THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events)

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  “You didn’t answer me. The Inquest is tomorrow, and Jerome needs this evidence. Hell, he’s been hounding me, and now I’ve got something to give him. So I’ll let you slide.” McClusky pulled his legs off his desk and leaned forward in his chair, chin hanging just above his blotter and the pawn ticket and watch. “But don’t think I don’t know what goes on in my Bureau. I am God Almighty here, and I see fuck all from the rats in the basement to the Watch Commander on graveyard. . . to the dick who spied a tall Jew with you.”

  “Sir, I don’t want trouble. All I want is to solve this case.”

  “Good, because I chatted with the PD lawyers. The shysters advised me that everyone gets notice and an opportunity to be heard. Due process, they call it. See, the brass has been troubled by insubordination and intemperance on the job, but I’m a fair man, and I want to go about fixing it the right way.”

  “Intemperance? Chief, every cop I know drinks.”

  “I don’t, goddamn it. And besides that, I had a citizen in my office complaining about a raid on a saloon last month. Seems this good honest citizen just happened to be in the establishment by accident when one of my Inspectors tossed him through a plate glass window.”

  Petrosino knew where this was going. They were trying to railroad Max. “Chief, all he knows is the job. He can’t do anything else but-”

  “He turned Judas on his brothers. If he loses the badge and ends up a bootblack nigger shining shoes, then good riddance. I’m giving you fair warning. Keep fraternizing with a rat Jew and you’re liable to get covered in rat shit.”

  The sound of Petrosino’s grinding teeth screeched in his head. He stared at the Chief and entertained the thought of slugging him. Instead, he nodded and stood to leave.

  “I haven’t dismissed you yet. Is there anything else you’ve got on this barrel murder, anything you haven’t told me?”

  Petrosino turned around. “No, sir. Just some red herrings.”

  McClusky reached into his vest pocket and took out a scrap of paper. He unfolded it and placed it on the desk for Petrosino to see. “Handsome Jimmy found this on one of the Dagos when he was giving them the Third Degree. We think one of their whores smuggled it inside her baby’s diaper. That’s why the paper’s a little yellow. What do you make of it?”

  Petrosino looked at the familiar cipher and tried to quickly decode it in his head:

  PDQGD OD SXWWDQD D FDVD SULPD FKH DEEDL.

  He made out only the first three words, Manda la puttana … Send the bitch, before McClusky took the note back.

  “You’re looking at that paper like you’re studying for the Captain’s exam. You understand what it means or not?”

  “No, sir. Just trying to tumble it out.” Petrosino reached into his jacket for his butcher’s book, anxious to copy down the code. “It’s not Italian. If I could study it-”

  “So you can’t make heads or tails of it either then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Uh-huh.” McClusky studied him. “Take that pawn ticket and watch down to Evidence and lock ‘em back up. I want to see a report on it, too, with a statement from Madonnia’s son. Wouldn’t want anything to go missing when Mr. Jerome calls witnesses tomorrow, would we?”

  “No, sir.” Petrosino placed the items in a paper sack and saluted. He gestured toward the note, but McClusky tucked it in his vest pocket and pointed at the door.

  Petrosino couldn’t stop thinking about the note and its meaning. Send the bitch. Send her where and who was she? He tried to wrap his head around it, but he’d already forgotten the rest of the cipher. And why was McClusky keeping it to himself? Was he trying to solve the puzzle himself or was he trying to flush Petrosino out? What if McClusky were the conduit?

  Petrosino went across the street to a public telephone booth and rang Tonino Verdi. He asked him to send his nephew, Izzy Baline, as soon as possible. There would be money in it for Izzy, but the pay-off would decrease every minute Petrosino had to wait. He loitered for a half hour at a bootblack’s stand near Mulberry and Houston until Izzy came up, wearing a blue-and-white striped seersucker suit and a new grey top hat. The suit was two sizes too big for him, and he looked like an eel squirming in a picnic tablecloth as he strutted toward Petrosino. Izzy pretended not to recognize him and ducked into the entrance of a brownstone next door. Petrosino waited a second and followed the kid into the cramped foyer.

  “Snappy duds, kid. Maybe they’ll be back in style when they fit you in ten years.”

