Bloodline (30 page)

Instead, he just reflected that Tina would be fine until she got her break. That was more than he could say for Nilo. Even though Nilo was not his child, he was the son of Tony’s sister and that made him family, but somehow he had gone bad. Tony had prided himself that his children had escaped the corroding touch of the gangs, of the criminals who ran wild through Little Italy and much of the rest of New York City. But Nilo had been seduced, and now, to hear that priest tell it, Nilo handled business affairs for Maranzano, whose Castellammarese crime family had become rich and powerful.

Maybe Maranzano had more connection with him back in Sicily than I know about,
Tony thought.
Or maybe Nilo just sprang from a bad, twisted seed.

*   *   *

A
S
B
ETTY STOOD
at the ornamental desk pouring the tea, she managed to rub her knee against Nilo’s thigh, out of the line of sight of Maranzano, who sat waiting politely. With a smile at Nilo as she turned, she left the tea tray on the desk and went back outside.

“She cannot keep her hands off you, can she?” Maranzano said with a chuckle, after she had left the office.

“It must be my charm,” Nilo answered lightly. So much had changed, he thought, since the first time he had been in this office, frightened and nervous, wearing a borrowed suit and expecting to be thrown out into the street.
Now I am the don’s right-hand man and all know my name. God bless God who has showered me with such gifts.

“Oh, to be young again,” Maranzano said.

“You are young in heart and mind, where it counts,” Nilo said, pleased with himself that he had learned the give-and-take of glib conversation. It meant nothing, but he had decided that people who succeeded in life were able to say nothing and make it sound interesting. It was one of Don Salvatore’s great gifts.
Blowhards will conquer the world, and if that is what it takes, I will be the biggest blowhard of all,
he thought.

“Have you told your uncle that we will abide by his peace agreement at the Holy Rosary Festival?” Maranzano asked.

“I sent word to him through my cousin, Mario, the priest,” Nilo answered. “I don’t think Uncle Tony would appreciate hearing directly from me about such business.”

Maranzano nodded approval.

“You told me once to always cause as little discomfort as possible when dealing with others. This way I speak for you, but if he wishes, Lieutenant Falcone can still regard me as Nilo, his nephew.”

Maranzano nodded. “And all else is well?” he asked.

“Every day it gets better. Three new clubs opened last week in Midtown with our liquor. I think we have as many now as Masseria does.”

“We should have. We have better merchandise. They are selling rotgut and we sell whisky from Scotland, thanks to your wonderful idea to pipe it in from offshore.”

Nilo lit a cigarette and basked in the older man’s approval.

“We are ready to take a new step now,” Maranzano said. “From now on, you are out of the day-to-day operations.” When Nilo seemed about to protest, Maranzano held up his hand. “No. No more. We want heads busted from now on, somebody else will do it. You have disobeyed me over and over again. I have told you to stay off the streets, and yet you run with the young gunmen every chance you get.”

Nilo would have protested if he had not noticed a note of pride in Maranzano’s remarks. The old man said, “You are going to be the next generation of businessman for us. I want you to meet with our lawyers and form Danny Neill Enterprises. I have already given them orders.”

“And what will I do with this Danny Neill Enterprises?” Nilo asked.

“The lawyers will handle it. Danny Neill Enterprises will start buying legal businesses. It is not enough to hide money under mattresses or in safety deposit boxes. We must invest it for the future.”

“And the liquor business?”

“We will continue to supply bootleg as long as this stupid Prohibition remains in place, but it will not last forever. Someday, America will forget the whole business. When that happens, I want us to own factories, stores, theaters, trucklines, even legal breweries—all kinds of businesses. Not in my lifetime, but in yours, all these illegal things that we have done will be just a memory. We will be respectable businessmen. And we will own much of New York.”

“And you want me to run this operation?”

“With my help, of course. Remember, you have no police record. You are a real estate broker. I made it that way so you can carry the fortunes of this family forward.”

Nilo stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward in the chair, looking earnest. “I am overwhelmed, Don Salvatore.”

