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

by Meredith Allison

  But Gloria was still good, Mia thought, discreetly nudging her sister-in-law’s foot with her own under the table to reassure her. That was why these sorts of conversations, these things she’d come to know that she would never be able to un-know, bothered her. And Mia was glad for it. Because if they ever stopped bothering Gloria, that would mean she’d lost her soul and her humanity.

  The way Mia feared she, herself, had.

  “I know you got your own beef with Weiss,” she said. “But he wouldn’t be coming after you had Nick not been the one to kill Dean for you. And Weiss got his revenge on Nick.”

  “I know.” Al nodded. “And you’re right—it’s the perfect time. I just gotta find some new guys. Weiss knows most of mine. He’ll see them coming and know he’s in danger.”

  “It just so happens I brought two of my most reliable men with me,” Mia said. “Bobby Grata and Joey Giannino. If Weiss ever saw them, it was briefly and in passing, and not in the last couple of years.”

  “Is that right? Where are they?”

  “Relaxing at the Drake. They like to take it easy before a job.”

  Al barked a laugh. “Look at you. All prepared. You gonna clean up this little mess I haven’t been able to in the last couple years, huh?”

  Paolo glanced at her. A warning to be cautious. She understood—she was one word away from further insulting Al Capone.

  “You’ve had your hands full,” she said gently. “That attack on Johnny. His retirement. You’ve been in charge this whole time. Several businesses to run. It’s not like you’ve had a lot of time to plan.”

  Al sniffed.

  “But me?” she went on. “I spent a year in Sicily. Walking on the beach. Spending time with Don Catalano. Learning the ins and outs of this world I never wanted to be a part of—that you never wanted me to be a part of. Remember that conversation we had in that tenement? When I asked Johnny’s permission for Sal?”

  “Couldn’t forget it,” Al said. “I’d never seen anything like that before. A dame wanting to kill someone.” He smiled a little. “Of course, you were never just some dame. Nick Scalisi’s sister. The great Nick Scalisi.” There was no derision in his voice.

  Beside her, Gloria looked down at her plate.

  “He was great,” Mia said, and her throat tightened a little. “And it was because of Sal and Hymie Weiss that he died. Hymie’s the fourth piece of the puzzle that killed my brother. I’ve been waiting a long time to finish what I started here. And don’t mistake it—I take what happened to you and Johnny very personally. You’ve always been good to me. You were always good to Nick. You’re family to me.”

  Al sighed. “So. All this. Wanting to have dinner. You came to get my permission—to take my hit?” But he didn’t sound mad. He gave her a wry smirk. “I’ll have some guys waiting near the shop. On Monday. Just in case your guys need the backup. What do you think?”

  Mia extended her hand over the table, and he grasped it. “I think we got a deal.”

  The next day, Paolo pulled the car to a stop on State Street, a few doors down from Schofield’s Flowers.

  Mia’s gaze narrowed as she focused on the door. “Wait here for me,” she said to Gloria and Paolo.

  “Be careful,” Gloria cautioned.

  “Always am,” Mia replied with a smile, then reached up to straighten the short, sheer black lace veil over her eyes and nose.

  They had just come from Mount Carmel Cemetery, where Nick was buried. As soon as she’d stepped foot there, she’d been assaulted with memories of his funeral—the second-worst day of her life. It had been hard to focus on her own grief, though, because Gloria had nearly crumpled.

  They’d spoken with the cemetery’s manager. Her request had been received with a fair amount of surprise, but a C-note pressed into his palm had halted any protests. Nick’s casket would be exhumed and cremated inside of a week. Then, she and Gloria would finally be able to take him home. Just as she’d promised him that icy December day in 1924. The last time she’d visited him.

  Though he would only be in Chicago for a few more days, it was now time to order a lovely wreath for him, from the newest owner of Schofield’s.

