The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  Filomena remained calm. Lucy, too, understood the laws of the streets. But Petrina wondered just how far her parents and brothers had had to go to protect their interests. They’d never spoken of it to her. But she knew that there were certain men on the payroll who occasionally “straightened people out” for them—quietly, efficiently. Usually such episodes served as warnings to others—a store burned down, a car found with its tires slashed. Had the family ever had to make good on a threat and actually hurt people? She’d never thought so, given all the genuine goodwill toward Gianni’s family—yet, Petrina couldn’t really be sure.

  Amie, with a fearful glance at Filomena, continued, “I also received a complaint about you, like Lucy did. Mine was from Gus, one of the bookies who owe us. He said that you wrote off one guy’s debt when he agreed to strong-arm Gus to pay up.”

  “Yes, I did,” Filomena said calmly. “It was an exchange of services. We can’t over-rely on Sal and his men to be the enforcers. I’ll tell you why. When I returned from the market today, Sal had a little talk with me. He says business is good, but since we’re dealing with people who think they can take advantage of women, we depend more on Sal for ‘muscle’ than our husbands did. So, Sal now wants, in addition to his salary, a cut of our operation.”

  “The nerve!” Amie said indignantly. “He’d never try that with Johnny.”

  “How much does he want?” Petrina asked warily.

  “I got him down to two percent of new business. He wanted ten!” Filomena said.

  Lucy whistled. “Strong-arming us, now, is he?”

  Filomena said matter-of-factly, “Sal is preparing for trouble. Because, today, a strange man approached me at the market. Albert Anastasia. He seemed to want a cut from us, too.”

  There was a collective gasp. “Oh, Lordy! You’d better pay him whatever he wants,” Lucy said hurriedly, remembering that big, terrifying man who’d supervised the disposal of Brunon’s body. Just the way he’d grinned at the corpse made her shudder.

  But she couldn’t say this aloud without exposing Amie’s secret, so Lucy explained, “He’s been the mob’s head assassin for years. Whenever they want somebody murdered, the five Bosses go to Anastasia, and he assigns one of his killers to do the job. But sometimes he does the killing himself—just for the pleasure of torturing people. They say he likes to hear his victims scream.”

  “How come he never gets caught?” Amie ventured, curious in spite of herself.

  Lucy said, “Don’t you read the papers? He does sometimes, but he always manages to get off, like, on a technicality. He even beat the electric chair! But that’s because Lucky Luciano and the Bosses paid for a fancy lawyer.” Lucy’s blue eyes widened as she leaned forward and whispered, “The last witness against Anastasia was under police protection at the Half Moon Hotel on Coney Island. Round-the-clock police guards, and still, he went right out a window. They called him ‘the canary that could sing but could not fly.’”

  “Coney Island again,” Petrina muttered. “What is it about that place?”

  “Anastasia’s men don’t just kill people,” Amie said darkly. “Johnny told me they do horrible murders, to send signals. Like, if someone is going to be a witness, they shoot out his eyes. If somebody steals, they cut off his hands. That sort of thing.”

  “You forgot the ice picks,” Lucy said, glancing at Filomena. “They use an ice pick in the ear to make it look like a cerebral hemorrhage so it could be a ‘normal cause of death.’ I’ve seen those death certificates at the hospital. That’s Anastasia. You see?”

  Filomena had been listening attentively with such mounting horror that she could scarcely breathe. But now she felt the surge of a fierce instinct to protect her loved ones.

  “How much does Anastasia want?” Petrina asked worriedly.

  “I’m not sure,” Filomena answered. “I didn’t understand something he said. He mentioned you, Amie,” she continued, looking searchingly at her. “He says you’re doing well, so you might need more ‘protection.’ Now, we already pay Strollo for protection. But Anastasia said, Just remind her, I know where the body is buried. What did he mean, Amie?”

  Amie had turned so pale that she looked ghostlike. Lucy glanced knowingly at her and said, “We have to tell them now.” Amie closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Petrina said briskly, “Listen, when men do business, they have to know that they can trust each other. Well, so do we. Frankie told me that the Big Bosses are very careful about who they let in on their team, and they make each man take an oath of loyalty and silence. Omertà, they call it. They even have a ceremony. They are the keepers of each other’s secrets. So that’s what we must do. You all already know my deepest secret, that Mario is my son.”

