Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  “What do you think a Sicilian should do, then?” Sonny asked.

  “If I were you”—Maranzano paused and formulated his thoughts—“I would work for me. My associates would find great value in what you do. There would be money to be made, and less overhead from the privileged men who exploit you.”

  “How—”

  “A man like me is always looking for financial opportunities. I could finance a company, one like your current employer’s, but you would be in charge. You would make the rules, conduct your business with your own people.” Sonny was stunned. He shuffled uncomfortably and couldn’t decide what to do with his hands. “Vincente, let me ask you a question. Do your employers like your Italian clients?”

  Sonny remembered the judging glances of his coworkers, and the disapproving glares of Mr. Wallingford. He was bringing in too much business to be reprimanded for it, but it was clear that they didn’t like him—or his clientele.

  “They do not, sir.”

  “Exactly. The more Italians you bring in, the richer you become, the more they will hate you. You may work for and with those people, Vincente, but do not ever forget that you are not one of them.”

  “Yes, Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny avoided eye contact. Maranzano’s great height made that less difficult.

  “You should consider it. I understand you, Vincente, and you understand me. I can see that you are a man who desires autonomy in life, and I can give it to you.” Sonny had never considered himself to be individualistic by nature, but Maranzano’s proclamation had decreed it, so Sonny assumed it was true.

  “And what would you get out of this kindness, Mr. Maranzano?” Sonny asked just before Maranzano could enter his car.

  “As I’ve said, a man can never be involved in too many business ventures, as long as it is with his own people. My name would be associated with the business, of course, and some of the money I receive from less-savory occupations could be reported from there, which keeps the detectives’ watchful eyes off of my private affairs. I would also plan to use the building for my own work. Namely, the basement. It would not interfere with anything you do.”

  Maranzano now wore a gentle, familiar smile. He smoothed the brim of his homburg and placed it carefully on his head.

  “I hope that you’ll consider it, Vincente.” He winked and stepped into the car.

  “Wait,” Sonny said, and the chauffeur held the door open. “Mr. Maranzano, how could I get out of my contract?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Vincente. I’ll take care of it. As soon as you send the word, I’ll make arrangements.” Maranzano nodded to his chauffeur. The man returned to the driver’s seat, and the spotless white Lincoln pulled away. Sonny stood and watched until it faded into the mob of traffic, his mind already made up.

  Maria

  Little Italy, Manhattan—August 6, 1929

  Every time “Sonny Boy” by Al Jolson came on the radio, Maria noticed a glint in her brother’s eye. His lips seemed to tremble, and he’d look to the ground.

  Climb upon my knee, Sonny Boy,

  Though you're only three, Sonny Boy,

  You've no way of knowing,

  There's no way of showing,

  What you mean to me, Sonny Boy.

  When there are gray skies,

  I don't mind the gray skies,

  You make them blue, Sonny Boy.

  Friends may forsake me,

  Let them all forsake me,

  I still have you, Sonny Boy.

  Maria decided it was best if she turned down the volume. When she did so, Sonny looked up.

  “I like that song,” he said, so Maria turned it back up.

  She had remembered him as a mercurial young boy. He had been rather unconcerned with the goings-on of childhood dramas, disinterested in pursuing new friendships or the latest happenings in the world of sports. He was so withdrawn at social occasions that some of her girlfriends asked if he was lame or stupid.

  But Maria knew better.

  He only wanted to please his family, specifically their father. Sonny had worked relentlessly, toiling alongside Alonzo at the barbershop and at home, indulging in every word of thanks and appreciation. The entire family was of one mind after the news of Alonzo’s death spread. Everyone worried about Rosa, and their hearts broke for young Maria and for the two older boys who’d missed out on a chance to know their own father. But everyone asked first about Sonny. They were right to assume he had the hardest time with it.

  Every time Maria looked at him, she felt her chest tighten. There was sadness in his eyes, even when he returned home with money and good news that they had one less bill to worry about.

