7

My Uncle Peter Bonventre, always looking out for me, invited me to a little family gathering. At the party I was introduced to several young ladies, among them Fay Labruzzo, or Fanny as some called her—a gracious girl with whom I exchanged only a few words.

Uncle Petrino must have watched us contentedly, although at the time I didn’t realize his intentions. I come from a Tradition where one of the father’s highest duties is to take part in his son’s choice of a wife. Nowadays, this practice is considered meddlesome, even cruel, but it doesn’t have to be. Uncle Petrino was like a father to me. Even when I saw through his adroit and gentle scheming, I did not resent it.

My uncle’s scenario became perfectly transparent after he asked me to accompany him when he paid a visit to his good friend don Calorio, Fay’s father. Calogero Labruzzo—don Calorio—came from Camporeale, a town about seven miles inland from Castellammare. He was fairly well off. He owned a six-story building on Evergreen and Jefferson streets, in the Bushwick neighborhood. On the corner of the building was a butcher shop which Mr. Labruzzo used to operate but then rented to another butcher after suffering a heart attack. The building contained apartments, but the ground floor was entirely devoted to a ladies’ clothing factory, operated by Mr. Labruzzo’s son-in-law and his daughter Marian. Adjacent to the building was Mr. Labruzzo’s private house.

Calogero and Mari’Antonia Labruzzo had five sons and six daughters. Fay and her sisters worked in the clothing shop. It was Fay’s job to check the seamstresses’ final product to see that it conformed to pattern. She made alterations with dazzling speed. When she was satisfied, she straightened out the dress on the wooden dummy and tapped the shoulder with the back of her fingers.

When Mr. Labruzzo saw us, he bustled around us, saying:

—How good to see you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Marian, look who’s here. But why are we standing around? Let’s go in the office. No, I have it. Let’s go to the house, just next door. Someone run to the house and make some coffee. This way, please.

I did not have a chance to talk with Fay, but we gave each other a look of instant and total understanding—I don’t know how else to put it. Everything was clear, without the need for words. We knew what was happening. Everything was going along as generation upon generation of Sicilians had seen to it that it should. Fanny and I responded silently, letting things take their course.

Falling in love is just as much a process of self-recognition as it is of discovering another person. I still had much to discover about Fay, and I did my exploration during our courtship. But before that, in how she simply presented herself or in the way she flicked her fingers expertly at a well-made dress, I recognized her to be the embodiment of an image I’ve always carried in me, the image of the kind of woman I would want to fall in love with. I’ve always loved Fanny, even before we met.

In any case, it would have been unseemly for Fanny and me to converse openly without the formal approval of her father. Mr. Labruzzo had a reputation for being one of the strictest, most hidebound and hotheaded Sicilian fathers around. His outbursts of rage were legendary. At the slightest provocation he would slap his children (it didn’t matter how old they were). He tolerated no insubordination.

Don Calorio’s temper would often get away from him. Pity the wretch who happened to insult don Calorio when the old man carried his walking cane, for he would administer a bastinado before the offender could utter a word of apology. If his walking cane was not available, don Calorio would just as swiftly snatch his shotgun or his butcher knife. The old man scared people. It was not unusual for people who didn’t know him well to think that don Calorio was a bit crazy.

Mr. Labruzzo had to be handled just right, and during our first encounter I was duly polite and attentive to his tender emotional constitution. Intense discussions between Mr. Labruzzo and Uncle Petrino must have followed that initial get-together. Soon, Fay and I were sounded on our feelings toward each other. The initial impression was mutually favorable. Even astrology seemed to favor us. We were both born in 1905, I at the beginning of the year and Fay at the very end, December 31. It was all clear then. There had to be a conoscenza—the ancient custom wherein a suitor, through his sponsor, formally announces his intentions to a girl’s father.

When Uncle Petrino and I went to the Labruzzo house, we found Mr. Labruzzo alone in the parlor dressed in his fancy suit. All the children were upstairs. After stepping into the room to greet us, Mrs. Labruzzo also left. Uncle Petrino stood by my side. It was up to him, as my sponsor and stand-in for my father, to open the ceremony:

—My nephew Peppino, who comes from an upright family, as you well know, don Calorio, and whose good character I can vouch for, would like to express, in accordance with our custom, his good intentions toward your daughter Fanny, of whom he speaks with unqualified admiration and whom he would not dare approach without the consent of her dear father.