  She heard her voice wobble with emotion, but Petrina pushed on resolutely. “We all know that Lucy stole Chris—yes, you did, Lucy, you rescued him, but you stole him, too.”

  “Right,” Lucy said, her eyes bright with tears now, “and I may lose both my laddie and Frankie because of what I did. So, you’ve got my worst secret. Are you satisfied?”

  Filomena had fallen silent, thinking first about Chris and whatever terrors he was facing, and then she thought of her unborn child slumbering peacefully in her womb. Being pregnant had somehow made her extremely sensitive to the suffering of children, as if she’d lost a layer of skin and could feel both the sweetness and the pain of this dangerous world more acutely than ever. She simply could not imagine bringing a newborn child into this arena of treachery. Anastasia had said, Nice kids you all got. So, they were all at risk.

  Petrina said, “Now it’s your turn, Amie. What’s this big secret that Anastasia knows about? You’d better tell us, before you get us all killed.”

  But Amie only looked at Lucy and whispered imploringly, “Sometimes I see Brunon, out of the corner of my eye. Does it mean he’s still here, or am I just crazy?”

  Lucy said gently, “Maybe it’s because I told you never to speak of what happened, so I deprived you of confession. But here—just among us—if you say the words, and you can forgive yourself, Brunon might disappear for good.”

  Amie gasped, “It was an accident! I can hardly remember that awful night. You tell them, Lucy, I don’t want to hear it.” She clapped her hands over her ears, quivering.

  So in her no-nonsense Nurse’s Voice, Lucy told the others about Brunon, but even so, they were all gaping in astonishment when she was done. “He really was an utter beast,” Lucy concluded. “He drove Amie to it. He gave her no other way out.”

  Amie, her eyes streaming with tears, could now tell from their faces that they all knew. Cautiously she removed her hands from her ears. “Are you done?” she asked.

  Lucy said warningly, “That night, Frankie predicted that dealing with Anastasia meant trouble. The way he put it was, We just raised the devil out of hell.”

  “Well, it’s not hell, exactly,” Petrina said wryly. “It’s just New Jersey. Anastasia lives in a mansion surrounded by bodyguards and Dobermans to protect him.”

  Filomena said calmly, “So, this man did our family a favor that night, yes? But Sal tells me that Anastasia is not actually a Boss. He has to answer to the Commission of all the Bosses.” The others looked baffled until she said, “So, if he’s asking us for a cut, he may be crossing a line, stepping on Costello’s toes.”

  Lucy said, “You know, Frankie did tell me that they paid Anastasia for his services that night; it was done through Strollo. So, I think you’re right. Anastasia can’t cut into our business without ruffling some big feathers. Maybe we should complain to Strollo?”

  “No,” Filomena said, “we should go directly to Costello.”

  “But it isn’t done that way,” Amie said tremulously. “There’s a protocol, I heard the men say so. You never go directly to the Boss. You follow the chain of command.”

  Petrina said, “Nuts to that. For all we know, Strollo could be in cahoots with Anastasia. Wouldn’t that be stupid, if that were the case
and we unwittingly complained to him? This threat doesn’t sound like it came from Costello—if it had, I bet Anastasia would have said so outright. So, I agree that we should go to Costello about this. I’ve met him; he likes me. And he can bring Anastasia to heel.” Amie and the others looked up hopefully.

  “Do we all agree?” Filomena asked. They nodded solemnly. “That’s all, then.”

  Lucy spoke up. “Not so fast. You said we have to trust one another, by revealing our deepest secrets. Well, we’ve all done that, except for you.” She nodded boldly to Filomena. Fair was fair, after all. She’d just bet this self-possessed girl had a secret or two.

  Petrina glanced at Filomena. “Well, that’s true, Rosamaria.”

  Filomena was accustomed to being called by her cousin’s name, but now, as they all turned to her expectantly, she realized she’d always known that, one day, this moment of truth would come. I can trust them about as far as I can throw them, I suppose. But oh, Rosamaria, I am so tired of answering to your poor name. You are with the angels, and you have always been my guardian angel. So, I think I will tell them the truth, if only because a secret starts out weighing no more than a pebble, but ends up being a boulder on one’s heart.

