We can ignore, even fight, our destiny, but ultimately we must yield. It was true for Angelo. It was true for me.
IDA THE GOOSE took in the wounded boy and cared for him. She directed the doctor to mend his wounds and warned Josephina to keep Angelo away from his father long enough for the visible bruises to heal.
Why do you do this for him? Josephina asked Ida, staring at her as both women drank from glasses filled with dark Irish whiskey.
I got a weak spot for strays, Ida said, downing the last of her drink. Found a kitten about two years ago in the alley behind the Cafe. She was pretty beat up, near dead, far as I could tell. Now, she's tough and hard enough to kill three cornered rats.
And you think you will take Angelo and make him tough and hard? Josephina said. Like that cat?
No, Ida said. I'll just try to teach him enough to keep him from gettin' killed.
He looks and acts weak, Josephina said. But inside, he has much strength.
He better, Ida the Goose said.
Josephina stared at Ida for several moments. She then nodded and smiled and refilled their whiskey glasses.
IT WAS CLOSE to sunrise, light creaking through the windows of the Cafe Maryland. Angelo walked quietly down the center of the room, the smell of stale smoke and old drink fouling the air. He was wearing a robe two sizes too large over his pajamas and work shoes in the place of slippers. His face was still bruised and sore, one eye half-shut, and his back and chest hurt to the touch. Angelo pushed aside a chair and opened the door to Ida's back room. It was his first time in here and he marveled at how clean and well-kept it all looked, the furniture neat and polished, the framed photos on the walls orderly and dust-free. He stepped deep into the room and stood in front of Ida's bed, staring down at her sleeping form, her back to him, her face resting on a pillow curled against a brown wall. Angelo sat on the floor, his robe wrapped around him like a quilt, and leaned his head against the side of the bed. He reached a hand up and rested it on top of Ida's rich, curly hair, his fingers buried inside the thick strands. His eyes were open and brimming with tears as he listened to her steady flow of breath. He leaned in closer and placed his head against the small of Ida's back and closed his eyes, at peace in the silent room. Grazie tanto, signora, Angelo whispered to Ida seconds before he dozed off. Thank you so much.
Ida's eyes were open, staring at the dark wall inches from her face. She waited until the boy was sound asleep, turned slowly and lifted him up onto the bed, covering him with her blanket She stared at his wounded face and rubbed a warm hand against his hard bruises. Ida kissed Angelo on the forehead and then rested her head back down on her pillow. She closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep, her arms gently wrapped around the frail boy she had rescued.
TWO WEEKS LATER, on a rain-swept Sunday morning, Ida the Goose called Pudge Nichols into the Cafe Maryland.
I ain't punched anybody since I did the wop, Pudge said, standing in the Cafe's doorway, a gimme cap clutched in his hands. I swear.
It's a start, Ida said, glancing at him above the rim of a large white coffee mug.
Ida was standing behind the bar, a spit-shined black boot curved onto the metal pipe that ran along its base. Even in the semidarkness of the large room, her eyes shone. Her dark hair was pinned up, long strands inching their way down toward a luminous face. Ida slipped a hand-rolled cigarette into the corner of her mouth, slid a long wooden match down several niches of the bar until it sparked and then put the lit end up against the raw tobacco. She waved Pudge closer, smoke drifting out of her nostrils. The boy walked toward her, hesitant, his eyes scanning the Cafe.
I'm all the company you're gonna get, Ida said. Got a little wild in here last night. Everybody's out sleepin' it off.
What do you want? Pudge asked, reaching the bar and staring up at Ida with nervous eyes.
It might be a good idea for you to relax a little, Ida said. I'm not in the business of hurting kids. Not unless I got good reason.
Ida reached under the bar and came up with a fresh cup of coffee, which she pushed across the wood. Pudge eased his way onto a stool and put his hands around the cup. He took a long sip and looked around the Cafe. It true what they say about this place? he asked. About all the people been killed in here?
I don't see your old man around anymore, Ida said, ignoring his questions and coming back with one of her own. He doin' a stretch or a split?
He left just before Christmas, Pudge said with a shrug. I don't mind. Don't get yelled at as much and my mom is too drunk to spend her nights whackin' me around.
So long as you're happy, Ida said, blowing a lungful of smoke up toward the ceiling.
Pudge leaned forward against the bar, the cup cradled in both hands. So why am I here? he asked.
It's about that boy you did a number on, Ida said.
The wop? Pudge said.
Ida nodded and handed Pudge what was left of her cigarette. He put down his cup, reached for it, brought it to his mouth and took a long pull.
What about him? Pudge asked, trying not to react to the warm burn of the tobacco on his lungs.
I want you to take care of him, Ida said. Make sure nobody else does to him what you did.
I don't get it. What's this really about? Pudge asked, tossing aside the cigarette.
It's about what I want, Ida said. And it's about what you're going to do, which is keep him safe.
And what if I don't? Pudge asked.
I might forget about it, Ida said. Or I might go out and find somebody with nothin' much else to do but beat the shit outta you.
This is nuts! Pudge said, raising his voice and slamming his hands against the cool wood of the bar. The kid's a loser. You see him walk, you wanna belt him, just for kicks.
And that's where you come in, Ida said. Pass the word around. They mess with him, it's like messin' with you. You got a strong enough rep that the rest of the street kids'll back off.
How long you want this to go on?
Till I say otherwise, Ida said. You gave him a pretty solid workover. I don't want to see that happen again. From here on, that kid cuts himself, somebody else is gonna bleed. Even if that somebody has to be you.
What do you get outta this? Pudge stepped down from the stool, his frown showing that he was resigned to his fate.
There's nothing to get, Ida said, smiling and walking down the length of the bar. Maybe we just do this one on the arm.
Pudge watched her leave and shook his head. Body-watchin' a wop, he mumbled. I'm better off being found dead.
I can make that happen, Ida the Goose said, over her shoulder. If that's your choice.
Pudge Nichols didn't respond. He just turned and ran out of the Cafe Maryland.
GANGSTERS HAVE FEW friends. It is the nature of the life. There is a story Angelo always liked to tell me when I was younger, one he never tired of repeating, and which, to him, summarized the gangster ethic. A father puts his son on a ledge, fifteen feet from the ground, Angelo would say. Kid's about six. The father then tells the kid to jump. The kid shakes his head, afraid to make the move. The father tells him not to worry, Daddy's here and Daddy will catch you. The kid swallows hard, clenches his hands and makes the jump. The father moves out of the way and lets the kid land on the ground, cuts, bruises, scrapes, what have you. The father bends over and points a finger in the face of his crying boy. And then he tells him, 'Remember one thing. In this life, never trust anybody.'
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.