Whitey hailed a cab in front of the West Eighty-Sixth Street apartment house.
“Mulberry Street,” said Mac, his mind still on the girls.
“I can get you as far as Canal Street, Bud,” said the old Italian guy with a fisherman cap on his head, as he reached over to flip on the meter. “The San Gennaro Feast, Bud.”
“Right, I forgot.”
I hope that wasn’t a mistake, thought Mac, leaving those two together. I’m sure Hallie wouldn’t say anything inappropriate to Sara. She knows the way I feel about the girl. Geeze, that was stupid to leave them together.
The yellow cab wound its way to lower Manhattan. The San Gennaro Feast was a yearly event that took place on Mulberry Street, in what was called Little Italy. Immigrants from Naples had started the yearly tradition back in September of 1926, continuing the celebration of Saint Janurarius, the Patron Saint of Naples, which had originally started in Italy. The original organizers of the feast, mostly café owners on Mulberry Street, erected a small chapel in the street to house their patron saint, asking the devoted to pin offerings to the ribbon streamers that hung from the statue's apron. On the final Saturday of the feast, which this was, the Grand Procession is held where the statue of San Gennaro is carried through the streets of Little Italy from its permanent home in the Most Precious Blood Church. It now being evening, Mac was sure that the procession would be over, but the streets would still be packed with people.
Mulberry Street, from Greenwich Village down to Canal Street, was blocked off to vehicular traffic, and filled with home made food stands and stalls holding Italian goods. Pizza, zeppole, sausage and peppers, everyone was walking the street with some kind of food dripping down their arms. The official reason for the feast was the celebration of the saint, but the city unofficially used it as an excuse to celebrate Italian culture.
Mac was let out on Canal Street, as close to Mulberry Street as the cab could reasonably hope to get. He knew Teresa's was not far from Canal Street, as he had walked by the restaurant many times on his after-work sojourns; he knew that he would not be late.
The outside of the Teresa's had bistro tables, covered with white tablecloths, already filled with dinner customers, eating while the feast revelers walked by with their own food. The white latticework in the windows, cut out in arches, so you could see inside the small restaurant from the sidewalk, was covered with green plastic leaves, giving the illusion of entering a terrace in an old Italian village. The tables inside were dressed elegantly, with white tablecloths, silver, and small votive candles in a glass. There was Italian strings music playing loudly enough to be heard outside on the sidewalk. Mac came through the door as he was expected, and he was.
“Mr. Martini?” asked the tuxedo clad maître d’.
“Yes, sir.”
“This way, sir. Mr. Costello is expecting you.”
Mac was led through the crowded restaurant, the patrons checking him out like he must be someone important. He entered a back room with one big round table, dressed less elegantly than the tables out front, with four rather large men picking on a generous plate of antipasto. The men were unmistakably Italian, dark hair, what was left of it, swarthy complexions, even down to the moles strategically placed on each of their faces. The room, unlike the delicately lit, dark wood and white plaster main dining room, was cheaply paneled, with watercolor paintings of what appeared to be Italian seascapes, that could hardly be mistaken for works of the Italian masters.
“Tommaso,” bellowed the decidedly oldest of the crew. “Sit down. You’ll eat.”
Mac did as he was told, without shaking hands with anyone in the room, as no hands were offered. That was fine with Mac, as the men were devouring the plate of antipasto with their fingers, licking them clean. Mac figured that the man in charge was probably Frank Costello, although no one bothered to introduce him. He was a man in his late sixties, graying at the temple. He had on an expensive suit, with an open white shirt, in which a red napkin had been tucked to avoid splashes. On his right hand, he wore a pinkie ring of gold and stones, large enough to knock someone out, and on his left wrist he wore a beautiful, if not garish, gold timepiece. The other gentlemen were clearly not his equals, they being dressed more casually, in what Mac would later describe as Italian bowling shirts. They did not speak unless spoken to.
“Have a glass of wine, Tommaso. Give him a plate, Joey. Eat!” ordered Costello, as he grabbed a piece of provolone and soppresatta off the big platter in the middle of the table with his sausage sized fingers.
“Thank you,” said Mac, realizing that he had no choice but to drink and eat with these fellows, knowing full well that it would be an insult not to do so. Mac filled his plate with Italian delicacies from the common platter, using a fork, and he sipped at the goblet of red wine put before him. Cheese, meats, artichoke hearts, olives, he felt like he was home, back at his mother's dining room table in Poughkeepsie. The wine was seemingly ever flowing, like a Bacchanalian waterfall.
“Thank you, Mr. Costello. This is delicious. I feel like I am at home.”
“You are home, Tommaso,” said the big man, wiping the olive oil from his mouth with the cloth napkin tucked under his chin. “Charlie says you are to be treated like family, like a man of substance. We eat first; then we talk business; like family, Capisce?”
“Of course,” said Mac. “Your hospitality is appreciated, Mr. Costello. Nothing like Italian family.”
