Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel)

by Meredith Allison

  I’ve missed you, too.

  She nodded.

  He smiled. “Good. Listen, you better get going. Hyman sent me to fetch you. But I know how you always loved to keep ’em waiting.”

  She laughed softly, but there was no mirth in it. “I’m a very different person from that girl, Charlie.” She walked past him, her heels tapping against the tiled floor as she walked back to the small ballroom where everyone was gathered.

  “Ah, here she is!” Hyman called when he spotted her. He held a hand out in her direction, and heads turned toward her. Low murmurs began filling the room.

  Mia kept her head high as she sauntered past them toward the band and Hyman. She stood next to him, and he lifted one of her hands in his.

  “The new star of The Divine, and New York City’s It Girl,” Hyman said, smiling at her. “Clara Bow has nothing on Miss Mia Angela Scalisi!”

  The room erupted into applause.

  “Miss Scalisi, will you honor us with a song or two?” Hyman went on.

  “Of course,” she called in a clear voice. “It’d be my pleasure.”

  She glanced at Gene, seated at his grand piano, and he nodded to the band. They launched into the opening strains of “Somebody Loves Me.”

  The song had been Sal’s favorite, she remembered. She’d sung it for him at his birthday party a year and a half ago. His last birthday party before she’d had him murdered. Because he’d had her brother murdered.

  A lump lodged itself in her throat.

  Nick had gotten a kick out of teasing her about the song because she’d always hated it. He’d recommended she sing it for her audition at the Chicago Theatre. The same theater outside which he’d been gunned down. Where she’d held his dying body in her arms, felt his blood seep out of him and onto her.

  A quick drumroll cued her that it was time to sing.

  Mia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The lump in her throat was too large.

  The music behind her seemed to fade. The faces of the partygoers turned blank, featureless. The overhead chandeliers glittered too brightly. She couldn’t see.

  Her knees wobbled.

  Open your mouth! Sing!

  From the front row, a bloody Sal Bellomo lifted a finger at her and laughed.

  The room began to spin.

  Nick, she thought. Nick’s not here. He has to be here. Her brother was the only one who could calm her nerves. His mocking grin always put her at ease. He was steadfast and reassuring. One glance at him was all she needed to banish her fear.

  But she could not find him in the crowd of faceless people, with a dead, leering Sal Bellomo at the front. Laughing, laughing.

  Where was Nick?

  Dead, the voice in her head said. He’s dead. You’re alone. And you’re failing.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. Sal’s mocking ghost faded, and the room came back into focus.

  The crowd was quiet. Partygoers murmured to each other in hushed voices as they cast furtive, confused glances in her direction.

  Hyman approached her from where he’d been standing off to the side, a concerned and slightly annoyed look on his face. He leaned close, putting a hand on her back.

  “What’s the problem, Mia?” he asked in her ear. His voice was nowhere near as gentle as the hand on her back was.

  “N-nothing,” she replied, smiling. “I just—forgot the words. I remember now.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded once, still looking doubtful, but stepped back, his highly practiced smile in place as he made his way to the side of the room. Beside him stood Charlie and Moritz. Moritz’s face held an unreadable expression. Charlie’s brow was furrowed deeply, but he blinked the expression away when her gaze landed on him. One side of his mouth flicked up, and his eyes flashed with encouragement.

  She drew in another breath. For a terrible instant, her voice came out hoarse, breaking on the first note. She cleared her throat and skipped to the next word. This time, her voice did not fail her. It rumbled in her throat before smoothing out to an easy vibration. Like breathing, her technique fell over her like a mink coat.

  The lyrics, once so despised she’d found them funny, now meant nothing at all. They were gibberish to her own ears. But she sang with convincing emotion, and soon people’s faces relaxed from confusion and concern to pleasure and excitement.

  She wondered if her old love of singing would ever come back to her.

  After the song ended, Hyman led her about the room, introducing her to people whose names she did not even hear. But she smiled and made charming remarks that came to her lips automatically.

  “You’re doing wonderfully,” Hyman muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you feeling better? Something to drink, perhaps? I’m sure there’s a glass of champagne somewhere around here with your name on it.”

  “I don’t drink, remember?” Mia kept her smile in place as they passed the governor and the senator. “I’m just a poor, teetotaling immigrant girl. Like you said.”

  He patted her hand. “You continue to fill me with pride, Mademoiselle Scalisi. That was a test, to see how closely you pay attention to details.”

  Mia stopped in her tracks. He gazed down at her, brows lifted in mild surprise. “When will you stop testing me, Hyman?”

  He gave her a chilly smile. “When things like the beginning of your first number never happen again.”

  “I told you,” she said. “I just forgot the words for a moment, is all. You know, I haven’t sung in public in a long time, Hyman. I told you this was too soon—”

  He tilted his head. “Are you not the consummate professional you insisted you were, dear?”

  She blinked. “Of course I am. But I—”

  “Then stop complaining and be a professional.” He fixed her with a hard stare before his face relaxed into easy lines. “There are people watching us right now. Smile.”

  She stretched her lips obediently, though she was sure it looked more like a grimace.

