Prayers In The Streetlight

New York, April 1919.

Angelo Falcone stood on the crammed deck of the ship with the other Italian immigrants as New York came in to view. He leaned on the railing, the wind tugging at his hair. At twenty years old, he had taken the brave decision to leave his native Napoli, to start a new life in America. All around him people huddled together, with their friends and family, chatted excitedly about the new opportunities that lay ahead. Having left his parents back in Italy, he was venturing out alone. He stared at the New York skyline as the ship grew nearer port, wondering quite what was in store for him in this new country. 

He pushed and shoved his way down the rickety wooden gangway, and followed the throng into the Ellis Island immigration hall. He ignored the tiredness, and weariness from the trip, and focused on getting through the immigration process.

He filed through the vast halls of the immigration centre, following the seemingly never-ending line of people. Families with little more than suitcases and dreams filled the line, patiently waiting their turn to get through, to get settled down in the New World. Angelo clutched his own battered suitcase. 

Finally he reached the counter. The man behind the high wooden desk glared at him over his round glasses. He asked him his name, scribbling away on the register in front of him when Angelo answered. 

‘And where are you from?’

‘Napoli.’ Angelo said.

‘Naples.’ The guy corrected.

‘Si,’ Angelo smiled, ‘Naples.’ 

He was carried along with the bustling crowd, spilling out into the cold spring New York streets. Many of those disembarking were welcomed by those relatives already here. They were hugged and patted on the back. There was nobody here to meet Angelo. He turned the collar on his thin coat up against the cold and headed in what he hoped was the right direction. 

He wound his way to the Manhattan’s Lower East Side, where many of his fellow expatriates had settled after moving from the old country. The area had become so densely packed with Italian immigrants, it had quickly became known as Little Italy.

As he headed down the packed streets of the Lower East Side, he pulled a crumpled envelope from his coat pocket, and studied the address scribbled on the back. His uncle had promised Angelo’s father that he would look after his nephew when he got to New York. Angelo was sure that his father’s brother would keep his promise. 

Angelo had needed to stop and ask someone for directions, having lost his way. The woman pushing a wooden trolley laden with second-hand clothes, had given him directions and then asked, in Italian, if he had just arrived. Angelo had nodded. The woman had laughed, wishing him good luck, buona fortuna. 

He knocked on the front door of the address. Moments later, the door was snatched open and a woman in her fifties glared at him. Angelo explained that he was here to meet his uncle and gave his name. She turned and bellowed for his uncle.

His uncle appeared. He simply looked at him coldly, as though he was nothing more than a salesman trying his luck door to door. It had been several years since Angelo had seen his uncle, but he had been expecting a warmer reception than this. His uncle buttoned up his coat and put his flat-cap on.

‘Andiamo.’ He said, come on, heading down the steps and on to the street. 

He walked in silence, winding his way down the narrow crammed streets of the neighbourhood, Angelo at his side. Angelo wondered why there was hostility coming from his uncle. They were family after all. Were the ways of the old country forgotten, was it everyone for themselves in this new place? Did they all have to fend for themselves? 

His uncle showed him to his tiny one-room apartment and handed him the key, informing him that his father had paid the first week’s rent, and that he would have to find the next week’s rent himself. He had and warmth of a disgruntled land-lord. 

Angelo was about to thank him, but his uncle simply turned and left without another word. 

And there he was, Angelo Falcone, all alone in this foreign country. He felt so far from home, and this place did not seem quite the perfect Promised Land he had been envisioning. The streets he’d walked down had been bustling with people, and there had been a danger, a menace, threatening atmosphere about the place. In his short time here, he had seen arguments, fights and scuffles. 

And his family, his uncle, had left him to it. There would be no older relative to take him under his wing. He was such a long way from his native Italy, and the family that cared for him. 

For the next few days Angelo wandered the streets of his new city. He tried to find his feet, to get his bearings, to get his head around this new country. He walked the streets looking for work, desperate for employment. The meagre sum he’d brought with him wouldn’t last much longer, and the rent would soon be due. His actual landlord, a barrel shaped man with a beard and a scar on his left cheek, reminded him that he would soon have to pay his rent. Angelo dreaded to think what would happen if he couldn’t find the funds. 

He drifted up and down the streets of Little Italy, looking for work, trying his luck in every shop, store and warehouse he came across. Most places he tried, the managers didn’t even look at him. Who wanted another Napolitan straight off the boat?

