But Costello grinned genially and said, “You tell me! Maybe they’ll give our boy a medal of honor, too.” The man chuckled.
When they reached the lobby and walked out to the street, the doorman swiftly hailed a cab for Costello, who stepped aside and said, “Ladies, can I drop you somewhere downtown?” And he got into the cab with them.
“Wasn’t that Walter Winchell, the gossip columnist?” Petrina asked as they drove off.
Costello nodded. “Never tell that man anything you don’t want to read in the papers over breakfast,” he advised.
They sailed down the avenue until they turned into a side street and the cab stopped at the Copacabana. “Here’s where I get off,” he told the cabbie. “Take the ladies home. This should cover it,” he said, peeling bills from a fat, neat wad of cash. But before he could open his door, a pale, wiry man rushed up to their cab. “This guy’s a William Morris agent,” Costello muttered, lowering his window. “They never know how to wear a suit.”
“Frankie,” the man gasped, “I need your help. You know that new young nightclub singer I got? His fiancée insulted the boy’s mother, so he called off their wedding. But now the fiancée’s father is insulted. He’s got the boy hanging by his legs out the hotel window.”
Everyone, including the cabbie, craned their necks to see up the shadowy side street. At the back of the hotel alleyway, there was, indeed, a young man dangling upside down from a hotel window, over a dozen floors up. Filomena couldn’t see who was holding his legs. But she noticed several other tough-looking men peering out from a nearby window on the same floor.
Costello, oddly unsurprised, sighed heavily. The agent pleaded, “I told the fellas they gotta wait for you before they take a vote to decide if Vic Damone lives or dies!”
Petrina gasped, then said timidly, “He does have a beautiful voice.”
Costello thought it over. The agent explained, “The kid had to take a stand. You just don’t insult a man’s mother!”
Everyone held their breath as Costello silently exited the cab and stood below the window. Without glancing up, he raised his fist, then deliberately put his thumb up.
“The kid lives,” he agreed. The agent, relieved but still perspiring, looked up sharply at the men, who, watching from the second window, nodded and stuck their thumbs up.
When Petrina relayed this story to Lucy and Amie at their meeting, her rapt audience exhaled a mingled sigh of relief and awe. “I guess everybody’s safe, then!” Amie said.
But Filomena replied, “Yes, as long as Mr. Costello is Boss. Even so, Petrina and I have been talking. And we think all of us should start making some changes.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. Petrina explained, “As long as we’re connected to any business that’s illegal, we can always be betrayed or blackmailed by people like Anastasia. We can’t go to the police when we’re threatened. And suppose one day somebody like Anastasia takes over Costello’s operations and decides to drop us out a window as well? So Filomena proposes that, slowly and carefully, we ease out of all businesses that require tribute, and put our money into the same safe havens that legitimate investors do.”
“Like what?” Lucy asked skeptically. “The banks? You weren’t in this country when they all crashed, Filomena. Lifetime savings were wiped out in the blink of an eye. The same goes for the stock market. That’s just legalized gambling.”
“But it is legal,” Petrina pointed out. She took a deep breath. “I have a personal need to do this. My husband—soon to be my ‘ex’—has found clever ways to hide all his biggest assets from me, and from Pippa. He’s pretending to be poorer than he is, so that he doesn’t have to pay as much alimony and child support as he should.”
Amie clucked sympathetically. “Did you talk to Domenico, our lawyer?”
“Yes, of course. But my dear husband has thrown down his trump card,” Petrina said bitterly, still pained by the betrayal. “Richard’s lawyer said that if I try to expose Richard’s hidden assets, then he’ll petition for sole custody of our daughter. Richard doesn’t really want Pippa—because his fiancée really doesn’t want my girl. But he’ll take Pippa away from me if I threaten his money.”
“That’s ridiculous! He’s the one who’s been having an affair, not you,” Lucy exclaimed.
“He’s denied the whole affair,” Petrina said. “And he says he can claim custody on ‘moral’ grounds; you know why? He says that my family is a ‘bad environment’ for Pippa, because we are nothing but gangsters, and because she’s been traumatized by witnessing Tessa’s murder. They can make it all sound even more terrible than it was.”
