“Ready, dear?”
Gloria, at her side, gave her a quizzical look. She had been spared the sight that night, though Mia herself had been the one to break the news. She was glad that, between them, she had been the one to witness Nick dead and not Gloria. It would have broken her beyond repair.
Mia swallowed and arranged her face into a smile. Gloria looked beautiful, in a black-and-silver number with a fur-trimmed coat and a jeweled headband. Though she had only been with them for a short time, Raquel’s absence had created a hole in Mia’s heart. She should have been here tonight, too. The only thing that kept deep sadness from swallowing her whole was the knowledge that Raquel was flourishing back home with her brother and his family, back in the warm, salty air tinged with the fragrant aroma of the blood orange groves. The nightmares, Carlo had written her a couple weeks ago, were far apart now, and no longer nightly as they had been when she’d first arrived home. She sent her love, Carlo always wrote, but Raquel had yet to write herself, though Mia had sent her dozens of letters and handfuls of gifts.
“Yes,” Mia replied. “I’m ready.”
“Well, aren’t we a pair tonight.” Gloria smiled and linked her arm through Mia’s. “I swear, they made the color red just for you.”
Mia glanced down at her own bespoke ensemble, a velvet tube dress covered in silver-embroidered netting and embellished with a large, silver pendant that hung from the plunging neckline. She’d bought it as a birthday present to herself last month, though she’d turned twenty-three inside her hotel suite with just Gloria, Emilia, and Charlie to celebrate with her and sing her “Happy Birthday.”
The velvet was so soft beneath her fingertips as she ran her hand along her flank to smooth it. Red, the color of blood. So much of that she had seen the past couple years. So much she had spilled.
Yes, it had been made for her.
They stepped off the curb, Mia waving to Paolo over her shoulder, and strolled across the street. Paolo had not been interested in attending the play, and had opted to wait in the car so he could keep an eye on who came and went.
Mia led her straight to the front to the bouncer at the door. “We’re guests of Ms. Watkins,” she informed him.
He scoffed. “You got any idea how many times I’ve heard that tonight? Everyone who’s ever read any of her columns is a guest of hers.”
Mia opened her pocketbook and fished out the two extra-special tickets labeled “Very Important Person” across the top. Beneath that were the words in flowing script: The holder of this ticket is hereby entitled to all accommodations befitting esteemed members of the cast, crew, director, and playwright.
The bouncer frowned as he read both tickets several times, turning them over and over.
Mia sighed. “Perhaps you want to call Ms. Watkins down here?”
“What gives? Don’t you know who you’re talking to?” Gloria demanded. “This is Mia Angela Scalisi. She was the Saturday Night Special in this town not too long ago, and she used to perform here, too.”
Mia nudged Gloria lightly in the ribs, but bit back a smile. She sounded truly indignant.
“All right, already,” said the indignant guard. “Listen, I got enough aggravation with this job, I don’t need any more. Go ahead.”
“Thanks, mac,” Mia said with a wink. She took the tickets back, and she and Gloria glided into the theater.
In the lobby, Mia froze. She didn’t care when someone stumbled into her back and snapped, “Watch where you’re going!”
All she could think of was that moment here almost two years ago, when she’d been flirting with Charlie the moment before she’d heard her brother die. The front doors had burst with glass shards. She remembered how they’d cut her face, how her palms had stung when she’d hit the floor.
“Mia,” Gloria said gently. There was an odd look of understanding on her face, though Mia had never told her all of the details. Gloria had never asked.
“I just—I haven’t been back here since…” She swallowed. Why were her hands shaking?
“We can leave, if you want,” Gloria said. “Perhaps we ought to. We could go see a flick instead.”
“Maurine would be so disappointed,” Mia said. “It’s all right.”
In the auditorium, they found Maurine Watkins near the front, speaking to a few people who might have been reporters. She wore an elegant black dress, and her luminous dark eyes shone with pride.
When she caught sight of Mia, an enormous smile split her face. She excused herself and hurried to meet them. Mia caught her by the hands.
