Gangster (23 page)

    It was our time, Pudge liked to say of those years. Maybe the greatest time ever to be in the rackets. Everywhere we turned, there was money to be made. That's why we all made the move to take our business national. It gave what we did a structure and made it all the easier to take money that we earned illegally from gambling or booze and spread it out to legal setups like transportation and banking. Back in those years, even as young as we were, anybody in the rackets who had himself any kind of a brain knew that if we kept it all going the way it was, sooner or later the whole country would belong to us. But for that to work, you needed a lot of patience. And there were too many gangsters who didn't have that. I guess that's true wherever you go, no matter what sort of racket you're in. There's always somebody in the middle of the pack who just can't wait.

     *     *     *

ANGELO AND ISABELLA walked down lower Broadway, holding hands, stopping every few feet to look at the displays in the store windows. The last three years had been good ones for Angelo. He and Pudge had solidified their hold on Angus's crew, expanding the core group to where it now numbered more than one thousand salaried members. Unlike the other gang leaders, Angelo and Pudge were not exclusionary gangsters. They were the first to accept Jews in their ranks and ventured out to upper Manhattan and the outer boroughs to recruit selected members from the more organized of the black gangs. Both actions were done solely for business, not social, reasons. Black gangsters wanted a piece of the action at a time when no one wanted a piece of them, Angelo said. To get in, they were willing to handle twice the work with a smaller cut of the profits coming their way, which meant more in our pockets. We brought in the Jews for an even better reason. They were prime-time killers. They would go anywhere, at any time, and didn't care who they had to shoot. And like the blacks, they did it more to get the attention, knowing that, in our business, it's reputation not race or religion that eventually brings in the big haul. A lot of those Jewish shooters we first hired later went out on their own and formed Murder, Inc. That's when their price went up, but even then, they were still more than worth it.

    Angelo and Pudge were both quick to embrace the notion of a national crime commission and drew up and sent out an array of proposals as to how it could best be implemented. They were part of a new generation of American gangster, moving to the faster pace of a money-driven century and taking full advantage of every opportunity. Where past gangsters were once content to bribe a wide array of police officials, they now were in a position to run their own candidates for political office and have their own judges appointed to the bench. The underworld ran the wards, secured the banks and controlled the import and export of all goods that crossed the ocean and passed state lines.

    It was like the industrial revolution for crooks, Pudge would tell me. For whatever the reasons, during those years, we were left on our own. The feds were just starting out and couldn't find their ass with either hand. The local badges were just looking for a bigger payoff. And John Q. had his hand out for anything we could give him. We had it all and we ran it all and it didn't look like anybody would ever be able to touch us.

    The business relationship with Jack Wells was also running on a smooth track. Wells had solidified his power base and gained some respect among his peers for the war he had waged against McQueen. He had expanded his beer distribution ring beyond the Bronx to where it now reached as far north as Toronto and as far to the west as Scranton, Pennsylvania, willingly kicking back a small share of the large profits to Angelo and Pudge. The two sides still did not trust each other, but as long as the money kept coming in, there was no reason to fear the outbreak of new hostilities. Angelo knew that another confrontation with Wells was inevitable. There was too much past blood between them for a final war not to be fought. Angelo was, for the time being, content to let the false peace between them run its course.

     *     *     *

ISABELLA PAUSED WHEN she saw Pudge, a large teddy bear shoved under his right arm, walk toward her. For the baby, he said. I wanted to be the first to get the kid one.

    Thank you. She took the bear from him. I'll be sure to put it where he can see it. Isabella was nervous around Pudge. He relished his role of gangster, took more pleasure from it than her husband did. It was always easy for her to forget who Angelo was and what he did for a living when she was in his company. She could never do that with Pudge.

    I know you don't much care for me, Pudge said. I can't say I blame you. You're a smart woman and I never could get them to go for me.

    You are a good friend to Angelo, Isabella said. I will always respect that.

