Rosaile and son Joseph, 1961

Bill and Rosalie, with children (left to right) Charles, Tory, Felippa and Joseph,1970

Joseph Bonanno Tucson, Arizona

Joseph and son Bill at Moulin Rouge Restaurant, Hollywood, California

Bill Bonanno prepares for federal case

Joseph Bonanno and daughter, Catherine, on her wedding day, Tucson, Arizona, 1960

19.

AFEW DAYS LATER, ROSALIF'S MOTHER FLEW TO SAN FRANcisco from New York carrying among her luggage a box of live snails that she had personally selected at a Brooklyn fish market, live lobsters from Maine, special Italian sausages stuffed with cheese, and other delicacies that were rare in California and that she intended to serve at a large family gathering on the following day, the first Sunday in March.

The dinner, to be attended by a dozen people, would be held at the home of her daughter Ann, who was in her seventh month of pregnancy, and with whom Mrs. Profaci would be staying in San Jose until after the birth; she would help with the cooking, would look after Ann's two young children, and would also be available for whatever a.s.sistance she might provide her eldest daughter, Rosalie, and her youngest daughter, Josephine, who was twenty-one and would be getting married in June, shortly after her graduation from Berkeley.

Josephine would be married in the chapel on the Stanford campus to a non-Catholic, non-Italian, hazel-eyed young man with long blond hair named Tim Stanton, the son of an upper-middle-cla.s.s family in Westchester County, New York. Josephine had met Tim Stanton at a college barbecue exchange in the spring of 1966 when she was a student at Santa Clara, and during that summer in New York she went with him to the suburbs to meet his parents, an encounter she had dreaded in advance even though, early in their dating, she made it clear to him who her relatives were, learning to her surprise and relief that this precaution was unnecessary; he already knew. The meeting with his parents turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant, because the Stantons succeeded in making her feel welcome and comfortable.

During the next two years, after Josephine had transferred to Berkeley and as her relationship with Tim Stanton became closer and there were plans for marriage, it was not Tim's family, but Josephine's, that seemed the more concerned. That it was to be a non-Catholic wedding ceremony was most disappointing to Josephine's mother and older brother; but when they sensed how determined Josephine was and how inseparable the young couple obviously were, they accepted the inevitable and Josephine's brother agreed to escort her up the aisle on her wedding day.

The extended family, however, which included Bill Bonanno and his friends in addition to other in-laws and relatives of the Profacis', still expressed doubts about the wisdom of such a marriage; and by the time of the large family dinner, Tim Stanton had been the subject of several conversations and debates in Brooklyn and San Jose. They had all met him by now, inasmuch as Josephine had introduced him at various times during the last year; and since he was so different from anyone who had ever approached the family threshold before, he was a subject of both fascination and confusion.

Some of Bill's friends, reacting to Stanton's long hair and his casual style of dress, and having heard him denounce the war in Vietnam and hint at his own refusal to fight if drafted, regarded him quickly if incorrectly as part of a radical new generation that wished to overthrow the system; and in any showdown with the new generation, Bill's men would be curiously on the side of the system-the government, the police, and "law and order." These men did not want the system to collapse, for if it collapsed they would topple with it. While they recognized the government as flawed, hypocritical, and undemocratic, with most politicians and the police corrupt to a degree, corruption was at least something that could be understood and dealt with. What they were most wary of and what centuries of Sicilian history had taught them to mistrust were reformers and crusaders.

Bill Bonanno's view of the younger generation, however, was less rigid, and he agreed with Tim Stanton on many issues-except when he learned that Stanton was thinking of registering as a conscientious objector or of joining the Peace Corps and serving in Malaysia with Josephine after the marriage. Bill believed that joining the Peace Corps was "copping out" since it was subsidized by the same government leaders who were fomenting war in Vietnam. If Stanton did not wish to engage in an immoral war, then, according to Bill, he should be willing to pay the price and should go to jail. Jail was the place for many honorable men these days, Bill believed, including himself in such company.

