Bloodline: A Novel

by Warren Murphy

  “And so tonight, this peacock contest of criminals, will there be a winner?”

  “At the end each one hopes that the church will say the followers of so-and-so or the followers of so-and-so-other were the biggest supporters of our carnival. This will let the parishioners know they can deal with this man as a man of respect. The one who does not win will lose respect.”

  “Who will win?” Tina pressed.

  “For that you should have asked your other brother, the priest who is not a policeman, because that is the wonderful part of it,” Luciano said. “It is always the same. Neither of them wins. Your brother and the other good fathers at Mount Carmel wish to offend no one, so they always say it was a tie. That both won. There was no loser. I tell you, the church knows something about playing politics.” He paused. “But you would know that, I guess. Wouldn’t you, Miss Falcone?”

  Before Tina could answer, Sofia said, “We have to be going. See you later, Cousin.”

  Luciano nodded.

  “Bye-bye, Mr. Luciano,” Tina said with a smile, and let Sofia lead her away. Luciano watched as the two young women sauntered off. The young boy, Benny, came to his side and looked appreciatively at the two beauties.

  “Good-lookers, Charlie,” he said.

  “Yeah, Benny, they are,” Luciano said softly. “And that Tina Falcone thinks she is very smart.”

  “A lot of them think that way until they’re on their backs,” Benny said.

  “That time will come.”

  They both watched the girls walk away for a few moments longer, and Benny said, “I want seconds.”

  * * *

  “WHY DID YOU TALK to Salvatore that way?” Sofia asked her friend. “You were taunting him.”

  “‘Charlie. Please.’ He likes to be called Charlie,” Tina said mockingly. “And he started it. What does he think, we’re little girls and he can impress us by giving us lollipops?”

  “He was just trying to be nice.”

  “Come on, Fia, think. Do you really believe that these gees are around because they want to give a lot of money to the church? Did you watch your cousin’s eyes? He was watching the gambling game that was going on. Papa was right. These thugs run all these games, and first they steal the public’s money and then they give a little tiny piece of it back to the church and pretend they’re holy.”

  A few minutes later, they passed a raffle booth that advertised with a large hand-painted sign: 50-50. TICKETS, 25 CENTS.

  “Oh, look,” Sofia said. “We’ve got some tickets on the fifty-fifty.” She reached into her purse and brought out ten little tickets. “We should turn them in.” She separated them and let Tina pick out five of them.

  They went to the long counter in the front of the booth, and the operator, a sweating hairy man wearing a peasant’s cap pulled down over his ears, carefully made them sign the back of each small ticket with their name and address.

  He took the tickets from them, glanced at the names, then said, “Why don’t you hang around, girls? We’ll be drawing the winner in five minutes.”

  Tina seemed reluctant, but Sofia convinced her. “Five minutes, Tina. Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

  “It’ll be the first time ever,” Tina said sourly.

  But they waited, and the crowd started to swell around them as the game’s operator put on a loud phonograph record of Italian music and began to shout loudly that the 50-50 drawing was ready to begin.

  There was no skill to the drawing, of course. A 50-50 simply meant that the proprietors added up all the money that had been spent on tickets, picked a winning number out of a barrel, and the holder of that ticket won 50 percent of the money that had been collected. The other 50 percent went to those who ran the game, in this case, to Mount Carmel Parish.

  Finally, after suffering through three badly scratched records of Neapolitan music, the crowd surged forward as the proprietor of the game, standing on a small platform at the back of his booth, stirred and shook a small beer keg that was filled with tickets. He called a little girl, not more than five years old, forward from the crowd, opened the top of the barrel, and told her to reach in and draw a ticket. He held on to her hand as she leaned over and reached into the barrel and he was still holding her hand when she withdrew it, with a ticket held between her thumb and index finger.

  “Thank you, little girl,” the man said, taking the ticket from her. He reached into his pocket with the hand that held the ticket and brought out a fresh one-dollar bill. “This is for being my helper.”

