The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  He barely glanced at the front page before turning to the editorial section. After O’Hara had stormed out of the meeting last night, Papa cornered Leonard Ford and called in a favor owed him by the newspaper editor.

  “I think,” Papa had told the jittery little man, “that the City Times is due for an editorial on the growing drug problem, don’t you?”

  “I was thinking that myself,” Ford said with a grin. “I was even thinking that it might be a good time for the paper to take a stand against organized crime. Maybe do an expose on O’Hara? You know, the city’s biggest racketeer sort of thing?”

  Papa shook his head, no.

  Ford nodded. “Might cloud the issue. Later on, perhaps . . .”

  Papa had nodded back. It had been that simple. He grinned slyly as he read Ford’s editorial. First Ford praised the police for keeping drug use to a minimum in the city, then in the next breath railed against them to not allow junkies and drug sellers to proliferate the streets.

  Swigging his coffee, Papa re-read the final paragraph.

  “And let us not forget the warning of the noted Irish judge John Philpot Curran who said, ‘The condition upon which God has given liberty to man is eternal vigilance.’ Words for our intrepid police department to live by.”

  Papa wondered if O’Hara was reading the editorial even as he was. Though O’Hara would know that Papa was behind Ford’s rantings, there was nothing the Irishman could do about it. And Ford had outdone himself. His editorial would have people talking all weekend. Papa made a mental note to speak with his friends within the clergy. Easter weekend might be the perfect time for a scathing rebuke of drug use from the various pulpits of the city.

  His plan was simple. Turn the city against drug use before O’Hara and the others could get the product to the streets. Simple economics might well succeed where Papa had been unable to. The size of O’Hara’s supply would be inconsequential if there was no demand.

  Noting the time on the kitchen clock, Papa finished his coffee, laid the newspaper on the table, and reached for his overcoat. Monsignor Rossi would be at the church by now. It was time for Papa to make his confession and confer with the family priest.

  His driver, Sonny, had not yet arrived so Papa decided to walk the half-mile to Sacred Heart Cathedral. The late March wind whistled in from the north, whipping Papa’s overcoat around his legs. Heavy dark clouds announced Old Man Winter’s intention to lay one more load of snow on the city before abandoning it to spring.

  Despite the temperature, Papa did not hurry. Winter, which signified a state of hibernation to so many others, invigorated Papa Ghilini. His body didn’t adjust to the cold as easily as it had when he had been a young man, but he still enjoyed a winter walk as much as he ever had.

  He passed few people as he made his way toward the cathedral. It wasn’t just because of the weather. Papa knew, through his friendship with Monsignor Rossi, that although the city had a rich, storied Catholic history, many of the younger people considered it the tired religion of their grandparents.

  Perhaps that was part of the reason that His Eminence Cardinal Vincenzo Micelli would be presiding over tonight’s celebration of the Lord’s Passion service. Nothing like having a Cardinal in the church to drag the parishioners out of the woodwork.

  The frosty air nipped at Papa’s ears and nose. He looked up and could see the cathedral looming two blocks ahead. It was a stately brick building rising three stories, dwarfing the houses and duplexes of the old residential neighborhood. Papa was approaching from the east. On his right was the former rectory, a two story brick house, that now served as offices for the parochial school. A concrete portico connected that building to the side of the cathedral. Two black street lamps flanked the sidewalk that led to the front doors. Each was draped in purple ribbons that signified the season of Advent.

  Papa’s shoulders hunched inside the overcoat; he looked like a turtle drawing its head inside its shell as he trudged up the walk. The wind had turned even more biting. The large doors were at least twice Papa’s six foot height, but they moved easily as he tugged on the handle. He stepped into the vestibule and shook off the chill. Maybe, he thought, it was time to reconsider his feelings about winter. Though the walk had done him good, the cold seemed to have penetrated to the bone.

