The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  “May we sit?” she asked.

  He recovered his manners. “Of course.”

  Filomena and Amie sat down. “Today is not a day for small talk,” Filomena said in a low voice, “so, con il vostro permesso, we will go straight to the business at hand.”

  He nodded. It was Amie’s turn to speak, so she said resolutely, “Years ago, you conducted business in my tavern, but one day, some men planted a microphone at your table to trap you. But a pregnant lady stopped you on the street and warned you not to go inside that day. I am that lady.”

  Strollo looked at her more respectfully now and said, “Yes. That, I remember.”

  Amie had memorized what Strollo said to her back then, and Filomena had explained its significance. Now, Amie recited it, word for word. “You said, Grazie, ricorderò questa gentilezza. In all this time, I never needed your favor in return, until now. This is why we are here today. We need una gentilezza from you.” Strollo raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  Filomena spoke now. She said, “Our family is going out of the business.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that you’ve been having a fire sale,” he commented. “‘Everything must go,’ as they say. Do you think this is wise?”

  Filomena nodded. “We are modest people, and we have worked hard, but we are older now and must retire. It’s important to retire in time, before one starts to make mistakes,” she said boldly. “All we ask is that our family be left alone to live in peace.”

  Strollo spread his hands. “I’m not God,” he said.

  “But we are all his angels, even if we are his fallen ones,” Filomena said. He allowed himself a wry smile. “Would the Bosses leave us in peace if you asked them to?” she inquired.

  He shrugged. “Sure. If I ask. But,” he said slyly, “as I understand it, you still have some money left on your book. Which means it should keep coming our way.”

  “That is why I am here,” Filomena said. “You speak of my book. Another man wanted to buy my book. But as you must know, he is now dead.”

  Strollo remained sphinxlike. Filomena knew perfectly well that he could be in league with the very men who’d killed Albert Anastasia. She was treading in dangerous territory, even just mentioning it.

  Now she pulled out the book and laid it on the table. She had not cleaned off the blood. Strollo saw this, and although his eyes reflected instant recognition, he said nothing.

  “But I will give this book to you,” Filomena said, “so that you can give the Bosses the last of what they need from us, in exchange for my family’s peace.”

  Amie watched all this in awe. Filomena could have simply tried to sell him the entire book, so that she could make one last profit. Instead, the path Filomena had chosen meant that she was, in effect, exchanging all the remaining income in her book for her ticket out, which had much more value to her. It was the consummate roll of the dice, proving that Filomena had really meant what she’d said, years ago, when she’d first convinced the Godmothers of her plan to get away from the Bosses: The ultimate power is the ability to walk away, without holding out for “the last big score.”

  Strollo studied her. “I knew Gianni and Tessa. They were good people.” He paused. “All right. This will be acceptable to us.”

  Filomena said, “Thank you.”

  In one deft move, Strollo folded his newspaper around the ledger and then laid the parcel on an empty chair beside him. He had not once opened Tessa’s book, but he knew what was in its pages. Now he took a cigar from his pocket but politely did not light it, waiting for Filomena and Amie as they rose to go.

  “In bocca al lupo,” he said suddenly.

  “Crepi il lupo!” Filomena replied.

  When they were back out on the street Amie whispered, “What was all that?”

  “It’s a hunter’s expression for luck, when you are both in a dangerous situation and pass each other in the woods. Like actors when they say ‘Break a leg.’ He said, In the mouth of the wolf,” Filomena explained. “And I said, May the wolf die.”

  34

  New York City and Apalachin, New York, November 14, 1957

  November arrived with a brisk wind and darker afternoons that caused the city streetlamps to glow as early as four o’clock in the afternoon. But the weather was unusually mild for this time of year.

  “Hey, guys,” Chris said to the twins, one soft, cloudy morning, “you want to help me out? I’m cooking for a private party tonight, in upstate New York.”

  They were in the kitchen of the downstairs apartment in the Greenwich Village town house where the twins had grown up with Amie and Johnny. Chris now shared this apartment with his sister, Gemma. Vinnie and Paulie had come to town for a classmate’s birthday party last night, then stayed over with their cousin Chris.

