Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [71]
“What can I get you?” asked Giovanna.
“Signora, is your husband here?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll come again then.” He smiled, tipped his hat, and left.
Lieutenant Petrosino, holding the New York Times, waited outside the commissioner’s office. He paced the anteroom, practicing what he was going to say. He had no problem talking about police business, but when he had to say something personal, he was afraid his English would fail him.
“Joe! Come on in here. Sorry you had to wait,” called the commissioner, sticking his head out his office door. Commissioner Bingham was as tall and thin as Lieutenant Petrosino was short and squat. His graying hair and perfectly groomed mustache gave him a dapper appeal that conflicted with his authoritarian presence.
Petrosino remained standing, knowing full well that if he sat down it would only be a matter of minutes before the commissioner was up and circling the room, pounding on his mantel for emphasis, or surveying the street from his second-floor window.
“Commissioner, I want to thank you,” said Petrosino, pointing to an article in the newspaper.
“Oh, Joe, don’t be silly, you don’t have to thank me. Those dandies don’t know a thing about police work. I’d like to see those prissy-ass aldermen on the street for even an hour.”
“Well, even so, my men and I want you to know how important it is to us to have a commissioner who understands that sometimes you have to teach a lesson with your fists.”
“Don’t you worry, Joe. If they bring it up again, I’ll say the same thing.” With his finger in the air he reenacted his speech. “I am the police commissioner! I am responsible for everything my men do! Petrosino is one of our best detectives. Of course he has to use force now and then!”
The lieutenant rewarded him with one of his rare smiles. “Bravo!”
Bingham finally sat down. The office had changed little since Teddy Roosevelt was police commissioner. “So tell me, what’s on your mind, Joe? I know you didn’t come here just to compliment me on my oratory.”
Petrosino took his seat opposite the massive mahogany desk and waved a stack of papers. “Commissioner, I’ve read this new immigration law, and it wouldn’t get a spider out of its web. We have more Italian ex-cons in New York City than in all of Italy! We have to get the Italian government to help us.”
“That’s not going to happen.” The commissioner was picking lint off his trousers.
“They get back in! Remember Don Cascio Ferro, who we exiled after the barrel murder?” Petrosino asked. Bingham nodded. “He’s back! My men found him, and we threw him on the next boat, but not before he rallied the hoodlums here. Commissioner, can’t we go to the president?”
“Joe, as much as Teddy respects you, this isn’t something he can take on. We’ll have to go it alone. But I want you to know that I’m working on it, and I’ll explain it all to you at the proper time.” Bingham could see Petrosino’s question forming and preempted him. “I promise you that you and I together will smash this band of criminals and anarchists your native land has given us.” Bingham spoke with such drama that Petrosino knew it had been rehearsed and that it signaled the end of the discussion.
“Commissioner, I knew I could count on you. And you should know that even with all its loopholes, I’ll use this new law to get rid of all the blackmailing schifosi we can.”
Petrosino turned toward the door, and the commissioner patted him on the back. “That’s right, Joe. We’ll get your shevosee, and the world will know about it.”
Siena’s Fruit and Vegetables was a basement store, which meant that Rocco often saw his customers’ feet before he saw their faces. He could tell the man now walking down the stairs was not coming to buy figs or any other produce by the artificial swagger to his steps. The bell rang as the door opened. Rocco continued to stack zucchinis, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a man looking around the room.
“You’ve got a really nice store here, Signore Siena. You don’t want anything to happen to it. After all,