Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Cover
Other books by Lester S. Taube
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Back cover
I CONTADINI
(The Peasants)
An immigrant Italian family takes on the Mafia
by
Lester. S. Taube
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
I Contadini (The Peasants):
An Immigrant Italian Family Takes on the Mafia
Copyright ©2012 by L. S. Taube
ISBN-13 978-1-77143-033-3
First Edition
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Taube, L. S., 1920-
I contadini (the peasants) : an immigrant Italian family takes on the mafia [electronic resource] / written by L. S. Taube. – 1st ed.
Electronic monograph in PDF format.
ISBN 978-1-77143-033-3
Additional cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events and persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission from the author.
Publisher:
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
www.ccbpublishing.com
FOR
LEONARD CHIANESE GREEN
(an 82 year friendship) - a lifetime
Who brought me into the enchanted land of music and art
and
JOHN GIORDANO
(of 70 years)
Who flew across a table to clobber a bully who was harassing me
Molti, molti ringraziamenti, I miei molto cari amici
Novels by Lester S. Taube:
The Grabbers
(republished as: The Diamond Boomerang)
Peter Krimsov
(republished as: The Stalingrad Conspiracy)
Myer For Hire
The Cossack Cowboy
Enemy of the Tzar
Atonement for Iwo
I Contadini
The Land of Thunder
Publishers:
W.H. Allen – London, England
Ediçöes Dêagá – Lisbon, Portugal
Lademann Forlagsaktieslskab – Copenhagen, Denmark
Longanesi – Milan, Italy
Van Lekturama – Rotterdam, Holland
S. Fischer Verlag – Frankfurt am Main, Germany
Winthers Forlag – Copenhagen, Denmark
Pocket Books – USA
Pinnacle – USA
Bookman – USA
Cherica Publishers – USA
CCB Publishing – Canada
Chapter 1
The shorter of the two police officers pushed open the door and stood aside for his partner to lead the tall, gray-haired man into the dimly lit hall, then he followed them up, his eyes fixed speculatively on the back of the old one. Without speaking, their footsteps sounding flat and final on the scuffed tile floor, they walked along the white-washed corridor towards the door twenty feet ahead which bore a small sign reading: MORGUE.
As they approached the room, the shorter officer became more alert when his trained eye noticed the tensing of the muscles of the old man’s shoulders under his immaculately-tailored Italian silk suit. He lengthened his stride to be closer as his partner opened the door to what they had come to see.
It was a large, cool room, square, freshly painted, the odor of paint mingled with refrigerated air and heavy with the scent of violent death. At the far side were three rows of drawers, numbering three to each tier. Hanging from the ceiling was a bright fluorescent lamp, and along a wall were two scarred wooden chairs.
The taller police officer pulled out a drawer from the center row and his expression was grim as he drew back the white sheet to show the face of Maria to her father.
Ettore DiStephano took a half step backward, like he had been struck, his tall, spare body growing rigid and his face turning up towards the harsh light, his teeth pressing down on his lower lip until a trickle of blood welled from his mouth.
The officer gently lowered the sheet.
“No,” whispered Ettore. “I will look at her again.”
As the sheet was raised once more, Ettore sucked in a deep breath and stepped closer to look down at the long black hair and the high cheekbones and the lips which could form in an instant her warm, heart-catching smile. He forced his eyes away from the features he knew and loved so well, driving out of his mind the dancing black eyes and the high proud nose and the white flash of her teeth and the good clean smell of her youth which had filled his years with such comfort and pride.
Instead, he looked down at the great bruises on her throat and the patches of blue from blood which had congested in her face.
“It is Maria,” he said slowly.
And with that, he turned and shuffled brokenly out of the room.
Once out of the police station, Ettore DiStephano walked in a daze to his Cadillac and climbed inside. He inserted the ignition key, started the motor, and carefully drove off. He went barely three blocks when he abruptly pulled over to the curb, shut off the motor, then thrust his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking with his grief, his strangled sobs forcing their way through fingers pressed fiercely against his lips to contain heartbreak so profound that only acute physical pain could equal.
When he could see again, he stepped out of the car and slowly crossed the street towards a neighborhood church, his shoulders sagging and bowed, his lined face lying pale beneath its natural dark complexion, his high-bridged nose and thin lips drawn tight, a numbness in his usually piercing black eyes.
He entered into the coolness of the thick-walled church, stopped at the font to dip his fingers and bless himself, then he went to the altar and kneeled at the feet of the Blessed Mother, his head bowed.
And in the midst of his prayers, Ettore DiStephano suddenly rose, and without offering any sign of obeisance, strode quickly, firmly, resolutely out of the church.
