Paradise City

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “There was no man with a gun chasing me to the zoo,” Assunta said, nodding to one of the children, a girl with a short ponytail who had sent a wave her way. “If there was, I would have been here before you.”

  “I thought this would be a good place for us to have our talk,” Jennifer said. “It’s safe and it’s quiet. And we can always find a place to eat if we get hungry.”

  “I only eat in my house and what I cook with my own hands,” the old woman said with a slight shrug. “I don’t like dirty kitchens and surprises.”

  “Tell me about Lo Manto,” Jennifer said. “Not the things I already know or can find out on my own. I need to know the things that are buried and never talked about. The things only a handful of people know and remember.”

  Assunta turned and stared at the young detective. She liked the hard edge that came with the soft face and the warm eyes that hid a determined nature. She sensed that she cared for Lo Manto and in many ways was similar to him, especially in the manner she approached her profession and the guard she placed around her demeanor. The old lady had been through enough to know that she was sitting next to a woman with her own set of secrets and her own thirst for revenge. “To know those things, to truly understand them, to come away without any questions, there is something bigger than Lo Manto you need to know about,” Assunta told Jennifer.

  “What is that?” Jennifer asked, tossing the bag of chestnuts into the garbage.

  “You must know about the Camorra,” Assunta said.

  The reign of the Camorra began in the sixteenth century with the Spanish conquest of Italy. There, the Spanish Garduna evolved over time and slowly emerged as an early incarnation of the Neapolitan Camorra. What began with a series of weekly meetings of a dozen local men looking to gain a foothold in their occupied and poverty-stricken land grew with swift speed and deadly silence across the centuries to become the most powerful branch of organized crime in the world. From their earliest days, the Camorra was ruled by a body of bosses who referred to themselves as the Grand Ruling Council. While the Sicilian-based Mafia stretched its tentacles across small towns, the Camorra concentrated on big cities, specifically New York and Naples. The first known member to arrive in America was an extortionist named Alessandro Vollero in 1916. He was chased and hounded by the first true police hero of the twentieth century, Italian-American cop Joseph Petrosino. The determined young detective, who worked to rid his neighborhood of the predators swooping down on the innocent, was ultimately murdered in his fruitless attempt to return to Naples and crush the Camorra on their own soil.

  Lo Manto had studied all of Petrosino’s tactics and strategies and adapted them to his own form of police work, adding heavy doses of lethal force to his methods. On the day Lo Manto was made a detective in Naples, Inspector Bartoni gave him a framed photo of Petrosino to be used as a steady reminder about the war he would wage and the sacrifice it would demand. Lo Manto placed it in his living room in Naples.

  In time, the Camorra ruled every Italian neighborhood in the two cities, dictating who worked and who didn’t, who ate and who went without food, who lived and who needed to die. The bosses who ran the gangs had no qualms about shedding the blood of their own people, and their legends spanned the Atlantic, growing in strength and power with every kill. Pelligrino Morano, a Coney Island thug, was the first of the famed Camorrista dons to build his power base in New York. He was soon followed by the likes of John “Lefty” Esposito, Luigi Bizarro, and “Torpedo” Tony Notaro. They made fortunes by controlling the income of others, running the piers, the meat, fish, and produce markets, garbage pickups, and construction contracts that were handed to them by the corrupt politicians of their day. In return for steady work and a weekly paycheck, they demanded a 30 percent cut of a worker’s wages. In turn, they then handed over 5 percent to the elected officials in the five boroughs and doled out a 3 percent commission to the police precincts scattered throughout the area.

  “They became rich men on the backs of poor,” Assunta told Jennifer. The two were taking a slow walk now, ambling their way toward the large swimming area filled with seals and attended by screaming children and tired adults. “It is always the fastest way to a dollar. In this or in any other country.”

  “Fastest way to a prison sentence or a bullet to the head, too,” Jennifer said. “Most hoods never live long enough to spend much of the money they steal.”

  “That is true of most gangs,” Assunta said, “but not of the Camorra.”

  By the end of World War II, after the collapse of Il Duce’s dream and the destruction of Italy at the hands of the American, British, and German forces, the country was at its most vulnerable. Naples was by far the most destitute and ravaged city in all of Europe and the Camorra seized the opportunity. The local dons, intent on adding to and solidifying their power base, came up with an ingenious and chillingly methodical way to guarantee the future success of their criminal empire. On the surface it would have the appearance of an act of charity and was soon embraced by many in the area who turned to the Camorra as the only way for their children to escape the hard walls of an impoverished life. “It was the devil’s plan,” Assunta said. “If a working man had a debt to the Camorra, he was offered three choices. He could pay it off. He could die. Or he could hand them his youngest son, to be raised as one of their own, schooled by them, taught to live in their ways.”

  “So they stole kids from their families?” Jennifer asked, turning to face the old woman, the sun warming both their backs.

  “Sometimes the families were so poor, so desperate to keep their sons alive that they would give them to the Camorra,” Assunta said. “The children were fed well, sent to the best schools, and put on a path that would make them a lot of money. The mothers and fathers never saw them again.”

