by Rosie Genova
He turned to me with a grin. “And you think you’re the only writer around here.”
“Speaking of which,” I said as I stood up. “I’ve got to grab my computer and get home and do some work. I’ve got a ton of research I need to do.” I cleared the crumbs from the worktable and set my cup in the dishwasher.
Tim laid a hand on my arm. “Research for your book, right? Not any other kind.”
“Yes, for my book.” I gently removed his hand. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“C’mon. Tell me your wheels haven’t been spinning since we found out about Stinky Pete.”
“Maybe a little. I mean, I can’t figure out what he would have been doing in the carousel house, though. And why would anybody want to kill him? Then again—”
“Enough!” Tim held up both palms. “The guy was drunk and probably fell facedown onto a flooded floor. Please, we’ve been through this twice. Do you really want to put yourself in danger again?”
“I’m not in any danger! I’m just curious. And what do you care anyway?” I shoved in the chair a bit more forcefully than necessary.
“I’ll always care about what happens to you, Vic.”
My anger dissipating, I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Same here, Tim.”
I would always care about Tim. But was that a good or a bad thing? I honestly didn’t know.
* * *
By the time I sat down at my desk (I was back upstairs now, taking no chances), I was nearly convinced that Tim and Danny were right about Pete’s death. That his I have stories to tell was nothing more than the ramblings of an old man. Sofia was always too quick to jump on the Murder Bandwagon, and I was too ready to climb right up there beside her. Nope, I thought, it’s time to get to work and forget about Pete’s death.
I opened the folder containing my handwritten notes for my historical novel. Set in the nineteenth century, it featured a character named Isabella Rossi, loosely based on my great-grandmother. Isabella was an Italian immigrant who had landed in New York City as a young woman, but that was about as far as I’d gotten her. Eventually, she’d get down to the Jersey shore and into the food business—hence my work at the restaurant—but both my heroine and I had a long way to go. As I sifted through the papers, I came across some scribbled pages from my waitress pad. On them were the notes from my conversation with Nonna about my mysterious great-uncle, Roberto Rienzi:
• 14–15 years older than Grandpa
• died in Italy/no information about death? Documentation?
• friends with Alfonso Petrocelli, brother of Stinky Pete
• “got in with criminals” in Naples
• Did Pete mean that his “stories” were about his brother and Roberto?
Here was Pete again, just when I thought I’d dismissed him from my mind. What might he have told me about my great-uncle? And I wasn’t sure I’d get much more from my grandmother. I drummed my fingers on my desktop and stared at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Maybe Nonna wouldn’t talk, but Google was a font of information; I typed in “Roberto Rienzi.”
Judging by the number of hits for his name, I had more Rienzi relatives than I’d anticipated. Facebook alone listed a number of (presumably alive) guys named Roberto Rienzi. But if Zio Roberto had died in Italy, it didn’t make sense to search for him within the United States. I added “Naples” and “deceased” to the search, but after several minutes of scrolling through references in Italian, I gave up. I leafed through my notes again and spied the fictional family tree I’d created for my character of Isabella.
“Yes!” I said aloud. “That’s it.” I logged on to the first ancestry site that offered a free trial and typed in the registration info impatiently, my mind whirling with names and dates. I would concentrate on the Rienzi side, with my focus on Zio Roberto. Judging from what Nonna had said, my grandfather had only one sibling. That would make things easier. Or maybe not. I knew for a fact that my grandfather had immigrated here, so I would probably find him on this site. But if his older brother had died in Italy, shouldn’t I be searching an Italian database? Before I deal with translating pages, I thought, let me at least try.
