Saro opened his eyes and looked around. He saw the old woman beside him, bundled up in a black wool garment, watching him, stunned.
“And they say there’s no such thing as miracles. Good thing you woke up, sonny boy, or you could have ended up in the dump, you know?”
Saro didn’t get it. Then he looked at his hands: they were totally covered with dirt and caked blood. He peered at the knuckles. They were bloodied and bruised, as if he had punched through a plaster wall. He fingered his clothes. They were torn to shreds in a number of places, and there were large bloodstains on them as well. He couldn’t think straight. His head was crawling, as if he were in the grip of a hangover. He tried to get to his feet but fell back on the pavement. The old woman had meanwhile moved away, dragging her bag of cartons and useless trash.
Saro tried to recall what had happened the night before, but he blanked out at the recollection of climbing the metal steps.
Then he began to remember: the steps led to the room of the girl he’d met at the Blue Lemon. The fog was slowly lifting from his numb, befuddled brain.
* * *
Ferdinando Licata’s plan was moving along smoothly. The Bontades had scraped together drugs from every distributor they knew, and the Genovese family had provided the remainder. In return for that favor, Sante had asked them for 90 percent of the proceeds on the amount loaned. The Stokers, however, had not yet solved their problem. They had placed themselves in the hands of a gang of Puerto Rican drug dealers who controlled the Bronx and had promised to deliver by the end of the month, but they were already a week past due.
When the call finally came, Mastrangelo picked up the receiver and asked, “Who’s this?”
“Our cousin left, and she’s fine.”
Mastrangelo stood up. He recognized the voice of Fryderyk Marek, a Polish member of the Stoker family. “When will she get here?”
“Tomorrow evening at eight, at the station I told you about,” Marek said, and then hung up.
Mastrangelo had managed to bring one of the Irish family’s members over to his side. Years earlier, before he was affiliated with the Stokers, Marek had killed a heavy-handed policeman during a brawl in a bar in Queens. Mastrangelo, who had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, had saved him from the other cops who’d arrived on the scene, hiding him in a safe place until things calmed down. Fryderyk Marek was eternally grateful to him.
Mastrangelo, intolerant of any form of control, had always lived as a maverick, unlike his peers, who, as soon as they were old enough, joined neighborhood gangs. In working-class slums where as many as ten persons lived in two rooms, in tenements where dampness and the stench of sewers permeated the halls and apartments, in garbage-strewn courtyards where swarms of flies and packs of rats encamped without regard for humans, in places where people froze in winter and sweltered in summer, it was easy for men to take their animosity out on those who were weakest: namely, their wives and children. That’s why kids, as soon as they were a little independent, preferred to stay away from that institution called “the family.” The neighborhood gang was a means of escape, offering freedom as well as an outlet for brimming energies. What kids sought in the gangs were thrills, adventure, coarse jokes, some preliminary attempts at gambling, their first shoplifting experiences, vandalism as an end in itself, the rituals of collective smoking and excessive drinking, an initiatory sexual romp or two with some emancipated girl, and, ultimately, bloody confrontation with other gangs, to demonstrate their physical prowess. The gang signified a bridge of passage between street pranks orchestrated by a group of buddies and organized crime.
Mastrangelo represented the exception: he had always been a loner, didn’t like the herd, didn’t want to be ordered around by anyone, and didn’t care for any type of rules. To avoid commitment, he systematically failed to keep appointments, and the end result was that no one spoke to him anymore. On the other hand, he had little to say, did not communicate well with others, and gradually accomplished his goal of being left to himself. But to survive on one’s own without supporters in a city divided into gangs would have meant succumbing, so in order to get by, he made sure he had a lot of “friends.” He had managed to spread the word that he was a kind of benefactor, like Robin Hood.
In actuality, all Mastrangelo did was store up debts of gratitude that would sooner or later be presented for payment.
