“Almost.” She laughed. “Albanian. From Inwood.”
For a moment, Salvatore was surprised. Inwood, at the top of Manhattan, was a mainly Irish and Jewish neighborhood. But then he remembered. Here on Long Island there was another Inwood, on the eastern side of Jamaica Bay. He knew that Albanians had often been forced to flee their native land down the centuries. In southern Italy there were whole populations who spoke a part Albanian dialect called Tosca. And there was a large Albanian-Italian community out at Inwood, Long Island.
So Teresa and Salvatore and her cousin and Angelo all went on the roller coaster together. Then they went on the bumper cars, and out to the small racetrack, and came back and had hot dogs at Nathan’s, and visited a dance hall.
At the end of the day, he asked Teresa if he might see her again, and she said that she and another cousin were coming into the city the following Sunday. So it was agreed that they would meet at Uncle Luigi’s restaurant for an ice, and then go out on the town.
“You can bring your cousin,” he said, “and I’ll bring Angelo.” At this suggestion of extra company, he thought she might have looked a little disappointed. He was pleased about that, but he wanted to proceed carefully and do everything with propriety.
Uncle Luigi liked Teresa. He thought she was a nice, sensible girl. Albanian, he said, was almost as good as Italian. And Teresa seemed to like Uncle Luigi too. After they’d had their ices she said she wanted to walk in Central Park, and then visit the stores. Salvatore soon understood that though she loved her family, who all lived together on Long Island, Teresa’s greatest joy was to come into the city.
Two weeks later, he went out to meet her at the racetrack by Coney Island. Teresa was with a young male cousin, but Salvatore came alone. They all enjoyed the races, and as they walked to the subway, she linked her arm in his in a friendly way. Her cousin left them for a few moments, and Salvatore kissed her on the cheek. Teresa laughed, but she didn’t seem to mind. Then she told him she’d be coming into the city again in two weeks, and they agreed to meet.
This time he had Angelo with him, with orders that if Teresa came with her cousin, he was to stay, but that if she came alone, he was to make himself scarce. Angelo didn’t seem to mind. Rather to Salvatore’s disappointment, she was accompanied. But they went to a dance hall, and all danced together, and had a good time, and agreed to do the same thing in another two weeks.
In the weeks that followed, Salvatore considered his moves carefully. He had not felt a sudden rush of passion for Teresa, yet from the moment they met, he had felt certain that she was the one. In confidence, he talked to Uncle Luigi about it. Uncle Luigi was humble. “What do I know? I have never been married,” he declared.
“I trust your judgment all the same.”
“Then I think it is important that your wife should be your friend.”
It would have been easier if Teresa lived in the city so that he could see her often. But each time they did meet, he felt a growing sense of friendship and of tenderness for her, and though she was careful not to show him too much, he was sure that she had feelings for him too. She would walk arm in arm with him, and let him kiss her on the cheek. By late summer, he was planning to push the relationship further. And he was wondering what move he should make when she took the matter in hand herself.
At the end of August a terrible event occurred. It shocked all Italians, and most of the women in the Western world. Rudolph Valentino, the Latin lover, the most adored male star of the silent screen, died suddenly, after an operation in New York. He was only thirty-one. As the news broke, a hundred thousand people converged on the hospital.
His latest movie, The Son of the Sheik, was just being released, and there were long lines to get in. A few days afterward, Salvatore took Teresa to see it, along with her cousin and Angelo. As they came out Teresa told him that there would be a big lunch party at her family’s house the next Sunday, and casually suggested that he and Angelo should come.
So, she wanted him to meet her family.
The following Saturday the two brothers went out to see their parents at their brother Giuseppe’s on Long Island. Sunday was a fine day. It only took them an hour to walk from Giuseppe’s to Inwood.
Teresa’s family lived in a big clapboard house. It stood on a half-acre plot, had a wide porch, and a Victorian turret at one corner. In the backyard stood a small secondary dwelling. Teresa was looking out for them when they arrived, and immediately took them inside, introducing them to people as they went.
