“Yeah, he never could eat his weight,” Enzo said, but Bonventre already looked bored of talking.
“Come to the back.” He turned and waved them on through the aisles of his little grocer. He unclipped a felt rope to the area behind the cash register and led them into a back room.
Vico squinted his eyes against the haze of smoke that drifted out to greet them. Within, several men were huddled around a table. The red cloth draped across it was covered in cigar ash and empty wineglasses.
“This is my cousin Stefano Magaddino.” Bonventre pointed to one of the men, who had a cigarette clutched between his fingers.
“Nice to meet you, Stefano,” Enzo said, and hurried across the room to greet him, hand extended. He prepared to give the man a kiss on either cheek, but Bonventre’s younger cousin looked away with disinterest.
“What did I just hear come out of your mouth? Who is Stefano?” asked another man at the table. He stood up and glared back and forth between Enzo and Bonventre.
“Easy, Bartolo. These boys are new. They don’t know the rules yet.” Bonventre shot Enzo a look and clenched his jaw.
“You can call me Bartolo. You can call him Francesco. But that is Mr. Magaddino.” The young man, not much older than Enzo and Vico, took a shot of whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table before returning to his seat.
“Right. Won’t happen again,” Enzo said and tried to readjust his shoulders. Ever since Enzo and Vico had left their tenement that morning, under the pretext of visiting friends in East Harlem, Enzo had been talking this meeting up. He’d described Mr. Bonventre like one might depict a friendly uncle, like his crew were old chums, and the two Consentino boys would walk in to an ovation. Vico was now ashamed that he had believed him.
“These are the boys we’re taking with us?” Magaddino finally looked up from the table. He had a round, bovine face, and wild eyes. Vico figured he wasn’t much older than thirty, but he was balding and had a touch of gray in his hair. He carried the same aura of experience and toughness that Bonventre did—similar to the one Vico had always sensed in his own father.
“Yes.” Bonventre leaned across the table and filled three glasses of whiskey.
“Mr. Bonventre, what makes you think these two aren’t some square johns who’ll fold at the first sign of heat?” Bartolo said, not taking his eyes off Enzo. He placed a revolver on the red tablecloth, then returned his hand to a shot glass.
“That’s none of your concern, Bartolo,” Bonventre said.
“We aren’t scared of the bulls,” Enzo said, suddenly appearing every part the sixteen-year-old.
“Bushwa,” the man identified as Francesco said from the opposite side of the table. Enzo looked at Mr. Bonventre in consternation. His mouth was open, and his eyes darted about rapidly.
“Bartolo.” Mr. Bonventre stepped toward him and gestured for him to stand up. He lit a cigarette and came close to Bartolo’s face. “I’m going to show you why they can be trusted.”
“How?” Bartolo asked, his manner suddenly less imposing than before.
“I’ll show you. Don’t give me a reason to show you why you shouldn’t question me.” He turned then to Enzo and Vico. “Take off your shirts.”
Vico looked to Enzo, suddenly wondering what he had gotten them into.
“Wh—” Enzo started to say, but stifled it. He began to unbutton the shirt that had once belonged to his father. He turned to Vico and gestured for him to do the same.
“Get on your knees.” Bonventre ashed his cigarette and then selected another from a gold cigarette holder.
“Did we do something wrong?” Enzo said, already hastening to do as he was told.
“Don’t ask any questions.” Magaddino reached across the table, grabbed the revolver, and began to clean its barrel with a handkerchief.
“There is something I learned back in Sicily. I actually learned it, believe it or not, from a Consentino, the grandfather of the two boys before you.” Bonventre found himself a seat and gestured to Bartolo and Francesco. They stood up and slid off their belts. “Go ahead.”
The two lined up behind Enzo and Vico. The first belt lash against Vico’s back stung. The second hurt worse. As the third connected to his back and rib cage, he began to feel a numbing sensation. The fourth drove the wind from his lungs.
Bonventre watched with apathy, taking long drags of his cigarette.
