The man shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Three of my detectives have been working in Harlem for the last several months, investigating the bombings,” Petrosino explained. He nodded at the seated man. “Including Butch Cassidy here.”
I looked back in surprise at the slightly built, olive-complected man he was addressing.
“His real name is Ugo Cassidi,” Petrosino said, with the closest thing to a smile I’d seen yet. “But he likes to be called Butch.”
Detective Cassidi grinned at me. “Like the outlaw, yes?”
“If there was an Italian prostitution network operating out of Harlem,” Petrosino went on, “my men would likely have heard about it.”
“Well then, who else might it be?” I asked, thinking that the large number of single Italian men in the city would make a lucrative market for any resort offering Italian prostitutes, regardless of the operator’s nationality. “What about the French?” I suggested, for growing up, I’d always associated bawdy houses with French-speaking madams and imported champagne. “Could they be behind it?”
“Highly unlikely,” Petrosino replied. “The maquereaux brought in thousands of prostitutes from Paris during their heyday, it is true, but because few of them learned to speak English, they were unable to establish the political connections required to stay in business. The majority of the French houses were shut down during the reform administration, and the district attorney’s raids this summer finished off most of the rest.”
“Who else then?” I persisted. “Who has taken their place?”
He pursed his lips, considering. “Perhaps half of the remaining business is controlled by Jewish dealers, supported by the Jewish gangs. The rest is divided between smaller operators of various races and nationalities. It is becoming harder, you see, to make a living from crime in our city. The poolrooms and policy joints have been nearly wiped out, and racetrack gambling is under attack. Even burglary has become too risky, thanks to the new electric alarms. Prostitution is one of the few paying rackets left in town.”
“I thought the Jewish syndicate was put out of business,” I said, remembering press reports I’d read during the reform administration.
He shook his massive head. “They only relocated to Newark, where they’ve spent the last five years expanding their network from one end of the country to the other. And now, it seems they have decided to return. A few weeks ago, the district attorney raided a meeting of key members of their organization in a Bowery saloon. They were there to arrange new distribution lines out of New York.”
“I remember reading about that raid,” I said eagerly. “The group had an odd name…”
“The Independent Benevolent Association,” Detective Cassidi said from behind his typewriter, his voice filled with contempt. “It pretends to be an ordinary benefit society, providing death benefits and burial plots for decent merchants, when in fact, it is an alliance of men who make their living from the flesh of women.”
“Did the district attorney shut it down?”
“He was unable to produce sufficient evidence,” Petrosino replied. “Still, there has been progress.” He pushed off the desk and began to pace. “Last May, it was revealed that Newark’s slum politicians were providing sanctuary for the exiled Jewish operators, in exchange for a cut of their business and the use of their cadets as repeaters at the polls. You may recall that the chief of police killed himself soon after, and a number of key operators went to jail. In Philadelphia too, the citizens rose up against Jake Edelman and his associates, after the Law and Order Society revealed the extent of the evil there. Unfortunately, so great is the filthy lucre of this enterprise that every time one arm is cut off, another grows in its place.”
“Is this Benevolent Association known to traffic in foreigners?” I asked him.
“It has never needed to, with so many girls in the city tenements to prey on. Although I suppose it would have the manpower and the network to kidnap and transport new arrivals, if it chose to expand.”
“And yet,” I murmured, musing out loud, “if someone is snatching Italian women from the ports, I doubt they’re dragging them away kicking and screaming. There has to be some element of deception involved. In which case, I still can’t help thinking that an Italian procurer, who spoke the women’s language and knew their customs, would have the best chance at gaining their trust.”
He stopped pacing and frowned at me. “I never meant to suggest that there aren’t Italian men in this city who live off the shame of women. You can see such men strutting like roosters on the lower Bowery and in Chatham Square, with their collars turned up and their hair cut in their own peculiar fashion. But these Jacks are all small-time players, with only two or three women under their control. They lack the business sense of the Jews. They’re always fighting with each other, squabbling over territory. And the women they exploit are usually not Italians but Poles or Slavs they find in the employment agency district north of Houston.”
“But…if you had to name an Italian operator most likely to be involved, who would it be?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I would look first at those already practiced in kidnapping.” Crossing to the photograph gallery on the back wall, he pinned a forefinger against a picture of a handsome man in his late twenties with a bandana tied around his neck. “If you’d asked me a few months ago, I would have suggested this man, Pietro Pampinella, a smooth-talking dandy of the worst sort. He made a living out of kidnapping children for ransom. But we arrested him and his gang in April, so he could not have been involved.”
He moved to another picture. “We also know that this man, Enrico Alfano, ordered at least two kidnappings while he was in New York, although we could not get his victims to testify. We believe Alfano was the acting chief of the Camorra in Naples, a society similar to the Mafia in Sicily, until he was forced to flee here to escape murder charges. I wouldn’t put it past him to dirty his hands with such a scheme as you suggest. But”—his lips twisted in satisfaction—“I arrested him too, in April, and he is now awaiting trial for murder in Italy.”
