The Prince (39 page)

Brian's son, Damien, was a rough draft of his father. He had acquired his ruthlessness and absolute amorality but not his cunning and skill as a strategist. He went roaring around the neighborhood in a fiery Buick as if he were a princeling. Whatever he wanted, he took, whether it was an orange or a young virgin. His father tried to keep him in check, but to no avail.

Damien didn't make a move unless he was flanked by Kevin and Hugh, the two bruisers who were also his best friends. Damien, more so than his father, was the real terror of the neighborhood because of his unpredictability, although Kevin—“Freckles” to everyone—was not far behind.

But the three musketeers, as the neighborhood residents called them, made a mistake, and that mistake was the beginning of their downfall.

It was Kevin, who grabbed the handful of bills from the cash box during the robbery at La Tonnara and stuffed them in his pocket. When they got home and went to divvy up the loot, including the money and other valuables they'd taken from the trattoria's customers, they found a remittance voucher from Italy addressed to Ferdinando Licata. It was the equivalent of a hundred bucks, Kevin translated, handing the money order to Damien.

The next morning, they quickly took action. They stationed themselves at the side door of the local post office, and as soon as they saw the postman assigned to Avenue A leave the building on his usual rounds, they forced him into Damien's Buick and sped off toward their headquarters in the back room of Sullivan's Bar, a place that Damien had been able to commandeer with his usual wheeling and dealing.

They showed the postman the voucher and the address where it had been sent. From now on, each month he was to deliver it not to the address on the envelope but to Sullivan's Bar. To make him understand that they weren't kidding, they jabbed his hand with the point of a pocketknife, but only just enough to elicit a few drops of blood. The poor postman was absolutely terrified and stammered that he would do as they said. Then without further ado, they loaded him back into the car and dropped him off near the post office. All in all, the action took a half hour, but it was one of the most lucrative half hours Damien Stoker's crew had ever spent.

Too bad for them that the arrangement didn't last long.

When the money order didn't come, Ferdinando Licata went immediately to his contact's house. The man was a Genovese family accountant, one of the channels through which American and Sicilian mafiosi communicated with one another to avoid federal controls. The clerk explained that there had been no change in the procedure that month: Lavinia, Ferdinando's sister, had deposited the sum with his counterpart in Sicily. The man had contacted him, telling him that the money had been deposited in their account and indicating the amount in code. He in turn had sent the voucher to Licata's usual address. That's all he knew.

“Don't worry, there must have been a sorting error at the post office,” he tried to reassure Licata as he looked through a folder for the credit receipt. “See, here it is, Don Licata.” He handed him the slip.

“I'm not ‘Don' over here,” Licata said, snatching the piece of paper to check the date and remittance.

“By the way, just this morning, an envelope arrived for you.” The man walked to a drop-front desk, opened a drawer, and took out a letter. “Here you are; it still has the scent of lemons,” he said, trying to defuse the situation.

Prince Licata gave him a stern look, took the envelope, and opened it. It was from his sister. Lavinia wrote to tell him that Rosario Losurdo had been killed by poachers:

[ . . . ] He caught them hunting on our Madonnuzza property. Rosario did not hesitate to confront the outlaws, it seems there were three of them. He's always been a loyal friend of the family. He sacrificed his life for our land, may God rest his soul. The poachers have not been identified, but it seems they came from another province. Dear Ferdinando, you mustn't worry about me. Thinking of what you would have done, I entrusted the care of our estates to Manfredi. He is our new gabellotto. I believe you will approve of my choice.

The letter ended with the usual closing sentiments.

Licata folded it, deeply moved. His thoughts went to his faithful Losurdo. Then he thanked the Lord for giving him such a strong, decisive sister to depend on. He remembered the reason why he had come to the accountant's house. A terrible suspicion occurred to him: that the voucher had been intercepted by someone.

He headed to the bank and asked the manager to check if someone had withdrawn a credited remittance in his name.

