PART SIX
TWENTY
“Frances, please help me,” called Giovanna, trying to lift a crate of cucumbers. With the first payment from Nunzio’s settlement, they were lucky enough to rent a basement at 242 Elizabeth Street, only a block from their apartment. Giovanna was free to work each day with Rocco, and their efforts were paying off.
There had been a long line at Siena’s Fruit and Vegetables when word swept through the neighborhood that they had broccoli rabe for a good price. It was late in the day, and Giovanna was only now getting to stack some of the fruit and vegetables. Rocco was tending to the horse and cart that enabled him to go to a distributor in Brooklyn for their produce.
“Frances, Mary, you girls head home with Angelina and put water on for the pasta. I’ll be closing soon.”
“Sì, Zia,” obeyed Frances, taking Angelina’s hand and bundling her up for the frigid weather.
“Buon giorno,” greeted a man, tipping his hat to the girls who passed him on the stairs. The man, face covered in black moles, entered the store and looked around.
“What can I get you?” asked Giovanna.
“Signora, is your husband here?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll come again then.” He smiled, tipped his hat, and left.
Lieutenant Petrosino, holding the New York Times, waited outside the commissioner’s office. He paced the anteroom, practicing what he was going to say. He had no problem talking about police business, but when he had to say something personal, he was afraid his English would fail him.
“Joe! Come on in here. Sorry you had to wait,” called the commissioner, sticking his head out his office door. Commissioner Bingham was as tall and thin as Lieutenant Petrosino was short and squat. His graying hair and perfectly groomed mustache gave him a dapper appeal that conflicted with his authoritarian presence.
Petrosino remained standing, knowing full well that if he sat down it would only be a matter of minutes before the commissioner was up and circling the room, pounding on his mantel for emphasis, or surveying the street from his second-floor window.
“Commissioner, I want to thank you,” said Petrosino, pointing to an article in the newspaper.
“Oh, Joe, don’t be silly, you don’t have to thank me. Those dandies don’t know a thing about police work. I’d like to see those prissy-ass aldermen on the street for even an hour.”
“Well, even so, my men and I want you to know how important it is to us to have a commissioner who understands that sometimes you have to teach a lesson with your fists.”
“Don’t you worry, Joe. If they bring it up again, I’ll say the same thing.” With his finger in the air he reenacted his speech. “I am the police commissioner! I am responsible for everything my men do! Petrosino is one of our best detectives. Of course he has to use force now and then!”
The lieutenant rewarded him with one of his rare smiles. “Bravo!”
Bingham finally sat down. The office had changed little since Teddy Roosevelt was police commissioner. “So tell me, what’s on your mind, Joe? I know you didn’t come here just to compliment me on my oratory.”
Petrosino took his seat opposite the massive mahogany desk and waved a stack of papers. “Commissioner, I’ve read this new immigration law, and it wouldn’t get a spider out of its web. We have more Italian ex-cons in New York City than in all of Italy! We have to get the Italian government to help us.”
“That’s not going to happen.” The commissioner was picking lint off his trousers.
“They get back in! Remember Don Cascio Ferro, who we exiled after the barrel murder?” Petrosino asked. Bingham nodded. “He’s back! My men found him, and we threw him on the next boat, but not before he rallied the hoodlums here. Commissioner, can’t we go to the president?”
“Joe, as much as Teddy respects you, this isn’t something he can take on. We’ll have to go it alone. But I want you to know that I’m working on it, and I’ll explain it all to you at the proper time.” Bingham could see Petrosino’s question forming and preempted him. “I promise you that you and I together will smash this band of criminals and anarchists your native land has given us.” Bingham spoke with such drama that Petrosino knew it had been rehearsed and that it signaled the end of the discussion.
“Commissioner, I knew I could count on you. And you should know that even with all its loopholes, I’ll use this new law to get rid of all the blackmailing schifosi we can.”
Petrosino turned toward the door, and the commissioner patted him on the back. “That’s right, Joe. We’ll get your shevosee, and the world will know about it.”
Siena’s Fruit and Vegetables was a basement store, which meant that Rocco often saw his customers’ feet before he saw their faces. He could tell the man now walking down the stairs was not coming to buy figs or any other produce by the artificial swagger to his steps. The bell rang as the door opened. Rocco continued to stack zucchinis, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a man looking around the room.
“You’ve got a really nice store here, Signore Siena. You don’t want anything to happen to it. After all, you know how rough this neighborhood can be,” said the man, who had black moles on his face.
Rocco didn’t say anything, but his motions became louder. He threw a sack of potatoes onto the counter.
“Didn’t I see you after the bombing of Paparo’s store? What a shame, and less than a block from here,” jeered the moled man.
Rocco slammed a crate to the floor.
“But for only fifty dollars a week, we’ll make sure you stay safe.”
“Disgraziato! Get out of here before I kill you with my own hands!” Rocco shouted.
“Signore,” the moled man tipped his hat, “I will return.”
It took only a week for the man with the moles to return. This time, he ignored Rocco and addressed Giovanna. “Signora, possibly you’re not aware that we offered your husband protection for a small fee. It is a wise business investment.”
“How dare you speak to my wife! Out!” Rocco’s face contorted in rage.
The man backed out of the store, but his demeanor changed. “Signore, remember that the hard heads of the Calabresi can be broken. Good day, signora.”
“Rocco, what was that about?”
“Niente.”
“Answer me, Rocco.”
“It’s a lazy mafioso who wants money to ‘protect’ us. Don’t you have to get home?”
“Mary won’t be home for another half hour, but I’m leaving,” said Giovanna indignantly, gathering up Angelina. “I want to know if he returns. This is our store, Rocco.”
As soon as they entered the apartment, Angelina began banging on the piano that was Giovanna’s only indulgence from the first payment of Nunzio’s money. Mary and Frances were both taking lessons, and although they played poorly, it still brought Giovanna great pleasure to hear music in her home. The dough that she had made that morning had risen, and she punched it down with more force than usual and formed it into two loaves, placing them on the stone marked SIENA.
“Angelina, why don’t you go upstairs and see if Carmela is home?”
“Sì, Mamma,” chirped Angelina, going out the door.
Giovanna leaned backwards out the open door, hands covered in dough, watching Angelina walk upstairs and knock on the neighbor’s door. Limonata opened the door in an apron. The past two years had changed her from a wisp of a girl into a weathered woman with dyed blond hair who copied American fashions. Limonata’s “husband” never materialized, and she survived on handouts from various boyfriends and from whatever Giovanna sent over.
