THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events)
Page 27
“He denied it of course,” Petrosino said, “but it would explain how Morello’s always gotten off scott-free from the federals. And remember the notes in Caesar Code? The Secret Service said the gang believed they were born leaders, like Caesars.”
“So you think Flynn wrote them?”
“Or maybe he helped pass the info. And I think Cascio Ferro is an advisor to the gang, calls himself their Catholic ‘godfather.’ He looks like he could pull the strings of these ruffians.”
“But do you have proof?” Tarbell asked. “If we were selling gossip for The World, we’d quote you anonymously. But McClure’s is a serious magazine. Where’s the evidence?”
“We’ve got the code and the counterfeit,” Schmittberger said. “And whatever documents and government records you three have found. Hell, if we got Steff’s pals in the Society for Prevention of Crime to send undercover Pinkertons into these parlors, we’d have a mountain.”
The telephone rang and shook papers on Steffens’ desk. “I have a man down at the Criminal Courts.” Steffens lifted the earpiece to his cheek, held the candlestick stem. “Hello?”
Petrosino moved closer, but could only make out crackling on the other end.
“They’re in.” Steffens looked gravely around the room. He repeated what his man was saying, “Upon recommendation of the jury, the Coroner found that Benedetto Madonnia’s death was done at the hands of a person or persons… unknown at this time.”
“Curse the fishes.”
“The Coroner also found that the crime of murder in the first degree was committed in violation of Section 1-8-3 of the Penal Code and that there’s sufficient cause to believe the following are guilty of being accessories thereto… Tomasso alias Luciano ‘The Ox’ Petto, Giuseppe ‘The Clutch Hand’ Morello, Pietro Inzerillo proprietor of the Star of Italy café, and Vito Laduca. Defendants shall be held to await the action of the grand jury and committed to the city prison on ten thousand dollars bail each, except for Petto who shall be held without bail.”
“Hot damn!” Schmittberger said, shaking Petrosino’s hand.
“Hold on,” Steffens whispered, then spoke into the phone. “Come again? What the devil are they going to do about it? All right, yes. Ring me if you hear more.”
Steffens hung up the earpiece and sighed deeply.
“What is it? Spill it.” Petrosino tugged on Steffens’ sleeve.
“Some lawyer and a kid came up, like an altar boy at Communion, and gave the Coroner a cloth wrapped around an enormous wad of bills. Morello made his ten thousand dollar bail in cash. Scholer was set to release him, but then the Secret Service showed up with a federal warrant to take custody of Morello on counterfeiting charges.”
“You think that’s a ruse, Joe?” Schmittberger said.
Petrosino stared vacantly, digesting it all. “I don’t know. Maybe Flynn’s on the square after all. If Morello posted bail on the state charges, why would Flynn pinch him for federal ones? If Flynn were crooked, he’d just let Morello fly the coop. That’s the wise play.”
Steffens’ telephone jangled again, and, this time, everyone froze in silence. On the third ring, Tarbell plucked up the phone and spoke calmly, “Yes, go ahead.” She listened intently to the buzzing voice on the line, her eyes wide. She said nothing and hung up, turning to the men.
“Detectives, get to the Tombs fast. They say the prisoner who says he’s Petto, he isn’t Petto at all. Some kind of switch?”
“Son of a…” Schmittberger grabbed Petrosino’s arm and pulled him to the door. “Let’s go see what in the name of the Seven Sunderland Sisters happened.”
“Where the hell is The Whale?” Schmittberger asked a dozen Tombs keepers. “Don’t play dumb or I’ll lick every son of a bitch in the house. Now where’s Sandy Piper?”
“He’s as big as a shithouse,” Petrosino said, “you couldn’t miss him if you tried.”
“He ain’t here,” one of the Tombs keepers mumbled.
“So a murderer switches out with a drunk ringer, and nobody saw a goddamn thing?”
“We don’t know how it happened, Detective.”
The prison keepers stood outside of a long communal cell, scratching their heads at one man snoring in the corner among twenty terrified sober prisoners. Petrosino shoved his way through and looked in at a burly drunk curled up like a newborn on the cell floor. The ringer wore Petto’s clothes, using his yellow fedora as a pillow. He could pass for a brother of The Ox, but with less muscle and thinner lips compared to The Ox’s rubbery, simian mouth.