  The church was quiet as a mausoleum as Papa stepped to the door of the sanctuary. On either side of the door were sculpted angels. Each angel’s face reminded Papa of the Madonna. They were beautiful women in blue and white robes. Each was kneeling and holding a punch bowl-sized ceramic clam shell that normally contained the holy water; however during this week they stood empty, representing a world without Christ. Papa made the sign of the cross.

  He entered the sanctuary and glanced toward Rossi’s confessional. The door was closed; someone was with the priest. The vaulted ceiling of the cathedral rose thirty feet over Papa’s head. Gilded conical shaped lights hung from the open rafters; stained glass windows depicting the apostles lined the sides of the church. Between the windows, engraved in marble, were scenes portraying the stations of the cross. The pews were divided into four sections separated by three aisles that led to the altar. Papa looked toward the fifteen-foot wooden cross that hung behind the altar. Shrouded in purple satin, it would remain so until Easter Sunday.

  Just behind the last row of pews, on a small table, sat a bowl filled with pebbles. Each had a black cross painted on it. The bowl of stones replaced the holy water during Lent. Papa picked up one from the bowl and kneaded it between his fingers as he took a seat in the last row.

  He noticed a few parishioners praying silently in the pews nearer the altar. An old woman was in the front corner of the sanctuary lighting a votive candle. Papa watched as the crone blew out the match and made the sign of the cross. She folded her hands, prayed silently for a moment, then genuflected toward the altar before she started up the aisle in Papa’s direction. As she approached, Papa hoped that she wasn’t coming back to take confession. He needed to speak to Rossi as soon as possible, but he knew that if the old woman sat down in one of the pews he would allow her to go first. Manners and respect, he told himself, these were still important things, whether Lou O’Hara and his mob thought so or not.

  As she finally neared Papa, she smiled and nodded. He didn’t recognize her, but he returned the greeting. She paused for a moment next to his pew, caught her breath, then left the sanctuary.

  Papa’s attention had just returned to the large cross on the wall at the far end of the church when he heard the confessional door open behind him. Papa turned his head slightly and from the corner of his eye saw his neighbor Tomasino LaPaglia come out. When Tomasino, bent and aged, saw Papa, a grin formed on Tomasino’s wrinkled face and a twinkle appeared in his rheumy eyes. The men shook hands and exchanged brief greetings. Tomasino complained about the cold weather and how it angered his Lombago, then exited as Papa entered the confessional.

  Papa closed the door and sat down, still worrying the pebble between his thumb and middle finger. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . .” his voice trailed off. Papa ran a hand over his face, and was startled by the looseness of his withered flesh. “It has been . . . a long time since my last confession.”

  “That’s all right, my son.”

  Having his old friend on the other side of the screen made Papa feel more at ease.

  “Go ahead, my son.”

  “I come . . .” Papa hesitated, feeling a catch in his voice. He swallowed and took a deep breath before continuing. “I come to you today, Father, with a heavy heart.”

  Monsignor Rossi remained silent.

  “Over the years I have confided many things to you, my friend. But there are many more things that I have kept to myself.” Papa strained to see the priest through the screen separating their cubicles. All he could make out, though, was Rossi’s shadow. “Last night’s meeting, for instance. I intended to announce my retirement.”

  Papa waited for a resp
onse. There was no movement in the far cubicle.

  “I thought if I stepped down, and Vito took over, that things would . . . even out. I know that O’Hara and some of the others think I am getting weak. I don’t believe that to be true, but I thought that perhaps they still had enough respect for Vito’s strength that he could ascend and maintain the position of the Ghilini family. I see now that I misjudged.”

  The priest said nothing for a moment, then finally, “We are not young men anymore, old friend. Those running things today, they don’t understand respect. All O’Hara and his kind understand is greed.”

  “There is more to life than money, Father. This much I have learned from the church.”

  Papa could see the priest nodding.

  “Of course,” Rossi said. “But it isn’t just the money. O’Hara is greedy for power. And who has the power?”

