Bloodline (65 page)

*   *   *

N
ILO CAME OUT
of the bedroom, fully dressed, and Sofia pointed to the story in the
Daily News.

“You’re getting famous,” she said. “The paper today calls you vicious and brutal.”

“That’s because they never met you,” he answered with a small smile. She walked to him and put her arms around him from behind.

“We’re almost there,” she said. “When this is all done, you and Charlie can divide the city between you. Don Nilo Sesta. It has a ring to it.”

“Until Luciano gets ambitious,” he said.

“Then we’ll deal with him, too.”

Nilo nodded, but he seemed distracted. He kissed Sofia perfunctorily and left the apartment.

Sofia went back and read Kinnair’s
Daily News
column again. Probably just by dumb luck, she thought, the reporter had stumbled onto the truth. Sooner or later, Masseria and Maranzano would be gone. Nilo would be king and she would be queen, and she would lead the king around by his nose because she had his children and she had the brains to lead.

Her only lingering worry was Tina. She was sure, in her heart, that her husband and Tina were lovers, and that made Tina a danger to her. But Sofia knew she had a secret trump card that Tina did not have, and when the time came, she would use that to bond Nilo to her. She would be the richest woman in New York and her children would be legislators and governors. They would have all the power to control their own lives that she had never had, and she would be the one to give them that power.
And nothing can be allowed to stop it.

*   *   *

B
ECAUSE OF HIS FAIR TREATMENT
of them, the hookers in his district had taken to calling Tommy “Sir Galahad.” He found it embarrassing, and one night, after breaking up a fight in a cheap brothel on Thirty-seventh Street, Tommy said to the madam, “If you all like me so much, why don’t you just go somewhere else? Or leave the business?”

“Sorry, Sir Galahad,” said the madam, who called herself “Cokey Flo Brown.” “A girl’s gotta live.” He had no grounds to make an arrest, but when he was leaving the building, Cokey Flo tried to press a ten-dollar bill into his hand. Tommy refused it. “If you ever try that again, I’ll book you for attempted bribery,” he said.

In mid-March, he was called to handle a disturbance at a sleazy hotel on the southern fringe of his beat. In a third-floor room he found a prostitute who had been slapped around and was bleeding from cuts on her face.

“A bad john?” Tommy asked.

“John, hell. It was my pimp. That little bastard,” the woman said.

“Come on. Get some clothes on,” Tommy said.

He led the woman downstairs, and out on the street another policeman saw them and said, “Hey, that’s Nancy Presser. She’s a famous whore.”

Presser stiffened with indignation. “The word is ‘prostitute,’ you smart bastard,” she snapped. Tommy got her into a patrol car, but instead of taking her to the precinct for booking, he had the driver take them to a nearby hospital so she could be treated.

“You’re the one they call Sir Galahad, aren’t you?” Presser said.

“I guess so.”

Presser started to cry. “I wasn’t always a two-dollar whore,” she said. “I didn’t always look like this. I used to get a hundred dollars a night.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” Tommy said. “Find a new job.”

“Quit?” The woman laughed. “’Cause Charlie Luciano won’t let any of us quit.”

“You know Charlie, huh?” Tommy asked.

“Know him? I used to be his regular girlfriend, up at his fancy hotel. The bastard used to tell me how much money he made off us whores. And then he got mad at me and he made my pimp turn me into a two-dollar trick.”

“Life’s tough,” Tommy said as he left the woman in the hospital emergency room. “Leave the business.”

“Sure, Sir Galahad,” she said with a smile. “Tomorrow.”

*   *   *

J
OE THE
B
OSS WAS WONDERING
why Luciano did not act. It had been months since he gave him the order to launch the all-out war against Maranzano, but nothing had happened yet. Maybe his lieutenant was getting “too fat, too comfortable. Maybe he likes seeing his name in the paper.”

He expressed this opinion over lunch to Joe Adonis, who nodded agreeably. “I think he’s making too much money,” Adonis said, “and doesn’t want to take chances anymore.”

“That’s what I think, too,” Masseria said. “I like the way you think, Joe. That’s what I’ve been looking for in my right-hand man.” Although the words had never been spoken, when he left the restaurant, Adonis knew exactly what had been offered: if he killed Luciano, Masseria would make Adonis his Number Two. He went immediately to Luciano’s Central Park hotel suite and told him of Masseria’s proposal.

