Part 2 (1/2)

Bill did not have to prove anything to Labruzzo, his mother's brother, a man who had become like his own brother, understanding by instinct. Though they were twenty years apart and had lost touch during Bill's years in Arizona, they shared the knowledge of a similar past and were united on so many personal levels. Bill was intimately familiar with the neighborhood in which Labruzzo grew up, the Brooklyn house in which he lived, the almost exotic Sicilian exiles that were Labruzzo's parents, Bill's grandparents. Labruzzo's father, domineering and proud, was not unlike the elder Bonanno in some ways, and Bill sensed the conflict in Frank Labruzzo and recognized it in himself.

To be born of such foreign fathers and to remain loyal to them throughout one's lifetime, was to bear the burden of being an outsider and being alienated from much of America. Bill thought that the only thing that might have separated Frank Labruzzo and himself from their present circ.u.mstances would have been total rebellion, a complete break with their fathers' past and present, but for the younger Bonanno and Labruzzo this was not possible. They were too close, too involved, were the products of people who believed intensely in family loyalty; and although they themselves were a generation removed from the clannish hills of western Sicily and had both had the benefit of higher education, they were still influenced by certain values of the old country and they sometimes felt like strangers in their native land. They were fractional Americans, not yet totally acceptable nor receptive to the American majority, and Bill believed that they were also different from the sons of most other Italian immigrants-they were less malleable, more deeply defined, more insular.

He remembered how insular Frank Labruzzo's neighborhood in Brooklyn had been. Except for the absence of a mountain, it could have pa.s.sed for a Sicilian village. The dialect and manner of the people were the same, the cooking was the same, the interior of the homes seemed the same. The old women wore black, mourning death on two continents, and the unmarried young women lived under the watchful eyes of their parents, who missed nothing. Bill recalled hearing from his mother and her sisters how strict his grandfather Labruzzo had been during their courting days, not permitting them to wear lipstick or eyebrow pencil or cut their hair in the contemporary fas.h.i.+on or smoke or be outdoors after dark. Charles Labruzzo, who neither spoke nor wrote English despite living in America for thirty-two years, made few concessions to the modern world except for the purchase of an automobile, which he drove without a license.

Charles Labruzzo was born in 1870 in the western Sicilian town of Camporeale, in the hilly interior southeast of Castellammare, into a family of sheepherders and cattle raisers. A strapping broad-shouldered man, he worked as a blacksmith in Camporeale, married a local girl, and sired the first of his twelve children. Then one night, after a violent fight with an uncle who tried to cheat him of his inheritance, he abruptly left Sicily for Tunisia, thinking that he had killed the uncle during an exchange of body blows. Later his wife joined him in Tunisia, continuing to let him believe that he was wanted for murder in Sicily though she was aware of his uncle's recovery; she had had enough of Sicily and knew that by withholding the information she could avoid going back.

After a few years in Tunisia-during that time was born their daughter Fay, Bill's mother-the Labruzzos immigrated to the United States. Industrious and shrewd, Charles Labruzzo prospered in America in the butcher business and in real estate investing. On Jefferson Street in Brooklyn, during the 1920s, he owned a comfortable home with a large backyard in which he kept chickens and a milk-bearing goat; a commercial building leased to a clothing manufacturer; and a four-story tenement in which he rented apartments. His butcher shop was on the ground floor of the tenement and under it was a pipeline through which flowed wine from his home two doors away. He was the envy of several Sicilians in the neighborhood, and his quick temper and touchiness contributed to his unpopularity. The sight of his chasing someone down the street, swearing in Sicilian, was not uncommon, and once after a painter standing on a ladder yelled down an insult, Labruzzo grabbed a shotgun, aimed it at the painter and forced him to jump thirty feet to the sidewalk. The panicked man, after landing without injury, ran for cover.