On the way back home one evening, a man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. The man had his flat cap pulled low over his eyes, scarf up over his face. Angelo felt the knife sticking in his ribs. The man demanded that Angelo hands over all his money, speaking in quick Italian. Angelo laughed at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. 

‘Give you what?’ Angelo asked, incredulous. ‘I have nothing. My pockets are empty.’

The would-be robber simply turned and headed away, in search of a more prosperous victim.

At the end of the first week, two things happened. Firstly, he managed to get himself a job. He had almost given up hope of actually finding a job when he tried the butchers shop. He entered the small store, the meats and sausage on display making him drool. 

‘Madonna, everything looks amazing.’ He said with a smile.

The man behind the counter smiled back at him. He was somewhere in his late forties and his thinning hair was slicked back. He wiped his hands on his white apron and asked what he would like. 

‘I’m looking for a job. I was just wondering if you had anything going.’ Angelo said. 

The butcher went to speak, to turn him down, and then stopped. He rubbed his jaw in thought for a moment, eyeing Angelo as though he himself was a cut of meat he was considering purchasing. Finally he spoke. 

‘Yes, I actually could use some help. Come here for seven tomorrow morning and we’ll see how you get on.’

Angelo thanked him.

‘Come ti chiami?’ the butcher asked.

‘Angelo Falcone.’

‘I’m Gianfranco.’

They shook hands.  

That afternoon, he turned a corner and bumped into two people who would have a significant effect on the direction his life would take. In his hurry, he walked straight into the men. 

One of them, the shorter, stockier of the two, raised his hands.

‘Easy, tiger. Slow down.’ He said. 

Angelo apologised.

‘You can’t go around barging into people. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble.’ The other guy said, jabbing a finger at him.

Angelo backed off, shuffling back along the side-walk. The guy smiled warmly at Angelo.

‘I’m just messing with you, amico. You haven’t been in off the boat long, have you?’

Angelo shook his head.

‘Yeah, it shows.’

They introduced themselves as Luca and Salvatore. As they walked the teeming streets of Little Italy they talked. The two guys were of a similar age to him, but had been in America since their early teens. One of them was tall, thin, with eyes that darted everywhere, scanning, surveying, like a snake. The other guy was stockier, looking and moving like a prize-fighter. They both moved with a confidence that Angelo couldn’t help envying. He hoped to one day be as at home in this tough new world. 

Luca, the taller of the two, studied him closely for a long moment, then put his arm around him, as though they had known each other for years.

‘Stick with us, bambino. We’ll show you how to survive in this city.’

The two men smiled at him and while Angelo knew he should be wary of these two men, they were strangers, in a strange city, they were the only people for thousands of miles who were offering anything remotely like friendship. Angelo nodded, va bene. 

As Luca and Salvatore treated him to a coffee in a shop tucked down a back street, they talked about life in the harsh city. When he asked what his new associates did for work, they exchanged a glance.

‘We get by. We manage.’ Luca shrugged. ‘What about you?’

‘I start working in a butcher’s shop tomorrow morning.’

‘Allora, check this out, he’s a butcher boy.’

*

The next few weeks were a real learning curve for the young Angelo Falcone. During the day he would work hard and learn the trade as a butcher’s assistant. Gianfranco worked the young man hard, but he looked out for him, and his well-being. He seemed to genuinely care for his new employee. They seemed to very quickly form an almost father-son relationship. Maybe the butcher sensed Angelo was a long way from home and needed taking care of. Angelo, in turn, grew to see Gianfranco as very much a father-figure. If the butcher decided Angelo was looking on the skinny-side, clearly missing meals due to lack of funds, Gianfranco would insist he take some sausage home for dinner, and return the next morning with a fresh pasta dish, prepared by his wife. 

After his shifts at the butcher shop, he would meet up with his friends, Luca and Salvatore, joining them for drinks in the local bars. While they would stay out late into the night, often heading home as dawn was breaking, Angelo would always ensure he was back home in time to get a few hours’ sleep, before reporting for work for Gianfranco. 

As he read the newspaper one morning, detailing the Eighteenth Amendment to the constitution, making alcohol illegal, Angelo had no idea of the affect that prohibition would have on his life. As of January next year, 1920, the Volstead Act prohibited the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages. It would be known as Prohibition and would be a high-point for organised crime as they took full advantage of the sudden illegal activity the Government had granted them. Most people he spoke to in the butcher shop seemed to think Prohibition would never work, and that they’d never be able to enforce it. 

