Honor Thy Father Part 8

Three weeks later on November 14, at Genovese's suggestion, the Apalachin conference was held. Genovese preferred having it in Chicago, but Stefano Magaddino, citing the fact that a secret meeting had been held in Apalachin the year before without interruption, thought it was better to hold it there again. The upstate New York community was also more convenient for the senior commissioner, who at sixty-six did not like to travel great distances, and there was ample room on the large estate of Magaddino's fellow Castellammarese, Joseph Barbara, to accommodate the many visitors.

Most of the delegates represented families in the Northeast, the center of many of the current problems. Twenty-three men were from New York City or New Jersey, nineteen were from other parts of New York State, only eight had come from the Midwest, three from the West, two from the South, and three from overseas-two from Cuba, one from Sicily. Among the major items on the agenda was the reaffirmation of Genovese's position as the head of his family, with the a.s.surance that Costello and his friends had nothing to fear so long as they did not challenge Genovese; the reiteration of the commission's policy against drugs and new memberships; and the clarification of any questions with regard to the Anastasia family, which would now be headed by Carlo Gambino.

But before the sessions could begin, the New York State Police launched their surprise raid that would prove to be disastrous to the national syndicate and would terminate the many years of relative tranquillity enjoyed by such dons as Joseph Bonanno. For Vito Genovese, the Apalachin meeting was merely a precursor of other bad news.

Federal narcotics agents had just arrested a Puerto Rican dope peddler on the West Side of Manhattan who, after being sentenced to a four-to-five-year term and feeling double-crossed because the organization had not fixed the case in court, decided to turn informer. One man that he informed against was Vito Genovese. It did not seem possible at first that the testimony of the informer, Nelson Cantellops, could lead to convictions; but like so many racketeers who have trained themselves to put nothing in writing, Cantellops had almost total recall, and he recited names, places, and incidents that linked the Genovese family with narcotics, and he also described a time when he had personally overheard Genovese discussing a narcotics deal with other men in the Bronx.

In 1958 a federal grand jury in New York returned an indictment against twenty-four individuals who Cantellops swore were involved in narcotics trafficking, and among the names on the list were Carmine Galante of the Bonanno family, John Ormento of the Lucchese family, Joseph Valachi of the Genovese family, and Genovese himself. Genovese and fourteen others were brought to trial in the spring of 1959, and by 1960 he was in the Atlanta Penitentiary beginning a fifteen-year sentence for narcotics smuggling.

Even in jail, where his mere presence instilled fear in the other prisoners who did not address him unless he spoke first, Genovese dictated orders to his captains beyond the walls and fomented tension in the underworld. Suspecting one of his officers, Anthony Strollo, of double-dealing and cheating him of money, Genovese is supposed to have ordered his death in 1962. Genovese at this time also suspected, incorrectly, that his fellow prisoner in Atlanta, Joseph Valachi, a veteran a.s.sociate, had become a government informer; and when Valachi himself sensed that he was marked for extinction, he wildly bludgeoned to death with a pipe an innocent inmate who he thought was his potential a.s.sa.s.sin.

Faced with the death penalty for the brutal slaying, Valachi decided to cooperate with the federal government to save his own life, and in so doing he made life miserable for every don in America. What little privacy they had after the endless investigations and publicity in the wake of Apalachin was invaded by Valachi. Testifying before the Senate on nationwide television, and with his words also disseminated through national magazines and a best-selling book by Peter Maas, Valachi described the organizational structure of the Mafia, unmasked many of its leaders, and recalled old feuds and murders. He told how he had been recruited in 1930 to fight on Maranzano's side in the Castellammarese War and how he later was initiated into the brotherhood with Joseph Bonanno performing the ritual. After the death of Maranzano, Valachi was absorbed into the Luciano family, where, even though he never rose higher than the rank of soldier, he managed to prosper and survive for many years until the recent terror tactics of Genovese influenced his fate and that of many other mafiosi.

It was during this period, in the early 1960s, that Joseph Bonanno seriously contemplated his retirement as the head of his family and as a member of the commission. He was disgusted with the way things had gone in the past few years, and he doubted that the situation would or could improve. The decline of the Profaci family was particularly upsetting because he believed that two members of the commission, Lucchese and Gambino, had encouraged the Gallo brothers' revolt against Profaci, violating the commission's own policy against interference in the internal affairs of a family. With the death of Joseph Profaci in 1962, and Joseph Magliocco a year later, Bonanno lost two strong allies.

Bonanno also felt that he had nothing to gain and much to lose by remaining in the chaotic atmosphere of the Northeast in the company of fellow dons that he could no longer trust. He was approaching sixty, and he had been a don for thirty years. He would be happier living in retirement in Arizona or Canada or Wisconsin or California and letting younger men a.s.sume the role of leadership over his organization. The only problem was in finding a younger man capable of succeeding him. Unfortunately for Bonanno, he realized too late that the experienced men upon whom he had most relied during the last decade were either his own age or older-such men as Garofalo, Bonventre, Angelo Caruso, the imprisoned Carmine Galante, Gaspar Di Gregorio, and John Tartamella, who had just had a heart attack. And the younger officers in the family were not that much younger: John Morale was in his fifties, as was Frank Labruzzo Vito De Filippi, Thomas Di Angelo, Paul Sciacca, and the ailing Joseph Notaro. Charles Battaglia was in his forties, but he was in the Arizona branch of the family and Bonanno liked having him there.

Among the ranks of soldiers, there were few who had particularly impressed Bonanno by their leadership potentialities; in fact, Bonanno felt that the average Mafia soldier today, not only in his own family but also throughout the national syndicate, was far less disciplined than were the soldiers he had known thirty years ago in Maranzano's time. The younger men today were for the most part American-born, were not as cool or quick under pressure as the men from the old country had been, not as driven or alienated; and Bonanno believed that just as Italian prizefighters were now declining after years of prominence in the American ring, so too would the Italian and Sicilian gangsters soon be replaced by a tougher breed of men. Twice during the past year Bonanno had heard his captains complain that soldiers had asked to be relieved of an a.s.signment because they had to be with their wives on that particular evening.

The younger members, or the a.s.sociate members-those men awaiting a family vacancy or commission approval of their initiation-were too often the dregs of the second generation, the element left behind at the bottom of the barrel. They were not suited to an executive career in the legitimate world-such as Notaro's son, who became a lawyer, or Lucchese's son, who graduated from West Point and helped to run his father's large garment manufacturing business-nor were they sufficiently authoritative and shrewd and motivated to become a Mafia don. And so if they gained admission into a Mafia family, perhaps having had a father or uncle who had been a member, they usually spent the best years of their lives taking orders from aging superiors, doing the dirty work as gunmen and hijackers; or they worked as managers of nightclubs, as second-echelon labor organizers, or overseers of numbers networks and bookmaking rings. In any case, they would never acquire the qualities of leadership that Bonanno sought in the younger generation; in fact, in his whole organization there was perhaps only one individual he considered bright enough, bold enough-and trustworthy enough-to someday become a don, and that was the person about whom he had the most reservations, his son Bill.