Luciano listened impassively. When Adonis was done, Luciano said, “If he asks, tell him you’re working on it.”

“I don’t want him to get anxious and ask somebody else,” Adonis said.

“He won’t,” Luciano answered. “He won’t have the time.”

*   *   *

“
S
O IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE,
leave. You’re free, white, and twenty-one. We don’t have slaves anymore in the United States.”

Mario looked across the lunch table at his sister. Tina had invited him for coffee and told him how nervous she was about her plans for quitting the speakeasy business.

“Nilo’s really upset about it. He asked me to stay on and train somebody new, but every time I try to hire somebody, he turns them down.”

“When the time comes to leave, leave. It’s his problem.”

“I guess it is, isn’t it? Thank you, Mario. How’s Tommy?”

The priest shook his head. “He’s a zombie, Tina. If he weren’t family, if he just came to me at the parish for counseling, I’d think this man probably belongs in a mental institution. He just drifts through life like a man walking through a fog.”

“He’s not on drugs again, is he?” Tina asked.

“No. He’s on guilt. He blames himself for everything. Papa’s death, Rachel’s. Nilo becoming a gangster. The trouble you had that time. He thinks if he had been better or wiser or smarter or stronger, none of it would have happened. He sits on that couch, thinking of things that happened, trying to remember them exactly, trying to make sense of them.”

“Oh, Mario, what’s to become of our family?”

“We go on, Tina. We go on.”

“It’s so hard.”

“But we stay the course and we will win.”

• The press did not regard the fact as especially newsworthy, but on March 31 a young man entered the former U.S. Post Office building at 270 Lexington Avenue and opened an office on the second floor of the garish old Italian Renaissance structure. Thomas E. Dewey had just been appointed by President Hoover as an assistant U.S. prosecutor.

*   *   *

L
UCIANO’S VOICE WAS
unusually cheerful over the telephone.

“Hey, boss,” he said, “let’s go to lunch. All that stuff you wanted done, it’s under way. I just want you to give the final okay.”

“Lunch? I just finished breakfast,” Masseria said. “I don’t know if I can eat lunch for a while.”

“Too bad,” Luciano said pleasantly. “They tell me Scarpato’s just got in a load of fresh lobster this morning.”

“How fresh?”

“Right off the boat,” Luciano said.

“All right,” Masseria said. “You want to come and get me?”

“I’ll pick you up,” Luciano said.

“No, wait. We take my car. It’s safer than yours. There’s crazy people out there.”

“All right.”

“Who we take with us?”

“I’ll see who’s around. Maybe Vito. Somebody else who can drive.”

“Okay,” Joe the Boss said cautiously. “But we don’t talk any business until we’re alone. Too many big ears around.”

Luciano chuckled. “You’re always one step ahead,” he said. “I’ll be by eleven thirty or so.”

Shortly after noon on April 15, Ciro Terranova was driving Masseria’s car through the streets of Brooklyn. Luciano and Masseria were in the backseat. Vito Genovese sat in the front passenger seat. It was an especially warm day and Luciano took off his gray suit jacket. Masseria noticed that his lieutenant, as usual, was not carrying a gun.

The specially built car was armor-plated and had inch-thick glass in all its windows. Its weight was twice that of a normal car, and Terranova, who had made his fortune controlling all the artichokes that entered New York City and had been with Masseria since the old days of Lupo the Wolf, seemed to have trouble steering the vehicle.

“Hey, Ciro,” Masseria barked from the backseat after the driver had jammed on the brakes. “What’s wrong with you? You gonna get us all killed.”

“Stop the car,” Luciano said. Terranova pulled over to the curb, and Luciano said, “Vito, you drive.” When Terranova slid across to the passenger’s seat, Luciano saw that his hands were shaking.

At 1:00
P.M.
, the car arrived safely on Ocean Avenue in Coney Island, on the southern shore of Brooklyn, and rolled to a stop at the Nuovo Villa Tammaro Restaurant, parking right in front of the long red-and-gray-striped awning.

“You two stay here and keep your eyes open,” Luciano said. “Joe and me, we’re going to have lunch.”

