Articoli correlati a Gangster
Fleeing his father and a shadowy past, Angelo Vestieri finds a second family in early twentieth-century New York's mob and rises to power, as he encounters dangerous betrayals and an abandoned boy in need of a father figure. By the author of Sleepers. 125,000 first printing.
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L'autore:
Lorenzo Carcaterra is the author of the memoir A Safe Place, Apaches, and the New York Times bestseller Sleepers. He has written scripts for movies and television and is currently at work on his next novel.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Summer, 1996
I had come to watch him die.
His head sank into the center of the pillow, his face an ominous
yel-low, paper-thin eyelids closed. IV lines and a heart monitor were
wired to his frail body, the veins on each arm were a thick purple. A
thin blue sheet covered his chest; long hands, more bone than skin,
rested flat across its top. He took in slow breaths, gurgles working
their way from throat to nose, the rank odor of death floating through
the room like seaside fog.
I pushed an ugly metal chair against the side of a cold radiator and sat
down, my back to the dark city sky. It was late, well past visiting
hours, but the duty nurses let me stay, waving aside the rules for the
dying man in room 617B, adopting the indifferent manner he had used to
ignore society’s demands for the bulk of his life. They walked in at
regular intervals, easing their way past the two guards who sat erect
just outside the door, their starched whites stretched by slightly
expanding waistlines. They checked his blood pressure, monitored the
IV’s and pumped in extra doses of painkiller with thin needles hidden in
the front pockets of their uniforms.
He had been in the hospital for four weeks and a priest had twice been
called to administer last rites.
“If he pulls through and you need me again, just call the parish,” the
priest said in a raspy voice that sounded more than eager to do God’s
work. “It’s just down the street.”
“You’ve been here twice,” I said as gently as I could. “That’s more than
enough.”
“He needs to die in a state of grace.” The priest looked across the bed,
his liver-patched fingers shaking as they folded a purple vestment. “He
would want that.”
“No,” I told him, my eyes fixed on the dying man. “I don’t think he
would.”
* * *
I went to the hospital every night, leaving work just after six,
drop-ping by my apartment to shower and change before walking the ten
blocks north, stopping only to pick up a large salad and two cups of
coffee at a Greek diner across from the emergency room. I sat by his
bed, the light from the soundless television above us flickering across
our faces, the city sounds from the streets below merging with the beeps
and buzzes of the monitors attached to his body. Some nights I would
feel tears streak down my cheeks, as I saw the life depart from his once
strong frame. Other nights would bring waves of anger, tense reminders
of the evils he had heaped on those who dared to defy him.
As far as I knew, I was the only one who cared whether he lived or died.
He lay in that bed suffering from one of fate’s cruelest blows: he had
outlived both his enemies and his friends. His children would visit on
occasion, concerned more about a future cash windfall than his fi-nal
days. Each eyed me with distrust, suspicious of my bond with their
father, envious of our time together, wondering why he had chosen me to
share his secrets. There were two daughters and a son, all grown and
with their own families. They had been raised without the burden of
financial worry, but their father’s steady hand and love had long ago
been supplanted by suburban comfort, private school educations, trips to
Europe and hefty allowances. There were few shared memories to unite
them now and there was little else for them to do during these last
moments than sit, stare and leave as quietly as they had entered.
We exchanged nods and glances, never words, our common ground asleep in
the bed that separated us. It was a space that seemed as wide and cold
as a river, for we had each been exposed to completely differ-ent
variations of the same man. I wondered what it would be like to be them,
to know what they knew and feel what they were feeling. They were afraid
to touch or hug him, incapable of shedding a tear at his impending
death. It seemed a harsh way to wade through life and the strain of it
showed on their faces as they sat still as stones around a fa-ther they
were never given the opportunity to love. For them, his death could not
come fast enough.