It was around this time he started to notice a certain type of individual in the neighbourhood. He knew instinctively that they were the local villains, criminals, operating in the area. These gangsters were always dressed in the finest clothes. They would wear fedora hats and long coats instead of flat caps and thin jackets like other men in the area. They wore fine silk scarves wrapped around their neck, whereas a paesano like him had a nothing but a scraggly rag of a scarf to keep out the cold. He had never felt cold like those New York winters. Whenever he did spot these types, he would cross over the street, and keep out of their way, just hoping they would do the same.

He worked hard in the butchers, working every day he can, late nights and weekend, early starts for deliveries, anything to earn a dollar. He saved up in order the money he earned, planning to send money home when he had enough. He would spend little more than rent and food on himself, aside from drinks with his friends. He still wore the same clothes he’d arrived in the country with, and would patch up his clothes with needle and thread. When he wasn’t working or hanging at the butcher’s shop, he was with his two new friends. Life was hard and tough, but he was happy. 

One evening several months later, Luca and Sal came to Angelo’s flat. He opened the door, surprised to see them.

‘Buona sera. I wasn’t expecting you.’

He opened the door wide, and showed friends inside. He reached for a half-empty bottle of red wine from the cupboard, and asked if they’d like a drink. Both men shook their heads, their expressions serious, the usual humour gone from their faces. Angelo turned and put the bottle back in the cupboard.

‘What can I do for you?’ Angelo asked. 

‘The money, where is it?’ Luca demanded.

‘What money? I don’t understand.’ Angelo replied.

As soon as he spoke, he understood. This wasn’t a social call, wasn’t two friends calling on their amico. This was a robbery. Angelo side-stepped, so he was standing in-between the would-be robbers and his narrow single bed.

‘Don’t do this, per favore.’ He pleaded.   

The next moments happened so quickly, and yet in slow-motion at the same time. Both men stepped forward, he saw Sal move, his arm swinging out like he was throwing first pitch at Yankee Stadium. His fist connected with the side of Angelo’s head, and he crumpled to the floor. As the room was spinning around him, Angelo watched in horror, as his two friends tipped his bed over, and grabbed the cigar box containing all the money he had saved up. 

Laughing, they head for the door, and down the stairs. Angelo managed to get to his feet. He couldn’t let them take all the money he’d saved up. He dashed down the stairs after them. He crashed out of the door, and onto the street. He cursed and called out, in the darkness, before chasing the two men down the street. He called out again, telling them to stop. Luca and Salvatore stopped as they reach the end of the block. 

They turned and stared at him. Suddenly, Angelo was regretting chasing the two men. They glared at him in the glow of the street-lights. They turned on him, attacking him with such ferocity and violence. Angelo was battered to the sidewalk, as the punches and kicks rained down. He raised his hands in an attempt to protect himself from the onslaught. Pain shot through him as blow after blow connected. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt it streaming down his face. 

Finally, the attack over, Luca and Salvatore leaned over him, peering down at the broken man on the pavement. They laughed.

‘You should choose your friends more carefully.’ Luca said with a grin.

The two men walked away, talking loudly about what a productive evening they’d had. 

Angelo lay there on the sidewalk, bathed in the street-light glow, aching all over, blood in his eyes. Angelo Falcone vowed right then that he would never let anyone take advantage of him ever again. 

When he headed to the butcher’s shop the next morning, Gianfranco rushed from behind the counter to tend to Angelo’s bruises. As he fussed over him, he asked what happened.

‘I thought they were my friends.’ Angelo shook his head. ‘Imperato la lezione.’

He had learned his lesson. 

When he explained that they had beaten him up, and had robbed him. The butcher asked how he would pay the landlord that week’s rent. Angelo simply shrugged.

Gianfranco put down the cotton wool and the bandages, and dashed behind the counter. He returned and handed Angelo a bundle of dollar bills. Angelo shook his head, I can’t.

‘You are like one of my own, and I look after my family.’ Angelo had tears in his eyes as he thanked him.

Later that afternoon, Gianfranco insisted he come home with him. When Angelo went to decline the offer, the butcher pointed a finger at him.

‘If I go home and tell my wife that I let you go home all alone, after what’s happened to you!’ He laughed. ‘Let’s just say, you’ll be tending to my wounds tomorrow morning.

Angelo simply nodded, a half-smile on his face. 

That evening, in the apartment of Gianfranco and his wife, Lucia, Angelo dined on such wonderful pasta dishes. He had tears in his eyes as the pasta and the company reminded him so much of home. Finally, full of wine and the flavours of home, he thanked the couple, and made his way back to his draughty apartment. 

