"Yeah, there's parsley right there," he answered, pointing to the short man with the beard.

"What are you talking about?"

"Petrosino, the sergeant in charge of the Italian Squad."

Rocco now understood the local thugs were being warned of the sergeant's not-so-undercover presence. "But why say parsley?" he asked the man.

"Ah, you Calabresi! Petrosino, Petrosino, in Sicilian, means parsley." in Sicilian, means parsley."

"Limonata!" shouted Giovanna, knocking on the door of apartment sixteen on the floor above her. Their building had five apartments per floor-two at the front, two at the back, and one small side apartment, which was where Limonata lived.

"Prego?" A young woman holding a nine-month-old-nearly the same age as Giovanna's daughter, Angelina-opened the door. "Oh, signora!" she said upon seeing Giovanna, sounding both pleased and relieved.

"Limonata, could you please be more careful! Your colored wash on the line drips onto my clean white clothes."

"Oh, scusi, signora, scusi."

The poor young woman looked like she was going to cry, and Giovanna at once regretted scolding her new neighbor who was having a difficult time coping. Noticing little spots of blood on Limonata's ap.r.o.n at her chest, Giovanna asked, "Are you having trouble again?"

"S, signora."

"Let me see." Giovanna entered the tiny apartment, which was crusted in dirt. The only thing sunny in this woman's life was her nickname, which she carried from childhood because of her love of lemonade. Her dull brown hair and slight body made her appearance even more nondescript.

"Have you heard from your husband?"

"No, signora. But he'll be back." Limonata had unb.u.t.toned her blouse to reveal a cracked and bloodied nipple.

"I'll give you more aloe. Put it on every few hours. I see your cough is no better either. Did you go to see Signora LaManna like I told you?"

"No, signora, but I'll go this week."

Giovanna left saying, "You must go. And please, call me Giovanna."

When she heard Limonata's cough, she was grateful Angelina wasn't in the sling usually strapped to her chest. She reentered her apartment and washed her hands. Lucrezia's lectures about cleanliness had not been lost on her.

"Come, Frances, Mary, we'll go to the roof." They were doing the weekly wash, but the heat had become oppressive. Giovanna hoisted the clothes, washboard, and bucket. Frances picked up Angelina, and Mary carried the soap. They climbed the roof ladder, opened the hatch, and emerged onto the roof. An entire world was there to greet them. Many of their neighbors were already up there, and there were scores of others on the roofs of the adjacent buildings, playing cards, doing laundry, or simply trying to feel a breeze. One of their neighbors was spreading buckets of crushed tomatoes on a sheet stretched across a wooden frame, to dry into tomato paste. Giovanna felt a tinge of guilt for buying her tomato paste ready-made in the store.

"Please, Zia, can we go in?" squealed Frances and Mary upon seeing two children already swimming in the roof's water tank. Giovanna was tempted to say, "Only after you do your ch.o.r.es," but easily relented. It was hot. She could use a break herself. Taking Angelina from Frances's arms, she sat while the girls stripped to their petticoats. In only a handful of trips to a beach, Rocco had taught all his children to swim, proving he really was Scillese Scillese. Grateful that she could sit instead of stand guard at the tank, Giovanna relaxed but still kept one eye on the girls, knowing all too well how quickly children could, and did, drown in those tanks.

Unwinding strands of her hair from Angelina's chubby fist, Giovanna marveled at how dramatically a life could change. She was surrounded by children, sitting on the tar of a New York tenement rooftop, a rusted tank their ocean. Scilla's sandy beaches, sparkling seas, and dramatic cliffs were far behind her; instead, she faced a vista of crowded streets, pushcarts, and garbage, but it was a world cloaked in promise.

"TERROR IN ITALIAN SECTION. Here it is," read Giovanna from Il Progresso Il Progresso. "Rocco was lucky he wasn't hurt in the blast. His cart was right across the street from Paparo's store in front of the milliner's shop."

"Do you think they meant to murder Paparo's nephew, or was it just unlucky that he was there early?" asked Lucrezia.

"Evil is evil. Enrico the fruit seller told Rocco they sent Paparo letters demanding money. Paparo didn't pay, and he brought the letters to the police." Scanning the article further, Giovanna read, "'Detectives of Lieutenant Petrosino's Italian Squad are investigating the bombing, which they believe to be the work of the Black Hand.' What do you know of this Petrosino?"

As if on cue, there was a knock on Lucrezia's door and Domenico burst in.

