Gangster (6 page)

    It is rare in the gangster life to find someone to confide in. It is even rarer to find a friend. The majority of alliances are forged out of territorial expedience and adhere strictly to business policies. Those friendships last for as long as there is profit to be made. You wash my back and I wash yours, Angelo would say. Until the time comes to shoot you in the back.

    With Pudge Nichols, friendship came out in its most natural colors. It grew out of hatred and evolved into a bond chain-linked to loyalty and mutual respect. Pudge and Angelo fed off each other's strengths, protected their weaknesses and allowed no one to infiltrate their well-constructed wall of trust. Within the confines of their brutal world, the two lived as one. They were so unalike in both manner and personality, Mary said. But they grew to truly love each other. In fact, I don't believe there was anyone in this world Angelo ever loved more than Pudge. And even in that love, as pure as it was, there was risk.

     *     *     *

ANGELO AND PUDGE walked with their heads down against a bitter, icy wind. It came whipping off the East River with a series of angry howls, lashing at their worn winter clothes.

    Let's duck inside the Maryland, Pudge said, shoving his hands into the rear pockets of tattered knickers. Just until I get the feeling back in my toes.

    We be late for school, Angelo said in his stilted English. Teacher get angry.

    That makes two good reasons to do it, Pudge said.

    We no go all this week, Angelo said. The teacher soon will call my papa.

    Ida needs us to move beer outta the basement, Pudge said. That pays. School don't.

    Pudge had followed Ida's instructions religiously and stood by Angelo, ensuring no harm would come to the boy at the hands of any other neighborhood toughs. He felt the best way to ensure Angelo's safety was to be seen constantly at his side, in full view of all the hungry eyes searching the city streets for targets and scores. The fact that Angelo was Italian made Pudge's task even more daunting. Back then, Italians were seen as little more than thieves, moving by the thousands into what had once been Irish strongholds and stealing all the low-paying jobs. Street fights between the two groups occurred daily and any truce that was forged always proved fleeting.

    By the winter of 1913, as the bitter taste of World War I depressed the country's spirit, New York City's streets had become ethnic battle zones. It was the age of the Gangs, a crime-controlled period in which more than one hundred fifty rampaging squads ruled over the citizenry by the sheer force of their hard fists. The borough-wide municipal police department was understaffed, poorly trained and alarmingly corrupt. Random slayings occurred daily throughout the city, with overpopulated lower Manhattan leading the case files. Daylight muggings and holdups were so commonplace, they hardly merited a passing spectator's glance let alone a mention in the next morning's newspapers. Well-equipped and organized teams of home invaders cleared apartments of their dwellers' meager possessions, transforming hot swag into instant cash through an intricate network of well-positioned fences.

    Prostitution was rampant, feeding off the frustrated desires of hardscrabbling immigrants looking to ease their plights by seeking comfort in unknown arms. A pimp or madam with a dependable stable of attractive women could clear a $400 profit per week--the equivalent of the police commissioner's annual salary. The majority of the working prostitutes were runaways, fleeing the dense poverty of other climes, though a small handful were either widows left without any income or wives of men unable to find work of their own.

    Saloons and bars dotted the downtown landscape and most were filled to capacity six nights a week, pouring out watered-down beer, bathtub gin and week-old whiskey to tired faces and eager hands. Most mornings, the streets were lined with men dozing against doorways or stooped under parked stalls, their financial and family troubles reduced to foggy memories.

    But by far the biggest vice confronting the immigrants and the one that encouraged addiction on a daily basis was gambling. The passion for betting on a daily number was common ground between Italian and Irish immigrants in turn-of-the-century New York, and an army of street hustlers and gangsters was eager to profit from this passion. Hundreds dealt in the fast and deadly numbers game. Many became rich. More than a few died in the attempt.

    No one was better at it than a thin, dapper man with a soft voice and an easy smile.

    His name was Angus McQueen.