Rosalie was not upset by any of Stanton's political views, but she was distressed that Josephine was marrying outside the church; she preferred that her youngest sister agree to "go along" with the Catholic wedding and the religious beliefs that she had grown up with and ostensibly had accepted until recently. But in this instance, Bill supported Josephine's decision not to give the appearance of believing what she did not; and yet Bill was bothered by Josephine for other reasons, vaguely definable ones that were inspired by his suspicion that Josephine privately detested him. He was perceptive enough to sense that Josephine remembered well certain raging scenes between himself and the Profaci family after Rosalie had left him in Arizona in 1963 and had returned to New York. Josephine had since then seemed quiet in his presence, occasionally suggesting her disapproval by certain gestures and remarks; and Rosalie herself recently said that Josephine had probably decided on a different course with regard to marriage and religion because Josephine had seen how Rosalie had suffered by following the ways of the past. Bill knew of course that he could count on Rosalie not to miss an opportunity to portray herself as some sort of martyr; but he also knew and took pride in the fact that Rosalie's sister Ann had never held a grudge against him-Bill and Ann always got along splendidly, and he had often said in jest at family gatherings that he had married the wrong Profaci.

Ann, though a bit heavy like her mother, had a beautiful face, expressive eyes, and, uncharacteristic for a Profaci, a sense of humor. Ann was an efficient homemaker, a wonderful mother, and, while she was intelligent, she deferred to her husband's judgment; her husband was clearly in charge. But Josephine, Bill was sure, would lead a different life, she was the product of another time. She was the first daughter to finish college, and, without being a feminist, she undoubtedly identified with the cause of modern women seeking greater liberation, which was probably one reason, Bill thought, why she disliked him, for he typified everything that she as a modern young woman undoubtedly rejected-he was the dominant Sicilian male who did as he pleased, came and went as he wished, unquestioned, the inheritor of the rights of a one-sided patriarchal system that the Bonannos and Profacis had lived under for generations.

But at this point, in March 1969, with his mother-in-law visiting San Jose, Bill Bonanno was not eager for any further friction with the Profacis; and at the Sunday dinner that Mrs. Profaci was preparing, and at which Josephine would be present and perhaps also Tim, Bill decided that he would be on his best behavior.

In the morning, however, Bill woke up with a mild headache, and as he went out to the patio with the Sunday newspapers and a book under his arm he noticed that two of Charles's rabbits had broken out of their pens, had dug into the flower garden, and were now chasing one another wildly around the backyard. The yard was also littered with toys and pieces of wood.

"Rosalie!" Bill yelled to his wife in the kitchen. "Is Chuckie getting out of bed today?"

"He's not feeling well, and I thought I'd let him sleep for a while."

"I want him to clean up this mess out here and catch these rabbits!"

"He's not feeling too well," she repeated, her voice rising. "What do you want me to do?"

"I told him three times this week I wanted this place fixed up," Bill said, sitting down on a patio chair in the midmorning sun and putting on his dark gla.s.ses. He had stayed up half the night reading the book that he held in his hands, a new novel about the Mafia called The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather. He was half-finished, and so far he liked it very much, and he thought that the author, Mario Puzo, had insight into the secret society. Bill found the central figure in the novel, Don Vito Corleone, a believable character, and he wondered if that name had been partly inspired by "Don Vito" Genovese and by the town of Corleone, which was in the interior of western Sicily southeast of Castellammare. Bill believed that his own father possessed many of the quietly sophisticated qualities that the writer had attributed to Don Vito Corleone, and yet there were also elements in the character that reminded Bill of the late Thomas Lucchese. Lucchese in real life, like Don Vito Corleone in the novel, had influential friends in Democratic political circles in New York during the 1950s, men who reportedly performed special favors for generous political contributions; and in 1960, Lucchese went to Los Angeles to mingle with some of these friends who were attending the Democratic National Convention. Lucchese favored the nomination of John F. Kennedy, but other dons such as Joseph Profaci, influenced partly by an immigrant Sicilian's traditional suspicion of the Irish, were against Kennedy. Most Irish politicians, like Irish priests and cops, would do no favors for the Italians, whom, in Profaci's view, they privately abhorred-a view that Lucchese did not share, nor did Frank Costello, who had been on intimate terms with William O'Dwyer. But after Kennedy became president and after the Irish Mafia rose to power, and when only Valachi among Italians achieved fame in Washington, many mafiosi a.s.serted that Profaci had been right.