“Limonata, can Angelina stay by you while I get dinner made?” Giovanna called.
“Of course! Come, Angelina.”
“I’ll have fresh bread later.”
“Grazie, Giovanna—you’re too kind,” Limonata said, going back into her apartment.
Without Angelina’s banging, Giovanna weighed the options. Later that night, she encouraged Rocco to pay them the money. “You saw Paparo’s store. Do you want that to be us?”
“Loro brutti puzzolenti mafiosi!”
“All the curses in the world won’t make them go away.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How? You can’t be there every hour! So don’t pay the fifty dollars, but pay him something.”
It was overcast. Giovanna scanned the skies on the short walk to the store, deciding how much produce to place outside in the early spring air. Angelina clung to her hand. At nearly three, Angelina walked everywhere, but had a hard time keeping up with her mother’s long strides.
Giovanna fished in her dress pocket for the store key. The bell clanged loudly when she opened the door.
Angelina ran to her favorite spot behind the counter and picked up a folded piece of paper that was on the floor. “Mamma, who made this drawing?”
Giovanna snatched it from her and looked.
“Beware. Give the money or everything will be destroyed. La Mano Nera.”
Beneath the words was the imprint of a thick hand in black ink.
“What does it say, Mamma?”
“Niente, niente.” The bottom few feet of Rocco’s horse and carriage were visible through the window. Giovanna panicked and stuffed the paper down her dress.
Looking into Angelina’s face, she instructed, “This is nothing. Go help your papa.”
Her heart pounding, she watched Rocco through the window lift the crates of fruit off the cart while Angelina picked up the pieces that fell along the way. Giovanna still looked shocked when he entered.
“Cos’è successo?” asked Rocco, confused. His wife never stood still or looked frightened.
Giovanna didn’t have the strength to hide the letter. She took it from her dress and handed it to him.
The drawings were for the benefit of illiterates like Rocco, whose face turned purple. He slammed the paper and his fist onto the counter.
“What have you decided?” asked Lucrezia, handing back the letter to Giovanna.
“I want to pay something.”
“And Rocco?”
“He says he will sleep in the store—he threatens to kill him with his own hands.”
“See, if you were still a midwife you wouldn’t be blackhanded, because they would know you had no money.” Lucrezia’s stab at levity failed, so she continued. “What about bringing the letter to Petrosino?”
“You saw what happened to Paparo’s store! They brought the letter to Petrosino. Besides, Petrosino may be Italian, but he’s still the police. Rocco would never allow it.”
“What about DeCegli?”
“For what reason? So he can negotiate the payment?”
“Do you want me to talk to my husband?”
“No! Lucrezia, please say nothing. Forget I told you!”
It was possible the thief was smarter than Giovanna thought, because the next time that he visited, only Giovanna was in the store. Rocco had sworn to spend every minute in the shop, but Giovanna knew that was unlikely for a man who had spent his entire life outside.
“Signora, is your husband here?”
“No.” Giovanna used her foot to feel under the counter for the wood pole that Rocco had spiked with nails.
He turned to go. “Let him know I was here, I have business with him.”
“You want money from him.”
The man turned back around. Giovanna could tell he wasn’t comfortable dealing with a woman, but the mention of money was too strong a lure.
“How much do you want?”
“Fifty dollars a week for protection.”
“That’s too much. We don’t have that kind of money.”
“But, signora, I see your business. It’s a good business. Surely you want to protect that.”
“We can pay ten dollars.”
“For you, signora, I will take the ten dollars. And when your business gets stronger, you’ll want more protection.”
He stood there staring, and Giovanna realized the stronzo wanted the money now. She grabbed ten dollars from the cash box and put it on the counter.
Taking the money, the thug said, “Today is Friday. I’ll see you next Friday, signora.”
TWENTY-ONE
Lorenzo noticed that Rocco had not said one word throughout the entire Sunday dinner. His comments were always rare, but usually he at least complimented Teresa on her meal. Giovanna and Rocco had not exchanged words or glances, but that, too, wasn’t out of the ordinary.
“How are piano lessons going?” Lorenzo asked the girls.
His stepnieces answered excitedly, but he barely heard them. Instead, he studied his sister.
Giovanna did not notice Lorenzo’s scrutiny because she was focused on avoiding eye contact with her husband. Rocco still had not spoken to Giovanna. On Friday, when he counted the money at the end of the day, Giovanna was forced to tell him about the payment. Rocco hadn’t known where to direct his rage. One minute he was yelling at Giovanna, the next he was cursing the lazy schifosi. He swung his spiked wood at the invisible enemy. Giovanna had let him rant and didn’t debate the issue. But after having spent her first day since the letter arrived not looking over her shoulder or jumping at every sound, she also knew that on the following Friday she fully intended to pay the thief another ten dollars.
While Rocco was furious, he was even more frustrated. Frustrated that he couldn’t protect his family and frustrated that another man’s money put his wife in this position of power.
On Friday, Giovanna took the ten dollars from the cash box and laid it on the counter when the Blackhander arrived. A short, fat bug of a man was with him this time. The moled man pocketed the money and commented, “I take it you’ve had no problems, signora?”
Giovanna waved her hand, both ignoring and dismissing him.
“Good day, signora. And good day, little signorina.” The fat man smiled at Angelina, revealing a mouth of mostly missing teeth.
Rocco had invented a hundred reasons not to be in the store that day. He didn’t trust that he wouldn’t kill the blackmailer and put his family in danger. Besides, if his wife wanted to pay them, let her do it.
Giovanna cranked the awning down and struggled to get the barrels back into the store. Taking the day’s diminished proceeds, Giovanna locked the door and headed home. She was alone because Frances had already picked up Angelina at closing time. Remembering that she hadn’t gotten milk, she turned the corner onto Mulberry Street. A shiver ran down her spine when she realized she was being followed. She ducked into a fish store, pretending to shop, but when she turned around, she bumped into a short man wearing a derby.
“Signora, I am sorry I frightened you, but I didn’t want anyone to see me go into your store.”
Giovanna looked down and recognized the man’s pockmarked face.
“I am Lieutenant Petrosino of the Italian Squad.”
“I know who you are.” Giovanna continued to scrutinize the fish.
“We can help you, signora. The police are not like they are in Italy. We can be trusted.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Giovanna said coolly, while inside she was panicking. Who could have told the police?
As if in answer, the lieutenant said, “I’ve seen suspicious men going into your store. Did they send you letters?”
