The Prince (36 page)

“Goddamn bitch!”

Betty spat in his face.

Nico stepped forward to release his wife from the bruiser's grip. The man let go of his prey and pulled the checkered tablecloth off the nearest table with a loud clatter as plates and glasses crashed to the floor. He wiped his face, furious.

Nico drew back, protecting his wife. “How long will you give us to get together the money?”

“But it's not fair!” Betty cried. “We've already paid you this month. Mr. Stoker already took our money. This is extortion you're demanding for yourselves, for your vices. Stoker has always behaved properly with us. He can't be asking us for more money. It's you; you're the ones who need it, right?”

Nico covered her mouth. “Don't listen to her. She's beside herself. Our daughter is ill,” he lied, “and we don't have the money for an operation. That's the reason. However, we'll get you your hundred dollars, even if we have to go out and steal it. Just give me one week's time.”

“Five days. Just five days.” Without waiting for an answer, the boxer turned and walked out, pulling off another tablecloth and making the food Betty had prepared for lunch go tumbling to the floor.

As soon as they left, the young woman clung to her husband and burst into tears. “We'll never get out from under. It's a curse.”

As Nico consoled her and urged her not to lose heart, Ferdinando Licata retraced his steps, picked up the shopping bag, and went out, and then pretended he had just come in.

Captain Virginia had decided that it was time to test Saro as a preacher.

So overnight Saro, Dixie, and Isabel found themselves working together on the streets south of Houston, at times venturing as far north as Greenwich Village. They got along together so harmoniously that one would think they were old friends. They spent only part of the day working for the Army, trying to collect a few coins. The rest of the day, they would hide out on rooftops, or occasionally drink beer that they'd bought thanks to people's charity.

One such afternoon, when they were out on Greene Street seeking donations, Saro decided to go into a bar for a beer. As soon as he sat down, his eyes steered him to a large billfold bursting with bills. Later he learned that the fellow sporting it, a resolute man less than five feet tall, was a citrus fruit merchant. The little fellow was just back from the outdoor market, and that morning he had been lucky enough to have a load of lemons at a time when all his other competitors had mainly oranges. Saro quickly realized that this was an opportunity he must not let slip away. He went out in search of his friends and told them about the overstuffed wallet.

“But we can't steal it! How would that look?” Isabel said shortly.

“We won't steal it,” Dixie suggested enigmatically. “We'll simply make him give it to us.”

“Oh, do you have hypnotic skills?” Isabel asked mockingly.

“No, I have a plan,” Dixie added even more mysteriously, and explained what it entailed.

Shortly afterward, Saro returned to the bar. The merchant was still sitting at his place. This time a whore was keeping him company. She was stuck to him like a leech and was tickling his ear with her tongue when Saro approached. She looked him up and down and, seeing that he was from the Army, remarked, “No one around here needs redeeming, baby.”

Saro kept a straight face. He leaned over and spoke in the merchant's ear: “I have a little proposition that could let you double the bucks you have in your safe box within seven days. Interested?”

The man looked suspicious.

Saro continued undeterred. “I can introduce you to a friend who is able to perform miracles like that. Naturally, it's not entirely legal—but money is money, right?”

He uttered the last words lowering his voice even further. The merchant turned to get a better look at him. There's nothing more reassuring than the whiff of illegality for those who want to make a lot of money, fast.

The little man sent the girl away and invited Saro to sit down in her place. He was still wary. “But you're from the Salvation Army. You don't do dirty business.”

“That's what you think,” Saro replied.

“Well, what's the deal?” the merchant asked, swallowing the bait.

Evenings at La Tonnara were different now. Ever since Betty had decided to improve the restaurant's tone, using cloth napkins and tablecloths, and spending a few more dollars on the table settings, adding candles or floral arrangements, there'd been a decline in the number of customers. The neighborhood people were uneasy with a trattoria that seemed to have the pretensions of an uptown restaurant. They began deserting it, and this became a source of contention between husband and wife, along with the looming ultimatum issued by Stoker's men. Nico had gone around to friends, and someone had referred him to a couple of loan sharks from Calabria, but, for now, at least, he was reluctant to enter the escalating spiral of usury.