One day Angelo was working in the shop as usual when a finely dressed man approached the counter. He was in his late thirties and wore a dark overcoat and his tie was held in place with a silver pin. He had a of confidence air about him. He was friendly, but there is a menace, a danger lurking just under the friendly façade.

He ordered for the finest cuts of Italian meats. Angelo nodded and set about preparing his order. He wrapped the cold-cuts in paper and placed into a bag. He handed the bag over as usual, and told the customer how much there was to pay.

At that moment, Gianfranco rushed over, a look of panic on his face. He waved his hands, dismissing Angelo.

‘Sorry, he doesn’t know who you are. There’s no charge, of course.’ Gianfranco insisted.

‘Grazie,’ the guy said to the butcher. He turned to Angelo, See you around. 

Once the customer had left, Angelo asked who the man was. Gianfranco pointed to the door he’d just exited through.

‘That was Don Carosone. And men like the Don do not pay for things.’

There was such reverence and fear in his voice. Angelo was intrigued. All day as he worked away, he went over the incident with the guy they called the Don. He didn’t know exactly who this man was but he knew he wanted to be part of that world. Perhaps there was his ticket out of the poky apartment and into something better. 

After work the next evening, Angelo went to a local bar. As the barman poured him a whiskey, Angelo asked if he knew where he could find this Don Carosone. 

‘He operates out of a place down on Mulberry Street, but you didn’t hear that from me.’

The barman described in a whisper exactly where the notorious figure could be found. Angelo thanked the barman, and tipped him. The barman wished him good luck and went to serve other customers. As he sipped his whiskey, Angelo went over things in his mind. Life in the new country was tough, and he’d learned that the hard way. For every person like Gianfranco, there seemed to be two like the former friends who had robbed him.

Finally, he necked the last of the liquor, slammed the glass down on the bar, and left. 

The place was exactly as the barman had described. A door, no windows, and a buzzer. Privacy and security were clearly key to the residents. Angelo took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.

A moment later a slit went back on the door. Suspicious eyes peered out at him through the narrow gap. 

‘Cosa vuoi?’ The voice growled. What do you want?

‘Voglio parlare con Don Carosone.’ Angelo replied, insisting that he wanted to speak to the Don.

He tried to speak in a voice more confident than he felt. Then the slit slid shut. 

Moments later, just as Angelo was thinking about headed back home, the door opened. A large guy in a pin-stripe suit filled the doorway. He glared at Angelo, peering out into the darkness.

‘Is Don Carosone expecting you?’

‘No, he is not.’ Angelo admitted. 

‘Who are you? You can’t just walk in here and demand an audience with Signor Carosone.’ 

‘I’m from the butchers.’ Angelo stammered, his nerves getting the better of him.

‘You have a delivery? Where’s your bicycle?’ The guy laughed.

‘No, I want to work for the Don.’

‘This isn’t the employment exchange, amico. This is the wrong door to try if you are looking for work.’ 

Angelo shook his head, he had nowhere else to go, except back to his draughty apartment. He had nothing left to lose. 

‘Can you tell him I’m here, ask if he’ll see me? Per favore?’ Angelo insisted.

‘Wait here.’ He growled before slamming the door shut.

Angelo smoked a cigarette and waited. This would either be the start of something or it would come to exactly nothing. He sensed there would be no half-measures. 

Eventually, the door opened again, and the man in the suit ushered him quickly inside. He was shown though the club, all fancy leather chairs and framed paintings, Scott Joplin playing from the gramophone. The place was busy with men and women, all dressed in their finery, drinking beer, whiskey and champagne from fine-cut glasses.  It was as though he’d entered a secret world when he crossed the threshold. Maybe, he had, he thought. 

He followed the guy through to a small office at the back of the club. Suddenly he was face to face with the Don. The man he’d served in the butchers was sitting behind a desk. Don Carosone leaned forward, his cuff-links clinking on the desk.

‘What is it I can do for you?’ he asked.

‘I would like to work for you, Signor Carosone. Like a lot of this community, I am struggling to get by, and I wondered if you would give me the opportunity to work for your organizzazione.’ 

The Don eyed him with curiosity. Some of the people who came to him for work were knuckle-heads who just wanted to crack a few skulls together. The Don would set these guys up as security or debt collectors. He sensed the young man standing in front of him was different. He seemed serious, earnest. The Don wondered if, beyond this butcher’s apron, there could be a man who would be an asset to the Family. 

‘Why should I hire you?’ Carosone asked.

