The business relationship with Jack Wells was also running on a smooth track. Wells had solidified his power base and gained some respect among his peers for the war he had waged against McQueen. He had expanded his beer distribution ring beyond the Bronx to where it now reached as far north as Toronto and as far to the west as Scranton, Pennsylvania, willingly kicking back a small share of the large profits to Angelo and Pudge. The two sides still did not trust each other, but as long as the money kept coming in, there was no reason to fear the outbreak of new hostilities. Angelo knew that another confrontation with Wells was inevitable. There was too much past blood between them for a final war not to be fought. Angelo was, for the time being, content to let the false peace between them run its course.
• • •
ISABELLA PAUSED WHEN she saw Pudge, a large teddy bear shoved under his right arm, walk toward her. “For the baby,” he said. “I wanted to be the first to get the kid one.”
“Thank you.” She took the bear from him. “I’ll be sure to put it where he can see it.” Isabella was nervous around Pudge. He relished his role of gangster, took more pleasure from it than her husband did. It was always easy for her to forget who Angelo was and what he did for a living when she was in his company. She could never do that with Pudge.
“I know you don’t much care for me,” Pudge said. “I can’t say I blame you. You’re a smart woman and I never could get them to go for me.”
“You are a good friend to Angelo,” Isabella said. “I will always respect that.”
“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Pudge said. “I swore my life on it. That holds true now for you and for his baby.”
“If you can keep my husband alive, then you will be a good friend to me as well.”
“My job’s been getting easier as he gets older,” Pudge told her. “He’s very good at what he does.”
“It might be better if he weren’t,” Isabella said. “It might lead him to start looking for some other work to do.”
“Stuff like that’s always nice to think about,” Pudge said. “It never has anything to do with the truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
“There’s no other way for either one of us.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” she asked.
“So you won’t ever hate him,” Pudge said. “I don’t want you to look at your husband and have you see the gangster looking back. The way you do when you look at me.”
“I know him in different ways than you do,” Isabella said. “And what I know I can never hate.”
Pudge nodded. “Then he’s a lucky man,” he said.
• • •
“WHY DO WE need to choose a crib so long before the baby is born?” Angelo asked Isabella as they stood in front of a window display featuring an extensive array of hand-sewn rugs.
She turned to him, smiled and rubbed a hand gently across his face. “Angelo, the whole room should be ready before the baby is born,” she said. “Unless you want him to sleep with us.”
“Why do you always say him and never her?” He covered the top of her warm hand with his.
“Because I know it is your son inside me.” She looked down and patted the slight bulge in her belly. “He’s too quiet not to be. All the other mothers tell me that their babies kick and punch. Not mine. He sits inside there and thinks. Just like his father.”
They turned away from the window and continued on their walk, their hands automatically reaching out and clasping. “We haven’t talked about what name to give the baby who’s getting all this new furniture,” Angelo said.
“That’s not going to be too difficult,” Isabella said. “If I’m right and it is a boy, we will name him Carlo, after your brother.”
Angelo stopped and turned to stare at his wife. He put his arms around her and they embraced, holding each other under a brutal afternoon sun, Angelo’s face buried in the crook of her neck, overcome with a rush of emotion. “I love you,” was all he could manage to say.
“We should go,” she whispered into his ear. “I told the man at the furniture store we would be there no later than one.”
They walked in silence for several blocks, still holding hands. Angelo was anything but a gangster when he was in Isabella’s presence. She brought to the surface feelings of warmth and kindness that he had long ago learned to suppress. When he was around her, Angelo never gave any thought to his business ventures or the motives behind the actions of his enemies. He gave in to the façade of the happy husband eagerly awaiting the birth of his first child, finding a degree of solace in the relaxing nature such a pose afforded.
“How did you find out about this store?” Angelo asked.
“A friend of my cousin Graziella told her about it,” Isabella said. “He builds all the cribs by hand and they last forever. No matter how many children we end up having.”
“I never thought I would want a child,” Angelo said. “I was always afraid of the idea.”
“What are you afraid of?” Isabella asked.
“I don’t know what kind of father I’m going to be,” Angelo said. “I only know the kind of father I don’t want to be.”
“You won’t be like your own father. That won’t happen with you.” She had listened to enough of his early-morning nightmares to know how that fear haunted his sleep and tormented his soul. “You are not the same kind of a man.”
“In many ways I’m worse,” Angelo said. “What will my son think of what I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t want him to be what I am,” Angelo said firmly. “I want him to be a good man.”
“He will be,” Isabella said with resolve. “I promise you that.”
He looked at her, nodded and smiled, lifting the lid off his dark mood. “In that case,” he said, “we will have as many children as you wish.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Do you know, I’ve never even held a newborn in my arms? I’m going to be so nervous coming home from the hospital.”
“We’ll get Pudge to hold him. Nothing ever makes him nervous.”
Isabella lifted her head off Angelo’s shoulder and laughed. “Why does he like to be called Pudge?” she asked. “What’s the matter with his real name?”
