They both casually looked at him. Everything about Tomasso Petto was broad. His face, his hands, his back, even his smile. He expertly flicked marbles with big thumbs, laughing heartily and tousling the hair of his playmates.
“He’s dark as a Moor,” Max said. “I bet he and his boss will go to one of their haunts. Laduca’s butcher shop is on Stanton. Inzerillo’s Star of Italy saloon and Morello’s restaurant are two blocks away on Elizabeth and Prince. Everything in walking distance. Clever bastards.”
Petrosino nodded as his eyes stalked Petto. The Ox was oblivious, crouched over a ring of small boys, more enraptured than the kids with the marble game.
Schmittberger checked his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes past the hour. Your turn.”
Petrosino reached for a coin from a pile that sat between their coffee cups and pulled his derby low over his brow. He quickly walked outside and down a half-stairwell to a New York Telephone Company public station inside a druggist’s basement shop. He asked for Spring 3-1-0-0, the Central Bureau, and the switchboard girl plugged him into the Chief’s line.
McClusky and Flynn were breathing through the other end of the receiver. “Speak.”
Petrosino said, “No bid yet on the Hand. But we spotted an Ox. What are our orders?”
Chapter 15
“Stay put, hold your vantage,” Flynn’s voice crackled through the telephone.
Petrosino hung up and reported back at the café. He and Schmittberger were flustered. They drank more coffee, banging spoons on the table, counting and stacking a dwindling pile of dimes, and watching Petto play more children’s games. When their prey slipped further down the street, they moved to a saloon two buildings down. The Ox was animated and rowdy as he played jacks, ignorant that he was being watched. Two hours passed until another target showed.
At the top of the entrance steps to 178 Chrystie Street, a gristled and moustached man in his thirties appeared. He was about five and half feet tall, slender, wearing a weathered Homberg hat and a grey wool shawl draped over his shoulders and concealing his right hand. He had lifeless eyes, tiny and black as peppercorns, that surveyed the crowded street. Morello.
Petto was sitting on the bottom step, his broad back hunched over an Italian newspaper. As soon as Morello appeared from the tenement, Petto turned and dropped the paper. Morello used his left hand to wave Petto up. Petto took two steps at a time, kissed Morello’s unshaven cheeks, and the pair disappeared inside the hovel.
Petrosino never saw the right hand, but he was sure it was Morello. He looked at his pocket watch, waited for his heart to stop hammering. “Let’s make the next call now.”
“What’s doing?” Schmittberger turned quickly toward the window, but there was only an old woman in a yellow shawl gingerly descending the steps at 178 Chrystie. “I’ll make the call,” Schmittberger said, “then you give the others a nod.”
Schmittberger’s chair screeched backward, and he hustled to a druggist’s telephone. Petrosino reached inside his jacket, feeling the pistol. A minute later, Schmittberger came back, breathing heavily, “They nixed it. Damn fools. They’re still waiting for the butcher to show.”
“Curse the fishes.” Laduca was already on the lam, Petrosino thought, and sooner or later they’d all slip through the law’s hands. Petrosino looked at the windows across the street. Garlands of brightly colored laundry crisscrossed window sills and air shafts, fluttering above fire escapes loaded with broken sewing machines, washtubs, cast-off mattresses, and soap boxes planted with basil and tomato plants. There was no back entrance to 178 Chrystie, and so they sat and waited for the signal from Headquarters.
At eight o’clock at night, they moved to the covered entrance of a cellar. Petrosino was incessantly opening and closing his pocket watch as if he could will the arms to spin faster. His head was barely above street level. Schmittberger had a piece of coal and was playing tic-tac-toe with himself on the brick wall. The sky had turned the color of a fresh bruise, and Petrosino was afraid the crooks would all be gone if they didn’t arrest them soon. The streets were no longer overflowing with peddlers and urchins and wagons. Older men were playing cards in the cafés, younger ones prowled the sidewalks, and ragpickers sorted through castoff wares and rotten fruit left behind by the pushcarts. Alleys exhaled the stenches of the night, and drunks were bedding down, fighting over street corners and gutters. There were few women in sight, except for slatterns hanging out windows and screaming down at waifs in the street. Or rough women leaning out disorderly houses, smiling between unnaturally red lips.
