“Come back here, you son of a bitch!” Giuseppe’s voice carried as he took off after the vehicle, the nickel of his pistol shimmering in the early-morning sunlight.
“Giuseppe!” Alonzo cried, jumping to his feet.
“Lonz, Lonz!” Rosa cried, tucking the baby into her breast.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m not hit.” He looked himself over to make sure.
“Your ear.” She dabbed at it with her fingers. The bullet had only grazed him. Alonzo stood to survey the scene.
Then, in the growing silence, they heard gurgling.
“Uncle!” Alonzo took over across the courtyard to where Umberto had tried to fight the hit men. He was perched awkwardly against the brick wall, Latin scriptures inscribed behind his head. He tried to speak, but only blood poured from his lips.
He began to sink farther down the wall, and in a fit of epileptic rage, he shook to the ground and moved no longer. Alonzo clung to his chest, checking for a heartbeat.
“No, no, no…” Rosa watched in horror as her husband tried to nurse him back to health. It was too late. Alonzo stood and turned to them, a pained look on his face. He whimpered and tears welled in his eyes. “Uncle…” he said, quietly. Then his body bolted upright as he apparently remembered his brother. “Giuseppe!” Alonzo ran after his brother, his voice carrying as he faded into the distance. Rosa remained behind on the steps, weeping alongside her baby boy.
Sonny
New York City—November 11, 1910
Sonny had never been more excited in his young life. Buying the barbershop was small peanuts compared to getting a baby sibling.
It seemed like no time after Alonzo started his new business that his mother delivered the news: she was expecting another baby. Enzo and Vico shrugged. They had already received a little sibling, and they weren’t very interested in another. Sonny, however, was thrilled. He asked to feel his mother’s belly often, and he liked to postulate what the baby’s gender would be, and what it would be like. A baby in the family meant that he wouldn’t be the youngest, and it meant that he would have a companion like Enzo had Vico had each other. It meant he would have a friend, bringing his grand total of friends up to four: his Italian friend Antonello, his father, his mother, and the soon-to-be-born baby.
“You know, Sonny, when you were born, we didn’t have a place like this.” Alonzo pointed around the hospital waiting room with the brim of his hat.
“Really?”
“Yes. We didn’t have any good hospitals nearby, so your mother had you right in our bedroom.”
“Ew.” Sonny scrunched his nose, to his father’s amusement.
“Maybe, but that’s how we did it. It was hard on your mother. But we made it through unharmed.” He leaned over and patted Sonny’s shoulder.
“Where did Mamma give birth to us, Papà?” Vico asked, his head tilted.
“Let’s see…Sonny Boy was born in 1905, and he was born in a bed. You two rascals were born five years before, in 1900, so I will bet you were born”—he tapped his lip with his forefinger, and looked up inquisitively—“probably in a barn somewhere.” Enzo and Vico shouted out with mock indignation and clamored across Sonny to pick at their father.
“Shh, shh. We have to stay quiet,” Alonzo said. Enzo and Vico snickered, but obeyed.
Sonny didn’t like it when the silence grew. The sounds of the hospital were scary. All of it was foreign and strange. His feet tapped against the linoleum beneath him until his father’s hand rested on his knee to slow them.
“Are you nervous, Sonny Boy?” Alonzo asked. Sonny nodded. “That’s okay. I am too.”
“It doesn’t look like it,” Sonny replied, and his father chuckled.
“Maybe it doesn’t. But I am. But we’ve been through this before, and it was very scary last time. But God got us through it then, and I bet he will now. You know what I do now instead of tapping my feet?” Alonzo materialized the rosary he had clutched in his palm. “Do you want to pray with me?” Sonny shook his head. He didn’t want to pray. He didn’t want to do anything except see his mother and his new sibling. “I know how you feel. I didn’t want to pray when you were born either. But your uncle Giuseppe made me.” Alonzo began to put the rosary back in his pocket, but then hesitated. “Have I ever told you about who this is?” His finger traced along the beads to a silver disc in the center, which bore the image of a bearded man clutching to a cross.
