Gangster (24 page)

    Angelo opened his eyes and reached out a hand. Pudge took it and held it tight. You did good with the gun, Ang, he said. One of the shooters died on the spot. The other one is two floors down from us in critical. They were only supposed to shoot you. They didn't figure on Isabella stepping in the way, trying to save you from getting hit.

    Pudge was barely able to speak now, his strong body trembling. I'm so sorry, he managed to say, I swore on Ida's grave that I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Or to Isabella and the baby. I should have been there with you. I should have smelled it out, but I didn't.

    Angelo still said nothing. He didn't have to. His eyes asked the only question that needed asking.

    She's dead, Pudge said. Isabella is dead.

    Behind them the city skyline had darkened, as night came in to close out what had, only hours earlier, been a beautiful summer day.

    Take me to see her, Angelo said.

    Pudge lifted his head and shook it. Your wounds are too fresh. If I move you, they'll only open up again.

    I want to see my wife, Angelo whispered. Take me.

    Pudge wiped his face with his jacket sleeve, took a deep breath and nodded. You're going to have to move as fast as I do, because if they see us, they'll try and stop us.

    Shoot them if they do, Angelo said.

     *     *     *

LIFE GAVE ANGELO a lot of reasons to be cold, Pudge once told me. But Isabella getting killed was the capper. He spent the whole night crying over her body. Hell, we both did. And then, just like that, he stopped and turned away. And all that he ever lived for, from that moment on, was making his enemies suffer. He had lost too many people he loved and the best way he knew to stop that from happening was to never love anybody again. Instead, he went out and made other people lose whatever and whoever they loved. It wasn't about business or revenge anymore. It was about hate and it's what probably helped turn him into an underworld legend. But it's hard to be a legend and a man. The Angelo who was in love and happy and waiting for his baby to be born was gone forever.

11

_____________________________

Winter, 1932

ANGELO AND PUDGE waited in the dark hallway, by the back door, in the rear of the warehouse. They were both still shivering from the long walk across town, the arctic blasts of air coming off the river cutting through their thick winter coats. They had parked their car over by the edge of the pier, preferring the cover of the empty streets as a safety shield against anyone who might be following them.

    Angelo walked with a slight limp; his right leg, from the kneecap down, was still numb from the nerve damage caused by the bullet. But he ignored the pain and kept up with Pudge's accelerated pace. Angelo had spent the entire summer and a good portion of the fall recovering from his wounds and from the loss of Isabella, living in the top floor of a sparsely furnished Upper West Side apartment. Except for Pudge, who visited every day, he allowed himself no company. He spent the bulk of his day sitting in a thick leather chair, staring out past the row of tenement buildings toward the vast expanse of the Hudson River. Once a week, he was driven out to St. Charles's Cemetery on the eastern end of Long Island, where he spent a silent hour in front of his wife's grave. He had insisted that her funeral be a private affair, limited only to friends and family. Neither Jack Wells nor Spider MacKenzie bothered to make an appearance at the wake, and the flower arrangements they had sent were left out with the trash in a side alley. For the time being, Angelo informed all members of his crew that they should conduct their business in the usual manner, and that any encroachments Wells made on their turf be allowed to happen without any fear of reprisals. For his part, Wells moved slowly, content for the moment to nibble away at the pieces of Angelo's domain. As the months passed, Wells grew bolder, convinced that the accidental killing of Isabella had stripped Angelo of his taste for battle and his desire to maintain control of the New York rackets.

    If I had known that killing his wife would have buckled the guy the way it has, I would have done it long ago, Wells told Spider MacKenzie after learning that his crew had taken over another chunk of Angelo's Manhattan numbers business. The way he's acting, he's as dead as she is.