The manager called over the teller, who remembered having recently cashed a payment order to a man who had the prince's proxy. Actually, Licata learned much later that the teller was on the Stokers' payroll. At the time, however, he had no evidence to make him doubt the teller, and he had him describe the man who had gone there in his place.

The Stokers had a trademark: their flaming red hair. As soon as the teller described the man, covered with freckles, eyes black as coal, Licata recalled Damien's two bodyguards.

The prince decided to go meet a man whom friends in Sicily had advised him to contact in case he needed help.

The man's name was Jack Mastrangelo, and although he'd lived in Brooklyn for ten years, no one seemed to know how to find him.

For three days, Licata drifted from one address to another, from one shop to another, in the sprawling working-class neighborhood where Mastrangelo lived. But people didn't know him, and if they knew him, they weren't talking and swore they'd never heard that name before. When he was about to give up and ask his friends in Sicily for help, Mastrangelo materialized as if by magic. He was a stocky man, his facial features disfigured by two long scars, one running from his mouth to his left ear and a vertical one up along his right temple. The wounds spoke volumes about his life.

Mastrangelo tapped him on the shoulder: “Were you looking for me, Prince?”

“Who are you?”

“Mastrangelo. Jack Mastrangelo.” The man seemed annoyed.

“Oh, finally!” the prince exclaimed. “I've been looking for you all week.”

“I know.”

“I need your help.”

It didn't take long for Mastrangelo to find out where Freckles lived: an elegant building on East Fourth Street, not far from the Bowery. One Saturday evening, Mastrangelo entered the second-floor apartment, followed by Ferdinando Licata. He turned on the bathtub faucets and let them run until the water reached the top. Then the two settled in to wait for their man. Mastrangelo hid in the dark entrance foyer, while Licata sat on a sofa in the living room.

In the preceding weeks, Mastrangelo had ascertained that every Saturday, without fail, some of Stoker's gang spent their leisure time in a gambling parlor in Little Italy, where everyone ended up getting drunk.

That Saturday too, the script was identical, though with one variation: a particularly desperate whore who was looking for some quick bucks had accompanied Kevin back to his apartment, struggling to prop him up.

The woman opened the door, felt for the switch, and turned it on, but the lights didn't come on.

A figure emerged from the shadows, scaring her. “Who are you?” she cried in surprise.

“Take this and get out of here,” Mastrangelo snapped, handing her a $5 bill. “If you open your trap, I'll come looking for you in that cesspit you live in, and you'll be sorry you were ever born.”

The prostitute snatched the bill from his hand, let go of Kevin, and ran off. She never told a soul about what had happened. Freckles staggered forward, ending up in Mastrangelo's arms.

Mastrangelo dragged the man into the apartment and then toward the bathroom. Kevin was so drunk, he hadn't yet figured out what was happening to him. Mastrangelo pinned his hands behind his back with a pair of handcuffs, then threw him into the brimming tub.

Licata watched in silence from the bathroom door.

The sudden contact with the cold water startled Kevin, who finally seemed to awaken from his alcoholic stupor. He saw a man standing over him. He was about to cry out, but Mastrangelo plunged his head under the water for a few seconds. When he let him up, Kevin coughed and heaved in an attempt to take in some oxygen. After the third immersion, he realized that he'd better not try to call out.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he asked, coughing up water.

“You're in very bad trouble, my friend.” Mastrangelo grabbed his feet and pitched him underwater again. When he tried to kick out violently, Mastrangelo grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as he could. Kevin, his head submerged, began to scream but the water immediately filled his mouth, nearly drowning him. With Licata's help, Mastrangelo quickly bound his ankles with a cord. Then he let him up for air. After he'd sucked in a lungful, though his breathing was still labored, he had enough breath to still threaten, “Do you know my boss is Damien Stoker? When we catch you, you'll be in deep shit.”

Mastrangelo tossed a rope around the lamp fixture hanging from the ceiling. He slipped one end of it under the cord that secured the thug's ankles, forming a bowline knot as skillfully as any sailor. Then he grabbed the other end of the rope and yanked it tight.