  “I thought this was your day off,” Vinnie said. “That’s what Mom said. You moonlighting for somebody else?”

  “Nah. This is just a one-off,” Chris explained. “I owe a favor to a guy who runs a catering company. If you help me load and unload the truck, and assist me in the kitchen, there’s good money in it for both of you.”

  “Sure, we could use the moola,” Vinnie agreed. Both twins were short of funds, since their mother, Amie, kept them on a tight budget. The other kids at the academy got much better allowances, which gave them more spending money for date nights. You couldn’t ask a girl out without ready cash, and the holiday season meant lots of parties.

  “Okay, let’s get all this food into the coolers,” Chris instructed. “Pack it well in the ice, we can’t let anything spoil. Believe me, we’re cooking for some very important people who will not take it well if you ruin the meals at their big shindig.”

  “Look at all that meat!” Paulie marveled as they hoisted the boxes. “Are you cooking for an army or something? What is all this?”

  Chris took a pencil from behind his ear and consulted his list. “Two hundred seven pounds of steak, twenty pounds of veal cutlets, and fifteen pounds of cold cuts,” he said as he ticked them off. This was going to be a spectacular dinner with many guests.

  Vinnie and Paulie obediently carried the heavy sacks of food, trotting back and forth to a truck parked in front of the house.

  “Here’s the address, and a map,” Chris said. “Paulie, put that in the car, too.”

  “Hell, that’s a crummy map. I got a better one,” Paulie said.

  “Fine. Copy the directions onto it, and let’s get going,” Chris said.

  When they were ready, Chris took off his apron and shouted upstairs, “Hey, Ma, I’m going to cook for a private party upstate. I’ll see you in Westchester.” And before Lucy could answer, Chris and the twins had hopped into the truck and roared off.

  Lucy and Filomena were upstairs drinking tea. Filomena had returned from an appointment at the bank, and she’d found Lucy poring over car catalogs. Lucy had explained, “Frankie taught me how to drive while we were in California. Now all I need is a car. I think this is a nice model—pine green, with cream-colored leather seats.”

  Frankie and Mario were in Westchester, having been invited to go fishing with Petrina’s new husband, Doug. Lucy and Filomena would meet up with their husbands tomorrow. They were looking forward to seeing Petrina, who’d just returned from her honeymoon in Bermuda.

  “Petrina was a gorgeous bride, in that pale blue gown with all that elegant beading on it—thanks to our resident seamstress, Gloria,” Lucy observed. “Why, Petrina looked ten years younger, coming down that aisle!”

  “So do you, after your California trip,” Filomena replied with a smile. “You and Frankie came back looking like a pair of honeymooners yourself!” Lucy blushed.

  When Chris called up to them, Lucy glanced out the window and saw him and the twins mysteriously loading up a strange truck. “What’s this all about, then?” she said suspiciously to Filomena. “They’re up to some shenanigans, no doubt.” She hurried down to confront Chris, but by the time she got outside, the young men were gone.

/>   An hour later, a soda delivery van neatly pulled up in its place. The driver was a short, stocky young man who knocked on the back door at the kitchen and asked for Chris. When Lucy told him that Chris had departed for the weekend, the man looked aghast.

  “Holy cow!” he exclaimed. “I was supposed to unload all this stuff so Chris could take it with him. He’s got to have it. If he doesn’t, we’ll both catch hell.”

  “So why don’t you just drive up there?” Lucy said reasonably.

  “Drive all the way upstate? I gotta work here in the city all weekend.”

  Filomena had followed Lucy into the kitchen and now she noticed a folder there. “Chris left this map on the countertop,” she offered. Lucy peered over her shoulder, saying, “What’s the name of this town they circled? Appa—what?”

  “Apalachin,” the man said, pronouncing it Apple-lake-in.

  “Oh, dear God!” Filomena gasped. “Not that place!”

  The man nodded and said darkly, “All the big shots will be there. And they ain’t gonna be too happy if they don’t get their cream soda and root beer.”

  Lucy was truly worried now. “What kind of trouble is Chris in?”