The subsequent blows caused Vico’s entire body to feel ice cold compared to the burning of his back.
“That’s enough,” Bonventre said. Vico looked up, now realizing how forced his breathing had become. He looked to Enzo, who was trying desperately to remain composed. “Now it’s your turn,” Bonventre said, his voice cold and definitive.
Behind them, Bartolo and Francesco began to unbutton their shirts, and plopped to their knees as well. They did so without pleasure, but Vico sensed it wasn’t their first time receiving similar instructions. Enzo and Vico looked to each person in the room.
“Stand. And hit them harder than they hit you, twice as hard. Twice as long.” Bonventre’s face was momentarily clouded by smoke.
They hesitated to stand, and assumed positions behind the two kneeling Sicilians.
Magaddino stood when he noticed their hesitation.
“Hey.” He pointed, eyebrows raised and lips snarled. “Do it, or I’ll give the second session myself.”
Enzo and Vico began to do as instructed. Vico held back at first but, catching a glimpse of the men before them, continued again more violently.
“Enough.” Bonventre stood after the blows had continued for a moment. In each hand, he clutched a glass of whiskey, which he handed to the twins. Returning to the table, he lifted a glass of his own. “It’s one thing to say you’ll be silent when things are silent, it is another entirely to remain silent when receiving a beating.” He now spoke in Italian. Vico exhaled in relief and took his shot of whiskey with delight. His back now stung a little less.
They departed the grocer just after the sun had set.
“Do you know what you are to do?” Bonventre said, slipping on a fedora and brushing off his camel-hair polo coat.
“Yes, sir,” Enzo and Vico said in unison. A car pulled to a stop along the curb. It was a Packard, Twin Six, if Vico guessed right. And when it came to cars, he usually did. A man exited the driver’s seat and opened a door for Mr. Bonventre.
“I hope so. Francesco, I’ll see you tomorrow. I expect my cut in an envelope in the morning.” Francesco nodded as Mr. Bonventre and Magaddino entered the car.
“Let’s go, then,” Bartolo said, his thin frame already shivering from the cold. Enzo and Vico followed them down the street for less than a block. They came to a stop at a Ford Model T that was covered in a light dusting of snow.
“Ma and Papà will be worried about us.” Vico spoke the concern that had been at the forefront of his mind since they had learned that this “job” would not take place until dark.
“We’ll tell ’em we fell asleep at Tommy’s. Don’t worry about it.” Enzo shrugged his shoulders, speaking in the Brooklyn accent that Bartolo and Francesco sported. Vico shook his head and blew hot air into his cupped hands.
“You two will be jigger men. Lookouts. When we break in, you’re gonna stand outside, on either side of the road. You see a prowl car, come let us know,” Francesco said, moving to the back of the automobile to crank-start it.
“Every bull in Williamsburg is a Mick, so they’re probably drunk by now.” Bartolo grinned. The thought of Irish policemen didn’t comfort Vico at all. “You about finished?”
“The damn thing doesn’t start when it’s cold. Give me a damn minute,” Francesco said. It was unclear whether or not his frustration came from Bartolo’s impatience or his car.
“You know what the salesman tries to sell the guy with the Model T?” Bartolo said, addressing Enzo and Vico for the first time. They stuttered in confusion. “It’s a joke,” he said, frustrated.
“No, what’s he tryin’ t
o sell?” Enzo said.
“He tries to sell him a speedometer. But the guy says he don’t need one. Why? He says it’s ’cause when he goes five miles an hour, the fender rattles. When he goes ten miles an hour, his teeth rattle. When he goes fifteen miles an hour, the transmission drops out.” Bartolo burst into laughter, with Enzo and Vico following his lead. Francesco looked up in frustration before returning his attention to the crankshaft. “Hey, I hear they are adding a magnet to the rear axle of the Ford.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the big idea?” Enzo asks, catching on.
“So it can pick up the parts that drop off the back.” More forced laughter followed.
“Lay off it,” Francesco said, the car finally rumbling to life. “Any of you have a car?” He waited. “Get in,” he said when no one replied.
