New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [335]
He did not quite understand that because she believed him to be a socialist, and because she thought he’d tried to make a fool of her in public, Rose Master was now, in fact, his enemy.
The year 1910 was a happy one for Salvatore. He was fourteen years old now, and starting to feel himself a young man. It was also the year that he and Anna decided they were going to make little Angelo stronger. Anna’s method was to give him more food. Each day when they went home together from the Triangle Factory, they would stop at the restaurant where Uncle Luigi worked, and the owner would give them a little bag of leftovers. “For the sickly one,” he’d say.
Salvatore’s method was more robust. He made some little weights, and forced his nine-year-old brother to work with them in front of him each day. “I’m building up his muscles,” he told everybody. In the summer, he started taking him to the East River where, although it was illegal, the boys of the area used to swim. When Anna found out, she had a fit. “The water’s filthy. You’ll make him sick,” she cried. As the months passed, however, Angelo did seem to become sturdier. He stayed just as dreamy, though.
As for Anna, at eighteen she had filled out into a young woman, but she was still almost as slim as she had been when she was a young girl. Men turned to look after her in the street; she had no young man though, and said she wasn’t interested. Salvatore was sure of one thing. “If any young man comes calling for you, he won’t just have to get past Father,” he told her, “he’ll have to be inspected by me.” Only the best would do for his sister.
“And if you don’t approve of him?” she teased.
“I’ll throw him in the East River,” he said. He meant it.
At the start of December it was Anna’s birthday, and on the fifth, Uncle Luigi took the whole family out to the theater. They went to the American Music Hall on Forty-second Street, to see a show called The Wow Wows given by a British troupe on tour from London. The star was a talented young English actor named Charles Chaplin. They had a wonderful time. The next week, Anna told them that she’d got a raise at work. She was already making $12 a week; now she’d get an extra dollar. So the year ended well.
Except for one thing.
It was one bright morning in October when Paolo suddenly told Salvatore that he should go on alone because he had some other business to attend to. “I’ll meet you on Broadway and Fulton at four o’clock,” he said, and before Salvatore could ask him anything, he was gone.
That afternoon, he told Salvatore that he mustn’t speak of his absence. “There’s a man I’m doing some work for,” he said. “That’s all.” He produced some money, about what he’d have made shining shoes, but Salvatore had a feeling that his brother had more in his pocket.
One day the next week, the same thing happened. Soon it became a regular occurrence. At Christmas, he gave presents to all the members of the family. He said he’d secretly been saving up to do so. Everyone was pleased. Salvatore got a pocket watch; Anna a lovely shawl. But Concetta looked worried. Just before the new year she questioned Salvatore about his brother’s movements. Salvatore lied as Paolo had told him to, but he could see that his mother didn’t believe him.
“He is working for some camorrista,” she said. By that she meant any sort of bad person. “Or maybe worse. Maybe the Mano Nero.” The Black Hand. It wasn’t really an organization. Any gang wanting to extort money—usually from the richer Italians in their own community—would seek to increase their victim’s fear by using the dreaded symbol of the Black Hand.
“No,” said Salvatore.
“It’s the fault of the police,” said his mother. “Why do they do nothing?”
Of the thirty thousand policemen in the city, many of them Irish fellow Catholics, hardly any could speak Italian. True, the NYPD had started an Italian squad. But its chief had been killed on a visit to Sicily by a gangster