“How are you, sir? What do you have for me?”
Both Gallagher and the deputy beside him wore long faces.
“You’re a hard man to find, lad. Your mother and sister have no idea where you are,” Gallagher said, munching on the cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“It doesn’t matter as long as I bring home a few dollars, right?” The officers looked around at the dock behind him, probably considering how little he was being paid here.
“We found the guy you mentioned. The club hand. It wasn’t him.”
“How do you know?”
“He just got out of jail a few years ago. He’s been clean ever since, as far as we can tell.”
Sonny shook his head and wondered if they were joking.
“You mean, he just hasn’t been caught. You can’t be serious?”
“Serious as polio. We keep an eye on the guy. There’s no chance this guy could have arranged the murder of a respected barber in the middle of the city without us knowing about it,” the deputy replied.
“Well someone did.”
“From everything we’ve looked into, the man was an associate of your father’s in Sicily. They connected a few times when they both arrived here in the States, and then went their own ways,” the detective said, tapping the tip of his cigar on the bottom of his boot.
Sonny took a moment to digest the information. He was nervous to hear the answer to his next question.
“So what’s our next lead?”
“We don’t have one,” Gallagher said firmly but not without a hint of shame.
“There has to be someone. Have you talked to witnesses? Someone who might have seen the guy going in?”
“You know your onions, kid, so I’m going to be upfront with you. The department is stretched thin as it is, what with all these gangland killings. We’re under a strict mandate: if something looks like it has something to do with the illegal booze trade, it does have something to do with the illegal booze trade. And we can only devote so many resources to the investigation. Sorry, kid.”
“What makes you think this had anything to do with alcohol? My father’s olive skin and greasy hair?” Sonny’s voice rose, and he clenched his fists.
“We had an officer at the funeral, boyo. Half the biggest bootleggers in Manhattan were in attendance,” the deputy said, stepping forward, his thumbs in his belt loops.
Sonny started to stammer out a response, shocked by the revelation, but Gallagher put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“There’s nothing else we can do, kid. Now, if you find something more substantial, you know where to find me. I’ll look into it on my own time.” Gallagher patted Sonny’s shoulder a few times and then turned to leave with the deputy.
They were almost back to the patrol car when Sonny shouted after them: “My brothers and I will keep looking. And when we do, we’ll take care of it ourselves.”
Gallagher did an about-face and approached Sonny, the empathy drained from his face entirely.
“Alright. You do that, kid. Then you’ll die, and we won’t be able to find your killers either.” He threw his cigar to the pavement and stomped it out. “I just feel bad for Sicilian women. They’re the ones always left to spoon up your guts.”
Sonny’s eyelids twitched, and he thought about throwing a punch. Luckily, the two policemen turned and entered the car before he’d made up his mind.
He picked up his crate again, far more aggressively than before.
Columbia University, Manhattan—December 16, 1928
Sonny took his time ascending the steps of the Columbia dormitory to his room. He dreaded seeing anyone.
He didn’t want to hear their condolences. He didn’t want to hear that he would be in their prayers, and he certainly didn’t want to answer their questions. They had been interested in his Italian culture, and its tendency to act outside the realm of the law. How much more would they be interested in now that his father had been killed in cold blood? Was his father just another fatality in a long string of gangland killings that dated back to the inauguration of Prohibition? Perhaps the detective was right.
His Columbia University friendships now seemed shallow, fake.
He ducked into his room and, to his relief, found that his roommate, Ralphie, wasn’t present. He was probably at another dance, finding some easy girl to neck with. Sonny didn’t want any more of it.
He grabbed a shoebox beneath his bed and began sweeping a few things into it. The Bible from his nightstand, a deck of playing cards from his dresser, a pair of black oxford shoes from his closet.
There in the closet hung his new suit and his porkpie hat. The outfit had cost him half of what he earned in an entire semester, and he had been proud of it. He felt nothing but disgust now.
He pulled the suit from the hanger and the porkpie hat from the shelf, then threw both of them at the wall.
They were reminders that he hadn’t been there. He should have been there.
They were reminders that things would never go back to how they were.
He should have been at A.C. Barbers. He should have been with his dad. Nothing would have happened then.
He shut the box and hurried out of the room.
“Whoa, where are you headed, sailor?” Rachel said, meeting him as he exited the building. “I was just coming to see if you were home.”
“What?”
“I wanted to see you tonight.” Her eyes traced down to the box in his hands. “What’s that?”
“I’m leaving, Rach.”
“What?” Her face twisted in confusion and fear.
“Yeah. I need to be with my family.” He stepped toward her, hoping she would embrace him.
“There is nothing you can do now, Sonny.”
“I don’t know. But my mind is made up,” he said.
“You’re going to graduate in May, Sonny. Don’t do this.” She placed both hands on his shoulders, and attempted to shake him until he met her eyes.
“I’ve already missed a few of my finals. I’m going to have to repeat the semester.”
“Next year, then. Alonzo would want you to finish your schooling.”
He tensed at the mention of his father.
“I have to earn for my family.”