Labruzzo was often intercepted and calmed down during his angry pursuits by a soft-spoken young man who offered to settle his difficulties, wanting nothing in return except peace and quiet in the neighborhood. The man was Joseph Bonanno. Charles Labruzzo knew the Bonanno name from the old country, and he liked the younger man's style, his self-a.s.surance, and he was delighted later when Bonanno married his daughter-and in 1932 presented him with a grandson, Salvatore Vincent Bonanno, who would be known as Bill.

The child was born during an otherwise miserable year in Labruzzo's life. He had just lost a leg during an operation for diabetes, and he became bitter and depressed, drinking great quant.i.ties of wine and cursing his fate. He banged his crutches angrily against the walls of his room when he wanted one of his daughters to attend to his needs, and his only unintimidated companion during this period was a pet chicken who followed him everywhere and slept on his bed at night, often on his chest. Whenever the Bonannos came to visit and left young Bill for a few days, the old man was pleased.

Bill remembered his grandfather as a heavy white-haired man sitting in the sun in front of the house reciting Sicilian proverbs-ancient truths from a stoical society-and occasionally the old man would send him to a nearby tavern for a container of beer or into a drugstore for a single cigarette, which could be bought for a penny. When his grandfather wished to go up to his room, Bill would tuck his shoulder under the stump of his grandfather's leg, and they would slowly climb each step; although the weight was borne by the crutches, Bill was providing moral support, and he liked the appearance of being needed and being close.

Sometimes when the old man was asleep, the youngest son, Frank, would take Bill for walks, looking after him as he would later in life. Frank Labruzzo was then in his twenties, working at odd jobs during the Depression years, including part-time work as an undertaker in a funeral parlor partly owned by Joseph Bonanno. Bill remembered how horrified his grandmother was when she heard that Frank had become a mortician and how she screamed whenever he entered the house, warning him not to touch anything. Frank would merely shrug in his casual way, not offended by her att.i.tude or embarra.s.sed by his work, which he preferred to working in a butcher shop.

Frank Labruzzo never did work for his father; he was attracted instead to the activities of his brother-in-law, Joseph Bonanno. Bonannos' existence seemed glamorous and exciting. He wore fine clothes, drove a new car. He was in touch with the outside world.

On Thursday evening, December 17, Bill Bonanno and Frank Labruzzo paid their weekly visit to the phone booth on Long Island. It was the sixth consecutive Thursday they had gone there. In a week it would be Christmas Eve, and on the way to the booth the two men wondered aloud if the holiday truce would be observed by the various gangs this year as it had been in the past. Under normal circ.u.mstances it would be-all organization members would temporarily forget their differences until after January 1-but since the Bonanno loyalists were technically suspended from the national union, neither Bill nor Frank knew for sure whether the holiday policy would now be followed with regard to their people. They would have to antic.i.p.ate the worst, they decided, and both men a.s.sumed that they would not be spending Christmas with their wives and children.

At 7:55 P.M. they pulled into the parking lot near the diner and parked a few feet away from the booth. It was a cold night, and Bill, turning off the radio, sat waiting in the car with the window partly open. The sky was dark and cloudy, the only reflection came from the big neon sign above the diner. There were three cars parked in front of the diner, and except for a few customers seated at the counter and an elderly couple at a table, it was empty. The food must be terrible, Bill thought, for the diner had never seemed busy during any of his visits, although he conceded the possibility that it had a late trade, maybe truck drivers, which might explain the large parking lot. Many people thought that places patronized by truckers must be serving good food, but Bill believed that the opposite was probably true. He had eaten at hundreds of roadside places during his many motor trips across the country, and most of the time he had observed the truckmen eating chicken soup and salted crackers, and he was willing to bet that most of them suffered from nervous stomachs and hemorrhoids.

He looked at his watch. It was exactly 8:00. He and Labruzzo sat silently as the seconds ticked away. He was about to conclude that it was another uneventful Thursday. Then, the telephone rang.