  The bell over the door jingled as Mia walked in. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and no one was at the counter presently. The glass cases were stocked with a variety of arrangements. For a moment, she was distracted by a huge bouquet of red roses. They had huge heads, as big around as danishes. Beside them was a stunning arrangement of large, pink Oriental lilies. Their fragrance was heady, almost intoxicating.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Mia jumped. She hadn’t heard anyone walk up from the back. She examined the young man who leaned on the counter. He appeared to be in his late twenties, and had a headful of dark hair, long on the top, short on the sides. He had a thick neck, a prominent nose and ears, but he was handsome in an unusual way.

  “I’d like to speak to the owner.”

  He stretched his lips in a brief, thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re speaking to him.”

  “I was told Hymie Weiss owned the place now.”

  “Lady, I ain’t chopped liver.” His voice had taken on an impatient edge. He opened the cash box and started counting the money contained inside. “I got things to do. What do you need?”

  She’d figured it was him, but wanted to be sure. “Well. Mr. Weiss,” she said coolly. “You old so-and-so. I’d like to order a wreath. For a grave.”

  He grabbed an order sheet and a pencil. “Shoot.”

  She smirked. Interesting choice of words. She described a simple wreath—roses, carnations, daises, greenery.

  “Sure.” He scrawled on the order form. “Name on the ribbon?”

  “Mine or his?” she asked, then waved her hand. “Guess it doesn’t matter. It’s the same name.” She paused. “Scalisi.”

  He snapped his head up, then did a double take.

  Mia lifted her veil, tucking it over the top of her hat.

  His eyes widened a little, then he squinted at her. “Do I know you…gorgeous?”

  So he wanted to play dumb. She stepped closer, her footsteps slow and leisurely. “Some people in this town used to call me the Saturday Night Special.” She leaned against the counter. “On the South Side.”

  He shrugged. “I never made it to the South Side much. Ain’t familiar with no Saturday-night nothing.”

  “No?” She tilted her head. “You should be. After all, you took something from me once. Something valuable.”

  Hymie smirked. “Listen, beautiful, if I knocked off your flat once or stole your purse at a speak, it wasn’t nothing personal. I can’t recall exactly, so I can’t apologize to you the way I’d like. I get migraines real bad, see.” He rapped the side of his head. “Sometimes they make me all fuzzy. Probably why I can’t remember you properly.”

  “Then allow me to un-fuzz it for you,” she said, a solid block of ice encapsulating her tone. “My name is Mia Angela Scalisi.”

  Understanding, recognition, and wariness stole across his face before he coolly blinked it away.

  “That right?” he said. “Yeah, I remember now. I’ve heard of you. You was down at the, whatsit. Sal Bellomo’s old place. Before he got iced.”

  “I’m sure you remember my brother too.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Hymie said dismissively. “Nicky. Nicholas. Right?”

  Isn’t he quite the actor? “Domenico.” She enunciated every syllable. “And cut the bullshit. You know his name. More importantly, I know who you are. And I know what you did to my brother.”

  Hymie tightened his jaw, staring down at her. “What do you want, toots? Come to scold me about your brother? Because I seem to remember something he took from me.” His brow lowered and a frightfully angry look contorted his face. “In this very shop. You could say I lost a brother, too.”

  “I’m not here to argue about who’s more right or less wrong,” Mia said. “I’m here because I wanted you to see my face. To k
now that I know. I wanted to see if you’d have the balls to own up to it.” She opened her pocketbook and pulled out some money—twice what the wreath cost—and dropped it in front of him. Then she stepped away from the counter. “I’d like my wreath tomorrow afternoon.”

  He eyed the cash, then scooped up the bills. “I got some things to do during the day tomorrow. It’ll be ready by four sharp.”

  “Aren’t you a peach,” she said.

  Hymie looked at her impatiently. “We done here, then? You’re wasting my time.”

  “You’re all out of time,” she murmured, then pulled down her veil and stormed out of the shop.

  Despite paying double, Mia did not show up to collect her wreath at the appointed time the following day.