“You must be mistaken, signore.” Noticing glances in their direction from the other customers, she ignored him entirely and worked her way in among the women at the counter jostling for service. “Pescespada!” she called, and a moment later she was relieved to see that the lieutenant was not in sight. But when she exited the store, her swordfish wrapped in paper and tucked under her arm, he was there.
Petrosino walked quickly to keep up with her. “Signora, give us a chance. You are not trapped.”
“Signore, I am Scillese. I have been trapped between a rock and a hard place my entire life.” Turning back onto Elizabeth Street, Giovanna changed her tone. “I’m sorry, but you seem to have me confused with someone else.” Lieutenant Petrosino held back and let her go.
“Zia! Swordfish!” squealed Mary when Giovanna walked in the door.
“But, Zia, I already made chi chi beans!” exclaimed Frances, wiping her hands on her apron and looking older than her twelve years.
“Well, tonight we’ll have chi chi beans and swordfish.”
Rocco, who was already home, looked at his wife suspiciously. Giovanna was glad they still weren’t speaking.
A tall, thin man walked into Siena’s Fruit and Vegetables. Giovanna recognized him as her neighbor, the cafe owner of 226 Elizabeth Street. “Signore Inzerillo,” greeted Giovanna. “What can I get you?”
“Actually, signora, I came to see if I could be of assistance to you.”
Giovanna looked skeptically at the dignified-looking man, who sported the thickest mustache she had ever seen.
“I’ve heard that gentlemen outside the neighborhood have been blackmailing you for money.”
Stunned, Giovanna stared at the man before saying, “Is there a sign on my door that I didn’t see?”
Pietro Inzerillo laughed. “Signora, little goes on in this neighborhood that’s unnoticed.”
It sounded too real to be amusing. “What is it you want to tell me, signore?” asked Giovanna.
“It’s what I want to do for you. I’ve been here a while, and I hate to see fellow shopkeepers fall prey to these animals. Unlike the police, I know who these men are. I can influence their actions.”
“And why would you do me this favor, signore?”
“Because you are my neighbor. I can offer you real protection. Not like the extortionists who only want your money. I will see to it that no one touches your family or store.”
“Signore, are you offering to protect our store for a fee?”
“I am offering you a security service.”
“How much does this security service cost?”
“As you’re a new store owner, I would give you the lowest rate of thirty dollars per week, and I will have a man guard your store each evening.”
“What if they come back?”
“I assure you, you will never see these men again.”
Giovanna believed him. She didn’t trust him at all, but she weighed her options: soon the moled man and his short, fat counterpart would demand the fifty dollars per week, and there was no doubt in her mind that they would indeed bomb her store. If she went to the policeman, someone in her family could be killed. If she paid the cafe owner thirty dollars a week, she always knew where to find him, and he would have to make good on his offer of protection.
“And if someone is not here each night or these men or other men come back, we can terminate our agreement?”
“Absolutely, signora. You are hiring me for a job, and unless you get the service, you do not pay. In fact, there is no need to pay me now. You’ll see that you won’t hear from these men, and I’ll come see you next week.”
Before the week was out, Giovanna felt forced to explain to Rocco the arrangement she had made with Inzerillo.
Rocco raged. “I can protect my own store! I don’t need a Sicilian cafe owner to protect me! Thirty dollars a week? Are you crazy? That’s all our profits!”
Giovanna couldn’t stop Rocco when he stormed out of their store and headed down the block to Café Pasticceria. It was only eight stores down, so Giovanna watched Rocco stride into the cafe. She half expected him to be thrown out, but only a few minutes later Rocco walked back looking satisfied.
“He said he understood and that it was my decision. He also apologized for doing business with you. Go home. I will take care of this.”
Giovanna bristled at the order, but she was sick of fighting.
From that point on, Giovanna no longer went to the store. Rocco was there continuously; the only time the store was vacant was during his trips to the produce distributor in Brooklyn. The children brought him his meals at the store, and he slept on a cot in the back room. Homemade weapons were hidden in every corner, and he hung mirrors in strategic locations so that no part of the store was hidden from his eye. Rocco was waiting. Even while helping customers or carrying boxes, he was waiting. He considered having Clement go to Brooklyn to get the produce so he would never have to leave, but he was afraid Clement would be ambushed. Instead, he put bars on the windows and doors for those rare times he was away.
The moled man and his sidekick visited the week after Rocco told Pietro Inzerillo he would not need his services. Rocco was ready, and before they even had a chance to get down the stairs, Rocco ran at them, brandishing the wood bat he had spiked, and the men ran off shouting curses. They got two more letters, but Rocco didn’t even bother to have Giovanna read them to him.
When Rocco received the third letter, he lost his temper completely. He took all three letters, ran up the steps to the street, and threw them on the ground after igniting them with a match. Stamping on the burning letters, he shouted, “See this? This is what I think of your threats! May you burn in hell!” His rage and the fire cooled at the same time, and he noticed that life on Elizabeth Street had come to a halt as people stopped to watch. A woman crossed herself, and down the block he saw Pietro Inzerillo look at him and nod.
Rocco, confident that his defiance was witnessed, hoped it would incite the blackmailers. He was anxious to catch the rats red-handed with their weapons or bombs. He had decided to kill them.
With more free time than usual, Giovanna tended to travel farther when shopping and even brought Angelina to her old friend’s store in Chinatown. It was during one of these visits that Giovanna once again bumped into Lieutenant Petrosino.
“Please, I told you, we have no problems.” Giovanna continued to walk up the block, Angelina’s hand clutched in hers.
“Is that why you are no longer in the store and your husband sleeps there?”
“This is none of your business.”
“Signora, you appear to be an intelligent woman, so I am going to tell you a story.” Petrosino, glancing at Angelina, spoke quietly. “Before there was the Italian Squad, there was a shooting on Mulberry Street. Me and another detective went to investigate. A young man was sprawled dead on the corner. An older man was standing over him, horrified. We asked, ‘Who did this?’ He said, ‘I know nothing.’ Then we asked him, ‘Who is this man?’ and he replied, ‘I don’t know.’ Later that day we found out he was the dead man’s father.” Petrosino looked at Giovanna for a reaction.
“What does this story have to do with me, Lieutenant?”
“Signora, this fear is laying ruin to our people! A man denies his own son? Look, I know you are a strong woman, a brave woman. You would have to be to sue a big American company.”
Giovanna’s head snapped in his direction, her eyes flashing both anger and fear.
“Of course I know about it, signora. I’m a detective after all. But please, don’t fool yourself into thinking no one else knows. It is probably one of the reasons you are being blackmailed.”
