Giovanna turned the corner onto Bayard Street and entered another world. The signs were Chinese, women scarce, and the smells pungent. Heading toward her friend’s shop, she was shocked to see a small group of white men and women, dressed extremely well, being led down the sidewalk by an older Chinese man. They were laughing and taking in the sights. Steps from her they entered what she knew from her many walks in the neighborhood to be an opium den. Had she not been on a mission, she would have waited and followed them out of curiosity. It never occurred to her that she, too, looked out of place.
The proprietor of the herb shop waved her in with a genuine smile. It appeared even more crowded than normal, piled high with crates, bins, drying plants, and mysterious jars. So many smells competed for attention that they canceled each other out and instead created an air laden with possibility. Seeing her belly, the herbalist assumed she wanted something to bring on labor and went for a raspberry leaf and blue cohosh tincture. “No, no,” Giovanna said, looking for a piece of paper and a pencil. This would be a challenge. He handed her brown paper and a stub of pencil lead. She drew a hand, and then she drew bumps on the hand and pantomimed scratching.
“No, no problem,” said the proprietor and he scurried away. Giovanna had a feeling he would return with the exact opposite of what she wanted and tried to think of the way to communicate that she wanted something that would cause, not cure, a rash.
“Good, good?” He returned with aloe and arrowroot powder in his hand.
Giovanna picked up the lead and drew nettles. Whether her drawing was bad, or there weren’t nettles in China, she didn’t know, because the herbalist was stumped. Giovanna realized she was trying to be too specific. She drew a skull and crossbones and scratched at her skin.
“Yes, yes!” His euphoria at getting the clue was quickly replaced by confusion. The Italian lady always bought healing herbs. He doubted himself until he produced an oil-like tincture that after inspection produced a triumphant nod from Giovanna.
Still skeptical, the herbalist made all sorts of cautionary gestures that Giovanna greeted with reassuring smiles. On her way out, he took a look at her big belly and called her back in for what Giovanna thought would be a final warning, but instead he handed her raspberry leaf tea.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1909
From her post at the window, Giovanna absentmindedly scratched her hand. Looking down she was pleased to see little red blisters. When she had returned from Chinatown she had put a small dot of the tincture on a piece of paper. She waited until the next morning to handle the paper, which looked like it was stained with fish oil. Less than a day later the poison had produced a rash. If she got such results with this small amount, surely the scoundrels’ hands would be covered.
Mary opened the door with a bang of her hip. Her arms were filled with two primers and a writing notebook sent from school so she could study in the evenings. Relieved to have the company and the diversion, Giovanna leaned on the windowsill and lifted herself out of the chair.
“Don’t get up, Zia. I can get you something.”
“No, I need to move. Why all the books?”
“My teacher sent them so I can practice my writing. They were in the foyer.”
“Let me see, Mary.” Giovanna walked to the kitchen table where Mary had left her books and opened the top one. A handmade envelope fell out.
Mary was busy removing her coat and boots, so Giovanna turned her back to her and said, “Mary, I must lie down.” The letters were frightening enough; she didn’t want Mary to be further traumatized by knowing the threat had been placed in her schoolbook.
“See, Zia, I told you not to get up! I’ll make you tea.”
“No, no. I want to sleep. Do your schoolwork.”
On the bed with her back facing the kitchen, she quietly opened the envelope.
It was when she put the letter back that she saw a dark brown lock of Angelina’s hair at the bottom of the envelope.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1909
“Zia, I can’t find my hat!”
“Look under your coat, Mary.”
Rocco had gone for his morning coffee, and Clement was still asleep, giving Giovanna the little bit of privacy that she needed. Opening her bottom drawer, she grabbed the gun, but also a knife—a kitchen knife that she had spent the better part of Saturday sharpening. It had occurred to her that it was probably foolish to sharpen a knife that she had no intention of using, but she wanted it to gleam.
She placed the knife into a makeshift sheath and attached it to her waistband next to where she tucked the gun. “Scusa, bambino.” Giovanna wondered for a quick second what Zia Antoinette would have said about the future of a baby that had spent its last months in utero cuddled up to a knife and gun. Saying a quick prayer to Zia Antoinette to reverse its effect, she headed to the door.
Earlier that morning, she had told Lorenzo that she needed Domenico’s help moving the piano. It was nearly true—she had sold the piano, but it wouldn’t be moved until that evening. Giovanna had already taken Domenico for coffee and explained her plan. His eyes widened, and he sat straighter than Giovanna had ever seen him. She made him promise to stick to her scheme, which would not put him in touch with the kidnappers, but she thought herself insane to be involving her nephew and added this to her list of sins.
“Let’s go, girls.” Giovanna grabbed a purse and dropped in the envelope marked FOR THE BABY JESUS. With the sale of the piano it held $224.
Frances and Mary noticed that their stepmother was on edge, but that had become normal. They tried to keep pace with her as she walked north on Elizabeth Street to Our Lady of Loreto. They were early and stood aside to watch the parishioners from the nine o’clock mass exit. Mary mimicked her stepmother by scrutinizing every face. When they entered the church, Giovanna walked down three rows and nudged the girls into the pew.