The chest of Calogero Labruzzo swelled. He stuck out his lower lip and nodded approvingly. Then he cleared his throat:

—When a young man shows respect for the father, the father may rest assured he will show respect for the daughter.

Mr. Labruzzo then turned to me and spread out his arms.

—I am honored to give my consent. Come, kiss me.

Then the entire family was invited into the parlor. Mrs. Labruzzo and the children, all of whom had been merrily awaiting the moment, rushed in. Mr. Labruzzo called for drinks and sweetcakes. Fay, dressed prettily, sat in a chair beside me during all the commotion. She blushed and smiled, reminding me of a blossoming rose.

*   *   *

Within a short time after his arrival to America, Maranzano established himself as an expert entrepreneur. In its own way his was a classic American success story. He built up an import-export business, had real estate holdings and had considerable interests in the bootlegging industry. He recirculated his profits, becoming a financier. He made connections and soon had well-placed friends in all circles of life.

In business matters, Maranzano loved perfection. He took great pride in his ledgers, his account books, his records and files. All his books had to be in order, each entry had to be immaculate—an exquisite tapestry of numbers.

By this time, I had left the bakery to go to work for Maranzano. I should more properly say that he called me to him and I answered the call. I gladly accepted not just because of the job but also because I expected my life with Maranzano to be an adventure.

My job was to check and keep an eye on Maranzano’s whiskey stills. I was his traveling representative, visiting his stills in Pennsylvania and upstate New York. The job had many facets. Each still had a local manager who was part owner in the business with Maranzano. I had to make sure that supplies were coming in as scheduled, that everything was running smoothly and everyone was on the ball. If one of our stills was raided by the police, I bailed out our people.

Maranzano kiddingly referred to me as his “chemist.” The only thing I knew about chemistry was that you shouldn’t fall asleep over a fire. Whereas before I had been connected with a small neighborhood still, I now was an overseer of Maranzano’s interstate operation. I began carrying a pistol.

Since bootlegging was an illicit enterprise, popular as it was, we couldn’t turn to the government for protection or for settling disputes. We had to protect ourselves, and when necessary I undertook missions for Maranzano that required the use of force.

Fires, by the way, whether by accident or because of sabotage, were fairly common at stills. One of Maranzano’s stills once caught fire and was partially destroyed. Maranzano assigned me and a couple of his men to find out who had done it, since we suspected sabotage. Through various tips we discovered someone who knew who the culprits were. We didn’t even have to touch him. A graphic description of the human legbones was enough to make him want to talk. We relayed the information to Maranzano. Our leader probably entrusted the job of retaliation to someone else. Maranzano had many connections. He didn’t tell me everything.

Another common occurrence was the hijacking of delivery trucks by rival bootlegging groups. One of our numerous transfer points—where whiskey shipments were stored for pickup and distribution elsewhere—was at a barn near Wappingers Falls, New York. When one of our trucks didn’t arrive at this barn, Maranzano ordered me and three others to scour the neighboring farms for the truck.

For the transport of alcohol we used vehicles disguised as milk trucks or fruit trucks or, as in this case, furniture-moving trucks. We searched all the farms in the area that night, but we had no luck. One of our last stops was at a remote farm. We turned off our headlights and parked a safe distance from the barn, leaving one man at the wheel. Three of us then walked quietly to the front of the barn. The furniture truck was inside. We also heard voices, but we couldn’t tell how many men were in the barn. The three of us drew our pistols and rushed inside, surprising two men, who hid behind hay bales and began firing on us. We wounded one of them, but the other escaped through the back. We drove the furniture truck away.

The truck’s recovery gladdened Maranzano, but he reminded us that if we had taken a moment to plan our assault of the barn we would have positioned a man behind the barn to prevent any escape.

I now drove a six-cylinder Paige, dark-gray and very fast. I owned new suits, new shoes and new overcoats. I was making good money. I moved to a new apartment. I had Maranzano. I had Fanny. Those were the flush times.

Pretty soon I even invested some of my own money in a still, which I and my partners operated independently of Maranzano. Operating a still was a matter of having capital, having connections and having protection. I had these, but as yet I wasn’t a member of a Family.

*   *   *

I was much like a squire in the service of a knight. Maranzano was my knight. My association with him was like an apprenticeship to see if I had the necessary qualities to be accepted into the society of honored friends—that is to say, a Family.

