Male ad anima viva!…”
He translated the lyrics in his mind. Love and music, that’s what I live for, and have never harmed a living being. Just like Tina herself, he thought.
Tina, he knew, really did have an exceptional voice, although whether or not it was as good as the sopranos he heard on the family’s record player would have to be left to someone else’s judgment. Tommy was pleased at how well she accompanied herself on the piano. When Tommy had bought her the old relic of a piano for her graduation, she played as if she had never seen such an instrument, but her playing now was certainly serviceable enough to accompany her voice.
Tommy began to itch, then started scratching his belly. It was the damned heat. He hated it. He hated sweating and always feeling damp.
Maybe he wasn’t really a Sicilian, he thought idly. Maybe not even an Italian. Maybe his parents had found him in a basket on the street and just given him a home.
“And maybe I’m a teapot,” he mumbled to himself, as he stretched and swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. He put on his robe and padded out into the living room.
“Morning,” he said to his sister, who stopped playing and smiled at him.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“Nahhh. There was this cat screeching out in the yard. Woke me up. At least, I think it was a cat.”
Tina threw a music book at him. “You are vile,” she said.
They both laughed, and Tina started playing again as Tommy went into the bathroom and took a bath as cold as he could stand. The precinct house where he worked was a cesspool, but it had a large bathroom with a pair of shower stalls, and Tommy often stopped in there after his tour, just to wash off the sweat and get comfortable. The Falcones’ apartment had no such luxury as a shower. The only alternatives at home were to sit in the bathtub or to wash at the sink with a facecloth. Someday, Tommy thought, he would have his own home and it would have a shower. Definitely a shower.
As he dried himself he felt clean, but he was already sweating again as he went into the kitchen. Tina had poured coffee for him and was making him toast over the gas flame on the stove.
“You missed all the excitement last night,” Tina said.
“Oh?”
“Sofia came running over in the middle of the night. Before you got home. She was pretty upset.”
“Why?”
“Her father’s been beating up her mother. Her too. Her mouth was even cut.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tommy snapped.
Tina shook her head as she was buttering the thick slices of Italian bread. “If you ask me, it might be even worse.”
“How worse?”
“I think her father…” She hesitated as she put the toast in front of Tommy. She would not meet his eyes. “I think her father is trying to … you know … sleep with her.”
Tommy put down his coffee cup. “I don’t want to hear about this,” he said. “Did she say that?”
Tina shook her head. “No. But I just get that feeling.” She busied herself rinsing dishes at the sink. “I went with her this morning to see a cousin of hers. She asked him for help.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said he’d help, but I don’t believe him. He’s just a dumb thug.”
“Who is this cousin?”
“His name used to be Salvatore something, but now he calls himself Charlie Luciano.”
“Never heard of him,” Tommy said.
“He’s one of the gees that hang around in Mr. Mangini’s restaurant,” Tina said, using the neighborhood’s slang term for gangsters.
“I don’t want you hanging out with people like that.”
“It wasn’t exactly hanging out, Tommy. I just walked with her to this jerk’s office.”
“It’s a good office to stay away from. What would Papa say?”
“Papa won’t know. And you won’t tell him,” she said confidently. Now she turned to him and stared him down. Finally, reluctantly, Tommy nodded.
* * *
NILO WOKE UP COUGHING. His tongue felt thick and the back of his mouth was dry. He had spent much of the last night at the luncheonette in Brooklyn, drinking bad whiskey with the other young men, and he had trouble remembering how he got home.
I will not drink that much again, he promised himself. Drunkenness is for the Irishers. I do not know what I will become, but it will not be a drunk.
In the apartment outside his room, he heard his landlady bustling around, and he knew he could not put up this morning with her nosy questions about his work, his salary, even his love life, so he dressed quickly and sneaked downstairs.
Outside, he saw Tommy sitting on his front steps. He was looking away, down the block. Nilo followed his eyes and saw Sofia, carrying a market basket on her arm, walking rapidly away on her morning trip to the bakery. He remembered then meeting her in the hallway last night.