  “You can do better than that. You have a charming dimple. You should know how to use it.”

  Mia took a deep breath through her nose, wishing she could claw his face. Then she tossed her head and grinned, flexing her cheek. “Better?”

  “Much, much better,” Hyman said approvingly, taking her arm again. “And so will be your next number. Do I have to question your familiarity with the lyrics to this song?”

  “No,” she said through her teeth.

  “Excellent.” He held a hand out toward the band. “Then do what you do best, dearest.”

  She got through the next song with an ease that surprised even her. Mostly, it was because she refused to let Mr. Goldberg see her fail.

  After, she remained with the band as partygoers mobbed her. They wanted to shake her hand, tell her how charmingly she’d sung, how much they looked forward to seeing her at The Divine.

  Governor Smith bowed over her hand, pecking her knuckles. “My dear, it was a pleasure to both make your acquaintance this evening and get a sneak peek of what’s in store at Goldberg’s new place. I look forward to finding myself in the audience some night soon.”

  “Thank you,” Mia said. “I look forward to discussing more factory reform with you on those evenings. And perhaps your stance on Prohibition.”

  He blinked, then smiled widely. “Beauty and brains. An enviable combination for any young lady in these times of change. I enjoy matching wits with you.” He released her hand, then wagged a finger at her. “You’ve a long career ahead of you, Miss Scalisi. I can sense it.”

  Mia smiled politely, nodding her goodbye at him. Then she caught Hyman gazing at her from across the room. He lifted his glass of water in a toast to her, a slightly smug smile on his face.

  She wondered just how long this career might last.

  Chapter Six

  “I hope you’re not too sick of Italian food,” Charlie said as he guided Mia out of his car, driven by Joey
.

  She glanced up at the sign. John’s of 12th Street. She’d been here before. It was a quiet, little family joint that served the old-world recipes, heavy on the gravy and red sauce, that she’d grown up on. It felt and smelled more like home than anything else. She and Nick had often dined here after he’d started making a little money, when he’d come home from the war. It was one of the few places in the city he felt he could breathe.

  “No, it’s perfect,” she said. “This place has…good memories.”

  He smiled and held open the door. “I guess this is our version of Sunday dinner, right?”

  She gave him a curious look.

  “It’s Sunday now, and we’re having dinner,” he clarified. “We should be the only people here.”

  She’d been dismissed from Hyman’s party around midnight, and since it wasn’t her scene in terms of having fun anyway, she and Charlie had headed out for a bite to eat. Granted, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had the kind of fun she’d used to, in her past life.

  I guess it was before Sal’s birthday, she mused. Considering she’d nearly been raped that night, it hadn’t been what she’d considered a ball.

  “Mr. Lazzari,” a suited, heavyset man at the door said, wringing Charlie’s hand. “So nice to see you again. And this must be Miss Scalisi.”

  “Yes,” she said with a polite smile. “Thank you for having us.”

  “Ah, for Mr. Lazzari?” the man said. “For all he do for my place? Anything. Come, come.”

  As Charlie had said, they were the only people in the restaurant. Either the owner had kicked everyone out, or they’d stayed open this late just to accommodate them.

  They were led to an intimate table for two near the back of the restaurant—far away from the windows, she noted. Likely also per Charlie’s request.

  The man pulled out her chair and solicitously dropped her napkin in her lap, then set about filling their glasses with strong, house red wine.

  “This reminds me of the wine I had in Sicily,” she said after taking a sip.

  “You enjoyed your time there?” Charlie asked.

  Mia nodded. “I did. Very much. I learned a lot about my parents, about my family. My cousin Raquel is coming here in a week. She should be on the ship now. In time for the club opening.”

  “That’ll be nice to have her close by. I’m sure she’ll be overwhelmed here at first.”

  “Her brother’s wife wants her to find a husband here, but I plan to show her she doesn’t have to do that if she doesn’t want to. I’m sure Isabella will be disappointed.”

  “Maybe she’ll find a nice fella.” Charlie shrugged.

  Mia made a face. “Are there such things anymore?”

  “What am I, chopped liver?”

  She ticked an eyebrow at him.

  He chuckled. “On second thought, I’m not sure I want an answer to that. Tell me what else you did over there.”

  “I learned,” she replied. “I spent a lot of time listening to our family stories, things that happened long before Nick and I were born. Meeting people.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “About—well, lots of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Did you ever know a man called Don Catalano?” she asked.

  Charlie’s expression changed to one of recognition laced with respect. “Yes. Your and Nick’s godfather. Met him a couple times when he’d come to town on business. Good man.”

  “I spent most of my evenings with him,” Mia said. “Sitting in the blood orange groves. Drinking wine. Talking. Listening. He’s kept me well abreast of things that were happening here.”

  “Oh?” Now Charlie’s face seemed guarded.

  She decided to leave that thread untugged for the moment. “He spoke to me as a father speaks to a son,” she went on. “I enjoyed that.”

  “He knows what you did after…Nick died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s why.”

  “I picked up on that. He’s a good teacher.”

  Charlie leaned back in his seat. “What else did he teach you?” His dark eyes were focused on her as he toyed with his small wineglass.

