Petrosino was about to explain the meaning, but the words “Dago witchcraft” hit him in the forehead like a prizefighter’s jab. He felt a flush of anger and said quietly, “I don’t know, Chief.”
“Could be the son of a bitch’s name? Or the name of a secret society?”
“I’m a Methodist, sorry, George,” Dr. Weston said. “Besides the necklace, we found that silver watch chain with no casing in the victim’s waistcoat. There wasn’t much else of value. He had a bandana and two handkerchiefs. The smaller of the handkerchiefs, the white one, has a noticeably strong odor of women’s perfume. That may help put you on the scent, so to speak.”
Petrosino jotted down in his notebook a description of the clothing and his belief that the watch and any money were stolen by the killer. He also wrote down that the square-cut cigar looked like a cheap Toscano to him. The detectives took turns sniffing the ladies’ handkerchief.
McClusky said to his men, “Check the red lantern clubs in the Ghetto and see if any whores know anything about this hanky. Slap ‘em around if they play coy.”
Dr. Weston pointed out a charred fragment of a letter found in the victim’s topcoat. Someone had obviously tried, and failed, to burn the letter. The detectives took turns reading the paper, but all of them except Petrosino shook their heads. The note on the scrap of paper was written with a fanciful but shaky script: Giorno che venite - subit l’urgenza.
“It’s Italian,” Petrosino said, “it means something like, ‘Come at once.’ Could be a woman’s hand, maybe she lured him to his death?”
“Sounds like a Dago love triangle,” McClusky said.
“Of course,” Dr. Weston said, “there’s also the barrel.” He pulled a sack cloth off a barrel in the corner of the room. “We waited for you gentlemen to sift through it.”
The barrel had a marking in black stencil, “W&T,” on the bottom, and “G228” on one of the staves on the side with an address, “366 Third Ave.” McClusky’s lackeys sorted through the sawdust inside, emptying everything into a sack. Petrosino wrote down that the barrel contained a few cigars and cigarette butts, a tobacco box with a Turkish label, and traces of blood. Typical sawdust for an East Side saloon. While the other men talked over the barrel, the perfumed handkerchief and the note triggered a memory from Petrosino’s childhood.
Petrosino tapped Schmittberger’s shoulder, and they slipped out while McClusky and his Irish lads played in the dead man’s sandbox.
Chapter 4
No one knew anything. Petrosino and Schmittberger had walked the East Side a second time, checking in with every stool pigeon they could roust. Still no Izzy. They canvassed the streets, questioned shop owners and saloonkeepers, and sent their best informers to the Morgue to view the victim. Even if no one could identify the body, they wanted their stoolies to memorize the grotesque image for any later rumors.
At noon, they came upon a stickball game on Second Street. Petrosino recognized the young man pitching as Bimbo Martino. Bimbo had thick eyebrows and the beard shadow of a man ten years older. He was only eighteen, but his physique was that of a beautifully wild creature. Even the cords in his neck muscles stood out. Bimbo’s Swamp Angels were playing the visiting Ten Eycks gang, and the Eycks had the bases loaded. First base was a fruit peddler’s stand; second was a trampled Boston Beaneaters cap in the street; and third was a rickety milk crate. A pale boy practiced swings with a short broomstick at home plate, a sewer grate, while a swarm of Swamp Angels danced in the “outfield” among pushcarts on the sidewalks.
Bimbo kicked at a small pile of sawdust under his feet and called out formally, “Seven to three. Bases full, tying run at the plate, one out. Look out below!”
Bimbo blazed a fastball past the Eyck boy.
“You see the big kid hurling?” Petrosino said to Schmittberger.
“How could I miss him?” Schmittberger tilted his fedora up to get a better look. The rainfall had subsided to a mist. “He’s as solid as a column at the Tombs.”
“That’s what the police surgeons said when I took him in for the physical. He passed the exam like Caruso passing a voice lesson.”
“He’s one of your bastards then, is he?”
“He’s not from my loins, Max. I wish I could make a son like that. He’s almost as tall as you and maybe two hundred twenty pounds. Not an ounce of blubber either.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bimbo. From bambino, ‘the kid.’ I knew his mother from The Mabille.”