Mastrangelo pulled with all his might, and the man was hoisted out of the bathtub, hanging upside down like a pig ready for slaughter.

“I want some information from you,” Mastrangelo said sweetly.

“Lower me! I'm going to throw up.”

“How did you manage to get Ferdinando Licata's remittance vouchers?”

But Kevin couldn't hold back the vomit and began spewing up alcohol mixed with water and everything he'd eaten that evening. His inverted position made matters worse for him. Some of the contents flowed into his nose and the rest covered his face, the stomach acid burning his eyes. He was in agony and thought he was going to die. He could barely breathe, he coughed and spat.

When he had settled down a little, Ferdinando Licata leaned close to his ear to make himself heard better and repeated Mastrangelo's question.

Finally, the reply came: “The postman—We forced the postman to deliver them to us—Now let me down!”

“One more question. The daughter of La Tonnara's owners: Did you lay a hand on her?”

“No! No! We didn't touch her, I swear!”

He was too quick to respond, and Licata didn't believe him. “Tomorrow is Sunday. You wouldn't want to be left hanging like that for a whole day. You know no one will come before Monday.”

“What do you want to know?” He began sniveling.

“Which one of you touched her?”

“It was Hugh. And Damien too—a little. But they didn't rape her. I swear.”

“That much I knew.” Licata rose. His face had turned to stone.

He gestured to Mastrangelo: it was time to leave. But before they left, they locked the windows and doors. They gagged the man, so he couldn't be heard outside. Finally, they lowered him until his mouth was submerged in the water. If he didn't want to die drowning, he was forced to hold his head up. But for how long would he be able to? He would count the time until he met his death, second by second.

With no remorse whatsoever, they left the apartment and locked the door behind them.

The Roxy Club on West Fifty-Second Street, in the heart of the jazz district, was one of the most popular places in the city, and you could get in only if you were a regular customer's friend. The club was a restaurant, gambling parlor, illegal opium den, and brothel all rolled into one. It offered something for everybody, but its specialty was “Cloud Nine Pizza.” Needless to say, its main ingredient was a generous sprinkling of cocaine on tomatoes and Italian mozzarella.

You were admitted by showing a ticket that was split in half. The half with the name of the invited guest clearly visible on one side was retained by a doorman in braided livery who determined who could enter. Once you were in the door, you could choose between the gaming parlors or the dance halls. But the restaurant was the favorite destination of all the guests. It was a large room with soundproof walls. From outside you couldn't hear any noise, but as soon as the door was opened, a great racket exploded from the room. There were numerous tables, and waiters and waitresses moved among the guests serving the Cloud Nine Pizza. The menu featured a few opium cigarettes as a starter. The drug provided a sense of euphoria, but those who were used to the cigarettes required something stronger, so they resorted to morphine injections. The din grew louder; inhibitory restraints were completely relaxed. Amid the uproar, a jazz band, crammed onto an elevated platform so it wouldn't take up table space, played swing at a dizzying tempo.

On the lead trumpet was Dixie, in his first engagement. A friend who'd heard him play during one of his excursions with the Army had asked him if he wanted to supplement his pay at a rather unusual club. Naturally, Dixie didn't wait to be asked twice. He quit the Salvation Army on the spot and joined the Roxy's orchestra, never dreaming that he was getting into a shady scene.

Thanks to him, Saro and Isabel were able to get into the club. They handed the half dollar to the solemn doorman and were led directly into the restaurant, as indicated on the half of the ticket retained by the bouncer.

When they entered the dining room, they were struck by a deafening roar. At that moment, a woman in the throes of a drug-induced fit writhed convulsively on the floor. Some friends tried to calm her, but to no avail. Two of the club's bruisers then stepped in, one grabbing her unceremoniously by the legs and the other by her arms. They carried her out amid the general indifference of those around them.

The area downstairs, near the garage, was equipped with a first-aid station with nurses and a doctor. If their intervention failed, then the patient was put into a car and driven home or unloaded in some alley in the Bronx.