Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  “Have you heard from your husband?”

  “No, signora. But he’ll be back.” Limonata had unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a cracked and bloodied nipple.

  “I’ll give you more aloe. Put it on every few hours. I see your cough is no better either. Did you go to see Signora LaManna like I told you?”

  “No, signora, but I’ll go this week.”

  Giovanna left saying, “You must go. And please, call me Giovanna.”

  When she heard Limonata’s cough, she was grateful Angelina wasn’t in the sling usually strapped to her chest. She reentered her apartment and washed her hands. Lucrezia’s lectures about cleanliness had not been lost on her.

  “Come, Frances, Mary, we’ll go to the roof.” They were doing the weekly wash, but the heat had become oppressive. Giovanna hoisted the clothes, washboard, and bucket. Frances picked up Angelina, and Mary carried the soap. They climbed the roof ladder, opened the hatch, and emerged onto the roof. An entire world was there to greet them. Many of their neighbors were already up there, and there were scores of others on the roofs of the adjacent buildings, playing cards, doing laundry, or simply trying to feel a breeze. One of their neighbors was spreading buckets of crushed tomatoes on a sheet stretched across a wooden frame, to dry into tomato paste. Giovanna felt a tinge of guilt for buying her tomato paste ready-made in the store.

  “Please, Zia, can we go in?” squealed Frances and Mary upon seeing two children already swimming in the roof’s water tank. Giovanna was tempted to say, “Only after you do your chores,” but easily relented. It was hot. She could use a break herself. Taking Angelina from Frances’s arms, she sat while the girls stripped to their petticoats. In only a handful of trips to a beach, Rocco had taught all his children to swim, proving he really was Scillese. Grateful that she could sit instead of stand guard at the tank, Giovanna relaxed but still kept one eye on the girls, knowing all too well how quickly children could, and did, drown in those tanks.

  Unwinding strands of her hair from Angelina’s chubby fist, Giovanna marveled at how dramatically a life could change. She was surrounded by children, sitting on the tar of a New York tenement rooftop, a rusted tank their ocean. Scilla’s sandy beaches, sparkling seas, and dramatic cliffs were far behind her; instead, she faced a vista of crowded streets, pushcarts, and garbage, but it was a world cloaked in promise.

  “TERROR IN ITALIAN SECTION. Here it is,” read Giovanna from Il Progresso. “Rocco was lucky he wasn’t hurt in the blast. His cart was right across the street from Paparo’s store in front of the milliner’s shop.”

  “Do you think they meant to murder Paparo’s nephew, or was it just unlucky that he was there early?” asked Lucrezia.

  “Evil is evil. Enrico the fruit seller told Rocco they sent Paparo letters demanding money. Paparo didn’t pay, and he brought the letters to the police.” Scanning the article further, Giovanna read, “‘Detectives of Lieutenant Petrosino’s Italian Squad are investigating the bombing, which they believe to be the work of the Black Hand.’ What do you know of this Petrosino?”

  As if on cue, there was a knock on Lucrezia’s door and Domenico burst in.

  “Zia, Zia, I saw him!”

  “Catch your breath, boy. I can’t understand you. Who did you see?”

  “Petrosino!”

  Domenico had listened attentively when Rocco had returned, still covered in ash from the bombing of Paparo’s store, and described what had happened. He imagined himself a detective with the sleuthing he and Zia had done. And now, to know the most famous detective of all was this Petrosino—an Italian!

  “Where did you see him?”

  “On Elizabeth Street, near our apartment. He was dragging a man down the staircase and out of the house.”

  “How did you know it was him?”

  “A crowd gathered when they saw him go in. I heard them talking, and I waited.” Domenico had been building toward this moment, and with great drama he reenacted the scene.

  “He drags the bum by the collar. You could hear his body bouncing on the steps. When he gets outside, he throws the guy against the brick and says, ‘See this scum? This is the Black Hand you are all so afraid of! He is nothing. A common thief.’ Then the crowd parts to let him through. He drags the guy down the street, calling, ‘It’s not like Italy here. You must work with the police. We can help you.’ And then Petrosino turns, kicks the rat, and says, ‘Andiamo, schifoso.’”

