But now Italy had a new ruler, somebody named Mussolini, and while Tony thought he looked like a clown, all dressed up in military uniforms he had done nothing to earn, Mussolini had not been clownish in dealing with the Mafia. He had sent his troopers into Sicily, ordering them to shut down all criminal organizations, and already thousands had fled that little island, trying to get to the United States ahead of Mussolini’s hangmen and firing squads.
The new arrivals, not ready for immigration, without even a clue about American life, were putting a strain on New York City and its ability to manage the newcomers. They had to learn, and quickly, that this was not a place where arguments were settled with the stiletto or the lupara shotgun, and that jail awaited anyone—Mafioso or not—who broke the laws.
Making sure everyone knew that was another of the reasons Tony liked to walk the streets in uniform, and today he was pretty pleased. Everybody seemed to be working smoothly on getting the festival site prepared. Tony had spent weeks in painstaking negotiations, arranging truces among the various local and regional factions. In the end, he had wound up dividing the festival sites among the groups himself. This had apparently wound up displeasing every single one of them, because Tony had received a half-dozen complaints, demanding a conference.
He had called such a meeting inside a school classroom, unused on the weekend, and the two dozen petty warlords who had attended grumbled and growled for two straight hours about the smallest of details until, finally, in frustration, Tony had silenced them by thumping on the small teacher’s desk with his clenched fist.
“Shut up,” he shouted, and pointed around the room. “You don’t like it? And you don’t like it? And you don’t like it? Fine. Next year, all of you come back here without me and you work it out so that everybody’s happy. But this year, you’re doing it my way. It will be peaceful and it will be a time for great community pride and happiness. All over the city, people who are convinced that you, we, all of us are a pack of guineas, little better than animals, those people, even those Anglos, will look at this festival and see, not a bunch of thugs battling with each other over the right to rob honest folks, but they will see the representatives of a proud people, people who represent the glory of the Roman Empire. That is what I want. Next year, do it your way. But this year, we will do it my way and we will make every one of us proud that in our veins runs the blood of the Caesars.”
It was the longest speech he had ever made in his life, and he stopped abruptly and stared around the schoolroom at the men sitting there. There were all kinds: old men with mustaches and beards and heavy wool suits, side by side with young, clean-shaven men with silk shirts and expensive shoes, united only by their distaste for each other. After Tony’s outburst, the room was painfully silent. Then one old man in the back began to applaud, softly. He continued for two seconds, five, ten seconds, and then others joined in, until finally everyone in the room was on his feet, giving Tony a standing ovation.
Tony silenced them by raising his hands. “We will work together; we will be worthy of each other’s trust,” he said softly. He left unsaid the clear promise that anyone who did not cooperate would answer to him, and then he adjourned the meeting.
He knew that if he left immediately, he would hardly be out the door before the tribal chiefs in the room would start arguing about inconsequential details, and this fragile truce would degenerate into bloody, savage argument. He could not have that, so he hung around, making sure he was the last to leave.
He had gone from that meeting to another set of negotiations, which he was equally proud of, even though his superiors would prefer to pretend that it had not occurred.
There was no sense in being naive. There would be liquor and wines on sale at the festival. Some of it would be vaguely legal, brewed or distilled in private homes for personal use, and no one cared much about that. But there would be other liquor that would come from the bootlegger mobs.
At first, Captain Cochran had looked on this as an opportunity to crack down on the hordes of illegal liquor dealers, but Tony had talked him out of it.
“Captain, you’ll have everybody mad as hornets up there.”
“Why? Liquor’s illegal, in case all you Eye-talians hadn’t noticed.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Tony said with a grin. “We also noticed that before Prohibition started four years ago, there were fifteen thousand saloons in the city. Now there are twenty-five thousand speakeasies, filled with Irish drunks. We can’t do anything about that, but, by God, we can crack down on some religious festival honoring the Holy Mother. Shame on you, Captain. Three Hail Marys and four Our Fathers.”
“Oh, do whatever you want,” Cochran said. “All you peppers are just too devious for my dull Irish mind. I just don’t want Harlem awash in blood because one botchagaloop wino doesn’t like some other botchagaloop wino. You take care of it.”
Tony had taken that as permission to do the final thing he wanted, which was to get an agreement between Masseria and Maranzano. Doing that might be a little sticky, though, he thought. He did not want to meet either of the men face-to-face. It would be too easy later for lying witnesses to claim that he had taken bribes, and that would be the end of his career. Normally sending word through the grapevine would have been enough, but he could not count on such gossip reaching either man accurately, without sounding like an insult that might start the very battle he was trying to prevent.
In the end, Tony went to see the priests in whose parishes the two Mafia bosses attended Mass.
His official status as deputy commander of the Italian Squad and his personal credentials as the father of a priest himself got him a respectful hearing. His message, he said, was simple:
The police would not, during the Holy Rosary Festival, do anything out of the ordinary. Both priests, in separate meetings, asked the same immediate question:
“Does that mean no arrests?”
