Bloodline (11 page)

And why did that policeman seem to know Don Salvatore? Perhaps the don is truly a big man in this city. And maybe he will have work for me.

A few minutes later, Nilo was standing outside a large brick building. A brass plaque on the front of the building announced:

MARANZANO

REAL ESTATE

Nilo could not decipher “real estate,” but he was able to work out the letters for “Maranzano.” He started for the large glass doors of the entrance but suddenly was brushed aside by two burly men who pushed their way out of the building.

They both wore crisp pin-striped suits, and their faces, under their snap-brimmed hats, were hard and suspicious.

At the curb they got into a parked car, and as one man clambered into the passenger seat Nilo saw a revolver in a shoulder holster under his jacket. The two men quickly drove off. Nilo watched them go, then turned back toward Maranzano’s building.

This time he stopped short of the door.

Who am I trying to fool? Don Salvatore has a big business, and what do I know about business? Why would he hire me? To do what? To dig more ditches for one of his businesses?

In his mind, he weighed himself against the two men who had just driven away from the real estate office. Their suits … their strong faces … the gun he saw. Were these businessmen? he wondered. Did they work for Don Salvatore?

There are too many things I do not know. I speak of being a man, but I am truly not much more than a child. What use has Don Salvatore for a child whose only skill is digging ditches? I will dig ditches until I die. It is America’s gift to Nilo Sesta.

He turned from the door and started the long walk back to Crosby Street. Softly, the rain began to fall.

*   *   *

T
OMMY
F
ALCONE PICKED UP
the coffeepot from the stove, where it had been gently percolating itself into mud, and poured himself a thick steaming cupful and walked into the living room.

Outside, the day had changed from sunny and chill to a long, slow, cold drizzle. The weather fit his mood exactly, and he sank down into the sofa, kicked his shoes off, and stared out the window, studying the rain.

Tony Falcone came out of the bathroom rubbing his damp hair with a towel, looked over at his son, then went into the kitchen for his own cup of coffee. He sat down next to Tommy and said, “You look very serious. It must be all this philosophy that you are studying.”

“Nothing so brilliant,” Tommy said. “I was just trying to figure out which bank to rob.”

His father grinned at him. “It might be easier to marry a rich widow,” he said.

Tommy laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After a pause, he said, “Do you think there’s one around that old man Mangini doesn’t have his paws on?”

The elder Falcone scowled. He did not like his neighbor from across the street and went into Mangini’s Restaurant only when it was absolutely necessary. “The man gives philanderers a bad name,” he finally said, then quickly dropped the subject, as if it annoyed him.

“Why this worrying about money all of a sudden?” he asked. “I thought between your army back pay and maybe working this summer, you wouldn’t have any trouble with money for school.”

“I won’t,” Tommy agreed. “So long as I don’t go anywhere or do anything. Without cash … well, as far as girls are concerned, I might just as well have stayed up there with the Sisters of Quietude.…”

He stopped suddenly, realizing what he had said, aware that he had mentioned a part of his life that he had planned to keep secret forever.

“I mean…” he began.

Tony smiled softly. “I know what you mean,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Tommy took a small sip of his coffee before turning toward his father.

“What do you know?” he finally asked.

Tony shrugged his shoulders.

“No,” Tommy snapped. “You said you know. Now, what do you know?”

“I know most of it, Tommy. Look, it’s not something you want to talk about. I don’t want to talk about it, either.”

“You know I was with the sisters?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out? Did Bigmouth Mario tell you?”

“Your brother is
Father
Mario,” Tony snapped. “Don’t forget it. And he didn’t say a word. It was the postmark on your letters. I’m too good a cop to have missed that.”

“What else do you know?”

Tony sighed. “Okay. I know about the morphine.”

Tommy rose and walked to the window. “You let me come back home. Even after you found out?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Your dope fiend son?” Tommy said.

“My son. Who was sick. And isn’t anymore,” his father replied.

Tommy came back to the couch and sat down again.

“We were talking about money,” Tony said.

