In the first decades of the twentieth century, Chick Tricker ran Manhattan’s Lower West Side. Tricker was a saloon keeper who found hiring out thugs as collectors an easy route to a more lucrative lifestyle. So while an army of hardworking men headed home each night to soak aching muscles, wondering aloud if an honest life was worth living, Tricker stood behind the wood of his bar, a bottle of his finest to his right, and counted his haul, at peace with his place in the American Dream.
Paolino’s remaining nights were spent in a little West Twelfth Street slaughterhouse killing, skinning and slicing pigs and sheep for morning delivery to the area meat markets. Not lost on him was the irony that whereas in Italy he once tended to the needs of a flock, he was now here, in America, slicing open their throats. With this job, he was allowed to keep all the money he earned, working straight twelve-hour shifts in near-darkness and unsanitary conditions bordering on the criminal. In addition to his six-dollar salary, Paolino was given two lambs’ heads a week, which Josephina would marinate in red wine vinegar and crushed garlic and then roast over a tin wine barrel. Those Sunday afternoon meals were as close to heaven as Paolino Vestieri was meant to find on this earth.
The long hours he worked and the small sums of money such jobs produced left Paolino not just broke but broken. And it made a hard impression on young Angelo. “I watched him come home at night and I’d pretend to be asleep,” he told me, tending with care and patience the long rows of olive trees that took up three acres of his Long Island estate. “He looked so beaten, so powerless. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and hang his head, too tired to even take his clothes off. At first I felt so sorry for him. But with time sorrow turned to pity. I knew I could never lead his life. Even death would be a better option.”
Paolino didn’t have much social life. He had a few male friends who, on occasion, would get together for brisk games of briscola or sette bello. On summer days, he sometimes walked alone at the edge of the West Side piers, the harsh glare of the sun turning the Hudson into a long sheet of blue glass, and thought about his second son. Was such a cold country the place for a frail boy to find and make his way? Would he have the courage to deal with the challenges his father envisioned him facing? And would he amount to more than what Paolino saw in himself—a man of simple dreams living a life of wasted wishes.
On rare occasions, Paolino pictured himself married again, a woman at home to supply warmth and comfort and a smiling face to a tired man. Despite his weak financial status, Paolino was still considered a worthy catch among the middle-aged widows and old maids of the neighborhood. But those visions were fleeting, leaving in their wake only the warm memory of Francesca secure at his side. His mood was laced with sadness as he wandered on his walks, wondering whether there had been any point in his leaving Italy. There was, after all, little difference between paying tribute money to the camorra of his homeland or to the Irish thugs of New York.
As he walked home, Paolino almost always thought of Carlo, the son he had murdered. His guilt had grown in the years since the shooting, and it brought along with it the burden of doubt. He was no longer convinced that his action had been the right one, his time in America stripping him of the moral high ground he had easily walked for so many years. He would close his eyes and try to erase the image of the bleeding boy lying dead in the hot, airless room. But he could not. That picture was forever seared into his memory. The void in the center of his stomach told him he would need to live the rest of his life in step with an irrepealable wrong. And for a man like Paolino Vestieri, struggling to make ends meet in a new land, the lethal combination of doubt and guilt could simply prove too powerful to overcome.
• • •
ANGELO WAS SEVEN when he was drawn into his first street fight. He went up against a ten-year-old named Pudge Nichols, a school yard tough who spotted easy pickings in the nervous-looking boy with the stammer. The added fact that he was an Italian with a limited English vocabulary made it all the more enjoyable for the burly Pudge. Within seconds, Nichols towered above Angelo, his right hand open and held out, his left balled into a tight fist.
“Let’s see it, wop,” Nichols said.
“See what?” Angelo managed to stammer.
“Your money,” Nichols said.
“I no have money,” Angelo said.
“You gonna live in this place, you gotta learn the rules,” Nichols said with a tone of disdain. “Rule one is when you see me you come across with money. It ain’t a hard rule to remember. Even for a moron.”
“I no have money,” Angelo said, straining over each word.
