I turn round to see Happy Maloney crutching along the cobblestones.
“Why aren’t you with Sadie? Is she back now?”
Happy’s hair has begun to grow back and he has gained a few pounds since last I saw him when he was discharged from the Army hospital after the war.
He stops in the street and gives a shame-faced tilt to his head, “I uh—”
“Where is she?”
“She. . . I dunno Liam, she just packed up an’ left one mornin’. I dunno.”
“What do you mean, she left with L’il Dinny?”
“Well she’s callin’ him John now, but yeah. They left one mornin’ wit’out sayin’ nothin’ to nobody, see? Just gone, like. I was wonderin’ if ya’d heard from her?”
“Me? No, I haven’t,” says I. “I left her in your care because I trusted you. A woman out in this world alone is a terrifying thought.”
“I don’ think ya should worry, Liam. Sadie can take care o’ herself now. She’s different than the soft-spoken woman ya remember.”
“Really? Do you think she’ll be alright?”
“She’ll be fine,” Happy shrugs over his crutches.
When we turn the corner at Bridge Street, two black motor cars pull up in front of the Dock Loaders’ Club. I jump behind the building across John Street in front of the Jay Street Railyard and push Happy back before they see him. The two kids who stand guard outside the door step forward. The Mullen boy cups his hand and screeches up to the second floor, “Why-oooo!” The two then run inside and close the door behind them.
A man in his twenties dressed in a tan suit with a large purple cravat, a matching purple kerchief and slippers emerges from the motor car. He pulls the last drag from a cigar and tosses it into the path of an oncoming junk dray that is being pushed up Bridge Street by a homeless man.
“Who are they?” Happy asks.
“I don’t know.”
An older man dressed more modestly stands next to the man in slippers. He turns and points up to the second floor of the Dock Loaders’ Club and says something. A smaller man with an aquiline nose is summoned by the man in slippers. An arm is slung over the small man’s shoulder as the gaudily dressed man in slippers speaks with his hands.
“I think they’re Italian,” I say. “Do you still have that revolver I gave you when you went with Sadie to Long Island?”
“I uh. . . No, she musta took it.”
“It’s fine, I’m hoping we don’t need it. We need to sure up our alliance with the Italians and I’m sure they’re upset about losing South Red Hook. We only have the Italians and the ILA backing us. Without them, we’re all alone against—”
“Everybody.”
Three large Italians pour out of the backseat of one of the shiny black motorcars and go to the boot and pull out boxes. That is when thirty men come piling out of the Dock Loaders’ Club with bail hooks and pipes and even spades, and surround the Italians.
I pull my own pipe out of my coat and walk across Bridge Street from behind them as Happy follows.
“I am attempting to explain to you,” The man in slippers speaks with an Anglo-American accent, but has a low, thick hairline and black eyebrows. “It’s food. Only food. And what is food? We offer you to accept this food as a token of our esteem.”
I shoulder through some of our men and open one of the boxes. It looks as though there are bloody worms inside of it. I open another box, but inside there is a cake and little colorful cookies.
“They wanna break bread,” Happy sheepishly moves his eyes to me.
The Swede comes barreling out the front door, “The fuck’s wrong wit’ yaz? Ya don’ just show up here wit’out lettin’ us know ahead o’ time, Sixto. Ya’re lucky I wasn’t down here when ya pulled up or I woulda started swingin’ first an’ askin’ questions later.”
Sixto Stabile? I realize. Stick’em Jack’s son?
I met them once before at the Fourteenth Street Hotel where the International Longshoreman’s Association holds court in West Manhattan. They call Sixto the Young Turk. One of many new generation Italians who believe in fronting with a legitimate business, while washing the dirty money through the backdoor. Jack, his father, is known as an old Mustache Pete. He seems to have aged ten years since I last saw him. His face is gray and haggard and his eyes droop where crow’s feet pinch at the corners.
“Porca miseria,” old Stick’em Jack proclaims to his son with strange words to our ears. “Stai per rovinare le tue scarpe in questa sporcizia.”
“What’s that mean?” The Swede demands.
Sixto smiles, “Eh, I wouldn’t worry about him.”
“This place eh-shangad,” Jack violently shakes his hands.