Mac ate like he never ate before, not only because he was hungry after his escapades with Sara, but also because that is what you do when an Italian offers to feed you. There was homemade pasta slathered in meat sauce, meatballs, and sausage on the side. There was a huge salad, with onions, olives, vine ripened tomatoes, and gorgonzola cheese, soaking in olive oil and red wine vinegar. Just when he thought that he could eat no more, out came the mozzarella, spinach, and prosciutto stuffed veal chop, with all the trimmings. Mac did his best to finish it all without opening his belt like Joey, who was sitting to his left.
As the fruit and pastries were brought to the table, with demitasse porcelain cups of black coffee, Costello was now ready to talk business.
“So, Tommaso, Charlie says our country needs our help?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Costello.”
“What is it that we can do for our country, Tommaso?”
“Well, Mr. Costello, the waterfront is a mess if you don’t mind me saying so. The guys won’t work, and when they do, they run their mouths off, jeopardizing our president's intention of helping the English and the Russians against the Germans. The German U-boats are blowing our ships right out of the water.”
“Who the fuck cares about the Limeys and the Ruskies,” laughed Costello. “They are fighting Italians, no?”
“Well, sir, Italy is my homeland as well as yours. But you are smart enough to realize that this country, our adopted home, will get into this war eventually. Our boys, our sons, our brothers, our grandchildren will be fighting the Fascists, and they will be in a fight for their lives. We all know we Italians, no matter what we think about Mussolini, are not friends of the Fascists. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to let the English and the Russians do the dirty work, and get as many Germans killed as possible, before our boys must go there and die?”
“Yeah, you got a point kid,” said Costello, shaking his head in agreement. “Charlie is right. You’re sharp. And a real good talker. I went upstate to talk to our friend. He agrees with you. It will be done. The men will work, and they will shut their mouths. You have my word, as a man of honor. It is being done already, as we speak. If Charlie says to do it, it gets done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Costello. Our country thanks you.”
“That's bullshit kid, and you know it. They don’t give two shits about us Italians. We’re doing it to help Charlie. He is being treated better already, so he says. He is counting on you to get him closer to his family. You going to do that, Tommaso?”
“I gave my word to Mr. Luciano, and I give my word to you; as a man of honor, I will do everything in my power to get it done.”
“Yes, you will, kid. See this guy here, sitting next to me. This is Cockeye Dunn. Don’t let his last name fool you. He is a paisan. He is making sure the boys on Sand Street are keeping their mouths shut, even when they are tipping a few. Those who don’t, they will not walk out of the bar on two good legs, if you know what I mean. He could also come to visit you, kid, if you don’t keep your word to Charlie, and to me.”
“My word is my bond, Mr. Costello,” responded Mac, showing no fear. “Your threats mean nothing to me compared to my good name. I will keep my word, without your need to bring in the good Mr. Dunn.”
“Good boy. I see why Charlie likes you. You have balls, my friend.”
“Thank you,” replied Mac. “Your friendship is something of great value. This I know. You are not only a man of honor, but you are a man that is feared and respected. I consider you family, as you have treated me with respect, and with graciousness.”
“If there is ever anything I can do for you, Tommaso, please feel free to come to me. I am a man of honor, and friendship aside, yes, we are now family, kid. Family does for family, no questions asked.”
“Actually, I could use a small favor, if you don’t mind,” Mac said, after a hesitation, knowing full well that he was getting in deeper.
“What's that, kid?” asked Costello, now laughing at this boy's nerve.
“I need you to send Mr. Dunn to go talk to the boys at the German Bund up in Yorkville, and tell them to back off this young lady, Sara Mandakovich. She is a friend of mine, and thus a friend of yours. I would greatly appreciate the favor, Mr. Costello. I don’t need any distractions from these pigs if you know what I am saying.”
“Who the fuck is Sara Mandakovich? Costello asked, laughing along with the rest of the guys in the room.
“She is my friend; my girl, to be honest. My friends are your friends, no?”
“You are too much, kid,” said Costello. “Consider it done. Cockeye, take care of that too.”
“Yes sir,” said Dunn, “we have been meaning to talk to those pumpernickels anyway. They are a pain in our asses as well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Costello. Thank you, Mr. Dunn,” said Mac.
The big man smiled, got up, and approached Mac, slapping him on the back. Mac stood up, and the two men finally shook hands. The mob boss grabbed Mac's hand and pulled him in for a big hug, and hard kisses on both of his cheeks.
“You are family kid. I like you. I will tell Charlie you send your regards, and that you are working on getting him moved. Now go ahead, get out of here kid, before I change my mind. Go home to that girl of yours,” Costello laughed.
“Thank you, Mr. Costello. Thanks for everything.”
Mac gave his respects to the others as he left the room. He made his way through the restaurant, and the crowds outside for the Feast. He stopped at Ferrara's Pastry Shop up the street to bring home cannoli for Hallie, to thank her for her hospitality.