PART FIVE
SIXTEEN
Giovanna’s laughter was so loud and hard, the baby kicked her in protest. Rubbing her hand over her growing belly, she laughed and whispered, “Scusi.” When she had realized five months ago that she was pregnant, it was the first time since Nunzio’s death that she truly felt happiness.
Giovanna and Rocco were two of hundreds of people packed onto benches in the Teatro Villa Giulia on Grand Street to watch the star of satire and macchiette, Eduardo Migliaccio. Known as “Farfariello”—“The Little Butterfly”—Migliaccio had finished his opening song, and already Giovanna was laughing so hard, tears rolled from her eyes. The Little Butterfly pranced across the stage in a spangled skirt, shaking his ample bosom and buttocks. Since arriving in New York, Giovanna had taken advantage of all the theater opportunities, but the opera buffa was her favorite.
Rocco didn’t really like satire, nor did he understand much of it, but he accompanied his wife because he was content to be with her. In the year since their marriage, he had grown fond of Giovanna. When Teresa and Pasqualina suggested he marry Giovanna, he readily agreed because he had already noticed her in the neighborhood and thought she was certain to be a good mother to his children. Little else entered into the decision. He was pleasantly surprised that, in addition to being all those things, she was a good companion and a good card player.
For Giovanna, the first few months were extremely difficult. She was uncomfortable around Rocco. Unlike Nunzio, he spoke rarely, and unlike her father, who also used words sparingly, you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But he had not interfered in her decisions about how to run her life and home. He only grumbled when she sent Frances back to school and said nothing when she brought Mary with her to visit patients.
Once she conceived, her feelings for Rocco changed. His status rose from “partner” to the more permanent “father of her child.” They now had a bond beyond their marriage license. But sex with Rocco was perfunctory. It was quick, and Giovanna was grateful. And although she enjoyed the warmth that followed intercourse, she looked forward to the final months of her pregnancy when she could abstain and not be questioned.
Farfariello was marching across the stage with an enormous pasted-on mustache, a sash across his chest, and a saber over his shoulder, purloining Italian patriots. Next he became the “Iceman,” “Issaman” to Italian-Americans, singing bawdy Italian folk songs. The audience knew this routine signaled the end of the show and were already on their feet, clapping and cheering. Farfariello’s baritone stretched uncomfortably into a high note, and he exited stage right with a flourish. The crowd erupted into shouts and whistles.
Rocco protectively motioned his pregnant wife to sit for a few moments to avoid getting caught in the crush of the crowd, and they sat watching the stagehands while the audience filed out. Even before the applause ended, the stagehands had begun preparing for the next show.
A heavyset bald man struggled up a rope ladder to untie a drape from a truss. His younger counterpart called, “One more cannolo and we won’t be able to hoist you up there!”
The man ignored him, but another stagehand joked, “Leave Saint Carmine alone. All he has is the cream in his cannolo and his ammoratas on Mulberry Street!”
Without saying a word, Giovanna rose and, stepping over benches, made her way directly to the stage. Rocco, concerned and confused, caught up with her.
“It’s him!” she whispered to Rocco.
“Who?”
“Carmine. Nunzio’s friend.”
With her hands leaning on the stage, Giovanna called to the man on the rope ladder, “Prego, signore, are you Carmine?”
Without looking down, the man answered, “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I am—I was—the wife of Nunzio Pontillo.”
Carmine stopped untying a knot and looked down. He didn’t move.
“Saint Carmine, che cosa fa? What are you doing up there?” yelled one of the others.
Carmine climbed down the rope, slid off the stage, and turned to look at Giovanna, studying her face and scrutinizing her eyes. “Yes, yes, surely it is you.”
They met in the cafe the next morning before the matinee. Out of respect for Rocco, they met with Lucrezia chaperoning. Though they knew each other only through Nunzio’s letters, they reminisced as if they had known each other for years, their conversation punctuated by the stirring of their spoons in their espressos.
“Did you like that pasta pot drawing? He showed it to me before he mailed it.”
“I laughed so hard. It was in that same letter Nunzio told me it was you who named the first foreman ‘Linguine con Pomodoro’!”
Lucrezia was anxious to get to the heart of the matter. “Signore, Signora Siena is suing Brooklyn Union Gas and the construction company for negligence.”
Carmine leaned back in his chair and whistled. It only took him a moment to recover. “Good! Good for you!” A lawsuit, while within the confines of the system, appealed to his anarchist tendencies. “What can I do to help?”
The older woman continued, “Her lawyer needs to prove negligence. He has eyewitness testimony, the police reports, and the press, but he still doesn’t know precisely what they were doing wrong. Everyone said that Nunzio had doubts about the job and discussed them with you. Is that true?”
“Signora, you should consider becoming a lawyer yourself,” commented Carmine, appraising her with an interested eye. Lucrezia flashed him a “stop the nonsense” look, and he continued, although Giovanna could tell Lucrezia was flattered.