Within moments they had encountered three brothers—two of whom were married—a married sister and two others. One of the married brothers and his wife lived in the little house just behind. And though Teresa’s married sister and her other married brother had their own places nearby, this house was obviously the center of the family operations.
Everyone was friendly, and the place was buzzing. There were half a dozen children running around. Teresa’s brothers and sisters spoke to Salvatore in Italian, though their children seemed to speak English. “My parents speak a little English,” Teresa said with a smile, “but they usually speak to each other in Tosca.”
She led them through to the kitchen. “This is Salvatore and Angelo,” she said to a strong-faced woman, who gave them a quick, sharp look. “My mother,” Teresa explained. “And this”—she turned toward a tall man with a graying beard who had just entered the room—“is my father.”
Teresa’s father moved with an unhurried dignity. There could be no doubt who was the head of this extensive family. He looked like the pictures of Garibaldi. He greeted the two young men politely, but said nothing more.
Salvatore soon realized that, outside the family, he and Angelo were the only guests. Before the time even came to sit down for the meal, he had discovered that as well as owning some fields, Teresa’s father ran a fruit and vegetable store with one of his sons. His son-in-law was in the local shellfish business, and his two other sons ran a local trucking business.
The table was arranged in a large T, so that the fourteen adults and half-dozen children could all be seated in the biggest room. Teresa was seated in between Salvatore and Angelo. Her brother-in-law, a thickset, rather earnest man of thirty, sat opposite Salvatore. Her father, at the head of the table, was just a few places away where he could keep an eye on them all. At the start of the meal, out of politeness, he addressed a few questions to Salvatore, asking about his family and where they came from.
Salvatore answered that he was Italian and lived in the city, but that the rest of the family were out on Long Island now, and that his elder brother would inherit a farm. Teresa’s father nodded at this, and remarked that he hoped Salvatore and his brother would soon be able to leave the city themselves.
“My father thinks the city is unhealthy,” Teresa explained with a laugh.
Teresa’s father did not trouble him further, and the meal proceeded in a friendly fashion. Teresa was quite lively, and told him funny stories about her relations. As Salvatore looked around, it seemed to him that this was how the Caruso family might also have been, if they had been richer.
Teresa was talking to Angelo during the dessert course when her brother-in-law quietly engaged Salvatore in conversation. He asked him about his work, and hearing that he was a bricklayer, he shook his head.
“Manual work is not so bad when you’re young, but one must think ahead. Are you able to save?” When Salvatore nodded, he continued earnestly. “That’s good. One needs money to start a business. What will you do?” Salvatore had never thought of this. To him, his savings were to have something put by for clothes, or periods of sickness, or any of the other things one might need, especially if you got married. Seeing his uncertainty, the fellow carried on. “The old man”—he indicated Teresa’s father—“will want his daughter to marry a man with a business of some kind. Or at least some assets.” He helped himself to a piece of pie. “Very important to him.”
Salvatore said nothing. After the
meal, the young men all went for a walk while the women cleaned up. Since Teresa had guests, she was allowed to walk out with the boys. They went down to the water where the fishermen brought in the oysters and clams. Teresa told him that she’d like to come into the city to see a movie. “My father doesn’t like the city, but I do,” she said. So they arranged to meet again in two weeks.
On his departure, he thanked Teresa’s parents for their hospitality, and though they were polite to him, they did not express a hope that he should return. And he might have felt a little awkward, if Angelo hadn’t suddenly appeared with a piece of paper.
“A gift from me and my brother,” he said with a smile, handing it to Teresa’s mother, who frowned slightly as she took it. But then, as she saw what it was, she beamed and showed it to her husband. It was a drawing of their house, an excellent likeness to which he had cleverly added some seabirds circling overhead. Their parting was much warmer after that.
