Elizabeth Street Part 14

"Rocco, I am not saying no. I must think about it. Of course, your feelings on the matter will weigh in my decision."

Rocco knew it wasn't true but was pleased at the generosity of the sentiment.

"I believe I should review your options," injected Signore DeCegli, hoping the facts would defuse potential family tension and make it easier for Giovanna to accept.

The lawyer went on to explain his thoughts about going to trial and how the other side would be better prepared. He chose not to mention that now, because she was a married woman, Giovanna's case didn't have the same sympathetic appeal.

He ended his review by saying cautiously, "A condition of the settlement is that you tell no one of the terms."

"This is family business. Why would we tell anyone?" interjected Rocco indignantly.

DeCegli turned to Giovanna. "You realize if you said anything, you would risk losing the second payment. There are four other victims, and they want to avoid lawsuits with them. That is the reason they want to pay it in three parts. It will extend beyond the statute of limitations."

Giovanna didn't bother to ask what that meant. That wasn't the issue. She took a long time to reply, during which Rocco drank another gla.s.s of wine. "Please take no offense, Signore DeCegli, but I would not view such a settlement as a victory." Giovanna looked away. The idea of trading Nunzio's life for money made her nauseous.

"Signora, I know of no other case where the family of an immigrant received a settlement for an on-the-job accident. You should be proud of what you've done."

In the awkward silence that ensued, DeCegli realized that she might never acknowledge the significance of this win. He changed the subject. "I suppose Petrosino is glum because of that poor boy...Actually, he usually appears that way."

Giovanna looked puzzled.

"I thought you would have heard. They found Mario Palermo's body."

Rocco squirmed in his chair thinking about Clement in that cafe. Giovanna crossed herself. "No, I hadn't heard."

Signore DeCegli apologized. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to speak of unpleasant things. Well, for now, let's relax; we have two weeks to respond."

"I don't need two weeks, Signore DeCegli." Giovanna felt defeated acknowledging to herself for the first time that there could be no justice in Nunzio's death. "You can tell them we will take the offer."

"Yes, of course, she'll take the offer," echoed Rocco, relieved.

When Signore DeCegli got over his surprise, he too was relieved. But after toasting their triumph, he felt strangely let down.

"Lieutenant," saluted Detective Fiaschetti at the entry to Petrosino's office.

"Sit down, detective." Petrosino motioned to a chair.

"I got nothing on the Palermo boy, Lieutenant," announced the detective, who was dressed in street clothes and looked like the drunk he had been pretending to be. He was Petrosino's youngest detective and quickly responded to his lieutenant's look of disappointment by adding, "But Don Vito Cascio Ferro has come to town."

Petrosino's head snapped up. "I had him exiled after the barrel murder!"

"Well, he got back in and is looking quite the gentleman. Tailored suit, manicured beard and mustache. He was holding court in the Star of Italy with Lupo and his gang."

"He came to this neighborhood!" exclaimed Petrosino, indignant. "These thugs have no fear!"

Detective Fiaschetti removed a small notebook from his pocket. "He acted like a real professor, he did. Listen to this: 'Why break the bottle when you can skim off the cream? At this rate you'll soon have nothing left. Provide them a service, a protection service, and exact a fee.' And then he says, 'They'll thank you for it, and you won't need to deal with Petrosino.'"

Petrosino's face was red, and his hand was balled into a fist. Detective Fiaschetti quickly continued, trying to get the rest in before Petrosino's outburst. "Il Lupo treated him like G.o.d. Tommaso the Bull asked who they were providing these people protection from, and you know what Ferro says? He says, 'Why, thieves, of course!' and he and Lupo shared a big laugh."

Surf City, New Jersey, 1969

"I don't see anything," I moaned. Flat on our backs on redwood picnic benches, Nonno and I stared at the moon. We were outside our summer rental in Surf City, New Jersey. Across the street the bay lapped up on the sh.o.r.e.

"I no see nothing," agreed Nonno.

We could hear the television and the rest of the family talking inside.

"We have been told that in minutes Astronaut Neil Armstrong will emerge from the lunar module. But this is what it looked like when they touched down at 4:17 today..."

I could tell when things were really important because Walter Cronkite's voice wasn't perfect. They were replaying the landing. It was a scratchy recording, which made me think it already sounded like history.

"Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed!"

"Josie, put that disgusting book down and watch this," Nanny scolded my mother.

"Shut up, Ma. It's not disgusting. It's a bestseller."

"Nonno, let's go inside," I said to my grandfather.

"Why? So we can heara them argue?"

"We can hear them anyway, and I want to see it."

I squeezed onto the couch as my sixteen-year-old brother pontificated. "Right now, some guy in Vietnam is getting blown to bits, but we don't have to see it because they're landing on the moon."

"Michael, where's your patriotism?" My father was seething.

I was depressed. My grandfather thought the landing on the moon was a Hollywood movie; my brother thought it was a trick to make people forget about the war; my father only cared about my brother's hair being too long; my mother was distracted by some book about the Mafia; and my grandmother was mad at my mother for reading the Mafia book. I looked to my little sister to share this moment, but she was crying about her sunburn.

