Elizabeth Street Part 24

Giovanna breathed a great sigh of relief and continued.

I only hope that you have not sacrificed everything to send it. This is a fortune. Zia Marianna will also be writing to you, but I can say without a doubt that this money has saved her life. Her health was so fragile and her despair was so great that your father and I feared she would die. This gives her hope of establis.h.i.+ng a home again. The same is true of cousin Fortunata and her family. Everything that you said in your letter that Enrico Bellantoni told you is true. So many of our friends and family are gone, but we live. I don't know why this is, and I question our fortune each day. We that remain live all together in our home. It's probably hard for you to believe, but fourteen of us live here now. Zia Marianna remains in the French hospital. Each day, we work at rebuilding houses. Soon Fortunata's family will be moving back into their home. The armies removed the bodies and much of the debris. They never found your Zia Antoinette's and Signora Scalici's bodies. Pasquale's body was found only last week. It was his rings that identified him. You know how he loved those rings! People work night and day rebuilding and cleaning, but I worry that when the work is done, we will look around only to see a Scilla that is empty. Please do not come here. The money you sent will help more than you'll ever know. Give my love to your brother and all my grandchildren. Mamma.

FEBRUARY 28, 1909.

Bingham paced his office. He had spent the entire week questioning his decision to tell the press of Petrosino's mission. Those dandy aldermen were all over him and he needed to prove he had taken decisive action. But he hadn't expected the story to be picked up by the International Herald International Herald.

"Come in," called Bingham, answering the knock on his door.

Lieutenant Vachris entered and instantly Bingham could read his anger.

"Sit down, Lieutenant. I hear you wanted to see me."

"Yes, Commissioner. Why? This mission was..."

"Not so secret, truth be told, Lieutenant. I had word that more than one person on the s.h.i.+p recognized Joe, and these Blackhanders are not so stupid."

"But still..."

"Unfortunately, Lieutenant, you cannot separate police work from politics and, in this case, politically it was the necessary thing to do."

Vachris literally bit down on his lip.

"Commissioner, with his cover blown, he's a sitting duck. Send me over to help him."

"Lieutenant, it's impossible for you both to be out of the country. Besides, in a few weeks his mission will be completed. From what Joe said in his last cable, when he returns we should have plenty of penal records to deport these thieving blackmailers. You get the men ready for his return, because when he does, Lieutenant, it's going to be an old-fas.h.i.+oned roundup."

TWENTY-EIGHT.

MARCH 13, 1909.

Louis Saulino, Lieutenant Petrosino's brother-in-law, ran up the steps at 300 Mulberry Street into police headquarters and grabbed the first policeman he saw.

"Calm down, sir," a.s.sured the officer. "It's another reporter with a good imagination. This isn't the first time there have been rumors of your brother-in-law's death."

"Why would he come to my sister's home at two in the morning?"

"Because he's a muckraking reporter, Mr. Saulino. Wouldn't we have heard if something had happened to Lieutenant Petrosino? Please, go to your sister and tell her it was a cruel joke."

After being told the same thing by the desk sergeant, Saulino left headquarters. The day was just dawning, and the newsies were hitting the streets. He hadn't gone a full block before he heard the first newsboy shout, "Famous detective murdered!" He s.n.a.t.c.hed a paper and sprinted back to police headquarters.

"Do you still think it's a joke?" he shouted, waving the newspaper in front of the desk sergeant's face. "Some joke, Sergeant!"

Bingham was in Was.h.i.+ngton, so a call was placed to Deputy Commissioner Woods, rousing him from bed. Newspaper or not, the men in police headquarters and at Petrosino's precinct on Elizabeth Street refused to believe the report and waited for official word. At ten o'clock that morning, they received their cable: "Palermo, Italy, 12 March 1909 Petrosino killed revolver center city tonight killers unknown martyr's death Consul Bishop."

APRIL 12, 1909.

Giovanna dressed for Lieutenant Petrosino's funeral. Her grief over his murder became personal when the detective from the Italian Squad knocked on her door with two tickets to the ma.s.s. Up until that point, she had successfully treated it as the death of a public figure that she read about in the newspapers.

"Signora, I got you these," offered young Detective Fiaschetti. "I believe the lieutenant would have wanted you there."

Taking the tickets from the officer's hand, Giovanna felt her throat tighten. Given all the tragedy she had endured, she should have been able to shake her head and say a prayer for the slain policeman. At thirty-six, she had lost a husband, a business, and been uprooted from her home, which was in ruins and served as a tomb for dead friends and family. Yet somehow Giovanna had maintained her faith that good would prevail. But with Lieutenant Petrosino's murder, she knew she was burying the last shreds of her idealism with the little lieutenant.

Moments pa.s.sed before Giovanna could look at Detective Fiaschetti. "Grazie," she mumbled. "You're kind. I would like to attend."

When she closed the door, Rocco, who had been sitting at the table, was ready with the comment she expected. "This is no business of yours."

