Her father nodded to her. “Luciano give you the night off?” he asked.
“Papa,” her mother said sharply.
“Yes, he’s not coming over tonight,” Tina said, feeling her own anger rise.
Hate it all you want, Papa, but Charlie paid for me in the hospital, and when you couldn’t even find her, he found and punished the woman who tried to kill me. You’ve got no right to say anything.
“Probably with somebody from one of his houses,” Tony said.
“We don’t discuss how he makes his living,” Tina said.
“Well, maybe you ought to. He’s a pimp, for one thing. He’s a bootlegger, for another. He runs extortion rackets and people get killed. Innocent people. He’s the lowest form of crook.”
“Some people would say he’s an honest crook because he’s honest about being a crook. Not like some people, like some cops for instance, who pretend to be honest and steal everything they can.”
Tony stood up from the table, the veins in his neck pulsing. For a moment, Tina thought he was going to strike her. Instead, he sat back down heavily.
Tina crossed the room and kissed her mother fondly. “I have to go, Mama. Give Tommy and Mario my love.”
“If you ever went to confession, you could tell Mario yourself,” her father snapped.
“And thank God for what he did to my throat? No, thank you.” She looked at her mother. “You’re welcome to visit me anytime, Mama,” she said, and left. For a few days after that, she entertained her delegation of brothers who had come by “to talk sense” to her, but she quickly made it clear that she was all grown up and would live her own life. They did not come by so often now.
Things went smoothly between Tina and Luciano until just before Christmas, and then he began staying away for days at a time. When he did reappear, he seemed always in a hurry to be off again. A quick roll in bed, a change of clothing, sometimes a meal, and then he was gone. He said it was business, but Tina doubted it. She had seen lipstick on his undershirt, though even that was nothing new.
Then two days after Christmas, a Christmas that Tina spent alone, Charlie reappeared and announced that his business was all wrapped up for the time being. They made love all that day and the next and the one after that, stopping only to gorge themselves on food that Charlie had delivered. In between bouts of lovemaking and feasting, Tina showered luxuriously and sang out at full voice once, unaware of what she was doing.
That time, Charlie came to the bathroom door and opened it and seemed to be watching her. Despite the hot water, she felt a little shiver of pleasure. Charlie did that to her when he watched her; she knew he loved the way she was made.
“You’re singing pretty good these days,” he said.
Tina blushed.
“For a bullfrog,” she said.
Charlie only smiled and went back into the bedroom.
Two days before New Year’s he left in the morning without waiting for her to wake up. She had long since quit her waitressing job, and, as usual, Charlie left money for her on the kitchen table.
When he didn’t call that day or the next, Tina was annoyed. She knew she had no claim on him and that she was most likely just one of a string of women, but still she thought it would have been nice, just once, to have gone out to be with people.
That afternoon, on New Year’s Eve, she was in a deep depression when the telephone rang.
“This is Three-Twelve,” the deep voice said, and she could almost imagine him chuckling. “I’m sending over some things. Try them on real quick and make sure they fit. If they don’t, the messenger’ll take them back and get you a size that does. There’ll be a car around for you at ten.”
The clothes fit perfectly, to the relief of the visibly nervous messenger from the women’s clothing store. There was a midnight-blue evening dress with lots of sparkles and bangles—the kind of thing that would have been incredibly gauche if it had not been done exactly right.
The car was on time, with a driver she had seen before. His name was something Adonis, and she thought, in a smooth, oily way, he was very handsome. He pulled up in front of Ross’s on Fifty-second Street. Charlie’s club had been a small, ramshackle affair when she had been there before, but now it had an awning and lights and a doorman and swirls of well-dressed people coming in and out.
“Good evening, Miss Falcone,” the doorman said, tipping his hat as he opened the door. “Charlie’s inside waiting for you. Everybody sure hopes you like the joint.”
The nightclub, like the dress, had been decorated up to the edge of vulgarity and then beyond it to some sort of fantastic style all its own—all swirls and cut glass and a new polished black stuff called Bakelite, and it was all very exciting in its way.
