Luciano’s Luck

5

On his twentieth lap of the exercise yard at Great Meadow, Luciano increased his speed, running fast and free, the best moment of the day when there was an infinite possibility to things. Then, as usual, the north wall got in the way and he had to slow down.

He walked back through a scattering of other prisoners, acknowledging a greeting here and there, to his usual spot in a corner by the landing where Franco waited with a towel.

‘You’re getting better each day, Mr Luciano,’ Franco said.

He had the look of a professional wrestler and the build to go with it, a New York Sicilian who had killed many times on behalf of the Mafia and was serving a double life sentence for murder.

Luciano caught the towel as Franco threw it. ‘You reach my age, you got to keep in shape. Did you get that book from the library?’

‘I sure did, Mr Luciano.’

He passed it across, an English translation of The City of God by St Augustine. Luciano sat on the step and examined it with a conscious pleasure.

He was forty-six, a dark, handsome, saturnine man of medium height. The lid drooped slightly over the left eye, relic of an old wound. In spite of the drab prison uniform he was a man to be looked at twice, and not just because of the authority and self-sufficiency that were plainly indicated in the face. There was also that perpetual slight smile of contempt directed at the world in general.

Franco said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Luciano, but there’s a kid here called Walton from D block. He needs a favour.’

Luciano looked up. Walton was a tall, gangling young man of twenty-one or two with flat brown hair and arms that were too long for his shirt.

‘What’s he in for?’ Luciano asked softly.

‘One to three. Liquor store hold-up. No previous.’

‘Okay, let’s see what he wants.’

Franco nodded to the boy, gave Luciano a cigarette and lit it for him. ‘Okay, speak your piece.’

Walton stood there, twisting his cap in his hand nervously. ‘Mr Luciano, they say you can do anything.’

‘Except sprout wings and fly out of this place.’ Luciano smiled softly. ‘What’s to do, boy?’

‘It’s like this, Mr Luciano. I’ve only been here two months and my wife, Carrie … well, she’s on her own now and she’s only a kid. Eighteen is all.’

‘So?’

‘There’s a detective from the eighth precinct called O’Hara. He was one of the guys who pulled me in. He knows she’s on her own and he’s been pressuring her. You know what I mean?’

Luciano looked him over calmly for a long moment then nodded. ‘Okay. Detective O’Hara, eighth precinct. It’s taken care of.’ He returned to his book.

The boy said, ‘Maybe I can do you a favour some time, Mr Luciano.’

Franco said, ‘You will, kid. Now get out of here.’

As the boy turned away, Luciano looked up. ‘Is it true that liquor store heist was your first job?’

Walton nodded. ‘That’s right, Mr Luciano.’

‘And one to three was the best your lawyer could do? He should have got you probation.’

‘I didn’t really have no lawyer, not a real one,’ Walton said ‘Just a man the court appointed. He only spoke to me the once. Said the thing to do was plead guilty and throw myself on the court’s mercy. I didn’t see…’

‘All right!’ Luciano put up a hand defensively. ‘I’ll speak to my lawyer when he comes up Wednesday. Maybe he can do something.’

The boy walked away and Franco said, ‘Keep that up and you’ll have them standing in line at the bottom of the stairs every morning.’

One of the guards approached, an ageing Irishman named O’Toole, with the weary, bitter look of one who had long since faced up to defeat.

For Luciano, he managed a smile. ‘The warder would like to see you in his office, Mr Luciano.’

‘Now?’ Luciano said.

‘That’s what he told me.’

Luciano got up, still holding his book, and nodded to Franco. ‘See you later, Johnny.’

They moved across the yard, O’Toole in the lead. He said, ‘They’re waxing the entrance hall so we can’t use the main door. We’ll go through the showers and up the back stairs.’

His forehead was damp with sweat and his hand shook a little as he unlocked the door to the shower block.

Luciano smiled easily, every sense sharpened. ‘Something bothering you, O’Toole?’

O’Toole gave him a sudden quick push inside and slammed the door and Franco, halfway across the yard, started to run, already too late as O’Toole turned, back to the door, the club ready in his hand.

Walton moved out of the first shower stall. He stood there, no expression on his face at all, no light in the dark eyes.

Luciano said easily, ‘I thought that story of yours was strictly from the corn belt. They send you up here specially?’

‘That’s right.’ Walton’s right hand came up holding an ivory Madonna. When he pressed her feet, six inches of blue steel appeared, sharp as a razor on both edges. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Luciano. With me, this is strictly business.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Fiorelli. He sent you his regards and gave me strict instructions to leave you with your prick in your mouth. He said being Sicilian, you’d know what that meant.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Luciano said and kicked Walton under the left kneecap.

Walton shouted in agony as bone splintered, and slashed out wildly. Luciano seized the right wrist with both hands, twisting it so cruelly that the knife dropped to the floor.

