The Angel of Montague Street

by Norman Green

  The maid finished her vacuuming, the guard and Antonio’s wife watched the “Phil Donahue Show” on the television in the front room, the maid went about the business of preparing dinner, beginning a process that would be finished by Antonio’s wife. Silvano sat motionless in his chair, emptying his mind, eyes half closed, the rise and fall of his chest the only outward sign that he was alive. It was something he was very good at, this quiet, empty watchfulness, and it went on undisturbed into the deepening afternoon. When the maid finished her work for the day and went out the back door to go home she found the hand truck and sparked a flurry of activity. Antonio and his driver arrived home forty-five minutes later.

  There was a short conversation just outside the back door. Antonio had a thin, hoarse voice that tended to go higher and crack when he was excited, which was fairly often, and it did so now while he yelled at the guard in a mixture of English and Italian that was punctuated by loud slaps. A few minutes later Antonio and his driver came inside and made their way through the house methodically, leaving the library for last. The old buzzard knows there’s someone in here, Silvano thought, and he’s letting me know it.

  He heard the driver’s muffled voice just outside the study door, heard him being overruled, shoved aside. “Get the fuck out of the way,” Antonio said, shoved the door open, and walked into the room. Silvano stood up, held his hands out to the side, empty. “Forgive the dramatics,” he said. “I hated to do this this way . . .”

  Antonio was about Silvano’s height but he was much heavier. He was a muscular, barrel-chested man with long arms and bricklayer’s hands, wiry gray hair, and a rubber face that betrayed everything he was feeling. He came striding across the room and grabbed Silvano in a bear hug. “Silvano!” he yelled. “Silvano! You’re back! God, it’s been a long time, Jesus, it’s good to see you.” He released Silvano and stood back. “Why are we losing, Silvano,” he asked in an aggrieved tone. “How can those riceball motherfuckers beat us? Look at this country, look at them! How the fuck did this happen?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And how come you hadda go, you stupid fuck? What’s wrong with you, you lose your fucking mind?” He grabbed Silvano by the shoulders. “I understand why you went,” he said. “You were all alone, you didn’t have nobody to counsel you, but I woulda never let you go. Never!” He let go with one hand and began poking Silvano in the chest with his finger. “I blame the old man for this mess. I blame Domenic! Look at what he did, all of these years later and we’re still trying to finish burying him.” He turned to his driver, who was standing in the doorway. “Hey, Rocco, go get that asshole . . .” The guard, though, was standing uncertainly, just behind Rocco, and Antonio bullrushed him. Rocco stepped back out of the way just in time. Silvano winked at him, and Rocco rolled his eyes. Silvano could hear Antonio going at the guard in the next room, sounded like Dick Butkus head-slapping some poor offensive lineman.

  “Gagootz! You stupid bastard! Go out in the kitchen and make some coffee, that’s all you’re good for, you stupid fuck, I should give you a dress and make you clean the fucking house, I should make you wash the fucking toilets with your fucking tongue, is what I should fucking do.” He came striding back into the room, his face locked in dismay, and grabbed Silvano by the shoulders again. “What went wrong in Viet Nam? Why can’t we win?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Why can’t we beat those fucks?”

  Some inside part of Silvano curled back away from the question, but he knew this was the price he was going to have to pay for his conversation with the old man, and you couldn’t finesse him either, he wanted his answer. At least, Silvano thought, he’s not asking me how many people I killed. “Antonio,” he said, and he stopped. The old man let go of him and stepped back, waiting.

  “It’s like any fight,” Silvano said. “Can you hurt them bad enough to make them stop before they hurt you bad enough to make you stop? What’s your capacity for violence, what’s your tolerance for pain?” He stopped, looking at the old man’s face. “You remember what my grandfather Domenic was like? He was never the toughest guy around, or the smartest, either. It was just that he was always willing to get after it, he never had to stop and think. While you were working yourself up for it, he already had his knife in your guts. You know what I mean?”

  “You’re telling me we don’t have the stomach for it. Is that what you’re fucking telling me?”