Bill slammed against the door, bounced out of the car, ran into the booth with such force that it shook. Labruzzo ran after him, pressing against the gla.s.s door that Bill had pulled shut. Bill heard a woman's voice, very formal, sounding far away-it was the operator repeating the number, asking if it corresponded to the telephone number in the booth.

”Yes,” Bill replied, feeling his heart pounding, ”yes it is.”

He heard m.u.f.fled sounds from the other end, then silence for a second, then the sound of coins dropping into the slot, quarters quarters, six or seven quarters gonging-it was long distance.

”h.e.l.lo, Bill?”

It was a male voice, not his father's, a voice he did not recognize.

”Yes, who is this? this?”

”Never mind,” the man replied, ”just listen to me. Your father's OK. You'll probably be seeing him in a few days.”

”How do I know he's OK?” Bill demanded, suddenly aggressive.

”Where the h.e.l.l do you think I got this number from?” The man was now irritated. Bill calmed down.

”Now look,” the man continued, ”don't make waves! Everything's OK. Just sit back, don't do anything, and don't worry about anything.” Everything's OK. Just sit back, don't do anything, and don't worry about anything.”

Before Bill could respond, the man hung up.

4.

THE EXCITEMENT, THE ECSTASY, THAT BILL BONANNO felt was overwhelming, and during the drive back to Queens he heard the conversation again and again, and he repeated it to Labruzzo. felt was overwhelming, and during the drive back to Queens he heard the conversation again and again, and he repeated it to Labruzzo. Your father's OK, you'll probably be seeing him in a few days Your father's OK, you'll probably be seeing him in a few days. Bill was so happy that he wanted to go to a bar and have a few drinks in celebration, but both he and Labruzzo agreed that despite the good news they should remain as careful and alert as they had been before. They would follow the advice of the man on the telephone, would sit back and wait; in a few days Joseph Bonanno would reappear to make the next move.

Yet, in the interest of efficiency, Bill thought that some preparation for his father's return was necessary; he felt, for example, that Maloney, his father's attorney, should be informed immediately of this development. Bill reasoned that Maloney would be his father's chief spokesman after the reappearance, an event that would undoubtedly cause a circus of confusion and complex legal maneuvering in the courthouse, and Maloney would have to plan the elder Bonanno's strategy for the interrogation by the federal grand jury. Bill also felt a touch of guilt about Maloney, since Bill had been very suspicious of him after the incident on Park Avenue. The veteran lawyer was forced to appear on five or six occasions since then before the grand jury to defend himself against government implications that he was somehow involved in the kidnaping, and Bill imagined that Maloney's reputation as a lawyer had suffered as a result. On the following day, Bill Bonanno drove to a telephone booth and called Maloney's office.

”Hi, Mr. Maloney, this is Bill Bonanno,” he said, cheerfully, picturing the old man jumping out of his chair.

”Hey,” Maloney yelled, ”where are you? Where's your dad? Where's your dad?”

”Hold on,” Bonanno said, ”take it easy. Go to a phone outside your office, to one of the booths downstairs, and call me at this number.” He gave Maloney the number. Within a few minutes the lawyer called back, and Bonanno recounted all that he had been told the night before.

But Maloney was dissatisfied with the brevity of the details. He wanted more specific information. He wondered on what day the elder Bonanno would appear, where he would be staying, how he could be reached now and through whom. Bill said he did not know anything other than what he had already told, adding that as soon as he knew more he would contact Maloney at once. When Maloney persisted with more questions, Bonanno cut him off. He had to run, he said. He hung up.

