After he left her that night she lay awake until daybreak, her heart pounding, her head throbbing with shock and disbelief.

Winter extended slowly, uncertainly, maddeningly. She never knew what to expect or what was expected of her. There was great excitement one afternoon when a suit that was believed to be Bill's was discovered in the back seat of one of the men's cars, but n.o.body remembered who put it there or why it was there or if the suit had been placed there by the enemy as a way of announcing that the owner of the suit would no longer be needing it. Rosalie was in her room when she heard the men's frantic conversation, and then her father-in-law hurriedly approached her door and asked her what color suit Bill had been wearing when he last left the house. Rosalie said she did not know. There was shocked silence from the elder Bonanno, and also from the men who stood behind him in the hall. She did not know! She did not know! It was as if she were guilty of some atrocious act of carelessness and neglect, and as she watched their faces register signs of disappointment or disapproval, she wanted to shout at them It was as if she were guilty of some atrocious act of carelessness and neglect, and as she watched their faces register signs of disappointment or disapproval, she wanted to shout at them How in G.o.d's name am I to know what he was wearing? I hardly see him anymore because of you people! How in G.o.d's name am I to know what he was wearing? I hardly see him anymore because of you people! and she was tempted to tell them to leave her house immediately, she had had enough of their d.a.m.nable little war and their endless intrigue. But she said nothing. She too was overcome with fear that something had happened to Bill. and she was tempted to tell them to leave her house immediately, she had had enough of their d.a.m.nable little war and their endless intrigue. But she said nothing. She too was overcome with fear that something had happened to Bill.

Late that night, Bill returned safely with Carl Simari, seeming casual and unconcerned. He spent the following afternoon at home, conversed at length with his father, then he was gone again. n.o.body mentioned the suit, and she did not question him about it during the few moments they were alone together in the bedroom. She was determined to avoid becoming a victim of the madness in this house, the manias, the obsessions with tiny details, the things that preoccupied her father-in-law more than anyone else-his mind seemed always in motion, he was always talking to the men in a strange oracular manner that confused her, he missed nothing that was going on. He was even aware that one of her husband's watches was missing from Bill's top bureau drawer, and he asked her about it. Rosalie had been carrying the jeweled watch around with her in her purse, explaining to her father-in-law that her own watch was in need of repair. But she wondered what her father-in-law was doing in her husband's bureau, in her bedroom; and she also wondered if he suspected that she intended to hock the watch, which was one of four expensive ones that Bill owned. And if she had the nerve to do such a thing, she would have felt justified, for with Bill away so much she was always short of cash, lacking the money for personal things that she and the children needed, and not being able to ask her father-in-law for money because this would have embarra.s.sed her husband, would have reflected poorly on his efficiency and capacity as a provider. She also knew that she could not relay hints to her father-in-law through Carl Simari because, as she already had discovered, it was a violation of protocol for Carl to go to the elder Bonanno directly without first clearing it through Bill. Protocol and male ego were driving Rosalie Bonanno to a breaking point, and yet only once during the winter did she lose control and complain openly about her shortage of spending money.

This occurred early one evening as a friend of Rosalie's, a woman of about her own age, stopped by the house to accompany Rosalie to a movie. As Rosalie was leaving, she informed her father-in-law that she would be going in her girl friend's car because "her car has gas in the tank." When Rosalie returned home that night, the elder Bonanno was there to meet her, furious. She had humiliated him in front of the other woman, he said, embarra.s.sed him, and had inadvertently revealed personal matters that should never have been discussed outside the family. Rosalie began to tremble as she stood facing him-never before had she been directly criticized by him-and as he perceived the effect he was having on her, he quickly softened his tone, became conciliatory.

Life had been very difficult for her, he conceded, and he said he understood her frustrations and grievances. But he reminded her that these conditions were temporary; things would improve. He pleaded with her to not crack under the pressure, saying that when she was a young girl he sensed that she had the character and strength to withstand adversity, and that was why he had been pleased by her marriage to his son. Pazienza Pazienza, he repeated, slowly stressing each syllable. Coraggio Coraggio.

She nodded, forcing a smile. He offered to give her money, but she refused, backing away.

In the spring, there was a front-page article in The New York Times The New York Times with a photograph of Joseph Bonanno and a headline that read BONANNO REGAINS POWER IN MAFIA GANG. with a photograph of Joseph Bonanno and a headline that read BONANNO REGAINS POWER IN MAFIA GANG.

Joseph (Joe Bananas) Bonanno has returned to a position of influence and profit in the Mafia gang from whose leadership he was forced at gunpoint two and a half years ago, according to local and federal law enforcement officers.They say that the sixty-two-year-old underworld chieftain's comeback was maneuvered by his eldest son and heir apparent, thirty-four-year-old Salvatore, sometimes called Bill...The transition has taken place against a background of shifting allegiances that turned cousin against cousin, G.o.dfather against G.o.dson; a plague of heart attacks that killed one interregnum caretaker and inactivated several adversaries; international underworld intrigue; financial lures; and vengeful pa.s.sions in the gang of more than 250 members.Law enforcement officers say that they have confirmed Bonanno's emergence from exile through underworld informers, around-the-clock surveillance of key mafiosi and the observation of such changes as new "street men" taking bets for bookmakers or handling collections for loan sharks in scattered areas...Precise information is lacking about the new ranking order and on how the income from the rackets is divided. Inspector Louis C. Cottell, the head of the Police Department's Central Investigating Bureau, said in an interview:"The situation has not jelled fully. We fit together pieces of information and get a general picture, but you must remember that the Mafia does not publish annual reports nor does it announce its personnel promotions and departures in the business-news pages of The New York Times The New York Times."The elements in the present situation are still volatile, and other changes may follow, according to investigators. They do not rule out the possibility of further gunplay...

