“How you feeling?” he asked.
“I have a headache and my mouth is dry,” she said, without moving. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, getting her a glass of water. “Where’s Patty?”
“Shopping for dinner,” she said, sitting up. “What happened with my husband?”
He told her. She looked worried.
“Now I’m afraid of what he’ll do next,” she said.
“He’s unstable. We have to get him out of the house and away from you.”
“He’ll never agree to that,” she said.
“We’re not giving him a choice,” Eddie said. “We’re going to throw him out.”
“I should have left him years ago,” she said. “But the church frowns on divorce.”
“How does the church feel about drunk husbands beating their wives?” Eddie asked.
“I also have my son to consider,” she said. “He’s very confused.”
“Some boys rebel, some follow in their father’s footsteps,” Eddie said. “But either way, you can’t stay in a dangerous situation. Your son has to realize that.”
At dinner, Patty told Shannon she should sleep on their sofa until she decided what to do next. There was a knock on the door.
“You guys home?” Mickey O’Toole shouted.
Eddie opened the door.
“I’ve been calling you all day,” O’Toole said. “I got nervous.”
“Hi Mickey,” Patty said, pulling another chair to the table and adding a setting. Mickey was always welcome and always hungry. “We were expecting an unwanted call so we didn’t answer.”
Mickey glanced at Shannon. She lowered her face and shielded her eyes with her hand.
“Mickey, meet my cousin Shannon,” Patty said.
“I’d rather meet the son of a bitch who hit her,” Mickey said.
Shannon looked at him and smiled. “Eddie already took care of that,” she said.
“Good,” Mickey said, sitting next to her. “Was it your husband?”
“Yes,” she said, lowering her eyes, embarrassed.
“It’s not your fault,” Mickey said. “No man should hit a woman.”
“I envy your wife,” Shannon said.
“I’ve never been married,” Mickey said.
“Oh, really,” Shannon said. “Why not?”
“I’m waiting for the right person,” Mickey said.
Chapter 16
The Chicago Connection
Saturday, September 14, 1974
9:00 P.M.
Mickey O’Toole couldn’t stop staring at Shannon during dinner. After clearing the table, he told the women he needed to talk to Eddie in private. Shannon and Patty volunteered to take a walk in the neighborhood and the men settled in the living room.
“I took a call at your desk today from the Chicago Police Department,” Mickey said. “They were responding to your call from a few days ago. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s okay, you’re my partner,” Eddie said. “I also called Chicago, Detroit, Providence, and New York City looking for shotgun shootings in their cities in the past two years.”
“The Chicago cop said there were three within the last year,” Mickey said. “One guy operated his family’s Cadillac dealership—Peter Dipietro, age twenty-three. Had his head blown apart at the dealership late one night in the parking lot. No witnesses. The second guy, Arthur Petrosanti—also twenty-three—owned a vending machine company. Shot in the legs and head in an elevator. No one saw the shooter come or go. The third was a barber named Fabrizio Carrado. He was found in a barber chair with a barber’s apron pulled up to his chin. Looked like he was napping. Under the apron was a hole in his chest the size of the Grand Canyon.”
“Any black-and-white photos like Boston?”
“I asked,” Mickey said, proud of himself. “He said no.”
“Were any of these guys connected to the mob?” Eddie asked.
“Their fathers are retired killers for the Mafia,” he said. “Alive and well.”
“So, all the victims in Chicago and Boston have living fathers connected to the mob,” Eddie said.
“Not Arianna,” Mickey said.
“Joey Lopresti said his father considered her the daughter he never had?”
“Yes he did,” Mickey said. “What’s your point?”
“I think these kids are paying for the sins of their fathers,” Eddie said.
Patty took Shannon to Tomasone’s Bakery while Mickey and Eddie talked police business at the apartment. They sat at a corner table where the owner, Teddy T, insisted upon waiting on them. Shannon did not remove her dark glasses.
“Mrs. Perlmutter,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. “It’s a pleasure. And how is your husband?”