‘I’m hard working and loyal. I am honest.’ Angelo said.

‘But not too honest?’ The Don smiled gently. ‘We are in business after all.’ 

Angelo said nothing, sensing he should keep his mouth shut. The Don rubbed his jaw as he thought things over. Finally he clapped his hands together. He had made his decision. 

‘Va bene. I will give you this chance.’

‘Grazie, Don Carosone.’

‘Come here tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll see what I can do for you.’ the Don said.

‘What time should I get here?’ 

‘Early afternoon will be fine, this isn’t the military.’ The Don smiled.

Angelo nodded.

‘Besides, if I need someone urgently, they know about it.’

Angelo stepped out into the night, a real mix of emotions washing over him. He was excited to see what the future held, yet rather nervous about exactly what getting involved with people like the Don would entail. As he headed back to his apartment, he had a sense that things would never be the same again.  

The next morning, Angelo arrived at the butcher shop. He felt sad to be letting his former employer down, and would forever be grateful to him. He went through the door, and instead of hurrying behind the counter to start work, simply hovered on the other side of the counter. Gianfranco looked up, just about to tell him to get moving. The look on Angelo’s face must have betrayed him. The butcher placed his knives down and came around the counter.

‘So this is it, then?’ Gianfranco asked, tears in his eyes. ‘You’re leaving.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Angelo said.

‘What will you do for work?’

‘I’m going to work for Don Carosone.’

‘Angelo, please, think about this. They are not people you want to be getting involved with.’

‘I want more for myself than this.’ Angelo said. ‘No offence.’

‘I understand. You are a young man, in a new country, and in a new world. I won’t stand in your way.’

With the tears now streaming down his face, he kissed Angelo on both cheeks, wishing him all the very best for the future. Angelo swallowed back the lump in his throat, his voice breaking as he spoke.

‘I won’t forget what you and Lucia have done for me. Without you both, I wouldn’t have lasted a week in this country. I won’t forget this.’

Gianfranco nodded, saying he had to take care of an order out the back of the shop.

‘Arrivederci.’ Angelo said.

‘Buona fortuna.’ the butcher replied, wishing him luck, before turning and walking out through the back door, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed.

Angelo took one last look around the shop. This place had been such a large part of his experience so far in this country, and here he was moving on in another direction. He placed a hand gently on his folded apron on the counter. He would always look back on his days working for Gianfranco with such fondness. He wiped the tear from his eye and headed to the door. He had one hand on the door-handle when he stopped. He turned and grabbed the meat-cleaver from the counter. He tucked it into his coat. He had a feeling that the instrument would also come in useful in his new line of work. 

Just after midday Angelo approached the spot on Mulberry Street. Last night, in the glow of the streetlight, the door had been shut tight, the place like a fortress. In the daylight the place was a hub of activity. People dashed in and out of the door, eager to get about their business. Others simply hung around the doorway, smoking and chatting. The men all wore the finest suits and their hair was styled and slicked. As he neared the snippets of conversation seemed to blend together. There was one guy telling of his romantic conquest the other night, a few were engrossed in the details of a jewellery heist that went down last week, and others were discussing the chances of the Yankees making the World Series. 

He reached a few feet from the door, when a man stepped forward placing a heavy hand on his chest. 

‘Yeah? What you wantin’?’ 

‘The Don told me to come and see him.’ Angelo explained. 

‘Well, why are you standing here chewing my ear off?’ 

Angelo hurried around the man and in through the door. Inside a couple of fellers sipped coffee and read the daily newspapers. They looked up when Angelo entered.

‘I’m here to see the Don.’ he explained.

A guy with a scar on his cheek jerked a thumb in the direction of the office. Angelo nodded, and moved quickly for the door. 

He tapped gently on the door and waited. A second later a man opened the door and gave him a glare that asked what he wanted. Before Angelo could speak, he heard the Don speak, calling out in Italian, to let him in.

Angelo found the Don sitting behind his desk. Angelo sensed that the Don ruled his empire from this office and the leather-backed chair was like his Royal throne. As well as the guy that had shown him in, there was another man in the office. The man clutched a file crammed with papers and stared at the Don. 

Don Carosone waved a hand, the guy was dismissed. 

‘Va bene.’ the guy said and shuffled from the room. 

The guy at the door closed it after the man, leaving just him, Angelo and the Don. Angelo suddenly fell under the glare of the mob boss. 

