Bloodline (39 page)

The church bells still rang, but they were not part of her life anymore. It had been a long time since she was a little girl, and the sound of the bells was a call to enter the body of the church, to share in its mysteries, to dream one day of being a nun, holy, dedicated, consecrated in spiritual marriage as a bride of Christ.

Later, older, she had fallen in love with poetry and dreamed of herself as one of the new voices who, sad, alone, and unrewarded, would yet devote her life to bringing happiness to the rest of the world.

A nun? A poet? Sofia laughed bitterly.
I will be a breeder of bastards. At least that
way I will be part of this world. Poetry is powerless in the face of evil and God.…

The apartment was still and she looked it over with appreciative eyes. A week after she and Nilo had been married in the prison, a driver had come to bring her to the uptown offices of Salvatore Maranzano.

She had been impressed by the splendor of the place, by the beauty of the young red-haired secretary who sat inside the door, by the courtliness of Maranzano himself. A few years ago, she had often heard Maranzano referred to in contemptuous terms by the gees who frequented her father’s restaurant as a silly, useless pretender to the throne of Joe the Boss, but clearly, despite their dire forecasts, the man had prospered.

There was almost a regal nature to Maranzano himself when he brought her into his office and poured tea for her. He greeted her with quiet dignity, inquired after her health, thanked her for having stood by his young friend, Nilo.

“Of course,” he said, “you will be needing a place of your own.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sofia answered.

“You have someone to stay with you? A sister, perhaps, a girlfriend?”

She had shaken her head no, and Maranzano smiled a fatherly smile.

“Suetonius quotes Caesar,” he said. “‘Meo tam suspicione quam, e crimine iudico carere oportere.’ Which is usually—”

“Which is usually incorrectly translated as ‘Caesar’s wife must be above all suspicion,’” Sofia said. “Yes, I know of what you are speaking.”

Maranzano should have sounded like a pompous ass, Sofia thought, spouting Latin at her like that, but somehow he hadn’t. Somehow it all seemed of a piece with what she knew of the man.

“Ah, you know the language of our ancestors?”

“School and church, many years,” Sofia said.

Maranzano seemed pleased. “Then you will understand the importance for your proper behavior. Quite aside from the matter of morality, of course. I expect Nilo will be coming out of prison before long, and when he does, it is imperative that he return to an unsullied home.” There was an edge to Maranzano’s voice. “For a woman as beautiful and as young as you, there will be many temptations, many opportunities to disgrace yourself and your family. That must not happen. A young lady who knows Latin must surely understand.”

He phrased the last sentence almost as a question, but the implication of it, and the expression on Maranzano’s face, was so blankly chilling that Sofia recognized it instantly as a threat.

She had said she understood.

The next day, she had stayed upstairs in her family’s apartment as she had every day since the trial ended, unwilling to go downstairs to work in the restaurant, unwilling to be gawked at by strangers as the bride of the Dago of Death. Late in the afternoon, an envelope had come to her containing four crisp new fifty-dollar bills and a pair of keys. The messenger said that he would be bringing the same amount of money the first of every month as long as it was necessary. The keys, he explained, were to her new apartment. She was to live there as long as Nilo was away. Without her participation, a moving truck came later that same day to transport her pitifully few belongings to the new place, which was just north of Fourteenth Street, closer to Midtown Manhattan but still only a long walk away from Little Italy.

That had all happened three months ago and Sofia had since seen her mother only once, when the woman had taken some time off from her work at the restaurant and had come to her daughter’s new place, only to sit quietly and stare at the newness and expense of it all. Sofia had not seen her father at all, and she lived in the fear that he might show up one night, uninvited, and try to force himself on her.

So when her mother, just before leaving, asked, “Who is paying for this apartment?” Sofia answered, “Nilo’s employer. Mr. Maranzano.”

Her mother nodded without comment, and Sofia added, “He has told me that if anyone tries to hurt me, he will kill them.”

Her mother nodded again.

“You might tell that to Papa,” Sofia said.

Her mother nodded and left.