  “Up yers, Joe.” A freshly-rolled cigarette stuck to Izzy’s pursed lips, unlit. “So what’s the rumpus? I saw there’s gonna be an Inquest for that mafia gang youse pinched, huh?”

  “I got a job for you, kid. But it requires delicacy.”

  “Swell, I used to work at a Kosher delicatessen. What’s doin’?”

  “The Chief gets a shine next door at 11 o’clock every day. He’ll be there in about ten minutes, and he’s got a scrap of paper in his suit jacket, vest pocket below his heart. It’ll be a cakewalk for a maestro like you.”

  Izzy squawked with laughter and slowly realized Petrosino was serious. “Youse want me to dip the Chief Inspector of the Central Bureau right across from Headquarters? Why, that’s loony as a wooden duck! Not a fuckin’ chance in Hades, Joe. Nope.”

  “Remember that silk ladies’ hosiery you had last time? I know the merchant you borrowed it from. Even if it wasn’t you, he’s a mean bastard, and I’m sure he’d swear an affidavit against you out of spite. You know what they’d do to a squealer like you at the boys’ reformatory in Elmira? Awful things, Izzy.”

  “Oh yeah? Your pal The Broom’s the biggest squealer of ‘em all.”

  “Watch your mouth.” Petrosino shoved Izzy against the wall and squeezed his face hard.

  Izzy squirmed and said, “I’m sorry, Joe, wait … I heard somethin’ else.”

  “Spill.”

  “That cop they call Handsome Jimmy, I heard he was there with that lady who found the barrel… that’s all’s I heard, I swear.”

  “What the devil,” Petrosino muttered. Why was McCafferty at the murder scene? Petrosino let go of Izzy and said, “Get that note or else.”

  “Lousy copper.” Izzy spat out his cigarette in protest. Petrosino watched the kid walk back out to the street in front of the shoeshine stand. Izzy started busking, his voice undulating through the street, and his feet pattering an impromptu jig. After several minutes, McClusky appeared on the front steps of the Marble Palace, and a bull kept watch as McClusky crossed the street and plunked down on the shoeshine’s chair. The bootblack folded up the Chief’s pant legs and carefully set the Chief’s brand new shoes on the brass stirrups.

  Izzy moved in front of McClusky and sang:

  “My sweet Marie from sunny Italy,

  Oh how I do love you

  Say that you’ll love me, love me, too

  Forever more I will be true

  Just say the word and I’ll marry you

  And then you’ll surely be

  My sweet Marie from sunny Italy!”

  The shoeshine boy was buffing the leather in tune with Izzy’s voice, and McClusky’s scowl softened as he listened. Izzy repeated the stanza, finished with a flourish on the last note, and took a bow. That kid can sing, Petrosino thought.

  “I don’t go in much for I-talian music,” McClusky said, “but that was good, boy. You know any Irish tunes?”

  Izzy patted McClusky’s shoulder and winked. “Why, sure I do, boss. Me mudder was born in County Cork…” Izzy cleared his throat loudly, closed his eyes, and crooned:

  “O, father dear I often hear you speak of Erin’s Isle,

  Her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild,

  They say it is a lovely land wherein a prince might dwell,

  So why did you abandon it, the reason to me tell.”

  The song’s two minutes passed in what seemed like seconds. Izzy lingered over the last few words, outstretched his arms theatrically, and
embraced McClusky: “And loud and high we’ll raise the cry, ‘Revenge for Skibbereen.’”

  “Dear Old Skibbereen,” McClusky mumbled with tears in his eyes. He tousled Izzy’s hair and reached for his billfold, but Izzy pulled back and shook his head tersely.

  “No, boss. I’d sooner die than take a penny from a fellow Irishman for dat ballad.”

  McClusky nodded and tipped the bootblack heavy. He started back to the Marble Palace, but stopped to let a carriage pass and turned back. “Say, boy, you ought to be in a music hall. What’s your name?”

  Izzy held his top hat against his chest. “Irving, sir! Irving… Berlin at your service.”

  “I’ll remember you. You’ll go far.”