"Zia, Zia, I saw him!"

"Catch your breath, boy. I can't understand you. Who did you see?"

"Petrosino!"

Domenico had listened attentively when Rocco had returned, still covered in ash from the bombing of Paparo's store, and described what had happened. He imagined himself a detective with the sleuthing he and Zia had done. And now, to know the most famous detective of all was this Petrosino-an Italian!

"Where did you see him?"

"On Elizabeth Street, near our apartment. He was dragging a man down the staircase and out of the house."

"How did you know it was him?"

"A crowd gathered when they saw him go in. I heard them talking, and I waited." Domenico had been building toward this moment, and with great drama he reenacted the scene.

"He drags the b.u.m by the collar. You could hear his body bouncing on the steps. When he gets outside, he throws the guy against the brick and says, 'See this sc.u.m? This is the Black Hand you are all so afraid of! He is nothing. A common thief.' Then the crowd parts to let him through. He drags the guy down the street, calling, 'It's not like Italy here. You must work with the police. We can help you.' And then Petrosino turns, kicks the rat, and says, 'Andiamo, schifoso. schifoso.'"

"Bravo!" exclaimed Lucrezia, clapping. Domenico smiled and bowed.

"What did he look like?" asked Giovanna, glancing at the picture of Petrosino in the newspaper.

"He was short, but big and strong. He had a black derby and overcoat. And his face had those dents."

"Smallpox scars," corrected Lucrezia, smiling. There was no doubt the boy did see Petrosino.

"Aren't you supposed to be at Vito's Grocery?"

"S, Zia. But I had to tell you. I saw the great Petrosino!"

"I'm sure a lot of people don't think he's so great. You keep your mouth quiet about him, you hear?"

"But Zia, he said not to be afraid!"

"That's easy for him to say."

Giovanna kissed Domenico and gently shooed him out of the apartment.

"Lucrezia, what do you think. Is he right?"

"I think it's true that the police here are not like the police in Italy. But this Petrosino couldn't stop Paparo's store from being bombed, could he? If you're marked by the Black Hand, it's like that expression you always use-what is it?-'between a rock and a hard place'?"

NINETEEN.

1907.

"Come on. You're doing a man's job. Have a man's drink," goaded Clement's co-worker in front of the Star of Italy bar. Clement couldn't admit that his hesitation had nothing to do with being fifteen but with being forbidden by his father to go into that particular tavern.

"I'll even pay for it so your daddy doesn't know," cajoled the worker, impatiently wiping sweat from his brow.

A beer would taste good; his throat stung from inhaling lime for ten hours, and he was broiling from the summer heat.

Even though his day pouring cement had ended, it was still bright outside, so Clement's eyes had to adjust to the dark, smoky room as he walked into the Star of Italy.

He tried to concentrate on his ale and his friend's banter, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him. He glanced around and saw some men gathered around a newspaper at a back table. They looked up suddenly when a thin, well-dressed man entered the bar.

"Vachris! What, no disguise today?" called a chinless brute as he closed the newspaper.

"Lupo, I know you gentlemen are too cunning to fall for that." The new arrival walked around the bar, taking in every detail. Seeing the paper, he commented, "Look, you even read newspapers now! Did you read that story about Mario Palermo?"

Silence greeted his question.

"Do you have anything to tell me about it?"

Gestures indicating "We know nothing" filled the room.

"It's a little boy, gentlemen. He's been gone ten days. I know it's not your turf, but the way I see it, you all know how to get to Brooklyn. Right, Tommaso?" Vachris directed his attention to a huge square-headed man.

"You tell your boss, Petrosino, that we don't get involved in Brooklyn and to stop breaking heads around here," yelled a voice from a smoky table.

"I hope we find that boy alive. Because if we don't, I won't be able to tell Lieutenant Petrosino anything."

Lieutenant Vachris surveyed the room and before leaving looked quizzically at Clement, who made an unsuccessful attempt to blend into his beer at the bar.

As soon as Vachris left, the square-headed guy picked up wood shavings from the floor, threw them at the door, and spat, "He's all talk, Lupo."

"I gotta help my father. Thanks for the beer," Clement said, bolting from the bar.

Hands deep in his pockets and walking quickly, he got half a block before he noticed his father staring at him from the opposite side of the street.

"Where were you?" Rocco sputtered.

"I had a beer."

"I saw you! I told you not to go there. It's filled with Blackhanders!"

