Читать книгу Toughs - Ed Falco - Страница 3

6:28 p.m.

A New York City summer evening and Loretto Jones looked sharp in a dark blue and white pinstriped double breasted suit as he waited on the corner of East 107th Street, between 2nd and 3rd: Loretto, the house where the Blessed Virgin was born and where she ascended into heaven, a name pinned on him by the nuns at Mount Loretto Orphanage on Staten Island where he had been abandoned sometime before dawn twenty-one years earlier to the day, July 28, 1910. Sister Mary Catherine Randolph liked to say she'd found him newborn, wrinkled and red as a peach, wrapped in swaddling and left in a cardboard box inside the door to the chapel, where Sister Aloise in long black habit tripped over him and yelped in the predawn light.

Loretto on 107th Street had already sweat through his undershirt, staining the armpits of a white dress shirt he'd bought at Saks for eight bucks the day before, an expensive birthday present to himself. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the collar, and pulled down the brim of his fedora to keep the sun out of his eyes. He was waiting for Dominic Caporinno to pick him up in his battered 1926 Packard, Dom's pride and his heartache, a once fine automobile with leather interior and dark green carpeting that had been used hard ferrying whiskey out of Canada and now ran or didn't according to its own whims. It was almost 6:30. The temperature midafternoon was 94, making it the hottest day of the year.

Loretto leaned against a lamppost as kids swarmed over the streets escaping the heat of cold-water flats. In this Italian neighborhood of red brick and dull khaki run-down five-story tenements laced with a black stitch work of fire escape railings and ladders, children shouted and called to each other in English while their mothers and fathers, their aunts and uncles and grandparents sitting on stoops, congregating in doorways, leaning out of windows or over fire escapes, spoke among themselves in Italian. Up the block, a few of the older kids had just opened a johnny pump. One boy waved a black monkey wrench in triumph while another straddled the pump from behind and used a soup can to send a spray of glistening water across the street and onto the plate glass window of Ettore's Drogheria. Shirtless boys ran through the spray and a teenage girl pulled away from a younger girl trying to drag her into the bubbling white cascade of water.

Though Loretto had grown up among Italians, could speak the language a little himself and make out the gist of a conversation, his own ethnic heritage was indeterminate. By the time he was thirteen, the Jews, the Italians, the Irish, and the Poles had all claimed him. His skin was neither the olive dark hue typical of Italians nor the fair pale of the Irish. In his dark blue eyes every ethnic population saw its most handsome relatives and ancestors. At five eleven he wasn't too tall or too short for any ethnicity, though the Irish argued he was too tall to be Italian.

Loretto glanced down the avenue, over the throngs of kids running the streets. He was looking for Dom and his beloved Packard but noticed instead a pale green sedan cruising slowly toward him, hugging the center line as if looking for something or someone on the left side of the street. Loretto scanned the sidewalk and spotted Richie Cabo and two of his torpedoes outside his club, a few feet from where Frank Scaletta, a neighborhood kid, had set up a lemonade stand and was selling drinks for a penny to a bunch of little girls crowded around him. Approaching Frankie, a girl of about ten or twelve in an ill-fitting yellow sundress maneuvered a black baby carriage along the crowded sidewalk. Loretto took a step back and positioned himself behind the lamppost. Across the street, Richie Cabo's men went back into the club, apparently having forgotten something. Cabo worked for Dutch Schultz now. He drove around in a bulletproof Pierce Arrow. Once his men were out of sight, he looked up and down the street, and Loretto saw in his eyes the moment when he spotted the sedan rolling toward him. His short, heavy body locked up still as a monument while he watched the faded green sedan roll to a stop in front of his club. A heartbeat later, under a downpour of gunfre, he dove into a doorway and rolled out of sight.