The elder Bonanno and the men seemed genuinely pleased by the article, and there were four copies of the Times Times around the house that day. But if the situation had indeed improved for the Bonanno organization, Rosalie could see no convincing signs of it at home. There was no less tension, no fewer men, no lessening of security arrangements. Her father-in-law rarely left the house except to make a phone call. Bill also continued to be away most of the time, and Rosalie was forced to borrow money from her mother. around the house that day. But if the situation had indeed improved for the Bonanno organization, Rosalie could see no convincing signs of it at home. There was no less tension, no fewer men, no lessening of security arrangements. Her father-in-law rarely left the house except to make a phone call. Bill also continued to be away most of the time, and Rosalie was forced to borrow money from her mother.

The prolonged pressure and newspaper publicity now also seemed to be having some effect on her children, who came home from school complaining of small fights and the fact that the other children insisted on calling the Bonanno boys "banana." Of her sons, only Tory seemed to adjust completely to the overcrowded conditions at home and to accept as normal the presence of bodyguards such as Carl Simari in the family. One afternoon when Tory, Felippa, and a young cousin were sitting on the floor in the library, having decided to play "house," Tory was overheard to say: "OK, you play the mommy... you play the daddy... and I'll play Carl."

The prospect of another hot summer spent in the house in East Meadow began to depress Rosalie before the summer had even begun. She did not want the children to be secluded with the men and cigar smoke from June to September, and she did not want to spend hours every day over the sink and stove. She showed symptoms of her growing tendency toward rebellion during May when on two occasions she deliberately returned late from shopping, letting her father-in-law and his aides wait for their dinner. She surprised herself by staying away until eight and nine in the evening, and in June she was again late on two more occasions, forcing the men to cook for themselves. Peter Magaddino had often talked proudly about his career as an army cook in the Pacific during World War II, and Rosalie decided to let Magaddino display his talents in her kitchen. On returning home she would explain that she had been visiting her mother, who was not feeling well, or that she had taken a long ride in the car in an attempt to calm her nerves, which in most instances was the truth; except that Rosalie discovered that she usually ended up in commuter traffic jams when driving, and this made her more nervous. The men seemed sympathetic, and Magaddino evidently proved to be an adequate subst.i.tute.

But what happened in July to provoke her to a point of doing the wildly dramatic thing that she did had nothing to do with the men. It had to do with a woman. Rosalie was in the kitchen in the early afternoon when the phone rang, and a woman's voice asked for Bill. Rosalie recognized the German accent immediately, and she felt her right hand shaking as she held the phone, her palm perspiring. It was Bill's former girl friend from Arizona, now back in the United States on a visit from Europe, calling to say h.e.l.lo. Rosalie was stunned by the woman's cool and casual approach, and she felt threatened by the woman's return. As calmly as she could, Rosalie said that Bill was not home and was not expected home at any specific time. Then, not knowing what else to add, Rosalie said good-bye and hung up.

Within an hour of the call, Rosalie saw Bill's car pull up in the driveway. She was surprised that he was home at this time of day, not yet 3:00 P.M., but she did not tell him about the call when he walked in, followed by Carl. She hoped that Bill would not notice how disconcerted she was, but in a way she hoped that he would; at least that would indicate that he was paying attention to her, was aware of her, cared about her, a feeling that at this moment she needed very much. Instead, Bill informed her that a man would be coming in from California later in the evening and would probably be spending the night on the sofa. Rosalie said nothing. She waited until Bill had tended to a few details in the house and then left again in his car with Carl.

Rosalie went into the bedroom and calmly wrote Bill a note, saying that she was leaving him. Then, after putting into her purse the $350 that she had miraculously managed to save and borrow during the last year, and after packing a few things in paper shopping bags and a small suitcase and carrying them through the kitchen door to the garage, she gathered the children and told them she was taking them for a ride. None of the men seemed to be paying any attention to her as she walked out with the children, started up her 1964 Comet, and headed for the highway toward Manhattan.

She had no idea where she was going, and she did not care. The children must have sensed something different in her manner, a firmness, a cold-eyed vengeance, for they remained very quiet and did not even ask where she was taking them. It was 4:00 P.M., the roads to New York were relatively uncongested. It was a warm sunny afternoon but there was a fine breeze in the air and she felt free and oddly in control. Felippa sat beside her, with Charles also in the front seat; in the back were Joseph and Tory.

Within an hour Rosalie had driven past the Triborough Bridge in Manhattan and was heading upstate on the thruway. She was in heavy traffic now, had to stop a few times as cars jammed up at intersections or toll gates, but she remained calm, relaxed, listening to the rock 'n' roll music coming from her car radio and the radios of other cars moving slowly next to her with their windows open or their convertible tops down. Convertibles were rare in the world that she knew, and the sight of people driving with the tops down, people who did not fling anxious glances into the rearview mirror every few seconds, reminded her of the reality that she had missed. She also noticed that many people were carrying vacation equipment in their cars-inflatable rubber floats, fishing rods, surfboards-and, suddenly, Rosalie wanted to go to a beach, to inhale the salt air of a seash.o.r.e town, to walk on soft white sand. In her whole lifetime of miserable summers she could recall only one summer at the sh.o.r.e, and that had been about fifteen years ago at a north Jersey resort when her father was alive. She remembered the soothing sound of the ocean at night, the crashing of the waves, the noise of crickets. She remembered going out on her father's boat with her brothers and her sister Ann and how her father used to push them into the water to force them to swim; and they all had learned to swim in this manner, except for her. She had been too afraid of the water then, and still was, but this did not make the idea of going to the seash.o.r.e now seem less enticing. During her years with Bill in East Islip and East Meadow she had noticed the long line of cars on summer weekends heading slowly toward the Hamptons and Montauk, but when she went away for weekends, it seemed always in another direction-away from the ocean toward the interior hills and mountains, possibly because Bill and his friends would have felt trapped on an island resort where the exits and entrances were limited.