    Spider nodded and, as usual, said nothing. He had sold out to Wells for a bigger cut of the profits and a greater sense of mob power; now that he had both, he stood there wishing he had never made the move. Spider MacKenzie was not fit to be a leader in the new underworld order. He had neither the taste for brutality nor the cold character a crew boss needed to rule, and he could never shrug off the murder of a former friend's wife. He was aware that such faults would eventually lead to his demise and he didn't seem to care. Angus had once told him that the price of a betrayal was too steep for most men. It had to be lived with every single day of their lives and few could handle such a burden. Spider MacKenzie knew he was not one of those few.

     *     *     *

THE FRONT DOOR to the warehouse swung open, letting in blasts of light and cold air. Spider reached a hand out to the wall nearest him and flicked on a switch, turning on a long row of overhead bulbs. He slammed the door shut behind him and turned to lock it. He looked around the enormous room filled with whiskey crates newly arrived from the Canadian border and marked for distribution. MacKenzie walked toward the rear of the room, his hands in his pockets and his head down. Angelo and Pudge stood with their backs against the cold wall, pulled their guns and watched as Spider's shadow moved closer to them. As he turned a corner, Spider paused to pull a row of keys from his pants pocket. He stopped by a metal door leading to the warehouse basement, bent down and inserted a key into the lock. The thick bolt clicked and Spider swung the door open. He peered down a dark set of steps, then his body stiffened as he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against the base of his neck.

    You must really rank up there with Wells, Pudge said, reaching into Spider's waistband and pulling out his gun. I mean, for him to trust you with the keys to his stash.

    You guys running low on whiskey? Spider asked. He was careful not to move, keeping his arms at his side, his hands extended. All you had to do was ask. We would have sold you a few cases.

    It's always better to take than to receive, Pudge said.

    Turn on the light to the basement, Angelo said, standing directly behind Spider. Then start walking down the steps.

    There's nothing down there but a small office and a furnace, Spider said. We only keep the whiskey on the main floor.

    We're not taking inventory, Pudge said, shoving the gun barrel deeper into Spider's neck. So just do what Angelo tells you.

    Spider nodded as Angelo and Pudge followed him down the basement steps.

    Our trucks should be here in a few minutes to start moving out the whiskey, Pudge said. From the size of the haul, it's gonna take them a good two hours to clear the place out.

    I want the whole floor emptied, Angelo said. Have them break open any cases that can't fit inside the trucks.

    All except for one bottle, Pudge said. That one we gift wrap and mail to Wells. He's gonna need a drink when he hears about this.

    Angelo walked into the small office next to the warm furnace. He looked around at the file cases and long stacks of ledgers wedged against the corners of the room. This is where Wells keeps all his distribution records, Pudge said. The folders in those cabinets have all the names and dates, how much each haul costs and how much it brings in.

    Angelo picked up a ledger and leafed through the pages. Who tipped you about all this?

     A balls-on-his-ass gambler who owns Sam's Deli, about three blocks down. Wells has been eating brisket sandwiches in there since he first had money in his pocket. But he won't handle any of Sam's action because he knows the guy's nothing but a deadbeat. So for the last year or so, Sam's been betting with a runner from our crew. Last week, I found out Sam was into us for about nine hundred dollars. I cut the difference and in return got him to spill what he knew about this place.

    There's at least thirty thousand worth of whiskey in those crates, Angelo said. Maybe more. It's not nice to keep those kind of secrets from your partners.

    Wells started working out of this building when he first got into the rackets, Pudge said. That was back in the early years, probably before he ever even heard about Angus. He's got his big distribution warehouse over on Gun Hill Road. That's the one we're supposed to know about. This one, he tries to keep a lid on. Likes to think of it as his good-luck spot.

     His luck just changed, Angelo said, tossing one of the ledgers onto the small desk in the center of the office. And not for the better.

     *     *     *

THE FURNACE DOOR was open and the room was filled with clouds of white smoke. Angelo sat on a wooden chair, his back to the stairs and to Spider, casually throwing ledgers and crammed folders into the mouth of the fire. One floor above, he heard the muted voices and the heavy footsteps of Pudge and his men loading whiskey crates onto the backs of flatbed tracks. His face and shirt were dripping wet from the stifling heat, but Angelo went about his task of destroying the carefully maintained records and receipts of Jack Wells's beer and whiskey business.

