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  GANGSTER

  * * *

  LORENZO CARCATERRA

  FAWCETT BOOKS • NEW YORK

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  Summer, 1996

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Spring, 1928

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Book Two

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Winter, 1966

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Praise for Gangster

  Excerpt from the next thriller by Lorenzo Carcaterra, Street Boys

  Copyright

  For Susan

  Acknowledgments

  A BOOK IS guided by many hands on its voyage to completion. I owe each set my gratitude. Among them:

  Peter Gethers who once again proved to be the best editor any writer could be fortunate enough to have as a partner. His sharp editorial eye helped shape Gangster through its many drafts. We’ve now been together for ten years and four books and it’s been pure pleasure.

  Thanks to Gina Centrello for her kindness and friendship. I owe her a case of Jolly Ranchers. To the rest of the Ballantine crew—Shauna Toh, Kim Hovey, Ann Weinerman and Amy Scheibe (for forgetting the last time)—a tip of the cap for putting up with my many calls and questions. To Owen Las-

  ter and Joni Evans for convincing me to switch gears and write the book I needed to write. To Rob Carlson for coming through in the clutch and to Lou Pitt for walking into my life and helping to steer clear the boat. As always a hug and a big thank you to Jake Bloom. And to Robert Offer for the compassion and hard work. To Susan Lyne for her constant support and to Joe Roth for his strong belief in the words. My story could not rest in better hands.

  To my tight circle of friends—Dr. George Lombardi,

  Hank Gallo, Mr. G., Dr. Rock, Captain Joe, Vincent and Ida Cerbone, Anthony Cerbone, Steve Allie, Liz W., Adriana T., Terrie W., Sonny G., Bill Diehl, Laurie P., Peter Giuliano, Bruno and Lynn, Timmy V. and Bobby G.—a warm thanks. To Big Jack Sanders: You will always have a place in our hearts. To my family in Italy—especially the four queens—my mom and Zias Anna, Nunzia and Francesca—un caro abbraccio. And to Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane Toepfer, thank you for so warmly letting me into your family. And to Caroline Shea and Dustin Fleischman—welcome to the gang.

  Finally, to my wife, Susan—thanks for twenty-two years of love and patience. The trip wouldn’t have been as much fun without you. To my son, Nick, for bringing light and a smile to each and every day. And to Kate, a special angel filled with love and kindness now off on a journey of her own.

  I embrace you all.

  PREFACE

  * * *

  Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  Summer, 1996

  I HAD COME to watch him die.

  His head sank into the center of the pillow, his face an ominous yellow, paper-thin eyelids closed. IV lines and a heart monitor were wired to his frail body, the veins on each arm were a thick purple. A thin blue sheet covered his chest; long hands, more bone than skin, rested flat across its top. He took in slow breaths, gurgles working their way from throat to nose, the rank odor of death floating through the room like seaside fog.

  I pushed an ugly metal chair against the side of a cold radiator and sat down, my back to the dark city sky. It was late, well past visiting hours, but the duty nurses let me stay, waving aside the rules for the dying man in room 617B, adopting the indifferent manner he had used to ignore society’s demands for the bulk of his life. They walked in at regular intervals, easing their way past the two guards who sat erect just outside the door, their starched whites stretched by slightly expanding waistlines. They checked his blood pressure, monitored the IVs and pumped in extra doses of painkiller with thin needles hidden in the front pockets of their uniforms.

  He had been in the hospital for four weeks and a priest had twice been called to administer last rites.

  “If he pulls through and you need me again, just call the parish,” the priest said in a raspy voice that sounded more than eager to do God’s work. “It’s just down the street.”

  “You’ve been here twice,” I said as gently as I could. “That’s more than enough.”

  “He needs to die in a state of grace.” The priest looked across the bed, his liver-patched fingers shaking as they folded a purple vestment. “He would want that.”

  “No,” I told him, my eyes fixed on the dying man. “I don’t think he would.”

  • • •

  I WENT TO the hospital every night, leaving work just after six, dropping by my apartment to shower and change before walking the ten blocks north, stopping only to pick up a large salad and two cups of coffee at a Greek diner across from the emergency room. I sat by his bed, the light from the soundless television above us flickering across our faces, the city sounds from the streets below merging with the beeps and buzzes of the monitors attached to his body. Some nights I would feel tears streak down my cheeks, as I saw the life depart from his once strong frame. Other nights would bring waves of anger, tense reminders of the evils he had heaped on those who dared to defy him.

  As far as I knew, I was the only one who cared whether he lived or died. He lay in that bed suffering from one of fate’s cruelest blows: he had outlived both his enemies and his friends. His children would visit on occasion, concerned more about a future cash windfall than his final days. Each eyed me with distrust, suspicious of my bond with their father, envious of our time together, wondering why he had chosen me to share his secrets. There were two daughters and a son, all grown and with their own families. They had been raised without the burden of financial worry, but their father’s steady hand and love had long ago been supplanted by suburban comfort, private school educations, trips to Europe and hefty allowances. There were few shared memories to unite them now and there was little else for them to do during these last moments than sit, stare and leave as quietly as they had entered.