The other women fell silent. “The thing is,” Petrina said, “there is some truth to it. Pippa was traumatized. She’s had nightmares for months. Her schoolwork suffered. She even had to go to a psychiatrist, which only helped a little. If it weren’t for Pippa’s dance teacher, I don’t know what I’d have done. Dance is her salvation. Pippa’s teacher believes she can get her a scholarship for next year to an academy to train to be a professional dancer. As for me, I have to earn my own living, because I’ll be getting peanuts from Richard. That’s the deal. I get Pippa, and he keeps more of his lousy money. This is why I want my earnings to be legit, so Pippa can be proud of us, and her legacy.”
She nodded to Lucy and Amie. “Don’t you want the same for your children? Do you want us all to be beholden to leg breakers forever?”
Thinking of Christopher, Lucy could not ignore the wisdom of this. No matter what high-minded morality you told children to abide by, they simply emulated what they saw at home. She said thoughtfully, “But how will we do it?”
Filomena replied, “We ease out of the betting operations at Amie’s bar slowly, cover fewer bookies. We’ll have to devise a way to get our big-time card players to move their game elsewhere. Also, since Mayor La Guardia is now investigating ‘silent partnerships’ in nightclubs and bars, we should sell off our interests in the clubs and sell a few apartment buildings, too, so we can use that money to invest in suburban real estate in Westchester and Connecticut. When this war is over, there will be lots of returning soldiers who’ll want to marry their sweethearts, have a family, and own a house.”
“President Roosevelt has signed the new ‘G.I. Bill’ to help veterans get mortgages with low interest and no down payments,” Petrina said. “So, when the war ends, we should be able to sell our suburban property portfolio for a nice profit. And yes, we should invest in stocks and banks, too. Things the Bosses won’t get a cut of.”
“Essentially,” Amie said wryly, “we are talking about laundering our own money through real estate and the financial markets. But it’s a start.”
“We mustn’t wait too long,” Filomena said steadfastly. “The ultimate power is the ability to walk away, without holding out for ‘the last big score,’ as they say.”
“I noticed you’re starting with Amie’s and my operations first,” Lucy said tartly. “What about Tessa’s book, eh, Filomena? You’re operating the most dangerous business we’ve got!”
“And that’s exactly why I must go slowly,” Filomena replied, “so as not to alert the Bosses too soon. But I am phasing it out, a little at a time, being careful about taking on new debtors—only the ones I know can repay quickly. So, one day, Tessa’s book will be closed, too.”
The finality of all this hit the women at once. Until now, they’d functioned as temporary keepers of their husbands’ businesses, holding the fort until the warriors returned. This new step meant facing the distinct possibility that their men would never come back and that this provisional existence might, in fact, be permanent.
Lucy and Amie exchanged uneasy glances. “What will the men say if—I mean, when—they come home and find out we’ve dismantled their family businesses?” Amie asked, feeling resistance to the idea of life without a husband at her side.
“Well, there’s one way to find out, darlin’,” Lucy suggested. “You can run this plan by Johnny and see what he says.�
��
Petrina rolled her eyes, but Filomena said, “Go ahead, ask him.”
So Amie had Sal drive her up to visit Johnny on Sunday, when the bar was closed. He was sitting on a balcony, surrounded by books, but dozing in the shade. He was still so fragile looking, but she thought his color was a bit better today, so she took a deep breath and told him about Anastasia, and Filomena’s plans to change the business.
To her astonishment, Johnny said instantly, “Good. Let her do it. I don’t want our sons to end up as bookies and loan sharks, bullied by racketeers and cops. I want our boys to become doctors and lawyers and professors and bankers.”
“That’s four professions. We only have two sons,” Amie teased him.
Johnny smiled, then he advised, “But make sure you sell off the nightclubs and a few apartment buildings first, no matter what Lucy says, so you can invest in stocks and bonds for backup. For our end, wait until after Christmas, to rake in the last of the holiday profits. Then you’ll have to do a bunch of things to make sure the Bosses don’t mind that we’re shutting down the bar. I’ve got some ideas. When the time comes, I’ll tell you exactly how to do it.”