"This death is everybody's business," she snapped, but she quickly softened. "There will be thousands of people there. Rocco, there is no need to worry."

"I will not go with you!"

"I will have my nephew accompany me then."

It was Domenico, practically in tears, who had delivered the news to Giovanna nearly a month before. In the days that followed, she was riveted to the newspaper each morning. Domenico would arrive before school to read her the American papers, and she would read him Il Progresso Il Progresso. She had grown from a young girl anxiously awaiting the arrival of a newspaper in Scilla to a woman in New York who was drowning in news. They had to wait if Rocco had not yet left to get his cart because he had forbidden any discussion of Petrosino or the Black Hand. Giovanna thought Rocco was like a small child who hides his head under a pillow and thinks he's invisible because he can't see. But she also had to admit that her way, Lieutenant Petrosino's way, had not brought justice-only tragedy.

It wasn't until Giovanna saw the pages upon pages devoted to Lieutenant Petrosino in the American papers that she realized how important this man was. All of a sudden their meetings took on an even greater significance in her mind. There was, of course, speculation as to who was responsible for the Petrosino murder, and she searched her own memory, reviewing their many conversations for clues. She thought with rage of the article trumpeting his "secret" mission and had to stop herself from running to the commissioner's office and hurling blame. Her anger was only slightly abated when she read that it was possible Petrosino's killers actually traveled to Italy on the same s.h.i.+p as Petrosino, and that most criminals were well aware of his mission. In the month since he had been slain, people on both sides of the ocean had been arrested, but each of the many suspects was released because they had no evidence.

She could not help but think of Petrosino's widow and infant girl. How would Adelina be today among all this pomp and circ.u.mstance, unable to bury her husband in private? After that horrible article in the Herald, Herald, she didn't allow Domenico to buy that newspaper anymore. The paper had congratulated itself on being the first to learn of Petrosino's death and told of how its reporter had arrived at Mrs. Petrosino's house in the middle of the night to announce the news. They did not even allow time for her husband's spirit to visit her. she didn't allow Domenico to buy that newspaper anymore. The paper had congratulated itself on being the first to learn of Petrosino's death and told of how its reporter had arrived at Mrs. Petrosino's house in the middle of the night to announce the news. They did not even allow time for her husband's spirit to visit her.

Giovanna adjusted her hat and looked at her face, one section at a time, in the tiny mirror hanging near the bed. A moment later, Domenico came through the door with the ubiquitous newspapers. "Today, they listed all the Black Hand bombings. Your store is here."

"Let me see."

Domenico pointed to 242 Elizabeth Street.

Giovanna scowled. "Let's go."

They were fortunate to have tickets, but they still had to stand in the back of Saint Patrick's Cathedral on Mott Street. The sermon was in English, except for a brief bit that Pastor Lavelle said in Italian, so Giovanna concentrated on her rosary while Domenico stared at the uniforms and the important people who filled the church. To the left of the center aisle were Mayor McClellan, Commissioner Bingham, and a.s.sorted other men whose bearing announced their position. One hundred schoolchildren sang from the cathedral's choir loft, but their angelic voices were not enough to drown out the sobs of the women and the noises made by the men clearing their throats to stifle tears.

The Easter decorations had been removed and only resurrection lilies remained on the altar. The ma.s.s was beautiful, but it didn't comfort Giovanna. It was a disillusioned woman who stood in the cavernous cathedral. She had put her faith in a man, and that man had been murdered. She wasn't thinking that his death was G.o.d's plan, or that the lieutenant had died a martyr. Instead, she was thinking that her only duty in life was to protect her family. Nothing else mattered.

Petrosino's coffin was carried out of the church and placed in the hea.r.s.e. The delegations from sixty Italian societies were ready, drawn up with bands at intervals. The mounted police led the procession, followed by the fire department and the street cleaners, which was where Lieutenant Petrosino had begun his career. At least a thousand police followed on foot, along with five open carriages filled with flowers, the hea.r.s.e, and the black carriages carrying his family. The clear air resounded with Chopin's funeral march and the Italian funeral march in turn. When the last of the regiments joined the parade, Giovanna and Domenico followed with the other civilian mourners.

The neighborhood streets, windows, and fire escapes were filled with tearful residents shouting benedictions and tossing flowers. When the procession made its way out of the Italian colony, Giovanna expected that the crowds would thin and it would be easier to walk, but this was not the case. On Fifth Avenue, every foot of sidewalk was thronged with mourners and even the flags at the luxury hotels were at half-mast. Because of the crowds, it took four hours for the funeral procession to reach Fifty-seventh Street and Second Avenue. There, everyone on foot disbanded, and the carriages and the hea.r.s.e continued alone across the bridge to Calvary Cemetery.

"Domenico, here is a coin for the trolley. Go to Vito's. It is late, and your mother will be angry with me."

"Are you going there, Zia?"