The Sicilians described in The G.o.dfather- The G.o.dfather-not only Don Vito Corleone and his college-educated son Michael (with whom Bill identified) but other characters as well-were endowed with impressive amounts of courage and honor, traits that Bill was convinced were fast deteriorating in the brotherhood. The novel was set in the years following World War II, and in those days the Mafia was probably as the novelist described it; and as Bill continued to read the book, he became nostalgic for a period that he had never personally known. He read on the patio for nearly an hour, then was interrupted by the sound of Rosalie's impatient voice coming from the kitchen.

"Joseph," she yelled, "stop blowing that balloon-I don't want you exerting yourself today!"

Bill resumed his reading, but was interrupted again by Rosalie who stood at the patio door saying that she was going with the children to Ann's house to help prepare dinner. Bill, who had an appointment with a man at noon, would join her there later.

"Now don't be late," she called, as she turned to leave.

"I won't," he said, waving at the children, and saying nothing to Charles about the condition of the yard or the fact that the rabbits were running loose somewhere behind the small bushes and plants. Bill would deal with that tomorrow.

He read for another half hour, then got up to shave and get ready for his appointment. He was dressed casually on this Sunday, looking as if he were headed for the golf course. He wore light blue slacks and brown loafers, and glaring from under his gray sweater was a Day-Glo orange shirt. In the kitchen, after pouring himself a cup of coffee, he decided to telephone Brooklyn and say h.e.l.lo to his aunt Marion and his uncle Vincent Di Pasquale, with whom he would again be staying when he reappeared before the Kings County grand jury in a few weeks. That the phone was tapped was of no concern to him now, since he would be saying nothing of importance on this call; but after his aunt Marion had picked up the receiver, Bill heard a series of clicking sounds and various extensions being picked up, and he called out, "Hey, how many people are on this phone?"

"h.e.l.lo," his aunt said in a voice he could barely hear, and he also heard his cousin Linda on the bedroom extension in the Brooklyn house, with a child crying in the background.

"Is that you, son?" his aunt Marion asked, a childless woman who had always called him son. "Is that you?"

"Yes," Bill said, "its me and the FBI on my end, and on your end its you and Linda and the baby and probably Aunt Jeanne upstairs and the New York detectives, right?"

"h.e.l.lo," said Linda, "how's everybody there?"

"Fine," Bill said. But before he could say much to Linda, his aunt Marion, a woman in her late sixties who kept abreast of nearly every trivial detail concerning the several relatives of the Bonannos, the Labruzzos, the Bonventres, and other kin and compare compare at home and overseas, had several things to say; among them was that her back ailment was improving, that Bill's uncle's cold was no better, that her nephew was doing well in art cla.s.s, that the weather was chilly, that the television set needed a new tube, and other bits of vital information that Bill knew would fascinate the federal eavesdropper who was recording this conversation for posterity. at home and overseas, had several things to say; among them was that her back ailment was improving, that Bill's uncle's cold was no better, that her nephew was doing well in art cla.s.s, that the weather was chilly, that the television set needed a new tube, and other bits of vital information that Bill knew would fascinate the federal eavesdropper who was recording this conversation for posterity.

