Elizabeth Street (25 page)

FEBRUARY 1, 1909

The thousand-dollar payment from Nunzio’s settlement did not arrive on January 1. In fact, Signore DeCegli had to remind the attorney to send it. They had never seen the first check; it had gone directly to the bank to pay for the store. Giovanna stared at the check with three zeros and tried to figure out the safest way to get it to Scilla. With Lieutenant Petrosino’s warnings ringing in her ears, she decided to ask Signore DeCegli’s advice. Signore DeCegli assured her that Bank Stabile on Mulberry Street would transmit it safely, and he accompanied her there. She was not the first Italian to be sending money home, but Giovanna couldn’t help but notice the clerk’s expression when he saw the amount.

“I do not want to send this unless you can tell me that it will go directly to my family,” stated Giovanna.

“I assure you, signora, we can do that. We have already sent a great deal of money to Messina and Reggio.”

“But this isn’t going to Messina and Reggio; it’s a small village.”

“I understand, signora, and we will get it there safely.”

Signore DeCegli stepped in. “I suggest that we prepay a reply for her family. This is my card. Certainly, if it does not arrive in due time, I could be called for assistance.”

Taking the card, the banker said in an offended tone, “Sir, we are a reputable institution.”

At the door, Giovanna thanked Signore DeCegli.

“I assume you will no longer be moving, signora.”

“No. We’ll have to wait.” Giovanna’s voice carried with it the conviction she felt. When she buried the swordfish mustasole at Nunzio’s grave, she promised to watch over all that Nunzio loved in Scilla. The earthquake left Nunzio’s mother and his sister’s family without homes and in need of medicine. Now Nunzio would provide for them. While her plans to move her family to a safer place were scuttled for now, tonight she would go to sleep knowing that her family in Italy would have shelter and food.

Feeling at peace for the first time in a long while, Giovanna headed home. At the corner of Prince and Elizabeth streets, she nearly careened into Lieutenant Petrosino.

“Lieutenant!”

“Good day, signora. How fortunate! I wanted to speak to you. But not here. Can you come to my office?”

When they had settled into chairs at his desk, Petrosino said, “I heard the good news about your family!”

“How is it that you know everything?”

“When will you understand that this is my job!” chided Petrosino good-naturedly. “In all seriousness, signora, I am so happy your family survived.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. But that isn’t why you asked me here, is it?”

“No. I have a question. Do you know Manzella’s store, two doors from you?”

“Of course. He just closed his shop.”

“He filed for bankruptcy. I was suspicious and questioned him. It turns out that for three years Lupo had been extorting money from him.”

“But Lupo’s gone! Do you believe Manzella?”

“I believe him, because this was something he had no intention of telling. What it means is that Lupo left town with a lot of money—Manzella’s cash and his creditor’s money.”

“Does this make you think Lupo was behind the bombing of our store?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that. It might. It might not. But this is your block, signora, so I want you to keep an eye out for the bulldog-faced wolf and watch Inzerillo.”

“What of Manzella?”

“He’s looking for work. If we ever find Lupo, we’ll prosecute him.”

It was clear that Petrosino was preoccupied and didn’t want to take this conversation further. As he walked her down the stairs, Giovanna asked, “And your little girl, how is she?”

“Oh, signora, she is beautiful! She’s two months old today. And when she sees her papa, it’s all smiles!”

“And your wife, is she well?”

“Sì, thank you for asking.”

At the door, Giovanna commented, “I saw in the papers that you now have a secret service to fight the Black Hand.”

“Yes, signora. Even though the Board of Aldermen wouldn’t fund it, Commissioner Bingham got it funded privately. We also have the Italian government’s cooperation. We can begin deporting all the criminals who have taken haven here.”

“Should I begin working on our case again, Lieutenant?”

“Well…yes, yes, of course, signora. You come see me. If I am not here, be sure you work with Lieutenant Vachris. There are new photos for you to review.”

“I’ll do that, Lieutenant.
Arrivederci
.”

Giovanna watched the little man turn back up the stairs into his headquarters at 19 Elizabeth Street.

FEBRUARY 7, 1909

Clement was between jobs and helping his father. It was difficult to find construction work in the winter.

Rocco took advantage of their time together and lectured Clement incessantly. “When you’re my age, you won’t push a cart, or even build someone else’s building. You will have your own business. Your own house. You can’t have another man own you. Work every day and save your money for these things. You hear me, Clement?”

“Yes, Pop.”

“Pop? What’s Pop?”

Clement smiled. “Papa.” Clement’s Italian had become Americanized.

“See that, you speak good English. You need to speak English. In fact, from now on you only speak to me in English.”