One morning as he began preparing vegetables for the soup, he opened the drawer with the knives and under the silverware compartment he found a hundred dollar bill, folded in four. Who could have put it there? Betty came in at just that moment, and Nico instinctively slipped the bill into his pants pocket. But her constant contact with people had accustomed Betty to catch the slightest movement of those around her. “What was it you hid away so fast?” she asked her husband.

Nico knew he couldn't hide anything from her and showed her the bill. “Did you put this in the silverware drawer?”

Betty went over and looked at the bill. “It's Uncle Ferdinando's, I'll bet.” She took it from her husband's hands. “He must have heard us arguing with those bastards the other day.”

“It would get us out of a tight spot,” Nico said.

“Don't even think about it. Don't you understand that I don't want to have even more debts to pay?”

“Betty, those people don't ask twice.”

“An agreement is an agreement. Stoker had nothing to do with it, I'm sure. Those guys gave it a try, but with us it didn't work; it's that simple.”

She went into the dining area to speak to her uncle. The prince spent part of each morning sitting in the trattoria, reading books or newspapers.

Slapping the hundred-dollar bill on the table, Betty said, “This is yours, right?”

“I don't see my name on it. I don't think so. Where did you find it?” he asked, lying.

“
Zio
, don't pull my leg. You overheard the ‘insurance' collectors, didn't you?”

“They're people who have to make a living. All in all, they protect the place from ill-intentioned characters, don't they?”

“What I had to pay, I paid. I won't shell out a penny more this month. I know how these things end up. This isn't Sicily.”

She left the bill on the table and went back to the kitchen.

The deadline for the ultimatum arrived. That evening Betty and Nico were especially anxious, expecting something bad to happen. A boy whom they had never seen before came in at closing time and asked if there was an envelope for the Stoker family. Betty replied that there was no envelope for them.

Then nothing more happened.

The following days were a time of great tension. The third and fourth day following the ultimatum's deadline also came and went. More days passed without anything, and in the end, the episode was forgotten. Betty did not fail to say the fateful words that all women say to their husbands sooner or later: “You see, I told you so.” And the matter seemed to end there.

With each passing week, as Betty had predicted, new customers came from the surrounding neighborhoods of Greenwich Village and Chelsea. They were middle-class people or starving artists, who nonetheless gave the place a certain local color, and they sang Nico's praises to their friends, raving about his spectacular bean and seafood soup with toasted croutons.

One evening, the lights in the restaurant suddenly went out. A chorus of surprise greeted the unexpected darkness, but the candles on the tables allowed the guests to continue dining.

A few minutes later, however, the crash of shattered windows was heard and four bandits immediately burst into the trattoria, knocking over tables and everything else that happened to be in their way: glasses, plates, bottles. People screamed, terrified. Some hid under tables, others remained frozen in their chairs, those who stood up were struck with gun butts.

“Don't move!” shouted one of the four, a guy covered with freckles.

Betty, who at the time of the break-in was entering the room with a carafe of wine and some glasses, stopped and crouched in a corner. Under their black kerchiefs, she recognized the two Irishmen who had accompanied the bagman a few weeks earlier.

The man who'd yelled “Don't move!” went to the cash box. He opened the drawer and grabbed a handful of dollars, sticking them in his pocket. He passed near Betty and glanced at her briefly. Then he began shooting at anything that had a semblance of decor. When he had vented his rage, he shouted again, “Nobody move!” Meanwhile, the other three grabbed the chance to seize the customers' wallets and some of the women's necklaces, but their loot turned out to be inconsequential.

