New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [357]
It wasn’t the first contract Paolo had taken on. There were always gangland killings, but when you were asked in from outside to do something special, the money was tempting. He’d taken one before this—done the job just the day after he’d had lunch with Salvatore in the Fronton speakeasy. That had gone off well. No doubt that’s why he’d been offered this other job.
But last week had gone terribly awry. There was nothing wrong with the plan, but even the best plan can be thrown off course by an unexpected event. It was dark. The wind was strong and gusting, perfect for dispersing the sound of the shots. The street had been deserted. He’d stepped out from the doorway just in front of his man, with his hat pulled down to shield his face, and taken aim. Do it at point-blank range. Do it so swiftly that his victim would hardly have time to register surprise.
Who could have imagined that a slate blown from a roof above would crash at his feet, at that precise moment, causing him to jerk his head up?
The other fellow had thought quicker than he had, then. Instead of running away, he’d barged straight into him, knocking him over and kicking the gun out of his hand. Then he’d run fast up the street, dived round the corner, loosed off a couple of rounds that had only just missed. Paolo had his gun by then. He’d returned fire, and given chase. But his victim had vanished. And he’d seen Paolo’s face.
So now there were some very angry people in Brooklyn.
The question was, what to do? Probably best to leave town. But where should he go? Maybe Madden could suggest something.
The orchestra was playing “Gin House Blues.” A Henderson composition. A couple of years back, the Henderson sound had been enriched by a young trumpet player named Louis Armstrong. He’d departed for Chicago, unfortunately, but maybe he’d be back. Paolo knew that Madden also had his eye on another up-and-coming band leader, Duke Ellington, who played over at the Kentucky Club. That was what was so impressive about Madden. He was always looking for something new.
Paolo glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. He doubted Madden would show up now, but he decided to wait a little longer.
His thoughts turned to the conversation with Charlie and his friend. How strange that the friend should have met Anna. He remembered those terrible days after her death. He recalled his anger, his sense of rage and impotence. That was what had set him on his path, really. This rocky, dangerous path, to this high, dark place, from which he now feared to fall. He had loved Anna. Loved all his family, really. If only, he told himself, they weren’t such losers. He shrugged. Maybe he was going to be a loser too, pretty soon.
He signaled for the check and paid it. No use waiting any longer.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk outside, he buttoned his coat tightly. The temperature had fallen, and it had begun to snow. There was half an inch on the street already. He looked around carefully; he could only see a few black people. It was white men he had to beware of. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, partly to hide his face, but mostly against the snow that the wind was whipping along the street. He started to walk.
As a precaution, he’d moved lodgings three days ago, to a place off Eighth Avenue where he wasn’t known. He’d walk to the subway, make sure he wasn’t being followed, and take a circuitous route home. He turned down Lenox Avenue.
Hell, it was cold.
Salvatore didn’t see Teresa during the month of October. There wasn’t a telephone at his lodgings, but there was a payphone nearby, and Teresa’s family had one in their house. He waited ten days before calling and asking to speak to her. He listened carefully to the tone of her voice. She sounded pleased to hear from him.
“My parents say thank you again for the picture,” she said. “Will you tell Angelo?”
“Sure.”
“I won’t be coming into the city for a little while.”
“Is that because of your parents?”
“My parents say I have to go with my cousin and she’s not free right now,