The Scent of Lemons, Part 2: The Far West: The Scent of Lemons

By Anne Licata-Solaas

The Far West. The Scent of Lemons Italian saga continues with two Sicilian immigrant brothers' choices in America:  the one that did and the one that didn't.  While Baldassare Licata, the oldest, struggles to make an honest living for his growing family, Nick, the youngest, succumbs to the glamour of the mafia. Journey with the Licata family as they endure poverty, death, crime, two world wars, Italian internment camps, and enemies from within and without. Based on a true story, The Scent of Lemons, Part 2: The Far West continues the story of The Scent of Lemons, Part 1: A Sicilian Journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lemon Tree Press
• Release date: Oct 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201272203

Anne Licata-Solaas

Anne Licata-Solaas resides in Southern California with her husband and four children. Currently she writes fiction in English, creates Spanish readers for language learners, and teaches Spanish at Chapman University.

Book preview

The Scent of Lemons, Part 2:

The Far West

Anne Licata-Solaas

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Lemon Tree Press

Copyright © 2022 by Anne Licata-Solaas

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Il Far Ouest

Introduction

Calogero Eterno Licata

Baldassare Licata

Domenico Licata

Nicolò Licata

1.Prologue: Calogero’s Funeral

2.A New Life in Cheyenne

3.Licata Family in Brooklyn

4.Divided Loyalties

5.The Flu and Other Problems

6.Nicolò in Detroit

7.Calogero and His Grandchildren

8.The Licata Family Grows

9.Nick and Vincenzo Make a Deal

10.Prohibition in Cheyenne

11.Unexpected Complications for Vincenzo

12.Vita in Detroit

13.A Painful Year

14.Nick Goes to California

15.Nick Makes It

16.The Water Tank

17.An Unexpected Tragedy

18.Moving to Los Angeles

19.Settling in Los Angeles

20.Baldassare’s New Place

21.Josie Raises An Eyebrow

22.Italians Caught in the Middle

23.Distress on the Homefront

24.Enemy Aliens

25.Consequences for Nick

26.Joe in Training

27.Family Changes

28.Licatas in the European Theater

29.Nick and Carlo Shake Hands

30.After The War

31.A Radiant Life and Death

32.The Funeral

Book Club Questions

Acknowledgements

Il Far Ouest

​​Il Far Ouest,

The Far West

Che lascia la vía vecchia per la nuova, sa quel che perde e non sa quel che trova.

Whoever forsakes the old way for the new knows what he is losing, but not what he will find.

Casa quantu stai e tirrinu quantu viri.

Home for as long as you need to be, and land as far as the eye can see.

Introduction

The Scent of Lemons, Part 2: The Far West

continues the immigration story of Maria Liotta and Baldassare Licata, who immigrated around the turn of the century from Camporeale, Sicily.

Part One tells the story of their immigration and settling in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, endeavoring to work and to study, and the conditions that led to their migration to Cheyenne, Wyoming, The Far West.

Part Two begins four years after their arrival in Cheyenne, 1914, with Baldassare settling into his railroad job, and Maria establishing a home for their children.

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one

Prologue: Calogero’s Funeral

Cheyenne, Wyoming, 1921

No one expected to lose Calogero so suddenly. Baldassare made the phone calls to his siblings scattered across America and sent a telegram to Vincenza in Camporeale. Calò and Leonardo could not leave their jobs in New York, and the long, expensive passage from Camporeale was impossible for Vincenza, especially with the new immigration laws. Nicolò said he would be there promptly, hopping in his Stutz Series H Roadster from Detroit as soon as he heard the news. Though it took him two days to complete the journey on the Lincoln Highway, he arrived freshly dressed in a snappy suit. Baldassare hated including Nicolò, certain that whatever suspicious work he did with the Abruzzis to earn so much money was illegal.

Nicolò pulled up in his shiny red Roadster, accompanied by a familiar-looking stranger, honking, waving, acting as if the mourners awaiting his arrival were a welcoming party. I’m here! he jumped out of the Roadster, regarding the unfamiliar faces and extending his hand. I’m Nick! Calogero’s youngest son! This is my buddy Romano. And you are?

Arms clad in black bands, the brothers shook their heads at Nick’s lack of respect for Papà. Nick mingled, flashing his charming smile, boasting loudly, flaunting his money, and offering cigarettes, making the occasion a festivity it wasn't meant to be. The guests stared at each other, looking for a cue for an appropriate response to the two lively young men who worked the crowd. Still, they provided a welcome respite from the somber atmosphere just a few moments earlier.