    I won't let anything happen to him, Pudge said. I swore my life on it. That holds true now for you and for his baby.

    If you can keep my husband alive, then you will be a good friend to me as well.

    My job's been getting easier as he gets older, Pudge told her. He's very good at what he does.

    It might be better if he weren't, Isabella said. It might lead him to start looking for some other work to do.

    Stuff like that's always nice to think about, Pudge said. It never has anything to do with the truth.

    And what is the truth?

    There's no other way for either one of us.

    Why are you telling me all of this? she asked.

    So you won't ever hate him, Pudge said. I don't want you to look at your husband and have you see the gangster looking back. The way you do when you look at me.

    I know him in different ways than you do, Isabella said. And what I know I can never hate.

    Pudge nodded. Then he's a lucky man, he said.

     *     *     *

WHY DO WE need to choose a crib so long before the baby is born? Angelo asked Isabella as they stood in front of a window display featuring an extensive array of hand-sewn rugs.

    She turned to him, smiled and rubbed a hand gently across his face. Angelo, the whole room should be ready before the baby is born, she said. Unless you want him to sleep with us.

    Why do you always say him and never her? He covered the top of her warm hand with his.

    Because I know it is your son inside me. She looked down and patted the slight bulge in her belly. He's too quiet not to be. All the other mothers tell me that their babies kick and punch. Not mine. He sits inside there and thinks. Just like his father.

    They turned away from the window and continued on their walk, their hands automatically reaching out and clasping. We haven't talked about what name to give the baby who's getting all this new furniture, Angelo said.

    That's not going to be too difficult, Isabella said. If I'm right and it is a boy, we will name him Carlo, after your brother.

    Angelo stopped and turned to stare at his wife. He put his arms around her and they embraced, holding each other under a brutal afternoon sun, Angelo's face buried in the crook of her neck, overcome with a rush of emotion. I love you, was all he could manage to say.

    We should go, she whispered into his ear. I told the man at the furniture store we would be there no later than one.

    They walked in silence for several blocks, still holding hands. Angelo was anything but a gangster when he was in Isabella's presence. She brought to the surface feelings of warmth and kindness that he had long ago learned to suppress. When he was around her, Angelo never gave any thought to his business ventures or the motives behind the actions of his enemies. He gave in to the facade of the happy husband eagerly awaiting the birth of his first child, finding a degree of solace in the relaxing nature such a pose afforded.

    How did you find out about this store? Angelo asked.

    A friend of my cousin Graziella told her about it, Isabella said. He builds all the cribs by hand and they last forever. No matter how many children we end up having.

    I never thought I would want a child, Angelo said. I was always afraid of the idea.

    What are you afraid of? Isabella asked.

    I don't know what kind of father I'm going to be, Angelo said. I only know the kind of father I don't want to be.

    You won't be like your own father. That won't happen with you. She had listened to enough of his early-morning nightmares to know how that fear haunted his sleep and tormented his soul. You are not the same kind of a man.

    In many ways I'm worse, Angelo said. What will my son think of what I do?

    I don't know.

    I don't want him to be what I am, Angelo said firmly. I want him to be a good man.

    He will be, Isabella said with resolve. I promise you that.

    He looked at her, nodded and smiled, lifting the lid off his dark mood. In that case, he said, we will have as many children as you wish.

    She leaned her head against his shoulder. Do you know, I've never even held a newborn in my arms? I'm going to be so nervous coming home from the hospital.

    We'll get Pudge to hold him. Nothing ever makes him nervous.

    Isabella lifted her head off Angelo's shoulder and laughed. Why does he like to be called Pudge? she asked. What's the matter with his real name?

    He hates it, Angelo said. He's hated it since I've known him. Lucky for him, there're not many people left who even remember his first name. So, let's keep him happy and let him be a good Uncle Pudge to our baby.

    But you know his name, don't you? Isabella asked, looking at her husband and smiling.