  “You live the good life, Antonio. You have a family that loves you. You have success, you have the respect of your friends, you have this house . . . you have everything. If you get in a fight with a man who has nothing, can you take as much pain as he can, or has the good life taken away some of your taste for it?”

  Antonio sneered. “I fight with a man, it’s not over until one of us dies.”

  “No matter what you stand to lose.”

  “No fucking matter what! I let you beat me, I lose everything anyway! I’m gonna let you walk over me? I’m gonna let you take my house, I’m gonna let you fuck my daughter? Fuck, no. You go to war with me, you better not stop until I am fucking dead, because I’m not stopping until you are fucking dead.”

  “You’d never get elected president, Antonio, but you would have made a hell of a general.”

  Antonio straightened up to his full height and thrust his chin out. “One Sicilian general. You’re telling me that’s what we need.”

  It was as good an answer as any. “We at war, Antonio? You and me?”

  “You already put four good men into the ground.” He walked over behind his desk and sat down, and Silvano watched him carefully, but the old man made no move for his drawer. “Well, three,” he said, leaning on the desk. “Massimo was fucking useless, you told him he had two heads, he’d go buy two hats. I never woulda let them use him, I knew what they were gonna do.” He sat there and stared at his desktop. He’s counting it up, Silvano thought, he’s balancing his interests, trying to figure which way he comes out ahead.

  “You were never at war with me,” the old man said, finally. “I don’t want to lose any more guys trying to settle this madness between you and Little Domenic. It has nothing to do with me or the family, it’s that sick old man, reaching out from his fucking grave, that’s what it is.”

  “Little Dom ain’t so healthy himself.”

  “Ohh!” Antonio looked up at Silvano, his face the picture of wounded disbelief. “Ohh! Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Little Domenic has a beautiful wife and two beautiful children. Beautiful! And do you know what he fucking does?” Antonio was affronted, horrified. Silvano clamped down hard on his amusement. He knew that family was sacred to Antonio. You could have all the girlfriends you wanted, but you always went home for dinner. “He moves to Greenwich Village, he leaves his wife and his son and his daughter all alone in Howard Beach and he moves out! What the fuck is he thinking, will you tell me? What is he looking for?” Antonio was bellowing his questions.

  Silvano could swear he saw tears in the old bastard’s eyes. “You know anything about an armored car heist? Supposed to be all set up and ready to go, just waiting for the feds to back off.”

  The old man turned deadly serious. “Where did you hear this?”

  “The horse’s mouth,” Silvano told him. “Guy’s been clipping his own money, figures he’ll have somebody take the place down, cover his tracks.”

  It was not what Antonio wanted to hear. “Who?” he said, veins standing out in his neck. “You tell me who.”

  I’ve got him now, Silvano thought. They didn’t clear it with him, big hit like that going down in his own backyard, and the heat that goes with it, and they never cleared it with him. They were going to stiff him out of his cut. “Word I got,” Silvano said, “Little Dom has one of his boys on it. Guy named Bonifacio. I was told Little Dom is too big for anybody to touch. I was told the guy turned out to be a genius, you guys need him too badly, so now he does what he wants.”

  Antonio leaned slowly all the way back in his chair, leather and wood creaking as
he put a foot up on his desk. He was calm now, his face went back to its usual color. He watched Silvano for a minute. Silvano sat in his chair without moving, without a twitch, but he was completely prepared if the old man made a move for the desk drawer or a coat pocket, or even if he shouted for Rocco. He didn’t, though.

  “There’s a fine line between a genius and a idiot,” the old man said. He’s decided, Silvano thought. He’s made up his mind. Silvano fought to remain calm. “Domenic turned out to be a very smart boy,” he continued. “He has taken us in some new directions. Very smart boy. But that does not mean the rest of us are stupid.”

  “You’ve got someone ready to step into his shoes.”

  “We have been paying close attention. Learning. Branching out. Silvano, Silvano. Do you need to teach a fox to steal chickens? No. You just whisper in his ear. ‘Mr. Fox,’ you say. ‘There’s a nice henhouse, just across the river.’ He’ll do the rest.”

