Gangster (8 page)

    I would like to buy you something, Angelo said, looking up at Josephina. A gift.

    What is there that I need? the old woman said with a shrug. We have our food for tonight and fresh milk for the morning. Save your money. Don't make it fly away as soon as it lands in your hands.

    Angelo looked at the passing stands, their wooden crates packed full with watered-down fresh fruit and vegetables, rows of fish and meat resting on huge slabs of ice next to them. As they turned a corner, he spotted a small man in a wool sweater, roasting chestnuts over the lid of an open barrel. Wait here, he said to Josephina, giving her the tomatoes and onions to hold. She stood and smiled, watching as the vendor handed Angelo a paper bag filled with roasted chestnuts. He paid the vendor, walked back and handed her the bag. I know you like them, he said.

    Josephina took the bag from Angelo and nodded, touched by the gesture of a boy she had grown to love. I used to roast them for my husband, she said, staring straight ahead. We would eat them in the evening along with one or two glasses of wine. It was our time together. I always liked the way it made the house smell. Now, when I walk past one of those carts, the smell of the roast reminds me of my husband and those nights.

    I did not buy them to make you sad, Angelo said.

    I am not sad, my little one, Josephina said. Those are my happy memories and they help me to forget that I live in such a place.

    Papa always says that our life here will soon get better, Angelo said. For him and for all of us.

    It will get better for some, Josephina said. But your papa will not be one of them. He is a dreamer who does not know how to bring his dreams to life.

    He is mad with me since I began my work for Angus, Angelo said. He says the money I get from him is blood money.

    Josephina stopped and turned to face Angelo. All money is blood money, she said. Remember that like you remember your name.

    I want to give him the money to help pay the bills, Angelo said. But he won't take it.

    He will never take it, Josephina said. He has his code and, in time, you will have yours.

    But I want to help, Angelo said.

    The best way to do that is to help yourself, Josephina said. Learn all you can about this world and go out and find your place in it.

    Why? Angelo shrugged. They hate us in this world.

    Time will change all that, Josephina said. Some day soon, the door will open for the few who are ready. Make sure you are one of them.

    And I will take you with me, Angelo said, resting his head against the old woman's large arm.

    That would make me very happy, little one, Josephina said with a wry smile, pausing at the base of the tenement stoop. But the future arrives without invitation and we never know what burdens or pleasures it brings.

    Pudge is coming for supper, Angelo said, helping Josephina walk up the steps. Is that okay?

    Only if he comes with an empty stomach, Josephina said. Tomato and onion salad, fresh bread, lots of wine and, thanks to you, roasted chestnuts. He must be ready to eat nothing less than a feast.

    Pudge loves to eat, Angelo said. Ida said the only time he doesn't have food in his mouth is when he sleeps.

    Then tonight, your friend Pudge will be a very happy young man, Josephina said.

     *     *     *

IN THE LATE fall of 1914, poor living conditions and old age caught up to Josephina. She was felled by a string of illnesses--a monthlong battle with the flu damaged her lungs, a kidney infection left her weak and vulnerable and the shooting pain in her lower back could no longer be attributed to excess weight. For the first time in her life, Josephina was bedridden and dependent on others.

    The medication she was given made her drowsy and, at times, delirious. As Angelo watched a parade of doctors march in and out of the apartment, he kept a steady vigil. He tried to cheer the old woman by repeating the bawdy jokes of southern Italy she had so often told him. He held her hand when the pain grew strong and watched silently as she struggled to regain her breath. To help ease her through the day, Angelo would ask her about her life in Italy and only then, as the memories slowly began to take root, would he see the color return to her face.

    Do you miss it? Angelo asked.

    It is my home, Josephina said. America will never be that for me. It is just a place to live. Nothing more.

    Why did you leave? he asked, handing her a hot cup of water boiled with lemon skins.

    My husband was murdered, she said, staring at the boy with hard eyes. He was a respected man, but to someone younger and looking to make an impression that respect meant nothing. He was shot in the back and left to die.

    What happened to the man who shot him?