“Papa, you don’t speak English.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I understand.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want. I’ll speak English.”

“
Che?
”

Clement smiled and switched back to Italian. “Papa, don’t you worry. I’ll become a rich American.”

“Va bene. You see that stronzo across the street with the brown coat? No, no, don’t be so obvious!”

Turning his head back to the cart, Clement muttered, “I see him.”

“He’s been watching us. He’s another Blackhander.”

“What would they want with us? We have nothing left.”

“I heard they even harass pushcart sellers.”

“Let me get him first,” seethed Clement.

“No! Clement, I want to cut these rats to their knees, but I don’t want you or your sisters hurt. I’ve heard too many stories from your stepmother about how they get you back. We will watch him, as he watches us.”

“But what will we do?”

“Your stepmother says the lieutenant has a secret service that will send them all back to Italy soon. For now, we will try to be invisible.”

Lieutenant Petrosino, his expression dour, was uncharacteristically slumped in the chair opposite Commissioner Bingham’s desk.

“Joe, I’m sorry it has to be you, but there really isn’t anyone else qualified to do this job. Who else could work the system and the informants to get these records?” cajoled Commissioner Bingham.

“I understand, Commissioner; it’s just that my little girl will grow so much in the three months I’m away.” Lieutenant Petrosino lowered his face to hide his emotion.

“You’re a good man, Joe, and a good father. That little girl will have much to be proud of. Let’s go over the details.”

Bingham settled into his chair. “We have promises from the Italian government to hand over the criminal records. And we have promises from our own government to deport the thugs when we have their records in our hands.” He took out a steamer ticket from a leather portfolio on his desk. “You sail the day after tomorrow on the
Duca di Genova
—first class, I might add. You’ll travel as a Jewish businessman with the identity of Simone Velletri. In this folder I have letters of introduction for the Italian Minister of the Interior and the head of Italy’s police forces, Francesco Leonardi.”

While Petrosino inspected the letters, Bingham joked, “Joe, I know how much you love that watch,” pointing to the gold chain across Petrosino’s pocket. “But I don’t think a gift from the Italian government thanking you for arresting criminals would be a good thing to carry.”

Petrosino managed a little laugh. “Yes, I think I’ll leave it at home.”

“I want you to stay home with Adelina and the baby tomorrow. We’ll spread the rumor that you’ve had a relapse of pneumonia and on doctor’s orders you are leaving town to convalesce. Only members of the Italian Squad will know your whereabouts.”

“And my Adelina, of course.”

“Of course. We’ll take good care of her, Joe. Now, do you have your list in order?”

“Yes, Commissioner. And it starts with Lupo.”

“Lupo’s been here more than three years, Joe.”

“I know, Commissioner, but my brother works at Ellis Island, and we found proof that he traveled to Italy last year under an alias.”

“You are clever! How many names do you have on that list anyway?”

“It’s up to seven hundred, sir.”

“Joe, you’ll need an army to dig up that many records.”

“Imagine, Commissioner, if we could deport them all.”

Commissioner Bingham stood. “Imagine, indeed. We’ll be heroes, Joe.”

FEBRUARY 12, 1909

Giovanna stared at her mother’s writing on the envelope. At last, the proof that she needed. Tears welled in her eyes as she slit the letter open.

Giovanna breathed a great sigh of relief and continued.

I only hope that you have not sacrificed everything to send it. This is a fortune. Zia Marianna will also be writing to you, but I can say without a doubt that this money has saved her life. Her health was so fragile and her despair was so great that your father and I feared she would die. This gives her hope of establishing a home again. The same is true of cousin Fortunata and her family. Everything that you said in your letter that Enrico Bellantoni told you is true. So many of our friends and family are gone, but we live. I don’t know why this is, and I question our fortune each day. We that remain live all together in our home. It’s probably hard for you to believe, but fourteen of us live here now. Zia Marianna remains in the French hospital. Each day, we work at rebuilding houses. Soon Fortunata’s family will be moving back into their home. The armies removed the bodies and much of the debris. They never found your Zia Antoinette’s and Signora Scalici’s bodies. Pasquale’s body was found only last week. It was his rings that identified him. You know how he loved those rings! People work night and day rebuilding and cleaning, but I worry that when the work is done, we will look around only to see a Scilla that is empty. Please do not come here. The money you sent will help more than you’ll ever know. Give my love to your brother and all my grandchildren. Mamma.

FEBRUARY 28, 1909

Bingham paced his office. He had spent the entire week questioning his decision to tell the press of Petrosino’s mission. Those dandy aldermen were all over him and he needed to prove he had taken decisive action. But he hadn’t expected the story to be picked up by the
International Herald
.