  He turned back to the crowd. “And now the big moment,” he said. “I can tell you, this is going to be the biggest cash prize in our history. Are you ready?”

  The crowd roared.

  “Let’s go,” somebody shouted.

  “All right.” The man looked down at the ticket in his hands, stretching the moment out as long as he could. When the crowd started to grumble, he shouted aloud, “And the winner is … Justina Falcone … of Crosby Street. Is Miss Falcone here?”

  The crowd groaned when each member realized he or she hadn’t won. But Sofia was jumping up and down.

  “Tina, you won. You won!”

  Tina shook her head. She was numb with shock.

  “Here,” Sofia screamed. “Here’s the winner!”

  All around them, people backed away and turned toward them to get a look at the lucky girl. Sofia grabbed a still-stunned Tina by the arm and pulled her forward to the concession stand.

  “And you’re Miss Falcone?” the operator said.

  Tina nodded dumbly.

  “You’ve just won”—he looked at a paper in his hand—“five hundred and forty dollars.” The crowd cheered. A male voice called out, “Will you marry me?”

  Tina turned to Sofia. “I’ve just won my future,” she said softly. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  Neither of the girls noticed the proprietor glance off to the side of the booth. Standing there in the shadows was Nilo Sesta. He nodded once to the proprietor and walked away.

  * * *

  AS HE HAD TOLD HER to be, Maranzano’s secretary, Betty, was waiting for Nilo in the room at the Princess Hotel. She wore a blood-red dressing gown and she was lounging on a sofa in the barely lit room, listening to a phonograph record of a dance band.

  When he closed the door behind him, he said, “Take that off.”

  “The record?”

  “What you’re wearing.”

  “Go fly a kite.” She turned her face away, toward the window that overlooked the street.

  Nilo strode across the room. He reached down, grabbed the top of her robe, and yanked it down off her body, then pulled her into the bedroom of the suite.

  Later, Betty lay alongside him in the bed, her head on his chest, idly running her long nails up and down his smooth skin. It was hard for her sometimes to reconcile his almost-delicate good looks with his growing reputation as one of Maranzano’s deadliest soldiers.

  In a rare moment of introspection, she thought that it was possibly that same reputation that made her find him so attractive. She often thought that, if Maranzano ordered him to, Nilo would kill her without even a second thought. There was something very sexy about danger.

  “Does the moth like the flame?” she asked aloud.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “A simple one. Does the moth like the flame? Why does it come so close that it gets burned?

  “Because moths are stupid. They do not know that the flame burns. So they die. Are you a moth?”

  “No,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Because I’m not stupid. But you are a flame.”

  “You, I promise not to burn,” Nilo said. “Tonight I am a flame who is very satisfied with himself.”

  “Why?”

  “I arranged for a girl who needed it to get money for her education.”

  “Some little tramp you’re sleeping with, I bet.”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you help her?”

  �
�Because her brother could have caused me trouble a few months ago and he did not. I wanted to do something to repay that debt.”

  “Are these those Falcones, those relatives of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gave the priest money to buy toys for the kids. When do you stop paying them back?”

  “I’m done now. I never want to owe anybody anything. If somebody does you a favor and you don’t pay it back, it is a way that people can control you. I will not be controlled.”

  “You are a flame, Nilo,” she said.

  He pulled her atop him. “I am a flame.”

  * * *

  TINA FALCONE HAD PROMISED herself she would not be nervous, so she blamed her perspiration on the weather, even though the day was cool for July and lacking the chronic high humidity that made New York unbearable in midsummer. But she could feel the sweat leaking through her very best dress.

  Being nervous only caused problems with her singing. Her teacher, Carlo Cravelli, had told her that nervousness made her voice breathy and, every now and then, shrill. That could not be allowed to happen, not today of all days. She told herself over and over not to be nervous. The reminder just made her nerves worse.