    It was not my place to ask, she said. I needed to bury a husband.

    What was he like, your husband? Angelo asked, taking the cup from her and placing it on a shaky end table.

    To me, he was kind and gentle, Josephina said. To others, he was what his work called for him to be.

    Was he a boss like Angus?

    Yes, Josephina said, nodding, her face cringing at the bolts of pain winding their way through her body.

    Papa said he was a killer, Angelo said, reaching for a wet cloth and resting it across Josephina's forehead.

    He killed only men, Josephina said, forcing herself to sit up, her right hand gripping Angelo's arm. He would never do harm to a child. Any child. Especially one that was his own. Such work is best left to those with the stomach for it.

    Angelo pulled his arm away from Josephina's grip and stood against the side of the bed. The blinds were drawn, but the heat of the hot afternoon sun still burned through. What do you mean? he asked, his voice steady, the wheeze coming up from his throat the only betrayal to his nervousness.

    Josephina took a deep breath, the air rattling around her lungs like crushed chains. She picked up the cup and drank the last of the lemon water. She looked at Angelo, the soft tears of a hard woman in her eyes. I cannot turn a son against his father, she said. No matter the sin.

    He is my father, Angelo said. I will not turn away from him.

    You are being shown another way by a harder set of hands, she said. And there is no place for your father in such company.

    I will make a place for him, Angelo said, his soft eyes staring deep into Josephina's weary face.

    The old woman smiled and nodded, wiping her damp upper lip with a crumpled handkerchief. And what of Angus and Ida and Pudge? she asked. Will you always make a place for them?

    Angelo hesitated and then nodded. Yes, he said.

    You cannot have both, my little one, Josephina said. One day soon, you will have to choose between them. Such a choice will clear the path for the life you will lead as a man.

    I cannot turn away from my father, Angelo said. He has given up all he has for me.

    And will you give up all that you may one day have for him? the old woman asked. Would you do that for your father?

    Yes, Angelo said.

    Then you must know, she said. And it must come from my lips since I am the only one who holds the truth. After my death it will be buried alongside me.

    Tell me, then, Angelo said. Please.

    You had an older brother, she said. Back in Italy. His name was Carlo and he died when he was eight years old. About the same age as you are now.

    How did he die? Angelo asked, removing the wet cloth from Josephina's forehead.

    He was shot, she said, the words leaving her mouth as if they were each embraced by a bubble. Killed by a man he trusted and loved.

    What man? Angelo asked, standing erect, bracing for the answer.

    Your father, Josephina said. Paolino murdered his own blood to keep him away from a life with the men of the camorra.

    Men like your husband? Angelo asked.

    Yes, Josephina said.

    Angelo lowered his head and turned away from the bed. Josephina reached out, grabbed his hand and held him in place. You must not let him know, Josephina said. Do not show him your true face until the time is right.

    When will that be? Angelo asked.

    When you have made your choice, Josephina said. Until then, say and do nothing.

    He will see it in my eyes, Angelo said.

    He is a broken man, Josephina said, her head back on her pillow. And broken men are blind to what they should see.

    Why did you tell me?

    You must never be the man he is, Josephina said, her words spoken in softer tones. You need to be strong where he is weak. You must stand up to your enemies and not run from them. You can never hide, Angelo. But you can always fight.

    Is that why Papa tells me to stay away from Ida? Angelo asked, the slants of the sun bringing sparkle to his eyes.

    He fears her, Josephina said. The Englishman, McQueen, too. But you will let them be the ones to show you the way out. Don't worry, little one. You will live to meet your destiny.

    What will happen to Papa? Angelo asked.

    He, too, will meet his destiny, Josephina said.

    Angelo walked away from the bed. He drew open the shades and stared out across the rows of tenement rooftops, his arms folded against the pain in his chest, his mind crammed with clouded images of a mother he would never know and a brother he never met.

    And of a father he would one day have to confront. All of it fueled by a feeling new to his soul--hate.