“He hates it,” Angelo said. “He’s hated it since I’ve known him. Lucky for him, there’re not many people left who even remember his first name. So, let’s keep him happy and let him be a good Uncle Pudge to our baby.”
“But you know his name, don’t you?” Isabella asked, looking at her husband and smiling.
“Yes,” Angelo said, smiling back at her. “I know it.”
“Will you tell me?” she asked, stroking a hand across his face. “Please.”
“I’ve kept it a secret for over twenty years.” He gently tugged his wife toward the entrance of the furniture store she had been so eager to see. “I think it can at least wait until after we have picked out a crib for our baby to sleep in.”
• • •
THE SALESMAN WAS short, bald and had a round thick paunch hanging over his belt. His hands were small, like those of a child, and his mannered voice bordered on feminine. He smiled when Angelo and Isabella approached and, with great care, wiped at the dampness on his forehead with a folded napkin. The large showroom was filled with an assortment of furniture, from cabinets and bureaus to beds and dining room sets. It was a poorly lit room, heavy drapes blocking out the view from the street and shaded lights casting minor shadows along its corners. It took several minutes for Angelo’s eyes to adjust his vision from the harsh glare of the bright sunlight outside. When he was able to focus, he noticed that except for the two of them and the salesman, they were alone in the store.
“It’s close to lunch hour,” the salesman said, quick to read the concern on Angelo’s face. “If you’d come here earlier this morning, I wouldn’t have been able to help you, we were so crowded.”
“Are you the man who builds the cribs
?” Isabella asked, her eyes searching the room for the furniture she wanted.
“No, madam,” the man said with a respectful nod. “He’s not at work today. But, luckily, many of his cribs are here. I keep them in the back of the showroom. Would you like me to take you over to see?”
“I would like that very much.” Isabella smiled over at Angelo and urged him to follow along. “And so would my husband.”
The man bowed slightly and led the way toward a rear corner of the room. Angelo watched his agitated walk and the circle of sweat forming around his starched shirt collar. He saw the man nervously glance into the near-darkness, half-expecting someone to pounce out and surprise him. Angelo squeezed Isabella’s hand, grabbed his gun from his hip holster and dropped it into his jacket pocket. He stopped walking and pulled his wife to his side.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered to her. “And we have to get out now.”
“But we haven’t seen any of the cribs.”
“Now, Isabella!” Angelo said in a louder, firmer voice.
• • •
THE TWO MEN came out from behind the shadows of a large brown hutch, their guns drawn and aimed at Angelo’s back. The salesman disappeared around a bend, hidden behind massive bureaus and ornate desks, walking head down and with a purpose. Angelo heard the footsteps pound on the carpeted concrete and the click of a chamber spinning slowly inside the barrel of a gun. He turned to Isabella and saw a look of hopeless terror engulf her face. In that brief moment of eerie silence, Angelo’s mind focused on a rainy day, when he handed a young woman with a magnetic smile a piece of fresh fruit.
“Behind you!” Isabella screamed.
Angelo whirled away from her face and turned to confront the men coming at them, his gun in his hand. They began to run at him, shooting as they moved, the bullets coming his way in loud and rapid succession. Angelo stood his ground, aimed his gun, and emptied it at the two men sent to kill him.
It was over in less than thirty seconds, but for Angelo Vestieri, every movement seemed to fill out a lifetime.
• • •
ANGELO SQUINTED AT the overhead lights. He shifted his eyes slightly to the right and saw Pudge sitting in a chair, his hands balled into fists, staring at him.
“Don’t talk,” Pudge said as soon as he saw that his friend was awake. “Just listen to what I have to say. You took three slugs, nothing serious. One grazed your head and knocked you out for a few hours. That’s why it’s all bandaged. Another ripped through your shoulder. And the last one got you in the leg. You’ll be out of here in about a week, maybe less.”
“Where’s Isabella?”
“I said don’t talk, goddammit! At least not until I finish everything I have to say.” Pudge’s voice started to crack. “Nod if you understand.”
Angelo nodded and closed his eyes.
“The two shooters were hired by Jack Wells,” Pudge said. “The setup was to get you into the place. They paid off somebody from the neighborhood to get Isabella all excited about going there. Wells owns the building and anybody who works in the store is too afraid not to do what he tells them.”
Angelo opened his eyes and reached out a hand. Pudge took it and held it tight. “You did good with the gun, Ang,” he said. “One of the shooters died on the spot. The other one is two floors down from us in critical. They were only supposed to shoot you. They didn’t figure on Isabella stepping in the way, trying to save you from getting hit.”
Pudge was barely able to speak now, his strong body trembling. “I’m so sorry,” he managed to say. “I swore on Ida’s grave that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Or to Isabella and the baby. I should have been there with you. I should have smelled it out, but I didn’t.”
Angelo still said nothing. He didn’t have to. His eyes asked the only question that needed asking.
“She’s dead,” Pudge said. “Isabella is dead.”
Behind them the city skyline had darkened, as night came in to close out what had, only hours earlier, been a beautiful summer day.
“Take me to see her,” Angelo said.