“I’ve been thinking about law school,” Tommy said. “In a few years, after I finish at CCNY. But I want to go to a good one. Columbia’s the one I want.”

“You’re right,” Tony said. “You
will
need money for that. I hear it’s pretty expensive.”

Tommy nodded and Tony said abruptly, “I could probably get you a job somewhere.”

“I had a different idea. Maybe I’ll become a cop.”

“No,” his father answered sharply.

“Why not? I could learn a lot about how the law and the world really work. The money’s not bad. They’d put me on late shifts and I’d be able to go to school days.”

“No,” his father said again.

“That’s really not much of an explanation, Papa.”

“All right, I’ll give you a better one. You’re too good to be a cop.”

“It doesn’t seem to have hurt you,” Tommy said.

“Look, when the immigrants come, the first thing they think of is becoming a cop. And that’s all right. But their kids … their kids have to do better. I didn’t become a cop so you could become a cop. You’ve got to be better than me.”

“I’m not talking about a career. I’m talking about a temporary job, while I get through school.”

“There’s another reason. For a long time now, the gangs have been dying out. We were winning. The criminals were losing. And now this stupid Prohibition.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gangs are coming back and they’re coming back worse than ever. There’s a lot of money to be made in this illegal liquor, and if you get enough crooked money, criminals sprout like weeds. Every
gavone
who makes wine in his cellar is working overtime, peddling his stuff to criminals who sell it to taverns that are open illegally. They call it bootlegging now.”

“What does that mean? Bootlegging?”

“I don’t know. Maybe cowboys used to hide whiskey in a boot or something. Anyway, it’s happening out there, Tommy. Every day it’s getting worse. This place is going to be the Wild West before too long. You know they’ve started an Italian Squad in the department?”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“They asked me to take one of the top jobs. I turned them down.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be an ‘Italian’ cop. I want to be a cop. I don’t want to think about there being so many Italian gangsters in this city that they need their own squad to deal with them. Our hope for the future is to be more American than Americans. How are we ever going to do that if we’re separated from everybody else, behind a sign that says ‘These are the Italian gangsters and these are the Italian cops who keep them in their cages.’ I don’t want to be an Italian. I want to be an American.”

Tommy stared at him for a long moment. “I’ll think about it, Papa.”

“You are the most stubborn son a man could have.”

“It must run in the family.”

“All right. If you want to join, let me know. I’ll help you walk the application through. And you don’t have to worry about that stuff in the hospital. It was damned near impossible for me to run down and I worked hard at it. The department wouldn’t have any reason to check that so thoroughly. You can waltz onto the force if you want to.”

Tommy reached out and placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “I want to think about it some before I make a decision. But I don’t want you worrying about it, and I sure don’t want you worrying about money for me. You’ve got enough now, with Tina wanting singing lessons and a piano and God knows what else. So drop it. It’s my problem.”

They were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door. Tommy got up to answer it and Nilo came into the room, soaked to the skin.

“Hey, the stranger from across the street,” Tommy said. “How are you doing, Nilo?”

“Hello, Uncle Tony,” Nilo said, before answering Tommy. “I am fine,” he said. “But I am freezing and I came over for a cup of coffee.”

“Help yourself. It’s on the stove.”

As Nilo poured a cup, Tony called out from the parlor: “How’s your new room?”

“Fine, Uncle Tony. The Widow Annacharico does not meddle or pry. She leaves me alone as long as I pay the rent on time. I like it that way.”

“Speaking of rent,” Tony said. “No work today?”

“I quit,” Nilo said. He came back into the living room sipping at the steaming coffee, looking at his uncle over the rim of the cup.

God, he has eyes like a woman,
Tony thought.
He is just too pretty.

“Why’d you quit?” Tommy asked.

Nilo shrugged. “The boss, that Chambers. He insulted me.”

“What did he say?”

“He called me a dumb guinea.”

Tommy laughed. In New York City, anyone with an Italian name learned early on not to let such things bother him. But Nilo was not really a New Yorker … not yet.

“And?”

“And I hit him and left,” Nilo said.