In the confusion of the instant when the shooting started, the shouting kids, the cacophony of voices, came to a halt. The only sounds were the rush of water from the johnny pump and the loud clatter of gunfire as the commotion drew all eyes toward the green sedan and Richie Cabo's club, where the crudely made wooden lemonade stand splintered and collapsed to the sidewalk. A pitcher of water and bright yellow lemons shattered and spilled to the curb. Once the neighborhood grasped what was happening, the screaming and shouting from windows and the street and fire escapes and doorways almost drowned out the shooting. The girl in the yellow dress pushing the baby carriage howled and pulled a bloody infant out of the pram as she herself was shot and knocked sideways. Still, she held the infant and ran for a doorway, calling to her aunt. A boy of seven or eight lay bleeding on the sidewalk, his head on the blue slate curb. An even younger boy, maybe four or five years old, lay on his belly in the street. A woman ran to the older boy and cradled him in her arms. The younger boy in the street lay by himself trailing a wide stain of blood.

When the gunfire stopped and the green sedan started up the avenue again, still rolling slowly, only a few miles per hour, Loretto followed along on the sidewalk, trotting and then sprinting as he got a look at the driver. He recognized Frank Guarracie's pinched face and understood that it had to be Vince in the back seat doing the shooting. He couldn't see Vince's face. The guy had a fedora pulled down almost to his nose, and he was a head taller than anyone else in the car—But if Frank was driving, who else could it be but Vince? The mug alongside Frank in the front seat was probably Patsy DiNapoli. His clothes were rumpled, he wasn't wearing a tie, and his hat sat on his head like a shapeless lump—and that kind of slovenliness was typical of Patsy. He couldn't get a good look at the two mugs in the back seat with Vince, but he'd guess Tuffy and Mike. They'd both been running with Vince since they were kids.

Loretto stopped when Frank turned and saw him. Everyone else in the car was looking the other way, at the two boys on the street and the howling girl who had come out of a storefront holding the blood-soaked baby in her arms once the gunfire stopped and the sedan pulled away. Only Frank, bareheaded, driving slowly as a sightseer, looked the other way, across the street, and saw Loretto peering back at him. In Frank's eyes Loretto read a momentary confusion. A second later, Frank turned away, his narrow face once again an impenetrable mask of nonchalance, as if the gates of hell might swing open and unleash a monster and he would be neither surprised nor bothered.

By the time the sedan turned left on 7th Avenue and disappeared from sight, the wounded kids were surrounded by adults attending to them. The air was thick with the stink of cordite. The commotion of voices was deafening. Loretto found himself, as if he had been transported there magically, kneeling alongside a boy who was screeching in pain, issuing a high-pitched wailing that was a mix of terror and indignation as he tried to grab his leg and was restrained by a stout woman who was probably not related to him, given how calmly she was going about her business. Loretto helped the woman remove the boy's shoes and pants before he took off his own shirt and tried to rip it into strips for bandages. When he couldn't get a tear started, he pulled a stiletto from his pocket, snapped it open, and stabbed the white fabric. At the sight of the knife, the woman paused and then yanked the strips away from him. She took his hand roughly, pressed it to the bloody hole in the boy's leg, and shifted her body so that she was practically sitting on the howling child's chest as she wrapped and tied the bandages. When she was done she spit a few sentences at Loretto in Italian. He made out attraverso and vivra and took her to be saying that the bullet had gone clean through the child's leg and that he'd live, which Loretto had been able to see for himself.

"Good," Loretto said, meaning he was glad the child would live.

The woman glanced at him with a look of motherly disdain, as if he were a hopeless child, and then waved her hand over her head and shouted, "Lui è qui!" at the sight of a scrawny young woman approaching them slowly as if wading through snow. "Su' madre," the stout woman whispered and then lifted the weeping child in her arms and carried him to his mother, who watched speechless, her face white, her arms quivering. Others had joined them at this point, including a crowd of children. They followed the woman carrying the child to his mother and left Loretto alone with the sound of sirens wailing closer and then the first of a dozen green and white squad cars blocking both ends of the avenue and every intersection.

