The Prince (47 page)

When he'd decided to enter the fray, the prince had moved out of his room at La Tonnara. He'd done so to relieve his niece Betty of his presence but, most of all, because he didn't want to involve her in his new activities. The apartment he had rented near Tompkins Square Park was not far from the restaurant. Not a day went by that he didn't see his beloved grandniece, Ginevra.

These were extremely busy days for him and Mastrangelo, because together they were organizing the structure of a solid “family.” This meant searching for loyal “soldiers,” which was the hardest task. It meant gaining people's acceptance by creating an image of absolute efficiency, so that they could replace the previous crime family seamlessly.

The last piece of the puzzle he needed to put in place was selecting a right-hand man. But Jack Mastrangelo already had someone in mind.

F
or days and days, Isabel wandered through the city looking for help. Friends, acquaintances, companions, no one paid enough attention to her despair. They were all too busy finding food, a bed, a woman, a job. Everyone was running and had no time to stop and commiserate with a brokenhearted woman.

Isabel asked everyone for support except the one person who might have sympathized with her: Saro. She didn't have the nerve to go see him. A friend had even told her where he lived. She'd passed by his door many times but continued on her way so as not to have to swallow her pride. “Pride, the inevitable vice of fools,” Isabel thought.

But one day she got up her courage and, instead of walking past, entered the door on Great Jones Street. She climbed the stairs to the top floor and knocked on apartment 4B.

The radio was on, broadcasting a performance by Cab Calloway's orchestra from the Apollo Theater in Harlem. But voices could also be heard, and soon the door opened.

Saro certainly didn't expect to see her and froze with the door partly open. With the most impish smile she could muster, Isabel gave him a wave. “Hi there, Saro.”

The young man kept staring at her, stock-still, as though hypnotized.

“Aren't you going to ask me in?” Isabel was still gorgeous, despite the days she'd spent sunk in depression. “You know, things didn't work out with Dixie.”

Saro continued to gaze at her, captivated. Then his expression gave way to consternation.

“Won't you even say hello?” Isabel went on, not understanding his dismay.

She heard footsteps behind Saro, and a female voice asked: “Saro, sweetie, who is it?” A girl appeared in the doorway: thick black hair; dark, unwavering eyes. She came up to Saro and took his arm. Then she saw Isabel. “Who is she?”

This time it was Isabel who was left nonplussed. Saro helped her out of the awkward situation.

“No one. The lady has the wrong address.” So saying, he sadly closed the door in her face.

After a few seconds, Isabel walked to the stairs and burst into tears. No one wanted to have anything to do with her anymore. She felt faint and leaned against the wall, weeping uncontrollably, releasing her despair.

“That girl was desperate,” Agnes said to Saro, going back to the kitchen.

“How can you say that? You barely saw her.”

“You're forgetting my outstanding sixth sense,” she smiled ironically.

“Then tell me the winning lottery numbers, Miss Sixth Sense.” Saro went to her and put his arms around her from behind. He tried to hide his sadness.

Suddenly the music stopped, and the radio announcer said gravely: “We interrupt this performance to bring you news of Chancellor Adolf Hitler's speech to the Reichstag in Berlin earlier this morning.” Seconds later, all of America learned the details of the Führer's speech.

Agnes turned and instinctively clung to Saro, as if seeking protection. As the announcer spoke, the Führer's guttural voice, shouting forcefully in the background, aroused her fear. “What does it mean?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

“It means war has broken out in Europe. But we don't have to worry. America won't get dragged into their bickering.”

Saro was right. That day, Friday, September 1, 1939, Hitler launched his Panzer tanks and his Stuka dive-bombers against the Polish cavalry. In less than three weeks, German armed forces—the
Wehrmacht
—reached the Polish capital of Warsaw, leaving the other European nations astounded by the speed and efficiency of its military action. Political analysts were also left stunned by the destruction wreaked on cities by air raids. Entire villages disappeared, and cities crumbled under the aerial bombardments. This was just a taste of what would happen in the following years.

