Eddie the Kid

by Steven M. Forman

  The six Mafioso pulled back the bolts of their Thompsons.

  “Wait,” Stefano said. “Take your revenge on me. My family has done nothing to you.”

  “Today they pay for the sins of their father,” Nardelli said, and pulled the trigger.

  The six machine guns spit fire and spewed bullets, pulverizing the Caradonna family in such rapid succession the dead could not fall. They remained upright, twitching and jerking like macabre marionettes—on strings that seemed to break one at a time. When the guns finally stopped, the mutilated bodies crumbled to the ground.

  Stefano had closed his eyes and was waiting for his own death, but it did not come. Nardelli carried the chair from the porch to the front yard, forced Stefano to sit, and tied him tightly. The others dragged and draped the bodies of Stefano’s dead family around him—grandchildren on his knees, and children at his side. A family photo of death.

  Nardelli took a camera from his pocket. “Smile,” he said, and laughed. He snapped several ghoulish pictures. “For the boys back home,” he said, and laughed again. “A memento.”

  Petrosanti opened a switchblade as he approached Stefano. He slashed open the old man’s shirt and carved a deep gash across his chest. Blood flowed.

  “You will bleed to death slowly and rot with your family,” Dipietro said.

  The sun was on the horizon. It would soon be dark. The wolves in the mountains would smell blood. The six killers got in the van and drove away, their vendetta over.

  Gianni crept down the hill in the darkness. He went into the house first, gathering towels and sheets. He returned to his grandfather and shook him awake.

  “Gianni, you are still alive,” the old man said, groggy.

  “I hid behind Grandma’s gravestone,” the boy said, tending his grandfather’s wound.

  “She still protects you,” Stefano said, his eyelids closing. “But you must leave me to die. Go to Giorgio’s house and tell his father what happened. He will care for you.”

  “I will not leave you,” the boy said. In the distance he heard Giorgio’s father calling his son’s name and saw a flashlight beam further down the mountain.

  “Signore Marco, over here,” Gianni shouted to his best friend’s father.

  Marco Marsella and Giorgio’s twin sister, Rosa, fell on their knees when they saw Giorgio’s bloody body. They wailed in grief, holding the boy in their arms. When Marco could speak he asked what had happened. Gianni told them everything, and anger replaced sorrow on Marco’s face. “They killed my son for your sins, Stefano?”

  Stefano nodded. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I wished they had killed me instead.”

  “They killed him by accident,” Gianni said. “They thought he was me. If you want vengeance, kill me. I loved Giorgio.”

  Marco patted Gianni’s shoulder. “Giorgio loved you, too,” the grieving father said. “We will bury him and your family, care for Stefano, and seek revenge,” Marco said.

  “No more revenge,” Stefano pleaded. “Let me die and let this horrible vendetta end.”

  “No, no, I will not let this vendetta die,” Gianni said. “And you must live long enough to teach me how to kill these men.”

  “You are a child,” Stefano said. “You cannot fight them. You don’t even know who they are.”

  “They are Joseph Dipietro, Arthur Petrosanti, and Vincent Carrado from Chicago,” Gianni recited. “Michael Lopresti, Frank Comperchio, and Nunzio Nardelli from Boston.”

  “How could you remember their names?” Stefano asked his grandson.

  “I will never forget them,” the seven-year-old said. “And I will dedicate my life to their death.”

  “If you are prepared to dedicate your young life to a vendetta, I will dedicate what is left of mine to teach you everything I know,” the old man said.

  As they dug graves for his family, Gianni didn’t cry. He felt his heart grow cold and hard. When he wrapped the bodies of his family for burial he kissed each cold, mutilated face and tearfully promised revenge. With each body they laid in the ground and covered with dirt, Gianni felt the joys of childhood leave his body, replaced by hatred and a steely resolve to punish his enemies.

  Marco and Rosa slept in the Caradonna farmhouse that night. Before she fell asleep, Rosa said to her father, “Did you see, Papa? Gianni never cried.”

