Bill did not know what to do. He looked at Rosalie's brother sitting calmly in the chair, making no effort to get involved, and Bill hated him for it. If he had stood, Bill could have become aggressive with him, challenged him, done more than he could do with his mother-in-law. Then Bill saw his son Charles coming down the steps. Bill broke away from Mrs. Profaci, grabbed Charles and held him in his arms. The little boy did not protest, seemed only confused.

"I'm leaving, but I'll be back," Bill said. "And when I come back, I want Rosalie to be here and ready to leave."

They said nothing as he left. He drove with the boy back to Labruzzo's home, and from there telephoned Joseph Magliocco in East Islip. Magliocco had been in charge of the Profaci organization since the death of his brother-in-law in June 1962, exactly one year ago. While Bill had found Joseph Profaci a bit remote and difficult to talk to, Magliocco had always been approachable and informal, and after Bill called, Magliocco invited him to come at once.

Magliocco's twelve-acre estate in East Islip was protected by high stone walls, and when Bill drove past the gate with Labruzzo several dogs began to bark. Magliocco greeted them in front of the large house. He was wearing riding breeches and boots and a white polo shirt that stretched across his enormous stomach. He rode every day on his powerful white horse, and he was just walking in from the stable when Bonanno and Labruzzo arrived. At sixty-two, he was a virile figure, his shoulders strong, his arms thick and muscular.

"Uncle Joe," Bill began, "I have a problem."

"Yes I know about it," Magliocco said, in his thick accent, leading them into the house.

"In that case it makes it easier for me," Bill said. "Since you know about it and since I respect your intelligence, I'll wait to see what you can do about it."

"I already called them," Magliocco said. He sat down heavily in a chair, continuing, "I told them to be here this afternoon. Whatever is going on, I know only one thing-Rosalie's your wife, and you're ent.i.tled to her."

Bill was pleased by Magliocco's att.i.tude. Magliocco was an old-style Sicilian. He believed that a man's wife was his property. But Sicilians also greatly respected wives, regarding them as objects of honor, and any husband in Sicily who had been as indiscreet as Bill would undoubtedly have been shot to death long ago. Bill also did not know how much Rosalie's mother had told Magliocco. Perhaps thinking it too indelicate or repulsive to reveal the fact of Bill's girl friend and illegitimate child, Mrs. Profaci had merely explained to Magliocco that Rosalie was unhappy in Arizona, became ill, and wanted to return East. Bill decided to say nothing more and see what happened.

During lunch, at which they were joined by Mrs. Magliocco, Joseph Magliocco was a gracious host. There was a great variety of food, much wine and cheese, and from the amount that Magliocco consumed Bill could readily see why Magliocco weighed so much. Magliocco and his wife were childless, and they were the only regular occupants of the fourteen-room house, although there were servants and a caretaker and other men doing odd jobs around the estate.

After coffee, they waited. Hours pa.s.sed, and Magliocco finally walked impatiently into his office and called the Profaci home. A moment later, embarra.s.sed and angry, he exclaimed, "My crazy relatives-they left for Jersey!" Then turning to Bill, he said, "Look, give me a day. Come back tomorrow. I promise you they'll all be here."

The next day, true to his word, Magliocco was standing in front of the house with the Profaci family as Bill drove in. Rosalie stepped forward; she was wearing a yellow dress, her hair was nicely done, and there was a glow about her that he had not seen in a long time. She kissed him modestly, then walked with him toward the others.

"Are you pregnant?" he asked softly, somehow certain that she was. During all the problems of recent years she had never ceased to attract him, and though they had a three-month-old child he knew that it was possible that she was again pregnant. Rosalie blushed but did not reply to his question.

Inside the house, there was an atmosphere of formality. Mrs. Profaci had nodded toward Bill but had not spoken. Every one took seats in the large room. After the children were ushered out, coffee was served. Magliocco, smiled, tried to make small talk. He pa.s.sed a tray of Italian sweets around the room. The awkwardness continued. Finally Bill spoke up.

"Let's get to the main question," he said. "Is my wife coming with me or not?"

"Of course she's coming with you," Magliocco replied, as Mrs. Profaci frowned.