  She took a deep breath and started up the stairs of the brownstone. The brass nameplate read: UTA SCHATTE. Tina rang the doorbell, and while she waited she looked across the street at the park, closed in by a wrought-iron fence. She recognized one of the buildings across the way as the Players Club, a private club started long ago in the home of the great actor Edwin Booth.

  She had never before seen a private park, for rich people only, and she vowed that when she was herself rich and famous she would come back to Gramercy Park and buy one of these brownstones, and then she would invite all the poor kids she could find to come up and play in the park.

  She heard the door open. A young black woman, dressed in a simple maid’s uniform, stood there, and she was one of the most exquisitely beautiful creatures Tina had ever seen: tall and lithe with café-au-lait skin and a wide generous mouth with perfect teeth; she had long delicate fingers and almond-shaped eyes.

  “I can help you?” she said in a curious accent that Tina did not recognize.

  “I am to see Frau Schatte,” Tina said. “I have an appointment. My name is Justina Falcone.”

  The maid seemed to study her for a moment and then smiled, as if having found her worthy of this visit.

  “She is expecting you,” she said, and stepped aside to let Tina through the doorway. She felt as if she were entering another world, a fantasy world. The house was a marvel. The furnishings were not new, but they were elegant, and Tina could see ahead into a large drawing room that seemed filled with brightness and air.

  She followed the maid through half a dozen rooms and up a grand rear staircase before being shown into a large room, where a very blond woman, whose hair was cut as short as a man’s and marcelled into tight waves, sat at a piano at the far end. The maid walked away and left Tina there.

  For an instant Tina felt as if she should curtsy, but that passed. She stopped momentarily at the door, took a deep breath, remembered to hold her head up high, and started forward. Frau Schatte waited for her to get more than halfway across the room before she arose.

  She was taller than Tina, nearly Amazonian in height. Her skin was pure alabaster and her eyes were icy blue. In her early forties, she was breathtakingly beautiful in a regal sort of way.

  Tina thought despondently that, of the three women in the house, she was the homeliest of the bunch. She had not expected her day to start that way.

  Frau Schatte held out her hand and smiled, and all Tina’s thoughts that the woman was an ice queen disappeared because her smile was warm and friendly.

  “And so you’re Justina Falcone. You are really quite beautiful, my dear. Come closer. Now turn around. I must see what you look like. Yes, yes. Fine. Every inch the prima donna. All we have to do is get rid of those dreadful rags you’re wearing. That is, if you can sing.”

  Tina felt flustered. “Thank you,” she said, stammering slightly.

  “And how is my old friend, Carlo?” Frau Schatte asked.

  “Signor Crivelli is fine, ma’am,” Tina said. “He said to send you his best regards.”

  Frau Schatte laughed, a soft deep rumble that sounded like a cat purring.

  “He wrote me that you have a very fine voice,” Frau Schatte said.

  Tina made embarrassed sounds.

  “Tell me, dear, how old are you?”

  “Nineteen. Almost twenty.”

  “I remember that age. So long ago. Tell me, has Carlo made love to you?”

  Tina reddened. “No, ma’am,” she said.

  Frau Schatte laughed. “He is old, isn’t he? He was my first. At least that’s what I told him. Men are such fools. They are always easy to trick. Well, come now, sing for me. What would you like to do?”

  “I brought two pieces of music. ‘Tacea la notte placida’ and ‘Vissi d’arte.’”

  “Verdi and Puccini?” the other woman said, raising an eyebrow. “Very ambitious.’”

  “I grew up with them,” Tina said. “I mean, on the phonograph.”

  “Ahh, the charm of the Italian family. Surrounded by music. Very well, I will accompany you. Begin.”

  Tina made two false starts before settling down enough to sing. And then it was all so easy, easier than it had ever been with Signor Crivelli, who lived in the neighborhood, seemed to be one hundred years old, and had started giving her voice lessons as a favor to her father.