* * *
It was toward the end of the fourth week. I was walking down the
hospital corridor, a hot cup of coffee in my right hand, the
now-familiar sounds of the floor blending like white noise into the
night. Behind me, I heard the elevator bell ring. I turned and saw
David, the old man’s son, rush out, his neck and shoulders wet from a
heavy rain outside.
“I figured you’d still be here,” he said in a soft, pale voice, poles
apart from his father’s deep tones. He was forty-two and a junior
part-ner in a downtown accounting firm, having done all he could to
dis-tance his name from that of the man down the hall. He was several
inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than his father had been at the
same age, and he always seemed to have a cold.
I sipped my coffee and nodded.
“My sisters and I were talking about it this afternoon,” he said,
standing close enough for me to smell the Geoffrey Beene cologne
lingering on his face.
“Talking about what?”
“About whether we should even bother coming.” He looked over his
shoulders, making sure none of the nurses overheard.
I shrugged. “Do what makes you comfortable.”
“I mean, look, who’s kidding who? It’s not like he’d even want us
around. If he could talk, he’d tell us to get the hell out of his sight.
With you it’s . . . well, it’s different. It’s always been different.
There’s no reason for it to change now.”
“You don’t need to clear anything with me,” I said. “The way he is now,
he won’t know who’s here or who’s not.”
“He knows you’re here,” David said, his voice taking a step toward hard.
“I’ll have somebody call you when he’s dead,” I told him and turned
away.
“You’re just like him,” David said, as I made my way back to his
fa-ther’s room. “Maybe that’s why he cared for you like he did. You’re
both heartless bastards.”
* * *
It was nearing eleven on a muggy New York night, the Yankees game from
Anaheim just beginning, when the door to room 617B eased open. I looked
away from the TV expecting a nurse. Instead, I watched a well-dressed
older woman walk quietly toward the bed. She looked to be in her late
sixties, with thick gray hair combed straight back in an old-fashioned
twist. There was a soft glow to her face, lines and wrinkles defiantly
held in check. She had sharp dark eyes, red pol-ish spread over
manicured nails and a two-piece navy pantsuit under a blue topcoat. She
removed the coat, gently folding it and resting it at the foot of the
bed.
“Is there a chair for me?” she asked, her eyes firmly on the man in the
bed.
I got up and slid mine toward her, watching her walk over to the old
man, lean down and kiss his forehead. Her hands stroked his fingers as
she lowered her head and whispered unheard words into his ear. I had
never seen her before and didn’t know her name. I did know, from the
ease of her movements, that she cared for him.
She turned from the old man and, for the first time since she en-tered
the room, looked up at me, her eyes clouded. “You must be Gabe,” she
said. “He always talked about you. From when you were a little boy.”
“I had the idea he didn’t like to talk at all,” I said, strangely
comfort-able in her company.
“That’s true.” A slight smile creased her face. “About most things and
with most people.” The smile on her face grew wider. “I’m Mary,” she
said now. “At least I’m Mary to everyone but him.”
“And what does he call you?” I returned the smile. It was impossible not
to return that smile.
A hint of a younger woman crept into her voice. “Skipper.”
“Why?”
“The first time I met him, my father took us out on his boat. Once we
were out of the harbor I took the wheel, so the two of them would be
free to talk. But he never heard a word my father said. All he did was
look over at this kid manning a forty-three-foot boat. He figured none
of us would make it back to land.”
“He was born on a boat,” I said, leaning forward against the bed
rail-ing. “He didn’t care much for that trip either.”
She nodded and went on. “I’d handled the boat many times for my father.
I was practically raised on the water. But when I saw him look at me and
could see how nervous he was, I decided to have a little fun. So, now
and then, I’d give him a frightened look or act as if I didn’t know what
to do, which made him even more nervous.”
“He ever catch on?”
“Twenty minutes into the trip he figured out I was very lucky or very
good, and that either way was enough for us to make it back. The next
time he caught my eye, he winked. That’s all it took. For Skipper to be
born and for me to fall in love.”
