PART 35

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  Nowadays, old-timers meet there, but now they meet to drink wine and eat steak sandwiches and talk, and watch television depict how it was not, and to listen to stories of the past, and to remember. It borders on the ludicrous to look at these old-timers, walking slowly with age, grayed and stooped and benign, taking pills, and to think that these are the men whose names are bandied about by the news media and in the Congress, that these are the men of the fabled Mafia. That old man who limps with gout and who can’t hear and has trouble digesting a steak sandwich is a man known in some officially compiled dossier as a vicious killer. The tall man whose hands shake, who looks like anybody’s grandfather, if your grandfather’s hands shake, is supposed to be a kingpin racketeer. To anyone who had not heard of the infamous reputations of some of the customers of the Two Steps Down Inn, the restaurant would seem a reunion of the Italian Club, Class of ’05, happy, harmless old men, reminiscing, chatting, not really interested in pillaging New York this week. Of course, there were younger men in the restaurant, but they were not infamous, not notorious—not yet. And perhaps they never would be. Some of these Young Turks were impatient and hungry, lacking in respect for the elders of the family, and as a result they were filling the jails quickly.

  As Sandro sat alone in the cool, dimly lighted restaurant, watching Sal and the two others leaning toward one another in quiet conversation, seeing again the table of Sal’s boys near the front entrance, he thought of Don Vincenzo Tagliagambe. Don Vincenzo had not allowed Sandro into this restaurant often when he was alive, but Sandro could remember vividly Don Vincenzo sitting in that chair of authority where Sal was now sitting—somehow the title Don fit Vincenzo Tagliagambe better than it did Sal—and he could almost see himself early one evening years before, bursting furiously through the door. Two of Don Vincenzo’s boys, at the front table, rose to the ready the instant Sandro made his sudden move.

  “Hello, Sandro,” Don Vincenzo had said loudly from the back of the room. The moving toward Sandro were stayed by their master’s voice. Sandro moved quickly to the back. Don Vincenzo sat at his table calmly eating his supper alone.

  “Sit down, and don’t talk loud,” Don Vincenzo suggested. “I been expecting you.”

  “Jesus Christ, Uncle Jim,” Sandro said, sitting down next to him. “Do you know what two of those meatheads you have working for you did this morning?”

  “You mean about your girl friend?” Don Vincenzo spoke in a very precise English, so well controlled that it was not to be classified as broken English, merely colored, warmed with an accent.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Taking my girl out of my apartment and to a gynecologist! You told them to do it, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. You don’t think they usually go taking girls to doctors. We’re not running no Red Cross here. Joey, bring a plate for the young man.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Have a drink, then.”

  “Goddamn it, Uncle Jim …”

  “Not loud. Don’t yell in here.” Don Vincenzo looked toward the front where the boys were sitting, watching. “They wouldn’t understand why a strange young kid can come in here and start being fresh to me.” Don Vincenzo smiled warmly. “They don’t know you’re my son.” There were still many in the neighborhood who knew Sandro as the child of Don Vincenzo’s early widowed sister, despite all of Jimmy Pearl’s efforts to keep the connection from possibly damaging his nephew. But what Don Vincenzo said his people didn’t know, they hastened to become ignorant about.

  “Then what the hell are you trying to do to your son? The girl called me from the apartment, crying, upset. You shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “How do you know? You going to be a lawyer or a doctor? I only had her go to the doctor, to see she was clean, that’s all. You want her living with you, okay. That’s your business. But I’m not going to let her give you something that’ll ruin your life.”

  “But she’s not some bimbo off the street,” Sandro complained. “She’s a real nice girl, the Park Avenue type you want me to meet, and here you have two of these meatheads, one on each side, take her to the doctor.”

  “Hey, he’s a high-class doctor, Park Avenue. I didn’t send her to no quack.”

  “But you just don’t take nice girls to doctors to have them checked like a used car.”

  “I don’t? I already did.”

  “I know, that’s why I’m here. She’s crying and all upset, wondering what kind of person I am to do such a thing. She thinks I did it.”

