• • •
ANGELO VESTIERI AND Pudge Nichols strolled side by side down a West Side street, each munching on a roast beef sandwich.
“You want to get some coffee first?” Pudge asked. “We got time.”
Angelo shook his head no. “Let’s get it over with,” he said.
Angelo, now seventeen, had grown tall and angular during his years working for Angus McQueen. His tan face was highlighted by a pair of dark, fiery eyes and ivory cheekbones; his thick hair was combed straight back, twin curls always hanging off his forehead. He seldom smiled and buried his alert nature behind a well-honed cloak of indifference. He wore his shirts and sweaters several sizes larger, hoping to disguise a slender frame. While it allowed him to appear bulkier, the habit gave him a perpetually disheveled look.
Pudge, at twenty, still had a boyish face. He was quick to smile and easy to irritate, and the freckles that once dotted his cheeks had given way to the shaving stubble of a man. His upper body was rock hard, with Popeye forearms and biceps that had earned him his fair share of arm wrestling victories. He favored thick sweaters or thin T-shirts, depending on the day’s weather, and his curly blond hair was always wind-tossed. He walked with the confident strides of the street thug—chest tilted back, arms locked and bent at the elbow, each step taken with attitude and purpose.
“What do you know about this guy?” Angelo asked, tossing the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.
“Just what Angus told me,” Pudge said. “Plus a little I picked up on the street. His name’s Gavin Rainey, but he answers to Gapper, at least down at the piers he does. Word is he’s as ugly as he is nasty.”
“I heard that name before,” Angelo said. “He’s got a small crew working over by the tunnels.”
“One and the same,” Pudge said. “They pull small-time stuff for the most part. Vendor shakedowns, low-end lifts, two-percent street vig, that kinda action.”
“Breaking into one of our clubs doesn’t fall under that,” Angelo said.
“You go to all the trouble of breaking into a joint, you’d think they would come away with a bigger haul,” Pudge said, crossing the street against the oncoming traffic, pulling Angelo along with him.
“What did they leave with?”
“Five hundred in cash and some coats and jackets,” Pudge said with a dismissive shrug. “On top of that, they did a number on the bar. I think that pissed off Angus more than the break-in.”
“The club’s only been open for three weeks,” Angelo said. “And business has been slow to come in.”
“Probably why the fool picked it. He went in expecting a small haul, figuring we’d just shrug it off.”
Angelo came to a stop and turned to face Pudge. “He figured wrong,” Angelo said.
• • •
ONE HOUR LATER the dark Ford sedan pulled up curbside with Spider MacKenzie behind the wheel. He looked over at Angelo and Pudge, picked up his fedora and got out of the car.
“What’d you do, stop off in Jersey for a steak?” Pudge asked, irritated over the wait.
“Traffic,” MacKenzie said.
Timothy “Spider” MacKenzie was in his late twenties, well-groomed, well-mannered and fiercly devoted to Angus McQueen. He never spoke unless it was absolutely necessary, treating the utterance of each word as if it were hard labor. He had been with McQueen since the early Gopher days, graduating from street runner to bodyguard and driver in less than a decade. He was also the gang’s chief enforcer, using club, brass knuckles or gun to silence any victim.
“You figure on him being up there alone?” Pudge asked.
“He’s a heavy boozer,” Spider explained. “I expect he’s just sleepin’ one off.”
Angelo started toward the tenement across the avenue. “It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or with a crowd, we still have to go in.”
Pudge watched Angelo walk away. They had grown inseparable in the years since Ida the Goose had forged their alliance. In that time, Angelo had listened and learned well the lessons taught by those preparing him for a gangster’s life. He already possessed many of the attributes needed for success—he was fearless, never shied away from a duty and was prepared for even the best plan to go awry. He had an eagerness for battle matched only by a reluctance to use force. Angelo had an innate ability to turn a foe into a friend with a well-timed phrase or a fair cut of a new deal. It was that trait, more than any other, that would enable him to survive longer than most gangsters. Pudge was always quick to pull a trigger. But Angelo knew, in the long run, that was the wrong approach. A gangster’s survival depended not on the destruction of his enemies but on the strength of his allies. The ability to keep a business partnership thriving was what ultimately kept a successful gangster alive. In that, Angelo Vestieri needed lessons from no one.
