Sicilian Defense (19 page)

“What Apalachin meeting, Mr. Stern?” Gianni asked.

Stern's color was deepening. “After you were arrested in 1957 at Apalachin, were you not indicted and brought to trial in reference to the illegal Apalachin meeting of the Mafia?”

“Not only was I arrested but I was tried and convicted of having been at that meeting,” Gianni said.

Stern looked pleased.

“However,” Gianni continued, “the United States Circuit Court of Appeals overturned my conviction and threw that case out, indicating that there was no proof that anything illegal had occurred, that any crime had been committed. As far as I know, there wasn't anything illegal and there wasn't any crime committed, and I was not at any meeting of any Mafia, or any other organization that I know of in Apalachin in 1957, Mr. Stern.”

Stern's smile vanished. He was stabbing at a piece of paper with a pencil. The other committee members were somber, watching Gianni.

“You know, Mr. Aquilino, you could be charged with perjury and sent to prison for not telling the truth before this committee?”

Gianni sat immobile, coolly, unblinkingly watching Stern. “If you think I'm committing perjury, Mr. Stern, you can take it to the court and try to convict me of it. And you can check with the Federal Appeals Court about Apalachin too. I'm telling the truth. Are you?”

Sandro leaned over to Gianni. “Please, Gianni, you're doing beautifully. But don't try to fence with him.”

“I'm not the one being interrogated here, Mr. Aquilino,” Stern said harshly.

Sandro leaned over to Gianni again. “Don't answer him, Gianni. Let it go.”

Gianni sat waiting.

The entire room was motionless, silent.

“Well, this meeting you had in Apalachin, how did it come about?” asked Stern. “There must have been a plan far in advance so that everyone across the country would get together at this particular time?”

“I never knew and still don't know about any plan, Mr. Stern. At least for myself, I can say I was at home in Pawling and two friends drove up. They said they were going to Apalachin for a barbeque that day, and asked me to go along. I went. That's all there was to it as far as I'm concerned. I can't speak for the others you refer to across the country.”

“Are you trying to say that nothing was planned, that it was just an accident that you happened to go there on that particular day with these two people?”

“That's right, Mr. Stern. Two old friends I hadn't seen in a long time.”

“Who were these friends?” Stern asked sharply.

“Sal Angeletti and Vincent Tagliagambe,” said Gianni.

“Was this Vincent Tagliagambe the boss of the same Cosa Nostra family you and Vito Giordano later headed?”

“Vincent Tagliagambe is dead four years,” Gianni said. “He was deported nineteen years ago.”

“Was he the boss of a family of the Cosa Nostra before being deported?” Stern repeated.

“Mr. Stern, as I said before, I'm not sure what you mean when you say the Cosa Nostra or the Mafia. If you define what you mean by Cosa Nostra or Mafia, I'll be able to answer your questions.”

Stern studied Gianni. “The Cosa Nostra,” Stern said slowly, sharply, “is an organization of criminals—a nationwide network of criminals—presided over by a commission to further a national criminal enterprise.”

“Is this national organization and enterprise you're talking about centrally directed?” Gianni asked. “With a national plan of operation, a central budget? Things like that?”

“I'm not under examination, Mr. Aquilino,” Stern spat out at Gianni.

“I'm only trying to find out what you're asking me, Mr. Stern. If I don't understand your question, how can I answer it?”

“Mr. Aquilino, you are obviously not telling the truth before this committee, you are obviously trying to insult this committee with your blatantly false answers.” Stern was red in the face now.

Sandro leaned over to Gianni. “Let him talk. Don't get angry,” Sandro said.

“What I'm saying is the truth, Mr. Stern. Is what you're saying the truth?” Gianni's voice had an edge to it.

Sandro leaned forward. “
Don't get angry, Gianni
—he'll shoot you down.”

“Were you head of the same Mafia family after Tagliagambe was deported and before you were shot at?” Stern continued.

“I still would, respectfully, like to know exactly what you mean by Mafia,” said Gianni.

“Was this Sal Angeletti a
capo
then, and is he now acting boss of the Mafia family of Vito Giordano?” Stern asked.