“Zia, we always sit up front!” exclaimed Mary, tugging at her hand.
“I don’t want to walk that far. Sit, Mary.”
The church was cool, but Giovanna was already sweating and fanning herself with the pages of the missal.
“Are you okay, Zia?” asked Frances, looking at her. “You sure you don’t want to go home?”
“No, no. Just pray. Pray to Saint Anthony.” Frances knew what praying to Saint Anthony meant.
Little bits of the priest’s sermon on the paganism of the American holiday Halloween drifted in and out of Giovanna’s consciousness. His voice rallied when he warned parents not to let their children dress in costume on next week’s Sabbath. His admonishments interrupted Giovanna’s calculation of the number of minutes until the first collection of offerings.
Finally, four ushers, one on each side aisle and two in the center, walked from the back of the church to the altar. They waited there, hands crossed over the stick of their rattan baskets, for the priest to announce the first offering. Giovanna studied their faces. They were all good family men she recognized from the neighborhood, but with a stab to her heart she remembered Limonata’s deceit, and once again they became suspects.
The ushers began to weave the baskets in and out of the pews collecting contributions. After the last row, the ushers would walk to the vestry room off the church foyer, empty the money and envelopes, lock the door, and then walk back down to the altar for the second collection.
The ushers were now only five rows in front of her; a hymn drowned out the beating of her heart. Her face was completely flushed, and she saw Frances staring at her—it would work in her favor.
When they reached her row, Giovanna lifted her arm noticeably and dropped the envelope in the basket. Without looking, she monitored the ushers’ movements. There were three more rows behind her—slide the basket in and out, in, out, in, out. Six steps to the vestry. Open the door. Empty the baskets. She heard the coins cascade into a strong box. Now they’ll close the door. Six steps back inside the church, footsteps on marble. Start gasping.
“Zia, what’s wrong?” asked Fra
nces, concerned.
“I’m fine. I just need air. You stay here.” She fanned herself on the way out of the church.
Domenico stood at the open door and nodded his head in the direction of the vestry, meaning the crook was inside collecting the payoff. Giovanna went outside to the alley entrance while Domenico stayed at his post. At least two minutes passed. Was there another exit? She was beginning to panic when she saw Domenico nod, indicating the man was coming. There was an alley on either side of the church. If the Blackhander came her way, she could easily pull him in. If he went in the other direction, she would have to run to reach him before he passed the alley. Domenico nodded again, this time to the left, indicating he was exiting on the side opposite Giovanna. His nod gave her the precious few seconds she needed.
A foot before the alley entrance she flung out her arm, grabbed the man’s neck from behind, and dragged him into the alley. She held him so tight he was choking. He tried to pry her arm from his neck until she drew the blade to his chin. His hands dropped, and for a moment Giovanna was unnerved when she looked into his face and realized it was the “cripple” from Washington Square.
“Be quiet. Say nothing or I’ll slit your chicken neck,” Giovanna hissed.
Everything about the man quieted except his eyes, which he desperately tried to roll backward in an attempt to see his attacker. Giovanna’s enormous belly was pressed so tightly against his back that she knew he must feel the baby kicking. He was so short that his head was pulled back onto her breasts.
“Listen, clown, I know who you are and I know who your boss is. You tell him this. You tell him that there are three sealed envelopes waiting to go to the police, the mayor, and the newspaper with details about the killing of Mario Palermo and the bombing of Bank Pati. If anything, anything, happens to my daughter, to me, or to anyone in my family, someone has been instructed to deliver these letters. The evidence will hang you all. Do you understand, cafone?”
The man tried to nod but couldn’t move his head in Giovanna’s death grip. “If you understand, stomp your foot.”
His foot stomped.
Giovanna slowly let go, and by the time he jerked around to face her she had her gun pointed at him. “Go. Take the money. And take the message.”
The man was frozen.
“Go, you phony cripple, go!” Giovanna commanded, knocking him in the head with the gun before he fled. “Va al diavolo!”
After tucking the knife and gun back into her waistband, she repinned her hair, took a few deep breaths, and exited the alley, practically falling to the steps of the church. No sooner had she got there than she realized Domenico was gone. “I knew it! I should not have trusted him!” her voice screamed in her head.
The recessional hymn sounded on the organ; the priest was the first to exit the church. “Signora! Are you alright?” He hurried to Giovanna on the steps.
“Sì, Father. It’s difficult with the baby, that’s all.”
“Zia!” Frances and Mary came running.
“Girls, you shouldn’t leave your mother.”
Giovanna defended them. “No, no, Father, I didn’t want them to miss mass.”
“God would forgive them. Children, take your mother home to bed.”
“Clement’s not here. He went with Papa to the cafe,” greeted Frances from the stove, where she was frying meatballs, as Domenico walked into the apartment.
Giovanna slumped in relief. Her wait for Domenico had been interminable.
“Zia almost fainted in church, Domenico,” announced Mary.
“Girls, go ask Zia Teresa if we can eat together at her house. I’m too exhausted to have the meal here.”
“Mary can go, Zia. I’ll finish this.”
“No. I don’t want her walking alone. Go.”
