In New Orleans, where one went, on all these occasions, was to Joseph Tangeleno. Tangeleno, they knew, had the connections and the resources to get things done. But he was not the only one they came to when they needed help against some transgression; he was also the one they feared when they were the transgressors. He was the final authority, the benevolent dictator, and when he was spoken to, it was always with a respectful “Don” before his name.
To outsiders, it might appear that Tangeleno was running a monolithic organization, but in fact, he now had an adversary, a much younger and very ambitious man named Carlos De Luca. De Luca was born in America, so he had the best of both worlds: American citizenship and very close ties with his Sicilian connection. De Luca called his organization the Family. His second in command—and enforcer—was Vinnie Provenzano.
Chapter 5
ON THE NEXT MORNING AFTER HAWKE ARRIVED in New Orleans, he came out of the hotel and stepped up to a hack that was parked at the curb.
“Do you know a place called House of the Evening Star?” he asked the driver.
The driver smiled. “Indeed I do, sir, I know it well,” he said. “Oh, not that I ever go there, mind you, I’m married, you see. But from what I’ve heard, it is the finest whorehouse in all of New Orleans. You won’t be disappointed. No, sir, I can guarantee you that.”
“How?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you’ve never been there, how can you guarantee that I won’t be disappointed?”
The driver laughed. “Well, sir, I guess you’ve got me on that one,” he said. “I was just going by what all the gentlemen say.”
“That sounds good enough to me,” Hawke said as he climbed into the back of the hack. The driver snapped the reins and pulled away from the curb. The steel-rimmed wheels of the hack made a ringing sound against the brick-paved streets, accompanied by the staccato rhythm of the horse’s hooves, while Hawke sat back to take in his first impressions of New Orleans. It took less than ten minutes to travel from the hotel to the House of the Evening Star.
The house was a large white two-story edifice surrounded by a ground-floor porch and an upstairs balcony. Both were decorated with iron scrollwork and dripped with wisteria. A brick walk approached the house under spreading magnolia trees, their large white blossoms shining brightly from the deep green waxy leaves.
“I know who you are, Mr. Hawke,” Clarisse Grangier said a moment later, after she let Hawke into the house and he introduced himself. She dabbed at the tears in her eyes. “My sister wrote all about you.”
“Callie was a wonderful woman,” Hawke said.
“Thank you for coming to see me. I knew she was dead, of course. Her lawyer sent me word. But it was very sweet of you to come see me in person.”
“It was the least I could do,” Hawke said. “Besides, I wanted to have a look at this New Orleans she was always talking about.”
“What are you going to do here? How long are you going to stay?”
“I’m not sure. I may try and find a job somewhere, but I probably won’t stay for more than a month or two. If I stay in any one place for too long, I start getting irritable and out of sorts.” Hawke ameliorated his comment with a wide smile.
“My sister said you were a wonderful pianist,” Clarisse said. “And she called you a pianist, not a piano player.”
“Callie would know the difference,” Hawke said. “She had a wonderful appreciation for music.”
“I don’t have the same music appreciation she did, but I do like pretty music. How would you like to play the piano for me?”
“Are you offering me a job?”
“Yes. You could play the piano for us here, at the House of the Evening Star. I think we are already one of the classiest places in New Orleans, but having a”—she paused, in order to set the word apart—“pianist…would make it even classier. What do you say, Mr. Hawke? Will you play for me?”
“All right, Miss Clarisse, I’ll play for you,” Hawke agreed. “As long as you understand that I’m not making any long-term commitments here.”
“A day, a week, a month,” Clarisse said. “We’ll just enjoy your music while you are here.”
As Hawke stood there talking to Clarisse, a well-dressed man came down the stairs.
“Hello, Mr. Vizzini,” Clarisse said. “How nice of you to visit us today.”
“Hrrmph.” Vizzini growled.
“My, isn’t he in a good mood?” Clarisse said with a chuckle.
A moment later a woman came down the stairs. When she saw Clarisse, she put her hand to her face, then turned away so she couldn’t be seen clearly. She hurried down the rest of the stairs before disappearing in the kitchen.
“Evangeline?” Clarisse called. “Evangeline, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Evangeline mumbled.
“You don’t look fine. What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“Turn your face so I can see it.”
Reluctantly, Evangeline turned toward Clarisse. When she did, Hawke saw that one of her eyes was black and swollen nearly shut. Her lip was puffed up.
“Good Lord, child! Did Vizzini do that to you?”
“He wasn’t angry or anything,” Evangeline said quickly. “He just got a little carried away, that’s all.”
“‘A little carried away’? It looks to me like he got a lot carried away.”
“I’ll be fine,” Evangeline mumbed as she turned to go into the kitchen.
“Does that happen often?” Hawke asked.
“Not every time,” Clarisse answered. “But, with Vizzini, it happens more times than it should. Evangeline is absolutely the only one who will have anything to do with him.”
“Why does she have anything to do with him? Seems to me like the smartest thing to do would be to avoid him.”
“Evangeline has the crazy idea that Vizzini is going to marry her.”
“Where did she get that idea?”