Now, as Rosalie continued to drive with her children, it gradually occurred to her that at this very moment she was retracing the familiar route that she had often taken with Bill and her parents: she was headed upstate on the New York Thruway toward Newburgh, where her father's hillside farmhouse had been, where the convent she had attended still was. Unknowingly, as if driving by rote, she had been on the road for nearly two hours moving back to her past, lured perhaps by the sense of security she once felt within convent walls. As soon as she realized where she was heading, she decided to change her direction. Taking the first exit she saw, she circled around to an opposite route and stopped when she spotted a large luxurious motel with a swimming pool in which people were splashing and diving.

After registering for the night and handing the children their bathing suits, Rosalie sat under a poolside umbrella watching her children play in the shallow end. She ordered a gin and tonic and knew that in a few hours' time she had come a very long way.

In the morning she checked out and, after consulting a road map, decided that the most convenient beaches for her were back in Long Island. New Jersey seemed too far, New England too unfamiliar, and while she had no specific place in mind on Long Island, she thought she would merely drive through the towns with beaches and stop when she found a place that she liked and a cottage she could afford.

Reentering the thruway, she spent the morning on the road, crossing the Throgs Neck Bridge and headed for the southern sh.o.r.e of Long Island. She soon realized that she was drifting back in the general direction of East Meadow; but having already made one wrong turn on the Bronx Expressway and another on the Cross Island Parkway, she decided that it was wiser for her to remain on those few roads she was familiar with. There was absolutely no chance of her returning to the chaotic atmosphere of her home, her boarding house, and there was little possibility of Bill's locating her no matter how close she was to him-she doubted that he would even look for her. So she ventured through the beach towns that she knew to be within fifteen to twenty-five miles of her home, stopping at several real estate offices in Atlantic Beach, East Atlantic Beach, and Long Beach. She was astonished at the prices for small houses near the water, rentals of close to $1,000 and more a month, and after a long and discouraging afternoon she considered herself fortunate to have gotten a damp bas.e.m.e.nt apartment for $225 a month in a house within walking distance of the beach.

There were no cooking utensils in the kitchen, no linen or pillows in the bedroom, but Rosalie discovered a few faded bedspreads and sofa pillows in the vacant apartment upstairs, and she bought cheap spoons, forks, and plates at a nearby five-and-ten. From the supermarket she purchased several frozen TV dinners for supper that night, planning to use the tins in which they came for pans later on.

The weather during the first week was sunny and warm, without a drop of rain, and Rosalie was getting a suntan and feeling healthier than she had ever remembered feeling. She lost the two or three pounds that she had gained during the winter; and as she looked in a mirror at herself wearing a bathing suit, she was pleased and impressed with her trim figure. She had always been conscious of gaining weight, which was the tendency among women in her family, a tendency that she resisted through careful dieting. Although she would not easily admit it to others, she was vain and secretly proud of her vanity. Beginning with her sheltered Brooklyn girlhood as the protected pearl of the Profaci family, she had been very aware of herself, sensitive to the impression she was making on others, and she carried within her a mental image of each of her movements. She lived in horror of looking foolish-which was why she had never learned to swim-and she resented being taken for granted or feeling abused-which was why she had left her husband twice in the last four years. In each instance she had determinedly felt no guilt, convinced that her husband's brazen behavior or the intolerable conditions he imposed upon her were such an affront that they had forced her to leave.

Still, after her first week at Long Beach, she began to wonder when, or if, he would begin to look for her. From a drugstore she telephoned her mother, the only person who knew of her whereabouts, but learned that Bill had not called. Though not surprised, she was nonetheless disturbed and hurt; and even more so when she contemplated the possibility that the German girl was seeing Bill, perhaps sleeping with him, although Rosalie knew that such philandering would never be allowed in East Meadow as long as Mister B. was in residence-and Mister B., she thought petulantly, might be in residence forever.

During the weeks in the sun, with the children playing freely around her on the beach, she looked back on the life she had been forced to live during most of her marriage and she considered it absolutely incredible. She doubted that there was another women in her family or among her in-laws or distant relatives who would have survived such a marriage as long as she had, and this included her heralded sister-in-law, Catherine. Rosalie felt that when Catherine was spoken of in exalted terms, she, Rosalie, indirectly suffered by being unfavorably compared, even though she found no basis for comparison: Catherine, while extremely loyal to her father and brother, and unintimidated by the bad publicity, nevertheless had not married a man who was in and out of jail, who was shot at in the street, who allowed strangers to live in his house while he disappeared for weeks at a time. Catherine had married a hard-working, prosperous dentist, a man whose father had come from Castellammare and had known the Bonannos but who had somehow managed to avoid a career of notoriety. Catherine's husband led a normal life, came home at predictable hours, and her children would never fret over the word "banana." Rosalie wondered what Catherine's reaction would be if she learned of this runaway summer, and she was tempted to write to her, but decided against it. She had already written too many letters complaining and justifying herself to Catherine, and now she wanted to keep this time of independence to herself. She felt free now and less concerned with what people thought. And until she felt differently, she decided to enjoy the summer with her children; to share only with them the sun, the hot dogs on the beach, the unclocked hours of the day.