Years earlier, he’d succeeded in hiding the Polack from the cops, so now he’d asked Marek to tip him off about the arrival of the stuff from the Puerto Ricans. The Pole had hesitated a little but couldn’t refuse a favor to someone who had saved him from the electric chair.
Marek first informed Mastrangelo and, immediately afterward, the Stoker family. At that point, Brian Stoker phoned Tom Bontade and arranged to meet him late the following night.
As soon as he received the call, Mastrangelo drove to Gabriel’s and Cornelius’s apartment in Harlem.
After passing through a room filled with women, children, and wailing babies, he gave the men the two Thompsons concealed in violin cases.
He explained the plan to them step by step. They were to make their move the following evening, around eight, protected by darkness. A gang of Puerto Ricans was to deliver a shipment of pure cocaine to a freighter, the Paraguay Star, moored at Pier 97 on the Hudson River. Gabriel and Cornelius would find a rowboat at the dock. They were to use it to reach the stern of the cargo ship, where a friend on board the vessel would lower a rope ladder. They would climb aboard and remain hidden until the Puerto Ricans arrived, at which point they would have to improvise. He didn’t know where the exchange would take place. Almost certainly in the captain’s quarters. The job was easy because no one would be expecting the surprise: that was their trump card. They would make a clean sweep, taking out everyone there. They were to spare no one. After that, all they had to do was take the suitcase full of coke and return to their hiding place in Harlem. Upon completion of the job, Mastrangelo would meet them there, providing them with new passports and three tickets to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The flight’s stewardess would let the suitcase pass through as hand luggage. Once they reached Rio, prior to landing, she would give them an address and the number of a bank account. They were to bring the goods there, sell them, and then deposit 25 percent in the account and split the rest among themselves. Finally, he advised them to stay away from Puerto Ricans for the rest of their lives.
As Mastrangelo explained the details of the plan, Gabriel and Cornelius glanced at each other, amazed. They never dreamed they’d be able to aim so high. They were pleased with themselves and at the same time proud to be held in such high regard by this guy.
“Any questions?” Mastrangelo asked at the end of his long speech.
Gabriel tried to disguise his elation. “How many Puerto Ricans will there be? And who are the people the stuff’s supposed to go to?”
“Not more than five Puerto Ricans and the same for the Stokers.”
“We gotta kill Brian Stoker?”
“No, he won’t be there. Bosses never get involved in these matters.”
The two men looked at each other, a little worried. It wouldn’t be a piece of cake.
“Did I get it right: twenty-five, seventy-five?” Cornelius asked to confirm the percentages of the shares.
“You got it right.”
“And how much stuff is there?”
“A suitcaseful,” Mastrangelo said, and almost burst out laughing at seeing the look of astonishment on their faces.
* * *
When Saro’s mind had cleared sufficiently, he realized he was in a blind alley off Lafayette Street, quite a distance from where the Blue Lemon was located in Chelsea. How had he gotten here? Who had brought him here? Was it possible he couldn’t remember anything about what had happened? Disordered thoughts raced through his mind along with sudden flashes of horrible images of blood and battered faces. Lost in his nightmares, he heard water gushing from a hose behind him. In the alley, a waiter was h
osing the pavement near the back door of a restaurant. When he had finished, he dropped the rubber hose and went back in, leaving the door ajar. Saro waited a few seconds before picking up the hose, turning on the spigot, and sticking his head under the jet of cold water, hoping to clear it that way. He washed his blood-smeared hands, took off his jacket and used it to dry himself, and then threw it into a bin: it was too tattered to wear anymore; people would take him for a beggar.
He started walking, going up Broadway to make his way back to the Blue Lemon. The last clear image he had in his mind were the iron steps in the club’s inner courtyard. Marta had entered the apartment with that crude show-off, and the man had followed her in. He remembered perfectly having seen the two of them joking, laughing. Saro also recalled having had a few drinks too many, and he remembered being furious at having let that guy make off with the girl. It aggravated an old wound; it was too much like the memory of Isabel with Dixie.