“I bet you did.” Max whistled as Bimbo whizzed another pitch past the batter, and the poor catcher dropped the ball and rubbed his hands together in pain. “Hot potato!”
The batter struck out and threw his stick on the cobblestones in frustration.
“I never knew his mama in a ‘professional’ capacity, Max. She got scarlet fever in the bordello and died years ago. They say the boy is the bastard son of that Italian boxer who won the Golden Gloves and almost beat John L. Sullivan. When his mama died, he ended up on the streets. I caught him stealing figs from Old Man Balducci and hiding in water tunnels on Cherry Street. I’ve been looking out for him ever since. He wants to be a bull now, imagine that.”
“Imagine that. I wonder where he got that idea?” Schmittberger studied Petrosino’s face and frowned. “Joe, he ain’t a puppy you can just take in. Don’t get attached to the notion. You know how the Ghetto works.”
“Easy for you, Max, you got six sons and a daughter. There’s no harm in me teaching him what I know about the job. Watch.” Petrosino took off his jacket, handing it to Schittberger, and rolled up his sleeves. He walked over to the sewer grate, picked up the broomstick, and shouted, “Let’s see what kinda twirler you are with a man at the plate, shitbird!”
“You’re on, old man!” Bimbo laughed, and the Swamp Angels in the outfield trotted back further down the street.
Petrosino took a couple of practice swings and hunched down over the plate.
The chant of “batter, batter” started, and Bimbo stood up tall, reared his right hand back, and lunged forward with a grunt. The ball appeared for a second and flew past Petrosino’s stick as he swung furiously and spun in a full circle.
“Strike one!” Schmittberger shouted from the curb, laughing. “This batter’s no matter!”
The chubby catcher cackled as he flicked the ball back to Bimbo, and Petrosino spit in both hands and gripped the wood tightly. He pointed the stick at the baserunners. “All you Eycks are coming home soon.”
Bimbo played with his grip on the ball. “Two outs, no balls, one strike. Here’s another strike!” He leaned back far, and all six-feet three inches of the kid seemed to spring forward with his right arm snapping like a whip. Petrosino started his swing early, his back foot planted hard, and he could see the rubber ball clear like a red tomato. Big and ripe, and ready to be smashed. Petrosino chopped through it and the ball towered up into the air, flying down the street, with all the outfielders scrambling backwards to catch it. By the time it landed in a fish monger’s basket, the base runners had come in, and Petrosino was sprinting, hearing his own wheezing, slipping on wet cobblestones and laughing as he made the turn. He kicked the milk crate at “third” base and barreled for home, hearing Max shout, “Slide, DUMMY, slide!” At the sewer grate, Bimbo caught the ball and blocked home plate like an Ivy League footballer. Petrosino thought it was time to test Bimbo and see just what kind of cop he’d make.
Petrosino flicked off his derby hat, lowered his head, and jackknifed straight into Bimbo’s chest. There was a whoosh of air as the wind came out of Bimbo, and Petrosino’s vision went black for a moment. A trio of stars rolled across the blackness. He tumbled over the sewer grate, slapping it with his hand, slowly coming to his senses.
“YOU’RE OUT!” Schmittberger shouted.
Bimbo was sitting on the sewer grate, still holding the ball. Grinning.
“The son of a bitch tagged you, fair and square, Joe!” Schmittberger dusted Petrosino off and hand
ed him his hat and jacket. “Joe, you all right? Seeing little birdies?”
“Nuts. I’m fresh as a daisy.” Petrosino pulled Bimbo up by a hand. “You okay, kid?”
“You bet your ass, Sarge.” Bimbo held the ball up and shouted, “The old man’s out at home! Seven-six, Swamp Angels win! Now all youse Ten Eycks can fuck off!”
Schmittberger held out his hand and shook Bimbo’s. “So you wanna be a bull?”
“Bimbo, this is Inspector Schmittberger,” Petrosino said. “He’s over Eldridge Street Precinct, which could be your station if you make the list of candidates for patrolman.”
“Took the skull test last month, sir,” Bimbo said to Schmittberger.
“Did you now?” Schmittberger tested him. “What’s the Deadline?”