    On the street he came to be known as Angus the Killer, and he rose to criminal prominence after spending his formative years as a high-ranking member of the Gophers, one of the more powerful Manhattan gangs. They ruled through the strength of their number, counting as many as five hundred members at their peak. The area running from Seventh Avenue down to the Hudson River, covering Twenty-third to Forty-second Streets, formed the heart of Gopher territory.

    Their gentle name belied their barbarous natures. The gang was called Gophers because their hideouts and stash drops were located in tenement basements. They were often at war with rival gangs, most notably the sinister Five Points and the vicious Eastmans. It seemed as if each week brought news of the death or clubbing of at least one member of one of the squads.

    Beyond their ease with cracking heads and maiming bodies, a few of the more notable gang leaders displayed a unique flair for business. One-Lung Curran, a Gopher waterfront boss, earned a small fortune by converting stolen policemen's winter coats into ladies' wear, causing a fashion sensation during two Garment District seasons. Curran suffered from a chronic tubercular condition and ran his business from a Bellevue Hospital bed, turning a third-floor ward into a workable sales office.

    Buck O'Brien, a Hell's Kitchen Gopher boss, invested his illegal profits in the stock market. His portfolio was helped by insider tips he received from Wall Street high-rollers he supplied with free women and drink.

    Neither man had the foresight of Angus McQueen, who saw a future in which the rows of low-rent bars would be replaced by upper-tier nightclubs featuring top-of-the-line talent and stiff cover charges. In time, McQueen would own percentages in three dozen such places, including Harlem's famed Cotton Club.

    These were the robber barons of lower Manhattan. Violent visionaries backed by gangs and guns who rode through town on the backs of poverty. There was a Gold Rush in illegal trade to be mined, and they took full advantage of the opportunity. Where many only saw teeming streets filled with disease and the destitute, Curran, McQueen and the others who followed in their wake saw thick pockets of riches, as the eager hands of the poor were quick to spend what little money they had on gambling, women and drink. And best of all, there was no one there to stop them. He used to say it was like living in the Wild West, Mary said. The black hats made the rules and the white hats followed them. If you were weak, you were doomed.

    They could have moved, I said. Tried to make it in another place, another city.

    Where would they go? Mary asked me, her eyes sad but firm. And where could they go that would be so different?

     *     *     *

ANGUS MCQUEEN OWNED the street where Angelo Vestieri and Pudge Nichols lived. He was a scrawny man who didn't need to be seen in order to have his presence felt. Angus never raised his voice and always kept his word. His parents moved out of a run-down flat in East London and brought him to America when he was eleven. By then, McQueen had more than his fill of poverty and was determined to live his days soaking in the pleasures of wealth. And in the America he found, Angus learned that the fastest way to fulfill that childhood quest was with a loaded gun.

    He killed his first man when he was seventeen and became a Gopher boss a year later. By the time he was twenty-three, McQueen's murder count had risen to seven. He kept a thick lead pipe wrapped in newspaper in his back pocket, a set of brass knuckles next to his wallet, a blackjack hanging from a leather strap around his neck, and a holstered gun close to his heart. He never held a formal job and loved seeing his name and criminal exploits written up in the papers. Angus McQueen was the first Manhattan gangster to attain mythic status among his peers. It was a position he loved having and he did all he could to maintain his lofty perch. Killing for it was the least of his concerns.

    While Angus grew richer, Paolino Vestieri turned more despondent. The harder he worked, the less he seemed to earn. His living conditions did not improve and he began to drink more than his usual amount. He felt Angelo drifting away, lured by the streets and influenced heavily by the trio of Ida the Goose, Pudge Nichols and his own aunt, Josephina. He did not blame the boy. In their company, he was at least offered some promise of hope, a glimmer of an escape. Sitting next to his father, even a boy as young and innocent as Angelo could smell the fear.

    Paolino cut a fresh piece of cheese and held it out for his son. The boy took it, split it in half and put a chunk in his mouth. He lifted the small cup of water mixed with a few drops of red wine at his feet and drank it down.

    How much time they give you to eat, Papa? Angelo asked.

    Twenty minutes, Paolino said. Sometimes more if the ships are close to loaded.