“I can’t promise that,” Tony had said. “But we’re not going to make a big deal out of things. We want peace and we don’t want armed mobsters all over the place. We don’t want anybody knocking off somebody else’s entertainment booth. We don’t want any innocent bystanders shot. For this weekend, we want peace. After that, we go back to normal. I go back to trying to get them all arrested, put on a ship, and sent back where they came from. But peace this weekend—that is our goal. We know that your esteemed parishioner can certainly guarantee the peaceful intentions of his followers.”
Both priests had listened to Tony’s explanation and then agreed. One said he would get word to Joe the Boss Masseria through Charlie Luciano. The other said he would tell Nilo, who would get the message to Don Maranzano.
“Nilo?”
“Nilo Sesta,” the priest had said. “He handles Mr. Maranzano’s business affairs. Do you know him? A very nice young man.”
“I’ve seen him around,” Tony said.
The festival would start the next night, and already many of the people were in a holiday mood, and it showed in their greetings. He felt a curious satisfaction in knowing that he was respected by the people on the street.
It was just another of the wondrous gifts that life had given him. He had a wife who loved him. His son Mario could have ended up in one of the gangs or, worse yet, a pug-ugly brain-damaged boxer, but had instead become a priest. Tommy had defended his country, almost with his life, and had been rewarded with morphine addiction. But he had fought his way back, had now graduated from college, and this fall he would begin his law-school studies while continuing to work as a policeman. He felt secure that both his sons had their feet on the ground, aimed in the right direction for life.
He worried occasionally about Tina. She had a beautiful voice, a rare talent, but so far there had not seemed to be any payoff in it. Instead of singing at the Metropolitan Opera House—even a role in the chorus would be a start—Tina instead seemed to be earning a precarious living singing private concerts, earning her keep while living with Uta Schatte.
“The opera’s just not hiring, Papa, and this is a good way to keep my voice in shape. And I’m also learning all kinds of new pieces. Listen.” And she shattered the stillness of the Falcones’ small apartment with a beautiful coloratura trill.
“Very nice,” Tony would grumble. “When do you sing it at the Metropolitan?”
“Papa, I’m still learning. There will be operas enough for all of us one day.”
“And in the meantime, you are happy?” Tony asked, because he thought that he saw just a hint of weariness on Justina’s exquisite, sculptured face.
“I’m fine. Uta … Frau Schatte … and I are great friends. It’s not really like she’s my boss. And every note I sing is under her supervision.”
It was hard for him not to be excited by her exuberance and to be happy for her, but he sometimes wished he had money, real money. If he had, he would insist that Justina stop this no-future singing and start going to auditions at the Metropolitan until they hired her.
If it came to it, he thought, he could probably pull a string or two to get her hired somehow at the Met. Even opera houses had police problems, and someone, somewhere in the department was owed a favor that could be called in.
It did not occur to him as odd that while his sturdy rules of conduct would never allow him to ask a favor for himself, he would not give a second thought to the propriety of asking for one for his daughter.
Instead, he just reflected that Tina would be fine until she got her break. That was more than he could say for Nilo. Even though Nilo was not his child, he was the son of Tony’s sister and that made him family, but somehow he had gone bad. Tony had prided himself that his children had escaped the corroding touch of the gangs, of the criminals who ran wild through Little Italy and much of the rest of New York City. But Nilo had been seduced, and now, to hear that priest tell it, Nilo handled business affairs for Maranzano, whose Castellammarese crime family had become rich and powerful.
Maybe Maranzano had more connection with him back in Sicily than I know about, Tony thought. Or maybe Nilo just sprang from a bad, twisted seed.
* * *
AS BETTY STOOD at the ornamental desk pouring the tea, she managed to rub her knee against Nilo’s thigh, out of the line of sight of Maranzano, who sat waiting politely. With a smile at Nilo as she turned, she left the tea tray on the desk and went back outside.
“She cannot keep her hands off you, can she?” Maranzano said with a chuckle, after she had left the office.
“It must be my charm,” Nilo answered lightly. So much had changed, he thought, since the first time he had been in this office, frightened and nervous, wearing a borrowed suit and expecting to be thrown out into the street. Now I am the don’s right-hand man and all know my name. God bless God who has showered me with such gifts.
“Oh, to be young again,” Maranzano said.
“You are young in heart and mind, where it counts,” Nilo said, pleased with himself that he had learned the give-and-take of glib conversation. It meant nothing, but he had decided that people who succeeded in life were able to say nothing and make it sound interesting. It was one of Don Salvatore’s great gifts. Blowhards will conquer the world, and if that is what it takes, I will be the biggest blowhard of all, he thought.
“Have you told your uncle that we will abide by his peace agreement at the Holy Rosary Festival?” Maranzano asked.
“I sent word to him through my cousin, Mario, the priest,” Nilo answered. “I don’t think Uncle Tony would appreciate hearing directly from me about such business.”
Maranzano nodded approval.
“You told me once to always cause as little discomfort as possible when dealing with others. This way I speak for you, but if he wishes, Lieutenant Falcone can still regard me as Nilo, his nephew.”
Maranzano nodded. “And all else is well?” he asked.
“Every day it gets better. Three new clubs opened last week in Midtown with our liquor. I think we have as many now as Masseria does.”
