hemorrhoids.
He looked at his watch. It was exactly 8:00. He and Labruzzo sat silently as the seconds ticked away. He was about to conclude that it was another uneventful Thursday. Then, the telephone rang.
Bill slammed against the door, bounced out of the car, ran into the booth with such force that it shook. Labruzzo ran after him, pressing against the glass door that Bill had pulled shut. Bill heard a woman’s voice, very formal, sounding far away—it was the operator repeating the number, asking if it corresponded to the telephone number in the booth.
“ Yes ,” Bill replied, feeling his heart pounding, “yes it is.”
He heard muffled sounds from the other end, then silence for a second, then the sound of coins dropping into the slot, quarters , six or seven quarters gonging—it was long distance.
“Hello, Bill?”
It was a male voice, not his father’s, a voice he did not recognize.
“Yes, who is this? ”
“Never mind,” the man replied, “just listen to me. Your father’s OK. You’ll probably be seeing him in a few days.”
“How do I know he’s OK?” Bill demanded, suddenly aggressive.
“Where the hell do you think I got this number from?” The man was now irritated. Bill calmed down.
“Now look,” the man continued, “ don’t make waves! Everything’s OK. Just sit back, don’t do anything, and don’t worry about anything.”
Before Bill could respond, the man hung up.
4
T HE EXCITEMENT, THE ECSTASY, THAT B ILL B ONANNO felt was overwhelming, and during the drive back to Queens he heard the conversation again and again, and he repeated it to Labruzzo. Your father’s OK, you’ll probably be seeing him in a few days . Bill was so happy that he wanted to go to a bar and have a few drinks in celebration, but both he and Labruzzo agreed that despite the good news they should remain as careful and alert as they had been before. They would follow the advice of the man on the telephone, would sit back and wait; in a few days Joseph Bonanno would reappear to make the next move.
Yet, in the interest of efficiency, Bill thought that some preparation for his father’s return was necessary; he felt, for example, that Maloney, his father’s attorney, should be informed immediately of this development. Bill reasoned that Maloney would be his father’s chief spokesman after the reappearance, an event that would undoubtedly cause a circus of confusion and complex legal maneuvering in the courthouse, and Maloney would have to plan the elder Bonanno’s strategy for the interrogation by the federal grand jury. Bill also felt a touch of guilt about Maloney, since Bill had been very suspicious of him after the incident on Park Avenue. The veteran lawyer was forced to appear on five or six occasions since then before the grand jury to defend himself against government implications that he was somehow involved in the kidnaping, and Bill imagined that Maloney’s reputation as a lawyer had suffered as a result. On the following day, Bill Bonanno drove to a telephone booth and called Maloney’s office.
“Hi, Mr. Maloney, this is Bill Bonanno,” he said, cheerfully, picturing the old man jumping out of his chair.
“ Hey ,” Maloney yelled, “where are you? Where’s your dad? ”
“Hold on,” Bonanno said, “take it easy. Go to a phone outside your office, to one of the booths downstairs, and call me at this number.” He gave Maloney the number. Within a few minutes the lawyer called back, and Bonanno recounted all that he had been told the night before.
But Maloney was dissatisfied with the brevity of the details. He wanted more specific information. He wondered on what day the elder Bonanno would appear, where he would be staying, how he could be reached now and through whom. Bill said he did not know anything other than what he had already told, adding that as soon as he knew more he would contact Maloney at once. When Maloney persisted with more questions, Bonanno cut him off. He
He looked at his watch. It was exactly 8:00. He and Labruzzo sat silently as the seconds ticked away. He was about to conclude that it was another uneventful Thursday. Then, the telephone rang.
Bill slammed against the door, bounced out of the car, ran into the booth with such force that it shook. Labruzzo ran after him, pressing against the glass door that Bill had pulled shut. Bill heard a woman’s voice, very formal, sounding far away—it was the operator repeating the number, asking if it corresponded to the telephone number in the booth.
“ Yes ,” Bill replied, feeling his heart pounding, “yes it is.”
He heard muffled sounds from the other end, then silence for a second, then the sound of coins dropping into the slot, quarters , six or seven quarters gonging—it was long distance.
“Hello, Bill?”
It was a male voice, not his father’s, a voice he did not recognize.
“Yes, who is this? ”
“Never mind,” the man replied, “just listen to me. Your father’s OK. You’ll probably be seeing him in a few days.”
“How do I know he’s OK?” Bill demanded, suddenly aggressive.
“Where the hell do you think I got this number from?” The man was now irritated. Bill calmed down.
“Now look,” the man continued, “ don’t make waves! Everything’s OK. Just sit back, don’t do anything, and don’t worry about anything.”
Before Bill could respond, the man hung up.
4
T HE EXCITEMENT, THE ECSTASY, THAT B ILL B ONANNO felt was overwhelming, and during the drive back to Queens he heard the conversation again and again, and he repeated it to Labruzzo. Your father’s OK, you’ll probably be seeing him in a few days . Bill was so happy that he wanted to go to a bar and have a few drinks in celebration, but both he and Labruzzo agreed that despite the good news they should remain as careful and alert as they had been before. They would follow the advice of the man on the telephone, would sit back and wait; in a few days Joseph Bonanno would reappear to make the next move.
Yet, in the interest of efficiency, Bill thought that some preparation for his father’s return was necessary; he felt, for example, that Maloney, his father’s attorney, should be informed immediately of this development. Bill reasoned that Maloney would be his father’s chief spokesman after the reappearance, an event that would undoubtedly cause a circus of confusion and complex legal maneuvering in the courthouse, and Maloney would have to plan the elder Bonanno’s strategy for the interrogation by the federal grand jury. Bill also felt a touch of guilt about Maloney, since Bill had been very suspicious of him after the incident on Park Avenue. The veteran lawyer was forced to appear on five or six occasions since then before the grand jury to defend himself against government implications that he was somehow involved in the kidnaping, and Bill imagined that Maloney’s reputation as a lawyer had suffered as a result. On the following day, Bill Bonanno drove to a telephone booth and called Maloney’s office.
“Hi, Mr. Maloney, this is Bill Bonanno,” he said, cheerfully, picturing the old man jumping out of his chair.
“ Hey ,” Maloney yelled, “where are you? Where’s your dad? ”
“Hold on,” Bonanno said, “take it easy. Go to a phone outside your office, to one of the booths downstairs, and call me at this number.” He gave Maloney the number. Within a few minutes the lawyer called back, and Bonanno recounted all that he had been told the night before.
But Maloney was dissatisfied with the brevity of the details. He wanted more specific information. He wondered on what day the elder Bonanno would appear, where he would be staying, how he could be reached now and through whom. Bill said he did not know anything other than what he had already told, adding that as soon as he knew more he would contact Maloney at once. When Maloney persisted with more questions, Bonanno cut him off. He