Walter Cronkite touched his ear. "I believe we are going to hear the president talk to the astronauts." "I believe we are going to hear the president talk to the astronauts." Soon President Nixon's voice filled the airwaves. Soon President Nixon's voice filled the airwaves. "Neil and Buzz, I am talking to you from the Oval Office..." "Neil and Buzz, I am talking to you from the Oval Office..."

"Eh, itsa Tricky d.i.c.k," kidded Nonno.

I giggled, but my father shushed me.

"...As you talk to us from the Sea of Tranquility, it inspires us to redouble our efforts to bring peace and tranquility to earth."

My brother scoffed. My father was aggravated and said he and my mother should have gone dancing at the Seash.e.l.l. My mother didn't hear any of it because she was absorbed in The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather.

The next day, we camped on the beach with umbrellas, towels, chairs, and coolers-suburban nomads exercising our tribal instincts. Since it was the weekend, there were first cousins, second cousins, pretend cousins, and the numerous gombadas gombadas who were all called Aunt or Uncle regardless of whether they were relatives. who were all called Aunt or Uncle regardless of whether they were relatives.

"I'll take two," I said to my grandfather. We were playing poker under the fringed umbrella.

"Due," replied Nonno, dealing.

I glowered at the men playing bocce.

"What, are you blind? Red's closer!" shouted my cousin.

"What a bunch of gedrools gedrools! Do you believe this, Frankie? These kids can't take losing to a bunch of old guys," my father called out to my uncle.

"Why do they play if all they do is argue?" I asked Nonno.

"Thatsa part of the game." Nonno didn't look up from his hand.

"Yeah, well I can play better than any of them."

"Now you playing poker."

I heard my father yell, "Michael, you look like a girl, and you throw like a girl!"

My mother still had her nose in that book.

"Josie, they say there's a character in there that's got to be Sinatra. You were close with Sinatra's cousin, what do you think? Was he in with the Mob?" asked one of my aunts.

Nanny tugged on her bathing cap. "I'm going swimming if you're going to talk about those people."

"Ma, we're not going to discuss it." My mother put down her book.

"I'm going in anyway," Nanny announced.

I watched my grandmother dive into a wave. She didn't swim like the other old ladies, who waded into the ocean and patted their broiling arms with the cold water. Nanny pushed through the whitecaps and swam far out with powerful strokes.

Nonno saw me watching her and said, "I taught her to swim when she wasa little girl."

"I thought you met when she was in high school?"

"No, one time she came witha your Big Nanny to my home in Italy. She wasa only three years old and had these biga dark eyes."

"Josie, what happened to the letters they sent?" My aunt interrupted my mother's reading again.

"My father burned them when she couldn't sleep one night."

"What are they talking about, Nonno?"

"Nothing. You pay attention to everything buta your cards. See! I gotta full house."

Six months later, Nonno died. The phone call came in the middle of the night, and when I heard my mother wail, I knew what had happened. I spent the rest of the night under my bed shivering and crying. My world was shattered. I wanted desperately to bond with my grandmother in grief. She allowed me to hug her, but it only lasted for a second.

PART SIX.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK 1908.

TWENTY.

"Frances, please help me," called Giovanna, trying to lift a crate of cuc.u.mbers. With the first payment from Nunzio's settlement, they were lucky enough to rent a bas.e.m.e.nt at 242 Elizabeth Street, only a block from their apartment. Giovanna was free to work each day with Rocco, and their efforts were paying off.

There had been a long line at Siena's Fruit and Vegetables when word swept through the neighborhood that they had broccoli rabe for a good price. It was late in the day, and Giovanna was only now getting to stack some of the fruit and vegetables. Rocco was tending to the horse and cart that enabled him to go to a distributor in Brooklyn for their produce.

"Frances, Mary, you girls head home with Angelina and put water on for the pasta. I'll be closing soon."

"S, Zia," obeyed Frances, taking Angelina's hand and bundling her up for the frigid weather.

"Buon giorno," greeted a man, tipping his hat to the girls who pa.s.sed him on the stairs. The man, face covered in black moles, entered the store and looked around.

"What can I get you?" asked Giovanna.

"Signora, is your husband here?"

"No."

"Well, I'll come again then." He smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

Lieutenant Petrosino, holding the New York Times, New York Times, waited outside the commissioner's office. He paced the anteroom, practicing what he was going to say. He had no problem talking about police business, but when he had to say something personal, he was afraid his English would fail him. waited outside the commissioner's office. He paced the anteroom, practicing what he was going to say. He had no problem talking about police business, but when he had to say something personal, he was afraid his English would fail him.

"Joe! Come on in here. Sorry you had to wait," called the commissioner, sticking his head out his office door. Commissioner Bingham was as tall and thin as Lieutenant Petrosino was short and squat. His graying hair and perfectly groomed mustache gave him a dapper appeal that conflicted with his authoritarian presence.

Petrosino remained standing, knowing full well that if he sat down it would only be a matter of minutes before the commissioner was up and circling the room, pounding on his mantel for emphasis, or surveying the street from his second-floor window.