  We exchanged nods and glances, never words, our common ground asleep in the bed that separated us. It was a space that seemed as wide and cold as a river, for we had each been exposed to completely different variations of the same man. I wondered what it would be like to be them, to know what they knew and feel what they were feeling. They were afraid to touch or hug him, incapable of shedding a tear at his impending death. It seemed a harsh way to wade through life and the strain of it showed on their faces as they sat still as stones around a father they were never given the opportunity to love.

  For them, his death could not come fast enough.

  • • •

  IT WAS TOWARD the end of the fourth week. I was walking down the hospital corridor, a hot cup of coffee in my right hand, the now-familiar sounds of the floor blending like white noise into the night. Behind me, I heard the elevator bell ring. I turned and saw David, the old man’s son, rush out, his neck and shoulders wet from a heavy rain outside.

  “I figured you’d still be here,” he said in a soft, pale voice, poles apart from his father’s deep tones. He was forty-two and a junior partner in a downtown accounting firm, having done all he could to distance his name from that of the man down the hall
. He was several inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than his father had been at the same age, and he always seemed to have a cold.

  I sipped my coffee and nodded.

  “My sisters and I were talking about it this afternoon,” he said, standing close enough for me to smell the Geoffrey Beene cologne lingering on his face.

  “Talking about what?”

  “About whether we should even bother coming.” He looked over his shoulders, making sure none of the nurses overheard.

  I shrugged. “Do what makes you comfortable.”

  “I mean, look, who’s kidding who? It’s not like he’d even want us around. If he could talk, he’d tell us to get the hell out of his sight. With you it’s . . . well, it’s different. It’s always been different. There’s no reason for it to change now.”

  “You don’t need to clear anything with me,” I said. “The way he is now, he won’t know who’s here or who’s not.”

  “He knows you’re here,” David said, his voice taking a step toward hard.

  “I’ll have somebody call you when he’s dead,” I told him and turned away.

  “You’re just like him,” David said, as I made my way back to his father’s room. “Maybe that’s why he cared for you like he did. You’re both heartless bastards.”

  • • •

  IT WAS NEARING eleven on a muggy New York night, the Yankees game from Anaheim just beginning, when the door to room 617B eased open. I looked away from the TV expecting a nurse. Instead, I watched a well-dressed older woman walk quietly toward the bed. She looked to be in her late sixties, with thick gray hair combed straight back in an old-fashioned twist. There was a soft glow to her face, lines and wrinkles defiantly held in check. She had sharp dark eyes, red polish spread over manicured nails and a two-piece navy pantsuit under a blue topcoat. She removed the coat, gently folding it and resting it at the foot of the bed.

  “Is there a chair for me?” she asked, her eyes firmly on the man in the bed.

  I got up and slid mine toward her, watching her walk over to the old man, lean down and kiss his forehead. Her hands stroked his fingers as she lowered her head and whispered unheard words into his ear. I had never seen her before and didn’t know her name. I did know, from the ease of her movements, that she cared for him.

  She turned from the old man and, for the first time since she entered the room, looked up at me, her eyes clouded. “You must be Gabe,” she said. “He always talked about you. From when you were a little boy.”

  “I had the idea he didn’t like to talk at all,” I said, strangely comfortable in her company.

  “That’s true.” A slight smile creased her face. “About most things and with most people.” The smile on her face grew wider. “I’m Mary,” she said now. “At least I’m Mary to everyone but him.”

  “And what does he call you?” I returned the smile. It was impossible not to return that smile.

  A hint of a younger woman crept into her voice. “Skipper.”

  “Why?”

  “The first time I met him, my father took us out on his boat. Once we were out of the harbor I took the wheel, so the two of them would be free to talk. But he never heard a word my father said. All he did was look over at this kid manning a forty-three-foot boat. He figured none of us would make it back to land.”

  “He was born on a boat,” I said, leaning forward against the bed railing. “He didn’t care much for that trip either.”

  She nodded and went on. “I’d handled the boat many times for my father. I was practically raised on the water. But when I saw him look at me and could see how nervous he was, I decided to have a little fun. So, now and then, I’d give him a frightened look or act as if I didn’t know what to do, which made him even more nervous.”

  “He ever catch on?”

  “Twenty minutes into the trip he figured out I was very lucky or very good, and that either way was enough for us to make it back. The next time he caught my eye, he winked. That’s all it took. For Skipper to be born and for me to fall in love.”

  “You were in love with him?” I immediately regretted my surprised tone.

  “From that day to this,” she said, turning once again to the man on the bed. “Nothing’s changed but time.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound the way it did.”

  “No need to be sorry,” she told me.

