by Bill Blowers
“Bastardo!”
Viko got up and stepped back from the table and called to the policemen, “This man right here, the one with the hand wrapped, he’s the one.”
The policemen, both Irish, were good friends of Gus, and most evenings he made sure they received a pint of Guinness on the house. With no love lost for Italians, they drew their sidearms and approached the table. Everyone in the pub froze. Drawn guns in New York City were rare at the turn of the century, as the mere presence of police was usually all that was necessary to ensure order. The three men at the table, Alphonse included, sat perfectly still, knowing that for an Italian immigrant to challenge an Irish police officer could mean a quick death from the muzzle of a gun, or a severe beating later in a back cell at precinct headquarters.
Gus spoke first. He suggested to the officers that the men sitting at the bar should leave the pub. The officers agreed after asking Viko if any of them were suspect as well.
Viko said, “The only one that is suspect here is Alphonse.”
While one of the officers stood back with his gun in hand, the two men who were with Alphonse were handcuffed and led outside to sit on the curb and wait to be taken to headquarters. The remaining officer nodded to Viko. “Ask him anything you want.”
Viko sat across from Alphonse, being sure to stay back to avoid a painful kick under the table. The police officer, after frisking Alphonse and finding a nasty-looking stiletto, stood a few feet away.
“Alphonse, you set fire to my building. It was my property that you removed. The law will deal with you, but I want to know who paid you.”
Alphonse stared murderously at Viko but remained silent.
Viko went on, “You have destroyed the life’s work of my uncle, Nikola Tesla. You have ruined the crowning achievement of his career.”
Nothing, he might as well have been talking to a statue.
The policeman said, “Do you really think he is going to tell you a damned thing? There’s only one thing these guinea hoods understand—a good beating.”
“I want to avoid that if possible.”
“I’ve dealt with these wops for years, and the only thing they understand is pain. I’ve seen some of them beaten to death and they never uttered a word.”
Viko didn’t know what to do. He had to know who perpetrated this crime against him and his uncle. They had to be prosecuted. This was America after all, where those that committed crimes like this were brought forth and made to pay dearly for their transgressions.
Viko turned to the officer. “What would you do to get an answer from him?”
The policeman was eager to demonstrate. “Now that’s a good lad, why didn’t you ask me before?”
He pulled his nightstick from his belt and, walking slowly toward Alphonse, took a powerful swing at the table, hitting it with such force that the strong oak surface split open. Viko recoiled, his eyes wide with surprise.
Alphonse began to sweat; beads of perspiration ran down his face and he attempted to swallow. The hatred in his eyes was still there, but the unmistakable look of fear was mixed with it. The policeman stood back and tapped the nightstick against his hand.
He turned to Alphonse. “Are you ready to talk, wop?”
Alphonse hissed a string of profanity at him in Italian.
The policeman brought his club down on Alphonse’s head, not with tremendous force but with enough speed to send a loud crack through the room and knock Alphonse to the floor where he lay trying to get his bearings. Blood trickled down from the gash that opened on his head. The policeman’s huge hand grabbed him by the collar of his coat and shoved him back roughly into the chair, causing him excruciating pain in his shattered kneecap and burned hand.
“That wasn’t the right answer, you guinea louse.” He threw the remainder of Alphonse’s beer into his face. “Now that I have your attention, who paid you to burn down this man’s building?”
Alphonse uttered the same curses.
The policeman shook his head as if in resignation and took a few steps back as a smirk of victory came across Alphonse’s face.
“Viko, I told you that the only thing these animals understand is pain.” And with that, he swung around and landed a bone-shattering blow on Alphonse’s already splintered kneecap.
White-hot pain shot up his leg as Alphonse let out a scream that reverberated off the walls. His eyes rolled back into his head. His entire body went rock hard as every neuron from his knee to his brain burned with the intensity of a torch. He grabbed for his knee with his good hand and tried to double over but was pressed back into his chair. The policeman had his hand around his neck as Alphonse gasped for breath.