He returned to the apartment. Labruzzo had arranged for certain men to be there that evening, having already informed them of the news. The pace was quickening, there was activity, antic.i.p.ation, and Bill Bonanno was confident that soon a few things would be resolved, soon he and the other men might get some relief from the wretched routine of hiding. The reappearance of his father should stabilize the organization to a degree and lessen the uncertainty. His father had undoubtedly come to some terms with his captors or he would not be alive; the next hurdle was the government. His father would appear before the grand jury, and Bill and the other men who were sought would probably do the same. They would come out of hiding, would accept their subpoenas, and after consulting with their lawyers, they would present themselves in court. If their answers displeased the judge, they might be sentenced for contempt, but at this juncture they had few alternatives. Their terms could be for a month, a year, or more, but it would not be intolerable so long as some stability was reestablished within the organization and perhaps their status regained in the national brotherhood. Hopefully they would not enter prison as underworld outcasts. Their existence behind bars was much easier when they were known to be members in good standing; they were accorded a respect not only by the other prisoners but also by the prison guards and certain other workers, men for whom favors could be done on the outside. The ”man of respect” serving time also knew that during his confinement he need not worry about his wife and children; they were being looked after by organizational representatives, and if they required help they received it.

While Bill Bonanno sat in the living room of the apartment reading the afternoon papers, Labruzzo took a nap, undisturbed by the noise from the television. It was too early for the evening news, and neither man had paid much attention during the last few hours to the series of quiz shows, soap operas, or comedies that monopolized the screen.

Suddenly, there was an interruption of the program-the announcement of a special news bulletin. Bill Bonanno looked up from his newspaper. He expected to hear that war was declared, Russian bombers were on the way. Instead he heard the announcer say Mafia leader Joseph Bonanno, who was kidnaped and believed to have been killed by rival mobsters in October, is alive. Bonanno's attorney, William Power Maloney, made the announcement today. Maloney also said that his client would appear before the federal grand jury investigating organized crime, at 9:00 A.M. on Monday, and... Mafia leader Joseph Bonanno, who was kidnaped and believed to have been killed by rival mobsters in October, is alive. Bonanno's attorney, William Power Maloney, made the announcement today. Maloney also said that his client would appear before the federal grand jury investigating organized crime, at 9:00 A.M. on Monday, and...

Bill Bonanno was stunned. Labruzzo came running in to watch. Bonanno began to swear quietly. Maloney had not only called a press conference but had also identified him as the source of the information. Bonanno buried his head in his hands. He felt heat racing through his body, his sweat rising and seeping through his s.h.i.+rt. He knew he had made a horrible mistake in talking to Maloney in the first place, then in not swearing him to secrecy. Now he did not know what was ahead for his father. He recalled the words of the man on the phone saying don't make waves...don't do anything don't make waves...don't do anything. And, stupidly, he had done it. He had possibly ruined everything, for the announcement would make page one all over the country, would drive the elder Bonanno deeper into hiding, and it would intensify the investigation, activating those agents who had been lulled into thinking that Joseph Bonanno was dead.

The television set displayed a picture of Maloney, then a picture of the Park Avenue apartment house, and suddenly Bill was sick of the whole episode-reaching for a heavy gla.s.s ashtray on a nearby table, he threw it hard at the set, hitting the screen squarely in the center. It exploded like a bomb. Thousands of tiny pieces of gla.s.s sprayed the room, tubes popped, wires curled and burned in varicolored flame, sparks flared in several directions-a remarkable little fireworks show of self-destruction was playing itself out within the 21-inch screen, and Bonanno and Labruzzo watched with fascination until the interior of the set had nearly evaporated into a smoldering hole of jagged edges and fizzling filament.

A week pa.s.sed, nothing happened. Joseph Bonanno did not make the appearance before the grand jury that Maloney had predicted, and the lawyer was summoned to explain in court. The younger Bonanno and the other men remained in hiding. On Thursday evening, Christmas Eve, Labruzzo and the others slipped away to meet with their families at the homes of relatives or friends most remote from police surveillance. Bonanno told Labruzzo that he was meeting Rosalie at the home of one of the Profacis in Brooklyn, but this was not true. He was sure that Rosalie's movements would be carefully watched by agents during the holidays, making it too risky to meet her, and he also felt so miserable that he really preferred being alone.

