told it seemed that Feraud and his old-money buddy Ducane had taken care of some things and attributed them to me. That did not sit well. The feeling was as if someone was walking around in my skin.
‘So what the fuck, eh?’ Calligaris said, interrupting me. ‘You gotta do whatever the fuck you gotta do, and if there’s something to be gained by sayin’ it’s someone else then fair enough. Can’t say I haven’t done the same thing myself a couple or three times.’
Don Calligaris changed the subject. He spoke of people we would see, things he had to do. From what I could gather it appeared I would be with him all the time, that I was to take care of the business end of things as he dictated. He had his minders, his own consigliere, but when it came to dealing with something that required a more terminal remedy, then I was to be called upon. It would really be no different from my relationship with Don Ceriano, and though there were nearly fifteen years behind me, though Don Ceriano had been there through everything, it seemed I had disconnected from that life. Florida and Vegas, even Havana and all that had happened, were behind me. I let it go. There seemed no purpose to hold onto such things. Nevertheless, the fact that Antoine Feraud and his politician friend were down in Louisiana taking care of their business and attributing it to me concerned me greatly. At some point the matter would have to be addressed, and I imagined its remedy would be terminal.
Don Calligaris lived in a tall narrow house on Mulberry Street. Back a half block and over the street was a second house, a small place, and it was here that he brought me after we left the diner. He introduced me to two people, a young man called Joe Giacalone, the son of someone Don Calligaris referred to as ‘Tony Jacks’, and a second man, a little older.
‘Ten Cent Sammy,’ Don Calligaris said, ‘but people just call him Ten Cent. Comes from his calling card, see? Leaves a dime behind whenever someone gets clipped, like that was all their life was worth.’
Ten Cent rose from his chair in the small room at the front of the house. He was a big man, bigger than me by a head, and when he reached out his hand and shook mine I could feel sufficient tension in his grip to relieve my arm of its socket with one swift tug.
‘Joe’s just here hangin’ out,’ Ten Cent said. ‘He comes down here when his girl is bustin’ his balls, right Joey?’
‘Screw you, Ten Cent.’ Joe said. ‘I come down here to remind myself how fuckin’ smart I am in comparison to a dumb fuck like you.’
Ten Cent laughed and sat down again.
‘You’ll stay here with Ten Cent,’ Don Calligaris said. ‘He’ll give you the straight shoot on what goes down and when. Don’t deal with anyone but him an’ me, you understand?’
I nodded.
‘You got a room upstairs and Ten Cent will help bring your stuff in. Take a rest, have a siesta, eh? We got a party tonight at the Blue Flame and you can meet some of the guys. I gotta go take care of somethin’ but I’ll be around if you need me. Just tell Ten Cent, and if he can’t figure somethin’ out he can call me.’
Don Calligaris turned and gripped my shoulders. He pulled me close, and kissed my cheeks in turn. ‘Welcome, Ernesto Perez, and whether you whacked Ricki Dvore and cut his freakin’ heart out or not you still gonna come in useful up here in Manhattan. You enjoy yourself while you can, ’cause you never know what shit might be waitin’ for you around the corner, right Ten Cent?’
‘Right as fuckin’ rain, boss.’
Don Calligaris left, and for a minute I stood there in the front room of that house feeling like the world had closed a chapter on me and started another.
‘You gonna take a weight off or what?’ Joe Giacalone said.
I nodded and sat down.
‘Hey, don’t be so uptight, kid,’ Ten Cent said. ‘You got a new family now, and if there’s one thing about this family they sure as shit know how to take care of their own, right Joey?’
‘Sure as shit.’
I leaned back in the chair. Ten Cent offered me a cigarette and I lit it. Joey put the TV on, surfed channels until he found a game, and within a few minutes I had stopped questioning why I was there and what would happen. It was what it was. I had made my choice in a split second in Don Ceriano’s car. Ceriano was dead. I was not. That was the way of this world.
