Elizabeth Street Part 34

"What about?"

"I prefer to speak directly to her."

"I would need to know why."

Giovanna noticed the sorrow around the woman's eyes and decided to speak frankly.

"It's a private matter. But I believe the tragedy in the signora's life can help me avoid a similar fate."

The woman wordlessly retreated to a back room. The door opened, a young woman exited, and the stooped woman from behind the counter beckoned to Giovanna. "Follow me," she instructed.

Giovanna found herself in a storeroom lined with dress racks, and she was invited to take a seat at a small desk. The woman seated herself and moved a dress form out of the way. "I am Signora Palermo."

"Yes, I thought so. Thank you for speaking with me."

"I am not speaking with you yet, signora."

"No, but I hope you will. No one knows what I am going to tell you, but you will have no reason to talk to me unless you hear the truth, and even then, I can only appeal to your sympathy."

It was obvious even to a stranger that this burst of emotional honesty was out of character for this woman, who the signora realized was pregnant. Glancing at Giovanna's feet, the woman slid a crate beneath them. "Talk, signora."

"My daughter has been kidnapped."

The woman's eyes closed momentarily, and she inhaled deeply. "Do the police know?"

"No!" Giovanna reacted like the woman had made a suggestion, and she only relaxed when Signora Palermo replied, "Thank G.o.d."

"I do not understand why you are coming to me. My Mario is gone. We could not get him back." Tears welled in her eyes even before she said her dead son's name, and in seconds she was trying to stifle deep sobs. Giovanna reached for the woman's hand. Seeing Signora Palermo's grief triggered the emotion that Giovanna was suppressing, and the strangers ended up crying in each other's arms.

It was a long time before Giovanna said anything. But eventually she asked, "Signora, do you know who kidnapped your son?" Seeing the fear on the woman's face, Giovanna added, "I swear on my daughter's head, no one will know, no one, what you tell me."

"Why do you want to know then?"

"Because, signora, the only hope I have of finding my daughter is to know their crimes. I must make her safe return more valuable than ransom."

Signora Palermo stared a long time at Giovanna and then began. "Even my husband does not know my suspicions, because if he did he would try to kill them himself, and I would lose a son and and a husband." a husband."

"I understand, signora. Please, I promise you. No one will know we've spoken, not even your husband."

"There was a man. He kept coming and asking for money. My husband was proud and sent him away, week after week. Then a different man started coming-a large brute. I think I heard another man call him 'The Bull' once. This man, too, even though he was frightening, was sent away by my husband. The next time he came he was with a tall, thin man with a droopy eye. I saw the cafone cafone look at my Mario, and I pleaded with my husband to pay, but he refused. Two days after their visit, Mario was gone." look at my Mario, and I pleaded with my husband to pay, but he refused. Two days after their visit, Mario was gone."

The signora was crying so hard she fought to catch her breath. Knowing it was the same kidnappers, and that they were truly capable of killing, paralyzed Giovanna.

"They sent us letters and asked for a lot of money. We didn't have that much money. We were supposed to look for a man with a red handkerchief, but we didn't go because we had only a few dollars. Instead, my husband went to the police; it was all we could do, signora! Two days later they found my Mario's body."

Giovanna, consumed by fear, held and rocked the woman, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Did you ever see these men again?"

"No, but another man came to the funeral. He told my husband if we spoke to the police again he would kill us." Stopping and looking at Giovanna, she wailed, "Signora, Mario was my only son! So I decided to tell the police about the man who defiled my son's wake. We spoke with the dead policeman, you know, the famous one, and he said only a wolf with no fear would come to my boy's funeral."

The trip home from Brooklyn felt like the longest Giovanna had ever taken. Time seemed to expand as it did on the boat to America. She was now certain that Il Lupo was behind Angelina's kidnapping and that his accomplice Leo had murdered at least one kidnapped child. She revisited every word of her conversations with Inzerillo, knowing that her messages were indeed going straight to the source.

Her thoughts churned. Inzerillo had children! Yes, that was it! She would kidnap one of his children and return the child in exchange for Angelina. It took only a few stops on the El to find the flaws in this plan. Giovanna had learned that kidnapping was a crime of mind games and strategy. If she took Inzerillo's child, for the plan to be effective, they would have to believe that she was capable of killing the child. Additionally, it would prompt all-out war, and none of her stepchildren, nieces, or nephews would be safe.

Giovanna climbed the stairs to her apartment, not knowing her next move. She was relieved to see Frances and Mary already preparing supper and said a prayer of thanks for her stepdaughters, even though at the moment they were acting awkward. Rocco was also home and making their tenement even smaller by pacing its perimeter. Needing to put her feet up, Giovanna decided to take a few minutes to lie down and think about the conversation with Signora Palermo. Teresa's information about Il Lupo's gang and the bombing at the bank was also ringing in her ears.

