Bloodline (8 page)

It was early in the day and the tavern was almost empty. The bartender was obviously a friend of the Falcones, because he greeted Tommy with a grinning “Hey, war hero.” Then he said, “Now what are you boys doing here? You know you’re not old enough to drink. You could fake it, Tommy, but he’s not even close.” He pointed toward Nilo.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Tommy responded. “And besides, what are they going to do? Pull your license?”

“Ah, yes. Prohibition. The law of the land. It does embolden a man to break the law. Drink hearty, boys,” he said as he poured them two beers from the spigot behind the bar.

“What is this Prohibition?” Nilo asked Tommy.

“A new law. In a few days, there will be no more taverns, no more places like this. No one will be allowed to manufacture or sell liquor.”

“Not even wine?”

“No. No wine.”

“In the whole country?” Nilo asked.

Tommy nodded.

“That is a stupid law,” Nilo said. “In Sicily, such a law would just be ignored.”

“A lot of laws are stupid. But here we obey them anyway. And a good thing, too. It’s how I want to make my living someday.”

“Explain, please.”

“A lawyer. I want to become a lawyer.”

“Good. You will be a very good lawyer,” Nilo said. “Will you be a lawyer soon?”

“Whoa. Hold on there. It may be a long time. More likely never.”

“Why?”

“Law school costs money. A lot of money. And I don’t have any.”

“Uncle Tony?”

Tommy shook his head. “He’s just a cop. He’s got no money. And if he did, he’d have to spend it on school for Justina.”

“And so you … what…?”

“I’ll get a job, I guess. And if I can, I’ll try to save enough money to get to law school.”

Nilo scowled as he looked into the bottom of his empty beer glass. “Some things in America are very strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“You showed me where that old brewery was where people were allowed to kill each other for years and years. But nobody will be allowed to use it to make wine. And you, you go off to fight in a war for them and you get shot and hurt, and now you are home and your country does not say, ‘Tommy, we will send you to law school.’ They are ungrateful.” He hunched his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, turning his hands palms up, as he had seen Maranzano do, as if imploring God to provide even a little bit of justice. “But what do you expect from a country whose people obey the laws even when they know they are stupid?”

Tommy signaled the bartender for two more beers. “But that’s the way things are,” he said, “and you’ve just got to learn to live with it.”

“I will try,” Nilo vowed. “I will try to be the best American there ever was. But I don’t know if I can ever learn such stupidity.” He saw the bartender coming and reached into his pocket for money, but Tommy was quicker. Then Tommy waited until the bartender had placed the fresh beers before them, before leaning close to his cousin and talking softly in his ear.

“Speaking of learning and stupid laws,” he said. “You’re doing well on learning to speak English, but you have to work very hard at it.”

When Nilo looked at him quizzically, Tommy said, “Because you’re in this country illegally, and the sooner you learn to look and sound like an American, the less chance you have of getting thrown out of the country.”

“If I apply to become the citizen?”

“Maybe the government will let you in. And maybe it won’t. You’re best off not taking the chance. Just be here. Be an American. Be a member of the family. Whoever has to know different?”

Nilo smiled. “Your brother. I will be your brother. As Father Mario calls you, you may call me. If the world asks, I am Nilo, kid brother, great American.”

Tommy Falcone pondered the idea for a moment, then put an affectionate arm around his cousin’s shoulders.

“Brothers,” he said. “Why not?”

Nilo took his knife from his pocket and with practiced hands snapped it open. Without hesitation, he pierced the tip of his index finger and then reached out for Tommy’s hand. Tommy winced but let himself be cut. Then Nilo pressed their two bloody fingers together, even as he flipped the knife closed with one hand and put it back into his pocket.

“There,” he said. “Now we are blood.”

“Good enough,” Tommy said. “But learn your English anyway. Papa’s looking for a job for you, and it’d help if you could speak the language.”

Nilo seemed not to be listening. “Brothers,” he said again. “You and me. Until the end.”

*   *   *

I
T HAD BEEN A QUIET TOUR OF DUTY,
but even though his detective partner, Tim O’Shaughnessy, had been looking longingly at the exit door for more than an hour, Tony Falcone would not leave the precinct until the exact moment their shift ended.