“She says that he tells her he intends to marry her,” Clarisse said. “But, of course, if he did say that, and I have no reason to doubt Evangeline’s account of it, he is just playing with her. There is no way that a Sicilian is going to marry a Cajun.”
“You should talk to her,” Hawke suggested.
“Oh, believe me, I have talked to her many times,” Clarisse said. “It does no good. But enough of this,” she added with a broad smile. “When can you start?”
Hawke walked over to the piano, sat down, and smiled up at Clarisse. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just start right now,” he said.
He began playing “Claire de Lune.”
Chapter 6
JOSEPH TANGELENO CALLED A MEETING OF ALL his lieutenants. De Luca had been getting more and more aggressive, and it was time to deal with the problem.
“Don Tangeleno, they are here,” Nicholas Morello announced when all had arrived.
“Grazi.”
Tangeleno followed Morello into the parlor, where half a dozen men were standing around, engaged in general conversation. All conversation halted as Tangeleno came into the room and the men turned toward him.
“Noi salutiamo lei con rispetto, Don Tangeleno,” the men said as one.
Tangeleno acknowledged their respectful greeting with a nod of his head, then indicated that all should sit down.
“Let us begin the meeting,” Tangeleno said. “Vizzini, how are things at the riverfront?”
“Things have improved with the Coloreds,” Vizzini said. “Some of them had quit paying their labor dues and were declaring their loyalty to De Luca. We made an example of a couple of them, and many of the others have come back around.”
“Are the police still investigating?” Tangeleno asked.
“No, Don Tangeleno,” Vizzini answered. “In the first place, nobody really cares about a few dead Coloreds. Besides, some of the Coloreds that we can trust are spreading the rumor that the killing was actually a fight over women.”
“
How do you know we can trust them?”
“We are paying them,” Vizzini said.
“Buono, buono,” Tangeleno said, nodding appreciatively.
One by one, Tangeleno’s other lieutenants gave their reports on such things as: gambling, protection, and the somewhat more legitimate operations, such as tribute from workers on their roster and city sewage and water. In every case, they reported some friction brought about by interference from the De Luca Family.
“Don Tangeleno, something is going to have to be done about De Luca,” Morello said. “He is attempting to take more than his share of water from the well.”
Tangeleno nodded. “I agree. Morello, I am going to call on your services.”
“Io sono il sou ser luigire, don Tangeleno,” Morello said with a slight bow. “I am your servant,” he repeated in English.
“You will not fail me?”
“Io non falliro.”
“Buono, buono, because I would be very disappointed if you failed me.”
“What would you have me do, Don Tangeleno?”
“I want you to go to Carlos De Luca and to Vinnie Provenzano. Offer them both my personal greetings and my personal best wishes. Set up a meeting between us.”
“Sí, Don Tangeleno,” Morello said.
Hawke had not been in New Orleans very long before he had his first encounter with one of New Orleans’s many Sicilian immigrants. The run-in did not happen in the House of the Evening Star, but occurred at a grocery store in the neighborhood.
The store was just a few buildings down the street from the Evening Star. There were three little girls skipping rope in front of the building next to the grocery store and Hawke smiled and waved at them as he pushed open the door to go into the store. A little bell rang as the door was opened.
The store was typical of the neighborhood grocery stores and it smelled of flour and smoked meats and sorghum molasses. A gray-haired, pleasant-looking man came toward him. The man was wearing a white apron.
“Yes, sir, may I help you?”
“You are Mr. Garneau?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Mason Hawke, Mr. Garneau. I’m working for Clarisse Grangier.”
Garneau looked surprised. “You are working for Miss LeGrand?”
Hawke chuckled. “I play the piano for her,” he said.
Garneau laughed as well, then nodded. “Ah, yes, that I can understand.”
“I have an introductory note from Miss Grangier and a shopping list for some items she wants charged to her account.”
Garneau waved his hand. “I don’t need the note from Miss Grangier. Just give me the shopping list,” he said. “Your word is good enough for me.”
Hawke handed the grocer his list and the grocer started filling it, going to various shelves and bringing the items back to put on the counter. Hawke wandered to the back of the store and started looking around. Then he suddenly saw Garneau run out the front door.
“Get out of here!” Garneau shouted. “Get out of my store!”
The shout was followed by the sound of two gunshots, then the crashing of a window. Hawke had his pistol in his hand instantly, and he darted through the front door and onto the sidewalk. He saw Garneau sitting on the ground in front of the store, holding his hand over a bleeding wound.
Garneau was looking at the man who had shot him, not in fear or anger, but almost in detachment, as if this were all happening to someone else and he was just a bystander.
“Mr. Garneau!” Hawke shouted as he bent over to see to him.
The gunman who had shot Garneau now fired at Hawke, and Hawke heard the bullet whiz by and slam into the vegetable stand just beside him.
Hawke raised his gun to fire back, but saw the gunman running toward the three little girls, the same little girls Hawke had seen skipping rope, but now they were just standing there watching.
“No, stop!” Hawke shouted.
Hawke knew exactly what the gunman had in mind. He was going to use one or more of the girls as his shield. If Hawke was going to get a shot, he would have to take it right now.