Because of his position in Sicily, Maranzano was accepted into the Castellammarese Family in Brooklyn when he immigrated. Of course, since I was an apprentice, this was not something Maranzano discussed with me directly. Until one is accepted as a Family member, one’s affiliation is private knowledge. Nonetheless, I could draw my own conclusions, and I looked forward to the day when I too would be inducted into the Family. My whole history had prepared me for it.

It must be understood that when I speak of my old Tradition I am referring to an all-embracing way of life governed by certain values and ideals. One practical aspect of this way of life is the forming of clans, or Families, for the mutual advantage of their members. It is this phase of my Tradition which Americans usually refer to as the Mafia. A Sicilian may believe in the principles of his Tradition, but he might not want to join a Family. That’s his choice. Such a decision is not taken lightly, because becoming a member of a Family entails not only privileges but corresponding duties.

It is during his apprenticeship stage that an aspirant learns of these duties and is given tasks to test his mettle. My missions for Maranzano, for example, were not only part of my job but were also little tests by which Maranzano could decide whether I had the inner stuff to become a Family member. Obviously, obedience to one’s superiors was one of the duties of a Family member. Silence was another cardinal duty. One had to learn to keep a secret and not betray one’s friends. Also, for young men especially, one had to learn to curb one’s desire toward the wives and women relatives of friends. Becoming a Family member, therefore, made one strictly accountable for one’s actions, and it also required that one be ready, if necessary, to bear arms to protect the Family’s interests.

Because of my heritage, I took all this for granted. I knew the ground rules even before they were explained to me, and I yearned for the day when I too would find distinction as a “man of honor.”

At my private still my partners complained about receiving persistent calls from a strong-arm blockhead by the name of Mimi, who was trying to intimidate my partners into giving him a payoff. When he came by again, I was waiting for him. I could tell right away he was a dolt. He made animal-like noises and grunts, and heaved his body around the room like an obnoxious braggart.

I told Mimi he could shake down anyone else but to leave my business alone. He said I was in his territory. I said I was my own man.

—That’s a lot of crap, answered Mimi.

I didn’t seem to be getting through to the numbskull.

—I’m independent, I said. Now get out.

—You can’t talk to me like that, Mimi bawled. I’m connected.

—All right, I won’t talk.

I raised my hand in front of his head. I clenched my hand into a fist. Next I slowly lifted my thumb vertically and extended my index finger horizontally to represent the outline of a pistol. Mimi seemed fascinated. He didn’t get my message right away. He was looking at me as if I were a magician about to pull the ace of spades out of my sleeve. I curled my index finger, my trigger finger. With my fist a few inches from his temple, I squeezed my finger rapidly six times. Mimi flinched back.

—Who the fuck do you think you are? he cried out.

Mimi blustered out of the building, issuing catcalls and curses and vowing that I would hear from him again.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, Mimi was a member of the Castellammarese Family in Brooklyn, and he had apparently decided on his own to try to collect money from my still in exchange for protecting my operation. A still operator, as I said, usually needed such protection in order to survive; indeed, a still operator often sought such a connection for his own welfare. However, Mimi didn’t know I too was connected to Maranzano, a member of his own Family.

If society is in good order, disagreements like that between Mimi and me do not have to lead to blows, as they might have in this case. These disputes can be resolved peacefully and according to custom. If I had been a nobody with no connections my argument with Mimi would have been left for us to settle on our own, but because I was with Maranzano and because I was a cousin of the powerful Stefano Magaddino of Buffalo, I was given the privilege of airing my case in “court.” A hearing was convened before a panel of qualified men.

The arbitrator of the hearing was Vito Bonventre (not my uncle the baker but a second cousin of the same name). This Vito Bonventre was a group leader within the Family, and my still was in his district. Mimi’s older brother, also a Family member, acted as his counsel for the “trial.”

My counsel was to have been Stefano Magaddino, who kept an active interest in the Castellammarese Family in Brooklyn. Although this trial was a relatively minor affair, Stefano had come from Buffalo to shower me with his benevolence. He was also trying to impress me with his influence and win my gratitude.

At the hearing, however, it was Maranzano who stole the show by speaking on my behalf. Maranzano berated Mimi for not bothering to check who I was before trying to bring my still under his protection. If Mimi had checked with his superiors he would have learned that I was with Maranzano and couldn’t be interfered with.

In my world there was a distinction between what constitutes extortion and what does not. One must remember that in the economic sphere one of the objectives of a Family was to set up monopolies as far as it was possible. For instance, if a Family member owns a bakery all the other members tend to give him their patronage and support. If two Family members are bakers, they are not allowed to own bakeries on the same block, for that would be bad for both their businesses. They would be competing against each other. Therefore, one baker will be allowed to flourish in one territory and the other baker in his own territory.