“Look!” Petrosino whispered.
Tomasso “The Ox” Petto came out the front door of 178 Chrystie Street, wearing a tan suit and a yellow fedora that barely clung to his thick head. Petto shifted on the balls of his feet and gave a quick look down Chrystie before he glided down the steps and onto the sidewalk. He loitered, licking his big dumb lips and ogling rough women passing by. The front door opened again, and Giuseppe Morello came outside. The Clutch Hand wore the same Homberg hat, but had a loose-sleeved corduroy jacket over a plaid wool vest and trousers. His right hand was pulled deep inside the brown sleeve, invisible. When Morello descended the steps, Petto escorted him south to Delancey Street.
Schmittberger chucked the coal into a rubbish bin. “Let’s move.”
They began tailing the suspects, and Petrosino noticed two other men down the street playing the “fingers” drinking game, guessing odd or even, and holding liquor bottles. He gave them a tip of his hat, and Jimmy McCafferty and O’Farrell took sips of their bottles, noticing the approach of Morello and Petto on the other side of the street. They waited for Petrosino and Schmittberger to reach them, and then the two Irish detectives lagged behind. Near Delancey and Forsythe Street, Petrosino flicked open his pocket watch. Almost a quarter past eight o’clock. Morello had stopped on the corner to talk to an elderly man.
Petrosino subtly motioned to the other three detectives to stay put. He fished a dime out of his vest and ducked into a Raines Law hotel with a public telephone station. Rag music drifted in from the hotel piano, and he covered his ear, struggling to hear through the receiver.
The T/S operator at 300 Mulberry put him through to Flynn and McClusky.
“Forget the butcher,” Petrosino said. “The Hand is moving. It’s now or we lose him.”
Flynn’s voice crackled, “We just got word the others are moving, too. Take them.”
Petrosino hung up and hustled out to Delancey Street, where Morello was still talking and Petto was standing ten feet away, eyes on his boss. Petrosino walked up to Schmittberger and nodded at McCafferty and O’Farrell who were circling the suspects.
Morello and Petto began moving again, backtracking west toward the Bowery as a string of wagons and hacks clattered past them in the street.
Petrosino shouted, “Now!”
McCafferty and O’Farrell were within hand’s reach of Morello’s corduroy jacket, but they went for The Ox instead.
“What the hell are they doing?” Schmittberger muttered. “The Ox is ours.”
“We’ll have to nab Morello now,” Petrosino hissed.
They hustled up from behind and grabbed Morello by the collar.
Morello yelled out in Italian, “Take your hands off me!”
Petrosino put his gun to Morello’s temple, and Morello fell silent as Schmittberger started to take out a pair of handcuffs. Up ahead, Petto pirouetted and flicked the fedora off of his head as he stampeded toward them. McCafferty and O’Farrell had bumped into a bum begging for coin, and they moved too slowly as they latched onto Petto’s arms. Petto easily shrugged off the two big Irishmen, and in that split second, Petrosino thought of the Coney Island carnival horses trying to tug Petto apart.
Schmittberger yelled, “Hold the ugly one, Joe! I got this Ox!” He put up his hands for fisticuffs, but Petto charged full steam, shoulders big as battering rams, and bowled him over.
Petrosino had never seen his giant friend knocked dow
n so easily, and he gasped in awe. Morello was wriggling out of Petrosino’s hold as he watched Schmittberger fall back onto the street. McCafferty ran up and tried to grab Petto from behind, but The Ox flipped him over his shoulder. Then Schmittberger rose on wobbly legs, trying to catch his breath. Petto tackled him again, grabbing his hair and furiously banging his head against the cobblestones.
“Here, hold Morello!” Petrosino punched Morello in the kidney and shoved him at McCafferty and O’Farrell, who greeted him with merciless swings of leather saps.
A small mob began circling the scene, but Petrosino only saw them as a blur. He had tunnel vision as he aimed his .38 at Petto. No clear shot. Petto began choking Max until the big Inspector’s tongue hung out and panicked eyes rolled back in his head.
“Police, stop!” Petrosino shouted. “Basta!” He pointed his .38 at the struggling pair. His finger came off the trigger, and he charged in and smashed the pistol against Petto’s ear.
