Re: Chapter 1.8: Family, Duty, Honor
Moretti had stood at the railing that morning, watching the harbor come into view, thinking about Jackson Elias, still trying to make sense of it. After they docked, he’d barely taken a few steps on land and there was Benny Collura, lighting up a Chesterfield, his eyes flat and serious.
”Joe needs to talk to you.”
Collura drove Moretti over to the Venezia on 116th. Joe Masseria was sitting at his usual table in the back, a pretty girl with dark hair filling his wine glass. Moretti sat down across from him, wondering if his boss was starting to believe his own press too much. A couple of incompetents who couldn’t shoot to save their lives blow a hit on him and now half the city thought Masseria couldn’t be killed. Judging by the platter of grilled sausage and peppers he was digging into, Joe thought the same.
Masseria pushed a file toward him. ”It’s not much,” he told Moretti, ”but it’s enough to get you started.”
Moretti closed the file and looked up at Masseria. ”You knew this was what I wanted to do when I got back.”
Joe grinned, took a sip of his wine. ”Course I did. How long you been working for me?”
”Long enough.”
”Jackson was your family. Distant family, but family. I know you practically worshipped the guy. Cederecci was one thing. This is something else.”
”Cederecci had a talent for getting in trouble.”
”True enough.” Masseria pointed at Moretti, his expression darkening. ”You do what you have to. Look as long and hard as you need. But hear me. If it looks like you’re going to start something bigger, you talk to me first. Understand? I got D’Aquilla to worry about. We don’t need to be in the middle of anything else right now.”
Moretti nodded.
Masseria leaned back in his seat. ”You’re smart. Careful. Keep it that way and you'll do fine.”
Moretti stood, picked up the file. ”Thanks, Joe.”
”Don’t mention it. But before you start in, there’s something I need you take care of for me.”
The “something” was Tony Piscitelli. He managed the Velvet Room on 50th. He was in his late twenties and a smooth talker. Ran cons on the street when he was young. Masseria had financed the kid, helped him build his club from the ground up. Piscitelli had a good ear for music, and the entertainment he’d brought in had kept his place popular. Not long after Moretti went to Ireland, Piscitelli had started ordering less and less liquor, telling Masseria he was losing business to some of the places over in Harlem. Masseria’s people did a little digging and found out Piscitelli was buying booze on the sly from Larry Fay’s crew. Tony was also pocketing a little extra money here and there, doing favors for the Irish.
”Go talk to him,” Masseria had told Moretti, ”Remind him how things work.”
Moretti had Collura drive him up front. The doorman knew him by sight, let him right in. An older man behind the bar spotted him, started for the back, but caught Moretti’s warning glance and stayed put, looking down as he began to polish a couple of clean glasses. Moretti stepped through the curtains into the long hall in the back and pulled open the office door.
Piscitelli was standing, counting some bills into a cigar box. He didn’t have time to turn around before Moretti had a fistful of his hair and slammed his head down on his desk, face first. There was an audible crack and Moretti felt something in Piscitelli’s face give as his head hammered the hard surface. Moretti shifted his weight, dumped Piscitelli into the nearest chair, blood running over the younger man’s mouth and chin.
”So, Tony,” Moretti asked, ”How’re the Irish treating you?”
Afterward, Moretti had Corulla drive him to the home of Anthony DeLuca. Masseria had known DeLuca in the old country. The boss trusted his business sense. The gray haired DeLuca helped Moretti bandage his knuckles. He wanted to know about Dubin, if Moretti had seen Dublin Castle or the Ha’penny Bridge. Meanwhile, Mary DeLuca chided Anthony the whole time. Told him he needed to talk to Joe, stop him from sending Moretti all over the world. That it was past time Moretti settled down, had a family. Anthony rolled his eyes. Moretti tried to keep from grinning. It was like having a second set of parents.
Before he left, he called his mother. Told her he was back in town, apologized that he hadn’t called sooner. ”Business I had to take care of,” he explained. He promised he’d come see her and Emily tomorrow. She told him she’d make a special dinner. He could tell them all about Ireland. Moretti tried to tell her not to go to the trouble. She wouldn’t listen.
After he hung up, he called the Venezia while he put his gloves back on. The hostess put Ray Spano on the phone. “Tell the boss: that thing on 50th. It's done.”
Collura dropped Moretti off on 73rd. ”You want me to wait?” he asked. Moretti told him to go on. He could walk home. Getting the city under his feet again would help him feel normal.
He looked up at the Elias house and suddenly, he felt like he was six years old again. All these years later, the place still filled him with awe. He remembered his parents bringing him here when he was little. How amazed he had been that somehow, these people who were so educated, so influential, were his relations. How, out of kindness, they had helped his family find their way in America.
Standing there, the thought hit him afresh. Jackson Elias was dead. Moretti swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
Walking up the steps, he knocked on the door. When Avery opened it, Moretti found that his voice had become quiet, the way it dropped every time he stepped inside Our Lady of Mount Carmel.
”Good evening, Avery,” he said, ”I hope I haven’t come at a bad time. Is Dr. Elias at home? I’ve been out of the country. I wanted to pay my respects.”