“Wake up!” Petrosino shouted at the ringer. The drunk snorted and turned over, giving Petrosino his back. Petrosino turned to one of the keepers and told him to unlock the cell. He went inside, Schmittberger trailing him, and grabbed the drunk by the hair.
Petrosino said, “Who the hell are you?”
The drunk’s eyes opened and trained the room foggily. He belched an intoxicating cloud of cinnamon and fermented molasses.
“I said, who are you!” Petrosino slapped his face. “Who told you to do this?”
“Howdy, Cap’n.” The drunk smiled queerly and pinched Petrosino’s cheek. “That was good rum, too. When can we have some more? Say, where’s my dough?” The ringer’s eyes rolled back and came down again. “I’m supposed to get a hundred bucks for every month I have to stay here. I been dreamin’ about it.”
“I’ll give you something to dream about.” Petrosino grabbed the man by his suspenders and slung him head first into the bars. His skull clanged against the metal, and he crumpled onto the jail floor. Petrosino toed the man aside. “What do we do, Max?”
“The mafiosi who bailed are scattered under the floorboards by now like roaches. We could roust the bail bondsmen at Biaggio Cassese’s office, but they won’t know squat. Wait.” Schmittberger whispered in his ear, “She would know where The Ox is.”
“I got an idea to make her talk, Max.”
Schmittberger nodded and led them out of the Tombs as one of the keepers gave them an oily smirk. As if he knew they’d been tricked and he enjoyed it. Petrosino punched the wind out of his gut and shoved him in an ash barrel full of burnt tobacco and spittle.
“What was that for, Joe?”
“He didn’t give us a proper salute.”
“That gets my goat.” Schmittberger donkey-kicked the barrel over on his way out.
Chapter 36
Vincenzo Saulino’s back was folded over and withered like a branch burdened with the overripe fruit of his head. He muttered, “Merda,” when he opened the door.
Petrosino said, “I need to see Adelina if you don’t mind?” A lump formed in his throat. He was ashamed that he hadn’t spoken to Vincenzo yet about what had happened, about his secret courtship of Adelina.
“I don’t want her to see you, if you don’t mind?” Vincenzo blocked the doorway of Saulino’s Restaurant, guarding the empty tables and chairs sitting scattered and lonely between the lunch and dinner hour. Vincenzo liked to use eggplant dye to hide his six decades, but when he was angry or hot, purplish-black droplets would trickle from his scalp down his temples. He wiped them now and whispered, “Did you hear me? Go away.”
“I need to see her. We have this woman at Headquarters, she’s a tough walnut to crack, and I need Adelina’s help.” Petrosino held his hands out. “It’s important-”
“You’ve got some balls coming here.”
“I never meant any disrespect.” Petrosino pushed on the door, but Vincenzo held his ground. “Can we talk about this inside?”
“You louse. Do you even know what happened? A man came looking for Adelina because of you. Now leave us alone.”
“What? Who?”
“It’s a good thing I keep a lupara under the counter.” Vincenzo wiped black sweat from his brow and mimicked holding a shotgun. “And where were you? Nowhere to be found. You put her in danger, and now you need her help? To hell with your police business.”
Petrosino pushed the door open harder and
stepped inside the restaurant. He whispered, “Please, I didn’t know. What happened?”
“Last night, when I was closing, I turn around, and there’s a big man standing right here. He had a hat pulled low and a bandana over his face, and he asked after Adelina. You wanna know what he called her? ‘Parsley’s woman.’ Where is she, he asked me. I took out my shotgun and told him to go to hell or I’d send him there myself. The scum laughed and said he’d come back. Thank the Saints he left, because I don’t know if I could’ve shot him. I didn’t tell Adelina what he said, and I’ll put a hex on you if you do.”
“What did he look like? Was it one of the ones mixed up with the Morello gang?”