Loretto picked up his jacket and tie from the street. He noticed that the tie was bloodstained, and he crumpled it up and stuck it in the jacket pocket. Then he saw that the jacket was also speckled with blood. He folded the ruined jacket over his arm. Across the street Richie Cabo and his boys were watching him. He met Cabo's eyes and then looked himself over and realized he was covered in blood—his undershirt, his slacks, his hands and arms and shoes. He hadn't realized how badly the child had been bleeding, though he did remember blood squirting out of the hole in the kid's leg when he first pressed his bare hands to the wound.

Cabo and his men stepped out into the street and started for Loretto but were intercepted by a pair of uniforms who separated each of the men, moved them apart, and began asking questions. As cops hustled him back to a storefront, Cabo's eyes lingered on Loretto. Another copper, follow ing Richie Cabo's gaze, approached Loretto warily, his hand resting on the butt of his gun.

"And what would you be doing here?" The officer was burly and tall with a red face and a mop of dark hair pushing out from under a blue saucer cap. The armpits of his blue jacket were stained black with sweat.

"Non parl' inglese," Loretto answered and then followed with several sentences of gibberish in rapid-fire Italian.

"Stop the malarkey, Loretto," the cop said. "I remember you from when you were running away from the nuns. I'm asking again: What would you be doing here?"

"I live here," Loretto said. He pointed up the avenue. "Over there a few blocks."

"Would you have a driver's license on you?"

Loretto took his license from his wallet and handed it over.

The cop checked the address, looked up the block, and handed it back to him. "Can you tell me what you saw, then?" He laid a hand on Loretto's shoulder, suddenly friendly.

"Didn't see nothin'. I heard the shootin' and then . . ." Loretto pointed to the blood on the street where he had helped with the wounded child.

The cop looked to the blood and then back to Loretto. "And did you have anything to do with this?"

"Nah," Loretto said. "What would I have to do with a thing like this?"

"Is that so? Well, Richie Cabo seems interested."

"In me? I don't know what about."

The cop put his hands on his hips and stood his ground. Behind him a pair of ambulances were moving slowly along the street.

"Look," Loretto said. He gestured to his bloody clothes. "Can I go? I'd like to get washed up."

"How'd you get so much blood all over you?"

"Helped bandage one of the kids."

The officer glanced at the remaining tatters of Loretto's shirt in the street. "All right," he said. "Go on. Get out of here."

Loretto asked, "Are they going to be all right? The kids?"

The cop seemed mystifed by the stupidity of the question. He walked away without answering.

On the sidewalk, still more cops were busy erecting barricades to keep the growing crowd out of the street. Reporters were showing up, press cards sticking out of their hatbands. Loretto's bloody clothes drew stares, and he wanted to get back to his apartment and take a bath. He'd only managed a couple of steps when Dom swooped down on him, linked arms, and pulled him away.

Across the street, in front of the club, Richie Cabo's torpedoes were watching them. The cops had just finished questioning Cabo, and he was moving slowly toward his club while he took in the crowd in the street and on the opposite sidewalk. When he reached his boys, they pointed toward Loretto, and Richie joined them in staring across the avenue.

"V'fancul'!" Dominic said. "What the hell happened?" He hurried up the block, away from Cabo.

"Slow down," Loretto said. "Where we going?"

"Getting the hell out of here." Dom pulled him along the sidewalk.

"Wait, wait. Aspett'!" Across the street, a commotion caught first Loretto's attention and then Dom's. An old woman, frail and dressed in black, stood in a red doorway with a child limp in her arms. She seemed to be speaking, though neither Dom nor Loretto could make out what she was saying. In another moment she was surrounded, the child was taken from her, and the single word morto—dead—made its way through the crowd, traveling outward from the old woman in every direction and seemingly all at once. Frankie Scaletta, the kid whose lemonade stand had been shot up, pushed his way past a pair of coppers and crossed the street hurriedly with his head down.

Loretto caught the kid's arm. "What happened over there, Frankie?"