    Yes, Angelo said, smiling back at her. I know it.

    Will you tell me? she asked, stroking a hand across his face. Please.

    I've kept it a secret for over twenty years. He gently tugged his wife toward the entrance of the furniture store she had been so eager to see. I think it can at least wait until after we have picked out a crib for our baby to sleep in.

     *     *     *

THE SALESMAN WAS short, bald and had a round thick paunch hanging over his belt. His hands were small, like those of a child, and his mannered voice bordered on feminine. He smiled when Angelo and Isabella approached and, with great care, wiped at the dampness on his forehead with a folded napkin. The large showroom was filled with an assortment of furniture, from cabinets and bureaus to beds and dining room sets. It was a poorly lit room, heavy drapes blocking out the view from the street and shaded lights casting minor shadows along its corners. It took several minutes for Angelo's eyes to adjust his vision from the harsh glare of the bright sunlight outside. When he was able to focus, he noticed that except for the two of them and the salesman, they were alone in the store.

    It's close to lunch hour, the salesman said, quick to read the concern on Angelo's face. If you'd come here earlier this morning, I wouldn't have been able to help you, we were so crowded.

    Are you the man who builds the cribs? Isabella asked, her eyes searching the room for the furniture she wanted.

    No, madam, the man said with a respectful nod. He's not at work today. But, luckily, many of his cribs are here. I keep them in the back of the showroom. Would you like me to take you over to see?

    I would like that very much. Isabella smiled over at Angelo and urged him to follow along. And so would my husband.

    The man bowed slightly and led the way toward a rear corner of the room. Angelo watched his agitated walk and the circle of sweat forming around his starched shirt collar. He saw the man nervously glance into the near-darkness, half-expecting someone to pounce out and surprise him. Angelo squeezed Isabella's hand, grabbed his gun from his hip holster and dropped it into his jacket pocket. He stopped walking and pulled his wife to his side.

    We have to get out of here, he whispered to her. And we have to get out now.

    But we haven't seen any of the cribs.

    Now, Isabella! Angelo said in a louder, firmer voice.

     *     *     *

THE TWO MEN came out from behind the shadows of a large brown hutch, their guns drawn and aimed at Angelo's back. The salesman disappeared around a bend, hidden behind massive bureaus and ornate desks, walking head down and with a purpose. Angelo heard the footsteps pound on the carpeted concrete and the click of a chamber spinning slowly inside the barrel of a gun. He turned to Isabella and saw a look of hopeless terror engulf her face. In that brief moment of eerie silence, Angelo's mind focused on a rainy day, when he handed a young woman with a magnetic smile a piece of fresh fruit.

    Behind you! Isabella screamed.

    Angelo whirled away from her face and turned to confront the men coming at them, his gun in his hand. They began to run at him, shooting as they moved, the bullets coming his way in loud and rapid succession. Angelo stood his ground, aimed his gun, and emptied it at the two men sent to kill him.

    It was over in less than thirty seconds, but for Angelo Vestieri, every movement seemed to fill out a lifetime.

     *     *     *

ANGELO SQUINTED AT the overhead lights. He shifted his eyes slightly to the right and saw Pudge sitting in a chair, his hands balled into fists, staring at him.

    Don't talk, Pudge said as soon as he saw that his friend was awake. Just listen to what I have to say. You took three slugs, nothing serious. One grazed your head and knocked you out for a few hours. That's why it's all bandaged. Another ripped through your shoulder. And the last one got you in the leg. You'll be out of here in about a week, maybe less.

    Where's Isabella?

    I said don't talk, goddammit! At least not until I finish everything I have to say. Pudge's voice started to crack. Nod if you understand.

    Angelo nodded and closed his eyes.

    The two shooters were hired by Jack Wells, Pudge said. The setup was to get you into the place. They paid off somebody from the neighborhood to get Isabella all excited about going there. Wells owns the building and anybody who works in the store is too afraid not to do what he tells them.