“We just keep moving forward,” the Mafia boss said. “And now, get out of here. I have business to take care of that no longer concerns you.”

Nilo stood, then impulsively walked around the desk, took the don’s hand in his, and kissed his ring. “Be gone,” the old man said.

Walking through Maranzano’s outer office, Nilo found it hard to restrain himself from shouting exultantly. He was on his way. The future fortunes of Maranzano’s whole operation would depend on him. He would be rich and he would be respected. In his heart, he knew he would miss the excitement of running with Maranzano’s mob, the thrill of hijacking Masseria’s liquor trucks, of robbing the receipts of some of his gambling operations, the thrill of wearing a gun under his jacket and always being ready to use it.

But those were the games of a child. I am a child no more. I am the leader to be. I will put away my gun, never to wear it again.

Betty was at her desk when he stopped in the outside office. She smiled at him and said, “I was hoping we might go out tomorrow night.”

“Don’t you have something to get in the supply closet?” Nilo said, in a stern voice. She looked at him with a puzzled expression, and Nilo took her wrist and led her across the room to a door that opened into a large closet, filled with filing cabinets and office supplies.

He flipped on the light switch and locked the door behind them. She stretched up to kiss him, but he turned her around and pushed her forward against a shelf. Then he lifted her dress and pressed himself into her.

“You’re an animal,” she said softly.

“And you love it,” he said, reaching around her body and squeezing her fiercely.
And I will be don.

When he was finished, he went out and sat at her desk, where he found a long list of names, all Sicilian sounding, with addresses in New York.

These must be the new immigrants, the ones Mussolini has frightened away. All come here looking for jobs from Don Salvatore.

Idly he scanned the list of names, then glanced up to see Betty come out of the closet and approach the desk. Her face was flushed.

“So what about tomorrow night?” she asked.

“I’ll be busy tomorrow night,” Nilo said offhandedly, continuing to read the names.

And then one burned into his vision, as if it had been written in blood.

Enzo Selvini.

The bottom seemed to fall from Nilo’s stomach. Enzo Selvini was one of the three who had raped him back on the
tonnara,
one of the three he had killed back there in Sicily.

“He did not die,” Nilo said softly. “The bastard lives.”

“Excuse me?” Betty said. Nilo did not answer. He crumpled the list of names and stuck it into his jacket pocket and moved quickly toward the front door.

*   *   *

W
HEN
N
ILO REACHED
Selvini’s apartment house, which was only three blocks from Holy Rosary Parish in Italian Harlem, he noticed that a lot of workmen were around the streets putting up booths for a street fair. Kids flocked in the traffic-free streets, and neighbors milled around, doing their daily business. Pushcarts lined both curbs. Watching the crowd steadily grow in number, Nilo smiled.
This city will be mine and I should know what goes on. It is good to see so many people out today. Many people, and none will see me or remember my face.

He reached inside his jacket and made sure the safety was off the pistol he carried. Despite knowing that violence was to be kept to a minimum during the festival, Nilo knew better than to travel anywhere unarmed. And he had other plans for that day.

He walked up the steps of the apartment building and knocked on the door of Selvini’s apartment. He had planned no fancy ritual, no elaborate execution. When Selvini answered, he would just shoot the bastard dead.

But Selvini did not answer. Nilo waited, gun in hand, for a while, then gave up. In the basement, he told the building superintendent he was a friend of Selvini’s, but the super seemed suspicious, and only on the transfer of a five-dollar bill would he admit that Selvini was out looking for work.

Nilo thanked him and went outside to wait. He paused at the mailboxes. None of them had Selvini’s name. He pried open one of the boxes at random, took out a letter, then ripped the flap from the back of the envelope. He walked back upstairs and at Selvini’s apartment he pasted a small piece of the envelope paper across a top corner of the door. It would be very hard to see unless someone was looking for it. But anyone opening the apartment door would tear or dislodge the paper. He looked inside the letter to see if there was a check or cash, but there was not, so he crumpled the letter and threw it into a corner of the hallway.

