The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  Scalia now raced downtown to the Irving Trust Company. He got into the elevator and asked the operator to take him up to the forty-fourth floor. “The National Blue Joy Company” he said.

  “Forty-four, that is,” the young man confirmed.

  At the forty-fourth floor Johnny Scalia stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the office of the National Blue Joy Company, trying to stay calm. He was determined not to lose his temper. He would threaten to call not the police but someone who would do the job better than the cops. His heart was pounding.

  He rang the bell at the imposing mahogany door. A middle-aged woman opened it: evidently another secretary. Scalia stepped into the corridor. The office was in full swing. Behind the glass, clerks and professionals were busily at work and did not look up from their desks or drafting tables.

  “Is the red-haired secretary here?” he asked after looking over the place.

  “So you don’t like the color of my hair?” the middle-aged lady replied tartly. “May I ask whom you’re looking for?”

  “Mr. Marangoni,” he said quickly.

  “Mr. Marangoni?” the secretary repeated.

  “Yes, Mr. Marangoni.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Johnny Scalia was beginning to breathe freely again. At least the man was there. “No, but tell him that Johnny Scalia is here, and he’ll understand.”

  “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the reception area, and went off down the long corridor.

  Scalia watched her walk away and couldn’t help but notice her big behind jiggling.

  “What a difference,” he thought, remembering the redhead from Saturday.

  While he was lost in reflection, the secretary returned accompanied by a distinguished gentleman wearing an English tweed jacket and a bow tie. Seeing him approach, Scalia automatically rose from his chair.

  “Good morning, I’m Robert Marangoni. Were you looking for me?” He reached out and firmly shook the merchant’s limp, sweaty hand.

  “Do you have a son, maybe?”

  “I’m not married. But may I ask the reason for your visit?”

  “I bought a batch of slot machines from you here, license and all.”

  At these words, the man turned on his heel and said to his secretary: “Regina, please take care of it.” He strode off, extremely annoyed by that intrusion into his realm of geometries, curves, and angles.

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” The secretary took him by the arm and led him to the door. “This is an architectural firm. We design bridges, buildings, tourist resorts. Don’t you know that? Whatever possessed you to talk about slot machines? Mother of God, you hear all sorts of things nowadays.”

  She opened the door and shoved him out. Johnny Scalia felt a strong burning sensation in the center of his chest and leaned against the wall, waiting for it to pass.

  Chapter 32

  There was no need for the police to get involved in finding Ginevra because the morning after the raid on La Tonnara, a car dropped the child off a few blocks away on East Seventh Street, at the edge of Tompkins Square Park. The little girl was rescued by a woman who recognized her immediately, thanks to the photos that had appeared in the morning newspapers. She took her to the restaurant, where Betty, with a cry of joy and tears of relief, held her tightly in a suffocating embrace.

  They brought her to the hospital, and the doctors were able to verify that she had not suffered any injuries of a sexual nature. However, the child was still clearly in a state of shock.

  The damages to La Tonnara were substantial. The episode had demoralized the small family, which until then had lived in relative peace.

  With their fears for Ginevra behind them, life resumed its normal rhythm. They had to pick up where they’d left off.

  Ferdinando Licata offered to pay the damages sustained by the trattoria, but Betty refused her uncle’s help. Ferdinando pointed out the danger of falling into the clutches of loan sharks: the couple would run the risk of ultimately finding themselves with an unwanted partner. Not to mention the fact that Stoker would be able to buy their debts from the moneylenders, and they would thus find themselves in his hands. This point made Betty reconsider her decision. In ten days, La Tonnara reopened to the public.

  But people were afraid. Their regular customers chose instead to go to other restaurants in the area.

  In the end, fixing up the trattoria had cost much more than paying the “insurance,” as Stoker’s people called the protection money.

  * * *

  Brian Stoker was the undisputed king of the northern portion of the Lower East Side, which many decades later would become known as the East Village. The Irish had settled in that part of the city when New York was a huge shantytown. His father had witnessed the city transform itself, and had physically helped build it as a bricklayer. Brian remembered him coming home at night to their hovel, having barely enough strength to gulp down the supper his wife had made before he collapsed on the horsehair mattress in a troubled sleep.

  He worked as long as eighteen hours a day, eating a bit of bread and cheese to assuage his hunger around eleven in the morning, after the first six or so hours of work, and then not eating again until nine at night, before going to bed. The young Brian, seeing his father slave like a dog under such inhumane conditions, swore to himself that he would not end up that way. When he turned fourteen, before his father could force him to work at the construction site, Brian informed him that he had already found a job at the port as a dockhand for the Jeson family, who ruled the Lower East Side in those days.

  Whatever the Jesons said became law. Woe to anyone who crossed them.

  Brian began working as a drug runner for the top brass in the union and the police force. It was an easy job that earned a weekly income equal to what his father brought home in a month.

  A few years later, when he became a bit stronger, they made him take part in a beating.

  Over time Brian proved to be coolheaded and unconcerned about death, and was allowed to participate in “wet work,” as the Irish called missions involving bloodshed.

