Bloodline (18 page)

Nilo felt his face flush.

“How long has it been since you came here?” the older man asked. “Six months? Seven?” He did not wait for an answer. “You speak English pretty well, better than anybody else I know in such a short time. But you have to get rid of that accent. Can you read yet?”

Nilo looked down at his two-toned wing-tip shoes but found no comfort there. He had once thought they were stylish; now, he realized, his mentor was right. They were cheap and gangsterish. Some of the men who hung around Maranzano might wear such shoes, but Don Salvatore himself never would.

“I read a little,” he said. “I had started to take lessons from my cousin, but I moved out and she no longer has time for me.”

“This would be Justina Falcone?” Maranzano said.

Nilo nodded. “She wishes to be an opera singer and spends all her time practicing.”
How does he know about Tina? Does he know my uncle Tony and Tommy are police? I have never told him.
He quickly said, “She has no real money for lessons. My uncle Tony is only a policeman. Her brother too. They have no money.”

Maranzano nodded, as if satisfied. “Is there anyone else who can teach you?”

Nilo thought. “There is a young girl in my building. Sofia Mangini. Her father owns the restaurant below.”

“Is she a girlfriend?”

Nilo shook his head. “We say ‘Good morning.’ ‘How are you?’ ‘Hot today.’ I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“Good,” Maranzano said. “Then no personal business will interfere with your learning. I want you to hire her to teach you how to read and how to speak without an accent.” Before Nilo could respond, he added, “Of course, I will pay for the lessons. There is more you must learn. You must learn to behave like a gentleman. How to eat, how to dress. I will pay for these things also. You must go to the museums and to concerts. And you will learn how to speak like an English. This Mangini girl can do that, too.”

“Yes, Don Salvatore.” Nilo’s head was swimming.

Why does this man care about me, how I dress, how I speak? What does it matter to him?

It was as if Maranzano had read his mind. “I don’t do this because I am a good man. I do it because I am a shrewd man.”

“I think you are both.”

“Very diplomatic, Nilo. I will tell you. There is much money to be made from this Prohibition. We are making it already. So is Masseria. He is large; we are still small. But he is a lowlife and spends his money, lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills and buying fancy cars and fancy women, and the men under him act just the same way.”

It did not sound at all bad to Nilo, but he merely nodded and tried to look sympathetic.

“That will be their downfall,” Don Salvatore said. “This fool Prohibition will not last forever. If we are to survive and thrive, we must do something with all this money we will make. We shall have to find work for it. We shall have to buy friends among the English, especially among the rich ones. That is why we must speak their language. And I do not mean just in words. We must be like them. We must be able to eat at their tables without disgusting them. I dined last night with a judge. Next week, I have lunch with two congressmen. Cultivating such people is what we must do to survive. And we must have something else to talk about besides money. We must be able to laugh at their jokes. Most of us can’t. We are still too dumb, too uneducated. But we can cure dumbness. We can cure a lack of education.”

He sipped again at his brandy.

“You will be the first,” he said. “After me.”

Nilo sank back in his chair, overwhelmed by what Don Salvatore seemed to be saying, and wondered,
Why me? Why does he care about me?

“I am not planning for today,” Maranzano said. “I am looking at tomorrow. Who will lead us then? I have tested many of you young men. Some have been smart enough. Most have more education than you. But they had not the heart. Those who had the heart had not the brain.”

Maranzano smiled. “You wondered why I left you in that real estate office for all these months.”

“It did sometimes cross my mind,” Nilo admitted, although he had come to believe that he had been banished until everyone was sure the police were not after him.

“It was a test of your loyalty. “

“I hope I passed your test.”

“You did. Even though you did not know why you were there, you listened to Mr. Ferrara. You learned. You kept
faccia contenta.
A happy face. You were willing to wait because you believed your don wanted you to wait. You did yourself good by waiting. You are not now some thug, Nilo, who jumped ship and who scurries around the city like a rat, stealing bread crusts. You are a young man with a career in real estate. You have no criminal record. When the time is right, we will take care of your citizenship problem. You are a young man without blemish in the eyes of the law. That is what we must be in our next generation.”