* * *
One quiet Sunday, someone rang the doorbell, and then, without pause, started pounding on the door. The Godmothers were assembled in the parlor, awaiting their Sunday dinner. The children were playing in the backyard. “Police!” the caller shouted.
“Oh, God!” Amie said, stricken. “What do they want from us?”
A dozen thoughts crossed their minds, but it was Filomena who said, “We’d better answer it.” She went to the front door and opened it, but she blocked the doorway and did not invite the men in. Two young, unfamiliar officers were there; perhaps they were new recruits, for their uncertainty made them attempt to be severe.
“We got a complaint from the church,” said the bigger one, who was blond, beefy, and stony-faced. “You got a girl named Pippa here?”
Petrina heard this, rose, came to the door, and said, “Why do you ask?”
The other cop, smaller and dark haired, flipped open a pad and recited, “The monsignor at your parish claimed that this girl damaged church property and threatened a holy father there. We have to talk to her.”
Petrina was prepared to lie and say that Pippa was not home, but there were audible shrieks from the backyard as the children played. Pippa was indeed there. Dance camp had ended, now that school would soon be starting again. Meanwhile, Pippa’s cousins were rejoicing at having her in their midst. It was entirely possible that the cops had already heard the kids and therefore knew where they were. Petrina looked at Filomena, who nodded. They stepped aside to let the police into the parlor.
“Won’t you sit down?” Petrina said carefully. “I’ll see if my daughter is in.” She went to the backyard and found Pippa teaching Gemma to play jacks—flinging a handful of six-pointed, starlike metal clusters called “knucklebones” that were thrown on the ground, then scooped up while bouncing a small ball.
“Pippa, for God’s sake,” Petrina hissed. “The police are here. They say you did damage at the church and threatened a priest. What’s going on?”
Pippa looked startled, then defiant. “I did not damage the church,” she said distinctly.
“Then why are they here?” Petrina whispered suspiciously.
Pippa stood up and said, “Because that priest is a creep and a liar, that’s why.”
“What did you do?” Petrina exclaimed, shocked.
“Nothing!” Pippa shouted, at which point the bigger cop came to the doorway.
“We’d like a word with you, missy,” he said sternly.
Pippa sized him up, then cried, “Go ahead and arrest me, I don’t care!” But she shot past him, making a run for the stairs.
The officer reached out and grabbed her arm lightly but firmly. “Come with us,” he said firmly, and they all marched back into the parlor.
Under the cover of this hubbub, Lucy murmured to Filomena, “Call Pete the cop. It’s his day off, but he’ll come. He helped us with Chris. His number is in the little pad in my purse.” Filomena nodded and went off.
The smaller policeman consulted his notebook again. “Father Flynt tells us that you destroyed church property on the roof,” he stated.
Lucy said, “Isn’t he the new priest who joined our parish at Christmastime?”
“Yes, he’s been teaching remedial reading this summer,” Amie said, troubled.
Pippa said, “Well, he’s old and mean and rotten, and Gemma told me he made Vinnie and Paulie cry. That’s not very holy, if you ask me.”
“Who’s Vinnie and Paulie?” asked the dark-haired policeman, baffled.
“Pippa, what’s going on here?” Petrina demanded, losing patience now.
But Pippa only burst into tears. “I promised I wouldn’t tell!” she shouted.
By now Vinnie, Paulie, and Gemma had come inside, but the boys, upon hearing their names, shrank back and retreated into the dining room, where they scooted under the table and remained there, hidden by the tablecloth.
Filomena, being the youngest of the Godmothers, spoke in a calm, conversational voice to Pippa, like a big sister. “Tell us about that priest. Why did he upset you?”
“He didn’t upset me,” Pippa corrected, swinging her dark ponytail. “He made Vinnie and Paulie come up to the roof and feed his rotten old pigeons. They stink.”
“He only does that with boys he likes,” Gemma volunteered.
“His ‘favorites.’ Only they are allowed to feed his pigeons,” Pippa said with strained patience for the denseness of adults. “He’s been trying to get the twins up there for months.”