• • •
GAVIN RAINEY SAT upright in a hard-back wooden chair and waited to die.
He was a tall man with thin strands of hair across a freckled face. Beads of sweat broke from his head and ran into his eyes. He looked decades younger than Angelo and Pudge had imagined he would and nowhere near as vicious as his street reputation. The hard-guy demeanor deserted him the minute he saw the three men enter the foyer of his cold-water walk-up. Without a word, Spider MacKenzie grabbed Rainey with both hands, dragged him up two flights of stairs and tossed him inside his well-furnished, two-bedroom apartment.
“You can pull me outta this one,” Rainey pleaded. “Alls you need do is cover my owe-back to McQueen.”
“It’s not so much what you took and what you did,” Pudge said. “It’s how it looks to have you get away with it.”
Spider MacKenzie pulled a revolver from inside his jacket, walked over and shoved the barrel against Rainey’s temple. He cocked the trigger and looked up at Angelo and Pudge for a signal.
“I’ll give McQueen half my weekly haul,” Rainey said, the sweat pouring down now in thin streams. “To make it up to him, so he don’t lose face.”
“How much is your haul?” Angelo asked.
“I clear about seven hundred a week. That’s after I pay off my crew.”
“If you bring McQueen that seven hundred a week, you’ll make it through the day without a bullet in your head,” Angelo said.
“All of it?” Rainey asked, looking over at Angelo. “I’m not about to give up my whole take.”
“Guy’s got a gun to his head and he’s still lookin’ to work out a deal.” Pudge shook his head. “You gotta admire the balls.”
“Angus said to take him out,” Spider said, pushing the gun against the Gapper’s temple. “Not to make him a partner.”
“You can’t make a profit off the dead,” Angelo answered. He was standing at the far end of the room, hands inside his pants pocket, his back to an open window, staring at Gapper. “Can you?”
Gapper swallowed hard, blinking his eyes to break the beads of sweat off his lids. “That leaves me with zero,” Rainey said, looking up at MacKenzie and seeing eyes eager to pull a trigger.
“It also leaves you alive,” Angelo told him.
“And you don’t hit any more of our spots,” Pudge added. “Go and make your money off somebody else’s nickel.”
“McQueen’s not gonna like this,” Spider said, looking at both Angelo and Pudge.
“He’s going to like it plenty when he starts counting that money every week,” Angelo said.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” Pudge asked Rainey. “Are we in business or do I need to have flowers delivered to the undertaker?”
Rainey closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His shirt was stained through with sweat and his thick hair was matted down against his forehead. He opened his eyes and nodded. “You guys ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of crooks,” he said. “I just want you to know that.”
“Thank you,” Angelo said.
• • •
IDA THE GOOSE stood behind the bar of the Café Maryland, filling a whiskey glass to the rim and lighting a smoke. She l
ooked at Angelo, sitting across from her, eating a thick slice of cherry pie. “You want some coffee with that?” she asked.
“Some milk, maybe,” Angelo said, the side of his mouth stuffed with remnants of pie.
Ida leaned under the counter and pulled out a half-filled milk bottle from the ice box with one hand and an empty glass with the other. She poured the contents of the bottle into the glass and slid it across to Angelo.
“Every gangster I know starts off drinking milk because he likes it,” she said, smiling and pointing to the glass. “Then, when they get older, they drink it because they have no choice.”
“Why’s that?” Angelo asked.
“Stomach problems,” Ida said. “Comes from years of keeping everything bottled up inside, never showing what you really feel, acting like we’re not scared at all. When the truth is all we want to do is run and hide under a safe spot until the shooting’s all done.”