“You were in love with him?” I immediately regretted my sur-prised tone.
“From that day to this,” she said, turning once again to the man on the
bed. “Nothing’s changed but time.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound the way it did.”
“No need to b...
I had come to watch him die.
His head sank into the center of the pillow, his face an ominous
yel-low, paper-thin eyelids closed. IV lines and a heart monitor were
wired to his frail body, the veins on each arm were a thick purple. A
thin blue sheet covered his chest; long hands, more bone than skin,
rested flat across its top. He took in slow breaths, gurgles working
their way from throat to nose, the rank odor of death floating through
the room like seaside fog.
I pushed an ugly metal chair against the side of a cold radiator and sat
down, my back to the dark city sky. It was late, well past visiting
hours, but the duty nurses let me stay, waving aside the rules for the
dying man in room 617B, adopting the indifferent manner he had used to
ignore society’s demands for the bulk of his life. They walked in at
regular intervals, easing their way past the two guards who sat erect
just outside the door, their starched whites stretched by slightly
expanding waistlines. They checked his blood pressure, monitored the
IV’s and pumped in extra doses of painkiller with thin needles hidden in
the front pockets of their uniforms.
He had been in the hospital for four weeks and a priest had twice been
called to administer last rites.
“If he pulls through and you need me again, just call the parish,” the
priest said in a raspy voice that sounded more than eager to do God’s
work. “It’s just down the street.”
“You’ve been here twice,” I said as gently as I could. “That’s more than
enough.”
“He needs to die in a state of grace.” The priest looked across the bed,
his liver-patched fingers shaking as they folded a purple vestment. “He
would want that.”
“No,” I told him, my eyes fixed on the dying man. “I don’t think he
would.”
* * *
I went to the hospital every night, leaving work just after six,
drop-ping by my apartment to shower and change before walking the ten
blocks north, stopping only to pick up a large salad and two cups of
coffee at a Greek diner across from the emergency room. I sat by his
bed, the light from the soundless television above us flickering across
our faces, the city sounds from the streets below merging with the beeps
and buzzes of the monitors attached to his body. Some nights I would
feel tears streak down my cheeks, as I saw the life depart from his once
strong frame. Other nights would bring waves of anger, tense reminders
of the evils he had heaped on those who dared to defy him.
As far as I knew, I was the only one who cared whether he lived or died.
He lay in that bed suffering from one of fate’s cruelest blows: he had
outlived both his enemies and his friends. His children would visit on
occasion, concerned more about a future cash windfall than his fi-nal
days. Each eyed me with distrust, suspicious of my bond with their
father, envious of our time together, wondering why he had chosen me to
share his secrets. There were two daughters and a son, all grown and
with their own families. They had been raised without the burden of
financial worry, but their father’s steady hand and love had long ago
been supplanted by suburban comfort, private school educations, trips to
Europe and hefty allowances. There were few shared memories to unite
them now and there was little else for them to do during these last
moments than sit, stare and leave as quietly as they had entered.
We exchanged nods and glances, never words, our common ground asleep in
the bed that separated us. It was a space that seemed as wide and cold
as a river, for we had each been exposed to completely differ-ent
variations of the same man. I wondered what it would be like to be them,
to know what they knew and feel what they were feeling. They were afraid
to touch or hug him, incapable of shedding a tear at his impending
death. It seemed a harsh way to wade through life and the strain of it
showed on their faces as they sat still as stones around a fa-ther they
were never given the opportunity to love. For them, his death could not
come fast enough.
* * *
It was toward the end of the fourth week. I was walking down the
hospital corridor, a hot cup of coffee in my right hand, the
now-familiar sounds of the floor blending like white noise into the
night. Behind me, I heard the elevator bell ring. I turned and saw
David, the old man’s son, rush out, his neck and shoulders wet from a
heavy rain outside.