“Am I worthy of such an honor?”

“You will be. You are the future. But we cannot ignore the present and its dangers. I will take you into my confidence now. To prosper through this Prohibition stupidity, we will not only have to battle the police. That will not be difficult. We can buy them off. And the same for the government. We can buy the Democratic Party by buying the Tammany Hall organization, at least those that Masseria has not already bought, and that will give us friends in city hall. But the others we will have to fight will be worse than these. They will be ruthless men, perhaps like ourselves, perhaps worse. Masseria will be one of them, but he is only one. There will be more to follow him, many smarter, tougher than that old pepper.

“We must beat them off by being smarter and tougher at the top. That is true. But we must also beat them by out-organizing them. They call Joe Masseria the boss of the Mafia. Good enough, let them. The Mafia is a pack of thugs, and it is fitting that this thug be their boss. Our organization will be different. Long after the Mafia is gone and forgotten, long after I and even you are in our graves, our organization will live on.”

Nilo felt as if he should say something, just to reaffirm to Maranzano that he was not some dumb clod, even though Maranzano seemed perfectly willing to go on telling his story in a vacuum.

The best Nilo could manage was a small question. “What is this organization? What will it be?”

“I need many, many men. But how to get them without getting many, many traitors in the same barrel? Even great Caesar had his Brutus. But finally I have the solution. Next to his own family, the Sicilian trusts his neighbors. And that is what I will build my organization on. Many, many men from our village, from Castellammare del Golfo, have already come to this country, often with my help. It is from these Castellammarese like us that I will build my organization. It is a good idea, no?”

“It is like family without blood ties,” Nilo ventured. “It will be a new Mafia.”

Maranzano shook his head. “No more Mafia. The Mafia will shrivel up and die, but our organization will continue.” He closed his eyes. “What shall we call it, this thing of ours?”

“Perhaps just that,” Nilo said. “‘This thing of ours’:
la cosa nostra.
”

After that, Maranzano was silent for a long time. It seemed to Nilo as if the air had finally drained from the older man. He sat nursing his brandy and his cigar, both luxuries that Nilo had barely touched. His mind was reeling. A new crime organization.

And suddenly he knew his destiny, knew it as surely as if an angel had come and whispered in his ear.
Someday, with God’s help, I will run this Cosa Nostra. I am as smart as this old windbag. Thank God, who sent me Don Salvatore. Thank God and his angels, who sent me here. Thank Fredo and the two Selvini brothers, whose evil work brought me here, too. Thus out of evil comes forth good. I am glad now I did not piss on their bodies.

“That is enough for one night,” Maranzano said in a dull voice without looking up. “We will talk much in the future. Nilo, I will make you a leader of men.”

“It is an honor I will never deserve,” Nilo said.

“Only time will tell. And now to lighter things. Get this Sofia Mangini to tutor you. Do you ever eat in the family’s restaurant?”

Nilo nodded. “It is a place where Masseria’s men hang out.”

“Exactly. You are young and, at least for now, it is safe. Just keep your eyes and ears open. There is a man named Salvatore Lucania who frequents the restaurant. Do you know him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He may try to get close to you. Allow it.”

“As you wish, Don Salvatore.”

“It will no longer be necessary for you to go back to the real estate company in Brooklyn. From now on, report to my office in the morning.”

Nilo nodded.

“I understand you are going to take my secretary out to dinner,” Maranzano said.

Nilo was startled for a moment.
Am I stepping on the old man’s toes by taking his secretary to dinner? Is this a problem I have made for myself?
Nervously, he nodded.

“She is a beautiful girl,” Maranzano said, and smiled lewdly. “Enjoy her charms. You will not be the first. But do not imagine you are falling in love with her. And let her know that. Treat her badly. That way, she can fall in love with you while never believing that you love her in return. Capisce?”

“I do. And thank you for the advice.”

The older man stood; so did Nilo. The two young black maids reentered the room. Maranzano put his arm around the youth. “Now go. I think I shall help my two serving girls put things in their proper place.”