Bill continued, "Because if she's not..."

Magliocco cut him off, shouting, "What are you talking so silly for?"

"Because that's the way I feel. If I don't have a right to my wife, I want to know it."

"n.o.body says you don't have a right," Magliocco continued.

But then Mrs. Profaci spoke up. "I am sure," she said, "there must have been a reason why Rosalie tried to commit suicide..."

She waited as the silence set in, and Bill wondered if she was going to mention the fact of the other woman and the child. He looked at Magliocco to see how he was reacting, but Magliocco did not seem surprised by the mention of the possible suicide attempt and perhaps he knew the whole story. Mrs. Profaci asked her daughter to leave the room. Rosalie turned toward Bill for concurrence. Bill nodded for her to leave.

Then Mrs. Profaci suddenly became very emotional, almost shaking as she focused on Bill. Her eyes were soft but there was a determination about her, a strength of character that surprised and impressed him. She really loved her daughter and would do anything for her.

"I am warning you," she said slowly, solemnly, emphasizing each word, "that if anything happens to my daughter..." This was clearly a serious threat, and Bill did not doubt her intent.

"Stop!" Magliocco interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

"He knows what I'm talking about," Mrs. Profaci quickly pointed toward Bill. Magliocco moved toward her, put his big arms around her, began to make sibilant sounds as he tried to quiet her, calm her. But she continued to glower at Bill until he looked away. Magliocco then called in Rosalie, her brother, and the children. More coffee was served and things became more relaxed. knows what I'm talking about," Mrs. Profaci quickly pointed toward Bill. Magliocco moved toward her, put his big arms around her, began to make sibilant sounds as he tried to quiet her, calm her. But she continued to glower at Bill until he looked away. Magliocco then called in Rosalie, her brother, and the children. More coffee was served and things became more relaxed.

When it was time to leave, Bill suggested what he felt would further ease the situation. He asked Rosalie to spend another night at her mother's home, saying he would stop on the following day with their son Charles to get her and the other children. Mrs. Profaci nodded her approval.

When Bill arrived, Rosalie was already packed; her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs was the first thing he saw as he walked in. He was very happy. He had gotten his way, thanks largely to Magliocco, and now he wanted to make a fresh start with his wife and to make peace with his mother-in-law. He knew it would take time and patience, but he also knew he wanted Rosalie back and to accomplish this his mother-in-law's support would be helpful. He did not hastily leave with Rosalie from the Profaci's home; he spent the afternoon there and remained for dinner. The conversation was cordial and calm, even friendly, between Bill and his in-laws, and when Mrs. Profaci suggested that they leave the baby for the night, Bill and Rosalie agreed to it. They would stop for the child on the following day.

Bill had reserved a suite for his wife and the two sons at the International Hotel at the airport in Idlewild, Queens. He did not want to drive to Manhattan, and it was too late for a trip out of the city, and he did not want to stay with relatives. He had always liked the atmosphere of airports, the movement and bustle, and thought the children would also respond to it.

They arrived at the airport shortly after ten o'clock, obtained the very best suite, and Bill sent down for hors d'oeuvres and champagne. After the children had gone to sleep in their room, Bill ordered more champagne, and he and Rosalie sat together on a sofa in the soundproof suite overlooking the runway, watching the planes come and go in the night.

They had dinner at Magliocco's on the following evening, and it was then suggested that the couple and their children live temporarily in the big house until they decided on their next move. Rosalie was opposed to returning to Arizona and Bill agreed, against his better judgment, to look for a house in New York. Spending the summer at Magliocco's would be pleasant in the meantime-they would have their own apartment in the house, there were horses to ride, a boat for fishing, servants, it would be like a resort; so Bill agreed to give it a try. And he was glad that he did. Rosalie seemed much happier, the children became acquainted with their young cousins who came to visit, and Bill was free to come and go as he wished. It was also advantageous for him to be in New York during the summer of 1963-his father was still living an elusive existence, and the dissension within the organization was increasing.

