The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  “Fine,” Filomena said guardedly, hearing the threat beneath the question.

  He was smoking his cigarette reflectively now, as if sizing her up to determine if she could be relied on. “You’re not an American. Where you from?” he demanded.

  Filomena found herself sticking to her original story—the story she’d told Tessa, who’d repeated it to all the neighbors—of Rosamaria’s identity. “From Tropea,” she said.

  For the first time, Anastasia smiled. Filomena wasn’t sure that this improved things at all, but he said, “Tropea? Hah. Me too. Nothing much to miss from there, eh?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, as if this were some sort of interrogation.

  Filomena felt as if it were Rosamaria who answered. “The beautiful blue sea. And those perfect red onions, so sweet that people made ice cream with them.” He nodded.

  She shivered as an autumn wind stirred the trees. He said, “Gettin’ chilly. Let’s go inside.” He followed her indoors, where packing boxes were stacked in every room. Then he said abruptly, “You weren’t there that night—when your family asked me to do them a favor.”

  She waited in dread. He continued, “They didn’t need no help doin’ the killin’. They only needed the body taken away, so it wouldn’t show up again. You gotta know how to cut up a body. You gotta slice the lungs and the stomach just right, so they don’t fill up with air and float to the surface, where fishermen can find them.”

  Filomena felt her own stomach go cold. Somehow she’d always known that, thanks to Amie, this one incident had produced a ghost that would not die easily.

  Rather unceremoniously, Anastasia said, “I lost at the track today. Lost big, in fact. They tell me you’re the one who covers my bookie’s bets.”

  Filomena caught her breath. Anastasia’s name had never been directly on her ledger as a debtor. She had told the remaining bookies not to take on anybody new. But of course, nobody said no to this man, so it was entirely possible they’d taken his bets. She had indeed heard that he’d been losing heavily at the racetrack lately, and that this made him even more ill-tempered than usual, if that was possible.

  “So now you can do me a favor,” Anastasia said, exhaling smoke. “Write off my bet.”

  “Of course,” Filomena said, relieved. “Consider it canceled.”

  “And—I want to see this loan book everybody says you have. You can give me a nice ‘taste’ of it for protection, before that cocksucker Genovese gets his grubby fingers on all of it.”

  Filomena did a quick calculation. She was at a point where she was finally able to think of selling Tessa’s book to someone who’d want to take over the managing of the remaining loans. But clearly Anastasia wasn’t offering to buy it from her. He wanted a “taste,” so, once he saw the ledger, he’d surely ask for a staggering weekly share.

  She wished she could just give him Tessa’s book and be done with these men. But she still had to pay tribute, via Strollo, to the scary Mr. Genovese, who had taken over Costello’s territory. Already, Strollo’s Greenwich Village Crew had upped their share. Also, she was still paying 2 percent to Sal, and she had to give Domenico a weekly sum to pay the police. So she simply couldn’t afford to keep two Bosses on her ledger.

  Anastasia had been watching her face, because now he said, “And don’t go crying to Mr. Costello like last time. He comes to me for advice now.”

  “Yes, I understand that Mr. Costello has retired, and Strollo collects for Genovese now,” Filomena said, stalling for time. But Anastasia surprised her with his next remark.

  “We’ll see about that,” he answered enigmatically. She wondered if it meant that Costello was plotting a comeback of some sort, to overthrow Genovese and reclaim his territory. But all Anastasia said was, “Let’s see the book.”

  “Certainly, Signor, but you see, I don’t have it here. It’s in a safe at the bank,” she said. Gesturing at all the boxes, she added, “I’m moving a few things, so I didn’t want to keep the book here while there are movers coming in. It wouldn’t be secure, with strangers around.”

  He must have believed her, because he hadn’t yet killed her for telling this lie. He said, “Women! They have no business doing business.” Then his gaze fell on one of the packing boxes that lay open, with Teresa’s things inside. Right on top was the mysterious musical jewelry box with the little carousel pony atop it. He picked it up, wound it, and watched the pony pivot to the music. “Nice toy, don’t you think? Does your daughter, Teresa, like it?”

