A Quiet Vendetta

‘Put the fucking gun away Ernesto. You’re giving me the fucking creeps. What the fuck’re you doing here? What d’ya want this time of night?’

‘Sit down,’ I said quietly. My voice sounded gentle, almost sympathetic.

‘Sit down? I don’t wanna sit the fuck down.’

‘Sit down,’ I said again, and then I raised the gun and aimed it squarely at his gut.

‘You must be fucking kidding,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck put you up to this? Is this that fat fuck Ten Cent? Jesus, what the fuck does he think this is… April fucking Fools’ Day?’

I took a step forward and raised the gun so it leveled with Cagnotto’s eyes. ‘Sit down,’ I ordered.

‘You don’t come down here and tell me what the fuck to do, you guinea fuck… Who in fuck’s name d’you think you are?’

Cagnotto’s fists were clenched tight. He took another step forward and I went for him without a moment’s hesitation.

Thirty seconds later, no more, Stefano Cagnotto was seated on the edge of a two-thousand-dollar Italian leather sofa nursing a wide cut on the side of his head. He was still stunned, so whatever the hell came out of his mouth didn’t make a great deal of sense. He was a little incoherent, but he didn’t have any difficulty understanding what was going to happen when I placed a bag of coke on the glass table ahead of him and told him to get busy.

He knew he was going to go out one way or the other. He didn’t even protest, didn’t even try to defend his actions or himself. Came down to it he had some degree of honor, and there was something I could respect in that regardless of the situation.

Four lines and he was having a hard time concentrating on what he was doing. I set my gun aside and helped him a little, holding his head back while he pushed cocaine into his own nostrils. I opened his mouth and threw some in there myself, and when he started gagging I put my forearm against his chest and pushed him back against the sofa. He started puking then, and every time he retched I pushed his head down so he didn’t puke over me. I never did coke, never would, and I didn’t know how much these assholes would stick up their noses at a time. I had brought a bag with me that Ten Cent had gotten from somewhere, maybe a cupful all told, and by the time we were done more than half of it was down Cagnotto’s throat or up his nose.

I didn’t need to shoot the motherfucker. Had never intended to. He died after about ten minutes.

The Feds case never resurfaced. June closed up, as did July and August, and I never heard another word. Don Calligaris just told me Good job kid, and that was the end of that.

September I followed Angelina Maria Tiacoli three blocks before she realized I was behind her.

She looked mad. She turned on her heels and walked back towards me.

‘What are you doing?’ she snapped accusingly, but there was something heated and passionate in her voice that sounded a great deal more purposeful than just anger.

‘Following you,’ I told her.

‘I know you’re following me,’ she said. She took a step backwards and pulled her coat tight around her. This one was black, like a heavy woollen fabric, and on the edges it had a silk trim. ‘But what are you following me for?’

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ I said. I felt brave and bold, like the schoolyard boss.

‘About what?’

‘About whether I could take you to go see a movie or maybe have something to eat, or maybe just a cup of coffee in a diner or something.’

Angelina Maria Tiacoli looked dumbstruck. ‘You can’t ask me that,’ she said. ‘You understand that you can’t follow me down the street and ask me that.’

I frowned. ‘How come?’

‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked.

‘Angelina Maria Tiacoli,’ I replied.

‘Yes, that’s my name, but d’you know who my father was?’

I nodded. ‘Sure I do. Ten Cent told me.’

‘Ten Cent?’

‘He’s a guy, just a guy I know.’

‘And he told you all about me?’

‘No, not all about you. I’m sure he doesn’t know a great deal about you at all. He told me your name, who your father was, and the rest I figured out for myself.’

‘The rest? The rest of what?’

‘Aah, you know, like how pretty you are, and how you look like the sort of person it would be great to know, and how good you and me would look if we dressed up smart and went somewhere nice, like a restaurant or a show or something.’

‘And you figured that all out by yourself, did you?’

I nodded. ‘Sure I did.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t know who you are, but if you have a friend called Ten Cent then I can only imagine what kind of people you might mix with, and if you mix with them then any one of them can very quickly tell you that I am not the sort of person that men in the family mix with, and I sure am not the kind of girl you take to a restaurant or out to a show.’

I shook my head. ‘Why, what’s wrong with you… you sick or something? You got like a terminal illness?’

Angelina Tiacoli looked like someone had slapped her face. ‘You are such a smart guy,’ she said, and she took a step towards me. ‘You talk to your stupid friends with their stupid names, and they tell you who I am, that I’m nothing but some hooker’s daughter, and maybe if you follow me down the street I might take you home and fuck you or something. Is that how it happened? Is that the kind of conversation you had back there with your family?’

I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I fought with the words in my head but I lost. I opened my mouth and nothing but silence came out.

‘Go back to wherever the hell you came from and tell your friends that if your goddamned family hadn’t cursed me to this life then I would have long since gone. You tell them that from me, and if you come down here again, or if you stop me in the street or follow me, then sure as hell I’ll get someone to clip you, you poor dumb stupid Italian thug.’

She glared at me.

I opened my mouth.

‘Not another word,’ she said, and then she turned and hurried away.

‘I… I’m not… I’m not Italian,’ I stammered, but the sound of my voice was lost in the clatter of her heels on the hot-top, and before I could say another word, before I could raise my head or get my brain in gear sufficiently to take a step after her, she had reached the corner of the street and turned.

Another thirty seconds and I snapped out of it. I went after her at a dead run, but even as I turned the corner I knew she would have disappeared.

I was right. She had vanished. Not a sound.

I stood there for some time with my heart in my mouth, and then I swallowed it with difficulty and started back home.

Christmas came and went. New Year also. I didn’t see Angelina save for a fleeting glimpse near the bus station as I drove past with Ten Cent and Don Calligaris. I couldn’t be sure it was her, but even seeing someone who might have been her was enough to make me realize how much I longed for her. All the time I had been in New York I had not slept with any girl – no hookers, no strippers, no-one – and I believed that back of my celibacy was the belief that I was saving myself for Angelina. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to hear that voice, once so filled with venom and anger; I wanted to hear that same voice as she spoke words of love and passion, and spoke them for me.

The spring unfolded. Winter lost its bitter grip on New York, and with the change of seasons came a change of temperament and mood in the Luchese camp. There was discussion once more of the Teamsters, of this man Hoffa whom I had heard mention of so many months before in the Blue Flame.

‘Has to go, has to fucking go,’ Don Calligaris said. ‘He’s a short fat fuck, a nothing, a piece of shit arrogant cocksucker. Just ’cause he was Teamsters’ president he thinks he owns the fucking country. They sent him down