“He’s fine, Teddy,” she said. “This is my cousin, Shannon.”
He kissed Shannon on each cheek.
They ordered espresso and biscotti but Teddy T wouldn’t take their money.
“You must love this neighborhood,” Shannon said, and Patty nodded.
They sat in silence, avoiding the obvious topic.
Shannon finally broached the subject. “Mickey seems like a very nice man,” she said.
“I think he wanted to devour you instead of my meatloaf,” Patty said.
“Patricia McGee,” Shannon said, embarrassed. “What a thing to say.”
“Well it’s true,” she said. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Stop it,” Shannon said. “I’m an old married woman with two black eyes and a broken nose.”
“You can’t do anything about your age,” Patty said. “But you can fix the other problems.”
“Bobby wasn’t always this bad,” Shannon said.
“Stop lying to yourself,” Patty said. “He didn’t always hit you, but he’s been a big drinker with dead-end jobs since he was a kid. Are you going to tell me you loved him?”
Shannon sighed, took off her dark glasses, and dabbed at her wet eyes with her fingers. She put her glasses back on. “Bobby was the kind of man my family wanted me to marry. Everyone wanted him, except me. You had the courage to follow your heart. I didn’t.”
“I had to give up a lot.”
“It’s worth it,” Shannon said. “Why didn’t I meet a guy like Mickey O’Toole instead of Bobby Collins?”
“Timing, luck of the draw,” Patty said. “Who knows?”
“Why do you think Mickey never got married?”
“I know why,” Patty said. “Eddie told me. Mickey was engaged once, about eight years ago. One night he was off-duty, driving with his fiancée, when he heard on the police band about a car chase in nearby Somerville. She begged him not to join the chase, but he did. Doing fifty on a narrow street, he had a head-on with the fleeing car by accident. His fiancée died instantly. Mickey never forgave himself, and he swore he would never get serious with a woman again unless he could put her first.”
“And you think I’m that woman?” Shannon said, and laughed.
“Why not?” Patty said, and didn’t laugh.
Chapter 17
Sundance Sal
Sunday, September 15, 1974
11:30 A.M.
Sunday morning, Patty, Eddie, and Shannon took a walk under the green elevated highway that cut off the North End from downtown Boston. They were going to Durgin-Park at Quincy Market for brunch. A restaurant adjacent to Faneuil Hall, Durgin-Park was a landmark, originally opened in 1742.
“I’m excited. I’ve never been to Durgin-Park,” Shannon said with a big smile.
“It’s nice to see you in such a good mood,” Eddie said to her.
“She’s thinking about Mickey O’Toole,” Patty said, teasing her cousin.
“Stop it,” Shannon said, smiling.
“I know, I know,” Patty said. “You’re a married woman.”
“Maybe not for long,” Shannon said. “I’m taking Eddie’s advice and reporting my husband to the police.”
; “Good. I’ll help you,” Eddie said. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”
“You got a date,” Shannon said.
They passed through the open market on Blackstone Street, which was still littered with boxes from Friday and Saturday’s frantic pushcart business. They arrived at Faneuil Hall minutes later. The buildings were in bad need of repair, but there were plans for a big renovation in two years.
“Why is Faneuil Hall called the Cradle of Liberty?” Shannon asked.
“Famous people came here to talk about freedom,” Eddie said. “They left their slaves at home.”
“Cynic,” Patty said. “Let’s have lunch.”
They enjoyed clam chowder, boiled beef, and potatoes at the raucous Durgin-Park. Shannon had a great time. They passed a brick building with a sign in front: North End Nursing Home. An old man stood at the door.
“Hey, Eddie the Kid,” he said in thick Italian accent. “You ready to die, Kid?”
“Ready, Sundance,” Eddie answered.
They faced off like Wild West gunfighters. A blond man across the street watched intently.
“Draw,” the old man said, and both went for imaginary guns on their hips.
Forefingers became gun barrels, and upright thumbs became cocked hammers. Eddie the Kid clutched his chest. “You got me, Sundance,” he groaned, and slumped against a convenient telephone pole.