When he reached the intersection of Seventh Avenue and Nineteenth Street, near the alley that led to the back of the Blue Lemon, he found two police cars blocking the way. There was the usual cluster of curious onlookers and police officers coming and going. Saro approached the crowd and tried to see what was going on in the alley. Inside the courtyard stood a black van from the morgue.
“What happened?” he casually asked a guy next to him.
“They killed two people,” he replied, trying to stretch his neck to catch a glimpse of some exciting image.
“They slaughtered them,” an angry woman corrected him.
“Who was it?” an old man asked naively.
“They’ll never catch them; it’s the Mafia,” the usual know-it-all concluded.
“Who was killed?” This time it was Saro who asked the question.
“A girl from the club, poor thing,” a young woman the same age as Marta replied.
“Poor thing, my ass,” a man retorted. “She was a whore. She got what she deserved.”
“The cops said her john was killed too. A great big guy,” the know-it-all said.
“And how would you know?” the girl asked.
“A cop told a reporter,” the man snapped.
Saro felt his head spin. He suddenly felt nauseous. He stepped back from the group of people and moved off to avoid arousing suspicion.
But a policeman noticed him and came over.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” he asked him.
“I’m okay, I just have a slight fever.”
“Naturally, walking around in shirtsleeves like that. Go on home!” the policeman barked.
“I will, thanks.” Saro took a few steps and disappeared around the first street corner, hiding behind it. He leaned back against the wall and started crying. He began to remember.
He had flung open the door, entered the room, and saw the tough guy undressing Marta. As soon as she saw him, she went over to him, shouting something. He remembered clearly that she wasn’t wearing a bra, but still had her skirt on. Then Saro hit her. At that point, the memory became patchy. Her face was swollen from being punched. The guy had tried to stop him but was struck full in the face by a heavy bronze horse head. A stream of blood began gushing from his broken nose. The woman rushed at Saro digging her nails into his chest. Saro instinctively fingered the right side of his chest, which was still sore. He unbuttoned his shirt and saw three scratches, still bloody, scoring the skin. Marta was punched again and collapsed on the floor; her screams immediately faded and became a death rattle. From behind, the john tried to lift Saro by circling his waist with both arms, but this time a whack bashed his head in. He sagged at Saro’s feet like an empty sack. Saro stared at the bloody poker. He looked at his hands: they were covered in blood. He rubbed them on his jacket to try to wipe away the traces of that madness. Then everything suddenly went black, and he sank into a troubled sleep in which he persistently relived those moments that would forever change his life.
Saro was desolate over what had happened. But how could he go back in time and change his future and that of those two poor people? It was too late now. He had crossed the fine line that separates the few decent men from the majority of evildoers. Saro cursed his fate and the day he was born.
Chapter 38
Pier 97 on the Hudson River was the first dock for passenger vessels after the enclosed piers. Gabriel parked the Ford on Twelfth Avenue facing south and left the keys under the dashboard panel, as Mastrangelo had advised him to do. He said that in the heat of escape you might lose them, so it was better to leave them there.
The first shadows of dusk had already fallen. Darkness worked to their advantage. Circles of light from the few electric streetlamps barely illuminated the area, leaving vast dark pools all around. Cornelius and Abraham got out of the car first and went to get the guns in the trunk. Gabriel joined them, grabbing his violin case and heading toward the pier.
Several cars and vans were parked in front of the dock, while to either side the transport companies’ sheds were lit up, with people still inside, since shifts at the port often went until ten o’clock at night.
The freighter was moored head in, with its right side to the dock. Two gangplanks extended from it. They would use the forward one for their escape. The three friends casually headed for the end of the dock, near the stern. They looked out over the water and spotted the rowboat tied up not far from the freighter. Cornelius, the most agile of the three, climbed down first. He held the boat steady for Gabriel and then Abraham, each of whom held a violin case. Once they were in, Cornelius began rowing.