Bill Bonanno at this time had just moved East from Arizona to tidy up his problems with Rosalie and to help look after his father's interests while his father kept on the move to escape the notoriety of the Valachi testimony and other rumblings rising out of rumors linking him to Magliocco's alleged scheme to murder Lucchese and Gambino for their part in the Gallo brothers' revolt. While Joseph Bonanno was comforted by his son's presence in New York and was relieved of various responsibilities, he regretted that his son was now becoming more deeply involved in the management affairs of the secret society at a time when the elder Bonanno saw grave problems ahead. And he was even more apprehensive, and yet strangely proud, when he was informed in Canada in February 1964 that his captains, following his suggestion, had held a meeting to elect an officer to take over the number three position vacated by John Tartamella, who had just suffered another stroke that left him partially paralyzed and restricted him to a wheel chair. Tartamella's successor was his son Bill.

The number three job in a Mafia family, often referred to as the consigliere consigliere or counselor, was an advisory as well as strategy-planning position that coordinated the proposals and tactics emanating from the captains and presented these to the boss and underboss for final approval. While the scope of the or counselor, was an advisory as well as strategy-planning position that coordinated the proposals and tactics emanating from the captains and presented these to the boss and underboss for final approval. While the scope of the consigliere consigliere varied from family to family, depending largely on the management style of the boss-in some families the varied from family to family, depending largely on the management style of the boss-in some families the consigliere consiglierewas merely an amiable confessor, in others he was a strong buffer between the two top men and the rest of the subordinates-the consigliere consigliere in the Bonanno family was of real significance, was perhaps more important than even the underboss, because of the closeness between father and son. It meant that the underboss, John Morale-who had recently been appointed by Bonanno to take over for the retired Garofalo-was now almost a supernumerary, since the captains and crews would a.s.sume that what Bill Bonanno said or did had the approval of his father. Thus the role of Morale, who would normally be the boss's spokesman in the boss's absence, was diminished. in the Bonanno family was of real significance, was perhaps more important than even the underboss, because of the closeness between father and son. It meant that the underboss, John Morale-who had recently been appointed by Bonanno to take over for the retired Garofalo-was now almost a supernumerary, since the captains and crews would a.s.sume that what Bill Bonanno said or did had the approval of his father. Thus the role of Morale, who would normally be the boss's spokesman in the boss's absence, was diminished.

But if John Morale was upset by this, he gave no hint of it at the secret meeting of the captains; in fact, he, together with Labruzzo and Notaro, strongly supported Bill Bonanno's nomination as consigliere consigliere after it had been proposed in a loquacious speech delivered in Sicilian by the patriarchal Angelo Caruso, an old intimate of Maranzano. Caruso had used the nomination speech to recall at length the tradition of the Bonannos in Sicily and to recount the three decades of outstanding leadership in New York under Joseph Bonanno, whom he referred to reverentially as Don Peppino; and nothing would be more appropriate, Caruso continued, than to elevate to the rank of leadership the courageous young man who bore the same name and heritage. after it had been proposed in a loquacious speech delivered in Sicilian by the patriarchal Angelo Caruso, an old intimate of Maranzano. Caruso had used the nomination speech to recall at length the tradition of the Bonannos in Sicily and to recount the three decades of outstanding leadership in New York under Joseph Bonanno, whom he referred to reverentially as Don Peppino; and nothing would be more appropriate, Caruso continued, than to elevate to the rank of leadership the courageous young man who bore the same name and heritage.

The response to Caruso's suggestion was unanimous except for one man, Gaspar Di Gregorio, who could not conceal the look of disappointment on his face. For a moment he seemed stunned, speechless. Then he recovered his composure, stood before his fellow captains and made a motion that the nomination be seconded. And it was.

It was not until many months later that the depth of Di Gregorio's disapproval became known to the membership in the Bonanno family. Joseph Bonanno learned of it from his friend Peter Magaddino, who had left Buffalo in 1964 and returned to live in New York. Bonanno was also in New York in the fall of 1964, having abandoned Canada after a summer of problems with the immigration authorities. Di Gregorio was embittered; but besides that, Bonanno heard, Stefano Magaddino was now using the unhappiness of his brother-in-law as an excuse to force Joseph Bonanno into coming before the commission to explain the -procedure by which Bill Bonanno had been selected and to respond to charges that the nomination had been so quickly contrived that no other member had had a chance. Joseph Bonanno believed that these charges were false, and in any case he did not intend to appear before his fellow commissioners to explain a situation that was none of their business.

Another part of Stefano Magaddino's strategy, Bonanno heard, was the spreading of stories that disparaged the character of Bill Bonanno and focused upon his controversial past-his Arizona mistress and the child, Rosalie's alleged suicide attempt, his being in Magliocco's car when the contract was given for the murder of Gambino and Lucchese. If these and other issues were successfully exploited by Magaddino, the commission might recognize as valid the objection to the younger Bonanno's elevation to consigliere consigliere, and then the elder Bonanno might be pressed to defend his son and to answer other questions as well-Joseph Bonanno would be on the defensive, which was precisely where Magaddino wanted him to be.

Joseph Bonanno had much to answer for, in Magaddino's view: Bonanno had lived safely and elusively for years, skillfully side-stepping the government and the commission while other dons had squirmed uncomfortably in the public eye. Magaddino felt uneasy about Bonanno's presence in Canada, circulating close to Magaddino's territory that was centered in Toronto, and Magaddino also suspected, as he had for years, that Joseph Bonanno was slowly angling to take over the entire underworld, to become the boss of bosses. Having placed his organization under his son, Joseph Bonanno was now free to float around the country to rally support for his higher ambition. It was a propitious time for such dreaming, for there was suddenly a power vacuum in New York. Vito Genovese, sixty-seven, was serving a fifteen-year term in prison, and the Genovese family was without a strong successor. The Profaci family, not yet disembroiled from its internal difficulties, was reportedly under a new untested leader named Joseph Colombo. Although the plot to eliminate Gambino and Lucchese had failed, there was no guaranteeing that another attempt would not be made. The big bosses in other cities-Giancana of Chicago, Zerilli of Detroit, Bruno of Philadelphia-either were facing jail terms or were inhibited by the close scrutiny of the police. Magaddino himself could not wander far from his front door without attracting patrol cars, which followed his every move.