    You better think about what you're doing, Angelo, Spider said, his voice tired and hoarse. When Jack hears about all this, it'll be sure to start another war.

    We never finished the last one, Angelo said. He threw another packed folder into the center of the flames and walked over to where Spider was laying with his head against the final step. We'll start doing that today.

    By doing what, burning his records and stealing his whiskey? Spider asked. That's not the smart way to hurt Wells.

    You're his number-one man now, Spider, Angelo said, bending down and staring into his former friend's eyes. He listens to you. Comes to you for advice. That kind of clout carries a lot of muscle, the kind a top gang boss doesn't like to lose. So killing you, that would hurt Jack Wells, wouldn't it? Hurt him a lot?

    MacKenzie looked up at Angelo, his face filled with regret and relief. You'd be doing me a favor, he said. I should never have walked away from what I had with Angus. It was where I belonged.

    Angelo stood and stared down at Spider MacKenzie, the fire from the furnace wanning both of them and casting the room in an eerie glow of dancing shadows. He tightened his grip on the gun and held it away from his side. He took a long and silent breath and calmly fired three bullets into Spider's upper body. Then Angelo shoved the gun into its holster, turned and walked back toward the furnace to burn the last of the records.

     *     *     *

A GANGSTER MUST always be prepared to kill a friend. It is one of the many open secrets of the business, since it is the truest test of his ability to rule and command the respect of his crew. To eliminate a sworn enemy requires little more than opportunity, luck and the willingness to pull a trigger. But to end the life of someone once considered close, regardless of any previous betrayal, requires a determination that few men possess. We never talked about that end of it, me and Ang, Pudge once explained to me. I guess we didn't want to have to ever think about it. We loved each other more than brothers. But if business called for it, I don't doubt for a second that he would have pulled the trigger on me, just as I'm sure I would have pulled it on him. I'm not saying we would have been happy about it or that we wouldn't have cried about it after it was over, but we would have seen it through. I don't see as how we had any other choice. No gangster does.

    I knew they were killers, but I never felt in any danger when I was in their company. As a child, I would listen to the stories and appreciate their sense of mystery and adventure. As an adult, I would never allow myself the luxury of judging them, but would sometimes question my own lack of concern over their willingness to bring a life to an end. It is not easy to love those so quick and eager to kill. Angelo's children, for example, having learned the truth about their father, were too frightened to ever want to be allowed close. It was a door they refused to open. But for me it was different. I was raised in the life and was well aware of its murderous rules. To do otherwise, meant to turn my back on the two men I loved more than any other.

     *     *     *

MARY HAD SAT silently for many minutes, her eyes on Angelo, her mind swayed by the memories she had conjured up during our long night together. Behind me, the early-morning sun was bringing the city to life, while outside the room the nurses were in the midst of a shift change. He was so afraid to get close to anyone, she finally said, looking back up at me. Anyone he ever got close to had ended up dead.

    He was close to you, I said. At least I think he was, from the way you talk about him. And you're still alive.

    There are many different ways to die, Mary said. Sometimes words can inflict more pain than any bullet. Angelo understood that.

    Is that what he did with you?

    And with you, she said.

    Then why are we here? I asked. Why are we the ones who still care?

    Maybe he didn't take all the love we felt for him away from us, Mary said, her beautiful face suddenly twisted and sad.

    Why not? A rush of anger added an edge to my words. If he was so tough, so ruthless, why couldn't he make us hate him enough to wish him dead?

    Mary pulled back her chair and walked toward the large door in the corner of the room. Her head was down and her hands were at her side, her walk still poised and dignified. Maybe he didn't want to, she said with her back to me. It could be as simple as that.

    Then she walked out into the hall, the thick door closing slowly behind her, leaving me alone with Angelo in the stillness of the dying man's room.