“I figured you’d still be here,” he said in a soft, pale voice, poles
apart from his father’s deep tones. He was forty-two and a junior
part-ner in a downtown accounting firm, having done all he could to
dis-tance his name from that of the man down the hall. He was several
inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than his father had been at the
same age, and he always seemed to have a cold.
I sipped my coffee and nodded.
“My sisters and I were talking about it this afternoon,” he said,
standing close enough for me to smell the Geoffrey Beene cologne
lingering on his face.
“Talking about what?”
“About whether we should even bother coming.” He looked over his
shoulders, making sure none of the nurses overheard.
I shrugged. “Do what makes you comfortable.”
“I mean, look, who’s kidding who? It’s not like he’d even want us
around. If he could talk, he’d tell us to get the hell out of his sight.
With you it’s . . . well, it’s different. It’s always been different.
There’s no reason for it to change now.”
“You don’t need to clear anything with me,” I said. “The way he is now,
he won’t know who’s here or who’s not.”
“He knows you’re here,” David said, his voice taking a step toward hard.
“I’ll have somebody call you when he’s dead,” I told him and turned
away.
“You’re just like him,” David said, as I made my way back to his
fa-ther’s room. “Maybe that’s why he cared for you like he did. You’re
both heartless bastards.”
* * *
It was nearing eleven on a muggy New York night, the Yankees game from
Anaheim just beginning, when the door to room 617B eased open. I looked
away from the TV expecting a nurse. Instead, I watched a well-dressed
older woman walk quietly toward the bed. She looked to be in her late
sixties, with thick gray hair combed straight back in an old-fashioned
twist. There was a soft glow to her face, lines and wrinkles defiantly
held in check. She had sharp dark eyes, red pol-ish spread over
manicured nails and a two-piece navy pantsuit under a blue topcoat. She
removed the coat, gently folding it and resting it at the foot of the
bed.
“Is there a chair for me?” she asked, her eyes firmly on the man in the
bed.
I got up and slid mine toward her, watching her walk over to the old
man, lean down and kiss his forehead. Her hands stroked his fingers as
she lowered her head and whispered unheard words into his ear. I had
never seen her before and didn’t know her name. I did know, from the
ease of her movements, that she cared for him.
She turned from the old man and, for the first time since she en-tered
the room, looked up at me, her eyes clouded. “You must be Gabe,” she
said. “He always talked about you. From when you were a little boy.”
“I had the idea he didn’t like to talk at all,” I said, strangely
comfort-able in her company.
“That’s true.” A slight smile creased her face. “About most things and
with most people.” The smile on her face grew wider. “I’m Mary,” she
said now. “At least I’m Mary to everyone but him.”
“And what does he call you?” I returned the smile. It was impossible not
to return that smile.
A hint of a younger woman crept into her voice. “Skipper.”
“Why?”
“The first time I met him, my father took us out on his boat. Once we
were out of the harbor I took the wheel, so the two of them would be
free to talk. But he never heard a word my father said. All he did was
look over at this kid manning a forty-three-foot boat. He figured none
of us would make it back to land.”
“He was born on a boat,” I said, leaning forward against the bed
rail-ing. “He didn’t care much for that trip either.”
She nodded and went on. “I’d handled the boat many times for my father.
I was practically raised on the water. But when I saw him look at me and
could see how nervous he was, I decided to have a little fun. So, now
and then, I’d give him a frightened look or act as if I didn’t know what
to do, which made him even more nervous.”
“He ever catch on?”
“Twenty minutes into the trip he figured out I was very lucky or very
good, and that either way was enough for us to make it back. The next
time he caught my eye, he winked. That’s all it took. For Skipper to be
born and for me to fall in love.”
“You were in love with him?” I immediately regretted my sur-prised tone.
“From that day to this,” she said, turning once again to the man on the
bed. “Nothing’s changed but time.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound the way it did.”
“No need to b...
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