Mrs. Profaci stood at the stove cooking the snails, the lobsters, and preparing the ravioli, while Rosalie and Ann helped her, and Josephine sat in the living room with the men. Ann's husband, Lou, was serving drinks, and the six children were running through the house, which was handsomely furnished and had a guitar near the fireplace that Lou used to play, along with the ba.s.s, when he sang professionally in small clubs where he was thought of as a second Russ Colombo. A relaxed, genial man approaching forty, Lou was now in business and sang only in the shower. But he appeared to have no regrets, was happily married and on good terms with his mother-in-law, delighted that another child was expected, and seemed to be unaware of the noise the children were now making as they scampered through the room out toward the patio. Lou noticed that his little son Lawrence was waving a toy pistol that Bill had given him; and while Lou knew that his wife did not like even toy guns in the house, he said nothing.

Bill was not yet at the house, nor was Tim Stanton. Tim would probably be late and they would not wait for him before starting dinner; but there was no question of going ahead without Bill. Until he arrived and greeted the a.s.semblage, all would wait and talk among themselves, never thinking of sitting around the table without him, for in many subtle ways Bill was regarded as the head of the family.

He walked in shortly before 2:00 P.M., followed by another man and also by Catherine's husband. Catherine was in Tucson with her children visiting the elder Bonannos; she would be returning by plane later in the evening. Bill greeted his mother-in-law and Ann cordially in the kitchen, nodded toward Rosalie, then continued into the living room, where Lou got up to pat him on the back and mix him a drink. Josephine, who sat wearing bell-bottomed trousers, a white sweater, and the round-toed shoes that were the latest fashion, focused her dark eyes on Bill momentarily, then announced with just the slightest edge, "Well, the man has arrived, and now we can eat."

Bill forced a smile, ignoring a reply, and then Rosalie, removing her ap.r.o.n, came in and sat down, and Lou fixed her a drink. From the kitchen could be heard the rattling sound of snail sh.e.l.ls cooking in the pot, reminding Rosalie of the large family feasts from her girlhood days when her uncles Joseph Profaci and Magliocco had been alive, and she remembered that when the live snails were left in the sink and ignored while other food was being prepared, they would sometimes slowly crawl up from the sink and would begin to climb the walls. Bill reminisced about those days too, about Magliocco's voracious appet.i.te, and the extraordinary sight of Magliocco, who weighed about 300 pounds and was not very tall, gracefully mounting a horse each morning and galloping around the estate at East Islip.

When Mrs. Profaci stood smiling in the doorway, indicating that dinner was ready, everyone was seated, and steaming plates were pa.s.sed around the table. Bill inhaled the aroma of the food spread before him, and after tasting the snails, he complimented Mrs. Profaci and lifted his wine gla.s.s in a toast. Then he proceeded to tell everyone about the new book that he was reading, The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather, which none of the others had heard of; and after describing a few dramatic pa.s.sages, Ann said, "Boy, that sounds like a wonderful organization-I'd like to join it as a gun moll."

"You should," Bill said, "you've got good recommendations."

Everybody laughed except Josephine, who did not look up from her plate.

Mrs. Profaci said that she had recently seen The Brotherhood The Brotherhood at Radio City, starring Kirk Douglas, but before she could offer her opinion of it, Bill interrupted to say that it was one of the most stupid films ever made. at Radio City, starring Kirk Douglas, but before she could offer her opinion of it, Bill interrupted to say that it was one of the most stupid films ever made.

"There's this ridiculous scene in the end where two brothers kiss, and then one brother takes a gun and shoots the other," Bill said. "Its real Hollywood c.r.a.p."

Mrs. Profaci, without refuting him, said nonetheless that she had been moved to tears during one scene when a character was identified as Turiddu, which was what her late husband had been called. Even as she repeated the name now, at the table, her voice became soft, and she said, "May his soul rest in peace."

Her husband had been a kind and loving man, Mrs. Profaci continued, after a pause, although she did admit that he had been extremely strict and that his rules had been especially hard on Rosalie, the first-born daughter. Mrs. Profaci remembered one evening many years ago when, because her husband was expected to be out of town for a few days, she permitted Rosalie to accept a date to attend a dance with a West Point cadet. But just as Rosalie was about to leave the house, dressed in a beautiful gown, her father unexpectedly appeared, and he immediately demanded to know where she was going. Mrs. Profaci, trying to seem casual, had explained that Rosalie was joining other young girls at a dance, adding that she would be home early; but Mr. Profaci, furious, insisted that his daughter return to her room and change her clothes-she would be going nowhere on this evening.