    They sat on two crates, their backs to a redbrick wall, the crowded pier spread out in front of them. The food rested on white handkerchiefs by their feet, the hot midday sun warmed their faces. What is in the ships? Angelo asked.

    Different kinds of fruit, some days rice, Paolino said, finishing the last bite of cheese. Cured meats when the weather is cold. They always come in full and they always go away empty.

    Do you get to keep any of what's on the ship, Papa? Angelo asked.

    He's lucky he gets to keep his job.

    The voice came from behind Angelo and he saw the giant shadow lurking over him, obscuring the sun. Angelo and Paolino turned together and stared up at the man. Angelo cast a quick glance toward his father and saw a look of fright cross his face.

    Hate to put a break to the family picnic, the man said. But there's work waitin' to be done.

    The man was tall and muscular, with a full head of dark hair and eyebrows thick as hedges. He squinted when he talked, more out of habit than avoidance of the sun. He held an unlit cigar in one hand and had a grappling hook hanging off his shoulder.

    I have ten more minutes, Paolino said.

    You have what I say you have, the man said. Now get up off your ass and move.

    Paolino looked at Angelo, his face a mask of embarrassment, forced a smile and stood up. Stay and eat your fruit, he said to the boy. I see you tonight when I finish.

    He leaned over and kissed Angelo, holding the boy close to him for a few seconds. C'mon, c'mon, the man behind them said. It ain't like you're off to fight a war. Put a step in it.

    Paolino grabbed his handkerchief from the ground, rubbed the top of Angelo's head, then started a slow walk toward the open doors of the pier. The man jammed the cigar into his mouth and took a short run toward Paolino. He stopped and reared up his leg, the bulk of his heavy work boot landing square in the center of Paolino's back. When I say move, I mean move, the man snarled. That don't fit right with you, then you can take your ass to another pier.

    Angelo stood, his fists closed, his eyes lit with rage, but said nothing. He watched his father face the man and then look back over at him. Paolino's face was pale and empty, a man resigned to his plight. Angelo's was beet red and trembling, angry over his inability to do anything but watch his father be bullied.

    They both watched Paolino disappear into the mouth of the pier. The man shoved Angelo with an open palm. Clean up this mess, he said. And get the hell out of here.

    Angelo glared up at him. What is your name? he said.

    Forget my name, the man said. We ain't ever gonna be friends. Now clean up the mess and get the hell outta here.

    What is your name? Angelo asked again, taking two short steps closer to the man.

    You're gonna get yourself hurt, kid, the man said, his words clipped and angry. Now do what I told you before it's too late.

    I want to know your name, Angelo said.

    The man lifted his hand and smacked Angelo hard across his face, leaving finger marks in his wake. He grabbed the boy by the shirt collar and lifted him off his feet, their faces separated by inches. My name's Carl, the man snarled.

    Carl Banyon. And in case you ever start to forget it, this will help you remember.

    Banyon pulled a straight razor from his back pocket and snapped it open. He saw Angelo's eyes widen at the sight of the blade and he smiled. You can cry if you want, Banyon said. I won't care.

    Angelo saw the blur of the razor and felt its sting. The warmth of his own blood soon flowed down the side of his face, pouring out of the four-inch gash Banyon had opened just above his right eye.

    Angelo turned and grabbed his handkerchief from the ground and put it up to his face. He heard Banyon's heavy footsteps walk off in the distance. He felt dizzy and nauseous from the loss of blood. He heard men walk past him, speaking a hard English he didn't understand, and knew none of them would stop to help. They were either too afraid of Banyon or too indifferent to his plight. He stayed there and stared up at the sky, unable to cry, not wanting to move. In the distance, he heard the horns and whistles of a large ship pulling out of the harbor, heading for a country far removed from the one his father had chosen as the place to build a better life.

     *     *     *

JOSEPHINA COMBED BACK Angelo's black strands of hair with a wet comb. She was careful not to go near the blood-spotted bandage that covered the gash above his right eye. It took a dozen stitches to seal the zigzag wound and a full day to convince Paolino that revenge against Carl Banyon was not for him to take.