“No.”
“This is Saint Bernard of Corleone. Boys, listen to this.” He waved to get Enzo and Vico’s attention. “He is a Sicilian, like us. He was a soldier once, and he was very mean and angry, and he did a lot of bad things.”
“He did?” the boys asked, confused about why such a man would appear on their father’s rosary.
“Yes, he did. But after a while, he realized he was doing a bad thing. He realized he was putting those he loved in danger. So he went far away, where God talked to him and told him to change his life.”
“God talked to him?” Sonny asked.
“Yes. You could say that. God talks to many of us, if you listen.”
“Doesn’t he just talk to the priests?” Sonny asked, noticing a look of surprise and pride in his father’s eyes.
“Most of the time, yes. But sometimes he whispers in our ear and tells us what to do. He informed this man that he was doing some bad things, and told him to change it. So he did. Now he is a saint of the Catholic Church.”
“Is he still alive?” Vico asked.
“No, he died a long time ago. He’s with God now.”
“I wish I could have met him,” Sonny said. The silence returned, and the twins lost interest. “Papà, I think I would like to pray. Thank you for making me pray, like Uncle Giuseppe made you.” Alonzo pinched Sonny’s cheek.
“Of course. Your uncle was a good man, and he taught me many things.”
“Where is he now?” Sonny asked. Alonzo turned to his boy, his face now as stonelike as the Statue of Liberty’s.
“He’s with God now too, Sonny Boy.”
Little Italy, Manhattan—April 9, 1911
Sonny was afraid that if his father pulled his tie any tighter, he would suffocate.
“Stop squirming, Sonny. There, ready to go.” Alonzo stood up and went to help Enzo and Vico finish getting dressed.
“I thought you said today was a holiday?” Enzo pouted and tugged at the collar of his coat.
“It is a holiday. That’s why you boys don’t have to go to school today.”
“Then why is everyone so sad?” Vico asked.
“Because a great man has died, and today we are going to tell him thank you.” Sonny had heard his mother say before that to wear black was a bad omen for a Sicilian, and it could only be worn in times of mourning. It didn’t seem that they knew this fellow, but apparently, they were mourning regardless.
“How can we tell him thank you if he’s already dead?” Enzo asked as Alonzo finished with his tie. Rosa walked over and popped him lightly on the mouth.
“That’s disrespectful. Never say anything against the dead. You’ll pay for it. Now hurry up and get ready.”
“Rosa,” Alonzo said, gesturing to the small flask in her hand, “before a funeral?”
After Alonzo had dressed his sons to his liking, the family made its way out onto the street. People were pouring out of their tenements from all directions. They were all dressed in black as well, and wore gloomy faces.
“Where are we going to tell the dead man thank you?” Sonny asked.
“Hush now. We’re going to Old St. Patrick’s.” Alonzo held a finger to his lips. The walk to their church was usually only a few minutes’ walk, but not this morning. The throng of people continued to grow, and everyone moved slowly, as if afraid of what they would find at the cathedral.
A man approached and kissed Alonzo on either cheek.
“Damned shame, isn’t it?” the man asked, beginning to walk along with them, his wife and son following close behind
. After a moment, Sonny recognized him as Mr. Bacchiega, one of the few other Sicilians who lived in Little Italy, but it was hard to recognize him in that black suit.
“It is. He was a hero.” Alonzo’s voice was barely audible, out of respect.
“I heard that he died poor, and that they had to raise money just to give his wife, Adeline, something to live on.” Mr. Bacchiega shook his head.
“Well, yeah. The bulls make their living on bribery and outright theft, and Petrosino was an honest man. Of course, he was broke,” Mrs. Bacchiega said from behind them. Alonzo declined to respond. Sonny noticed that his mother had also been silent most of the morning, and he didn’t know what that meant. She instead smoked cigarette after cigarette.
As the steeple of the cathedral rounded into view, they stopped. The line was backed up for half a mile to Old St. Patrick’s. More people piled in behind them, and waited. Everyone was keeping their voices quiet, but a general murmur of confusion and sadness could be heard throughout.