“Yes, it is true. I’ll tell you everything that I remember that wasn’t lost to liquor and sorrow,” answered Carmine dramatically.
Giovanna, with pencil poised, allowed Lucrezia to continue the questioning. Giovanna didn’t understand much of what Carmine said about timbers and compromised metal and load ratios, but she dutifully wrote it all down.
“You see, signora, your husband was smart,” said Carmine, tapping his temple with his finger. “He knew from the start that they were constructing that floor ass backwards, and then he knew that they were trying to lower it in a dangerous way.”
“Did he tell anyone that?” asked Giovanna.
“Of course! And the foreman called him a stupid dago that should mind his own business.”
Giovanna winced at the thought of her maestro husband being treated with disrespect. “Why didn’t he leave the job?”
“Signora, I think you’ve been here long enough to know you do not leave a steady job with good pay. Besides, at first he thought that they knew something he didn’t and it would soon all make sense. When it didn’t, I think he figured the job was engineered by asses, but he didn’t know it was going to kill him.”
Carmine dug in his pocket. “Here, take these tickets to the show. I have to go, but I’m here for a few more days if you need to ask me anything.”
“Carmine,” whispered Giovanna as he rose, “grazie…” She tried to say more, to thank him for finding Nunzio’s body, for his loyalty, but she could not. Since becoming pregnant, she couldn’t control her emotions the way she usually could and did not want to chance crying in public.
“Say nothing, signora. It has been my honor,” answered Carmine, sweeping his cap with a flourish. Giovanna could see tears in Carmine’s eyes.
When Giovanna and Lucrezia reported on their meeting to Signore DeCegli, he insisted that they bring Carmine to his office to swear an affidavit. The lawyer felt he had to get what he could, even if it was the testimony of a dead man delivered secondhand by a traveling show-man. Unable to locate Supervisor Mulligan, who was no longer with the company, and certain that there was no complete set of blueprints for the project, although he had subpoenaed them months ago, Signore DeCegli felt he had little to make a case.
DeCegli was born in America. In fact, if he didn’t say his last name, or had changed it like many of his colleagues had, he could “pass.” He had been drawn back to his old neighborhood to practice in part because his parents were still there and in part because he believed that with a good lawyer, an Italian immigrant in the American justice system would be treated the same as any American. This case was forcing him to question his conviction.
Ironically, up until now, his belief hadn’t been tested. By locating himself in an Italian community, most of his cases were Italians vs. Italians, because he was a civil attorney whose work consisted mainly of business disagreements and the occasional divorce. This was the first time he had come up against an American monolith and had to conduct anything resembling a criminal investigation. While he knew his unfamiliarity in these matters was not helping, he also knew that no amount of experience would get him past the closed doors and roadblocks. He felt stymied at every turn. Not wanting to risk the wrath of a giant, he had decided not to sue Brooklyn Union Gas and instead made the construction company, Taylor, Wood & Co., the sole defendant. But the giant was protecting its minion and had put all its legal and engineering expertise at the construction company’s disposal.
From the workers he was able to track down and interview, he knew that they would probably have to be treated as hostile witnesses because they were so afraid. If Signore DeCegli ever had any doubt about whether this was a case of negligence, it was erased when he saw the fear that had been instilled in these men, and when he learned that his key witness had conveniently disappeared. It was rare that a man of the supervisor’s stature could disappear without a trace. Even if Mulligan had left one afternoon months after the accident, never to return, as Taylor, Wood & Co. attested, it was clear the company had no interest in finding him or the files he supposedly stole. DeCegli’s case was further encumbered by the fact that the murder weapon, the steel floor that had crushed Nunzio Pontillo, was now covered in thousands of cubic yards of gas and would never be seen again until the tanks were demolished during someone else’s lifetime.
The greatest difficulty, however, was that without the qualified testimony of respected engineers, all the evidence was circumstantial. But the money to pay for expert testimony was only part of the problem. Signore DeCegli had approached a number of engineers on a speculative basis, and while they used the excuse of no payment upfront to turn down the job, the lawyer knew it was more likely because they were unwilling to go up against a giant. All of his testimony was from Italian laborers. Could he expect the same system that didn’t value their lives to believe their testimony?
DeCegli was tempted to close the case but knew that if he did, the signora would somehow continue it on her own. That thought frightened him for two reasons: First, he had grown fond of the signora and feared for her safety, and second, given her determination and intelligence, she could possibly humiliate him by succeeding.
After reviewing the affidavit that Giovanna had compiled for the tenth time, Signore DeCegli saw something in “Pretty Boy” Mariano’s story that ignited a spark. If they couldn’t afford their own expert witnesses, they would use the experts at Taylor, Wood & Co.
