Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  “How much?”

  “Standard fee is twenty-five dollars. To show you how reasonable we can be when you cooperate, let’s make it twenty. You can use the five dollars to repair the damages.”

  Shapiro opened the cash register and handed Sonny what was owed.

  “I appreciate your trust in me, Mr. Shapiro. I’ll be back next month for your next fee.” Just like collecting premiums, he told himself.

  “I don’t want to see you until then.”

  “I assure you, you won’t. Unless you have some trouble, or another investor comes by, like me.” Sonny slid him a business card. “If so, you call me, and I’ll straighten him out.” He stared to leave, but paused. “My employer wants you to stay in business. If you don’t, then he doesn’t get paid. So if you happen to fall on hard times, I can help you. That’s what this is about, Mr. Shapiro. One hand washes the other.” He felt the tone of his voice change. He hoped what he said was true. He had believed it at first, but after being met with vehement resistance each time he entered a new business, he began to doubt himself.

  Sonny left and lit a cigarette as he headed back to Antonello’s car.

  “Did he pay?” Antonello asked, following behind.

  “Yeah, he paid.” Sonny flipped through the bills to ensure it was the correct amount. He knew the man probably needed the money more than he did. The only thing that soothed his conscience was knowing that whatever was left after Maranzano’s cut was going directly into the hands of his mother.

  “We own half of Elizabeth Street now. What’s left?”

  “The other half.” Sonny took a long drag, slipping into Antonello’s Model T.

  “Shouldn’t be difficult, after word gets around.”

  “Elizabeth street has never belonged to the Sicilians. Others will come back around.”

  “Then we’ll show ’em we plan on sticking around.” Antonello entered the car after he pump-started it.

  Sonny pulled out a single dollar and handed it to him.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “No worries,” Antonello said, and slapped his hand away. “I’m hoping there will be a lot more than a single simoleon if I stick around with you.”

  The car rambled forward, and Sonny counted the money one more time, flipping through the bills like he used to flip through cards. He hoped it was worth it. He hoped he was making the right choice.

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—January 15, 1930

  Sonny had never been summoned by Maranzano before. He had heard others mention that they had received similar invitations, but he wasn’t familiar with the nature of these meetings. As he waited outside of his new apartment, he felt the same jitters that came before giving a speech in college.

  He tried to think of reasons for Maranzano’s invitation. Sonny had continued to work in protection, and had always given Maranzano his cut. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble.

  A black Lincoln pulled to a stop in front of him and flashed its headlights.

  “Come on, before you let more snow in,” the driver said as Sonny opened the door. Sonny didn’t recognize him, and was confused when he didn’t find Maranzano in the back seat.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Mr. Maranzano’s house,” the man said, straining to see the road behind his windshield wipers. “Do you realize what kind of honor this is?”

  Sonny considered before he answered. “I’m not sure what I’m being called for.”

  “It doesn’t matter what it’s for. Maranzano will tell you everything you need to know. But this is his private residence. He does his business meetings in Poughkeepsie, so this is personal. Be on your best behavior.”

  The driver was young and fashionable, with a strong jaw and a handsome face. But there was something about his demeanor that was challenging.

  “Of course,” Sonny said, hoping the driver would allow them to sit in silence.

  “Name’s Calogero. Calogero DiBennedeto.” Sonny hadn’t been sure the driver was even Italian, his English was so refined.

  “Nice to meet you, Calogero.” Sonny shifted to offer his hand, which wasn’t accepted.

  “No one calls me that. They call me Charlie Buffalo. Mr. Maranzano called me like he called you, and I had to leave my city. I live here now, and I serve him.” Charlie honked his horn at some pedestrians crossing the street too slowly for his liking.

  “I understand.” Sonny had learned from watching Maranzano’s other associates that, when addressed, it was always better to say little, and always in the affirmative.

  “Do you know anything about what you’re doing, College Boy? Do you understand this thing of ours?”

  Sonny struggled to swallow and shifted in the leather seat.