All the same, when he got back to the city, Salvatore pondered. He had no doubt that Teresa’s brother-in-law had spoken the truth. Was there really any chance that Teresa’s family would accept him? When it came to it, would she be happy with a poor fellow like himself? He wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t sure what he should do about it.
Charlie Master often went to Harlem. He went there for the jazz. Sometimes he met Edmund Keller up on 142nd Street, at the Cotton Club. The audience at the club was strictly “Whites Only”—though a few black celebrities and their friends might be found in there sometimes.
But then Harlem itself, in the mixing of races, was still a frontier area.
Until the terrible attacks on them back in the Draft Riots of 1863, most of the city’s Southern blacks had lived downtown. After that, there was a move to the Tenderloin area on Midtown’s West Side. Soon, their cabarets and theaters were so successful that the area became known as “Black Bohemia.” By late in the century, immigrants from Virginia and the Carolinas, fleeing the Jim Crow laws, had swelled the population, and once again, tension with the Irish community was rising. But it was only during Charlie’s own childhood that the big move of African Americans into the mainly Jewish and Italian streets of Harlem had begun. They weren’t made very welcome—they were usually charged higher rent—but they came all the same. Now they were making the area their own.
The Cotton Club was quite a scene. From the street, with its big corner site on Lenox Avenue, and brightly lit entrance, one would have thought it was a movie theater. Only the patrons in evening dress getting out of their expensive cars gave a clue as to what it was really like inside.
The club was big and elegant. The clientele sat at small round tables, each with a single candle in the center of a spotless white linen tablecloth. There was room for dancing, but the key to the place was the show. The proscenium stage was large and lit with footlights on each side. This evening, the front of the stage had a mirrored floor, so that the reflection of the chorus girls exploded into the space above. The back of the stage was filled by the Fletcher Henderson Band.
Charlie had been planning to bring Peaches here tonight, but Peaches wasn’t coming. Peaches was out with another man. Charlie was pretty upset about that. But it was no good getting upset, he reminded himself, when it came to Peaches. He’d known that when it started. He knew it now it was finished.
He’d called Edmund Keller and asked him if he’d like to meet at the club, and fortunately Keller had been free. They’d ordered their meal and listened to the music. “God, Henderson is good,” said Keller. Charlie nodded.
They finished their food and ordered another drink. Charlie glanced around the room.
“See anyone?” asked Keller.
One never knew who would be at the Cotton Club. The mayor, of course—it was his kind of place. Music people like Irving Berlin and George Gershwin, singers like Al Jolson and Jimmy Durante. Anyone from the fashionable New York crowd. Charlie had recently started to write a novel. He liked taking note of any scenes he might be able to use some day, and he always made a point of talking to people—both because they interested him, and because they might give him useful dialogue.
“I wondered if Madden was here,” Charlie said.
Did it worry any of these good people that the place was owned by Owney Madden, the bootlegger, who had bought the club while he was still in Sing Sing, doing time for murder? It never seemed to. Madden might kill people who crossed him, but why worry about a few murders when he ran the best jazz club in town? Madden had friends, too. The police hadn’t raided the club in a long time now.
Charlie had talked to Madden once or twice. Despite his Irish name, Madden was born and raised in northern England, and proud of it. The bootlegger and jazz club owner’s accent was broad Yorkshire.
Charlie was just finishing his survey of the room when he noticed the table just behind them. Three men had been sitting there, talking quietly, but he hadn’t paid particular attention to them. Now two of them were leaving. The third man remained, with his back to him, but then he turned to look at the stage.
The face was familiar, but it took Charlie a few moments to place it. Then, seeing an opportunity to talk, he glanced at the man again, gave him a brief nod, and smiled. The man stared blankly.
“You won’t remember,” said Charlie easily, “but I saw you in the Fronton one time. You were nice to my mother. Told her not to worry about the police.”
The man frowned, then slowly remembered. “Right. There was a girl, too.”