“Well, I’ll be!” Maurine exclaimed, looking her up and down. “Every bit the Sheba I remember you as at the courthouse that day.”
“It seems to me you always find the sneakiest ways of mentioning that day, Ms. Watkins,” Mia said, arching a brow.
“That’s because I don’t want you to forget about that exclusive you promised me,” she replied, then leaned closer. “How was that business in New York you asked me about? I heard from my dirty prohi friend that detective who went after you turned up dead.”
“That business all got worked out,” Mia said, keeping her face neutral. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about him. I wonder who he ran afoul of.”
Maurine smirked. “Probably some dame in a killer evening dress. What do you think?”
Mia gave her a warning glance and cleared her throat. “Ms. Watkins, this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Gloria Scalisi.”
Gloria held out her hand. “How do you do?”
Maurine shook it. “Charmed, I’m sure. Boy, you Italian girls sure know how to put a room to shame. You could be in pictures, too, Mrs. Scalisi.”
Gloria flushed and waved her hand. “Oh, go on. Mia’s the one with any talent.”
“Speaking of talent,” Mia said, “I’m thrilled to see your play.”
“I’m thrilled you’re thrilled,” Maurine said with a grin. “They say we’re headed for the pictures next year. Say—you’d be perfect for the role of Velma Kelly. I need someone dark and vampy.”
Mia returned her grin. “You don’t say? I can do dark and vampy.”
“Then I’ll put your name in for consideration,” Maurine said. “Get ready for a phone call one of these days. Of course, I’m guessing you’ve got other endeavors that keep you rather busy lately, haven’t you?”
Mia tipped her head back and laughed at the woman’s sly expression. “Maurine, you gave up reporting to become a playwright. Will you ever step out of the newsroom? Or will you always be this nosy?”
“With a scoop like you around, who could help but be nosy?” She linked her arm with Mia’s and Gloria’s. “Come, ladies. I promised you the best seats in the house.”
The following evening, Mia, Gloria, and Paolo arrived at the Hawthorne Inn around nine o’clock for supper with Al Capone. She hadn’t been to his headquarters since he’d moved to Cicero in the spring of 1924, although Nick had been a frequent visitor before his death.
“Have you ever been here?” Gloria asked as they walked up 22nd Street.
“Not here,” Mia said. “Just a couple of times when he was at the Four Deuces.” She’d limited her visits after the first; she’d had her fill of cathouses from the upstairs level of Stems Club.
The Hawthorne, however, was just a new location for all of Al’s favorite businesses—bootlegging, gambling, and prostitution. She sighed inwardly, steeling herself for what she’d see.
“When I saw Johnny in Sicily, he told me Al’s changed,” Mia said. “I guess he’s kind of famous nowadays.” She wondered how different he was from the man who had made her an incredible cup of coffee inside the tiny tenement apartment of a Sicilian immigrant woman.
As they neared the hotel, she paused in front of its adjoining restaurant. Less than three weeks ago, Hymie Weiss had ordered his men to shoot up the place and take Al out. He’d been unsuccessful, of course, and if he hadn’t been a dead man walking before, he certainly was now.
“Looks like they g
ot all the repairs done,” Gloria said, touching the large, plate-glass front window lightly. “You can hardly tell anything happened.”
“Let’s hope they used bullet-proof glass this time,” Mia remarked.
Paolo held the hotel door for them. Inside, she glanced around. It wasn’t quite as fancy as the Lexington Hotel, her old home, but for small Cicero, it was nice.
“I expected he and his men had taken over the place,” Gloria said. “But it looks like they’re keeping to themselves.”
“Except for the guards,” Mia murmured under her breath. She flicked her chin at a few Italian men in beautiful suits standing guard in the lobby. They were the only indication—and then, only to an insider’s eye—that a man of respect, a “mobster” as Maurine would have called him, lived here.
They entered the elevator, where another well-dressed man operated the lift.
“Where to?” he asked politely.
The hotel was only a few stories, smaller than the Lexington. “Top floor, please.”