“We should have. We have better merchandise. They are selling rotgut and we sell whisky from Scotland, thanks to your wonderful idea to pipe it in from offshore.”
Nilo lit a cigarette and basked in the older man’s approval.
“We are ready to take a new step now,” Maranzano said. “From now on, you are out of the day-to-day operations.” When Nilo seemed about to protest, Maranzano held up his hand. “No. No more. We want heads busted from now on, somebody else will do it. You have disobeyed me over and over again. I have told you to stay off the streets, and yet you run with the young gunmen every chance you get.”
Nilo would have protested if he had not noticed a note of pride in Maranzano’s remarks. The old man said, “You are going to be the next generation of businessman for us. I want you to meet with our lawyers and form Danny Neill Enterprises. I have already given them orders.”
“And what will I do with this Danny Neill Enterprises?” Nilo asked.
“The lawyers will handle it. Danny Neill Enterprises will start buying legal businesses. It is not enough to hide money under mattresses or in safety deposit boxes. We must invest it for the future.”
“And the liquor business?”
“We will continue to supply bootleg as long as this stupid Prohibition remains in place, but it will not last forever. Someday, America will forget the whole business. When that happens, I want us to own factories, stores, theaters, trucklines, even legal breweries—all kinds of businesses. Not in my lifetime, but in yours, all these illegal things that we have done will be just a memory. We will be respectable businessmen. And we will own much of New York.”
“And you want me to run this operation?”
“With my help, of course. Remember, you have no police record. You are a real estate broker. I made it that way so you can carry the fortunes of this family forward.”
Nilo stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward in the chair, looking earnest. “I am overwhelmed, Don Salvatore.”
“We just keep moving forward,” the Mafia boss said. “And now, get out of here. I have business to take care of that no longer concerns you.”
Nilo stood, then impulsively walked around the desk, took the don’s hand in his, and kissed his ring. “Be gone,” the old man said.
Walking through Maranzano’s outer office, Nilo found it hard to restrain himself from shouting exultantly. He was on his way. The future fortunes of Maranzano’s whole operation would depend on him. He would be rich and he would be respected. In his heart, he knew he would miss the excitement of running with Maranzano’s mob, the thrill of hijacking Masseria’s liquor trucks, of robbing the receipts of some of his gambling operations, the thrill of wearing a gun under his jacket and always being ready to use it.
But those were the games of a child. I am a child no more. I am the leader to be. I will put away my gun, never to wear it again.
Betty was at her desk when he stopped in the outside office. She smiled at him and said, “I was hoping we might go out tomorrow night.”
“Don’t you have something to get in the supply closet?” Nilo said, in a stern voice. She looked at him with a puzzled expression, and Nilo took her wrist and led her across the room to a door that opened into a large closet, filled with filing cabinets and office supplies.
He flipped on the light switch and locked the door behind them. She stretched up to kiss him, but he turned her around and pushed her forward against a shelf. Then he lifted her dress and pressed himself into her.
“You’re an animal,” she said softly.
“And you love it,” he said, reaching around her body and squeezing her fiercely. And I will be don.
When he was finished, he went out and sat at her desk, where he found a long list of names, all Sicilian sounding, with addresses in New York.
These must be the new immigrants, the ones Mussolini has frightened away. All come here looking for jobs from Don Salvatore.
Idly he scanned the list of names, th
en glanced up to see Betty come out of the closet and approach the desk. Her face was flushed.
“So what about tomorrow night?” she asked.
“I’ll be busy tomorrow night,” Nilo said offhandedly, continuing to read the names.
And then one burned into his vision, as if it had been written in blood.
Enzo Selvini.
The bottom seemed to fall from Nilo’s stomach. Enzo Selvini was one of the three who had raped him back on the tonnara, one of the three he had killed back there in Sicily.
“He did not die,” Nilo said softly. “The bastard lives.”
“Excuse me?” Betty said. Nilo did not answer. He crumpled the list of names and stuck it into his jacket pocket and moved quickly toward the front door.
* * *
WHEN NILO REACHED Selvini’s apartment house, which was only three blocks from Holy Rosary Parish in Italian Harlem, he noticed that a lot of workmen were around the streets putting up booths for a street fair. Kids flocked in the traffic-free streets, and neighbors milled around, doing their daily business. Pushcarts lined both curbs. Watching the crowd steadily grow in number, Nilo smiled. This city will be mine and I should know what goes on. It is good to see so many people out today. Many people, and none will see me or remember my face.
He reached inside his jacket and made sure the safety was off the pistol he carried. Despite knowing that violence was to be kept to a minimum during the festival, Nilo knew better than to travel anywhere unarmed. And he had other plans for that day.
He walked up the steps of the apartment building and knocked on the door of Selvini’s apartment. He had planned no fancy ritual, no elaborate execution. When Selvini answered, he would just shoot the bastard dead.
But Selvini did not answer. Nilo waited, gun in hand, for a while, then gave up. In the basement, he told the building superintendent he was a friend of Selvini’s, but the super seemed suspicious, and only on the transfer of a five-dollar bill would he admit that Selvini was out looking for work.
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