  “All right,” she said. They all leaned forward. She almost smiled at their eagerness, then said quietly, “My name is not Rosamaria. That was my cousin; she was the girl Tessa sent for. She was brave and loving. We grew up together, treated like slaves in a cruel household. Rosa kept me alive when all I wanted to do was die. Yet in the end, it was Rosamaria who died.”

  She heard them gasp. Then she spoke of how she had been abandoned to pay a debt; and of the bombing of Naples, when the church was reduced to rubble; and how she ended up taking Rosa’s place. “My real name is Filomena. Now you know my secret. Mario knows, too. No one else. When our men return from the war, and when the children are old enough to understand, we’ll tell them, and say that ‘Rosa’ was just my nickname. All right?” she said softly.

  The others, sympathetic now, murmured their assent. Lucy was especially moved, and, grasping Filomena’s hand, she said in a low voice, “My mother let my dad kick me out of the house. Just when I needed Ma most! I was only a girl. I couldn’t ever do that to my girl!”

  Petrina squeezed Lucy’s hand and said with feeling, “Me too. Mom hid me far away from home, as if I’d committed a terrible crime! What’s more natural than having a baby?”

  Amie’s eyes were already bright with sympathetic tears, but now she grasped Petrina’s hand and whispered, “I lost my mother when I was four years old. I think I remember her softness near me—but Papa only had a blurry photo of her, so I can never really see her face.”

  They fell silent for quite some time, having automatically formed a circle, holding hands to bear the unbearable. But something fortifying had happened on its own; the shared pain was giving them a new feeling of the power that lay within this circle.

  “I always wanted sisters,” Petrina said finally, looking around the table. “And here I have them. Can you feel how strong we are? We should never break this circle. Let’s swear it!”

  Lucy nodded vigorously and tilted her chin up. “Okay, then! If we’re going to pledge our loyalty, let’s have an official ceremony. We need a name for this secret society of ours.”

  “The Godmothers,” Amie suggested shyly. Petrina went to a sideboard and picked up a small, sharp knife; a candlestick; a pen; one of Tessa’s calling cards; and matches.

  “I heard that the men use holy cards,” Amie said. “Tessa had ones of the Madonna.”

  “No. I can’t burn a holy card! Especially not the Madonna,” Petrina objected. “The nuns told us we’d burn in hell. This will have to do. Lucy, you’re a nurse. You sterilize the knife.”

  Petrina took the pen and wrote a large G on the back of the card. “We are each going to put our blood onto my mother’s card,” she declared, “and pledge our loyalty to her and each other.” The others watched in horrified fascination as Lucy dutifully prepared the knife, and Petrina used the tip to draw blood from her finger and trace it over the top of the G.

  “You others,” she said, “finish tracing the letter.” Lucy cleaned the knife and smeared her blood halfway down the G. Then it was Filomena’s turn to prick her finger and trace her blood on the bottom of the G. Amie, looking pale, insisted that Lucy prick her finger for her, then Amie hastily completed the task of tracing the final tip of the G.

  “We solemnly swear to never reveal the family secrets and stand by one another, no matter what comes,” Lucy intoned. The others repeated the words in hushed voices.

  Petrina lit the candle and instructed each woman to hold a corner of the card. Together they guided the card over the flame. They watched in silence as the blood-smeared G sizzled and burned, until the card shriveled into ashes. Now holding one another’s hands again, they blew out the flame, and felt the strength of each other’s grasp.

  25

  August 1944

  When Petrina got an appointment to see Mr. Costello, she insisted that Filomena come along. “He wouldn’t talk on the phone. So I have to go to him. Maybe he’ll be nicer with a pregnant woman like you there. The meeting’s at his penthouse at the Majestic. It’s on Central Park West, remember? We saw it when we shopped for your wedding.”

  “Yes, I’ll go with you,” Filomena said. She put on a blue linen summer dress, which had a matching jacket. Petrina wore a fitted black silk suit. They both wore hats and gloves.

