Death of a New American--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  I decided not to point out that Carnegie had started as a telegraph messenger boy. “What will you do?”

  She brooded, chin on her hand. “We have to find a different way to make them see.” She glanced at me. “Don’t smile.”

  “I’m not smiling.”

  In her search for a different way, she had left the International Ladies Garment Workers Union and joined the Italian Socialist Federation and the IWW. (I had suggested the AFL, but she snorted, “The American Assassination of Labor? No.”) I had not seen much of her this year. Her body had been in New York, but her heart and mind had taken up residence in Lawrence, Massachusetts.

  In January, textile workers in Massachusetts had opened their pay envelopes to find themselves thirty-two cents poorer. Since their weekly salary was usually less than nine dollars, and their working conditions such that one out of three workers died before the age of twenty-five, they felt the reduction keenly. By the next day, more than ten thousand workers—Italians, Poles, Slavs, Syrians—were marching through frozen streets chanting, “Low Pay! All Out!” What would become known as the Bread and Roses strike had grown increasingly violent, and hard-hit families had sent their children to families in other states to care for them. One of the few times I had seen Anna that year was when the first group of children arrived in New York and marched down Fifth Avenue. It was a powerful sight, these solemn little people, many of them gaunt from hunger and wearing red sashes over their ragged coats, and carrying signs that read SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN and THEY ASKED FOR BREAD, THEY RECEIVED BAYONETS. I had wondered if Anna would take one of the children, even though she was unmarried. But she was not one for traditional bonds; she loved her aunts and uncle, so she saw her aunts and uncle. Her brothers she did not particularly love and she saw no reason to see them. And so I had not seen them either.

  Until today.

  11

  I couldn’t say for sure that the man who ran was that brother who glanced over his shoulder in the alley all those years ago. Anna was rail thin, he was round. But he had her eyes—dark, almost too large for his face. And the ears, I remembered those ears, the comical way they stuck out. And if I was right, only Anna would be able to help me find him. But first I had to find Anna—and that was not easy these days; ideological wandering meant physical wandering. I hoped to find her at the offices of the Social Labor Party, but she might just as easily be at the headquarters of the Italian Socialist Federation, or at a desk in Il Proletario—which was in Brooklyn—or simply out, organizing at a factory or arguing around a kitchen table.

  I told Michael Behan he didn’t have to come. In fact, I told him I did not want him to come. Everything I knew about both parties told me they would dislike each other, and if Sandro was connected to Sofia’s death in any way, I wanted to hear about it without a reporter listening in. Anna’s brother Carlo had been sent to prison two years ago. The oldest of the three, he had never liked America, often talking of going home. Even when he lived with his uncle and aunt, his name was seldom mentioned in their home. Now, on the rare occasion it was, a sadness came over the room. Her aunts went quiet, her uncle thin-lipped with anger. A store owner had been badly beaten and robbed. One evening at his restaurant, Anna’s uncle had brooded, saying, “That’s Carlo, always wanting to be the big boss.” And Anna had said sharply, “The big boss made him do it.”

  I did not want Michael Behan putting his smudgy fingers on the Arditos’ pain. But when I suggested I go alone, he looked suspicious and said, “We travel together, Miss Prescott.”

  Now as we climbed the stairs of the Socialist Labor Hall, he took in the banners of raised fists and signs demanding justice for Ettor and Giovannitti, and his eyebrows nearly reached the brim of his derby.

  “I told you not to come,” I reminded him.

  “And miss the chance to hear the gospel of revolution? Not on your life.”

  Labor they were called, and labor they did. The hall was a busy, crowded space with each desk occupied by several people, one it seemed to do the work, and three more to argue over it. There was no receptionist, so I went from desk to desk asking if Anna Ardito was there. I was ignored several times, waved off three times, answered in German twice, Russian once—I think it was Russian—and finally pointed toward a back room, where I found Anna attacking a typewriter. I waited until she had struck a particularly emphatic period, then said, “Anna?”

  She took in the sight of me. “Were we meeting today? I forgot?”

  “No,” I said as she came from behind the desk to hug me. “No, I have a question—”

  Glancing over my shoulder, she said, “Who’s this?”

  He touched the brim of his derby. “Michael Behan.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “I’m a reporter for the—”

  “You look like a policeman.” She turned back to me. “What’s your question?”

  “It’s a family matter.”

  Before I could go further, she held up a finger and asked Behan, “What paper?”

  “The Herald.”

  “Why don’t you work for a real newspaper like Jack Reed or Waldo Frank?”

  Behan massaged his jaw as he considered his response. “Well, you know, I might do if Mama’s people had made a fortune in pig iron—as Mother Reed’s did—allowing me to go on to Hahvahd. Or if Papa had been a shill for Wall Street, like Frank senior, I might have had the depth of soul to lick Villa’s backside. But I’m afraid since my old dad was a typesetting tool of the capitalist machine, I’m just a reporter for the Herald.”

  I was about to tell Michael Behan to go interview the Russian when I heard a burst of laughter from Anna.

  “Yes,” said Anna, suddenly and shockingly agreeable. “You’re right, they’re frauds.”

