Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [104]
“What are you looking at, you little hoodlum?” A hand under his arm nearly raised Domenico off the ground, and he ended up face-to-face with a ruddy-cheeked policeman.
“Nothing, officer. I was just standing around.”
“We’ll see about that. Come on then.”
Tight in the officer’s grip, Domenico spied Frances down the block. She nearly dropped the bread she was carrying as he called out in Italian, “Tell Zia to come to the police station.”
“Speak English, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Domenico crossed himself in thanks that there was a chance that Zia would make it to the police station before his mother and was again relieved to see they were headed to the Italian Squad’s precinct at 19 Elizabeth Street. Once inside, he scanned the room for familiar faces.
“What do you have here, Rafter?” asked the desk sergeant.
“He was watching the arrest at Star of Italy. Probably a messenger.”
“No, sir, officer!”
Yanking him by the collar, Officer Rafter reprimanded, “I’m not talking to you!”
“So what did you see, kid?” asked the desk sergeant.
“Two black rats being taken away.” Domenico had heard Lieutenant Petrosino use that term.
A cop not in uniform, but one Domenico recognized, smiled. “Really? You know this?”
“Well, I don’t know…”
Giovanna swept through the door, breathless. “Cos’è successo?”
“Signora, is he yours?” asked the detective in Italian. It was Fiaschetti, the barrel-chested policeman who had brought her the tickets.
“Sì. My nephew. A good boy.”
“I thought I recognized him. The way he was acting, the officer thought he was a lookout.”
“No, no, detective. My nephew, he wants to be a policeman.”
“Officer Rafter, we can let him go. He’s just a boy who wants a badge.”
“I want to be like Lieutenant Petrosino,” piped in Domenico.
“Keep your nose out of police business, boy, or you could end up just like Lieutenant Petrosino,” growled Rafter.
“What did he say?” asked Giovanna of Fiaschetti.
“Nothing, signora. Take the boy home.”
MAY 27, 1909
The sound of the knife on the barber’s leather strap was relaxing to Rocco. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
The barber leaned closer to Rocco’s ear as he cranked up the seat. “Are they bothering you again, Rocco?” he whispered.
Rocco put up his hand, waving the question away.
“They’re everywhere lately. Not just one gang, but five. They come in almost every day. I can’t even put out a barber’s pole for fear they’ll think I have extra money. Francesco, with the lady’s shop, he said he’s afraid to buy a cash register because they’ll think it’s filled with money.”
Rocco waited until the barber was done shaving his upper lip. “Shut up, Luigi. I don’t want to hear this. Everything is fine.”
“Are you afraid that your ears will be cut off, like the poor garlic seller last week?”
“Smettila!”
“After the Italian detective’s death, the police came in, beat up the neighborhood, and left.”
“I said, basta!”
“Va bene. But it isn’t going to go away.” He threw a hot towel over Rocco’s face.
JUNE 11, 1909
Mary and Frances heard the school bell ring and hurried to get their books. The back entrance of P.S. 21 was just diagonally across the street.
“I have to do some shopping; I’ll walk you down,” said Giovanna, grabbing her basket. Taking Angelina’s hand, she followed her stepdaughters down the stairs.
Giovanna and Angelina waved from the base of the school steps as Mary and Frances bounded into the building. The school principal stood next to them, speaking with a mother whose daughter hid in the folds of her skirt.
“Ma’am, she will never learn English unless she attends