  The question hung heavy in the confined space. There was no need for Papa to speak – they both knew the answer.

  Monsignor Rossi continued, “Maybe it is time for your way of doing business to change.” He paused, giving Papa a chance to digest this before he went on. “Look at our friend Freidkin.”

  “Freidkin,” Papa blurted, louder than he would have liked, the pebble tight in his fist. He regained control, and said, “It was Freidkin who helped put me in this position. If he had supported me last night everything would be right in my world. Vito would be running the Ghilini family and there would still be peace.”

  “Do you not see why Josef made the decision he did?”

  “Yes. He is losing his nerve.”

  Behind the screen, the priest was shaking his head. “I don’t think the answer is that simple, Giacomo. Josef is an honest businessman now. And like all honest businessmen, he is worried what will happen if things with O’Hara get out of hand.”

  Papa rubbed the pebble between his hands. “And by not supporting me last night he has all but assured a war between O’Hara and my family.”

  “That is one possibility,” the priest said patiently. “Another is that O’Hara will bring narcotics into the city and the authorities will stop him.”

  Papa shook his head violently. “O’Hara will attack me then, thinking that the police are acting on my orders.”

  There was a long silence before Rossi said, “Not if you step down first.”

  “Surrender?” Papa exploded. “Walk away from all I have worked for over the years? And what do I receive in return?”

  And in the gesturing palm Papa stretched out, toward the shadowy shape beyond the screen, lay the pebble.

  The priest’s voice was quiet but assured. “What I am saying, old friend, is that if you are not seen as being in charge, there is no reason for Lou O’Hara and the others to come after you.”

  Papa’s stomach constricted. He felt bile rising in his throat. He thought last night had been the ultimate betrayal, but now here he sat in the one place he thought he would receive solace, understanding, and the one person he thought capable of giving him those things sat on the other side of this flimsy screen trying to convince him that the betrayal of others was the best thing that could happen to him. Forgetting he held the pebble, Papa’s touched his heated brow, against which the tiny stone felt cold indeed. Beads of sweat slithered down his face and he struggled to shrug out of his overcoat in the tiny space.

  When he spoke again, his words were measured. “Father, do you remember the last time someone tried to bring drugs into the city?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your son, Paulo, was killed trying to stop them.”

  Papa’s voice became very quiet. “Yes, Paulo was killed.”

  “Do you want that to happen again? That is why I am counseling you to get out now, old friend. You have lost one son to drug runners. Do you want to risk another?”

  “You know,” Papa said wistfully, “you were never privy to the whole truth about that event.”

  “They killed Paulo, and I assume that he was avenged.”

  Tears mixed with the perspiration on Papa’s face. “That is not quite the truth, Confessor.”

  “No?”

  “It was Paulo who tried to bring the narcotics into the city, against my wishes. He knew that I wouldn’t tolerate that poison coming in, so he did his best to hide what he was doing from me. He didn’t hide it well enough. Do you know what I am telling you?”

  He could see the priest shake his head, whether a gesture of ignorance or incredulity, Papa did not know.

  “What I am saying is that I had my son, my own flesh and blood, killed for disobeying me.”

  Papa heard the sharp intake of breath beyond the screen. Papa was shaking now. He clutched the tiny counter in front of him trying to regain control of his emotions, the pebble tumbling from his fingers to make a tiny clatter on the floor of the booth.

  “I have shed the blood of my own son in order to keep this sin from entering the city, and now you tell me to allow this demon to do that very thing?”

  “I . . . I did . . . didn’t know . . .”

  “Nor does anyone else . . . I pulled some strings out of town.”

  “H . . . how could you?”

  Papa’s voice was a whimper now. “I tried. Don’t you think I tried? I did everything I could to get Paulo to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. He thought he knew more than his father. He thought he was stronger than the family. I couldn’t allow him to spread that poison into the city. I’ve seen it in other places. It starts with the weak, but eventually it also swallows the strong and the children. How someone, anyone, could sell bottled death to the young was more than I could comprehend. I wouldn’t have stood for it if it had been one of the other gangs. There was no way I could stand by and let someone in my own family contaminate the future. Now I must take a stand with O’Hara as well.”