As Tommy got up to cross the street, Nilo intercepted him.
“Morning, brother,” he said.
Tommy seemed startled for a moment, then nodded to him.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Nilo asked, walking along with him.
“I’ve got to talk to old man Mangini.”
“About Sofia?”
Tommy stopped. “What about her?”
“I saw her last night. She was crying and her mouth was cut. Did her father do that?”
“Yeah.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Tell him to stop.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nilo said.
“No need. It’s no business of yours.”
“Yours either,” Nilo said.
“All right,” Tommy said after a moment. “But stay out of it.”
It was the first time Tommy had been in the restaurant since he returned from France. Tony had never liked Matteo Mangini, so Tommy didn’t, either. The restaurant had not changed much. There was a linoleum floor and wallpaper imprinted with scenes of Italy. The tables were wood, covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths.
It was still early, the Saturday lunch crowd had not yet arrived, and only a few of the tables were occupied, mostly by neighborhood people. Tommy nodded at the ones he knew. Mr. Mangini was seated behind the cash register at the back of the restaurant, and as Tommy walked up to him Nilo trailed behind.
“We have to talk,” Tommy said.
Mangini looked at him with a quizzical smile.
“So talk.”
“Let’s go in the back room,” Tommy said.
“Look. Now that you’re a cop, if you’re going to try to squeeze me for money, forget it. I already pay off the important ones.”
Tommy stood stone-still. “The back room,” he said levelly. Even as he struggled to control his temper at the thought of this man beating Sofia, a part of him wondered why he was getting involved. He was not that close to Sofia and it was not any of his business. Still, he guessed, he was the closest thing she had to a big brother. It might have been something he learned from Mario.
The older man shrugged, then led the way into the back room. It was a large room with four tables that could be moved around to seat as many as twenty-five people. A small lamp burned on a table in a corner, throwing weird shadows across the textured tin walls.
Nilo followed them inside and closed the door, and when Mangini turned, Tommy said simply, “You’ve been beating your wife and daughter. You’ve got to stop.”
“You been trying to do my daughter?” Mangini demanded.
“No,” Tommy said.
“Then fuck you, you insolent snot.”
“I hoped you’d say that,” Tommy said.
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“So I won’t regret slapping you silly.”
Mangini snarled, drew back his right hand, and threw a straight punch at Tommy’s face.
With the instinct learned from years of sparring with Mario, Tommy ducked. The punch slid past his hand, and Mangini’s hand smashed into a t
all brass hat rack with a loud crack.
“Owww,” the man cried out, then doubled over, holding his right hand to his waist, his eyes wide and frightened. Then fear gave way to anger.
“You son of a bitch,” Mangini shouted. “I’ve got friends. I’m gonna fix you good, get you thrown off the police. I’m gonna—”
Suddenly Nilo was on the man, his left hand around Mangini’s throat, his right hand holding a knife point to the man’s face.
“You’re gonna do nothing,” Nilo said softly. “Tommy will only beat you up, but I will cut your heart out and use it to feed rats.” He pressed the point of the blade against Mangini’s cheek. There was a sharp glint in his eyes that frightened Tommy, who said sharply, “Nilo, don’t. That’s enough.”
Nilo let go of Mangini’s throat but reached out and grabbed the man’s injured hand. The knuckle on the index finger was already red and swollen. Nilo squeezed, and Mangini screamed sharp and short and pulled the hand away to cradle it to his chest.
“Don’t make us come back,” Nilo said.
Outside, Tommy told Nilo, “You’re fun to have around.”
“Some people cannot be talked to. With them, talk only results in more talk. He was talking too much, and I could not have him threaten your livelihood.”
“Maybe so. But you’re too quick with that knife.”
“It is a souvenir of my days on the tonnara boats. I never want to forget where I came from.”
“Be careful with it,” Tommy said.