“Maybe I’ll have a talk with that big mick,” Tony said ominously.

“No, Uncle Tony. It was nice of you to get me that job, but I don’t want you involved anymore. I have had enough of ditchdigging and will now find other work.”

His two relatives looked at him silently, and Nilo knew what they were thinking.

Yes, it is true I am young and illiterate and do not yet know the ways of this city. But, in my brief life, I have already killed three men. I will find something to do in America besides carry a shovel.

There was another rapping on the door. When Tony answered it, a uniformed policeman stood outside the doorway. Tony walked into the hallway to talk to him, then came back and got his jacket from a coatrack.

“Damn,” he said. “I was looking forward to hanging around this afternoon, but duty calls.”

“What’s happening?” Tommy asked.

“There’s some gang trouble,” his father answered. “One of Masseria’s men got himself shot, and he had to pick our precinct to get himself killed in.”

“Joe the Boss? Who’d shoot one of his men?”

“This is just the start,” Tony said darkly. “There’s a new guy in town and he’s moving in on Joe’s rackets. I think before too long we’re going to see a big war between Masseria and this Maranzano. I’m glad I’m not working that Italian Squad.”

“What is his name?” Nilo asked quickly. “This new man?”

“Salvatore Maranzano,” Tony said as he struggled into his heavy raincoat. “Another fun-loving Sicilian.” He walked to the door. The uniformed officer was still waiting in the hall.

Tony turned back. “Tell Mama I will try to sneak home for some dinner but not to wait for me.”

“Take care of yourself, Papa,” Tommy said, and Nilo nodded agreement. The policeman left without acknowledging the warning.

When he had gone, Nilo asked Tommy “Who is this Masseria?”

“Joe the Boss, they call him,” Tommy said. “Mafia. He was some kind of a thug, but now he runs most of the rackets in town.”

“He is very rich?”

Tommy laughed. “I never heard of a poor gangster,” he said, adding glumly, “only cops are poor.”

“And ditchdiggers,” Nilo said. “Now this Salvatore Maranzano will challenge Joe the Boss?”

“He’ll try to. If he lives long enough,” Tommy said. “There are always challenges. And there are always people getting killed.” He waved his hands, dismissing the whole matter as unimportant.

“But he has killed one of Masseria’s men?” Nilo pressed.

“Well, no one’s sure of that yet,” Tommy said. “Papa is just going over to start the investigation now.”

Nilo nodded. He thought of standing outside Maranzano’s office and then seeing the two burly men in pin-striped suits brush by him. They had seemed as if they were in a hurry to get somewhere.

And maybe their appointment was with the henchman, now deceased, of Joe the Boss.

He smiled at Tommy. “Would you do me a favor?” he said.

“Hey, we’re family. Of course,” Tommy answered.

“Thank you. I wish to borrow your suit. For tomorrow. We are the same size and it should fit.”

“Absolutely,” Tommy said. “Do you have a big date?”

Nilo shook his head. “No. I am going to apply for a job and I want to look…” His English failed him and he looked at Tommy helplessly.

“Professional,” Tommy offered.

Nilo nodded. “Professional. I want to look professional.” He smiled. “I have my own shirt and tie.”

*   *   *

W
EARING
T
OMMY
F
ALCONE’S DARK BLUE SUIT
and his own Christmas-gift white shirt and tie—badly knotted because it was the first tie he had ever worn—Nilo Sesta walked bravely through the front doors of the Maranzano Real Estate Office at nine o’clock the next morning. squeezing the small sweat-stained business card tightly in his hand, as if it were the key to the exit door from hell.

He knew immediately that this was the kind of place he wanted to spend his life in. The walls and floors were of highly polished pink marble with real oil paintings, and sitting at the end of the reception room behind a big wooden desk was a beautiful young red-haired woman who wore a crimson dress with the top buttons open, and Nilo could see the crease where her breasts were pushed together.

She could not have been much older than he was, but she seemed cool and confident, and she smiled at him as he walked across the lobby toward her desk.

He was sweating already.