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

by Meredith Allison

  “I didn’t want to be the first one to point that out,” Hyman said.

  “He’s out of his fucking mind,” Charlie said.

  “That much has been clear for some time,” Moritz said. He looked at Mia. “Can’t we get to him first?”

  She shrugged. “Your guess as to where he’s hiding is as good as anybody’s. He called me yesterday to go over all the things he demanded of me the other night. He wants the meeting set up for this Saturday. He gave me no hint where he was calling from.”

  “The only thing I despise more than someone telling me what to do is bloodshed,” Hyman said mildly. “And based on the sort of man we’re dealing with, I think that’s a guarantee if we try to fight him. Perhaps we ought to start aligning our thinking to the possibility that he will, indeed, be controlling the majority share of the liquor operation.”

  It made Mia sick to think of what had once been her brother’s brainchild falling into the hands of a man like Morelli. It would have made everything they’d gone through—including Nick’s death—pointless.

  “It all goes back to Hymie Weiss,” Charlie said bitterly. “He wanted Nick’s deal for himself—it’s why he had him killed in the first place. We managed to hold it back from him, but now he’s got a new method of attack—Morelli. He just won’t let this deal go.”

  “The North and the South Sides have been at war over territories since Prohibition started,” Moritz said wearily. “Johnny brought Al to Chicago to claim it for New York, and Hymie sent Morelli out here to claim New York for Chicago. It’s just more of the same nonsense. It won’t stop.”

  He was right. It wouldn’t stop, as long as Hymie Weiss and Jake Morelli still breathed.

  “Morelli will do anything to ingratiate himself with Maranzano and Weiss simultaneously,” Moritz said. “He’s spoken before about getting the two of them in the same room to join forces.”

  “Maranzano’s a nobody,” Charlie argued back. “Everyone knows Masseria is the boss in New York.”

  “Maranzano’s built a strong, legitimate real estate business, Charlie,” Moritz said sharply. “That doesn’t make him a nobody. That makes him incredibly smart and arguably more powerful, since he’s got plenty of legitimate backing. He might not have the clout Masseria has now, but that comes with time.”

  “So what’re you suggesting?” Charlie said. “You want Masseria to get whacked? Take a guess who’d be next.”

  “Of course I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Moritz said. “Masseria, I can’t say I care that much about, but I understand the connection. He’s more powerful than Maranzano right now, and I guess that’s what matters at the moment.”

  “Maranzano would never take on Masseria, not now,” Charlie said with a decisive shake of his head. “He don’t have the numbers. He’d get wiped out in a week.”

  “Does he know that?” Mia interjected quietly. “Does Maranzano know he’d get wiped out by Masseria?”

  Charlie lifted a shoulder. “I can’t say I’ve heard him say those exact words. I don’t spend time with him. But he’s been in this country since right after the war and he hasn’t made a move against Joe yet. I have to imagine it’s because he knows better. As long as he stays in Brooklyn and Joe operates in Manhattan, they can have some semblance of peace.”

  “So there’s no real beef between their two groups,” Hyman said.

  Charlie nodded. “They don’t like each other. But they stay out of each other’s way, and everyone gets along fine. Besides, Joe don’t like hardly anybody, anyway.”

  “And he’s never talked about moving on Maranzano?” Mia said.

  “Not to me,” Charlie said. “What I do know is that he don’t like war. He’ll do what he has to do, but he had enough of that during his war with Totò D’Aquila. They shot at him point-blank, you know. He don’t want to go through that again.”

  “You said Morelli wants the hit to go down Saturday?” Moritz asked Mia. “Did he say where?”

  “He’s leaving all of that to me,” she said.

  “Can’t we arrange it with Masseria to have men there to take him out?” Moritz said.

  “Morelli could be bringing an army with him,” Hyman said. “Have them lie in wait, expecting that very thing. And we have to remember—Mia will be there. We can’t do anything that would further risk her life more than simply going.”