But with the help of his brother-in-law in New York-the despondent Di Gregorio-Magaddino saw a way of neutralizing Bonanno's position by splintering the family. Magaddino began by sending coded messages to Di Gregorio to boycott Bonanno family meetings, inasmuch as Bonanno had repeatedly ignored the commission's request that he meet with its representatives. Di Gregorio was later informed that Bonanno and the son were due to be suspended from leadership, and Di Gregorio was to organize an anti-Bonanno group among the members which the commission would support and protect from reprisals. A few dozen members responded immediately, and many more men joined Di Gregorio's faction when the commission, working through the labor unions in which it had influence in New York and New Jersey, ordered all of Bonanno's soldiers who were on the payroll as union workers or officials to be deprived of earnings unless they affiliated themselves with Di Gregorio. Despite the economic squeeze, most members continued to be loyal to Bonanno through the fall of 1964; and Bonanno stubbornly refused to meet with the commission, insisting that it had no authority to interfere in his affairs. He was aware that if he agreed to a meeting he might be setting himself up to be "hit."

So he kept on the move through the month of October as rival gangs tried to learn where he was living and as the government sought to bring him before the federal grand jury to testify. But his exact whereabouts remained a mystery until the dramatic announcement of October 22 that he had been kidnaped the night before by two gunmen on Park Avenue and was presumed to be dead.

Then nineteen months later, after an attempt on his son's life had failed and with the underworld as tense as ever, Joseph Bonanno had made his remarkable reappearance. Now, free on $150,000 bail, he was living at his son's home in East Meadow, Long Island. It was spring and the flowers and trees were in bloom along Tyler Avenue, and Bonanno's four young grandchildren played on the swing in the yard under the watchful eye of bodyguards who squinted through the lace-curtained windows. Occasionally an automobile would pull into the driveway, and men would be admitted into the house to confer briefly with Bonanno in the living room, speaking softly before the sound of the ever-playing stereo. Then the men would leave, and the children would receive Joseph Bonanno's full attention, being bounced on his knee, being held high in his arms. Sometimes neighbors would stop on the front lawn and attempt to get a look at the man who had received so much publicity; but he did not venture outdoors, and, except for visits of various men during the day, there was nothing about the quiet ranch-style house that would mark it as the new headquarters of the Bonanno organization.

13.

JOSEPH BONANNO, HIS EYES HALF-CLOSED, RECLINED IN A soft chair in the living room listening to the soothing sounds of Mantovani on the stereo. He wore a gray zippered cashmere sweater over his tan silk shirt; his feet, shod in doeskin Indian slippers from Arizona, hung limply over a footstool, and within easy reach on a small table was a snifter of brandy. It was nearly three in the afternoon, a mild cloudy day in the middle of June, and Joseph Bonanno was getting a few moments of rest before having to get up, put on a tie, and greet the arriving guests. soft chair in the living room listening to the soothing sounds of Mantovani on the stereo. He wore a gray zippered cashmere sweater over his tan silk shirt; his feet, shod in doeskin Indian slippers from Arizona, hung limply over a footstool, and within easy reach on a small table was a snifter of brandy. It was nearly three in the afternoon, a mild cloudy day in the middle of June, and Joseph Bonanno was getting a few moments of rest before having to get up, put on a tie, and greet the arriving guests.

Rosalie, after spending the last two hours in the kitchen with her mother preparing dinner for a dozen people, was now moving about the dining room in a sullen mood, rattling the stacks of dishes she carried and the silverware in a way she hoped would distract the burly bodyguard, Carl Simari, who sat smoking a cigar at one end of the table reading a newspaper spread out before him. She wished that Simari would take himself and his smelly cigar into another room or, better yet, would go out to the patio where the children were watching her husband light the charcoal burner. But no subtle hints were getting through to Carl Simari on this afternoon, and Rosalie did not yet feel that she could complain openly-her father-in-law and his men had been living there less than a month-still, she did not know how much more she could take. Since their arrival in May, it had been a daily routine of endless cooking, of men coming and going at odd hours, sometimes taking naps on her sofa; and she was often awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of heavy snoring soaring up from the bas.e.m.e.nt where the bodyguards slept on cots directly below her own bedroom.

She preferred to believe that the snoring was not coming from Carl Simari, who, despite his cigars and the moments of minor irritation he caused her, she found to be ruggedly handsome, with interesting blue eyes and an engaging manner, a man who was not above looking after the children once in a while, during which time they behaved ideally. The supersnorer, she believed, was probably none other than her father-in-law's old sidekick, Peter Magaddino, a stocky man with a sizable nose and a gravel voice who chain-smoked all day, alternating between Marlboros and Kents, and doubtless had difficulty breathing at night. What made Magaddino's snoring particularly bothersome was not that it was loud, which it was, but rather that it lacked a familiarizing rhythm, a consistent noise pattern that one could eventually adjust to. Sometimes his snoring would be punctuated by abrupt snorts and gasps, at other times it was characterized by elongated flowing sounds under which could be heard elaborate little hisses and whistles. Not surprisingly, her husband was never disturbed by it; nor, she was sure, was her father-in-law, the sole occupant of the guest room down the hall, out of range.

As if by agreement, the men appeared for breakfast each morning at precisely 8:40. This was ten minutes after Rosalie's three sons left for school. During this reprieve, she usually managed, though not always, to clear the children's dishes, to release two-year-old Felippa from the high chair, and to reset the table for the second shift. The men were invariably cheerful in the morning, clear-eyed, smelling of her husband's Aqua Velva, and usually fully dressed in business suits and ties. They looked like commuters, except that they did not commute. Their completeness in dress, which reflected the propriety of her father-in-law, who would never have tolerated his men appearing in front of Rosalie in their bathrobes, meant that she too was influenced by the demands of modesty, and she therefore did not venture beyond her bedroom door in her robe, or display her hair in curlers, or reveal her legs uncovered by hose. The sense of formality and preciseness reminded her of her days in the convent, and she recognized, beneath her irritation, a feeling that was strangely comforting.

Although she had been married to Bill for nearly ten years, she still regarded her father-in-law as a distant, almost occult, figure, one whom she most comfortably referred to not as Dad but as Mister B. Having a.s.sumed until recently that he was dead and having prayed for the redemption of his soul, she now could not quite take casually his presence around the house. He moved quietly, spoke softly, was immaculate about his appearance, orderly in every way. She had never known him to lose his composure or to utter a word of profanity. Everything on the top of his bedroom bureau was carefully arranged, as were the clothes in his closet, which she imagined was one of the habits he pa.s.sed down to her husband. Both men stuffed the shoes they were not wearing with wooden shoe trees, both adorned their pinky fingers with beautiful rings, neither man smoked cigarettes.

