Bloodline (67 page)

*   *   *

A
FTER THE
L
ABOR
D
AY WEEKEND,
Tina decided she was ready to leave the Falcon’s Nest behind. The new manager and singer she had hired had worked out well over the last two weeks, and she was just waiting for Nilo to make one of his rare trips to the speakeasy so she could tell him good-bye face-to-face. She did not want any of the club’s ownership. She had money saved and she wanted to put the club and all the people in it, that whole part of her life, behind her. Tina had no clear idea what she wanted to do, but she knew the only singing she would ever do again would be for her own amusement in the shower.

Or maybe in the choir,
she thought.
They can always use a good baritone.

She wrote herself a check for her final month’s pay and heard someone walk by her door toward Nilo’s office. She put the checkbook away, then went out into the corridor. Nilo’s office door was ajar and she could hear voices inside. Quietly, she walked down the hallway, then stopped to listen.

She heard Nilo say, “Here’s the list of names. Get as many as you can as fast as you can before anyone has a chance to react.”

“Holy Christ,” came another voice. “You’re not kidding around, are you? Luciano, Genovese, Costello, Adonis, Dutch Schultz, Willie Moretti.”

“You can start with Luciano and Genovese,” Nilo’s voice said. “Don Salvatore will have them in his office at three o’clock on the tenth. Get them there. Pick up the others wherever you can. There’s twenty-five thousand in the envelope. There’s another twenty-five thousand when you’re done.”

“It’s good doing business with you, Sesta.”

“We’ll have more business soon.”

Tina heard a chair slide across the wooden floor in Nilo’s office and she ran back down the hall into her own office. She left the door open a bit and a moment later saw the young slender man she had seen in the club on New Year’s Eve pass by. She tried to remember his name.

Coll. Mad Dog Coll, Nilo called him. And I don’t want to think about what this means.

Tina left the club hurriedly. She wanted to talk to Nilo but not now, not here. It would have to wait.

September 10, 1931

*   *   *

“
H
ELLO,
C
HARLIE. THIS IS
D
ON
S
ALVATORE.”

“My
capo,
” Luciano said.

“We got some business to talk. I was wondering if you and Vito could come up to my office this afternoon.”

“Sure, I’ll get him. What time?”

“Let me look at my calendar. Three o’clock would be good.”

“We’ll be there,” Luciano said.

He hung up the telephone in his hotel suite and went back to his breakfast.

*   *   *

N
ILO HAD NOT BEEN BACK
to the club since Tina had overheard his conversation, and she wanted to tell him personally that she had quit. Reluctantly, because she did not want to talk to Sofia, she telephoned Nilo’s home. He answered the phone himself.

“Nilo, this is Tina. Can I come up and see you?”

He lowered his voice. “Sofia’s going out in a while. Come up at twelve thirty.”

In the other room, Sofia softly replaced the extension phone.

Invading the privacy of my home,
she thought.
That is too much, even for such a whore as she. This must be finished, once and for all.

*   *   *

P
RECISELY AT 12:30
P.M
., Tina knocked on the apartment door. It swung open and Sofia stood in the doorway.

“Hello, Sofia. I was expecting Nilo.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were. Come in.” She stepped aside to let Tina enter the apartment and closed the door behind her.

“Is he here?”

“He went out for a while.”

“Maybe it’d be better if I came back later,” Tina said. “I had some business to discuss.”

“Your usual business?” Sofia snapped.

“I came to tell him that I’m finished with work. The new manager is on the job. If he wants to reach me, he can call me at home.”

She stepped toward the door. “I’m sorry, Sofia, that there is so much unhappiness in your life. I wish I could take some of it from you.”

“Unhappiness?” Sofia said. “You Falcones had everything. You were priests and policemen. You were a star. And now you are all nothing. Less than nothing. And I will have everything. I have nothing to be unhappy about.”

Tina shook her head sadly and reached for the doorknob.

“Wait! You’ve forgotten your souvenirs. Nilo wanted you to have them.”

She handed forward a paper bag. Inside it, Tina saw a roll of film and an envelope filled with photographs. She looked at one and her heart sank.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“Just more memories of the good times,” Sofia said, her face creased in a tight, thin-lipped smile. “Nilo likes to look at them at night.”

