Bloodline (38 page)

It was his turn now to refill the wineglasses. “This is a great country, Tommy, and it’ll be a great country for all the Italians who move here. But it won’t be so great if we come over here and we bring our Mafia and our vendettas and our blood feuds with us. Did you see how easy it was for the newspapers to call Nilo the Dago of Death? That’s what we’re becoming in the eyes of the people—a race of criminals. And it just shouldn’t be. We’re the newcomers. We should be more American than the Americans. I don’t care about criminals. There are always criminals. There are always cops. They commit a crime, we lock them up. What’s wrong here is that these criminals are giving an entire race a bad name. And Nilo, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, was one of them. I never liked the boy, that’s true. But I never expected him to become one of them.”

They had never talked about it before, and until that moment Tommy had not realized how deeply his father had been hurt by Nilo’s entrance into gangster life.

“It was him, Papa, but it could have been me. It could have been Mario that joined the mobs. What if it had been us?”

“Then I would have put you in jail, too,” Tony answered instantly. “I believe in justice, Tommy. I would have wept for your soul, but I would have put you away.”

“Would you? Would you really?”

His father waited a long time before answering. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

“Everybody can’t make his own laws, Papa. There has to be one law and the courts have to apply it. And it has to be fair for everybody. For you, for me, even for Nilo.”

“You’re right. I hope someday we live in a world like that.” He grinned. “Now shut up. You college boys are too smart, and arguing with you always gives me a headache.” He stood up and drained his wineglass.

“Come on. We’ve got a tree to put up.” He turned toward the living room and threw open his arms in a large theatrical gesture, and Tommy saw that he was more than a little bit intoxicated. “Make way, world,” Tony called. “Here comes Scrooz.”

“Scrooge.”

“And his son, Little Scrooz.”

*   *   *

W
HEN SHE HAD LEFT
L
UCIANO’S CLUB,
Tina had almost vomited in the street, because, despite all her brittle, worldly, sophisticated talk, she was frightened to death of facing an abortion.

A few days later, Luciano had called and told her he had made an appointment for her under the name of Miss Ross with a doctor up on Park Avenue. The doctor’s offices were elegant, and the procedure itself was quick, professional, and relatively painless. But when she had asked the doctor for his fee, he smiled at her in a superior way and said, “It’s a favor for Mr. Luciano, Miss Ross.”

“I’d rather pay,” Tina had answered.

“And he’d rather you didn’t,” the doctor said. “Please work out your settlement with him.” He had looked down at the sheaf of papers he was carrying, signaling her that the discussion was at an end.

She had recuperated in her room for a few days but had delayed calling Luciano, knowing he would be calling her very soon.

And I will do what he wants me to do because a deal is a deal,
she thought.

But Luciano had not called, and as the days stretched into weeks, then into months, she began to feel more and more like an ingrate who had been done a great favor and who had failed to acknowledge it even with a simple thank-you.

Twice she had gone uptown to Luciano’s speakeasy but both times had failed to muster the nerve to go inside and speak to him. Maybe, she thought, she had been mistaken and Luciano had no interest in her.
Maybe I was just another slut from the neighborhood that he did a favor for.

Meanwhile, Tina’s mind was taken up with other problems.

In the last two months, Uta Schatte had taken on two new students, who had also moved into the big house with them, and since that time she had seemed to have little time for Tina.

Of course she still got her twice-daily lessons—now, it seemed, with even greater intensity than they had had before—but when there were recitals to give, Tina was no longer asked to go. Instead, the two new girls would accompany Uta and Flora, the maid, on the trips, while Tina was left behind to rattle around the big house by herself. And Frau Schatte had suddenly become cold to her. It was the feeling of being left out that bothered Tina. She certainly did not mind passing up the recitals because, in truth, she had begun to question just how legitimate all of them were. They were generally held in hotel suites or in large private homes, and the audiences were usually only a handful of men. Frau Schatte showed up with Tina and Flora, and a handful of pretty, overdressed girls Tina had never seen before. Even with Frau Schatte accompanying on the piano, the music was rather perfunctory and seemed merely to be a prelude to a kind of cocktail party, which led to a lot of drinking and carousing and finally the young women pairing off with men and heading off toward other private rooms.

