The Prince (52 page)

Pizzuto, for his part, was aware that he served a boss who was now getting by solely on his past. He still had control of the territory, but how long could he hold on to it if he was no longer seen in circulation? Pizzuto's only regret was that he had failed in his attempt on the prince's life. He had even tried to locate Licata's hiding place, to finish the job he'd started, but no one would help him. The fact that the prince hadn't been seen around after so long could mean that he'd managed to survive, but it could also mean that the explosion might have damaged his spinal cord, paralyzing him. If that were the case, then his power was actually hanging by a thread, and all Pizzuto had to do was sever it to seize control of what Licata had aggressively taken from Brian Stoker's family.

Vito Pizzuto was looking for a way to find out the truth about Licata. Everyone knew that the interests of the family were now controlled by Saro Ragusa, with Jack Mastrangelo as consigliori. The three men had formed a kind of invincible trinity.

Perhaps the weakest link in the chain was Mastrangelo. Little was known about him. He lived alone in a nondescript apartment in Bensonhurst. He had never been seen with a woman—though not with a man, either. He had no children. He was a silent type; you never saw him shooting the breeze just for the sake of talking. If he said something, it was always about the job and what had to be done.

Mastrangelo was difficult to approach and appeared to be extremely loyal to those who placed their trust in him. He had never fought for any family in particular, preferring to work as a free agent.

Among the families, he was rumored to have accumulated immense wealth over the years. Mastrangelo spent only the bare amount necessary to live. He didn't gamble, didn't do drugs, didn't visit whores. So not even money could be his weak point.

Roy Boccia, who was mulling over the situation with Bontade and Pizzuto, said, “You know something, Vito, I don't buy all this virtue. Every one of us has a hidden skeleton in the closet. We just need to find out what his is, and we'll have him in our grip.”

Pizzuto nodded. And so they decided, on the spot, to dig up Jack Mastrangelo's secret.

For four whole weeks, Roy Boccia, alternating with seven other bloodhounds from the Bontade family, didn't let him out of his sight. Boccia, a real expert in this type of operation, had divided the men into five daily shifts. The first four were four hours each, with the last one ending at ten o'clock at night. The overnight shift started at ten and ended at six the following morning. With such an undemanding schedule, they could go on for months that way.

Boccia knew from experience that once the second month rolled around, good news could come any day. So far, they'd accumulated a folder of reports a stack high, and Mastrangelo appeared to be the simple, unremarkable man that everyone described. But one day, a Sunday, Boccia's prediction came true.

That day, Ben Eleazar and Aldo Martini, two of the family's new recruits, were on duty. Eleazar was a Jew from Greece, and Martini came straight from Lombardy, near Milan. Jack Mastrangelo generally spent Sundays at home alone, stretched out on the couch listening to the radio or dozing. This Sunday, however, he got dressed and in the early afternoon drove off in his car. At first they thought he was headed to the airport, but he ended up in an exclusive area in Queens near the Whitestone Bridge. As Mastrangelo neared Francis Lewis Park, he slowed down, as if to make sure he wasn't being followed.

At some distance behind him, Ben Eleazar told the Italian at the wheel to slow down. Traffic was minimal, and it would be difficult to go unnoticed. The area, with its magnificent homes surrounded by trees and manicured gardens, was evidently a refuge for the city's upper middle class.

Ben and Aldo were excited at the prospect of having perhaps hit the jackpot. Boccia had promised a substantial cash bonus to whoever uncovered Mastrangelo's secret.

Jack Mastrangelo stopped in front of one of the most imposing edifices, with a massive three-story central portion and two-story wings extending in a semicircle at either side, like welcoming arms. A garden with abundant flower beds, exotic trees, and a broad drive lined by ancient oaks lent the grounds an air of classical restraint.

A few nuns were busy caring for the garden. The lawn was meticulously tended, and the walkways were bordered by perfectly trimmed hedges. Aldo Martini noticed a crucifix and the statue of a saint near the gate.