“It was Nilo,” Tina said. “It was Nilo who did it.”

Sofia laughed and Tina clutched the bag under her arm and ran from the apartment.

Nilo returned a few minutes later. “Did anybody come by while I was out?”

“Nobody. Nobody at all,” Sofia said.

*   *   *

F
OR ALL THOSE YEARS,
Tina had blamed Luciano, but it had been Nilo who had gotten her to that warehouse in the Bronx. It was what Nilo had meant when he told Tina that if he wanted to, he could force her to stay on at the speakeasy.

She ran down the street, clutching the bag under her arm. A clock outside a bank read 12:45. It was September 10 and Charlie was going to be murdered.

She darted into a candy store and found a phone booth in the back. She dialed Luciano’s number, praying he would still be in his hotel room.

“Three-Twelve,” he answered.

“Charlie, this is Tina. Listen. If you’ve got a meeting today, it’s a trap. They’ve hired somebody named Coll to kill you.”

“Tina. What…?”

But she had hung up the telephone. Still weeping, she fled from the store.

*   *   *

T
OMMY WAS ALONE AT HOME
when Tina burst into the family apartment. She had expected to find him as he usually was, disinterested and daydreaming, but Tommy was dressed and his eyes flashed as she handed him the closed bag of film and pictures.

“It was Nilo,” she said. “He did it. It was Nilo.”

Tommy stood up slowly. “I know,” he said. “I figured it out. It was always Nilo,” he said. “Everything was Nilo.” Finally, he opened the bag and glanced inside. His mouth tightened in anger. “Burn all this stuff before Mama comes home.” As Tina ran into the kitchen, Tommy put on a long jacket and tucked his gun into his belt.

*   *   *

L
UCIANO USED A TELEPHONE BOOTH
in the lobby and found Meyer Lansky on the second phone call.

“I need some men and I need them right now. You got anybody around?”

“I got Red Levine here. And Bo Weinberg. Good men.”

“Here’s what I want them to do.”

When he was finished with Lansky, Luciano called Tommy Lucchese. The man, known as “Three Finger Brown,” had been Maranzano’s driver but had always reported regularly to Luciano.

“Wander up to the Castellammarese’s office,” Luciano said.

“And do what?”

“Just hang around. Make believe you’re trying to make peace for yourself. And if there are any visitors, make sure they find the right party.”

Lucchese was not nimble-witted. He was silent for a moment, thinking, then understood. “I’ll be there, Lucky.”

*   *   *

N
ILO SENT
S
OFIA
and the two boys to visit her mother. He had planned to stay away from Maranzano’s office, but as the time grew nearer for the killings of Luciano and Genovese, he realized he would not be able to stay away. He wanted to be in on the kill.

He put on his jacket and opened the apartment door to tell his bodyguard to bring the car out front. But as soon as he opened the door, he was pushed back into the apartment, falling over the coffee table onto the floor. As he picked himself up, he heard the door slam and lock. Tommy stood inside the door. He held a pistol in his hand, aiming it unwaveringly at Nilo.

“Don’t look for your bodyguard,” Tommy said. “He’s taking a rest.”

Nilo smiled. “Nice of you to visit.”

Tommy’s voice was flat, without emotion. “That night in Yonkers when Papa got killed. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t you believe the cops? They said it was Birchevsky.”

Tommy shook his head. “There was something wrong, but I could never figure out what it was. Until now. Birchevsky left the track before the last race. He kept looking at his watch. He was going to that warehouse to meet somebody. And that somebody is the person who shot Papa in the dark. Who tried to shoot me. Who else would Birchevsky be meeting except for you?”

“That’s a pipe dream,” Nilo said. “Don’t go blaming it on me ’cause you let your own father get killed.”

“You killed Papa. You had your stooge kill Rachel and try to kill me with an overdose. And killed Lev Mishkin. It was even you who had Tina raped.”

“Try proving it. Try proving any of it.”

“I can’t prove it,” Tommy said. “That’s why I came up here to kill you.”