  He’s gonna do it, Silvano thought, he’s gonna sacrifice Little Dom. He relaxed, just a little, you could never totally relax around a predator like Antonio, even if he liked you. Who’s to say the cat feels no sorrow for the mouse?

  Antonio put his foot down and stood up. “Hey!” he bellowed. “Gagootz!”

  His chastened guard rushed into the room, bearing coffee on a tray. Antonio looked at the ceiling in disgust. “Mange di gatz,” he said, “I don’t want any fucking coffee, you fucking idiot. Go get rid of that goddam truck.” The guard turned and fled. “Find someplace to empty it out, first!” he bellowed at the doorway. Silvano couldn’t help chuckling.

  Antonio turned to him. “Civilization,” he said, “is going down the fucking toilet. You hear me? Right down the fucking toilet. You should never listen to anybody under thirty, they’re all brain dead.” He walked over to Silvano and embraced him again. “It’s good to have you back,” he said. He grabbed Silvano by the shoulders and held him out at arm’s length. “The old man thought you were the crazy one and Domenic was the smart one. Turned out to be the other way around. You’re staying for supper,” he said. “I insist.” He stepped back, held his arm out for Silvano to precede him out of the room. “The fuck were you talking about? I woulda made a great president.”

  ROCCO DROPPED HIM OFF on the corner of Atlantic and Court. He stood in the closest doorway and watched the receding taillights, not even wanting to give them the general direction of where he was going. Who are you kidding? he thought. If Antonio had decided the other way, they’d be mixing the concrete for your new overcoat right now. He turned, finally, and walked down Atlantic, past the bakery where he’d talked to her that first time. God, he thought, what are you doing to me? I’ve never felt like this before . . . There had been that one girl, in Yelapa, down on the coast of Mexico, but that wasn’t really about her, that was just about the way she stood in that doorway with her hair hanging down in her face . . . Her mournful expression had haunted him ever since. But this one is different. Isn’t she, God? Is it her or is it me?

  DOMENIC GOT OUT of the cab on Eleventh Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street, stood on the sidewalk watching the departing car vanish in the gloom. He turned on his heel and walked east under the last remaining section of the elevated highway that once ran down the west side of Manhattan. After the road began to fall down in the late sixties the city barely had enough money to tear it down, and this was the last piece, it no longer connected to anything. That’s New York City, he thought. Falling down around your fucking ears. Just a few pieces left, here and there, to tell you what it used to be like.

  There was a gray Lincoln Town Car parked in the middle of the block. Dom walked up to the passenger side and got in. Ivan Bonifacio was sitting behind the driver’s seat. Domenic looked at him. “What happened to your Cadillac?”

  “In the shop.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He decided to have some fun with it. “Having problems? What is it, engine trouble?”

  Ivan stared at him. “It’s got some fucking holes in it, okay? All right? Does that make you happy? It’s got fucking bullet holes in it.”

  Domenic stared back. “You know what your problem is? You got no vision.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Domenic shook his head. “Vision. Initiative. Now Iurata, you have to give it to the son of a bitch, he has vision. He has initiative. He’s had you dancing to his tune right from the beginning. He knew you were coming, he’s one step ahead of you already, what does he do? He leaves a trail of footsteps, then he circles back around and hides in the bushes to see who comes looking. That, asshole, is vision.”

  “Hey, the guy got lucky, all right?”

  “Lucky? Is that what you think? This is twice now he let you walk away. I think he’s fucking with you.” Domenic suppressed a grin. “I think he just wants to see if you have any vision.”

  Ivan stared out the windshield. “Hey,” he said, “if vision is what got me into this bucket of shit I’m in, maybe I don’t want vision. Maybe my life was a hell of a lot easier before I got vision.”

  “You’re still worried about Antonio, aren’t you?”

  Ivan continued staring out the windshield.