  “Besides,” Charlie added, “Jake’s a made guy. We whack him, Maranzano’s going to take that up with us.”

  “So many rules.” Mia gingerly rubbed her aching left temple.

  “Want to stay alive, you gotta play by them all,” Charlie said.

  “I think we should start considering ways of protecting our current assets before Morelli gets a hold of them,” Hyman said. “And our business relationships, because I think it’s a safe assumption to make that Mr. Morelli will bungle it all.”

  “Considering how he’ll still make us do all the work,” Moritz said drily, “my assumption is that they’ll be safe. We’ll just be broke.”

  As they discussed the future of the liquor operation, Mia lapsed into silence, her thoughts whirling. The key was getting rid of Morelli first, then Hymie, but Morelli was practically untouchable. Even if she knew someone who knew where he was, the likelihood of them giving her that information was low.

  There is someone who could help…

  Her first impulse was to dismiss the idea as soon as it came to mind, but it snagged on a stubborn mental hook before it could float away. There was someone, indeed, who might be able to help her get to Morelli, but the stakes were unimaginably high, and she would need to get two men who disliked each other to agree to work together—for her sake.

  There’s no way I can pull this off. What would Nick do?

  Her brother had always loved high stakes—in poker, in business, in love, in life. The higher, the better. He’d tell her nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Go all in, or get all the way out,” he’d say.

  Even now, she could picture his grin as she told him her idea.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, interrupting whatever they’d been talking about. She had no idea.

  Three sets of eyes shifted toward her.

  She offered a small, lopsided smile, ignoring the pain in her left and focusing on the way her right cheek flexed, showcasing the dimple in her cheek not many had seen in a genuine way in a very, very long time.

  “I think I may have an idea.”

  The dreary sky threatened rain when Paolo pulled up to the brick building Mia had been directed to on Thursday afternoon. She stepped out of the car and put her hand on his arm.

  “Wait here, please,” she said. “He might not appreciate extra company I didn’t tell him I was bringing.”

  Paolo’s displeasure was plain on his face, but he nodded and slid back in behind the wheel.

  Mia walked up to the door and knocked on it three times.

  After a moment, it opened. Frankie Yale peered out at her. “You’re right on time.”

  “I’m a little early, actually,” Mia said.

  “Same difference, with him. Watch your step.” He pointed down to where a bit of concrete rose up at the edge of the doorway. “No need to trip and fall.”

  “And further destroy my face?” she quipped, stepping inside.

  The lighting in the corridor was forgivingly dim, but she could easily make out his sympathetic smile as he peered at her under her picture hat. “I wasn’t going to say nothing. I was real sorry to hear about it.”

  “Not so sorry that you stopped doing business with him.” She kept pace as he led her down the corridor.

  “Hey, I gotta make money, too,” Frankie said, shrugging. “If it makes any difference, I gave him a little what-for about it. Snatching women and kids, that’s just twisted.”

  She flicked up her eyebrows. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

  Frankie stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Hey, uh, how’s she doing? Gloria, I mean.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, Mr. Yale, I knew who you meant.” Her voice came out sharp.

  “Don’t bite my head off, all right?” he said gently. “I’m really asking. She’s a nice lady. Didn’t deserve any of that.”

  Mia sighed. “She’s doing a little better. As well as she can be, given the situation.”

  He nodded. “Give her my best, willya?”

  She wouldn’t. “Sure.”

  They walked down the hall until they reached a door that opened to a set of ascending stairs. “His office is at the top, can’t miss it,” Frankie said. “He asked that you go in alone.”

  “Thanks.” Mia paused. “Does he know what I want to talk to him about?”

  Frankie lifted his shoulders. “He’s a very smart man, Miss Scalisi. And very well-connected here in Brooklyn. He knows more than you think.” He gave her a onceover. “He appreciates you coming to ask permission. He said it shows respect.”

  “I do respect him. But this doesn’t align me with him. I want that understood.”