The Blue Flame was a strip joint and nightclub on Kenmare Street. First thing I was aware of was how dark it was inside. A wide stage ran the length of the building on the right hand side, and across this stage three or four girls in tasselled bras and panties no bigger than dental floss gyrated and ground their hips to a bass-heavy music that came from speakers along the floor beneath them. Over to the left three or four long tables had been pulled together, and seated around them were perhaps fifteen or twenty men, all of them dressed in suits and ties, all of them drinking and laughing, all of them red-faced and loud and trying to outdo one another.
Ten Cent took me down there. Don Calligaris rose as we approached and with a flourish of his hand he silenced the gathered crew.
‘Ladies, ladies, ladies… we have a new guy in town.’
The gathering cheered.
‘This is Ernesto Perez, one of Don Ceriano’s boys, and though Don Ceriano cannot be with us this evening of course, I’m sure he would appreciate the fact that one of his people got wised up and came to Manhattan to work for us.’
There was a round of applause. I smiled. I reached out and shook hands. I took a glass of beer that someone handed me. I felt good. I felt welcome.
‘Ernesto… shit, we gotta do something about your freakin’ name!’ Don Calligaris said. ‘Anyways, this is Matteo Rossi, and here we have Michael Luciano, no relation, and Joey Giacalone, you know, and this is his father Tony Jacks, and over there is Tony Provenzano, Tony Pro to you and me, and to his right you got Stefano Cagnotto, and next to him you got Angelo Cova, and the skinny fuck down the bottom is Don Alessandro’s kid, Giovanni. This crowd over here,’ he said, indicating the other side of the table. ‘Well, this sorry shower of saps and wasters is just some bunch of homeless fucks we picked up in the street.’
Don Calligaris laughed. He raised his hands and clenched his fists. ‘This is your family, legitimate in some cases, the rest of them a bunch of bastards!’
Calligaris sat down. He indicated a chair beside his and I took it. Someone passed me a bowl of bread slices, and before I knew it I was surrounded by plates of meatballs and salami, and other things I didn’t recognize.
They talked, these people, and their words were like one vast rush of noise in my ears. They spoke of ‘things’ they were taking care of, ‘things’ that needed taking care of, and at some point the girls were gone, the music went down low, and Tony Pro was leaning forward with everyone’s attention rapt and he was talking about someone I had heard of once before.
‘Cocksucker,’ he was saying. ‘Guy’s a freakin’ cocksucker. Hard bastard, I’ll give him that, but we don’t need him back now we got Fitzsimmons. Frank Fitzsimmons toes the line an awful lot more than Hoffa ever did, and seems to me we should keep it that way.’
Don Calligaris was shaking his head. ‘Sure, sure, sure, but what the fuck’re we gonna do, eh? Guy’s a name, a big fucking name. You can’t just whack someone like Jimmy Hoffa and expect to walk away with nothin’ more than dust on your shoes.’
‘Anyone can get whacked,’ Joey Giacalone said. ‘Kennedy said that… that anyone could whack the fucking president if he was determined enough.’
‘Sure, anyone can get whacked,’ Don Calligaris said, ‘but there’s whacking someone and whacking someone, and they ain’t necessarily the same fucking thing, are they?’
Another man further down the table, Stefano Cagnotto if I remember rightly, said, ‘So what’s the fucking difference… someone gets whacked, someone else gets whacked. You do it right, who gives a fuck who it is? It’s not who it is but how it’s done that matters.’
Tony Pro nodded his head. ‘He’s right, Fabio. It’s not who it is but who does it and how it’s done that matters… hey, Ernesto, whaddya reckon?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about,’ I said. I had heard the name Jimmy Hoffa before, but I was ignorant of his significance in this game.
Tony Pro laughed. ‘Hey, Fabio, where d’you get this kid? You go collect him from the farm?’
Calligaris laughed. He turned to me. ‘You heard of the Teamsters?’