As soon as Ferdinando Licata heard the trattoria's window break, he realized what was happening. In his pajamas, since he had gone to bed some time ago, he rushed downstairs and hurried into the restaurant to help Betty and Nico. But he was unarmed and could do very little against the bandits. As soon as he entered, the man nearest the door grabbed him by his pajama collar and sent him flying into the room. He lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.

“Hey, Grandpops, did you lose your way to bed?” Freckles taunted him.

Licata didn't answer him. But he got up without taking his eyes off the man. The thug noticed his resolve but went on ridiculing him, shoving him away with the butt of his rifle. “Stay in your place, old man.” Then he grabbed a bowl of soup from a nearby table and poured it over his head. Beans, mussels, shrimp, and bits of bread trickled down onto Licata's pajama top. The man laughed. Licata stared him in the eye again; despite the dim light, the thug would never forget those dark eyes, that clear gaze.

“My friend, you've just started digging your own grave. And I'll see that you dig it with your teeth,” the prince whispered so that only the man could hear it.

Just then a child's voice made everyone turn around. Betty's blood ran cold, as did the prince's.

“Mommy . . . Daddy . . .what's going on?”

Ginevra stood in the doorway, wearing pink pajamas, clutching a rag doll, and rubbing her eyes.

The man standing nearest grabbed her, held her tight, and covered her mouth. Frightened, the little girl struggled and started crying. Freckles went over and gave her a slap that knocked her out.

Ferdinando and Betty screamed and tried to run to the child, but guns pointed at their chests stopped them.

“Don't complicate things, Grandpops,” one of the thugs told him.

The leader of the bandits, the freckled one, raised his voice to be heard by all the diners in the trattoria: “It's over. We're going now, and it will be as if nothing has happened. Don't move, and no one will hurt you. We'll take the child with us; that way, none of you will move. If I see anyone leave the place, I swear I'll kill her.”

“No-ooo, please! Leave her here, I beg you! Take me! Take me!” Betty wailed. But there was no response.

The four men backed up, guns leveled, and went out with the girl.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Betty started to run after them, but her uncle stopped her: “Wait. They won't hurt her. They'll leave her somewhere, you'll see.”

But it didn't happen. Although they went looking for Ginevra throughout the neighborhood, with the help of friends, acquaintances, and strangers, there was no trace of the little girl. Later that night Betty insisted on going to the police to report her daughter's disappearance and, of course, the robbery at the trattoria, even though Ferdinando advised her to leave the cops out of it.

Saro had set up an appointment with the lemon merchant for the following Saturday in the Wall Street offices of the Irving Trust Company. He told him that it was the office of his friend Marangoni. The role of Mr. Marangoni was to be played by Dixie.

Dixie didn't have an office, but Isabel had already taken care of that.

If the merchant had any doubts about the deal, they were immediately dispelled when Saro scheduled the appointment. Having an office on Wall Street and in the Irving Trust Company, moreover, one of the newest skyscrapers in Manhattan's financial district, meant that Marangoni was sitting on top of the world. The merchant assured Saro that he would not fail to keep the appointment.

Now it was up to Isabel. The Irish redhead hadn't been with the Salvation Army for long; like Saro, she had enlisted a few weeks earlier. Before that, she'd worked at a disreputable local club as a cigar-and-cigarette girl, going from table to table selling tobacco and other exclusive house specialties, including cocaine, to the customers. That was where she met and got to know Martin Fisher, the caretaker at the Irving Trust Company. He had just gotten divorced and, having no intention of going back to his exasperating ex-wife, had started going out every night looking for whores, to make up for all the nights he hadn't been able to.

Isabel had met him at the Strange Fruit, a club frequented by jazz enthusiasts. He offered to drive her home at the end of her shift. Isabel agreed because, all in all, with his potbelly, friendly smile, and gift of gab, Martin was good company and didn't seem dangerous. Still, Isabel made it clear that she didn't go with the first man who came along. She was not a whore—in short, he shouldn't expect anything from her. Martin had heard that refrain before and pretended to play along. But Isabel wasn't joking. When the moment came, she'd left him empty-handed.