“Good morning, friends.” Another man approached and greeted Sonny’s father and Mr. Bacchiega. Their party seemed unperturbed, but Sonny started shaking. He recognized the man. He recognized him by the bushy mustache that hovered over his lips and his mangled hand. The Hook Hand was young but appeared ageless, like an ancient black shadow.
“I wouldn’t call it a good morning,” Mr. Bacchiega said after half accepting a kiss.
“That’s a matter of perspective.” The Hook Hand shrugged his shoulders.
“You got a lot of balls even showing up here, Morello,” Mr. Bacchiega said, his wife reaching forward and placing a concerned hand on his shoulder. The Hook Hand held out his hands, a coy grin splitting across his face.
“A few years away from Sicily, and we forget our manners, don’t we? Don Morello will do.” The Hook Hand tipped his gray fedora and walked off.
“Papà?” Sonny clutched his father’s hand.
“Quiet,” Alonzo whispered.
A horse-drawn carriage appeared down the road. The crowd’s murmuring dissipated. The policemen marching before it passed by, and the hearse followed behind it. The carriage was transparent, and, inside, a coffin could be seen clearly, the stars and stripes of the American flag draped over it. As Verdi’s Messa da Requiem began to play in the distance, women in the crowd dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs. Some of the men saluted.
Alonzo only lowered his eyes. Rosa lit another cigarette.
“I heard his corpse was so filled with bullets, they couldn’t even give his wife an open casket,” Bacchiega said, whispering to Alonzo, who, in return, shot him a look that immediately silenced him.
After the hearse arrived at the cathedral, Alonzo led the boys away, back toward their tenement. They still wanted answers, though, and Alonzo seemed to know it.
“That man was a policeman. Do you know what a policeman is?” Alonzo asked his boys.
“Yes, Papà.” Enzo rolled his eyes.
“Someone who fights bad guys?” Sonny looked up, only half sure of his answer.
“That’s right. His name was Joseph Petrosino. And he was like us, from across the sea. He fought against a lot of bad men, and did a lot of good things for New York.”
“But the bad men won?” Sonny asked. His father exhaled and thought for a moment, which concerned Sonny even more.
“They didn’t win. There will always be bad men. And sometimes even good men can do bad things. They’ll always be around. But there will always be men like Petrosino to protect us.”
“I hope so, Papà.”
Little Italy, Manhattan—June 15, 1911
Sonny spent all the time he could at his father’s barbershop. With school out, and not much to do, he pitched in all day when his father would allow it. He occasionally took the day off to play baseball with Antonello and some of the other boys in his neighborhood, but he liked to be around his father more than anything. Watching Alonzo talk with the important men that came in for a haircut or a hot lather shave was all the compensation he needed.
He even got to stay up later. Sonny smiled to himself as he swept up the hair from the last haircut of the evening, imagining that Enzo and Vico were being scolded by their mother to get into bed and turn the lights off. But Sonny got to stay out as long as his father left the lights on, and Alonzo often left them on until late, allowing some of his busier associates to come by after a long day of work.
The lights were off now, a little after 9:30 p.m., but Alonzo always said that they couldn’t leave until the job was done.
“Cut the music, Sonny Boy, it’s almost time to go,” Alonzo said, nodding to the record player and making for the door. As he reversed the sign from “Open” to “Closed,” blinding headlights swept through the barbershop. The car came to a stop just before the place.
“Pops?” Sonny had begun calling him the New York City version of “Papà” to fit in with the other boys in the neighborhood.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell him we’re closed. Go grab the trash from the bathroom.” Sonny propped the broom against the wall and hurried to do as he was told, but kept the doorway in his line of sight. He grabbed the bag of trash, tied it, and threw it over his shoulder. He paced back to the door and craned his head to see his father.