Pudge lifted his head and shook it. “Your wounds are too fresh. If I move you, they’ll only open up again.”
“I want to see my wife,” Angelo whispered. “Take me.”
Pudge wiped his face with his jacket sleeve, took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re going to have to move as fast as I do, because if they see us, they’ll try and stop us.”
“Shoot them if they do,” Angelo said.
• • •
“LIFE GAVE ANGELO a lot of reasons to be cold,” Pudge once told me. “But Isabella getting killed was the capper. He spent the whole night crying over her body. Hell, we both did. And then, just like that, he stopped and turned away. And all that he ever lived for, from that moment on, was making his enemies suffer. He had lost too many people he loved and the best way he knew to stop that from happening was to never love anybody again. Instead, he went out and made other people lose whatever and whoever they loved. It wasn’t about business or revenge anymore. It was about hate and it’s what probably helped turn him into an underworld legend. But it’s hard to be a legend and a man. The Angelo who was in love and happy and waiting for his baby to be born was gone forever.”
11
* * *
Winter, 1932
ANGELO AND PUDGE waited in the dark hallway, by the back door, in the rear of the warehouse. They were both still shivering from the long walk across town, the arctic blasts of air coming off the river cutting through their thick winter coats. They had parked their car over by the edge of the pier, preferring the cover of the empty streets as a safety shield against anyone who might be following them.
Angelo walked with a slight limp; his right leg, from the kneecap down, was still numb from the nerve damage caused by the bullet. But he ignored the pain and kept up with Pudge’s accelerated pace. Angelo had spent the entire summer and a good portion of the fall recovering from his wounds and from the loss of Isabella, living in the top floor of a sparsely furnished Upper West Side apartment. Except for Pudge, who visited every day, he allowed himself no company. He spent the bulk of his day sitting in a thick leather chair, staring out past the row of tenement buildings toward the vast expanse of the Hudson River. Once a week, he was driven out to St. Charles’s Cemetery on the eastern end of Long Island, where he spent a silent hour in front of his wife’s grave. He had insisted that her funeral be a private affair, limited only to friends and family. Neither Jack Wells nor Spider MacKenzie bothered to make an appearance at the wake, and the flower arrangements they had sent were left out with the trash in a side alley. For the time being, Angelo informed all members of his crew that they should conduct their business in the usual manner, and that any encroachments Wells made on their turf be allowed to happen without any fear of reprisals. For his part, Wells moved slowly, content for the moment to nibble away at the pieces of Angelo’s domain. As the months passed, Wells grew bolder, convinced that the accidental killing of Isabella had stripped Angelo of his taste for battle and his desire to maintain control of the New York rackets.
“If I had known that killing his wife would have buckled the guy the way it has, I would have done it long ago,” Wells told Spider MacKenzie after learning that his crew had taken over another chunk of Angelo’s Manhattan numbers business. “The way he’s acting, he’s as dead as she is.”
Spider nodded and, as usual, said nothing. He had sold out to Wells for a bigger cut of the profits and a greater sense of mob power; now that he had both, he stood there wishing he had never made the move. Spider MacKenzie was not fit to be a leader in the new underworld order. He had neither the taste for brutality nor the cold character a crew boss needed to rule, and he could never shrug off the murder of a former friend’s wife. He was aware that such faults would eventually lead to his demise and he didn’t seem to care. Angus had once told him that the price of a betrayal was too steep for most men. It had to be lived w
ith every single day of their lives and few could handle such a burden. Spider MacKenzie knew he was not one of those few.
• • •
THE FRONT DOOR to the warehouse swung open, letting in blasts of light and cold air. Spider reached a hand out to the wall nearest him and flicked on a switch, turning on a long row of overhead bulbs. He slammed the door shut behind him and turned to lock it. He looked around the enormous room filled with whiskey crates newly arrived from the Canadian border and marked for distribution. MacKenzie walked toward the rear of the room, his hands in his pockets and his head down. Angelo and Pudge stood with their backs against the cold wall, pulled their guns and watched as Spider’s shadow moved closer to them. As he turned a corner, Spider paused to pull a row of keys from his pants pocket. He stopped by a metal door leading to the warehouse basement, bent down and inserted a key into the lock. The thick bolt clicked and Spider swung the door open. He peered down a dark set of steps, then his body stiffened as he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against the base of his neck.
“You must really rank up there with Wells,” Pudge said, reaching into Spider’s waistband and pulling out his gun. “I mean, for him to trust you with the keys to his stash.”
“You guys running low on whiskey?” Spider asked. He was careful not to move, keeping his arms at his side, his hands extended. “All you had to do was ask. We would have sold you a few cases.”
“It’s always better to take than to receive,” Pudge said.
“Turn on the light to the basement,” Angelo said, standing directly behind Spider. “Then start walking down the steps.”
“There’s nothing down there but a small office and a furnace,” Spider said. “We only keep the whiskey on the main floor.”
“We’re not taking inventory,” Pudge said, shoving the gun barrel deeper into Spider’s neck. “So just do what Angelo tells you.”