If an outsider, a non-Family member, locates his bakery near a Family member’s bakery, then the Family baker is within his rights to try to drive the competing baker out of business or to try to arrive at some accommodation with him. What is seen as extortion from the outsider is viewed as self-protection by the insider.

Unless one understands these monopolistic practices it is too easy, and erroneous, to simply ascribe them to criminal conduct. That Americans, of all people, don’t fully appreciate this process shows a great blindness on their part. For a long time, for example, several American oil companies enjoyed a monopoly on Saudi Arabian oil whereby these companies set the price of oil and prevented other companies, French or British let’s say, from enjoying the same privileges. In a sense, then, the cartel companies exercised their “extortion” options, all to the benefit of their customers, the American people, who paid a lower price for gasoline.

A skeptic will say that what the oil companies did was entirely different than what we did in our world, but I see them as similar, with the difference being that one is played in the arena of the neighborhood and one in the international arena.

Mimi, then, in wanting to maintain his sphere of influence, was wrong not so much in picking on me as in picking on the wrong man.

—Let’s look at the facts, Maranzano said in my defense. The fact is that Peppino told Mimi to go to hell. If Peppino has the nerve to tell a guy like Mimi where to go, obviously Peppino doesn’t need protection. The inescapable conclusion is that Peppino can protect himself. Logic is logic.

If I hadn’t had the support of Stefano Magaddino and Maranzano I doubt if even Maranzano’s droll mockery would have won the day for me. Since I did have their backing, however, the arbitrator ruled that Mimi had overreached himself and that I would be allowed to operate my own still unmolested by anyone in the Family. Mimi skulked out of the room, and he never gave me any more trouble.

If Stefano had hoped to impress me at the hearing, he was outclassed by Maranzano. Although Maranzano did not pose a challenge to Stefano, who knows what secret resentments Stefano began to form toward the newcomer to America?

Maranzano kept his opinion of Stefano to himself, but he did give me hints of how he felt. Once Maranzano told me cryptically that Stefano would someday give me trouble. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know the dark side of either Maranzano or Stefano yet.

Nonetheless, by the end of the hearing, Stefano knew, by Maranzano’s vigorous defense of me and by my transparent admiration of him, that I was to be considered a disciple not of Magaddino but of Maranzano.

The mere fact that I was allowed to participate in a Family court—a singular privilege for a non-Family member—indicated the confidence these men had in me. I continued to serve Maranzano ably, and I felt the day when I would become a member growing closer, although no one expressly told me so.

One evening a friend of mine invited me to dinner at his house. He was about my age and also worked for Maranzano. On entering the house I saw many important men of the neighborhood and some I didn’t recognize. We smiled at each other. One by one they embraced me and kissed me on the cheek.

Though they were all Sicilians, I had never particularly connected these men with each other before, since they had different pursuits and came from different walks of life. That they should congregate in one room could only mean one thing—they were all members of the Family. Maranzano was among them, and the understanding smile between him and me gave me the greatest satisfaction.

It was understood then. I had passed my apprenticeship. I understood the covenants that binded us together. I was a Bonanno and I understood our Tradition thoroughly. Hardly anything had to be said. After a toast for good health, we sat down for dinner.

I was a member of the Castellammarese Family.

Mr. Labruzzo had given me his consent to call on his daughter Fay in the evening at her house. I also was permitted to take Fay on chaperoned dates on the weekend.

Fay was good-humored about these restrictions. She had an accommodating, generous disposition. Everything about her, her thoughts, her movements, her sentiments, was natural and spontaneous. A lively girl. A girl of loyal affections. Trusting.

Fanny and I both needed a good sense of humor, for throughout our courtship we were seldom left alone. At the beginning, we were always under the watchful eyes of her father. Suitors had to obey stringent house rules. Mr. Labruzzo’s policy was that young men calling on his daughters couldn’t stay at the house past eight o’clock in the evening. During my first house call, on a Sunday afternoon in 1928, Fanny whispered to me,

—What’s worse is that Papa remains in the parlor the whole time and you can’t talk about anything. When he starts to yawn, that’s the signal to clear out.

—How would you like to take a ride in my sports car?

—Don’t talk nonsense, Fay said. That’s never been done before.