The man turned to study her, his eyes narrowing. He gave her a sweeping, head-to-toe look, then Gloria, then glanced at Paolo. “What you want up there for?”
“We’re friends of Mr. Capone’s,” Mia replied. “Mia and Gloria Scalisi.”
“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “Friends, huh?”
“Dear, family friends,” she said bitingly, though Gloria hardly knew Al. “Not whores. Maybe you’d like to ask him yourself. He’s expecting us.”
“And him?” The man—the guard—flicked his chin at Paolo.
“Our bodyguard.”
“You armed?” he asked Paolo.
“Of course he is,” Mia said drily. “He wouldn’t be much of a bodyguard if he weren’t, now, would he?”
“What, he can’t talk for himself?” the guard said.
“No,” Mia replied. “He can’t speak, due to an injury. But he can hear you just fine.”
“Show me your piece,” the guard said to Paolo.
The Sicilian bodyguard opened his suit coat to show the pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.
“Yeah, I’ll be needing that.” The guard held his hand out.
Paolo buttoned his jacket.
The guard bristled. “Look, pally—”
“As I said, we’re friends of Mr. Capone’s,” Mia said sharply. “Old friends. To ask my bodyguard to give up his pistol would be disrespectful.”
“Mr. Capone should be the one to make that decision.” The guard’s tone was just as sharp.
Mia didn’t know whether to be exasperated or impressed with him. “Fine.”
When they arrived on the top floor, the elevator opened to a short hallway. A set of double doors at the end magically opened and another guard appeared in the doorway.
“Who’re the dames?” he asked.
“Says she’s—”
“Mia Angela Scalisi,” a familiar voice said from inside the room. “The Saturday Night Special. And don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”
The words were punctuated by a short, infectious bark of a laugh, and Mia’s lips twisted into a smile as Al Capone shoved the guard aside and stepped out to greet her.
“Alphonse,” she said, allowing him to embrace her with a kiss on each cheek. Gloria accepted an identical greeting from him, her cheeks flushing.
“Mia. Gloria.” He leaned back, spreading his hands wide. “New York’s been good to you ladies.”
Mia huffed a humorless laugh, thinking back on the past several months. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You’ve been busy, from what I hear.” He formed his thumb, index, and middle fingers into the shape of a gun and held them to his temple. “Very busy.” He glanced behind her at Gloria. “Oh, ah. Beg your pardon.”
“She knows everything,” Mia said quietly, glancing at Gloria. Her sister-in-law gave her a slight nod in return. “We can speak frankly in front of her.”
Al raised a brow. “That so? Things have changed.”
“That’s an understatement,” Gloria said, and he laughed.
“The bodyguard’s packing, boss,” the guard from the elevator said. “He wouldn’t give it up.”
Al stuck his hand out to Paolo. “Hey, any friend of Mia Scalisi’s is a friend of mine.”
To Mia’s surprise, Paolo shook Al’s hand and nodded in greeting.
“He’s all right,” Al said, clapping Paolo on the arm and gesturing them into the suite.
The door shut behind them, and Mia glanced around. It was painted in shades of cream and all of the furniture was white and cream. Several men milled about, holding drinks and cigars, laughing quietly among themselves, eyeing her and Gloria with open and frank curiosity.
“It’s much quieter than I expected,” she said.
Al chuckled. “Well, it’s early. Plus I told them I was having guests tonight. Real fine, classy guests. They’re on their best behavior—at least until you leave. Let’s go back here.”
He led her to a large office at the back of the room. A table had been set up with four steaks, potatoes, green beans. A simple meal, but a hearty one, and she was hungry.
They all sat down at the table. An older man she didn’t recognize walked in with a bottle of wine. He poured four glasses.
“Thanks, Enzo,” Al said.
“You want something stronger?” Enzo asked with a thick Sicilian accent that made Mia smile a little. He sounded like home.
Al glanced at her, holding a hand out. “Whiskey? Anisette?”
Paolo gave an approving grunt, tucking his dinner napkin into his collar.
“Paolo would like some anisette,” Mia said. “Wine will do for me.”
