Standing at the Scratch Line (22 page)

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The smell of burning tar was everywhere. King, Smitty, and Professor were working in their coveralls, pouring and spreading the hot black mixture on the roof of a tenement in the heart of Little Italy. The weather was clear for the first time in weeks. The morning sun rose like a golden orb in the cloudless blue sky.

King wiped the sweat from his forehead and checked the tar bucket. It was empty. He fastened a rope to the bucket and swung it over the side of the building and lowered it to Big Ed on the street below, who was heating the tar mixture in a large cauldron on the back of a truck. When the bucket was filled, King pulled it hand-over-hand back to the roof.

The three men had been working on the roof for nearly two days, but this morning, if all went well, would be the last. It was eleven-thirty and they were only waiting until noon. The smell of tar was beginning to nauseate King, but he did not slacken in his work. He bent to it as if he was a professional. Smitty was the supervisor because he was the only one with experience working with tar. Every once in a while one of the men would stop, as if to give his back a break and look around. Although they would look up and down the street, only one building was of concern to them; that was the building with the roof garden restaurant across the street near the end of the block.

At eleven-forty-five a white man in a black suit and a black fedora came out on the roof garden and looked around. If he saw the three colored men working on the roof down the block, he gave no indication, but he did signal to someone across the street from the restaurant. His signal was not missed by the men spreading tar on the roof.

“You see who he was wavin’ at?” King asked Smitty while continuing to spread the tar.

“Yeah,” Smitty answered as he was lowering the bucket for another load. “He’s on a roof on this side of the street down the block.”

“Does it look like they’re on to us?” Professor asked, leaning on the handle of his spreader.

“Nope, just routine security. They ain’t studyin’ us.”

“Good,” King declared. “Let’s make this last bucket last until lunch.” The three men worked industriously for the next fifteen minutes.

“Damn!” Professor exclaimed. “The owner of this building is getting a hell of a deal at our expense.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead and took off his glasses. “I’m working so hard my glasses are getting steamed up!”

“Don’t worry about doin’ more. He’s there now,” Smitty said as he lowered the bucket to Big Ed below. Smitty made an eating motion to Big Ed, who then tied the rope to a bundle with a long narrow loaf of Italian bread sticking out of it and sent it up. Big Ed began clearing the tar truck for travel. It was important that he be gone by the time the shooting began.

In the corner of the roof facing the rooftop garden they had constructed a canvas shelter where they had made a show of taking their food. However, today they set up two guns on tripods under the canvas. One was a repeating automatic rifle and the other was a long-barreled sniping rifle. Both were equipped with scopes and silencers.

King and Professor ducked under the canvas while Smitty bundled up the rest of their equipment and lowered it to Big Ed below. Professor cleaned his glasses and shouldered the sniper rifle. King checked the magazines for the repeater and smiled briefly. They were waiting for the all clear from Smitty.

Professor stared at King under the shade of the canvas and asked, “Are you sure this will divert them from our trail? Or are we doing this to satisfy your blood lust?”

“It’ll be just like a pack of wild dogs when you kill their leader. They don’t do no huntin’ until a new leader has fought his way to the top spot.”

“I hope you’re right and we’re not just loosing the hounds of hell upon ourselves and our friends,” Professor said, looking through the scope on his rifle.

“Ain’t you learned yet? We’re the hounds from hell and we bring death with us!”

“I think that’s true for you, but I don’t consider myself part of that. This is my last mission. I intend to put away my weapons and return to the world of books and law. I get no pleasure from spilling blood and, to tell the truth, I’m getting sick of it. I want to return to the world of picket fences where milk is delivered in the morning and children’s laughter is not far away.”

“You one of the best shots with a rifle there is. It’ll be a pity to lose you, but you got to travel by the light you see.”

Smitty ducked under the canvas. “All clear! Big Ed just drove away.”

“You got a clear shot of Ol’ Man Minetti yet?” King asked, sighting his weapon on one of the sentries on the roof garden.

“I will in a moment. Someone just joined him at the table and they’re blocking my view.”

“Count down from three when you’s ready to fire,” King directed. “Smitty, why don’t you go down into the back alley and start the car ’cause we gon’ hit the streets runnin’.”

“You got it,” Smitty answered, and he crawled out from under the canvas.

“Three, two, one: fire!” Professor counted down and squeezed off two shots in sharp succession. King opened fired at the same time, spraying bullets along the walkway of the roof garden. Then he turned his gun toward the lookout on the roof down the block from them and shot the man through his binoculars.

“It’s a hit,” Professor said without enthusiasm. He paused as if momentarily lost in thought. “I killed another man today for no other reason than the pursuit of money.” He said the words almost dreamily.

“Have you lost your mind?” King demanded. “You ain’t got time for that shit now! Pick up yo’ shell casings!” he ordered as he scrambled to pick up the brass ejected from his weapon. “We don’t want to leave no evidence of military issue. We got to double-time it!”