My grandfather Francesco Rienzi was well documented. I found census documents, voting records, his draft card, and an address in Oceanside Park, where he attended high school and met my grandmother in the fifties. But his brother, Roberto, was another story—one about which I was growing ever more curious. There were a number of men named Roberto Rienzi who’d lived in Naples, but few fit my uncle’s profile; census documents that listed the people in my grandfather’s family didn’t show an older brother. I let out a loud sigh. This was turning into a waste of writing time. I gathered my notes in front of me, looking again at my bulleted questions, my eye drawn to one of the names: Stinky Pete’s brother, my uncle’s friend Alfonso Petrocelli. I made the birth year 1915, which was likely Roberto’s as well, added Naples as a place he might have lived, and typed in Pietro Petrocelli as a family member.
There was a 1932 ship’s manifest from Naples with an “Alfonso Petrocelli” among the passengers. I scanned the “R”s, just in case, squinting at the cramped handwritten lists: Raimondi, Reese, Reo, Rinaldi. No Rienzi.
Well, I would follow Alfonso’s trail and see where it led. Okay, Alfonso, you’re about seventeen, probably on your own in America. You pick a heck of a time to show up, in the middle of the Great Depression. Jobs are scarce, so how do you make your way?
As I searched more and more documents for Alfonso’s name, my grandmother’s words echoed: “They got in with criminals.” Might Alfonso have continued his life of petty crime here? And that was when a 1940 census document from Atlantic City popped up on the screen. Atlantic City was home to all sorts of vices and all sorts of criminals, especially in that era. Okay, now we’re cookin’.
I clicked it open, my enthusiasm dampened by my conscience. Why are you doing this, Vic? Is it research for your book or for something else entirely? Ignoring the questions, I read on. The list appeared to come from an apartment building, and the names were grouped by households. By 1940, Alfonso would have been in his mid-twenties, and there he was, along with another Alfonso, an older man, and a Pietro, who was younger—Stinky Pete. At some point, Alfonso must have brought his father and younger brother to America. But there was one more name attached to the Petrocelli household: Robert Riese.
Riese? Hang on a minute. I clicked back on the ship’s manifest, my excitement growing. An “R. Reese” had traveled from Naples on the same ship as Alfonso. And eight years later, there was a “Robert Riese” living with them. My gut was telling me that Robert Riese was an anglicized version of my great-uncle’s name, and the same “R. Reese” on that ship’s manifest. The difference in the two vowels could easily be a spelling or handwriting error.
If my gut was right, Roberto Rienzi didn’t die back in Naples, but in fact, ended up in America. And that raised a looming question: What happened to him?
Chapter Nine
But Robert Riese was elusive. There was little besides the Atlantic City census information that pointed to a Robert Riese whose profile fit that of Roberto Rienzi. If that Riese was indeed our missing great-uncle, I had a whole raft of questions: Why did he change his name? Did he know that his younger brother had also immigrated here? Did he remain in Atlantic City? If so, that would have put him within forty or so miles of his only sibling, a brother who believed that Roberto was dead. Did Roberto fake his death in Italy to come here? Had Stinky Pete’s brother, Alfonso, helped in that deception and how much had Pete known about it? And more to the point—was that information dangerous to somebody?
I let out a breath and stared at my computer screen. You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Vic, I told myself. You don’t even know that Robert Riese is the person you’re looking for. Worse, I was getting distracted from my writi
ng. Ostensibly, I was researching our long-lost Zio Roberto for that purpose, but his connection to Pete was dangling before my eyes like a bright shiny object, and I just couldn’t look away. But with less than thirty minutes of power left on my laptop, I wouldn’t get very far in my searches.
“Well,” I said as I shut down my computer, “it’s time to do this the old-fashioned way.” I got back on my bike, and in less than fifteen minutes I’d arrived at my destination—the Oceanside Park Public Library.
* * *
When I got there, the place was humming. On the west side of town, the library still had power; every computer was occupied, with patrons lined up to wait their turns. One of the tables had been set up as a charging station for phones, laptops, and devices. On another, coffee and water was set out with a sign that said HELP YOURSELF. Library volunteers circulated to help and politely nudge people along. On the children’s side, parents were leaving with arms full of books, perhaps to read by flashlight later on. Gale Spaulding, the library’s director and our recent party guest, waved to me from behind the reference desk.