As Mrs. Profaci recounted the incident now, more than fifteen years later, there was silence at the table. Then Rosalie stood and turned toward the sink, carrying a few dishes.

The next course was ravioli, and Lou poured red wine in the gla.s.ses as Bill tasted the ravioli. His expression changed slightly, and he said to Lou, who sat next to him. "I think it's not cooked enough. Mine is a little hard."

Lou tasted the ravioli from his plate, and agreed that it was hard. Mrs. Profaci, who did not seem at all perturbed, offered to cook the ravioli a bit longer, but Josephine from the opposite side of the table disagreed, saying after she had sampled it, "It's very good, Mom. I like it hard."

Bill looked at Josephine, measuring her for a moment, and then he said with a grin, "Oh, you like it hard hard, do you?"

Josephine looked directly at Bill, having caught the double entendre immediately, and she replied, "Yes, Bill, I like it hard."

Ann laughed and then changed the subject by focusing on Bill's Day-Glo orange shirt: "That's some shirt you're wearing, Bill, that's quite a color."

"Its designed for men who stand on aircraft carriers, and flag down planes," he said, "It makes a wonderful target, which is why I don't wear it in New York."

This got a laugh around the table, and then Bill asked one of the men if he had heard any news from New York. When the man said he had not, Bill frowned and said, "I'm going to make a call."

Ann again addressed Bill, asking in a good-humored chiding way, "Why do you people spend so much money on phone calls? Why don't you write a letter once in a while?"

" What What, "Bill exclaimed, laughing, "and put it in writing!"

They continued to eat the ravioli, which Bill had not permitted his mother-in-law to cook longer, preferring to drop the subject. And then Mrs. Profaci noticed a car pulling up in the driveway-Tim had arrived, and Josephine stood to greet him at the door. While the others continued to eat and Bill told a joke, the young couple spoke between themselves for a few moments in the vestibule; then Josephine, followed by Tim, returned to the table. Lou and Bill and the other men stood to shake hands, and Tim greeted them by name. He had met Bill and Lou many times before and he seemed poised and particularly pleased to see Mrs. Profaci, who had already met his parents and was on friendly terms with them. A chair was obtained for Tim, and he squeezed in next to Josephine. He was wearing chinos and boots, and a b.u.t.ton-down shirt under his sweater, and his blond hair was long but neatly barbered. As Bill looked across the table at Tim, he was reminded of the fact that Tim resembled the photographs of Robert F. Kennedy years ago when Kennedy had been the attorney general.

As Mrs. Profaci got Tim a plate of food, and Lou poured him a gla.s.s of wine, the conversation became more general; but Josephine, who was holding Tim's hand underneath the table, turned to him and soon they were speaking softly to one another, ignoring the other conversations. They were a typical young couple about to be married, completely absorbed in themselves and only remotely aware of the rest of the family around them. Occasionally Mrs. Profaci or Rosalie or Ann would pa.s.s a serving dish of food toward Tim but they tried not to interrupt the private conversation. They were very happy that Josephine seemed happy, were pleased about the coming marriage despite whatever reservations that they had once expressed. Josephine Profaci was going off in a new direction, was breaking with many traditions and customs of her family, but her older sisters and her mother were secure in their belief that the love they shared with Josephine would keep them close no matter how far she moved in the future from the familiarity of their past.

After coffee was served, Josephine and Tim stood and said that they had to be getting back to their respective campuses. Both had schoolwork to do that night, they said, and Tim, an English major, further explained his hasty departure to the Bonannos and Profacis: "I've got a paper due on Lear."

20.