  Instead, in the late afternoon, after she’d finished tea at the Drake one last time with Gloria, they’d gone up to their suite, where Gloria had lain down. Mia stood at the large window, looking out at the dreary fall afternoon, arms folded, thinking of nothing at all while she waited.

  Ten minutes to five o’clock, the telephone on the small, round white stand beside her at the window rang. She answered it on the first ring. “Yeah.”

  “It’s done,” Bobby Grata told her, then hung up immediately, exactly as she’d asked.

  She set the receiver back in its cradle slowly.

  When Hymie Weiss’s body was finally cleared off the sidewalk where he’d fallen after Bobby and Joey had opened fire on him and four of his pals, the other men of the North Side Gang would reenter Schofield’s and see what she’d left for them: the funeral wreath she’d ordered on its stand in the middle of the store, facing the door, with its ribbon across the front that said in bold, simple letters: Scalisi.

  A little calling card—as Jake Morelli had once dubbed it—for them, so they’d know. So they’d never forget a Scalisi was not to be trifled with. And a Scalisi always got his revenge.

  She paused. That wasn’t quite right.

  A Scalisi always got her revenge.

  A cold smile curled up her lips.

  That’s better.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Before she left Chicago forever with her brother’s ashes in an urn, there was one more thing Mia needed to do.

  She wasn’t sure, though, what exactly compelled her to the brownstone on a quiet, residential street on Thursday afternoon, with Gloria and Paolo waiting in the car. It was a home in which she had eaten Sunday supper a few times, along with Nick. It had been a home where she’d been received kindly and treated like a special family relative.

  Perhaps it had been her earlier stop in the Levee District, where she’d wanted to see for herself what remained of what had once been Stems Club. The place where she had once been a princess, her brother a prince. All that remained was a battered Closed sign on the door, and a rusted chain and padlock draped across the front and looped around the handle to prevent any squatters from going in.

  She had felt a curious, painful surge in her chest. It was hard to reconcile what that place had become those last weeks there with happier memories. So often, when she’d rehearse in the afternoons, Nick would stroll in with a box of freshly baked biscotti from a tenement woman he’d helped, and Sal would make coffee, and the three of them would sit around chatting about old times in New York.

  The memory had soured in her mouth, replaced by a deep-rooted pain stemming from Sal’s betrayal. He had brought everything that happened to him upon himself.

  Now Mia stood in the middle of the street, staring at the home Maria Bellomo lived in without her husband. She wondered if Maria had ever remarried, or if she was still mourning the loss of Sal. She had never really known much about the inner workings of Sal’s relationship with his wife. He certainly hadn’t been faithful to her.

  She commanded her feet to carry her across the street, up the drive, and to the front door. Would Maria even be home? On the few occasions Mia had met her, Maria had told her she’d been an active member in her community, attending various groups and leagues and gatherings. Perhaps she still led a women’s Bible study. Perhaps this Thursday afternoon had Mrs. Bellomo out and about—anywhere but inside the home of a man Mia had ordered killed. Her heart rose with a coward’s desperate hope as she lifted her finger to push the doorbell.

  Don’t be home. Don’t be home.

  A few moments passed, long enough that she gave up and eagerly turned to walk back to the car. But the sound of the door unlatching and then opening made her freeze halfway down the stairs. She whirled around.

  Mia had always remembered Maria as a handsome woman, if prone to gaudy dress most of the time. She’d always enjoyed her rouge and lip paint, and felt there was nothing gauche about wearing diamonds from seven in the morning on.

  The woman who stared at her from the doorway appeared to have aged twenty years in the past two. Her face was clean of makeup, and her dress was a severe, plain black. Her dark eyes were full of shock, as if Mia were the last person she’d expected to see on her doorstep.

  They gazed at each other for what felt like a year until Mia ventured a hesitant greeting.

  “Hello, Maria,” she said softly. “How are you?”

  Maria’s mouth opened and closed several times, as if she could not find the words to make a reply.

  “I’ve been in town on some, er, business,” Mia continued. “I’m heading to the train station now to go home, but I wanted to stop by and…see you.”

  Another long silence passed.