“I’ve never seen this place so busy,” I said.
“Isn’t it great?” she said, beaming.
“If you like chaos, I suppose. And I notice that every computer is taken.”
“Sorry,” Gale said. “But sign in, and we’ll get you on when we can.”
“Actually, Gale, can you point me to some books on Jersey shore history? I’m particularly interested in Atlantic City history, between the thirties and the fifties.”
Her eyes grew bright behind her wire-framed glasses. “Is this for your book? For the new one, right, not the mysteries?”
“Yes, it’s for the historical. And a little family research as well.”
“Come right this way,” Gale said. “We’ve actually got a display over here.” She led me to a shelf of books and handed me a thick hardcover. “This one’s fun. It’s about famous murders along the shore.”
On the cover was a mug shot of a smirking but dead-eyed killer, a lock of greasy hair across his forehead. “Well, isn’t he attractive?” I said. “But he does look like he’s from the period I’m interested in. Gale, is it okay if I grab a few of these and find a quiet place to read them?”
“Help yourself. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the desk.”
Besides the book about murders, I took another about the history of Atlantic City and a third that focused on immigrant groups at the shore. I doubted I’d find Robert Riese in any of the indexes, but I could at least get a feel for the period. Since the only unoccupied place I could find was in the children’s room, I squeezed into a small chair, feeling like an overgrown Goldilocks. But I forgot my discomfort quickly enough.
Apparently, the Jersey shore had been a hotbed of crime in its day, and the loathsome guy on the hard cover was only one example of some pretty heinous types. Thankfully, Robert Riese wasn’t among them. Setting the murderers aside for a moment, I focused on the book about Atlantic City. Having only my grandmother’s word on it, I was operating under the assumption that Alfonso and Robert/Roberto had carried their nefarious ways into their new country, but if they were small-time criminals, it wasn’t likely their names would end up in the history books. Still, I turned to a chapter on mob activities with hope in my heart.
By the time of the 1940 census in which Alfonso and Robert Riese appeared, “America’s Favorite Playground” was nearing the end of its glory days. Prohibition had ended in 1933, so the lucrative bootlegging that went on in the days of Nucky Johnson were long over. But depending upon when they arrived in Atlantic City, that didn’t mean the two men might not have been involved in the tail end of it or in two of the city’s other favorite pastimes—gambling and prostitution.
Johnson, of course, had been the big crime boss and was still famous enough to be the subject of a cable drama. But the pages devoted to Johnson had no mention of either men, and by 1941, Johnson was in prison. It was more likely that Alfonso and Roberto occupied the fringes of the Atlantic City underworld, making them that much more difficult to find. I sighed and looked at the wall clock; the library would be closing in less than a half hour. Flipping to the center section of the book, I leafed through pages of chronologically arranged photographs, stopping at those taken in the 1940s. Face after face looked the same—menacing, dark-haired, dark-eyed men wearing low-brimmed hats and blank expressions. I was about to give up when my eye was caught by a caption under a group shot:
Leo Barone, a small-time bootlegger who coexisted uneasily with Enoch “Nucky” Johnson, extended his influence to other criminal activities, notably gambling, after Prohibition ended. While not having the high profile of Johnson or later Atlantic City mobsters such as Skinny D’Amato, Barone wielded much influence in the Italian neighborhood of Ducktown in the late forties and early fifties. Shown here are Barone, Alfonse “Alfie” Petrocelli, and three other unidentified men. Barone died in 1958.
The name Barone seemed alive on the page, lifting itself from the very sentence it occupied. I stared at the image of the five men, goose bumps prickling up and down my arms. Who were the three unidentified men? Was one of them Robert Riese, aka Roberto Rienzi? The man identified as Alfonso looked to be in his early thirties; Roberto would be his age. I brought the book over to the window and held it up in the light for a better look.