  “Bravo!” exclaimed Lucrezia, clapping. Domenico smiled and bowed.

  “What did he look like?” asked Giovanna, glancing at the picture of Petrosino in the newspaper.

  “He was short, but big and strong. He had a black derby and overcoat. And his face had those dents.”

  “Smallpox scars,” corrected Lucrezia, smiling. There was no doubt the boy did see Petrosino.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at Vito’s Grocery?”

  “Sì, Zia. But I had to tell you. I saw the great Petrosino!”

  “I’m sure a lot of people don’t think he’s so great. You keep your mouth quiet about him, you hear?”

  “But Zia, he said not to be afraid!”

  “That’s easy for him to say.”

  Giovanna kissed Domenico and gently shooed him out of the apartment.

  “Lucrezia, what do you think. Is he right?”

  “I think it’s true that the police here are not like the police in Italy. But this Petrosino couldn’t stop Paparo’s store from being bombed, could he? If you’re marked by the Black Hand, it’s like that expression you always use—what is it?—‘between a rock and a hard place’?”

  NINETEEN

  1907

  “Come on. You’re doing a man’s job. Have a man’s drink,” goaded Clement’s co-worker in front of the Star of Italy bar. Clement couldn’t admit that his hesitation had nothing to do with being fifteen but with being forbidden by his father to go into that particular tavern.

  “I’ll even pay for it so your daddy doesn’t know,” cajoled the worker, impatiently wiping sweat from his brow.

  A beer would taste good; his throat stung from inhaling lime for ten hours, and he was broiling from the summer heat.

  Even though his day pouring cement had ended, it was still bright outside, so Clement’s eyes had to adjust to the dark, smoky room as he walked into the Star of Italy.

  He tried to concentrate on his ale and his friend’s banter, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He glanced around and saw some men gathered around a newspaper at a back table. They looked up suddenly when a thin, well-dressed man entered the bar.

  “Vachris! What, no disguise today?” called a chinless brute as he closed the newspaper.

  “Lupo, I know you gentlemen are too cunning to fall for that.” The new arrival walked around the bar, taking in every detail. Seeing the paper, he commented, “Look, you even read newspapers now! Did you read that story about Mario Palermo?”

  Silence greeted his question.

  “Do you have anything to tell me about it?”

  Gestures indicating “We know nothing” filled the room.

  “It’s a little boy, gentlemen. He’s been gone ten days. I know it’s not your turf, but the way I see it, you all know how to get to Brooklyn. Right, Tommaso?” Vachris directed his attention to a huge square-headed man.

  “You tell your boss, Petrosino, that we don’t get involved in Brooklyn and to stop breaking heads around here,” yelled a voice from a smoky table.

  “I hope we find that boy alive. Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to tell Lieutenant Petrosino anything.”

  Lieutenant Vachris surveyed the room and before leaving looked quizzically at Clement, who made an unsuccessful attempt to blend into his beer at the bar.

  As soon as Vachris left, the square-headed guy picked up wood shavings from the floor, threw them at the door, and spat, “He’s all talk, Lupo.”

  “I gotta help my father. Thanks for the beer,” Clement said, bolting from the bar.
/>   Hands deep in his pockets and walking quickly, he got half a block before he noticed his father staring at him from the opposite side of the street.

  “Where were you?” Rocco sputtered.

  “I had a beer.”

  “I saw you! I told you not to go there. It’s filled with Blackhanders!”

  “Papa, don’t talk here,” whispered Clement, turning and walking.

  Rocco, an intensely private person, was not prone to public scenes, so he followed his son in silence. The second the apartment door closed, Rocco exploded.

  Wanting to shield the girls from the anger, Giovanna gathered them in the bedroom.

  “Papa, I’m sorry,” pleaded Clement over and over.

  “I’m afraid for you, afraid for all of us.” Rocco was softening with Clement’s apologies. “What happened in there?” asked Rocco of his son.