“Not any more.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He held out his hand. “Charlie Master.”
“Paul Caruso.” The man was smooth, but watchful. Charlie knew enough to tread carefully. His uptown, cheerful manner usually disarmed people.
“Interesting name. Any relation to the great Caruso?”
“We’ve met,” said the Italian cautiously. “My family’s eaten with him.”
“Great man. Big heart,” said Charlie. Something in the Italian’s manner suggested that he wasn’t anxious to have a conversation about his family. Charlie decided to say no more. So he was surprised when Edmund Keller suddenly joined the conversation.
“I once met a girl of that name, years ago. Anna Caruso. She worked at the Triangle Factory.” He turned to Charlie. “Your mother brought her to old Mrs. Master’s house, I told you once. I’m afraid she was killed in that terrible fire, though.”
Charlie watched the Italian. Paolo Caruso’s face was perfectly still, but he glanced down at the table before replying: “It’s a common Italian name.”
“It’s been good talking to you, Mr. Caruso,” said Charlie. “I’m afraid we have to go now.” He smiled. “Until the next speakeasy.” He held out his hand.
Paolo Caruso took his hand briefly and nodded. He didn’t smile. “That was awkward,” Charlie remarked to Keller when they got outside.
“Why?”
“I think the girl was his family.”
“He said she wasn’t.”
“That’s not quite what he said. I think he didn’t want to talk about it.” Charlie shrugged. “Maybe I’m just being a novelist.” Novelists liked to imagine the interconnectedness of things—as though all the people in the big city were part of some great organism, their lives intertwined. He thought of the poet’s saying that the preachers liked to quote: “No man is an island.” Or the other: “Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” Foolish, sentimental tricks of the mind, probably. Reality was fragmented. “Forget it,” he said. “What the hell do I know?”
Paolo Caruso remained where he sat. He did not think about Anna at first. There were other things he had to consider.
Briefly, he thought about the two men. When Charlie had first addressed him he’d wondered for a moment if these men could be spies, sent to track him down. But they were certainly uptown, no part of his world. Besides, he did remember the incident with Charlie’s mother in the speakeasy. He put the idea aside as foolish.
r /> He’d come to the club with a couple of business associates. Men he trusted. But he’d also been hoping to see Owney Madden. He’d done a small service for Madden a couple of years back, and he trusted the man’s judgment. Maybe the owner of the Cotton Club could help him out. But Madden wasn’t around, and no one could tell him whether he’d be in that evening or not.
He decided to wait a while. At least he was safe. No one was going to start trouble inside a swank place like the Cotton Club. Maybe Madden would show up.
If only he had left that business last week alone. It hadn’t been part of his regular employment. His bosses didn’t know about it yet, and they wouldn’t be too pleased when they did. He’d have to be careful how he explained the thing to Madden, too. Madden had risen through the Gopher gang when he was young. He had his own bootlegging operation now, in Hell’s Kitchen on the West Side waterfront, and he mightn’t be too sympathetic to a man who’d gone off on his own without permission. But he had interests in so many businesses. Maybe he could find something for him out of the city and protect him. It was a long shot but worth a try.
It wasn’t the first contract Paolo had taken on. There were always gangland killings, but when you were asked in from outside to do something special, the money was tempting. He’d taken one before this—done the job just the day after he’d had lunch with Salvatore in the Fronton speakeasy. That had gone off well. No doubt that’s why he’d been offered this other job.
But last week had gone terribly awry. There was nothing wrong with the plan, but even the best plan can be thrown off course by an unexpected event. It was dark. The wind was strong and gusting, perfect for dispersing the sound of the shots. The street had been deserted. He’d stepped out from the doorway just in front of his man, with his hat pulled down to shield his face, and taken aim. Do it at point-blank range. Do it so swiftly that his victim would hardly have time to register surprise.
Who could have imagined that a slate blown from a roof above would crash at his feet, at that precise moment, causing him to jerk his head up?