Hawke pulled the trigger and the gun boomed and kicked back in his hand. His bullet caught the gunman high in the chest, knocking him down and causing him to drop his pistol. Hawke ran toward the pistol as the gunman was trying to retrieve it. He managed to kick it away, right from under the gunman’s fingertips, then he pointed his pistol right at the gunman’s head.
“Lie still,” he ordered.
“You shot me!” the gunman gasped. “I didn’t think you’d take a chance with the little girls so close. Are you crazy?”
Hawke looked back toward the wounded grocer and saw that a couple of people were bent down over him.
“How is he?” Hawke asked.
“He needs a doctor, but I don’t think the bullet hit any of his vitals,” one of the two men replied.
“I need a doctor too,” the gunman said.
Hawke put his pistol away and leaned down to look at the man’s wound. The bullet had hit high in the shoulder and though the shock of its impact had knocked the gunman down, Hawke didn’t believe it was a serious wound.
“You’ll live,” Hawke said.
“You made a big mistake by shooting me,” the gunman said. “I’m part of the De Luca Family. I’m protected.”
“De Luca Family? What are you talking about? Is there a family feud between the De Lucas and the Garneaus.”
The gunman blinked. “I’ll be damned. You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
“I know you shot Mr. Garneau and you shot at me,” Hawke said.
“Mister, your days are numbered,” the wounded gunman said.
Two policemen arrived then, brought to the scene by the sound of gunfire. Both policemen had their guns drawn.
“You!” one of them shouted at Hawke. “Put your hands up!”
“Not him!” Garneau said. “He came to help. It’s the other one you want. His name is Rosario Meli.”
“All right, step out of the way,” the policeman said to Hawke.
Hawke did as they asked, then he stood by Garneau and watched as, not too gently, they jerked Meli to his feet. They put his wrists in shackles, then led him away.
“You knew him?” Hawke asked.
“Yes. He belongs to the De Luca Family.”
“De Luca? I thought you said his name was Meli.”
“His name is Meli, but he is Mafioso.”
“Mafioso?”
“Many of the Sicilians have banded together in a society of criminals. It’s as if they have their own army. You can’t attack one of them without attacking them all.”
“That seems pretty elaborate just to protect a thief.”
“He wasn’t stealing from me,” Garneau said. “Not in the way you think. He was trying to sell me insurance. If you buy their insurance, they won’t harm you or your store. If you don’t buy it, they will harm you or your store. I’ve refused to buy their insurance, and Meli was here to teach me a lesson.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“You’ll hear more about it if you stay here long enough,” Garneau said. “Especially now that you have made yourself their enemy.”
“Make way! Make way!” Someone was shouting and, looking up the street, Hawke saw an ambulance approaching, pulled rapidly by two horses whose hooves were clattering loudly on the brick-paved street.
The next day a meeting took place in Todaro’s restaurant, on the corner of Chartres and Ursulines streets. The three big dining rooms were crowded with tables, statues of the Madonna, splashing fountains, figures of birds, potted plants, oversized paintings, and hanging tapestries.
Todaro had not chosen the role of mediator between Tangeleno and De Luca. It had been thrust upon him by the popularity of his restaurant. His restaurant was a favorite spot due to the quality and the quantity of the food he served. As soon as a diner was seated, he would be brought a big hunk of cheese and a loaf of Italian bread, fol
lowed by artichokes and peppers. Steaming plates of pasta were served, followed by the entrée of veal parmigiana, or chicken cacciatore, or roast chicken, or filet of sole. After that came the deep-fried bugie, sugar-dipped and crunchy. And if one was still hungry, there was an entire assortment of pies, cakes, and ice creams.
Morello, who was Tangeleno’s secondo in commando, met with Sal Provenzano, who was De Luca’s second in command, to work out the details for the meeting. Todaro was informed of the meeting and agreed to set aside a room for them.
Once the participants were seated around the table, which had already been set to prevent any unwanted interruptions by waiters, the meeting would begin. It would last as long as necessary, without intrusion from Todaro or any of his waiters, unless something was specifically asked for.
“All right, Tangeleno, you asked for this meeting,” De Luca said. “What’s on your mind?”
De Luca specifically avoided use of the term “Don,” thereby indicating that he considered himself at least equal to Tangeleno in rank and authority.
“To begin with, I would like to thank you for agreeing to this meeting,” Tangeleno said.
De Luca nodded. The others around the table began to eat. This wasn’t a demonstration of rudeness on their part, nor did it indicate a lack of interest in the proceedings. It was just the way of things. When such meetings were conducted over the dinner table, eating the food was an expression of the goodwill of the participants.
“I believe we are coming into a new time,” Tangeleno said. “Many of our people have come to America from Sicily, and they have spread throughout the country. I now have connections in Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, and San Francisco. I will soon have a connection in New York. I can send a telegram and get a reply in the same day. I can board a train and be to any of these cities in just over one week. What a wonderful and marvelous time we live in. Everywhere we look we see that the old ways are behind us. Because of all this, it is time for some changes to be made…some very important changes.”
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