James Wood, one of the principals of the company, was a former engineer known for his brash style and his ability to “get them up faster than anybody.” Brooklyn Union Gas awarded Taylor, Wood the contract because they were under pressure to meet the demand for gas in the burgeoning city. DeCegli felt certain that it had been Wood on the phone with Mulligan that day.
James Wood walked up the five flights to Signore DeCegli’s office in disgust. Not only was he furious that he had been summoned to New York in this preposterous matter, he was resentful that he was forced to pay the high hourly rates of the lawyer who huffed and puffed behind him. Answering the rap on the door, DeCegli welcomed them in. Heads rotating, disgust palpable, the men sat without being asked. The court reporter was not introduced and remained a fixture in the corner chair.
“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” pronounced Wood, by way of introduction.
Seeing Wood’s irritation and revulsion, DeCegli realized he had the upper hand and decided to lengthen the proceedings as much as possible in hopes of getting Wood to say something in anger that he would later regret.
DeCegli drew out the perfunctory questions. But when he saw the relish Wood took in reciting his credentials and that he was gaining strength from his belief in his own importance, DeCegli moved on to questions concerning the timeline and building of the gas tanks.
After a technical question, which Wood answered in arrogant detail, DeCegli quickly asked, “Did you speak with Supervisor Mulligan on the morning of the accident?”
“Yes.”
“How many times before the accident did you speak with him?”
“I don’t know, possibly three.”
“And what was the nature of those calls?”
“This was two years ago.”
“Yes, of course. Let me be more specific. Did Supervisor Mulligan express any concern about the procedure and safety of lowering this disc?”
“He was a man predisposed to worry. He left the company soon after.”
“Yes, I know. However, he had been with the company for ten years. I suppose his worry was not worrisome until this incident.”
“That is not a question, sir!” objected Wood’s lawyer.
“Excuse me. What precisely were Supervisor Mulligan’s objections to the method in which he had been instructed to lower the disc?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Sir, may I remind you, since the surroundings do not, that you are under oath.”
“I told you, he worried a great deal.”
“And I repeat, what was his worry?”
“That the disc would slip on its descent.”
“And by slip, do you mean fall?’
“That was his assessment, not mine.”
“If he was afraid of the disc falling, that would explain his reluctance to put men under the two hundred tons of steel, yes?”
Wood’s lawyer interjected, “My client cannot suppose to know what this supervisor thought.”
“You’re absolutely right, barrister. That is why I need your client to remember exactly what he said.”
It took more than a half hour of questioning before the court reporter was able to record Wood saying, “Supervisor Mulligan thought the disc was not secure enough for men to work underneath while it was being lowered.”
DeCegli tried to hide his elation because he wasn’t through with Mr. Wood yet. He got up and opened the window to allow the neighborhood sounds and smells to waft into the room.
“Mr. Wood, if your company wasn’t responsible for this accident, who was?”
“I told you. Accidents happen. That’s why they are called accidents.”
“Is it your belief that there is nothing Taylor, Wood & Co. could have done to avert this particular accident?”
“I realize we have a language problem here.” He exaggerated his enunciation saying, “There is nothing Taylor, Wood & Co. could have done to avert this accident.” Waving his arm toward the window, he snidely added, “If they spoke English…”
Wood’s lawyer jumped in. “Mr. Wood doesn’t think any party is responsible for this accident.”
“On the contrary, your client insinuated the Italians…”
“Don’t twist my words, young man. I was commenting on the difficulty of working with these—your—people.”
“If no one was responsible, why did you give the men money in exchange for not talking about the accident?”
“There was no exchange! We gave them money because they witnessed a tragedy and they worked overtime to find those bodies.”
DeCegli pulled out the agreement that Mariano had signed. “It says nothing about overtime here. However, it does state that he agrees not to talk about the accident.”
Wood’s face reddened at seeing the document. “Because they are ignorant and say ignorant things! That’s why. They could have said that one of their saints did it, or it was because of the evil eye, or something ridiculous that would have scared off the other workers!”
The attorney jumped in. “What Mr. Wood is saying, is that in order to protect future workers and his client, they asked the Italian workers not to talk about the accident.”
DeCegli was momentarily stymied. This was the type of argument that would resonate with an American jury. Everyone was well aware of Italian superstitions.
“I need water,” said DeCegli, getting up. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”
“This has gone on long enough!” exclaimed Wood.
“I’ll only be a minute,” said DeCegli, leaving the room. He stood in the hall and assessed where he was. He had gotten Woods to say exactly what he wanted him to, but he had a feeling if he pushed him more, he could cement his case.
DeCegli reentered his office. “Excuse me, gentlemen. We’re almost through. Carmine Martello, he was the laborer who was friendliest with Nunzio Pontillo and the one who found his body. Correct?”
“If you say so.”
“Why, if your motive for this agreement was simply to avoid rumor and superstition, did you take the trouble to track down Mr. Martello in Pennsylvania? Surely he couldn’t spread rumor and superstition in the Allegheny mountains about a Brooklyn construction job?”
