“Yes. I feel chilled now. Will it snow?”
“I have heard no news of snow, but it is cold.”
Rosina sparked a flame and Lucia arched her shoulders, capturing the heat of the fire.
“Your back troubles you?” Rosina asked, spreading a blanket on Lucia’s lap.
“Giuseppe is to be married? It is certain?”
“There is the date.”
Lucia’s face smiled, but her eyes did not. “And the bride, do we know her?”
“I think not. She is also a widow.”
“Giuseppe seems to favor women he can protect.”
“I have thought the same,” Rosina said.
“Are there children?”
“No.”
“We will make a gift of the gown,” Lucia said, and stood as if to begin the gift. “She must come for a fitting and to choose the dress and material. A widow will not want white, but be certain that there is much to choose from.”
“The bride is being fitted at this time,” Rosina said.
“Oh.” Lucia turned her back to the fire. “There will be no invitation. But very well, we will fashion a gown for someone else.”
She sat again and lifted her face. “Giuseppe will still watch for us.”
“He is no longer dead to us?”
Lucia pulled the blanket to her shoulders. “I suppose I said that?”
“Yes.”
“I was frightened to lose our home.”
“It is Don Cesare’s home. Only he can lose it, and if he does, we will do well elsewhere.”
“So you say.” Lucia smiled warmly, as if she believed it. “You have gone motoring with Benito?”
“Yes, Sunday.”
“The boy smiles to see Benito.”
“They like each other.”
“Perhaps Benito knows of Don Cesare’s return?”
Lucia had asked this question days before, and days before that.
“He has not said,” Rosina said.
“Of course not. He said I would know before he did. What is the bride’s name?”
“Adelina.”
“Adelina is pretty?”
“I have heard, yes.”
The house went silent but for the ticking clocks.
Retire or Go to Palermo
Joe Petrosino and Commissioner Bingham sat looking at each other across the walnut width of the commissioner’s desk.
“Well, finally Joe, going to Palermo is in the works.”
“Go to Palermo?”
“Yes. You forgot? You were part of the idea. Looking through penal records, set up a channel of intelligence, find old informants.”
“So long ago we discussed it, and now, when my life has changed ... my child is only months old.”
Joe stood slowly and stepped to the window that looked out on Centre Street. He angled his gaze toward Lafayette Street, but could not see the building of his apartment, where he imagined Adelina in the kitchen, singing to the baby and peeking out around the window shade looking for him.
“It was a good idea last year, it will work now,” Bingham said. “Your detectives can function for a few months without you.”
Joe turned quickly. “Months?”
“Travel to Genoa, Rome, and Palermo. And time, if you wish, to see your home again.”
“My home is here.” Joe paced across the office to the other window, this one looking down at cops and detectives unloading prisoners from a paddy wagon into the Headquarters basement for mug shots and lodging.
He turned to face Bingham. “Adelina and I have discussed my retirement.”
“You’re still a young man, Joe. What the hell would you do without the job? I trust no one but you to this assignment.”
“I am sorry, I must refuse.”
An edge came into Bingham’s voice. “You would leave the job unfinished?” He leaned forward in his chair. His moustache, a pampered handlebar, seemed a weapon.
Joe said: “My family would be happy.”
Bingham sat back. “I thought you’d be excited.”
“I am excited that you do this, but I ... if I had no family ...”
***
Joe headed down to the squad room. His shoulders sagged with cancelled retirement. He had prepared himself well to leave the job, been to mass almost daily, sorting the dangers and threats through the years that rarely had worried him.
But now, leaving a wife and a child to please Bingham felt as foolish as visiting a city filled with men he had deported, and with families of men he’d sent to the electric chair. He tried to ignore the shaking in his gut. He wrestled with it, finally acknowledged it as fright, and had no idea how to handle it.
“Phone, boss,” one of the guys called.
He stepped to his desk and picked up the phone.
“Petrosino.”
“Masterson here.”
“Yes, Masterson.”
“Got a message to phone you.”
Joe pictured Bat Masterson in some fancy Tenderloin bar, ladies sashaying, batting painted eyes at the lawman, now known as a gambler, fight promoter and sports reporter for the Morning Telegraph.
“Am I having a problem?” he asked.
“There is no problem if you have your walking stick.”
“It’s good to have it back. Thanks.”
“Fine.”
“That was a bullshit charge that hillbilly and your guys put on me, you know.”
“I know little about it, but I have learned that you are safe from further charges.”
“Good to know that. Sounds like there’s something you need me to do for you.”
“You have met the young ladies of the dress shop?”
“Pretty gals.”
“And hard workers. The business is new, and while it is on its way to success, they would not refuse help.”
“Help?”
“Perhaps a word in your newspaper.”
“I write sports. But I can talk to some of the fancy theater ladies, maybe get them to spend some money.”
“A story in your newspaper is not possible?”
“Like I said, I write sports, but I’ll talk to people who can.”
“That is good of you.”
“Did you know that your men took my six gun?”
“Yes, and I have managed to see it. A very handsome revolver.”