Although the restaurant was still crowded with lunchtime diners, the owner, Gerardo Scarpato, had reserved the prime corner table for the two men. He had served Masseria many times before, and without anything being ordered, the food courses started coming to the table. First hot and cold antipasto, followed by minestrone soup and seafood salad. Lobster Fra Diavolo was the main course with a heaping platter of Milanese pasta. Masseria seemed to eat with both hands, downing large water glasses full of red wine, dribbling it down his chin and onto the napkin, which was tucked into his collar.

While Masseria ate, Luciano picked at his food and softly outlined his plan. It called for bringing in two dozen of the best shooters from other cities in the country and in one massive assault attacking Maranzano’s headquarters, wiping out the Castellammarese and any of his followers who were with him.

“Why get shooters from out of town? We got no shooters?”

“Yeah, we got plenty of shooters and they all got mouths. One of them gets picked up for something and they try to cop a plea and talk, and we’re all in trouble.”

Masseria shrugged, his peasant brows wrinkled. “These out-of-town shooters, they don’t have mouths? They not gonna talk?”

Luciano smiled. “That’s why we’re going out of town. As soon as these guys are done, I’m going to put them on trains to take them back where they came from.” He chuckled. “But they ain’t ever going to get there. They got mouths, but they won’t be able to use them.”

Masseria joined in the laughter. “It’s a good plan, Charlie. When?”

“You give the okay and I’ll have them in town next week. Ten days outside, Maranzano will be just a memory.”

Masseria wiped his mouth with his red-stained napkin. “I like the way you think.” He poured them both some more wine.

It was three o’clock now and except for the two men the restaurant was empty of diners.

Scarpato, the owner, brought over a decanter of espresso coffee and a large wheeled tray of Italian pastries.

“I was gonna take a walk on the beach,” Scarpato said. “Is it all right if I leave you two alone?”

“Sure,” Masseria said. “But we pay the bill first.”

“It’s on the house,” Scarpato said. “For you, it’s always on the house.”

“One thing,” Luciano said. “A deck of cards. The tip for the waiters, Joe. I’ll play you a game of
brisco
for the tip.”

Masseria nodded and Scarpato brought the deck of cards before leaving the restaurant for his stroll. It was 3:05
P.M
.

They played cards for twenty-five minutes. Masseria won all the hands and was in particularly good spirits. He was shoveling pastries into his mouth and washing them down with imported wine.

“You’re too much for me today,” Luciano said. “I have to go to the crapper. When I come out, we’ll go.”

He strolled to the men’s room near the front door of the restaurant, went inside, locked the door, and turned on the water taps.

At that moment, a black sedan pulled up in front of the restaurant, stopping behind Masseria’s car.

Out of the second car stepped Ben Siegel, Joe Adonis, and Albert Anastasia. Genovese got out of the first car and joined them.

“What about him?” Adonis asked, nodding toward Terranova, who still sat in Masseria’s sedan.

“Leave him,” Genovese said in disgust. “He’ll piss his pants.”

The four men walked into Scarpato’s and strolled past the white-clothed tables to the corner table where Masseria sat alone, idly shuffling the deck of cards. The wine-stained napkin was still stuck into his collar.

He noticed the men only when they reached his table. Before he could speak or act, the four emptied five shots each into him. His body fell forward onto the table. Then one of the men walked behind him and fired a final slug into Masseria’s head.

They walked quickly from the restaurant. Ciro Terranova was in their car, but his hands shook too badly to put the car in gear. Contemptuously, Siegel pushed him out of the way, slid behind the wheel, and drove away at high speed.

Inside, Luciano washed his hands, turned off the water, unlocked the men’s room door, and walked into the dining area. He waited by Masseria’s side until the police arrived.

When they asked where he was during the shooting, he said, “I was in the can taking a leak. I always take a long leak.” He said he had no idea who did the shooting.

With no reason to hold him, the police released Luciano and he drove back to Manhattan in Masseria’s car. On the way back, he thought,
The war is over. And now Maranzano must think he has won.

*   *   *

S
OFIA’S TELEPHONE RANG.
When she answered, she heard Luciano’s voice.

“Joe Masseria is dead,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Since you are always so interested in delivering messages, deliver this one. Tell Don Salvatore that Masseria is dead, not because we wish to serve Maranzano, but for our own personal reasons. Tell him also that if he should touch even a hair of even one friend of ours, we will wage war to the end. If he wishes peace, we must know in twenty-four hours and we will pick out a place in which to discuss a settlement. Do you have that?”