Grand Central Noir

A Primal Force – by Kathleen A. Ryan

THE GRAY-HAIRED MAN shuffled along the smooth Tennessee marble of the majestic Main Concourse of Grand Central Terminal, about to confess a lifetime of sins into a hand-held recorder, as another spring day dawned in the Big Apple.

Candy, a slim teenager with warm brown eyes who’d made her home among the homeless, the one who ensured her elder counterparts kept safe and ate sufficiently, had just sold it to him. Initially, he hesitated about giving her money, fearing she’d spend it on crack, a raging epidemic and the scourge of the city.

“What do I say to those folks who claim I’m enabling you?” he had asked, noticing her parched lips and sunken cheeks.

“Tell ’em you saved me from prostitution, Grandpa Guiseppe,” she said, stuffing the bills into her threadbare jeans. “Besides, this gadget will come in handy – you have so much to tell your newfound family!”

Candy demonstrated how to use the device. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks!” she said, as she skipped away. Guiseppe made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer for his young friend.

Guiseppe spoke into the recorder, addressing his recently discovered great-grandson.

“Antonio, it warms this old man’s heart to know you exist – but it also aches, realizing the magnitude of what I’ve missed.”

To the throngs of commuters and visitors swishing by, the 89-year-old man wearing a tweed coppola probably seemed like a typical New Yorker talking to himself.

He removed the key attached to a chain around his neck and accessed his locker. He shed a few layers no longer needed.

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee lured him straight to his favorite vendor. “Buongiorno, Guiseppe,” the vendor said. “How ’bout a cannoli with your morning cappuccino?”

“Sounds divine.” He leaned his head toward the brilliant sun rays peering through the 75-foot-high arched windows. “Morning makes the day, doesn’t it?”

The vendor nodded. “Each day the sun rises, my friend, it gives us another chance.”

“‘With a rooster, or without a rooster, God will still make the dawn,’ my sainted mother always said.” He attempted to pay, but the vendor just waved his hands and shook his head. “You suggested adding cappuccino to the menu, and your family’s cannoli recipe is our treasure. You are a permanent guest, Guiseppe.”

“Millie Grazie,” he said, bowing his head gracefully.

The elderly, yet muscular man, who could pass for 75, placed his breakfast on a small table and sat to people-watch, one of his favorite pastimes. In between sips and devouring the rich pastry, he talked about events he’d not spoken about in decades.

“What a miracle – between your extensive genealogy research and the newspaper report of the homeless epidemic in the terminal, you found me. After you contacted the terminal, the cops said to prepare for a joyous, life-altering surprise. Discovering family I never knew existed? A dream come true. I bawled like a bambino. Our conversation was the best phone call of my life.”

A patrol officer stopped by to chat. “Hey, Mr. Celebrity. Aren’t you meeting your long-lost relative today?”

“At one p.m. my great-grandson and I will meet under the clock,” he said. A smile spread across his wrinkled face. He shrugged his shoulders. “Where else?” he said with a giggle.

The cop’s smile morphed into a look of puzzlement. “How will you recognize him?”

“My 27-year-old great-grandson, Antonio, will wear a white carnation in his lapel. He saw my picture in the paper, so he already knows what I look like -”

“- one radiant man,” the cop finished his sentence. He wished the old man well, and tipped his hat.

Guiseppe resumed his task. “I wanted to record thoughts and memories, in case I chicken out later. First, the basics: my parents, Giovanni and Piera Mancuso, and my older brother, Santo, emigrated from Palermo, Sicily, in 1890, and settled into a tiny apartment in an overcrowded tenement building on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy in New York City. I was born on Christmas Day, 1895.”

He stood to return his cappuccino cup to the vendor and decided to take a stroll while recounting his abysmal childhood.

“My parents ran a successful bakery and pastry shop, but that was their downfall. Let me explain. When I was young, bombings in our neighborhood – the work of the Black Hand Society – occurred regularly. These criminals – fellow countrymen, no less – mailed frightening extortion letters, demanding protection money. If letters were ignored, they’d follow up with bombing, kidnapping – even murder.”