Rosalie was awakened one night by the sounds of men's voices and their footsteps in front of the house. She sat up immediately, tense and apprehensive, pulling the bedspread around her, waiting to hear any second the thumping of heavy knuckles against the flimsy screen door. She feared that men had been sent to bring her back, and for the first time since she had left she was afraid of facing Bill again, confronting his explosive temper.

She listened intently to the voices outside, but none seemed familiar. Then she heard the men climbing the staircase along the side of the building, opening the upstairs door, dropping their luggage heavily. Rosalie breathed more easily. They were apparently the new tenants in the upper apartment, and from the noise they made Rosalie guessed that there were four or five of them. Men Men, she thought, gangs of men. I cannot escape them gangs of men. I cannot escape them.

In the morning, hearing them coming down the steps, Rosalie peeked out from behind her drawn window shade and noticed that these men were not the sort that she was most accustomed to having under her roof. These were obviously college boys, husky young men who were bare-chested and wearing Bermuda shorts and bathing trunks. Two of them were drinking beer out of cans.

Later that afternoon, as Rosalie and the children were walking slowly back from the beach, she noticed them sitting on the upper porch with their bare feet on the railing, again drinking beer. One of them said h.e.l.lo to her, and she looked up, smiled, and returned the greeting. Charles and Joseph, Tory and Felippa, also said h.e.l.lo, and a brief conversation followed in which the young men asked Rosalie if she would like to come up and join them for a beer. She politely refused, and taking Felippa's hand she entered her apartment.

As she quickly rinsed the sand and salt water off Felippa and instructed the boys to do the same for themselves, she felt pleased and light-hearted. Later, having showered and put on a cotton dress, she prepared a dinner from cans and containers that would hardly have been considered sufficient in her parents' home or in East Meadow, and she marveled at the joy and simplicity of the exchange with the new tenants. There was nothing to hide from them, nothing to fear, which was ironic, considering that this was the first time in her life that she she was hiding. She even reveled, as she never had before, in her shortage of money, her limited wardrobe, and the transient condition of her existence. Here she was answerable to no one; and there were no men in the next room waiting expectantly for her to set the table, cook their meals, and wash their dishes while they retired to a smoke-filled living room. Here she did not have to put on stockings each morning or hear snoring at night. The children also seemed happier; and although she did not ignore disciplining them, she was more relaxed, less nagging, permitting them to run barefoot much of the time and to play louder games than she would have allowed at home. They also met other young children on the beach, and the college men upstairs proved to be polite and friendly with her and the children, treating them to ice cream from the Good Humor truck and sometimes taking Charles for rides in their car. It was all a new experience for Rosalie and the children-they were indulging in a kind of American childhood that none of them had had before. was hiding. She even reveled, as she never had before, in her shortage of money, her limited wardrobe, and the transient condition of her existence. Here she was answerable to no one; and there were no men in the next room waiting expectantly for her to set the table, cook their meals, and wash their dishes while they retired to a smoke-filled living room. Here she did not have to put on stockings each morning or hear snoring at night. The children also seemed happier; and although she did not ignore disciplining them, she was more relaxed, less nagging, permitting them to run barefoot much of the time and to play louder games than she would have allowed at home. They also met other young children on the beach, and the college men upstairs proved to be polite and friendly with her and the children, treating them to ice cream from the Good Humor truck and sometimes taking Charles for rides in their car. It was all a new experience for Rosalie and the children-they were indulging in a kind of American childhood that none of them had had before.

Rosalie often wished that it could continue indefinitely, but it ended abruptly in the middle of August, which was when young Joseph and Felippa were stricken with asthma. Wheezing, struggling to breathe, they were unable to sleep at night, and their crying kept the other children awake. What made matters worse was the change in weather-there had been rain this week and a series of cloudy days that accentuated the dampness and darkness of the apartment, creating an atmosphere that was unrelievedly depressing.

Rosalie held out for a while, nursing the children with medicine from the drugstore, but she knew that Joseph in particular required a doctor's care. Not wanting to call her mother, who did not drive anyway, Rosalie thought she had no alternative than to notify Bill. She was nearly out of cash and, as galling as it would be for her, returning home was now in the children's best interest.

She did not telephone Bill in the morning, not wanting to talk to her father-in-law or whoever else might answer; she waited until the afternoon and called the warehouse and trucking company on Leonard Street in Brooklyn that was jointly owned by Bill and Sam Perrone. It was where Bill received messages and was sometimes reachable.

Perrone answered and was as cordial as usual; and after a pause during which he went to get Bill, Perrone returned to say, apologetically, that Bill did not want to talk to her. Rosalie became almost hysterical, pleading, telling Perrone that it was an emergency concerning the children. Perrone left the phone again, and after a few moments Bill was on the other end. He sounded sullen and irritable. She had left him, he stated formally, and added that insofar as he was concerned she could stay away forever. Rosalie began to cry, imploring him to consider the children's condition, and after several minutes of reasoning and beseeching, he finally agreed to come to Long Beach to take the children to a doctor. But she could not return to East Meadow right away, he quickly added; he had had all the locks changed on the house, and he would arrange for her to stay at a motel with the children until he could properly prepare his father for her return.