  “I saw,” her father said, concerned for the boy.

  Later that night, Gianni left his grandfather’s room and walked up the hill to his family’s gravesite. A wolf howled at the moon shining over the Lauro Mountains, and another wolf followed. The air was alive with the sounds of wild animals, and a human howl of great pain joined them.

  “What is that, Papa?” Rosa asked.

  “Gianni is crying,” Marco said.

  The boy cried all night. In the morning, Gianni could not speak above a whisper. He had screamed himself into silence. In time his voice would return, but it was never the same. He spoke softly, in a gravelly whisper that would always remind him of the day the men in black came.

  It took ten years to make Gianni a killing machine. Stefano taught his grandson everything he knew about shotguns and how to use them. When the old man died, Gianni knew all there was to know and needed only to perfect his skills.

  Marco, a physically powerful man, showed Gianni how to build his body and become deadly in hand-to-hand combat. The boy was an excellent student.

  Rosa went to school in Vizzini, and when she returned home she tried to teach the lessons to Gianni. Each time he asked her, “Will this lesson help me punish your brother’s killer?” If she told him it would, he listened. If not, he ignored her.

  Marco taught Gianni how to build a stone wall, and the rapidly growing young man spent over a year erecting a stone fence around the entire property. He lifted and carried heavy rocks every day, hardening his body while learning the value of planning, persistence, and execution. He helped Marco tend sheep, learning to live with solitude without losing patience. He practiced firing the lupara every day, perfecting what his grandfather had taught him. He would hold the gun at arm’s length for extended periods of time to build arm strength and improve his accuracy. He became deadly with either hand and felt ready for any challenge.

  His first test came that same year, when descendants of the old Vizzini Black Hand tried to rebuild their ancestor’s gang of extortionists. When they began sending Black Hand extortion letters, Gianni vowed they would never ruin lives in Vizzini again. He came down from the mountain at night and eventually killed the next generation of would-be murderers, one by one. He used a shotgun, a knife—and once, his bare hands.

  It was during their eighteenth year that Rosa Marcella fell in love with Gianni Caradonna. To her he was a god. His magnificent body, handsome face, and fearless stare excited her. She ached for him, but he loved her like a sister, refusing to be distracted by her beauty. Finally, in his twenty-first year he told Marco and Rosa he was ready to go to America to take his revenge.

  “Take from them what they took from you,” Marco said. “Kill what they love most and leave them to mourn. It will haunt them the rest of their lives and hurt more than death.”

  Later that night, Rosa and Gianni sat under the stars. “And you, beautiful girl, what message do you have for me before I go?”

  “I am not your sister,” she said. “I do not love you as a brother. I love you as a man.”

  That night they made love. It was the first time for both of them. Gianni was conflicted, feeling guilty for enjoying life when his family was dead. “I cannot love until I am finished with hate,” he told her. They did not make love again before he departed for America and his destiny.

  Gianni traveled with expertly forged documents purchased in Sicily and arrived to Chicago late in 1968. For three years he lived in abandoned buildings and worked at carefully selected jobs. He repaired cars at Dipietro Cadillac for a year, stealing parts and tools he needed for his guns. He watched the comings and goings of the owner, Mario Dipi
etro, who was Joseph’s son and Luca’s grandson. He worked at Anthony Petrosanti’s vending machine business as a mechanic for a year. Anthony was Arthur’s son and Sam’s grandson. He repaired machines and stole what he needed while learning Anthony’s habits. Lastly, he got a job driving a truck that picked up and delivered linens for barbershops. On his route he became friendly with third-generation barber and proprietor Fabrizio Carrado, Vincenzo Junior’s son and Vincenzo Senior’s grandson. Gianni liked Fabrizio and felt badly when he shot him in the heart while he was cutting his hair. He killed the other two sons over the course of a year, leaving no clues and avoiding all personal attention. He left Chicago on a bus heading east, confident in his ability to complete his vendetta.