  Finally, Maria spoke, her voice low, trembling, and enraged. “You got some fucking nerve, you little murdering bitch.”

  The air left Mia’s body with a heavy whoosh. She hadn’t known what to expect from the woman, but the venom in her voice caught her completely off guard.

  Maria took a step over the threshold. “After what you did, you turn up at my front door? What the hell do you want?”

  Now it was Mia’s turn to struggle for words as she looked away.

  What could she say? She hadn’t known Maria had somehow come to find out or assume Mia had been responsible for Sal’s death, but now that she’d made it perfectly clear she held Mia accountable…she wouldn’t deny it. She owed Maria that much, at least—owed her the respect to not insult her intelligence.

  Mia raised her head to meet Maria’s gaze. “I just came to see how you are. See if there’s anything you need. Anything the children need.”

  “Their father,” Maria hissed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “They need their goddamn father, you lousy bitch.” A sob burst out of her and she smacked her hand over her mouth, as if trying to force it back inside. “How could you? After everything he did for you? For your brother? After all those times I had you in my home, around my family? Why did you do it? Why?”

  Mia glanced down the street, hardly seeing the oak trees lining the block with their beautiful shades of gold and orange and red as she gathered her thoughts. She looked back at Maria. The tears flowed freely now, and her face was the perfect picture of grief. For the first time since Sal’s death, Mia felt a true stab of remorse, so strong it left her breathless.

  The remorse was not for what she’d done. She’d kill Sal a hundred more times if she could for taking her brother from her. The remorse was for Maria. For Viola O’Banion. For Josephine Simard, Hymie Weiss’s sweetheart who had surely discovered by now her lover was dead. For the wives and sweethearts of the eighteen men in New York.

  For Gloria Scalisi.

  Even for women like Anna Torrio and Mae Capone and Maria Masseria, whose husbands still lived, but who had been the targets of assassination attempts. And as long as their husbands stayed in the life, there would likely be more.

  Her remorse was for all the women who loved the wrong men, mired in lifestyles that usually only ended in a couple of ways. Prison, or death. More often than not, the latter.

  She was sorry for Maria Bellomo. But she was not sorry for what she’d done.

  “I did it,” Mia said softly, “bec
ause he had my brother killed. It’s as simple as that.”

  Maria grabbed the doorframe as though all the strength had suddenly left her, groaning.

  “Your husband murdered my brother, and then he got what was coming to him,” Mia went on. “I’m sorry it had to be that way. I’m sorry for you, and for Stephie, and Pete. I’m sorry you have to spend the rest of your life without the man you married, and that they have to grow up without their father.”

  She gazed down at the older woman, unmoved as Maria wept into her hand, crouched near the ground. “But so does my sister-in-law,” she finished coldly. “So does my niece. And that’s because of Sal.”

  “Get out,” Maria screamed through her tears. “Go.”

  Mia turned slowly and started down the stairs. Across the street, Gloria’s face was pressed to the window, her mouth open in shock. Paolo, behind the wheel, stared straight ahead.

  But they both had to have heard it clearly when Maria Bellomo began hurling insults at Mia’s back.

  “You fucking bitch. You lowlife whore. Goddamn murderer. Get off my lawn. Get off my property. You’re going to wish I had called the police when I get through with you. I’ll have you killed. You think you’re the only one with connections? You’re dead, you bitch, you’re dead.”

  Mia paused halfway down the drive and glanced over her shoulder. The hysterical woman had no idea that if she’d wanted to, Mia could simply lift a hand, and Paolo would be at Maria’s throat before she could shout the next part of her tirade. She had no idea that if Mia desired, Maria could be in the last few seconds of her life right now.

  She felt another flash of pity.

  “Goodbye,” she said to Maria, then turned her back on a fresh barrage of enraged screams that seemed to echo off the oak trees, follow her into the car, and down the street.

  She, Gloria, and Paolo boarded a train back to New York two hours later. Mia carried the box that contained the urn filled with Nick’s ashes.