Rosalie was stunned by the remark, too confused and infuriated to reply. After he had hung up, and as she packed the few belongings she had and awaited his arrival, she sat on the edge of the bed feeling humiliated. His logic was absurd, she thought, it was nauseating-first he turned her home life into a private h.e.l.l, and now he wanted her to linger in limbo for a while until she had paid a kind of penance! And his father father had to be properly prepared for had to be properly prepared for her her return. What did his father have to do with all of this? And in what manner was he to be prepared? It was as if she, a fallen angel, a sullied soul, had to be decontaminated before regaining her privileged position as the cook and bottlewasher. The Bonannos, she thought, scornfully, are simply unbelievable. return. What did his father have to do with all of this? And in what manner was he to be prepared? It was as if she, a fallen angel, a sullied soul, had to be decontaminated before regaining her privileged position as the cook and bottlewasher. The Bonannos, she thought, scornfully, are simply unbelievable.

When Bill arrived he looked pale and fatigued, in need of a shave. Though he was kindly with the children he was cool toward her. He handed her $250 and told her that he had made reservations for her and the children at a motel on Hempstead Turnpike, not far from their home, adding that she should take the children to see a doctor and that he would let her know when she could return to the house. He was obviously preoccupied, and Rosalie did not press him, did not argue or ask questions, knowing that to do so at this time would probably make things worse.

The motel, which had a swimming pool, was comfortable and bright, and the children seemed to enjoy staying there. Joseph's condition improved, and within a week Bill came to bring them home. He seemed more relaxed now, and whatever trepidation Rosalie had with regard to the reception of her father-in-law quickly ended when he greeted her at the door as naturally and warmly as if she had never gone away. The other men, taking their cue from him, also expressed pleasure at seeing her, but concentrated their attention mainly on the children, who responded immediately. My children, she thought, are the most adjustable little creatures in the world.

Going into the bedroom, Rosalie found nothing to indicate that other people had slept there or had even entered there during her absence, a condition that pleased her until she reminded herself that, when it came to concealing evidence, her husband was undoubtedly an artist. Still, she was glad to be home, for reasons that she was sure were illogical. Home sweet home, she thought, wryly, listening to Tory tumbling on the rug in the living room, giggling as Peter Magaddino wrestled with him and tickled him. She heard that Peter Magaddino had done the cooking during her time away, which was one of the few subjects that Bill had discussed at length during a visit to the motel, adding that Magaddino had a mania about cleanliness, had emptied the garbage pail whenever it was half-full, had never left potato peelings in the sink or clogged the drain with garlic and onion skin. Rosalie, getting the hint, had changed the subject, but now on returning to her kitchen she was impressed with how spotless it was.

In September the children returned to school, and as the fallen leaves littered Tyler Avenue and the cooler breezes swept through the yard and kicked up the ashes in the outside grill, Rosalie felt that life was again closing in around her. The men seemed once more on edge, and there were times when tension filled the rooms as if it were a tangible substance. The feud that the press referred to as the "Banana War" was being reported in the newspapers more frequently and in more detail. It had obviously reached some kind of climax, with men being hunted and fired upon in the streets.

In late October, Vincent Ca.s.sese was shot in the chest and arms, and Vincent Garofalo was. .h.i.t by a bullet on his left side, although both men lived. Two weeks later, in what the police speculated was perhaps an act of retaliation by a Bonanno loyalist, three men were shot to death while having dinner at the Cypress Garden Restaurant in Queens by a short, stocky man who seconds before had entered the restaurant from a rear door and walked casually through the kitchen down the aisle along the tables carrying a submachine gun under his black raincoat. Approximately twenty patrons were in the restaurant at the time, but no one paid attention to the gunman except the three marked men, who, apparently recognizing him, jumped up from their table, upsetting their chairs. The gun was pointed directly at them, however, and a burst of twenty bullets. .h.i.t them at close range. They fell dead to the floor.

As the killer turned and headed back toward the kitchen the other people in the restaurant dove under their tables, cowered in corners, raced toward the front door. At one empty table a fork with spaghetti wrapped around it was resting on a plate.

The police later identified the victims as Thomas Di Angelo, James Di Angelo, and Frank Telleri, once affiliated with the Bonanno organization but most recently a.s.sociated with the Di Gregorio faction. The killer was not immediately identified, but from the description of a few witnesses who were shown police photographs, the prime suspect was Peter Magaddino's, younger brother from Castellammare, Gaspare Magaddino, who was also being sought at this time by Sicilian police in connection with other activities.

An international hunt was organized by the police, but it would take them more than a year to find him, and when they did locate Gaspare Magaddino he was dead-killed by a shotgun blast on a Brooklyn sidewalk. On his body was found a newly acquired bricklayers union card, but a detective said, "His hands were smooth. This man wasn't a bricklayer."

16.

AN UNSETTLING CALM FOLLOWED THE TRIPLE MURDER at the Cypress Garden Restaurant as the men from the feuding factions remained off the street, and the headlines shifted in December to a scandal at City Hall. James L. Marcus, the water commissioner, a personal friend of Mayor Lindsay and son-in-law of former Governor John Davis Lodge of Connecticut, was arrested on FBI evidence that he had received $16,000 of a $40,000 kickback on a city reservoir contract that involved, among other people, two lawyers, a bakery unionist, a bank director, and a mafioso from the Lucchese organization named Antonio Corallo. at the Cypress Garden Restaurant as the men from the feuding factions remained off the street, and the headlines shifted in December to a scandal at City Hall. James L. Marcus, the water commissioner, a personal friend of Mayor Lindsay and son-in-law of former Governor John Davis Lodge of Connecticut, was arrested on FBI evidence that he had received $16,000 of a $40,000 kickback on a city reservoir contract that involved, among other people, two lawyers, a bakery unionist, a bank director, and a mafioso from the Lucchese organization named Antonio Corallo.

