Bloodline (36 page)

Nilo slowly sat up, his bare feet chilly on the cold stone floor. He felt dirty, and laughed silently to himself. He had not been so fastidious for all that long. A few years ago, he seldom bathed from one week to the next. Now, if he could not bathe and change his underwear every day, he felt dirty and contaminated. He wondered how much longer feeling clean would seem important to him.

Then Nilo remembered what day this was. It was to be his wedding day, a big important step along the path that would set him free. It would help show the public that he was a fine, upstanding, responsible young man—not the kind of “Dago of Death” who would shoot down an innocent child in the street.

At least, that was what Koehler, the lawyer Maranzano had hired for him, had told Nilo. And it would also make it impossible for the prosecution to call Sofia to testify. There was no way they could paint her as a liar and trace that lie back to him. He hated the whole idea, but he would do what he had to to get out of this place.

He stood at the door to his cell as the guard brought him breakfast, the usual strong black coffee and two doughnuts. He was barely done eating when the guard returned.

“Come on, wop.”

“Where to?”

“We’ve got to get you shaved. Make you look pretty so that the newspapers say we take good care of you bums down here. Now let’s get a move on.”

An hour later, shaved, bathed, and wearing one of his own suits, which had been delivered to the jail, Nilo was led into the warden’s office.

Sofia was already there with her parents, standing awkwardly on one side of the room. On the other were the warden, Koehler the lawyer, and a priest wearing a scruffy-looking robe. Nilo was not surprised that the prison chaplain would be performing the ceremony. In better times, he might have hoped that Father Mario would do the wedding, but all that had changed in the last couple of months. The Falcones were no longer his family. They were his enemies.

It is because of them that I am here in jail. First Uncle Tony telling the police that he saw me at that theater. Then Tommy and Mario coming to arrest me.

Looking around the room at the solemn faces, Nilo said, “Cheer up. It’s not a funeral.” He crossed the floor to stand by Sofia’s side. She was wearing a long white dress, not quite a bridal gown but a close facsimile, and carrying flowers. She avoided his eyes, and when he touched her arm, she seemed to cringe, to move away from him.

“Mr. Sesta.”

Nilo turned to the lawyer.

“Would you come with me for a moment?” Koehler said.

Nilo shrugged and followed Koehler into a small conference room.

“First of all, Don Salvatore wanted me to tell you his thoughts are with you today. But you can understand … showing up here…”

“I know,” Nilo said. “I’m not offended. Thank him for his concern.”

“All right. I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the lawyer said.

Nilo tensed.

“I’ve been talking to the district attorney. It looks like he’s got some witnesses who have recently come forward to identify you. Not just for the theater killing; for the kid too.”

“What do you mean?” Nilo demanded.

“It’s that damned Masseria gang. They figure if they get you, it might cripple Don Salvatore. So they’ve bought and paid for a couple of people who will identify you and say they saw you shoot the boy.”

“Doesn’t the DA smell a rat?” Nilo asked.

“That’s irrelevant. He’s on Masseria’s payroll, too.”

Nilo sat heavily on one of the hard-back wooden chairs.

“So what does it all mean?”

“Before this, I would have thought you had a fifty-fifty chance of getting off on the kid’s killing. Now I’d say you’re almost sure to be convicted and sentenced to the chair.”

Nilo’s heart pounded; his knees seemed jellied.

“And that’s the end of it?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm.

“No. That’s just the beginning of it. You’ll get convicted, but we’ll get you off on appeal. See, Masseria bought the DA and the local courts. But Mr. Maranzano’s smart. He bought the appeals courts. They can throw out anything the lower courts decide.”

“Then I don’t want to get married.”

“Fine,” the lawyer said, dragging out the word until sarcasm seemed to ooze from it.

“What’s your point?” Nilo asked.

“That part hasn’t changed. If you don’t get married, the DA will call up Sofia at the trial and ask her about your alibi. She’s already told the cops she spent the day with you. But if she says that on the stand, and they’ve got other witnesses who all swear to the opposite, then they’re going to get her on perjury. If they threaten her with prison, she might just admit that she lied when she said she was with you. And if that happens, the appeals court won’t dare to set you free.”