Wood jumped out of his chair, indignant. “I’m tired of your innuendo! You people should be grateful! We let you into this country and gave you work, and you have the audacity to question us!”
His attorney tried to stop him, but Wood continued, sputtering, “If there was any problem on that job, it was hiring a pack of unskilled Italians and not losing more of them!”
DeCegli smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Wood. Thank you.”
SEVENTEEN
Lucrezia swabbed Giovanna’s head with a cool cloth. She was in her seventh hour of labor, and Lucrezia knew there were still many more to go. She told Rocco to take the girls to Teresa’s apartment and to stay there. Clement would remain behind in case Lucrezia needed anything. Rocco left, awkwardly nodding good-bye to his wife and sternly telling Clement to come get him quickly if he was needed.
Clement settled on his cot in the kitchen and tried to rest as Lucrezia instructed. The apartment was spacious by tenement standards. It had two small bedrooms, a large kitchen, and a closet with a toilet. Giovanna labored on her and Rocco’s double bed, above which she had hung pictures of the saints and her palms from mass. Borrowing from Sicilian tradition, she had encircled the bed with a turnialettu, a deep flounce of cloth to hide storage under the bed.
Lucrezia went to the sink for more water. The sink was also surrounded by drapery. Lucrezia smiled at the fussiness of this no-nonsense woman. It was hard to imagine Giovanna draping fabric or pinning religious medals on palm fronds and stepping back to see how they looked, but it was evident that she had.
While the labor was long, it was uncomplicated, and both she and Giovanna knew it. They simply had to settle in and wait for Giovanna’s body to cooperate fully. Giovanna was far enough along in her labor that Lucrezia had stopped making feeble attempts at telling jokes and stories between contractions and instead was letting her rest.
When Giovanna was ready to push at four in the morning, she did so with an intensity and concentration Lucrezia rarely saw. Lucrezia slowed her down to prevent her from ripping, teasing, “I sound like you.” When the baby’s head was birthed, Giovanna bent forward, and during the next contraction she delivered the rest of her baby’s body into the world.
At the first sound of the baby’s cry, Clement, who had feigned sleep through the delivery, jumped up and called, “I’ll get Papa!”
Lucrezia left the room, and in the quiet, Giovanna cuddled baby Angelina, examining every finger and every toe, crying with bittersweet happiness.
EIGHTEEN
1906
Elizabeth Street was bustling. It was late afternoon and the block was crowded with people selling, buying, and socializing, and with children playing among the barrels and boxes. Rocco looked at the few heads of cauliflower left in his cart; it had been a good day.
He surveyed the scene, and spying a short man with a beard, he called, “Fresh cauliflower! Only a few left.”
Hearing Rocco’s voice, another vegetable vendor looked up. “Cauliflower! Caul…” Rocco saw the vendor scrutinize the little man and change his call to “Fresh parsley! See the parsley!”
Yet another vendor joined in, louder than usual, “Parsley!”
Rocco looked around, confused. He hadn’t seen parsley on the carts today. Turning to the vendor selling clams next to him, Rocco asked, “Do you see parsley?”
“Yeah, there’s parsley right there,” he answered, pointing to the short man with the beard.
“What are you talking about?”
“Petrosino, the sergeant in charge of the Italian Squad.”
Rocco now understood the local thugs were being warned of the sergeant’s not-so-undercover presence. “But why say parsley?” he asked the man.
“Ah, you Calabresi! Petrosino, in Sicilian, means parsley.”
“Limonata!” shouted Giovanna, knocking on the door of apartment sixteen on the floor above her. Their building had five apartments per floor—two at the front, two at the back, and one small side apartment, which was where Limonata lived.
“Prego?” A young woman holding a nine-month-old—nearly the same age as Giovanna’s daughter, Angelina—opened the door. “Oh, signora!” she said upon seeing Giovanna, sounding both pleased and relieved.
“Limonata, could you please be more careful! Your colored wash on the line drips onto my clean white clothes.”
“Oh, scusi, signora, scusi.”
The poor young woman looked like she was going to cry, and Giovanna at once regretted scolding her new neighbor who was having a difficult time coping. Noticing little spots of blood on Limonata’s apron at her chest, Giovanna asked, “Are you having trouble again?”
“Sì, signora.”
“Let me see.” Giovanna entered the tiny apartment, which was crusted in dirt. The only thing sunny in this woman’s life was her nickname, which she carried from childhood because of her love of lemonade. Her dull brown hair and slight body made her appearance even more nondescript.
“Have you heard from your husband?”
“No, signora. But he’ll be back.” Limonata had unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a cracked and bloodied nipple.
“I’ll give you more aloe. Put it on every few hours. I see your cough is no better either. Did you go to see Signora LaManna like I told you?”
“No, signora, but I’ll go this week.”
Giovanna left saying, “You must go. And please, call me Giovanna.”