Blood spurted from ruptured cartilage, and Petto released Schmittberger. He held a hand against his bleeding ear, glared at Petrosino, and rose up. Petrosino rained the butt of the pistol down on the strongman’s temple, but the blow only seemed to anger him. Petto tackled Petrosino and took them both to the gutter. The Ox’s massive arms encircled Petrosino’s torso, trying to crush him in a bear hug. Petrosino brought the metal gun down like a hammer, again and again, but Petto wouldn’t let go. Petrosino found himself on his back, gasping for air, his ribs feeling as if they would splinter. The sickening crackle of broken bone split the air. Petrosino’s vision blurred as he heard McCafferty shouting, backing off the mob. A woman shrieking. A dog barking. Everything turning black. He dizzily struck a fifth blow, too weak.
Then Schmittberger’s grey moustache smiled above, and his big hand brought a billy down on Petto’s skull. Petto’s head split open like an old walnut, blood spurting in bright red filaments onto Petrosino’s clothes, and the Ox’s powerful arms slackened and dropped to the ground. Petrosino staggered to his feet and held his side, wheezing. He felt faint and bent over, hands on his knees. He touched his ribs and a thunderbolt of pain shot through his whole body. He fought the urge to vomit and stood over Petto, trying to kick him.
“I wish you’d pulled a weapon!” Petrosino shouted. “Give me an excuse to put you to bed with a shovel.” Schmittberger pulled him off and tried to calm him. Petrosino cradled his ribcage and yelled at McCafferty, “You two were supposed to pinch Morello! Petto was ours. That was the plan, you stupid fucking Micks.”
“Aw, quit yer crying,” McCafferty said. “We got ‘em, didn’t we, you runt?”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Jimmy,” Schmittberger said, waving his billy club anxiously, like a lion waving its tail as a warning. “Not another word unless you want a lesson from me.”
“No, sir.” McCafferty backed off.
“You all right, Joe?” Schmittberger coughed out.
“Swell, how’s your neck?” Petrosino dusted off Schmittberger.
“It’s still here.” Schmittberger pointed at Petrosino’s ribs. “You need a doc?”
“Aw, ain’t they pretty?” McCafferty said to O’Farrell. “I wonder when the nuptials are.”
Schmittberger pointed his billy at McCafferty, and he shut up. They pulled Morello and Petto off the ground and handcuffed them. McCafferty searched them, finding a .45 revolver in Morello’s jacket and a stiletto hidden in the waistband of his trousers. Morello had put a cork on the stiletto’s point to avoid pricking himself. Petto also had a .45 in a holster and a sheathed knife in his pants. McCafferty knelt and took some other objects from their jackets. He whistled at the arsenal as he pocketed their things. Then he slapped a woozy Petto back to his senses.
They began towing the prisoners back toward Headquarters, and a throng of people curled around and followed them down the street. Schmittberger moved to the front and cut a path through the mob, tossing people aside and brandishing his billy. McCafferty and O’Farrell had one hand on Petto and another hand on their guns. The Ox was cowed now, head hung low.
An old man stepped out of the crowd and hissed at McCafferty in Italian, “You son of an Irish whore!”
McCafferty asked Petrosino, “What are they saying?”
“They’re thanking you for cleaning out the scum from their neighborhood.”
The old man was still following, cursing in Italian, “May you roast in hell!”
McCafferty smiled at him. “You’re welcome, sir. Just doing our job.”
Petrosino shouted to the crowd in Italian, “These men are murder suspects! They’re not worth the horseshit on your shoes, so clear out of our way!”
“My God, that cop is Italian,” someone said. “He betrays his own people. Curse the devil of a priest who baptized him!”
“Hey signore,” Petrosino shouted, “VAFFANCULO!”
The mob burst into laughter, and then it slowly made way for the detectives. Arms cleared a path, and hands reached out of the darkness to pat their backs. The other three detectives gave Petrosino a bewildered look as they turned onto Mulberry Street.
Schmittberger asked, “What the hell did you say, Joe, to calm them down?”
“I told them to go fuck themselves in Italian.”
The detectives laughed and kept moving.
McCafferty shouted at Morello, “Know why we pinched you?”
Morello lifted his head up, and his little eyes looked as sharp and black as obsidian. Morello’s lips twisted into a smile, and McCafferty’s face blanched.