All they could hear around them was water lapping nearby against the sides of the vessel and the distant sounds of ship maintenance. Cornelius rowed around to the stern of the Paraguay Star. Abraham was the first to spot the rope ladder in the darkness.
Cornelius rowed toward it with slow strokes. Everything was going along perfectly, just as Mastrangelo had said. Gabriel grabbed one of the wooden rungs of the rope ladder, and Cornelius slung his violin case over his shoulder and began to climb. They had decided that Abraham would be second, and Gabriel would go up last. All three made their way up, painstakingly hoisting themselves up at each rung. They were strong and athletic, with solid shoulders and arm muscles as brawny as those of wrestlers, but climbing a rope ladder is extremely difficult unless you have the training of a trapeze artist.
Cornelius was breathing hard when he reached the railing. He looked around and didn’t see anyone on deck. The Paraguay Star was a cargo ship, with its enclosed areas grouped around a central smokestack. It belonged to a British company and had come to New York expressly to be examined by a government commission in charge of an expansion program for the US Merchant Marine fleet. The upper deck was illuminated by a row of lights, and the central tower was lit as well.
Abraham was struggling to make it up, with Gabriel, below him, urging him to move it.
Meanwhile, Cornelius had climbed over the railing and was crouching in the shadows. Just in time, because a sailor came up from below deck, lighting a cigarette. He passed a few feet away from Cornelius, but didn’t notice anything. Cornelius waited until the crewman was out of sight, and then ran and hid behind a huge wooden crate.
Several minutes later, Abraham’s silhouette appeared and immediately behind him, Gabriel’s.
Cornelius poked his head out from behind the crate and waved to get their attention. The two men tiptoed over to join him. Everything was going according to plan.
* * *
A few minutes before eight, the Stokers made their way on board. They came up the forward gangplank. Old Brian Stoker wasn’t with them, and Fryderyk Marek was also absent, having pleaded sick due to a bad toothache. Except for them, the gang was complete: there were the inseparable Hugh and Kevin, Roy Foster, the boxer-bagman with his usual dark crew-neck sweater, and Lee Edward and Tony Russo, two brawny young men. Bringing up the rear was Damien Stoker, carrying a leather bag. That night, he was extremely uneasy. Damien had brought only partial payment�
�a truly ridiculous sum. The Puerto Ricans certainly wouldn’t give up the cocaine. Brian, his father, had advised him to play a certain ace up his sleeve if push came to shove. His father’s idea didn’t really appeal to Damien, but he would do as he was told.
The ship’s captain went to meet the group and invited everyone into the Paraguay Star’s mess room, the only indoor space that could hold two dozen people.
Shortly afterward, the Puerto Ricans arrived in two black Dodges. Their leader was a certain Segundo, the right arm of Armando Diaz, the acknowledged boss of trafficking that originated in South America. Behind Segundo came Juan, the man carrying the suitcase containing ten kilograms of pure coke. They were accompanied by three mean-looking thugs.
The five men strode up the forward gangplank. A sailor led them directly into the mess room where Damien and his men were waiting for them. The captain of the ship had chosen to retire to his cabin.
Segundo entered the room and went over to Damien. “I kept my word, man. Ten kilos of first-rate cocaine. You can make fifty thousand doses by cutting it. Show him the goods, Juan.”
The man set the suitcase on the table and pulled out a packet; he opened it and placed it on the tabletop. Damien went over and tasted the white powder. He nodded, as if to say “Excellent” and then stepped back. The man put the packet back in the suitcase and closed it up, leaving it on the table.
Damien hesitated, and this did not go unnoticed by Segundo. Alarmed, he asked, “What’s up, Damien?”
“Don’t worry, Segundo, everything’s okay.”
“The money?”
“I brought you an advance on the amount I’ll earn from the sale of the stuff. All I’m asking for is twelve hours. It’s a quick transaction, with only one buyer. A one-shot deal for all of us.” So saying he picked up the leather bag and handed it to him.
Segundo grabbed it but didn’t open it. “How much is in it?”
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