“What is a
capo
?” asked Gianni.

“What do you think it is?” Stern shot back.

Gianni shrugged, studied the desk momentarily, then looked up to Stern ingenuously. “Is it an Italian cop?”

Stern's eyes widened. He leaned back in his chair, staring down at Gianni. His eyes were hostile.

“Would the reporter read the last full question about Sal Angeletti to the witness,” said Stern.

The reporter read aloud the question.

“Although you still won't, or perhaps can't, define it, Mr. Stern,” said Gianni, “if you think the Mafia is a national organization, centrally directed and funded, there isn't any such thing. And what Sal Angeletti does is his own business. You ask him. If you want to know who I know, if I knew Vito Giordano, ask me.”

“Did you know Vito Giordano?”

“Yes, since I was a kid on Mulberry Street. We used to play stickball together. I hit two sewers, Vito hit three.”

The reporters were laughing now.

Stern was angered by that. “Is Rosario Gangi head of another family in the Mafia?” Stern demanded.

“I know Rosario Gangi too. We first met at dances in South Brooklyn about fifty years ago. I've known him since then. However, as I've said, Mr. Stern, I know no nationwide organization involved in any national criminal scheme. If you mean something else, please tell me.”

“We'll have a recess at this time,” said Stern, rising abruptly.

The committee filed off the stage. Stern descended into the audience. Immediately he was swallowed up in a sea of reporters. He cut through them icily, walking directly to the witness table.

“Mr. Luca, this Aquilino—” Stern said menacingly, pointing his finger at Gianni.

“Don't point your finger at me, Mr. Stern,” Gianni said. “I have respect for you. You should have respect for me.”

Stern lowered his finger, returning to Sandro. “Your witness will be going up for perjury. The story he told us is ridiculous, and is obviously an attempt to get around answering questions in front of this committee by talking nonsense. I'm going to have him up on charges of perjury and contempt before you can even turn around. You hear that?”

Sandro nodded. “I heard you.”

Stern turned toward Gianni. “Mr. Aquilino, your troubles have just begun. I'm going to break you. When these minutes are typed, you're going to jail.”

“I've had troubles before. I can take them again, Mr. Stern.”

12:30 P.M.

Gianni entered the garage. He was alone and tired, and he knew he had made an enemy who was, even now, planning to destroy him. And Gianni also knew that Stern and the F.B.I. could, if they wanted to, even frame him. But now he had to try to help Sal.

“Hiya, Gianni,” said Angie the Kid.

“Hello, Kid.”

Frankie the Pig was in the office eating peppers and eggs. A bottle of beer was on the desk. Gus was sitting by.

“Hello, Gianni,” said Frankie the Pig. He cleared his things off the desk, so Gianni could take his place. He told him the news—that Big Diamond's boys had found the chocolate bunny and her boyfriend.

“How do they know he's the right one?” asked Gianni.

They told him and he nodded. “It's a good lead, anyway. It may be the right guy—and it may be nothing at all.”

The others looked to Frankie the Pig.

“I sent Tony up there to grab the guy,” said Frankie. “That way we'll know for sure, and we'll find out where the others are too.”

Gianni studied Frankie the Pig. Before the boys had asked him to help, two nights ago, Gianni hadn't thought much about Frankie the Pig running across that lobby twelve years ago. Once in a while, after it first happened, he would wake up in the night, and he would see that face, twisted in bloodlust. But Frankie the Pig was older now, and the face was paunchy, had lost its youthful strength. It was no longer so fearsome.

“I don't think that was the right move,” Gianni said flatly.

Frankie the Pig glanced around at the others, then back to Gianni. “Why not? If we've got the right guy, we can grab the rest of them too.”

“I'm not sure we won't be better off if he's the wrong guy,” said Gianni.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, simply, that if he's the right guy, and his friends find out we've got him, Sal's dead.”

The others studied Frankie the Pig.

“I sent Tony and Lloyd and another colored guy. They're smart boys—they'll do it right,” said Frankie.

“That's trusting to luck and I don't like that,” said Gianni. “I make my own luck. When you hit, you should hit like lightning. Lightning only hits once, but if you figure it right, that's all you need.”