Mastrangelo parked the car, entered the garden, and walked down the oak-lined drive that led to the main entrance. The massive door opened, and a nun came out, greeting him with a polite smile.

They saw Mastrangelo disappear inside the institution.

“So that's his secret,” Ben said.

“Could it be a son or a daughter?” Aldo Martini wondered.

It was neither. Aurora was Jack Mastrangelo's niece, the daughter of his sister, Elena, who had died thirteen years earlier, killed by her companion. Today was the girl's twenty-first birthday. Unfortunately, she was unable to celebrate with a carefree party like others her age. A form of catatonia had struck her thirteen years ago, when she witnessed her mother's murder.

The mother's boyfriend, a hopeless alcoholic, had been home alone with the girl. She was only eight at the time. When Elena came home after her shift at the factory, she caught him raping the girl. He had one hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming while he touched and abused her vilely with his other hand. At the sight of that appalling scene, Elena rushed at him and smashed a pot of basil over his head. The man fell to the ground, unconscious, as the woman desperately embraced the child, her protection too late. The man regained consciousness, however. His vision blurred by alcohol and the violent blow, he grabbed Elena by the neck and began tightening his grip, squeezing and jerking her brutally. The woman's only concern was for the little girl: she continued to try shielding her, but by holding the child, she couldn't defend herself. She died choked to death, her daughter gripped tightly in her arms. The girl kept shrieking, but by then her vocal cords were worn out, and only a muted sound came out of her mouth. The man felt the woman's legs go limp and let her go. Elena fell on top of the child, who had stopped screaming. She had also stopped struggling. Aurora had ceased to exist. The long nighttime of her mind began that day.

“Catatonia,” the doctors pronounced. “It's a psychiatric syndrome characterized by motor, emotional, and behavioral abnormalities, which may stem from both physical and psychic pathologies.”

That was the terse explanation they gave Mastrangelo. His sister's lover was accorded the judgment of partial insanity, because he had committed the crimes while under the influence of alcohol. He was sentenced to eight years. When he was released from prison five years ago, he tracked down the girl at the institution and phoned to pay her a visit. Mastrangelo was notified by the nuns, however, and intercepted him before he reached his destination.

The two scars marring Mastrangelo's face were a souvenir of their meeting. His sister's boyfriend was never heard from again.

Elena had always asked her brother to look after the child if something were to happen to her. It seemed like a premonition.

Mastrangelo had promised her at their mother's grave that he would never abandon Aurora, and that promise was for him an obsession.

He had willed all of his real estate holdings to his niece. And if something were to happen to him, the nuns, according to the will's instructions, would receive a handsome annuity to continue caring for her for as long as she lived.

Mastrangelo went to visit his niece every two or three months, but that Sunday was special. In the garden behind the institute, Mastrangelo approached the girl as she sat on a blue canvas chair.

Ben and Aldo were able to observe the scene from behind the massive wall.

“There,” Aldo whispered, watching Mastrangelo bend down to give his niece a kiss on the cheek. “That's his weak point.”

A
week after Aurora's twenty-first birthday, Jack Mastrangelo went out early one morning to meet with Saro. As usual, he stopped at the nearby Italian cafe to have breakfast and read the sports pages while sipping a cup of espresso.

As he was reading the New York
Daily Mirror
, Roy Boccia came in and sat down at his table. Mastrangelo lowered the newspaper and recognized the Bontade family's henchman. With great control, he raised the paper again.

“Boccia, you got the wrong table,” he said, pretending to go on reading.

“You're just the man I was looking for, pal.”

This time Mastrangelo folded the paper. “Are you tired of those Bontade clowns?”

“I came to offer you a deal.”

“I don't do business with people like you.” Mastrangelo took a sip of espresso, while the waitress poured coffee into Roy's cup.

Boccia waited until she had walked away. “This time I bet you'll make an exception. We need your help.”

“What the hell are you thinking? All of New York knows who I'm working with. What do you want from me? I hate melodramatic gangsters.”

“We want you to come over to our side.”