“The fuck's shangad mean?” The Swede yells.
Sixto steps in, “He just questions the location of your headquarters. He says it’s like a pig sty. And that bridge is so loud. It leaves a man to wonder how much dirt and soot must that thing stir up around here. It’s not good for the respiratory system. Also, my father is aging and has a case of frequency, can he use your bathroom?”
“Bathroom?” The Swede repeats with a dubious smirk.
“Yes, you know, where all the dicks hangout?”
“We gotta trough out back.”
“Oh, never mind.”
“Sixto?” Vincent Maher comes out the front door with a startled but joyful smile. “What are yaz doin’ round here?”
“Vin!” Sixto traverses the cobblestones and steps up to the sidewalk to shake hands with Vincent, but abandons that in favor of a brusque hug and two kisses on his cheeks. “You are still prettier than most women, I see. Listen, the Prince o’ Pals Frankie Yale wanted me to say hello to you. He often thinks about you, you know. He really cares about you. Cares in his heart for you. Paul Vaccarelli says hello too.”
Vincent blushes as Sixto’s palm cups his face.
“Uhright, uhright,” The Swede ballyrags Sixto. “If ya take Vincent’s cock outta ya mouth maybe then we could understand ya better. What do ya people want around here? Showin’ up outta nowheres.”
“I thought I might return the favor,” Sixto says with a genuine and confident cast. “Your people come to our place of business every week and drop dimes with us. I thought we could come and return the favor. Do you have any ladies upstairs?”
“Ladies? Upstairs? No women are allowed in our headquarters,” The Swede bellows.
“So I have heard,” Sixto touches his chin with a finger. “What a shame. Irish girls are such charming things. Gorgeous and pure. With skin of mare’s milk and hair kissed by fire. And still you people don’t give them work?”
“We don’ whore out our women like I-Talians do,” The Swede’s voice is bitter.
“Well I’m glad you are alright with us whoring your women then, because I thought it might upset some of your people. Anyhow—”
“That’s not what I was sayin’.”
“That’s exactly what you said. Grace and Kit,” Sixto kisses his own fingers. “Beautiful creatures. And demure. There is nothing sweeter than demure beauty.”
I push ahead of The Swede “We’d prefer that you not enslave our women, of course, but we are allies and must work together. I’m glad you have come today—”
“Get the fuck outta here,” The Swede pushes back. “Nobody asked ya.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Garrity,” Sixto salutes me.
He remembers my name?
“Hopefully we can work things out like two businesses with common interests,” Sixto then politely pivots away from me and touches one of his Italian cohorts. “By the way Mr. Swede, do you remember this man? His name is Lucio Buttacavoli, but we call him Lucy. Do you remember him?”
The Swede looks at Lucy the man with the aquiline nose, “Nah, I don’ know him.”
Sixto turns to Lucy and says something in Italian. Together they turn their eyes up to The Swede until Sixto speaks, “Lucy says that he remembers you because you killed his cousin.”
The Swede had turned away by then, but when he hears Sixto’s matter-of-fact accusation, he turns back, “Whad ya say?”
“At the Fulton Ferry Landing,” Sixto shrugs. “Back in 1915, Lucy tells me. They had just gotten off a ship from Calabria. They were disoriented. Unsure of where to go. They didn’t know the Irish were in the north of Brooklyn while our people were in the south. They were told they could work on the docks, so they showed up. From what Lucy says, his cousin Giovanni didn’t want to pay you tribute. He said you were without respect.”
“Wit’out respect? An’ what happens if a Irish guy shows up at the Bush Terminal? Or at the Grand Army Terminal?”
“We don’t hire Irish down there. But you hired the Buttacavolis, which meant you were charged with their care. Instead you beat them. Killed one of them, took their money. Lucy was punched in the throat and to this day he cannot speak well. Do you deny his claim against you?”
“I don’ remember it,” The Swede turns round and opens the door. “Ya comin’ in o’ what?”
Sixto lowers his eyes, gives The Swede a knowing smile and speaks in his tongue to Lucy, who responds, though he has but mere wind for a voice.
“What are yaz talkin’ about now?” The Swede rolls his eyes.