  “You tell her your father did it. She don’t have to know who I am. Tell her it’s all right, just a doctor, a real doctor, give her examination. What’s the difficulty? She’s clean, and now you know it, and you don’t got to worry no more. What’s so wrong with that?”

  Sando shook his head as much in exasperation as in frustration. “I’m old enough to have something to say about my own life, Uncle Jim.”

  Don Vincenzo smiled. “You’re a good boy, Sandro. When you get angry, you’re beautiful. You’re gonna be dynamite. But you’re not so smart yet in street ways, Sandro. I been around, and I know the street, and I know a lot of fancy people who are degenerate bastards. They lie, they cheat; they come in here and want us to bust somebody’s head. Why couldn’t they have some disease, too? You think them fancy-looking girls can’t have disease?

  “Listen,” Don Vincenzo said, continuing to eat, “she’s a nice girl. Now everything is okay. And who was hurt? Buy her something nice, a jewelry, something, anything you say. Whatever it costs, I pay. Tell her you got a silly old man for a father, and he apologizes, and give her the present. If it shines enough, she’ll be quiet real soon. Now come on, have something to eat, something to drink.”

  “I’ll have a light Scotch and water,” Sandro said to Joey.

  “How’s school?” Don Vincenzo asked. “That’s more important. Your exams’ll be coming soon. You ready?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  “Sure, you’re ready. You’ll pass them eyes closed. And then law school. Sandro, I pray only that I live long enough to see you a lawyer.”

  “You won’t die. Who’d want you? Not even the devil.” Sandro smiled.

  So did Don Vincenzo. He squeezed Sandro’s cheek affectionately.

  “I been in court a lot, Sandro. I never got a conviction, but I got arrested enough times. I seen a lot of lawyers. I would have liked to be a lawyer, but I couldn’t go to law school, cause I had no education. I was too busy hustling to stay alive. I would have been some lawyer. I’d wipe up the courtroom with the D.A. I’d destroy him, and when he was down, I’d kick him. That’s what you’re going to do. And you’ll have respect. Me, I have respect, but it’s because of this”—he raised his solid fist—“and because of them”—he pointed his chin at the men at the front table—“But you, just with your mouth, your words, you’ll do more things, have more respect. If you can do that with just words, you’ll be more powerful than me. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “If only I live that long, Sandro. I want to sec you wipe up the district attorney. You’re going to be a beautiful lawyer.”

  “I’ll try, Uncle Jim.”

  “What try? You’re my family, you got the same blood in you I have. You got guts, and you got brains. You think I’m going to let some little girl you want to go out with this week mess all that up?”

  “Let’s not go into that again, Uncle Jim.”

  Joey set the drink on Sandro’s table, a twelve-year-old Scotch on the rocks, more potent than the drink of that early evening years ago, when he was a student and Don Vincenzo was alive. “You want something to eat, Counselor?”

  “No, Joey.” He looked over to Don Vincenzo’s chair and watched Sal finish his business. As Sandro lifted the glass to his lips, he could almost hear Don Vincenzo say, “Drink hearty.”

  “Sandro, how are you?” Sal said, smiling, standing in his place as the two men left his table. Sal was tall and thin
, stooped now and gray. He was about seventy-three years old, a couple of years younger than Don Vincenzo would have been.

  He took the cigar from his mouth with his left hand, shaking Sandro’s hand with the right. He studied Sandro for a moment. “Jesus, you lookin’ like a million bucks, Sandro, real class.”

  “Thanks, Sal, how’ve you been?” They sat at the table.

  Sal stuck his cigar back in one side of his mouth. “Ah, what’s the use of kickin’? Vecchiai ena carogna, ma non ciarriva, ena vergogna. You understand?—it’s a bitch to get old, but it’s even worse if you don’t.” He lifted his eyebrows and his head in a shrug of resignation. “That lousy bastard doctor. If it was up to him, I’d be in a wheelchair. Pills for this, pills for that. He don’t even want me smoking cigars. Who the hell wants to be so healthy anyway?” Sal waved his hand through the air. “One of these days I oughta have that doctor hit in the head,” he laughed. “But what brings you around anyway, Sandro? I ain’t seen you since six, seven years. You got trouble?” Sal studied Sandro carefully.

