“For the laughs,” Signore Trevino explained.
Shan just stared at the cash, as if waiting for a punch line. Workers at the docks, or any number of factories, probably took weeks to earn that much.
“What, you don’t want it?”
Nick stepped in. He scooped up the money and shoved the cash into Shan’s pocket in one fluid motion. “Of course he does. And he’s real grateful too.” He shot Shan a glance.
Max drew his head back, his brow furrowed as if to say,
Who the hell is this guy?
“I’m Nick Capello. And this here’s my younger brother, Tommy. It’s a real pleasure.” He offered his hand, but before the man could shake it, Mr. Capello interjected.
“Niccolò,” he called over, an edge in his tone. “
Andiamo
.”
It was time to leave.
19
A
dim alley in the Bronx was no place to be on a Friday night. Standing in line with dolled-up patrons, Shan tugged at his collar. His borrowed black tie felt like a noose.
Ever since Nick had suggested the outing three days ago, Shan had wavered on the idea. Being here now only solidified his reservations. Not that he had a choice, really. If it weren’t for Nick, he’d be out on the streets, or stuck in an orphanage in one country or another. The least Shan could do was tag along for an evening. He only wished it hadn’t required being sneaky with Nick’s parents.
“We’re just gonna catch a show,” Nick had called to his mother, before he and Shan slipped out the door. According to Nick, given his father’s disapproval of Max Trevino’s generosity, it was best to stay vague about the setting of that show.
“
Tommy,
” Nick said now, urging Shan to keep moving with the line. The impatience in his voice indicated that it had taken several attempts to catch Shan’s attention.
“Sorry,” Shan said in a hush, “I’m not used to answering to that.”
“Yeah, well, that’d better change in the next five minutes. Last thing I need is a guy like Max Trevino thinking I’m a liar.”
The Royal was on the second floor of a large brick building, atop a drugstore and barbershop, with its entrance on the side. Shan glanced up the narrow stairwell that led to a doorman, a hulking Italian with arms like cannons, making Shan even less excited about the excursion. Again he pulled his collar from his neck.
“Now, remember.” Nick spoke just above a whisper. “If you’re still gonna be a dummy and not take the offer, give me a chance to land a job first. And stop fidgeting, will ya?”
Shan forced his hands to his sides, but wriggled a shoulder in search of comfort. “I can’t help it. The bloody shirt’s too small, and the suit’s too big.” Even his fedora didn’t feel right.
“Bloody?” Nick grumbled and shook his head. “You can’t be using words like that. Jesus.”
It had been a while since Shan’s old life had slipped into his words. He needed to focus. The faster Nick completed his mission, the sooner they could go home.
At last they made their way up the stairs. In front of them, a pair of couples—two men in tuxedos, their dates wrapped in fur stoles—were granted entry and sauntered into the club.
“Here we go,” Nick said. Together they stepped forward on the landing.
The doorman gave Shan a once-over. “What are you—in grade school? Beat it.” He waved his hand to summon the next people in line.
But Nick didn’t budge. He stood taller in his black suit, one that actually fit. “We were invited.”
The man laughed. “Yeah? By who?”
“By Max,” Nick replied, as if nothing could be more obvious. Daring to press further, he added, “Don’t believe me? Go ask him yourself.”
The doorman looked unfazed. He cocked his head, surveying them for truth. Or more likely, weighing potential repercussions from wrongfully turning them away.
Annoyed, he jerked his thumb toward the entrance. “Go.”
“Appreciate it,” Nick said, and led Shan through the door. Once it shut behind them, Nick rolled his eyes. “What a chump.”
Music gained volume as they continued down a hall lit by a series of sconces. Nick removed his hat and smoothed his hair. Same as Shan’s, it had grown a good inch since the ship’s arrival almost two months earlier. A lifetime ago.
“Now, just act like we belong here,” Nick reminded him, “and we’ll fit right in. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t get the suit dirty. I gotta get ’em back by midnight, before anyone notices they’re gone.”
When the words sank in, Shan pulled him to a stop. “You said you borrowed them.”
Nick looked defensive. “Yeah, and I did.” But then he explained, “Got a pal who works at his gramp’s cleaners. Owed me a favor.”
“What about the shoes and hats?”
Nick shrugged. “From a pawnshop. Those are keepers.”
Shan felt a headache setting in.
“Come on, already.” Nick guided them around the corner, where a gal at a counter stood before racks of overcoats and shawls. She blinked, presumably due to their age—or perhaps just Shan’s, as she couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than Nick.
