread sits on the kitchen counter. Next to it, a brick of hard cheese with a knife stuck into it. A musty odor hangs in the air. Maranzano kicks a brown bag sitting on the floor next to the refrigerator. Rotten trash.
“You expect your mother to come in here and wipe your butt, too?” Maranzano says.
He grabs the ear of the nearest soldier and points his head toward the bag. With the sweep of his hand, he sends the soldier to the floor.
“Clean up this mess,” he says. “Wash the floor with soap and water and the counters, too. I don’t expect to share my breakfast with the rats.”
Soldiers scramble.
Maranzano fills an enamel coffee pot with water and puts it on the stove to boil. Stoically, he drops rounded spoons of ground coffee into the boiling water. Then, cup and pot in hand, he pads off to his room. He sets the pot on the corner of the small table.
Joe Bonanno stands at the door to Maranzano’s room and watches as his leader rolls out the leather square kept in a valise next to the table. Maranzano pours a cup of coffee. The brew is weak, muddy, and bitter but only his belly misses the real thing. It is the spirit that counts and the spirit delights in the sacrifice of war.
In another apartment, someone plays a Caruso record. Maranzano pauses. His heart begins to fill with song. The wind whips the barren branches of a maple tree against his second-story window. He snaps to attention and focuses on the job at hand. The liturgy of Maranzano’s Eucharist begins with preparing the altar. He sets out a loading press, 12-gauge for this evening’s ammunition, a powder scale, hulls, powder, primers, wad, and shot. He offers thanksgiving for his men and his ability to lead them.
The kitchen erupts in horseplay.
Maranzano prays for patience. He sets a single brass casing in the loading press then loads the primer into the priming station. He pulls one complete stroke of the loading press handle to seat the primer before adding a measure of powder. The punched wad is pushed down and seated. The shell inspected, the shot added, one ounce, the optimal amount to propel the lead projectile through a man’s flesh. If it is a good shot, it will take a life. Maranzano crimps the end of the hull before placing the cartridge on the left edge of the table, the first in line of this evening’s work.
He picks up a new casing and places it in the press. Adds primer. Pulls a full stroke. Adds powder. Seats the wad, Inspects the shell. Adds the shot, one ounce. Makes the final crimp. A new casing. Primer. Stroke. Powder. Wad. Inspection. Shot. Crimp. Now there are three. Maranzano works into the night, Bonanno watching, until he has what he considers substantial firepower.
He forgoes the spaghetti and sauce simmering on the stove brought in by someone’s mother. The men eat and play cards. The kitchen overflows with conversation.
Maranzano looks up and sees Bonanno.
“Aren’t you going to eat, Pepito?” Maranzano says.
Bonanno shrugs.
Maranzano pours oil onto a cloth and begins to work on the raw metal of a 12-gauge shotgun. He doesn’t have to ask if Joe Bonanno has never killed a man.
“When you shoot someone,” Maranzano says, “you must be sure he is dead. An injured man is an angry man and an angry man will not rest without vengeance. Do you understand?”
Tough Bonanno has never seen war, but he has seen rage. He nods.
“The man who dodges bullets will not be able to dodge our bullets,” Maranzano says. “We are smarter than he is.”
Maranzano’s next target is not Joe the Boss but a man named Joe Parrino who hates the war and threatens to join forces with Mr. Joe. His death will be an example to all would-be traitors.
It is the middle of January when Maranzano finds his opportunity. He slides a revolver into his coat pocket and takes an escort of four men with him to stand guard at the café where he is to meet with the cogs that will put into play his move a
gainst Parrino.
“Si, signore,” the proprietor of the café says as Maranzano enters.
“Prima cosa,” Maranzano says, “caffe!”
“Si.” The proprietor smiles. He is proud of his latest acquisition, a brand new La Pavoni purchased in Italy for which he spent one thousand dollars. “Now nobody have to go to Greenwich Village for good coffee. They come to me.”
A man coming through the door behind Maranzano calls out, “Due.”
The man is Joe Parrino’s underboss. His aspirations appeal to Maranzano’s sense of efficiency. Following close behind him are two more men also eager to play a role in Maranzano’s ascension.
“Quattro,” the last man says.
“Is nobody want cappuccino?”
“Si,” one of them says. “Si, cappuccino.”