  “The kind you can get your head blown off for,” the man said inelegantly.

  Filomena pulled Lucy aside and said in a low tone, “Mario told me the Bosses are holding a special conference there and it’s very tricky—Genovese wants to be recognized as the head of Costello’s family, and Carlo Gambino wants to take Anastasia’s place. The Bosses will take a vote. Nobody can afford to make a false move. Our boys mustn’t be there.”

  “Oh, Lordy! Then we have to do something,” Lucy said urgently. “Chris just can’t get into trouble again. Frankie will kill him.”

  They returned to the stocky young man in the doorway. He said coaxingly, “All you have to do is deliver these goods. You got a truck?” he asked doubtfully.

  “We do not,” Lucy said, annoyed. “You’ll have to let us borrow your van.”

  “Aw, nuts,” the man grumbled, handing her the keys. “This just ain’t my day.”

  Approximately four hours after they’d left the city, Vinnie and Paulie managed to get Chris to tell them what this “shindig” was all about. Just running through the guest list was enough to give them a serious pause.

  “Joe Profaci, Tommy ‘Three-Finger’ Lucchese, Don Carlo Gambino and his capo ‘Big Paul’ Castellano, Don Vito Genovese—”

  “We’re cooking for all the Big Bosses of New York?” Paulie asked in disbelief.

  Chris grinned. “And their capos. And a Boss from Florida—Santo Trafficante Jr.—and hotshots from Pittsburgh, Philly, Cleveland, Los Angeles, Colorado, Massachusetts.”

  “Didn’t they just have a big convention like that last year?” Vinnie asked. “I thought they only do these ‘barbecues’ every five, ten years.”

  Chris smiled enigmatically. “That’s right. But this is no ordinary year. The new Bosses want to make sure that nobody tries to take revenge on them for the shootings of Costello and Anastasia. But keep your mouths shut about it. They got other items on the agenda, too—things that you don’t want to know about.”

  Vinnie and Paulie exchanged a doubtful look. Hadn’t they all been warned about the new rackets, like heroin? “How’d you get roped into this?” Vinnie asked dubiously.

  “I told you. I used to work for this caterer, and I owe him a favor,” Chris said. “When you owe a guy a favor, it’s better to get it over with quick. Besides, there’s good money here for all of us. Relax, guys.”

  Vinnie nervously turned on the radio, which was playing “That’ll Be the Day” by a great new group, Buddy Holly’s Crickets.

  Chris knew that the Godmothers would definitely not approve of this jaunt, yet it couldn’t be helped. A man had to keep several irons in the fire just in case things didn’t pan out, such as working in Godmother Amie’s suburban restaurant. Oh, it looked promising, for profits; Amie’s combination of authentic French and Italian cooking was attractive to the United Nations diplomats and Manhattan theater folk who lived in those elegant suburbs.

  But Chris wasn’t at all sure that he was cut out for spending the rest of his life in the cautious atmosphere of these quiet towns. He was feeling restless already.

  “Damn, where are we? I just saw some cows in that field. We must be almost to Pennsylvania by now,” Vinnie complained a short while later, with a city-boy horror of rural life. It was not lost on him that the radio was now playing “Jailhouse Rock.” “I bet the mobsters come all the way up to the boondocks here because they know the cops and the Feds—and anybody in their right mind—would never look for them here. The whole place gives me the jitters.”

  He’d been gazing apprehensively at the scenery; this far north, the air was cooler, and the trees were bare of their autumn leaves, looking like angry skeletons bracing for months of winter ahead.

  “Shut up,” Paulie advised. He was actually in awe of the countryside. There were big red barns and yellow tractors in the wide-open fields, where corn and grain grew. There were fruit trees, and even grapevines, and chicken coops, and old grey horses pulling carts. Food came from old-fashioned places like this, then got packed onto trucks or loaded onto boats that floated down the river. It made the city seem artificial, like a strange dream they’d left behind. Did the mobsters come up here to escape the rat race, to be reminded of the old country?

  Finally, they turned off the main highway, taking a country road that led them to a verdant, secluded estate that resembled an English manor house on a hill.