New York, unlike Warsaw, continued to be the lively city that everyone knew. The Führer's speech didn't worry the people there all that much. In general, the American public said that Europe was remote, far way across the ocean.

A few days after the news of the invasion of Poland, Little Italy was observing the anniversary of the martyrdom of Saint Ciro, the patron saint of emigrants from Marineo, a small village in Sicily. The Sicilian community that had made its home in the area around Elizabeth, Bleecker, Houston, and Prince streets had long ago decided to commission a statue of Saint Ciro similar to the one they had left behind in Sicily. When they had collected enough money, they ordered a Sicilian metalsmith to fashion it in solid silver, since back in the mother church of Marineo, the urn with the statuette safeguarding the skull of the saint was silver. Sent to America, the statue turned out to be a perfect replica of the original.

Ever since those early years of the century, each year between late August and the first week of September, Little Italy came alive. The streets were filled with an endless succession of colorful stalls, with booths selling mussels, sausages, and cotton candy for the kids. Windows were decorated with Italian flags as well as the Stars and Stripes, and archways of leafy branches or strands of tiny lights festooned the dark streets. The congregation had an altar built for the occasion, on which the saint's statue was placed. Two additional platforms were used for the bands providing the music. In the afternoon and evening, local residents could listen to passages from operas and watch plays in dialect, and stories performed by Sicilian puppets. Later the bands would play popular songs so that people could dance.

But the moment most awaited by everyone was Monday, the final day of the feast, when the solemn procession began at dusk. Before the long journey began, people would attach bills of different denominations to the statue, each according to his means. This devotional practice enabled the congregation to maintain the statue and to offer support to destitute families. After this moment of reverence, the silver canopy was hoisted onto the shoulders of a team of statue bearers, who had earned the privilege by paying big bucks. The life-sized effigy of Saint Ciro, covered with bills, escorted by the band, and followed by thousands of faithful devotees, then wound through the streets of Little Italy for a good two hours, amid general excitement. Everyone made the sign of the cross when the saint passed by. Many women, mostly the elderly, walked barefoot behind the shrine. Impromptu choruses lifted their voices in more or less spontaneous prayer, in dialect.

At the end of the procession, around midnight, was the start of the long-awaited fireworks, when everyone's thoughts drifted back home to the relatives and friends they'd left behind, in some cases forever.

This was the setting in which Vito Pizzuto decided to carry out his revenge against Ferdinando Licata. He met with Tom Bontade and laid out his plan, but the boss had doubts about the negative impact that it could have on the entire community.

Basically Pizzuto wanted to fill Saint Ciro's statue with sticks of dynamite, and use a rifle shot to set them off the moment Prince Licata approached the figure of the saint.

“The time to trigger the detonator will be when the prince affixes his offering to the saint's statue,” Vito Pizzuto explained. “The silver shards should be lethal. Naturally, others may be injured. But our explosives expert will make sure the blast's discharge occurs in the area right in front of the statue, where the prince would attach his money.” Pizzuto conveyed the plan with the coolness of an accountant.

“But an attack on the statue of Saint Ciro will make all the inhabitants of Little Italy despise us,” Bontade declared.

“It's a risk we have to take. Anyway, it's safer to be feared than loved,” Pizzuto concluded.

Tom Bontade pondered the proposal for a few minutes. He didn't like the idea of destroying the statue of Saint Ciro. It had cost the Sicilian community a great deal of sacrifice, and to blow it up like that seemed like a betrayal. Licata could also be killed with a shotgun blast, though it wouldn't have the same impact on the population that by now had adopted him as “Father.”

“I'll give you an answer tomorrow morning, Pizzuto.” With that, he sent him away, wanting to be alone.

T
hat year, 1939, the festivities of Saint Ciro were coming to a close on Monday, September 11. Thousands of people thronged the sidewalks of Little Italy.