Guiseppe passed by the waiting room – or what the terminal population calls the living room – and saw homeless folks snoring away on wooden benches, surrounded by bundles of their worldly possessions and fast-food litter. Others were slumped in telephone booths, resting their heads on bags that doubled as pillows. No one ever called for them – nor did they have anyone to call. Mayor Koch, the terminal police, the Coalition for the Homeless, caring volunteers, the media – are working to devise a solution. It’s hard to believe, in 1985, this difficulty exists.

Guiseppe continued his tale. “These scoundrels preyed upon Sicilian immigrants, familiar with omerta – the code of silence – and took advantage of their inherent distrust of authorities. Many chose to pay the extortionists without notifying the police. Witnesses, who could barely speak English, refused to cooperate, resulting in criminals being set free.”

Heading towards the men’s room, Guiseppe ran into the janitor.

“Congratulations on your imminent well-deserved retirement, Juan. You will be missed by your terminal familia.”

“If it wasn’t for you, Guiseppe, I wouldn’t be here to enjoy this joyous occasion. You saved my life.”

“God placed me in the right place at the right time – and luckily, I had read all about Dr. Heimlich’s Maneuver.”

Guiseppe headed towards the marbled nooks and crannies of the terminal to escape the multitude of tourists, including the ones pointing at him. They must have seen the article.

“My father’s long work days in the bakery began before dawn. At night, he’d teach my brother and I the art of scherma di stiletto siciliano – the Sicilian school of stiletto fighting. Our father – a passionate, loyal family man, understood how life could be brutal and violent. He trained us to defend ourselves.”

As he walked past the Oyster Bar restaurant, a waiter spotted him and pointed toward the take-out area. Guiseppe met him there. The waiter said, “Here’s some hot oyster stew and a warm garlic breadstick. I gotta get back – the lunch crowd’s starting early. Mangia, my famous friend!”

Guiseppe thanked him. He sat at a bench, placing the bag aside. “My father received a frightening letter from the Black Hand, demanding a large sum of money. They described brutal consequences of ignoring their demands or even worse – telling the police.

“My father met with a fellow countryman, Joseph Petrosino, a brave detective sergeant of the New York City Police, who dedicated his career to imprison or deport the Black Handers. They devised a plan, but before they were able to implement it, our tenement was bombed. My father was killed, as well as my precious baby sister. My mother was maimed, lost her sight, and soon died from a broken heart.”

Guiseppe wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.

“My father’s early warnings about explosives and dynamite still haunt me to this day. He said it was marketed as ‘Hercules Powder’ and ‘Neptune Powder’ – as if it was a primal force stolen from the gods.

“Talk about primal force – after losing my family, my soul was filled with grief, anger, and despair.”

He pressed pause.

Guiseppe’s appetite suddenly waned; his mouth felt parched. He ambled to the ornate water fountain, a marble basin attached to the cream-colored Botticino marble wall. The cool water soothed his dry throat. He looked above to admire the sculpted oak leaves and acorns, just above this luxurious fountain, which he drank from daily.

A hollow-eyed beggar sat on the ground, shaking a ceramic cup filled with coins. Guiseppe handed him the bag. “Enjoy this warm food – you need your strength.”

“A million thanks,” the beggar said. “God Bless you.”

Refreshed and determined, Guiseppe continued his saga. He paced back and forth. “Petrosino became Detective Lieutenant and headed the Italian Squad. Vowing to identify and capture the criminals responsible for murdering our family, he took us under his wing. Santo and I, fluent in several dialects, insisted we help. He allowed us to work undercover, provided we continued our studies, kept healthy, and went to church.”

In 1909, this courageous man traveled to Sicily to obtain the records of 700 criminals. According to U.S. law, if those brigands were in the U.S. for less than three years, they could be deported. Tragically, Petrosino was assassinated in Sicily.”