Ever since the unfortunate gathering at Apalachin, the elder Bonanno avoided meeting in groups with other dons, and they became offended by his att.i.tude. While Joseph Bonanno had always been individualistic in his thinking, insisting for example that the "families" were autonomous and that the nine-man commission, of which he was a part, could arbitrate disputes but could not dictate policy to the individual heads of "families," he now gave the impression that he was drifting even further from his fellow dons. On the occasions when his organization was represented at meetings with other organizations, it was never Bonanno himself who attended but rather one of his captains-John Morale, Labruzzo, or sometimes Notaro. But never Gaspar Di Gregorio. A distance had developed in 1963 between Di Gregorio and Bonanno, due in part to the presence of Bonanno's son in New York, whose rise Di Gregorio saw as inevitable, and due also to the elder Bonanno's haughty att.i.tude toward the commission, whose senior member, Stefano Magaddino, boss of the Mafia in western New York and the Ohio Valley, was Di Gregorio's brother-in-law.

Stefano Magaddino, who had little tolerance for individuality and had for years been suspicious of Joseph Bonanno's ambition, encouraged Di Gregorio to boycott the Bonanno family meetings and to spread the word that Joseph Bonanno was due to be suspended and that his followers would either have to switch their allegiance or suffer the consequences.

When Bonanno learned of this, he seemed unconcerned. He believed that the commission was now composed of confused men and he did not intend to follow their dictates, having lost faith in their collective judgment. When they should have had the foresight to maintain ultrasecrecy, such as immediately following Albert Anastasia's death in 1957, they had foolishly scheduled the Apalachin meeting. And when they should have demonstrated unified strength, such as ordering the rout of the Gallo brothers for leading a revolt against their boss, Joseph Profaci, in 1960, the commission had-despite Profaci's and Bonanno's protests-voted to do nothing, to let Profaci handle his own internal problems. Profaci, a member of the commission, became disillusioned and resentful. And while the Gallo revolt was eventually crushed by Profaci's loyal followers, it was nonetheless achieved at a considerable loss in bloodshed and money, and in prestige for Joseph Profaci. At one point in the dispute, the Gallo men had succeeded in kidnaping Profaci's chief aide, Joseph Magliocco, and three other Profaci men, and in forcing Profaci himself to flee to Florida until concessions were promised. Profaci's organization never fully recovered from the internal difficulties, and while the Gallo faction claimed that the trouble had begun because Profaci had not adequately shared the profits with the underlings in the family, Profaci himself believed that the revolt was inspired by two of his fellow dons on the commission-Carlo Gambino and Thomas Lucchese. Profaci was sure that these two dons had plotted the Gallo uprising, had encouraged the Gallo men with the a.s.surance that the rebellion would be unopposed from the outside.

Profaci went to his grave despising Gambino and Lucchese, whose two organizations in New York-closely related through the marriage of Lucchese's son to Gambino's daughter-became stronger as Profaci's became weaker; and Profaci's successor, Magliocco, whose sister was Profaci's wife, carried on the grudge against Gambino and Lucchese.

If Joseph Bonanno had not been on the run during the time of the Gallo revolt, he might have openly supported Profaci's cause with additional men, but it would not have helped because what was really needed was a united front against the Gallos by the commission; and Bonanno's intervention could possibly have led to a nationwide war within the underworld, and none of the dons, including Bonanno, wanted that.

After Profaci's death from cancer in 1962, Bonanno had no close ally on the commission; and with the sixty-seven-year-old Vito Genovese serving a fifteen-year jail term, the commission was coming increasingly under the influence of Gambino, Lucchese, and Stefano Magaddino. None of the other members-Giancana of Chicago, Zerilli of Detroit, Bruno of Philadelphia-had the power or desire to counter-balance the first three, nor did any of them have a particular fondness for Joseph Bonanno. They, like Magaddino, were wary of his remoteness, and they were willing to accept Magaddino's view that Bonanno craved inordinate power and was waiting in semiexile for them to wither in the heat of crime hearings or to die in jail-then, at an opportune moment, Bonanno would return to New York, would consolidate the disunited forces and emerge as the boss of bosses.

