Sicilian Defense

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Then where’s Sal?”

  “He must be at home,” Gianni replied calmly.

  “You know he’s not at home. We know he’s got troubles and we can help.”

  “You know more than I do, lieutenant. I don’t know about any trouble. By the way, did you get in touch with my lawyer?” Gianni said, turning around. Feigin and Quinn were standing in the doorway.

  The lieutenant looked up at his two detectives.

  “We called him. Luca said he’d be over in about a half hour,” said Quinn. “That was twenty minutes ago.”

  “That’s fine. Do you know Sandro Luca, lieutenant?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “A nice kid. A terrific lawyer too. He’s going places. You’ll like him. He’s a real gentleman.”

  “That’s great, Gianni,” said Schmidt. “But you didn’t need your attorney.”

  “I know, I know, but that’s what he’s paid for. I may as well get my money’s worth.” Gianni smiled, puffing slowly on his cigarette.

  “Gianni, believe me, we’re trying to help. This has nothing to do with you or anyone else you know.”

  “I believe you, and I think you guys are doing great work. I mean that. You’re trying to help out a private citizen in distress, no matter what his past, or if you like or dislike him. It’s great. But as I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I don’t want to get rough on you, Gianni,” said Schmidt.

  “I don’t want you to either. I’m too old for that kind of thing. And you said I didn’t need my lawyer.”

  “You know you could be held for obstructing justice.”

  “What obstruction, lieutenant? What’s the crime we’re talking about?”

  “You know what we’re talking about,” Feigin said.

  “You know more than I do, then,” said Gianni, not turning. “I may have been out of circulation a long time, lieutenant, but you know you can’t hold me. Just let’s understand each other. I don’t know what’s going on. As a matter of fact, when I leave here, I’m going to call Sal and find out if there’s anything wrong.”

  Another detective came to the doorway. “Lieutenant, there’s a lawyer here asking about Gianni Aquilino.”

  “You’re going to like him,” said Gianni.

  Schmidt nodded. “Show him in.”

  “Good morning, lieutenant,” said Sandro, entering the office. He shook hands with him and Gianni. Then Schmidt introduced Feigin and Quinn. “Is Mr. Aquilino being held on a crime of some sort?”

  “No, we’re investigating what we believe is a crime perpetrated against a friend of his. We can’t help if we don’t get cooperation from the victim’s friends.”

  Sandro looked at Gianni. “May I speak to my client alone for a moment, lieutenant?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Schmidt, “not just yet.”

  “See how we disagree. I think it is necessary. And of course a person accused of a crime can confer with his attorney.”

  “I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” said Schmidt. “Aquilino is not being charged with a crime.”

  “In that case, we don’t have to stay here any longer, do we?”

  The lieutenant stared at Sandro, then at Gianni. He shrugged. “Listen, we’re trying to help. If you don’t want help, that’s your business. If Angeletti ends up a stiff, don’t come crying around here.”

  “Lieutenant, I’d help you if I could,” said Gianni. “Seriously.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” said Schmidt. “Okay. Take off.”

  Gianni rose and moved toward the door. Sandro followed him.

  “Take care of yourself now, lieutenant,” said Gianni. “Good seeing you again.”

  Schmidt just nodded, a frown souring his face.

  Sandro followed Gianni down the steps to the first floor, past the front desk, and out the large wooden doors to the street.

  “Let’s go over to the Grotta Azzura,” said Gianni. “They picked me up just before breakfast. Now it’s almost time for lunch.”

  The two men walked to Broome Street, and west to the restaurant. They descended the steep steps and entered a large room, brightly lit, with white tile floor, and stuffed game fish on the walls. In the back there was an open kitchen where the chefs in the white hats were vociferously talking in Italian as they moved among the hanging copper pots. The owner recognized Gianni and smiled. He seated them at a table on the side and took their order. Most of the other tables were still empty.

  “Now, what is this all about, Gianni?” asked Sandro.

  “We’ve had some trouble,” said Gianni. “Sal was kidnaped and we’re in the process of working something out with the kidnapers.”

  “Kidnaped?”

  “That’s right. And I can’t tell the cops. I don’t want them to mess anything up for us. The kidnapers have already killed one of their victims.”

  “That sounds incredible—who was it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. But we haven’t come up with anything substantial yet. Neither have the cops. They must have a tap on the phone at the Two Steps. That’s where they got their information.”

  “Couldn’t they have gotten it from someone on the street?”

  “It’s still too soon. No one knows it, not even Sal’s wife. But what the hell can we do, we can’t tear out the phone or the kidnapers won’t be able to get in touch with us. The cops probably figured it that way too,” Gianni smiled. “Now what will happen when I refuse to testify, even with the committee’s immunity?”

  “We’ll be sent before a judge in the Supreme Court.”

  “And when we get to court.”

  “The judge’ll order you to go back to the committee and testify. And if you refuse to testify after he orders you to, you’ll be guilty of contempt of court, and they can put you in jail for thirty days.”

  “Still the same old bit,” said Gianni. “Then they’ll bring me back, and if I still refuse, I’ll get another thirty days, and so on.”