“I don’t know, but do you see why I don’t want you here?” Vincenzo shook his head and sat at one of the empty tables. His chalky face suddenly looked a hundred years old, staring at his shaking hands. “You ask me what the man looked like? Not if my daughter is all right?”
Petrosino bit his own lip. “Where is she? Did something happen-”
“She’s fine, no thanks to you. She went to your place last night after the man came, but you weren’t there. I’m asking you as her father, leave my child be. Please.”
“Damn it, Vincenzo, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone call for the police?”
“Sure, we’ll whistle for the cops. Because I need them like I need the plague. What’s the matter with you, Joe? You been a cop so long you forgot how things work in the Ghetto?” Vincenzo stopped looking at his hands and stared up at Petrosino. “This man, he was like death himself. His eyes had no soul. And you think he’s afraid of the police? He’s not even afraid of you, goddamn it. Just leave us be.”
Petrosino put his hand on a chair to steady himself. He wondered if it were Petto. Footsteps clipped quickly and angrily down a stairwell in the back. Adelina appeared with a hesitant smile that seemed to fade the closer she got.
“Are you all right,” Petrosino asked, holding out his arms to her. He wanted to embrace her, but Vincenzo’s trembling hands reached out for Adelina. She hugged her father.
“I’m fine, Joe. It was nothing. Probably someone looking for the cash box at the end of the night. Papa, what did you tell him?”
“The truth. Just like a cop, he’s never around when you need them.”
Adelina turned to Petrosino. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. Did you come to see me?”
“Yes,” Petrosino said. “I was going to ask you to help me. It’s about this gang, maybe it has something to do with the man who came here last night. I don’t know.” Petrosino paused, wondering if he should just let her be. He’d caused enough grief as it was, but still he couldn’t help wanting to find Petto even more now. The thought of a gangster stalking Adelina made him sick with rage. “Petto escaped from jail. It could’ve been him.”
“He came for me?” Adelina asked. “Because of us?”
“Porco Dio!” Vincenzo stood up and squeezed her hand. “I don’t want you mixed up in this mafia business, Adelina. No good will come of it. You listen to me, I’m your father.”
“Papa, I’m not a child. I want to hear him out. What do you want me to do, Joe?”
Petrosino looked at the black beads of hair dye clinging like a rosary on Vincenzo’s forehead. “Your father’s right. This was a mistake-”
“Joe, I’ll help you.” She let go of her father and grasped Petrosino’s hand tightly. “I don’t want those bastards coming back here either.”
Petrosino nodded and glanced at Vincenzo. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll do right by you.”
“Save your promises, they mean nothing to me. You two do whatever you please. Get yourselves killed.” Vincenzo pulled up his trousers and made his way to the stairs.
“I love you,” Petrosino whispered to Adelina. “You’ll have to change clothes.”
Adelina wore her best Sunday dress, a huge hat festooned in silk flowers, and a lace parasol. In the interrogation room in the Eldridge Street Station, she sat on one side of a long table, legs crossed in her fine yellow dress, doting on two boys who played with a new spinning top on the floor. For a dime each, Schmittberger had recruited the boys from the ugliest newsies he could find. One was seven, and the other was only five but had a stocky build. Both were keeping their mouths shut and playing along, just as they’d been coached. A pitcher of lemonade, caramel candies, and cookies sat on trays on the table. The boys had already torn through half the sweets, and wrappers and crumbs littered the room.
An empty chair waited at the other end of the table.
Petrosino poked his head in the room and nodded at Adelina. She nodded back at him.
Petrosino led Federica into the room as the boys kept chasing the spinning top. Adelina made a stern face when she saw Federica, who looked back at Petrosino with a confused frown. Petrosino sat Federica down in the empty chair. She looked ragged, weary from all the questions, but she kept a stony façade. She watched the boys, and her frown dwindled. She clapped at the boys and smiled at them, but they ignored her.
“You don’t know who they are, do you?” Petrosino said, putting his hands on his hips, shaking his head sympathetically. “That bastard…”
“What do you mean?” Federica asked, eyeing Adelina now, examining her fancy dress and her parasol. “Who are they?”