“The Colt people made it special for me.”
“I well imagine a strong attachment to a fine sidearm like that, and so I have begun calling for favors owed to me so that I may get it back to you.”
“You’re a gentleman to do that, Petrosino. Start looking through the Morning Telegraph, and you will soon see my appreciation.”
***
Joe got to the fourth floor two steps at a time. At his apartment door he smiled to hear Adelina singing. He went in and found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table with the baby in her arms.
“Oh look, Papa’s home early,” Adelina said, with a smile that took the corny out of love and marriage.
“Not yet, my wife, I have to go back.”
He kissed wife and child.
Adelina asked: “Soup I made for tonight, you want?”
“Smells good, but maybe coffee for now, and give me my daughter.” He sat at the table and took the baby to his lap.
Adelina at the stove, her back to him, he talked, as if to the baby, of his visit with Bingham.
“... And so, my daughter, because your Papa is so smart, the big boss of the police needs him to go ...”
Adelina turned from the stove, the back of her hand on a hip, the other hand as agitated as her voice. “There is nobody but you in the police? You promised to retire.”
“I did not promise, Adelina.”
“How do they order you to do this now?” She put cups and the pot of coffee on the table. “I see your face. You are afraid to go.”
***
Lina the gnome agreed, and it seemed by chance that as Joe headed back to Headquarters, she fou
nd him.
“I will walk with you, Petrosino?”
Joe turned. “Piccerella. Yes, come along.”
“But slow down, please, we must talk.”
They stepped into an easy pace, Lina at Joe’s left, then his right as they turned into Grand Street.
“What do you care to talk about?”
“They promise to kill you.”
“They have promised for years. You know that. But you protect me, so there is no worry.” Joe smiled, as if for a child.
“Your smile is false, Petrosino. You are afraid to go to Palermo.”
“If I am to live a long life and die a coward, I will not go. But if I am to do right, I must go.”
“Don’t go to Garibaldi.”
“He will not care to see me.”
“Do not joke to what I say, Petrosino. If there is hope for the neighborhood, you must be serious. Lina warns you with reason.”
“The neighborhood’s passing is no longer certain then?”
“There is always hope and you are the hope.”
“I will be safe for you and for the neighborhood.”
“You do not dismiss me?”
“I do not dismiss your sincerity.”
“And you must believe it.”
“I will take care.”
Palermo
As the mail boat with Joe Petrosino aboard tied up at Palermo’s Piazza Marina, Joe noticed that its sounds and smells differed little from the piers east and west of the neighborhood. He buttoned his coat against February’s chill, admiring its light that deepened the colors of sea and sky as did the paintings in Rome that he had visited days before.
A suitcase in each hand, he walked into the marina’s square, stopping at the Garibaldi Statue to gaze at the general and pass a few worried thoughts about Lina’s warning to not visit him.
Then to the Hotel de France with its dim façade, but a lobby bright and warm. He found his room small and comfortable, with a desk, pen and writing paper.
He wrote to Adelina:
I have today arrived in Palermo. There is much to do and much to see. While in Rome I have seen the Sistine Chapel and Michelangelo’s Galleries. Saint Peter’s Basilica is beyond human imagination. What a huge, magnificent place! But I am sad to be away and I hope to see my wife and daughter again very soon.
He spent the next days searching through courthouse records, and two weeks of days and nights alone in narrow streets and back roads around Palermo, finding informants who had cooperated with him in the neighborhood, and who would now cooperate in a network of intelligence between Palermo and New York.
He met with Palermo’s Police Commissioner Ceola.
“Petrosino,” Ceola said, “you travel the most dangerous streets alone. Allow my men to accompany you.”
“Thank you, but I have yet to encounter danger and I find cooperation more available when I am alone.”
***
Clouds darkened all of Joe’s final Friday in Palermo, but not till he returned to the hotel did thunder and lightning drop sheets of rain that chased all activity from the marina.
He tossed his derby on the bed, took off his coat and suit jacket and sat to finish a postcard to Adelina that he had begun earlier that day:
A kiss for my wife and for my little girl, who has spent five weeks far from her daddy. Remember me to all our friends and relatives and wish them all a long and healthy life.
Another kiss from your affectionate husband.
He wrote to Charlie Corrao:
My Dear Charlie,
I trust you to do this. The key I handed you will unlock the drawers of my desk. In the right side there is a handsome .45 revolver. It’s owner is Bat Masterson of the Morning Telegraph. See that he gets it.
I have made contacts, but with little success. Tonight I must meet with an important person who may bring success.
Affectionately,
Giuseppe
He saw that the rain had lightened, but the piazza remained dark but for the yellow light of gas lamps.
In overcoat and derby, and under his umbrella, he skirted puddles to and around Garibaldi to the Café Oreto, where he’d eaten nearly all his dinners since setting foot in Palermo.
The restaurant was still and quiet, with the bar loud and crowded with men. He sat with his back to the corner at what had become his regular table. Two men walked up to him and remained standing.