After mingling, Nick sat down under the lemon tree in the backyard, lit a cigarette, crossed his legs, and leaned back in the chair. Pretty nice place! You have any giggle water here if you know what I mean?

Nicolò, knock it off. We just lost Papà, Baldassare sighed.

Ok, Goody-two-shoes! And call me Nick.

Baldassare and Domenico frowned, staring at him with annoyance. Nicolò— Baldassare started.

It’s Nick.

Nick. Tone things down. This is about Papà.

I drove two days for this. I’m here, aren’t I? Nick gestured. "Fratelli, this is Romano Abruzzi. Baldà, you know him from Camporeale, no?"

Baldassare gaped at him and swallowed. Why did Nicolò bring an Abruzzi out here to Wyoming? And for Papà‘s funeral! The Abruzzis were the main reason he, Baldassare, left Sicily. And New York.

Don Romano extended his hand in a gesture of goodwill, Hey, no hard feelings, Baldà. I’m glad to see you made it in America. Your brother and I are good friends.

Baldassare, taking his hand, was speechless. Bah! Did he trust those words?

Don Romano responded, Remember the old days when we used to collect loan payments together in that old cart?

Baldassare, not knowing how to respond, stared uncomfortably.

How do you like the Far West? Don Romano pressed.

It’s fine, Baldassare stammered.

So where is Papà? Nick asked. I drove all this way. I want to see him.

I’ll take you. Recovering, Baldassare looked at Don Romano and gestured to the mounds of food displayed, Help yourself.

Looks great! I’m famished, he replied. Don Romano wandered to the food table. Maria, Baldassare’s wife, served him an enormous plate of pasta and bread. He sat next to Father Benedetto, who came for the funeral. Father looked at Don Romano with curiosity, knowing the Abruzzis were probably behind the violence he discussed at the Anti-Mafia Society meetings. Father politely asked him questions about his life in America.

Baldassare and Nick walked into the house, which was draped with purple swags of mourning.

"Look, fratello, I know you all have families and don’t have a lot of money, Nick began. I don’t have a family yet, and business is booming. I'll buy the tombstone for Papà. He deserves the biggest and the best. He put his hand in his pocket to draw out a wad of bills, and Baldassare saw the handle of a pistol shoved in the top of his trousers. How much do you need?"

Baldassare, twenty years older than Nicolò, now head of the family, seethed. In a voice louder than he intended, he replied, Thanks, but no thanks. We don’t need your money. Papà never agreed with your business. He’d rather be buried with dignity under a rock than in a mausoleum bought with dirty money.

Antonio, Domenico, Vincenzo, and Antonina watched the tension between the brothers rise. No one ever openly defied Nick or mentioned his ties to crime. They waited and watched, holding their breath.

Nick exploded with laughter. Dirty money? Baldà, I run legitimate businesses! And they're flourishing! Papà deserves the finest tomb in Cheyenne. I will make sure he has the tallest, most beautiful tomb in this cemetery.

Domenico grabbed his arm. Why did you come anyway? To show off?

You’re despicable, Antonina walked inside.

Baldassare crossed his arms. Look, Nicolò, I’m not your kind, and you’re not my kind. My manners and morals are not yours. The only thing we have in common is that we spring from the same parents, of whom I am proud and you are a traitor.

Nick chuckled. "Fratello, we are the same. You’ll see!"

Baldassare uttered, And how dare you bring an Abruzzi to my home.

Nick shrugged. Romano is my good friend. Papà deserves the best. If I can front a little money to make that happen, what’s wrong with that? Family is family. Right, Vincenzo?

Vincenzo nodded, mesmerized by Nick’s fine style, beautiful new car, and success. Placing a hand on each brother’s shoulder, Vincenzo said, Papà deserves the best. He sacrificed so much for us. It’s his day. Let’s not ruin it. Family is family.

Baldassare stormed into the cool dark interior, the screen door slamming behind him. His mamma, Vita, and his sister, Antonina, continued their vigil at Calogero’s side. Vita, frail and shrunken, wore the black she would wear for the rest of her days. Calogero lay on the bed, dressed in his one formal wedding suit, the one Vita was surprised still fit him, his face waxen and drawn from illness and old age.