If Matteo Mangini did show up some night, she promised herself, she had Maranzano’s phone number. She would make that phone call and her father would never bother her again.

In Sofia’s early weeks at the apartment, Tina had stopped over several times. It turned out to be a rather pathetic attempt to try being old girl chums again, but it had not worked. Or rather it had not been given a chance to work.

Tina had seemed distracted and dissatisfied with something involving her singing teacher, the German woman she always called Frau Schatte. Sofia wanted to talk about her pregnancy but was stunned into silence when Tina glibly admitted having had an abortion and that she had not even the faintest of inklings whom the father might have been.

“I have been with so many men,” Tina said.

“Do you think that’s good?”

A harsh laugh erupted from Tina. “Sure. One of them gave me that nice little gift I had in my belly. At least you know your baby is Nilo’s.”

Sofia was silent. They had changed so much, she thought, that they no longer had anything to talk about, and the visit quickly ended. Still, a week later, in another desperate attempt at frivolity, Tina had invited Sofia to accompany her on a visit to some of her new haunts in Greenwich Village.

The excursion promised to take Sofia to the places she had always dreamed of being, the dens of poets and writers, the hangouts of artists and freethinkers, but instead she found just a lot of drunks who seemed only to want to paw her and Tina.

She had left early, and not an hour after returning home there was a knock on the door. She opened it to Salvatore Maranzano, who said that he had just stopped in to see if she was comfortable in her new apartment or if she needed anything.

“I have everything I want, Mr. Maranzano,” she said.

“That is good. Because I have heard stories that you’ve been seen in places where young wives should not be without their husbands. I knew such stories could not be true.”

He had said no more than that, but it was enough. His voice had not changed, nor had his ever-present smile, but deep in the back of his eyes Sofia saw something that sent cold shivers through her.

After he left, she realized that Maranzano had somebody watching her—probably the apartment doorman to start with—and the next time Tina asked her to go out to a party, she declined and said she had no interest in such things.

*   *   *

T
INA HAD NOT CALLED AGAIN,
until this night, this Christmas Eve, when she arrived and asked Sofia if she wanted to go to Mass with her, a Mass that Mario was celebrating at his church in the Village.

“Then we could go over to my parents’ house to celebrate,” she said brightly.

But both of them knew somehow that Sofia would not go, and so there was a sense of sadness and futility to Tina’s whole visit. Still Tina tried to put the best face on it. She talked of the old neighborhood and fondly recalled their close friendship when growing up together. The memories, so long forgotten since Sofia had tried to block all happiness from her heart, charmed and warmed her, and after they recalled one story of an escapade of theirs from parochial school, Sofia blurted out honestly, “Oh, Tina, I loved being your friend. I guess I always loved you most in the world. It just all seems so long ago.”

“That’s because you don’t try to remember the happy times, the fun we had,” Tina said. She talked of their visit one day to see her cousin, now known as Charlie Luciano, when Sofia had been having trouble with her father.

But just a little way into the story, Sofia realized that Tina was really trying to drag information out of her about Charlie
. When was the last time you saw him? Did you have a chance to talk to him? I wonder if he would remember us. I wonder if he would remember me.

Sofia thought,
She has something going on in her head with Charlie, and I don’t know what it is.

Bluntly, she asked, “Has Charlie been your lover?”

Tina laughed merrily. “Oh, no. I bumped into him once and we chatted, but he never even called me. From what I understand, he has lots of women.”

“He has a Russian woman,” Sofia said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, a showgirl of some kind. She would come into the restaurant with him once in a while, and people would always treat her with respect, even though she wore as much makeup as a circus clown. It was clear she was Charlie’s girlfriend.” She could not resist adding: “She probably still is. He seemed very much taken with her.”

“Is she very beautiful?” Tina asked.

“Barely as beautiful as you,” Sofia said with a smile, “and not nearly so lovely as I am.” She stood up and held out her belly with both hands, and both girls laughed.

Sofia collapsed back onto her chair, looked at Tina, and said, “Do you remember that once you promised me our lives would never be dull?”

“Yes,” Tina said. “But I made no promises about their not being dirty.”