“That’s easy. That’s the line at Fulton Street. Any crook crosses it south, they get pinched. To keep the banks and jewelers safe.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the Bertillon Method?”
“Rats. Ain’t that when you measure a crook’s arms and legs, how big his noggin is. . . I think it’s twelve things you measure to identify them if they got disguises?”
“Close. Eleven measurements.” Schmittberger smiled. “We could use a swell specimen like you on the street. We better get you before Ebbets signs you up for the Brooklyn Nationals. Or maybe you wanna be a slab artist for that new American League team at Hilltop Park?”
“Nah, that American League won’t last. Besides, I wanna mash crooks not baseballs.”
Schmittberger patted Bimbo’s shoulders. “How’d you get so big?”
“All that macaroni in the Ghetto made me strong.”
Schmittberger laughed. “Come here a minute.” He led Petrosino and Bimbo away from the other kids. “We’re on a case. A man was butchered and stuffed in a barrel on Avenue D this morning. If you get a tip for us, it might grease the skids for you.”
“Even if I failed the skull test?” Bimbo’s thick eyebrows arched up.
“Sergeant Petrosino and I will be your ‘rabbis.’”
“But I ain’t Jewish.”
“No, we’ll be your ‘sponsors.’ Won’t cost you a cent either.” Schmittberger leaned closer. “When I was your age, a couple of Tammany bosses saw me in a delivery uniform and liked my looks. So they paid my way into a bluecoat on a lark. Those were the old days.” Schmittberger winked. “Now, what’s the word on the street about this murder?”
“Nothing yet. But I’ll do whatever you want. Just say the word.”
“Go down to the Morgue,” Petrosino said, “and get a look at the victim’s face. Put it to memory, every hair on his head. Then find out who he is.” Petrosino patted Bimbo’s face.
“Will it help me make patrolman?”
“Maybe.” Petrosino put his arm around Bimbo. “And when you start walking your beat, stay at the curb. Don’t walk under the eaves, because your old pals will toss down bottles and bricks once they see your uniform.”
“We call ‘em ‘East Side Missiles,’” Max added.
“Go on now,” Petrosino said, “get to work, son.”
Bimbo stood silent for a moment, committing the advice to memory, and then he shook both men’s hands before heading back into the street.
“All that baseball made me hungry,” Schmittberger said. “Saulino’s then?”
Petrosino’s neck muscles began to ache, and he wondered if it were from crashing into Bimbo or the thought of seeing Adelina again, in front of Max this time. He shook his head.
“I’m not hungry yet. Why don’t we shake the trees a little more?”
“Joe Petrosino not hungry for Vincenzo Saulino’s I-talian food? Nuts. That kid must’ve knocked you senseless. Come on, you work better on a full stomach. I’m buying.”
Petrosino sighed and began dusting himself off and straightening his clothes, secretly preening himself along the way to Saulino’s.
Vincenzo Saulino’s Ristorante always smelled sweetly of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. It was the kind of East Side restaurant that allowed shirtsleeves on warm days and had no formalities except for a clean red and white gingham cloth on every table. Petrosino and Schmittberger went in and sat at their corner table next to the kitchen, where they could smell the cooking and see the front door at the same time.
“I-N-R-I on the victim’s crucifix,” Petrosino said, “is from the Latin phrase, Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm: ‘Jesus the Nazarene, the King of the Jews.’”
“Why didn’t you tell your dear old Chief Inspector McClusky?”
“Because he asked if it was ‘Dago’ witchcraft. Sooner or later one of his Irish Catholic boys will tumble it out from their catechism days.”
“I’ve got two theories on that perfumed handkerchief,” Schmittberger said. “One, the victim was lured to his death by the woman with the perfume. Maybe a badger game, and, when they robbed him, it got ugly. Or, two, the victim had a gal who was married, and the cuckolded husband got his revenge. Her hanky was the tip-off. Like Othello?”
“How do you mean?”
“Othello thought his wife gave her strawberry hanky to another man and killed her.”
“Haven’t read that one yet, professor.”
“Maybe you should read something besides Tanner’s Memorandum of Poisons?”