“And Your Honor,” said the impeccably-dressed, very high-priced corporation attorney, “there can be no doubt whatsoever that the rights of my client have been infringed upon deliberately and with intent to defraud. Thank you.” He sat down.
A hum went through the court as the eloquent lawyer completed his summation of the case. Judge Vincent DiStephano, Justice of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, tapped his gavel.
“This court will recess until ten o’clock tomorrow,” he said. He rose and walked through the door to one side of the courtroom into his chambers.
His aide helped him take off his robe. Bernard Levine, his law secretary, brought over a cup of coffee and French pastry. “Jergens is doing a good job, isn’t he, Judge,” said Bernard.
“That golden-tongued rascal would
charm the spots right off a leopard. Trouble is, he’s usually right, and the combination is a lethal one for a bumpkin like Wilkins. What have you found on that Price versus Worthington case?”
“It’s on your desk, Judge. Jergens is right again.”
“What year was it?”
“Nineteen twenty-eight.”
Vincent stretched his portly, six feet one frame and stifled a yawn. “Have to cut down on those pastries and get back to the golf course. Two hundred and twenty-one. It’s too much to weigh for a man my age. Fifteen years ago, when I was thirty-five, I held a hundred and seventy-five to the ounce. Shouldn’t weigh more than a hundred and ninety, maybe two hundred. No more pastries for me, my boy. Not for a month.”
Bernard grinned. “Okay, Judge. What happens if you growl at me?”
“Growl back.” He stood by the window and looked out at the New York skyline, a smooth-faced man, his hair beginning to turn gray at the temples, his thin, high-bridged nose thrust out stiffly from jet black brows shading tranquil black eyes. “It’s going to be another scorcher tomorrow,” he said pensively, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ll be glad to see the end of this term.”
“Going to Lac Laval again for your fishing?”
“Why not? After twenty successful years of pulling out twice my limit each day, I’d be a fool to break in a new lake.” He gazed at a picture of a woman with twin boys about fourteen years old resting on his desk and his eyes saddened. “You know, Bernie, the thing that gets me the most each year is the feeling that they are there with me. They really liked that lake.” Bernard walked over to stand by Vincent and look at the picture. “They were a great family, Judge.”
“That they were.” His voice took on a thickness as he thought of his deceased wife and sons. “And great fishermen to boot. Five years,” he mused. “It’s hard to believe they have been gone that long.” He turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
The Court Clerk entered and handed over a telegram. “Just came for you, Judge.”
“Thanks, Luke.” He began opening it, then stopped when he saw the Clerk lingering in the room. His eyes narrowed.
The Clerk came awake and started for the door.
“Hold it, Luke,” said Vincent. “What’s inside?”
“It was phoned in, Judge. The Court Officer wrote down the message and waited for a recess to deliver it, but the telegram itself was delivered before he had time to get it to you. I’m sorry, Judge.” He fled from the room.
Vincent tore open the envelope and read the message. Bernard, watching closely, saw his eyes suddenly become as sad as the time he heard over the phone that his wife and sons had had the automobile accident. Vincent leaned back against his desk and sighed, the telegram held limply in his hand.
Bernard stepped closer. “Can I help, Judge?”
Vincent wordlessly held out the telegram.
“Maria murdered,” it read. “Come home.” It was signed, “Your father, Ettore DiStephano.”
Bernard’s eyes flashed up at Vincent. “I’ll arrange to have the continuation of the trial adjourned until you return.”
“Thanks, Bernie. Then call my apartment and have the housekeeper pack a bag. Also get me on the first flight to Chicago.” He took back the telegram and read it again. “Maria, Maria,” he said softly. “My God.” Then he turned away so Bernard would not see the tears filling his eyes.
Doctor Michael DiStephano walked briskly through the corridors of the Houston General Hospital and into the V.I.P. suite. As he approached the woman lying on the bed, the nurse on duty rose to her feet and moved the chair she was seated on to one side.
“Hello, Peg,” he greeted the woman in bed.
“Hi, Mike.” She held out her hand.
He took it in both of his and pressed it, then leaned back as if scrutinizing a picture. “You look like a new person. A recently combed head of somewhat brownish colored hair, two shining blue eyes, an apple knocker type of pug nose, a mouth that appears kissable, and minus a very angry femoral hernia.”
Peg chuckled and cocked her head to eye him. He stood six feet two, whip-lean, with broad shoulders and long surgeon’s hands, his head covered by a shock of black hair that was matched in color by bushy brows almost meeting at the bridge of his Roman-type nose. Humorous black eyes flashed out from an otherwise grim looking face that appeared every bit of its forty-eight years.