He retrieved his wallet. His hands trembled as he removed frayed two photos: one of his beloved family at his sister’s joyous christening; and one of Lieutenant Petrosino – the derby-hatted, stout powerhouse of a man, packed into a five-foot, three-inch frame – flanked by the Mancuso brothers. Gazing at loved ones, his eyes welled.

Guiseppe exhaled, realizing the pain of losing loved ones remains just below the surface – as raw and piercing as the day it happened – if you allowed yourself to go there.

He spotted a man in ragged clothes, poking through a trash can with a broken umbrella. Dozens strode past him, as if he was invisible.

He rested to compose himself.

“Following Petrosino’s death, violence skyrocketed. My brother and I channeled our grief – into a tenacious vendetta. We worked under cover of night, using disguises, like Petrosino did. We gathered intel from saloons, pool halls, gambling dens, and brothels. We selected our targets carefully.

“Suffice it to say, our stiletto training came into use. Our family or Petrosino would never have approved – but we strongly believed the guilty should pay – but suffer first. A swift death would have been humane. We said ‘Ciao’ to mercy.

“The police attributed these deaths to criminal-on-criminal; that a Black Hander must have skimmed protection money, or had been suspected of informing. The removal of these killers from society was a ‘public service,’ anyway. And yes – if you’re wondering, we did avenge the death of our father, mother, and sister.

“Let me describe the brightest part of my life. At a Sunday Mass, I exchanged glances with a young lady – così bella – and our souls rushed together before we ever spoke. Her father disapproved, so Josephine and I met secretly; first at my apartment, then in the glorious new Grand Central Terminal – where two lovers, unaware of the crowds, shared intimate moments. With the gateway to New York City as our backdrop, we’d gaze at the glorious vaulted ceiling mural and share our dreams. We’d whisper sweet nothings in the Whispering Gallery.

“Sadly, our union was brief. Santo, my beloved brother – my only surviving family member – was killed in a fight. His murderer – a young thug – fled to Sicily, but I trailed him. I took care of business and returned quickly to New York. Regrettably, my darling Josephine was gone – I searched and searched, to no avail.

“To summarize, here’s a Reader’s Digest version: I became a one-man agency, representing the families of innocent victims. The Black Hand menace began to decline after 1915; officially, history credits tougher sentencing, federal mail laws, and tighter immigration control. An uncredited primal force, however – your great-grandfather – worked tirelessly to rid the world of these monsters.”

Tears of regret rolled down his cheek. “I had mourned the loss of my entire family – while, ironically, another one was growing. I wish your great-grandmother Josephine was still alive. I’ve loved her my entire life.”

He hit pause, and glanced at his watch: 12:45 p.m. Time to meet Antonio soon. I should end on a positive note. He hit record one last time.

“In my later years, I’d visit Grand Central and reminisce about my precious time with Josephine. Every time I’ve admired the ceiling, it’s like she’s right next to me. For the past decade or so, I chose to live here and befriend the lonely -”

“Excuse me,” a male voice interrupted. “Weren’t you recently featured in the paper?”

Startled, Guiseppe turned to face the man with an Italian accent. Looking into his icy eyes, he shivered. His intuition screamed: Evil eye.

“Yes, I was,” he replied, slipping the recorder into his pocket. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, I’m curious about this Whispering Gallery,” he said, gesturing toward the infamous domed ceiling area. “Does it really work?”

“A lifetime ago, I experienced it with the love of my life. The echoes of her whispers remain with me to this day.”

“Would you mind testing it with me?”

Guiseppe paused. An odd, but brief request. Then I’m off to the clock. “Sure. We’ll face opposing corners; our voices follow the curve of the domed ceiling. If you hear me, whisper back.”

Like boxers about to match, they retreated to opposite corners.

Guiseppe whispered, “Do I detect a Sicilian dialect?”