  “Erin Go Bragh!” Izzy waved good-bye and waited until McClusky and his bull disappeared inside Headquarters. Then Izzy darted back into the foyer of the brownstone where Petrosino was waiting with a big grin.

  “Irving Berlin? Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Stage name, ya dope. Someday I’ll be a singin’ waiter in saloons. Songs just pop into my noodle like magic.” Izzy took a scrap of paper from inside his hat and handed it to Petrosino. “Here’s the note. What a turnip the Chief is, thought I was a Mick. My Russian Jew ass.”

  “You were good, kid. Maybe you’ll make it out of the Ghetto yet.” Petrosino unfolded the note and translated it in his butcher book while Izzy happily chirped another song and waited for his tip. Petrosino mumbled the decoded message, “Manda la puttana a casa prima che abbai.” Send the bitch home before she barks. Petrosino looked up. “Federica.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, kid. Here’s your dough.” Petrosino absently shoved silver in Izzy’s hand and walked straight to the Star of Italy.

  Chapter 30

  The patrolman that Max had detailed outside the Star of Italy had been pulled off, and now no one was watching the comings and goings of the saloon or the tenement next door where the sisters lived: Marie the pretty cross-eyed one and Federica the brute. Petrosino thought of his taunts to Petto, that he’d pay Federica a visit, that maybe she knew something about the barrel murder. What if she were the “bitch” who needed to be sent home before she “barked”?

  He was leaning against a lamppost across the street from the tenement, eating a cigar more than smoking it, hoping he was wrong. He didn’t like the idea of going in alone, but he didn’t have a choice. He flicked the cigar into a barrel and started toward the building when he saw Bimbo Martino whistling his way down the block. The big greenhorn was in plainclothes and PD walking brogans.

  “Bimbo.” Petrosino waved him over. Bimbo’s face brightened, and he rushed over, about to salute. Petrosino grabbed his hand, shook it.

  “Detective, sir.” Bimbo stood at attention.

  “Knock it off, kid. How come you’re not in uniform?”

  “I got an hour leave from reserve to pick up fresh underclothes. We’re on duty for another two weeks before our day off. I’ve had stick training, marching, all that stuff.”

  “They take you greenhorns to the basement of the Eighth Regiment Armory?”

  “Did they? You know they hang pig carcasses on hooks for us to shoot at?”

  “That’s the closest thing to a man’s body. How’d you do?”

  Bimbo looked down. “Not so good with a gun, but they said I’m a champ with the billy.”

  “I should give you lessons. Make a real police out of you. You never know when, kid, but some day you’ll be in a shoot-out. Don’t play Buffalo Bill and shoot for a hand. Aim for the chest and squeeze the trigger gently, don’t pull hard. If only I could teach a whole squad of Italian bulls like you.” Petrosino patted Bimbo’s broad shoulders and got an idea. “Say, I bet the girls go wild for you. Wanna work a murder case?”

  “Would I!”

  Petrosino motioned with his chin, and they crossed the street to the tenement next to the Star of Italy, and its front door sign forbidding Hebrews, consumptives, and dogs. A pair of toddlers sat on the ground in front, tossing fistfuls of dirt into the air. A drunk slattern hung out a second-story window, watching the children with a toothless smile. They walked up the front steps, and Petrosino pulled Bimbo into the darkened hallway where light and air vanished like condemned souls.

  “A tough walnut’s gonna answer the door,” Petrosino whispered. “We don’t have time for a warrant. So you’re gonna charm her. Speak Sicilian and ask for her sister, a girl named Federica. Tell her you have a note for Federica, and only you can give it to her.”

  “Like a love note. What if Federica’s there?”

  “Then we’ll pinch her.”

  Petrosino motioned with his hand, and they climbed three flights of stairs, passing a discarded diaper, two arrogant rats, and the sound of sewing machines whirring behind doors. On the third floor, Petrosino pointed at the first door to the left, then noticed an open door at the other end of the hall. A rectangle of copper light gleamed in the opening. Petrosino slipped down the hall and nudged the crooked door open to see a steep staircase to the roof where another door was propped open with a brick. He nodded at Bimbo and hid in the staircase.

  Bimbo knocked on Marie’s door.

  “Who is it?” Marie’s voice said.

  “It’s a friend of Federica’s,” Bimbo said in Sicilian.