‘You came back. That’s good. Not everybody does. I’m sure you have heard stories about me around the neighbourhood. Some of those stories are true, and some of those are not. I am no choir-boy, but I’m not a monster either. My associates and I, we are reasonable men. However, the business we are in sometimes calls for us to be ruthless. And we are ruthless, also. If you are loyal to me and my family, then you will be rewarded, and handsomely. If you cross me, let’s just say, your mother back in Napoli won’t be receiving any more letters home.’

Angelo flinched. The Don had clearly done his research into his new employee. He knew that Angelo was alone in the city, and that indeed, his family was back in the city of Napoli. Other people would be frightened but Angelo was fascinated and intrigued. This was a world he wanted to be part of. He felt like a young boy going to his first football game and deciding he wanted to be a Quarter-back. He suddenly knew what he wanted from life. He wanted to move in these shadowy rooms, having hushed conversations with men like the Don and his associates. 

‘I will be loyal to you and the family, Don Carosone.’ Angelo vowed. 

The Don came from behind the desk. He kissed Angelo on both cheeks, and then pointed a finger at him.

‘You’re with me now, with my family.’ 

Angelo would be learning the ropes from a guy a few years older than him. Carlo was a relative of the Don, maybe a nephew. Angelo didn’t like to ask for all the details. Carlo had the thin wiry frame of a light-weight boxer, and the same steel in his gaze as the Don. Carlo was friendly and warm with him, but Angelo sensed there was an underlying threat and danger behind the smile.

He spent the next few days with Carlo and a few of the others, as they took care of the business. They would collect money that was owed by the neighbourhood folk, run card games, and at night there would be all sorts of things going on. One night they robbed a warehouse, filling up the trucks while guard dogs barked and snapped at their heels. As they jumped into the truck, also stolen, and darted out of the stock-yard, Angelo grinned. He had never felt so alive. He felt like those outlaws from four decades ago, those cowboys. He laughed, he felt like Billy the Kid. Even as far away as Italy, they spoke of the Wild West of America. Legends like Billy the Kid and Butch and Sundance were spoke of across Europe. Maybe Angelo was writing his own legend, right here and now. These were exciting times, this was his time, and here in America, in New York, going into the year 1920, this was the centre of the world. 

He quickly realised that there were generally two types of people working for the family. Some of the men who work for the Don are little more than hired thugs. They were like sharks in suits. They were the muscle, the hoodlums, the enforcers. They were good for knocking heads together, for terrorising people into paying on time, for doing what needed to be done. But they didn’t really have much else going on upstairs. 

Then there were others, these guys were shrewd, calculating, always with an eye on the look-out for an opportunity to make a Dollar. These guys were clever and could have made a living on Wall Street had things been different.

Don Carosone himself was clearly a man of intelligence. In another life, given another set of circumstances, he could have been a politician. Angelo smiled to himself at the thought. What was the difference between a gangster and a politician? The answer was may be nothing at all.

As the weeks turned into months, Angelo felt more settled in working for the family, and for the Don, than he had in years. He worked hard, priding himself on his work, being a grafter, a good earner, and a stand-up guy. The way he saw it, he was learning his trade, his craft, in the same way he had been in the butcher’s shop. Just because his new business was against the law, didn’t mean it was any less significant. If anything, it made it even more special. Most occupations didn’t have the law and the Government trying to stop them. And their business rivals didn’t carry pistols and Thompson sub-machine guns to protect themselves. 

Angelo quickly got used to the violent, hostile world that was he was living in. Those were tough, harsh days, and you had to be strong and do what it took to survive. They were dangerous days, and it was a lethal world he was moving in, but the way he saw it, if you were tough enough, and if you played by the rules, then a guy could make a lot of money and be very happy. Sure, if you put a foot wrong, you could end up dead or in jail, but those were the risks you took. 

He worked hard, he proved he was a good earner, and would often receive praise from the Don himself. Angelo not only showed that he was tough and a loyal guy, but that he was clever. He had a good head for the business. 

Angelo would give a guy a beating if it was necessary, would take a baseball bat to a feller’s legs, to make sure that next week he didn’t forget to pay what he owed. It was business, it was the job, the street-life. Everybody knew the rules. One evening, he ordered a whiskey at a bar and the landlord wouldn’t let him pay. Angelo nodded, word was getting out. People knew who he was, and who he was with. And the next time he got a suit made, the tailor insisted there was no charge. Angelo checked himself in the mirror, adjusting his cuffs. He looked good, he looked like the men he’d seen when he’d first stepped off the boat. He looked every inch the gangster, and he was delighted. 