“Come in,” called Bingham, answering the knock on his door.

Lieutenant Vachris entered and instantly Bingham could read his anger.

“Sit down, Lieutenant. I hear you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, Commissioner. Why? This mission was…”

“Not so secret, truth be told, Lieutenant. I had word that more than one person on the ship recognized Joe, and these Blackhanders are not so stupid.”

“But still…”

“Unfortunately, Lieutenant, you cannot separate police work from politics and, in this case, politically it was the necessary thing to do.”

Vachris literally bit down on his lip.

“Commissioner, with his cover blown, he’s a sitting duck. Send me over to help him.”

“Lieutenant, it’s impossible for you both to be out of the country. Besides, in a few weeks his mission will be completed. From what Joe said in his last cable, when he returns we should have plenty of penal records to deport these thieving blackmailers. You get the men ready for his return, because when he does, Lieutenant, it’s going to be an old-fashioned roundup.”

MARCH 13, 1909

Louis Saulino, Lieutenant Petrosino’s brother-in-law, ran up the steps at 300 Mulberry Street into police headquarters and grabbed the first policeman he saw.

“Calm down, sir,” assured the officer. “It’s another reporter with a good imagination. This isn’t the first time there have been rumors of your brother-in-law’s death.”

“Why would he come to my sister’s home at two in the morning?”

“Because he’s a muckraking reporter, Mr. Saulino. Wouldn’t we have heard if something had happened to Lieutenant Petrosino? Please, go to your sister and tell her it was a cruel joke.”

After being told the same thing by the desk sergeant, Saulino left headquarters. The day was just dawning, and the newsies were hitting the streets. He hadn’t gone a full block before he heard the first newsboy shout, “Famous detective murdered!” He snatched a paper and sprinted back to police headquarters.

“Do you still think it’s a joke?” he shouted, waving the newspaper in front of the desk sergeant’s face. “Some joke, Sergeant!”

Bingham was in Washington, so a call was placed to Deputy Commissioner Woods, rousing him from bed. Newspaper or not, the men in police headquarters and at Petrosino’s precinct on Elizabeth Street refused to believe the report and waited for official word. At ten o’clock that morning, they received their cable:

“Palermo, Italy, 12 March 1909 Petrosino killed revolver center city tonight killers unknown martyr’s death

Consul Bishop.”

APRIL 12, 1909

Giovanna dressed for Lieutenant Petrosino’s funeral. Her grief over his murder became personal when the detective from the Italian Squad knocked on her door with two tickets to the mass. Up until that point, she had successfully treated it as the death of a public figure that she read about in the newspapers.

“Signora, I got you these,” offered young Detective Fiaschetti. “I believe the lieutenant would have wanted you there.”

Taking the tickets from the officer’s hand, Giovanna felt her throat tighten. Given all the tragedy she had endured, she should have been able to shake her head and say a prayer for the slain policeman. At thirty-six, she had lost a husband, a business, and been uprooted from her home, which was in ruins and served as a tomb for dead friends and family. Yet somehow Giovanna had maintained her faith that good would prevail. But with Lieutenant Petrosino’s murder, she knew she was burying the last shreds of her idealism with the little lieutenant.

Moments passed before Giovanna could look at Detective Fiaschetti. “Grazie,” she mumbled. “You’re kind. I would like to attend.”

When she closed the door, Rocco, who had been sitting at the table, was ready with the comment she expected. “This is no business of yours.”

“This death is everybody’s business,” she snapped, but she quickly softened. “There will be thousands of people there. Rocco, there is no need to worry.”

“I will not go with you!”

“I will have my nephew accompany me then.”

It was Domenico, practically in tears, who had delivered the news to Giovanna nearly a month before. In the days that followed, she was riveted to the newspaper each morning. Domenico would arrive before school to read her the American papers, and she would read him
Il Progresso
. She had grown from a young girl anxiously awaiting the arrival of a newspaper in Scilla to a woman in New York who was drowning in news. They had to wait if Rocco had not yet left to get his cart because he had forbidden any discussion of Petrosino or the Black Hand. Giovanna thought Rocco was like a small child who hides his head under a pillow and thinks he’s invisible because he can’t see. But she also had to admit that her way, Lieutenant Petrosino’s way, had not brought justice—only tragedy.