"Is there a problem, figlio?" she asked.

No, Mamma, Nick arrived.

Stay with Papà, Vita rose to meet Nick in the doorway and hugged him tightly. He rubbed her back, escorting her to his papà‘s side.

Calogero was not left alone even for one second. All night Vita, her sons, and her daughter took turns accompanying him through the vigghiari u mortu, the voyage to death, leaving the window open to allow his spirit to depart. As visitors arrived to offer their condolences, they kissed Calogero's cheek and wept. Hour after hour, the room filled with the soft murmur of voices and muffled sobbing. Vita received heaps of telegrams from relatives back in Camporeale and New York, whose shared grief strengthened her. Paesani, who lived in America, left messages on Mario’s telephone. Townspeople and neighbors swarmed the wake, which lasted three days, the mourners kneeling and praying.

After the St. Mary’s funeral, the mourners made the mile-long trek on foot to the recently restored Mount Olivet Catholic Cemetery. The relatives paraded behind the casket in accordance to their intimacy with Calogero: first Vita, then her children and their spouses, then the grandchildren, then more distant relatives, and finally, friends, openly expressing their grief. In one sense, the rites of death gave reprieve from the daily cares of the world. But they knew Calogero’s quirky habits and words, mannerisms, expressions, and conversations at the dinner table would live through their lives.

Vita, unaware of the conflict brewing among her children, was grateful for Nicolò‘s offer to erect a mausoleum that would give her deceased husband the respect he deserved. The family remained divided about the tomb: Baldassare, Domenico, and Antonina remained silent, refusing to have anything to do with Nick’s money. Leonardo never agreed with Nick’s interests, and Vincenza wasn’t asked. Vincenzo never said no to Nick, Calò wasn’t there to express an opinion, and Antonio wanted peace. Sure enough, Nick erected the tallest, most ornate tombstone in the cemetery. They laid him to rest near the entrance of Mount Olivet Cemetery, a fine tribute inscribed on the headstone, Nick’s name, of course, listed first:

In memoria dei figli Nick, Vincenzo, Calogero, and Antonio

two

A New Life in Cheyenne

Cheyenne, Wyoming, 1914

Baldassare rubbed his belly, opened the icebox door, and peeked inside. So skinny back in Camporeale, he now carried the paunch many Sicilian immigrants developed from the sheer quantity of food they enjoyed in the New World. Even if they didn’t have much money, they ate well.

Maria tied on her apron. Baldassare, take the children outside while we finish preparing dinner. She handed him an enormous plate of antipasti to snack on as they waited for dinner and prodded him toward the backyard.

Baldassare called over his shoulder. When does everyone arrive?

Any moment!

Seven years before the funeral, in Cheyenne, Wyoming: Il Far Ouest, the Far West of America, Maria Liotta and Baldassare Licata lived in a white picket-fenced cottage with their five young boys: Charlie was seven, Tony, five, Domenic, four, Johnny, one, and Maria was heavy with another. It was 1914; she and Baldassare married in 1907 and arrived in Cheyenne in 1911, optimistic that his railroad job would answer their prayers and dreams for a fine, prosperous life. When they abandoned the violence, crime, poor schools, and crowded tenements of Brooklyn, New York, they left behind their parents and extended families. The lure of land, plentiful work, safety, and hope for their children’s education and prosperity, The American Dream, was too tempting to ignore.

Maria walked out front to pick some lemons for the lemonade. The scent took her back to the day when she had entered the front door of this home for the first time. The fragrance of lemons took her by surprise. She turned and saw a huge lemon tree to the left of the front door, framing the doorway. She had smiled at the reminder of the small lemon tree planted next to the front door of her tiny home in Camporeale, Sicily. She touched her pocket, assuring herself the dried seeds Papà gave her from his potted lemon tree in Brooklyn were still there. She would plant them along the perimeter of the backyard. The dilapidated white house in Cheyenne was the house she had dreamed of many years ago in Sicily. They took pride in their humble home, painting, sewing curtains, and making repairs to keep it tidy and clean. After the crime and congestion in Brooklyn, they would never take for granted the stability, fresh air, sense of community, and land in which to plant fresh vegetables.

