Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [110]
“With this ink they can finish and we’ll get rid of everything.”
“But what if you get another order?”
“We’re not taking no more orders. The cops, and not the kind we own, are poking around. Secret police from Washington. Do you have the money from Siena, the fruit seller?”
Tommaso the Bull put a twenty-dollar bill on the table.
“Twenty? We told him five hundred!”
“Lupo, those two punks who were working the street got their money and then blew up their store. He’s only got a pushcart.”
“No brains! Since when do you think you have brains? You listen to me. You think I’d demand five hundred dollars from a guy with a pushcart if I didn’t know better? Huh? His wife, she sent a thousand dollars to her family in Italy after the earthquake. I got it direct. And how come those two morons knew they had money before we did? Get the five hundred dollars! And make it a regular payment!”
“I need money to get back.”
“Walk, you idiot!”
“Come on, Lupo, just give me a couple of those,” he said, pointing to a stack of counterfeit two-dollar bills.
“You really are an idiot. Here,” said Lupo, throwing a five-dollar bill on the table. “You owe me change.”
SEPTEMBER 1, 1909
Her belly was getting even bigger, but all out front. “It’s a boy,” thought Giovanna, rubbing her swelled stomach, “Little Nunzio.” She made a strong espresso at the stove for Rocco while he dressed. In the predawn quiet, Giovanna wondered what was bothering her husband. He was even quieter than usual and avoided her eyes. In bed, he turned to the wall. He acted as if he couldn’t bear to be near her, or the children for that matter.
“No bread. Just espresso,” barked Rocco, coming to the table. Not taking the time to sit down, he threw back the thick black coffee. Mumbling “Ciao,” he left.
Rocco was leaving the house earlier and coming home from work later. He was exhausted, but his anger and stubbornness kept him going. After he had given them money, they’d left more notes. This time he didn’t ask Clement to translate and instead went back to ripping the notes into shreds. He told Clement all was well after he paid them twenty dollars.
When Giovanna sent the second payment to Scilla, he’d been relieved they weren’t moving as he’d promised her they would. Life was dangerous on Elizabeth Street—but it could be worse somewhere else. Now, in idle moments, he spent his time counting the months to the next and final check, and he paid more attention when he heard people talking about places like Newark and Hoboken.
Rocco wheeled his cart into his regular spot. He eyed everyone who passed suspiciously and made a habit of patting his pocket to check on the presence of his knife. Today was a dull day, moisture clouding the dawn light. Only a few other vendors were setting up this early. Rocco methodically stacked his fruit into small towers on the cart. Across the street, the pepper seller alternated his greens and reds even though it was more practical to keep them separate. There was great pride and competitiveness in the display of produce, but Rocco was distracted. Lately his towers didn’t have their usual aesthetic appeal—nor were they engineered well.
After creating a tower of pears, they suddenly began to tumble. He lurched forward to stop them from falling into the street at the exact moment he felt something drop behind his back. A split second later a thunderous thud caused Rocco to fall over his cart.
The noise and the sight of Rocco and his cart collapsing frightened the other vendors, and they fled. A woman screamed, “La Mano Nera!” and crossed herself. Within seconds Rocco was up, knife drawn, looking for the assailant. Instead, he saw a huge rock on the sidewalk where he had stood.
SEPTEMBER 4, 1909
HIGHLAND, NEW YORK
“Those idiots! They’re lucky he moved. I said, ‘Get the money,’ not ‘Kill him!’” fumed Lupo.
Pietro Inzerillo swatted at the flies circling his head. “Tommaso