“If you are not the worst pain in the ass in the entire world, I’d hate to meet the one who is,” O’Shaughnessy grumbled.

Tony stood up and put on his hat and coat. “Just being honest with the citizens who pay our salary,” he said.

“Save it for Saint Peter. Let’s get out of here.”

The two men walked down the steps of the precinct, out into the cold January night. They were a study in contrasts. Falcone was medium height and, although he was muscular, he appeared almost frail next to O’Shaughnessy, who was a huge man, more than six feet five and weighing close to three hundred pounds. Falcone was dark and seemed always to be scowling—a look caused more by his nearsightedness and his vain refusal to wear eyeglasses than by any surliness of character. O’Shaughnessy was blotchy red-faced with the pre-alcoholic road map of capillaries crisscrossing his face, which was almost always set into a smile—a deceptive grin that masked a violent fury of a temper. They had been partners for ten years, ever since the Irishman had been assigned to the precinct.

They followed a well-worn path over to Broome Street, where Mike Mercer had run a tavern since before Falcone had joined the force almost a quarter of a century earlier.

Falcone was surprised that the streets were so quiet. Prohibition was about to become the law of the land; it was America’s last legal drinking day, and he had thought that all the lushes in the city would be loading up one last time.

The previous day he had read a story in the newspaper, reporting on a speech made by the Rev. Billy Sunday in Norfolk, Virginia. Someone had held a mock funeral for John Barleycorn, and the Rev. Sunday said, “Good-bye, John. You were God’s worst enemy. You were hell’s best friend. The reign of tears is over.”

Maybe Billy Sunday was right, Falcone thought, but only time would tell. He did not see how anyone, not even the Congress, could tell a whole country to stop drinking and expect them to do it.

When they walked into the tavern, Mike Mercer was behind the bar talking to another pair of off-duty detectives. He nodded to Falcone and O’Shaughnessy and, without bothering to ask, poured double shots of Irish whiskey and set them down in front of the cops, along with beer chasers.

“My turn,” Falcone said, and began to reach into his pocket for money.

“Don’t bother,” Mercer said. “It’s on the house tonight. My treat.”

“It’s only just a new year,” O’Shaughnessy said. “Not the Second Coming of the Holy Ghost.”

“My last night of business,” Mercer said.

“This is a bad joke, right?” O’Shaughnessy said. There was a worried look on his face.

“No joke,” Mercer said. “I know a lot of people are talking about ignoring it, but I’m going to obey Prohibition. I’m going to shut down for a couple of weeks and go to Florida. When I come back, this old joint will be totally redecorated.”

“Redecorated for what?” Falcone asked.

“As a tearoom.”

“A what?” O’Shaughnessy sputtered.

“A tearoom,” Mercer said, almost defensively. “You know the kind. With all sorts of exotic blends for our regular customers. Blends from Scotland and Ireland and Tennessee and the Caribbean.”

“Jumping Jesus,” the big Irish cop answered. “And next thing you’ll be telling us that there’ll be women in here and we won’t be able to spit on the floor and you’ll not be serving liquor.”

“Something like that,” Mercer said.

O’Shaughnessy turned his back on the bartender and drained his whiskey. He told his partner, “Did you know, Tony, that in Ireland the Mercers are considered the scum of the earth? Lower than fish shit they are. Their word is worthless, and they would sell their children for an extra helping of English gruel, spilled on the floor for them to lap up. No self-respecting Irishman will have anything to do with anyone named Mercer.”

“These last ten years here must have been a terrible burden on you then,” Falcone said, winking at the bartender.

“I did it all for you. To keep you out of the clutches of this thieving tea peddler. Aaaah, I can’t even bear to be looking at him. Let’s get a table.”

They brought refills of their drinks to a rear booth, where O’Shaughnessy insisted on clinking shot glasses in a toast.

“To Demon Rum?” Tony asked.

“To hell with Demon Rum. Let him get his own drink. I’m drinking to Tommy,” he said. “How is he?”

“He’s all right.”

“So what’s wrong?” When Falcone looked up, O’Shaughnessy said, “I’ve worked with you for ten years, Tony. I know when you don’t like the new brand of tooth powder Anna buys. You think I don’t know when something’s bothering you?” He paused. In ten years they had saved each other’s lives more than once. O’Shaughnessy had even run into a burning building and carried the unconscious Falcone out in his arms. They were as close friends as policemen could be, but here O’Shaughnessy knew he was getting into family business, and policemen were notoriously close-mouthed about family problems.

