The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  “Let’s talk to him,” Petrina said as she pulled up to the apartment building.

  When they knocked on the door of his flat, Fred obligingly let them in. He allowed them to make him a cup of coffee and even do a bit of cleaning up in his dusty lair, but he would not let them touch his wife’s dressing table, with her silver-backed hairbrush, comb, and mirror—the only real things of value she’d ever owned. They’d never had any children. But Fred was a cheerful man who listened patiently and answered all their questions.

  “Did you lock up Frankie’s office that day, before the police raided it?” Lucy asked with her best bedside manner. “It’s all right if you forgot to lock it, Fred.”

  “Yes, I locked it,” Fred replied. “I only went in there once that afternoon, to use the telephone. But I locked it up again. When the police came to search, they said the window was unlocked. I don’t know who did that. I sure didn’t.”

  “Let’s go take a look,” Petrina suggested. They followed Fred’s shuffling gait to the office at the back of the building where Frankie conducted his business calls. Lucy was unprepared for the wave of emotion that engulfed her upon entering the place where she’d first met Frankie. The room was spare: just a coat rack, a phone, a lamp, an adding machine, a desk with a scattering of supplies like pens and paper. He never left anything important here, yet she could feel his presence lingering like a ghost.

  This must be what it’s like when your spouse dies, Lucy thought with a stab of pain. Am I going to end up like old Fred, forever mourning the loss of my mate? Men in this neighborhood routinely disappeared; if the war didn’t take them, they might go off to jail, or to the hospital like Johnny, or simply vanish under suspicious but never-investigated circumstances.

  That was the price of being in “the business.” Whatever the cause, the results were pretty much the same. Wives around here knew it, hoped for better but seldom complained; yet, they carried around this burden in the lines on their faces and the slope of their shoulders, and it aged them.

  Frankie, where are you? Where have I driven you to? Are you all alone out there? And, Christopher, my darling lad—can you survive without me and this family to protect you?

  Petrina had drifted over to the office window, opened it, and stuck her head out, gazing upward. “Hmm. Let’s you and I go talk to the tenants, Lucy.”

  “I already spoke to ’em. And they all say the same thing,” Fred said morosely. “Nobody saw anything.”

  Undeterred, Petrina kept gazing upward.

  “Which apartments are right above this office?” she asked.

  “Numbers 15, 17, and 19,” Fred replied.

  Lucy said, “I’ve been here with Sal to collect the rent. They’re all good tenants.”

  “Fine. Let’s go chat,” Petrina said determinedly, closing and locking the window.

  Fred handed them his key ring. “Don’t know what good it’ll do, but here you go. Always knock first.”

  As she and Lucy climbed the stairs, Petrina confided, “I don’t think it was Fred who planted the necklace.”

  “Neither do I,” Lucy agreed. “But they all look innocent to me. You’ll see.”

  They started with number 15, a young woman and her mother-in-law, who lived together since the girl’s husband was overseas in the war. Both women worked and were home only in the evenings. They had just started making their dinner. The girl had a framed picture of her soldier husband. These women looked too cautious to be susceptible to strangers like Alonza and her ilk.

  The elderly couple in number 17 were so devout that they went to Mass every morning. They could not recall anything unusual about that day, either, but this was hardly surprising; the man was hard of hearing, and the woman wore thick glasses.

  The seamstress on the top floor in number 19—a tiny apartment just big enough for a birdlike lady like her—spent all day hunched over a small table covered with her sewing and lace piecework, so she couldn’t hear much over the rumble of her sewing machine, which had a foot pedal and a knee brace to make it run. She was running the machine right now, so Lucy had to knock several times at the door before the lady opened it.

  “Yes?” she inquired, removing a few pins from her mouth. Her name was Gloria.

  “Can we talk?” Lucy began, as she had with all the others. The woman had a halo of delicate, curly light-brown hair. She looked to be in her late fifties. She let them in and offered them some lemonade. They sat at her kitchen table.