“You two have a piece?” Bartolo asked as Francesco shifted into first gear and the car rolled to a start.
“No,” Vico said, his brother reluctant to do so.
“Here”—Bartolo tossed a revolver in the back seat—“you two can decide who keeps it. I’ve got two more of my own.” Enzo reached for it and placed it in his lap. Vico didn’t protest. He was beginning to think he had bitten off more than he could chew.
HEARINGS BEFORE THE
PERMANENT SUBCOMMITTEE ON INVESTIGATIONS
OF THE
COMMITTEE ON GOVERNMENT OPERATIONS
UNITED STATES SENATE
EIGHTY-EIGHTH CONGRESS
SECOND SESSION
PURSUANT TO SENATE RESOLUTION 17
SEPTEMBER 28, 1963
Chairman: Mr. Valachi, you mentioned that Enzo Consentino did not have a strong relationship with his father, Alonzo. Can you comment on this any further?
Mr. Valachi: I didn’t know him until later on, probably mid- to late-nineteen twenties.
Chairman: Answer the question, Mr. Valachi.
Mr. Valachi: I heard that Alonzo was upset when he got connected. Enzo became involved, and his father didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Chairman: Alonzo didn’t approve when Enzo became involved in criminal activity?
Mr. Valachi: Correct, sir. That’s about all I know. His father cut ties, and Enzo got more and more involved.
Chairman: Involved with Alonzo’s associates?
Mr. Valachi: I don’t know who Alonzo’s associates were, or the associates of Enzo, for that matter. I wouldn’t think so, though.
Chairman: You wouldn’t think so. What leads you to this conclusion?
Mr. Valachi: If they were Alonzo’s associates, they wouldn’t have involved his family members if he didn’t like it. He might have been a nobody in the States, but he still had powerful friends. I doubt anyone would have wanted to step on his toes.
Chairman: Step on his toes?
Mr. Valachi: Yeah. It would have been disrespectful to a Sicilian to involve his sons in the life without his say-so.
Chairman: Can you speculate about who these men might have been?
(Mr. Valachi receives counsel from his attorney.)
Mr. Valachi: No. I didn’t know them. I wasn’t part of what the Sicilians did. I was still running with some Irish boys at the time. I don’t have anything else to say on the matter.
Chairman: The board will decide which questions to ask, Mr. Valachi.
Alonzo
Castellammare del Golfo—April 13, 1906
Alonzo was alone.
Less than a year after he had sent Piddu on his way, he’d sent his wife and three children to stay with Rosa’s elderly father in Segesta. Anywhere was better and safer than Castellammare del Golfo, but Alonzo still worried.
After Giuseppe showed up at his doorstep saying that he had effectively guaranteed that this war of theirs would continue until the last man was standing, things had been silent. Alonzo hadn’t left his property. Giuseppe had stayed with him most of the time, but he was restless, and he went to town whenever he could convince his brother to let him go, to “check on how things were.”
Alonzo was restless in his own way too, but he wouldn’t leave. Even in his own home, he expected to find a killer lurking behind every closed door. Still, unable to sit, he passed his time walking in the garden before his father’s home, attempting to take in the sights of the beautiful coastline and the smell of budding grapefruit and lemons. These held less meaning to him now than they had a few months prior.
He sat on his front porch, trying to calm his tapping foot as his brother had when his third son was being born. All the wine and cigars in Sicily couldn’t seem to do the trick.
Giuseppe had only been gone two days, but the silence inside Alonzo’s home was deafening. The quieter things became, the louder the voices in his head.
“Don Consentino?” a postal worker said from around the side of the house. Alonzo had seen him coming but had paid him no mind. His thoughts consumed him. A primitive state had taken control, and everything that was not perceived as a threat was ignored.
“Yes?”
“Delivery,” the postal worker said as his young aide came forth. The boy struggled to manage the weight of a barrel.
“Who is it from?” Alonzo asked. He waited for a response, but both postal workers had turned and climbed back into their carriage without responding.