“And if I do marry her?”

“Then she can’t be forced to testify.”

“So I’m stuck with this bitch.”

“It could be worse. She could be fat and ugly. Instead she’s a beauty.”

“You marry her,” Nilo said.

“If I were looking at the chair, I would.”

“Answer me a question. Why’d we get her in the first place? Wasn’t there somebody else we could use as an alibi?”

“Sure, a lot of people,” Koehler said. “But their backgrounds might not stand close checking.”

“Don Salvatore’s secretary? Betty? What about her?”

“Mr. Maranzano thought about her first. It turns out she’s already married.”

“Married?”

“Yes. To some penny-ante drug fiend. What she makes—and steals from Mr. Maranzano, as it turns out—pays for his addiction. No. Sofia Mangini was the right choice. She is as pure as the driven snow.”

“It wasn’t a snowstorm that knocked her up,” Nilo said sharply.

“I beg your pardon?” Koehler said.

“Start whistling,” Nilo said.

“What?”

“‘Here Comes the Bride.’ Let’s get this over with.”

He got up and walked through to the other room. The service was speedy, the vows perfunctory. After the priest pronounced them man and wife, everyone seemed to freeze, and Nilo realized he was supposed to kiss the bride. He leaned his face over to hers and she turned away.

Nilo touched his lips to her ear and whispered.

“So you got what you want. Even if you had to make me knock you up. A real slut trick.”

She spun her face around to him, trying to disguise the hatred she felt. For the eyes of the others in the room, she forced herself to smile as she put her face close to his.

“And what makes you think the baby’s yours?” she asked softly.

He looked at her in shock, then in anger. He touched his lips to her ear. “Whose bastard is it then?”

“Some dirty bum I picked up on the street. He reminded me of you, dear husband.”

*   *   *

T
INA
F
ALCONE THOUGHT
that there was a certain touch of poetry in the present situation. She had grown up with Sofia, sharing school and family and hopes and dreams. And now they were sharing pregnancy.

Since that first night in Greenwich Village when she had awakened next to a paint-smeared artist whose name she did not know, there had been more trips and more men, all of it encouraged by Frau Schatte, who told Tina that she must be sophisticated and worldly “because art feeds on life and life feeds on experience.”

Tina had not expected that her experience would so quickly include pregnancy. And now she had to think about an abortion because she could think of no way in which she could ever let her father know about her condition.

She stayed in her room at the townhouse that morning, lying on her bed, worrying, and finally she knew who could help.

Sofia’s cousin, Charlie Luciano. She had heard all the stories about how he ran a string of prostitutes. Even if only some of the stories were true, she thought, he would still have connections.

Girls like that, she thought, must be needing abortions all the time. He might even have his own doctor under contract, somebody who knew what he was doing and not one of those back-alley butchers she had always heard about.

But would Luciano help her? Tina began getting dressed. She remembered the way Luciano had looked at her the last time they’d met at that street fair. He would help her. And of all the people she could think of, he would be the least likely to spill anything to her father.

And if I have to be nice to him in return for the favor … well, it’s not like it’s the first time. God. The first time. It seems so very long ago.

Luciano had sounded surprised and, Tina thought, pleased when she finally found him by telephone and invited him to come to the Village so she could buy him a drink. Of course, he would not come. While he didn’t give any reason, Tina had heard that he was a very careful man now because he had collected many enemies over the years.

“You think I’m going to shoot you?”

“Maybe not you,” he said carefully. “But I’ve got a better idea.”

He invited Tina to a small club in the Broadway theater district. She was disappointed by the looks of the so-called club. It was a little hole in the wall, with no signs outside, and only one small heavy metal door.

Tina knocked on the door and only after a full thirty seconds of knocking, one of Luciano’s men—the young one called Benny—swung open the door for her.

“Tina Falcone,” she said. “For Mr. Luciano.”