“You probably made the silk flowers on her hat,” Petrosino said to Federica. “Are you gonna tell me where he is? Because I don’t think he loves you like he said, my dear. He’s no good, I tell you. Rotten as the devil himself to do something as low as this to you.”
Federica snapped her head at Petrosino, then back to Adelina and the boys on the floor.
“You told me you loved him,” Petrosino said, “and that you’d die before you gave him up to a lousy copper like me. Right? Well, I’m here to tell you, my dear sweet girl, I don’t think he loved you very much. No, in fact, I don’t think he loved you at all.”
Federica started shaking with anger. Petrosino could see the malevolent cloud of jealousy pass over her face and blacken her stare. Federica hissed, “Who’s this woman?”
“I didn’t want to tell you, because I see how much your heart breaks for him. He did you dirty. He lied to you.”
Federica leaned over the table, clawing her hands in the wood. “Who is she?”
Petrosino waved the younger boy over and lifted him up, groaning at the weight of him. “Look at this one’s face. His shoulders. My God, he’s built ike a Brahma bull, Federica.”
She looked at the boy, and a panicked smile quivered on her lips. Her nails gouged deeper into the table. “He does look just like him, doesn’t he?”
“This is Eugenio.” Petrosino put the boy back down. “He named him after Eugen Sandow, the strongman. And the older one, well that’s Junior. Luciano, Jr.”
“Luciano?” Federica whispered.
Petrosino nodded at Adelina for her cue. She looked down her nose at Federica, brushing a crumb of cake from her dress, and asked in a haughty voice, “Detective Petrosino, who is this dreadful troll of a girl?”
Petrosino could feel the table vibrating now as Federica quaked. He said to Adelina, “Why, Signora Petto, this girl claims to know your husband-”
“YOU BITCH!” Federica shrieked as she leapt across the table. But Petrosino had her by the hair, and Adelina threw a quick slap, fattening Federica’s lip.
“Mrs. Petto,” Max said, appearing in the room. “Come outside, I’m sorry about this.” He held his long arm out, guiding Adelina and the two newsies out of the room. The smaller boy swiped cookies off the table and stuffed them in his pockets, disappearing in a trail of sugar.
The door slammed and locked from the other side. Petrosino could see Schmittberger’s face pressed in the viewhole. Petrosino and Federica stood alone in shock. Hers real. She mumbled, “They looked just like my dear Ox. Big and handsome.” Then she quivered like jelly, weeping in Petrosino’s arms, muttering, “That bastard, how could he?”
“All right then,” she said, snarling with a vicious gleam in her eye, “I’ll tell you everything I know about that two-timing blackhearted bastard.”
Chapter 37
“He’s what they call a slugger, a button man,” Federica said, sitting at the interrogation table across from Petrosino and Schmittberger.
“Your English is just swell now that the jig is up, huh?” Schmittberger said.
“Yeah.” The color had drained from her round face, and her cheeks sunk with heartbreak and exhaustion. “They say he’s the best in New York. Everyone’s afraid of him, even across to Chicago and down New Orleans. If the boss wants someone put out of the way, he pushes the ‘button,’ and my Ox takes care of it.”
“Takes care of it?” Petrosino said. “You mean kills.”
“Depends. Sometimes, I suppose. I’m sure whoever got it, had it coming.” She wiped a tear from her red eyes. Still defending her man, Petrosino thought. “It’s not like my sweet Ox is a bloodthirsty man. He’s just bigger and stronger than everyone else, you see? So it came natural that he could do that line of work.”
“Did you think Benedetto Madonnia had it coming?”
“I don’t really know about that business. Maybe he did.”
“Did your sweet Ox kill Madonnia?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell a woman such a thing.”
“Sure, because your sensibilities are so dainty, huh? Did you hear about a money squabble in the gang? That Madonnia was the brother-in-law of another mafioso in Sing Sing named De Priemo, and Madonnia wanted his brother’s share of some loot?”
“That must’ve been why.” She nodded vigorously, too vigorously for Petrosino’s taste.
Petrosino asked, “Who’s the boss that would push the ‘button’ on a man?”
“Little Finger.” Federica made a gesture with her hand. A claw.