Charlie was just inside the foyer, greeting guests, and it took him a couple of seconds before he could disengage himself from a very high-society couple and come over to her to escort her into the club’s main room.
“It’s marvelous,” Tina said.
“I was going to name it Tina’s Place, but I wasn’t sure if you’d like that. So I called it Ross’s instead.”
“Should I ask who Ross is?”
Luciano grinned. “Me,” he said. “Remember what I told you. It’s not just about Italians anymore. Uptown nowadays, I’m Charles Ross.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “And I’m glad you’re looking so good ’cause the place is filled with politicians tonight. See that one over there?” He nodded toward a sleekly good-looking man sitting at a corner table.
“Yes?”
“His name’s Jimmy Walker. He’s going to be the next mayor.”
He took her to his table and they held court with guests until after the balloons had fallen and the confetti had been thrown and the band had played “Auld Lang Syne.” Tina thought that either Luciano’s Russian girlfriend had been dumped or she was going to be in one terrible mood this evening.
Luciano asked her what she was smiling about, and Tina responded, “Just thought of something funny.”
“Tell me all about it later,” Luciano said, and gave a signal to the bandleader, who stepped to the front of the stage and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are very fortunate to have with us tonight a brilliant star, back to grace the heavens of New York City. And if we’re lucky, maybe she’ll favor us with a number. It’s an honor to present Tina Falcone.”
The spotlight turned and caught them just as her name was announced. Tina gasped. She wanted to run. Luciano put his hand on her arm.
“Sing what you sang in the shower the other day.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“You do it,” he ordered sternly.
Dumbly, as if in a fog, Tina got up and walked to the stage. The crowd was still noisy. She looked at the bandleader, who said, “We’ll follow you.”
She started, without accompaniment, with “It Had to Be You.” The band came in after the first two lines, and by the time she reached the chorus the room had quieted down. As she finished the chorus, there was a definite hush. Tina was scared. Her voice no longer sounded like it belonged to her. There were too many burrs and cracks and trembles in it, and she thought the crowd was embarrassed for her, silent only to spare her feelings. Somehow she finished the song and the audience was deathly still. She wanted to run, to get anywhere away from that stage. She looked over at Charlie in desperation, started away from the stage, and then a voice from a far table—she recognized the man as the one named Jimmy Walker—yelled, “Bravo. Bravo.”
And the whole crowd erupted into a clapping, shouting, stomping frenzy. Tina began to cry. People began shouting, “Encore. Encore.”
Tina stepped back to the microphone and held up her hands for silence. She looked over at Charlie.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. It is going to be a very fine New Year, isn’t it?” Her smile dazzled the room. “This song has special meaning for me. It is for my friend … and the best man I know … Charlie L—Charlie Ross.”
She turned back to the band.
“How about ‘My Man,’ boys?” she said.
* * *
SOFIA HEFTED THE BABY onto her left hip and leaned forward to pour coffee.
“He’s a fine-looking baby,” Mario said.
Sofia smiled and asked, “So how’d you spend New Year’s Eve, Mario? Out at your favorite speakeasy?”
“Maybe I should have been. You know your cousin, Salvatore—he’s calling himself Charlie Ross now—opened a new club uptown. And guess who the hit of the evening was?”
“I’ve already heard,” Sofia said. “Tina called me.” She hesitated. “She seems to be very happy with Charlie.”
Mario shook his head slowly.
“You don’t approve?” Sofia said. She put the baby into a playpen, where he lay quietly, looking at the overhead electric light.
“No, I don’t. She is hurting herself badly. Not just here and now but in the eyes of God.”
“You really believe in that stuff, don’t you?”
“Of course. What else is there?”
“Well, you can worry about her soul in the hereafter, but I’d say she’s got things going pretty well in the here and now. She’s going to be a star again, Mario. After coming back from the grave.”