The lone barrel waited at the foot of the porch.
Alonzo approached it slowly. He was cautious—not frightened, but cautious. An Armetta hit man stowing away in a barrel? Unlikely. Still, he reached into the side of his coat and drew his pistol. There was nothing to gain in taking chances, but everything to lose.
As he arrived at the barrel, a repulsive stench attacked his nostrils. He pulled away for a moment before continuing. With his fingertips, he pried open the lid. Within was a body.
It looked like his brother.
Alonzo gasped and fell down beside the barrel.
Alonzo patted his face, trying to wake himself up. He felt his chest heaving, out of control. He moaned.
He couldn’t help it, though, and leaned back over the barrel and lifted the lid.
It was his brother.
Giuseppe was stuffed into the barrel, his head hanging on by a single tendon, blood covering his face from unseen wounds. His eyes were wide open, and his face was still. At peace in death, but haunted by the last face he’d seen.
Alonzo moaned, and he fell on his back, the Sicilian sun burning his flooded eyes.
Turridru
Castellammare del Golfo, Sicily—December 19, 1906
Turridru led his father by the hand, and held a bouquet of flowers in the other. He debated dropping them, and wasn’t sure if the gesture would mean as much to Alonzo, as a month had passed since his brother’s death.
“Slow down, boy,” Ignazio said, and coughed. It was getting harder for him to travel all the time. Their donkey-drawn carriage had led them most of the way from the western part of the city, but Ignazio had demanded to walk the rest.
As Alonzo’s renowned garden rounded into view, Turridru noticed that the grass had started to brow, and some of the vegetable stalks had begun to whither.
Alonzo was on the front porch, looking like he hadn’t left that rocking chair in weeks. It very well might have been true. He certainly hadn’t ventured into town since he had discovered his brother stuffed into a barrel like an old sack of grain.
“Hello, Don Consentino,” Turridru said as he helped his father, step by step, up the porch.
“Thank you for coming.” Alonzo’s voice was barely audible. A creak sounded from the screened-in front door.
“Would you like something to drink?” It was Rosa. She and the boys had returned after receiving the news of Giuseppe’s death. Alonzo had apparently tried to insist on them leaving again, but he could hardly talk, let alone put together a coherent argument.
“No, ma’am, I’m fine. Father, would you like anything?” Turridru asked.
“You make a mockery of death by wearing that, boy.” Ignazio pointed to Alonzo’s black suit and
hat with his cane, ignoring the question.
“I am mourning the loss of my brother.” Alonzo didn’t look up, but it was clear he wasn’t willing to submit on the matter.
“He’s been dead over six months. It’s time you moved on.” Turridru considered trying to hush his father but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Have a seat if you’d like.” Alonzo gestured to the other chairs. Turridru helped his father into one and attempted to sit in another. The seat was suddenly blocked by Alonzo’s foot. “Not that one. That was Giuseppe’s.” Alonzo looked up. His eyes were hazy, like he was drunk or had gone days without sleeping. Perhaps it was both. Turridru propped himself up on the porch railing instead, receiving a splinter in the palm.
“The question is, what are you going to do about this?” Ignazio asked. He was unwilling to make small talk in his old age.
“Wait,” Alonzo said, and shrugged his shoulders.
“That isn’t enough,” Ignazio said, stirring. He was perturbed and didn’t hesitate to make it known. Turridru shifted uncomfortably. Seeing the leader of their Borgata like this was unsettling enough, but seeing him chastised for it was worse still. “How old are you now, boy?” Ignazio asked, cupping a hand around his ear so he could hear the answer clearly.
Alonzo had to calculate for a moment. “Thirty.”
“Thirty…” Ignazio considered the answer. “Not ten years a man, with three boys of your own, and you’re trying to lead this family in wartime.” Ignazio shook his head. “I respected your father. I followed every order he ever gave, but he made a mistake when he placed you in charge after he died. It should have been someone else, someone older and wiser.”
“I do not know why he wanted me to lead our Borgata. But here we are.”
Sins of the Father Page 7