Nilo went out, found a quiet restaurant three blocks away that handled Maranzano’s liquor, and tried to eat lunch. But his stomach was too unsettled and instead he sat alone, quietly consuming a bottle of red wine.

After a couple of hours, he went back to Selvini’s apartment building. Pulling his hat down low over his face, he walked up the steps. At Selvini’s apartment, the small piece of paper was still glued to the top of the doorframe. No one had entered since Nilo had left.

He had barely gotten across the street, lounging in a doorway, casually smoking a cigarette, when he saw Selvini walking down the opposite sidewalk, whistling quietly to himself. The man was dressed in peasant style and seemed to have put on weight. Not that he was fat, but he no longer had the gaunt, starved look of the impoverished Sicilian fisherman he had been. It took Nilo a moment to recognize him, and by the time he did it was almost too late.

It was dinnertime now and the street was no longer crowded. Earlier, children had been playing stickball and the stoops had been filled with men in undershirts and women in black dresses that looked as if they weighed ten pounds each. But now people were inside eating, it was growing dark, and only a few kids lingered on the street.

Nilo felt in his pocket again for his gun. Its cold weight in his hand was comforting. He had not realized until he touched it that he needed comforting, but Selvini, he remembered, had survived an up-close shotgun blast. He should not have, unless he was under the protection of some especially powerful demon.

Nilo began to walk across the street, angling so he could meet Selvini at the steps to his apartment building. For a moment, Nilo thought he should get away, not make this effort now.

Nilo called out his name: “Enzo.”

Selvini turned toward the street, looking for a familiar face, smiling. The smile lingered for just a fraction of a second, and then Selvini seemed to recognize him. A fearful, hunted look appeared in his eyes. Nilo slowly pulled the pistol from his pocket and raised it to fire at Selvini.

The other man moved more quickly than Nilo expected. Just as Nilo was ready to pull the trigger, a young boy strolled past and Selvini grabbed him and yanked him toward him as a shield. He snatched a pistol from his own jacket pocket.

Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!
Nilo’s mind screamed the warning, but was it too late? His finger was already tightening on the trigger, but to avoid hitting the child, he tried to turn the gun toward the sky. There was the loud report of his pistol and then return fire from Selvini.

Nilo dove into the street, rolling to avoid the gunshots from the other man. He got to one knee and tried again to aim at Selvini, but the child was still in the way. Nilo heard another shot, found himself squeezing the trigger. Just as he did, Selvini pushed the boy toward Nilo as both men fired. Nilo felt the weight of the child as his body slammed forward into Nilo and carried him to the pavement. Behind him, he heard a shout. He scrambled to his feet and looked down at the boy. He was dead. Nilo knew it. He had seen death before.

He heard more shouts and fled down the street, running after Selvini.

There are others there. They will care for that child. But I think there is no hope. No hope for Selvini, no hope for my immortal soul. A child is dead.

He did not know if he was being chased, but after several blocks Nilo cut through an alley, came out on another street, and was quietly alone in this foreign world.

It would be dark soon. Nilo wandered around, not knowing for certain where he was going, hoping against hope that somehow he would come across Selvini’s trail again. The man would not return to his apartment anytime soon, and when he did, it would be with friends to protect him.

Nilo walked the streets for an hour without success. What had happened was terrible, but at least no one had seen him, no one could recognize him. Night came and he gave up. It was the end of everything. There was no way he would ever be able to get that close to Selvini again.

Maybe I’m wrong and maybe the child will live. What kind of animal is it, anyway, who would hide from his fate behind a child?

He found a small speakeasy and went inside. He sat in a corner, nursing yet another bottle of wine, feeling lonely and morose. He said a prayer that the child would be all right, then another and another. Then he said a prayer asking God to forgive him. He had begun a gunfight, and a child had died. He wondered how much money he should send the parents to compensate for their child’s death. Finally, he paid his bill and left.

He stepped out on the sidewalk. He was only a few blocks from where Selvini lived. He looked left and right, searching for a cab to take him back downtown.