Tommy walked over to the two dead men. Behind him he could hear Mrs. Randisi screaming, her children crying. Looking at Cierli and Numia, Tommy felt nothing but a mild disappointment that he had not been able to keep at least one of them alive as a witness to help Nilo.
Behind him, he heard Kinnair shout exultantly. “I love this. This is great shit!”
Tommy ran forward to O’Shaughnessy, who was scrambling to his feet. The burly cop looked past Tommy at his reporter nephew coming into the room and yelled, “Shut up, you silly ass. Three men are dead.”
“Are you all right?” Tommy asked.
“I’m fine,” O’Shaughnessy said. “And they talked a lot when they thought they had me. I think your cousin’s going to get a break.”
• Not every illegal establishment in New York City was serving bootleg liquor. On Pell Street, in the heart of the city’s Chinatown, could be found two dozen opium dens. On Luciano’s orders, they operated without interference from the Masseria gang.
• Salvatore Maranzano moved his real estate business to larger offices in the New York Central Building at 230 Park Avenue, near Grand Central Station. Don Salvatore’s new bodyguards were Steve Runnelli, Girolamo “Bobby Doyle” Santucci, and a young man named Joe Valachi. Valachi’s bodyguarding career was interrupted in mid-1925 when he was sent to Sing Sing for three years for burglary.
• When a minor thug tried to shake down one of Masseria’s gambling games, Luciano dispatched Albert Anastasia to deal with him, who killed him and dumped the body into a bed of cement at a highway project on Manhattan’s West Side. Three months later, the cement heaved and the body came to the surface. Bugsy Siegel said, “Dagoes make lousy roads.”
• Joe Cooney, a whiskey-faced young Irishman who worked for Frank Costello, went to city hall each Friday dressed in a maintenance man’s uniform. He carried a brown paper lunch bag. Just before noon, he went into the police commissioner’s office and dropped the bag on the commissioner’s desk. The “lunch” was actually ten thousand dollars in small bills, the Masseria mob’s weekly graft payment. Masseria complained to Luciano that Costello was a spendthrift and protection was costing too much. Luciano warned Cooney not to be conspicuous in his maintenance uniform. “Change a lightbulb once in a while,” he ordered.
• After a torrent of newspaper stories by John F. X. Kinnair about the perjured testimony, Nilo Sesta received a stay of execution, pending a new investigation of his trial.
• In Tennessee, John Thomas Scopes went on trial for teaching evolution in school. Clarence Darrow appeared for the defense, William Jennings Bryan for the prosecution.
• Flapper-thin was in; a diet plan was America’s best-selling book; and a new magazine called The Reader’s Digest grew in popularity.
• Tommy Falcone moved out of the family’s apartment on Crosby Street and, with another law student, a young man from Michigan named Tom Dewey, took an apartment closer to Columbia Law School.
CHAPTER 7
Spring 1925–Winter 1926
Thanks to a torrent of Daily News stories, written by John F. X. Kinnair, Tommy Falcone—always before perfectly content to be an anonymous patrolman—had gained a sudden reputation in police circles. For Tommy’s part in trying to free Nilo, Kinnair had called him “a crusader for justice” and “New York’s finest hero cop,” and every time Tommy saw one of the stories he winced.
On the day after the governor said he would conduct an investigation into Nilo’s trial, Tommy was called to city hall to the office of the police commissioner. He was ushered into a small side office, where he was surprised to meet Captain Milo Cochran, Tony’s commander at the Italian Squad. Cochran got right to the point.
“The commissioner is probably going to promote you to detective,” he said. He must have seen Tommy wince, because he asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Captain, can we talk frankly?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“It’s a great honor and all, but I don’t want to be a detective.”
“Why not? There’s a raise goes with it.”
“I’m not a career policeman, Captain. I’ve just started law school and I like my patrol beat. I can pay the rent, I work steady nights, and that lets me go to school days.”