  “There was this short guy, he didn’t have a chin. He seemed to be in charge. They called him Lupo. This cop came in, a lieutenant. He asked about a boy who was kidnapped in Brooklyn. And there was this big guy named Tommaso.”

  “Clement, you trust no one, you hear? They’re all bad—these men—the cops. Let them play their little games, and you keep your nose out of it.”

  Hearing Rocco’s voice return to normal, Giovanna and the girls went back into the kitchen. “We’ll eat in a minute,” said Giovanna, stirring the pasta, “and we’ll say a prayer for that boy before dinner.”

  “My eggplant is better,” thought Giovanna with satisfaction. Having never eaten in a restaurant in America, she was at first intimidated when Signore DeCegli suggested that she and Rocco meet him at Saulino’s at the corner of Lafayette and Spring streets. DeCegli signaled for more bread. It was apparent he was a frequent customer; the waiters addressed him by name. Their table was tucked into a corner, and despite the simple decor, the restaurant had an air of respectability.

  Surreptitiously pointing with his fork at a short, pockmarked man eating alone, DeCegli whispered, “That is the famous Lieutenant Petrosino.” Giovanna’s head snapped in his direction and snapped back when Petrosino noticed her staring. “He is going to marry the owner’s daughter, Adelina Saulino.”

  Rocco had no reaction to this or anything else that was said. He had not said a word and ordered by pointing to the cheapest meal on the menu. Signore DeCegli tried to encourage him to order something else, but he simply shook his head and pulled on his mustache. Enough time had passed that DeCegli tried again to connect with the man. “It’s an honor to meet you, Signore Siena.” DeCegli kept stealing glances at Rocco, incredulous that this was Giovanna’s husband. They were a mismatched pair in every way that he could observe. But he had handled enough divorces to understand that in rough circumstances companions sometimes fared better than lovers.

  Rocco folded and unfolded the napkin. He had only agreed to come because Giovanna couldn’t eat with this man alone. This was uncomfortable business, another man’s business.

  DeCegli, too, was uncomfortable. He was about to tell Giovanna that the unthinkable had happened—an American company was offering her a settlement, but he couldn’t help but question his decision not to go to trial. He had a stronger case than he ever thought possible. In court, though, Wood would be rehearsed. His deposition was far more damaging than anything they could get him to say on the stand. The politics of the case were up for grabs. In America’s peculiar system, they could get a judge appalled at the audacity of an immigrant challenging an American institution, or one who sympathized with the powerless. DeCegli contemplated feeding the story to one of the new breed of reporters who were making it their mission to expose the conditions in the immigrant communities. If they got public sentiment on their side, it could influence the trial. But it was a long shot.

  DeCegli turned to Giovanna. “Signora, I am very pleased to tell you Taylor, Wood & Company has offered a settlement. They will pay you $1,700 now, $1,000 on January 1, 1909, and a final payment of $1,000 on January 1, 1910.”

  Rocco’s look of discomfort turned into an incredulous expression.

  “This is a remarkable victory, signora, and a testament to your perseverance and courage.” DeCegli smiled warmly, but there was no expression of relief or happiness on Giovanna’s face. He tried continuing, “They have agreed to pay my percentage upfront, so you don’t need to worry about making that transaction when you receive the payments. The total of $3,700 will be yours.” He waited for Giovanna’s look of triumph. Instead, she raised her hand, indicating she wanted him to stop speaking.

  They ate in a stifling silence. Rocco stole an occasional glance at his wife, but for the most part he tried to remain motionless and control his fidgeting. He eventually broke the silence by calling for another bottle of wine.

  DeCegli turned to Giovanna. “Signora, this is a major victory. However, if you would like me to discuss other options, I would be happy to.”

  Giovanna looked at Signore DeCegli full in the face for the first time. “What I do not understand, and what I believe you can’t help me with, is what it will mean to accept such an offer.”

  “Giovanna,” said Rocco gruffly. What was his wife thinking? This entire business would be over, and they could establish a store. No more pushing the cart. They would own something!