"Where's Angelina's dress?" called Giovanna from the bedroom. It was missing from where she kept it under her pillow.

Frances and Mary exchanged looks in the kitchen.

"What does it matter? She can't wear it," answered Rocco, already defensive.

"What do you mean?" Giovanna yelled, louder than she ever had in her life.

Rocco was already putting on his jacket. "They came collecting clothes for the people of the earthquake. We had nothing left to give."

"You didn't have to give anything! We gave plenty! How, how could you?" Giovanna wailed with pain. "If I hadn't sent the money to Scilla, we could have moved! We would have been far away from the schifosi. Because of the earthquake they have my daughter!"

Rocco slammed the door on the way out, leaving his daughters to comfort Giovanna. Mary and Frances expected their stepmother to be upset, but they hadn't expected her to fall completely apart. They didn't realize her rage was fueled by fear. Giovanna now knew who the kidnappers were and what they were capable of-and she was terrified. She lay on the bed, alternately clutching and punching a pillow. It was hours before she stopped blaming herself, the terremoto, her husband, and Lieutenant Petrosino for Angelina's abduction. Frances and Mary had given up trying to console her and had sent for Teresa.

Teresa entered the apartment alone and began ministering her magic. Had she been a Costa by blood, it could have been said that she took after Zia Antoinette. But it was under the tutelage of her own mother that Teresa had become versed in the curses, rituals, and prayers that she was to master.

To release her sister-in-law's demons, Teresa heated gla.s.s cups. Putting water around the rims, she placed them on Giovanna's back, and with the suction they created, she captured the bad spirits. After this cleansing, Teresa took olive oil and made the sign of the cross on Giovanna's forehead over and over while murmuring prayers. When she stopped, she spat twice on Giovanna's head.

"That will take the pain away," announced Teresa. "And soon you will sleep."

Giovanna, weak from raging, submitted to all Teresa's ministrations without resistance. Teresa sat by her bed, occasionally patting Giovanna's hand and commanding her to sleep while she recited prayer after prayer.

Whether it was something Teresa had done, or exhaustion, Giovanna slept through the following day.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1909.

Giovanna woke with a plan. If she couldn't kidnap Inzerillo's child, she would hold information hostage and demand her daughter in return. Lupo was an experienced thug. He would make the best business decision.

Teresa's evil eye remedies inspired part two of the plan. Although these schifosi were living in New York, they were still peasants from Italy. Guns were less frightening than the evil eye. Her size, presence, and the fact that she was a midwife, already made her suspect. It would be easy to play the part of a witch.

Giovanna turned the corner onto Bayard Street and entered another world. The signs were Chinese, women scarce, and the smells pungent. Heading toward her friend's shop, she was shocked to see a small group of white men and women, dressed extremely well, being led down the sidewalk by an older Chinese man. They were laughing and taking in the sights. Steps from her they entered what she knew from her many walks in the neighborhood to be an opium den. Had she not been on a mission, she would have waited and followed them out of curiosity. It never occurred to her that she, too, looked out of place.

The proprietor of the herb shop waved her in with a genuine smile. It appeared even more crowded than normal, piled high with crates, bins, drying plants, and mysterious jars. So many smells competed for attention that they canceled each other out and instead created an air laden with possibility. Seeing her belly, the herbalist a.s.sumed she wanted something to bring on labor and went for a raspberry leaf and blue cohosh tincture. "No, no," Giovanna said, looking for a piece of paper and a pencil. This would be a challenge. He handed her brown paper and a stub of pencil lead. She drew a hand, and then she drew b.u.mps on the hand and pantomimed scratching.

"No, no problem," said the proprietor and he scurried away. Giovanna had a feeling he would return with the exact opposite of what she wanted and tried to think of the way to communicate that she wanted something that would cause, not cure, a rash.

"Good, good?" He returned with aloe and arrowroot powder in his hand.

Giovanna picked up the lead and drew nettles. Whether her drawing was bad, or there weren't nettles in China, she didn't know, because the herbalist was stumped. Giovanna realized she was trying to be too specific. She drew a skull and crossbones and scratched at her skin.

"Yes, yes!" His euphoria at getting the clue was quickly replaced by confusion. The Italian lady always bought healing herbs. He doubted himself until he produced an oil-like tincture that after inspection produced a triumphant nod from Giovanna.

Still skeptical, the herbalist made all sorts of cautionary gestures that Giovanna greeted with rea.s.suring smiles. On her way out, he took a look at her big belly and called her back in for what Giovanna thought would be a final warning, but instead he handed her raspberry leaf tea.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1909.

From her post at the window, Giovanna absentmindedly scratched her hand. Looking down she was pleased to see little red blisters. When she had returned from Chinatown she had put a small dot of the tincture on a piece of paper. She waited until the next morning to handle the paper, which looked like it was stained with fish oil. Less than a day later the poison had produced a rash. If she got such results with this small amount, surely the scoundrels' hands would be covered.