Petrosino felt terrible when he saw the look of betrayal and bewilderment in Giovanna’s face. “I’m sorry, signora, for upsetting you. Please don’t blame anyone you know. It could have happened a hundred ways. Think about it. The payment went to a bank, didn’t it? One of the clerks could have whispered something to someone. And besides, do you think it would have gone unnoticed that an immigrant won a case like this?”
From Giovanna’s expression, Petrosino realized that he should end the conversation, but he also saw that he had got her thinking.
The next time Rocco saw the moled man and his fat accomplice, they were standing across the street from his store before dawn. He rode up in his cart laden with fruit. These were not the type of men to wake early. Rocco stopped the horse, jumped from his cart, and instead of running into his store, he grabbed a piece of wood and ran across the street toward them. Rocco swung at the tall moled one first.
“He’s crazy! Pazzo!” shouted one to the other.
As the tall one ducked and attempted to throw a punch, out of the corner of his eye Rocco saw the fat one check his pocket watch. He dropped the board and ran toward his store. He was twenty feet from the entrance when the window blew.
Giovanna was stirring polenta when she heard the explosion. Not stopping to put on her coat, she ran down the steps to the street and was nearly run over by the No. 9 hook and ladder leaving the garage across the street. The smoke was exactly where she feared it would be. Most people were running away from the scene in shock and horror; she ran against the current of the crowd. The buildings opposite the store had had their windows blown out. For one brief moment she thought they had escaped being the target, but running forward, she saw policemen disappear into a cloud of smoke in front of their store.
Tripping over barrels, glass, and what she thought was a piece of their awning, she tried to make her way through the black smoke. She ran into a policeman who attempted to pull her back, but Giovanna broke away. Covering her face with her apron, she stumbled upon two policemen crouched over a man.
“He’s alive,” shouted one cop to the other. “Let’s get him out of the smoke.”
Giovanna followed them, and by the time they reached the opposite side of the street, she could see it was Rocco.
“Is the ambulance coming?” asked one cop of the other.
“Yeah. I’m going in to check the rest of the building. It shouldn’t collapse because it blew out—probably not dynamite—but I want to make sure.”
Looking up they saw Giovanna. “You his wife?”
Giovanna stooped over Rocco, examining him. He was unconscious. She checked his pulse, surprised to find it strong, and inspected his cuts. He was covered in blood, but the wounds appeared superficial.
“Dell’acqua, per favore. Acqua,” implored Giovanna to the remaining cop.
“Lady, the ambulance is coming.”
“Acqua.”
“Could somebody bring water? I think she wants water.”
A fireman came over with a bucket. Giovanna dipped her dress into the water and wiped the blood from Rocco’s face. She then dripped water into his mouth; Rocco coughed.
“Aiutami, aiutami.” She motioned to the cop for help. Together they lifted Rocco and leaned him against the building. His eyes opened and closed.
A car pulled up. “Jesus Christ, that’s Commissioner Bingham,” the cop mumbled to himself. Turning to Giovanna, he said, “Lady, I’ll make sure the ambulance gets here. Just wait. Okay?”
Giovanna nodded and watched him run off to join the other policemen gathering around the black car. At the same time, she saw Lorenzo galloping toward her.
“What happened? Giovanna, is he alright?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “Madonna! I had a feeling this was going on. Let me get help.”
Lorenzo returned with an Italian-speaking police detective. By now Rocco was conscious and even was trying to stand. Giovanna forced him back down.
“I saw them. I fought them,” he stammered.
“You saw who?” asked the cop.
Turning to the unfamiliar voice and realizing it was a policeman, he stopped. “Nothing. I saw nothing.”
“It is not a good time to talk to my husband. I want to get him to a doctor.”
“Of course, signora.”
On the other side of the block, Commissioner Bingham strode up to Lieutenant Petrosino exclaiming, “Jesus, Joe, what happened?”
“They wouldn’t pay the protection money, and they wouldn’t let us help. They’re new store owners.” Petrosino nodded toward Giovanna and Rocco.
“So it wasn’t an attack on the precinct in any way?”
“I don’t think so, Commissioner. I think it was a mistake. A little too much explosive.”
Bingham lowered his voice. “Well, let’s not tell anyone else that. We’ll get more support if people think they tried to go after us. Any idea who did it?”
“I don’t think it’s Lupo. Too inexperienced.”
Giovanna sat at Rocco’s side in the hospital, and Clement paced the room. Rocco insisted that he could go home after having his cuts and bruises tended to, but he also had broken ribs, and Lucrezia and Giovanna forced him to stay. The harried doctors didn’t look like they cared if the poor Italian stayed or went.
As devastated as Rocco was, he was grateful that Giovanna had not left his side and was ministering to him with devotion.
“Is there anything left?” Rocco asked his son.
“Nothing. Papa, why didn’t you tell me? I would have left my job and worked with you!”
“Why, so you could lie here, or worse?”
They stopped talking at the sound of people approaching. Two men walked into the room. While not in uniform, they were clearly detectives. Lieutenant Petrosino followed a moment later. Having not told Rocco of her encounters with him, Giovanna tensed. Petrosino sensed her discomfort and ignored her.
“Signore Siena, you are a lucky man. It may not seem that way at the moment, but you are. I am Lieutenant Petrosino, and this is Sergeant Crowley and Detective Fiaschetti.”
He was greeted with silence.
“The explosion in your store not only destroyed your business, it rocked our police headquarters. The commissioner is most anxious to know what happened. So are the newspaper reporters. What should I tell them, signore?”
Rocco shrugged. When Petrosino continued to wait for an answer, Rocco mumbled, “It blew up.”
Gripping the bed rail to contain his anger, Petrosino blurted, “I was hoping for once someone would get so mad they wouldn’t be afraid!”
Taking a minute to compose himself, but not hiding his exasperation, Petrosino continued. “Va bene. I know you are frightened, but it is not as if you remained safe without the police involved. Signore Siena, had you entered your store, you would have been blown to bits.”
Petrosino, seeing the fear on everyone’s faces, softened his tone. “Every time you say nothing, you make them stronger. Rotten scum like this makes us all look bad. With your cooperation, we can put them in jail and honest, hardworking people like yourselves will not have to live in terror. Please, tell us what you know, signore.”
Rocco turned his face to the wall.