‘You’re going to cut someone up, kid, do it, don’t talk about it.’

He twisted round and up, locking the arm as in a vice. Walton screamed as muscle started to tear and Luciano ran him face-first into the wall of the nearest stall. The boy slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the tiles.

Luciano picked up the knife and closed the blade. The Madonna was about eight inches long and obviously extremely old, carved by some master of ivory and chased with silver. He slipped it into his belt against the small of his back and picked up his book.

Walton crouched at the base of the stall, moaning. Luciano turned on the shower and the boy clutched at the wall.

‘So long, kid,’ Luciano said softly and he opened the door and went out.

O’Toole swung to face him, instant dismay on his face. Franco dodged past him. ‘You all right, Mr Luciano?’

‘Oh, sure,’ Luciano said, ‘But that Walton kid looks as if he’s slipped in the shower in there. I’d say he needs a doctor bad.’

Franco moved inside without a word and Luciano turned to O’Toole. ‘I’d better get moving or the warden will wonder what’s happened to me. You did say he wanted to see me, didn’t you?’

O’Toole licked dry lips. ‘Oh, sure, Mr Luciano,’ he said feebly. ‘Right away.’

Luciano smiled and moved off across the yard and Franco came out of the showers and leaned against the door, lighting a cigarette.

‘Heh, O’Toole,’ he said softly, a terrible smile on his face. ‘I don’t know what they paid you, but I think maybe you just made the biggest mistake of your life.’

Harry Carter, wearing a dark blue suit in place of his uniform, stood at the window of the Warden’s office and looked down into the yard.

The Warden said, ‘He doesn’t like to be called Lucky. He’s supposed to have got the name because of an incident in 1929 when rival mobsters kidnapped him, took him to a deserted wood in Staten Island, hung him up by his thumbs and tortured him. Left him for dead.’

‘I wonder how he paid them off?’ Carter said.

‘I can imagine.’ The Warden went round his desk and opened a file. ‘Charles Luciano, born Salvatore Lucania in the village of Lercara Friddi near Palermo, 24 November 1897. Arrived in New York in 1907 with his family, who, I might add, are all honest people. You know how Mafia works, Colonel Carter?’

‘Only the Sicilian variety.’

‘It’s pretty much the same in New York. They start them young. First there are the boys, the picciotti, gaining advancement, what they call respect, by acting as executioners when required. Some of them graduate pretty quickly to the next rank. Sicario, the professional assassin who’s a specialist in that line of work.’

‘I know,’ Carter said. ‘In Sicily they prefer the lupara, the sawn-off shotgun, for that kind of thing. You have to get close, but then, that’s really the point.’

‘They say Luciano’s killed at least twenty men himself and that isn’t those he’s put a contract out on.’

‘Just how powerful a figure is he?’ Carter asked. ‘I mean, he is in here, isn’t he? You close a cell door on him every night.’

‘Inside or out, it doesn’t really matter. He’s still the single most important influence in Mafia. Rose to power in the liquor business during Prohibition. What made him different from the others was his brain. He’s a hugely intelligent man with a genius for organization. When Prohibition ended, he diversified into every possible racket that would make a dollar. Even invented a few. In 1936 Governor Dewey, who was then Special Prosecutor, brought him to trial for offences concerned with organized prostitution and succeeded in obtaining a conviction.’

‘Strange,’ Carter said. ‘It’s the one thing that doesn’t seem to fit.’

The Warden smiled. ‘That’s what a lot of people say, but don’t expect any comment from me. This is a state appointment. I know one thing. He can always be relied upon to do the unexpected thing. He was at Dannemora in 1941 just after Pearl Harbor. That was a bad time with Christmas coming up. People’s minds were on other things, so there were no packages for the cons until Luciano put the word out. Christmas Day, three truck-loads of gifts turned up from New York.’

There was a knock on the door. He called, ‘Come in!’ and Luciano entered.

He glanced at Carter casually, then turned to the Warden. ‘You sent for me.’

The Warden stood up. ‘This is Colonel Carter. He’s from the Government and he has full authority to speak with you on a matter of national importance, so I’m going to leave you to it.’

He went out and Carter took out his silver case. ‘Cigarette, Mr Luciano?’

‘Heh, you’re English.’

‘So are the cigarettes.’

Carter gave him a light and Luciano sat down by the window. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I believe you’ve had some visitors in recent months,’ Carter said. ‘From Naval Intelligence. To discuss the Sicilian invasion.’

Luciano said, ‘Not again, for Christ’s sake. Look, I gave them all the information I could. All the right names.’

‘I know,’ Carter said. ‘I hear they’re going to drop flags with an L for Luciano on every village in the Cammarata. Was that your idea?’