That day in 1914, Lucia Gasparini and Mario Della Chiesa baptized their third child, Graziano. Maria had met Lucia and Mario, her two best friends, on the journey from Sicily in 1897. In 1911, Lucia and Mario married and moved with Baldassare and Maria to Cheyenne. Both earned posts with Pacific Railroad: Mario, who learned English, secured a coveted post with the mail service while they promised Baldassare a job as a boilermaker. Maria and Baldassare hoped their siblings in Brooklyn would follow when they heard how rich life was in Cheyenne.

Just as Maria and Baldassare stood as godparents to Domenico and Gaetana’s children in Brooklyn, now they stood with Mario and Lucia’s children in Cheyenne. As godparents, or cumpari, Maria and Baldassare provided baptismal clothing for baby Graziano, swore to encourage his faith at the baptismal font, and contributed wine and food for the celebration. As godparents, they would serve as a second set of parents throughout Graziano’s life and provide him with spiritual guidance.

Lucia had placed baby Graziano in a small crib outside next to Mario. Now that he was baptized, she no longer needed the light burning by his crib at night, though she still tucked San Antonio’s picture in his swaddling bands. They named their baby after the wise priest who had accompanied them on their voyage to the New World, Father Graziano Benedetto, who remained in New York.

Hello! Father Duffy, their new pastor from St. Mary’s parish, was the first guest to arrive.

Maria greeted him, "Good afternoon, Father! Go on to the backyard with the men and have some antipasti. Everyone else should be here shortly."

After they moved to Cheyenne, they attended St. Mary’s Church, the newly built downtown cathedral, where they felt at home. Father Duffy had welcomed them right away. Having grown up in the Boys’ Orphan Asylum in Minneapolis, he had a soft spot for the poor. He hoped Italian immigrants, with their large families, would fill the parochial school he envisioned for the future. Though their communication was stilted, Maria sensed Father’s kind heart. After Father sat with the men in the backyard, Lucia took him a glass of lemonade.

Lucia turned, Baldassare, would you like a glass of lemonade?

Baldassare took one and lost himself staring at the glass. Lemons stirred up negative childhood memories. He thought of his papa, Calogero, and the pain and loss that forced him to work the docks in Palermo. Life had been simple when Baldassare was young. They cultivated lemon and orange groves. After the Risorgimento unified Sicily with the mainland, the new government imposed heavy taxes. Calogero struggled to keep up. When the international market drove up the price of citrus, Calogero believed he’d finally get ahead. He lived and breathed the plump, juicy fruit that could make or break their standard of life. When morning dawned the day of his final harvest, he arrived at his orchard with anticipation, only to find stark fruitless trees staring at him. Thieves had snuck in during the night, stealing the bounty of tender, heavy oranges and lemons, robbing Calogero of his dreams for the future and his means of paying taxes. They mortgaged their land and ultimately lost it to the new wealthy families buying up the island. Eventually, famines, drought, unemployment, crime, violence, and hunger drove them from their homes in Camporeale, Sicily to the New World. He believed chi ha pratto, ha tutto, who has land, has everything; losing his land meant he lost his livelihood and his children’s future. Baldassare would never take for granted the small plot of land on which his home in Cheyenne stood.

Lucia returned to the kitchen to tear lettuce for the salad. Do you realize we’ve been friends for nearly twenty years?

Maria, stirring the sauce, smiled. We grew up together, and now we are raising our children together. True friends are rare, Lucia. Time and adversity test a true friendship.

We’ve gone through hardship and change together. I hope we always have each other, Lucia squeezed Maria’s hand.

Just then, the Milazzo and Rizzuto families stepped through the front door. In 1911, these two families warmly welcomed them to Cheyenne, and they’d been close ever since. They lived in the small Sicilian community west of the train station and worked in some capacity for the railroad.

The men are in the backyard, Maria kissed their cheeks and pointed the way.

Paul Milazzo, a distant relative, spearheaded the move to the west. He learned English and went west to work for the railroad in Cheyenne. His status gave him prestige among the Italian laborers, and his intelligence and integrity gave him respect among the americani. Paul Milazzo and Mario became great friends. Both worked in white-collar jobs, earning generous pay relative to the low wages of the manual laborers. When Paul and Mario spoke English and chatted about their friendships with the americani, Baldassare felt rough and uneducated. In Camporeale, when he worked for the Abruzzis, he enjoyed a prestigious supervisory position, though it was ultimately that position that sent him scrambling for safety in the New World.

Maria pulled the dishes from the oven. After living in such confined quarters in Brooklyn, I love the open space for the children to run outdoors.