When she heard Limonata’s cough, she was grateful Angelina wasn’t in the sling usually strapped to her chest. She reentered her apartment and washed her hands. Lucrezia’s lectures about cleanliness had not been lost on her.
“Come, Frances, Mary, we’ll go to the roof.” They were doing the weekly wash, but the heat had become oppressive. Giovanna hoisted the clothes, washboard, and bucket. Frances picked up Angelina, and Mary carried the soap. They climbed the roof ladder, opened the hatch, and emerged onto the roof. An entire world was there to greet them. Many of their neighbors were already up there, and there were scores of others on the roofs of the adjacent buildings, playing cards, doing laundry, or simply trying to feel a breeze. One of their neighbors was spreading buckets of crushed tomatoes on a sheet stretched across a wooden frame, to dry into tomato paste. Giovanna felt a tinge of guilt for buying her tomato paste ready-made in the store.
“Please, Zia, can we go in?” squealed Frances and Mary upon seeing two children already swimming in the roof’s water tank. Giovanna was tempted to say, “Only after you do your chores,” but easily relented. It was hot. She could use a break herself. Taking Angelina from Frances’s arms, she sat while the girls stripped to their petticoats. In only a handful of trips to a beach, Rocco had taught all his children to swim, proving he really was Scillese. Grateful that she could sit instead of stand guard at the tank, Giovanna relaxed but still kept one eye on the girls, knowing all too well how quickly children could, and did, drown in those tanks.
Unwinding strands of her hair from Angelina’s chubby fist, Giovanna marveled at how dramatically a life could change. She was surrounded by children, sitting on the tar of a New York tenement rooftop, a rusted tank their ocean. Scilla’s sandy beaches, sparkling seas, and dramatic cliffs were far behind her; instead, she faced a vista of crowded streets, pushcarts, and garbage, but it was a world cloaked in promise.
“TERROR IN ITALIAN SECTION. Here it is,” read Giovanna from Il Progresso. “Rocco was lucky he wasn’t hurt in the blast. His cart was right across the street from Paparo’s store in front of the milliner’s shop.”
“Do you think they meant to murder Paparo’s nephew, or was it just unlucky that he was there early?” asked Lucrezia.
“Evil is evil. Enrico the fruit seller told Rocco they sent Paparo letters demanding money. Paparo didn’t pay, and he brought the letters to the police.” Scanning the article further, Giovanna read, “‘Detectives of Lieutenant Petrosino’s Italian Squad are investigating the bombing, which they believe to be the work of the Black Hand.’ What do you know of this Petrosino?”
As if on cue, there was a knock on Lucrezia’s door and Domenico burst in.
“Zia, Zia, I saw him!”
“Catch your breath, boy. I can’t understand you. Who did you see?”
“Petrosino!”
Domenico had listened attentively when Rocco had returned, still covered in ash from the bombing of Paparo’s store, and described what had happened. He imagined himself a detective with the sleuthing he and Zia had done. And now, to know the most famous detective of all was this Petrosino—an Italian!
“Where did you see him?”
“On Elizabeth Street, near our apartment. He was dragging a man down the staircase and out of the house.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“A crowd gathered when they saw him go in. I heard them talking, and I waited.” Domenico had been building toward this moment, and with great drama he reenacted the scene.
“He drags the bum by the collar. You could hear his body bouncing on the steps. When he gets outside, he throws the guy against the brick and says, ‘See this scum? This is the Black Hand you are all so afraid of! He is nothing. A common thief.’ Then the crowd parts to let him through. He drags the guy down the street, calling, ‘It’s not like Italy here. You must work with the police. We can help you.’ And then Petrosino turns, kicks the rat, and says, ‘Andiamo, schifoso.’”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Lucrezia, clapping. Domenico smiled and bowed.
“What did he look like?” asked Giovanna, glancing at the picture of Petrosino in the newspaper.
“He was short, but big and strong. He had a black derby and overcoat. And his face had those dents.”
“Smallpox scars,” corrected Lucrezia, smiling. There was no doubt the boy did see Petrosino.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Vito’s Grocery?”
“Sì, Zia. But I had to tell you. I saw the great Petrosino!”
“I’m sure a lot of people don’t think he’s so great. You keep your mouth quiet about him, you hear?”
“But Zia, he said not to be afraid!”
“That’s easy for him to say.”
Giovanna kissed Domenico and gently shooed him out of the apartment.
“Lucrezia, what do you think. Is he right?”
“I think it’s true that the police here are not like the police in Italy. But this Petrosino couldn’t stop Paparo’s store from being bombed, could he? If you’re marked by the Black Hand, it’s like that expression you always use—what is it?—‘between a rock and a hard place’?”
NINETEEN
1907
“Come on. You’re doing a man’s job. Have a man’s drink,” goaded Clement’s co-worker in front of the Star of Italy bar. Clement couldn’t admit that his hesitation had nothing to do with being fifteen but with being forbidden by his father to go into that particular tavern.
