Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [67]
Gestures indicating “We know nothing” filled the room.
“It’s a little boy, gentlemen. He’s been gone ten days. I know it’s not your turf, but the way I see it, you all know how to get to Brooklyn. Right, Tommaso?” Vachris directed his attention to a huge square-headed man.
“You tell your boss, Petrosino, that we don’t get involved in Brooklyn and to stop breaking heads around here,” yelled a voice from a smoky table.
“I hope we find that boy alive. Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to tell Lieutenant Petrosino anything.”
Lieutenant Vachris surveyed the room and before leaving looked quizzically at Clement, who made an unsuccessful attempt to blend into his beer at the bar.
As soon as Vachris left, the square-headed guy picked up wood shavings from the floor, threw them at the door, and spat, “He’s all talk, Lupo.”
“I gotta help my father. Thanks for the beer,” Clement said, bolting from the bar.
Hands deep in his pockets and walking quickly, he got half a block before he noticed his father staring at him from the opposite side of the street.
“Where were you?” Rocco sputtered.
“I had a beer.”
“I saw you! I told you not to go there. It’s filled with Blackhanders!”
“Papa, don’t talk here,” whispered Clement, turning and walking.
Rocco, an intensely private person, was not prone to public scenes, so he followed his son in silence. The second the apartment door closed, Rocco exploded.
Wanting to shield the girls from the anger, Giovanna gathered them in the bedroom.
“Papa, I’m sorry,” pleaded Clement over and over.
“I’m afraid for you, afraid for all of us.” Rocco was softening with Clement’s apologies. “What happened in there?” asked Rocco of his son.
“There was this short guy, he didn’t have a chin. He seemed to be in charge. They called him Lupo. This cop came in, a lieutenant. He asked about a boy who was kidnapped in Brooklyn. And there was this big guy named Tommaso.”
“Clement, you trust no one, you hear? They’re all bad—these men—the cops. Let them play their little games, and you keep your nose out of it.”
Hearing Rocco’s voice return to normal, Giovanna and the girls went back into the kitchen. “We’ll eat in a minute,” said Giovanna, stirring the pasta, “and we’ll say a prayer for that boy before dinner.”
“My eggplant is better,” thought Giovanna with satisfaction. Having never eaten in a restaurant in America, she was at first intimidated when Signore DeCegli suggested that she and Rocco meet him at Saulino’s at the corner of Lafayette and Spring streets. DeCegli signaled for more bread. It was apparent he was a frequent customer; the waiters addressed him by name. Their table was tucked into a corner, and despite the simple decor, the restaurant had an air of respectability.
Surreptitiously pointing with his fork at a short, pockmarked man eating alone, DeCegli whispered, “That is the famous Lieutenant Petrosino.” Giovanna’s head snapped in his direction and snapped back when Petrosino noticed her staring. “He is going to marry the owner’s daughter, Adelina Saulino.”
Rocco had no reaction to this or anything else that was said. He had not said a word and ordered by pointing to the cheapest meal on the menu. Signore DeCegli tried to encourage him to order something else, but he simply shook his head and pulled on his mustache. Enough time had passed that DeCegli tried again to connect with the man. “It’s an honor to meet you, Signore Siena.” DeCegli kept stealing glances at Rocco, incredulous that this was Giovanna’s husband. They were a mismatched pair in every way that he could observe. But he had handled enough divorces to understand that in rough circumstances companions sometimes fared better than lovers.
Rocco folded and unfolded the napkin. He had only agreed to come because Giovanna couldn’t eat with this man alone. This was uncomfortable business, another man’s business.
DeCegli, too, was uncomfortable. He was about to tell Giovanna that the unthinkable had happened—an American company was offering her a settlement, but he couldn’t help but question his decision