  He spread his hands. “He knows that. Like I said, he’s a smart man, Mia. Go on. He’s waiting for you.”

  She walked up the stairs, feeling the wood shift and creak beneath her heels as she made her way toward the closed office door at the top. Light filtered in from dusty, high windows, letting in more of the dreary day that somehow, in this stairwell, seemed bright.

  Mia lifted her fist to knock, but the stairs must have given her away, because a deep, melodic voice from behind the door said, “Come in.”

  She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  The office was small and furnished in warm, reddish wood. Beneath the window on the far-left side were a couple of chairs that faced each other over a small coffee table. Bookshelves covered the right wall. And directly before her was a sprawling desk, behind which a dark-haired man with a serious but strangely kind face sat.

  “Ah,” he said. “Mia Scalisi.” His heavy Sicilian accent made her name a song. He gestured to one of the easy chairs in front of his desk. “Please. Sit.”

  She walked toward him and lowered herself into the chair. “Thank you for seeing me. I appreciate your time.”

  Salvatore Maranzano leaned toward her, folding his hands in front of him, a proprietary smile on his face.

  “Tell me your troubles, and how I can help you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On Saturday afternoon, Paolo drove Mia to Most Precious Blood. He parked in the alley and followed her inside.

  She dipped her fingers in the font of holy water and crossed herself, then walked down the center aisle toward the altar. Eyes on the crucifix, she genuflected.

  Then, she entered the confessional and knelt.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” she said to Father Alessio through the latticed screen. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

  “Go on, my child.”

  “I took a man’s life.”

  There was a very long pause. “That…is a grave sin, indeed, my child. Sometimes we must kill in self-defense, which is not seen as a sin in God’s eyes. Was it…?”

  Mia pictured the detective lying on the ground beneath her. The moment she’d wrestled with her conscience—that all-too-brief moment where she had wondered if she should let him live. He’d been surrendering. He’d been pleading for mercy. For his life.

  And she’d murdered him.

  “No, Father,” she said in a steady voice. “It was not.”

  Another long silence. She almost felt bad for him.

  “What is to be my penance, Father?”

  “Do you mock the Lord, my child?” he whispered.

  “No,” she replied. “I only wish to know my penance.”

  “I—I…”

  She reached into her pocketbook for a wad of bills, folded them tightly, and forced them through one of the slats in the lattice cutout. “Perhaps I’ll say a rosary and a Hail Mary for his soul. What do you think?” She wiggled the bills.

  After a moment, he reached up and took them. “Yes, my child. That…that would be good. And do not do it again.”

  “No, Father. I will endeavor not to repeat my sin.” She stood slowly. “I’ll see you next week.”

  Perhaps it was the small booth. Perhaps it was knowing what she was about to go do. But the echo of her voice in the small space sounded ominous to her own ears. And when he spoke, Father Alessio’s voice trembled slightly.

  “Go in…peace, my child.”

  Mia stepped out of the booth and strolled toward the door, stopping to make pleasant small talk with the neighborhood people there to make their own Saturday afternoon confessions ahead of Mass the next morning.

  Paolo held the door for her.

  “Time for the meeting,” she said, and took his arm on the way back to the car.

  He gave her hand one reassuring pat.

  Mr. Masseria had chosen the location—his favorite seafood restaurant, Nuova Villa Tammaro in Coney Island. The meeting was scheduled between lunch and dinner, so the only people in the restaurant would be there for the meeting.

  When Paolo parked the car outside the restaurant and opened her door, she drew in a deep breath. So many things could go wrong today.

  “If things go sideways, protect Gloria and Emilia,” she said quietly. “Send them back to Sicily with Raquel. Glo only came back here for me, anyway. And make sure Aunt Connie and Uncle Joe are taken care of. Do what you can for the neighborhood. I don’t…I don’t know who will look out for them if I’m not there to.”

  She stepped around him, but his hand closed around her wrist. When she looked at him in surprise, a fierce sadness filled his eyes. He shook his head slowly.