The two young women sat quietly for a long time, and the evening grew long and tedious. Sofia tired early and wanted to go to sleep. Finally, she was forced to yawn and Tina said, “I can take a hint. I’ll let you get some rest.”

When she was gone, the church bells rang again. It was almost midnight.

She sat in the chair near the window. A light snow was falling and it seemed brighter on the streets outside than it did here inside her apartment. She looked at her new clock. It was already Christmas morning, way past time to go to bed. When she got up to turn off the lights, there was a light knock at the door.

She walked to the door and talked softly through the wood.

“Who’s there?”

“Tommy.”

Sofia stood very still. She could feel her heart pounding inside her chest.

“What do you want, Tommy? It’s very late.”

“I saw the light in your window. I want to talk to you. Please open the door.”

“Go away, Tommy.”

“Please.”

She wondered if he was drunk. He did not sound it. She opened the lock on the door but kept the security chain closed, then peeked her head around to talk to Tommy through the opening. Her body was hidden by the rest of the door. He was wearing his police uniform and a heavy overcoat.

“What do you want, Tommy?”

“I’m going to try to free Nilo,” he said, and then seemed at a loss for words.

“You arrested him. How are you going to free him?”

“I’m going to try,” Tommy said. “Can I come in? I walked up here, off my post.”

“No. It’s too late.”

Tommy leaned closer to the door.

“Sofia, I…” His words seemed to stick in his throat.

Sofia caught her breath and felt faint. But some things were best left in the past.

“Please, Sofia,” Tommy said.

“Why? You got hot pants since your waitress left town?”

“Please.”

“Go away; I’m married.”

“I want to help you, Sofia.”

Suddenly the macabre reason for Tommy’s visit became clear. He wanted to free Nilo so that she and Nilo could live happily ever after.

Poor dumb Tommy. I don’t care if Nilo lives or dies. I hate him, just as I hate you, Tommy. I hate everyone. Especially myself.

“Do what you want. I’m going to bed. Merry Christmas.”

She closed the door and locked it again. Still standing there, she began crying.

This world is just a practical joke, and God, if there is a God, plays with our lives.

She turned out the lights and stood there for a long time waiting for Tommy to leave. Finally, she heard his footsteps going down the hall.

*   *   *

T
HE DINER WAS ONE OF A STRING
of anonymous all-night places, set down in the shadows of the big ocean liners that used the Hudson River docks. It had been constructed from an old railroad car, and in a doomed, desperate attempt to give it a holiday atmosphere, someone had hung a small green wreath on the front sliding door. But now with Christmas gone, and the new year of 1925 already a week old, the needles had fallen off the wreath and it was just a mass of twigs that looked like a bird’s nest in training.

The diner was on the fringe of Tommy’s beat, and he had stopped in occasionally for a meal. As far as he knew, he was the only cop to set foot in the place, whose usual clientele consisted of tough-talking dockworkers and an occasional sailor.

As he came inside out of the sleet and snow that was blowing across the Hudson, Tommy saw the man he was looking for and went up to his booth and stood beside it. He waited for what seemed like a long time before clearing his throat to draw the other’s attention.

When the other man did not respond, Tommy said, “Mr. Kinnair?”

The other man turned to look at him. John F. X. Kinnair was younger than Tommy had imagined—youthful, almost baby-faced. He had light sand-colored hair, pale blue eyes, and a face filled with freckles. He held out his hand.

“Tommy Falcone, I presume.” They shook hands and Kinnair nodded to the bench across the table. “Sit down. Have some coffee. You can call me Zave. That’s short for Xavier. Most people do.” He spoke in a rapid series of short bursts of words. “I’m glad you came. These people are giving me the evil eye and I started to worry about getting out alive.”

“You’re safe now,” Tommy said with a grin.

“I thought me dear old uncle Timothy would be with you,” Kinnair said in a thick, fake Irish brogue.

Tommy shook his head. This was a job where he needed another policeman he could trust. His father would have wanted no part of it, so he had called on Tony’s old precinct partner, Detective Tim O’Shaughnessy.