Mary opened the door with a bang of her hip. Her arms were filled with two primers and a writing notebook sent from school so she could study in the evenings. Relieved to have the company and the diversion, Giovanna leaned on the windowsill and lifted herself out of the chair.

"Don't get up, Zia. I can get you something."

"No, I need to move. Why all the books?"

"My teacher sent them so I can practice my writing. They were in the foyer."

"Let me see, Mary." Giovanna walked to the kitchen table where Mary had left her books and opened the top one. A handmade envelope fell out.

Mary was busy removing her coat and boots, so Giovanna turned her back to her and said, "Mary, I must lie down." The letters were frightening enough; she didn't want Mary to be further traumatized by knowing the threat had been placed in her schoolbook.

"See, Zia, I told you not to get up! I'll make you tea."

"No, no. I want to sleep. Do your schoolwork."

On the bed with her back facing the kitchen, she quietly opened the envelope.

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It was when she put the letter back that she saw a dark brown lock of Angelina's hair at the bottom of the envelope.

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1909.

"Zia, I can't find my hat!"

"Look under your coat, Mary."

Rocco had gone for his morning coffee, and Clement was still asleep, giving Giovanna the little bit of privacy that she needed. Opening her bottom drawer, she grabbed the gun, but also a knife-a kitchen knife that she had spent the better part of Sat.u.r.day sharpening. It had occurred to her that it was probably foolish to sharpen a knife that she had no intention of using, but she wanted it to gleam.

She placed the knife into a makes.h.i.+ft sheath and attached it to her waistband next to where she tucked the gun. "Scusa, bambino." Giovanna wondered for a quick second what Zia Antoinette would have said about the future of a baby that had spent its last months in utero cuddled up to a knife and gun. Saying a quick prayer to Zia Antoinette to reverse its effect, she headed to the door.

Earlier that morning, she had told Lorenzo that she needed Domenico's help moving the piano. It was nearly true-she had sold the piano, but it wouldn't be moved until that evening. Giovanna had already taken Domenico for coffee and explained her plan. His eyes widened, and he sat straighter than Giovanna had ever seen him. She made him promise to stick to her scheme, which would not put him in touch with the kidnappers, but she thought herself insane to be involving her nephew and added this to her list of sins.

"Let's go, girls." Giovanna grabbed a purse and dropped in the envelope marked FOR THE BABY JESUS FOR THE BABY JESUS. With the sale of the piano it held $224.

Frances and Mary noticed that their stepmother was on edge, but that had become normal. They tried to keep pace with her as she walked north on Elizabeth Street to Our Lady of Loreto. They were early and stood aside to watch the paris.h.i.+oners from the nine o'clock ma.s.s exit. Mary mimicked her stepmother by scrutinizing every face. When they entered the church, Giovanna walked down three rows and nudged the girls into the pew.

"Zia, we always sit up front!" exclaimed Mary, tugging at her hand.

"I don't want to walk that far. Sit, Mary."

The church was cool, but Giovanna was already sweating and fanning herself with the pages of the missal.

"Are you okay, Zia?" asked Frances, looking at her. "You sure you don't want to go home?"

"No, no. Just pray. Pray to Saint Anthony." Frances knew what praying to Saint Anthony meant.

Little bits of the priest's sermon on the paganism of the American holiday Halloween drifted in and out of Giovanna's consciousness. His voice rallied when he warned parents not to let their children dress in costume on next week's Sabbath. His admonishments interrupted Giovanna's calculation of the number of minutes until the first collection of offerings.

Finally, four ushers, one on each side aisle and two in the center, walked from the back of the church to the altar. They waited there, hands crossed over the stick of their rattan baskets, for the priest to announce the first offering. Giovanna studied their faces. They were all good family men she recognized from the neighborhood, but with a stab to her heart she remembered Limonata's deceit, and once again they became suspects.

The ushers began to weave the baskets in and out of the pews collecting contributions. After the last row, the ushers would walk to the vestry room off the church foyer, empty the money and envelopes, lock the door, and then walk back down to the altar for the second collection.

The ushers were now only five rows in front of her; a hymn drowned out the beating of her heart. Her face was completely flushed, and she saw Frances staring at her-it would work in her favor.

When they reached her row, Giovanna lifted her arm noticeably and dropped the envelope in the basket. Without looking, she monitored the ushers' movements. There were three more rows behind her-slide the basket in and out, in, out, in, out. Six steps to the vestry. Open the door. Empty the baskets. She heard the coins cascade into a strong box. Now they'll close the door. Six steps back inside the church, footsteps on marble. Start gasping.

"Zia, what's wrong?" asked Frances, concerned.

"I'm fine. I just need air. You stay here." She fanned herself on the way out of the church.