In the grouping of three, the youngest man stood in the middle, wearing a fedora pushed back on his head. Unlike the others, he was grinning, cocky, and familiar. So familiar. There was no doubt in my mind that the man in the fedora was a Rienzi, from his crinkly-eyed smile to his taste in haberdashery. Because in the right light, I might have been looking at a picture of my father. Only he wasn’t my father. I knew instinctively that this man was his long-lost, supposedly dead uncle—alive and well in Atlantic City, circa 1948.
Despite the warmth in the children’s room, a chill traveled down my spine as the litany of names spelled themselves out in my head: Robert Riese and Roberto Rienzi. Alfonso and Peter Petrocelli. Leo Barone and Richard Barone. Barone was a common enough name, but there were only so many coincidences I was willing to accept. There was a trail here—a cold one, perhaps, but a trail all the same. And it led straight to Richard Barone.
* * *
I left the library clutching the three books like a lifeline, and wobbled down Ocean Avenue on my bike through the late-day shore traffic. Without even thinking about it, I headed back to the restaurant. They’d be busy, but I had to find my dad. I tore through the kitchen, ignoring Tim’s confused look, and headed straight for the basement, where I found my dad turning his wine bottles.
“Oh, you are down here! Good,” I said breathlessly.
“Everything okay, baby?” He stood up and walked toward me, concern on his face.
“Yeah. I . . .” Some impulse made me duck the book behind my back. I’d come charging over here to show my dad the picture and pepper him with questions, but I hadn’t thought it through. For one thing, he told my mother everything. And there was no way he’d keep something like this from Nonna, either. If they thought I was snooping into Pete’s death, there’d be a hell to pay that even Dante wouldn’t recognize. So I took my usual cowardly way out—I stalled for time. “So, how’s the latest vintage?”
“Good, I think. People seemed to like it.” He frowned as he looked at the racks. “I guess we went through more of my stock than I thought,” he said. “Pretty soon I’ll need to make another batch.” He rubbed his hands together. “Hey, wanna help me, honey?”
“Sure, Dad,” I lied. “One of these days.” But it wasn’t winemaking I needed to learn about; it was the mysterious Robert Riese. “So, listen, I’ve been doing some research for the new book, and there were some things I was wondering about.”
“Sure, honey. What can I help you with?”
“Family stuff, mostly. Okay, so when Grandpa Fran
cesco came over here, he was young, right?”
My father tilted his head and screwed up his face in thought. “It was near the end of World War Two, so I wanna say he was thirteen, fourteen, maybe.”
“Do you know where he lived before they came to Oceanside?”
“Somewhere in south Jersey, I think. They had a farm down there and sold produce out of a truck.”
“Actually, I remember hearing some of this,” I said. “Because Nonna’s family already had the restaurant, right? So that was probably how they came into contact with each other.”
“Absolutely,” my dad said. “Your great-grandpa and my dad delivered produce all over down here. Even to Atlantic City.”
My hands tightened on the book. “Really? Atlantic City?”
He nodded. “There was a big Italian community down there—place called Ducktown. But a number of them restaurants were owned by some scary guys, if you know what I mean. After a while, my grandfather just stopped delivering to them. It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about Ducktown. And some of the, uh, colorful characters who lived there.” Just a few minutes ago, in fact. Was it possible that my great-grandfather had crossed paths with the son he thought was dead? Still clutching the book in my now sweaty hand, I asked another question. “Dad, Nonna mentioned that Grandpa had an older brother, Roberto, who died back in Naples. What do you know about him?”
He leaned against the wine shelves, his arms crossed. “Well, I know he was much older than my pop and that he barely remembered him. He mighta been a bit of a wise guy back in the old country, because one day he just up and disappeared. They never talked about him. It was like they were ashamed of him.”
“Nonna said the same thing. I just wish I knew more about him. For the book, I mean,” I added hastily.
“Not much to know, babe,” he said with a shrug. “It’s ancient history.”
Not so ancient as you think, Dad. “Okay. Well, if you think of anything else about Zio Roberto, let me know, okay?”