The case-which would result in jail terms for Marcus and Corallo and would also implicate onetime Democratic leader Carmine G. De Sapio-provoked pious indignation from certain citizens and editorial writers, but it reminded others of New York's long history of political corruption and of the fact that while politicians usually denounced organized crime in public, they often profited from it privately.

During this period, in which the Mafia's national commission was trying to determine its next move toward dealing with the Bonanno organization, Bill Bonanno quietly left New York for Arizona, where in late February he was scheduled to defend himself in court against a government claim that he and his wife owed $59,894 in back taxes for the years 195919601961. He was accompanied on the motor trip by Peter Notaro, cousin of the late Joseph Notaro, and by Vincent Di Pasquale, an uncle of Bill's who was married to his mother's eldest sister. The three men left New York in mid-February and took a leisurely journey across the country, traveling through Indiana into Illinois, crossing the Mississippi River at St. Louis, and heading through Joplin into Elk City, Oklahoma, where they were briefly stalled in a snowstorm. A day later they pa.s.sed through New Mexico into Arizona, arriving in Tucson almost five days after leaving New York, which was twice as long as Bill had taken on some previous occasions. But he was using this trip almost as a pleasure excursion, and for once he did not carry large amounts of cash in his pocket, paying for gas, food, and lodgings with a Diners' Club credit card that Sam Perrone had loaned him.

Perrone had handed the card to Bill in lieu of Bill's share of their monthly income from their trucking business, explaining that he, like Bill, was suddenly short of cash. Perrone's problem stemmed largely from a run of bad luck in his gambling operations-a few big "hits" by numbers players combined with the defection of certain bookmakers to Di Gregorio's side. There was also the on-going expense of police graft and the general difficulty of trying to earn a dishonest dollar while the underworld was in ferment and members of the brotherhood were shooting at one another. Bill's difficulties, while inevitably related to the problems of Sam Perrone and other income-producing subordinates, were on a much grander scale. He and his father were having trouble financing the Banana War, an expensive campaign that included the subsidizing of soldiers who were kept out of work by the unions, the leasing of apartment hideaways and getaway cars, the expense of bail bondsmen and lawyers for members taken into custody, the payoffs to informers in rival camps.

Some gang members, unable to supplement their income in any other way, resorted to hijacking trucks, a risky and complicated undertaking that involved kickbacks to the company dispatchers who pinpointed the travel routes of trailer trucks carrying cargo worth stealing, the renting of garage s.p.a.ce large enough to hide a "hot" trailer, and the contacting offences" to dispose of the stolen merchandise. Because of the great haste with which information was often now obtained, a team of hijackers recently captured the wrong truck, discovering that instead of stealing a vanload of television sets they had stolen thousands of boxes of Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s, which they quickly abandoned in embarra.s.sment and disgust. Another revealing sign of the hard times confronting the Bonanno men was the fact that many were economizing on their telephone calls-they made long-distance pay phone calls only when necessary, they limited the length of each call, and they were reduced to using dimes for local calls, which contrasted with their former practice of carrying nothing smaller than quarters.

It was in such a state of austerity that Bill Bonanno found himself in the early fall of 1968, forcing him to go to Perrone and other men in the hope of collecting old debts or loans or of obtaining an advance against antic.i.p.ated earnings; and it was with grat.i.tude and relief, if not with his customary caution, that Bill accepted the Diners' Club card from Perrone and agreed to sign all charge slips not in the name of Bonanno or Perrone but in the name of the person to whom the card was registered-Don A. Torrillo.

Perrone had introduced Torrillo during the previous year as a friend of his, a young man with whom he had a "few deals" going and for whom he had done a few favors. While Torrillo was not a member of an organization, Bill was given to believe that he was the type of man commonly found on the edges of organized crime, a fringe character who got some peculiar thrill or sense of power through his shady connections. Bill would never trust a Torrillo when situations were particularly dangerous, suspecting that types like Torrillo usually collapsed under pressure and could often be coerced by the police into turning informer, but Bill was nevertheless pleased to have Torrillo's help at this point, as Bill had had twice in the past.

Fifteen months ago, while Bill was serving a thirty-day sentence in Manhattan, Perrone visited him at the West Thirty-seventh Street jail and reported that the mortgage holders of Bill's East Meadow house, disturbed by the newspaper publicity and considering Bill a poor business risk, were threatening to discontinue the financing of the house. Perrone said that his friend Torrillo, who was in the real estate business and had good credentials with the Dime Savings Bank, would take over t.i.tle to the property and Bill could make future payments through Torrillo, which Bill did. A year later, when Bill and Perrone made a quick trip to California, Bill noticed that Perrone had purchased the plane tickets with Torrillo's credit card. And so in February 1968, when Perrone offered the card to Bill for the Arizona trip, with the stipulation that Bill sign Torrillo's name, Bill did not question the procedure, being in no position to be particular.