  “He was once a fine musician,” her father had said. “He played at the Met.”

  “Papa, he’s so old.”

  “And so is opera. His ears still work. He can help you.”

  There was no arguing with her father, and she had gone to Crivelli each Saturday for a few months, but he was very old and even his ears did not work very well anymore. Finally, he told her that she needed more instruction than he was able to give. From him came the name of Frau Schatte.

  “She is a queer one,” he told Tina. “But she knows music. You have a voice. It will take someone stronger than me to make it grow.”

  And now here she was, in Frau Schatte’s music room, singing, and it seemed to be just as it should be. There was no straining, no effort at all. It was as if the music wasn’t really coming from her but was emanating from somewhere else and her throat just happened to be the medium for presenting it. Then it was over.

  Frau Schatte sat silently for a long time, looking over the sheet music on her piano. Then she smiled at Tina. “Very nice,” she said. “You will move in tomorrow. You will be staying here with me. Ordinarily, I have as many as three girls here, but as of right now, you will be the only one. You can have one afternoon off a week for personal business.”

  Tina was flabbergasted. She tried to think of something appropriate to say, but the only thing that would come out was, “How much will it cost?”

  Frau Schatte stared at her for a moment. “Spoken like a true prima donna. Never forget the money. It is the most important thing in a career. It will cost you a hundred dollars a month, and you must stay a minimum of one year.”

  “A hundred dollars a month!” Tina exclaimed. She had not expected to be moving into Frau Schatte’s home as a lodger. After forcing a very reluctant Sofia to take one hundred dollars as her share of Tina’s winning raffle ticket, she still had four hundred dollars. She had thought this would be enough to finance a full year of lessons with Frau Schatte. Now she saw that her windfall was only a pittance; it would cover only four months of the teacher’s fees.

  To Frau Schatte’s puzzled look, Tina said, “I had not thought it would be so much. Or that I would be moving in here. Couldn’t I just come in for regular lessons?”

  “No,” the other woman answered bluntly, then softened her tone. “Dear Justina, you need more than just singing lessons. And yes, the money is a lot, but don’t be dismayed. It will cost me far more than t
hat to take care of you. You must have food and new clothes and scores. You will need maid service and you will need money for your amusements and to pay for your abortions—all my girls have those. It is very expensive learning to be a prima donna. You must become accustomed to the very best. And of course you will need other lessons. What languages do you speak?”

  “English and Italian.”

  “No, my dear, you do not speak Italian. You speak Sicilian, a very different thing entirely. You sang those arias beautifully but your pronunciation was atrocious. You sound like a fishmonger. Then you must learn French and German. And your walk. You even have to learn to walk. When you crossed the floor in this room, you looked like a duck trying to imitate a turkey. That will never do, my dear. It will simply not do.”

  Tina fought hard to hold back the tears. “I have only enough money for a few months,” she said.

  “We have to have at least a year’s commitment. Otherwise I am not able to plan. What about your father? What does he do?”

  “He’s a policeman.”

  “Then money should be no problem. All police officers are rich now that we have this Prohibition.”

  Tina bridled at the remark. “My father takes nothing he doesn’t earn. He is not rich.”

  Frau Schatte sighed. “Well, think it over. Perhaps your father has some savings nobody knows about. Or maybe you can get a loan. Talk it over with your family and let me know. Within a week.”

  She turned away, indicating that the interview and audition were over, and the brusqueness of her manner annoyed Tina, who said sharply, “I may be able to do it, but it will take more than a week.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I have obligations that I would have to take care of first,” Tina said, although the only obligation she could think of was giving two weeks’ notice at the dismal, depressing office in which she worked. “I will have to see when I might become free. I will let you know, either way, as soon as I can.”

  Now that she had established who would be employer and who employee, Tina picked up her music and walked away, trying to remember not to meander like a duck imitating a turkey. At the door, she turned back and was surprised to see Frau Schatte smiling at her.