“I said to him that he is correct, at least about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You are without respect,” Sixto smiles and walks in the front door. “Tell me, where is the one named Cinders? Cinders Connolly, is that not his name? The dockboss of the Fulton Ferry Landing the day Lucy lost his cousin?”
“He ain’t here right now,” The Swede lets himself in the door.
Sixto’s father follows him inside, and the large Italians carry in the boxes of food and open them up on the tables and along the bar in front of the dockbosses, their righthanders and all the rest.
“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph,” Paddy Keenan swears. “What are these things on me bar here, Black Hand bombs are they?”
“Mangia,” Sixto proclaims and raises his hand in a half-salute, though the father is much less amiable than the son and still has the milk of the old country on his lips. Sixto, however, is overly courteous and even gives a short bow. “A gift from South Brooklyn to our northern partners. Do you see? Even when you take the territory away from us that was granted in the deal that brought us together, still we come with gifts and neighborly respect. Mangia, sta andando a freddo, come il tuoi cuore.”
The men at the bar are unmoved and stare at Sixto and his father Jack and the silent fellow named Lucy with suspicion.
“They don’ understand the words ya sayin’,” Vincent leans in.
“Un regalo,” Jack raises his voice, his foreign language grating against the ears of the white men. “Un regalo per tutti voi.”
“I apologize,” Sixto says as the men chuckle at his small feet in slippers on the cement floor and the pinky rings adorning both hands. “Mangia means eat. It’s similar to an Irish blessing, you could say. Regalo means gift. My father would be honored if you appreciate the gift of food that we offer you.”
Red Donnelly was the first to notice the smell. The Lark and Big Dick and even Ragtime Howard all stand up when they catch wind of the wonderful scents that waft through the old damp, beer-puddled, wood-framed saloon. Soon enough my own teeth begin to swim in my mouth for a bite of it as all the men huddle round the plates of pasta, sweet sausage, eggplant, soups and greens, mouths salivating. Yet no one dares make the first move until Sixto himself makes a plate and tastes it.
“That’s a fazool,” Sixto points at one of the opened boxes.
“A wha?”
“Traditional soup, at least in our village.”
“Who cooked all this?” Beat McGarry asks.
“My father did,” Sixto points.
The men had a good laugh at that. Men aren’t supposed to cook. Men aren’t supposed to hug and kiss each other either. Or dress up in bright colors and wear jewelry. Most men had never even seen an Italian woman before, even though they lived in households and neighborhoods only a few blocks away. Some rumors had spread through Irishtown that Italians cook babies and seep them in blood sauce. But by the end of this day some would say that since the men like to do things women do, kiss each others cheeks and even name themselves after women, maybe they enjoy laying with each other too.
“Ya like sausage don’ ya?” The Lark asks Sixto.
“Love it,” he responds, licking his lips.
Once the first bite is taken by Vincent, the men tear at the boxes of food like wolves.
“Food,” a teary-eyed smile waxes across Sixto’s olive-colored face. “It’s an international language we all speak.”
Seeing tears in his eyes, the white men are convinced he is homosexual now.
“Come, yes?” Sixto says. “Where is our Dinny Meehan? Upstairs?”
“Shut ya fookin’ face wit’ that,” The Swede bellows and everyone in the saloon stops chewing and stares.
Vincent leans into Sixto’s ear, “Patrick Kelly, remember? There ain’t no one here wit’ that name.”
Sixto smiles a knowing smile, “Ah yes, my apologies. Upstairs is he?”
“Yeah,” The Swede growls and leads the way.
Behind us the sound of scraping chairs comes to our ears and Paddy Keenan’s voice, “Hey, hey, hey. It’s not here ye’ll have yer affray.”
I turn and see Lucy has Philip Large by the neck against the mahogany. Philip’s round eyes are searching for Cinders, his hands open and over his head in supplication.
“That’s a very bad idea, fella,” Paddy tells the Italian.
“Lucy?” Sixto calls back, then moves through.
Lucy speaks to him in their language, his voice raspy and low, “Questo imbecille, questo imbecille.”
“What gives?” The Swede stands over them all.
“It appears this imbecile was there the day Lucy’s cousin was murdered.”
“So was I.”