  “The importance of learning who to trust,” she said softly.

  Before he could reply, the owner returned to refill their hardly touched wineglasses and take their orders.

  Charlie glanced at her. “The clams are some of the best you’ll ever have—even having just got back from Sicily.”

  “Ah!” The owner turned to her, and in Sicilian asked, “You visited the old country?”

  She chatted with him briefly in Sicilian, the melodic language flowing rapidly off her tongue as though she were still there. They ordered the clams.

  “Tell me,” Mia said when the owner had returned to the kitchen. “What have you been up to since I’ve been away? Really been up to?”

  He lowered his gaze, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “The don teach you how to stare at a man like you can read the bottom of his soul, too?”

  “No,” Mia said softly. “Nick taught me that.”

  Charlie sipped his wine. “It’s been…a ride since you went away. Ups and downs. ’Twenty-five was a big year for us. We got Hyman paid back—well, he paid himself back from your suggestion. That was brilliant, by the way. We made more money last year than we’d made since the war. It’s allowed us to dabble in other business avenues.”

  “Give it to me straight,” she said. “Is Morrie involved in heroin?”

  He hesitated. “Look, Mia, I know how you feel about it, but you have to understand. The earning potential with that particular product—”

  “Charles,” she said sharply.

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “Yes, he’s got a nice little heroin business going.”

  Mia drew her breath in through her nose. She shouldn’t be surprised. And she really wasn’t. Moritz was a highly intelligent businessman. He went where the money was. And the money, she knew, was in heroin. She thought back to that night at the Hotel Astor when she and Gloria had first landed in New York for Thanksgiving. She’d begged them not to go into the heroin business, and losing that, had begged them not to use any money made from Nick’s liquor deal. She couldn’t support a product that so thoroughly ruined people’s lives. True, there were drunkards on every street corner, but heroin was an especially nasty substance, and she’d seen so many young people destroy their lives after getting hooked on it. Moritz had agreed—he’d use his own personal finances, not money from Nick’s operation. She’d known at the time she was being placated, but she’d gotten away with it because she’d been Nick’s sister.

  “Whose idea was it to cut down the Templeton?”

  “Both of ours,” Charlie said. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know he’d take it that far.”

  “What did he put in it?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably one part pure rye, six or seven parts water. Grain alcohol.”

  Mia shook her head. “Nick wanted the cut batches to be half and half, with quality alcohol being added.” She glanced at the table, then lifted her gaze to his. “I don’t want that happening again, Charlie.”

  “I’ll talk to Morrie. You have my word.”

  “And the heroin stays separate.”

  “Mia,” Charlie said gently. “I brought you here so we could catch up. Not talk business. There’s more to life than just that, isn’t there?”

  The owner delivered their plates of linguine and clams. They spent a few moments in silence, eating their meals. The clams were tender, the sauce flavorful and tasting of home.

  Charlie glanced up from his plate. “You like your clams?”

  She nodded, then offered a small smile. “Some of the best I’ve ever had.”

  “I’ll bet nothing can beat fresh seafood right from the ocean, though.”

  “My cousin’s wife, Isabella, is a fine cook. She lives for Sundays.”r />
  He smirked. “She make you go to Mass?”

  “Every Sunday,” Mia said. “It…it’s hard. Going to church. Knowing everything I’ve done.”

  He nodded, eyes on his plate. He took a bite of linguine, then said, “You could always make confession.”

  She barked out a laugh. “Could I? Is that what you’ve done?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I’ve made confession before.”

  The smile left her face. “You have?”

  “Nick and I went together once a couple of years ago.”

  She lowered her fork to her plate. “Nick…made confession?”

  “He never told you?”

  Mia shook her head slowly. Yet one more thing about her brother she’d never known. He’d rarely attended Mass himself. In fact, the only occasions she remembered him going to church besides his wedding were Christmas and Easter.

  “What do you confess?” she asked.

  Charlie gave her a look. “That’s between me and God, ain’t it?”

  “And the robed man on the other side of the confessional.”

  “You blaspheme,” he said disapprovingly.

  “Don’t tell me you’re putting stock into priests these days.” She chewed her lip. “Do you…think it helps?”

  Charlie twirled pasta onto his fork. “Does it make me a changed man, you mean? You know the answer to that.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Just because I’m in a certain line of work and I’ve done certain things for that line of work,” he said quietly, “doesn’t mean I don’t have a conscience.”

  “Does it make you feel better?”

  He made a face and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  She watched him eat for a moment, thoughtfully shuffling clams around her plate with her fork. “But,” she started again, and he glanced up at her. “If you confess to…certain things, and then you don’t change, what’s the point of confessing in the first place?”

  “Sometimes the things we carry get a little heavy from time to time,” he said. “And confessing helps ease the weight. Maybe you should go.”

  She scoffed. “Like fun, I should.” She didn’t even intend to attend church and started to say so, then she remembered the commitment she’d made to Aunt Connie. “Gloria and I promised Joe and Connie we’d go to Mass and then over there for Sunday dinner. I’m pretty sure it’ll take being on a death bed to get out of that from here on out.”