  “Not much.” He figured this was the desired answer, but he knew enough about Maranzano’s work from things he had picked up around Little Italy, and from overhearing his mother and father talking.

  “It’s more powerful that the Foresters, the Masons, the Sons of Italy, and all of your college fraternities combined.” Sonny sat quietly and let him continue. “It stretches across the world. We’re in every country in the world, except Japan. And you’re just scraping the surface.”

  Charlie Buffalo turned to him, a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “We will last as long as man itself.”

  Charlie cut the wheel, and the Lincoln pulled to a stop on Avenue J. “Go on in. This is where the old man lives.”

  Sonny stepped out into the snow and offered his thanks.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Sonny hesitated before the door, and shook as he knocked. He told himself it was the cold, but he knew he would be trembling just as much if it were burning like the Sicilian sun.

  A woman answered the door and greeted him in Italian. She bowed and opened the door, expecting him.

  “It is good to finally meet you, Vincente.” He shook her hand delicately, and then she called for her husband.

  “Vincente, I’m glad you’ve arrived. I was hoping you could make it before the snow piled up. I hope you’re hungry?” Maranzano smiled and kissed his cheek. Seeing Maranzano, the object of his fear, was actually calming. Sonny found his shoulders relaxing and a smile stretching across his face.

  “I am. It’s hard for a man to cook for himself,” Sonny said as Maranzano’s wife took his coat.

  “Where are my manners? This is Mrs. Elizabetta Maranzano.” Sonny acknowledged her again. He couldn’t imagine a more fitting woman for his mentor. She exuded grace, her face etched with quiet wisdom and motherly love. She was as beautiful as her husband was handsome. “And this little fellow is my youngest, Marco.” He patted the head of the toddler clutching to his leg.

  “Hey there, pal.” Sonny knelt and offered a handshake to the nervous young man.

  Two other young men appeared, and Maranzano introduced his other sons, one of whom was not much younger than Sonny. They were all dressed in nice clothes, and carried themselves like young aristocrats. They were clones of Maranzano himself, in various stages of adolescence.

  “It’s nice to meet you all. I appreciate this invitation.” Sonny lowered his head, ashamed of his humble appearance in their home. He was hoping he might now be afforded a reason for the call.

  “I’ll return to the kitchen. I hope you like pasta alla Norma,” Elizabetta said.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s my favorite dish.”

  “Vincente, let’s step into my study for a moment,” Maranzano said. Sonny followed him, noticing that even despite the presence of three young men in the house, everything was austere. It was nothing like the messy tenement he and his siblings were raised in.

  They entered a study where a large desk was the focal point. Behind it was an impressive library to rival the one in Maranzano’s office. The host propped himself up against his desk beside a large marble bust of an ancient Roman.

  “Marcus Aurelius,” Maranzano said, noticing Sonny’s gaze. “He is my hero. I idealize him. His strength, h
is self-control, his wisdom. It was after him my youngest was named.”

  “I might have to visit the library and pick up a copy of his writings.”

  Maranzano strode to the bookshelf and handed Sonny a book.

  “His famous meditations. May they be as good to you as they have been to me,” Maranzano said with the smile of knight passing the torch to his squire.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “There is a reason I have called you here, Vincente.” Maranzano finally became serious, and he met Sonny’s eyes. Sonny’s heart began to race again. “I trust you. I value you…” Maranzano said, comfortable with the silence that followed. “I want you to be near to me. I need good men.”

  “I appreciate you saying that, Mr. Maranzano.” Sonny flushed.

  “You are a good man. You are strong. In many ways, you remind me of myself.” His voice faded, and for a moment, they both listened to Maranzano’s grandfather clock in the corner. “There are many things that you do not know. I have not told you because I have not wanted to involve you in my own concerns and fears; you have enough of your own. But now I need you.”

  Maranzano’s brows lowered, and Sonny saw vulnerability in his face for the first time.