The four men sit at a small table. Maranzano breaks freshly baked bread and passes it around to the other men. The La Pavoni goes into action. Four perfect shots. The proprietor releases a valve which allows steam to whip the milk into a froth. The noise interrupts Maranzano’s conversation. He protests with a look to no avail. The pride attached to the La Pavoni covers all sins.
The coffee arrives at the table. The men partake in silence.
Finally, Maranzano speaks. “Joe Parrino eats at Del Pezzo every Monday night, no?”
The men nod, none more so than the underboss. A wicked smile smacks across his face.
Maranzano says, “He is a man of routine, yes? Like clockwork, exactly at six he takes a seat near the door…in case he needs to escape. For a man who thinks he is invincible, it is rather comical, don’t you think?”
Parrino, like most bosses, is not popular among his men. They call him “leccacazzi” behind his back which means bootlicker in polite society; for the more literally minded it means butt-licker. It is this energy that feeds Maranzano’s scheme for the execution of the deserter. Del Pezzo is a second-story restaurant in midtown Manhattan frequented by the opera crowd.
“You know what to do?” Maranzano says.
Again, the men nod. They finish their bread and coffee and disperse.
Del Pezzo is already full of patrons desperate to make the first curtain call. Maranzano’s men order a bowl of pasta fazul apiece and wait patiently for the crowd to thin.
They argue over the field that produces the best cannellini, the ones with the faint flavor of roasted chestnuts. They argue over the farm in Parma that produces the perfect cheese. And they argue whether it is marjoram or oregano in the sauce and then whether the herb is dried or fresh. It is then that Joe Parrino steps into the restaurant and takes his seat by the window.
The underboss takes the .38 from the coat pocket, and calmly aims it at Parrino. The first bullet flies wild. Parrino’s body struggles to catch up with his mind as his underboss advances on him. The underboss shoots again, this time piercing Parrino’s skull between the eyes. Parrino hits the floor, face first, with a thud. The underboss hovers over Parrino’s body and puts two more slugs into the back of his head. He tosses the gun to the floor and walks out.
* * *
The death of Parrino pleases Maranzano. It fuels his ego. He begins to plot a demonstration of his power to the Americanized Italians. Frank Costello gets wind of the threat of harm and refuses to go to his Harlem office. He also refuses to keep his routine at the Plaza. He worries about his wife, his social life, and the meetings he holds with the rich and powerful of New York.
He flags down a cab.
“Broome Street,” Costello tells the driver. “Let me off at Mulberry.”
He hikes to Charlie’s office and runs through a litany of complaints.
“I got trouble of my own,” Charlie says. “This guy’s declared open season on my rackets. Every time I turn around, some Sicilian is knocking over one of my joints.”
“What are we waiting for?” Costello says. “We’ll all be dead if something isn’t done. What can Joe the Boss do in hiding? Does he even know what’s going on?”
Joe Adonis bursts through the door to Charlie’s office.
“You’re gonna love this,” he tells Charlie. “Maranzano just put word on the street. He’s offering amnesty for the guy that knocks off Joe the Boss.”
The news hangs in the air. There it is, just like Meyer and Charlie expected. Maranzano has lost patience with the war. He is eager to become the new Caesar.
“Amnesty,” Charlie gloats. “Would you look at that!”
Vito, the Neapolitan, sits bolt upright in his chair. “New York would be a better place without either of these stronzi.”
Charlie agrees, “Be patient. We don’t want to appear too eager. We can’t run around town blowing everybody away. Even Frank can’t fix that kind of trouble.”
It is a fact and Costello knows it, especially with Seabury poking around into every corrupt secret. Charlie turns to Vito.
“I think it’s time you and me paid a visit to the new Caesar,” he says.
Charlie says to Adonis, “Get word to Maranzano that I want to talk. Tell him we meet in a home in Brooklyn, none of this headquarters shit. Tell him I’ll only come if we meet face-to-face and that Vito comes with me. Those are my terms.”
Within days, Charlie is standing in front of Maranzano making a deal on Masseria’s life. The talk is frank and to the point.