  “Looks like the country digs of the Prince of Wales or something,” Paulie observed of the rolling green lawns and mature trees. “Whose set-up is this? Must be a hundred acres.”

  “A hundred thirty acres. Belongs to Joe the Barber. The Boss of a Pennsylvania crime family,” Chris said. “Used to be a bootlegger. Runs a beer and soda company.”

  “Well, we must be in the right place. Look at all those Caddys and whitewalls!” Vinnie marveled, for, as they drew nearer, they saw that the estate was ringed with beautiful luxury cars parked neatly in a row, like an outdoor showroom for the world’s most expensive autos.

  Chris slowed the truck for a guard at the gate, gave the name of his caterer, and was waved through. “Come on, boys,” Chris said as he pulled his truck to a back entrance where he’d been told he could get to the kitchen. “Time to unload.”

  Filomena spent the first few hours of this trip holding on to the rims of her seat and silently praying to the Madonna to keep her alive through this perilous journey. It wasn’t the mobsters that she feared; it was Lucy’s driving that threatened life and limb.

  “This van is a wee bit different than driving a car,” Lucy had admitted from the moment they’d lurched away from the curb, to the sound of soda and beer bottles clinking ominously on their pallets. Filomena held her breath and considered it a miracle that they survived all the careening and swerving through the city, where she crossed herself more than once at what looked like an imminent crash.

  But Lucy stuck her chin out in determination and hunkered down behind the wheel, grimly steering out of town and along the busy highway for hours. Once they were in the countryside, things settled down—somewhat—and Filomena began to breathe easier.

  Lucy said cheerfully, “Well, after this trip, it’s a cinch I’ll get my driver’s license.”

  At Filomena’s shocked look, Lucy said hastily, “There wasn’t time to do it when I got back from California. I’ve been so busy. Did I tell you I just got a promotion at the hospital?”

  Filomena congratulated her, having already admired the heroic way that Lucy, with her sturdy arms and capable hands, manipulated the steering wheel and car levers to make this beast of a machine obey her commands. It was easy to imagine the competent Lucy at work at the hospital, dealing with blood and flesh with the same combination of athletic physical strength and quick, intelligent brain work.

  Lucy caught her glance
and said abashedly, “I’m just a brute of a girl, eh? I’m not educated or elegant—like Petrina, and she, so tall and fine, with those delicate bones of hers, those lovely long legs and fingers. Ever seen the size of her wrists? You’re a bit like that, too.”

  “But Frankie once told me that you’re unica—una ragazza bellissima acqua e sapone,” Filomena said. “A rare ‘soap and water’ beauty.”

  Lucy smiled. Frankie did still adore her. She knew that now.

  Filomena glanced at the map. “You turn off the road here.”

  Lucy followed her directions and pulled up to the gate of an impressive manor house. When they saw a guard there, Lucy slowed down and opened her window.

  Asked for their names, she said only, “Sally and Jane. We’re with the caterers. We’ve got their soda. See? The company name is on the side of this buggy.”

  “You think I wouldn’t recognize one of the Boss’s delivery vans?” the guard said. “Go through. Kitchen entrance is in the back.”

  As they drove around the house, they spotted many well-dressed but heavyset men, accompanied by younger sidekicks, all streaming toward the front door, talking and laughing in rich, deep male voices.

  “Not a woman in sight,” Lucy observed. “We’ll stick out a mile. We’d better keep a low profile.” She pointed to Chris’s parked truck. “He’s here,” she said triumphantly.

  She stopped and they got out. They marched to what was clearly the kitchen door, where aproned workers were moving to and fro amid the clatter of dishes. Inside the kitchen, there were appetizing scents wafting from various stovetops: men were sautéing steaks and veal cutlets; in another corner, sausages and onions sizzled in their enormous frying pans.

  Filomena spotted the twins, wearing long aprons like the others, resembling butchers. Chris, busy at a huge oven, had paused to speak to a spiffy, authoritative young man in a well-tailored blue suit who’d entered from the main house and seemed to be assessing their progress. The other workers were immediately deferential to this young man, but Lucy heard Chris say to him, “Hey, where the hell is the fish?”