He was standing with his shoulders back and his head straight. His discussion with the man seemed to be formal, perhaps unpleasant. Sonny strained his eyes to make out the man’s features, but he could only see a thick mustache that seemed to cover most of the man’s face. His father began to shake his head. Their voices began to rise. The other man stepped closer and moved his arms emphatically. Alonzo waved his hands.
Sonny, heart now stirring, made for the doorway. He wasn’t sure what he would do, but figured his presence might defuse the situation.
He pushed back the door with the side of his hand and then stepped out.
His eyes widened as he saw the other man lift up his hand, a mutilated hand, a few nubs and a few fingers, covered in old scarred flesh. The man held his hand out in the reflection of his headlights, seeming to put it on display. Alonzo heard the creak of the door and turned to his boy. Before he could say anything, Sonny turned and ran back inside.
“Sonny!” his father said, calling out as the door slammed behind him. He hastened to the back of the shop, as far away from the door and the Hook Hand as he could get. He didn’t know why the man had returned, but he didn’t see any envelopes this time. Sonny didn’t figure that any more good luck was about to befall them.
Alonzo
Castellammare del Golfo—October 16, 1905
The silence blared in his ears. The darkness burned in his eyes.
They had been sitting in that old shack for what felt like an eternity, and Alonzo was beginning to wonder if they had made a mistake.
After the Armettas killed Uncle Umberto, he should have retaliated. He should have killed every last one of them. He should have filled up the cemeteries with every male relative of theirs in Sicily. Giuseppe had encouraged him to do just that. Young Turridru had promised he would do it himself. Old Ignazio had said that if he still had his sight, he would’ve shoved their corpses into barrels and they’d be halfway across the Atlantic by now.
But what was he supposed to do? Alonzo had three boys to look out for now. And the Armettas had proven how reckless they had become, how daring. They had also proven that they had no qualms about killing without honor. Using an automobile for a shooting and then scurrying away? Attacking at a baby’s christening? Alonzo couldn’t remember anything like this happening before. And as much as he wanted to avenge Uncle Umberto, he had his wife and children to think about. Rosa had always had a weak constitution when it came to the Borgata lifestyle, but after the attack, she was utterly shaken to her core. She looked at Alonzo with dark eyes that were filled with something he couldn’t place. Apathy, perhaps? Anger? He didn’t know. But something had to be done, or she might just drink herself into oblivion. Alonzo had told her to
put down the flask a few times.
“Drinking that much while you’re still breastfeeding the baby might not be good, Rosa.” She looked at him blankly until he walked away. She blamed him for what had happened. She probably had the right to. But she blamed Piddu even more. Although the young man remained in their house, sleeping in their guest bed and eating their food, she wouldn’t look or talk to him. It was as if he were not there.
Finally, the door creaked open. A beam of sunlight raced along the floors and up onto the walls, and dust stirred from the hay-covered barn floor. Alonzo and Giuseppe stood, and Ignazio struggled to do the same until Turridru helped him up.
“Are you armed?” Alonzo asked as his guests stepped into the darkness.
“No, we aren’t armed. If we wanted you dead, you wouldn’t leave this building,” said Lupe, the patriarch of the Armettas, as he looked around the wooden shack.
“Was this really the only place we could meet?” one of his sons asked with a disapproving laugh.
“Didn’t want it to be in public. In case you became trigger happy again,” Giuseppe said, looking over each of the Armettas for anything suspicious.
Lupe pulled out a chair for the single table in the center of the room, and sat down deliberately. He removed his velvet hat and brushed his fingers over the peacock feather on its side.
“What is it you want to discuss?”
“What do you think?” Giuseppe asked.
“We want this bloodshed to end,” Alonzo said, ignoring the grunt from Ignazio behind him.
“Why would you wish to end a game you just started?” Lupe said carelessly, munching on a cigar almost as long as his forearm, and lighting it with two matches.
“We didn’t start it,” Alonzo replied.
Suddenly, Lupe’s callous demeanor evaporated and he shifted in his chair. “I seem to recall that three of my little cousins are now dead. And it was you who pulled the trigger.”
Sins of the Father Page 4