The kid wiped tears from his face with a furious swipe of his hand. He looked blankly at Loretto before he recognized him and his lips twisted into a sneer. "Your pal Coll killed a bunch of little kids. What do you think happened?"

Dominic slapped the kid across the face, took him by the collar, and pulled him close. "Who do you think you're talking to, you little snot?"

"I ain't said nothin'," Frankie answered, and then he was crying again, the tears glistening on his cheeks.

"Let him go." Loretto found a couple of dollar bills in his wallet and stuffed them in Frankie's pocket. "I didn't have anything to do with this. Neither did Dom."

Frankie took several steps back until he felt he was safely out of reach. "Yeah, well, the Mick's still your friend, isn't he?" He took the bills from his pocket, threw them on the street, and sprinted away.

Dom picked up the bills. "We're attracting attention," he said, and again he linked arms with Loretto and guided him down the street. He was a full head shorter than Loretto and he pulled him along like a tugboat. A block later, crowds were thinning out. "The kid's right, isn't he? This was Irish."

Loretto nodded.

"For Christ's sake," he said, "now he's gone and done it."

Loretto's thoughts were caught up with the stout woman who had grabbed his hand and pushed it over the kid's wound, with the cop who had questioned him, and with the old woman dressed in black with a child in her arms. In his head he heard the word morto flying out in a whisper from the old woman and through the crowd.

"Some birthday present," Dom said.

Loretto looked at Dom in a way that made it clear he didn't know what he meant.

Dom added, "Some birthday present Vince gave you."

"Sure," Loretto said once he remembered it was his birthday. They were nearing the faded red brick tenement building where he'd shared a cold-water flat with Dominic for the past year, since they'd both turned twenty. Loretto had moved out of a single cramped room behind the bakery where he'd started working at sixteen. He'd run away from Mount Loretto every chance he'd got since he'd turned twelve, and at sixteen they'd given up on him. Sister Mary Catherine found him a job at the bakery and he'd worked there a couple of years before Dominic's uncle Gaspar took him on. Dominic had moved out of Gaspar's apartment, where he'd lived since he was an infant. His mother had died of pneumonia soon after he was born. A year later his father had been beaten to death. The way the story went, he'd said something fresh to a girl on a trolley and the next day he'd been found on the street outside his home with his head bashed in.

Mrs. Marcello, at the top of their stoop, held her face in her hands and practically screamed. "Loretto!" She hurried down the steps to meet him. "What happened?" She held him at arm's length and looked him over.

Dominic said, "He got blood all over him tryin' to help one of those kids that got shot."

A middle-aged woman widowed since her twenties, Mrs. Marcello had been standing guard in front of her building from the moment she'd heard the shooting. Her late husband had left her the building when he'd died in the 1918 flu epidemic, along with most of the rest of her family.

"I'm taking a bath," Loretto said, and he gently extricated himself from Mrs. Marcello's grasp.

"Dominic," she said, leading both the boys up the steps and into the dim hallway, "go get the kerosene out of the basement. I got a five-gallon jug at the bottom of the stairs."

"Yeah, but that's yours," Dominic said.

She shushed him. "Take it." Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of

Loretto in his bloody clothes. "Go! Go!" She pushed Loretto up the steps with one hand and Dominic down to the basement with the other.

When Loretto opened the door to his apartment, he found it suffocatingly hot, though neat and in order, thanks mostly to Dom, who had taken to picking up after him and doing most of the cleaning. Now he crossed the sparsely furnished living room and made his way to a bowed triptych of windows that looked out over 107th. He opened the windows to let the heat out. At the scene of the shooting, crowds were still gathered behind police barricades, though the last of the ambulances had departed, leaving only police cars and a swarm of cops and reporters. Loretto'd known Vince Coll since he was seven years old and Vince was nine, when Vince and his older brother, Pete, had been sent to Mount Loretto after their mother died. This, shooting children—this was something Loretto couldn't figure.