I stood and went over to join him by the photograph. It showed a well-dressed man in his prime with a lush mustache and a scar running from the base of his nose to his ear. Perhaps it was only the photograph, but his eyes looked dead to me. “How can someone charged with murder get into this country in the first place?”
“It’s far easier than you might think,” he said grimly. “A wanted criminal, or an ex-convict wishing to escape the sorveglianza, can buy a false passport, or use someone else’s, or simply stow away on a steamer without one. The criminal societies keep men employed as stokers and stewards on all the lines to help their members escape. We know that Alfano traveled to New York disguised as a member of a ship’s crew. Another fugitive was smuggled aboard sewn into a mattress. If we had a law requiring a person’s picture to be on his passport, as I have repeatedly proposed,” he added, his voice rising in agitation, “we could at least cut down their numbers. Instead, more of these undesirables arrive every day.”
“What’s the sorveglianza?” I asked, unable to locate the word in my limited Italian lexicon.
“The sorveglianza speciale,” Detective Cassidi answered. “In Italy, even after a criminal has served his sentence, the government keeps a hand on him. He may not leave his home at night, or take employment without police approval, or visit a saloon. He is not allowed to carry so much as a penknife in his pocket, and if he gets into a fight he will be assumed to be the guilty party. And of course, he is not supposed to leave the country, although one may wonder how diligently the authorities hold him back when failure to do so only relieves them of their lowest elements.”
I nodded, glancing at the stacks of folders on the tables. Turning back to Detective Petrosino, I asked, “Are these Mafia and Camorra people who escape to America the same ones who operate here as the Black Hand?”
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His eyes flashed with impatience. “The ‘Black Hand’ is a myth,” he retorted, “created by the newspapers and fed by fear. The criminals we are tracking are nearly all small-time crooks without any ties to a larger organization. They are happy, though, to take advantage of the specter of a Black Hand octopus that has the whole city in its tentacles.”
Drawing a breath, he continued more calmly, “Perhaps, as more capos like Alfano seek to establish themselves here, one or two will gain sufficient power to control the rest. But for now, any petty crook can commit a crime in the name of La Mano Nera and profit from the association.”
I looked again at the photograph of Alfano, chilled by the blankness of his expression. “That scar, on his cheek…”
“The sfregio. It’s a sign of punishment among the Camorristi.”
“The drowned girl had a cut on her cheek as well,” I told him. “Could that mean her attacker was once part of this Camorra?”
He wagged his head noncommittally. “Many Italians are quick with a knife, Doctor. Here, let me show you something.” Stepping toward the corner table, he rummaged through the assortment of knives, revolvers, razors, and scissors that were piled there, selecting a slim cylinder with a triangular blade on top and holding it up for my inspection.
I peered at it. “It looks like a pencil sharpener.”
“It is a pencil sharpener. I took it from a man on Elizabeth Street who was using it to hold people up. He knew that by cutting their faces enough to draw blood, he could frighten them into giving him whatever he asked for.” He grunted in contempt. “What American hold-up man would be so bold? The Italian criminal knows his countrymen will not call for help or report his actions to the authorities. Until decent Italians understand that American laws are meant to protect them, and not the people who oppress them, these criminals will continue to flourish.”
I gazed at the hundreds of faces on the wall, daunted by the possibilities. I’d been sure the Italian Legion would know where to look for Lucia’s abductor, but it was beginning to seem that they had no more idea than I did.
Petrosino glanced at the clock. “I’m sorry, Dr. Summerford, that we can’t give you the easy answers you seek. But perhaps Detective Norton will come up with something. Meanwhile, I’ll tell my men to keep their ears and eyes open. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with the commissioner.”
“Just one more question,” I said quickly. “I still can’t help thinking it’s significant that Lucia Siavo was found in the river off Harlem, where we know from the recent bomb attacks that there’s a growing criminal presence. Can you tell me if any one gang appears to be consolidating power up there?”
He turned to Detective Cassidi. “Detective? Perhaps you can answer that for me. I don’t want to keep the commissioner waiting.” He gave me a nod and headed for the door.
Detective Cassidi jumped to his feet. “I am at your service, Doctor,” he said, coming around to take Petrosino’s place in front of the desk. He was considerably younger than his superior, with a lively step and a decidedly flirtatious glint in his eye. “To answer your question: in Harlem, especially, there is no uniformity between the Black Hand threat letters or the methods of bombing that might suggest consolidation. The letters are written by different hands, in different dialects, and signed with different insignia. We’ve seen knives, skulls, coffins, open hands, and closed fists.”
“Does any one group stand out from the rest?”
“There is, in fact, one newer gang that has been more active recently than the others. Its symbol first appeared two months ago: the picture of a spider, on a threat letter sent to the president of an Italian bank. The letter was followed by a bomb that destroyed the man’s business. We have since traced four more dynamite bombings to the Spider gang.”
Well, that sounds promising, I thought. “Have you been able to learn anything about them?”
“In fact, I have some personal knowledge of the Spider, as I told the chief when the symbol first appeared. You see, the Spider symbol is well known in Naples, where my family is from.”
“Would you mind telling me what you told him?”