  “Rocco, I am not saying no. I must think about it. Of course, your feelings on the matter will weigh in my decision.”

  Rocco knew it wasn’t true but was pleased at the generosity of the sentiment.

  “I believe I should review your options,” injected Signore DeCegli, hoping the facts would defuse potential family tension and make it easier for Giovanna to accept.

  The lawyer went on to explain his thoughts about going to trial and how the other side would be better prepared. He chose not to mention that now, because she was a married woman, Giovanna’s case didn’t have the same sympathetic appeal.

  He ended his review by saying cautiously, “A condition of the settlement is that you tell no one of the terms.”

  “This is family business. Why would we tell anyone?” interjected Rocco indignantly.

  DeCegli turned to Giovanna. “You realize if you said anything, you would risk losing the second payment. There are four other victims, and they want to avoid lawsuits with them. That is the reason they want to pay it in three parts. It will extend beyond the statute of limitations.”

  Giovanna didn’t bother to ask what that meant. That wasn’t the issue. She took a long time to reply, during which Rocco drank another glass of wine. “Please take no offense, Signore DeCegli, but I would not view such a settlement as a victory.” Giovanna looked away. The idea of trading Nunzio’s life for money made her nauseous.

  “Signora, I know of no other case where the family of an immigrant received a settlement for an on-the-job accident. You should be proud of what you’ve done.”

  In the awkward silence that ensued, DeCegli realized that she might never acknowledge the significance of this win. He changed the subject. “I suppose Petrosino is glum because of that poor boy…Actually, he usually appears that way.”

  Giovanna looked puzzled.

  “I thought you would have heard. They found Mario Palermo’s body.”

  Rocco squirmed in his chair thinking about Clement in that cafe. Giovanna crossed herself. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

  Signore DeCegli apologized. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to speak of unpleasant things. Well, for now, let’s relax; we have two weeks to respond.”

  “I don’t need two weeks, Signore DeCegli.” Giovanna felt defeated acknowledging to herself for the first time that there could be no justice in Nunzio’s death. “You can tell them we will take the offer.”

  “Yes, of course, she’ll take the offer,” echoed Rocco, relieved.

  When Signore DeCegli got over his surprise, he too was relieved. But after toasting their triumph, he felt strangely let down.

  “Lieutenant,” saluted Detective Fiaschetti at the entry to Petrosino’s offic
e.

  “Sit down, detective.” Petrosino motioned to a chair.

  “I got nothing on the Palermo boy, Lieutenant,” announced the detective, who was dressed in street clothes and looked like the drunk he had been pretending to be. He was Petrosino’s youngest detective and quickly responded to his lieutenant’s look of disappointment by adding, “But Don Vito Cascio Ferro has come to town.”

  Petrosino’s head snapped up. “I had him exiled after the barrel murder!”

  “Well, he got back in and is looking quite the gentleman. Tailored suit, manicured beard and mustache. He was holding court in the Star of Italy with Lupo and his gang.”

  “He came to this neighborhood!” exclaimed Petrosino, indignant. “These thugs have no fear!”

  Detective Fiaschetti removed a small notebook from his pocket. “He acted like a real professor, he did. Listen to this: ‘Why break the bottle when you can skim off the cream? At this rate you’ll soon have nothing left. Provide them a service, a protection service, and exact a fee.’ And then he says, ‘They’ll thank you for it, and you won’t need to deal with Petrosino.’”

  Petrosino’s face was red, and his hand was balled into a fist. Detective Fiaschetti quickly continued, trying to get the rest in before Petrosino’s outburst. “Il Lupo treated him like God. Tommaso the Bull asked who they were providing these people protection from, and you know what Ferro says? He says, ‘Why, thieves, of course!’ and he and Lupo shared a big laugh.”

  Surf City, New Jersey, 1969

  “I don’t see anything,” I moaned. Flat on our backs on redwood picnic benches, Nonno and I stared at the moon. We were outside our summer rental in Surf City, New Jersey. Across the street the bay lapped up on the shore.

  “I no see nothing,” agreed Nonno.