Dominic entered the apartment carrying a glass jug of kerosene. He lugged it over to the big silver water heater in the kitchen and knelt to fill the tank.

"What are you doing?" Loretto tossed his jacket onto a chair, sat on the window ledge, and went about taking off his shoes.

Dominic filled the tank and screwed the top back on the jug. "What's it look like I'm doing?"

"Are you crazy?" Loretto peeled off his socks. "Don't light that thing! It's a hundred and ten degrees in here and you want to light the water heater so I can take a hot bath? You and Mrs. Marcello, you're both crazy."

Dom sat on the floor and crossed his legs under him. He squinted as if trying to work out a problem. "I don't know what I was thinking. Must be the shooting's got me rattled."

Loretto took off his pants and undershirt and tossed them on the chair with the rest of his clothes. "Do me a favor." He gestured toward the chair. "Throw my clothes in the trash for me." He went into the bathroom, where he sat on the edge of the tub in his underwear and turned on the water.

Dominic gathered Loretto's clothes from the living room chair, tucked them under his arm, and paused a minute at the window to look down at the crowded sidewalks around Richie Cabo's club. The words Now he's gone and done it rattled around in his head as he watched a small army of cops and reporters mingling with the crowd, trying to get someone to talk. The cops in their blue uniforms and the reporters with their press cards were not likely to have much luck. This was a Sicilian neighborhood and people here wouldn't be inclined to talk with any stranger, let alone a cop or a reporter. When he looked at his reflection in the window glass and saw that his tie was askew and his hair was mussed, he dropped Loretto's clothes on the chair again and took a minute to straighten himself out. He was short and stocky, with a pudgy face that was so flat it looked unnatural. He ran a pocket comb through his hair, doing the best he could to keep the black curly mop of it in place. When he was finished he picked up Loretto's clothes again and left the apartment, passing the bathroom on the way. Loretto was still sitting on the rim of the tub in his boxers, looking at the blank wall as though a movie were showing there.

On the street, Dom stuffed Loretto's clothes into a battered metal trash can under the stoop. Mrs. Marcello had started chattering at him in Italian as soon as he stepped out the door. She wanted to know how Loretto was doing, had he been hurt, was it their friend Vince Coll that did it, like everybody was saying. Dom answered that Loretto was fine and neither he nor Loretto had any idea who did it. On his way back into the apartment, at the top of the stoop, he asked her what she'd heard about the kids who'd been shot.

Mrs. Marcello answered in English, with a shrug. "It's a miracle no one was killed."

"Yeah?" Dominic said. "I thought that little one was dead?"

Mrs. Marcello pursed her lips and shook her head. "Not yet," she answered. "He's hanging on. So is his brother. It's the Vengelli boys, Mi chael and Salvatore. And the baby, little Michael Bevilacqua." She shook her head again.

When Dom asked her why she was shaking her head, she shrugged.

"They don't think they're going to live?"

Again Mrs. Marcello shook her head, meaning no, they didn't think the boys would live.

"Who else?" Dom asked.

"Flo D'Amello and Sammy Devino. But they're okay."

Dominic started to ask her how she knew all this and then stopped. No doubt she'd already talked to one of the relatives or friends of the families who'd passed by her stoop, which was how she knew everything she knew about the neighborhood—which was everything. "Five kids shot," Dominic said, talking to himself. And then he added, "Now Irish's gone and done it."

Mrs. Marcello's eyes narrowed. "Animale," she hissed. "Beastia!"

Dom said, "I didn't see anything myself. It's just everybody else is saying it was Vince."

She held Dominic steady in her gaze. She didn't look convinced.

"I got to go," Dom said. When he was out of Mrs. Marcello's sight and on the stairs, he slapped himself on the forehead for being stupid. Once back in the apartment, he went directly to the bathroom, where he found Loretto up to his neck in sudsy water, working shampoo into his hair. "Nobody's dead yet," he told Loretto, "but the Vengelli boys and the Bevilacqua baby . . . It don't look so good for them." He sat on the edge of the tub, at Loretto's feet, and repeated everything Mrs. Marcello had told him.