“You could work nights as a detective, too,” Cochran said. “That’s why I’m here. I came to offer you a job with the Italian Squad.”
Tommy shook his head. “My father works for you. He works days, nights, weekends, holidays. I wouldn’t want a job like that for all the tea in China.”
Cochran leaned back in his chair and stared at Tommy. After a while, he said, “Okay. That makes sense.” He smiled. “It’s not often somebody turns down a promotion. Anyway, I’ll make sure your precinct doesn’t switch you off nights. You can walk a beat until you wear out your shoes.”
“Thanks, Captain, I appreciate that. One other thing?”
“What?”
“Could we keep this all quiet? I’m afraid I’ll sound like a nut if anyone knows I turned down a detective’s shield.”
Cochran smiled. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. “Sure, we’ll keep it quiet. Except if you bump into this newspaper guy, Kinnair, you might tell him. Just so he doesn’t go beating up on us for not rewarding you.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tommy said, and both men rose.
“A lawyer, huh?” Cochran said.
When Tommy nodded, the police officer said, “Well, who knows? Maybe you’ll change your mind. If you do, look me up.”
* * *
Tonight’s for wine and love and laughter.
Sermons and soda water the morning after.
TINA REMEMBERED THE VERSE as she walked among the partygoers who packed the first-floor rooms of Frau Schatte’s townhouse. The early editions of the papers had just arrived, and Tina’s debut concert had been more than a success. She had been called brilliant and hilarious and stunning.
It had been Uta Schatte’s idea not to limit the concert to only operatic arias, so Tina had sung opera but had also done English music-hall ditties and numbers from Broadway stage hits. She had even delivered a comedy routine.
Papa wasn’t crazy about that, she thought. When Tony had come backstage to her dressing room in Carnegie Hall, along with her mother and brothers, he had said, “You don’t only sing opera?”
“I sing everything, Papa,” she said.
He looked at her for a long second, then said, “You sing everything beautifully, Tina,” and she had known how hard it was for him to change his mind and his ambition for her in the wink of an eye, and she had hugged him, and never in her life had she felt more loved. Tommy and Mario, polite as ever, had left when the small dressing room got overcrowded. Only Nilo, still in prison, and Sofia, recuperating from a difficult childbirth, had not been present.
She had to start yawning before Tony took the hint and announced that everyone should leave because Tina had to go to sleep.
“Our songbird has worked very hard this evening,” he said sternly, and began pushing people toward the exit. He himself was the last to go, and after he left, Tina hurriedly dressed again in one of the gowns she had worn during the recital and left for Frau Schatte’s home, where she knew the real party would be under way.
There, with the noisy crowd of Uta Schatte’s friends and hangers-on, and with the two other young singers whom Frau Schatte was training, they cheered the reviews in the papers. The two new students were sullen; they did not like Tina, and their animosity toward her, and the fact that she had been given a concert, was obvious.
But I don’t care about that. Everyone is my friend tonight.
Her wineglass was never empty. Everyone wanted to talk to her, to touch her. Men fell in love with her and she wanted them, wanted all of them, and their women too. Life is meant to be a sensual feast. Someone drank wine from her slipper; others shared in the drink. She was floating, floating, floating.
They are all here to serve me, she tho
ught, and felt like a princess as she held out her empty glass, knowing that someone would fill it. She did not even see who. She only heard a female voice somewhere near her ear saying something like, “I hope you like it.”
Tina did not even sip it. The time was past for mere sips. Life was meant to be taken in huge gulps.
She gulped and swallowed. The drink started a slow warm burn at the top of her throat. It felt wonderful, glowing as it ran down. But something was wrong. The glow should have stopped, should have grown mellow, but it didn’t. It was burning now. Tina fought back the panic for a moment.