  Mama Jeson admired the young man with the icy gaze and held him up as an example to younger members of the family who may not have wanted any part in killing people.

  From that time on, Brian Stoker’s career continued on the upswing. His legendary ferocity kept other criminal elements away from the Lower East Side when even the police wanted nothing to do with such hoodlums. “Let them slit each other’s throats,” the cops said.

  A couple of times, they tried to put Stoker in jail, but when the cases were about to go to court, the witnesses pulled out or said they didn’t remember anything.

  The Jesons realized too late that a snake like that, harbored in the family’s bosom, would sooner or later turn against them. They therefore decided to do away with him, much to Mama Jeson’s regret. But Brian hadn’t been idly twiddling his thumbs. He’d managed to effectively work on the family’s affiliates, bringing them over to his side, and one night he seized control, killing his benefactress, Mama Jeson, before the eyes of her husband and all the brothers. The sight of the woman being garroted, without any of them being able to do anything to save her, drove the younger children into shock and made such an impression on the others that the Jesons chose to disappear forever from New York.

  And so in a single night, Brian inherited all of the Irish family’s operations, including the cemetery plot racket, which became one of his leading ventures.

  In recent years, he’d been trying to expand farther south in the Lower East Side, toward Chinatown, but had met strong resistance from the Italian Bontade family, under the protection of the Genovese clan.

  Brian’s son, Damien, was a rough draft of his father. He had acquired his ruthlessness and absolute amorality but not his cunning and skill as a strategist. He went roaring around the neighborhood in a fiery Buick as if he were a princeling. Whatever he wanted, he took, whether it was an orange or a
young virgin. His father tried to keep him in check, but to no avail.

  Damien didn’t make a move unless he was flanked by Kevin and Hugh, the two bruisers who were also his best friends. Damien, more so than his father, was the real terror of the neighborhood because of his unpredictability, although Kevin—“Freckles” to everyone—was not far behind.

  * * *

  But the three musketeers, as the neighborhood residents called them, made a mistake, and that mistake was the beginning of their downfall.

  It was Kevin, who grabbed the handful of bills from the cash box during the robbery at La Tonnara and stuffed them in his pocket. When they got home and went to divvy up the loot, including the money and other valuables they’d taken from the trattoria’s customers, they found a remittance voucher from Italy addressed to Ferdinando Licata. It was the equivalent of a hundred bucks, Kevin translated, handing the money order to Damien.

  The next morning, they quickly took action. They stationed themselves at the side door of the local post office, and as soon as they saw the postman assigned to Avenue A leave the building on his usual rounds, they forced him into Damien’s Buick and sped off toward their headquarters in the back room of Sullivan’s Bar, a place that Damien had been able to commandeer with his usual wheeling and dealing.

  They showed the postman the voucher and the address where it had been sent. From now on, each month he was to deliver it not to the address on the envelope but to Sullivan’s Bar. To make him understand that they weren’t kidding, they jabbed his hand with the point of a pocketknife, but only just enough to elicit a few drops of blood. The poor postman was absolutely terrified and stammered that he would do as they said. Then without further ado, they loaded him back into the car and dropped him off near the post office. All in all, the action took a half hour, but it was one of the most lucrative half hours Damien Stoker’s crew had ever spent.

  Too bad for them that the arrangement didn’t last long.

  When the money order didn’t come, Ferdinando Licata went immediately to his contact’s house. The man was a Genovese family accountant, one of the channels through which American and Sicilian mafiosi communicated with one another to avoid federal controls. The clerk explained that there had been no change in the procedure that month: Lavinia, Ferdinando’s sister, had deposited the sum with his counterpart in Sicily. The man had contacted him, telling him that the money had been deposited in their account and indicating the amount in code. He in turn had sent the voucher to Licata’s usual address. That’s all he knew.

  “Don’t worry, there must have been a sorting error at the post office,” he tried to reassure Licata as he looked through a folder for the credit receipt. “See, here it is, Don Licata.” He handed him the slip.

  “I’m not ‘Don’ over here,” Licata said, snatching the piece of paper to check the date and remittance.

  “By the way, just this morning, an envelope arrived for you.” The man walked to a drop-front desk, opened a drawer, and took out a letter. “Here you are; it still has the scent of lemons,” he said, trying to defuse the situation.

  Prince Licata gave him a stern look, took the envelope, and opened it. It was from his sister. Lavinia wrote to tell him that Rosario Losurdo had been killed by poachers:

  [ . . . ] He caught them hunting on our Madonnuzza property. Rosario did not hesitate to confront the outlaws, it seems there were three of them. He’s always been a loyal friend of the family. He sacrificed his life for our land, may God rest his soul. The poachers have not been identified, but it seems they came from another province. Dear Ferdinando, you mustn’t worry about me. Thinking of what you would have done, I entrusted the care of our estates to Manfredi. He is our new gabellotto. I believe you will approve of my choice.

  The letter ended with the usual closing sentiments.

  Licata folded it, deeply moved. His thoughts went to his faithful Losurdo. Then he thanked the Lord for giving him such a strong, decisive sister to depend on. He remembered the reason why he had come to the accountant’s house. A terrible suspicion occurred to him: that the voucher had been intercepted by someone.