“I’ve been lucky to have the handsomest doctor in Houston to fool with my innards,” she said, easing herself to a sitting position. Then, more seriously. “I heard it wasn’t just a ball.”
Michael fired up a cigarette and shrugged. “A femoral hernia is never the most pleasant thing to operate on, especially for the patient.” He turned at the sound of the door opening. A burly, red faced man strode in wearing white duck trousers with a terry cloth pullover, a sea captain’s hat perched at a rakish angle on his head, a pair of worn sneakers on his feet. He went straight to the bed, leaned down to kiss Peg, then stood up with a deep sigh.
“Mike,” he said, holding out his hand to be shaken. “If I try to express my thanks, I’ll sound maudlin. You’re a helleva friend, and we’ll never forget what you did.”
“Whoa, Len. I did only what they told me to do in medical school.”
“Even to coming out in the worst storm we’ve had here in years to take Peg off a boat that was rocking so hard I thought she would capsize. What school taught you that?”
“Peg’s a mighty important person. Name one other woman who could put up with you?”
Len smiled. “Isn’t that the truth. Anyhow, Mr. Chief of General Surgery, your wife invited me and the kids to lunch today, and she told me to tell you that the food will be allowed to spoil for only one hour. No more. That means you have a full half hour to do those mysterious things you surgeons do before you go home.”
“Can I bum a ride? Junior has my car. I’ll never understand why these kids can’t keep their own cars running, especially since they crack them up every six months and get new ones.”
“I know he has your car. And who else is he squiring around but my number one daughter. You and I had better start talking terms. Those kids have dated each other three times in a row.”
“Then why didn’t Barbara let Junior use her car instead of having him take mine?”
“I’ve grounded her for a month. A ticket for speeding.”
“What difference does that make? The car’s still there.”
Peg laughed. “Not with Len about. He takes out half the ignition each time he grounds a car, then has to call a mechanic to put it back together.”
Len shook his head. “That’s right,” he growled at Peg. “Blow the horn. I’ll put an announcement in the newspapers tomorrow that Len Hardin can’t put a jigsaw puzzle together.” He kissed her again. “I’ll be back later, honey. You take care.”
As Michael and Len started out of the room, a knock came at the door. Michael opened it to find his secretary standing there.
“Doctor,” she said. “There’s an operator on the phone with a telegram.”
“I’ll take it here.” He crossed over to the telephone resting on Peg’s bed stand and lifted the receiver. “Doctor DiStephano, here,” he told the switchboard.
“One moment, Doctor,” said the switchboard operator. She transferred the call.
Michael listened to the operator read the telegram, then he slowly put down the phone and stared at it blankly.
Len took one look at his face. “Anything I can do, Mike?” he asked quietly.
“Someone murdered my sister,” said Michael, the harsh lines in his face becoming deeper.
“Rose murdered” asked Peg, incredulous.
Michael shook his head. “Maria. The baby of the family.” His lips quivered, so he turned towards the window to hide the tears in his eyes. “Maria,” he whispered. “Oh, dear God.”
When he gained control of himself, he picked up the telephone. “Ring my house, please,” he told the switchboa
rd operator. His daughter, Eleanor, answered the ring. “Let me speak to your mother,” he told her.
“Okay, Dad. She’s upstairs. I’ll call her.”
A few seconds later his wife, Carol, came to the phone. “I know, Mike,” she said. “Papa sent a copy of the telegram here to the house. There’s a plane leaving in an hour. I’ve made reservations for you. I’ll bring the children tomorrow.”
“All right, Carol.”
“I’m packing your bag now. Junior can take it to the airport to save time. Can you get a ride there or do you want him - ?” Her voice suddenly broke and he heard her low sobs as she lost control.
“Len is here. He’ll take me,” he cut in to steady her.
“Mike, Mike, Mike,” was all she could say.
“Goodbye, darling,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“And the new dormitory will permit one hundred and ten more students to live on campus,” said the small, rotund man reading from his report.
Monsignor Anthony DiStephano nodded his head with satisfaction.
“Has the university president any questions?” asked the rotund man of Anthony.
“No, your report is quite clear, and I wish to express the gratitude of all of us for the superb effort that you and the members of your committee have made. I know that the new dormitory and the additional scholarships for the young men from low income families will inspire all of us to greater endeavors during the coming year.”
The priest sat stiffly erect on his chair at the head of the long table around which were seated the governing board and the senior faculty members of the university. Anthony DiStephano resembled his father closely. A tall, spare man of forty-six, with a hard brown race and keen black eyes, his hair cut short and beginning to turn gray, his square shoulders held high under a fine wool jacket covering a lightweight black shirt and a white, round collar.
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