isn’t.”
“You know, Elliot, you’re better than you think you are. I spoke with Mr. Castellano, and he thinks highly of you, too. Given your skills as a surgeon and lecturer, there are few positions you’d have trouble rising to. Perhaps, even a directorship if things continue to go as they have.”
Elliot shook his head in disbelief. “Why th-thank you, Mr. Rosengarten. That’s nice of you to say.”
Rosengarten tsked him. “No, no,” he said with the wave of a finger, “it’s not, Mr. Rosengarten. It’s Al. And one more thing, about that house. It was owned by a man named Sonny Montella. He’d worked with Mr. Castellano, and Mr. Gambino before that, for a number of years, but then did a terrible thing, an act of betrayal, really. He became an FBI informer, what we call a “rat.” Now he’s in their witness protection program. So the place came on the market kind of sudden.” Rosengarten shrugged as he turned to leave. “Oh, well, FBI. You know what that stands for, don’t you? ‘Forever Born Ignorant.’ They just don’t understand people like us, Elliot, and probably never will.”
Al Rosengarten’s words that night resonated for Elliot, especially the part about William “Sonny” Montella, a Gambino Family soldier working the Brooklyn waterfront who had, a short time before, disappeared into the Federal Witness Protection Program. Newspaper headlines carried the story for weeks, treating his defection as a major blow to waterfront caporégime Tony Scotto, as well as to Castellano. Montella, it seemed, knew all there was to know about mob infiltration of the International Longshoremen’s Association, having reported directly to Scotto, who also happened to be vice president of the 16,000-member ILA.
While none of this sounded benign, it wasn’t until several months later, with Hanna seven months pregnant, that the Litner family experienced the full impact of the situation. As was his way during these times, Elliot had spent the night at the apartment he kept near the hospital. But the next afternoon when his Corvette finally did pull into the driveway of their Englewood home, he immediately sensed something was wrong.
Standing ominously outside of his front door was a man he’d never seen before, and in the driveway, very near the entrance, was an unmarked industrial van.
“Dr. Litner?” the man called to him before he’d switched off the ’Vette’s ignition.
“Yes, I’m Elliot Litner. Is something wrong?”
The man, squat and broad as a professional wrestler, approached him. “Maybe you want come with me, Doc,” he muttered, taking hold of Elliot’s arm at the elbow.
“What’s wrong? Who are you?”
“Just come with me, and everything will be fine. You see, there’s been a little misunderstanding that we’ve come to straighten out.”
“What kind of m-misunderstanding?” Elliot asked as he was shepherded through the entrance and into the foyer, suddenly cognizant of a cadenced thudding coming directly from the basement beneath them.
“We’ve come to get what’s ours,” the man answered, all business. “My friends are downstairs in your basement. Did you know there was a safe down there, hidden behind the wall in the wine cellar?”
“Where’s my wife? Where’s Hanna, she’s pregnant and, I swear, if she’s been hurt in any way …”
“Don’t make this tough on yourself, Dottore. It’s the safe we care about, not your wife. She’s in there,” he said motioning toward the kitchen, “relaxing like you should be.”
“Yeah, while your gumbas tear my g-goddamned house apart, is that it?” Elliot snapped back, rushing into the adjoining room where Hanna sat at the kitchen table, sipping from her cup, angrier than scared. “Hanna, are you all right? Are the babies …”
“I’m fine, Elliot, but I don’t know what’s happening. I think we’re being robbed!”
“No, no, it’s not anything of ours they want. It’s something in a safe hidden
“You know, Elliot, you’re better than you think you are. I spoke with Mr. Castellano, and he thinks highly of you, too. Given your skills as a surgeon and lecturer, there are few positions you’d have trouble rising to. Perhaps, even a directorship if things continue to go as they have.”
Elliot shook his head in disbelief. “Why th-thank you, Mr. Rosengarten. That’s nice of you to say.”
Rosengarten tsked him. “No, no,” he said with the wave of a finger, “it’s not, Mr. Rosengarten. It’s Al. And one more thing, about that house. It was owned by a man named Sonny Montella. He’d worked with Mr. Castellano, and Mr. Gambino before that, for a number of years, but then did a terrible thing, an act of betrayal, really. He became an FBI informer, what we call a “rat.” Now he’s in their witness protection program. So the place came on the market kind of sudden.” Rosengarten shrugged as he turned to leave. “Oh, well, FBI. You know what that stands for, don’t you? ‘Forever Born Ignorant.’ They just don’t understand people like us, Elliot, and probably never will.”
Al Rosengarten’s words that night resonated for Elliot, especially the part about William “Sonny” Montella, a Gambino Family soldier working the Brooklyn waterfront who had, a short time before, disappeared into the Federal Witness Protection Program. Newspaper headlines carried the story for weeks, treating his defection as a major blow to waterfront caporégime Tony Scotto, as well as to Castellano. Montella, it seemed, knew all there was to know about mob infiltration of the International Longshoremen’s Association, having reported directly to Scotto, who also happened to be vice president of the 16,000-member ILA.
While none of this sounded benign, it wasn’t until several months later, with Hanna seven months pregnant, that the Litner family experienced the full impact of the situation. As was his way during these times, Elliot had spent the night at the apartment he kept near the hospital. But the next afternoon when his Corvette finally did pull into the driveway of their Englewood home, he immediately sensed something was wrong.
Standing ominously outside of his front door was a man he’d never seen before, and in the driveway, very near the entrance, was an unmarked industrial van.
“Dr. Litner?” the man called to him before he’d switched off the ’Vette’s ignition.
“Yes, I’m Elliot Litner. Is something wrong?”
The man, squat and broad as a professional wrestler, approached him. “Maybe you want come with me, Doc,” he muttered, taking hold of Elliot’s arm at the elbow.
“What’s wrong? Who are you?”
“Just come with me, and everything will be fine. You see, there’s been a little misunderstanding that we’ve come to straighten out.”
“What kind of m-misunderstanding?” Elliot asked as he was shepherded through the entrance and into the foyer, suddenly cognizant of a cadenced thudding coming directly from the basement beneath them.
“We’ve come to get what’s ours,” the man answered, all business. “My friends are downstairs in your basement. Did you know there was a safe down there, hidden behind the wall in the wine cellar?”
“Where’s my wife? Where’s Hanna, she’s pregnant and, I swear, if she’s been hurt in any way …”
“Don’t make this tough on yourself, Dottore. It’s the safe we care about, not your wife. She’s in there,” he said motioning toward the kitchen, “relaxing like you should be.”
“Yeah, while your gumbas tear my g-goddamned house apart, is that it?” Elliot snapped back, rushing into the adjoining room where Hanna sat at the kitchen table, sipping from her cup, angrier than scared. “Hanna, are you all right? Are the babies …”
“I’m fine, Elliot, but I don’t know what’s happening. I think we’re being robbed!”
“No, no, it’s not anything of ours they want. It’s something in a safe hidden
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