  Petrina said admiringly, “What lovely work you do. Do you think you could make a lace collar for my daughter? She’d love it.” They chatted on about lace swatches, much to Lucy’s utter boredom. She glanced out the open window, which did little to relieve the stuffiness of the apartment.

  “Nice backyard down there,” Lucy ventured, gazing at the small courtyard below. “You have a good view of it. Bet you see everybody who comes and goes.”

  “Yes, in the summertime people like to sit in the shade of that big tree,” Gloria replied, taking a measuring tape from around her neck and using chalk to mark out a collar pattern for Petrina to see. “I like to go there myself to cool off. I bring a whole pitcher of lemonade down there,” Gloria said, as if she liked the company of neighbors. “Goodness, this heat is so hard on little kids. And dogs and cats. I put out water for the animals. They need it, with all that fur!”

  Gloria took a bolt of lace and began pinning the pattern on it. “And I feel especially sorry for the nuns in this weather. They wear such heavy gowns. And those wimples on their heads! You’d never see a priest wearing that tight thing across his forehead. The priests can always take off their hats. The nuns can’t, at least not in public.”

  Lucy looked mystified. Petrina asked curiously, “Have you seen a nun recently?”

  “Yes, there was that Sister of Charity, collecting for the war widows. I saw her out in the yard when I came back from shopping, and I gave her some money, though Lord knows I haven’t much left to give. She was a young thing—too young to decide to give up marriage that early, if you ask me. I gave her some lemonade.”

  “Which Sister was that?” Lucy inquired. “I know the ones who teach at school.”

  Gloria shook her head. “No, she wasn’t one of those. Her gown and wimple were all black, not white like the teachers’. I don’t know her. She said the other tenants weren’t as friendly as me. I felt sorry for her, being so young and alone.”

  Petrina stood up decisively. “Thanks. Please let us know when my daughter’s collar is ready, and we’ll come back. Until then, I think it’s best if you don’t talk about this chat we’ve just had. Especially with strangers. Okay?”

  Gloria nodded, and Petrina hustled the bewildered Lucy out the door and back to the car. “What’s the big deal?” Lucy asked. “I see strange nuns on the street collecting for charity all the time now, with the war on.”

  “I do, too. Nuns, plural. Think about it. Have you ever seen them go out alone to solicit money? They never do. They are always sent in pairs,” Petrina said triumphantly. “When I was a Girl Scout, our nuns told us to go in twos to sell our cookies, like they do. In case a ‘bad man’ tried to attack one of us, the other could call for help.”

  “You think we’ve got a rogue nun working for the Pericolos?” Lucy said skeptically.

  “She may work for the Pericolos, but I’ll lay odds she’s not a real nun,” Petrina replied decisively. “We now have at least one witness who saw her. We’ve got to find this phony nun, and then we’ll see if Gloria can identify her. I’ve got some ideas, but I have to go and help Pippa pack up for dance camp. I’ll let you know if I turn up anything. Meanwhile, just keep your eyes open, Lucy.”

  Fresh food was at a premium that summer, so Filomena liked to do her marketing early. She especially loved to go to the seafood stall, where rows of glistening fish had silvery skins with shimmering rainbow reflections; it reminded her of the happier days of her childhood. The fishwife sensed Filomena’s appreciation and discerning
eye, so she saved her best for her.

  Filomena was just turning away from the crowded stall when a tall, heavyset man came up behind her and spoke into her ear so that only she could hear. His voice was instantly chilling. “So, the hens are in charge of the roost now, eh? People say you’re pretty good with a knife. But somebody can always come along with a bigger knife.”

  Startled, Filomena glanced up. The brim of his hat was tilted over his face, but when the stranger briefly raised his head to look her in the eye, one glimpse was enough to leave an indelible impression: black, staring eyes that looked coldly dispassionate, yet, strangely, somewhat sad; a hawklike nose; a belligerent chin. His body was big and broad and menacing, like an impending freight train as he moved purposefully forward.

  Even before he spoke again, his mere presence made Filomena feel sick inside. She trusted this gut instinct absolutely, for it had never failed her yet.