In the parlor, Mr. Labruzzo, contrary to his conduct with other suitors, greeted me exuberantly, as if I had come to see him instead of his daughter. This raised a few eyebrows among the women. Don Calorio had never acted this way before.

Mr. Labruzzo must have heard good things about me. But I did not want him to like me solely because of my recommendations. I wanted to establish a personal bond with him. I well remembered the advice of don Totò of Trapani, who had told me that if I wanted to win the daughter I would have to win the father as well.

—I trust you are in good health, I said to Mr. Labruzzo while the women prepared some refreshments. You look well, that’s for sure.

—You think so? Mr. Labruzzo said. You should have seen me before my heart attack.

—But that’s in the past, don Calorio. Today you’re healthy and fit. Today is a fine day.

—Fine day, Mr. Labruzzo repeated, jutting out his chin and nodding.

—It’s such a lovely day, I said casually, that I drove here in my convertible.

—A convertible, you say?

—Yes, it’s out front. Come look, you can see it from the window.

Mr. Labruzzo peered through the parlor window.

It was a sleek Buick roadster—a dandy, high-performance car, dark brown and cream, a two-seater, with a rumble seat over the trunk.

—That must have cost a fortune, Mr. Labruzzo remarked as he gaped at the sports car.

—Why don’t we go outside to take a closer look?

The women were returning to the parlor, plates and trays in hand, just as Mr. Labruzzo and I were going out of the room, chattering about the car. Our chummy behavior absolutely floored the women. They quickly forsook their plates and trays to trail after us, but followed us no farther than the front porch, from where they observed the strange goings-on.

Mr. Labruzzo walked around the car, admiring its sleek lines. I invited him to sit behind the wheel. When he opened the car door, both of us were startled by wailings from the front porch.

—No, Papa, the Labruzzo children clamored. Don’t do it, Papa. Remember your heart!

—Calogero, for heaven’s sake, don’t! screamed Mrs. Labruzzo.

They all evidently thought Mr. Labruzzo was going to take off for a drive by himself.

—Mari’Antonia—and all of you—shut up! Mr. Labruzzo shouted back.

I told Mr. Labruzzo that I would deem it a privilege if I could take him for a ride.

—In fact, I added, I came over this afternoon expressly to ask you and Fanny if you wanted to take a ride.

—Have you spoken of this to Fanny? he asked.

—No, I wanted to ask you first.

Mr. Labruzzo smiled gratefully.

—You did well.

Mr. Labruzzo shouted for someone to fetch him his jacket and ordered Fay to get ready to take a ride in the sports car. As I opened the rumble seat, Fay sidled over to me and asked:

—How are you two lovebirds doing?

—Trust me, I said, with a wink. I know what I’m doing.

We were interrupted by Mr. Labruzzo, who was trying to clamber into the rumble seat.

—You must sit up front, I said.

—I wouldn’t think of it, Mr. Labruzzo said as I led him to the front passenger’s seat.

—I wouldn’t have it otherwise, I insisted.

Once he was snugly in place, Mr. Labruzzo bellowed to his wife:

—Mari’Antonia, see what a fine future son-in-law I have?

Now that they were assured he wouldn’t be driving, Mr. Labruzzo’s children and his wife seemed glad to see him off for the afternoon. They waved enthusiastically as we glided away in the Buick.

On passing any pedestrian whom he knew, Mr. Labruzzo would greet them with a regal flourish of the hand. At one point in our ride, he began to hum. I could feel a song coming on. Beneath his forbidding, blustery exterior, there was another side to Mr. Labruzzo. He was a man of unrestrained sentimentality, excessive in bliss as he was in anguish. When he was offended, don Calorio would explode in anger; when he was pleased, he would break out in song. He had a fine voice.

Sensing that he was in his musical mood, I told Mr. Labruzzo that I had access to tickets for concerts and operettas.

—I know how well you love good singing, I said. Perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to take you to an operetta some day?

Mr. Labruzzo turned his head back to address Fay.

—Are you listening? See what a fine son-in-law I’m going to have?

To the astonishment of his family, his son-in-law Jimmy in particular, Mr. Labruzzo did not chase me out of the house at eight o’clock when I called on Fay. Not only that, but he frequently invited me to stay over for supper. He would leave Fay and me in the parlor unattended, as long as the door was slightly ajar. He even allowed us to go to the moving-picture shows alone.

Fay gibed that her father and I were true sweethearts. Some two or three months after we were formally introduced, Fay and I became engaged. The wedding was set for 1929.