A passing train rattled the house, stifling her words. The train tracks ran parallel to their small backyard, and though it didn’t pass frequently, when it did, it set Maria’s teeth on edge. Lucia said, I used to shudder every time the train went by. But now it reminds me work is close and plentiful.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. I love Cheyenne’s silence— the chirping birds, the soft breeze, the rustling leaves—things we never heard in New York, Maria added. When they attached our street to the Lincoln Highway, I feared the whole neighborhood would change. I’m glad it’s still quiet.

I love the fresh air and the view of the snow-capped mountains, Lucia said.

After the remaining guests arrived, the men pushed tables together and threw blankets on the soft grass under the trees for the children. The women placed the steaming food on the tables. Baldassare poured more drinks. Father Duffy gave a blessing for the food and the new baby.

Baldassare stood and toasted, "Today, we celebrate three years in Wyoming. I didn’t care what people thought, I knew I had made the right decision for my family. It was a risk, but I had faith! To our families! Cent’anni! Cent’anni in Wyoming!"

The group clinked their glasses, and Maria raised her eyebrows, her twinkling eyes finding Mario and then Lucia, shaking her head, suppressing her smile, recalling how reluctant Baldassare was to move from Brooklyn. Yet her success in marriage depended on convincing Baldassare that the major decisions were his, so she remained silent.

Mario followed up, Look at all this food! Licata is in Agrigento. Do you know what Plato said about those from Agrigento? They build as if they expect to live forever and eat as if they expect to die tomorrow!

Everyone erupted in laughter.

When he sat down, Mario poked Baldassare. I rarely see you because of my travel. How’s your boilermaker job?

Baldassare kept his head down and continued eating. Sore subject. They promised me the boilermaker position, to train me to build and repair steam engines, follow blueprints, and operate the tools, but . . .

But?

But the fine print promised me this only if I could read. What they promised me and what I signed are two different agreements. The truth is, as long as I’m illiterate, I’ll be a perpetual assistant, a laborer, to those who know English and can read.

I’m sorry, Baldà. I didn’t realize.

Baldassare sighed, To be honest, I’m disappointed but not surprised. After my experience in New York, I keep my expectations low. Work is plentiful, steady, and well-paid. I’m not complaining.

"Vero."

I want you to write Domenico. We still must convince the rest of the family to move here . Asking made Baldassare feel ignorant.

"Certo," Mario replied.

How’s your job?

Working for the post office has been a good job. We use stoves for lighting and heat, so the train car is uncomfortable, even in winter. But I won’t complain either.

How does that work? Delivering mail from the train?

The train doesn’t stop. When the train passes a town, I push a handle to retrieve the mail. At the same time, I toss the town’s mail to a waiting postal worker.

Isn’t that dangerous?

Yes, actually. Train wrecks are common. Train cars are made of lightweight construction, and post office cars are near the front behind the heavy locomotive. But then, every job has risk.

After dinner, the men sat for a poker game, their Sunday tradition.

What are you hearing about the war? Vincenzo Milazzo put down a card.

Bah, Baldassare responded, how could the assassination of a prince in Europe affect us here?

Mario said, "Americani don’t want to get involved. President Wilson wants to maintain an isolationist stance."

"Americani won’t get involved unless German submarines attack us!" Vincenzo said.

Why would Germans attack us? Baldassare asked.

Germany will attack anyone who helps their enemy, Nunzio Rizzuto explained.

If Italy allies itself with Germany, what will happen to the family still trying to get here? Mario asked.

Do they have a choice? Stay home and support Italy or come here and support America? Vincenzo upturned his hands.

Baldassare put down his cards, a flush. America has been very good to me. I would never leave.

Vincenzo shook his head, "This is pazzo. I would never go home. I’m grateful not to be starving."