DESPITE THE FACT THAT HE OWED THE GOVERNMENT A small fortune in back taxes and claimed to be bankrupt because all his property and other a.s.sets had been confiscated by Internal Revenue agents, Bill Bonanno walked into the Brooklyn Supreme Court Building on Monday morning, April 14, wearing an expensive pair of alligator shoes, a new green suit that had cost $250, and displaying a broad smile and a deep suntan. Should anyone remark on his tan, he would reply that he had been playing golf every afternoon at Pebble Beach in California; but this explanation would be as false as the front he was presenting at this moment as he strolled jauntily out of the elevator on the sixth floor and headed toward the courtroom, seeing ahead of him at the end of the corridor the pale, grim face of John Morale and other dour-looking men from the Di Gregorio camp who reportedly had spent a miserable winter hiding indoors in New York. Bill hoped that he would make them more miserable by presenting to them today his own sunny portrait of good health and prosperity. small fortune in back taxes and claimed to be bankrupt because all his property and other a.s.sets had been confiscated by Internal Revenue agents, Bill Bonanno walked into the Brooklyn Supreme Court Building on Monday morning, April 14, wearing an expensive pair of alligator shoes, a new green suit that had cost $250, and displaying a broad smile and a deep suntan. Should anyone remark on his tan, he would reply that he had been playing golf every afternoon at Pebble Beach in California; but this explanation would be as false as the front he was presenting at this moment as he strolled jauntily out of the elevator on the sixth floor and headed toward the courtroom, seeing ahead of him at the end of the corridor the pale, grim face of John Morale and other dour-looking men from the Di Gregorio camp who reportedly had spent a miserable winter hiding indoors in New York. Bill hoped that he would make them more miserable by presenting to them today his own sunny portrait of good health and prosperity.

There was little else that could be accomplished during this visit to Brooklyn, for he had known even before leaving California that his attorney, Albert Krieger, would be occupied for weeks with a trial in Staten Island, which would result in the rescheduling of Bill Bonanno's appearance until sometime in May; but even so, he was ordered by the court to come in person to Brooklyn to deliver the affidavit that Krieger had signed. While Bill had no choice in the matter, he decided that he would at least make an impressive entrance in Brooklyn, and he had begun during the previous week by sunning himself in his backyard in San Jose, by selecting his most flamboyant wardrobe to wear in court, and by planning to exhibit in the corridor a carefree spirit that might perturb those codefendants who had defected but who, according to the latest rumors, were now unhappy with the shortage of money and weak leadership that they were experiencing under Di Gregorio's successor, Paul Sciacca. The sidewalk shooting in the Bonanno feud had stopped, the cold war phase had now begun.

When Bill was almost to within speaking distance of Morale and the others huddled in the corner, he heard a girl's voice calling out his name. Turning, he saw Krieger's pretty young secretary carrying the legal papers that Bill was to take in to the clerk or the judge. Bill greeted her warmly, putting an arm around her. Then he asked in a voice loud enough to be heard across the corridor, "Jane, how long do you think this'll take?"

"It shouldn't take more than a few minutes," she said.

"Good," he said, "because I really want to get out of here."

"What's ycur hurry?" she asked, lightly. And it was the question he had hoped for.

"I have this golf date tomorrow at Pebble Beach," he said, casually, "and I'd like to keep it." He perceived through the corner of his eye that the men were listening and were pretending that they were not.

"Well, Bill, you really look great," Jane went on, looking at his new suit and his silk tie and the white shirt that accentuated his tan.

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't have a care in the world out there. No responsibilities, no worries. The biggest problem I have, really, is getting to the course on time."

She laughed, and stood waiting for another moment. Then, looking at her watch, she said that she had better be getting back to the office.

"Listen," he said quickly, "why not wait for me for a minute? I've got to go to the city anyway, and I'll drop you off."

"I can't be late, Bill," she said. "Al will be calling in, and I have a thousand things to do."

"Don't worry about Al," he insisted. "I'll be quick." He turned and headed toward the courtroom, the papers in hand, and with a smile he called over to the men, pleasantly, "Good morning, gentlemen."