  “She’s not here.”

  “I have a note for her.”

  Locks clicked and opened, and Marie poked her head over a chain and into the hall. “My God, what are you supposed to be, a piano mover?”

  “No, just a friend of Federica’s. Is she here?”

  Marie’s eyes scanned the hallway. “Give me the note.”

  “I have to give it to her myself.”

  “Suit yourself.” Marie pulled her head back inside and slammed the door.

  Petrosino motioned Bimbo over, and they both crept up the steep staircase, holding onto the walls for fear of falling backward, until they emerged on the roof. The sun reflected off the rooftops in shimmering patches of copper. Petrosino studied the scene, taking in the clotheslines and wash bins as he crossed to the short brick wall separating the tenement and the neighboring saloon. His curiosity was piqued.

  “She wouldn’t budge,” Bimbo said.

  “Shh. Follow me.”

  They threw their legs over the dividing wall and walked over to the neighboring roof door. Another brick sat wedged in the jamb, keeping the door ajar. They opened the door and descended into the darkness of creaky steps. Three flights down, silently, they came upon a door covered with graffiti and warnings carved with penknives. The largest scrawl read, Beware The Black Hand Of The Mafia, flanked by a crude carving of a skull and dagger. Petrosino thought that this dreary hole would be an easy place to stab a man, and a chill crawled up his spine like an insect. He shuddered and tried the knob. Locked. He took out a set of nippers and jimmied the keyhole. He glanced at Bimbo, put his finger over his mouth, and turned the knob. The door moved three inches before it thudded against something heavy. A short bookcase. Beyond that was the windowless back room of the Star of Italy, a makeshift office that he’d seen before when he and Max visited the place. The door was the size of a panel that matched identical panels on the wall. No handle. A secret panel concealed by the bookcase and wallpaper.

  “Those women are couriers,” Petrosino said. “To pass communications. They could’ve even used this passage to hide the gang and sneak them out in a jiffy.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Go back up and tell that woman that you’re in love with Federica, but you’re afraid of her man, The Ox. You have to know where she is or you’ll die. Look weepy.”

  Bimbo scrunched up his chin, pretending to cry.

  “Not like you’re gonna shit. Like you’re sad.” Petrosino shut the back door to the Star of Italy, locked it, and led them back across the rooftop and to the hallway of the girls’ apartment.

  Petrosino waited in the landing on the second floor below, listeni
ng as Bimbo knocked again. The door groaned open.

  Marie snorted at him. “She’s not here. Don’t be pathetic.”

  “Please, I’m afraid of her man. But I need to see her. I’m over the moon for her.”

  “She likes them big, I’ll give her that. You’d better take care with her man though. He’s crazy like a fox. How come she never told me about you?”

  “She was afraid of what he might do if he found out.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s in jail now. The lawyer hasn’t gotten bail. So what does my sister got that I don’t got? Aren’t I prettier?”

  “Where’s Federica? Did I do something to upset her?”

  Petrosino crouched in the lower landing, grinning at the kid’s act. It wasn’t half-bad.

  “My God, you’ve got some fever over her,” Marie said. “It’s too bad, because I’m not telling you where she’s staying. The only company she needs is Our Virgin Mary.”

  “Please, I beg you.”

  Marie’s sigh carried down to the stairwell. She invited Bimbo inside and shut the door.

  After two minutes passed, Petrosino crept downstairs and waited across the street. Bimbo came out five minutes later, tucking his shirttail in his trousers and wiping a layer of sweat from his flushed cheeks. They walked down the street until they were a block away.

  Bimbo turned to him. “This is the best job in the world, Joe.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said Federica went to work at a silk flower factory in Paterson, New Jersey. Wouldn’t say which one.”

  “Curse the fishes. Federica must know something. That’s why they sent her to Jersey. These mafiosi are sharper than I thought.”

  “Why don’t we just go pinch her?”

  “Can’t, she’s outside our bailiwick. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got the goods on Petto with the pawn ticket. Go home, kid, you did swell.”

  “See you tomorrow morning at the Inquest?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Inspector Schmittberger detailed me to the Coroner’s Court since I speak Italian. To watch the crowd.”