Pudge Nichols opened his left hand and slapped Angelo across the face. The sting of the blow brought tears to Angelo’s right eye and a shiver to his body.
“I no have money,” Angelo said, tugging at the empty pockets of his gray shorts. “You see? No money.”
Pudge smiled and rested a beefy hand on Angelo’s shoulder, squeezing hard. Angelo stiffened but didn’t move.
“Okay,” Pudge said. “You got no money. Then give me something else.”
“What?” Angelo asked.
Pudge looked at Angelo, the red welt on his face, the tears running down his cheeks, the fear in his eyes and he snorted out a laugh. “Your clothes,” Pudge said.
Angelo stared at Pudge, at first not understanding the request and then, once he did, he slowly shook his head. “No,” he said in a voice that hid his fright.
“You can’t say no,” Pudge said. “You’re too stupid to even know what no means.”
“No my clothes,” Angelo said.
“I take home your clothes or you take home a beating.”
“You no take nothing from me,” Angelo said.
Pudge immediately landed three blows, swinging from a crunched-down stance. The first two glanced off Angelo’s right arm. The third one caught the side of his neck and sent him to the pavement. He landed on his hands and knees and Pudge twice kicked him in the back, forcing all the air out of the damaged lungs.
“You gonna let yourself end up dead for these shitty clothes?” Pudge demanded, barely out of breath.
“You no have my clothes,” Angelo said, barely able to get the words out, then he crawled toward a street sign, stretching to reach its base and hoist himself to his feet. Pudge grabbed the back of his hair, stopping him in mid-crawl. He began to punch methodically, landing hard right-hand shots to Angelo’s head, holding the back of the boy’s hair with his left. Blood from Angelo’s mouth and nose splashed across Pudge’s white T-shirt and freckled face. A circle of locals had, by now, stopped to watch the fight, a few muttering under-the-breath condemnations of the one-sided match. But no one made a move to stop it.
Pudge let go of Angelo’s hair and watched the boy crumple to the ground, his head dangling over the edge of the sidewalk. Pudge bent down and pulled off one of Angelo’s shoes.
“Your clothes are too bloody to do me any good,” Pudge said disgustedly. “But the shoes are okay. This way, I don’t walk away empty.”
“You take that boy’s shoes and it’ll cost you your life.”
The voice came from behind Pudge. It was the throaty, sexy voice of a woman. Pudge looked at the group in front of him and saw their expressions change from disapproval to fear. He stood, turned and stared at Ida the Goose.
Ida Bernadine Edwards was the most beautiful woman on the West Side. She was also one of the toughest, carrying two loaded guns at all times. The queen of the Café Maryland, Ida had been a mistress to many of the area’s gang leaders. She was in charge of her own crew of thieves, and if the corruption-riddled New York City Police Department had been inclined to investigate tenement and bar murders, it could have pinned Ida the Goose’s name next to at least six.
“Don’t even think about a run,” Ida told Pudge, who was about to bolt down the street. “I can shoot you in the back just as easy as in the chest.”
“I ain’t gonna run,” Pudge said, meekly shaking his head.
“Help
that boy to his feet,” Ida ordered. “Then bring him into the Café. There’s a back room with a long table over near the kitchen. Put him on that. And wait there with him till I get back.”
“Where you goin’?” Pudge asked, his eyes growing wider as Ida the Goose walked toward him.
“The boy needs a doctor.” Ida stared down at him with a set of ocean-blue eyes. “Come the end of the day, you might, too. It seems like a good idea for me to go find one. You got any other questions for me?”
“No,” Pudge said.
“Then get out of my way,” Ida said. “And go do what I told you.”
Ida the Goose lifted the front lip of her long brown skirt and moved past Pudge, ignoring the small crowd, heading up toward Broadway and an alcoholic doctor who owed her money and a favor.