He flashed me another of his winning smiles, which I guessed had melted many a feminine heart in their day. “As I said, Doctor, I am at your service.” He settled back against the desk and crossed his arms. With the easy rhythm of the born storyteller, he began, “Years ago, when he was young, my father’s uncle was imprisoned for his political activities. While he was in prison, he met many members of the Camorra and, through long association, learned something of the Society’s ways. Anyone who wanted to enter the Society, he told my father, first had to commit a series of crimes to prove his ability and obedience. Only then were the names of the members and their secret passwords and signals revealed to him. As part of his initiation ceremony, he was required to fight existing members with a dagger, one after another, until he succeeded in drawing first blood. Once he had tasted the blood of his vanquished adversary, he was ready for the final step: the tattoo that would seal his membership in the ancient order.
“Now usually,” the detective went on, “this tattoo was of two hearts joined together with two keys, symbolizing the bond of brotherhood and secrecy between members. But in one district, initiates were tattooed with the picture of a spider, to symbolize the industry of the Camorristi and the silence with which they spun their webs around their victims. Because the Camorristi of this district were especially ruthless, my father told me, the symbol of Il Ragno, the spider, inspired much respect among the people of the city.” The detective shrugged. “Of course, many of the old ways have fallen away now, except in the prisons. But according to the people who live there, the tradition of the tattoo continues.”
“So…whoever ordered the bombing of the bank president was a member of the Camorra in Naples?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps he is only using the Spider symbol to inspire fear among those who are familiar with it.”
“What sort of criminal activity does the Camorra engage in, in Italy?”
“Smuggling, extortion, counterfeiting,” he counted off. He tipped his head. “And prostitution.”
“So it’s not unreasonable to think that the transplanted Camorra in general, or this Spider gang in particular, might have taken up prostitution here as well?”
“It is certainly possible, although as I said before, I have seen no evidence of it.”
“Maybe when you find the man behind the letters, you’ll find such evidence,” I said with mounting excitement. “How long do you expect it will be before you run him to the ground?”
He frowned. “You must understand, Doctor, that these brigands, although ignorant, are sly in their way. It is always the insignificant picciot’, or apprentice, who steals the child or delivers the letter or lights the bomb. An apprentice would rather go to jail than name his superior. He will rarely need to make such a sacrifice, however, because no witness will be willing to speak against him. This is one reason Italian criminals love this country. In Italy, no complaining witness is necessary; when an accused is brought before the court, nine times out of ten, he will go to prison. Here, the criminal knows that if he can reach the witness and call him off, he has nothing to worry about.”
I sat back with a sigh.
“But do not despair,” he said gallantly. “If there is such a scheme afoot as you suggest, and Italian girls are being snatched from the ports, I am sure we will soon catch wind of it.”
I rose to go. “If you do hear anything, could you please let me know?” Pulling a calling card from the case in my bag, I used the pen on the desk to write down my phone number and slipped it under a corner of the blotter.
“I will be sure to do so,” he said, bowing smartly before escorting me to the door.
A punishing sun was beating down when I exited onto the street a few minutes
later, sapping the vigor from horses and pedestrians alike in the normally bustling district. Even the stoop and sidewalk sellers seemed subdued, hawking their candy and combs and chewing gum with only half their usual gusto. My mood was equally desultory. How naive I’d been to think that if I could just bring Teresa’s disappearance to Petrosino’s attention, he would somehow miraculously solve her case by dinnertime. I’d let myself be swayed by sensational newspaper reportage, seduced into believing that the powers of good, in the person of one Joseph Petrosino, could be sufficient shield against an alarming and little-understood menace. It was what all native New Yorkers wanted to believe, so that we could sleep soundly at night.
There had to be something more that could be done, I thought as I continued north toward the subway station. But short of searching for Teresa in the disorderly resorts myself, which would, of course, be patently dangerous, I couldn’t think of what it was. I was approaching the Bleecker Street station, fuming in frustration, when I noticed two stout women in peaked caps collecting donations near the entrance. A placard identified them as workers for the Howard Home for Little Wanderers. I paused in front of them, struck by sudden inspiration. Perhaps I’d been going about my search from the wrong angle. I dug into my bag for some coins and dropped them into the bucket.
“Thank you, miss,” they chorused.
“Thank you,” I replied and hurried into the station.
Chapter Nine
Before I could put the next phase of my plan into action, I had a psychotherapy class to conduct. It had been seven months now since I began my class treatment program designed to help women suffering physical ailments that stemmed from chronic grief. It had proved to be an instructive time for me as well as for my patients. When I first started out, I’d been a strict adherent of the persuasion therapy technique, which relied largely on a doctor’s ability to convince his patients that they could heal, an alternative to hypnosis that relied on a direct appeal to the patient’s reason to eliminate faulty thinking, and the psychic and physical problems that it produced. Because the doctor’s absolute authority was a key element in this approach, providing the forceful persuasion that convinced the patient of his ability to heal, I’d been taught to discourage my patients from interrupting me or trying to discuss their problems in class.
A Promise of Ruin Page 11