  “Mamma, eat your food,” Maria said, noticing that her mother was topping off her flask rather than finishing the pasta and veggies on her plate.

  “Bah,” Rosa said, shaking her head, “your father would never talk to me in such a way.” She had reverted to talking only in Sicilian, as if to spite the world that had taken her husband away from her.

  “We’re just looking out for you, Ma,” Sonny said. Rosa didn’t reply but picked up her fork.

  “When is that nice boy coming back over?” Rosa said after taking a few bites. She meant Buster. Even in her current state, she had taken a shine to him. It was no wonder. He was so polite and so charming, he probably could have won over the Kaiser himself if the army had given him a chance.

  “He’ll be here in a bit to pick me up. We’re going to go to Central Park to watch the stars,” Maria replied in Sicilian to please her mother.

  “You like him for that fancy car.” Rosa shook her head, but Maria picked up on a hint of humor in her weary voice. “Tell him to come say hello when he drops you off.”

  “Before you leave, Maria, I have some news for the both of you,” Sonny said, and scooted closer to the table. “I am planning to move into an apartment in Williamsburg. I went and saw the place today.” Maria’s mouth dropped, but their mother only shook her head. “I’d bring you both with me, but I know Ma won’t leave.” He looked to Rosa, hoping she would change her mind.

  Maria also hoped she’d change her mind. Their little tenement hadn’t gotten any bigger despite Sonny’s income. The bathroom was still down the hall, and the closest place to bathe was still a block away.

  But the memory of Alonzo was imprinted in that place.

  His ghost lingered in every corner of the tenement, still singing Sicilian hymns and telling funny stories he’d picked up from vegetable vendors on Mott Street.

  “Go ahead, with your big job. Move away.” Rosa turned to Maria. “And you run away with that nice boy and his fancy car. And leave me all alone.” She was so frail, she seemed as if it were difficult to even put together her sentences. She had been thin her whole life, even after the birth of four children, but now she was wasting away before their eyes.

  “Mamma.” Sonny pulled her hands between his own and compelled her to look at him. “I will never leave you alone. Everything I do, and will ever do, is for you and Maria. Don’t ever forget that.” The glimmer in his eye returned. Sonny wasn’t sentimental, and he never had been. He was as tough and stoic as their father. The single tear that gathered along his eyelid was enough to stop Maria’s breath.

  “I won’t,” Rosa said, trying to look at him. Her eyes, once sharp and alert, were now dull and unresponsive after years of working in a sweatshop all day, staring through dim light at a single needle.

  A horn sounded from outside. Maria stood and ran to the only window in their tenement, and smiled when she caught sight of Buster’s Model A.

  “That’s my ride,” she said, and hurried to grab her handbag. She paused and returned to give both her mother and brother a kiss on the cheek.

  “Don’t worry,” Sonny said, noticing his sister’s lingering glance. “I’ll take care of Ma tonight.”

  Maria hurried to the hat rack and picked out a cloche with silk roses atop it.

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Rosa sa
id as Maria slipped on her galoshes.

  “Come on, Ma, want me to read to you?” Sonny said as Maria closed the door behind her, hoping that her mother said yes.

  Vico

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—August 12, 1929

  “I don’t want to play,” the balding man said, and tried to shut the door. Vico stopped it from closing with his boot.

  “Mr. Brown is putting on a clean lottery. Everybody in the neighborhood is playing.” Vico was already irritated. It was the end of the day, and he had been shaking down every tenant along with his brother and Cargo like some two-bit thug. He didn’t like it, but Reina demanded he lay low after the LaDuca murder.

  Low-level shakedowns were all he could do to bide his time and stay in front of the people who could tell him something about his father.

  “No. I don’t want to play,” the man said again, and tried to shut the door again, which Vico resisted with ease.

  “Just pay up, fella. Maybe you’ll win.”

  “Maybe I’ll lose.”

  “Maybe I’ll break your legs if you don’t pay me. How ’bout that?”