  “I am here for you, Mr. Maranzano. Whatever you ask,” Sonny said, and meant it.

  “Now, I only ask that you allow me to speak. That you let me pour my burdens on you.”

  “Of course.”

  Maranzano gestured for him to take a seat in a leather lounging chair in the corner of the room. He joined him in the chair adjacent to him.

  “You are an integral part of a society that you do not know exists. It was your father’s society, one he helped build and develop. He cultivated it and watered it as a farmer does a seed. He did so first in Castellammare del Golfo. But you know how we Sicilians are. Our brotherhood is not the least dissipated by distance. Many of our people work together, in unison, here in America. In New York.”

  “I am honored to be a part of this, Mr. Maranzano,” Sonny said, embarrassed that his voice was shaky.

  “But we are much larger than New York. We span the United States. And there are those who hate us for what we have built; they seek to take it from us. There is an important man in New York who seeks to control everything, an incomplete man, a tyrant. He has attempted to persuade one of our own in Detroit to betray us, by killing an important brother in Chicago. You met this man at my dinner, Joseph Aiello. Fortunately, our friend Gaspar Milazzo in Detroit refused this bribe, and alerted us.”

  “Tell me who this man is, Mr. Maranzano,” Sonny said, immediately feeling naive. Maranzano didn’t mock him, though.

  “I admire your courage. In due time. Do you know why the tyrant did this?”

  “Because he wanted what you have built.”

  “What we have built, Vincente. He wants it all. He won’t rest until he has it. He seeks to drive a wedge between us, separate us. And division is always a precursor to subjugation. He plans to move on us. And we need good men, Vincente. Offering protection to our brothers in Little Italy will not give us enough to protect ourselves.”

  “What do you ask of me, Mr. Maranzano?”

  “That you stay close to me. That you learn from me, and fight by my side if the need arises.”

  “I would be honored, Mr. Maranzano.”

  They stood and embraced. Maranzano clapped his back.

  “I am relieved to hear it. I have received much bad news as of late, but this makes up for all of it. But for now, let’s put all that aside and eat the food of the old country.”

  Little Italy, Manhattan—January 19, 1930

  Sonny had never liked cemeteries. Sicilians were naturally superstitious, and Sonny had inherited his mother’s overwhelming respect and fear of the dead.

  Most Sicilians didn’t make it a habit of visiting the graves of their fallen love ones. They could pray for the Virgin Mary to intercede on his behalf just as well from their living rooms. No need to disturb their rest.

  But Sonny felt compelled. He wanted to be as close to his father as he could.

  At Old St. Patrick’s, he paused before the grave that read: “Alonzo Consentino—beloved father and husband. 1884–1928.” It still made his knees buckle. It burned to see the words in stone.

  “Hi, Papà,” Sonny said, placing a few dandelions in front of the grave. “I stopped by Ferrara and bought you a cannoli. I got you a new pack of cards too. I’m sure you and all the saints have been wearing your first deck out.”

  He set down the cards and the to-go box beside the flowers. He felt foolish. He was talking to the wind.

  His nose began to run, but he told himself it was because of the cold.

  “I really miss you, Papà.” He sniffled. And lowered his head. As the tears began to spill over his eyelashes, he remembered how his father would comfort him as a child. “I could really use you right now. You always knew what to say. You always knew what I needed to hear, even if I didn’t listen.” He stared at the headstone, unable to look at the earth beneath it.

  “You said you would be here for me, Papà. You said you would protect us. Forever and always, that’s what you said.” Sonny struggled to catch his breath. “Well, where are you now?”

  To his surprise, he felt angry. Alonzo had left them. It wasn’t his fault, but he was gone. Or, maybe it was his fault.

  “I didn’t know you were living that way, Papà. You could have told me. You should have told me. I could have protected you. You lied. You made me think…” Sonny smothered his tears with the scarf wrapped around his neck. He was struck with the memory of his father giving him the money to attend Columbia. He could almost hear his father’s voice, calm and soothing, saying that he’d done what he had to for his family. Because he loved them, forever and always.