At 8:00 P.M. he visited the telephone booth in Long Island, expecting it to remain silent, and it did. Not wanting to return to the apartment, he kept driving through Queens. It was snowing, and there were Christmas lights strung on many of the houses that he pa.s.sed. He decided to drive into Manhattan, to take a walk through Times Square, lose himself in the crowd.

Finding a parking s.p.a.ce on a side street east of Broadway, he locked the car, began to walk through the snow and slush. He was glad that he had not forgotten his rubbers but wished he had left his gun in the glove compartment. The gun had become such a natural part of his anatomy in recent months that he was usually unaware of carrying it. But he did not feel like returning to the car now; so he continued to walk with the gun strapped to his chest under his jacket. His blue cashmere overcoat was warm and light, and his gray fedora was slightly forward on his head and pushed down so that it would not blow off in the wind. He had never felt comfortable in hats; as a boy he hated them because they messed up his long wavy hair, a source of great pride, and although his hair was now short he still reacted negatively to hats, tolerating them only as part of a disguise.

He walked uptown under the bright marquees of the Broadway cinemas, past a noisy jazz band in the Metrodome bar. He smelled the hot dogs cooking on Ned.i.c.k's sidewalk grill, felt the distant nearness of a thousand people all around him, watched their faces changing color as they walked under the lights; their tourist faces seemed satisfied, peaceful, unconcerned, so distant from the tiny private province of h.e.l.l that he had inherited. On Fifty-third Street, waiting for a traffic light to change, a mounted policemen galloped within a few feet of him, and he inhaled the familiar aroma of a horse. Then he crossed to the other side of Broadway, walking downtown past Jack Dempsey's and Lindy's, then past the Astor Hotel, where he paused momentarily.

The hotel seemed unchanged, even the red-coated doorman whistling for a cab seemed familiar. Bill remembered again the wedding reception and remembered, too, how excited and concerned his father was on the following morning when he found out that a piece of Bill's luggage was missing just as the bridal couple's car was being loaded on the sidewalk outside the hotel. Then Frank Labruzzo quickly deduced that the doorman had mistakenly put that suitcase in the limousine that had just pulled away from the curb with Joseph Barbara and some of the men from upstate New York. Bill remembered the sight of Labruzzo running after Barbara's limousine, which had fortunately stopped for a traffic light; Labruzzo rapped on the rear fender, inviting frowns from the men within, but they stopped when they recognized him and graciously returned the suitcase. They had no idea that it contained about $100,000 in gift envelopes.

Bill pa.s.sed the Astor thinking of Rosalie-and, remembering that a Western Union office was two blocks away, he walked to it and sent her a Christmas telegram with flowers. Tired of walking in the slush, he approached a cinema on Forty-second Street and, without looking up to see what was playing, bought a ticket. He spent the next three hours watching a double feature, a slightly risque foreign film followed by a second-rate Western. When he came out at 1:00 A.M., it had stopped snowing but had gotten colder. Broadway was no longer crowded, and the prost.i.tutes and h.o.m.os.e.xual hustlers were more conspicuous.

He got into his car, drove along the West Side Highway toward the Battery Tunnel, pa.s.sing the hulking silhouettes of ocean liners docked along the piers. In Queens he pa.s.sed many houses with parties in progress, with people standing in crowded rooms holding drinks, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g trees, or dancing; his block, which was in a Jewish neighborhood, was relatively quiet. He circled the block twice to be sure he was not being followed. Then, locking his car, he crossed the street ready to reach for his gun at the sound of movement behind the bushes or trees. But everything was silent and still.

Unlocking his apartment door he could hear noise from the television set, a new one that Labruzzo had bought. Bill always left the television on after leaving the apartment, thinking the noise might discourage anyone from breaking in. He watched a late-late show until 4:00 A.M. Then he went to bed. He considered it the worst Christmas Eve of his life.