  The man stared back, appalled, like all the others.

  After sizing up Vico’s chest and biceps, he fetched a nickel from his pocket and threw it in the burlap bag.

  “315a. You’ve been added to the Italian lottery. Mr. Brown will visit you with the payout if you win.”

  “Go to Naples.” The man flicked his hand under his chin. Vico thought about slamming the door into his nose but decided against it. He already had what he needed.

  A Model T honked outside the building.

  “Hey, Doyle! Come on!” a voice called out. It was the Gap—Vico could tell from the emphasis he always put at the end of Vico’s alias.

  “I got a few more apartments to hit,” Vico said as he exited out to the curb. He jingled the change in his bag to indicate it was still light.

  “Never mind that, come here.” Petrelli waved him over, a cigarette dangling from the gap in his teeth.

  “‘Mr. Lucchese won’t be pleased if we come back shortchanged’—that’s what you told me this morning,” Vico said.

  “Small potatoes. Mr. Lucchese’s priorities have changed.” The Gap opened up the back hatch of the Model T, and pulled Vico closer.

  Enzo joined them too.

  “The zip in 256b pulled a gun on me and told me to go drown in a lake. What do we do about that?” he asked, but quickly forgot what he was talking about. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Quiet down and get over here.”

  The Gap pulled a knife from his boot and pried open the lid to the milk crate in the car’s trunk.

  Within, he scraped back a few layers of straw to reveal several bottles of brown liquor.

  “This is Mr. Lucchese’s priority now.” He turned and smiled, revealing that charming gap.

  Enzo’s jaw dropped like a child’s on Christmas morning.

  “What are we supposed to do with that?” Vico closed the lid and peered over his shoulders to ensure none of the locals were watching.

  The Gap was perplexed.

  “Why, we unload it, Doyle. You really are a few buttons short, aren’t you?”

  The Gap pried open the crate again, a bit more forcefully than before, and brandished a bottle of liquor.

  “And this is the real McCoy too, not like the swill they’re cooking up in bathtubs around here. Mr. Lucchese met a Friend of Ours in Canada who’s sending it down. They’re sending it in through another insider in Atlantic City.”

  “Whoa,” Cargo said, approaching with a bag of coins flipped over his shoulder.

  “Yeah, but what about Mr. Gagliano and Mr. Reina? What do they think? They said they wanted to keep their noses clean.”

  The Gap shrugged and buried the bottle of brown back in the case.

  “Don’t worry about that. Mr. Lucchese made sure his i’s were dotted and t’s crossed. As long as he gives them a cut, they’ll look the other way.”

  “Sounds like a win-win to me, Bobby,” Enzo said, dollar signs already shinning in his eyes.

  “What about Masseria?”

  “He and the Castellammarese run rum row. This doesn’t interfere with their operations at all. We’re gonna steer clear of Manhattan. Everyone can get rich if we play our cards right.”

  “I don’t know, Petrelli. This is on another level. This is how you get caught. Or killed. What about the Prohis?”

  “Prohibition agents can be bought off just like the rest of the bulls.” The Gap was losing his patience and clearly disappointed that Vico wasn’t as excited about the opportunity as he was.

  “Sounds expensive. What kind of margin we gonna have after the bulls, the Canadians, the friend in Atlantic City, and everyone up top gets their cut?”

  “Mary and Joseph.” Cargo rolled his eyes and flicked his wrists.

  “What are you, a wise guy now?” the Gap said. “Leave that to the guys with half a brain, Doyle. We’re just the muscle. We move the juice and we make a cut. Simple as that.”

  The Gap wasn’t usually this aggressive, at least in Vico’s experience. Vico clenched his jaw but didn’t mention it. He knew from his time in France that winning a war came down to picking when to fight. If he was going to stand up to a guy on the inside, it wouldn’t be over this. He was still hopeful Reina would reveal Alonzo’s killer’s identity soon, and he didn’t plan to jeopardize that.