Viko was shocked at this display of brutality. He started to object but the look in the policeman’s eyes told him to keep quiet. Gus, behind the bar, simply looked the other way and continued cleaning up. As Alphonse screamed, the two Italians outside looked at one another and then at the policeman guarding them; he was tapping his own nightstick on his hand while looking at them with contempt. They feared for their lives and said they didn’t know this Alphonse, they just happened to find him on the street in pain and were simply trying to help him.
The cop smirked and shook his head. Bullshit.
Alphonse, delirious with pain, opened his eyes to see the policeman standing over him. This time his eyes showed nothing but fear. The defiance had been knocked out of him.
“Well, my guinea friend, we are waiting for the name of your employer, your padrone.”
He tapped the nightstick against his hand a few times, waiting for an answer. Alphonse began to shake his head no. The officer gently laid the nightstick against his bandaged hand. Even the slight touch caused Alphonse to recoil.
“Why, look here, Viko, it appears that we have found another good spot.”
He raised the nightstick. As he reached the apex of his swing with his arm fully extended, he hesitated for a moment, looking at Alphonse as if to say “Well? Do we get the name?”
Alphonse’s eyes were wide with fear. He could take no more pain. Where were his friends? If he talked, it would be certain death. The law of omertà had a single punishment, carried out in the most painful of ways.
The policeman began to count, “3, 2, 1.”
Alphonse screamed out, “No, non vi daro il suo nome, per favore non piu!” (No, I will give you his name, please, please, no more!)
Although disgusted with the beating he just witnessed, Viko leaned forward as the officer looked on triumphantly. Alphonse had defecated and his bladder emptied. He smelled like a pig. Tears streamed down his face. The pain in his leg was unbearable. He knew he was signing his own death sentence. He cursed the day he joined the Black Hand, cursed the day he left Sicily, cursed God for not saving him from this pain, and cursed New York City.
Viko asked, in Italian, “One last time, the name, give me the name.”
Slowly, and almost in a whisper, Alphonse said, “ll suo nome e`, Senor Curtis, Mark Curtis.”
Viko sat back, stunned. The information had to be correct. There was no way that this Italian immigrant could know Curtis, and it fit perfectly, too perfectly. He looked up at the policeman and nodded his head.
The last words Alphonse heard were vile curses spoken with a thick Irish brogue as the officer lashed out with his huge right hand, knocked out several teeth, and sent him sprawling across the floor where he was left unconscious.
Gus set the officer up with a pint of Guinness. He sat at the bar with Viko and asked, “So, do you recognize the name? Do you know who it is?”
Viko nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”
“Morgan? The J.P. Morgan?” Robert sat astonished behind his desk, finding it hard to believe the story Viko had just related.
After learning the shocking news that Morgan’s head of security, Mark Curtis, hired the arsonists, Viko wandered the streets through the night. He came to the steps of the American Citizens Bank and waited for the bank to open. He was a little uns
teady on his feet from the previous night’s drinking, but thanks to a large mug of hot black coffee he was regaining some steadiness in his shaking limbs. Despite his condition, the conviction in his voice was clear. Viko knew the identity of the arsonist and of the man who hired him.
Robert had listened attentively as Viko told of the previous evening. He shook his head in disgust at hearing of the policeman’s behavior, but this was New York, and Robert had heard rumors that such things happened.
“I have come to you once again for help. Your advice has always been full of wisdom and thoughtfulness. How do I get Morgan? I know he put them up to this. The bastard must have found out about the wireless sets for Titanic. How do I get justice?”
“Unfortunately, Viko, you have been exposed to the modern world of greed and power. As you know from the lamp fiasco, Morgan is ruthless. His trusts block out competition, and when that doesn’t work he resorts to violence.