The lieutenant waited and then spoke. “Okay, I will tell you what I know.” Petrosino leaned on the iron bars of the bed. “At approximately five twenty this morning, a bomb was set in the front of your store near the counter. I noticed that you had bars on your windows, signore, indicating that this has been going on for a while, although now those same bars are twisted like limp spaghetti. Do you want to know how they got in? I’m not certain, but my guess is that they had a key to your back door. They were careful to do damage only to your store by using a bomb instead of dynamite. You see, dynamite forces the explosion down, and this type of bomb explodes out. But, while they are ruthless, they are not always expert. The bomb was bigger than they needed, and its force shook half the block.”
Petrosino walked to the other side of Rocco’s bed and looked him straight in the face. “That is all I know, although I can guess much more. I imagine they came to you for money; they might have even called it ‘protection money.’ That is their new tactic. Being an honest man, you probably refused to give it to them. Or,” he said, “you didn’t give them enough.” Petrosino put his derby back on.
“Signore, you just lost your hard-earned store. I don’t pretend that I can make everything right, but we can put these criminals behind bars by working together. You get better, signore, and we’ll talk again.” He turned and tipped his hat to Giovanna. “Good day, signora.”
For days, Giovanna did not go out. She did not want to run into Petrosino. Avoiding her neighbor Pietro Inzerillo was more difficult. Sure enough, her first time out of the house, she had to listen to him express his condolences and say, “If only I was allowed to be of service to you.”
They sold the horse and cart so that Rocco could set himself up as a street vendor once again. If passing the boarded-up store was not reminder enough of the tragedy, the back-breaking work of pushing the cart didn’t allow him to forget.
Rocco and Giovanna argued long and loud after Lieutenant Petrosino’s second “chance encounter” with them on the street. Giovanna’s feeling was that they had nothing to lose, so why not cooperate in hopes of seeing justice served. But Rocco’s mistrust of the police led him to believe that something even worse could happen if the police were involved. Giovanna was beginning to like Petrosino and trust him, and in spite of Rocco’s suspicions—and vows to kill the Blackhanders himself—she could tell that he, too, liked the little lieutenant.
A month later, Giovanna announced, “Rocco, I will work with Petrosino. You never have to be seen with him. If they are watching at all, they’ll be watching you.”
After more than four years of marriage to this man, she was learning the signs. He didn’t say yes, but there was no tirade, which meant that Giovanna could proceed as she wanted without Rocco having to bruise his pride by acquiescing.
TWENTY-TWO
In just one meeting, Lieutenant Petrosino realized that he would not be the only one asking the questions. If Giovanna was going to help, she made it known that she was going to have to understand the situation, and on that first morning, Giovanna’s education into the ways of the Black Hand began.
Petrosino admitted to himself that Giovanna intimidated him. She towered over him, and when she asked questions, her blue eyes were so penetrating that it seemed she would instantly know if he was hedging or not telling the truth. Ruthless crooks were easier to deal with, yet despite his discomfort, he had grown to like this big woman who now sat at an oak table in his cramped precinct office.
Giovanna was poring through stacks and stacks of identification cards. On the front of each card were two photos—a profile and a full-face shot. On the back were words and numbers that were gibberish to Giovanna, and not only because she didn’t speak English.
After more than two hours of scrutinizing each photo, Giovanna walked over to Petrosino’s desk. “Lieutenant, I have found an important similarity about these Blackhanders.”
Lieutenant Petrosino responded to her solemn expression. “Yes, signora, please tell me.”
“They are all ugly.” Giovanna slapped her face in an expression of ugliness. “Brutti, tutti sono brutti.”
It was the first time Giovanna heard the lieutenant laugh, and it escaped like something that had been in hiding.
“Sit, sit, signora,” Petrosino said, still chuckling and motioning to a chair in front of his desk.
“What does all this say?” Giovanna asked, pointing to the card’s back.
“It’s the Bertillon measurements; it’s how we identify the criminals. Although now there’s a new method. You put black ink on fingers and make prints. Each one is unique—like a little map.”
Giovanna remembered the black-ink handprint on one of the letters and silently cursed Rocco for destroying them. Pointing at the titles on the card, she asked, “But here, what do these words say?”
“Height, weight, head length, outer arms, trunk, forearm…”
“Are you arresting them or making them new suits?”
Once again, the lieutenant chuckled.
“Who’s that ugly one?” asked Giovanna, pointing to a photo pinned to Petrosino’s wall.
“That is ‘Il Lupo.’ In English, ‘The Wolf.’”
“He looks more like that kind of dog without a snout. What is that?”
“A bulldog! Yes, you’re right! We’ve arrested Lupo many times but have never been able to keep him in jail.”
“I think my stepson saw him in the Star of Italy.”
“I’m sure he did. It’s one of his haunts. My affair with Lupo began in 1902. He murdered a man, but we didn’t get the evidence we needed. Then in 1903, I had proof he was involved in the barrel murder I told you about, but he was mysteriously cleared by the jury. Later that year, he was arrested for kidnapping, and again they let him go.”
“How does this happen?”
“Influence and fear. He pays people in high places, and if the case makes it to a jury, he frightens them. They think he will have them killed or curse their entire family with the evil eye. He’s worked hard on creating a reputation as someone with powers. His newest trick is he is pretending to be a respectable businessman with a grocery store on Mott Street. Not unlike your neighbor Pietro Inzerillo.”
“Do this Lupo and Inzerillo work together?”
“Sì. Inzerillo was arrested for the barrel murder with Lupo, and they’re often together. Now that you’ve seen his picture, I wouldn’t be surprised if you notice Lupo in Inzerillo’s cafe.”
Giovanna gagged on the thought that she had come close to engaging a murderer to protect her store, but she forged on. “So why do you think that Lupo wasn’t involved in the blackmail of my store?”
“I didn’t say that exactly. I doubted Lupo was involved, based on the sloppy explosion. But even if he was, I have nothing to go after Lupo with. You didn’t exchange money with Inzerillo, and he presented his offer with no threats. I could never prove blackmail.”
“So the only thing to do is find the moled man and fat bug?”
“Yes, signora, many crimes lead to Lupo. But hundreds more do not. There are thousands of Italian criminals in New York. There are so many of them that shopkeepers are being blackhanded by three different crooks or gangs at the same time.”
“But why so many?”
“When criminals get out of jail in Italy, the police make their life miserable, so they bribe their way onto ships. Usually they arrive in New York with the name of another criminal in their pocket. That thief gives him food and shelter in exchange for swindling shopkeepers since no one will know the newcomer’s face. When the job is done, if we are investigating, they just go to another city.”
“And the Americans can’t stop them getting in?”
