Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [69]
Rocco squirmed in his chair thinking about Clement in that cafe. Giovanna crossed herself. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
Signore DeCegli apologized. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to speak of unpleasant things. Well, for now, let’s relax; we have two weeks to respond.”
“I don’t need two weeks, Signore DeCegli.” Giovanna felt defeated acknowledging to herself for the first time that there could be no justice in Nunzio’s death. “You can tell them we will take the offer.”
“Yes, of course, she’ll take the offer,” echoed Rocco, relieved.
When Signore DeCegli got over his surprise, he too was relieved. But after toasting their triumph, he felt strangely let down.
“Lieutenant,” saluted Detective Fiaschetti at the entry to Petrosino’s office.
“Sit down, detective.” Petrosino motioned to a chair.
“I got nothing on the Palermo boy, Lieutenant,” announced the detective, who was dressed in street clothes and looked like the drunk he had been pretending to be. He was Petrosino’s youngest detective and quickly responded to his lieutenant’s look of disappointment by adding, “But Don Vito Cascio Ferro has come to town.”
Petrosino’s head snapped up. “I had him exiled after the barrel murder!”
“Well, he got back in and is looking quite the gentleman. Tailored suit, manicured beard and mustache. He was holding court in the Star of Italy with Lupo and his gang.”
“He came to this neighborhood!” exclaimed Petrosino, indignant. “These thugs have no fear!”
Detective Fiaschetti removed a small notebook from his pocket. “He acted like a real professor, he did. Listen to this: ‘Why break the bottle when you can skim off the cream? At this rate you’ll soon have nothing left. Provide them a service, a protection service, and exact a fee.’ And then he says, ‘They’ll thank you for it, and you won’t need to deal with Petrosino.’”
Petrosino’s face was red, and his hand was balled into a fist. Detective Fiaschetti quickly continued, trying to get the rest in before Petrosino’s outburst. “Il Lupo treated him like God. Tommaso the Bull asked who they were providing these people protection from, and you know what Ferro says? He says, ‘Why, thieves, of course!’ and he and Lupo shared a big laugh.”
Surf City, New Jersey, 1969
“I don’t see anything,” I moaned. Flat on our backs on redwood picnic benches, Nonno and I stared at the moon. We were outside our summer rental in Surf City, New Jersey. Across the street the bay lapped up on the shore.
“I no see nothing,” agreed Nonno.
We could hear the television and the rest of the family talking inside.
“We have been told that in minutes Astronaut Neil Armstrong will emerge from the lunar module. But this is what it looked like when they touched down at 4:17 today…”
I could tell when things were really important because Walter Cronkite’s voice wasn’t perfect. They were replaying the landing. It was a scratchy recording, which made me think it already sounded like history.
“Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed!”
“Josie, put that disgusting book down and watch this,” Nanny scolded my mother.
“Shut up, Ma. It’s not disgusting. It’s a bestseller.”
“Nonno, let’s go inside,” I said to my grandfather.
“Why? So we can heara them argue?”
“We can hear them anyway, and I want to see it.”
I squeezed onto the couch as my sixteen-year-old brother pontificated. “Right now, some guy in Vietnam is getting blown to bits, but we don’t have to see it because they’re landing on the moon.”
“Michael, where’s your patriotism?” My father was seething.
I was depressed. My grandfather thought the landing on the moon was a Hollywood movie; my brother thought it was a trick to make people forget about the war; my father only cared about my brother’s hair being too long; my mother was distracted by some book about the Mafia; and my grandmother was mad at my mother for reading the Mafia book. I looked to my little sister to share this moment, but she was crying about her sunburn.
Walter Cronkite touched his ear. “I believe we are going to hear the president talk to the astronauts.