Bloodline (5 page)

“It
is
you,” Tommy said. “Does that mean I’m alive?”

He heard his brother’s familiar chuckle.

“If you can call what you’ve been through ‘living,’” Mario said, “then you’re alive.”

Tommy considered that for a moment before speaking.

“Mama. Papa,” he said. “Do they know what’s happened to me?”

Mario shook his head. “They don’t know, Tommy,” he said.

“Oh, Mario. I’m so ashamed of myself.” He began to cry.

The priest wiped his forehead and eyes with a fresh white cloth until he stopped crying.

“I know,” he said. “I know, Tommy. Now the hard part starts.”

Tommy stopped crying. He glared at his brother with a rapidly welling hatred.

“‘Hard part’? And just what the hell do you think this has been? A vacation? ‘Hard part’? Don’t start preaching at me about saving my soul, you high-and-mighty son of a bitch,” he shouted. “What do you know about it? Get out of here and leave me alone. You’re no brother of mine.”

The priest stood next to his brother’s bed, looking as if he wanted to speak, but he kept his silence, turned, and walked from the room.

Tommy closed his eyes but heard the sound of his brother’s shoes thudding on the floor. Priest’s shoes, Tommy thought, with cheap rubber heels that would last till the Second Coming of Christ.

But as the sound faded away, he opened his eyes and realized his brother had done nothing wrong. He called out Mario’s name, and when there was no answer, he began screaming curses, and when that did no good, he began crying. He cried himself to sleep. When he woke up again, Mario was there.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said. “I’m really sorry that I’m a dope addict. More than you can know.”

“I know,” Mario said. “I know, Tommy. And there’s more to come.”

Tommy held his temper this time.

“He doesn’t know,” another voice said. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

Tommy turned to the new speaker, Doctor Singer, who stood in the open doorway.

“Good morning, sir,” Tommy said. He felt tongue-tied, at a loss for words, and blurted out, “I’m sorry if I vomited on you. Did it really happen? I’m sort of confused.”

Singer laughed. “It happened, but forget it, Marine. It goes with the job. And it’s not morning anymore. It’s afternoon.”

“It feels like morning to me,” Tommy said. He turned to his brother. “You’ve been here a long time?”

The priest looked toward Doctor Singer before nodding. “On and off, since just after you were injured.”

“Why don’t I remember?” Tommy asked. “I don’t remember seeing you.”

“There’s a lot you won’t remember,” Singer said. “That’s normal.”

Mario held his brother’s hand. “And I’ve been here the whole last week.”

“Why didn’t you come in and help me?”

The priest smiled. “He wouldn’t let me,” he said, nodding toward the doctor. Tommy turned to look at him.

“You had to beat it on your own,” Singer said. “No help, no crutches.”

“Did I beat it? Is it over?”

“For now.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Tommy said quickly, “but what does that mean, ‘for now’?”

“You’ve broken the chemical dependency,” Singer said calmly, “but remember, deep inside yourself, you’re a morphine addict. You always will be. Now you didn’t get that way because of your own decisions. We did it to you. So I think you can stay free of the stuff. If you want to. A lot of people can’t.”

“I want to,” Tommy said.

“Well, that’s a start.” The doctor turned his gaze toward the priest. “I understand you’re willing to take him under your wing for the next six months.”

Mario nodded.

“And you used to be a boxer?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You can slap him around if he needs it.”

Mario smiled. “I always could,” he said.

“Not on your best day,” Tommy grumbled with a grin of his own.

“You’ve made those arrangements we talked about?” Singer asked the priest.

“I have.”

“Good, Padre. Good. Come by my office later. I’ll have his discharge papers all ready for you.”

Singer turned toward the door.

“Doctor? One question?” Tommy said.

“Yes.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re still in France, Sergeant. A U.S. Army hospital. But you’re going back to the States.”

“Sergeant?” Tommy said. “I’m a private.”

“You were promoted.”

Tommy looked toward his brother. “Two sergeants in one family.” He saw the doctor’s puzzled look. “My father,” he said. “A police sergeant.”

“I was a chaplain captain,” Mario said. “I outrank both of you.”