“We’re trying, signora. The American laws are loose, and only now is the Italian government starting to cooperate with us.”
A noticeable change took place in the lieutenant’s demeanor. He had been speaking forcefully, and with this last question he looked defeated, so Giovanna changed the topic.
“Ah, there is a pretty face!” exclaimed Giovanna, pointing to a picture of a woman on his desk.
Giovanna swore she saw Petrosino blush. “This is my wife.” He turned the picture toward Giovanna. “My Adelina.”
Giovanna could tell he had more to say. “Any children?”
“In November we will have our first,” he said with both embarrassment and pride.
“Bravo!” Spying a gold-embellished certificate from Italy on the wall, Giovanna asked, “What’s that, Lieutenant?”
“After King Umberto was assassinated, I tracked down the anarchist in Paterson who pulled the trigger.”
“You are a hero, Lieutenant!” exclaimed Giovanna, sincerely impressed.
“Unfortunately,” said Petrosino puffing up, “the second part of the story does not go so well. You see, at the same time I was doing my undercover work to get this killer, I discovered a plot by the anarchists to kill the American president. I went to my old friend Vice President Roosevelt. He was the police commissioner when I started on the force, and I warned him, but they didn’t take the threat seriously.”
Giovanna stared blankly at the lieutenant, and he realized she didn’t know what he was talking about.
“The American president, McKinley, was assassinated in 1901, signora.”
“Oh, I was still in Italy, Lieutenant.”
Petrosino saw that Giovanna was embarrassed and went back to the issue at hand. “So, beyond ugly faces, there were none that looked like your two Blackhanders?”
“Not completely. If I take the eyes of one and put them on the cheeks of another…”
“Signora, see here on the card, it says, ‘remarks.’ This card says, ‘tattoos on both arms.’ Look for the word ‘mole’ in English. It’s written like this.” Petrosino wrote the letters in lead pencil. “You might not see the moles so well in the photograph, but it could be in the notes.”
“M-o-l-e. Va bene. Lieutenant, you said that when the crime is done, sometimes the swindlers leave town. So, if I find the names of these crooks and they’ve left, can you still get them in another city?”
“It’s complicated, signora. In America you can change your name every day with no penalty.”
“So it is hopeless.”
“No, signora, not at all. Difficult, yes. Hopeless, no. So,” sighed Petrosino, taking the stack of photographs from her and handing her another, “I’m afraid you must look at more ugly faces.”
Lucrezia read and translated into Italian as dramatically as the text was written. “‘The skull and crossbones flag of piracy is gone from the seas. But in our cities flourishes the Black Hand, a symbol every bit as significant of greed and cruelty—even more an emblem of cowardice and treachery. The scoundrels who lurk behind the terror of the Black Hand wax fat and daily grow more arrogant in their contempt for American law and order.’”
“What are you reading from?” Giovanna asked Lucrezia.
“It’s Everybody’s Magazine. I got it from my husband and thought you’d be interested. You haven’t told me much about your dealings with Petrosino.”
“There’s not much to tell. Read more.”
Lucrezia leafed through the article. “Here’s the part about the name that I was telling you about. ‘Back in the Inquisition days in Spain, there was La Mano Nera, a secret society that fought the government and the church. It passed, and the secret societies of southern Italy were its heirs. Twenty years ago, a false report was raised in Spain that La Mano Nera had been revived. The story lingered in the brain of a New York Herald reporter and one fine day he attempted to rejuvenate waning interest in a puzzling Italian murder case by speculating as to the coming to life of the Black Hand among immigrants in America. The other newspapers seized on the idea eagerly and kept it going.’”
“Petrosino said there is no organization, that it is a bunch of thugs.”
“Well, apparently this writer agrees with him. ‘The terror of the Black Hand now is tremendously increased by its mystery. The mystery will never be revealed, because there is nothing tangible to reveal. The police have not been battling with a complicated and secretly united murdering graft machine, but with individual produces of the opportunities for criminal education afforded by southern Italy for hundreds of years.’”
“Let me see that,” said Giovanna, taking the article from Lucrezia. A copy of a Black Hand letter was reproduced on the page and, because it was written in Italian, she read it herself.
“These people got a much longer letter than we did! Listen, ‘This is the second time that I have warned you. Sunday at ten o’clock in the morning, at the corner of Second Street and Third Avenue, bring three hundred dollars without fail. Otherwise we will set fire to you and blow you up with a bomb. Consider this matter well, for this is the last warning I will give you. I sign the Black Hand.’ This is definitely not from the same scoundrels. Even the drawing is different.”
“Yes, detective,” smirked Lucrezia.
Giovanna ignored her. “You know, Lieutenant Petrosino told me two Russian Jews used the name Black Hand to scare money out of a real estate dealer.”
Lucrezia recognized Giovanna’s intellectual interest in all this and asked, “Giovanna, tell me, what do you hope will come of all this?”
“I don’t know, Lucrezia. I’m beginning to realize that they might not find the brutti lowlifes who did it. But it doesn’t matter. How can I sit back and do nothing?”
“I suppose I’ll continue to have no help in the next few months delivering babies?”
“If you need me, you get me.”
Lucrezia muttered, “I’ll take that as a no.”
Giovanna and Lucrezia squeezed into a courtroom bench. The chambers were packed with expectant onlookers and reporters. Lieutenant Petrosino had told Giovanna about the case of Signore Spinella, a tailor who confessed to his priest that he was receiving Black Hand letters. The priest, against Spinella’s wishes, went to the police. The detectives watched Spinella’s store and, soon enough, they saw a man enter who they were sure was a crook. When the man left, they questioned the frightened tailor, who finally admitted that indeed this man was blackmailing him.
Now the blackmailer was on trial, and Giovanna, after persuading Lucrezia to accompany her, came to see American justice at work.
The tailor was a slight man, and his nervousness on the witness stand was evident. The poor man had to be prodded again and again by the prosecutor to tell his story. Finally, the prosecutor asked, “Is the man who threatened you in this room?”
The tailor was silent and anxiously glanced around the courtroom.
The prosecutor posed the question again even more dramatically. “Is this the man who threatened you?” he shouted, pointing to the defendant.
But the tailor wasn’t looking at the defendant. Instead he saw a man leaning against the wall slowly draw his finger across his throat.
“No, I don’t see him here,” blurted the tailor.
Gasps filled the courtroom.
“Isn’t this the man who threatened you?” shouted the prosecutor, now thumping on the defendant’s shoulder.
“No, that’s not him,” mumbled the tailor.