  “That was years ago, Giacomo. The times are different. O’Hara is a powerful enemy with many allies.”

  “I have allies of my own,” Papa said.

  “O’Hara has Raven Milhone as well as both the Tongs and the Triads.”

  “I have the Yakuza.”

  “Do you think that you can trust Toshiro and the Yakuza?”

  Papa’s voice was cold steel. “Yes.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Do you remember Giuseppe?”

  “The son you disowned?”

  “Yes. Have I ever told you why Giuseppe was sent away?”

  “No.”

  “In the war, Giuseppe took up with a Japanese woman.” Papa paused. “The fruit of this illicit affair was a child.”

  “Yes?”

  “If Giuseppe hadn’t abandoned both mother and child, he would still be part of my family. That child was Toshiro.”

  “Toshiro is your grandson?”

  Papa nodded. “When Toshiro came to this country it was I who arranged it. I paid for his education. He earned a degree in business and it was my hope that he would be the first of the Ghilini family to go legitimate . . . A fitting, if ironic, fate for my bastard grandson. That was not to be. I found out that he was fencing stolen art, using his business as a front. I decided that if he was going to enter the business anyway it would be best if he did it in such a way that I could keep an eye on him. It was under those conditions that he was sent to join the Yakuza. Though they are heavily into narcotics in Japan, the Yakuza has been restricting its activities in the city to extortion and prostitution. And now with Toshiro entrenched as one of their leaders, they will be a formidable ally. One, I’m sure, that O’Hara thinks will move to his side. That mistake may well be his last.”

  “I thought I knew you, Giacomo . . .”

  “Even with what I have told you today, Confessor, there is still much more you do not know. But I thank you for your time. Whether you know it or not, you have been of great assistance to me today. I now know what I must do.”

  “I have done nothing but listen.”

  “That,” said Papa, pulling h
is overcoat on, “is an important quality to find, Father. It is hard these days to find a good listener.”

  Rossi started to say something, but Papa didn’t hear him as he stepped from the confessional, without having taken time to receive forgiveness for the worst sin he’d ever brought to The Confessor, not noticing the pebble he crushed under his heel.

  The bell in the steeple was ringing, calling the parishioners to worship. The Good Friday service, the Celebration of the Lord’s Passion, was one of Papa Ghilini’s favorites. As Papa and his family made his way into the sanctuary, he crossed himself. He looked at the shrouded cross above the altar, then glanced around the congregation as he moved toward the front of the church. Toshiro was sitting with Beatrice in the back row. Papa gave his grandson a curt nod and continued down the aisle. He smiled to himself. They were a handsome couple. A few rows in front of Toshiro sat Police Chief Harry Hammons and his family. The chief glared at Papa who nodded back, forgiving the copper his sins, if only for tonight.

  Papa, Mama, and the rest of the Ghilini family made their way to the front of the sanctuary. Papa and Mama sat in the front row while the others took up most of the next four rows.

  Papa felt the warmth of Mama’s hand as her fingers entwined in his.

  Monsignor Rossi stepped forward to deliver the Liturgy of the Word. As the priest read the words, Papa’s mind turned back to his meeting with Vito earlier in the day. Papa and Vito lunched together nearly every day. Today had been no different except they hadn’t eaten. Both men were fasting in commemoration of Good Friday, so they had sat down over coffee in the back room of Papa’s Ristorante.

  “You look pale, Papa. Are you still worried about O’Hara?”

  Papa shook his head. “Just tired, my son. O’Hara concerns me, but I am not worried.”

  Vito’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  Papa’s smile was sad, exhausted. There was still so much for Vito to learn. “Women worry, Vito. Men may be concerned about a problem, but it is our job to solve it. Worrying is wasted energy.”