  “That’s about the size of it, Gianni. And that’s just what they want to happen.”

  The waiter brought the antipasto.

  “You know, Sandro, I can talk to you, not only because you’re my lawyer, but because you’ve been close to me for so many years—since you were a kid—and your family, your uncle. I couldn’t talk to the others. They’re so hidebound by the old ways that if I told them some of the things I’ve been thinking, they’d believe I was getting soft. And if they believed that, I wouldn’t be able to help Sal.”

  “You’re not soft, Gianni. Perhaps you’ve changed your point of view in the last few years.”

  “Whatever it is, I realized it the other night when I was trying to keep the boys from flying off the handle. I was telling them that at this point, we’re concerned only with getting Sal back. Afterward, we’d take the kidnapers and tear them apart. In the old days, that would have meant literally tearing someone apart—killing him. But as I was saying it the other night, I said to myself, Gianni, you don’t want to kill anyone, or even have anyone killed. And you know, it was a strange feeling. I was rallying the troops, the words were there, but I didn’t mean them.”

  “And you think there’s something wrong with not wanting to kill people?”

  “Sandro, they have offended Sal, me, all of us; they have done something for which they should be punished severely. But, well,” he paused momentarily. “This is the first time I’m saying these things aloud to anyone in the world. This is strictly in confidence.”

  “Of course.”

  “Swear to me.”

  “I swear on the honor of my family, on the soul of Uncle Jim,” Sandro said solemnly.

  Gianni nodded. “I’m confused with these thoughts.”

  “Gianni, I know we’d all like to be Superman, and have all the answers, and never be confused. But Superman is only a comic strip.”

  Gianni smiled. “I understand that. Even so, it’s hard. I haven’t h
ad to think of things like this for years, and now suddenly I find I’m no longer the same way I used to be. I don’t think or feel the same way. But I still remember the old thoughts.”

  They were both silent.

  “As long as we’re exploring new thoughts, Gianni,” Sandro said, “I have a new one for you, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  The waiter cleared away their plates, and brought the second course.

  “I’ve been thinking about your refusing to testify, and going to jail for 30 or 60 days, and maybe then being indicted for contempt and going to jail for a year. Gianni, it’s ridiculous.”

  Gianni studied Sandro carefully. “How come?”

  “Because you could answer all their questions and have no worry about contempt or perjury or anything else.”

  “I don’t get what you mean, Sandro. You know I can’t testify to anything.”

  “That’s just my point, Gianni. You say that automatically. Everybody’s been saying it, over and over, for years. And then they go to jail for 30 days or a year. That’s the old way. And I think that you, especially after what you’ve just told me, may be the one strong enough to change it.”

  “You know as well as I do, Sandro, that if I testify that I had lunch with someone on Sunday on the corner of 57th Street and that fellow comes in and says that he had lunch with me on Thursday on the corner of 57th Street, we both have troubles. The authorities want to get me, and everyone else, off the street. They’re not concerned with substantial or technical grounds, good or bad methods. If I testify, I’m just opening the door to a lot of trouble. And if I open the door, who knows where the questions will go or stop?”

  “Well, I’ve figured out there are only three areas about which you can be asked questions,” said Sandro. “And none of them can cause you any trouble.”

  “Go on.”

  “One: they’ll ask you about certain people you know—if you know Mario Siciliano, if you know Vito Giordano or this fellow or that. Now it’s no crime just to know these people. The fact that you know someone is totally insignificant. Besides, the government already knows you know them.”

  “They already know everything,” Gianni said.

  “Fine. That helps to prove my point. If there was any significance to your just knowing these people, without proof of your planning a crime together or something, they would have arrested you for knowing them a long time ago.”

  Gianni nodded. “What’s number two?”

  “They’ll ask you if you’re a member of the Mafia or Cosa Nostra, or if you know what the Mafia or Cosa Nostra is.”

  “It doesn’t even exist,” Gianni said firmly.

  “You mentioned that at the hearing, but you didn’t finish the story,” said Sandro.

  “Sure there are Italians in rackets, Sandro. And Italian gangs,” said Gianni. “It’d be ridiculous to say there aren’t. But this thing about a syndicate, a national organization, is fantasy.

  “You see,” Gianni continued, “in Sicily a Mafia originated to protect the people from foreign kings who dominated and constantly plundered the land. Later on, the Mafiosi corrupted into brigands who began to exploit the people themselves. Some of these brigands came to America at the turn of the century and continued to terrorize their own people. I mean, how could they tell some Irishman to stick ‘em up; they couldn’t even speak English.”

  Sandro laughed, then waited while Gianni sipped his wine.

  “But those old Mustache Petes turned seventy and retired in the early thirties. After them came the guys of my generation—came to the States as kids or born here of immigrant parents. We saw new ways of making money without breaking heads.

  “Today, there’s a new breed running things. They’re totally American. And there’s no more of that old Mafia. What the authorities call Cosa Nostra is just Italian gangs. There are all kinds of gangs in organized crime—Irish, Jewish, Negro—but Italians only trust Italians. We have our thing, Cosa Nostra.”