  “Alright. Let’s unload it, then,” Vico said to a chorus of applause and slaps on the back.

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Time to make some real scratch.” Enzo rubbed his hands together vigorously.

  “What do we do with this?” Vico gestured to the bag of change in his hand.

  “Well, if I was you, Doyle, I’d give it to Mr. Lucchese in exchange for a bottle of hooch.” The Gap slapped Vico’s shoulder, and everyone openmouthed laughed, except Vico. “Get in. I know a juice joint in Yonkers that’s going to flip a lid when they see this stuff.”

  Vico thought about returning to the apartment complex and returning the change to the asshole who’d tried to slam the door on him. But then he followed the others into the Gap’s Ford. He’d play along for now. He’d do whatever he had to do. But his patience was starting to waiver. If Reina didn’t talk soon, he’d have to figure out another way to get the information he coveted. One way or another, somebody was going to die.

  Sonny

  Upper East Side, Manhattan—August 15, 1929

  Sonny clung to the walls like he once had at Columbia University dance parties. He knew Maranzano and Joseph Bonanno, as well as several other men Maranzano had introduced him to since he had left Goldberg’s to form C&M’s Investment Firm. Regardless, he felt like an outsider.

  The fact that his suit was oversized and had to be fixed with safety pins didn’t help build his confidence.

  But Maranzano seemed determined to keep him from shying away from the crowd.

  He led him by the arm through the auditorium, introducing him to man after man. Each time, Sonny addressed them as a servant does a master, which they seemed to shrug off and respond to by asking him questions about the services he provided. If he could muster the courage, he knew he could walk away from this holiday celebration with double his current clientele.

  “This is Vincente Consentino.” Maranzano stepped aside, introducing him to another important-looking fellow. “We have recently begun doing business together. He is one of the smartest men in this room, of that I swear.”

  “Nice to meet you, Vincente.” The man shook his hand aggressively, causing Sonny’s drink to spill. He was an abrasive man, like many of the others, with big ears and a thick jaw. Sonny privately hoped that the use of “Vincente” would wear off in time, but he still found himself unable to correct Maranzano.

  “Vincente, this is Giuseppe Aiello. He is a friend of ours from Chicago, here to spend the holiday with us.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Sonny s
aid, the handshake lingering.

  “Joe. Just call me Joe. I’m not as formal as this guy.” Aiello winked at Maranzano.

  “One of his many downfalls.” Maranzano patted Aiello on the shoulder, and started to lead the forward march to introduce Sonny to every important man in the room.

  “Wait, I’ve heard about you,” Aiello said, forcing them both to stop. “Is this the Wall Street guy?” His Chicago accent was apparent in a room of mostly New Yorkers and those straight off the boat from Sicily.

  “Guilty as charged.” Sonny smiled, and Maranzano did the same.

  “You look a little young to be one of those guys. How long you been in the industry?”

  “Not long, sir. I left Columbia University last year and got to work right away.” Sonny decided to leave out the part where he worked as a day laborer.

  “Wow”—Aiello shot a look at Maranzano—“you sure a young buck like him knows what he’s talking about?”

  “Experience can often cloud our judgment, Giuseppe. Great minds are not confined to the old, like us.” Neither of them was very old, but both laughed as if they were.

  “Not a lot of experience, sir. But I’ve read a lot of books, and that has to count for something.” Sonny wanted to join in on the humor while it lasted. “The last job I had was sweeping up after my father gave haircuts at A.C. Barbers.” He feared he had gone too far. The smiles evaporated from the men’s faces. Aiello looked to Maranzano. Maranzano looked down.

  Sonny shifted his eyes back and forth between them, suddenly feeling like quite the fool.

  “Excuse me,” Maranzano said, clearing his throat, “I need to make a phone call.” He stepped off through the crowd, leaving Aiello and Sonny in uncomfortable silence.

  “Holler at me if you find any good stocks. The really good ones, I mean.” Aiello took a sip of his whiskey and returned to a discussion with other guests.