A Quiet Vendetta (42 page)

I walked back to the house empty-handed. Ten Cent called me a ‘dumb fuckin’ Cuban’, and sent me out once again to get cigarettes.

In April of 1974 we moved house. Apparently where we were had been marked by the Feds and it was no longer safe. Don Calligaris stayed in his tall narrow house on Mulberry but me and Ten Cent went over Canal Street to Baxter on the edge of Chinatown. The house was bigger, I had three rooms to myself, my own bathroom, and a small kitchenette where I could cook the food I wanted when we weren’t eating together. I bought a record player and started listening to Louis Prima and Al Martino, and when Ten Cent was out of the house I would take a suit on a hanger from my wardrobe, hold it close like a partner, and pretend I was dancing with Angelina Maria Tiacoli. I had not seen her since that day on Hester when she came out of the salon, and most nights I thought of her, of how it would be to lie beside her in the cool half light of morning, the warmth of my body against hers, the words we would share, of how important everything would become if she were with me. I felt like a child with a schoolyard crush, and there was a passion and promise that lay within that feeling that were new to me.

In June me and Ten Cent had to go uptown to Tompkins Square Park and meet with a man called John Delancey. Delancey was a Clerk of the Court on the Fifth Circuit. He told us that there was a pending investigation coming to a head. The target was Don Fabio Calligaris and Tony Provenzano.

‘Tony Pro had someone killed,’ John Delancey told us. ‘I don’t know why, I don’t know what it was all about, but the guy was a cop’s brother. Cop’s name was Albert Young, a sergeant at the 11th Precinct. They cut his brother’s balls off and put them in his mouth for God’s sake, and the cop has been shouting long enough for someone to take notice.’

Ten Cent was nodding. He looked intent. ‘So how come this falls on Calligaris?’ he asked.

‘Because the Feds have been after Calligaris for years but they never got anything on him. Calligaris is hand-in-glove with Tony Ducks, and Tony Ducks is boss of the Luchese family, and if anything happens to Calligaris then the Feds reckon it will bring down the Lucheses. They wanna make it seem like the Lucheses welched on Tony Pro and start another faction war.’

Ten Cent laughed. ‘Shit, these people work for the government and they must be the dumbest motherfuckers ever to walk the face of the earth.’

‘Maybe so,’ Delancey said, ‘but they got wires and circumstantial evidence, fabricated or otherwise, that puts Calligaris in a room with Tony Pro saying as how they’re gonna whack the cop’s brother.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Ten Cent said. He looked like he was going to get angry.

Delancey shrugged. ‘Just tellin’ ya how it is, Ten Cent. You gotta get Calligaris to sort out the cop, make him shut his mouth, and then you gotta plug the leak that’s inside your family.’

‘You gotta name?’

Delancey shook his head. ‘No, I don’t gotta name, Ten Cent, and if I did you’d have it, but all I know is that someone inside your camp, someone who comes close to Calligaris, has given the Feds what they need and they’re gonna use him as a witness.’

Later, after a fat brown envelope was passed discreetly from Ten Cent to Delancey, we walked back to the car.

‘Not a word of this to anyone,’ Ten Cent warned me.

‘A word of what?’ I asked.

Ten Cent winked and smiled. ‘That’s my man.’

Three nights later on a dark corner – East 12th near Stuyvesant Park – I picked up on Sergeant Albert Young of the 11th Precinct leaving a wine store and crossing the road to his car.

Four minutes later Sergeant Albert Young of the 11th Precinct – twice decorated for valor, three times commended by the Office of the Mayor for bravery above and beyond the call of duty, seven times recipient of a 118 citation for excessive force – was slumped in the driver’s seat with a .22 caliber hole back of his left ear. He wouldn’t shout about his brother any more. More likely than not he’d get to speak with him real soon in cop heaven.

Four days subsequent Don Calligaris came to our house and spoke with me and Ten Cent.

‘You guys gotta plug the leak,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘We watched what happened after the cop got clipped, and we know who spent too much time away from home. We had him followed and he met some suits in Cooper Square up near the Village yesterday morning.’

Ten Cent leaned forward.

‘This name goes out of this room and there’s gonna be hell to pay. You gotta do it quick and quiet. Send Ernesto. He did good with the cop, very good indeed, and we need the same kind of thing here. We need it to look like he was into something bad so they don’t parade him round like some sort of martyr, okay?’