  “How many boys are we talking about?” Jennifer asked, the stunning revelations even managing to pierce her tested police armor. “And over how many years?”

  “Hundreds at the very least,” Assunta said. “Across many decades. They were schooled to their strengths. If a boy had a head for numbers he would be sent to business school. If he was better at science, he would go to medical school. With this system, it did not take long for the Camorra to have one of their own in any business you could name.”

  “The same go for over here, too?” Jennifer asked.

  “That did not start until much later,” Assunta said. “But by the time Lo Manto was a boy, it was the rule here as well.”

  Nicola Rossi was the first Camorra don to institute the ways of Naples in the city. He felt that it was even more important to develop young minds with a sharp business sense to slither their way into the top levels of the major brokerage houses and financial institutions. His long-term approach was one that envisioned New York as the city that would supply the organization with the brain power it needed to consolidate its base, while Naples supplied the muscle. The two cities combined would then be indestructible and guarantee each other’s success.

  “Lo Manto’s father was a good man but a weak one,” Assunta said. The two were sitting at a small table in an outdoor café, each drinking an iced cappuccino. “He had a mad hunger for gambling but no ability for it. He was always in debt to Don Nicola’s moneylenders. Most times he and his wife got the money together and paid off the loans. Then, there was one time when he could not.”

  “And that’s why they killed him?” Jennifer asked.

  Assunta looked across the table at the young detective, smiled, and shook her head. “No,” she said. “That is why Lo Manto thinks they killed him. He was told his father stood up to the Camorra, tired of paying a large part of his salary to criminals, fed up with having to hand over loans at such insane interest rates. That was what he was told and that was what he believes. To this very day.”

  “He’s a good cop,” Jennifer said. “A great cop if you listen to some. He could find the truth if he wanted.”

  “We find the answers only to the questions we
want answered,” Assunta said. “And even then, we don’t always believe what we hear.”

  “So what did happen?”

  Assunta took a long sip of her cold drink and stared hard at the young lady she was about to entrust with a secret so very few people knew and so many died without revealing. A secret that once brought out into the open could only lead to more bloodshed and death. She took in a deep breath, sat back in her iron-railed chair, and raised her round face to the hot sun.

  “They were going to kill him. The order had already been put out,” Assunta said. “There was no money to be had and Don Nicola knew he would be unwilling to give up his only son. That left the Camorra with death as their only option.”

  “Did Lo Manto know any of this was going on?”

  “A parent can hide a great deal from a child, no matter how bright the boy,” Assunta said. “And the neighborhood, either because of fear or out of respect, knew how to stay silent as well.”

  “And his dad was murdered by the Camorra, right?” Jennifer asked. “That part is still true.”

  “That part will always be true,” Assunta said. “Only the reasons behind the murder have been hidden.”

  They stood and began to walk again, this time making their way to the zoo exit, the old woman resting her left arm on Jennifer’s right, both as calm and relaxed as a mother and daughter enjoying a rare day together. “Lo Manto’s mother went to see Don Nicola,” Assunta said, her voice low now, as if sitting around a campfire and telling a horror tale long handed down. “She was much braver than her husband and went looking for a way out of the mess he had made of their lives. She told the don to spare her husband’s life and forgive the debt. In return, she would give him a son. But not the one she had with her husband, not Gianni. She would give Don Nicola a son of their own, one who would have Rossi blood rushing through his veins.”

  Jennifer stopped walking, staring across at the old woman, the harsh reality of what she had just been told landing on her with the force of a large wave. “Did he agree?” she asked, her voice equally as hushed.

  “What don would not?” Assunta said. “To have a child with a beautiful woman, to take from her what no one else would dare touch. It is the purest taste of power.”

  “And did they have a kid together?” Jennifer asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

  Assunta nodded. “They had a son,” she said. “Born two months before Gianni’s sixth birthday, at a local clinic. I was the midwife.”

  “Pete Rossi,” Jennifer said.

  “The don that Giancarlo Lo Manto so much hates, the one he has waged war against for these past fifteen years, and the one who carries the weight of the blame for his father’s death is his younger brother,” Assunta said. “He fights against his own blood every day of his life.”

  “And his father was killed not because of any debts,” Jennifer said. “He was shot dead because he found out about the affair and went to see the don about it.”

  “He did not suspect the truth until the night of the baby’s birth,” Assunta said. “He was walking down a corridor, a small bunch of fresh-picked flowers in his hand, when he saw Don Nicola and his men come out of his wife’s room. He stepped into a dark corner and listened as he heard them all congratulate the gangster on the birth of such a fine and strong son.”

  “Did he go see his wife?” Jennifer asked. “Try to figure out that it was him that put her in such a spot?”

  “He was like most men, too proud and too filled with anger to admit their own errors,” Assunta said, shaking her head. “He left the clinic and went out into the night, a lost man.”

  “Lo Manto was old enough to know his mother was having a baby,” Jennifer said. “He had to ask what happened.”

  “What he asked and what he was told were two different tales,” Assunta said. “The truth never played any part in the story of his early life.”

  “But they stayed in the neighborhood until Lo Manto was about fourteen,” Jennifer said, standing in front of her car, opening the passenger door for the old woman. “And his mom gave up her baby at birth. Why wait so long to move away?”