Benny looked her up and down, frankly and openly appreciative.

“I know who you are,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Charlie and I talked about you once.” There was a smile on the young man’s face, but it was an unpleasant smile, the kind that accompanied a nasty bad joke. “He’s inside. I’ll take you.”

Tina smiled and touched a gloved fingertip to her lips and then touched Benny on the nose with it. Despite his tough-guy act, he blushed slightly. It was a technique she had learned from a girl she met at a party down in Greenwich Village. A cheap trick maybe, but it never failed to draw a reaction from a man—whether he was a gangster or an artist, a banker or a shopkeeper.

The club had looked small from the outside, but inside the main room things were clearly changing. Carpenters and electricians were tearing down walls and installing lights, and the place was a beehive of noisy activity.

Luciano was at a table, talking to a well-dressed, good-looking man who had a quality that Tina decided was a kind of quiet dignity. She doubted very much if he was a gangster, too.

She nodded to Benny, then stood there waiting. She did not speak; she would wait for Luciano to notice her. She knew he would; all men did.

Finally, he looked up. It took perhaps thirty seconds longer than it should have and Tina knew he had been aware of her long before that. He was just making sure that she knew who was the boss here.

Men are so transparent. Even this one who’s supposed to be such a tough guy. I’ll twist him like a strand of pasta.

Luciano rose from his seat. “Tina, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“This is my friend, Frank Costello. This young lady is Tina Falcone.”

The quiet man rose also. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Falcone,” he said. “You bring a touch of beauty to this madhouse.”

“And are you in the restaurant business?” she asked.

Costello smiled. “No,” he said. “I’m sort of in government.”

Luciano laughed and Tina smiled as Costello excused himself. When he left, Luciano waved his hand and immediately a half-dozen people who had been hovering nearby scurried away.

“In case you’re wondering why I laughed, it’s what Frank said about being in government.”

“Isn’t he?”

“He spreads money around to government, to people who do us favors.”

“Bribes?” Tina asked.

“Now would we do that?” Luciano asked. “Political contributions. All perfectly legal.” He paused. “So, it’s nice to see you again. How’s your family? And your voice lessons?”

“You always surprise me with how much you know about me,” she said.

“I like to keep track of things,” he said with a slight smile. Then as if overcome by her beauty, he reached out and took her hands in his, raising them as if she were a display piece. “You’re magnificent. You’ve really blossomed.”

“I’m about to blossom a lot more,” she said.

“You’re pregnant?”

She nodded.

“How far along?”

“Two, three months. No more than that.”

“Hmmm, that’s not too bad.” He looked at her searchingly for a moment, and Tina thought she understood what a prize cow might feel on sale in an auction ring. “Why did you come to me?”

“I thought you might know someone. I thought—”

“I can imagine what you thought,” he said. “And?”

“And I wanted to talk to somebody who wouldn’t talk to my father.”

Luciano chuckled. “Your father and I are hardly on speaking terms. This could be expensive. Can you afford it?”

“No.”

“What about the baby’s father?”

“I don’t know who it is,” Tina said in what she hoped was a frivolous voice.

Luciano’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’ve been a busy young lady. Have you been having a good time?”

Tina flashed her best smile and reached over to touch him lightly on the knee. She knew the effect it had on other men; could this self-important clown be any different?

“The best of times,” she said airily. “Living and singing. What else is there? About the cost … I was hoping that you and I could come to … er, a sort of understanding.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I was going to leave that to you,” Tina said.

“We’ll think of something,” Luciano answered.

*   *   *

T
HE TRIAL OF THE STATE
of New York versus Danilo Sesta lasted only three days. Tony testified that he had seen Nilo leaving the theater where Enzo Selvini had been murdered with a fire ax. Four other people in the theater at the time identified Nilo in the courtroom as the man they had seen walking away from Selvini’s body. Tommy testified that he had arrested Nilo in a warehouse, where he had been hiding out. Glumly, he admitted under direct examination that Nilo had resisted arrest.