  When they stepped outside on this lively summer day, men and women alike paused on the sidewalk to look up admiringly at the proud, well-dressed Petrina and Filomena.

  Their cab dropped them off at Seventy-Second Street. The Majestic was a tasteful art deco skyscraper with two towers of exclusive and expensive apartments that were home to what Petrina called “the movers and the shakers” of New York City.

  A uniformed doorman sprang into action to let them in. Filomena was amazed at the stunning opulence of the lobby. Beneath soaring ceilings, the floor was tiled in white, gold, and black diamond shapes. There was a dramatic, sweeping carpeted staircase with elaborate wrought-iron railings and, at its landing, three enormous, arched windows that made it seem like a temple of wealth.

  “I feel like Dorothy, going to see the Wizard of Oz,” Petrina muttered as they entered one of the soundless elevators that sped upward to the very top. “The Wizard of Oz,” she repeated. “It’s a movie. Oh, never mind,” Petrina sighed at Filomena’s blank look.

  “Petrina—what if it was Mr. Costello who told Anastasia to ‘shake us down,’ as you say?” Filomena whispered, feeling suddenly doubtful for the first time.

  “Then we’re doomed,” Petrina hissed.

  A butler showed them into the penthouse, a plush dwelling also decorated with art deco furnishings, very tastefully appointed, except, as Petrina said later, for the gold-plated baby grand piano in one corner. The famed slot machines, supposedly rigged so that guests couldn’t lose, must have been kept in another room.

  “College Girl!” Costello exclaimed in that strangely raspy voice, emerging from his study, cigar in hand. “You know, I only made it to third grade myself. But I graduated from ten universities of hard knocks. Can I get you a drink? No?” He nodded politely to Filomena. “What can I do for you ladies?” he inquired. In his well-tailored suit and tie, he looked like any powerful businessman who spent the day glad-handing politicians and other worthies.

  “We’ve had a visit from Mr. Anastasia,” Petrina began. Costello, with a frown of displeasure, put down his cigar in a big crystal ashtray, then raised a finger to his lips.

  “Come see my view,” he said abruptly. Fearfully, they followed him out a French door that opened onto a private terrace with breathtaking views of the New York skyline.

  Petrina and Filomena exchanged an apprehensive glance. From this lofty vantage point, one would certainly feel like king of the hill. The city of toil lay spread out far below, its noise hushed by
the distance, and Central Park’s trees and lake looked like a verdant garden of the gods. Above, the sky was a soft, lustrous pinky blue, the clouds a luminous pearly grey-and-white. Yet, it crossed Filomena’s mind that you could throw somebody off this terrace and it would be a long, long way down.

  Costello closed the door behind him. With a sharp look and a stern tone he warned, “I don’t discuss business at home. Today I made an exception for you, out of respect for your father.” He looked at Petrina keenly. At their frightened expressions, he explained shortly, “Wiretaps. There’s a new D.A. downtown. Bugged my home phone here, you believe that? Now, what’s so important that you couldn’t go to Strollo?”

  Petrina suddenly felt so lightheaded with terror that she put a hand on Filomena’s arm. So Filomena told Costello what Anastasia had said at the marketplace. “Since Mr. Anastasia was paid years ago for his—er—services, we thought we should check with you first,” she finished softly. “And we believe that you should hear directly from us about this, to avoid any confusion. We only want to know if you yourself gave this order.”

  “I did not. Say no more, I’ll straighten this out,” Costello said firmly. “Don’t worry, ladies. It’s in the bag.” He allowed a smile. “Just keep that dough rolling in.”

  Filomena tried not to imagine this genial, urbane man instructing the terrible Anastasia to dispense with her if she failed to make the payments. He opened the terrace door and they stepped back into his apartment, then he showed them out to the hallway. To their surprise, he entered the elevator with them.

  They rode in silence, until a rather sour-faced man with dark, heavy eyebrows got into the elevator. He didn’t remove his hat, even upon seeing the ladies.

  The stranger said briskly, “How-are-ya, Frankie? Is it true Lucky Luciano is running the war from his prison cell? Heard he’s helping the U.S. Navy outfox Mussolini. Are they gonna spring Lucky from jail, for being a good boy?” He barked his questions like a cop.