"Papa, don't talk here," whispered Clement, turning and walking.

Rocco, an intensely private person, was not p.r.o.ne to public scenes, so he followed his son in silence. The second the apartment door closed, Rocco exploded.

Wanting to shield the girls from the anger, Giovanna gathered them in the bedroom.

"Papa, I'm sorry," pleaded Clement over and over.

"I'm afraid for you, afraid for all of us." Rocco was softening with Clement's apologies. "What happened in there?" asked Rocco of his son.

"There was this short guy, he didn't have a chin. He seemed to be in charge. They called him Lupo. This cop came in, a lieutenant. He asked about a boy who was kidnapped in Brooklyn. And there was this big guy named Tommaso."

"Clement, you trust no one, you hear? They're all bad-these men-the cops. Let them play their little games, and you keep your nose out of it."

Hearing Rocco's voice return to normal, Giovanna and the girls went back into the kitchen. "We'll eat in a minute," said Giovanna, stirring the pasta, "and we'll say a prayer for that boy before dinner."

"My eggplant is better," thought Giovanna with satisfaction. Having never eaten in a restaurant in America, she was at first intimidated when Signore DeCegli suggested that she and Rocco meet him at Saulino's at the corner of Lafayette and Spring streets. DeCegli signaled for more bread. It was apparent he was a frequent customer; the waiters addressed him by name. Their table was tucked into a corner, and despite the simple decor, the restaurant had an air of respectability.

Surrept.i.tiously pointing with his fork at a short, pockmarked man eating alone, DeCegli whispered, "That is the famous Lieutenant Petrosino." Giovanna's head snapped in his direction and snapped back when Petrosino noticed her staring. "He is going to marry the owner's daughter, Adelina Saulino."

Rocco had no reaction to this or anything else that was said. He had not said a word and ordered by pointing to the cheapest meal on the menu. Signore DeCegli tried to encourage him to order something else, but he simply shook his head and pulled on his mustache. Enough time had pa.s.sed that DeCegli tried again to connect with the man. "It's an honor to meet you, Signore Siena." DeCegli kept stealing glances at Rocco, incredulous that this was Giovanna's husband. They were a mismatched pair in every way that he could observe. But he had handled enough divorces to understand that in rough circ.u.mstances companions sometimes fared better than lovers.

Rocco folded and unfolded the napkin. He had only agreed to come because Giovanna couldn't eat with this man alone. This was uncomfortable business, another man's business.

DeCegli, too, was uncomfortable. He was about to tell Giovanna that the unthinkable had happened-an American company was offering her a settlement, but he couldn't help but question his decision not to go to trial. He had a stronger case than he ever thought possible. In court, though, Wood would be rehea.r.s.ed. His deposition was far more damaging than anything they could get him to say on the stand. The politics of the case were up for grabs. In America's peculiar system, they could get a judge appalled at the audacity of an immigrant challenging an American inst.i.tution, or one who sympathized with the powerless. DeCegli contemplated feeding the story to one of the new breed of reporters who were making it their mission to expose the conditions in the immigrant communities. If they got public sentiment on their side, it could influence the trial. But it was a long shot.

DeCegli turned to Giovanna. "Signora, I am very pleased to tell you Taylor, Wood & Company has offered a settlement. They will pay you $1,700 now, $1,000 on January 1, 1909, and a final payment of $1,000 on January 1, 1910."

Rocco's look of discomfort turned into an incredulous expression.

"This is a remarkable victory, signora, and a testament to your perseverance and courage." DeCegli smiled warmly, but there was no expression of relief or happiness on Giovanna's face. He tried continuing, "They have agreed to pay my percentage upfront, so you don't need to worry about making that transaction when you receive the payments. The total of $3,700 will be yours." He waited for Giovanna's look of triumph. Instead, she raised her hand, indicating she wanted him to stop speaking.

They ate in a stifling silence. Rocco stole an occasional glance at his wife, but for the most part he tried to remain motionless and control his fidgeting. He eventually broke the silence by calling for another bottle of wine.

DeCegli turned to Giovanna. "Signora, this is a major victory. However, if you would like me to discuss other options, I would be happy to."

Giovanna looked at Signore DeCegli full in the face for the first time. "What I do not understand, and what I believe you can't help me with, is what it will mean to accept such an offer."

"Giovanna," said Rocco gruffly. What was his wife thinking? This entire business would be over, and they could establish a store. No more pushing the cart. They would own something!