Tina’s biggest problem was that during the past year she had not been charged tuition because Uta explained that the fees from her work at the recitals more than covered her training, room, and board. But if she no longer sang at the recitals, she feared Uta would again ask her to pay for lessons, and Tina simply had no money for that.

Voices had been singing downstairs, and when they stopped, Tina went into the large living room, where Uta was alone, arranging stacks of music.

The tall blond woman looked at her icily and acknowledged her presence simply by speaking her name.

“Tina.”

“I hope you have a moment to talk,” Tina said.

“Of course. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m wondering why I no longer go with you to the out-of-town recitals.”

Tina was sure she saw a shadow of anger momentarily darken the other woman’s features, but Uta simply answered, “All right. That’s one question. Have you any others?”

“I also wonder … perhaps this is foolish … but if you are angry with me. You have seemed to be cold and distant since—”

“Since you had your abortion?”

Tina thought it sounded vile and vaguely obscene when Schatte referred to it in that cold mechanical way. She merely nodded.

“Those are your questions?”

She wants to be cold. I can be cold, too.

“Yes,” Tina answered crisply. “And I’d like some answers, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well. First. I am not taking you out of town with me because the other young ladies here need the experience.”

“And I need the money,” Tina said. “To pay for my lessons.”

“Have I asked you for any money?” Schatte said.

“No.”

“Then that is not an issue, is it?” Before Tina could speak, she went on. “The second reason is that I believe you have made great strides, so much so that I am planning a private concert for you here in New York in the spring. I am trying to book Carnegie Hall. I want you to save your strength, to practice well, and to sing all the time. I want you to be ready.”

Tina was stunned. “Oh, Frau Schatte. A concert? Carnegie Hall?”

“Yes,” the woman answered, but she did not smile, and her face showed no expression. Her voice still had the cold, impersonal tone of a city hall clerk.

Tina wanted to shout her happiness, to hug the woman, to shower her with thanks. She looked at the woman, hoping for some hint of encouragement, but Schatte merely looked back down at her music and said, “Now if you’ll forgive me, I have to prepare my next lesson.”

Tina turned and fled from the parlor. Back in her own room, she sat on the bed, crying softly. She looked up as her door opened and Flora, the maid, bustled in with an armful of clean linen. She seemed surprised to see Tina.

“I’m sorry, Tina. I knocked on the door a few minutes ago and I thought you were out. Is everything all right, honey?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know what’s happening.”

Flora put the fresh linens on a chair, closed the door behind her, and came over to sit on the bed alongside Tina.

“Can I help?” she asked in her light singsong accent. She put her arm around Tina and drew the younger woman closer to her. Unrestrained now, Tina began to weep and, through her sobs, told Flora of her fears and her worries.

“What is it?” she finally asked. “What have I done wrong?”

“Have you asked your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend? What boyfriend?”

“That Mr. Luciano,” Flora said.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He never has been.”

Flora put her arms on Tina’s shoulders and moved her back so she could see her face. “Oh, God, child, you really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what? Oh, Flora, please.”

“You have to promise me you won’t say anything to Uta.”

“I promise, I promise.”

“A couple of months ago, one night while you were out, I think at your family’s, this Luciano fellow came to the house to talk to Uta. She didn’t know I was there, but I was in the next room and I heard everything.”

Tina nodded in anticipation.

“He told Uta that you were in trouble and that it was her fault. And then he started on her. He told her that as far as he was concerned, she was nothing but a pimp and a whore, providing girls while she was pretending to provide music. He told her he wasn’t going to do anything about it, but that you weren’t going to be part of it anymore.”

Tina felt the color drain from her face.

