“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.
Off Track – by Matt Hilton
TERRY BISHOP SAT under a parasol at the corner of E 42nd Street and Park Avenue. The July sun beat down on the New York sidewalks. He wore a ball cap, so the parasol was unnecessary, but it came with the table he sat at outside Pershing Square, an eatery he’d never visited before. When he’d ordered a beer, he’d received an indifferent nod from a Hispanic waiter, who’d then handed him a menu. He wasn’t hungry but he ordered a chicken pot pie. He’d stabbed through the crust with his fork, but that was all the eating he’d do. He sipped his beer – a Corona with a slice of lime wedged in the neck – and ignored the disapproving glance of the waiter.
The hell was the waiter worrying about? Terry would pay for the food, so he could waste it if he chose to. He just didn’t want it. He was way too nervous to eat. He only wanted the table from where he could watch the entrance to Grand Central Terminal.
As usual 42nd Street was heaving with yellow taxis. Overhead more taxis and limos sped back and forth over the elevated ramp that took Park Avenue around the transportation hub. Terry could smell exhaust fumes and spoiling garbage and wondered why the fuck anyone would choose al fresco dining on one of the busiest streets in Manhattan. Maybe they were all there watching the entrance to the station.