Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [66]
“Evil is evil. Enrico the fruit seller told Rocco they sent Paparo letters demanding money. Paparo didn’t pay, and he brought the letters to the police.” Scanning the article further, Giovanna read, “‘Detectives of Lieutenant Petrosino’s Italian Squad are investigating the bombing, which they believe to be the work of the Black Hand.’ What do you know of this Petrosino?”
As if on cue, there was a knock on Lucrezia’s door and Domenico burst in.
“Zia, Zia, I saw him!”
“Catch your breath, boy. I can’t understand you. Who did you see?”
“Petrosino!”
Domenico had listened attentively when Rocco had returned, still covered in ash from the bombing of Paparo’s store, and described what had happened. He imagined himself a detective with the sleuthing he and Zia had done. And now, to know the most famous detective of all was this Petrosino—an Italian!
“Where did you see him?”
“On Elizabeth Street, near our apartment. He was dragging a man down the staircase and out of the house.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“A crowd gathered when they saw him go in. I heard them talking, and I waited.” Domenico had been building toward this moment, and with great drama he reenacted the scene.
“He drags the bum by the collar. You could hear his body bouncing on the steps. When he gets outside, he throws the guy against the brick and says, ‘See this scum? This is the Black Hand you are all so afraid of! He is nothing. A common thief.’ Then the crowd parts to let him through. He drags the guy down the street, calling, ‘It’s not like Italy here. You must work with the police. We can help you.’ And then Petrosino turns, kicks the rat, and says, ‘Andiamo, schifoso.’”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Lucrezia, clapping. Domenico smiled and bowed.
“What did he look like?” asked Giovanna, glancing at the picture of Petrosino in the newspaper.
“He was short, but big and strong. He had a black derby and overcoat. And his face had those dents.”
“Smallpox scars,” corrected Lucrezia, smiling. There was no doubt the boy did see Petrosino.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Vito’s Grocery?”
“Sì, Zia. But I had to tell you. I saw the great Petrosino!”
“I’m sure a lot of people don’t think he’s so great. You keep your mouth quiet about him, you hear?”
“But Zia, he said not to be afraid!”
“That’s easy for him to say.”
Giovanna kissed Domenico and gently shooed him out of the apartment.
“Lucrezia, what do you think. Is he right?”
“I think it’s true that the police here are not like the police in Italy. But this Petrosino couldn’t stop Paparo’s store from being bombed, could he? If you’re marked by the Black Hand, it’s like that expression you always use—what is it?—‘between a rock and a hard place’?”
NINETEEN
1907
“Come on. You’re doing a man’s job. Have a man’s drink,” goaded Clement’s co-worker in front of the Star of Italy bar. Clement couldn’t admit that his hesitation had nothing to do with being fifteen but with being forbidden by his father to go into that particular tavern.
“I’ll even pay for it so your daddy doesn’t know,” cajoled the worker, impatiently wiping sweat from his brow.
A beer would taste good; his throat stung from inhaling lime for ten hours, and he was broiling from the summer heat.
Even though his day pouring cement had ended, it was still bright outside, so Clement’s eyes had to adjust to the dark, smoky room as he walked into the Star of Italy.
He tried to concentrate on his ale and his friend’s banter, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He glanced around and saw some men gathered around a newspaper at a back table. They looked up suddenly when a thin, well-dressed man entered the bar.
“Vachris! What, no disguise today?” called a chinless brute as he closed the newspaper.
“Lupo, I know you gentlemen are too cunning to fall for that.” The new arrival walked around the bar, taking in every detail. Seeing the paper, he commented, “Look, you even read newspapers now! Did you read that story about Mario Palermo?”
Silence greeted his question.
“Do you have anything to tell