This theory gained substance in the summer of 1963 with word that Bonanno's son had moved to New York and was living with Profaci's successor, Magliocco, in East Islip, Long Island, where the younger Bonanno was perhaps working on a plan to unify the Profaci-Bonanno organizations. Even if this last point was not accepted as true by a majority of dons around the nation, they waited with caution and watched the movements of the younger Bonanno. At thirty-one Bill Bonanno was considered too young to lead, and from the way that Stefano Magaddino and Gaspar Di Gregorio had described him, many dons had reservations about him and felt that he was destined to cause trouble. His treatment of Rosalie was known to the commission, and it was given wide circulation by those men who sought to discredit Bill Bonanno.

Then in late July, Bonanno became involved quite inadvertently in an incident that caused even greater damage to his image, as well as to that of his father. It happened on an early Sat.u.r.day afternoon when Joseph Magliocco, whose driver had taken the weekend off, asked Bill to drive him to the railroad terminal so that he could meet someone arriving by train. Magliocco told Bill to bring a gun, and Magliocco entered the car carrying a shotgun.

Bill was apprehensive but he did not ask questions, thinking that Magliocco would explain everything in the car. But Magliocco, sitting in the back with the shotgun in his lap, said nothing as Bill drove to the Brentwood station. He parked and remained in the car as the train pulled in. He saw a man, a stranger, step from the train and head directly for Magliocco's car. The man smiled when he saw Bill Bonanno behind the wheel, said, "h.e.l.lo, Bill," then turned toward Magliocco.

"Everything all right?" Magliocco asked.

"Yes," the man said, "everything is being taken care of."

"OK," Magliocco said. "Go ahead."

The man quickly turned and reboarded the New York-bound train. Magliocco asked Bill to return home, still explaining nothing, which was fine with Bill. He was not sure that he wanted to know what Magliocco was up to, being bothered enough by the sound of it. He was also concerned by the manner in which the man had greeted him at the station-the man had seemed surprised and delighted to find Bill with Magliocco, concluding perhaps that Bill and the Bonanno organization was part of whatever was about to take place.

Within a week or two, Bill began to notice Magliocco's increasing nervousness around the house, his pacing at night. Then one day in September, Magliocco revealed what had happened. He had been summoned by the commission, he said; he was fined $40,000 and was lucky to be alive. Magliocco's scheme to dispose of Gambino and Lucchese had failed. Someone had leaked word to Gambino and Lucchese in advance, and now Magliocco was panicked by the possibility of a vendetta.

Suddenly Bill became infuriated. He blamed Magliocco for getting him involved. But Magliocco a.s.sured him that he had nothing to fear, insisting that he had taken full responsibility before the commission and had made it clear that the Bonannos played no part. Bill was unconvinced. Even if Magliocco had done as he had claimed, Bill could not count on the commission's giving him the benefit of any doubt. He was sure that he and his father were in deep trouble, and the first thing that he wanted to do was to move out of Magliocco's house, which was a likely target area.

But the home that Bill had found in East Meadow was not yet ready for occupancy; so he was forced to keep Rosalie and the children at Magliocco's for three more months. It was a frenzied fall, grim and ominous as the leaves began to cover the estate and winter moved in and Magliocco rarely ventured outdoors.

Then in mid-December, Magliocco's nerves were further frayed when Bill's two-year-old son, Joseph, accidentally fired rifle bullets into the ceiling. Two weeks later, on December 28, 1963, Joseph Magliocco died of what the police called natural causes.

Suspense and uncertainty continued through the next year. Bill moved his wife and children-now including a fourth child, a daughter-into the home in East Meadow, but he kept the shrubbery trimmed low and installed bright lights in front of the house hoping to discourage gunmen from hiding there at night.

The rumors of the Gambino and Lucchese plot spread quickly through the underworld, and soon there were references to it in the newspapers. The reports, most likely the result of government wiretapping, identified the late Joseph Magliocco and the elder Bonanno as the suspects. It was also reported in the press that the Profaci organization was now under the command of Joseph Colombo, a man the government identified as one of Magliocco's lieutenants who had probably tipped off Gambino or Lucchese.