“Vendetta!” Sixto presents the word as if he were on the theatre stage. “Lucy wages a personal war for justice on those who took his cousin’s life. He names you as well in his vendetta Mr. Swede, but this imbecile was there that day and held him in his grip while your Cinders Connolly punched him in the throat,” Sixto shrugs as if the vendetta were out of his power to control. “It is mere justice he requires. One of you three must answer to it with a life.”
“Today ain’t the day for this, Sixto,” The Swede points a finger down into his face. “On top o’ that, this fookin’ guy don’ wanna fight Philip.”
“Fight? No, he must murder the imbecile.”
“Stop callin’ him that.”
“Well that is what he is, am I right? He wobbles when he walks, he is as wide as he is tall, his face is flat as an iron and his mind is feeble. Look at him, he is a simpleton. An imbecile. An idiot. If that is what he is, why hide the truth? In any case, of the three named in Lucy’s vendetta, he is the most worthless to you, is he not?”
“Be careful,” The Swede says. “Ya might get what ya want. But I’m tellin’ ya, ya don’ want what ya want ‘cause it ain’t what ya really want, after all.”
“Lucy,” Sixto turns to his man and after a few hand gestures, Lucy lets Philip loose, begrudgingly.
“Beware Mr. Swede, our people have the memory of elephants. It could be years before Lucy resolves the vendetta, but it will happen.” Sixto then turns round to see Dinny standing on the stairwell and calls up to him, “May we have a word, your highness?”
Dinny leans on the sloped bannister, “Ya show up to our home wit’out notifyin’ us beforehand. It’s a dangerous thing, young man.”
Sixto Stabile straightens himself.
Dinny continues, “Ya’re always welcome in our part o’ town, as ya’ve always welcomed our men down on Fourth Avenue at the Adonis. But this is different. The Black Hand was driven from these neighborhoods when we took down Christie Maroney, who would sell our girls into prost
itution an’ give our territory away for personal benefit. Those ways are gone from here. Yet we work together now. Ya ever got idears on comin’ up Irishtown-way again, ya send a runner first, understand?”
“We work together?” Sixto shoots him a handsome smile and brushes off some lint from his beige and gold suit. “Pulcinella would disagree. Wild Bill Lovett has told my people he leads the White Hand in Red Hook, but I have the impression he does not pay Irishtown tribute. The agreement between the Irish in the north and the Italians in the south, coordinated by Thos Carmody of the ILA to both of our benefit, has been breached.”
“Ya ain’t a judge to decide when a agreement’s been breached,” The Swede complains. “Thos Carmody is the judge, let’s wait to see what he says.”
Sixto’s dander goes up slightly. His fingers tense together as if he is squishing a bug, “Lovett invaded and murdered five of our men. Then, instead of coming to me yourself, you send me Vincent Maher, an underling. You must understand that our people see that as an infamy. You reproach us when your people have committed such a crime? You must forgive our belief that any and all agreements between us are null and void.”
Dinny does not respond and mumbles are heard from one end of the saloon to the other.
“We bring food,” Sixto presents with an outstretched hand, though much of the boxes have been overturned and spilled on the floor when Lucy attacked Philip. “If you understand anything about our ways, you will understand that we offer it as the ultimate sign of respect and hope that we can come to a new resolution, together, on the question of rebels in Red Hook.”
Dinny nods and points, “Sixto, Jack and Lucy come upstairs. Masher, Swede an’ Poe, come as well.”
Me? Why me?
I had rarely heard Dinny use our monikers before, but on this day it seems appropriate since outsiders are inside the Dock Loaders’ Club.
Upstairs we take our places; Dinny sits behind the desk with two iron shutter windows propped open, The Swede on his right, myself on the left while Vincent mans the door with a paper cigarette in his mouth and his belt unbuckled, his waistcoat unbuttoned.
Across the desk Sixto wipes a chair with a kerchief and sits primly. He then places his hat on a cross-legged knee to reveal the pearl buttons down white linen spats that fasten under his patent leather shoes. It isn’t until we are in close quarters that the strong scent of honeysuckle and lavender reaches my nose and his smile makes me think he just swallowed a canary. His furrow-browed father sits behind him on a stool with a half-open mouth.
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