One afternoon word went around the neighbourhood. A group of young guys had been foolish enough to go on a crime spree, robbing from the Don. With a fleet of vehicles, they had stolen truck-loads of cargo belonging to Carosone. The cargo had been stolen to begin with, but once it was in the possession of the Don, only someone with a death-wish would go after it. Angelo asked around, wanting to find out as much as he could about what had happened. 

Angelo then headed to the Don’s office to offer his help and support. He found the Don pacing up and down the office, raging. Angelo joined the huddle other men in the room. 

‘I want a message sending. I won’t stand for this. The crew that did this, they have to go.’ The Don said.

Angelo raised his hand.

‘Go on, Angelo.’ 

‘I was just thinking, there are how many guys in their outfit?’

‘There are ten of them, your point being?’

‘They pulled off was a pretty nice job. A decent bit of graft.’ Angelo said.

‘Choose your next words very carefully.’ The Don warned. ‘Don’t forget whose pocket they were taking from.’

‘All I’m saying is, if those trucks belonged to somebody else, and they kicked back to us, you’d be pleased.’

‘But they snubbed their noses at me. I can’t be seen to be disrespected. Don’t you know how the business works?’ The Don asked. 

‘The word on the street is that the crew is run by two fellers. These two guys are ubatz, just crazy. They way they’re carrying on they’ll be dead or in prison by the time they’re twenty-one. The rest of the crew, though, they’ve got potential. What I propose is, you take out these two, the ring-leaders, and the rest, you take them on. You get them working for you. And if this talk of Prohibition comes off, then we’ll need all the soldiers we can get.’ Angelo said. 

‘How do I know they can trust them?’ The Don asked.

‘If you spare them, when you’d be well within your right to clip them, they’ll come on board. And if it’s a choice between working for us or lead poisoning, trust me, they’ll be loyal. Besides, they’ll be going from a two-bit outfit to working for the family, that’s like a kid in the Little Leagues being given a shot at playing for the Yankees.’

The Don said nothing for a long moment, never taking his eyes from Angelo. Angelo’s gaze never wavered. All eyes in the room were on the two men and the interaction.

‘They won’t work for me, Angelo.’ The Don said finally.

‘How’s that?’ Angelo said.

‘They’ll work for you.’

The men in the room turned to Angelo, realising the significance of the moment.

‘I won’t let you down.’ Angelo said. 

The Don patted him on the back. 

Everyone knew this was a big step up. Angelo would be running his own crew from then on. There would be no going back. The numbers of men working for him would only increase. This was the start of bigger things to come, and they both knew it. This was the way this thing of ours, La Cosa Nostra, was run. There was the boss at the top, then his captains, who in turn, had their soldiers working for them. It was organised like a corporation, or like the army, or the Royal family. There were ranks, a pecking order, to the organisation. Angelo would soon have more soldiers working for him. 

That evening, as he was in bar across the city, that evening, going over everything in his mind, one of the Don’s associates came over to him. They shook hands warmly.

‘I heard the news about the crew.’ The guy said. ‘Congratulations.’ 

Angelo nodded, grazie.

‘You know what that means, right?’

‘That I’m getting my own crew?’

‘That you gotta take care of those two guys personally.’ The guy said.

Angelo nodded, of course. He would finally have to use the pistol tucked into his waistband, and for more than threatening and intimidating. The guy was right. It was expected. This was a big leap, and he would have to step up accordingly. He would commit himself to the Don and the family in the oldest, traditional way, by taking a life, by spilling blood. 

Angelo sipped his whiskey and tried to process everything. This moment had been only a matter of time. If you go to work for a man like the Don, if you are part of the life, then eventually you had to push the button on somebody. He had known what he was getting into but he still felt strange about the fact that the moment was here. He tried not to think about what his family back in Italy would say, or what Gianfranco would make of it all. 

He necked the last of the liquor and ordered another measure. By the time he left the bar and headed back to his new apartment, his resolve was set. He knew what he had to do, and he knew he had it in him to go through with it. Everyone in their life knew the risks, they knew the rules, they knew what they were getting into, the unwritten contract. He turned the collar up on his overcoat and walked on through the night. 

Two nights later, Angelo entered the back room of a bar. In the room was several of the Don’s men, all bearing pistols, aimed at the ten men sitting on wooden chairs in the middle of the room. When he entered, the Don’s men nodded in greeting, while two of the men jumped to their feet and marched up to him.

‘What is all this? These goons jumped us. They pulled guns and brought us here. You won’t get away with this.’ One of them said.

