“What do you mean, you’ll keep me out of it?”
“No one will ever know. No one will ever hear any of the tapes.”
She nodded.
He kept holding her hands, looking across the table at her. She turned away from his steady gaze.
“I feel rotten,” she said. “I feel as if I’m personally sending you to prison.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Sarah,” he said, “I still want to marry you.”
She looked into his eyes.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be away,” he said.
She squeezed his hands hard.
“... but I’ve got good lawyers, and maybe we can pull some strings here and there. I’m hoping to get out...”
“Andrew,” she said, “please don’t break my heart this way.”
“I love you, Sarah,” he said.
“Oh, I love you, too, Andrew. Oh my darling, darling, darling, I love you so very much.”
“Then tell me you’ll...”
Petey Bardo’s goons came in the front door.
They moved like automatons, right hands inside their jackets, fingers wrapped around the nine-millimeter Uzis under the jackets, legs propelling them speedily toward the rear of the restaurant. “Excuse me, sirs, do you...?” a waiter started to say, but they shouldered him aside and continued their swift, steady glide to the table on the right in the rear of the place. The man at the table had spotted them, he was already beginning to stand up. The woman stood up, too, puzzled, her hand in his, and turned to look where he was looking as he started to pull her away from the table. The gunman in the lead fired four rounds into the man’s face. He fell over backward against the wall, his chair falling over, the gunman pumping round after round into him. The woman was screaming. She held onto his hand as he went over and backward, screaming, screaming all the while.
The second gunman fired seven rounds into her face and her chest, and left her slumped against the blood-spattered wall as he and the other one ran down the hall and into the kitchen and out a back door into the alley.
5: June 2–June 9
The owner of the Ristorante Buona Sera was a seventy-three-year-old man named Carlo Gianetti, who had migrated from Puglia some fifty years ago, but who still spoke English with a marked Italian accent. He told reporters he had no idea who the slain man was. When informed that he was almost certainly a known gangster named Andrew Faviola, he shrugged and said he didn’t know this, but he hoped someone would by the way pay for the damages to his place.
He did not know who the dead woman was, either, and he had no idea whether they’d come in together or not. When one of the reporters suggested that the woman had possibly come there to dine, with the murdered man, Gianetti said he supposed they might have been there for dinner, though five-fifteen was a little early to be eating; normally, they didn’t start serving till six. In any event, he was sorry this had happened here in his restaurant.
The cashier told them that the man had come in first, and was waiting for the woman when she came in. A black town car had dropped her off at the curb, but the cashier hadn’t noticed the license plate. It seemed to her she’d seen these two before, though, seemed to remember them coming here, some months back, she couldn’t remember exactly when, and sitting at that same table.
The investigating detectives tossed the dead woman and found in her handbag a current New York State driver’s license that gave her name as Sarah Welles. A laminated ID card with her picture on it stated that Sarah Fitch Welles was a member of the teaching staff of the Greer Academy on East Sixtieth Street in Manhattan.
They did not learn until later that day that she was the wife of an assistant district attorney.
The New York Post headlined it DEADLY IRONY.
The inside story raised more questions than anyone in the District Attorney’s office was willing to answer “at this point in time,” as Chief Charles Scanlon of the Organized Crime Unit was quoted as saying. There was no question but that Sarah Fitch Welles was the wife of the unit’s deputy chief, a man named Michael Welles, who was responsible for sending away the Lombardi Crew, which before his successful investigation and prosecution had been a powerful arm of the selfsame Faviola family run by the murdered hoodlum. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Welles had planned to meet at the restaurant for an early dinner. She’d arrived before him, and was caught in the deadly hail of bullets as she passed Faviola’s table on her way back from the ladies’ room.
The Post asked why the reservations book showed no listing for a party of two in the name of Welles. The Post asked why the cashier seemed certain the two murder victims had been sitting at the same table. The Post asked why one of the waiters thought he’d seen the murder victims holding hands and in deep conversation shortly before the gunmen came in. The Post asked why one of the busboys thought he’d seen Faviola trying to yank the woman away from the table as the two assassins approached. The Post asked whether the District Attorney’s office was in the habit of sending town cars to pick up and drop off the wives of salaried employees.
In the coverage of Sarah’s funeral two days later, a good photograph of Luretta Barnes appeared on the front page of the Times’s Metro Section. It showed her coming out of the funeral home, weeping. The caption under it read: GRIEVING STUDENT LEAVES CHAPEL.
Up where Luretta lived, nobody read the Times.
The meeting had been called for the Monday following the sumptuous funeral given Andrew Faviola. Bobby Triani called the meeting, and it was held in a place they all knew to be absolutely clear of any eavesdropping devices. This was the notorious Club Sorrento on Elizabeth Street, which was so full of bugs you’d have thought it was a mattress.
The two detectives assigned to the wiretap were working under a re-up court order granting permission to listen for yet another thirty days. They did not know the voices of all the wiseguys gathered here, so they listened very carefully for mention of identifying names.
Bobby Triani, they knew.
“This is a terrible thing that has happened here to the family,” he said, “the loss of this great man, especially in a time of increased activity and prosperity.”
“He sounds like a fuckin’ banker,” one of the detectives said.
“Shhh,” the other one said.
“I want to promise each and every one of you here today,” Triani said, “that we won’t rest till we find out who did this, and till this murder is revenged. Not only to prove this won’t happen again while I’m around, but also out of respect to the man who was killed.”
“May he rest in peace,” someone said.
“The minute we find out...” Triani said, and there was a sound that resembled zzsstt. The detectives figured he was running his finger across his throat like a razor, indicating what would be done to the assassins the moment their identity was known. Too bad you couldn’t show an unseen, unheard gesture in court.
“As you know, “he said, abruptly switching gears, “the stuff arrived from Italy a week ago,” never once mentioning what stuff, even though the club was as sacred as the Vatican when it came to anybody listening, “and is already being distributed to our various people throughout the city. In short, Anthony Faviola’s plan is in motion. The stuff is here and will be hitting the streets any day now. Our hope is to retail it for a dollar, attract new customers that way. Very soon, thanks to Anthony, and thanks to Andrew, too, who made sure the original plan got the legs it needed, there’ll be more money pouring in than we know what to do with. This will require new thinking, new ideas. I’m hoping this new leadership will be able to come up with plans that will be acceptable to all of us. Me, Petey Bardo as my second, and Sal Bonifacio under him. I think you all know...”