‘Who?’ Ten Cent said.

Calligaris shook his head and sighed. ‘Cagnotto . . . Stefano Cagnotto, the dumbass sorry excuse for a piece of motherfuckin’ shit.’

‘Aah fuck, I liked him,’ Ten Cent said.

‘Well, you ain’t gonna get to like him any more, Ten Cent. Asshole got himself picked up on a speeding ticket, they searched his car, found a bag of coke and a .38. He was looking at a year, two tops if he screwed up the trial, and he’s talking about turning States and walking if he gives up me and Tony Pro for the cop’s brother.’

Ten Cent turned and looked at me. ‘You remember him from the Blue Flame?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘but you can show me who he is . . . and he sure as hell is gonna remember me, right?’

Calligaris smiled. ‘You’re a good one, Ernesto, and it sure as shit is a shame you ain’t from back home otherwise you’d be getting yourself made before fuckin’ Christmas.’

Don Calligaris left then. Me and Ten Cent sat for a while in silence, and then he turned to me and said, ‘Sooner the better, kid. Let’s go check out where the motherfucker is and see how we’re gonna do this, okay?’

I nodded. I stood up. I asked if I had time to clean my shoes before we left.

That night, middle of a hot June in New York, I sat in the back room of Stefano Cagnotto’s overnight apartment in Cleveland Place. A block away was the Police Headquarters building. I appreciated the sense of irony. I had been waiting for the better part of two hours before I heard the sound of feet on the risers below. The tension felt good in my gut. I wanted to take a piss but it was too late to move.

The apartment was dark but for a thin film of light that seeped through the curtains to my right. In my hand I felt the weight of a silenced .38. I was dressed in a good five-hundred-dollar suit. I had on a white shirt and a knitted silk tie. Had you seen me at the Blue Flame with the Luchese crew you wouldn’t have thought twice. I was part of their family, Cuban blood regardless, I was part of the Lucheses, I was someone, and that someone felt good.

Stefano Cagnotto wasn’t drunk, but he carried a skinful, and when he came through the apartment door he fumbled and dropped his keys. He swore twice and searched around in the darkness to retrieve them. I heard the jangle of metal as he picked them up. He closed and deadbolted the door. That was instinct. In this business you always deadbolted even if you’d only come back ’cause you’d forgotten your pocketbook.

Once inside he flicked on the light. I heard him sit down. Heard his shoes scuttle along the floor as he kicked them off. He started singing to himself. ‘Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars . . .’

Anytime now
, I thought.
Anytime now, motherfucker, your wish is gonna come true
.

I worked my feet around in circles until I heard the ankle bones pop. I eased myself forward in the chair and took the weight of my body in my knees and my feet. I rose carefully, soundlessly, and I took a step towards the front room. By the time I reached the doorway Cagnotto had walked out back to the kitchen. I heard the rush of the faucet.

I held my breath and waited for him to come back.

In his hand he held a glass. He saw me. He dropped the glass.

‘What the fu—’

I raised my hand.

‘Ernesto,’ he said. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Ernesto, you gave me the scare of my fucking life! What the living fuck are you doing here?’

I brought my right hand out from my side.

Cagnotto’s eye fixed on the gun.

‘Aah Jesus Christ, Ernesto, what the fuck is this shit?’ He looked down at the ground. ‘Look what the fuck you made me do,’ he said, indicating the shattered glass at his feet. He stepped over the broken shards carefully and took a couple of steps into the room.

‘Put the fucking gun away Ernesto. You’re giving me the fucking creeps. What the fuck’re you doing here? What d’ya want this time of night?’

‘Sit down,’ I said quietly. My voice sounded gentle, almost sympathetic.

‘Sit down? I don’t wanna sit the fuck down.’

‘Sit down,’ I said again, and then I raised the gun and aimed it squarely at his gut.

‘You must be fucking kidding,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck put you up to this? Is this that fat fuck Ten Cent? Jesus, what the fuck does he think this is . . . April fucking Fools’ Day?’

I took a step forward and raised the gun so it leveled with Cagnotto’s eyes. ‘Sit down,’ I ordered.

‘You don’t come down here and tell me what the fuck to do, you guinea fuck . . . Who in fuck’s name d’you think you are?’