  She stood, hands on her hips. “So, this family matter.”

  I realized Anna was expecting me to talk about my family. She had very little patience with anything Benchley-related, so I had to talk quickly as I told her how I had come to Pleasant Meadows and gotten to know Sofia.

  It wasn’t quick enough because she interrupted, “Why are you telling me about Charles Tyler’s nanny?”

  “Because she’s dead,” I said.

  “Someone cut her throat,” added Behan.

  Anna looked annoyed that he was still present. To me, she said, “I’m very sorry the poor girl is dead, but what does this have to do with family?”

  This was not at all how I wanted the talk to go, but there was no changing it. “Have you seen your brother Sandro recently?”

  “I haven’t seen anybody recently.”

  “How long since you’ve seen him, Anna?” She shrugged irritably. “How long?”

  “A long time. We don’t talk.”

  “What about your aunts? Do they talk to him?”

  “… Sometimes.”

  “And you never ask them how he’s doing?”

  “They tell me anyway. Why?”

  “We know Sofia meant to come to the city today to meet someone on the train. I saw him at the meeting spot. Once he saw us, he ran.”

  Anna put up a hand. “Wait—”

  Unfortunately, Behan chose this time to jump in. “Is your brother involved with the Black Hand, Miss Ardito?”

  “Oh—” Anna snapped her hands in the air. “I’m not listening to this.”

  “So he does work for the Black Hand.”

  She glared at him. “Stop using that name, you sound like a child.” She let her jaw go slack and said in a voice meant for ghost stories, “‘The Black Hand.’ ‘Mano nera—’ It’s an invention of the newspapers. Why not say ‘boogeyman’ and be done with it? Or is boogeyman not Italian-sounding enough for you?”

  Giving Behan a warning look, I said, “How does Sandro make a living these days, Anna? Who does he work for?”

  “I don’t know.” Her tone was bland; she was lying and wanted me to know it.

  “Has he been short of cash recently?” Behan asked. “In need of
money?”

  “Are you?” she snapped. “Well, then you must be a murderer.”

  “You once told me he had a job working for a man on Mulberry. Driving a wagon…”

  “Yes, it’s a very criminal act. The horse is in on it, too.”

  “Who was the man?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You do.”

  Anna was a fighter; pretense went against her grain. Finally, she said, “I think the man was called Morello, Morelli, I don’t remember. He sells vegetables on Mulberry, enough eggplant to buy a store. Sandro does deliveries for him, that’s all.”

  “Might this be Sirrino Moretti?” Behan asked.

  Anna ignored him, saying to me, “You think this young woman, because she’s Italian, she was killed by gangs? Jane.”

  “Well, the baby didn’t cut her throat,” said Behan.

  Turning on him, I said, “Mr. Behan, would you wait in the other room?” He looked mulish, but I gritted my teeth at him and he went.

  I took Anna over to the window, let her gaze at the street below for a while. She looked defeated. She was too thin and I wondered when she had last slept.

  “I don’t see you anymore,” I said. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.” She rubbed her forehead. “Let me guess, your friend writes about the Black Hand.”

  “… Sometimes.”

  “Do you have any idea what those stories do to people? What kind of hatred they stir up? The Irish have gangs, Jews. But no, it can’t be that people in a new land work together to make a living and protect themselves. It’s dark, bloodthirsty men with knives in their boots. Mysterious symbols and funny names. Because just being poor doesn’t sell newspapers and Standard Oil isn’t a criminal enterprise.” She sighed. “My brother is a fool. He isn’t going to know anything.”

  “He’ll know why he was on that train this morning.”

  “So, he was on a train, it’s not a crime.”

  “To meet a murdered woman, that doesn’t strike you as strange?”

  “You don’t know that’s why he was there.”

  “Why did he run when he saw me?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like you,” she said flippantly.

  I waited. Finally, she sighed, “I don’t know why he was on the train. I don’t know why he ran. I do know: Sandro’s a nobody. Maybe he runs errands for this man and maybe not all of them are … what I would want for him. But murder? That’s not Sandro.”

  Whom she had not spoken to in a long while, so how could she know? The thought came unbidden, and I did not give it voice. Instead I said, “But he may have heard something. That’s the thing with nobodies. No one notices us and we end up hearing things we shouldn’t.”

  “Even if that’s the case, he won’t be able to tell you anything.” She hesitated, then said, “With bosses like his, you keep your mouth shut. That—he can probably do.” Then before I could press her, she raised her hand. “And I’m doing the same and not saying anything more about it. Tell me, how are your Benchleys? The wedding. You’re happy she’s getting married to William Tyler?”

  “Yes. Why? You’re saying something.”

  “I just said his name.” I waited. “I don’t even know why I remember that name. Maybe because you used to say it a lot.”

  “I’m sure I didn’t.”

  “He’s tall?” I nodded. “With brown hair? How do I know all this if you didn’t tell me?”

  I had a sudden, scalding memory of earnestly informing Anna that not all wealthy people were insensitive to the lives of working people.

  “That was years ago, and I was very young.”