  “Nice kids you all got,” he said under his breath as he lowered his head again so that others would not notice him. His tone remained distinctly threatening as he added, “And I hear you ladies are taking in more money these days. So, Johnny’s little wife might want to pay for more protection. Just remind her, I know where the body is buried.”

  He picked up a fish with its dead eyes and gaping mouth. He patted its head, then set it back down. Filomena scanned the street, looking for Sal’s parked car, where he was awaiting her signal to come help with packages; with relief, she spotted him and waved. But when she turned back to the stranger, he was no longer there, having vanished as quickly as he came.

  “Sal, who was that man who just spoke to me?” she asked, feeling shaky.

  “I didn’t see a man, Signora.” But when Filomena described him, Sal actually blanched and gave an apprehensive look up and down the street. Satisfied that whoever it was had gone, Sal hustled her away. He waited until they were safely in the car before he said slowly, “I hope I’m wrong. But it sounds like you just had a visit from the Lord High Executioner.”

  “Who?” Filomena asked.

  “Albert Anastasia, head of Murder Inc. He’s been away in the U.S. Army for a coupla years, but I hear he’s back in town now. What did he want?”

  “I’m not sure,” Filomena hedged, thinking, But I’m going to find out.

  Sal studied her a moment. Then his eyes narrowed. “Signora, we have to talk,” he said.

  Later that day, Filomena went to Amie’s bar. A throng of people was clustered around the radio Amie kept at the bar, which was loudly broadcasting the horse-racing results.

  “Amie, I must ask you something,” Filomena began, but everyone shushed her.

  “Not now,” Amie said tensely. “We’ve got a lot riding on this one.” After her most recent visit to Johnny—after that thunderstorm, after being in Frankie’s room and behaving as if Johnny were dead and buried already—Amie had been filled with remorse, and now she was determined to make it up to Johnny, by doing what he’d asked, by looking after his business so carefully that he’d be proud when he came back home to her.

  “A-a-a-and, they’re off!” intoned the radio announcer. “It’s Carolina Quickstep in the lead, with Shadow Boxer close behind, and Blue Daydreamer on the outside.”

  Filomena watched as everyone at the bar collectively held their breath. She saw Amie’s expression darken when the droning announcer suddenly broke out of his patter to exclaim incredulously, “But here’s Wrecking Ball moving up on the inside!”

  “Who’s Wrecking Ball?” Filomena asked with foreboding.

  A young man clutching the racing form said ruefully, “A long shot—but maybe not so long, after all.”

  “Carolina Quickstep still ahead, Shadow Boxer at her tail, and Blue Daydreamer now running neck-and-neck with Wrecking Ball,” the announcer exclaimed. “And, coming ’round the turn, it’s Quickstep and Boxer . . . with Wrecking Ball charging ahead of Blue Daydreamer.”

  “Oh my God,” Amie said under her breath. “This never happens. But every one of our bookies took big bets on this race for Wrecking Ball to place. So if that horse actually does come in first or second, we’re cooked.”

  “And now it’s Wrecking Ball closing in on Shadow Boxer,” the announcer chortled, sounding beside himself with disbelief. Amie clutched Filomena’s hand so hard that her knuckles were white.

  “Coming down the final stretch, Carolina Quickstep opening up her lead, with Wrecking Ball falling back . . . a-a-a-and, across the finish line, it’s Carolina Quickstep, followed by Shadow Boxer second, and Blue Daydreamer third!”

  There was a communal sigh of relief. Amie sagged against the counter. “That Wrecking Ball could have broken us.”

  Filomena took this all in. “But—how often can something like this happen?”

  “Hardly ever—and yet, anytime,” Amie replied. “Even though we’re dealing with the most ‘professional’ bookies, and even though the odds are always staggeringly in our favor, there’s always a chance that things can go wrong. Badly wrong, with the stakes this high. Because in the end, a gamble is always a gamble.”

  The boisterous crowd was now demanding drinks, so Filomena said in a low voice, “We can’t talk here. We need to sit down with Lucy and Petrina, at my house. At dinner, tonight.”