Cagnotto’s fists were clenched tight. He took another step forward and I went for him without a moment’s hesitation.

Thirty seconds later, no more, Stefano Cagnotto was seated on the edge of a two-thousand-dollar Italian leather sofa nursing a wide cut on the side of his head. He was still stunned, so whatever the hell came out of his mouth didn’t make a great deal of sense. He was a little incoherent, but he didn’t have any difficulty understanding what was going to happen when I placed a bag of coke on the glass table ahead of him and told him to get busy.

He knew he was going to go out one way or the other. He didn’t even protest, didn’t even try to defend his actions or himself. Came down to it he had some degree of honor, and there was something I could respect in that regardless of the situation.

Four lines and he was having a hard time concentrating on what he was doing. I set my gun aside and helped him a little, holding his head back while he pushed cocaine into his own nostrils. I opened his mouth and threw some in there myself, and when he started gagging I put my forearm against his chest and pushed him back against the sofa. He started puking then, and every time he retched I pushed his head down so he didn’t puke over me. I never did coke, never would, and I didn’t know how much these assholes would stick up their noses at a time. I had brought a bag with me that Ten Cent had gotten from somewhere, maybe a cupful all told, and by the time we were done more than half of it was down Cagnotto’s throat or up his nose.

I didn’t need to shoot the motherfucker. Had never intended to. He died after about ten minutes.

The Feds case never resurfaced. June closed up, as did July and August, and I never heard another word. Don Calligaris just told me
Good job kid
, and that was the end of that.

September I followed Angelina Maria Tiacoli three blocks before she realized I was behind her.

She looked mad. She turned on her heels and walked back towards me.

‘What are you doing?’ she snapped accusingly, but there was something heated and passionate in her voice that sounded a great deal more purposeful than just anger.

‘Following you,’ I told her.

‘I know you’re following me,’ she said. She took a step backwards and pulled her coat tight around her. This one was black, like a heavy woollen fabric, and on the edges it had a silk trim. ‘But what are you following me for?’

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ I said. I felt brave and bold, like the schoolyard boss.

‘About what?’

‘About whether I could take you to go see a movie or maybe have something to eat, or maybe just a cup of coffee in a diner or something.’

Angelina Maria Tiacoli looked dumbstruck. ‘You can’t ask me that,’ she said. ‘You understand that you can’t follow me down the street and ask me that.’

I frowned. ‘How come?’

‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked.

‘Angelina Maria Tiacoli,’ I replied.

‘Yes, that’s my name, but d’you know who my father was?’

I nodded. ‘Sure I do. Ten Cent told me.’

‘Ten Cent?’

‘He’s a guy, just a guy I know.’

‘And he told you all about me?’

‘No, not all about you. I’m sure he doesn’t know a great deal about you at all. He told me your name, who your father was, and the rest I figured out for myself.’

‘The rest? The rest of what?’

‘Aah, you know, like how pretty you are, and how you look like the sort of person it would be great to know, and how good you and me would look if we dressed up smart and went somewhere nice, like a restaurant or a show or something.’

‘And you figured that all out by yourself, did you?’

I nodded. ‘Sure I did.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t know who you are, but if you have a friend called Ten Cent then I can only imagine what kind of people you might mix with, and if you mix with them then any one of them can very quickly tell you that I am not the sort of person that men in the family mix with, and I sure am not the kind of girl you take to a restaurant or out to a show.’

I shook my head. ‘Why, what’s wrong with you . . . you sick or something? You got like a terminal illness?’

Angelina Tiacoli looked like someone had slapped her face. ‘You are such a smart guy,’ she said, and she took a step towards me. ‘You talk to your stupid friends with their stupid names, and they tell you who I am, that I’m nothing but some hooker’s daughter, and maybe if you follow me down the street I might take you home and fuck you or something. Is that how it happened? Is that the kind of conversation you had back there with your family?’

I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I fought with the words in my head but I lost. I opened my mouth and nothing but silence came out.

‘Go back to wherever the hell you came from and tell your friends that if your goddamned family hadn’t cursed me to this life then I would have long since gone. You tell them that from me, and if you come down here again, or if you stop me in the street or follow me, then sure as hell I’ll get someone to clip you, you poor dumb stupid Italian thug.’