“These days, I use it only to clean my nails,” Nilo said.
Tommy left to go to the college library to study. When Nilo walked down the street, he looked up and saw Tina sitting by the windowsill of the Falcones’ apartment. She waved and Nilo merely nodded. He was thinking that he had nearly lost control back in the restaurant, almost had pushed his knife into Mangini’s face. He would have to learn to manage his temper better. A man who is out of control is only prey. But even worse is one who does nothing but talk.
* * *
MANGINI’S RESTAURANT WAS EMPTY of customers except for the stay-late group in the private back room. Mrs. Mangini and Sofia had left, and Matteo Mangini was checking the night’s receipts when Charlie Luciano came out of the back room.
He sat at one of the empty tables in the big dining room and gestured for Mangini to join him.
Mangini hurried over to him, and Luciano said, “Sit down.” He nodded toward the bandage on Mangini’s hand. “What happened to you?”
For a moment, Mangini was tempted to tell him, but some instinct caused him to hold his tongue.
“Accident. I broke a finger,” he said instead.
Luciano nodded. He spoke softly, as if reciting a grocery list to himself. “I was going to break your hand myself, but I don’t think I will do that now. You with two broken hands and where would we eat?”
“Break my hand? Why?” Mangini said.
“We will talk about it just this once and never again,” Luciano said. “Your wife is a relative of my mother’s. You have been putting hands to her and your daughter. You will not do it again.”
Words of protest sprang to Mangini’s lips. He thought of denying everything, of being outraged, of trying to look misunderstood. But as he saw Luciano’s obsidian-chip eyes staring at him, he simply lowered his head and nodded.
“Good,” Luciano said, rising. “Then we understand each other. Now please, more wine. The boys are thirsty.”
* * *
ONE STEAMY DAY late in July, Mr. Ferrara closed the realty office to go to a funeral and Nilo rode an early train back to Manhattan. On a whim, he went uptown to Maranzano’s office, arriving there shortly after five o’clock.
As he crossed the street toward the building, Betty, Maranzano’s lush secretary, came out of the office and strolled toward the corner. Nilo hustled after her, catching up as she stopped to wait in a trolley stop.
Nilo touched her shoulder, and she turned around with the suspicious look that he thought characterized New York women. For a moment, she seemed angry; then her expression softened.
“Nilo,” he said. “Do you remember me?”
“Sure I do,” she said, and glanced down toward her bosom, now demurely clad in a dark jacket, and when she lifted her eyes again both she and Nilo laughed.
“How do you like it in Brooklyn?” she asked.
“It’s too far away from you,” he said.
“Oh, you’re becoming an American very quickly,” she said.
She seemed to want to patter on, but Nilo wanted to know how she knew he was working in Brooklyn. The young woman smiled. “Just another one of Mr. Maranzano’s businesses. It doesn’t really concern me.”
“How’d you know I was there?”
“I see your name on the payroll list every week. I put the money in the pay envelopes.”
“Good. Then you know I can afford to take you to dinner,” Nilo said.
Betty had to beg off for that night, though. She explained that she lived with her parents and they had family members coming over for dinner. But Saturday, she would be free Saturday night.
“Saturday is so far away,” he said.
She looked down the street. “It’ll give you time to get ready,” she said. “Here comes my ride.”
Nilo took her arm to help her up onto the trolley’s high steps.
“Tell me,” he said before letting her go. “Does Don Salvatore ever speak of me?”
She smiled again. “You’ll just have to wait till Saturday night to find out.”
But the next day, Mr. Ferrara got a telephone call in the office that caused him to sit up straighter at his desk while he answered.
When he hung up the telephone, he nodded across the room to Nilo. “Tomorrow night,” he said.
“Tomorrow night what?”
“You are to have dinner with Don Salvatore.”