Like many immigrants, Baldassare would have served in the American military, but he was too old. He initiated the process of citizenship in hopes that America wouldn’t doubt where his allegiance lay. Military manpower was sparse, and since the American population had exploded with immigrants, the military drafted heavily from this pool. All men, native-born or immigrant, between the ages of thirteen and thirty-one, were compelled to volunteer or register for the draft. Once training began, thirty-four percent of all males eligible for the draft couldn’t understand military orders given in English, and at least half of the new immigrants were illiterate. More than two million Italian or Italian Americans fought on the battlefields of France, comprising twelve percent of the American military, gladly serving their new country.

three

Licata Family in Brooklyn

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, 1913-14

On the other side of the country, at the corner table of the Williamsburg, Brooklyn, café, Calogero Labruzzo sat in Umberto’s Caffetteria. smoking a cigar and sipping a tiny cup of espresso. Nicolò Licata, Baldassare’s brother, inspected his reflection in the café window, smoothed back his hair, and entered the cafe. Sixteen years old, charming, attractive, and dressed in slick clothing, Nick cut a striking figure. He traveled seven thousand kilometers from his hometown in Sicily to this infamous café in Brooklyn to meet this very man. He stood patiently, waiting for Signore Labruzzo to acknowledge him.

Sì?

Signore, I’m Nicolò Licata from Camporeale. I believe Don Osvaldo Abruzzi told you I was coming.

Labruzzo sized him up, narrowing his eyes, Coming for what?

Nicolò smiled, Coming to work.

Labruzzo motioned, Have a seat.

Calogero, or Charlie, Labruzzo was born in Camporeale in 1870. Labruzzo expected big things from life that a small town like Camporeale could never offer him. When he was seventeen years old, steady work as a blacksmith gave him the opportunity to marry his lovely young sweetheart, Itria, who bore him twelve children in succession. Tall, handsome, and confident, he quickly outgrew his small village and took out his frustrated ambitions on those around him: his wife, his children, and his employees. One day, in a fit of anger, Labruzzo struck an uncle who dared to question his judgment. He stood staring at the felled body with shock and disbelief, and, suspecting he murdered his uncle, he fled with his wife and children in panic to Tunisia, North Africa. Here, he replicated his keen business savvy, turning his commercial acumen to the meat trade. His butcher shop thrived; every opportunity Labruzzo seized turned to gold. When the time was right, he gathered his profits and moved to America, creating a prosperous butcher business in the New World. He invested his profits in the burgeoning real estate market, which thrived from the influx of immigrants and the growing commerce of New York City. Labruzzo, the envy of every New York Sicilian immigrant, now lived in Brooklyn, on Jefferson Street, in a large, comfortable home raising chickens and milk-bearing goats and tending his vegetable garden in his considerable backyard.

I lease commercial buildings to clothing manufacturers and let rooms in tenements. Is that the work you’re looking for? Labruzzo gestured with his cigar, leaving out the most lucrative part of his business.

Nicolò nodded, Signore, I do whatever you ask. With discretion.

Labruzzo nodded and took a puff of his cigar. You worked for the Abruzzis?

Sì, signore. They said New York City was the land of opportunity.

New Orleans had been the Italian immigrant capital of America after the Civil War. The demand for cheap labor took thousands from land-poor Sicily back home to the land-rich New World. Discrimination toward southern Italians in the South made life difficult, so the anonymity and opportunity of a big city like New York seemed like paradise. After the mass lynching of Italians in New Orleans in 1891, the Italian underworld relocated its headquarters to New York. The sheer quantity of immigrants made it marvelously easy to hide or blend in. New York offered a fresh start and a new clientele. Former capi from Naples settled on Mulberry Street in lower Manhattan, while Sicilians established businesses in Brooklyn at Umberto’s Caffetteria. Only savvy immigrant workmen could distinguish between jobs run by padroni and those run by legitimate businesses.

I’ll see what I can do. Come by tonight at 8:00, and I’ll introduce you around.

Labruzzo was known for his touchy temper, but Nicolò‘s easy demeanor won him over. Just as with the Abruzzis back in Sicily, Nicolò endeared himself to Labruzzo, the David to Saul, soothing him, becoming indispensable, running errands, following through on tricky jobs, and taking on wearisome clients. Nicolò and Labruzzo established an easy camaraderie in America.

Nicolò found his boss’s business acuity staggering. In the brief time Labruzzo lived in Brooklyn, he took advantage of each new opportunity that presented itself: operating an Italian lottery, managing cheap labor for American businesses through his padroni, and selling protection services. He threw his hand in extortion early on but found the risk too high and the payoff too low, so he abandoned the idea. Besides, extortion was the territory of the Mano Nera, angry, defiant young men who hung out on street corners, rookies who ran numbers and dealt in hot goods, and who were associated with sloppy knifings and petty robberies. Nicolò made himself useful to any and everything Labruzzo asked of him.