The old man winked at Patty and smiled a toothless grin. “I get him every time,” he said.
“You’re too fast, Sal,” Patty said. “Sal, this is my cousin, Shannon.”
“You married?” he asked. “I don’t fool around with married women.”
“She’s too old for you,” Eddie said, walking towards them. “Tell Shannon how old you are.”
“Born in Vicari, Sicily, 1876,” Sal said. “How old does that make me?”
“Ninety-eight,” Shannon said, impressed.
“Been here since 1928,” he said.
Shannon calculated. “You were in your fifties. Why did you wait so long to come here?”
“I was happy,” Sal said. “Vicari was beautiful. The mountains were beautiful. My wife was beautiful. But then she die young. My two sons don’t wanna be shepherds and move to Catania for work. I’m alone. My older brother moved to America in 1910. He’s a bricklayer. He tells me to join him. Plenty of work, he says. One year after I get here, bad times come, depression. No work. The next year my brother dies. Mafia gives me work.”
“I didn’t know you were in the Mafia,” Patty said.
“Errand boy for Phil Buccola, the boss. In ’54, Raymond Valli took over and moved headquarters to Providence. I was out of a job at seventy-eight. Nunzio Nardelli gave me odd jobs in the North End. When I got too old for that, he put me in this place. Mafia pays the bills.”
“You have a good memory,” Shannon told him.
“Can’t remember yesterday,” Sal said. “But I can remember fifteen thousand yesterdays.”
Eddie had stopped paying attention, distracted by a tall blond man standing across the street.
Something’s wrong, Eddie thought. That guy’s not a real blond. Wrong skin type. Wrong features. And I think he’s trying to listen to us.
The fake blond turned abruptly and walked away in a hurry.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Eddie called, limping after him. “I want to talk to you.”
The man moved faster and disappeared around the corner.
“Who was that?” Patty asked.
“I’m not sure,” Eddie said. “I thought I knew him.”
The blond got off the streetcar at Massachusetts Ave and walked, head down, the few blocks to the area of burned-out and boarded-up buildings. He was grim-faced, as always. He had smiled rarely in the past twenty years and his eyes were lifeless black pools revealing nothing. His face seemed set in stone, like the mask he wore when he took revenge. He was handsome but he looked worn down, like an old statue.
He ducked behind one of the abandoned buildings, pried back a loosened piece of plywood affixed to a window frame, and entered the darkness of an apartment. He pulled the board shut using a handle he had mounted on the plywood. He slumped onto a dilapidated, filthy chair that had been in the apartment when he had broken in two weeks ago. He was in no-man’s-land, where a man could hide.
Gianni turned on the propane lantern balanced on the arm of the chair, tore off the blond wig, and threw it on the floor. He had been following Eddie the Kid and suddenly Eddie the Kid was following him. It was a disquieting feeling.
Gianni picked up the newspaper on the floor. Rosa had taught him how to read English, but he had not been a good student. He had learned how to make unique shotguns like the four-barreled model he’d used to kill Jimmy Lopresti. He had learned how to make a small shotgun that could fire amazingly powerful ammunition, like the one he had used to kill Arianna Comperchio. He had learned disguises, stealth, engineering, and secrecy, but this cop, Eddie the Kid, seemed to know what he was thinking.
He had read the article twice before but still struggled with the words.
“Local police hero liv … living in North End with wife … smart … tough … marksman … known as Eddie the Kid … believes shotgun slayings could be connected … vendetta, no mysticism … used sewers for escape … used sewer again and periscope when he killed woman in Brookline.”
He stared at the newspaper photo of Arianna Comperchio. “I did not want to kill you,” he said to the picture. “You didn’t deserve to die, but neither did my sisters.”
Gianni dropped the newspaper on the floor and thought about Eddie the Kid. He had to stop this man from interfering with his vendetta. Maybe if the Kid understood what this was all about ….