Mastrangelo didn't bat an eye. He remained unfazed and continued speaking quietly. “You see, you ugly son of a bitch, the difference between you and me is that sewer rats of your kind run after cheese, no matter what kind it is, even if it stinks. I choose my cheese, and it has to be top quality.”

“Too bad for you, pal, but this time you'll have to swallow whatever cheese we feed you, or else.”

“Or else what?” Mastrangelo mocked.

With his usual twisted smile, Roy Boccia slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white card that he slid across the table, placing it under Jack's saucer.

Mastrangelo stared at it and had a terrible feeling. It was the back of a photograph. He reached out and turned it over.

The photo showed his niece, Aurora, in a setting that was certainly not the elegant establishment where she was supposed to be. Aurora had been photographed in a cellar, sitting on a chair. Behind her was a man, with an idiotic grin, caressing her thighs with both hands.

“It took a lot of effort for us to find her, but in the end it was worth it, don't you think? The boys can't wait to have a little fun. It's a rare experience, fucking a halfwit.”

Mastrangelo slammed down his espresso cup, shattering it in his rage. He would have liked to crush Boccia's skull with his bare hands. “Bastard,” he hissed. “You have no honor. No one has ever laid a finger on one of our women. If you so much as touch a hair on her head, I won't rest until you beg me to kill you. You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

“Easy, Jack. We know you care about your niece. That's why no one will hurt her. But it all depends on you.”

“What do you want?” Mastrangelo roared.

“Nothing impossible. You just have to bring Ferdinando Licata and Saro Ragusa to us at a place we'll tell you.”

“When?”

“All in good time, Jack. But meanwhile, you mustn't let them find out. Otherwise your little niece—what's her name, Aurora? Well, Aurora might suffer some physical injury.”

“Boccia, I'm telling you again, you better not touch her.”

“Or what?” the mobster challenged.

Mastrangelo strode out of the place, leaving Roy Boccia to ponder the hazards of going up against someone like him.

Tom Bontade now had Licata and Saro Ragusa in his grip. Together with Roy Boccia, Jack Mastrangelo devised a plan that he carried out a few days later.

Mastrangelo would inform Prince Licata of the arrival of a large quantity of plasma and medical supplies earmarked for the war in Europe. The containers of plasma for transfusions were at one of the docks in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in warehouse 82, waiting to be shipped out on the next Liberty ship departing for Great Britain. If they acted quickly, the goods could be diverted to a different destination. Saro would have to deal directly with the chief cargo agent, who would personally see to replacing the containers with a shipment of unfinished leather that had been left in the warehouse for over two months. A mix-up of consignments was more than plausible, and when the hospital staffs went to open the containers expecting to find plasma, they would have the unpleasant surprise of discovering tons of smelly skins. It would be impossible to trace the original shipment, particularly since the agent would make sure that the bill of lading disappeared.

Saro and his men were supposed to show up at the dock the following night with no less than $12,000. The batch of plasma was worth at least ten times that. Licata consented to the deal, and on the night set for the exchange, Saro Ragusa went to the designated dock.

He was accompanied by Jack Mastrangelo and Carmine Mannino. Saro would get there first to verify the goods, then Ferdinando Licata would come with the money. This way, they would avoid any surprises.

The warehouse was shrouded in darkness. With extreme caution, Saro, Mastrangelo, and Mannino entered and started walking toward the center. Mountains of jute bales and wooden crates were piled up along the walls. Lit by a ray of moonlight, they saw someone in the middle of the warehouse, waiting for them. It wasn't a familiar face. Hidden among the bales were Roy Boccia, Vito Pizzuto, and three of their men: Angelo Bivona, Fabio Zummo, and Salvatore Di Giovanni.

Saro went up to Ben Eleazar, while Jack Mastrangelo and Carmine Mannino stayed a few steps behind.

“You're empty-handed,” said the man who'd been waiting for them.

“I have to check that everything is okay. My boss is nearby. When I give him the signal, he'll arrive with the dough. If everything is okay, you have nothing to worry about. Are the others hiding?” Saro asked, looking around.

“If you've complied with the terms, you have nothing to fear,” Ben told him.