“And in the process, she’s become the mistress of a gangster and she’s broken with her family. She and my father haven’t spoken for months. It’s tearing him apart.”
“Italian fathers are too close to their daughters, anyway,” Sofia said. The baby started to whimper, so Sofia took a cookie from a plate that she had put in front of Mario and handed it to him. For a moment, both the priest and the young mother watched the child laughably gumming the confection.
“Is there ever a chance you could talk to her?”
“Sure,” Sofia said bitterly. “I’m a great example. Tina’s going out with a gangster and I’m married to one who’s doing life at Dannemora. I’m sure she’ll love a lecture from me.”
When Mario was silent, Sofia asked him, “How’s Tommy? Does he have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know,” Mario said. “There was that waitress who went off to try to become an actress, but I haven’t seen him with any other girls since then. Tommy’s got all those law-school classes and he’s still walking a beat, so I don’t know how much time he’s got for a girlfriend.”
“Yeah, college can take your time,” Sofia said. “You know I’m going to NYU, don’t you.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“A couple of days a week. Nilo’s friends pay for me. They’re paying for this place too. I’m studying accounting.”
“Was that Nilo’s idea?” Mario asked.
“His idea? That’s a laugh. Nilo’s never thought about anybody in his life except himself. No, Nilo’s boss, Mr. Maranzano, told me I had to go to college. He arranges for somebody to come and take care of Stephen on the days I’m in school.”
Mario smiled. “Good for you,” he said. “You’re young. You should get out and be with people.”
“I’m young and I’m married to a man I hope I’ll never see again. I think that would just about make my life finished, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course I don’t agree.”
“Then you’ve been inside the church too long.” They were silent for a moment; then Sofia scooped up the baby and carted him off to the bedroom. She was gone long enough to change him and put him to bed. When she returned to the kitchen, Mario was reading the morning paper.
“It says here that many Sicilians are still fleeing the island because this fellow Mussolini is arresting so many people.”
“Yeah. And they’re all coming here, and Maranzano is hiring every one of them.”
“Are you serious?” Mario asked.
“Of course I am. Mr. Maranzano, for some reason, thinks of Nilo as a son, and he comes here sometimes in the evenings to sit and talk with me. He told me all these people are coming to New York without money or prospects and he feels obligated to try to give them jobs.”
“See how it’s easy to be wrong,” Mario said. “All I ever heard about Maranzano was that he was a gangster, and it turns out that he’s a philanthropist.”
“Oh, Mario, don’t be a fool.”
When the priest looked at her quizzically, she said, “All the people fleeing Sicily are Mafia people. That’s who Mussolini is trying to eliminate. So these criminals are coming here and Maranzano is hiring them for his mob as soon as they step ashore. Just the way he did with Nilo.”
“Is it that bad, Sofia?”
“It’s worse. I hate my husband; I hate my life.” She looked at the baby. “But my son … his life will be different.”
“Did you ever think of an annulment?” Mario asked.
Sofia laughed. “Forget it. Mr. Maranzano would never stand for it. I’m trapped.”
“Nobody’s trapped,” Mario said.
“We’re all trapped.”
* * *
THEY HAD BEEN LATE COMING OUT of the waiting area, and Fatso, the guard, had been waiting for them, to put them through their paces and teach them the respect that must be shown for each and every guard at Dannemora, demonstrating on all of them the effectiveness of the steel-headed wooden clubs all guards carried, and so Nilo had missed his supper. He did not give a damn. He was tired to the point of exhaustion and he only wanted to sleep.
Fatso led them up the four flights of stairs to the narrow walkway that ran along 25 Gallery, South Hall. He roughly shoved them one by one into their cells. Nilo’s was number 24. He stumbled inside and stopped.
He had heard talk on the way up about how bad Dannemora was, but nothing had prepared him for this. The cell at Sing Sing was small, crowded, almost inhuman, but this one was even worse. It had no toilet. It was filthy and smelled bad and water trickled down its cold walls. Already, Nilo’s teeth were chattering.