  He headed to the bank and asked the manager to check if someone had withdrawn a credited remittance in his name.

  The manager called over the teller, who remembered having recently cashed a payment order to a man who had the prince’s proxy. Actually, Licata learned much later that the teller was on the Stokers’ payroll. At the time, however, he had no evidence to make him doubt the teller, and he had him describe the man who had gone there in his place.

  The Stokers had a trademark: their flaming red hair. As soon as the teller described the man, covered with freckles, eyes black as coal, Licata recalled Damien’s two bodyguards.

  The prince decided to go meet a man whom friends in Sicily had advised him to contact in case he needed help.

  The man’s name was Jack Mastrangelo, and although he’d lived in Brooklyn for ten years, no one seemed to know how to find him.

  For three days, Licata drifted from one address to another, from one shop to another, in the sprawling working-class neighborhood where Mastrangelo lived. But people didn’t know him, and if they knew him, they weren’t talking and swore they’d never heard that name before. When he was about to give up and ask his friends in Sicily for help, Mastrangelo materialized as if by magic. He was a stocky man, his facial features disfigured by two long scars, one running from his mouth to his left ear and a vertical one up along his right temple. The wounds spoke volumes about his life.

  Mastrangelo tapped him on the shoulder: “Were you looking for me, Prince?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Mastrangelo. Jack Mastrangelo.” The man seemed annoyed.

  “Oh, finally!” the prince exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you all week.”

  “I know.”

  “I need your help.”

  It didn’t take long for Mastrangelo to find out where Freckles lived: an elegant building on East Fourth Street, not far from the Bowery. One Saturday evening, Mastrangelo entered the second-floor apartment, followed by Ferdinando Licata. He turned on the bathtub faucets and let them run until the water reached the top. Then the two settled in to wait for their man. Mastrangelo hid in the dark entrance foyer, while Licata sat on a sofa in the living room.

  In the preceding weeks, Mastrangelo had ascertained that every Saturday, without fail, some of Stoker’s gang spent their leisure time in a gambling parlor in Little Italy, where everyone ended up getting drunk.

  That Saturday too, the script was identical, though with one variation: a particularly desperate whore who was looking for some quick bucks had accompanied Kevin back to his apartment, struggling to prop him up.

  The woman opened the door, felt for the switch, and turned it on, but the lights didn’t come on.

  A figure emerged from the shadows, scaring her. “Who are you?” she cried in surprise.

  “Take this and get out of here,” Mastrangelo snapped, handing her a $5 bill. “If you open your trap, I’ll come looking for you in that cesspit you live in, and you’ll be sorry you were ever born.”

  The prostitute snatched the bill from his hand, let go of Kevin, and ran off. She never told a soul about what had happened. Freckles staggered forward, ending up in Mastrangelo’s arms.

  Mastrangelo dragged the man into the apartment and then toward the bathroom. Kevin was so drunk, he hadn’t yet figured out what was happening to him. Mastrangelo pinned his hands behind his back with a pair of handcuffs, then threw him into the brimming tub.

  Licata watched in silence from the bathroom door.

  The sudden contact with the cold water startled Kevin, who finally seemed to awaken from his alcoholic stupor. He saw a man standing over him. He was about to cry out, but Mastrangelo plunged his head under the water for a few seconds. When he let him up, Kevin coughed and heaved in an attempt to take in some oxygen. After the third immersion, he realized that he’d better not try to call out.
r />   “Who are you? What do you want?” he asked, coughing up water.

  “You’re in very bad trouble, my friend.” Mastrangelo grabbed his feet and pitched him underwater again. When he tried to kick out violently, Mastrangelo grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as he could. Kevin, his head submerged, began to scream but the water immediately filled his mouth, nearly drowning him. With Licata’s help, Mastrangelo quickly bound his ankles with a cord. Then he let him up for air. After he’d sucked in a lungful, though his breathing was still labored, he had enough breath to still threaten, “Do you know my boss is Damien Stoker? When we catch you, you’ll be in deep shit.”

  Mastrangelo tossed a rope around the lamp fixture hanging from the ceiling. He slipped one end of it under the cord that secured the thug’s ankles, forming a bowline knot as skillfully as any sailor. Then he grabbed the other end of the rope and yanked it tight.

  Mastrangelo pulled with all his might, and the man was hoisted out of the bathtub, hanging upside down like a pig ready for slaughter.

  “I want some information from you,” Mastrangelo said sweetly.

  “Lower me! I’m going to throw up.”

  “How did you manage to get Ferdinando Licata’s remittance vouchers?”

  But Kevin couldn’t hold back the vomit and began spewing up alcohol mixed with water and everything he’d eaten that evening. His inverted position made matters worse for him. Some of the contents flowed into his nose and the rest covered his face, the stomach acid burning his eyes. He was in agony and thought he was going to die. He could barely breathe, he coughed and spat.

  When he had settled down a little, Ferdinando Licata leaned close to his ear to make himself heard better and repeated Mastrangelo’s question.