“Angus says you can always spot a gangster who did jail time,” Angelo said. “He has a glass of milk with his meals and his drinks. Hides the ulcer he got doing the stretch.”
“It ain’t the healthiest line of work around, that’s for damn sure,” Ida said. “Which is why I think it’s time for me to get out.”
“And do what?” Angelo said, stunned. “This place and the people in it is what you know. What you care about. Me included.”
“You have to have a feel for this business,” Ida said. “You have to sense when the time’s right to get in and when it’s best to yank up stakes. That time for me is now.”
“What will you do?” Angelo asked.
“I made a lot of money working in here.” She looked over the Café with an owner’s pride. “And I managed to save a lot of it. Now’s as good a time as any to put the money to some use.”
“You know, I don’t even have a picture of my mother,” Angelo said. “It was like she was never even alive. Josephina helped with that a little, but she died while I was still a kid. You’re as much a mother to me as anybody.”
Ida the Goose stared down at her glass of scotch and smiled. “I can still be that for you,” she said in a near-whisper. “Only it won’t be out of here. Be out in the country somewhere, in a place where you can take a deep breath and not spit out smoke.”
“You have a place picked out already?” Angelo asked.
Ida looked up and nodded. “Roscoe, New York,” she said. “About a hundred and fifty miles from here. My grandfather died a couple of years back, left me a small house and five acres of trees. All I need to do is buy a car, some furniture and throw the rest of my cash in a local bank.”
“What about the Café’?” Angelo said. “You gonna sell it or shut it down?”
“Neither one,” Ida said. “I’m giving it to you and Pudge to run. As long as the business holds up, she’s good for a clear two hundred a week. Send about fifty of that up my way and keep the rest for yourselves.”
“We don’t know anything about running a place,” Angelo said.
“Then you’ll learn,” Ida said. “Or you go out and hire somebody who does know and you make sure he doesn’t steal more than his share from out of the till.”
“When do you go?” he asked, watching her take his empty glass and plate and drop it in the slop sink.
“In about a month,” she said. “Maybe a little less than that. I don’t have all that much to pack and I just said good-bye to one of the only three that matter to me.”
“I didn’t know that was a good-bye I just heard,” Angelo said.
Ida the Goose cupped one hand around Angelo’s face and stared into his eyes. “I did my best for you,” she said. “I told you close to all I know about the business you’re gonna be in and what I forgot wouldn’t be of much help to you anyway. From here on out it’s up to you and Pudge, and you got no breathing room for mistakes.”
Angelo held Ida’s hand close to his face. He turned and kissed her palm, then stood up to leave. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice.
“For what?” Ida said with a shrug and a sad smile. “For helping turn you into a gangster? If you’re as smart as I think, you’ll end up hating me for it one day.”
“That’s a day that’ll never come,” Angelo said as he turned and walked out of the Café. Ida the Goose poured herself a fresh scotch and watched him go.
• • •
ANGELO SAT AT the head of the small kitchen table, dabbing the edge of a thick slice of Italian bread into a bowl of lentils and sausage. His elbow brushed against a jelly jar filled with red wine made by a neighborhood priest. He looked up when his father walked into the room, holding a weathered brown valise in his right hand, a thin blue jacket draped over his left arm. Paolino dropped the valise to the wooden floor.
“I am leaving,” he said to his son. “For good. There is no need for us to keep living our lives in this way.”
“It must be something in the air,” Angelo said. “Everybody’s looking to get out of town.”
“This is no joke. I am leaving and never coming back.”
Angelo took a long sip of the wine and nodded. “Do you want me to stop you or go with you?” he asked.
“Not one or the other,” Paolino said. “You are not a part of me anymore. You belong to them now. The ones who have taught you so well how to hate.”
“They taught me what I needed to learn,” Angelo said.
“You did not need to learn to steal,” Paolino said, “or take money that others worked to earn, force them to pay money they do not have. You are in the company of criminals now and it is where you belong.”