“He got real nasty. He told her she was supposed to be some kind of singing teacher, that she better—I remember just what he said—he said, ‘You’d better get your fancy ass working to get Tina some real singing work or else.’ Well, Uta got real mad. She said, ‘Who do you think you are, coming here, threatening me?’ And he said, ‘I’m your landlord, lady. I own this building. I bought it last week. And I’m also a guy with a lot of friends. If you want, I’ll send twenty or thirty of them over here some night and we’ll see how much you like lying on your back with your legs in the air, getting humped all night long. For nothing.’ I was peeking through the slats on the door then, and I saw Uta’s face go all white. I never saw her afraid before. So he stands up and he unbuttons his fly and he says, ‘I ought to take this out right now and show you what I think of you.’ But then he buttons it back up and says, ‘You’re too old. I wouldn’t even use you in one of my houses. But if you make any more mistakes with Tina, you might get your chance, lady. Take my word for it. You won’t like it. Just you teach like you’re supposed to teach. If you’ve got bills, send them to me.’ So then he says something like ‘I hope I don’t ever have to talk to you again; the next time won’t be so pleasant,’ and then he leaves. Later I came back into the room from the other door, and Uta was sitting at the piano, just staring, and I asked her who the man was who just left, and she said, ‘That was Tina’s boyfriend. He’s a well-known gangster. We were talking about her career.’” The black woman stopped and stared at Tina’s face. “You don’t know anything about this, do you?”

Tina shook her head. “He’s not my boyfriend. We don’t talk. We’ve never even gone out with each other.”

“Did he arrange for the baby doctor?”

“Yes. But I thought he was just doing me a favor. We’re from the same neighborhood. I haven’t talked to him since before then.”

“Well, girl, be careful ’cause someday he’s going to hand you a bill for everything. And I wouldn’t want to be around when it happens.”

“So that’s why Frau Schatte is arranging a concert for me.”

“I guess so,” Flora said. “I know I would if it was me. I saw that man’s eyes, and I wouldn’t want him mad at me.” She rose from the bed. “Remember now, you can’t say anything about this to Uta, or I’ll really be in trouble.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“All right. I’ll come back later and do your bed,” Flora said, walking to the door.

“Flora?” When the black woman turned, Tina said, “What did he mean that Uta was a pimp, arranging girls for clients?”

“What do you think Uta gets paid big money for? It’s not for singing. We go somewhere, Uta and you or somebody else does some music, and then we have a party, and sooner or later everybody goes to bed with somebody. That’s why Uta got those two new girls. They can’t sing much, but, well, they’ll do other things. But you just put that all out of your mind. Girl, you’re going to be a singer. You’re going to have a concert.” And with a big warm smile, Flora left the room.

Tina touched the dry salt from her tears and thought, with astonishment, that she had been working for a pimp and never even knew it. She washed her face, then went downstairs to make a telephone call. From outside, she heard nearby church bells ringing carols, calling true believers to Christmas Eve worship.

I should go to church,
she thought, while waiting for her number to connect.
I’m a believer. I believe in anything.

*   *   *

S
OFIA
S
ESTA—
G
OD,
how she hated that new last name, hated it even more than her twisted father’s name—leaned back in her new easy chair, folded her hands softly across her swelling belly, and cried.

Outside, she could hear the church bells calling people to midnight Mass, but she had decided earlier that she would not go. God simply did not care about her, and so she no longer cared about him. He had never done anything for her. Instead, he had sent her suffering and misery and pain. He was no God of love, no God of goodness. He was a bringer of evil.

The baby kicked, kicked so hard she winced. She smiled to herself and thought it strange that she should love this little bastard in her womb so much. The child kicked again. Sofia rubbed the spot on her belly lovingly and began softly crooning an old lullaby to her unborn child. She was sure it was a boy.

At least that way, as a boy, he will have a chance in this world.

She felt the tears roll down her face but could not question them. She knew why. She was crying because she was just so damned lonely, so totally alone in the world with nobody who really cared that much about her one way or the other.