Nilo felt the man’s body shake as he chuckled to himself. Maranzano led him to the door of the apartment. Before he opened it, he said, “Do not underestimate this Lucania. Be careful with him. He is young, too, but he is very shrewd. He has whatever brains may exist in Masseria’s operation, and someday he may be useful to us.”

“I will be on my guard.” Nilo smiled. “At least his name, Salvatore, being your name, too, will not be hard to remember.”

“I hear he has changed his name to something more American.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He now calls himself Charlie. Charlie Luciano.”

*   *   *

N
ILO HAD ARRANGED TO MEET
Betty on Saturday evening, just outside Maranzano’s office building on Broadway. He arrived there without any real idea of where they would go or what they would do. Betty arrived, a fashionable half hour late, and Nilo was angry at having to wait so long, but he cooled off quickly when he saw her.

Betty had tightly curled her long red hair and packed it under a beaded turban. She wore white satin shoes and a harem outfit, which was a very short skirt over gauzy pantaloons that flashed her legs as she moved. Her top was beaded, too, matching her turban, and, defying the latest flat-chest fashion, it was cut low and her breasts seemed ready to pop out of it.

Nilo had never seen anyone so beautiful.

“Sorry I was late,” she said as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “It took me a while to get dressed.”

“It was worth the wait,” he said. He began to tell her that he had no idea of where they should go for dinner when Betty told him she had already made reservations for them at the Silver Slipper, a Forty-fourth Street speakeasy whose owner was close to Maranzano.

He was immediately annoyed again.
It is not right that a woman makes these decisions. A man should make such choices,
he thought.

“Of course,” Betty said, “if you’d rather go somewhere else…”

“No. If you have your heart set on this Silver Slipper, the Silver Slipper it will be.”

It was Nilo’s first time in a speakeasy. They were admitted through a locked door after a guard had checked them out through a peephole and Betty had mentioned Maranzano’s name.

There was a floor show downstairs with pretty dancing girls and tap dancers and a comedian, none of whose jokes Nilo understood, and after the show a small orchestra played for dancing. Betty dragged him out onto the dance floor, and while Nilo did not know how to do any of the fashionable dances, Betty clearly did not mind, because she treated each song as a showcase for her solo talents.

Nilo, by this time, did not mind much, either, because in addition to their dinners they had a constant supply of wine at the table and he had drunk too much. Finally, he tired of Betty showing off her dancing by herself and walked back to the table, where he sat when the speakeasy owner came up and introduced himself.

“Is everything all right?” he asked Nilo.

“Everything is fine.”

“Food okay? You have enough to drink?”

“Everything is fine,” Nilo said, although in truth, his stomach was not feeling too fine.

“Good. Well, enjoy yourself. The check’s on me. Give my regards to Don Salvatore when you see him.”

“I will,” Nilo said, “and I will be sure to tell him of your hospitality to his friends.”

The owner beamed and walked away. The band stopped playing in a few minutes, and Betty, who seemed not to have noticed Nilo’s departure, returned to the table.

“You like to dance alone?” he asked.

“Sometimes.” She slurred the word; she was drunk, too.

“Do you like to do everything alone?”

“There are some things you can’t do alone,” Betty said, and giggled.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Out on the street, Nilo realized that he had no place to take the girl. She had already told him she lived in her family’s apartment. That was out. So was the ratty furnished room in Little Italy where he spent his nights.

Before he could decide what to do, Betty had stepped onto the curb and hailed a cab. While Nilo was still thinking, he heard Betty tell the cabdriver, “The Princess Hotel. And hurry.”

He sank into the backseat with her, and she took his hand and slid it under her beaded top. Nilo caressed her breast and he felt her squirm on the seat. He hoped the cab ride would last a long time, but the Princess Hotel was only a few blocks away. He insisted on paying the cabdriver and tipped him a dollar, too.

He was walking better now; the alcohol seemed to be wearing off, and he followed Betty into the lobby of the small hotel. She ignored the clerk, who looked up at their entrance, and instead led Nilo by the hand to the stairway.