“It is rumored he hires gangs of thugs to break up union activities, often leaving factory workers maimed for life or worse. He covers his tracks well, never being the one directly involved. But with this evidence you may be able to change things. I must add though, and I’m no attorney, you don’t have any real evidence linking Morgan to this. All you have is the word of an Italian thug, an arsonist, and that Curtis’s name was given up during a severe beating. I, like you, have to believe the path leads back to Morgan, but that is yet to be proven.”
Viko shouted back, “Robert, what more evidence is needed? There is no other explanation—it has to be Morgan!”
“Viko, calm down. You’re exhausted and have obviously been drinking. Get cleaned up and get some sleep, start thinking rationally. Do you have the name of the police officer who witnessed this Alphonse character giving you the name of Mark Curtis?”
“Yes, his name is Sean Murphy, and he agreed to corroborate my story. His partner’s name is Padrick O’Leary.”
Robert made an appointment for three o’clock with his attorney, sent Viko home to bathe and put on clean clothes, and asked him to write out the string of events. Robert knew that finding any evidence linking the fire back to Morgan would be practically impossible. Morally, Robert knew he could not just walk away from this to protect his own skin. He needed to help, even if it was at arm’s length. Morgan could squash him like an annoying bug in any number of ways. But if his help might lead to justice for Viko and Tesla, then he was willing to take the risk.
Clarence Delmont, Robert’s attorney, was in the conference room with Robert when Viko arrived looking and smelling much better. Viko handed Delmont a tablet with several pages of his neat script, detailing everything he could remember about the previous evening. Delmont asked Viko to retell the story of what happened. He and Robert listened quietly as the previous evening’s events unfolded. He reacted with a pained “ouch” when he heard about the nightstick hitting the kneecap.
Viko added, “It’s all written down for you.”
“Have you included the policeman’s name, rank, and precinct?”
“Yes, he is Sean Murphy, a beat patrolman out of the first precinct.”
“This is good; I will meet with him.” Delmont asked a few questions to clarify his understanding of everything and then asked Viko, “What do you want from me?”
“I want Morgan punished for this crime. I want our wireless transceivers returned, and I want full compensation for the damage that has been caused. I want Morgan exposed for the crook that he is.”
“I understand your anger, Viko, but let me explain something. J.P. Morgan is arguably the most powerful man in America. Being able to prove that he was involved in this in any way will be very difficult, perhaps impossible.”
Viko objected, “But Alphonse gave us Curtis’s name. How could he have made that up? And Morgan had every reason to stop us.”
“Viko, it isn’t what we think happened, what is most plausible, even potentially apparent that will make a difference here. Justice hangs on what we can prove in a court of law. Even if we can positively pin it on Curtis in court and get a judgment, Morgan can simply deny any involvement. Where is the proof? I am sure that Curtis will not give him up, and remember Curtis has personal reasons enough to have planned this himself. After all, aren’t you responsible for the burns he suffered in that Bronx fire?”
Delmont continued, “I am going to speak with the police officer and try to talk to this Alphonse character and his friends. I can assure you though that they will never talk in a court of law. Morgan has the best attorneys in New York, and most likely he has the ability to influence the outcome of court trials, if this ever gets that far. Viko, you may be correct that he is behind this, but getting to Morgan may prove to be futile. If nothing else, he will simply cause delays, effect gag orders so this cannot be discussed with anyone outside the case and simply drive you into bankruptcy with legal fees.”
Viko looked at Robert, whose sympathetic gaze did little to settle the boiling fury inside his stomach. The son-of-a-bitch was going to get away with it. Morgan, that fat, arrogant bastard, was going to get away with the crimes of arson, theft, and endangerment of human life—scot-free!
Delmont said, “Give me a few days to look into this. Don’t do anything until I get back to Robert. We will meet again and I will give you my advice.”
Three days later, Robert, Viko, and Clarence Delmont were back in the conference room at American Citizens Bank. Viko was desperate to hear some good news.