Bill had high hopes that after a few weeks or a month in Arizona, after settling his tax case, he would be able to regain some of his property that the government had confiscated and he would then be able to sell it at a price that would relieve his financial burdens. Bill was an optimist, a quality that he had cultivated long ago, recognizing it as essential to successful leadership; and while he had no reason to be optimistic about anything in 1968, he exuded even more buoyance than usual during his cross-country ride to Arizona, and on arriving in Tucson he charmingly entertained various friends at restaurants and c.o.c.ktail lounges, often paying the bill with Torrillo's credit card. He signed Torrillo's name after taking five people to dinner at the Pancho Mexican Restaurant in Tucson, and he used the card during a trip to San Diego. He experienced no difficulty until the afternoon of March 11, 1968 when he and his companions walked into the David Bloom & Sons shop in Tucson and submitted the card after purchasing about two hundred dollars' worth of men's wear and a bottle of cologne. While he waited and continued to browse through the store, an a.s.sistant manager telephoned the Diners' Club collection office in Los Angeles to check on the credit rating of Don A. Torrillo, and it was learned that certain past bills had not been paid. The Diners' Club spokesman in Los Angeles asked to speak to Mr. Torrillo, and when Bill came to the telephone and replied incorrectly to a few personal questions that were asked about Torrillo, the man suspected that the card was in fraudulent hands, and he ordered the store manager to destroy it. Bill protested, explaining how he had gotten the card and wanted it back; but the manager of the store refused. Bill did receive permission to place a collect call from the store to New York; reaching Perrone at the trucking firm, he loudly complained about the unpaid bills on Torrillo's card.

Perrone apologized, but said that there was nothing to worry about-Don Torrillo would take care of the situation right away. After Bill had hung up and left the store and after he had kept an appointment with a man who was helping him to compile various records and receipts for the tax case, he met with friends at the Tidelands c.o.c.ktail lounge. There he received a call from his uncle, Vincent Di Pasquale, who was at the elder Bonanno's Tucson home, saying that Carl Simari had just telephoned from East Meadow and wanted Bill to contact him immediately; it was very important.

Bill dialed East Meadow, and Simari picked up on the first ring. He asked Bill for the number of the c.o.c.ktail lounge so that he could call Bill back from an outside phone. Within five minutes, Simari was back saying that he had bad news. Sam Perrone had just been shot in Brooklyn and he was dead.

Bill stood holding the phone, stunned, silent, as Simari gave additional details. Perrone, accompanied by another man, was walking out of his Brooklyn warehouse, was crossing the street to buy a pack of cigarettes, when two men suddenly jumped out of a car, fired at least eight bullets at Perrone at close range, then sped away in the car. Bill leaned against the wall for support, still saying nothing. He looked at his watch. It was 5:31 in Tucson. Less than five hours ago, he had spoken to Perrone.

Bill's father later sent word from East Meadow that Bill was to remain in Tucson and under no conditions was he to return to New York. The rumor circulating was that Bill was the next target. The Di Gregorio gang's top triggerman, Frank Mari-the one who had led the Troutman Street ambush-had been spotted a few days ago sitting in a parked car with two other men, all three carrying guns; and it was believed that Mari had had the contract to dispose of Perrone.

The newspapers, quoting the police, said that Perrone's murder was partly in reprisal for the shooting earlier in the month of an officer in Di Gregorio's group, Peter Crociata, who survived even though he had been hit by six bullets as he parked his car near his Brooklyn home.

The death of Perrone was extremely painful for Bill. The newspapers described Perrone as his bodyguard and chauffeur, but Perrone had been much more than that. Since the death of Frank Labruzzo, Perrone had been his closest friend and companion, a man his own age with whom he had communicated easily, whose humor he had enjoyed, and whom he had trusted absolutely. It was Perrone who had driven to Bill's rescue on the night of the Troutman Street shooting, and now that Perrone had been murdered Bill felt personally responsible for avenging the death. He was strongly tempted to disobey his father and return to New York. He stayed up all night in his father's home, pacing the room like a wild creature in a cage, swearing, vowing, sobbing softly.

He was still visibly distraught on the following day, as his uncle and Peter Notaro tried to calm him down, saying at 1:30 P.M. that the FBI was at the door wishing to speak with him. Bill yelled to Notaro to tell the agents to go around to the back door. Then, rising from his chair in the living room, Bill walked through the house to the yard, where, after opening the back door gate, he saw two men wearing suits and ties, seeming very officious. Bill invited them into the patio and asked them to be seated. The taller agent, who introduced himself as David Hale, began abruptly, "Well, I see your friend got it."

Bill glared at him. "Are you gentlemen here on official business,"he asked, sarcastically, "or is this a social call?"

"You know d.a.m.ned well we're here on official business," Hale said.

"Look you son of a b.i.t.c.h," Bill said, standing up, pointing a finger down at Hale, "either you're going to conduct yourself properly, or you're going to get the h.e.l.l out of here right now!"

Hale looked hard at Bonanno, turned to the other agent, who said nothing, then looked back toward Bonanno. Hale then asked, more softly, "Well, are you going to be rushing back to New York?"

"I'm going back to New York when I feel like it," Bill said, sharply, and after that he refused to say much of anything, professing ignorance to the questions or saying he would have to consult with his attorney before replying. The agents remained for another moment, then stood and left.

Bill Bonanno was back in New York within two weeks; and on Monday, April 1, accompanied by an attorney, he answered a subpoena to appear at the Supreme Court in Brooklyn with several other gang members and defectors who were again being questioned, as they had been on many previous occasions, about the Troutman Street incident, which was now more than two years old but still an unsolved mystery insofar as the government was concerned.