Petrosino smiled. “What if the victim’s not from New York? That handkerchief made me think of when I was a little kid. My father was going somewhere, I was too young to remember, but I remember seeing my mother give him a handkerchief so he wouldn’t breathe the smoke in the tunnels. When the train started, my father hung out the window and waved the hanky like an old lady. I never heard my mother laugh and cry so hard.”
“So how’s that figure in with our barrel victim?”
“It means he could have had a gal back home, gave it to him as a memento. Could have been waiting the day he returned, like the note said. The day that you come. Quick.”
“I like my Othello angle better.”
“Me too.”
They both finished off a roast chicken, pasta slathered in tomato sauce with fresh basil, and “veal” cutlets of cheap beef pounded tender and coated with egg and breadcrumbs. As they ate, the kitchen door swung open and shut, and Petrosino could see Adelina pounding away at tough meat with her mallet, sweating in her widow’s dress. She must’ve noticed him by now, but she said nothing. He ate and pretended to listen to Schmittberger and secretly watched her swirling in and out of the kitchen, turning from table to table with dishes on her black-sleeved arms like a whirling dervish. Her face was ruddy as if she’d been stooped over a hot oven baking a fresh loaf of bread.
“Joe?” Schmittberger snapped his fingers. “What are you daydreaming about?”
“I can’t get the victim’s face out of my head. Reminded me of my pop.” Petrosino looked away from Adelina and thought of the dead man’s face. The slashed neck. The genitals on Dr. Weston’s table.
“You have a chance to visit the family lately?”
“I saw them for Easter. They don’t understand why I got in with a bunch of Jews and Irish cops. They say I’ve brought a curse on the family because they all get death threats now.”
“You were probably a curse to them already.” Schmittberger grinned.
“What do you think the others are doing? On this case?”
“Becker’s gathering up witnesses to take them all to the Morgue, and I’d wager McClusky’s favorite son, McCafferty, is scooping up shopkeepers from the Syrian quarters, slapping them silly to see what they know. At the Morgue, the Brooklyn dick whispered to me that McClusky told his Irish crew not to lay heads to pillow until they had solid clues.”
“The Chief doesn’t know what to do with us. But he’s gotta keep us since no one else will touch the Dago colonies.”
“I want to solve this case before that bastard even gets his boots on.”
“Why was our victim put on display like that?” Petrosino said. “With the son of a bitch’s cock and balls in
his mouth?”
“That’s what we’ve got to tumble out.” Schmittberger shoved his plate aside and stood.
He paid for the meal, and Petrosino shook hands with Saulino and watched Adelina out of the corner of his eye. Saulino held up the five dollar note that Schmittberger had given him, studying the portrait of Chief Running Antelope in his war bonnet.
“You pulling my leg, Vincenzo?” Schmittberger asked.
“Can’t trust anyone these days,” Saulino said, making change.
Adelina apologized with her eyes and gave Schmittberger sugar candies for both of them. But not a word to Petrosino. He thought of her mourning dress on his bed, and how long it had taken him to undo her corset, her giggling the whole time. Petrosino looked away from her now, irritated, and he noticed a patrolman rushing through the door and signaling to them.
“Sirs, the boss wants to see you both. About the barrel murder.”
“The Chief Inspector?” Schmittberger said.
“No, sir. The Deputy Commissioner.”
Petrosino and Schmittberger glanced at each other in surprise and followed the patrolman out the door. Petrosino turned back to Vincenzo and Adelina. “Don Vincenzo, thank you for the meal, and, Miss Adelina, it’s been too long. Ciao.”
She bit her lip and smiled.
NEW YORK TIMES
Chapter 5
The rain came back again colder, stinging their faces. The trio of Petrosino, Schmittberger, and the young patrolman squinted and held onto their hats while the clouds hung over their heads like dark swollen sponges spilling filaments of water.
Petrosino saw the shadow again. The man was standing outside the Marble Palace, rain beading on gold glasses, a newspaper still covering half his face. Petrosino nudged Schmittberger and whispered, “Have you seen that character before?”
Schmittberger kept walking, but glanced over his shoulder like a veteran jockey, and mumbled, “Looks familiar, but that paper’s in the way. Not too clever, is he?”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 3