  “She secretly cared for little Peter until he was just about six years old,” Assunta said. “She was allowed to visit him three times a week and sometimes enjoy a Sunday meal together. Then, soon after that, the boy was taken away, sent off to begin the journey that would lead him to his current place. She gave herself time to mourn her lost child and her dead husband. Then she planned the move back to Naples.”

  “And his father waited all those years, knowing his wife was caring for another man’s child before he went and made a move against the don?” Jennifer asked.

  “Lo Manto’s father loved his wife very much, and for a while, it was easier for him to leave his hatred buried inside a bottle of wine,” Assunta said. “But as it always does, hate travels at its own pace, and seeing the grief he had caused the woman he loved proved too heavy a burden for him to continue to carry. Death at the hand of the don became the easier choice.”

  “That sad woman,” Jennifer said. “All these years with all that pain and not able to share it with anyone.”

  “And worse,” Assunta said, “living and knowing that each day her only two sons fight a war with each other that can only lead to the death of one or both.”

  “I figure if Lo Manto doesn’t know anything, then Pete Rossi knows even less,” Jennifer said.

  “He is one of theirs, has been since he first took a breath,” Assunta said. “He is a Rossi. A Camorrista don. To expect a heart to beat beneath that chest would be asking for a miracle from Christ.”

  Jennifer opened her car door and got in. She jammed the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. She let it idle for several seconds, staring out at the crowded streets, the noise of the passing traffic blending into the background. She then turned and faced the old woman. “I know this wasn’t an easy thing for you to do,” she said. “And I don’t know why you decided to tell me, but I’m glad you did.”

  “The problem with being told the answers to the questions we ask is that they often only lead to more questions,” Assunta said. “You have been given a heavy burden. It is one you can choose to carry with silence or act upon. That is something only you can decide.”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Jennifer said. “I only hope whatever it is, it’s the right way to go.”

  “If there is a right way, you will find it,” Assunta said, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I wouldn’t have told you any of this if I didn’t believe that.”

  “People will die, especially if I make a mistake with this,” Jennifer said. “I have to make sure before I make the next move.”

  “People always die,” Assunta said. “For reasons both good and bad. It’s only a question of when.”

  Jennifer nodded and then shifted the unmarked into gear and swung it out into the Bronx traffic.

  20

  PETE ROSSI STOOD on the New Rochelle Metro-North platform reading the morning edition of the New York Post. He was focused on the sports section, glossing over a half-dozen articles detailing the previous night’s Yankees–Red Sox game. He ignored the Amtrak train that came rumbling in at four-fifteen, on its way down from Boston, making the local stops into Penn Station. He walked over to a freshly painted blue bench and sat down, stretching his legs, careful not to wrinkle the crease on his hand-stitched Rocco Ciccarelli suit, and avoided the pedestrian traffic hustling to get on and off the train. He flipped from the sports pages to the business section, checking on a number of his recent stock transactions and catching up on the latest in scandal and gossip. He took his eyes off a blind item about a corporate executive involved in mutual fund manipulation and glanced across the platform at the burly man.

  Rossi nodded, stood, and walked toward the steps that led to an overhead tunnel that would take him down to the other end of the station. He took his time, gave no hint of a rush, aware that the burly man was there on his clock an
d would wait all day and all night if Rossi deemed it necessary. He initially had reservations about agreeing to the meeting, always on the prowl for any hint of betrayal from within his inner circle, conscious that in the life he led he could expect full and undivided loyalty from no man. It was also not a practice of his to meet with anyone directly connected to a contracted job. He always made an effort to cover those tracks with as many layers as possible. He had been a careful crime boss, aware of the numerous obstacles that could ensnare him and bring with them a multidecade federal prison sentence. Rossi seldom spoke on the telephone and when he did the conversations covered only the most innocuous topics. He had his cell phone number changed every two weeks, always keeping two in use, one for incoming only and the other for outgoing. He made sure he showed up for work on a daily basis at the investment firm he ran and reported his income legitimately and paid his fair share of taxes on a $500,000 yearly salary. The stream of $7 million that came to him personally as the don of the Rossi crime family was funneled through a complex system of offshore bank accounts, European brokerage houses, and midwestern bond exchanges. He had a dozen different management firms hired to handle his money, each one moving large amounts of cash and stocks every day, washing it through another dozen multinational front companies and fifteen individuals unknowingly allowing their names to be used.

  Rossi was a very wealthy man who gave himself very little time to enjoy the powers of his position. He sent his children to the best private schools, spared no expense when it came to his wife’s lifestyle, adorned his Manhattan brownstone and country mansion with the finest in furnishings and electronic equipment. He worked every day, including weekends, his Camorra training allowing him little time to waste on leisurely vacations and idle hours spent in the company of close friends. The best of the Camorra dons lived their daily lives as if they were cloistered monks, keeping at arm’s length the weakening pleasures of heavy drink, drug use, and affairs with women with high profiles. Whatever passions a don did crave, he handled with a heavy dose of discretion. It was the secret to a long reign and an even longer life.