  The anger dissipated to a cold emptiness. Sonny stepped forward and bent down to kiss the headstone. It was freezing against his lips.

  “I love you, Papà.”

  Back at his Williamsburg apartment complex, Sonny ascended the stairs one at a time. He was in no rush. There was nothing to go back to but an empty apartment. He sometimes regretted leaving his mother’s tenement, but knew it was best to distance his mother from the things he was getting involved with. As he fumbled through his keys to find the freshly minted key for his third-floor apartment, the door opened beside him.

  Startled, he let out an exhale of relief when he found only a young woman standing there.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, noticing that she had scared him. “My dad is convinced he heard knocking. You hear anything?” Sonny thought her accent was Irish, and her pale complexion and freckles seemed to prove it. Her voice was delicate; it warmed Sonny at the core.

  “No, probably my footsteps. I’ve never been very light on my feet.” Sonny forced a smile. He tried to open the door but couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Long fire-red locks of hair fell over her shoulders in waterfall curls. She wore no makeup, but her cheeks were rosy from embarrassment. She looked at him curiously but unassuming.

  “You look like you’re about frozen. Is it that cold out there?”

  “Colder than us Sicilians like it.”

  “I’m only half. My father is Irish, but I still can’t stand the cold.”

  He analyzed the thin chemise she wore and the coat over her shoulders. “Are you going out or just getting in?” he asked, immediately regretting it. That was none of his business. “Sorry, I was only wondering if you had to face the weather. Sure is nasty out there.”

  He liked to think of himself as at least relatively charming, but he stumbled over his words like the nervous idiot he was when he’d met Rachel at his first college dance.

  “I’m in for the night.” She smiled at his chagrin. “I don’t go out much. I feel like an old maid sometimes.”

  To his relief, he finally got the door to his apartment open. He almost stepped in before stopping.

  “My name is Sonny.” He stepped toward her and held
out a hand. “I just moved in a few days ago.”

  She accepted it, modestly holding the coat at the center of her chest with her other hand.

  “I’m Millie.” She had a far stronger grip than most gals, and maintained fixed eye contact like Sonny had been taught to do. “And I’ve lived here for a lot longer than I’d like.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Sonny was already kicking himself for sounding so sheepish.

  “It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t insult us for being Irish.” She shrugged. “We aren’t very welcome around here.”

  “I’ve never cared much about any of that,” he said, lying. Sicilian culture was tight knit, and he had assented to that. But pretty girls were always a clear exception to the rule. He didn’t really care where Millie was from.

  “Well, then, maybe you’d like to join my father and me for dinner?” She tilted her head. She held eye contact. Resolved, tender, captivating.

  “Maybe some other time. I appreciate that.”

  “Just let me know, Sonny. It’s nice to meet a friendly face.” She smiled at him and then went back into her apartment.

  Sonny stepped into his apartment, which suddenly felt just as cold to him as the outside.

  Vico

  Yonkers, the Bronx—February 16, 1930

  “I’m not gonna bother to count this. But if you gyp me, I’ll be back. And I’ll come in hot.” Petrelli patted the restaurant owner’s chest. He said it with enough sarcasm to get away with it as a joke, but Vico knew he meant it. They stood in the smoky kitchen of Mezzogiorno’s Eatery while Cargo and a few others snuck in four crates of brown plaid.

  Restaurants always preferred scotch, and the Gap and his crew were always more than happy to satisfy their needs, for three times the cost.

  “If you gyp me, I won’t be purchasing from you anymore. The last delivery was three bottles short.”

  Enzo and the Gap shot Vico a derisive look, which he plainly ignored. He hadn’t wanted to get into bootlegging anyhow; of course, he was going to sample the wares. “Our biggest buyer works for us,” they had joked. Sometimes, the others did get irritated with him for sneaking a bottle here and there, but he’d toss them half his cut and they wouldn’t mention it again.