Bill Bonanno received several messages during the summer and fall of 1964 that the commission wanted to reach his father; but Joseph Bonanno was constantly on the move, traveling with bodyguards between California and Arizona, Wisconsin and New York and Canada. It was not only the antic.i.p.ation of being "hit" that kept him going; he was also trying to avoid the limelight of government investigators conducting a national anti-Mafia campaign in the wake of Joseph Valachi's testimony before the Senate. Valachi had given special prominence to Bonanno during the televised hearings in 1963, claiming that it was Bonanno who initiated him into the Mafia, p.r.i.c.king fingers and exchanging blood to symbolize their unity. This ceremony had supposedly occurred decades ago, and Bonanno since then had been no more aware of Valachi than an army general would be of a private; but Valachi's revelations about the secret society and Bonanno's link to the traitor were embarra.s.sing to Bonanno.

After being expelled from Canada in late July, Bonanno returned briefly to Tucson, then reappeared in New York. He held secret meetings with his officers, and he also conferred unofficially with emissaries from the commission-among them Sam De Cavalcante of New Jersey-expressing willingness to meet with the commission; but there was never an agreement on a time and place, and there was suspicion and fear of an ambush on both sides. Bonanno also made an attempt during the fall of 1964 to meet with Di Gregorio. Once he reached him by telephone, but his old friend broke down in tears, confessing that he could not meet with Bonanno because of instructions he had received from the commission.

A few of Bonanno's men wanted to dispose of Di Gregorio because of his disloyalty, but Bonanno emphatically rejected the suggestion. It would accomplish nothing, he said, and he was more saddened than angered by Di Gregorio's response. They had known one another nearly all their lives, had been born in the same year within a few miles of one another in western Sicily, had fought together as young men during the Brooklyn feuds. Bonanno blamed Stefano Magaddino for corrupting the friendship; Magaddino's jealousy, the sickness of so many Sicilians, had slowly infected Di Gregorio in later years, Bonanno felt, and while there was no logic to this there was also no cure.

Bonanno's ruling against those who wished to harm Di Gregorio was one of the last decisions that he made in 1964. It was a few nights later that Joseph Bonanno dined with Maloney.

5.

AFTER BILL BONANNO'S LONELY CHRISTMAS EVE IN TIMES Square and his impulsive decision to escape the grim holiday week in New York, he spent nearly three days and nights on the road to Arizona; then at noon on December 28, 1964, a clear and balmy day, he arrived on the outskirts of Tucson and checked into the Spanish Trail Motel. He was accompanied by his dog and by the young man who had helped with the driving, a relative of Vito De Filippo, whom the government had identified as a Bonanno lieutenant operating a gambling casino for the elder Bonanno in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Square and his impulsive decision to escape the grim holiday week in New York, he spent nearly three days and nights on the road to Arizona; then at noon on December 28, 1964, a clear and balmy day, he arrived on the outskirts of Tucson and checked into the Spanish Trail Motel. He was accompanied by his dog and by the young man who had helped with the driving, a relative of Vito De Filippo, whom the government had identified as a Bonanno lieutenant operating a gambling casino for the elder Bonanno in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

Bill was not tired after the 2,600-mile ride; he was in fact charged with energy and exhilaration, was delighted to be out of New York and back in Tucson, and the first thing he wanted to do upon arrival was to head straight into the center of town to revisit certain places and people, to bask in the familiarity of this small city where he had once felt so much at home. Even now, despite all that had happened, he was confident that he could walk through the main streets of Tucson, could wave and talk to the people he had known for years, and, unless the police stopped him, he could continue in freedom. He did not think that the average citizens of the city were against him, even those few quoted in local newspapers advocating that the Bonannos be ejected; they had been prompted into saying those things by the reporters, he felt sure, certain that it had been largely the newspaper publishers, together with the politicians and a publicity-seeking police chief, who had inspired the whole campaign against his family in recent years. They were hypocrites, he thought, particularly the politicians and a few priests, remembering how often they had come in the past to the Bonanno home, had been dined and wined, and had never once questioned the source of the money that they had quickly pocketed.

Thinking about this embittered him, and he was aware of how personally he had taken each slight in Tucson. What had been said or written about the Bonannos in Phoenix or in Flagstaff or in New York or anywhere else in America did not greatly concern him. But his acceptance in Tucson seemed fundamental to his pride; it was his only home, he had come to it as a boy and had remained for twenty years, had gone to school there, made friends there, and wanted to believe that those friends would not blow the whistle on him now should he walk through the streets of the city. But he had no intention of testing his popularity at the moment.