• • •
GANGSTERS, IF THEY are shaped by anyone at all, are chiseled by the women in their early lives. Angelo’s childhood models were Josephina and Ida the Goose, two women whose guidance and nurturing were bound to lead him down but one path. “He didn’t have a family of his own, other than his father,” Mary said. “So he made one from the people he met. Josephina became his grandmother, Pudge his brother and Ida replaced the mother he lost at birth. He listened to them, trusted them and, most important, he learned from them.”
He was an eager student hoping to survive the indifferent streets of a harsh city. He was also a child who silently longed for affection and who found it in the company of the unlikeliest of trios. In another place, living among the honest and hardworking, Angelo Vestieri might well have grown up to live a life of simplicity and little consequence. But his road was paved with more dangerous material.
We can ignore, even fight, our destiny, but ultimately we must yield. It was true for Angelo. It was true for me.
• • •
IDA THE GOOSE took in the wounded boy and cared for him. She directed the doctor to mend his wounds and warned Josephina to keep Angelo away from his father long enough for the visible bruises to heal.
“Why do you do this for him?” Josephina asked Ida, staring at her as both women drank from glasses filled with dark Irish whiskey.
“I got a weak spot for strays,” Ida said, downing the last of her drink. “Found a kitten about two years ago in the alley behind the Café. She was pretty beat up, near dead, far as I could tell. Now, she’s tough and hard enough to kill three cornered rats.”
“And you think you will take Angelo and make him tough and hard?” Josephina said. “Like that cat?”
“No,” Ida said. “I’ll just try to teach him enough to keep him from gettin’ killed.”
“He looks and acts weak,” Josephina said. “But inside, he has much strength.”
“He better,” Ida the Goose said.
Josephina stared at Ida for several moments. She then nodded and smiled and refilled their whiskey glasses.
• • •
IT WAS CLOSE to sunrise, light creaking through the windows of the Café Maryland. Angelo walked quietly down the center of the room, the smell of stale smoke and old drink fouling the air. He was wearing a robe two sizes too large over his pajamas and work shoes in the place of slippers. His face was still bruised and sore, one eye half-shut, and his back and chest hurt to the touch. Angelo pushed aside a chair and opened the door to Ida’s back room. It was his first time in here and he marveled at how clean and well-kept it all looked, the furniture neat and polished, the framed photos on the walls orderly and dust-free. He stepped deep into the room and stood in front of Ida’s bed, staring down at her sleeping form, her back to him, her face resting on a pillow curled against a brown wall. Angelo sat on the floor, his robe wrapped around him like a quilt, and leaned his head against the side of the bed. He reached a hand up and rested it on top of Ida’s rich, curly hair, his fingers buried inside the thick strands. His eyes were open and brimming with tears as he listened to her steady flow of breath. He leaned in closer and placed his head against the small of Ida’s back and closed his eyes, at peace in the silent room. “Grazie tanto, signora,” Angelo whispered to Ida seconds before he dozed off. “Thank you so much.”
Ida’s eyes were open, staring at the dark wall inches from her face. She waited until the boy was sound asleep, turned slowly and lifted him up onto the bed, covering him with her blanket. She stared at his wounded face and rubbed a warm hand against his hard bruises. Ida kissed Angelo on the forehead and then rested her head back down on her pillow. She closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep, her arms gently wrapped around the frail boy she had rescued.
• • •
TWO WEEKS LATER, on a rain-swept Sunday morning, Ida the Goose called Pudge Nichols into the Café Maryland.
“I ain’t punched anybody since I did the wop,” Pudge said, standing in the Café’s doorway, a gimme cap clutched in his hands. “I swear.”
“It’s a start,” Ida said, glancing at him above the rim of a large white coffee mug.
Ida was standing behind the bar, a spit-shined black boot curved onto the metal pipe that ran along its base. Even in the semidarkness of the large room, her eyes shone. Her dark hair was pinned up, long strands inching their way down toward a luminous face. Ida slipped a hand-rolled cigarette into the corner of her mouth, slid a long wooden match down several inches of the bar until it sparked and then put the lit end up against the raw tobacco. She waved Pudge closer, smoke drifting out of her nostrils. The boy walked toward her, hesitant, his eyes scanning the Café.