The man leaning against the wall quickly left while the judge gaveled the room silent. In desperation, the frustrated prosecutor asked again and again, until the judge pronounced the case dismissed.
Giovanna was stunned. She looked at the tailor disdainfully, but when she saw him rejoined by his weeping wife and children, she sighed knowingly. She could see the disgust on Lucrezia’s face but couldn’t read it. At times like this, Giovanna suspected that Lucrezia’s contempt for the uneducated, poor immigrants surfaced. Or was she frustrated with a system that couldn’t protect them? Giovanna herself could not answer the question.
Petrosino’s cough rattled his chest and the office walls.
Giovanna wiped the perspiration from her own forehead with a handkerchief she had woven and embroidered with the initials G.C., because if she used either of her married names she felt like she was betraying someone. The heat in the room was oppressive.
“You must see a doctor, Lieutenant,” counseled Giovanna. “Sometimes summer brings the worst lung illnesses.”
“My wife agrees,” answered Petrosino, drinking water.
Following her experience in court, Giovanna lost some of her enthusiasm for finding the blackmailers, but she still met regularly with Petrosino, from whom she continued to learn more about this secret society that was in actuality neither secret nor a society. She now knew that the role of Sicily’s Mafia or the Camorra of Naples was limited to aiding and abetting the criminals in their travels between the countries. She agreed with Petrosino that Lupo’s gang hadn’t been involved in the blackmail of their store. All the signs pointed to one of the small gangs of blackmailers that came and went in Little Italy. She decided that if Rocco had killed their Blackhanders, that might have been the end of it. At least until the next one came along.
“Keep your eyes on Inzerillo’s cafe, signora. The Wolf has disappeared,” said Petrosino between coughs.
“What? Lupo is gone? What of his store?”
“He claimed bankruptcy. He took what money he had and left his creditors behind.”
“So, Lieutenant, this is good news, yes? At least he is gone.”
“No, signora. It only means I don’t know where he is.” Petrosino punctuated his sentence with his wracking cough, which would not stop.
“Lieutenant, there is no need to wait. You should see the doctor,” said Giovanna, standing. She handed him his derby.
Petrosino, not having the energy to fight, took his hat and left.
Two weeks later, when word reached Giovanna that Petrosino was home with pneumonia, Giovanna asked Lucrezia to go with her to visit him. Carrying homemade chicken soup and a variety of herbal remedies in the July heat, they walked to his apartment at the corner of Lafayette and Sullivan. Fiaschetti, the young barrel-chested detective who had accompanied Petrosino to the hospital after the bombing, stood guard outside the door to his apartment.
“Signora! What are you doing here?”
“I brought soup.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Lucrezia gave Giovanna a look that said, “What did you get me into?” She wasn’t accustomed to being left waiting in hallways.
“Signora Petrosino said to come in,” announced Fiaschetti upon returning.
A pregnant Adelina Petrosino greeted them at the door. “How kind of you to come.”
“I am so sorry the lieutenant is ill. This is my friend Signora LaManna, who is a doctor.”
Adelina looked at Lucrezia sideways and said, “Thank you, but the doctor has been to see him. He will be fine if he rests.”
In the uncomfortable moment that followed, Giovanna and Lucrezia stole glances at the large but modest apartment.
“Adelina, who is there?” called Petrosino from the bedroom.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Signora Siena.”
Adelina walked into the bedroom and spoke to her husband. When she returned, she said, “He would like to see you for a minute.”
Giovanna, nudging Lucrezia to go with her, walked inside.
Lieutenant Petrosino was propped up on pillows. His face looked drawn, but in Giovanna’s quick assessment, she decided he would recover.
“This is Dottore LaManna, my friend.”
“It’s an honor, Dottore.”
“Signora LaManna, Lieutenant.”
“Signora Siena has told me all about you, Dottore. So I assume she brought you here to see if I will live.”
Giovanna laughed. “Oh, you’ll live alright, but only if you are tied to this bed.”
“I will tell you this confidentially: the one good thing about my illness is I think it made everyone feel guilty enough to allow the commissioner to expand the Italian Squad.”
“Congratulations, Lieutenant!”
“I’m not sure much will happen in my absence.”
“You rest, Lieutenant. Even I am taking time off. I’m going to Scilla with my daughter in just one week. It has been a long time since I’ve seen my family.”
“Good for you, signora! I suppose it was doctor’s orders,” he commented, winking at Lucrezia.
“I can see what a perceptive detective you are,” answered Lucrezia, smiling.
Saying good-bye to Adelina at the door, Giovanna could not help but notice that Adelina was carrying well and the pregnancy appeared healthy.
Cedar Grove, New Jersey, 1973
“‘Put money into one loaf of the bread and deliver to Rossi. Make the loaf darker than the others.’ Mamma! How much money do we have?”
“Five or six dollars.”
“I mean all the money!”
“But, Pop, I only have one more year and then I’ll be a teacher.”
“What can we do? You know what happened to little Marisa.”
“I could talk to Lieutenant Petrosino.”
“This is a private affair. Private business.”
“This isn’t Sicily, Papa. Here the police are on our side. Lieutenant Petrosino, he’s Italian like we are.”
“No! I told you! No!”
The clicking of my grandmother’s knitting needles was bothering me, so I turned up the TV. It was Sunday afternoon, and I was watching an old black-and-white movie. A baker in the movie had decided not to pay extortion money after his daughter cried, and now the bad guys were breaking into his store. I cringed. It was a horrible scene. They had the guy tied to a chair and were cracking eggs over his head before they put him in a brick oven.
“Does it go this way or that way?” asked my grandmother, turning around the paper on which I had drawn a peace sign.
Without turning away from the TV, I flipped the peace sign right side up. “This way.”
“Do you like the orange?”
“Yes, I like it.” I tried not to show my exasperation at being interrupted again because she was doing me a favor by knitting a patch for my jeans.
As politely as possible, I turned my attention back to the guy from McHale’s Navy who was playing an Italian cop.
“That’s so loud,” complained Nanny.
“You keep talking.”
“Turn it down. What are you watching anyway?”
“Some old movie about the Mafia.”
“You shouldn’t watch that garbage.”
“I know, I know…” I was familiar with my grandmother’s feelings about anything that was Mafia-related.
I was relieved. The good guy in the oven was saved and the Italian cop was interrogating him as he was brought out.
“Who did this to you?”
“Lupo and two others.”
“Are you sure it was Lupo?”