* * *
NILO WATCHED MARANZANO, then tried to imitate the older man, delicately cutting the beef on his plate into bite-size pieces. He failed. The fork would not hold the food still, and when he tried to use the knife it would slip and slide, making a screeching noise on his plate. Maranzano appeared not to notice.
He chewed a mouthful of food, swallowed, and told Nilo, “As Caesar said…” and then rattled off a long rapid statement that Nilo guessed was in Latin.
Helpless for something to say in response, Nilo picked up his wineglass and tried to sip, but his hand was shaking too badly. This was the first time he had seen Don Salvatore since March, and here he was, eating at the great man’s table and disgracing himself with both his stupidity and his vile table manners. He could not drink. He set the wineglass back down, placed it squarely on yet another spoon that was on the table, and half the dark red wine spilled onto the brilliant white tablecloth before Nilo could grab it and set it right. What is the need for so many spoons anyway? Nilo wondered. A man has one mouth; surely even Julius Caesar would understand that one mouth requires only one spoon.
Maranzano leaned across the table, took Nilo’s knife and fork, and cut the young man’s thin slice of beef into a half-dozen smaller pieces. As he sat back, he said, “Let me translate Caesar for you: ‘Sometimes, when the gods want to punish a man for his sins, they give him great prosperity so that he suffers even more when his fortunes change.’ An interesting thought, don’t you agree, Nilo?”
Nilo now had a mouth filled with food and could only nod. The truth was that Nilo thought nothing about Julius Caesar, but he wondered if there was a subtle message in those words for him. Am I the one who has been given great prosperity? Is that what the fifty dollars each week means? I have been given prosperity so that I can suffer all the more? Was it my great sin to kill those people in the apartment house fire?
Don Salvatore appeared to be waiting for an answer, and Nilo finally swallowed and said, “Yes, sir.”
Maranzano smiled indulgently. “You are so very young, Nilo. Let me explain. I was just trying to reveal to you an
important lesson we could all learn from Caesar.”
Nilo nodded slowly. He did not have any idea of what Maranzano was getting at, but he was certain the man would eventually explain it. And explain it. And explain it.
Two young black serving girls came into the room, and Maranzano leaned back in his chair and waited for them to remove his and Nilo’s dishes.
“Would you care for dessert?”
Nilo wanted dessert desperately, but the thought of having to maneuver his utensils one more time frightened him.
“No, thank you, Don Salvatore. I have already had too much to eat, thank you.”
“A lemon gelato? Light and refreshing. Especially on a night as hot as this.”
Nilo thought that perhaps every other place in New York City was stifling this night, but not Don Salvatore’s apartment, which had handsome electric fans standing in every corner blowing breezes through the room.
“Thank you, no,” Nilo said.
Maranzano nodded and stood up. “Very well, then. I appreciate a man who knows how to discipline his appetites. Too many in our business do not. Let’s go into the next room for coffee. Or brandy.”
“Coffee would be fine,” Nilo said. Maranzano smiled.
“You are that rarest of young men. Moderate in all things,” he said. They sat in the living room and Maranzano offered him a large cigar. Somehow, Nilo thought it would be offensive to decline and took the big stogie. But he had never smoked a cigar before and had no idea how it was done. He held the cigar in his fingers and watched as Maranzano bit the end off one, spat it into an ashtray, and then lit it. Nilo did the same, trying not to gag on the thick, rich smoke.
Maranzano said, “Never be ashamed, Nilo, to say you do not know something. It is only a fool who pretends to know everything. Ask. Learn. And then never forget.”
The serving girls brought coffee, and after they left, Maranzano said, “Now, as I was saying about Caesar. This Joe Masseria has risen to power much too easily. You know who he is?”
“Yes, sir. They call him Joe the Boss of the Mafia.”
“That is what he claims to be,” Maranzano said, and there was an edge to his voice that Nilo had not ever heard before. “He has had much good fortune, but I do not believe his good fortune comes because he is favored by God. Instead, I believe it is because God plans his eventual destruction. Just as Caesar’s words said. So he will suffer more later.”
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