Mingling with the crowd, dressed in his Sunday best, was Ferdinando Licata. He stood out, partly because he towered over everyone by a good several inches, and partly because in his Prince of Wales suit, he looked particularly elegant. The prince was holding little Ginevra by the hand, though from time to time she asked to be picked up so she could see over the wall of legs at her eye level. Behind them, Betty and her husband, Nico, were walking hand in hand, like a couple of sweethearts. They too were dressed in the finest clothes they owned, and smiled happily at the acquaintances they met. They had closed La Tonnara for the procession and allowed themselves a day off. Betty had never been so happy in her life. After the disappearance of the Stokers and their demands, people had begun frequenting the restaurant again; it was finally financially stable, and Nico was even thinking about hiring a cook to assist him.

Also circulating in the crowd were Tom Bontade and his trusted bagman, Carmelo Vanni. Barret and Cooper, the two bodyguards, didn't take their eyes off them, and rudely shoved aside any men and even women who were unfortunate enough to get in their boss's way. Bontade and Vanni, both in dark pinstriped suits, glanced around continually, as if looking for someone who hadn't yet arrived.

Agnes, Saro's new flame, stood in the doorway of a candy shop waiting for Saro, who soon emerged with a cloud of cotton candy. She took the wooden stick from him with a playful smile, kissed him on the cheek, and sank her mouth into the sweet airy fluff. They both stood on the doorstep in order to see over the heads of the crowd, prepared to watch the procession.

The Mass had ended, and the band began playing a solemn hymn. The twelve bearers, all wearing red cassocks, made their way through the crowd that pressed close to the statue of Saint Ciro.

They hoisted the pallet to their shoulders, whereupon the band stopped performing the sacred hymn and began playing a more rhythmic piece to accompany the procession. The priest stepped down from the platform where he had officiated at the Mass and took his place at the head, followed by a group of altar boys, devout women, and two other deacons. The procession then began.

The shrine with the silver saint followed the cortege, and behind it came the band and then the crowd of emigrants.

It took two hours for the procession to pass through the neighborhood's streets. The press of people forced the bearers to slow their pace. Litanies alternated with choruses, ancient hymns, and Hail Marys. After two hours, they returned to the starting point, where platforms had been set up. The band took its place on the stage, and the musicians were finally able to sit down. The priest ascended the outdoor altar, and Saint Ciro was positioned on a stand just below it. The donation ceremony would now begin, the final ritual before the start of the fireworks.

Suddenly spontaneous applause rose from the crowd. Several women cried out, “Viva Saint Ciro!” A man with his hands cupped in front of his mouth shouted, “Saint Ciro, allow us to go back one day!” It was like a signal, and many others voiced the same wish. Meanwhile, a line of people formed in front of the statue: men, women with sleeping babies in their arms, children, teenagers, and old people—many of them holding a one-dollar bill, some a five-dollar, a few even a ten- or a twenty-dollar bill. Some managed to pin the bill on the saint's statue, others dropped it in the basket placed at its feet.

From his position nearby, Tom Bontade turned and in the darkness saw the burnished gleam of a rifle barrel on the fire escape of the building behind him.

On the top floor of the building, Roy Boccia, a former sniper from the Great War, was focusing the crosshairs on the head of Saint Ciro's statue. Beside him stood Vito Pizzuto, who, with binoculars, was keeping an eye on Ferdinando Licata. The prince, still holding his grandniece's hand, had lined up to make an offering to the saint along with everyone else. Little Ginevra clutched a one-hundred-dollar bill in her hand, and few people in the square had failed to notice the generous donation.

Saro and Agnes had moved and were now standing beside a tree, the better to watch the offerings to the saint. Saro spotted Isabel standing near the statue. She wore a green dress that displayed her curves and a kerchief over her red hair, as was customary for women when they entered a church. Saro noticed that she looked forlorn. At that moment, Ferdinando Licata passed by. Saro recognized him immediately and pointed him out to Agnes.

“See that man holding the little girl's hand? That's Prince Ferdinando Licata.”

“I know who he is. Everyone here calls him Father.”

“He's a friend of mine,” Saro boasted. “He's from the same town as me, from Salemi. On the ship, he saved me from the brig, telling the officer I was his friend.”