  “You’re saying there’s no syndicate?”

  “I’m saying all the gangs are independent—no central leader, no central treasury, no national plan. It’s free enterprise. Sure, the racket people know each other, just like lawyers or doctors, but they’re not all partners.”

  “Then how do you explain the commission that’s supposed to be in charge of everything?”

  “When tough guys get angry, they can’t go to court and get an injunction, or a restraining order. So they ask advice from other people in the same racket. And with so many suckers in the street, why should one tough guy fight another tough guy; it only wastes time and blood. This ‘commission’ is not a board giving orders, just guys keeping peace among themselves.”

  “That’s just my point, Gianni. If there is no national organization, then why not testify and say so?”

  “Go ahead, what’s three?”

  “Number three, they’ll ask questions about specific crimes—did you plan this crime, did you commit that one.”

  “I didn’t commit any crime,” Gianni assured him.

  “Well, tomorrow they’ll give you immunity from prosecution in order to compel your testimony. If they had any information concerning any crime you did commit, they’d hardly give you immunity so they couldn’t prosecute you. The fact is, they’re giving you immunity because they have no information about specific crimes.”

  “There’s no information because I haven’t committed any.”

  “Fine. And those are the only areas about which you’ll be asked. There’ll be a lot of questions, but all in those areas. Isn’t it ridiculous to go to jail because you refuse to answer those things?”

  Gianni was pensive now, not speaking, as he returned to his food. “You know, Sandro,” he said finally, “there’s a lot to what you say. I guess this is the week for new things to be studied and explored. But what if I answer questions truthfully and other people come in and testify falsely or inaccurately? Then what will happen?”

  “You’ll have to tell everyone what you’re doing. So they can guide themselves accordingly. They should all testify and throw the questions right back in the committee’s face. No one has explained it to them before—but you could change it, Gianni. Do you know that the committee doesn’t even want you to answer?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re up there putting on a show. And when witnesses take the Fifth and refuse to answer, the committee asks all kinds of questions which are only rumors and assumptions, even totally false. But they know the witnesses won’t answer and this makes it seem as if their questions are true. The committee and the newspapers have a field day: you go to jail for thirty days, and the public has some adventure stories to read. But if you answered their questions honestly, you’d leave them with nothing.”

  “How about the others who’ve been subpoenaed? Won’t they get in trouble because of me?”

  “Gianni. Someone’s got to open their eyes. When they see how easy it is for you to answer, maybe they’ll stop going to jail needlessly too.”

  Gianni smiled at him. “It’s tough just to say okay, I’ll do it. What you say makes sense, but …”

  “The others need your leadership. They have to be shown the way by someone with balls enough, frankly, to be the first one on the firing line. That’s you, Gianni.”

  “There’s an old saying for this,” said Gianni. “Il cavallo zoppo, si guardischi la via.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Very freely translated, it means the lame horse enjoys the road. It’s the strong horse that has to break his back carrying the load through life.”

  “This is the only way it can be done, even if some of the others don’t understand it at first.”

  “All right, come on now,” said Gianni, signaling for a check. “I’ve got some work to do. I’ve sent men all over town trying to find information about Sal’s kidnapers. We’re even trying to find a colored bunny from the Playboy Club.”

  “How come?�
��

  “She may know the kidnapers, or be one of their girlfriends.”

  “I know a colored bunny,” said Sandro.

  “You? How do you know a colored bunny?”

  “I know one, Gianni. Does it matter how or why?”

  “Does she live in Queens?” said Gianni.

  “No, in Manhattan.”

  “How many colored bunnies are there?”

  “Not too many. I don’t go to the club, but I know some of the bunnies.”

  “This colored bunny of yours would know how many there are,” said Gianni. “And probably know them pretty well, too.”

  “I imagine so,” said Sandro.

  “Do you know where to get in touch with her?”

  Sandro took out a billfold from his inside jacket pocket and opened it. He took a small book from one of the compartments. “Here she is—Ginger.”

  Gianni watched Sandro, his eyes moving from the little book in Sandro’s hand to Sandro’s eyes. “You have her in your little address book? You know her that well?” The corners of Gianni’s eyes crinkled as he smiled.

  “Let’s just say I know her,” said Sandro.

  “Okay. And let’s just say you try and get in touch with her and find out who the other colored bunnies are, and where they live. It’s important. We think that could lead us to the kidnapers.”

  “I’ll go find her right now,” said Sandro. “I’m sure she’s still sleeping. She works until four in the morning.”

  “I’ll be glad to send one of the fellows with you.”

  “I can handle it by myself.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid you’ll do. And we need the information right away.” Gianni smiled at him.

  “I’ll get it for you within the hour.”

  Gianni snatched the check from Sandro. After they reached the sidewalk, Sandro hailed a cab and headed uptown. Gianni walked slowly back to the garage, deep in thought.

  1:15 P.M.

  Sandro entered the tall brick building on First Avenue and 55th Street. He told the doorman he wanted to see Ginger North. The doorman picked up the intercom and rang apartment 34C. He waited, his ear to the phone, then shook his head.