  24

  July 1944

  When Lucy returned home, Amie was there, and she said gently, “Gemma is upstairs with my boys. They’ve all had their dinner and they’re playing cards together.”

  Lucy appreciated that Amie was being especially kind to Gemma. On Sundays Amie took all the kids out for summer pleasures: sometimes to Jones Beach for fresh air and a dip in the Atlantic Ocean’s tumultuous waves, or to a fancy city ice-cream parlor, or on a picnic in leafy Central Park with all its walking trails.

  But always, once every week, Amie instructed Donna to take the kids to the library, so that they could find good storybooks to practice their reading skills. Gemma was diligent and earnest, but her questioning mind chafed under the rigid restrictions of schoolwork.

  “Thanks for taking such good care of my little lassie,” Lucy said gratefully.

  “Well, she’s my goddaughter, after all!” Amie replied happily, but she blushed. She had been making a special effort to be nice to Lucy and Gemma, partly to assuage her guilt about that stormy night at the inn upstate that had driven Amie into Frankie’s bedroom.

  Resolutely she pushed it from her mind. The truth was, Amie did find Gemma’s cheerful company a relief, compared to being with her own sons. Vinnie and Paulie turned sullen so easily these days, especially when told to practice their arithmetic and reading, since their teachers had said they “could, and should, do better.” Amie supposed that they were moody because they knew that their father was gravely ill, too ill to see them. They missed him, yet they resisted turning to her, as if it were sissyish to rely on a mother, even at their ripe old age of five years.

  “Mario’s wife has called a special meeting tonight with you, me, and Petrina,” Amie announced now. “She came down to my bar just to tell me. So something’s up.”

  “We just went over the books a couple of days ago,” Lucy said apprehensively. “What does she want?” She couldn’t help admiring Mario’s young wife, whose steely self-control was almost spooky, and whose sharp gaze saw through any ruse. But Lucy had what she herself called “a fighting Irish spirit” that kept her on the alert for anyone trying to push her around.

  Amie said in a low voice, “That girl is tough as nails.”

  “Tough? Well, so are we,” Lucy said stoutly, and Amie felt better.

  “Maybe when her baby is born, she’ll ease up with that ledger of hers!” Amie said hopefully, since Mario’s wife had recently announced that she was pregnant.

  “Come on, let’s get this meeting over with,” Lucy said briskly.

  At first, the four women spoke only of their children, while eating their dinner of pasta fagioli soup followed by a pan-seared trout with lemon and pine nuts. But after Stella,
the cook, had cleared away the plates from the dining table and gone to her room, Filomena asked the others to update their earnings so she could record it all in Tessa’s book. Then Filomena reported the finances of Mario’s jewelry store. All seemed well.

  “Any questions?” Petrina asked, as she always did, being the head of the family.

  Lucy glanced uneasily at Filomena and then said, “I had a complaint from one of our restaurant partners about you. He says that you’re making the big borrowers pay right on time, but you’re giving some of the little borrowers more leniency. He wants to know if we’re a bunch of socialists. You haven’t told us much about Tessa’s loan book.”

  “Tell that man we’re doing our bit for the war against Hitler. These ‘little borrowers’ are people whose sons or husbands were drafted, so the families can’t always make ends meet,” Filomena explained. “They make all their payments, just a bit late.”

  “I have to say, I, too, don’t much like the idea of collecting rent from poor folk,” Lucy admitted. “But I do feel that some of them are testing us. They know our men are away. I had one tenant tell me I ought to be more ‘tenderhearted.’ They’d never have said that to Frankie!”

  “So what do you do with people who don’t pay?” Petrina asked.

  Lucy looked uncomfortable. “I let Sal talk to them. Fortunately, all he has to do is talk, not break any legs. So far.”

  Amie confessed, “I had to get Sal’s help, too. One of our biggest bettors told me he’d pay his debts when Johnny comes back! Sal did have to get a little rough with him, I heard.” The women exchanged a troubled look. Amie said quickly, “I don’t feel sorry for him! He can afford to pay up. He got so nasty with me, he should have expected to hear from Sal.”