Most of the mafiosi who appeared in court on this day had already served terms in jail for previous unresponsive-ness on the Troutman Street issue, and they now were again threatened by contempt of court citations. But if they were concerned about this, or were worried about anything at all on this day, they did not show it as they entered the Supreme Court Building and waited in the corridor to testify. They were aware that their every gesture was being observed by detectives and federal agents, who were attempting to a.s.sess the relative strength and relationships between members of the feuding factions. What the law enforcement men did not know was that the mafiosi were now as confused as everybody else with regard to which men were on which side.

For example, when Bill saw John Morale in court, whom he greeted in a manner that was polite but unrevealing, he was quite sure that Morale had left the Bonanno organization, but he was not sure whether Morale had become part of a third force that was rumored to have splintered off from sections of the Di Gregorio and Bonanno units. At the same time Bill was very cordial to Michael Consolo, a sixty-four-year-old veteran of the Bonanno organization who Bill knew had recently joined Di Gregorio's men. It was only when Bill learned later that night that Consolo had just been found in the street, lying next to his car, with two bullets in his head and four in his back, that he realized how confused everyone had become. Consolo must have been murdered by his own men, possibly through misinterpretation of orders or possibly because he was seen conversing so amiably with Bill during the day in court, and this must have misled some people into thinking that Consolo had gone back to the Bonanno side. Or maybe Michael Consolo was killed by the third group for some other reason; Bill did not know. But both he and his father agreed on the following day that the war had now reached a level of insanity-n.o.body could tell from which direction the next volley of bullets would be coming, and Bill was concerned about the safety of Rosalie and the children in a way that he had not been before.

If a man was just murdered because he was observed speaking in a friendly manner with Bill, then Bill Bonanno had seriously underestimated how intensely some people hated him, and it was not inconceivable that his East Meadow home could become a target, that a bullet or bomb would soon penetrate the thin-walled residence that was located close to the street.

Bill wanted to move to another house. Safety was not the only reason to relocate, for there was a possibility that he would soon be evicted from the East Meadow house. According to Perrone's plan of more than a year ago, Bill's monthly payments were made through Don Torrillo, whose credit card Bill had been forced to surrender; and since Perrone's death, Bill had been unable to reach Torrillo. Bill could not sell the East Meadow house, in which he had already invested $15,000, without making the necessary arrangements with Torrillo, and Torrillo now seemed to be ignoring the efforts of Bill's attorneys to communicate with him through the mail, telephone, or telegrams.

Then one of Bill's attorneys learned through a courthouse source that Torrillo had been conferring with detectives and was believed to be in some deep legal difficulty, perhaps because of gambling or other crimes; and what most worried Bill now was that Don Torrillo, in return for the lessening of whatever criminal charges were being brought against him, was going to serve as the government's key witness in establishing a case against Bill Bonanno in the credit card situation. Torrillo might claim that Bonanno and Perrone had stolen the card from him or had forced him to relinquish it. As optimistic as Bill was about most things, he knew that he would probably have a tough time in court disputing Torrillo. Without Perrone to testify, it would be Bill's word against Torrillo's, and Bill suspected that a jury's sympathies would be with Torrillo, an unknown figure, rather than with a highly publicized Mafia leader.

Still his main concern at the moment was not reaching Torrillo but the immediate problem of remaining alive and moving his wife and children to a safer place. Bill discussed the situation with Rosalie, and he was surprised by her quick reply, suggesting that she had given thought to the subject. She wanted to move to northern California, she said, preferring to settle near her married sister, Ann, who was in San Jose; her sister Josephine, a college student who had transferred from Santa Clara to Berkeley; and also Bill's sister, Catherine, who lived in the community of Atherton, south of San Francisco.

After reviewing it with his father, Bill decided that Rosalie's going to California was a sound idea and that the sooner it was done the better. His father concurred, saying that it was foolish for any of them to remain in the East much longer. The organization was in a quandary, as was the opposition.

n.o.body was sure anymore who the enemy was. As a result, most of the soldiers were in hiding, although there were a number of Bonanno loyalists who were determined to fight until the end, settling old scores.

The elder Bonanno nevertheless felt that the hostility and confusion would subside if he and Bill left town for a while, since it was they who were the main source of controversy. Joseph Bonanno planned to take some of his men with him to Tucson, in time to spend Easter with his wife, and he suggested that Bill should leave immediately with Rosalie and the children for California. After they were settled there, Bill could come alone to Arizona. Bill agreed; and on April 10, packing the car with only the most essential household equipment, and leaving the furniture behind to be collected later, he left with his family for California, planning to go first to Catherine's.

Along the way he kept in touch by telephone with events in New York, and, contrary to his father's expectations, the shooting did not stop. One of Perrone's warehouse employees was injured, though not fatally, by one of five bullets fired into his Cadillac; and then one of the Di Gregorio men was shot three times as he sat in a Democratic club in Brooklyn, but he too survived. Also in April, in a Brooklyn luncheonette, there was the fatal shooting of Charles LoCicero, who was not affiliated with the Bonanno or the Di Gregorio faction but with the Joseph Colombo family, a fact that puzzled the police at first. But later, on the basis of a report by an underworld informant, the killing was said to have been done by one of Bonanno's men in response to the elder Bonanno's alleged remark, following his family's most recent casualty: "The next time they hit one of my men, they lose one of their capos capos [captains], first in one family, then in another." [captains], first in one family, then in another."