Giovanna nodded.

"I thought so." Domenico kissed her cheek and left.

By the time Giovanna got to the cemetery, Petrosino's coffin had already been laid in its grave. No one was there except one policeman standing guard and the gravediggers who continued shoveling dirt to fill the hole.

In the quiet, Giovanna leaned against a tree and wondered what to make of all this. Here was an Italian man buried with all the honor of a king, but he was indeed being buried. If Lieutenant Petrosino was so important and so loved, why hadn't they given him the help he had asked for? She remembered the lieutenant telling her that out of the 285 arrests made in one year, "where we had them dead to center," there were only forty-five convictions. He tried to explain the American legal system, but he eventually shrugged in frustration and said, "It doesn't matter. These criminals have friends in City Hall who look out for them." But wasn't it City Hall who gave the Italian detective this regal funeral? The only thing she knew was that she must return to her neighborhood, where Italian criminals were free to prey upon their brethren.

She was exhausted-and probably pregnant. Her period was late, and now, after this trek, Giovanna looked down at her swollen ankles. Knowing there were only a few more hours of daylight, she released the half-wilted flower nearly stuck to her hand and went to pray at Nunzio's grave.

TWENTY-NINE.

APRIL 20, 1909.

Domenico Costa watched the Star of Italy from behind the pole of the gas lamp. He knew that if anyone caught him lingering there, including his cousin Clement, he would get a beating. He, like everyone in the family, had been forbidden to go near Black Hand haunts or discuss them. But Domenico couldn't help himself when he saw five policemen enter the building with their nightsticks raised. Although it was only April, it was hot and they wore their summer uniforms, each with a single row of gleaming bra.s.s b.u.t.tons down the front.

No one knew who the enemy was anymore. Since Lieutenant Petrosino had been killed, the police were angry. It wasn't just the Italian Squad; loads of policemen were coming around and banging heads for no reason. Some of the very same store owners who were victims of the blackmailers' swindling were being questioned and knocked around by the police.

Domenico had learned not to defend the police. A lot of self-satisfied people, including his Uncle Rocco, were running around saying, "See! They do nothing for us! They got the lieutenant killed, and now they take it out on us!" But the way Domenico saw it, they were avenging the lieutenant's death. He was proud that the Irish cops were angry that the little Italian detective had been killed.

The cops pulled two skinny men out of the Star of Italy by their collars. They made a big show of dragging them down the street to the precinct. Domenico vaguely recognized them and was pretty certain they weren't Black Hand. He pulled a stub of a pencil and his little black book from his pocket and made a note of the arrest. The book was only two inches wide, enabling him to slip it in any pocket and keep it out of view of his family. He had seen Lieutenant Petrosino making notes in a book like it and begged Zia Giovanna to find him one, which she had done last Christmas. Precious few pages were left, because it was nearly filled with notations of the suspicious faces attending Lieutenant Petrosino's funeral. Zia had told him about the cards at the police station, and although he couldn't weigh or measure the suspects, he described them, dutifully recording the date and location he had seen them.

"What are you looking at, you little hoodlum?" A hand under his arm nearly raised Domenico off the ground, and he ended up face-to-face with a ruddy-cheeked policeman.

"Nothing, officer. I was just standing around."

"We'll see about that. Come on then."

Tight in the officer's grip, Domenico spied Frances down the block. She nearly dropped the bread she was carrying as he called out in Italian, "Tell Zia to come to the police station."

"Speak English, boy."

"Yes, sir."

Domenico crossed himself in thanks that there was a chance that Zia would make it to the police station before his mother and was again relieved to see they were headed to the Italian Squad's precinct at 19 Elizabeth Street. Once inside, he scanned the room for familiar faces.

"What do you have here, Rafter?" asked the desk sergeant.

"He was watching the arrest at Star of Italy. Probably a messenger."

"No, sir, officer!"

Yanking him by the collar, Officer Rafter reprimanded, "I'm not talking to you!"

"So what did you see, kid?" asked the desk sergeant.

"Two black rats being taken away." Domenico had heard Lieutenant Petrosino use that term.

A cop not in uniform, but one Domenico recognized, smiled. "Really? You know this?"

"Well, I don't know..."

Giovanna swept through the door, breathless. "Cos'e successo?"

"Signora, is he yours?" asked the detective in Italian. It was Fiaschetti, the barrel-chested policeman who had brought her the tickets.

"S. My nephew. A good boy." My nephew. A good boy."

"I thought I recognized him. The way he was acting, the officer thought he was a lookout."

"No, no, detective. My nephew, he wants to be a policeman."

"Officer Rafter, we can let him go. He's just a boy who wants a badge."

"I want to be like Lieutenant Petrosino," piped in Domenico.

"Keep your nose out of police business, boy, or you could end up just like Lieutenant Petrosino," growled Rafter.

"What did he say?" asked Giovanna of Fiaschetti.