Delmont began, “Two days ago, I went to the first precinct headquarters to speak with Officer Murphy. He did corroborate your story that Alphonse gave up the name Mark Curtis. Of course, he denied using any force to get the man to talk. However, he did agree that if it came to a court hearing, he would be available to testify on your behalf, which under other circumstances might be considered good news. I asked if I could speak with Alphonse and he became very nervous and cagey, not willing to give me a direct answer. I asked where he was being held, and Murphy told me to speak with the precinct captain.
“I went to the man in charge, Captain Steven Smith, who, after listening to my request, informed me that Alphonse Anacelli was dead. He was found in his holding cell, not breathing, the morning after he was brought in. They claim that he hanged himself with his belt. His death is being called a suicide.”
“I don’t believe that story for a minute,” Viko interrupted. “Either they killed him or he’s been hidden somewhere. His leg and hand were practically useless, especially after the beating he received. There is no way he could have hanged himself. To do that with one hand and only one leg, impossible!”
Delmont continued, “I then inquired as to the other two who were with Alphonse that night, might I be able to speak with them? At that the captain expressed complete surprise. He asked me, ‘What other two? Only one perpetrator was arrested and booked, Alphonse Anacelli. And you might want to know he has quite a record of petty theft and suspicion of arson and murder.’
“Viko, I don’t believe it was suicide either, and of course we will never know. The code of silence among the police is very strong, and further, Anacelli could have hanged himself as part of the law of silence that those Sicilians live and die by. By killing himself he has proven he is an honorable man and his family can be proud of him.”
Viko nodded. “What did you mean when you said that Murphy’s corroboration with my story ‘might’ be considered good news in other circumstances? Why isn’t it positive proof of my contention that Morgan’s man set this up?”
“Because officer Murphy has disappeared. I went back yesterday to have him sign a statement and was told that he and his partner, Padrick O’Leary, have been transferred to a special detail in the police department, and I would have to speak to the police commissioner to locate them. I have attempted to reach the commissioner by telephone and was informed that he is away on police business indefinitely and cannot be reached.
“In other words, Viko, we have been stonewalled. I suspe
ct that Morgan or Curtis have learned that we questioned Anacelli. At this moment, we only have your word as to what happened. None of us question that, but against the forces that Morgan has at his disposal, your chance of proving anything is virtually nil. I’m sorry, but there is nothing that you, I, or anyone else can do. Morgan is so isolated that we cannot get to him through the law, even if he is guilty.”
Viko showed no reaction to these final words. He sat there quietly, slowly breathing and staring straight ahead. The words there is nothing that you, I, or anyone else can do echoed through the conference room, like the distant screeching of vultures descending on a helpless victim.
Something within the synapses of Viko’s brain snapped. This was the final, fatal straw that shoved him over the brink into a freefall to the depths of darkness as reality dissolved into his own world of madness.
The room became gray and then blackened. Viko’s mind was filled with roiling clouds as the demons of his dreams emerged from the darkness and floated about him. The demons were not taunting him as in his past nightmares. This time they were looking to him, pleading with their eyes. They moved apart and a pathway of glowing, bubbling lava formed, leading off into the distance where the likeness of Morgan sat on a throne of fire. The smoke filling the room seemed to emanate from Morgan as his throne slowly lifted into the air until he was looking down on an assembled mass of tormented souls who moved behind Viko, seeking protection and safety.
Viko heard voices. He looked into the faces of the demons about him and they began to mutate, to change—everyone he had ever known was before him, pleading for protection. Tears ran down his face as he saw his father and mother with their arms around little Djouka, blood pouring from the terrible gash running across the side of his father’s neck. There was Juliet and Lilet, and behind them stood Aleksandar; even Josef, Karl, and Professor Lippmann were there. Off to the side he could see Katherine and Robert. Everyone he had ever known needed him, begging to be saved from the fate that Morgan planned for them.