After settling himself in the motel, he made plans to look up his brother, to drive during the evening past his property, to contact his father's a.s.sociates. One of the first people he reached was Charles Battaglia, whom the government listed as Joseph Bonanno's top aide in Tucson. Battaglia quietly visited Bill at the motel, and they spent several hours together. Afterward Bill was fatigued, too tired to go out; so he went to bed.

He slept late the next morning, had breakfast with his companion, then went outside to walk the dog. It was another fine day, and he enjoyed the clear air and seeing the great s.p.a.ciousness of this desert city. He continued to walk for a few minutes with the dog, wondering how difficult it would be to reach his brother; he had not seen him in a very long time but, according to what he had heard, Joe Jr. was as outlandish as ever. His brother was said to be traveling with a.s.sorted odd characters between Phoenix and Tucson-long-haired musicians, bronco riders, drag racers, television actors. Anyone who was a bit off-beat would appeal to his teen-age brother, and his brother appealed to them, too, because he was funny and handsome and willing to do anything crazy on a moment's notice, anything to gain attention. Bill remembered how his kid brother had cavorted as a child on the edge of Niagara Falls during a family visit and had nearly fallen; how he had once hidden in an ice truck at the age of three and would have frozen to death if the driver had not discovered him; how he used to shock his mother by bringing home stray animals, once a hamster, once a bobcat, and worms to put in the holy water. Joe Jr. was sent to military school, but had quit, had been to several schools since then, and now was presumably in college, although Bill had heard that his brother was training horses and was appearing as a cowboy actor on television. One of the scheduled shows was NBC's "High Chaparral," which was to be filmed about fifteen miles west of Tucson, and Bill smiled at the thought of network executives in New York sitting in a screening room watching dusty gun scenes that included, unknown to them, the youngest son of Joseph Bonanno.

Bill walked the dog further along the road, his mind wandering pleasantly, and then suddenly he stopped and quickly turned around. He expected to find someone standing behind him or someone observing him through binoculars from the roof of the motel. But he saw no one. There was no sign of movement along the road, n.o.body was seated in the car parked in the lot, and yet he was sure he was being watched, trusting his instinct for sensing such things. Without waiting for further confirmation, he headed back to the motel.

His room was as he had left it, the television set was on. In the adjoining room his companion sat reading the morning newspaper. Bill related his suspicions; then he decided to test his instincts immediately-he would hang around in front of the motel for a while, would make himself obvious, and if he was being followed or sought he would soon know it.

It was an odd decision, and it surprised him at first, causing him to wonder if being back in Arizona had made him more lax or careless. But he finally concluded that after so many months of hiding, there was no longer any advantage in it. In New York, hiding had been necessary, especially after the disappearance of his father more than two months ago; it had then been his duty to remain free for the morale of the men and for whatever contribution he could make during his father's absence. Now, however, that situation had changed. His father was said to be alive, and there was nothing for him to do until his father's return. If the FBI or the Tucson police had just spotted him, it was no tragedy because they could not prove he had committed a crime. The worst that they might prove was that he had been hiding, and if forced to explain why, he could say he had become apprehensive over the threats to his safety that he read about in the newspapers.

He walked casually from his room in the rear of the large motel to the front of the place, standing near the office along the road. His friend accompanied him, and they stood talking for a few minutes in the sun. Then Bill noticed a barbershop nearby, and, deciding he could use a light trim, he walked in, his friend following. It was a three-chair shop, was not very busy, and a white-haired barber stood smiling and said, "You're next."

Bill did not recognize anyone in the shop. He picked up a magazine and sat in the chair. His friend took a seat near the door.

"You visiting?" the barber asked, cheerfully, tossing a sheet around his shoulders. Bill nodded.

"You planning to stay long?"

"Yes, if I like the place, I'd like to stay," Bill said.