‘Yeah, you’ll pay for this.’ The other added. 

Angelo straightened his tie, leisurely, before responding. These two were clearly the leaders of the group.

‘Your recent escapades have brought you to the attention my employer, a gentleman by the name of Don Carosone.’ Angelo said. ‘I’m sure you have heard of him.’

Angelo paused, letting the news settle of just who exactly they were in trouble with. The two men exchanged worried glances. 

‘Those trucks you stole last week, they belonged to him. Don Carosone isn’t the kind of guy you want to be stealing from.’

The other men in the group insisted they had no idea, and called out, protesting, pleading, apologising. The two leaders simply demanded they be released and insisting they could do as they pleased.

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let us go.’ One of the leaders said.

Angelo pulled out his pistol. He moved quickly. He put a bullet in the forehead of the first guy, then quickly turned and took out the second guy. The two men slumped to the floor, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. With the sound of the shots still jarring the air in the room, the rest of the group called out to be spared, hands in the air. 

Angelo raised a hand for silence. The men fell quiet, suddenly aware that their fate might possibly be different to that of their friends. He waited a moment. This was, he knew, a key moment in his life. There was no going back from this. He felt excitement and adrenaline, and most seductive of all, he felt power. He turned and spoke to the group with an authority in his voice that hadn’t been there before. 

‘You gentlemen have a choice. You can either join your friends here,’ he waved to the two men on the floor, ‘or you can come and work for me, under Don Carosone.’

He let his words sink in before continuing.

‘So,’ he said with a smile. ‘what’s it going to be?’

As one the group crowded around Angelo, shaking his hand and proclaiming their loyalty to him and the Don. Angelo reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of Dollar bills. He handed each man several Dollars, and telling each of them, they worked for him now. 

When he stepped out onto the side-walk, Angelo lit a cigarette. He felt different, he could feel himself changing, transforming. 

One of the first tasks he gave one of his new soldiers was to deliver an envelope filled with cash to the butcher’s shop. 

‘With what message?’ the guy asked.

‘Just tell him grazie.’

One evening some weeks later, Angelo was at the Don’s office on Mullberry Street when two men were dragged in. They entered the Don’s office, having been summoned. A summons from the Don was like getting a letter from the Supreme Court. If the Don wanted to see you, you went along, it was that simple. They were in debt to the Don over gambling. They owed a lot of money to some serious people.

While the Don was seated behind his desk, holding court, Angelo leaned against a filing cabinet smoking a cigarette. Angelo recognised the two men immediately. It was his former friends, Luca and Salvatore, the two men who had robbed him. Two of the Don’s henchmen stood either side of Angelo’s former friends. 

When they saw that a familiar face was a part of the Don’s entourage the relief washed over their faces. They nodded to the Don, but turned to greet Angelo.

‘Ciao, Angelo. Good to see you, man.’ 

Angelo didn’t say a word, he simply stared at the two men. The Don tapped an impatient finger on the desk. The court was clearly in session.

‘You men owe the family a lot of money in outstanding gambling debts. This will end very badly for you.’ said the Don.

‘Give us more time, please. Angelo, he’s an old friend of ours. He can vouch for us.’

The Don turned to his protégé. 

The two men, also looked at him, their eyes pleading.

‘It would seem, Don Carosone, that these two schifoso have a habit of taking money that doesn’t belong to them.’ Angelo said.

‘And what would you have me do with these two?’ asked the Don.

‘Leave them bleeding on the sidewalk.’ Angelo said. 

‘Angelo, please.’ The men called, terror on their faces.

Angelo pointed a finger, like a lawyer delivering their damning argument. 

‘You once told me to choose my friends more carefully. How do you like my new friends?’

He turned to the hoodlums who were about to start with the beating.

‘Don’t hold back, fellers. And don’t forget, I want them bleeding on the sidewalk.’ Angelo said.

‘You got it, Ange.’ They replied. 

Angelo buttoned up his overcoat and left, still smiling. 

As he headed down the street, Angelo sensed that in that very moment, he had well and truly left his old life, the old Angelo, behind him. 

The man who had stepped off the boat, had been something of a sensitive soul, a dreamer, and now, the man that had the screams and pleading of vengeance still ringing in his ears, he was a man who wanted all that the American dream had to offer, and would do anything to make his dreams a reality. 

Don Carosone came to the front door. He lit a cigarette and peered out into the night. He watched the young man with curiosity as he walked away through the street-light. He had a feeling that the story of Angelo Falcone was only just beginning.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom