Luciano’s Luck

‘Except sprout wings and fly out of this place.’ Luciano smiled softly. ‘What’s to do, boy?’

‘It’s like this, Mr Luciano. I’ve only been here two months and my wife, Carrie … well, she’s on her own now and she’s only a kid. Eighteen is all.’

‘So?’

‘There’s a detective from the eighth precinct called O’Hara. He was one of the guys who pulled me in. He knows she’s on her own and he’s been pressuring her. You know what I mean?’

Luciano looked him over calmly for a long moment then nodded. ‘Okay. Detective O’Hara, eighth precinct. It’s taken care of.’ He returned to his book.

The boy said, ‘Maybe I can do you a favour some time, Mr Luciano.’

Franco said, ‘You will, kid. Now get out of here.’

As the boy turned away, Luciano looked up. ‘Is it true that liquor store heist was your first job?’

Walton nodded. ‘That’s right, Mr Luciano.’

‘And one to three was the best your lawyer could do? He should have got you probation.’

‘I didn’t really have no lawyer, not a real one,’ Walton said ‘Just a man the court appointed. He only spoke to me the once. Said the thing to do was plead guilty and throw myself on the court’s mercy. I didn’t see…’

‘All right!’ Luciano put up a hand defensively. ‘I’ll speak to my lawyer when he comes up Wednesday. Maybe he can do something.’

The boy walked away and Franco said, ‘Keep that up and you’ll have them standing in line at the bottom of the stairs every morning.’

One of the guards approached, an ageing Irishman named O’Toole, with the weary, bitter look of one who had long since faced up to defeat.

For Luciano, he managed a smile. ‘The warder would like to see you in his office, Mr Luciano.’

‘Now?’ Luciano said.

‘That’s what he told me.’

Luciano got up, still holding his book, and nodded to Franco. ‘See you later, Johnny.’

They moved across the yard, O’Toole in the lead. He said, ‘They’re waxing the entrance hall so we can’t use the main door. We’ll go through the showers and up the back stairs.’

His forehead was damp with sweat and his hand shook a little as he unlocked the door to the shower block.

Luciano smiled easily, every sense sharpened. ‘Something bothering you, O’Toole?’

O’Toole gave him a sudden quick push inside and slammed the door and Franco, halfway across the yard, started to run, already too late as O’Toole turned, back to the door, the club ready in his hand.

Walton moved out of the first shower stall. He stood there, no expression on his face at all, no light in the dark eyes.

Luciano said easily, ‘I thought that story of yours was strictly from the corn belt. They send you up here specially?’

‘That’s right.’ Walton’s right hand came up holding an ivory Madonna. When he pressed her feet, six inches of blue steel appeared, sharp as a razor on both edges. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Luciano. With me, this is strictly business.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Fiorelli. He sent you his regards and gave me strict instructions to leave you with your prick in your mouth. He said being Sicilian, you’d know what that meant.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Luciano said and kicked Walton under the left kneecap.

Walton shouted in agony as bone splintered, and slashed out wildly. Luciano seized the right wrist with both hands, twisting it so cruelly that the knife dropped to the floor.

‘You’re going to cut someone up, kid, do it, don’t talk about it.’

He twisted round and up, locking the arm as in a vice. Walton screamed as muscle started to tear and Luciano ran him face-first into the wall of the nearest stall. The boy slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the tiles.

Luciano picked up the knife and closed the blade. The Madonna was about eight inches long and obviously extremely old, carved by some master of ivory and chased with silver. He slipped it into his belt against the small of his back and picked up his book.

Walton crouched at the base of the stall, moaning. Luciano turned on the shower and the boy clutched at the wall.

‘So long, kid,’ Luciano said softly and he opened the door and went out.

O’Toole swung to face him, instant dismay on his face. Franco dodged past him. ‘You all right, Mr Luciano?’

‘Oh, sure,’ Luciano said, ‘But that Walton kid looks as if he’s slipped in the shower in there. I’d say he needs a doctor bad.’

Franco moved inside without a word and Luciano turned to O’Toole. ‘I’d better get moving or the warden will wonder what’s happened to me. You did say he wanted to see me, didn’t you?’

O’Toole licked dry lips. ‘Oh, sure, Mr Luciano,’ he said feebly. ‘Right away.’

Luciano smiled and moved off across the yard and Franco came out of the showers and leaned against the door, lighting a cigarette.

‘Heh, O’Toole,’ he said softly, a terrible smile on his face. ‘I don’t know what they paid you, but I think maybe you just made the biggest mistake of your life.’

Harry Carter, wearing a dark blue suit in place of his uniform, stood at the window of the Warden’s office and looked down into the yard.

The Warden said, ‘He doesn’t like to be called Lucky. He’s supposed to have got the name because of an incident in 1929 when rival mobsters kidnapped him, took him to a deserted wood in Staten Island, hung him up by his thumbs and tortured him. Left him for dead.’

‘I wonder how he paid them off?’ Carter said.

‘I can imagine.’ The Warden went round his desk and opened a file. ‘Charles Luciano, born Salvatore Lucania in the village of Lercara Friddi near Palermo, 24 November 1897. Arrived in New York in 1907 with his family, who, I might add, are all honest people. You know how Mafia works, Colonel Carter?’

‘Only the Sicilian variety.’

‘It’s pretty much the same in New York. They start them young. First there are the boys, the picciotti, gaining advancement, what they call respect, by acting as executioners when required. Some of them graduate pretty quickly to the next rank. Sicario, the professional assassin who’s a specialist in that line of work.’

‘I know,’ Carter said. ‘In Sicily they prefer the lupara, the sawn-off shotgun, for that kind of thing. You have to get close, but then, that’s really the point.’

‘They say Luciano’s killed at least twenty men himself and that isn’t those he’s put a contract out on.’

‘Just how powerful a figure is he?’ Carter asked. ‘I mean, he is in here, isn’t he? You close a cell door on him every night.’

‘Inside or out, it doesn’t really matter. He’s still the single most important influence in Mafia. Rose to power in the liquor business during Prohibition. What made him different from the others was his brain. He’s a hugely intelligent man with a genius for organization. When Prohibition ended, he diversified into every possible racket that would make a dollar. Even invented a few. In 1936 Governor Dewey, who was then Special Prosecutor, brought him to trial for offences concerned with organized prostitution and succeeded in obtaining a conviction.’