Charlie says, “I want to make one thing perfectly clear; I ain’t lookin’ to take Joe’s place but naturally some of his guys are going to come along with me. I don’t want nothin’ from you or your family. And I don’t want you to ask me for what’s already mine. Where we come into conflict, we sit down like gentlemen and work things out. No more war over disagreements.”
Maranzano nods.
“I’m acknowledging that Joe the Boss ain’t helpin’ this situation get resolved and if his death paves the way to peace, then that’s the cost we pay.”
Maranzano scrutinizes Charlie. If Charlie Luciano makes the move, the rest of Mr. Joe’s camp will follow. If Maranzano ever questions Charlie’s loyalty, he will have every right to kill the man who killed his own boss.
* * *
Charlie leaves Maranzano and calls Meyer. They meet at the Claridge under a cloudy sky and tepid temperatures. Charlie lays out his agreement with Maranzano.
“Are your boys ready?” Meyer says.
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Charlie says.
Doing away with Joe the Boss must fall on Charlie’s shoulders if Charlie is to continue in Joe’s place. He has the most powerful mob of all the guys under Joe the Boss. Only Charlie can maintain control of the situation once Joe has been removed.
* * *
It is a Wednesday morning, early morning. An April morning. Smack in the middle of New York’s concrete jungle, the warmth of spring has turned the park into an explosion of pink and fuchsia blooms. Meyer leaves a trail of stale bread for the birds to squabble over.
“If he thinks too many people got wind of his outing, he’ll cancel again,” Charlie says. “The good news is that he wants to hear my plan for getting rid of Maranzano. I sweetened the pot by suggesting it’s a fine opportunity to enjoy Scarpato’s cooking. It ain’t easy getting the old greaser to budge from his sanctuary. He’s entrenched in that place. Fortunately for us, he’s had a taste of New York and he’s missing the life he had here.”
“Are you set, Charlie?”
“What’s the worse could happen?” Charlie says. “I die. I been there before. I got Livorsi drivin’. Remember him? He drives for Terranova and ever since Terranova’s nephew was killed by the other side, Joe trusts Terranova’s loyalty. They gunned him down in front of his wife, so I don’t go for that ‘man of honor’ bullshit Maranzano tries to pull. Terranova swore revenge on the killers. Ever since that, him and Joe have been together in the fight. We’re in the shit now.”
Charlie bids Meyer goodbye at the 110th Street park entrance and jumps into Vito Genovese’s car. They head to the Fulton Fish Market, where Livorsi is waiting. The
long drive gives Charlie plenty of time to think.
“I don’t like you goin’ in alone,” Vito says.
“Just stick to the plan,” Charlie says.
Vito says, “Drop you off, come back for your body? That ain’t no plan. Let me do my job.”
“This is somethin’ I gotta do,” Charlie says. “It’s gotta be by my hand. That’s the agreement I made with Maranzano. That’s my absolution.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Joe’s blood must be on my hands. You just be sure you’re there like we discussed. I don’t need none of Joe’s men jumping in to settle the score. I need you to keep an eye on Frank Livorsi. Make sure he don’t do nothing stupid.”
“O.K., Charlie,” Vito says.
“Tell ya what, if I go down, you come in and take ’em all out.”
Vito is satisfied with the option. They roll up to the fish market and meet up with Ciro Terranova and Frank Livorsi. The four of them drive to the place Joe the Boss has called home for the past two months, on Second Avenue. The neighborhood is quiet for a Wednesday, not many cars on the street and the local kids have not yet filtered out from school.
Charlie and Terranova enter Joe’s place as they always do. Joe doesn’t say anything right away. Instead he pours tea and settles into a heavy rocking chair. Charlie and Terranova take a seat on the couch and watch Joe rock back and forth in silence.
“You want tea,” Joe says, “there’s cups in the kitchen.”
Victorian wallpaper wraps the room in a blinding rush of rose, tan, burgundy, and silver on pink. The ceiling is heavy and dark, bronzed tin layered with the soot of too many New York winters. Fear hangs heavy in the air. Outside is spring. Outside is fear and freedom rolled into one.
Charlie says, “Let me send Vito over to Scarpato’s. He can pick up whatever you want. We can eat here.”
Joe jumps to his feet.
“We’ll take my car,” he says.
The steel-armored sedan drives up to the house. Inch thick plate glass provides Joe an added measure of peace of mind.
A Bloody Business Page 44