“Keep walking, shitbird,” Petrosino said, pushing Morello forward. “Jimmy, he wouldn’t confess to you if you were St. Peter himself.”
On the steps of the Marble Palace, patrol reserves were waiting to let them inside and fend off the crowd. The other teams of detectives were also coming in with gang members in tow. The dicks congratulated each other and reenacted the arrests, showing off their battle wounds. Then they took the prisoners into the Rogues’ Gallery with its vast wooden panels of photographs. Newsmen carried accordion cameras on tripods and rushed into the hall for “the mugging of the suspects.” They tinkered with glass plates and flash powders while the cops roughed up the prisoners and forced them to pose in front of the battery of flash bursts. When the rumpus subsided, McClusky and Flynn appeared in the Gallery and clapped.
“All right, let’s stop holding each other’s cocks,” McClusky said. “Time to put ‘em in the sweat box and give ‘em some of the ole Third Degree.”
“The Mugging of a Suspect”
Chapter 16
McClusky and Flynn slurped coffee as they stared at Vito Lobaido. Petrosino watched from the outer office through the cracked door. The thrill of the arrest had subsided, and his ribcage burned hot now, making him sweat. They picked on Lobaido first, the youngest of the gang. McClusky asked the twenty-four year old a dozen simple questions, but Lobaido shrugged and repeated “no understand” while his eyebrows arched innocently beneath a swirl of hair on his forehead. McClusky opened his gold case and offered him a cigarette.
Lobaido licked his lips, but shook his head.
“You know Giuseppe Morello, don’t you?” McClusky made a crude pantomime gesture, mimicking a deformed right hand. “The Clutch Hand, goddamn it?”
Vito’s eyes narrowed, and his head shook vehemently. “No understand.”
“Enough of this horseshit.” McClusky waved at the patrolmen standing at his door. “Bring me my Dago. He’ll straighten out these crooked Dagos for us.”
The patrolmen opened the door to let Petrosino inside McClusky’s inner office. Petrosino paused for a long moment, removed his derby, and looked Lobaido up and down. The moustache on the boy’s cherubic face looked out of place, trying to conceal his fragile youth. Petrosino pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Lobaido. He grabbed the arms of Lobaido’s chair, and Lobaido recoiled, trembling fingers shielding his face. Petrosino exhaled deeply like a father disappointed in a wayward son.
&nbs
p; “Listen to me, Vito,” Petrosino said in Italian, “you can’t play dumb anymore.” The young gangster was thrown off kilter by a detective speaking his tongue. “You were the only one we arrested who didn’t have a weapon. You’re lucky. If you cooperate with us, you can save yourself a lot of trouble. Here, let me loosen those for you.”
Petrosino took out a key and unlocked Lobaido’s cuffs.
Lobaido fidgeted with his free hands on his lap.
Petrosino said, “We found a dead man in a barrel near the Mallet Works on 11th Street.”
“I don’t know anything about such things, signore. I don’t know any dead man or why he’s dead. You have to believe me.”
“Did you ever meet an American man named Primrose? A blond fellow?”
Lobaido shook his head.
“How about a doctor? Did your friends say they ever spoke to such a man?”
Another shake of the head. Petrosino clucked his tongue. He reached into his jacket pocket and unfolded the newspaper clipping of the dead man’s face from the front page of The World. “You’ve seen this man before, haven’t you?”
“Never.” Lobaido’s eyes shifted to McClusky and back. “I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t play me the fool, Vito, because I want to help you. This is the most important day of your young life. You’re going to make decisions today that will affect the rest of your days.” Petrosino pocketed the clipping and patted Vito’s face, lifting it up so their eyes met. “What if your brother, Lorenzo, was killed? Would you want justice?”
Lobaido’s eyes searched the room for an answer. Petrosino shouted, “Look at me! That poor man was found in a barrel like garbage, and his family wants justice.”
“I don’t know anything, signore.” Lobaido turned away, eyelids clamped tight. “I swear to the Virgin Mother and all the Saints in heaven.”
“Now you’ll go to hell for sure.” Petrosino loosened his own collar and drew out a crucifix, dangling it in front of Lobaido. “You helped kill that man one day after Easter Sunday. Easter, of all days. There’s blood on your hands, Vito.”
THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events) Page 12