“Fine for me, also,” Gloria said.
When Al’s whiskey, and Paolo’s anisette had been poured, they dug in. The steak was tender, flavorful, and perfectly cooked, and Mia said so.
Al smiled with pride. “From the restaurant next door. Owner’s a good buddy of mine.”
“How is he after what happened?” she asked. “How are you?”
A smile that was more of a snarl crossed his lips. “Fuckin’ pissed,” he said. “That fuckin’ Irish Jew is gonna get what’s coming to him.”
“From what I understand, he’s Polish and Catholic,” Mia corrected gently.
Al glared at her. “I don’t give a fuck if he’s a giraffe and Episcopalian,” he snapped. “That’s the second fucking time he’s come at me. You know what he did to Johnny. This time I coulda been plugged full of holes. He won’t ever get over Deanie O’Banion.”
“Not until you’re dead,” she said. “Or he is.”
“Well, I ain’t planning on dying any time soon,” Al said. “So I guess it’s his turn.”
“That’s part of why I wanted to come see you.” Mia dabbed her lips on her napkin. “I have some business in the city still. Saw a friend’s play last night. Tomorrow, Glo and I are going to go see about having Nick’s body exhumed and cremated, so we can bring him home.”
Al stared at her, then Gloria. “You’re going to have his body dug up?”
“He never should have been buried here,” Gloria said softly. “It’s not home.”
“He belongs in New York,” Mia added. “Lying beside our parents.”
Al shrugged. “Never heard of such a thing, but by all means, do what you need to. You need my help, let me know.”
“Thank you,” Mia said. “But I mentioned it because it’ll probably be a couple days before we can have his body dug up. So in the meantime, we’re going to visit him since it’s been a while.” She paused, glancing slyly at Gloria. Her face remained impassive, but her brown eyes glinted. “We thought it’d be awfully nice if we brought him some fresh flowers.”
At the mention of the wreath, Al looked up from his plate, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Flowers, huh? And, uh, where would you be going for such an arrangement?”
“Why, Schofield’s, of course,” she said. “Best shop in the city. I heard it has a new owner, no
w that Dean O’Banion’s gone.”
He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. All coyness left the conversation. “I don’t know how we could get him. That place has as many guards as this one does. And Hymie ain’t always there.”
Mia shook her head. “I’ll make an order with him tomorrow to pick something up the following afternoon. When he’s on his way back to the shop…”
Al’s brow creased. “And how do you know he won’t already be there?”
She smiled. “My playwright friend used to be a reporter for the Tribune. She’s a very well-connected woman. Has lots of sources in the city. I’m told jury selection for the murder trial of a pal of Hymie’s is tomorrow.”
“Joe Saltis,” Al said venomously. “Fuck that bastard.”
“What have you got against him?”
“He was my guy for a long time, then he started getting cute with our territories. The icing was when he started dealing with the North Side behind my back.”
“Well, seems Hymie wants to be there for moral support tomorrow afternoon,” Mia said. “According to my friend’s source, that is.”
“How do you know that dope’s reliable?”
“Her source is a dirty cop,” she said. “Hymie asked him to provide some security for him and a couple friends.”
“I’ll be damned,” Al murmured, staring at her with a face of impressed respect.
“If I have an order to pick up after that, he won’t already be at the shop. He’ll be out on the street.”
Al set down his fork, studying her. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I’ve been waiting two years for this,” she said. “I’ve had nothing but time to think this through. I just needed to wait for the right moment.”
Beside her, Gloria stiffened a little. This was new territory for them still, though after Jake’s death, Mia had told her everything. It was too hard to keep things from Gloria, and in a selfish way, Mia didn’t want to shoulder the burden of her deeds alone. The day of Signor Bagnoli’s daughter’s wedding had planted the seeds of openness between them, with Gloria acknowledging that Mia had made an irrevocable transition with the act of murdering Jake’s men.
Princes of the Lower East Side: A 1920s Mafia Thriller (A Scalisi Family Novel) Page 42