Tommy laughed heartily for the first time in months that he could remember. “Tell that to Papa,” he said.

*   *   *

N
ILO
S
ESTA STOOD
for a moment, looking down at the bodies of the two Selvini brothers, surprised at the quantity of blood that poured from their bodies, streaming now, forming a puddle halfway across the alley.

Nobody could ever pay him back for what had happened to him on the
tonnara
boat, but Fredo and the Selvinis had made a down payment.

Above him, Nilo heard a wooden window shutter open slowly. He looked up at the window, saw an old woman there, and smiled. Soon, very soon, everyone in Castellammare del Golfo would know what had been done and who had done it. Everyone would know except the police, because no one would speak to them about it.

He thought for a moment about urinating on the men’s bodies.

That will make me as much an animal as they. And they are not worthy of my urine.
He reached into the pockets of their loose-fitting pants, but neither man had any money.

Cradling all three shotguns in one arm, he walked quickly, almost defiantly, across the street, through the front door of his home.

*   *   *

N
ILO WAS TRYING TO CONSOLE
his mother when his father came home, obviously summoned from his job in the nearby stone quarry, because it was still the middle of the afternoon.

The old man drew his son into another room, where Nilo told him all that had happened.

The old man nodded, then said, “You must flee. You must leave right away and go somewhere else to seek your fortune. If you do not, you will be killed. No matter how just your reasons, the law of the feud demands that you die.”

“Yes, Papa,” Nilo said, his spirits momentarily crushed. “But how? Where will I go?”

His father said, “To America. We have family there. Your mother’s brother has a good job in New York City. They will help.”

Nilo nodded. He had been hearing about his uncle Tony for as long as he could remember. Occasionally, Uncle Tony even sent them a little money.

“Hide in the cellar,” his father told him. “I will return shortly.”

Nilo knew better than to ask questions. He took one of the shotguns and went down into the dirt-walled room while his father scurried from the house.

Just an hour later, he was following the old man out the front door of the house. The bodies, he saw, had already been removed. Father and son hurried down the alley, then turned up toward the rocky headland that skirted the beach west of town.

It was a hard walk, scrambling over hills much of the time. Nilo carried with him an old basket his mother had prepared, filled with his meager wardrobe: two pairs of pants and three rough work shirts.

They walked briskly, passing long lines of high stone walls that seemed to have been built for no purpose. Finally they reached a clearing, and up ahead Nilo saw a pink palazzo sheltered on one side and on the rear by steep overhanging cliffs.

The elder Sesta stopped and looked his boy over. Finally, he nodded. “You are wrinkled but presentable. Fortunately, you have not blood on you.”

He hesitated, then held his son’s shoulders. Already, Nilo was taller than he. “You look every inch a man,” the father said gently.

“I feel that way, too, Papa,” Nilo said. “Who have we come to see?”

“A big man. Don Salvatore Maranzano. I did him a favor once. He will protect you.”

“Is he of the Mafia, Papa?”

“Such things are the gossip of women. It is enough to know that he is powerful here and he is powerful in the United States.”

Without warning, his father pulled the boy to him and kissed him sadly.

“I have never been much of a father to you,” he said. “Some men, sometimes … fatherhood is not…” He hesitated, seemingly unable to get out the words he wanted to say. Nilo saw that the man’s eyes were wet, and he fought back tears himself.

“Don’t cry, Papa. I will come back.”

He saw disbelief in his father’s eyes.

“Or better yet, Papa, you and Mama—you will come to America and live with me. I will be very rich and very famous. You will see. Then you can come and live with me in
my
palazzo.”

His father smiled. “I wish that for you, Danilo. I wish that for you with all my heart.”

*   *   *

I
N THE GATHERING GLOOM OF NIGHT,
the palazzo looked like an old relic, but up close, it was obvious to Nilo that it had been immaculately maintained by a sensitive, loving hand.

A rough-looking servant must have been waiting for Nilo and his father to arrive, for they had only to rap once on the door before it swung open for them.

The servant led them along a cloistered walkway, around a central courtyard filled with heady-smelling flowers, and into a large, sparsely furnished room. The room glowed with the light of hundreds of candles. Along the walls were original oil paintings, both large and small, showing scenes from the lives of Jesus and his saints.