“May I help you?” she said to Nick. Then a moment later: “You got coats to check?”
Nick had forgotten how to speak. His reaction was understandable. The girl had ivory skin and piercing green eyes, accentuated by the matching ribbon in her platinum curls.
Shan answered for him. “Not tonight.”
She gave a shrug of indifference before moving on to guests who appeared behind them.
Shan nudged Nick to break the spell, and they plodded onward.
Regaining his voice, Nick murmured, “Next time we bring coats. Lots and lots of coats.”
Next time he would be on his own. Shan intended to say this, but the thought splintered and fell away the instant they stepped through the doorway framed in burgundy velvet drapes, entering a world he had never seen.
All the motion and lights and excitement of a city were contained in a single room. Floral perfumes and woodsy colognes mingled with smoke from men’s cigars. Women, too, puffed on long black filters while clutching cocktails and flutes of champagne. They clinked them high in festive toasts.
Prohibition was coming, the newspapers had declared. By year’s end the party would be over. Until then, it seemed the people here would enjoy every last drop.
“Now, this,” Nick said, “is what I call livin’.”
Shan couldn’t disagree as he watched the colored musicians onstage. They wore white tuxedos with black bow ties while playing trumpets and trombones, saxes and a piano. Couples danced in the center of the room, corralled by a U-shaped arrangement of tables and chairs. The way they hopped about reminded Shan of old jigs from the pubs.
“Would you care for a smoke, sir?” A woman wearing a tiny, feathered hat and a sparkly dress, brazenly cut above the knees, approached Nick. She carried a tray full of cigars and cigarettes.
“Not right now, doll,” Nick said, a line he’d clearly practiced. “But maybe you can help me find somebody.”
“There’s a whole lotta somebodies here. You got a particular one in mind?”
“Max told me and my brother to ask for him.” Nick held out a folded dollar bill—which, in fact, had previously belonged to Mr. Trevino. “Just tell him Nick and Tommy are here, from Palermo’s.”
She glanced at Shan. Rather than disbelieving, she looked intrigued. Then she swiped the bill with the motion of a seasoned politician. “This way.”
She guided them through the sea of linen-draped tables, each flickering with a candle domed in crystal. Waiters delivered meals on fine china. Nearby, a man embraced a woman from behind, guiding her to push a cork from a bottle. She timidly turned away, eyes closed, and the cork shot toward the ceiling. Her friends roared with giddiness as a stream of bubbles spilled onto the checkered tiles.
“Wait here,” the cigarette girl said. She proceeded on her own to one of the booths along the wall. A partial curtain of white fabric obscured the person she was addressing. When finished, she returned to Nick and gestured toward the booth. “You got your wish.”
Nick thanked her and headed over with Shan reluctantly trailing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that beneath her words lay a warning.
“Well, look who it is,” Mr. Trevino said when they approached. Shadows cast by stage lights gave his smile a menacing air. This time he accepted Nick’s eager handshake.
Shan took off his hat and clutched the brim. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Trevino.”
“Max,” he corrected before puffing on his cigar. “I see you gave some thought to my offer.”
“Actually, I”—Shan felt Nick’s gaze sending a reminder—“I have, sir.”
“Good, that’s good. Here, have a seat.” Max motioned to the vacancies on the white leather cushion.
The two had barely slid into the booth when Nick chimed in. “Max, I just want you to know, it’d be a real honor to work for you. So if there’s any spot I could fill, I’d sure be grateful.”
By any spot, of course, he meant outside of menial work, like garbage collecting and shoe shining. Something that required wearing nice suits and hats, accompanied by pay that would allow him to afford both.
Max raised his brows, as bristly as caterpillars. “You perform like your brother, huh? A duet.” He nodded, imagining the act. “I like it.”
“Well—no, sir. Not exactly.” Nick’s confidence faltered under Max’s narrowed eyes; the man didn’t like to be confused. “What I’m saying is, if there’s anything else you can think of, I’d welcome the chance. I’m willing to do anything. Just name it.”
Max leaned back in his seat, not agreeing but not opposing the idea. Then he angled to Shan. “How about you, kid?”
“Me?”
“You looking for a chance too?”
Shan swept his gaze over the room. There was no question how Mr. Capello would feel about their working in a place with cocktails and champagne and gals with dresses cut above the knees. Shan was debating how to decline when a realization stunned him.
The singer on the microphone—Shan knew his voice. He knew his face. To a small extent, he knew the man himself.
Shan looked at Max. “That’s George Cohan.”
Max glanced at the stage and released a long smoky exhale. “My pal Billy was supposed to be on tonight. But old Murray fell ill at the last minute. Cohan here was good enough to fill in.”
The revelations competed in Shan’s mind. “You’re saying …
the
Billy Murray?”
“One and only. I figured you might be a fan of these fellas, what with your songs the other night. Maybe they’d even be willing to share the stage with you sometime. How’d that be?”
Shan could hardly imagine it. Performing with Mr. Murray himself, or lobbing jokes with the King of Broadway, George Cohan. When they had last met, Shan was living on the streets, his nose runny, throat raspy, clothes filthy and drenched. He must have resembled a scrappy mutt in the alley, a world of difference from his appearance tonight.
Shan suddenly appreciated the suit from Nick, regardless of size.
Seconds later, a fellow—a waiter maybe—appeared near the table. Upon the flick of Max’s hand, he leaned in and spoke in a whisper. Max listened closely. Darkness hooded his eyes as the waiter stepped away.
“Boys,” he said, “got a little business to take care of. But you give the club a call this week and we’ll work out details. Okay with you?”
“Absolutely.” Nick beamed. “Sir, thank you very much.”
The man left without saying good-bye. Nor did he wait for Shan’s final decision.
To Max, the deal was cinched.
20
I
t’s fascinating, really, when you think about it. How a person can slip into a new life as one would a new pair of shoes. At first there’s a keen awareness of the fit: a stiffness at the heel, the binding of the width, the curve pressed into the arch. But with time and enough steps, the feel becomes so natural you almost forget you’re wearing them at all.
This was very much the way Shan’s life transformed over the next several years.
Despite Mr. Capello’s reservations, and with the help of his wife’s deft coaxing, Nick and Shan accepted the job offers from Max Trevino. Or, in Nick’s case, at least arranged by Max. Initially Nick wasn’t elated over being a delivery boy for the drugstore below the club, far less glamorous work than Shan’s comedic shows. But it did get Nick’s foot in the door and also appeased his father with steady wages.
Thus, while Nick ran medications around town, Shan presented his acts at the Royal three times a week. Twice, he even performed with George Cohan himself—who thankfully didn’t recognize him from the alley—and once with the legendary Billy Murray. Even Steve Porter came through on occasion. With events so surreal, part of Shan always feared the gig wouldn’t last.
And it didn’t.
At the tail end of that first summer, Mrs. Capello came to watch, having enjoyed the show a couple of times before. Already disconcerted by the brazen atmosphere influencing a boy his age, she was hardly pleased to discover a fan waiting in Shan’s dressing room.
This alone might not have been detrimental if the teenage girl had been wearing a stitch of clothing. The awkward incident, combined with Mr. Capello’s distrust of men like Max, brought Shan’s stint at the club to a decisive end.
Shan’s disappointment, however, was short-lived, as he had learned what to prize in life. Thereafter he earned money from random jobs: yard work or errands or painting fences for neighbors. And he joined Mr. Capello on plumbing appointments when an extra hand was needed—occasionally those “appointments” being secret jaunts to the tracks.
In short, Shanley Keagan—as Tommy Capello—became just another wop kid in Brooklyn, with few ties to his true past.
Never returning to the naval office, he chose to forever abandon his photo of John Lewis, along with delusions of a worthwhile search. When Nick amazed Shan by rescuing his satchels from the Cohan Theatre, Shan kept the sixpence and books but discarded the sailor’s letter. Why save it when he’d already found his place in a real and loving family?
Although Mr. Capello wasn’t the most affectionate sort, and remained unbending on a variety of topics, his care lay closer to the surface than that of many Italian fathers, whose quick tempers Shan was just fine to do without. In turn, while not inherently a baseball fan, Shan learned to enjoy the game that brought the man such joy, particularly since Nick had no interest. Shan even surprised Mr. Capello now and again with game tickets at Yankee Stadium. In the stands, the man would rattle off predictions before every batter’s turn and always follow with praise or critiques. Once, when a pitcher threw a beanball too close to Ping Bodie’s head, Shan had to all but hold Mr. Capello back from charging the field.
Mrs. Capello, on the other hand, was quieter about her passions. The great pride she divided among her faith, cooking, home, and gardening went without question. As did the fact that each of them provided her little value without relation to her family. Shan wound up spending many weekends helping her in the community garden. He’d originally viewed his main role as being the puller of the wagon, toting all the fruit and vegetables she had picked for the week. But listening to her speak about plants she’d grown, here and in Italy—also sprouting other tales from her old country—was in truth his greater contribution.
For Nick, Shan was also a listener. The topics typically centered on the latest pretty girl or his big ideas for the future, his fears of failing often belying his words. But mostly Nick liked to play cards. This was how Shan came to learn strategies in canasta, bridge, pinochle, gin rummy, and at least a dozen versions of poker. In between rounds, while Nick shuffled the deck, Shan would toss out jokes he borrowed or created, and together they would laugh until the late hours of night—often when Mrs. Capello would appear, groggily ordering them to bed. On weekends, he and Nick would also find entertainment watching vaudeville acts on Broadway or silent pictures at a movie palace.
As for Lina—now, she was different. For she was an observer like Shan. She would gather what she saw in journals, telling stories through a sketch or a poem, a quote she overheard or a detail missed by most. Like the way a grizzled man at a diner would straighten all of his silverware before eating his meal, or how one button on the coat of a woman at the market didn’t match the rest. As a collector of tales, she gradually made her way through all of Shan’s books, which he would share and discuss with pleasure.
The rest of Shan’s time was spent in school, mindful of good marks and keeping his nose clean. Nick would razz him at times, calling him “St. Thomas” for steering clear of smoking and booze, both being indulgences Nick came to relish—largely for the thrill of sneaking them. But for Shan, it wasn’t a question of morality as much as an aversion to sharing his uncle’s fate.
Perhaps this haunting possibility was the reason Shan never felt fully settled. Even now, a sophomore in high school, he kept his friendships at a distance. The same applied to courtships, all of them brief. Since many of the girls’ families attended the same church as the Capellos, at times this created an awkward Mass, though never to the level faced by Nick.
On one particular Sunday, three girls from the congregation discovered Nick was secretly dating them at the same time. You could feel their glares, as sharp as saws, cutting across the pews. It was a miracle, Lina had said, that they refrained from throwing their communion wine right at his face. Unfortunately, not everyone who felt wronged by Nick Capello showed that much restraint.
Today was one of those cases.
Shan realized it now as he emerged from the Capellos’ house, headed for the library. Scowls from the two guys waiting outside made it clear they hadn’t come to discuss the unusually nice March weather.
“I got no gripe with you,” the brawny one said, “but I’m gonna teach your brother not to try and steal another guy’s girl.”
Before Shan could reason with him, Nick strolled up with a casual smile. “Can I help you, fellas?”
There was no discussion after that. The brawny guy pounced on him with jabs and right hooks. In contrast to the night Shan and Nick had met on the ship, this time Shan didn’t think twice about jumping to Nick’s defense. Predictably, the brawny guy’s pal joined in, and the battle was on.
This wasn’t Shan and Nick’s first brawl as a team. Fights for any boys were inevitable, but especially in Brooklyn. The conflicts would start with insults, name-calling being the most convenient: Polacks, dagos, micks, kikes. If given the chance, Shan still preferred to walk away. But the same couldn’t be said of Nick. Not that either of them had the option right then, when fending off a vengeful boyfriend and his crony.
In essence it resulted in a draw, though no one would have known from seeing Nick and Shan afterward, with their bruised jaws, split lips, and swollen eyes. Back in the house, Mrs. Capello told Lina to fetch rags and iodine, bandages and clean shirts, trying desperately to contain the damage before her husband came home from work.
But they could only do so much.
At the dinner table, Mr. Capello’s glower shrank Nick and Shan down to the size of toddlers. Fittingly so, since Mr. Capello viewed their behavior as reflective of two-year-olds. His wife’s attempts to help, emphasizing that the other boys had started the fight, went unheard.
The supper lasted an eternity. In place of talking, they all drank more wine, Shan included. He had acquired the taste for it as an accompaniment to meals and was especially glad for it just then.
Eventually the trill of the telephone sliced through the room. Mr. Capello rose to answer, as he always did, bringing a dash of relief to the table. When the ringing halted, Shan could hear the man’s greeting, then a lag of quiet.
“I see,” Mr. Capello said repeatedly between pauses. His tone grew more clipped with each, and finally: “How long is this happening?”
Based on a single side of the conversation, it seemed a rare case of an unhappy customer. Such a thing would only worsen the mood. The family passed worried looks around, much as they would a bread basket.
Then Mr. Capello said, “This is for how many classes?”
Therein the topic became clear. Nick clutched the linen napkin on his lap.
“Yes, I understand,” Mr. Capello said. “I will speak to my son. Thank you, Mr. Gelow, for calling.”
The moment was inevitable, yet the ruse had gone without consequence for so long, Shan had started to believe, or at least to hope, otherwise.
With impossibly slow steps Mr. Capello returned to his seat. Audible exhales through his nose indicated plenty of words were mounting inside.
“Mama. Lina.” He did not look up from the table. “Leave us.”
His wife hesitated. But after a moment, she stood and quietly ushered her daughter up the stairs.
There had been plenty of lectures over the years at this table, occasionally directed at Shan or Lina, but mostly at Nick for his various antics: whether arriving late for supper, violating curfew, or ignoring his mother’s requests for tidying one thing or another. Still, never had those reprimands involved anyone leaving the area.
Mr. Capello finally lifted his eyes, his voice tight and measured. “The principal says my son Nick Capello has been missing many days of school. He says several of his marks are not passing, and now he might not graduate in June. I am thinking this is not possible, because I have seen the cards with my own eyes. And this would mean my son has been
lying
to me.”
“Pop, please,” Nick reasoned, “if you’ll just listen—”
“No! It is
you
who will listen.” Mr. Capello’s fists landed on the table’s edge, rattling the dishware. His gaze cut to Shan. “Did you know this? You will tell me the truth.”
Shan tensed under the question. Yes, he had known. For the classes in which Nick wasn’t able to sufficiently charm his teachers, the guy had honed the craft of altering his grades—with a razor blade, eraser, and pen—into ones that would satisfy his parents, preventing a lecture just like this.
But before Shan could voice the admission, Nick interjected. “He didn’t know, Pop. All right? I did it on my own. Either way, I don’t see the big issue.”
The attention shifted from Shan, yet there was no cause for ease. Nick’s flippancy widened Mr. Capello’s eyes. “And you think lying to your father, this is not a big issue?”
“No—I just—I meant about school.” Nick stumbled through his point, his own frustration growing, and not just from today. “Friends of mine quit a long time ago. They’re making money for their families, same as me. Only difference is I’m doing both. Hell, I’m eighteen years old, but you still treat me like a kid, with curfews and even makin’ my damn bed.”
It seemed once the words flowed out, he couldn’t dam the rest. “The teachers ain’t no different. They act like we’re in grade school. And what do they teach? Latin and chemistry. It’s nothin’ I’m gonna use. Truth is, the only reason I’m there is because Ma has some ridiculous idea it’s important, even though it don’t amount to a hill of beans in the real—”
“Enough!” Mr. Capello shot to his feet and swiped his hand at a wineglass. It flew across the room and shattered against a wall.
Shan scrambled to stand, as did Nick, who knocked over his chair.
“Benicio,” Mrs. Capello urged, suddenly in the room. The word bordered on a plea.
But Mr. Capello gave no acknowledgment. He continued to stare at Nick, seething. Wine dripped red streaks down the cream wallpaper. When he spoke, his voice took the form of a deep rasp, a struggle to rein in his anger.
“You will
not
speak this way under my roof. You think you are too grown to be here? Too old for rules? That because you earn pay, you have a right to disrespect your parents? Maybe, then, it is time to see how a real man lives—on your own.”
Shan caught the startled look in Nick’s eyes and, more than that, the hurt. But Nick quickly concealed both. Through tightened lips he replied, “I’ll get my stuff.”
Nick had barely turned for his room when his father said, “Oh? And what
stuff
here do you own?”
In Mrs. Capello’s face was an impulse to intercede, tamped by awareness that it wasn’t her place.
Nick laughed darkly under his breath. “You’re right. Keep it all.”
“Niccolò, no,” Mrs. Capello said. She stepped toward him with tears welling. Yet without a glance, he stormed from the house.
Seconds later, Lina scurried in, her gaze bouncing between her father and the open door. “He’s coming back, isn’t he? Papa? Isn’t he?”
There was no answer.
Shan couldn’t stand by without at least trying to help. “I’ll talk to him,” he told Lina, an assurance also for her mother. He started for the door, but Mr. Capello gripped his arm. The redness in the man’s features began to slip away, replaced by a shadow of sadness.
“Let him go,” he said.
“But Nick was just angry. I’m sure he didn’t mean—”
“Tommy. No.”
Shan had long grown accustomed to the name, from schoolmates and teachers and others who knew him as nothing else. He’d accepted it as a moniker of sorts, never truly feeling he had taken someone’s place.
Until that moment.