After collecting the casings, they wrapped their weapons in canvas and scurried across the roof to the door leading to an interior stairway. In minutes they were outside and scrambling into a rusted older car that had been stolen for the occasion. Smitty drove away along a predetermined route complying with the speed limits.

The scene back on the roof garden was pandemonium. Vitorio Minetti was dead, along with several of his trusted lieutenants who were dining with him. Through some strange freak of circumstance, only Marco Volante was alive and unscratched.

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“Goddamn it! I say we hit them with everything we got!” Antonio Minetti shouted, banging his fist on the table. “My brother, Vito, wasn’t dead ten hours before those slimy Milanos sent that phoney peace offering. They started a war and now they want to make up! I say kill them all!” He adjusted the patch over his left eye, the result of a past feud with the Milanos. He looked around at the six men who were seated at the table.

“There isn’t much chance of peace now that you killed the peace messenger who was Milano’s youngest son,” Marco Volante said without warmth. He had never liked Vitorio’s younger brother, “Tony the Tiger,” a name earned by his hot temper and his tendency to impetuous violence.

“I just want to know how come you’re still alive when everyone else on that roof was killed! That’s what I want to know!” Antonio demanded. His face was reddening with rage. He was a short, square block of a man with a jutting jaw that seemed to distend even farther when he was angry. “How do we know you didn’t set up this hit, huh?”

“It was pure luck that I’m still here,” Marco explained evenly. “The shots came from more than two hundred yards away. If I had planned this, I wouldn’t have been on the roof at the time.”

Don Fredo Pascarella interjected. “We play into the Milanos’ hands if we begin to fight among ourselves.” Don Pascarella was an older man with silver-gray hair who had earned respect for his years of wise counsel. There was a collective nod from around the table as others agreed with him.

“I investigated the building where the shots came from,” Marco stated. “And I don’t think the Milanos were behind this attack.”

There was a chorus of disbelief from most of the men, with the exception of Don Pascarella. “Who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’m still working on it, but I checked with the owner of the building, Ernie Buscaglia, and he told me that there were some blacks tarring his roof that day—”

Antonio shouted, “Oh my God! Don’t tell me you think some niggers did this? Do you believe we’re as stupid as you?”

“Jungle bunnies don’t have any reason to get involved with our war and they ain’t got no courage for fighting,” agreed Sal Guisti.

“What makes you think it wasn’t the Milanos?” Don Pascarella asked Marco.

“Because Buscaglia told me that these blacks were working for a Polack roofing company named Kowalski’s. I checked and there ain’t no roofing firm named Kowalski’s. Plus, Tino and the two soldiers were sent to set up collection payments from a new club in Harlem. They weren’t sent out to hit the Milanos. I think—”

“You think! You think!” Antonio shouted derisively. “So some Polacks run a fly-by-night roofing company and my son Tino, God rest his soul, saw an opportunity to hit the Milanos and took it! I’m beginning to believe you’re trying to protect the Milanos from the force of our vengeance.”

“I think you’re right, Tony,” Sal agreed, but he always agreed with everything that Antonio said.

“Listen to what I have to say before you jump to conclusions. Lefty Marchetti died in Saint John’s Hospital last Tuesday. He had been sent—”

“Who is Lefty Marchetti?” demanded Antonio.

“He was one of Don Fredo’s godsons,” Marco answered. “He had been sent out to put a hit on the nigger owners of the Rockland Palace because we think they are behind the killing of Tino.”

“This is bullshit! Niggers wouldn’t dare attack my son! They haven’t got the balls!” Antonio interjected. “He could beat up five niggers without pulling out a weapon!”

“Please let him finish,” Don Pascarella advised.

“Lefty went out with two men after a black guy named Tremain. Lefty was shot three times and the two other men ended up in a car the next day that crashed into one of the Milanos’ gambling clubs. Before he died, he told me that they had never been anywhere near the Milanos.”

“Are we going to believe this coward? If the niggers were this smart, we wouldn’t be able to run Harlem the way we do! I tell you he’s working for the other side!” Antonio pointed his finger at Marco.

“I’m no coward and I have no love for the Milanos,” Marco defended himself. “A war with the Milanos will be costly and many people on both sides will die. Why move forward with such a decision until we’re absolutely sure that the Milanos are the ones that started this!”

“We don’t have time for this bullshit!” declared Antonio, adjusting his eye patch. “We have everyone here. I say we vote on who’ll now lead the family!” The succession of the title was not hereditary. Nor was an election normally held. However, Don Vito had decreed at the outset of the war with the Milanos that if he should be killed, there should be no conflict within the family for leadership. It should be settled by a vote of his lieutenants and Don Fredo, who had ten years before been allowed to break off and start his own family.