New York - The Novel

The Fronton occupied a basement a block to the west of Washington Square, by Sixth Avenue. Run by young Jack Kriendler and Charlie Berns, it was one of the best speakeasies in town. Salvatore noticed that as soon as Paolo’s face appeared at the entrance, where visitors made themselves known through a peephole, the door was instantly opened, and Paolo was greeted by name.
    The Fronton was a spacious cellar. The floor was mostly taken up by tables with white tablecloths. There was a bar along one side of the room, and pictures of the Wild West on the walls. The place was already filling up with the lunchtime crowd, and Salvatore noticed one or two well-known faces. But Paolo was given a table at once. They each ordered a steak, and in the meantime, they were served Irish whiskey. Salvatore remarked that Paolo looked well, and Paolo smiled, raising his glass.
    “Let’s drink to Prohibition, brother. It’s been good to me.”
    When the temperance movement had triumphed, and the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution banning the sale of “intoxicating liquors” went into effect in 1920, the face of America might have changed. But it sure as hell hadn’t stopped people drinking. The law was the law, but millions of people didn’t believe in it. Respectable restaurants would adopt subterfuges—a bowl of soup, for instance, might turn out to be liquor. And in cities like New York, there were the speakeasies—subject to police raids, but ever-present. And of course, as with every law that denies people something they are determined to have, Prohibition had created a huge and profitable market, where illicit supply could name its price. Bootlegger operators like Rothstein, Waxy Gordon, Frank Costello, Big Bill Dwyer and Lucky Luciano were making fortunes. Salvatore had wondered for a long time if his brother was involved in bootlegging. Now Paolo had as good as told him.
    They chatted about the family. Paolo asked Salvatore about his love life, and then told him: “I can get you a real high-class girl, I mean one of the best. For free.” He grinned. “She owes us a debt. You want to try her?”
    “I’ll think about it,” Salvatore said, but he had no desire to get mixed up with Paolo’s friends, and they both knew it. “Maybe I’ll find a nice girl and get married,” he added.
    “Bene. Bene.”
Paolo looked pleased. “You’ll invite me to your wedding?”
    “Of course. How could my brother not be at my wedding?”
    They talked about Angelo next, and how Uncle Luigi still wanted him to make more of his life.
    “Maybe Uncle Luigi’s right, though,” said Paolo. “The kid could go to painting school or something. If you need money …”
    Salvatore gazed at his brother, and felt a wave of affection. Behind the gangster—for that’s what his brother was—the old Paolo was still there. He wanted to do right by his family. He was trying to show his love, maybe receive love too. Salvatore reached over and squeezed his brother’s arm.
    “You’re a good brother,” he said softly. “I’ll tell you if Angelo needs anything.”
    They finished their steaks. Paolo ordered coffee.
    “Can I ask you something?” Salvatore said.
    “Sure.”
    “Does it worry you, being on the wrong side of the law?”
    Paolo paused before replying.
    “Do you remember 1907, when Rossi lost all our father’s savings?”
    “Of course I do.”
    “And do you remember 1911, when Anna got killed in the factory?”
    “How could I forget?”
    “I remember too, Salvatore.” Paolo nodded, and suddenly a suppressed passion came into his voice. “I remember with anger. With bitterness. Because my family was poor, because they were ignorant, because they were losers, people dared to steal from them, to let them fry in fire traps.” He shrugged, furiously. “Why not? We were only Italians. Wops. Dagos. So I said to myself, I will not be a loser. I will do whatever it takes, but I will win.” He paused again, seemed to collect himself, then smiled. “Maybe I’ll get rich and marry and buy a big farm for us all. How about that, little brother?”
    So then Salvatore understood his brother’s dream.
    A party of four was just being seated at the table next to theirs. Salvatore glanced across. They were uptown people. There was a young man in his twenties, somewhat carelessly dressed, and a young woman, a typical flapper, he thought. By the look of it, the middle-aged couple with them were the parents of the young man. The