“And how well will you be able to do that without finishing your degree, Sonny? What about finance?”
Sonny looked away.
“I’ll come back and finish.”
She removed her hands from his shoulders and stepped back.
“Let’s just call the kettle black, Sonny. You aren’t leaving for money! I know what you’re doing. You’re going to do something stupid.”
He looked off at the bell tower in the distance.
“I just need to be with my family.”
“He isn’t coming back, Sonny. I wish he was. I wish I could do something about it, but I can’t. You can’t either. Sonny, please don’t do this. Let me help you.” She reached forward and put her arms around him. She buried her head in his chest.
The smell of her hair almost made him reconsider, but his mind was already made up. For the past three years, he had comforted her over every trivial little thing that accompanied life on campus. The sound of her weeping made it hard for him to breathe. But there was nothing he could do about it, not anymore.
He stepped away from her.
“It’s just something I have to do, Rach.”
She shook her head.
“No. You don’t. You just want to.” She reached inside her dress and pulled the necklace with his class ring off and handed it to him.
“Why are you giving this to me?” he asked. It was pretty obviously, he thought, but he didn’t want it back.
“Maybe another dame will come along and save you, Sonny. But I don’t deserve to be your girlfriend if I can’t keep you from destroying your life.” Bitter tears ripped from the side of her eyes and flowed with her mascara down her cheeks.
She turned and walked away.
Sonny thought about chasing her down, saying that he loved her and that one day he would make things right and they could be together again. But it was no use. He kept his feet planted until she ascended the steps into the female dormitory.
He let the class ring slip from his fingers, and then stepped past it.
Little Italy, Manhattan—December 23, 1928
Sonny held his father’s rosary beneath the table, rubbing the beads with the tips of his thumbs.
“You have to eat your food, Ma,” he said, tamping down his frustration. She looked at him with displeasure and pushed the plate away. The police had given the rosary and a few other items to Sonny after they were finished analyzing Alonzo’s body. He had asked where his father’s ivory-handled razor was, but apparently it had never turned up. He searched the barbershop himself, to no avail. The rosary would make a nice consolation prize. It hadn’t left him since.
“It’s good, Ma. I worked hard on it,” Maria said. It wasn’t good, Sonny thought, but he couldn’t blame his sister much. Rosa had been the cook of the house until Alonzo’s death. Afterward, she showed disinterest in eating altogether.
A knock sounded on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Sonny said, standing from his chair.
“No, allow me,” Maria said, just as anxious to get away from their sulking mother.
Sonny made it to the door first, finding a man he didn’t recognize on the other side.
“Hello,” the man said, a grin appearing and then disappearing just as fast.
“Can we help you?” Sonny asked. The man extended a bouquet of flowers and a brown bag.
“Mr. Domingo?” Maria said, craning to see over Sonny’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Well, just call me Buster. Here, I brought you some flowers.” He handed them to Maria, and gave the brown bag to Sonny. “That’s rigatoni. My family’s favorite dish. That’s for Mrs. Consentino.”
“Thanks,” Sonny said, and began to shut the door.
“Thank you, Buster. She’ll love it,” Maria said. Sonny knew Rosa wouldn’t eat it, and assumed Maria did too.
Buster tipped his hat and turned to leave. Maria pushed by her big brother and followed Buster. Sonny started to close the door, but then left the door open a crack to watch them.
“Why did you come?” Her voice was more gentle than questioning.
Buster lit a cigarette and leaned up against the wall.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to sleep,” he said, trying to explain himself by talking with his hands, but he still couldn’t find a way to express what he meant. “Thinking about you all without your father on Christmas. Your brother meant a lot to me in France, and I just…” He couldn’t make eye contact. “I better go.”
“Wait,” Maria said, following him down the steps, “what are you doing for the holidays?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. My family is all in Chicago. I guess nothing.”
“You should join us.”
“No, I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose.” He leaned down the stairs like he was trying to get away.
“Please do. Maybe you can convince Vico to come. We’d love to see both the twins. And you as well.”
Buster hesitated, and seemed to search for more excuses. “Okay. I’ll be here. I’ll make sure Vico is here too. We may be out of uniform, but he’ll still follow an order.” He gave Maria a boyish grin and then descended down the steps.
Maria walked back into their tenement, her cheeks rosy.
“You should of asked Ma first, Maria.” Sonny was suspicious, like any big brother might have been.
“Maybe he can cheer her up. He cheers me up,” she said, scurrying into the kitchen.
“Yeah, I bet.”
Maria
Little Italy, Manhattan—December 25, 1928
The tree was adorned with garlands and several ornaments, but it still felt bare. Perhaps it was the lack of presents beneath it.
Empty stockings hung from nails in the wall. They didn’t have a fireplace, but Sonny had bought some extra wood for a nickel on Christmas Eve, and he loaded it into the kitchen furnace to simulate one, like they usually did. “O Come, All Ye Faithful” played from a little radio Alonzo had saved up for the year prior.
Regardless of recent events, Maria was excited for Christmas dinner. It was nice to have everyone in one place for the evening, and she had longed to see Buster again since he’d visited a few days before.
“Hey, Ma,” Enzo said as he, Vico, Buster arrived. He leaned down and kissed Rosa on the head, followed by Vico, and Buster gave her a kiss on the hand. Maria found herself anxious, hoping that they could have a pleasant evening. It was the first time the entire family had been together in years without a death as the cause for the reunion.
“Hey, Sonny Boy.” Vico gave his brother a hug. His American Sicilian accent, once fairly thick, had dissipated during his time in France. Enzo’s had noticeably deepened as a result of the company he had kept in Sing Sing penitentiary.
“Hey, Maria,” Buster said with a nervous grin, “food smells delicious.”
“Well, let’s hope it tastes just as good. We’ve been laboring since we first woke up,” Maria said, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder and giving Buster a lingering hug.
The door opened and closed again. The sound was followed by loud footsteps. Everyone knew who it was.
“You didn’t think you could have a Christmas dinner without me, did you?” Antonello Balducci entered the room with a low bow, as if he were the honored guest. A smile split across Sonny’s face as they embraced. Even after Sonny had left for college, Antonello had continued to come around, and even visited his boyhood friend at Columbia for some of their most interesting parties.
Tall, thin, and handsome, he had matured from the underfed awkward youth to a brash and loud young man.
“Merry Christmas, Ma!” He bent and gave Rosa a big hug. He had taken to calling her that some years ago after living with the Consentinos, partially in jest.
“Antonello, you should be with your own mother on Christmas,” Rosa said with a furrowed brow. Maria was thankful just to hear her voice.
“I’ve been with her all day. She likes to hit the hay early these days. Plus, I had to come get some of your famous cooking.”
“I was the cook today, actually,” Maria said with pride.
“Of course. And I bet it’ll be a masterpiece.” Antonello gave her a forceful hug, embarrassing her.
“Well, let’s dig in. I’m starvin’,” Enzo said, patting his growing midsection.
They settled in around the table, and after a brief pause, Sonny assumed the seat once reserved for their father.
Rosa materialized a flask and poured a bit into the coffee Maria had just prepared for her. Her kids exchanged a glance but didn’t dare say a word. She had never much obeyed the laws of Prohibition, calling it an Anglo-Saxon attack on their “foreigners’ ways.” But since Alonzo’s death, she had remained saturated in alcohol most evenings.
“Mind if I get a pull, Ma?” Enzo said playfully, trying to lighten the mood. Maria frowned at him, and he shrugged. “Madonna mia, that’s the real McCoy, Ma,” Enzo said, wincing after his first taste. “You must know somebody good.”
“Can we just say the blessing?” Maria asked, hoping to get to more pleasant conversation. She was interested to hear Buster speak more. They bowed their heads, and Sonny led the Lord’s Prayer, the other murmuring along quietly with him.
They ate their fill, and some more. Enzo and Antonello entertained them with stories, and kept the table laughing, leading the charge themselves.
“Come on, soldier boys, tell us a war story,” Enzo said when he had run through all of his fresh material. Vico looked to Buster, who spun his fork through the remaining pesce spada on the plate.
“Not much to tell, really. Long time ago now.”
“Vico told me you gave the Kaiser a right ass kicking in those woods.” Antonello winked.
/>
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Buster set his fork down, making it clear he didn’t want to discuss the war any further.
“You boys want some dessert?” Maria asked, already standing.
“Her custard is the cat’s pajamas,” Sonny said, kissing the tips of his fingers. Modern phrases like these always seemed awkward coming from him, and he seemed to know it.
“I couldn’t. The war might have been a long time ago, but us soldiers are still easily sated.” Buster stood and folded his napkin. “Anything I can do to help clean up?”
“No, no, we’ll take care of that,” Maria said, really wanting to ask him to stay longer. “Coffee?”
“No, I better get going. The papers say the roads might get fairly icy. Better get home before long.” He thanked Rosa with a kiss on the cheek, and shook the hands of the men, one by one. “Maria, thank you for a delightful meal.”
After he had left, Maria noticed a pair of gloves beside a table in the entryway. “Oh, I think he forgot his gloves.”
“The brown ones are mine,” Antonello said, and craned his head to see if they were his.
“I’ll just run and ask him.” She hurried out the door, hoping she could still catch him. “Buster,” she said after descending the three flights of the stairs to the front of the tenement. Chasing him outside was becoming a reoccurring pattern.
“Yeah?” he replied, not surprised by her presence.
“These your gloves?”
“Oh no. Don’t own any, actually.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling a bit foolish. Before he could leave, she said, “There’s a talkie I’ve been wanting to see.”
“Really?” He seemed interested. “What is it?”
“Yeah, a Charlie Chaplin. My girlfriends say it’s the best they’ve seen.”
“Sounds nifty.”
“I want you to take me.” She pretended she wasn’t nervous.
“Oh…okay. Next week, then?” He couldn’t hide his flushed cheeks.
“Thursday works.” She pulled nervously on the hemline of her dress and began ascending the stairs, only smiling once he was out of view.
Sins of the Father Page 15