She tried to hurry toward the kitchen, toward the salvation of water, but arms held her back. People who wanted to love her. She pulled herself away. She tried running. People stared at her. She tried screaming, but no sound would come. Her voice disappeared in a terrible, terrible burning. She could feel the blackness reaching up for her. She fell.
* * *
TINA AWOKE IN A STRANGE BED. She was alone and she was frightened. She tried to call out for help, but it hurt so badly and only a little scared sound would come. She tried to get out of bed, but she couldn’t. She was too weak. She fell back on her pillows, crying, soundlessly, and unconsciousness came again.
When she awoke again, it was full daylight and she saw she was in a hospital room. She lay there silently, afraid to try her voice, afraid that nothing would come. It was then that she noticed a small blackboard and piece of chalk on the table next to her bed. Beside them was a bell. She picked up the bell and shook it in growing terror.
The door opened and her mother came in, followed by Mario. He was unshaven and he looked as if he had not slept for weeks.
Her mother rushed to her and held her to her bosom, patting her gently like the child Tina suddenly felt she was.
Mario waited patiently by the bedside, and when Tina finally looked up he spoke.
“First,” he said, “don’t speak. Don’t even try.”
She tried to make a sound, and he shushed her by putting his big thick index finger across her lips.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “If you try to speak before you’re allowed to, you’ll lose your voice forever.”
Tina looked around frantically. She saw the chalkboard and grabbed it up.
What? she wrote. Why?????
Trying hard to mask the emotion in his voice, Mario explained that someone had filled her glass with some sort of cleaning agent, probably lye. She was lucky that it was too diluted to kill her or to actually destroy her vocal cords. But she was not lucky enough to have escaped injury altogether, Mario said.
She wrote: Who?
“They think it might have been one of the other students at your teacher’s place,” Mario said. “Somebody who might have been jealous of you. Papa is looking for her now.”
Tina lay back on her pillow and cried softly. After a while, she sat back up again. Her mother was watching her closely, worriedly.
Where is Uta? Tina wrote.
Mario seemed to hesitate. His mother looked at the note, then said, “That woman…” She made a curse out of the word “woman.” “That woman sent your things to our home this morning. She said she could not be part of a scandal.” Tina cried anew, never making a sound.
When she had stopped, Mario said, “The doctors tell me that your throat will heal in time. They say that you will have to take it easy; most importantly, you mustn’t try to speak. They say you should get your voice back.”
Tina again wrote on the chalkboard, slowly this time, fearing an answer.
Sing??? she wrote.
Mario shook his head.
When Tina’s eyes filled with tears again, he came forward and kissed the top of her head. “So the doctors say,” he said. “But they’re only doctors. That’s what prayers are for. And big brothers.”
But she saw that he had tears in his eyes, too.
* * *
ON HER FIFTH NIGHT in the hospital, Charlie Luciano came to visit.
* * *
BACK IN JANUARY, Nilo had been prepared to die. On the seventeenth, the day set for his execution, Sofia, already large with child, had even come to see him. She told him the details, how Tommy had tracked down the two lying witnesses but had to kill them when they resisted arrest. There had been many newspaper stories, but she had heard nothing about a new trial. She touched his hand once and said good-bye. They did not talk about her pregnancy.
Nilo had eaten his last meal and said his confession to a priest with dirty fingernails, and they were just beginning to shave his skull when a guard came hurrying down the corridor, carrying the stay of execution.
That had been six months earlier, and since then there had been no statements, no announcement from the governor’s office.
Mario had come to visit him once, to tell him that Sofia had delivered a baby boy and that both were healthy. Nilo had greeted the news with a grunt. He had not forgotten that it was Tommy and Mario who had taken him into custody.
If not for them, I would not be here. The Falcones are no longer friends or family. They are just more enemies in a world of enemies, more men who are marked for vengeance when the right day comes.
Mario had prayed; Nilo had ignored him. As Mario prepared to leave, Mario asked, “Is there anything you want me to tell anybody? Tommy? Anyone else?”