By ten thirty each morning, her husband and Carl Simari usually left the house for some unknown destination, possibly to make phone calls, and as Rosalie cleaned up in the kitchen or changed Felippa's diapers, she could overhear the conversation in the living room. Her father-in-law and Peter Magaddino, having read The New York Times The New York Times that was delivered each morning to the door, were often engrossed in discussions about the latest news, about which they were keenly interested but emotionally detached. They sometimes talked about the war in Vietnam, but not in the pa.s.sionate, contemporary terms that she heard on the television debates. To her father-in-law and Peter Magaddino, Vietnam was just another invasion in many centuries of invasions, a situation in which official governments professing peace at home committed atrocities beyond their borders, and justified it. It was an old story. that was delivered each morning to the door, were often engrossed in discussions about the latest news, about which they were keenly interested but emotionally detached. They sometimes talked about the war in Vietnam, but not in the pa.s.sionate, contemporary terms that she heard on the television debates. To her father-in-law and Peter Magaddino, Vietnam was just another invasion in many centuries of invasions, a situation in which official governments professing peace at home committed atrocities beyond their borders, and justified it. It was an old story.

Oddly, though the word "Mafia" was in newspaper headlines nearly every day, she never heard mention of it in conversations around the house. If and when the men were dealing with the subject, it was obscured in such a way that she was never sure what they were specifically discussing. They seemed to have a language all their own; it was a mixture of certain English phrases and Sicilian phrases that, though she understood Sicilian, she could not translate, and she a.s.sumed that they had turned their vocabulary around in such a way that necessitated being familiar with things other than those expressed in order to achieve understanding.

What she could understand and enjoyed overhearing were the lengthy reminiscences of her father-in-law and Peter Magaddino about their youth in Castellammare, their student days in Palermo, and the elder Bonanno's nautical training and his dreams of piloting a great sinking ship and dying a captain's death. He seemed as preoccupied with death as the eighteenth-century English poets she had read in school, and more than once he expressed the wish that he would live long enough to return once more to Castellammare to visit his parents' grave. He was remarkably unembarra.s.sed at admitting to certain fears and doubts, even in front of her, although she concluded that this was probably his way of trying to convince her that he was as normal as anyone else and was not the mystical creature she might imagine him to be or the murderous monster that was portrayed in the press.

Still, she felt shy and awkward when she was alone with him, confused by so many things about him. He was so unlike her own diffident father, nor was he like her more bl.u.s.terous uncles, Magliocco and Joseph Profaci, whose notoriety in the newspapers was so carefully clipped and concealed from her innocent eyes. Joseph Bonanno seemed open, proud of what he was, except Rosalie did not know exactly what he was. She would sometimes see his softly smiling photograph in The New York Times The New York Times resting on the breakfast table, a celebrity of sorts given equal s.p.a.ce with General de Gaulle and the president of General Motors. Occasionally she heard the Bonanno name referred to on WINS' radio news show that was played continuously through the day, items concerning private wars, midnight shootings on the streets of Brooklyn, missing bodies. Then she would hear her father-in-law's gentle voice coming from the living room, would see him sitting comfortably across from Peter Magaddino and recalling, as might old men in a cafe, the simple pleasures of the past. And then her children would return from school, would run toward their grandfather, embracing him warmly, freely, feeling none of the restraint and confusion that she felt. resting on the breakfast table, a celebrity of sorts given equal s.p.a.ce with General de Gaulle and the president of General Motors. Occasionally she heard the Bonanno name referred to on WINS' radio news show that was played continuously through the day, items concerning private wars, midnight shootings on the streets of Brooklyn, missing bodies. Then she would hear her father-in-law's gentle voice coming from the living room, would see him sitting comfortably across from Peter Magaddino and recalling, as might old men in a cafe, the simple pleasures of the past. And then her children would return from school, would run toward their grandfather, embracing him warmly, freely, feeling none of the restraint and confusion that she felt.

She was neither so naive nor personally unaware to fail to admit privately that some of her reservations about him were based on envy, envy of that part of his relationship with her husband that excluded her. She was also deeply resentful of the ruinous effect that that relationship had on Bill, although the degree that she felt this varied from day to day. There were moments when she truly hated her father-in-law for failing to keep his son out of his world. At other times she was not ashamed of his way of life or Bill's-the larger world outside, blind to its own worst ills, used such men as the Bonannos as its scapegoats. Bill had said this, and she believed him. Yet she frequently wished that she and her children were free of the pressure of being a Bonanno. She wished that he children could be spared the embarra.s.sment of going to school and hearing from other students that their father was a gangster, an event that had not occurred but was sure to happen when they were a bit older. She also wished that, at the age of thirty, she did not contemplate and fear the prospect of widowhood, and also see it as a certain escape.

It would be an escape not only from the strange men coming and going in her house but also from her father-in-law who somehow created tension within her by merely speaking to her for a few moments. When he asked her a question she felt the necessity of answering intelligently, wisely, carefully-it was almost as if she were being tested. She remembered hearing her husband speak of his days as a schoolboy and how his father would sometimes help Bill and his sister Catherine with their homework-and then, days later, when they least expected it, their father would suddenly quiz them, demanding the precise answer to the lessons they had studied a few nights before. Rosalie was also conscious, when speaking with her father-in-law, of the possibility that he would detect any sign of insincerity in her words, her private thoughts about him, her mixed emotions. And thus she marveled at the ease with which her eight-year-old son, Charles, responded to Joseph Bonanno's teaching him Italian. Each evening at the dinner table, if there were not other guests, Charles sat next to his grandfather and proudly recited an Italian prayer of thanks which the elder Bonanno had taught him.

All the places at dinner were somehow prearranged, as if there were place cards: Joseph Bonanno and Bill sat at either end of the table; to the elder Bonanno's left was Charles, and next to Charles sat his six-year-old brother, Joseph, and to the left of young Joseph was Rosalie. Between Rosalie and Bill was the baby Felippa, and on Bill's right was Carl Simari. On Simari's left was Bill's third son, Salvatore, not quite three and a half, and next to him was Peter Magaddino.

Young Salvatore had insisted from the beginning that he be allowed to sit between the thick-armed bodyguards, whose rugged features attracted him, or so it was interpreted by Bill Bonanno, who believed that Salvatore was by nature a tough, strong-willed little boy, and that if any of his sons would follow in his footsteps, it would be Tory. Charles, the adopted son, seemed too easygoing and unrebellious for a life outside the legitimate system. The six-year-old, Joseph, thin and weak from childhood ailments, was intense, alert, and bright in school-he was Bill's top candidate in the family for a full-time legitimate career. Tory was different in that he was bold and fearless, was unafraid of the dark, was always into some household mischief, and was already trying to give orders to his older brothers.

When Bill looked at Tory, he was reminded of his own childhood photographs-the boy had large brown eyes, broad shoulders, and a round innocent-looking face that belied a quick temper. Bill sometimes admitted, though never to Rosalie, that if Tory became a mafioso in twenty years or so-if there was a Mafia then; Bill had his doubts-he would not be disappointed. Bill would not concede, even to himself, that what he did in life was morally wrong. He was no more wrong than an American combat officer in the jungles of Southeast Asia or at the Berlin Wall-except that his main enemy at the moment was not Ho Chi Minh or the Soviets but the Mafia's national commission. If his son Tory someday believed that there was an issue worth fighting for, and risking his life for, then Bill thought that his son should fight and take his chances.

Bill had high hopes for Tory. So did Simari and Peter Magaddino, who liked to wrestle on the rug with Tory, tease him a bit, and watch his temper flare up. Magaddino could always provoke Tory by referring to him as a little girl, sometimes calling him Josephine. "You have a brother named Joseph, and your name is Josephine," Magaddino would say, as Tory would frown and make threatening gestures with his little fist. One evening before dinner when Magaddino called him Josephine, Tory suddenly dropped his pants to the floor, grabbed his p.e.n.i.s, thrust it at Magaddino and said, "I'm not a little girl!" not a little girl!"

As the guests arrived for Sunday dinner, Joseph Bonanno, wearing a white shirt and gray silk tie, stood greeting them as they entered the living room. Bill was outside on the patio stoking the charcoal fire, and he had not heard the front doorbell ringing because his son Charles was noisily hammering nails, constructing a small shed out of orange crates. Bill was proud of Charles's skill at carpentry. It was the one thing, the only thing, that Charles excelled at, and Bill did not have the heart to complain about the noise, although it was slowly giving him a headache.

Carl Simari, who had opened the door and escorted the people into the living room, was now back at the dining room table, sitting in Joseph Bonanno's place, reading the Sunday Times Times and smoking a cigar. Simari believed in smoking a cigar until the lighted end almost burned his lips, and, having reached that point now, he crushed the b.u.t.t into an ashtray and was about to light up a fresh cigar when, from the kitchen, Rosalie appeared with two bottles of wine for him to uncork. Simari took the wine but, before removing the corks, he lit the new cigar. and smoking a cigar. Simari believed in smoking a cigar until the lighted end almost burned his lips, and, having reached that point now, he crushed the b.u.t.t into an ashtray and was about to light up a fresh cigar when, from the kitchen, Rosalie appeared with two bottles of wine for him to uncork. Simari took the wine but, before removing the corks, he lit the new cigar.

Rosalie stepped down into the living room, smiling, embracing the middle-aged women and men from Brooklyn and Long Island who stood around her father-in-law. Most of them were relatives or friends of the Profaci side of the family, being merely acquainted with Joseph Bonanno, but Rosalie invited them to dinner because she had not seen them in a long time. They had been very considerate of her and her children during the many disruptions of the past two years, and she also had grown tired of seeing only her husband's and father-in-law's friends around the house. On this Sunday, except for Carl Simari, the men were told to stay away until evening, canceling the afternoon card game usually held in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Seeing the people in the living room, Bill Bonanno came in from the patio, wiped his hands in the kitchen, then came in to shake hands with everyone. The children followed shyly, facing people they did not know, but they were quickly met by delighted shrieks from the women who rushed to embrace them, kiss them, and exclaim on how much they had grown, especially Felippa, who had not even been walking when they had last seen her, before the elder Bonanno's disappearance. Joseph Bonanno, smiling, reached down and grabbed Tory. He tossed him high in the air, and asked in his soft accented voice, "You like-a me?"

"Yes," Tory said, grinning, as his grandfather bounced him in the air.

"You like-a me?" Joseph Bonanno repeated, holding him higher, bouncing him faster.

"Yes," Tory giggled, "yes." Bonanno let him drop, caught him again, hugged him, kissed him.

Everyone sat down and drinks were served. As Bill returned to the patio to put the chicken on the broiler, one of the visiting men said that he had recently been to California and had seen Joseph Bonanno's daughter, Catherine. Bonanno suddenly seemed almost misty-eyed.

"You have seen seen my daughter?" he asked in a voice filled with wonder, tenderness. He himself had not seen Catherine in nearly two years, and while he was immediately curious as to how this man had met her, a man he was now meeting for the first time, he waited patiently for an explanation. my daughter?" he asked in a voice filled with wonder, tenderness. He himself had not seen Catherine in nearly two years, and while he was immediately curious as to how this man had met her, a man he was now meeting for the first time, he waited patiently for an explanation.

The man said that they had met through mutual friends in San Mateo, that they had gone one night to Catherine's house for c.o.c.ktails, and that she and her husband had later been among the crowd that had gone to dinner in a restaurant. Catherine was a charming, bright and lovely girl, the man continued, as Joseph Bonanno remained silent. Fie seemed to be many miles away, drifting in some private memory; and when the man perceived the effect he was having on Bonanno, he stopped talking, and there were moments of awkward silence. Finally one of the women, pointing to Bill standing in the smoke of the charcoal burner, added that the elder Bonanno also had a right to be proud of his son.

Bonanno looked at her, looked at his son, and slowly nodded. Then in a voice still choked with emotion, he said slowly and in a special and formal way: "The mother, the mother-she is responsible for my wonderful family. All credit to the mother. My wife. Fay. She is to be thanked for these children." He paused for a moment, and looking at the woman who had spoken, he added: "Also, I appreciate it to hear this about my son. My son and I, he is my little brother." There were smiles around the room, the lifting of gla.s.ses in a toast. Then Bill came in to the living room again, and, noticing that his father's brandy snifter was empty, he poured him another drink.

"Thank you, little brother," said Joseph Bonanno. "Thank you."

Outside it was becoming suddenly darker, windier, and Bill returned to the patio to look up at the sky. Clouds were forming, and the sun was no longer visible.

"It looks like rain," Bill said. "Maybe I'd better move everything inside."

His father appeared on the patio, looked up at the sky, studied the cloud formations for several moments with his navigator's knowledge.