Luciano moved to the window and looked down into the yard. ‘You got an ace in your hand, you play it.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to be enough.’

‘You don’t think!’ Luciano laughed. ‘What the hell has it got to do with a limey like you, anyway?’

Carter replied in good Sicilian, ‘Sure, in the Cammarata they still talk about the great Luciano. Salvatore the saviour. But turning out to fight Nazi tanks with shot guns, just because someone drops his flag on their village … I don’t think so.’

Luciano frowned, immediately wary. ‘How come you speak such good Sicilian?’

‘Before the war I was a university professor, ancient history, archaeology. That kind of thing. I used to spend a lot of time in Sicily excavating.’

‘Excavating?’

‘Digging up old ruins.’

‘You mean you’re only a part-time soldier? Just for the duration? A professor, eh? Now that I can respect.’ He passed across his copy of The City of God. ‘Have you ever read this?’

Carter examined it. ‘St Augustine. Oh, yes. You read a lot, do you?’

Luciano nodded. ‘He knew what he was talking about. God and the Devil, they both exist, only these days God’s outnumbered.’

‘I see,’ Carter said. ‘So you’ve settled for reigning in hell?’

‘It’s a point of view. Milton knew what he was talking about.’ Luciano smiled softly. ‘I’ve read him, too.’

‘You know, Mr Luciano, you interest me – both of you.’

‘Both of me?’

‘But of course. There’s Luciano number one, a streetwise hoodlum, who leaves out verbs when he speaks and manages to sound as if he’s had the same script writer as James Cagney.’

‘I’m complimented.’ Luciano was smiling. ‘A great little guy.’

‘And then there’s Luciano number two, who reads Augustine and Milton, speaks discreetly, sounds remarkably upper-class…’

‘So a good actor changes his perfomance according to his audience.’ Luciano shrugged. ‘I mean, who are you playing today, Professore?’

Carter smiled. ‘Point taken. You’re a remarkable man, Mr Luciano.’

‘And you, Professor, are a remarkable judge of character. Tell me, does Tom Dewey know you’re here? When he was special prosecutor he pulled enough strings to get me put away. Look at him now. Governor of New York State. The White House next stop.’

‘You think Dewey was unfair to you?’

‘What’s fair? What’s unfair? There’s only life. Some kid’s born with twisted legs or half a brain. Is that fair?’ He got up and walked to the window. ‘Look, Professor, I don’t give a damn what you think, but this is the way it was. I was boss of the rackets. I had an interest in most things, but never girls. Tom Dewey tried every damn way he could to get me and failed. Finally, they brought me to trial with nine other guys and some of them were in the prostitution business. At the end of the day, the jury couldn’t tell the difference between us. It’s called guilt by association.’

‘A nice turn of phrase,’ Carter said.

Luciano turned to face him. ‘If I needed girls, I rang up Polly Adler. She kept the best house in New York.’

Carter held out his silver case. ‘Have another cigarette.’

‘Okay.’ Luciano took one. ‘Now, what do you want with me?’

Carter sat down in the Warden’s chair. ‘When the invasion starts, General Patton’s Seventh Army is going to have the task of hacking its way through some of the worst mountains in Sicily to reach Palermo. If Mafia can be persuaded to organize a popular uprising and make the Italian Army in the Cammarata surrender without firing a shot, then thousands of American lives could be saved. If not…’

‘Look, I’ve done everything they asked me to do,’ Luciano said.

‘I know, but as I said, I don’t think it’s enough. I was in Sicily myself only a matter of weeks ago and I can tell you this. There’s only one man with the muscle to achieve what we’re asking and that’s Antonio Luca. And he isn’t coming out of hiding for anyone.’

Luciano had stopped smiling. ‘Don Antonio? You know him?’

‘Not personally. Do you?’

‘Sure I do.’ Luciano shook his head. ‘I still get the word in here. I know about him getting out of that prison in Naples and going back to Sicily. But you’re wasting your time. Even if you could find him, he hates Americans. His brother went to the chair during Prohibition.’

‘I know about that but wasn’t there something special about his daughter?’

‘That’s right, Sophia. During the First World War while she was supposed to be at school in Rome, she joined the Red Cross as a nurse. Met an Englishman called Vaughan, an infantry lieutenant serving on the Italian front, and married him. He was killed in the last month of the war and she went back home to live with her father in Palermo. Had a daughter called Maria the following year. She was the light of Don Antonio’s life.’

‘What happened?’ Carter said.

‘July 1936. The kid must have been about seventeen. Her mother borrowed her father’s Ferrari one day so they could go shopping. When she put her finger on the starter, the car blew up. I guess whoever was responsible was after Don Antonio.’

‘So the mother was killed?’

‘That’s right. Maria was in hospital for a while then one day she just walked out. I think maybe she’d had time to think, lying there on her back for so long.’

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