New York - The Novel

point-blank range. Do it so swiftly that his victim would hardly have time to register surprise.
    Who could have imagined that a slate blown from a roof above would crash at his feet, at that precise moment, causing him to jerk his head up?
    The other fellow had thought quicker than he had, then. Instead of running away, he’d barged straight into him, knocking him over and kicking the gun out of his hand. Then he’d run fast up the street, dived round the corner, loosed off a couple of rounds that had only just missed. Paolo had his gun by then. He’d returned fire, and given chase. But his victim had vanished. And he’d seen Paolo’s face.
    So now there were some very angry people in Brooklyn.
    The question was, what to do? Probably best to leave town. But where should he go? Maybe Madden could suggest something.
    The orchestra was playing “Gin House Blues.” A Henderson composition. A couple of years back, the Henderson sound had been enriched by a young trumpet player named Louis Armstrong. He’d departed for Chicago, unfortunately, but maybe he’d be back. Paolo knew that Madden also had his eye on another up-and-coming band leader, Duke Ellington, who played over at the Kentucky Club. That was what was so impressive about Madden. He was always looking for something new.
    Paolo glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. He doubted Madden would show up now, but he decided to wait a little longer.
    His thoughts turned to the conversation with Charlie and his friend. How strange that the friend should have met Anna. He remembered those terrible days after her death. He recalled his anger, his sense of rage and impotence. That was what had set him on his path, really. This rocky, dangerous path, to this high, dark place, from which he now feared to fall. He had loved Anna. Loved all his family, really. If only, he told himself, they weren’t such losers. He shrugged. Maybe he was going to be a loser too, pretty soon.
    He signaled for the check and paid it. No use waiting any longer.
    As he stepped onto the sidewalk outside, he buttoned his coat tightly. The temperature had fallen, and it had begun to snow. There was half an inch on the street already. He looked around carefully; he could only see a few black people. It was white men he had to beware of. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, partly to hide his face, but mostly against the snow that the wind was whipping along the street. He started to walk.
    As a precaution, he’d moved lodgings three days ago, to a place offEighth Avenue where he wasn’t known. He’d walk to the subway, make sure he wasn’t being followed, and take a circuitous route home. He turned down Lenox Avenue.
    Hell, it was cold.

    Salvatore didn’t see Teresa during the month of October. There wasn’t a telephone at his lodgings, but there was a payphone nearby, and Teresa’s family had one in their house. He waited ten days before calling and asking to speak to her. He listened carefully to the tone of her voice. She sounded pleased to hear from him.
    “My parents say thank you again for the picture,” she said. “Will you tell Angelo?”
    “Sure.”
    “I won’t be coming into the city for a little while.”
    “Is that because of your parents?”
    “My parents say I have to go with my cousin and she’s not free right now,” she said. It sounded like an excuse. “But I’d like to see you,” she added.
    “I’ll call again,” he promised.
    Was there some hope? He had a long talk with Uncle Luigi about his finances. “You may not have much,” Uncle Luigi advised, “but at least increase what you have. Put your savings in the stock market. You can’t lose. It’s going up all the time. The whole country’s getting richer every day.” He grinned. “Let your little boat rise with the tide.” It seemed to make sense. But the childhood memory of his father’s savings and Signor Rossi still weighed on Salvatore’s mind, and for a while he hesitated.
    It wasn’t only a question of money, either.
    “Her family may want a man with a business,” he told his uncle, “but even if I had the money, what would I do?” True, the work he did was hard, physical labor, but his body was strong, and he liked being out in the open, even when the weather was cold. There was a freedom to it, too. You went to work, you did the work, you were paid, and then you were free. There were plenty of jobs for a skilled laborer like himself too. He had no worries.