"It will not rain," the elder Bonanno said, still squinting at the sky. "It will not rain," he repeated. And it did not.

14.

THE SUMMER Pa.s.sED SLOWLY AND SOMBERLY FOR ROSALIE, as summers for her always had, evoking girlhood memories of stagnant lakes at inland resorts, of hot afternoons at her father's farm in Newburgh with horseflies buzzing around the lopsided picnic table, of weekends spent in the kitchen helping her mother prepare food for the omnipresent guests. Her life had not changed much in twenty years; except now, during the summer of 1966, she barely had an opportunity to get out of the house and had no chance of escaping the rising tension within it.

She did not know precisely what was happening, but the men suddenly seemed more restless, ill-tempered, anxious. They were smoking more, as she could see from the ashtrays filled to the brim each night with cigarette b.u.t.ts of almost every major brand. Sam Perrone seemed to be averaging close to three packs of Chesterfields a day, or so the rumpled wrappers he left behind indicated. Peter Magaddino, who had switched from Marlboros exclusively to Kents, was up to two packs a day. Frank Labruzzo, who had been suffering from emphysema and should not have been smoking at all, was unable to stop. Even when he was admitted to a hospital in late July and was known to have cancer, Labruzzo arranged to have cigarettes smuggled in to him by members of his crew.

Although Bill managed to resist cigarettes, he was eating more, and his weight was now about 230 pounds. The elder Bonanno displayed no signs of physical change and appeared to be as controlled as ever, and yet his customary sense of caution now bordered on obsession. When a tube burned out in the color television set, he would not have it sent out to be repaired-it was as if he feared that it might be returned containing electronic bugging devices, or maybe a time bomb. He temporarily borrowed the portable set from Rosalie's bedroom, returning it after the men had appeared one night with a new color set. Then the malfunctioning set was placed in a corner of the library, remaining there through the summer and fall.

From what Rosalie could gather from the newspaper and radio reports, and from what she overheard around the house, the Bonanno organization was suffering from a series of recent defections by members responding to the economic pressures of the unions. There were also references to gunfighting-Frank Mari, who was said to have been Di Gregorio's top triggerman in the Troutman Street ambush attempt on Bill Bonanno in January, was himself set up to be "hit." He was trailed and trapped in the crossfire of the Bonanno gunmen in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, was shot in the left shoulder and grazed on the temple, but Mari managed to escape. Another defector from the Bonanno organization, Angelo Presenzano, who was in University Hospital in Manhattan for surgery, was reported in the Times Times to have been discovered by a nurse to be keeping a loaded .38-caliber revolver in his night table-protection he apparently thought he needed in the hospital against uninvited visitors. The gun was removed, but a police guard was stationed outside of Presenzano's room. to have been discovered by a nurse to be keeping a loaded .38-caliber revolver in his night table-protection he apparently thought he needed in the hospital against uninvited visitors. The gun was removed, but a police guard was stationed outside of Presenzano's room.

In August, the Bonanno household was grieved by the death of Frank Labruzzo. He had been in a Brooklyn hospital for weeks; his cancer was found to be incurable, and he died quickly. He was fifty-five. Among the membership Bill was the most shaken by Labruzzo's death. In many ways n.o.body had been closer to him than Labruzzo, with whom he had had an intellectual rapport that was uncommon among men in the underworld. Labruzzo was the only individual that Bill had ever known who could pa.s.s the idle hours between dangerous a.s.signments reading worthwhile books, fiction by J. D. Salinger, essays by Mark Twain, William Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Labruzzo, like himself, was a kind of misfit, an outsider in a secret society, a man born into a special way of life from which he had not chosen to escape but in which he did not entirely belong, particularly in its present condition of deterioration.

Bill felt embittered and betrayed at the time of Labruzzo's pa.s.sing-many low-echelon men had just gone over to Di Gregorio's side because they no longer wished to be deprived of the money they earned as supervisors or workers in trucking firms, or on the waterfront, or in factories, or in utility trades whose union leaders were abiding by the commission's request to keep the Bonanno loyalists idle. In the old days, Bill was sure, loyalty was based on more than money, and he wondered, as he stood among his men at Labruzzo's funeral, which of the remaining members would be the next to defect. Those who had already defected had not really been starving-true, their illegal operations had declined during the months of unrest, and they were undoubtedly hard-pressed because of the loss of their legitimate income, but Bill was nonetheless depressed and angered by their unwillingness to make sacrifices. This thing of ours is absolutely going to the dogs This thing of ours is absolutely going to the dogs, he thought.

With Labruzzo gone, and with Joseph Notaro having died three months before, the Bonanno organization had lost two officers for which it had no comparable replacements. Its membership was now perhaps less than 200-it was impossible to know the exact figure because many men had recently disappeared from sight, taking prolonged summer vacations rather than remain in New York and face the problem of choosing sides. The six remaining captains were, like Bill, still under John Morale, the number two man, although Morale was rarely reachable at the Brooklyn tavern that he owned, and Bill began to sense a distance between Morale and himself when they were together. Bill wondered if John Morale felt that he had somehow been shelved or had lost some of the respect of the membership since the elder Bonanno had returned to live in East Meadow and was relying more closely on Bill. But Bill could not believe that Morale would be that sensitive to the tight father-son relationship that was part of a temporary emergency arrangement. Bill wanted to believe that Morale had been an intimate part of the Bonanno family for too many years to ever feel left out, or to want to get out; he had joined the organization as a young man in Brooklyn during the Castellammarese War, had lived for long periods in the elder Bonanno's homes in Brooklyn and Long Island, and during much of his boyhood Bill thought of John Morale as his brother. Later, Morale married the daughter of Vito Bonventre, Joseph Bonanno's mother's brother.

After the elder Bonanno's disappearance in 1964, Morale's home in Queens was under constant watch by the police, and in September 1965-after Morale had successfully evaded federal interrogators for twenty-two years-he was caught by the FBI near his home and was held on $50,000 bail. He appeared before the grand jury on several occasions since then and was subjected to close police observation wherever he traveled; and Bill preferred to believe that it was Morale's ultracaution and the continuing tension that were responsible for changes in his manner.