“I’ll even pay for it so your daddy doesn’t know,” cajoled the worker, impatiently wiping sweat from his brow.
A beer would taste good; his throat stung from inhaling lime for ten hours, and he was broiling from the summer heat.
Even though his day pouring cement had ended, it was still bright outside, so Clement’s eyes had to adjust to the dark, smoky room as he walked into the Star of Italy.
He tried to concentrate on his ale and his friend’s banter, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He glanced around and saw some men gathered around a newspaper at a back table. They looked up suddenly when a thin, well-dressed man entered the bar.
“Vachris! What, no disguise today?” called a chinless brute as he closed the newspaper.
“Lupo, I know you gentlemen are too cunning to fall for that.” The new arrival walked around the bar, taking in every detail. Seeing the paper, he commented, “Look, you even read newspapers now! Did you read that story about Mario Palermo?”
Silence greeted his question.
“Do you have anything to tell me about it?”
Gestures indicating “We know nothing” filled the room.
“It’s a little boy, gentlemen. He’s been gone ten days. I know it’s not your turf, but the way I see it, you all know how to get to Brooklyn. Right, Tommaso?” Vachris directed his attention to a huge square-headed man.
“You tell your boss, Petrosino, that we don’t get involved in Brooklyn and to stop breaking heads around here,” yelled a voice from a smoky table.
“I hope we find that boy alive. Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to tell Lieutenant Petrosino anything.”
Lieutenant Vachris surveyed the room and before leaving looked quizzically at Clement, who made an unsuccessful attempt to blend into his beer at the bar.
As soon as Vachris left, the square-headed guy picked up wood shavings from the floor, threw them at the door, and spat, “He’s all talk, Lupo.”
“I gotta help my father. Thanks for the beer,” Clement said, bolting from the bar.
Hands deep in his pockets and walking quickly, he got half a block before he noticed his father staring at him from the opposite side of the street.
“Where were you?” Rocco sputtered.
“I had a beer.”
“I saw you! I told you not to go there. It’s filled with Blackhanders!”
“Papa, don’t talk here,” whispered Clement, turning and walking.
Rocco, an intensely private person, was not prone to public scenes, so he followed his son in silence. The second the apartment door closed, Rocco exploded.
Wanting to shield the girls from the anger, Giovanna gathered them in the bedroom.
“Papa, I’m sorry,” pleaded Clement over and over.
“I’m afraid for you, afraid for all of us.” Rocco was softening with Clement’s apologies. “What happened in there?” asked Rocco of his son.
“There was this short guy, he didn’t have a chin. He seemed to be in charge. They called him Lupo. This cop came in, a lieutenant. He asked about a boy who was kidnapped in Brooklyn. And there was this big guy named Tommaso.”
“Clement, you trust no one, you hear? They’re all bad—these men—the cops. Let them play their little games, and you keep your nose out of it.”
Hearing Rocco’s voice return to normal, Giovanna and the girls went back into the kitchen. “We’ll eat in a minute,” said Giovanna, stirring the pasta, “and we’ll say a prayer for that boy before dinner.”
“My eggplant is better,” thought Giovanna with satisfaction. Having never eaten in a restaurant in America, she was at first intimidated when Signore DeCegli suggested that she and Rocco meet him at Saulino’s at the corner of Lafayette and Spring streets. DeCegli signaled for more bread. It was apparent he was a frequent customer; the waiters addressed him by name. Their table was tucked into a corner, and despite the simple decor, the restaurant had an air of respectability.
Surreptitiously pointing with his fork at a short, pockmarked man eating alone, DeCegli whispered, “That is the famous Lieutenant Petrosino.” Giovanna’s head snapped in his direction and snapped back when Petrosino noticed her staring. “He is going to marry the owner’s daughter, Adelina Saulino.”
Rocco had no reaction to this or anything else that was said. He had not said a word and ordered by pointing to the cheapest meal on the menu. Signore DeCegli tried to encourage him to order something else, but he simply shook his head and pulled on his mustache. Enough time had passed that DeCegli tried again to connect with the man. “It’s an honor to meet you, Signore Siena.” DeCegli kept stealing glances at Rocco, incredulous that this was Giovanna’s husband. They were a mismatched pair in every way that he could observe. But he had handled enough divorces to understand that in rough circumstances companions sometimes fared better than lovers.
Rocco folded and unfolded the napkin. He had only agreed to come because Giovanna couldn’t eat with this man alone. This was uncomfortable business, another man’s business.
DeCegli, too, was uncomfortable. He was about to tell Giovanna that the unthinkable had happened—an American company was offering her a settlement, but he couldn’t help but question his decision not to go to trial. He had a stronger case than he ever thought possible. In court, though, Wood would be rehearsed. His deposition was far more damaging than anything they could get him to say on the stand. The politics of the case were up for grabs. In America’s peculiar system, they could get a judge appalled at the audacity of an immigrant challenging an American institution, or one who sympathized with the powerless. DeCegli contemplated feeding the story to one of the new breed of reporters who were making it their mission to expose the conditions in the immigrant communities. If they got public sentiment on their side, it could influence the trial. But it was a long shot.
