THEY STROLLED ALONG the Bowery, oblivious to the countless attractions and inducements, the cries of hawkers and barkers, the shills and con artists along the dazzling bright way.
Dead ahead, loomed the Thunderball. Briganti paused and faced the girl beside him. “We’re going to take a ride,” he said. And if she thought he was joking, she had only to look at his face. It was impassive, a mask.
“I’m going to make things happen,” he continued. “Now, I’ll need your help. I want you to be strong, and do exactly as I say—when I say. The timing is important. It’ll be over very quickly; but for a couple of minutes, stay with it.”
Her eyes were wide with fear, but she managed to nod. She would do exactly what he said, and when.
He pointed to the Thunderball. “Have you ever been on one of these?”
Again, she nodded. “Many times. As a child, mostly.”
“Then it won’t be such a shock.” He drew a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
He bought two tickets from a woman who sat high in a ticket box out in front. Then, with Antonia hanging on his arm, he presented the tickets to a sleepy young man, who motioned for them to wait in line with four or five others.
Overhead, the cars made a deafening racket as they whooshed and slithered around the course. Briganti stood stiffly, but his eyes were busy tracing the path of the cars along the track. He watched it come around the final bend, to pull to a sharp halt at the separate exit. An elderly man seated beside a huge brake handle adjusted the brake. He saw the disheveled passengers, still gasping for breath, get to their feet and debark along a ramp that led to the street. He noted that the bored young man in front of them had no thought whatsoever for the riders who were finished, and that the old man now released the brake and the empty cars slithered forward to pick up fresh passengers.
Briganti held Antonia’s hand, as they stepped into the rear seat of the last car. The others had all crowded to the front. A huge sign overhead cautioned them to secure their seat belts. Briganti helped Antonia with hers, and their eyes met. She noted his tension, the alert, cold look in his gray eyes. He was like a thoroughbred racehorse champing at the starting gate. And, as at the racetrack, there was a clanging of bells and the train moved forward.
The moment they were beyond the embarkation point, Briganti reached for the canvas bag, pulled it onto his lap, and tore open the zipper. A Thompson sub-machine gun, with a drum magazine, appeared in his hand. He thrust it at Antonia, said, “Just hold it.” He reached for a second one and placed it on the seat beside him.
They were starting up the steep initial incline now, up, slowly, at a 45° angle, the chains ratcheting, pulling the inert, motorless cars. Briganti dug around at the bottom of the bag and came up with a hand grenade. He dug with his left hand and brought up another. He dropped the bag to his feet once again, then shifted. Below them, the Spazzi house was clearly visible, perhaps fifty yards distant, bright under the floodlights designed to protect them from unseen approach. Already, in the cars ahead, the girls were beginning to scream with anticipation.
Briganti pursed his lips, waited as the cars moved higher, yet closer to the house. Beside him, Antonia heard him breathe, “Now!”
He put the grenade to his mouth, bit the safety that activated the firing pin, and pitched the grenade onto the house below. It landed on the roof, about where the living room would be—landed with a great, booming explosion that sent roofing and timbers flying in a cloud of thick black smoke.
A moment later, Briganti ripped the safety on the second grenade and made his pitch. Boom! Like the first, it exploded on the roof, tearing a huge, gaping hole in the building.
The cars had reached the summit. They clung there momentarily, then plunged downward, gathering speed, gaining tremendous momentum that would carry them to the top of the next peak.
Briganti, like Antonia, like the others up front, was buffeted by the sudden spurt; but he was an old hand at this by now, and already, the Tommy gun was in his hands. They whipped down and around, up and down again, and now they were approaching the house on a middle level.
A grim, deadly smile broke out on Briganti’s face. They were playing into his hands, exactly as he had anticipated. The Mafiosi were rushing from the house, stomping over each other in their haste to break out. The yard, under the floodlights, was filled with shouting, running, gesticulating men, most of them with guns in hand.
The cars were slowing on the approach. Briganti released his safety belt, stood up in his seat. He held the gun close to his body, released the safety and moved the rocker pivot to its forward “Automatic” position. Then he pressed the trigger, releasing a hail of .45 caliber, 230-grain bullets, firing at the rate of 1500 shots per minute.
The little men below had no idea what hit them. They were falling like flies, struck down by some unseen hand, from an unknown direction. Chaos piled onto confusion, as the raking fire bit into the dust, chopped them in their tracks, while the Thunderball thundered by overhead, rattling, clanking and filled with screaming, terrified women.
Ten seconds. The magazine was empty, the cars had swung around the bend, and the house was out of sight. Briganti sat down, exchanged a glance at Antonia. He had seen her looking better. She sat stiff as a board, eyes glazed; it is doubtful that she would have known her name at that moment. Briganti grunted, grabbed the second machine gun from her limp grasp and made ready for the final assault.
The Thunderball charged up and down, swerved around its hairpin curves and headed into the lower level. Briganti was ready. On his feet once more, safety off, rocker pivot forward to “Automatic”. And there, slightly below him, among the dead and the dying and the worthless Mafiosi, he found his prize.
Don Vito Spazzi, smooth gray head reflecting the harsh glare of floodlights, was rushing about, arms flailing, as if giving orders. His last orders, it would turn out to be. Briganti sighted along the barrel of the gun and squeezed the trigger. The Don stiffened, threatened to fall backwards, then clutched his stomach and pitched forward on his face. Briganti grinned and raked the yard. One corpse was swung clear around before he fell like a corpse; another threw his hands into the air; a third had his legs cut from under him. And when the magazine was empty, there was no one on his feet in the yard.
The Thunderball swung sharply away. The house and its dead were left behind, out of sight. Briganti sat, stuffed the two guns into his canvas bag and zipped them tight. Beside him, Antonia sat in a daze, too frightened even to scream.
The train thundered over the last tantalizing dip and headed into port. The old man was at his brake and eased them to the siding. Briganti was out quickly, one hand pulling Antonia behind him. He put his arm about her and led her along the ramp to the street. They did not speak, but walked at an even pace. Like any pair of tourists spending an evening of chills and thrills in Coney Island.