  He arrived in Boston in the spring of 1973. Using his false identification Gianni got a job with the Department of Public Works, where he learned the city’s sewer system. Next, he was a waiter at the European Restaurant for almost a year, where he watched Jimmy Lopresti—Michael’s son—nearly every day. By working in the North End and listening to gossip, he learned that Frank Comperchio did not love his son Joey nearly as much as he loved his daughter-in-law, Arianna. Gianni reluctantly targeted her. He would save Nunzio Nardelli for last.

  Chapter 19

  A Day in Court

  Monday, September 16, 1974

  8:00 A.M.

  Mickey picked up Eddie and Shannon the next morning and drove to the South Boston District Court. Together they marched into Clerk Robert J. Donovan’s office. Robert was a friend.

  “Can’t see you now, too busy,” Donavan said to Eddie, smiling.

  “We need a quick favor, Robert,” Mickey said.

  “Why else would you be here?” Donovan answered, never losing his smile. “What do you need?”

  Shannon took off her sunglasses. Donovan winced.

  “The cops in District C-6 hate domestic abuse cases,” Michael said.

  “I’ll handle the complaint. She’s my wife’s cousin,” Eddie said. “Give me the forms.”

  He filled out several forms while Robert chatted with Shannon and Mickey. Eddie slapped the completed forms on the desk. “Sign them, Shannon,” he said, and she did. When she was done he slapped them on Donovan’s desk. “Done. Hurry the process.”

  “Shannon told me she’s married to Bobby Collins,” Donovan said, picking up the forms. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He was a bully then, and he’s a bully now. Do me a favor and get him off the street.”

  Donovan began filling out his own forms. He checked the calendar and said, “I’ve scheduled a clerk’s hearing for Collins in two weeks where he can respond to Shannon’s criminal complaint. Someone has to serve the complaint on Collins. Any volunteers?”

  “I’ll do it,” Eddie said.

  “Good,” Donovan said. “Shannon, do you know a good lawyer?”

  She shook her head.

  Donovan opened the middle drawer of his desk, removed a business card, and gave it to her. “Adrianne Resnick,” he said. “She’s the best in the domestic abuse business and a very good defense attorney.”

  Shannon put the card in her pocket.

  “What’s Shannon supposed to do for two weeks with a crazy man after her?” Eddie asked.

  “The law is not real good about that,” Donovan said. “We need tougher laws.”

  “Where do I hide until then?” Shannon asked, looking close to tears.

  “We’ll take care of you,” Eddie said, snatching the complaint forms. “And I’ll serve Godzilla with these papers right now.”

  They drove to the Collins house in Southie and Mickey got out of the car with Shannon. It was only ten thirty in the morning and so much had already been done. “If you need anything, just call,” he said, handing her his business card. “Use my home phone if you want.”

  A car pulled to the curb and a tough-looking man got out.

  “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “Yeah, he’s a friend of mine,” Mickey said. “There’ll be someone here twenty-four hours a day until this is over.”

  Bobby Collins worked at Quincy Market Cold Storage, where he operated a forklift. The warehouse foreman brought Collins to Mickey and Eddie and watched from a distance. Collins had two black eyes and tape on his nose from his last meeting with Eddie. They watched his face turn red when he read the papers. “What the fuck does this mean?” he growled, without taking his eyes off the paper.

  “It means your wife wants to put you in jail for breaking her nose,” Eddie said.

  “You broke mine,” he growled. “Can I have you arrested?”

  “You pushed me first, dumbo,” Eddie said, and smiled. “Bad move.”

  “Did you two put my wife up to this?” he snarled.

  “It was my pleasure,” Eddie said. “But that’s her signature on the form. She’s had it with you.”

  “By the way, find another place to stay,” Mickey said. “If I see you anywhere near that house I’ll either bust you or bust you up.”

  “You can’t do that,” Collins said.

  “Call a cop,” Mickey said.

  “Yeah, call me,” Eddie said.

  “Assholes,” Collins said. He jumped on his forklift and nearly hit them as he drove away.