DeCegli turned to Giovanna. “Signora, I am very pleased to tell you Taylor, Wood & Company has offered a settlement. They will pay you $1,700 now, $1,000 on January 1, 1909, and a final payment of $1,000 on January 1, 1910.”
Rocco’s look of discomfort turned into an incredulous expression.
“This is a remarkable victory, signora, and a testament to your perseverance and courage.” DeCegli smiled warmly, but there was no expression of relief or happiness on Giovanna’s face. He tried continuing, “They have agreed to pay my percentage upfront, so you don’t need to worry about making that transaction when you receive the payments. The total of $3,700 will be yours.” He waited for Giovanna’s look of triumph. Instead, she raised her hand, indicating she wanted him to stop speaking.
They ate in a stifling silence. Rocco stole an occasional glance at his wife, but for the most part he tried to remain motionless and control his fidgeting. He eventually broke the silence by calling for another bottle of wine.
DeCegli turned to Giovanna. “Signora, this is a major victory. However, if you would like me to discuss other options, I would be happy to.”
Giovanna looked at Signore DeCegli full in the face for the first time. “What I do not understand, and what I believe you can’t help me with, is what it will mean to accept such an offer.”
“Giovanna,” said Rocco gruffly. What was his wife thinking? This entire business would be over, and they could establish a store. No more pushing the cart. They would own something!
“Rocco, I am not saying no. I must think about it. Of course, your feelings on the matter will weigh in my decision.”
Rocco knew it wasn’t true but was pleased at the generosity of the sentiment.
“I believe I should review your options,” injected Signore DeCegli, hoping the facts would defuse potential family tension and make it easier for Giovanna to accept.
The lawyer went on to explain his thoughts about going to trial and how the other side would be better prepared. He chose not to mention that now, because she was a married woman, Giovanna’s case didn’t have the same sympathetic appeal.
He ended his review by saying cautiously, “A condition of the settlement is that you tell no one of the terms.”
“This is family business. Why would we tell anyone?” interjected Rocco indignantly.
DeCegli turned to Giovanna. “You realize if you said anything, you would risk losing the second payment. There are four other victims, and they want to avoid lawsuits with them. That is the reason they want to pay it in three parts. It will extend beyond the statute of limitations.”
Giovanna didn’t bother to ask what that meant. That wasn’t the issue. She took a long time to reply, during which Rocco drank another glass of wine. “Please take no offense, Signore DeCegli, but I would not view such a settlement as a victory.” Giovanna looked away. The idea of trading Nunzio’s life for money made her nauseous.
“Signora, I know of no other case where the family of an immigrant received a settlement for an on-the-job accident. You should be proud of what you’ve done.”
In the awkward silence that ensued, DeCegli realized that she might never acknowledge the significance of this win. He changed the subject. “I suppose Petrosino is glum because of that poor boy…Actually, he usually appears that way.”
Giovanna looked puzzled.
“I thought you would have heard. They found Mario Palermo’s body.”
Rocco squirmed in his chair thinking about Clement in that cafe. Giovanna crossed herself. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
Signore DeCegli apologized. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to speak of unpleasant things. Well, for now, let’s relax; we have two weeks to respond.”
“I don’t need two weeks, Signore DeCegli.” Giovanna felt defeated acknowledging to herself for the first time that there could be no justice in Nunzio’s death. “You can tell them we will take the offer.”
“Yes, of course, she’ll take the offer,” echoed Rocco, relieved.
When Signore DeCegli got over his surprise, he too was relieved. But after toasting their triumph, he felt strangely let down.
“Lieutenant,” saluted Detective Fiaschetti at the entry to Petrosino’s office.
“Sit down, detective.” Petrosino motioned to a chair.
“I got nothing on the Palermo boy, Lieutenant,” announced the detective, who was dressed in street clothes and looked like the drunk he had been pretending to be. He was Petrosino’s youngest detective and quickly responded to his lieutenant’s look of disappointment by adding, “But Don Vito Cascio Ferro has come to town.”
Petrosino’s head snapped up. “I had him exiled after the barrel murder!”
“Well, he got back in and is looking quite the gentleman. Tailored suit, manicured beard and mustache. He was holding court in the Star of Italy with Lupo and his gang.”
“He came to this neighborhood!” exclaimed Petrosino, indignant. “These thugs have no fear!”
Detective Fiaschetti removed a small notebook from his pocket. “He acted like a real professor, he did. Listen to this: ‘Why break the bottle when you can skim off the cream? At this rate you’ll soon have nothing left. Provide them a service, a protection service, and exact a fee.’ And then he says, ‘They’ll thank you for it, and you won’t need to deal with Petrosino.’”