     *     *     *

TO UNDERSTAND A gangster's true motives always look to revenge. It is the engine that sustains and drives him forward, augmenting an insatiable quest for power. The thirst for revenge can be found boiling below the hard surface, coiled and waiting silently to strike. It is the calling card of all the great gangsters--the hunt for the get-even. Revenge is something we all want, Pudge said. But there's nothing that gives you a better taste of that than being a gangster. Who knows? Angelo would have turned to it anyway, seeing as how he didn't have all that many choices. But the day he found out about his brother, the day he learned the truth about his father, it was on that day, Angelo Vestieri became a gangster. The old woman had done the job she set out to do. She blew up the bridge connecting Angelo to his father and set him free to be one of us.

     *     *     *

TWO WEEKS AFTER he had learned about his past, Angelo Vestieri was on his knees, holding Josephina's hands, his head bowed, listening as she took her final breaths. The boy fought back tears with stubborn determination, not wanting to show weakness in front of a woman who had taught him that it was a trait to be feared more than any illness.

    I am glad you are with me, Josephina said, her voice a whisper.

    I don't want you to die, Angelo said, his head still down, resting on the old woman's sunken chest.

    It is my time, Josephina said.

    I will never forget you, Angelo whispered.

    Never forget my words, Josephina said.

    Angelo lifted his head and stared at Josephina and nodded.

    The room was dark and still, the blinds moving to the cool breeze of a late-night wind. Angelo stayed there, holding tight to the old woman, his eyes closed, his hands gently stroking her face. Her body keeping him warm for a final time.

3

_____________________________

Summer, 1918

ANGELO AND PUDGE reached the top rung of the factory's rear fire escape and looked down at the alley four stories below. A heavy rain had soaked their pants and shirts and their palms were brown from gripping the rusty handrails on the way up.

    As if getting here wasn't enough of a bitch, Pudge, now fifteen and treading the road between man and boy, said, peering into the darkness. Going down's gonna be twice as hard. We gotta find a way out through the front.

    Spider's in the alley, twelve-year-old Angelo said. And he's not going to wait long.

    We'll go from the front to the back, Pudge said. I don't see a big problem.

    It's not part of the plan, Angelo said, gazing into the factory through the panes of a locked window.

    The rain wasn't part of the plan, Pudge said. But here it is and now we gotta make it work for us.

    Let's get inside and do what we came to do, Angelo said as he yanked a small lead pipe from his back pocket. We finish up and then figure which way out is the best.

    Pudge cast his eyes down, watching sheets of rain disappear into a void. I liked it better when you didn't talk so much, he said, watching Angelo smash a pane of glass with a swing of the pipe.

    Angelo eased his hand past the shards of glass and unlatched the lock. Me too, he said.

    There's gotta be over a hundred crates here, Pudge said, walking past wooden boxes packed from floor to ceiling, a lit candle in his right hand. How are we supposed to know which ones got pocket watches in 'em?

    Look for the ones with the blue stamps on the sides, Angelo said. He was on the other end of the massive warehouse floor, his voice echoing across the large room, his shadow a string of eerie shapes moving to the flicker of the candle. And they'll have French words written on 'em.

    I can't read French, Pudge shouted.

    Then pull down the crates not written in English, Angelo said. Even if they don't have watches, there should be something inside worth money.

    Now you gotta speak more than one language to pull a heist, Pudge muttered as he hoisted himself up a side of stacked crates, trying to read the labels in the dark.

    The two worked the room in silence, going about their task like two trained professionals, which is what they had become in the five years they'd spent under the guidance of Angus McQueen and Ida the Goose. McQueen broke them into his ranks at a slow pace. He spent months working with both on the art of the con, giving verbal lessons deep into the night about the multitude of ways to turn an honest man's cash into a hardened one's profit. McQueen chose selected members of his lift team, pickpockets who prowled the financial district, to teach the boys the best way to pull a thick wallet from a well-cut pair of trousers. Once they mastered that, he let them work on midnight hijack runs, hiding them in the shadows until the signal was given to come in and help shift the stolen cargo from one packed wagon onto another.