  They got in their car.

  “He looked like he was ready to kill someone,” Eddie said.

  “I’m going to take the midnight shift tonight at Shannon’s house,” Mickey said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Eddie said. “She’s a married woman, she’s got a teenage son, you’re single and emotionally involved. Enough reasons?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  It was nearly noon when Eddie and Mickey arrived at the District A-1 Station House. Mickey filled out reports while Eddie reviewed the Shotgun Man file. He was convinced it was a vendetta, and if he knew how it started he could solve the case. He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and watched the busy squad room. Who would know how an old-world vendetta got started? He had a flash of an idea and snapped upright in his chair.

  “Sundance,” he said, loud enough to draw attention.

  “Did you just ask me to dance?” Mickey asked, looking up. “Where are you going?”

  “An old-age home,” Eddie said.

  “I’ll visit you on Sundays after church,” Mickey promised.

  Chapter 20

  Lupara Mago

  Monday, September 16, 1974

  1:00 P.M.

  The Kid sat across the table from Sundance Sal at the Landmark Café, which was not far from the nursing home. They had had their gun fight already, and Sundance had won again. Eddie ordered a regular coffee, Sal a cappuccino.

  “So, what up, Kid?” Sal asked. “You didn’t come here to get shot again.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions about Italy when you were young?”

  “You must be studying ancient history,” Sal said. “Go ahead.”

  The coffee came and Sal savored the aroma.

  “When you lived in Sicily, was there anyone famous for shotguns—making or shooting them?”

  Sal closed his eyes, thinking. “Canos and Damos from Naples were the biggest, back then,” he said, “and there were plenty of small shops. But no one was famous. Of course, there was the old legend.”

  Eddie looked up from his notes. “What old legend?” he asked.

  “Ah, nothin’,” Sal said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. An old wives’ tale.”

  “Tell me anyway,” Eddie encouraged him.

  “Okay,” Sal said, enjoying the attention. “Supposedly there was a family in the mountains who made guns for the Black Hand for generations. One of them was said to be the greatest shotgun and ammunition maker in the world. The best shot, too.”

  “What was his name?”

  “His real name, who knows?” Sal said, and shrugged. “The legend called him Lupara Mago, the magician with shotguns. He specialized in
the lupara.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Sal finished his cappuccino with an ahhh and put down the cup. He shrugged. “What happens to legends? They’re forgotten and just fade away. Some people say Lupara Mago was sent to America to kill for the Black Hand. I say he never existed.”

  “I say he did,” Eddie said.

  “You interested in legends?” Sundance asked, with a smile.

  “Only if they’re true,” the Kid said.

  Chapter 21

  Him or Her

  Monday, September 16, 1974

  1:30 P.M.

  While Eddie paid the bill and said goodbye to Sundance, Patty was outside the day care center watching twelve three-year-olds interact on the playground. The city-owned baseball field next to the center, built on the shore of Massachusetts Bay, was empty, and a nippy breeze off the water reminded her that the Little League season was over. She knew the Red Sox were still playing at Fenway Park because everyone in the North End was bemoaning their recent seven-game losing streak and drop from first place. The traffic on Atlantic Avenue was light, and an old Coast Guard cutter cruised by slowly on the way to its base, which was located less than a mile away.

  The play area was enclosed by a chain link fence, but Patty still scanned the grounds like a mother hen. She noticed a bearded, dark-haired man, wearing black sunglasses, standing by the locked gate. Where children were concerned she was suspicious of everyone, so she walked toward him hoping he would move on. He didn’t. He stood motionless as she approached, watching her from behind his opaque lenses.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, when they were face-to-face. He drew back the front of his jacket and showed her the shotgun.

  Patty froze and dared not scream, thinking of the safety of the children first.

  “Come with me, or I shoot the kids,” the man said in a soft, raspy voice.

  She was terrified but tried to remain calm. If he was here to kill me I’d be dead already, she thought. He wants something from me.