  “It’s just that I thought I knew everything there is to know about him. All the places and all the people.”

  “You know the parts he told you,” Mary said, shoulders pulled back in perfect posture. “The parts you heard and the parts you lived through.”

  “What don’t I know?” I looked into Mary’s eyes, searching for the face of the brash young girl to whom the man in the bed had handed his heart. Despite her calm exterior, there was the scent of a woman at ease with the rules of danger. She had appeared like mist, invisible and unknowing to me until these past few moments, yet fully equipped with secrets I had believed would soon be lost forever.

  “There are a few missing parts,” Mary said. “They might help you understand everything that happened. I suppose he would have told you, eventually. Now, it’s left to me. That is, if you’re ready.”

  “I can’t imagine it can be any worse than the parts he already put me through,” I said.

  Mary studied my face, her manner poised and peaceful. She then glanced at the old man in the bed and folded her arms across her waist. “You may want to get yourself some more coffee,” she said.

  Behind us, up on the silent screen, the Yankees had taken a one-run lead against the Angels on a Tino Martinez home run.

  Next to me, an old man, once strong, fearless and feared, inched closer to his destiny.

  Across from me, a woman I had known for less than fifteen minutes was, with the sheer power of her words, about to shift the course of my life.

  BOOK ONE

  * * *

  Land of the Free

  The greatest of evils and the worst of crimes is poverty.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  1

  * * *

  Summer, 1906

  HE HATED DREDGING up memories.

  They did not stir in him a taste for nostalgia or loves lost. He saw in them only one purpose—to harden the shell he had chiseled with care, the one that hid all that could be deemed vulnerable and kept entombed the signs of humanity. When he talked to me about his early years, it was with the voice of a stranger, as if what had been had touched the life of another, one a safe distance removed from the fray. In the telling, his eyes never strayed beyond my face and his voice retained its deep pitch, no matter the emotional import of what was recalled.

  I was ten when I first heard the story of his ocean crossing, and as I sat in the hospital room listening to Mary’s account of the tale, the early moments of the dying man’s life came exploding back, as real, as hard and as fresh as a wave.

  His ship was three days out of Naples when the storm hit.

  Four levels below the deck, walled-in against an overworked engine, six hundred men, women and children were crammed into a space designed for two hundred. The stench of waste mingled with that of burning oil and spouting steam. The cargo hold, normally a dry haven for luggage and sealed goods, was now little more than a moaning assembly of humanity. Families sat in small circles, huddled under tattered coverlets of soiled sheets and clothes. Infants wailed against the pangs of hunger and the nibbling of rats. The elderly chewed tobacco leaves instead of food, black spittle coarsing down their chins. Women, young and old, sang Neapolitan ballads to lift deadened spirits and prayed daily to a stern God for a quick end to a dark journey.

  They boarded the ship under a blanket of darkness, paying twenty-five thousand lira—nearly five hundred dollars—per head to a local broker, Giorgio Salvecci, an overweight landlord who kept a tan overcoat draped over his shoulders regardless of season. Salvecci shipped skins—Italian immigrants—across the Atlantic Ocean an
d into the harbors of New York, Boston and Baltimore. At the turn of the century, during the height of the Italian migration to American soil, Salvecci and his crew of thugs sent fifteen hundred transports a week off to an uncertain future. They were openly indifferent to their customers’ ultimate fates; their part of the bargain ended with the payment of under-the-table cash. In return for a few thousand extra lira, Salvecci could also be counted on to supply false documents that would be rubber-stamped at Ellis Island and other points of entry, allowing the less-than-desirable access to the Golden Land.

  Convicts, thieves, con men and murderers: all, eventually, made their way to Salvecci. He was their last hope, all that separated them from a long stretch behind the hard bars of an Italian prison.

  The ships commissioned by Salvecci to cross the Atlantic were beaten and worn-down cruisers that had seen far better years and far more magnificent voyages. What once had been the pride of a vibrant fleet had been reduced through neglect into ocean-chugging pimps, rushing loads of human hope and misery toward a mysterious new country. The ships had majestic names culled from a more glorious past to cart along with their deteriorating bodies—Il Leonardo, La Vittoria Colonna, La Regina Isabella, Il Marco Polo. They had once carried the gold of Venetian merchants across the angry seas of the Adriatic. Now, weighed down with age, they swam slowly over the Atlantic.

  The passengers were fed once a day, in the late afternoon, by a large, muscular man covered from forehead to ankles in tattoos. His name was Italo and he came from a northern mountain region known more for rugged terrain than culinary expertise. It would take Italo a dozen trips to fill the bowls of the hungry, as he lumbered down narrow steel steps, carrying a large pot filled with hot stew. He dipped the bowls into the scalding liquid and scampered away, leaving them to devour what he knew to be a meal unfit for animals. On occasion, he would throw large chunks of old bread into the hole and watch dirty hands dive for the delicacy.