member of a team and he did whatever he was told. If he had to rough someone up, he did. His expertise with a knife was legendary. Opposite numbers were afraid of him. Fiorello wasn’t an enforcer in the same way the Ranelli twins were, but I have no doubt he’d been called to commit murder at some point. Probably several times. As an earner, he was the boss of two or three bookies on the Lower East Side. He collected money from them once a week, delivered a good chunk of it to Don DeLuca, and got to keep the rest for himself. Fiorello told me he was on his way to being made a capo , which was a ranking member of the family. He was going to be “made,” probably when he turned thirty. Fiorello said it was unusual for someone so young to become a “made man.”
Okay, I knew these people were doing illegal things. But you know something? Somehow they made it all seem to be a necessary evil. As an ethnic minority, these Italians felt they never got a fair shake from established authority in the United States. Their methods and customs came over from Sicily. It was in their blood, it was just the way they did things. And usually their “victims” were other criminals—members of a rival family or drug dealers or what have you. They never targeted what I thought of as “innocent” everyday people. I’m not saying what they were doing was right, but it didn’t bother me as much as it might others. Well, that was then .
Of course, my love for Fiorello probably blinded me to the truth about the Mafia. I was hoodwinked by the glamour and attention.
Living with Fiorello opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking about men. Even though I’d grown up with two brothers—and a pervert for a stepfather—I didn’t really pay much attention. Fiorello was a funny guy. He was a great cook, he sang opera with records he’d play on the phonograph, and he liked comic books. Fiorello was a huge fan of Batman and Superman—that kind of stuff. Those comics were all over the place. I looked at them every now and then, just as I’d done back in Texas, but I couldn’t understand what he saw in them. I preferred mysteries and crime novels, especially Mickey Spillane. And I read Ladies Home Journal . I know, I’m weird.
One thing I can say for my romance with Fiorello is that my wardrobe improved. He bought me a lot of new clothes, and I was no longer the tomboy dressed in men’s baggy trousers and polo shirts. I wore dresses, high heels, and stockings. The black stilettos I’d bought with Lucy became a staple. I loved them. My ability at applying makeup had improved and Fiorello often said I could be a “cover girl.” That pleased me.
It was a wonderful life. While it lasted.
Everything changed, though. It always does, doesn’t it?
It was just after my birthday, 1957, and I was twenty years old. We’d known each other for nearly a year. Fiorello had promised he’d be home by eight o’clock in the evening so we could go to Sardi’s for dinner—one of our favorite spots. He was late. I didn’t worry about it at first, it happened sometimes. But by ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, I started getting nervous. It wasn’t like Fiorello. He would have called me if was going to be very late.
At midnight, I decided to go to bed. I was uneasy—my instincts were going haywire—but I had a drink of whiskey tosettle me down. I bathed, dressed in my nightgown, and went into the kitchen to get a last glass of water before retiring.
The phone rang.
It was Tony. He sounded very upset.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked. My heart was beating furiously because I knew. I sensed it.
Fiorello had been murdered.
9
Martin
T HE P RESENT
After seeing my mom, I went to the office but couldn’t do any work. So I picked up the damned diary and started reading where I left off. Then my boss, Brad, called and wanted to see me. So I put down the book and went to his office. Brad is one of those managers who never praises his
Okay, I knew these people were doing illegal things. But you know something? Somehow they made it all seem to be a necessary evil. As an ethnic minority, these Italians felt they never got a fair shake from established authority in the United States. Their methods and customs came over from Sicily. It was in their blood, it was just the way they did things. And usually their “victims” were other criminals—members of a rival family or drug dealers or what have you. They never targeted what I thought of as “innocent” everyday people. I’m not saying what they were doing was right, but it didn’t bother me as much as it might others. Well, that was then .
Of course, my love for Fiorello probably blinded me to the truth about the Mafia. I was hoodwinked by the glamour and attention.
Living with Fiorello opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking about men. Even though I’d grown up with two brothers—and a pervert for a stepfather—I didn’t really pay much attention. Fiorello was a funny guy. He was a great cook, he sang opera with records he’d play on the phonograph, and he liked comic books. Fiorello was a huge fan of Batman and Superman—that kind of stuff. Those comics were all over the place. I looked at them every now and then, just as I’d done back in Texas, but I couldn’t understand what he saw in them. I preferred mysteries and crime novels, especially Mickey Spillane. And I read Ladies Home Journal . I know, I’m weird.
One thing I can say for my romance with Fiorello is that my wardrobe improved. He bought me a lot of new clothes, and I was no longer the tomboy dressed in men’s baggy trousers and polo shirts. I wore dresses, high heels, and stockings. The black stilettos I’d bought with Lucy became a staple. I loved them. My ability at applying makeup had improved and Fiorello often said I could be a “cover girl.” That pleased me.
It was a wonderful life. While it lasted.
Everything changed, though. It always does, doesn’t it?
It was just after my birthday, 1957, and I was twenty years old. We’d known each other for nearly a year. Fiorello had promised he’d be home by eight o’clock in the evening so we could go to Sardi’s for dinner—one of our favorite spots. He was late. I didn’t worry about it at first, it happened sometimes. But by ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, I started getting nervous. It wasn’t like Fiorello. He would have called me if was going to be very late.
At midnight, I decided to go to bed. I was uneasy—my instincts were going haywire—but I had a drink of whiskey tosettle me down. I bathed, dressed in my nightgown, and went into the kitchen to get a last glass of water before retiring.
The phone rang.
It was Tony. He sounded very upset.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked. My heart was beating furiously because I knew. I sensed it.
Fiorello had been murdered.
9
Martin
T HE P RESENT
After seeing my mom, I went to the office but couldn’t do any work. So I picked up the damned diary and started reading where I left off. Then my boss, Brad, called and wanted to see me. So I put down the book and went to his office. Brad is one of those managers who never praises his
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