The tension and pressure continued unabated through the summer into the fall. While the feuding factions headed by Bonanno and Di Gregorio felt haunted and hunted by each other, they were pursued indiscriminately by federal agents and the police, as the government's campaign against the Mafia remained a national policy, a political issue, and a subject for headlines. Even the mayor of New York, John V. Lindsay, became involved in Mafia news in 1966 because two of his Youth Board officials had solicited the help of the Gallo brothers' gang in suppressing racial disorders between whites and blacks in a Brooklyn neighborhood. Albert Gallo met with white youths in a predominantly Italian area of South Brooklyn and warned them to "cool it" with regard to forays with the neighboring blacks-and it worked. But despite the positive results, the Gallo role was protested by a Brooklyn civic group, by the Brooklyn District Attorney, and by the Patrolmen's Benevolent a.s.sociation, all of which denounced the impropriety of employing mafiosi as peacemakers. Mayor Lindsay disagreed, saying that when it came to preventing the escalation of rioting in a neighborhood where there had already been one death and considerable hostility, "you can't always deal with people who are leaders in the Boy Scout movement." The Brooklyn District Attorney, Aaron E. Koota, nevertheless insisted that the decision represented a "deplorable abdication of official responsibility," and he began an investigation of Albert and Larry Gallo's relationship with the Youth Board officials who had approached them.

But before this investigation progressed very far, the headlines shifted suddenly to the Queens District Attorney's office, where it was announced that thirteen Mafia figures were subpoenaed to appear before a special grand jury after being caught in the bas.e.m.e.nt dining room of La Stella Restaurant in Forest Hills. The men were in the middle of lunch when the police arrived to break up what Chief Inspector Sanford D. Garelik called a Little Apalachin Meeting, adding that the raid was part of the police department's campaign "to rid the city of top hoodlums."

The men, though surprised by the intrusion, offered no resistance, and a few continued to eat. But they were forced to leave the table, and to enter the police cars outside, neglecting to pay the check. Though they did not carry guns, the police search revealed that they carried considerable cash-the least amount in anyone's pocket being $600, most of it in $50 and $ 100 bills. They were at first charged with consorting with known criminals-that is, themselves-but this was then changed by the Queens District Attorney, Nat H. Hentel, who, fearing that it might permit the men to go free on low bail, decided to hold them each as a material witness in a grand jury investigation, and bail was set at $100,000 each. Among the thirteen diners identified by the police were Santo Trafficante of Miami, Carlos Marcello of New Orleans, and such men from New York as Carlo Gambino, Joseph Colombo, and two ranking officers from the Vito Genovese family, Thomas Eboli and Mike Miranda. They had a.s.sembled, according to law enforcement officials, to discuss pressing problems in the underworld-particularly, the Bonanno situation, certain dissatisfactions in the Genovese family since their leader went to jail, and the question of the most capable candidate to replace the ailing Thomas Lucchese, who was now in a coma with a brain tumor at the Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center.

When they appeared before the Queens grand jury, the men refused to testify, pleading the First, Fourth, Fifth, Eighth, and Fourteenth amendments to the Const.i.tution. Outside the jury room, their attorneys complained to the press that their clients' rights to a.s.sembly had been violated, that they had been arrested unlawfully without a probable case, that their bail was excessive, and that they had been denied counsel while being detained for thirteen hours. Although their clients' personal possessions seized by the police had been returned, the attorneys said that their money was still in the hands of detectives and that legal action would be forthcoming to determine which detectives took the money so that it might be recovered. The attorneys' complaints were supported in several instances by the New York Civil Liberties Union, which accused the Queens District Attorney and the police of flagrant violations of civil liberties and suggested that Hentel, who was up for reelection in November, was using the grand jury hearings for personal publicity. Hentel indignantly denied this.

Eight days after the raid, five of the men returned at lunchtime to La Stella Restaurant to try again. This time they brought two lawyers with them, and they also invited to their table two plainclothesmen who were following them. But the detectives refused, choosing to sit solemnly two tables away. News photographers and three reporters also observed the luncheon, and the mafiosi cooperated by posing for pictures as they consumed linguine with white clam sauce, striped ba.s.s, baked clams, fresh fruit, and espresso coffee. The bill for the seven men came to $49.05, and they left a $10.95 tip. When asked by the reporter how long the grand jury hearings would continue, one of the lawyers replied, "Until the election is over."

By the time the election was over-Hentel had lost-Bill Bonanno was in jail. He was serving a thirty-day sentence for contempt of court because, during a Brooklyn grand jury session held in July, he had refused to talk about the Troutman Street shooting that occurred on the night of the previous January 28. He began serving this sentence in mid-October; and of all his jailhouse experiences, he was finding this one the most tolerable. The quarters were clean and un-crowded and without the rats and the nonworking toilets and washbasins that had characterized his stay in the Federal House of Detention on West Street during the winter of 1965. Located on West Thirty-seventh Street in Manhattan, this civil jail was largely populated by men refusing to pay alimony. The guards here seemed almost sympathetic to the inmates, and they were also polite to Rosalie when she came to visit. They did not object to her slipping to Bill through the gate a book that he wanted to read-a new book on the Mafia, The Secret Rulers The Secret Rulers by Fred J. Cook. They also did not object when Sam Perrone brought Bill a hero sandwich that Perrone had gotten from Manganaro's Restaurant on Ninth Avenue. Perrone even succeeded in getting a few bottles of wine and chunks of imported cheese to Bill, a violation of prison policy that would never have been condoned had Bill not recently done a favor for one of the resident prison officials. by Fred J. Cook. They also did not object when Sam Perrone brought Bill a hero sandwich that Perrone had gotten from Manganaro's Restaurant on Ninth Avenue. Perrone even succeeded in getting a few bottles of wine and chunks of imported cheese to Bill, a violation of prison policy that would never have been condoned had Bill not recently done a favor for one of the resident prison officials.

Bill had overheard, shortly after his arrival, that the official was rudely awakened early each morning by the clanging of garbage cans and the grinding of truck gears by the private collection agency that serviced an all-night diner across from the officer's home in Queens. When Bill informed one of the guards that he might be able to solve the officer's problem and was given permission to try, he telephoned Sam Perrone, who quickly sent a few men to visit the garbage collectors. On the following morning, the cans were handled with incredible delicacy and silence.

A second privilege that Bill obtained through the favor was the acquisition of practically the entire third-floor prison s.p.a.ce for himself and seven other members of the organization who were also serving thirty-day sentences for their refusal to testify about the Troutman Street incident. One of these was John Morale. Morale was friendly to Bill, but Bill again felt an undercurrent of resentment on Morale's part. It was not from anything that Morale said-indeed, none of the men said anything in jail about the organization, aware of the possibility of bugging-but there was nonetheless a remoteness about Morale that was disquieting to Bill. Morale seemed more pensive than usual, perplexed, perhaps searching for an explanation to the problems that had suddenly befallen the organization, an organization that had existed for decades without serious problems. Perhaps Morale blamed Bill for what had happened, tracing all trouble from the moment Bill came East from Arizona in 1963, blaming Bill because he could not bring himself to blame Joseph Bonanno, the man who had been his boss for more than thirty years.