The stranger replied, “You’re hearing’s fine, old man, but how’s your eyesight? Do I resemble a ghost from your past? I’m the identical twin brother of the man you murdered in Sicily, decades ago.”

Guiseppe gasped. He turned around. As the avenger charged at him, Guiseppe removed his coppola, which had a weight sewn into it. He swung it at the attacker, who ducked. The avenger forcefully placed his arm around Guiseppe, to make it appear like they were old buddies.

“Let’s take a walk, paisano.”

Guiseppe made eye contact with the sitting beggar, trying to convey a threat of imminent danger.

The sound of the beggar scrambling to his feet went unnoticed by the avenger, who said, “Let’s find one of those secret passageways in this station -”

“It’s a terminal, buddy, not a station.”

“Oh, a wise guy, eh? Let me tell you something. You weren’t so wise when you trailed me to Sicily. You bumped off my brother instead of me. He didn’t kill your brother – I did. I’ve sought revenge ever since. Imagine my surprise when I read about you in the paper – and even better, they printed a current photo.”

“You can read? How impressive,” Guiseppe quipped, trying to distract him while he devised a plan.

Guiseppe’s face reddened as they headed towards a door that leads to a lower lever. His chest throbbed. I must get away from this lunatic. He won’t deprive me of meeting Antonio. But he must pay for killing my brother. This might be my only chance.

Guiseppe kicked the assassin forcefully and broke free from his grasp. He grabbed his stiletto switchblade.

So did the avenger.

Throughout the fierce battle, the vengeful pair inflicted slices, cuts, and stabs, while aggressively blocking the blades or ducking. Blood saturated their clothes and spread across the floor.

The homeless man with the broken umbrella struck the avenger – who then collapsed. Gasping for breath, Guiseppe thanked him, but advised him to retreat safely and get help.

Guiseppe warned the avenger: “If I live, I’ll kill you. If I die, I forgive you.”

The sound of running footsteps rose to a crescendo that could rival the running of the bulls.

The avenger couldn’t lift his head. In a trembling voice, he asked, “What the hell is that noise?”

Guiseppe felt light-headed. He slumped to the floor. “It’s the cavalry – or should I say, mi familia.” Guiseppe spotted the beggar clutching his ceramic cup, the Oyster Bar waiter armed with a butcher knife, cops with their guns drawn, Juan the janitor clenching a broom, Candy and dozens of terminal dwellers smacking their fists and yelling, prepared to pounce upon the man who threatened the life of their beloved friend. The cops radioed for a medic, advised everyone to keep back, and approached the bloodied men.

A cop checked the avenger. “No pulse.”

“Hang in there, Guiseppe,” another cop said. The cop gently wiped the blood from his face, then tended to his wounds.

Guiseppe whispered, “Thank you.” The sight of a young man wearing a white carnation in his lapel sent a bolt of energy throughout his body. “Antonio!”

The cop waved him over.

Antonio knelt in blood beside his great-grandfather. “I’m here, Grandpa Guiseppe, he said, taking his hand. “All the people who adore you met me under the clock. The news spread that you were in trouble. I never saw so many people spring into action so quickly.”

“Guiseppe studied Antonio’s face. “Your elegant features… they come from your great-grandmother, Josephine.”

“Thank you, Grandpa Guiseppe. Can I do anything for you, before medics arrive?”

“Your presence has brought me peace… these wonderful people… have been my family, when I thought I didn’t have one. Reach into my pocket – there’s a recorder.”

The cop nodded, allowing Antonio to retrieve the recorder. It was still running.

Guiseppe’s face paled. His voice weakened. “Take the chain from my neck… It’ll open locker 13. It’s filled with journals, photographs, and much more – it’s all yours. Between this recording,” he said, his voice growing weaker, “the locker contents…and conversations with these wonderful folks, all will be revealed. Would you call a priest for me? God bless you, Antonio.”

“I will, Grandpa Guiseppe. Ti amo.”

“Ti amo, Antonio… My darling Josephine… Santo -”

Antonio pressed the stop button.