  Filomena tried not to show how she felt about hearing her child’s name on this man’s lips. Now she knew why she’d always been unsettled about this gift. But all she said was, “She loves it. But we couldn’t find a card from the sender. So we were never able to thank him properly.”

  “All kids should have nice toys, don’t you think?” he said, sounding oddly mournful. He replaced the music box, returned to the back door, glanced outside, then stepped out again. “All right, then, bring me the book tomorrow,” he said sternly, taking one last drag on his cigarette before throwing it on the patio and not even bothering to crush it out. “Ten o’clock sharp. Meet me at the Park Sheraton Hotel. Just ask at the lobby, they know where to find me.”

  The next morning was a bright October day, the last Friday of the month. Filomena took a taxi uptown, because Sal had the car in Mamaroneck to ferry Petrina about as she prepared for the big wedding.

  In Manhattan, people were moving briskly, as if in a great hurry to get their work done so they could have fun for the weekend. Halloween was not until next week, but many stores had paper ghosts and witches in their windows, and the society pages of the newspaper were chattering with anticipation about the upcoming masquerade balls of the rich and famous.

  When Filomena alighted from the cab at Fifty-Sixth Street and Seventh Avenue, she glanced about apprehensively. She had never been to this hotel before; it was a swanky stopover for movie stars and singers and other big shots.

  She saw a sign for the hotel’s Mermaid Room, a cocktail bar famous not only for its clientele and piano music but also for its naked mermaids painted on the ceiling. But apparently the mermaids’ exposed breasts had bothered First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt when she stayed at the hotel, and her complaint had finally caused the hotel to put bras—which appeared to be made of fishing nets—on its sensuous mermaids.

  “I must be nervous, thinking about topless mermaids at a time like this,” Filomena muttered to herself after she’d paid the cabbie and allowed the hotel doorman to open the door for her. She marched herself to the front desk, clutching Tessa’s book to her chest. She’d wrapped it in brown paper with string, as if making an ordinary delivery from a bookstore.

  When she told the clerk at the front desk who she was looking for, he said quickly, “Mr. Anastasia? He’s right over there,” and he jerked his head, indicating a barbershop across the lobby, just beyond glass doors. “Nice guy,” the clerk said reassuringly. “Gives great tips. He spends a lot of money on toys, too. He likes to give toys to kids.” Filomena peered in.

  The first face she saw was that of Gemma. Yes, here was Lucy’s daughter, all right, smiling her prettiest smile, and even in her manicurist’s smock, she looked ravishing. Her lips and nails were painted blood-red, her hair coiffed like the actress Marilyn Monroe’s.

  Gemma had just stepped forward to greet a male customer, who took her hand and kissed it, and then held it for a long time as he spoke to her while eyeing her from head to toe. When the man turned his head, Filomena recognized Anastasia. Behind him stood a big, watchful man, acting like a bodyguard.

  The barbers and other men all smiled knowingly at Gemma, as if this sort of exchange between her and Anastasia had happened before. Gemma blushed, pleased and flattered, then nodded and stepped back, busily preparing her little manicure cart so that she would be ready to do this man’s fingernails after he got his shave.

  Anastasia sat on one of the barber chairs. A barber moved forward briskly with hot towels, to prepare
his customer’s beard for his usual shave and haircut.

  “I’ll get some breakfast from the coffee shop,” Filomena heard the bodyguard say as he came into the lobby, passed her by, and disappeared out the main door leading to the street.

  And so, as Filomena later told the other Godmothers that day, all she could think of just then was that she had to drag Gemma out of there and find her a different job. With her maternal instinct at its most atavistic peak, Filomena determinedly pushed open the glass doors and entered the barbershop.

  “Gemma,” she said crisply, “come here at once.”

  Gemma looked startled, then blushed guiltily before tilting her chin up defiantly.

  “Oh, hello, Aunt Filomena,” she said cheekily.

  Anastasia said something in a muffled voice under the towels that swathed his face, and one of the five barbers in attendance assured him, “It’s okay, it’s just the manicurist’s auntie.”