“Tommy? I’ve got nothing to say to Tommy.”
“It was Tommy who got you that last stay of execution,” Mario reminded him. “Everybody else was willing to let you die, but Tommy put his life on the line for you.”
“Maybe he finally remembered that we were supposed to be brothers. We took an oath once. Did you know that?”
“I think Tommy remembers it better than you do,” Mario said.
Nilo answered, “Don’t come back. If I need anything, I’ll ask Jesus.”
Tommy, my brother. Some brother. Maybe Mario doesn’t know, but I do—why Tommy was trying to help me. It’s because he feels guilty ’cause my wife had his baby.
Although Sofia had never told him that, he was convinced that Tommy must be the father, because he had never heard of Sofia ever being even near any other men.
He’s been using my wife as his personal whore, and I’m rotting away in here and they’re rolling around in my bed. A real brother might have come to see me, but he can’t; he’s ashamed to even look me in the eye.
On a day in July, Maranzano’s driver—a hulking man who always introduced himself by all three of his Christian names, Dominick Rocco Salvatore, but was nevertheless always called just “Rock”—had shown up.
“Don Salvatore sends you his warmest regards,” he had said formally.
“Thank him for me,” Nilo said. “He is always in my thoughts.”
Rock had looked around to make sure no guards were eavesdropping and then had leaned closer to Nilo. “Listen, Kid, it’s not over yet. The governor owes Don Salvatore some favors, and the don is trying to call them in. There might still be a chance. A lot of people now figure you was framed.”
“Anybody ever find out who bribed those witnesses against me?”
Rock hunched his massive shoulders and looked around again suspiciously. “Masseria’s guys. The talk we hear is that maybe it was Joe Adonis.”
Nilo nodded. “If I ever get out of here, there’ll be a lot of debts to collect.”
“Just stay tough, Kid. Anyway, the rest of the news. Your wife had a rough time with the delivery, but she’s getting better. The don goes to visit her every so often to make sure she’s okay. I saw the baby once and he’s real cute. He looks just like you.”
Nilo wanted to scream.
Falcone blood, Nilo thought. We all have it. And now so does Tommy’s kid.
A week later, at 9:30 at night, the door to death row opened with the groan of steel rolling across concrete. Nilo looked up casually and saw the assistant warden walking toward him. He set down his book and stood without speaking. The guard unlocked his cell.
“Might as well g
et moving, Sesta,” the warden said in a bitter voice. “Gather up your things.”
“What for?”
“You’re moving out of here.”
“Where?” Nilo asked slowly, wondering why they were moving him to another cell.
“Dannemora. You’re going to Dannemora. The governor decided you don’t deserve a new trial, but he’s changed your sentence to life in prison.”
“I’m not being freed?” Nilo asked. He had expected death or freedom, not some horror in between.
The assistant warden laughed.
“No, and with luck you’ll die behind bars. Get packing.”
Nilo said sarcastically, “I’m going to miss you.”
“You think that’s a joke, but you are going to miss me. This place is a picnic compared to Dannemora. You know what they call it? Little Siberia. Where every year seems like a hundred.”
* * *
TOMMY FALCONE HEARD about Nilo’s life sentence in a telephone call from Kinnair, the newspaper reporter. He hung up, feeling a grim satisfaction.
At least, Nilo will live. And probably he was guilty, and maybe in heaven I will have to answer for saving a guilty man, but for now I have no arguments with myself.
He wondered if Sofia had gotten the news. Several radio stations in New York had recently begun broadcasting news items, but he did not know if she had a radio or not.
He put on a fresh shirt and took a Broadway trolley to the Fourteenth Street stop.
When he knocked, she answered the door. He had not seen her in nine months and he was surprised to see how good she looked. He had heard that her delivery had been very difficult, but dressed now in a multicolored cotton housedress, she looked as healthy and as pretty as he had ever seen her.
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