Uncle Mike was as smooth as a Mariano Fortuny bed jacket. He wore Italian-cut suits, silk ties, and oxblood loafers while Uncle Dom dressed like an undertaker, regardless of the occasion. Dom owned one black wool suit and one black serge, and paired both with plain white cotton dress shirts and a black tie. His dress shoes, black leather lace-ups, hadn’t changed since the flapper era.
When Uncle Mike entered a room, women tingled as they got a brisk whiff of exotic patchouli and Sen-Sen. When Uncle Dom entered a room, he brought a different bouquet entirely. He reeked of Fels-Naptha soap, Listerine mouthwash, and the occasional trace of bleach.
Nicky was only twelve years old when he was no longer allowed to speak to Uncle Mike, Aunt Nancy, and their sons, Richard, Michael, and Anthony, whom their father had nicknamed Ricky, Micky, and Tricky. Nicky missed his cousins, but out of respect to Jo and Dom, he never mentioned how much.
Inside the garage, Nicky inspected the fleet of cabs that he had washed the night before. Even in the morning gloom, they gleamed like butterscotch candy under the work lights. Dominic III had already picked up No. 1, so there remained three yellow cabs in their spaces. No. 2 was driven by Gio. No. 3 was driven by Nino.
Nicky drove No. 4. He gave his yellow cab a pat as he passed it on the way to the stairs. The jewel of the operation, a glistening black 1947 Buick Roadmaster four-door sedan, covered with a beige chamois cloth, was tucked in the alcove. The sedan was the formal patent leather shoe in the fleet of casual loafers. Nicky adjusted the cloth before making his way up the steps to the dispatch office, an aluminum box with a window giving a clear view of the garage below.
Through the open door above, he heard the staccato taps of Morse code as Hortense Mooney, the dispatcher, sent a telegram. Hortense’s hand, Nicky knew, was on the lever, her head bowed, eyes closed, as she remitted the code across the wires. She maintained a somber countenance when she received any message, whether it was a classified missive or a Kiddiegram. Careful not to disturb her, Nicky tiptoed into the office, hung the gate keys on a brass loop, placed his lunch quietly on the service desk, and slipped the tube off his shoulder. He snapped off the end cap and removed the long roll from inside. He unfurled the latest highway and interstate road map of Pennsylvania and pinned it over the outdated version on the corkboard.
Hortense Mooney had a routine. She arrived at her job every morning, Monday through Saturday, at 4:00 a.m., having taken the bus from her home to Chestnut Street. She climbed the long metal stairs of the fire escape at the back of the garage, unlocking the emergency door, and crossing inside through the upper bridge and into the dispatch office, she would remove her green felt hat with the long brown pheasant feather, place it on the file cabinet, and hang her tan corduroy car coat on the back of the door. Her lunch bag was deposited into her private drawer in the file cabinet, while her thermos of hot coffee went onto her desk. She was the only person, outside the Palazzinis themselves, who had keys to the garage. This wasn’t simply a matter of convenience; Dom trusted Hortense with his business, which meant he trusted her with his money, which meant he trusted her with his life.
Hortense Mooney was sixty-three years old. She had been hired as the dispatcher when Mike Palazzini was still with the company, and stayed on after he left, but it wasn’t an easy decision, as she got along fine with both brothers. Mike offered her the same position at Pronto, but Hortense had her reasons for staying with the operation on Montrose Street. She figured she’d stay until she retired. Her smooth skin, the color of dark chocolate, had not a wrinkle to indicate age nor a line that mirrored tragedy. She had a wide, white smile, all her original teeth, a fact she mentioned casually to strangers when they complimented them. Her sleek pageboy was done professionally every Saturday at Mrs. Johnson’s Curls & Q in the Negro section of northwest Germantown.
In her youth, Hortense had been known for her long, well-shaped legs that tapered at the ankles, though they were on the thin side by most standards. Her feet were also long and narrow in the extreme, and combined with her legs, they made her body look like it was perched on double L’s when she waited for the bus. This morning, she tapped them mindlessly on the floor as she worked, as though she were keeping the beat to a song only she could hear.
Hortense sent the telegram with three quick, staccato taps of the lever. She rolled her chair over to the typewriter and began to type, her long fingers stretching across the keys with ease. Nicky enjoyed watching Hortense type. She was quick: the ding of the bell meant that she was about to sling the carriage with force, which he found hilarious because it looked like she was slapping Jimmy Cagney across the face in a fight picture.
Nicky cleared a space on the desk, opened the brown bag, emptied the contents, and, using the bag as a placemat, laid out his meal upon it. He anchored the bag with his drink, a mason jar filled with cold apple cider.
Hortense looked up at Nicky briefly as he unscrewed the lid on the jar and the squeaks of the rivets broke her concentration. Nicky smiled apologetically at her before quietly unfolding the waxed paper around his sandwich as though it were velvet, the contents were emeralds, and he was a jewel thief.
Aunt Jo made a good sandwich. Not too much meat. There were three thin layers of spicy capicola, a glaze of sweet butter on the fresh egg bread, and a dill pickle wrapped separately so as not to make the whole meal soggy. The sandwich would fill Nicky up like nobody’s business, and before he ate it, he whispered a prayer as he placed a starched linen napkin over his uniform jacket. On the corner of the napkin, embroidered in blue, were his initials.
Aunt Jo still made Nicky’s lunch, did his laundry and mending, and would continue to take care of him in this fashion, as she had her own sons, until the day he married. Nicky was her sister’s only child; she favored him because he had lost his mother so young and was left an orphan. She couldn’t imagine how any of her boys would have endured such a loss, so she tried to make up for Nicky’s. Plus, Jo couldn’t resist her Italian nephew, with his all-American coloring—thick reddish-brown hair and blue eyes—and a smile that flashed like high beams on a Caddy as it passed on a one-way street at midnight. Besides, Jo was already raising three boys. What was one more, especially if he was good?
Nicky Castone had never been a bit of trouble.