The half-finished orange peace sign attached to Nanny’s needles dropped to the floor. My grandmother tentatively rose from the crushed velvet La-Z-Boy and walked toward the TV, stopping before she got too close. She leaned sideways to look at the picture, acting as if she got too near the television it could hurt her. Nanny watched and listened for a few moments before gasping in air and clasping her hand to her mouth. For a second she seemed rooted to the checkered linoleum.
“Turn it off!” she shouted, before storming up the den stairs into the kitchen. I heard her continue up the second set of stairs leading to the bedrooms.
My grandmother was not beyond throwing a fit, but this seemed odd. I was torn between wanting to finish watching the movie—now the baker’s daughter was being attacked in a dark hallway—and my curiosity about why my grandmother was acting so weird. It didn’t occur to me to be concerned; Nanny wasn’t the kind of person who evoked worry or sympathy. Even at the worst of times, she was strong and eerily detached. Eventually, curiosity and guilt won out.
Nanny was in my room sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Did you turn that off?” demanded Nanny without looking at me.
“Yes,” I lied. “What’s the matter? I’m sorry if it was too loud.”
“I told you not to watch that garbage.”
“Nanny, not all Mafia stuff is garbage. You act like the Mafia’s not real or something.”
“Don’t tell me! I know what’s real and what’s not!”
“Why are you screaming?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re talking about. Go do your homework!”
“I did it already. What’s the big deal? It’s a dumb old Mafia movie!”
“It’s not the Mafia, it’s the Black Hand!”
“Same thing.”
“See! You know nothing!”
“They just said it! The movie’s based on a true story, a cop named Petrosino fighting the Mafia.”
“They killed him.”
“Who?”
“The policeman, Petrosino.”
“Did you see the movie?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know he gets killed?”
She didn’t answer.
“How do you know he gets killed, Nanny?”
That night, I left Nanny with my sister and went to the local pizza parlor parking lot to hang out with my friends. I had decided not to tell anyone, but that lasted about fifteen minutes.
“I’m telling you, Thea, my grandmother was kidnapped.”
“That’s so cool,” Thea marveled.
“I don’t think she thought it was cool. She was only four.”
“How did they get her back?”
“I’m not sure. I think they paid a ransom or something. She didn’t tell me much.”
“Was it, like, Al Capone?”
“No, it was the Black Hand. They came before the Mafia.”
“You gotta get her to tell you more.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
A few months later, my mother was stunned at my enthusiasm for attending the family reunion picnic. She kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye. It baffled me that my mother knew so little about the kidnapping. “That’s so long ago. What do you care?”
Unlike my grandmother, who was stonewalling me, my mother honestly didn’t have the information and didn’t seem interested. But for me, it had become an obsession. I replayed scenes from the past, looking for clues. There was the obvious—Nanny yelling to get the strangers out of the house when my friends came to visit—but I needed to know more to be able to make sense of it all. For the first time, I truly tried to understand the tangled web of my family. It wasn’t easy. Nanny and Nonno were cousins as well as husband and wife, and they weren’t the only ones. Our family tree had so many diagonal lines it looked like it was covered in netting. I missed Nonno every day, but now I felt desperate for him.
There wasn’t a hamburger or hot dog in sight at the family picnic. Trays of lasagna, eggplant parmigiana, swordfish, clams on the half shell, steamed mussels, calamari salads, veal rollatini, stuffed artichokes, and more covered the redwood picnic tables. The tuna casserole and noodle salad brought by the few cousins who had married non-Italians were politely put on a separate picnic table and went untouched.
I decided that Uncle Cakey, Nanny’s younger brother, would be my best source. Nanny’s older brother, Clement, and sister, Frances, were both dead. Aunt Mary lived in Wildwood and wouldn’t be coming, and Aunt Etta was a lot younger than Nanny, so I figured she didn’t know much.
Uncle Cakey was immediately drafted for a game of bocce, so I had to wait. When the game and bickering about whose ball was closer ended, I brought Uncle Cakey a glass of wine and steered him far away from my grandmother.
“So, Uncle Cakey, were you born when Nanny was kidnapped?”
“You know about that?”
I tried to sound nonchalant. “Yeah, of course.”
He looked at me skeptically but answered. “I was born when they had your grandmother.”
One of the old cousins walked by. “Dominick, my great-niece here wants to know about when they took Lena.”
Dominick looked older than Uncle Cakey but was taller. He pulled up a folding chair.
“Yeah? Who’s your mother?”
“Josie. I’m Angelina’s granddaughter Anna.”
“You look like her.”
Cousin Dominick squeezed my face and gave me a kiss. “How old are you?”
“I’m sixteen…I saw this old movie about a cop named Petrosino.”
“Oh, yeah, Petrosino, I knew him. I wanted to be a policeman.”
“Did he help when my grandmother was kidnapped?”
“No, he was dead by then. I still remember his funeral. It didn’t matter that he was Italian—everyone came. I had a friend who worked for him. Detective Forseti, Fachetti—something like that.”
“So what exactly was the Black Hand?”
“Thugs. Black rats. You know they even tried to get money out of Caruso when he came to New York. My friend the detective got them that time.”
“So was he the one that got Nanny back?”
“No, your great-grandmother got her back. I helped her, you know. She was smart, your great-grandmother. And strong. I loved Zia Giovanna. My father, Lorenzo, didn’t live long like she did, but my mother, Teresa, God rest her soul, had eleven children and died at ninety-two.”
“How did Big Nanny get her back?”
“Does your grandmother know you’re asking all these questions?”
I lied. “Sure. But what does it matter?”
“Because you don’t talk about it, that’s all. Cakey, did you tell her about how people would wait around the block for our ice cream in Hoboken? If you want to hear old stories, that’s what you should know.”
“See this muscle?” Uncle Cakey jumped into the conversation by flexing his biceps. “The longshoremen didn’t have muscles like this! We had to lift barrels of ice and rock salt. Even your grandmother had muscles from carrying the cream and condensed milk.”
“Lena!” Cousin Dominick called Nanny. “Tell your granddaughter about our ice cream.”
Nanny walked over, effectively ending my investigation. Within minutes Uncle Cakey was recounting in detail how they made the lemon ice.
“You cut the tits off the lemons…the barrels would go into rock salt…”
“Remember Mamma would say, ‘Don’t let Uncle Lorenzo buy the lemons! He’s an artist. He always picks the lemons that look good, not the ones with the thin skins that you need.’”
Nanny actually chuckled at the memory, but I began to tune out. I was plotting my next move, because although I’d gotten a few answers, I ended up with more questions.