  Anna, who could be a generous friend, chose not to say it had only been two years. To change the subject, I said, “Louise is very needful right now. Nervous. I don’t think her mother has prepared her very well for … married life.”

  “Oh.” For the first time, Anna smiled. “I see. Wait a minute, I may have something for—which Benchley is it?”

  “Louise.”

  “That’s right.” Anna went to a filing cabinet, rummaged in the top drawer. “I think it’s here. Yes.” She held out a pamphlet. “What Every Mother Should Know. By Margaret Sanger. It will explain.”

  “What, that?”

  “That. You weren’t able to explain it to her?”

  “It was difficult to translate the subject for that audience.”

  “But you understand the subject yourself,” teased Anna.

  “As well as you do,” I said. Then wondered.

  But before I could ask Anna if she subscribed to the theory of free love, she said, “Please. For me. Leave Sandro alone.”

  “I just want to ask him some questions.”

  “Sure. That’s what the police say, ‘We just want to ask you some questions.’ That’s what they said to Carlo two years ago. He’s still in jail.”

  Tired to be arguing again, I said, “Your brothers were never good to you. I don’t know why you protect them.”

  “He’s family. All right? He doesn’t know anything. But if you ask him questions, you might get him in trouble with the people he works for.”

  “Then he should work for different people.”

  “And that’s so easy.”

  “Maybe I could ask the Tylers—”

  But she cut me off with an abrupt wave of her hand. “Tylers. You have always been stupid about that family.”

  I went still as if I had been slapped. In the silence, I felt we were sharing an ugly moment of doubt as to our genuine liking for each other.

  Then, taking my arm in a gesture of conciliation, Anna said, “Come, I walk you downstairs.”

  On the stairs, I asked her if the ISF would be at the suffrage march. Anna shrugged. “Voting. It’s like some sort of exciting shop everyone wants to get into. Crowds of people, everyone talking about what they’ll get—the riches! Then they get inside and it’s three shriveled turnips and a dead mouse.”

  We were at the door. I was about to ask if she considered Eugene Debs an old root or deceased rodent when she said, “Don’t listen to the reporter. He’s just happy when he has dead Italians to write about.” She tapped my forehead. “This is who you listen to.”

  Then giving me a quick kiss on the forehead, she hurried back up the stairs, leaving me to wonder when I would next see her.

  * * *

  I was still holding What Every Mother Should Know when I met Michael Behan on the corner. He glanced at it, and I stuffed it into my coat pocket.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Karl Marx’s latest. With color pictures.”

  “Karl Marx has been dead for nearly thirty years.”

  “What is it then?”

  Angry—and wanting to be off the subject of the pamphlet—I said, “Do you know that was my oldest friend you were just rude to?”

  “Do you know you have some very unusual oldest friends?”

  “Do you know that’s none of your concern?” I walked ahead, saying over my shoulder. “She’s the one person who might tell us where Sandro Ardito is.”

  “Not that she actually told us.”

  “She told us enough. If you were listening.”

  “Fine, where are we going?”

  “You’re not coming.”

  “Hold on now…”

  He took hold of my arm. Furious, I wrenched free.

  “Do you honestly think he’ll admit anything to a man who earns his living making up horror stories about Italians?”

  “Those stories are not made up, Miss Prescott.”

  “Oh, yes, you get them from your source…”

  “Would you lower your voice, please?”

  “You get them from your source!” I shouted, surprising myself. For a long moment we glared at each other as people stepped around and in between us. I felt foolish first, I think.

  “Anna’s probably right,” I said. “Even if he does drive a wagon for Moretti, he doesn’t sound smart enough to be trusted with more than del
iveries.”

  “Smart’s not what they look for. You ever heard the expression ‘wild dogs’? Young fellows, just starting out, join a gang, do the dirty work until they show they can be trusted. You fetch the boss his coffee. Drive the missus to her mother’s. You talk to local businessmen, offer up your insurance plans, lay out the premiums. If they say your services aren’t needed, you break a window or two to show them what kind of disaster might befall them should they fail to sign. Or you blow up the shop.

  “A year or so goes by and if the coffee’s been hot and the missus speaks well of you and the insurance plans are piling up, you might get a promotion. You might be allowed to do some knocking in of heads. Or cut the occasional throat.”

  I thought of Sandro. He had been small as a child. I couldn’t imagine him knocking in heads. Although it wasn’t hard to imagine him being quick and light enough to climb up to the fourth floor …

  “And we still want to know why he was on that train,” said Behan, uttering my next thought. “But he’s not someone you should be talking to on your own.”

  “I’ve known Sandro Ardito from childhood.…”

  “What was he like then?”

  Beating up his sister, I thought. Or trying to. It was true, that growing up, I had seen that Italian men were quite violent. So were the Irish, Jews, Germans, Finns, Turks, and Swedes.

  “Come on, Miss Prescott,” said Behan. “We’re what you might call partners in this. Partners work together. They share. Besides, I asked for your help. Without me, you’d be sewing seed pearls instead of looking for Sofia’s killer.”

  “The dressmaker is sewing the seed pearls,” I told him.