“It is arranged, Signore Lieutenant.”
“Go. I’ll finish and join you.”
After Joe
The building was middle-of-the-night quiet as Charlie Corrao climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Hugging herself in a flannel robe Adelina answered the knock and looked into Charlie’s eyes.
“They killed him,” she said.
“Yes.”
She swooned. Charlie caught her and walked her to a chair in the kitchen.
She reached for a napkin and cried into it. “He was to retire.”
“Yes.”
She managed words between sobs. “He had a purpose that he had yet to accomplish. To deserve his pension.”
“That is what he felt,” Charlie said.
“But he was afraid. I know it.”
“It is why he went.”
She lifted a hand, motioned to her bedroom. “And that baby ... never to know her father. And for what? To show our people as honest and honorable.”
Charlie sat across from her. “Yes.”
“A boy with a boy’s ideas. What is honorable? That they will laugh and celebrate now? What is honest? That he cared less for his wife and his child than for everybody else? There is no honor for me, another husband dead. And for that baby, what is there? A father brave and honorable and dead.”
***
Rosina woke with the sun angled in her window and the sound of Enzo wanting breakfast. She kicked away her covers and rushed to his crib.
“Good morning, little boy,” she said, kissed him and carried him to Lucia’s bed.
“I have no milk,” Lucia said, her eyes still closed. “Our boy will need the bottle.”
Rosina set him on the bed next to his mother. “Then he will have one.” She kissed him again and went down the stairs to the kitchen.
She poured milk, cream and honey into a bottle and set the bottle in a pot of water. As it warmed on the stove she stepped to the front door, snatched the newspaper from the stoop and went back to the kitchen.
Standing at the stove she read what American words she could:
LIEUTENANT PETROSINO KILLED IN PALERMO.
The words weakened her, sat her down. She got rid of the first tears and hid the newspaper.
***
Philomena Matruzzo found the church filled with sobs and tears, candles and prayers. She hid her anger from Christ, but demanded: “Gesu, if the bad could kill the good Petrosino, who could they not kill?”
At home she talked with the saints about the same thing, then told them that Petrosino, “you must know of him, maybe is confused. Please be with him.”
***
Italian Squad detectives opened the envelope sent by Chief Ceola. It held a report and photos of the crime scene. One of the guys prepared a note for his own report:
Body, face down, on the ground near the Garibaldi Monument. A fence, iron. Umbrella and derby near Joe. A Belgium revolver in the report (not in any of the photos). Not Joe’s gun. His gun in his room, Hotel de France.
Shot 4 times. Throat, right cheek, back. Fourth lodged in the material of his overcoat. Newspaper photo of Joe in uniform clipped to the Palermo report. Found on the ground.
***
It had been unreasonable, Lina admitted. Fate could not allow mercy. It didn’t know how; she didn’t know how. Fate and she had little to do with rights and wrongs.
She’d known that she was fate, or at least a representative of fate, an observer. But the tears, the few that had dampened her eyes, puzzled her. She had suspected her purpose in the neighborhood was to help deliver
it gently through the final pages of its life. She had comforted many, she had cured fears and ills. But it seemed insignificant now.
Joe Petrosino, the sturdy hope of the neighborhood, had been destroyed. She could do little to ease the pains of his death, she had not saved him, and so she could not save the neighborhood.
Others would try, she knew, but that was all the books said about it.
Reciprocation
The United States Secret Service had triggered the run for the Morellos months back, but the neighborhood figured that Clutch Hand Morello’s 30-year sentence for making and moving funny money sent a salute to Joe.
The Squad didn’t say otherwise, but as soon as Adelina buried her husband in Brooklyn and moved near the cemetery, they started hitting Mafia and Camorra spots in Brooklyn, Harlem and the neighborhood. They attacked like warriors. They broke up furniture, ripped out phones, clogged the Tombs and the courts with misdemeanors beefed up to felonies, and never considered the usual courtesy that let betting receipts and records alone.
Morello sent out word for one of his brothers to take over the crew, but bosses in New Orleans and Palermo had not okayed the growing counterfeiting caper, got no pieces of it, got nothing but heat, and gave the operation of the old crew to the businessman and level headed soldier, Pasquale Patsy Stellato, brother of Happy Carmine’s roly-poly wife.
***
Benny Bats drove Happy Carmine up to the Bronx, to the gravel driveway of the Pelham Heath Inn, a party place where the Bronx and Pelham Parkway cut past farms around the Eastchester Road.
Patsy Stellato, flowing black moustache on a round, sad face, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink. He was seated at a table with two guys and a pot of coffee. When Carmine and Benny walked in, the two guys left, Benny with them, and left Stellato with Carmine and the pot of coffee.
“This peace we had, all of us doing good,” Patsy said right off. “No?”
“Yeah.”
“But with all this shit going on,” Stellato said, looking hard at Carmine, “it’s making bad feelings, we’re all losing.”
Carmine nodded.
“You wasted no time getting your friend out of that fucking prison to do this?”
The Mezzogiorno Social Club Page 12