A manicurist approached him, but Bill shook his head, continued to flip through the magazine, looking up every few moments into the large mirror reflecting the road. He saw a car pull up, then another, then a police car. Two more police cars arrived, also press cars with photographers.

"Hey, what's all the commotion outside?" one of the barbers asked.

Bill's barber turned toward the window, whistled softly as he continued to snap the scissors over Bill's head. Bill said nothing. Then he spotted a local FBI agent that he had known from the past, Kermit Johnson, walking into the barbershop, followed by other men. Bill forced a smile, waved, and called out: "Hi, Kermit."

Kermit Johnson seemed embarra.s.sed by the sign of familiarity, but then he softened and replied, "h.e.l.lo, Bill, how are you?" Johnson stood awkwardly in front of the chair for a moment, and the barber looked at him and said, "Won't be long, sir. You'll be next."

Johnson, looking straight at Bill, asked, "You know why I'm here?"

"Yes, I know," Bill said. "Can I finish my haircut? Or are you going to make a scene?"

"No, I'm not going to make a scene," Johnson said. "Are you armed?"

Bill replied, in a tone of mock innocence, "Kermit, don't be silly."

The barber was becoming nervous.

"Excuse me," the barber finally interrupted, pointing toward the crowd of policemen and photographers gathered along the sidewalk, "what are all those gentlemen doing outside?"

"Those gentlemen gentlemen, Bill said, "are waiting for me me."

The barber said nothing for a moment, the words setting in; then his hands began to shake, and he could barely hold onto the scissors.

Bill was taken to the sheriff's office of Pima County, was arrested on a material-witness warrant issued by a federal judge in New York. He received a subpoena to appear before the grand jury in Manhattan that was investigating organized crime and his father's disappearance, was held on $25,000 bail pending that appearance, and was forced to relinquish the $215 he carried in his pocket, and also his 1964 Cadillac, toward the tax lien on his Arizona property. Before entering the jail cell, where he would spend two days, he shook hands with the police, waved and smiled at the photographers. Like his father, he was determined not to give them the grim, guilt-ridden picture that he felt sure they wanted.

6.

ON THE MORNING OF JANUARY 5, 1965, BILL BONANNO climbed the stone steps of the ma.s.sive gray federal courthouse in lower Manhattan to appear before the grand jury. He was carefully dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped silk tie under his blue cashmere overcoat and new gray hat; and he was clean-shaven, having discarded the disguise. He was neither tense nor worried as he entered the building, was actually quite calm, relieved that things were finally becoming resolved, and confident that he could handle himself well in court. He had spent the weekend reviewing his case, guessing which questions he would be asked, deciding which cuestions he would answer and which he would not, and he vas prepared for the consequences if his limited cooperation displeased the jury. climbed the stone steps of the ma.s.sive gray federal courthouse in lower Manhattan to appear before the grand jury. He was carefully dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped silk tie under his blue cashmere overcoat and new gray hat; and he was clean-shaven, having discarded the disguise. He was neither tense nor worried as he entered the building, was actually quite calm, relieved that things were finally becoming resolved, and confident that he could handle himself well in court. He had spent the weekend reviewing his case, guessing which questions he would be asked, deciding which cuestions he would answer and which he would not, and he vas prepared for the consequences if his limited cooperation displeased the jury.

He was accompanied by his attorney, Albert J. Krieger, one of the best young criminal lawyers in New York. Krieger was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties who wore horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and had shaved every hair off the top of his head in the style of actor Yul Brynner; but there was nothing theatrical about Krieger in a courtroom. He avoided dramatic gestures, lengthy oratory, or tactics that merely delayed the proceedings, which was one reason why he was popular with judges, and he was always well prepared and alert for every legal advantage, which had contributed to his high standing among his colleagues in the profession. Bill Bonanno considered himself fortunate to have Krieger on his side.

As they stepped toward the elevator on the fourteenth floor, photographers rushed toward them with flashbulbs popping, and reporters asked: "Is your father alive?"

"Where do you think he's hiding?"

"Who's behind the kidnaping?"

Bill Bonanno continued to walk in absolute silence, impa.s.sive, while Krieger shook his head, saying, "Neither I nor my client has anything to say at this time. We will make no comment whatsoever."