  Mia covered the hand on her arm with hers. “You have to stay here,” she insisted. “I won’t risk you when I still need you so much. My most trusted friend.” She patted his cheek, giving him a fond smile.

  He released her arm. She felt his stare the entire walk to the restaurant’s front door, set deeply into the brick-and-stone exterior. A set of three curved windows flanked the curved doorway. Inside, the décor was minimal—pale walls, dark wainscoting, small, red-shaded deco lamps in the middle of each table to provide warmth to the cool atmosphere. She walked past the bar, where a bartender wiped down freshly washed glasses. He bobbed his head at her in greeting.

  At the back of the room, Mr. Masseria and Mr. Luciano waited. A small dish of cake sat before Mr. Masseria, along with an espresso. He rose to greet her with a kiss on each cheek. Then he pulled back to examine her face, his eyes narrow.

  “It looked worse a week ago,” she said, lowering her eyes.

  He pursed his lips. “It will fade. Then there will come a time where you hardly remember it at all.”

  She cast him a sidelong look. “That easy?”

  “After a while. Yes.”

  Mia shook hands with Mr. Luciano, and he gestured to a chair. “Have a seat. I believe there’s room for all of us.”

  “How many men is Morelli having escort him?” Mr. Masseria asked, sounding bored.

  “Two.”

  Mia tightened her jaw. She tried to quash her anxiety before it became obvious to an onlooker that she was nervous.

  A waiter came to take her order. She asked for a glass of the house wine.

  He had just set it before her when the front door opened again. Jake Morelli swaggered in wearing a beautiful, dove-gray suit and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Two men trailed him.

  Mia tensed. Was his plan to open fire immediately, or to wait? He’d made her think he wanted to have an actual discussion first, to really pretend to air their grievances in front of Mr. Masseria in order to get him to lower his guard.

  When he saw Mr. Luciano sitting beside him, his eyes lit up, and Mia’s heart sank. It was clear—at least, to her—that he intended to take Lucky Luciano with him.

  The feeling that she might not be walking out of here
strengthened.

  “Well, well,” Jake said. “Ain’t this a beautiful day for a meeting?”

  “Sit down, Jacopo,” Mr. Masseria said. “And your two men—I don’t believe I know them.”

  “They’re Mr. Maranzano’s men,” Jake said casually. “He was kind enough to send them to work for me a couple days ago. You see, I seem to be short on men lately.” He cast a pointed look in Mia’s direction. “Short on men, but busy as all get out. So much new business these days.”

  Mia lowered her eyes to the table, her fingers tightening around the stem of her wineglass.

  “By the way,” Jake said, leaning across the table toward her. He patted her hand. “No hard feelings about your face, right? It looks a whole lot better already. How’s your cousin doing?”

  He was so brash, she thought, looking up at him. So blatant. He wasn’t trying to be discreet about anything at all. “She’s well,” Mia said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “She was released from the hospital yesterday.”

  “That’s good news,” Mr. Luciano said quietly, nodding.

  “Yes,” Mia said, staring at Jake. “And she’ll have a limp the rest of her life. Because of you.”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “At least she’ll be alive, right? That’s more than I can say for the eighteen men of mine you slaughtered in the streets.”

  “And what about the innocent people of the neighborhood you’ve destroyed?” she demanded. “The children you’ve killed?”

  “Enough.” Mr. Masseria lifted a hand. “How many times we gotta do this? How many times we gotta sit down so you can bicker at each other like children? Neither of you listen to any agreement you make in front of us. You just do what you please.”

  “He does what he pleases,” Mia said.

  “Listen, the bottom line is this,” Jake said, jabbing a finger into the table. “No one’s gonna tell me what to do—sure as shit not some broad. I haven’t listened to a broad since I was eight years old, and that was my mama. I ain’t like you fanooks who can’t find your balls. This little bitch ain’t gonna boss me around.”