“I’m all the company you’re gonna get,” Ida said. “Got a little wild in here last night. Everybody’s out sleepin’ it off.”
“What do you want?” Pudge asked, reaching the bar and staring up at Ida with nervous eyes.
“It might be a good idea for you to relax a little,” Ida said. “I’m not in the business of hurting kids. Not unless I got good reason.”
Ida reached under the bar and came up with a fresh cup of coffee, which she pushed across the wood. Pudge eased his way onto a stool and put his hands around the cup. He took a long sip and looked around the Café. “It true what they say about this place?” he asked. “About all the people been killed in here?”
“I don’t see your old man around anymore,” Ida said, ignoring his questions and coming back with one of her own. “He doin’ a stretch or a split?”
“He left just before Christmas,” Pudge said with a shrug. “I don’t mind. Don’t get yelled at as much and my mom is too drunk to spend her nights whackin’ me around.”
“So long as you’re happy,” Ida said, blowing a lungful of smoke up toward the ceiling.
Pudge leaned forward against the bar, the cup cradled in both hands. “So why am I here?” he asked.
“It’s about that boy you did a number on,” Ida said.
“The wop?” Pudge said.
Ida nodded and handed Pudge what was left of her cigarette. He put down his cup, reached for it, brought it to his mouth and took a long pull.
“What about him?” Pudge asked, trying not to react to the warm burn of the tobacco on his lungs.
“I want you to take care of him,” Ida said. “Make sure nobody else does to him what you did.”
“I don’t get it. What’s this really about?” Pudge asked, tossing aside the cigarette.
“It’s about what I want,” Ida said. “And it’s about what you’re going to do, which is keep him safe.”
“And what if I don’t?” Pudge asked.
“I might forget about it,” Ida said. “Or I might go out and find somebody with nothin’ much else to do but beat the shit outta you.”
“This is nuts!” Pudge said, raising his voice and slamming his hands against the cool wood of the bar. “The kid’s a loser. You see him walk, you wanna belt him, just for kicks.”
“And that’s where you come in,” Ida said. “Pass the word around. They mess with him, it’s like messin’ with you. You got a strong enough rep that the rest of the street kids’ll back off.”
“How long you want this to go on?”
“Till I say otherwise,” Ida said. “You gave him a pretty solid workover. I don’t want to see that happen again. From here on, that kid cuts himself, somebody else is gonna bleed. Even if that somebody has to be you.”
“What do you get outta this?” Pudge stepped down from the stool, his frown showing that he was resigned to his fate.
“There’s nothing to get,” Ida said, smiling and walking down the length of the bar. “Maybe we just do this one on the arm.”
Pudge watched her leave and shook his head. “Body-watchin’ a wop,” he mumbled. “I’m better off being found dead.”
“I can make that happen,” Ida the Goose said, over her shoulder. “If that’s your choice.”
Pudge Nichols didn’t respond. He just turned and ran out of the Café Maryland.
• • •
GANGSTERS HAVE FEW friends. It is the nature of the life. There is a story Angelo always liked to tell me when I was younger, one he never tired of repeating, and which, to him, summarized the gangster ethic. “A father puts his son on a ledge, fifteen feet from the ground,” Angelo would say. “Kid’s about six. The father then tells the kid to jump. The kid shakes his head, afraid to make the move. The father tells him not to worry, Daddy’s here and Daddy will catch you. The kid swallows hard, clenches his hands and makes the jump. The father moves out of the way and lets the kid land on the ground, cuts, bruises, scrapes, what have you. The father bends over and points a finger in the face of his crying boy. And then he tells him, ‘Remember one thing. In this life, never trust anybody.’ “
It is rare in the gangster life to find someone to confide in. It is even rarer to find a friend. The majority of alliances are forged out of territorial expedience and adhere strictly to business policies. Those friendships last for as long as there is profit to be made. “You wash my back and I wash yours,” Angelo would say. “Until the time comes to shoot you in the back.”