“So, this priest picked Vinnie and Paulie to feed the pigeons?” Amie asked.
“Yeah, he likes them because they’re twins,” Pippa said ominously. “They didn’t wanna go, but he got mad and said God would be ‘displeased’ if they didn’t.”
“So, what did you do, Pippa?” Petrina asked sternly.
Looking outraged, Pippa exclaimed, “I didn’t break anything or damage anything in the church. I only told that rotten priest that if he didn’t cut it out, I’d kill his lousy pigeons. He still wouldn’t stop, so I had to do something,” she said scornfully.
“Father Flynt says she broke open all the cages and set the pigeons loose,” the dark-haired police officer volunteered. “He also said she threatened to shoot him.”
“Pippa, how could you do such a thing?” Petrina gasped.
Lucy had been watching the girl closely now and recognized something she’d seen, from time to time, on the faces of children at the hospital. She said knowingly, “What else did the priest make the twins do, Pippa, besides feed the pigeons?”
“I can’t say, it’s too ugly,” Pippa said emphatically, glancing at the policemen.
“Maybe she can tell me, alone,” Lucy suggested. “Come with me, Pippa.”
The others watched, mystified, as Lucy led the girl into the garden. For some time, Lucy and Pippa sat there, talking, with Pippa occasionally gesturing. Then Lucy patted her shoulder, and Pippa remained behind while Lucy returned to the adults.
“Amie, why don’t you take the other kids into the backyard and let Cook give them their supper on the little table out there?” she suggested. “Because little pitchers have big ears.”
Amie grasped this, took Gemma with her, and dragged her twin sons out from under the dining-room table into the yard, where she left them with Cook.
Lucy turned to the waiting policemen. “Apparently this priest is in the habit of enticing young boys up to that roof and making them pull down their pants and touch themselves,” she said bluntly. “Sometimes the priest touches them. Sometimes he makes them touch him. Fortunately, this time, it didn’t get that far. Pippa was in church and saw the priest talking to the boys after Mass and making them come up to the roof with him. So, she followed, and watched from behind those pigeon coops. She intervened as soon as the priest tried to unbutton the
ir pants.” There was a communal gasp.
The bigger cop muttered, “Well, kids make up all kinds of stories. Boys will be boys—”
“Not our boys,” Amie said sharply, trembling with controlled fury now.
“All Pippa did was turn the pigeons loose,” Lucy said reasonably. “I’d say that priest is lucky she didn’t push him right off the roof. She was simply defending her little cousins. They’re such young lads and couldn’t do it themselves.”
“What about a gun?” the dark-haired policeman asked. “The priest said Pippa threatened him with a gun. Sorry, we’ll have to arrest her.”
“No!” Petrina cried out. “She’s just a girl. You can’t take her to jail!” She looked pleadingly at Lucy, who was also thinking of what incarceration had done to Johnny’s health.
“I didn’t hear a thing about a gun,” Lucy fibbed, glaring at the cop. “So it’s his word against ours. Frankly, officers, I advise you to tell that priest that if he even thinks of pressing charges for his silly pigeon coops and his nervous fantasies, we will file a report for his lewd behavior. I am a professional nurse, and my word will carry weight with the law.”
The men exchanged a look of uncertainty. Petrina, still terrified of what they’d do, said, “Furthermore, tell the monsignor that if that disgusting priest isn’t taken out of our school and our church—and locked away in some monk’s cell where he won’t be near children ever again—then our lawyer will see that both of those ‘holy men’ spend the rest of their lives in prison.”
“Should I call the sergeant?” the shorter cop asked the other. Now there was a knock on the front door. It was Pete, the policeman they’d called. Lucy quickly summed up the situation.
“Pete,” she concluded meaningfully, “I wonder if you will explain to your colleagues that we are a well-respected family in this neighborhood, and that this new priest should consider himself lucky that we are not pressing charges against him.”
Pete said to the other officers, “Come along, boys, I know these people. No real harm done today. I’ll straighten it out with the monsignor. Good day, ladies.”
The Godmothers Page 27