Chapter 18
Men in Black
Wednesday, September 15, 1954
Noon
Stefano Caradonna was age 69 when the six men in black suits arrived. He was sitting on the porch of the main house as they scrambled out of a van carrying Thompson submachine guns. One very tall man approached Stefano, who stood to face him. The five other men rushed to the front door and kicked it open. Stefano heard the terrified screams of his family and shuddered. The man standing in front of him smirked, but said nothing.
“How did you find me after all these years?” Stefano asked, his voice unsteady.
“Luck,” the tall man said. “An ex-GI pawned a four-barreled shotgun in Detroit and an old-time Mafioso saw it in the pawn shop window. The pawnbroker told him the GI swore it was one of a kind from Vizzini, Italy, given to him by the gun maker. The old Mafioso knew about the Shotgun Man from the Black Hand Wars, and immediately contacted Johnny Torrio, who is retired in Brooklyn. Johnny gave the information to us, and here we are.”
“How much is Torrio paying you?” Stefano asked.
“This is strictly personal,” the tall man said, and shifted his eyes away from Stefano. “Look, everyone’s here.”
Stefano watched as his family was herded onto the front lawn. His son Rocco and his son’s beautiful wife Angelina came first, followed by their children. Marissa, thirteen; Gennaro, twelve; Jacquilina, eleven ….
Where is Gianni? Stefano thought.
“Where’s the fourth kid?” the tall man asked.
“What do you want with us?” Rocco asked, moving in front of his family.
“I’m asking the questions,” the tall man said. “Where’s your fourth kid?”
Seven-year-old Gianni Caradonna hid behind his grandmother Maria’s large gravestone on the hill behind the house. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew what not to do. He could not show himself. His mother looked terrified. His two sisters and his brother seemed confused. His father was trying to be brave.
“Hello,” he heard his friend Giorgio calling, as Giorgio ran up the slope toward the Caradonna house. He was coming to play.
Gianni bit his lower lip. “Go away, my friend,” he said to himself.
“Well here he is,” the tall man said, thinking Giorgio was Gianni
. “We can start the party.”
“A party?” Giorgio asked, with a big smile. He was still coming towards them. “I love parties.”
“Run away, little one,” Angelina shouted. “Hide.”
“I love hide and seek!” Giorgio shouted with glee and turned to run.
A machine gun clattered and Giorgio fell to the ground. He tried to get up, but fell back down. His hip was bleeding. The tall man trotted to the wounded boy and looked down.
“I don’t like this game,” Giorgio whimpered, holding his bloody hip.
“It’s almost over,” the man said. He pulled the trigger again, spraying bullets up and down Giorgio’s tiny, twitching body.
Angelina and her children were screaming hysterically as the tall man dragged the dead body to them and dropped it in the dust. Behind the gravestone Gianni hid in stunned silence. He did not cry.
“You’ve come for me,” Stefano shouted. “Why kill children?”
“You didn’t worry about children when you killed our fathers,” the tall man said. “My name is Joseph Dipietro. My father was Luca the Grocer. I was six years old when you blew his head off on a Chicago street corner.”
Stefano remembered Death Corner and closed his eyes.
“I am Arthur Petrosanti,” a shorter man said. “My father was Sammy, a fruit peddler. You shot his legs and his head off when I was five.”
“My father was Vincent Carrado, a barber,” another man said. “You shot him in the back. I was five.”
“What are they talking about?” Rocco shouted at his father.
Stefano said nothing. How could he explain?
“Your father was an assassin in Chicago,” Petrosanti said to Rocco. “He was Lupara Mago. He killed our fathers. He killed many fathers and now their sons have come for revenge.”
“I was following orders,” Stefano said. “My family was threatened. I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice. You chose your family and destroyed ours,” Petrosanti said. “We chose to join the Mafia family, one that does not forgive and forget. Michael Lopresti and Frankie Comperchio, standing over there,” he said, pointing, “they are here from Boston to avenge murdered uncles. Nunzio Nardelli is here from Boston paying a debt to our family.”
Eddie the Kid Page 5