  “No, no trouble, Sal,” Sandro assured him. “I’ve got a heavy case over on the East Side, over by Stanton Street, I’m defending a fellow accused of killing a cop.”

  “Good for him. That’s one less rat.” Sal shifted his cigar. “But what can I do for you? You know, anything, anything you want, you name it.”

  “I really just wanted to know if you know anybody who’s still over in Stanton Street, somebody who might have a finger in things there.”

  “Naw, that neighborhood’s all changed now, crummy. Used to be Jews, but now it’s all full of crazy spics. It stinks there now. Most of my friends aren’t over there any more.”

  “I thought maybe somebody taking bets or numbers. I want to get a friendly introduction to the neighborhood, see if I can find anyone who knows anything about this case.”

  “I’ll send somebody to look around. Maybe I can find somebody over there for you. I doubt it, but … Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I just finished one, thanks. Shall I call you in a couple of days?”

  “Better you come around,” Sal said. “You never know some bastard is tapping on the phone. Especially with you—Buon Anima Jimmy would come down to hit me in the head if I let you get in trouble.” He slapped Sandro on the back.

  “Oh, by the way,” said Sandro as he rose to leave, “it was somebody who used to live around here who assigned me to this case—Judge Porta.”

  “No kidding? Tommy Porta! How is he?” Sal thought for a moment. His head began to nod slightly. “I ain’t seen him neither since maybe thirty years. Not since he became a big-shot politician. He hangs around with me, he’s in trouble,” Sal laughed.

  “Okay, Sal, and thanks,” Sandro said, laughing also. “I’ll drop back to see you next week or so.”

  Sandro walked toward the door. As he passed the front table, the men looked up, nodded, a hint of a smile coloring their lips.

  CHAPTER VII

  It was now mid-August. The dog days, held down by humidity, hung around the city’s neck like a steamed towel. The huge doors were swung open to allow Sandro into the Tombs. He sat beneath the misery of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  “Alvarado?” the guard asked, holding a slip of paper.

  “Here,” said Sandro, rising. He found Alvarado sitting at the far end of the bench with other prisoners. He smiled, rose, and shuffled toward Sandro in floppy slippers.

  “Say, Mr. Luca,” said Alvarado, sitting, “when you come here next time can you bring me a bar of soap?”

  “Soap?”

  “Yeah. The stuff they got here makes me itch. They only got one soap here. If you could bring me some Dial, I be okay.”

  “All right, if I remember it, I’ll bring it. It’s as hot as blazes in this place.” Sandro looked for a window to open. There were none. “You have air conditioning upstairs?”

  Alvarado snorted. “Air conditioning? You kidding? You see that little hole up at the top of this windows?” He turned and pointed toward the window, thick translucent glass barred from the sill to the top of the frame. At the top were two small louvered openings through which air passed. During the winter these openings were covered with a metal plate. “That’s our air conditioning.”

  “You mean that’s all the air that gets into your cell?”

  “That’s it. But I got a good system. I take my blanket, they give us a blanket upstairs, I soak it in the sink until it’s soaking wet and then I put it on the cot and I sleep on that.”

  “You’ll get arthritis. Does it keep you cool?”

  “It keep you soggy but not too bad. It helps.”

  “Listen, Luis, I wanted to talk to you alone today because I want to get to the bottom of this story of yours. Once and for all.”

  “Okay, Mr. Luca. What you want to know?” Alvarado pulled a single cigarette from his shirt pocket. It was a Pall Mall again. Filter cigarettes aren’t allowed in prison—supposedly because prisoners can do funny things with filters, make something to get high. Pall Mall, as the original king-size cigarette, has never relinquished its popularity in prisons, where smoking is a luxury to be prolonged. It outsells all other brands there two to one.

  “First, let me explain this to you,” said Sandro. “I want you to tell me the truth. No phony story. Understand?”

  “I tol’ you, I got no reason to lie to you, Mr. Luca,” Alvarado said firmly, looking directly at Sandro. “I know you trying to help me.”

  “That’s right. And we told you that if you give us a story that’s not true and we accept it and build your defense on it, and it blows in our face, it’s your hide. Understand? Your hide’s going to find itself in jeopardy, not ours.”