*   *   *

A
T TEN MINUTES TO THREE,
four men dressed in suits and wearing snap-brimmed hats walked into Maranzano’s offices in the New York Central Building at 230 Park Avenue, behind Grand Central Station.

Tommy Lucchese was sitting in a chair across the room, reading a newspaper. Behind the receptionist’s desk was Girolamo Santucci, also known as “Bobby Doyle,” one of Maranzano’s favorite gunmen. Joe Valachi and two other bodyguards were drinking coffee near the big plate-glass window overlooking the street.

“Whaddya want?” Santucci asked the four men.

They flashed gold badges. “Internal Revenue,” one said. “We got some questions for Mr. Maranzano.”

“You got an appointment? You need an appointment.”

“Hey, Bobby,” Lucchese called. “What you getting so hot for? You know the boss always brags about paying the right taxes.” He nodded to the four men. “He’s inside the office there. It’s a good time to ask him questions. He’s alone now.”

The first revenue agent nodded, and they started across the room to Maranzano’s inner office. Just then, Maranzano opened his door.

“Who are you?”

“Internal Revenue.”

“You people don’t ever stop, do you?” Maranzano said with a smile. “Well, come on in, but let’s make it fast.”

*   *   *

“
B
UT
I
’M NOT GOING TO KILL YOU,”
Tommy said. “Not now. I’ve had a lot of time to think. If I killed you, I’d be just like you. You always laughed at justice. But justice is important. It separates the men from the beasts. It separates me from you. So I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to bring you down. From now on, every time you turn around, I’m going to be there. Everywhere you go, I’ll be there. Make one mistake and I’ll nail you with it. You’re finished, Nilo.”

Nilo smiled and looked at his watch. “Right about now,” he said, “I am on my way to becoming the boss of New York. You’re going to get me? Don’t make me laugh. You won’t get within a hundred feet of me.”

*   *   *

T
WO “AGENTS” FOLLOWED
M
ARANZANO
into his office and closed the door behind them. The other two men remained outside, then suddenly pulled guns and ordered Lucchese and the bodyguards up against the wall and disarmed them.

Inside, when Maranzano turned, he saw guns in the two agents’ hands.

“You bastards,” he yelled. He dove for his desk, trying to reach a pistol in the top drawer. But the assassins were quicker. While Maranzano lay sprawled across the desk, fumbling for the drawer, Red Levine pulled a knife from his pocket and stabbed Maranzano six times.

But Maranzano struggled, throwing wild punches. One connected with the head of the man holding the knife. Levine grunted and then lunged atop Maranzano, driving the knife into his throat.

When he yanked the knife loose and stood up, Maranzano lay on the desk, twitching, bubbling from the mouth. Levine watched him writhe for a full thirty seconds, then nodded to the other man, Bo Weinberg. The two men stood over Maranzano and each put two bullets into the body of the
capo di tutti capi.

Then they ran from the office. The other two assassins who had subdued the bodyguards outside followed them. They split up and used separate stairways out of the building. Weinberg got lost, wound up hiding in a ladies’ bathroom, and finally found his way to the Grand Central concourse, where he slid his gun into the jacket of a commuter waiting for a train.

As Red Levine approached the main exit, Mad Dog Coll came into the building, holding a leather briefcase in one hand.

Coll recognized Levine. “Maranzano?” he said.

“Dead,” Levine said as he brushed by Coll and pushed through the door. “Better beat it, Vince. The cops are coming.”

Coll turned around and walked back out onto the street, whistling. He had never made an easier twenty-five thousand dollars in his life.

Luciano and Genovese did not show up for their three-o’clock appointment.

*   *   *

“
S
O
I
WON’T KILL YOU.
But nothing says I can’t beat the hell out of you.”

Tommy dropped the gun on the floor and rushed across the room and punched Nilo in the face. Nilo dropped to one knee and Tommy punched him again, knocking him flat on his back.

He straddled Nilo’s body, punching him back and forth, left and right, punch after punch, until Nilo’s once-beautiful face was broken and bloody.

Tommy stood up. “This is just the down payment, Nilo. It gets worse from now on. Look for me. I’ll always be there.”