Fatso was barking orders out on the walkway. Lights were to be out at 10:00 and each man was to be in his bunk from then until wake-up call at 6:30 the next morning. There would be bed checks every hour, even during the night. There would be no talking anytime a prisoner was in his cell.
Nilo stretched out his arms on either side; both sets of fingers touched the side walls. He extended them overhead and he touched the ceiling. He walked the cell from front to back: three and a half steps.
It is too small, he thought. Too damned small. They would not keep even animals in a place like this.
He could not imagine spending the next forty or fifty years of his life in such a place. And yet it was destined to be, he thought. Maybe the old cons back on Sing Sing’s death row had not been so wrong when they had said they would rather be where they were than where Nilo was heading.
What have I done, God, for you to visit this upon me? That stronzo Selvini shot that boy, not me. It is only an accident that I was even there. Do mere accidents now condemn one to hell on earth?
He unmade the bedding packet on his cot. It was still hours before lights-out would be called, but sleep would not wait. He took off his clothes and stacked them neatly on the floor, as far away from the toilet bucket as he could place them.
He had almost dozed off when he awoke with a start, leaping from his bed. Somebody had shot him or stabbed him or burned him with a hot poker. But of course that could not have happened. His cell was empty, and no one could get into his cell any more than he could get out. He must have been dreaming.
Nilo lay back down again and a moment later was back on his feet. Something was crawling all over him.
It was dark in the cell now, all the lights in all the cells in all the galleries having been doused. He had to know what it was that was attacking him. Cautiously, Nilo lit a match, expecting any moment for Fatso or one of the other guards to descend on his cell and inflict some sort of punishment on him.
At first he could see nothing. Then he noticed, in the flickering light, that his sheet was moving. He stepped closer to it and saw that the sheet itself
was not moving; instead, it was covered with hundreds upon hundreds of tiny crawling insects, each roughly oval in shape and more or less a rusty brown in color. Nilo looked in horror at the insects covering the very place where moments before he had been sleeping. He could feel his belly tighten and a sort of panic rise in his throat; he had to fight hard to keep down a shriek.
He dropped the match and grabbed his sheet and flailed it madly up and down, shaking the insects to the floor and then taking his shoes and, in the dark, trying to smash the creatures into bloody pulp.
He had almost convinced himself that he had completed the job when he heard the hard leather heels of the guard thumping down the hallway as the man made his rounds. He hurriedly threw the sheet back on his mattress and jumped back on it. No sooner had he done so than he was attacked again, although this time it seemed as if the insects had discovered his butchery of their brethren and had decided to redouble their attack in some sort of retributory vengeance.
The battle went on all night, and by morning’s light Nilo looked at the crushed blood-filled carcasses of the hordes of bedbugs littering his cell floor. He felt a fresh wave of nausea pass over him at the sight. He could not leave his cell floor like that. Shuddering, barely able to make himself do it, Nilo began picking up the dead insects—using one hand to brush them into his other—and depositing them in his toilet bucket.
After a rushed breakfast, eaten under the standing rules of silence, it was time to clean out their buckets. Nilo, along with all the other prisoners, grabbed his bucket by its long wire handle and started the march through the corridors and out into the exercise yard, where against a far wall a small, badly stinking shed had been set up. The courtyard surface had frozen over months before and was now a slick surface, partly of snow and ice, partly of human waste deposited there by prisoners unable to keep their feet under them.
Nilo waited in line. He could see the convicts ahead of him emptying their smaller buckets into one massive container and then dipping them into successive baths of disinfectant and reasonably clean water. He watched carefully, walked carefully, and when he had almost reached the shed he slipped and covered himself from head to foot with a foul combination of his own wastes and the bodies of dead insects. No one laughed. No one offered to help. He got himself to his feet and trudged on, cleaning his bucket as he had seen others do. There was nothing else to be done; there were to be no clean uniforms issued for another three days; he would have to make do with what he had.
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