“And where would you want me to belong, Papa?” Angelo asked, pushing his chair back from the edge of the table. “With you?”
“That was once my greatest wish,” Paolino said. “But it, too, has disappeared, along with all my other dreams.”
“And what is left, Papa?”
“Only what you see before you,” Paolino said. “And that is not a place for my son to be. Gangster or not.”
Paolino stared at his son through the eyes of a defeated man. He picked up his valise, turned and opened the apartment door. Angelo moved away from the table, the wine jar in his hand, and watched his father walk out of his life. Angelo looked away and leaned against the side of the open kitchen window. His eyes scanned backyard alleys, tar rooftops and clotheslines weighed down with fresh-washed sheets. He put a hand up to his face and let the tears flow through his fingers, his body heaving with the pain he had taught himself so well to hide.
“Adio, Papa,” Angelo whispered. “Adio.”
5
* * *
Spring, 1924
ANGELO VESTIERI SHIFTED the gears on his new Chrysler motorcar, smiling as the high-compression engine moved with factory-efficient ease from one cylinder to another. Pudge Nichols sat next to him in the passenger seat, scanning the front-page stories in the morning paper.
“You believe what this guy’s trying to pull?” Pudge asked, folding the paper and tossing it onto the backseat, a look of disgust on his face.
“Who are you talking about now?” Angelo made a sharp right turn onto Broadway from Twenty-third Street, his left foot riding the pedal of the newly designed, four-wheel hydraulic system.
“This Marcus Garvey,” Pudge said. “He wants all the colored people to move out of America.”
“And go where?” Angelo asked, turning to look at Pudge.
“Lybia . . . Liberia,” Pudge shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”
“That’s in Africa,” Angelo said, his attention back on the crawling traffic. “He wants to have his people move back to Africa.”
“And do what? They think there’s gonna be more work for them over there than there is over here? You gotta be six drafts into a keg to think that.”
“It doesn’t sound like that crazy of an idea to me,” Angelo said. “The coloreds haven’t exactly been given an easy go of it over here, so maybe a fresh start would be worth a shot.”
“
Angus would love to hear that kind of news,” Pudge laughed. “He’s been getting rich off those nigger numbers. If that well went dry, he’d piss blood.”
“He would just figure a way to make even more money off somebody else,” Angelo said. “It’s what he does.”
“How come you agreed to the meeting with Jack Wells?” Pudge asked. “He knows we work for McQueen and we haven’t been making any noise about going somewhere else.”
“He’s a smart businessman and a patient one,” Angelo explained. “He knows that sooner or later, we’re both going to be looking to move up. Maybe he’s thinking it’s sooner.”
“I don’t see how us running bootleg for Wells is going to put any more in our pockets than the cut of the action we already get from Angus. And we know we can trust Angus.”
“Let’s listen to what he has to say,” Angelo said. “He might be planning to make a move on Angus and he may not think he can do that without the two of us on his side.”
“Who’s gonna be with him at the meeting?”
Angelo reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He handed it to Pudge, who flipped it open. He read through three red lights and then looked up.
“How bad?” Angelo asked.
“Nothing we can’t handle in a squeeze,” Pudge said. “Larry Carney’s a little bit of a wacko, but he’s a solid triggerman. This other guy, McCain, his job is to cover Wells at all times, even take a bullet if he has to, just to keep the boss alive.”
“What about Popke?” Angelo asked. “How good is he?”
“Popke likes to be called Big John the Polack,” Pudge said. “That alone should tell you how full his cabinet drawers are. But none of them’ll say a word to us, unless things go foul. It’s not their place or their job to talk.”
“And we only talk to Wells,” Angelo said. “Let’s do it the way Angus taught us. As far as we’re concerned, he’s the only face in the room.”
“Ida always says everything’s in the eyes,” Pudge said. “We’ll know which way he’s thinking and which way he’s going just by the way his eyes move.”