“Va bene.” Frances reluctantly grabbed Mary’s hand, and they left.
Giovanna said nothing. She waited for her nephew to speak.
“I followed him.”
“I told you not to do that.”
“You told me many things, Zia. I listened to most.”
Giovanna sighed. Zia. Only Aunt. There was no one to call her “Mamma.” Even her stepchildren called her Zia. She looked at Domenico with the loss that she felt and said, “You could have been killed.”
“Zia, that man was too scared to wipe his ass, let alone kill someone! Where did you learn to talk like that? I was frightened listening to you!”
Giovanna smiled but turned serious again. “Where did he go, Domenico?”
“I’m a failure as a detective.” Domenico’s voice cracked. “I was so close to him leading me right to her. Then I lost him. I lost him, Zia.”
“They are experienced in knowing how not to be followed. You can’t blame yourself.”
Although his aunt’s words were kind, Domenico heard the disappointment in her voice. “Zia, I only know that he went to Brooklyn. Where in Brooklyn, I don’t know, because that’s where I lost him.”
“That’s more than we knew yesterday.”
Domenico’s head was bowed dejectedly. He looked like a little boy.
“Did he see you?” asked Giovanna gently.
“No, I don’t think so. And I don’t think he knew someone was following him, which makes my losing him all the worse.”
“No, Domenico, we did good today. Angelina is safer tonight, I think.”
After a few moments of silence, Giovanna asked, “Domenico, how did the schifoso get into the vestry? Did he jimmy the lock?”
“No, it was open.”
“Open? Who was the last usher out? Describe him.”
“Thick, shiny black hair. The fish seller.”
“Molfetti?”
“I think that’s his name.”
THIRTY-NINE
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1909
Triumphantly, Giovanna noticed that there were no drawings of dripping knives or misshapen guns on the letter.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1909
How do I know my daughter is alive? Ask her what she did on her birthday and give me the answer. If you give me this word, I will give you more money.
Giovanna took out the poison tincture and with an eyedropper carefully edged the paper and the envelope with little drops. Hours later when it was dry, she put on her gloves and, wrapping herself in her shawls, headed toward Saint Anthony’s church.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1909
Molfetti’s fish store was crowded. Jostling her way to the front, Giovanna’s eyes fixed on Molfetti’s hands filleting a flounder. They looked red.
“Signora, what are you doing down here?” asked a woman next to her.
Giovanna had delivered the woman’s baby but couldn’t remember her name. It amazed her that if you went an extra few blocks in the neighborhood to buy something, people noticed.
“It’s my stepson’s birthday. I wanted to get a nice piece of fish.”
“He does have good fish,” agreed the woman, sounding privileged that this was her local fish store.
As if to explain the redness, Molfetti thrust his hands into a tub of ice water and, on closer inspection, Giovanna could see there was no rash.
“Good luck to you, signora,” said the woman upon leaving.
“Good luck?” replied Giovanna, preoccupied.
“Sì, with the baby!” nodded the woman, smiling at her stomach.
“Signore Molfetti,” greeted Giovanna at the counter.
“I’m sorry, signora, I seem to have forgotten your name,” replied Molfetti.
“Oh, you probably don’t know it,” said Giovanna cheerily. “I’ll have that piece of flounder,” she indicated, pointing.
As Molfetti wrapped the fish, she continued, “It’s just that I recognize you from church; you’re an usher, yes?”
“Yes, of course, that’s where I’ve seen you,” commented Molfetti, handing her change.
“Signore, you should make a point of locking the vestry door,” whispered Giovanna emphatically as she turned and left.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1909
“Can I dress up tonight?” asked Mary.
Giovanna was making the morning espresso. “We’ll see.”
“Sometimes they give you a penny instead of a treat.”
“Then I suppose your father would consider it work.” The priest’s sermon came to mind. “And God will forgive us.”
Mary had wanted to be an Indian during the Hudson-Fulton celebration, and Halloween gave her a second chance. She borrowed a costume, and before setting out, Giovanna braided Mary’s hair and put rouge from Aunt Teresa in stripes on her face. At Prince Street, Mary headed west.
“Where are you going?” questioned Giovanna. “We know more people the other way.”
“But they have more money in these neighborhoods.”
Giovanna smiled at her stepdaughter.
“Stay on the street when I go in the store, Zia.”
It took Giovanna a few stops to get what Mary was up to. She heard Mary’s loud “Trick or treat!” and when someone presented her with a candy she politely shook her head and pointed inside her mouth to a phantom rotted tooth. Giovanna would see Mary’s feathers nod thanks when she was instead offered a penny.
An hour later, Mary shook her little burlap bag. “Not bad, Zia, and there’s a bunch more blocks we can go.”
“Except next time, you take the candy. You deserve it.” Giovanna bent down, hugged Mary, and got a stripe of lipstick on her shoulder. Her only thought had been how this trauma would affect Angelina, but now she was reminded that, to a lesser degree, everyone in the family would have scars.
At nine thirty, Giovanna had to convince Mary it was time to go home. They met Rocco and Clement on the stoop returning from selling sweet potatoes to the chilled trick-or-treaters.
Elizabeth Street Page 32