On November 10, when Bill was released from jail, he went to his father and said that he was afraid that John Morale had left them. When the elder Bonanno suddenly turned pale, disbelieving, Bill did not pursue the discussion. He and his father would probably know soon enough, and his father meanwhile was informing the United States Attorney's office that he would be leaving New York for a while, would be returning to Tucson to spend the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays with his wife and younger son, whom he had not seen for a very long time.

A large crowd of people, including federal agents, newsmen, and dozens of curious citizens of Arizona, watched Joseph Bonanno step out of a jet at Tucson International Airport. If he had bodyguards with him, they were keeping their distance, and the impeccably dressed gray-haired Bonanno gave the appearance of a typical corporation executive traveling first-cla.s.s-except in place of a briefcase he carefully carried in his right hand a white cardboard box containing Italian cookies. Bonanno was amazed by the size of the crowd, which had been alerted to his arrival either by a news report or by the presence of the many policemen and photographers waiting at the gate near the landing field. As the flashbulbs began to pop, Bonanno smiled and waved. When one reporter, trying to start Bonanno talking, asked what he was carrying in the box, there was laughter at Bonanno's almost sheepish reply: "Cookies."

Bonanno declined to comment on the latest speculation that he had spent most of his hiding months in Haiti, and he avoided answering other important questions, saying only that he was happy to be back again in Tucson. Then, spotting a taxicab that awaited him, he slowly made his way through the crowd toward the front of the terminal building, carrying only the box, his luggage evidently coming later with someone else. But before he got into the cab, he overheard a teen-age girl standing several feet away asking her friend, "Say, who was that guy, anyway-a movie star?"

Unable to resist replying, Bonanno turned toward her and said with a smile, "I'm Errol. Flynn's younger brother."

The casual return of Joseph Bonanno to Tucson, and the almost friendly greeting that he received at the airport, offended some of the leading citizens of the city. Among the most outraged was the editorial board of the Tucson Daily Citizen Daily Citizen, which quickly made clear its position on the reappearance of its highly publicized resident. Under the headline BONANNO is NOT WELCOME HERE, the editorial read: Reputed Mafia king Joseph Bonanno is in Tucson this week for his first extended visit to his home in more than five years.His arrival at Tucson International Airport and the later arrival of Mafia a.s.sociate Pete Magaddino were well attended by the news media and Tucson Police Department intelligence unit officers.Lest anyone-and especially the shadowy characters Bonanno and Magaddino themselves-be misled that news stories of their arrivals indicate that Tucson is proud to welcome them, let us set the record straight.Tucson does not want Joe Bonanno. He is not welcome here. Neither is Magaddino or any other of Bonanno's henchmen.Nor should anyone be misled by the dapper Bonanno's jovial appearance when he arrived to spend the holidays at his home at 1847 East Elm Street.Joe Bonanno is hardly spending a jovial holiday. He is marking time in the brick home whose Christmas manger scene in the front yard belies the underworld character who may look upon it only by peeking out through tightly drawn curtains. His is a furtive existence at best.There was only one reason certainly for the Citizen Citizen and presumably for the other news media to publicize the return of the man whom gangland informer Joe Valachi named as "his G.o.dfather or sponsor" in the Cosa Nostra-the Mafia organization. and presumably for the other news media to publicize the return of the man whom gangland informer Joe Valachi named as "his G.o.dfather or sponsor" in the Cosa Nostra-the Mafia organization.That reason is publicity. Be they big shots or not, one thing the underworld figures do not seek or want is publicity, no matter how broad their smiling masks may appear in a front-page news photo.Bonanno, Magaddino, Pete Licavoli, another underworld figure who frequently has lived in Tucson, and others of their ilk fear and shun publicity.In 1960, the Citizen Citizen told Licavoli editorially that his presence here, and the presence of other underworld figures in Tucson, at any time would be news and would continue to be news. Their arrivals, departures, and activities in Tucson would be duly reported. The glare of publicity would be kept on them. told Licavoli editorially that his presence here, and the presence of other underworld figures in Tucson, at any time would be news and would continue to be news. Their arrivals, departures, and activities in Tucson would be duly reported. The glare of publicity would be kept on them.There are those in Tucson who prefer the ostrich approach. Ignore the Licavolis, Bonannos, Magaddinos, and others and they will go away, or, at least, pretend there are no underworld characters in Tucson. Fortunately, most Tucsonians are concerned.Bonanno was quoted as saying the attention he received by the press at the airport was all "very confusing."It shouldn't be.It's Tucson's way of saying we're watching you, and we're looking forward to saying farewell with much more enthusiasm than our representatives, the police, said h.e.l.lo.

15.

FOR ROSALIE BONANNO, THE COMING OF THE NEW YEAR-1967-promised no relief from the grim reality of life as she had come to know it. Once the holidays were over, the men returned from their families to her home; and with their reappearance came the tension, the chain smoking, the nocturnal snoring. Sometimes as many as eight men were there, a few sleeping on the floor, and her children tripped over them in the morning on the way out to school. When the children were as disturbed as she by the snoring, they would often come into her bedroom, climb into bed beside her. One night Charles tripped in the darkness, hit his head on a piece of furniture, and in the morning Rosalie found blood all over the rug.

Bill was rarely home except on weekends, and she did not know exactly where he spent the nights, nor would she ask. She had become resigned, because she had little choice, to the fact that something strange and extraordinary was going on. It was a private war that had placed her and the men in the house under a kind of martial law. Fear and confusion dominated her emotions, her will to scream or run was stifled. She could not protest as she saw other people do on the nightly television news, marching through open streets demanding or denouncing; she could only try to endure this secret ordeal that encircled her and these men, although she sought refuge at night in her bedroom and sought a modic.u.m of comfort during the day from the words uttered softly by her father-in-law, who seemed to be reading her mind when he said pazienza pazienza, patience, coraggio coraggio, courage. He spoke these words almost in the form of an exhortation, spoke them as a high priest might at benediction; but she could not respond to her father-in-law. At night, in bed, she quietly cried.

She was terrified, fearful for her husband's life. She hated him, loved him, worried, and prayed. She wondered why he and not one of the other men went on these mysterious missions that took several days. She knew that he had recently been in Montreal because there was an article in the paper reporting that he and five of his men were spotted by the Canadian police and were held on suspicion of having a conference with Montreal mafiosi. Bill and his men were deported from Canada after receiving a suspended sentence for illegal possession of firearms.

He returned briefly to East Meadow, explaining nothing, and then he wa