As he spoke, Gianni was watching Frankie the Pig. Gianni was right on the line, he no longer had anything to lose—not with Frankie the Pig, not with anyone.

“I trust Tony,” said Frankie.

“You better be able to,” said Gianni.

“You want me to send somebody else up after them?”

Gianni shook his head. “I don't want you to do anything, Frankie.”

The others were silent, looking from Gianni to Frankie the Pig.

“It's too late to worry about it now,” said Gianni. “Besides, we have more important things to do.”

“Like what?” said Frankie the Pig.

“We have to figure how to make sure they let Sal go alive after we pay the money,” answered Gianni. “They're talking about getting the money—but how do we get our man back alive after that? I'm not leaving anything to luck, boys. We've got to prepare our lightning bolt now.”

“Make them bring Sal with them, and exchange them,” Gus suggested.

“They won't come that close,” said Gianni. “They won't have Sal anywhere near us, and they won't come near us themselves. They'd be afraid that we'd grab Sal, and then kill them.”

“Well, if we don't get close enough to see him, how can we know Sal's alive?” asked Bobby Matteawan.

“That's what we've got to figure out now,” said Gianni. “We've got to find some way.”

“How about—naw,” said Angie the Kid.

“What is it, Angie?” said Gianni. “Every idea is good right now.”

“I was thinking what if they brought him up on the Brooklyn Bridge or something like that, then we could watch him from below, maybe with binoculars? I've got a pair of binoculars. But, I guess that's not so good,” Angie said diffidently.

“It's not bad, Angie,” Gianni said. “The only thing is that they'd be with him. They could still kill him anyway before we got to him.”

Angie looked at Gianni gratefully.

“We have to figure a way, then,” said Frankie the Pig, “to be able to see him, and not have them with him?”

“That's right,” said Gianni. “I don't know if we can do it.”

“How about the subway, or the ferry,” suggested Gus. “You know, they put him on one side and we wait on the other—they couldn't get at him then.”

“How do we know they'll put him on after they're paid? And if they put him on before, why would we pay? Remember,” said Gianni, “we have to figure out something they'll accept. And if we suggest anything that even smells like a trap, they'll tell us to stuff it.”

“That makes it tough,” said Bobby Matteawan. “Whatever we suggest is going to sound like a trap. I mean, how can we tell them where to bring Sal without it being a trap? They'll figure we know where it is and we'll have the place set up.”

“Exactly,” said Gianni. “They have to be secure, and we have to be secure, and they have to feel that we can't set them up. Otherwise, they won't go along with it.”

“How the hell can you arrange something, and not know what it is?” asked Frankie.

Gianni rubbed his chin, and his hand slipped up along his face to his temple. “I'm going to think about it awhile,” he said, rising. “First I'm going to catch about two hours sleep. I've been up all night. Then, we'll work something out. At least we'll try. Come on, Joey. Give me a ride.”

“You're not going to Pawling, are you?” asked Frankie the Pig.

“No,” said Gianni as he left.

7:45 P.M.

Again Gianni was seated at the desk in the garage. The telephone was right before him. He was rested; his nap had been a little longer than expected, but he felt much better. Now, showered and shaved, he looked straight ahead, thoughtful and anxious to get at it.

He lit another cigarette, doodling as he sat. The time was moving slowly toward the moment when his plan had to be sprung. Frankie the Pig came in and sat down next to him. Gianni did not speak. Frankie looked at his watch. “Five more minutes,” he said.

“Right,” said Gianni without turning.

The other men started coming in; they wanted to be where it was all going to happen.

“What about that plan to get Sal back safe?” asked Gus.

“You'll hear it first hand in a couple of minutes, Gus,” said Gianni. “I'd rather go through it only once.”

“Where the hell is Tony?” asked Joey. “We haven't heard from him since he went up there this morning.”

Frankie the Pig said nothing.

“Maybe the niggers got him instead of the other way,” said Bobby Matteawan.

The others fell silent now, watching Gianni, checking their watches. Gianni's mind was racing, probing his plan for defects.