R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

Where we had possessed strong ties with the Irish in Chicago, those of the Cicero Crew like Kyle Brennan, Gerry McGowan and Daniel Ryan, it was not the same in New York. New York, Manhattan in particular, had become a playground for all who wanted a piece of the territory and what it had to offer. Street-gangs of Puerto Ricans and Hispanics had running gun battles with the blacks and Mexicans; the Poles and the Jews were attempting to milk the Lower East Side and the Bowery of all it could give them; East Village, the southern end of SoHo, and Little Italy had always belonged to us, a tradition as old as the Bible itself, but towards the end of the ’90s the Irish, their leaders supported by the millions that had been invested in the construction industry, started to tread on our toes and demand a place at the table. Don Calligaris had no time for them – he had had little time for their ways and worries in Chicago – but here they served to remind him that things were changing, that things could not always stay the same, and that he too was approaching the end of his usefulness, and thus perhaps his life.

There were primarily two factions within the Irish community who held any kind of position: the Brannigans and the O’Neills. The Brannigans came from the construction background, their ancestors having built much of that part of the city at the turn of the previous century, but the O’Neills were new blood, the founder of their lineage a man called Callum O’Neill, an immigrant from the mid-west who believed he would make his presence felt in the capital of the world. There was no love lost between the two families and their bastard offspring. They would argue between themselves about the ownership of bars, bookies and boxing clubs. They were devoutly and vocally Irish Catholic; they built their own churches and turned up in their Sunday bows and brights to be as hypocritical as it was possible to be in front of their God and the Virgin Mary. After church was done they would drink until they fell down in the street, and then they would get up to knock each other six ways to Christmas just for the hell of it. They were like children, squabbling in the sandbox about who would win or lose which half of which street, but that did not make them any less dangerous. They were inbred and vicious, they did not have the class and intellect of the Sicilians and Genovese, and they didn’t seem to care whose toes they walked on in order to get what they wanted.

In the last week of April Don Calligaris sent Ten Cent down to fetch me from the Baxter Street house. Victor was still bruised, but the wounds in his heart were healing and he was finding more time for his friends and the Martinelli boys.

‘Sit down,’ Don Calligaris told me when I entered the kitchen. The room was filled with smoke as if he had been seated there for some hours contemplating some difficulty.

‘We have an issue,’ he said quietly, ‘and was there any way to deal with this without you then I would take that route, but this is an issue of significance and it needs to be addressed quickly and professionally.’

Someone needed to die; that was evident from his manner and the tone of his voice. Someone needed to die and he wanted me to kill them.

I respected Don Calligaris enough to let him talk, to hear him out, before I explained to him how this could not be done by me.

‘We have the Irish problem knocking at our door and we need to send them a message,’ he said.

Ten Cent stepped into the room, closed the door and took a chair beside me.

‘It needs to be a very clear and concise message, a message that cannot be misconstrued or mistaken for anything else, and a decision has been made that that message needs to be delivered by us.’

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘There is a history with the Brannigans,’ Don Calligaris said. ‘They are part of old New York. They have been here a hundred years or more, but this new crowd, these O’Neills, they have been here since last goddam weekend and they are becoming tiresome. Our people have spoken with the Brannigans, we have drawn some lines in the sand regarding territories and dues, and it has been agreed that we will take care of the O’Neill problem so as to avoid an all-out war between the Irish factions.’

‘So who is it?’ I repeated, knowing before Don Calligaris spoke whose name he would give.

‘James O’Neill himself.’

I exhaled slowly. James O’Neill was the godfather, the old man himself, the son of Callum O’Neill and the one who had brought the power and money to this part of Manhattan’s Irish quarter. He was a heavily guarded man, a man treated like the Pope himself, and to be responsible for his death was to be responsible for my own. To kill James O’Neill would mean a retribution killing almost certainly, and to protect itself the Luchese family would have to give me up. They would not wish to, but that was the way of this world, and with Victor’s life at stake also it would mean disappearing once again, disappearing somewhere where they would not think of looking.

‘You understand what this means, Ernesto?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I understand, Don Calligaris.’

‘And you understand what you would have to do as a result?’

‘Yes, I would have to vanish into thin air never to be seen again.’

‘And this thing… you would be willing to do this thing for us?’

‘There is no-one else?’ I asked, but in itself it was nothing more than a rhetorical question.

Don Calligaris shook his head. ‘There is no-one else who could disappear as easily as you. There are other men who could do this, other men who would do it very willingly, but they have families here, parents and grandparents, wives and children and sisters. To make them disappear would be too difficult, and it’s not as if we could enrol them in the Witness Protection Program.’

Don Calligaris smiled, but his moment of attempted levity did not unburden the weight of responsibility I felt. What he was asking of me was perhaps the most difficult thing I had ever been asked. Killing O’Neill would be very difficult. It would be like killing Don Calligaris… no, more difficult than that, because Don Calligaris had only two people to look after him, myself and Ten Cent, and many were the days when we were in the Baxter Street house while Don Calligaris was in the Mulberry house alone. James O’Neill had at least two or three men with him at all times, men who would be all too quick to take a bullet for him and who would come after me unrelentingly until they saw me dead. If I did this I would have to make no mistake, and once it was done I would have to disappear immediately from New York and go somewhere where I could not be found. I had not only myself but Victor to think of, and to risk his life after all that had happened would be too high a price to pay.

‘I would never be able to come back,’ I said. ‘I would have to leave New York and go somewhere… somewhere unknown even to you, and I would never be able to speak to you. If I was a younger man I could leave for ten years, perhaps more, and then I could return, but at my age-’ I shook my head. ‘It would be the end of me as part of this family.’

‘I have been instructed to tell you that you will be given everything you ask for. I have been told that you will be paid half a million dollars and you will be respectfully and graciously retired from the family, and that no-one will ever ask anything of you again. You will be treated as a made man, perhaps the first non-Italian made man in the entire history of the Luchese family. This is in itself a great honor, but I know you well enough to understand that money and status are not important to you. I know that the only important thing for you is the life of your son, but here is where you can take advantage of this. You can do this and then leave with Victor. You can go anywhere you want, and all the assistance you might need to accomplish that will be provided. Wherever you decide to go you can start a new life, Ernesto, a life without violence or killing… where people will not interfere with Victor’s happiness; a life where there is no chance he will find out what you have done and the things that have happened in the past.’