It wasn’t until Giovanna saw the pages upon pages devoted to Lieutenant Petrosino in the American papers that she realized how important this man was. All of a sudden their meetings took on an even greater significance in her mind. There was, of course, speculation as to who was responsible for the Petrosino murder, and she searched her own memory, reviewing their many conversations for clues. She thought with rage of the article trumpeting his “secret” mission and had to stop herself from running to the commissioner’s office and hurling blame. Her anger was only slightly abated when she read that it was possible Petrosino’s killers actually traveled to Italy on the same ship as Petrosino, and that most criminals were well aware of his mission. In the month since he had been slain, people on both sides of the ocean had been arrested, but each of the many suspects was released because they had no evidence.

She could not help but think of Petrosino’s widow and infant girl. How would Adelina be today among all this pomp and circumstance, unable to bury her husband in private? After that horrible article in the
Herald,
she didn’t allow Domenico to buy that newspaper anymore. The paper had congratulated itself on being the first to learn of Petrosino’s death and told of how its reporter had arrived at Mrs. Petrosino’s house in the middle of the night to announce the news. They did not even allow time for her husband’s spirit to visit her.

Giovanna adjusted her hat and looked at her face, one section at a time, in the tiny mirror hanging near the bed. A moment later, Domenico came through the door with the ubiquitous newspapers. “Today, they listed all the Black Hand bombings. Your store is here.”

“Let me see.”

Domenico pointed to 242 Elizabeth Street.

Giovanna scowled. “Let’s go.”

They were fortunate to have tickets, but they still had to stand in the back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Mott Street. The sermon was in English, except for a brief bit that Pastor Lavelle said in Italian, so Giovanna concentrated on her rosary while Domenico stared at the uniforms and the important people who filled the church. To the left of the center aisle were Mayor McClellan, Commissioner Bingham, and assorted other men whose bearing announced their position. One hundred schoolchildren sang from the cathedral’s choir loft, but their angelic voices were not enough to drown out the sobs of the women and the noises made by the men clearing their throats to stifle tears.

The Easter decorations had been removed and only resurrection lilies remained on the altar. The mass was beautiful, but it didn’t comfort Giovanna. It was a disillusioned woman who stood in the cavernous cathedral. She had put her faith in a man, and that man had been murdered. She wasn’t thinking that his death was God’s plan, or that the lieutenant had died a martyr. Instead, she was thinking that her only duty in life was to protect her family. Nothing else mattered.

Petrosino’s coffin was carried out of the church and placed in the hearse. The delegations from sixty Italian societies were ready, drawn up with bands at intervals. The mounted police led the procession, followed by the fire department and the street cleaners, which was where Lieutenant Petrosino had begun his career. At least a thousand police followed on foot, along with five open carriages filled with flowers, the hearse, and the black carriages carrying his family. The clear air resounded with Chopin’s funeral march and the Italian funeral march in turn. When the last of the regiments joined the parade, Giovanna and Domenico followed with the other civilian mourners.

The neighborhood streets, windows, and fire escapes were filled with tearful residents shouting benedictions and tossing flowers. When the procession made its way out of the Italian colony, Giovanna expected that the crowds would thin and it would be easier to walk, but this was not the case. On Fifth Avenue, every foot of sidewalk was thronged with mourners and even the flags at the luxury hotels were at half-mast. Because of the crowds, it took four hours for the funeral procession to reach Fifty-seventh Street and Second Avenue. There, everyone on foot disbanded, and the carriages and the hearse continued alone across the bridge to Calvary Cemetery.

“Domenico, here is a coin for the trolley. Go to Vito’s. It is late, and your mother will be angry with me.”

“Are you going there, Zia?”

Giovanna nodded.

“I thought so.” Domenico kissed her cheek and left.

By the time Giovanna got to the cemetery, Petrosino’s coffin had already been laid in its grave. No one was there except one policeman standing guard and the gravediggers who continued shoveling dirt to fill the hole.

In the quiet, Giovanna leaned against a tree and wondered what to make of all this. Here was an Italian man buried with all the honor of a king, but he was indeed being buried. If Lieutenant Petrosino was so important and so loved, why hadn’t they given him the help he had asked for? She remembered the lieutenant telling her that out of the 285 arrests made in one year, “where we had them dead to center,” there were only forty-five convictions. He tried to explain the American legal system, but he eventually shrugged in frustration and said, “It doesn’t matter. These criminals have friends in City Hall who look out for them.” But wasn’t it City Hall who gave the Italian detective this regal funeral? The only thing she knew was that she must return to her neighborhood, where Italian criminals were free to prey upon their brethren.

She was exhausted—and probably pregnant. Her period was late, and now, after this trek, Giovanna looked down at her swollen ankles. Knowing there were only a few more hours of daylight, she released the half-wilted flower nearly stuck to her hand and went to pray at Nunzio’s grave.