To one side was a long, carved, Spanish-style dining table heaped with foods of a variety and richness Nilo had never even dreamed of before, and seated at the table were two people: a woman who was strikingly beautiful, though well past first youth, and a man wearing the simple black cassock of a religious.

The man rose to greet them. To Nilo, he looked about fifty. He was handsome and his expression was pleasant enough, but he had cautious eyes and thin, tight lips that looked as if they would never knowingly entertain a smile. He nodded respectfully to Nilo’s father and then turned to the boy. This must be the powerful Don Salvatore Maranzano, Nilo thought.
But why would a powerful man dress in priest’s robes?

“Nemo est tam fortis quin rei novitate perturbetur,” the man said.

Nilo did not understand what had been said or what his response was supposed to be. The man laughed; despite his dour visage, it was a warm, friendly laugh, and Nilo felt heartened.
This man means me no harm.

“Ah, Nilo,” the man said, “I see you do not know the language of our forefathers, the Romans.”

“No, sir.”

The man smiled. “What I spoke was from the words of Julius Caesar. You have heard of him, I trust?”

“I think so, sir.”

From the corner of his eye, Nilo was watching the woman, who seemed to be enjoying her companion’s dialogue with the boy. Nilo thought he had never seen a more desirable woman in his life. He wanted to have her, her and the house with all its beauty. He wanted that and to be able to speak of Julius Caesar, too. He was just beginning to realize exactly how many things in life he truly wanted.

And this priest who is not a priest has them all,
he thought.
So why not me? Perhaps without wanting to, Fredo and the Selvini brothers have done me a favor. I hope it is so. That will be even better than pissing on their dead bodies.

“It is from Caesar’s book of war commentaries,” the man said. “Caesar says: ‘No one is so courageous as not to be upset by an unexpected turn of events.’ What do you think of that?”

Nilo hesitated and glanced toward his father, who was standing off to the side, uncomfortably twisting his hat in his hands.

“Go ahead, boy; speak,” the man said.

“Well, sir,” Nilo said, “it seems just like common sense. Unless it means something I don’t understand.”

“What it means is that you should not feel bad about being afraid right now. That fear will pass.”

“But I am not afraid, sir,” Nilo said.

“No. I guess you’re not.” The man laughed yet again, then turned to the elder Sesta.

“You have done a good job of raising the boy,” he said. “I am in your debt. Danilo will stay here with me tonight. Tomorrow he shall start on his journey.”

Nilo’s father hesitated, and the man in the priest’s robe said soothingly, “Do not worry yourself. He will be among his kind. I myself am returning to New York soon and I will look after the fortunes of all us Castellammarese. You may count on it.”

“Yes, Don Salvatore,” the old man said. He came forward and put his arms around his son.

“Live a good life, boy,” he said.

“I will, Papa. I will be very good,” Nilo said.

Don Salvatore Maranzano laughed again.

A warm spring breeze blew through the open windows.

• In New York City, Ignazio Saietta was beginning to dream great dreams. For more than twenty years, working under the name of “Lupo the Wolf,” he had been squeezing money under threat of violence from Italian immigrants in the city, and his Black Hand extortion racket had become the city’s most profitable. This was because Lupo had earned his reputation as one of the most bloodthirsty killers in city history, and police one day would find in his stable at 323 East 107th Street the bodies of sixty people, murdered by Lupo when they would not pay up.
    
For the last few years, Lupo had been expanding his business into loan-sharking, prostitution, hijacking, and robbery, but his big intellectual moment came in 1919 when he decided that counterfeiting would be an even easier way to make money than extortion was.
    
The Secret Service caught him, and Lupo was sentenced to thirty years in prison. Control of his rackets passed into the hands of one of his chief lieutenants, Giuseppe Masseria, a chubby, cherubic-looking man whose innocent appearance masked the fact that he was as cold-blooded a killer as Lupo ever was. As “Joe the Boss,” Masseria quickly became New York City’s crime overlord. Anyone foolish enough to oppose him was left dead in the streets.