  “What are you doing here?” Gemma whispered. “Did you follow me?”

  “What are you doing here?” Filomena hissed. “Do you have any idea who that man is?”

  “Of course!” Gemma took Filomena’s arm, as if to hastily sweep her out of the shop like the shorn hair that a clean-up man was brooming away. “He’s very nice. He likes me. He takes me out for drinks sometimes. Did Mom send you here to spy on me? Well, you just tell her—”

  Gemma never finished her sentence, for, at that moment, two big, burly men in dark suits, hats, and sunglasses burst through the shop’s outside door. They barreled past Gemma so forcefully that she inadvertently bumped Filomena’s arm and caused her to drop Tessa’s book on the floor, right in the midst of all those shorn hairs that hadn’t yet been swept up.

  The men with the sunglasses halted, pulled out their guns, took expert aim, and blasted away at the figure in the barber’s chair. The shots echoed deafeningly, as if everybody were standing inside a big clanging bell that wouldn’t stop ringing. Everyone dropped to the floor.

  Gemma had shrieked and held on fast to Filomena’s arm. Filomena pulled her into a corner and crouched down, trying to cover Gemma when the bullets sprayed.

  Anastasia sprang from his chair, clawing off the towels, which made him look like an Egyptian mummy staggering in a horror movie. Instinctively he threw up his arms, ducking to the left and to the right like a prizefighter defending himself. At first he seemed to be handling himself well, fighting on, even as bullets struck his left hand and his right hip; he even tried to lunge forward bullishly at his attackers, as if to strangle them with his bare hands.

  But he did not realize that he was lunging toward the mirror, and therefore at only the reflected images of his assassins, who mercilessly fired more shots from behind. Struck in the back and the head, their prey dropped to the floor, his arms splayed out helplessly. Satisfied, the killers raced out of the barbershop. Filomena heard Anastasia emit one last groan, like a wounded dog. She could not help feeling a stab of pity, as she would for any abandoned, dying animal.

  By now, everyone—men as well as women—was shouting and calling out for help, even as some remained ducked behind chairs and others rushed out the door. Gemma’s little manicure table had taken off on its own, wheeling madly until it hit a wall and came to an unceremonious halt. “Is he dead? Oh, my God, is he dead?” Gemma wept hysterically.

  “Silenzio!” It was the first sound Filomena had uttered; she hadn’t screamed nor cried out, not once. Now she heard police sirens wailing, for the man in the nearby florist shop had called for help. She grabbed Gemma by the shoulders and pulled the shaking girl to her feet.

  “I want to get out of here!” Gemma sobbed.

  “You listen to me,” Filomena murmured in a low but firm voice, with her hand gripping Gemma’s arm. “The police are coming. They will want witnesses. But nobody here is going to say they saw a thing, and neither are you. Do you hear me? People know you were here today, so you mustn’t run away; that would look bad and they’ll search for you if you run. So stay, just long enough to tell them only your name and your job, and that you saw nothing. Gemma, tell me you heard me. You did not see a single thing, do you understand?”

  “I really didn’t see it,” Gemma said shakily. “You put your arm over my head.”

  “Fine. You didn’t see it, and I wasn’t here,” Filomena said. “Just catch a cab and meet me at home. Here is money for your cab. Gemma, tell me exactly what you are going to do!” Filomena said sternly, pressing the money into Gemma’s hand.

  Gemma looked confused and terrified, but when Filomena put the money in her palm, it seemed to awaken the girl to the importance of the situation; it reminded her of, years ago, when she was a child and got money from Grandmother Tessa for Christmas. Toys are for babies, Tessa had said. But money is a serious gift.

  Filomena was relieved to see a sign of comprehension cross Gemma’s face; for a moment, she looked like her father, Frankie. “Say it,” Filomena commanded.

  “I saw nothing, and you weren’t here,” Gemma said in a sturdy voice just like Lucy’s.

  “And then?” Filomena pressed.

  “I take a cab,” Gemma said, “and I come home to you.”