  “I understand.”

  “So what I’m suggesting,” Sandro said very carefully and slowly, leaning toward Alvarado, “is that you don’t know the law, and if you want to make up a story or alibi, at least you should make up a story that’s right, that’ll help. I know the law.” Sandro was hoping to lead Alvarado into the truth through the back door. “We can work out the story together. At least, if it’s going to be manufactured, it will be manufactured right.” Sandro didn’t intend to manufacture the story, or suborn perjury, but he did want the truth.

  “I already telling you the truth. I know it’s no good for my case to hide anything from you,” replied Alvarado.

  “All right. Tell me again all that happened.”

  “Like I told you. I was in the house. Oh wait, I remember something I didn’t tell you and Mr. Sam Bemer last time. About a quarter after two, two thirty, before I went home to get a shower and then go in the subway, I took a haircut on Roebling Street.”

  “A haircut. You got a haircut about two fifteen or two thirty?”

  “Yes, I didn’t tol’ you last time you was here. I remember being out of the house and being near Broadway and Roebling Street. I did some things, killed time, and then I went to take a haircut. After, I wented home and taking a shower and dressed and talking to Jorge. Then I went to Times Square.”

  “Are you sure about the time at the barber shop?” Sandro studied Alvarado closely.

  “Sure.”

  “Where is this barber shop?”

  “It’s on”—he studied the ceiling, his eyes zeroing in on the barber shop—”I think between Broadway and South Ninth on Roebling Street on this side of the street.” His hand motioned toward his left.

  “What side of the street is that? Is it the east side or the west side of the street?”

  “I think it’s the … well, when you looking from Broadway to South Ninth Street it’s on the left side. What side is that?”

  “East. It’s on the east side of the street between Broadway and South Ninth Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who the barber was or what he looked like?”

  “A short guy with a moustache. Young.” It sounded like “jung.”

  “Was he Puerto Rican?”

  �
�Yes.”

  “And he gave you a haircut around two fifteen or two thirty on the afternoon of the day the cop was killed?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember it was about that time and there was another guy with me, Eugene,” Alvarado explained. “I gave a guy a dollar to let me go ahead of him.”

  “How long did this haircut take?”

  “I don’t know. How long a haircut take?”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes?” Sandro suggested.

  “Somesing like that, I guess.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Then home, like I told, took a shower, talk to Jorge, then got in the subway and wented down Times Square.”

  “And when you were in Times Square you went to the movies?”

  “Yes, sir. First I look aroun’ for a while.”

  “And what time did you get out of the movies?”

  “I guess about twelve midnight, twelve fifteen, somesing like that.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I go home, and walking up the street I see Jorge’s lights on. I go in Jorge’s, and Jorge says, ‘Hey, Luis, you kill a cop?’ And I say, ‘What’s the matter, you crazy?’ And then he says, ‘No cause there’re three cops upstairs waiting for you.’ I walked to go up, and then the cops come jumping out the door.”

  “And when you were at the station house, they questioned you?”

  “Question me?” Alvarado gave off a bitter chuckle. His eyes grew wide, the black pupils round and hard. “They didn’t question me, they told me—with punches. They beating me and saying ‘We know you up there, Luis, make it easy on yourself.’ and I told them I can’t make it easy cause I was not there and I kill nobody. And they bring these things in, you know, a radio and a TV and they say, ‘Your fingerprints are all over these things.’ And I say, ‘You better go back to school to learn to read prints, cause they can’t be mine.’

  “And then this big red-hair baldie guy gives me a couple of punches in the stomach again. And then there was a skinny cop that stopped them from beating me. And he was sitting there with me. Last time I didn’t say to you what he told me. He sits down with me and he says, ‘Hey, Luis, you’re thirty-five, like me. Luis, he says, ‘you know when we arrest a guy we afraid too. Just we carry a gun, a badge, doesn’t mean we’re not ascared sometimes. Tell the D.A. you were on the roof and you got panicky, you know. You saw the cop and you fought with him and you got the gun and you were ascared and you fired the gun. You wind up with manslaughter.’