"Jesus. They think all three might die? Vince'll be Public Enemy Number One."

"Sure, but that's not our problem right now," Dom said. "Cabo's our problem. He thinks you were Vince's lookout."

"You think Cabo'll come after me?"

"Cabo or Irish."

"Irish?"

"Irish'll put you on the spot if he thinks you can identify him. It don't matter how long we all been runnin' together. Look what he did to Carmine."

"That was different. That was business."

"Yeah? Then what about May? What'd she ever do except see him give it to Carmine?"

Loretto watched a clump of suds slide down his neck and into the bath water. May was Carmine Alberici's girl. Vince had killed Carmine for siding with Dutch, and he'd killed May because she was a witness.

"You know Vince liked May," Dom said. "We all liked May. That didn't stop him from blowing half her head off to keep her from talkin'."

Loretto dropped down under the water and ran his fingers through his hair. He could hear his heart beating, thumping through the water. He remembered sitting on a brownstone stoop with May and Carmine, the two of them chatting and laughing, at ease with the world. When he came up, he said, "So what do you think we should do?"

"I think we shouldn't stay here." Dom got up and leaned against the door frame. The porcelain rim of the tub was chipped, and the mustard-yellow wallpaper peeled slightly where it reached the ceiling. "How come we live in such a dump?"

"Because your uncle don't pay us enough."

"Get dressed." Dom went to a closet in the bedroom and came back with a suit fresh from the cleaners. "I'll drive you over to the Barontis'. You can wait for me there while I go see my uncle. Maybe he can figure something."

"Cabo won't be scared of Gaspar," Loretto said. "Your uncle ain't that big."

"I'm not thinking Gaspar," Dom said. "I'm thinking Maranzano. If Don Maranzano tells Cabo to lay off, he'll lay off. He won't want trouble with the Castellammarese."

"You think Gaspar will talk to Maranzano for us?"

"Yeah, sure. He's my uncle, isn't he?"

"And what about Irish?"

"I don't know about Irish." Dom pulled a towel down off a shelf next to the bathroom door and tossed it to Loretto. "Get dressed," he said. "We'll worry about Irish later."

Loretto watched Dominic walk through the kitchen and into the living room, the late-evening sun casting a reddish tint throughout the apartment. He started to get out of the bathtub and then slumped down again as if he didn't have the energy. He saw the boy on the street with a bloody gash in his leg where the bullet had gone through, and the little one in the arms of the old woman. He couldn't figure it. Vince and Mike, Tuffy and Patsy, even Frank, the only one he hadn't known from the time they were all kids like the others . . . If he hadn't seen them himself, he wouldn't have believed it.

The nuns had tried everything, even for a brief period tying him to the bed at night, but he always ran first chance and the chances came easy till he was spending less time in the orphanage than he was on the street with Vince and Pete and Tuffy and Patsy and dozens more kids like them whose parents had given up or were dead or gone and they were living with old people, aunts and distant relatives, who couldn't keep them in school. There were hordes of kids like him and he preferred their company to the nuns. They stole packages off the backs of delivery trucks, they broke into railroad cars, they burglarized empty apartments. They joined gangs. They went to work for bootleggers. They got mixed up in rough stuff. Sure, they did all these things. But something like this. Shooting kids. This he couldn't figure.

"Hey!" Dom called from the living room. "What are you doing?"

Loretto shook off his thoughts and stood up dripping in the tub. Through the bathroom window he saw a clothesline stretched between buildings, the thin white rope wrapped in a loop around metal pulleys. Dangling from the rope, pinned with wooden clothespins, were three summery women's dresses, one red, one yellow, the other blue. They were fluttering in a breeze outside his window as if they were alive and watching him as he watched them, mesmerized by their colors, by the way they hovered like bright ghosts against a pale sky.