Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [244]
Mr. B. wound up our tour of his house and took us into the kitchen, where a big table was set for lunch, by a window overlooking the famous barbecue pit that had been damaged by a bomb thrown by unknown assailants. The assailants were only unknown to the police, of course; Bonanno doubtless knew perfectly well who they were himself. Here, his good spirits revived—he took his duties as a host seriously. We had an aperitivo, then a long meal of many courses, prepared by his daughter Catherine, with plenty of good wine.
In the privacy of his kitchen, Bonanno was more expansive. He was not willing to talk about current mob politics—he would not even admit that he was informed about them, though rumor had it that couriers arrived frequently from Brooklyn and took advantage of his cork-lined cellar to fill him in on what was happening and get his blessing for various decisions—but about the past he was less guarded. He chatted about Capone, the Castellamarese wars, the bootlegging connection between Joseph P. Kennedy and Frank Costello. Mr. B., it turned out, had met John F. Kennedy, and even FDR—his political connections had once been a priceless asset.
Bonanno explained at length that he, in his time, had been—still was, some might say—a don, but being a don had nothing to do with crime or even business. The term was a mark of respect to somebody who held a special kind of role in the community. A doctor might be referred to as “don so-and-so,” as might a priest, or a pharmacist. A man might be the leader of a family following “the tradition”—what we would call “The Mafia”—yet still not be a don. The don made himself available to advise, to give justice, to help those in need. His neighbors who came to him in full respect never left empty-handed. In short, a don was a community leader, and the responsibilities of being a don were heavy and had to be taken seriously. The great men of his tradition had been dons, of course, as he was. Carlo Gambino, for instance—he had been a don, a real man of the tradition. His old friend Charlie “Lucky” Luciano had been a don, though being as Americanized as he was he did not take being a don as seriously as Gambino had, or Vito Genovese, for example. Gambino and Genovese were men to whom an ordinary person could bring his problems, who would listen gravely, and do whatever they could to help. Even his cousin Stefano Maggadino, rest in peace, a man of no culture or elegance, was, in Buffalo, the don, a man who understood the tradition, even if he did not always practice it.
What about Frank Costello? I asked. Had he been a don? Bonanno poured espresso from a metal pot for each of us. He shook his head sadly. “Frank Costello was merely a pimp,” he snapped.
After lunch, we were to work on the book. Mr. B. suggested that Margaret might like to go sight-seeing or shopping. He would get her a car, and Catherine would accompany her. I took Margaret out onto the patio and told her to use the car we had rented at the airport. Bonanno’s offer was generous, and surely well meant, but who knew where the car came from or what might be in the trunk? Admittedly, this didn’t seem likely, but reality in the Bonanno family was different from our own—after all, Bill Bonanno, despite the fact that he appeared to be prosperous, had been sent to prison for using a stolen credit card to buy an air ticket home to Tucson for Thanksgiving. True, he still denied the