They looked up, startled, and two of them replied, less pleasantly, "Good morning."

Bill was not detained for more than five minutes at the clerk's counter, and after he left the courtroom he put his arm around Jane and escorted her down the corridor toward the elevator, pausing only to say, "Good-bye, gentlemen." There was no reply. The trip from California had been worth it.

A man was waiting for Bill at the elevator, and another sat waiting in a car outside the court building. They drove over the bridge to Manhattan and left Jane at Krieger's office on lower Broadway; then they drove uptown.

Bill had little fear of being followed and fired upon by his enemies in New York on this sunny spring day because he and they knew that they were undoubtedly being closely observed by government agents and detectives. Dozens of investigators were now a.s.signed to the Banana War in an attempt to solve the murders and shootings of the past three years; and because of this tight police surveillance, the men knew it was unwise to carry guns, and they recently had recognized a temporary unofficial truce.

One of the vexations of membership in a declining and divided Mafia family was that the FBI and police maximized their efforts on it. as they minimized the pressure on the stronger organizations-the weaker ones offered greater opportunities for infiltration, arrests, ultimate convictions. A declining organization had many unhappy, disillusioned members who felt betrayed and frantic, and such men might be converted into informers if the right deal was offered by law enforcement authorities.

Bill Bonanno did not know how many men could be trusted among the Bonanno loyalists in New York at this point, a group of indeterminate size under an old friend of his father's named Natale Evola, who had been an usher at the elder Bonanno's wedding in 1931. The Di Gregorio-Sciacca faction and a third group said to be under Philip Rastelli were also of uncertain size and were equally determined to remain out of sight and out of the headlines during this period that they regarded as a government inquisition. And so Bill felt very secure after leaving the courthouse in Brooklyn and crossing the bridge into Manhattan, believing that he was undoubtedly being followed by an unmarked government car that he would not try to avoid. Since he had no intention of meeting with any of his father's men on this trip and since the few friends and relatives that he would be seeing in New York could not be linked to the Mafia, he had nothing to hide and little to fear if he remained cautious and alert.

Parking the car in a garage near Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue, Bill Bonanno walked into Altman's department store, where he had promised to buy a dress that Rosalie saw advertised in Sunday's New York Times New York Times. He had in his pocket the advertis.e.m.e.nt that Rosalie had clipped, and also her attached note that read: "Size 12-M, blue-orange print, V-neck, long sleeves. Sixth floor at Altman's in Misses Dress Dept."

On the sixth floor, Bill Bonanno was greeted by a perfumed atmosphere and dim blue light and the sight of mini-skirted salesgirls standing among the racks of clothes. The decor resembled a discotheque, with multicolored lights racing along one wall and rock'n'roll music blaring from a large stereo jukebox in the corner. Bill paused momentarily, then walked slowly toward the jukebox. He studied it for a second, bent down, and looked along the sides to see if it bore a label that would mark it as one of Thomas Eboli's machines. Eboli had jukeboxes in Greenwich Village bars and in several places uptown, but apparently, he had not yet made it with the Misses Dress Department at Altman's.

As Bill turned around, he saw a middle-aged woman standing behind him, glaring at him through her rhinestone harlequin-framed gla.s.ses, and she said to him curtly, "May I help you, young man?" It's just my luck, he thought-in a store filled with s.e.xy young salesgirls, I attract the one old battle-ax who has been at Altman's since the First World War.

"My wife wants this dress," he said, handing the woman the advertis.e.m.e.nt. "She wants it in a size 12-M and blue-orange print." The woman took the advertis.e.m.e.nt, and within a few moments she returned with a flimsy garment draped over her arm.

"This is it," she said, holding it up for Bill to see. It was really a dress with pants, which Bill had not realized, and he did not think that Rosalie would look well in it. It was an imitation Pucci print, and the whole outfit looked to Bill like a pair of pajamas; but he told the woman to wrap it, and he was mildly offended by the direct manner in which the woman replied: "Would you pay me first, young man?"