  “You know, I’m really sad to see this. Really, I am. You’re sitting around waiting, you have to get permission from Antonio to go to the bathroom, and meanwhile Iurata is kicking your ass.” He watched Ivan, but Ivan sat without moving, without saying anything. Domenic sighed. “If you don’t have the intestinal fortitude to take what’s yours, then you don’t deserve to have it. Certain things in life, Ivan, don’t get given to anyone, they have to be taken. You have to take them by blood and by will. That’s how Antonio got where he is, he didn’t sit around waiting for permission to take a shit.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind, you know that? Antonio is right. You are out of your motherfucking skull.”

  “Antonio only says that because he can’t understand the way I think. He doesn’t read, Ivan, he doesn’t know anything except what he learned hijacking trucks and twisting arms. I bet you don’t read, either. Do you know what the basic principle of life is? Do you have any idea?”

  “I got no clue what you are talking about.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Natural selection is what I’m talking about. Survival of the fucking fittest. That’s why the Russians are winning and we are losing. They understand how it works. The fucking Russians survive through strength. Through power. And what are we doing, over in this country? We’re all getting stoned and marching for peace. You believe that? Marching for peace. Fuck peace. Do you hear me? Fuck peace. You want to win, you want something more than what you got? Then you have to fucking take it away from the guy who already has it.”

  “Give me a fucking break,” Ivan said. “You think Antonio is just going to stand there and watch you take your dick out and wave it around? You think him and Victor are just gonna retire, because you’re ready to step up? What’s he gonna do, move to Boca, walk up and down the beach every day with a metal detector looking for nickels? You’re all ready to go to war, but you got no soldiers, motherfucker, you got nothing.”

  “I got vision. Look, Ivan, Antonio’s a hundred years old, for chrissake. Victor’s been following him around for so long, living off the leavings, he don’t know how to do anything else. You got nothing to worry about.”

  Ivan turned to look at him, leaned back in the corner of his seat. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, after a minute. “Maybe I got no vision. I was ready to come in with you on this thing down at Black and White because I thought there was a nice score there, I thought there was a good chance the two of us could walk away from it with some nice scratch, but you know what? All I heard outa you so far is talk. You got vision? Hey, great. Terrific. You wanna take on Antonio, be my fucking guest. You come out on top, I’ll be your fucking butt boy. Okay? But until then, I have stuck my head in the lion’s mouth for the last time.”

  “I don’t believe this. We’re this close, you’re losing your fucking nerv
e.”

  “I told you before, it’s easy for you to say it, you don’t have to . . .” He saw the gun in Domenic’s hand. “Hey! Hey, wait . . .”

  Domenic shot him twice in the chest. The car was suddenly filled with noise, smoke, and blood. Domenic opened the door and got out, looked inside, shot him once more in the face, just for the hell of it, and then he slammed the door and walked away.

  EIGHT

  SILVANO HAD THE DREAM again that night, he got further into it this time, made it up onto the island in the river. He was carrying an automatic shotgun, a ten-gauge alley sweeper, but the damned thing was empty, and the ammo he carried was all .22 longs, useless unless you were going to throw the shells at someone. He worked his way past a village, keeping just inside the jungle, but the place was deserted, not even any dogs around, the villagers must have eaten them before they died, or ran. There was a school at the far end of the village, wooden building raised a few feet off the ground, about fifteen feet square. He eased up the steps to look inside, saw two dozen kids inside sitting on the floor. They all sat there silent, looking at him. The teacher was a woman, skinny, long dark hair, impossible to tell how old she was but she had a round face, God, she looked like the Madonna, except she stood there in the corner watching him through the saddest eyes he had ever seen.

  He backed away, holding the empty shotgun across his chest, retreated back into the jungle. There didn’t appear to be any other buildings on the island and he found no sign of people, so he made his way back to the village and went through the empty habitations one at a time and found nothing. It was as though the place had been deserted for years, or like it had been kept that way as a museum, this is how we used to live, before you came. He went back to the schoolhouse, back up the steps, but when he got to the doorway he stopped in his tracks. They were all dead, butchered, hacked, the floor was awash in blood. The teacher was in her corner, she was dying, her throat slashed, she looked at him with accusing eyes. He could read her thoughts, we all died because of you, because you had to come here . . .