Petrosino’s face was red, and his hand was balled into a fist. Detective Fiaschetti quickly continued, trying to get the rest in before Petrosino’s outburst. “Il Lupo treated him like God. Tommaso the Bull asked who they were providing these people protection from, and you know what Ferro says? He says, ‘Why, thieves, of course!’ and he and Lupo shared a big laugh.”
Surf City, New Jersey, 1969
“I don’t see anything,” I moaned. Flat on our backs on redwood picnic benches, Nonno and I stared at the moon. We were outside our summer rental in Surf City, New Jersey. Across the street the bay lapped up on the shore.
“I no see nothing,” agreed Nonno.
We could hear the television and the rest of the family talking inside.
“We have been told that in minutes Astronaut Neil Armstrong will emerge from the lunar module. But this is what it looked like when they touched down at 4:17 today…”
I could tell when things were really important because Walter Cronkite’s voice wasn’t perfect. They were replaying the landing. It was a scratchy recording, which made me think it already sounded like history.
“Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed!”
“Josie, put that disgusting book down and watch this,” Nanny scolded my mother.
“Shut up, Ma. It’s not disgusting. It’s a bestseller.”
“Nonno, let’s go inside,” I said to my grandfather.
“Why? So we can heara them argue?”
“We can hear them anyway, and I want to see it.”
I squeezed onto the couch as my sixteen-year-old brother pontificated. “Right now, some guy in Vietnam is getting blown to bits, but we don’t have to see it because they’re landing on the moon.”
“Michael, where’s your patriotism?” My father was seething.
I was depressed. My grandfather thought the landing on the moon was a Hollywood movie; my brother thought it was a trick to make people forget about the war; my father only cared about my brother’s hair being too long; my mother was distracted by some book about the Mafia; and my grandmother was mad at my mother for reading the Mafia book. I looked to my little sister to share this moment, but she was crying about her sunburn.
Walter Cronkite touched his ear. “I believe we are going to hear the president talk to the astronauts.” Soon President Nixon’s voice filled the airwaves. “Neil and Buzz, I am talking to you from the Oval Office…”
“Eh, itsa Tricky Dick,” kidded Nonno.
I giggled, but my father shushed me.
“…As you talk to us from the Sea of Tranquility, it inspires us to redouble our efforts to bring peace and tranquility to earth.”
My brother scoffed. My father was aggravated and said he and my mother should have gone dancing at the Seashell. My mother didn’t hear any of it because she was absorbed in The Godfather.
The next day, we camped on the beach with umbrellas, towels, chairs, and coolers—suburban nomads exercising our tribal instincts. Since it was the weekend, there were first cousins, second cousins, pretend cousins, and the numerous gombadas who were all called Aunt or Uncle regardless of whether they were relatives.
“I’ll take two,” I said to my grandfather. We were playing poker under the fringed umbrella.
“Due,” replied Nonno, dealing.
I glowered at the men playing bocce.
“What, are you blind? Red’s closer!” shouted my cousin.
“What a bunch of gedrools! Do you believe this, Frankie? These kids can’t take losing to a bunch of old guys,” my father called out to my uncle.
“Why do they play if all they do is argue?” I asked Nonno.
“Thatsa part of the game.” Nonno didn’t look up from his hand.
“Yeah, well I can play better than any of them.”
“Now you playing poker.”
I heard my father yell, “Michael, you look like a girl, and you throw like a girl!”
My mother still had her nose in that book.
“Josie, they say there’s a character in there that’s got to be Sinatra. You were close with Sinatra’s cousin, what do you think? Was he in with the Mob?” asked one of my aunts.
Nanny tugged on her bathing cap. “I’m going swimming if you’re going to talk about those people.”
“Ma, we’re not going to discuss it.” My mother put down her book.
“I’m going in anyway,” Nanny announced.
I watched my grandmother dive into a wave. She didn’t swim like the other old ladies, who waded into the ocean and patted their broiling arms with the cold water. Nanny pushed through the whitecaps and swam far out with powerful strokes.
Nonno saw me watching her and said, “I taught her to swim when she wasa little girl.”
“I thought you met when she was in high school?”
“No, one time she came witha your Big Nanny to my home in Italy. She wasa only three years old and had these biga dark eyes.”
“Josie, what happened to the letters they sent?” My aunt interrupted my mother’s reading again.
“My father burned them when she couldn’t sleep one night.”
“What are they talking about, Nonno?”
“Nothing. You pay attention to everything buta your cards. See! I gotta full house.”
Six months later, Nonno died. The phone call came in the middle of the night, and when I heard my mother wail, I knew what had happened. I spent the rest of the night under my bed shivering and crying. My world was shattered. I wanted desperately to bond with my grandmother in grief. She allowed me to hug her, but it only lasted for a second.