“Is it Tommy?” he asked. “He’s healed, hasn’t he?”

“His body has,” Falcone said. He sipped slowly at his whiskey.

“Shell shock?” the Irishman ventured.

“That’s the story he and Mario are peddling. I’m supposed to believe it. But it’s not true.”

“Then what?” The other policeman paused. “You don’t mean those damn fool doctors got him hooked on drugs.”

“That’s what they did,” Falcone said.

“Jesus H. Christ. How is he?”

“He looks fine. They had to do so much surgical work on his hip and stomach that they had him laying around that Frenchie hospital for a year. “

“I never did understand that.”

“Apparently, there was some French surgeon who was the best in the world at this kind of stuff. So they wanted Tommy to stay nearby. No argument from me; physically, he’s good as can be expected. But that’s when they got him hooked, while he was laying around in pain between all those operations.”

“So all this time they’ve been working on getting him off the drugs?”

“Morphine,” Falcone said. “And he’s been off it for six months now. We were supposed to think he was still in France, but Mario had him stashed in a convent upstate. He was working as a handyman to get his body back in shape and make sure that he didn’t have any way to get any morphine. There sure isn’t any in any convent. So now he’s back, and maybe it was all for the best, except I’m not supposed to know anything. And I don’t like it.”

“So your pride is hurt,” O’Shaughnessy said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re happy about your boy, but you’re upset because your two sons—one of them a priest himself—think that they’ve pulled the wool over your eyes. Let’s face it. You’re just annoyed that Tommy and Mario dare to think they’re smarter than you.”

Falcone sipped at his beer. The Irishman had already finished both his whiskey and his beer and waved to the bartender for a refill.

“You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right. They were just trying to save you hurt. Tommy’s healthy, so forget it. What’s he going to do now?”

“I don’t know. He’s talking about going to college. Down with the Jew boys at CCNY, I suppose. I wish I had enough money to send him to a good school like Saint John’s, but I don’t. And then Justina is graduating from high school and she wants to be an opera singer, and I don’t know where she’ll get the money for voice lessons. I wish I had it, but I don’t.”

“Let ’em work for it like everybody else does.”

“That’s okay for Tommy, I guess. You can always be a lawyer. But Justina’s different. You wait too long for voice lessons and by the time you take them, your voice is gone and you can’t get it back. It’s gonna break her heart if I get her a job in the coat factory.”

Uncharacteristically, O’Shaughnessy reached across the table and put his hand atop his partner’s. “Tony, there’s always money to be made at our job. And with this new Prohibition thing coming in, there’ll be fortunes to be made.”

Falcone glared at him. “You know how I feel about that crap,” he said. Then he recognized O’Shaughnessy’s expression and began laughing. “You’re just egging me on, you Irish son of a bitch,” he said.

“Not me,” his partner said. “I like being one of the only two honest cops in New York. Anyway, bring Tommy around some night. I’d like to see him. I remember him when.”

“He’s different now. Quieter. He’s always got his nose in a book.”

“He got shot up, for Christ’s sake, to help the bloody goddamn Brits keep their goddamn empire,” O’Shaughnessy said. “That’d change anybody.” He took a deep breath, as if telling himself to change the subject and not mount his usual anti-British soapbox. “And what about this other kid? What’s his name? Daniel or something?”

“Danilo. My sister’s boy, and he calls himself Nilo now. He’s doing okay. He and Tommy get along like brothers. I found him a little job, and he’s after Justina to teach him how to read.”

“To read, huh?” O’Shaughnessy laughed. “If he’s like every other Sicilian I know, he’s after her for more than reading lessons.”

Falcone nodded. “That had occurred to me. And I wouldn’t put it past him. Truth is, Tim, he’s my family and all, but I don’t like that kid. There’s just something about him that sticks in my throat.”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t know. He tries too hard, sort of. He’s blood … but … I don’t know. He always seems agreeable enough, but if you watch him and he doesn’t know you’re watching, he’s always looking around, as if he’s casing the place, trying to figure out where you hide your money. I’ve taken to locking my cash away in my bureau drawer.”