  “Good.” Filomena turned to go. She paused only once on her way out of that barbershop. She’d remembered Tessa’s book, looked around wildly for it, and then spied it on the floor, where it had slid from her arm when Gemma involuntarily bumped it. Filomena surreptitiously picked it up, put it in her big handbag, and walked out onto the avenue.

  There were throngs of people crowding around now, with tourists and onlookers trying to peer in, for in New York City, bad news travels fast. But nobody paid any attention to the modest-looking woman who moved down the streets with her head deliberately bowed, so that her face would not be remembered.

  Once she was safely inside her house in Greenwich Village with the door locked, she took a little glass of brandy, which she drank more quickly than she’d ever drunk anything in her entire life. Thus fortified, Filomena remembered to remove the book from her handbag. Only then did she notice that the wrapper had been torn away at the corners, from being kicked around, and Tessa’s book was now stained with blood.

  That afternoon, Filomena knew exactly what she had to do. Now that Anastasia was out of the picture and there was only one Boss to answer to, the way was clear for her to make the boldest move she could think of. But it had to be done quickly, before some other seismic event changed the landscape yet again.

  “It’s now or never,” she told herself firmly. First she telephoned the hospital to make sure that Mario’s surgery had gone well. Mario was still feeling the effects of a sedative and couldn’t talk much but assured her that he was fine. Chris, who was with him now, told her that Amie had left the hospital and taken a subway and was on her way downtown. Chris would wait for the doctor to discharge Mario, then drive him to Greenwich Village.

  So Filomena woke Gemma, who’d made it home and had shakily drunk the red wine Filomena had given her, then gone to lie down in Filomena’s spare bedroom.

  “Come, Gemma,” Filomena said gently now. “You are leaving this city today.”

  Gemma sat up with a start at Filomena’s touch. “I keep seeing him lying there, in a pool of blood!” she whispered, trembling.

  Filomena handed her a cup of tea and said, “Yes, that is the fate of gangsters. But tonight, we put it all behind us. We are going to Godmother Amie’s house in Mamaroneck to rehearse for Petrina’s wedding. You have your dress? Good. Pack it with tissue paper, and pack enough of your things so that you can stay in Westchester for a long time. Just do as I say, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” Gemma said meekly. When the doorbell rang, she clutched Filomena’s hand.

  “It’s just Amie,” Filomena said, and went to let her in. She pulled Amie aside for a consultation, then turned to Gemma with a slip of paper and said, “If Amie and I aren’t back here within the hour, call Chris and Mario at this hospital number—and tell them I
went to see Strollo at this address.”

  Gemma asked fearfully, “Why are you going to see that man Strollo?”

  “To make us all safe.” Filomena put on her hat and took up her big handbag.

  “Maybe you should wait for the men to come, so they can go with you,” Gemma urged.

  Filomena shook her head. “No, all I need is Amie.”

  As they stepped out, Amie said, “Are you sure you want to play it this way?”

  “It’s the only way,” Filomena replied steadfastly.

  The social club, as it was called, was really a nondescript storefront with the windows permanently covered in blinds so that nobody could see inside, ever. It looked as if it were out of business. But Filomena had telephoned ahead, to ask permission to see Strollo. So when she knocked on the door, a man peered out through a peephole, unlocked the door, and permitted her and Amie to enter, before he locked it again.

  The room had only an espresso bar, several simple card tables ringed with folding chairs, a jukebox, and a back room marked Private.

  Strollo sat at a table in the farthest corner, drinking his espresso and reading his newspaper. There were other men playing cards at the opposite side of the room.

  As Filomena passed the card players, she overheard one of them say in an aggrieved tone, “They put Albert in a body bag and got two city workers to haul him to the sidewalk, like a sack of garbage. Where is the respect?” And she knew they were talking about Anastasia.

  Amie heard it, too, and exchanged a quick look of comprehension with her.

  Filomena stiffened her spine as she approached Strollo. He glanced up at her over his newspaper, then lowered it warily, revealing that “tall” head with its high forehead, and inscrutable eyes that had such a distant look. “Yes?” Strollo said.