The Stars Shine Down

Don Vito fainted.

Ivo took the penis and shoved it into the man's mouth. "Sorry I don't have a well to drop you into," Ivo said. As a parting gesture, he shot the old man in the head, then turned and walked out of the house to the car. His friends were waiting for him.

"Let's go."

"He has a large family, Ivo. They'll come after you."

"Let them."

Two days later Ivo, his wife, and son, Gian Carlo, were on a boat to New York.

At the end of the last century the New World was a land of opportunity. New York had a large population of Italians. Many of Ivo's friends had already emigrated to the big city and decided to use their expertise in what they knew best: the protection racket. The Mafia began spreading its tentacles. Ivo anglicized his family name from Martini to Martin and enjoyed an uninterrupted prosperity.

Gian Carlo was a big disappointment to his father. He had no interest in working. When he was twenty-seven, he got an Italian girl pregnant, married her in a quiet and hurried ceremony, and three months later they had a son, Paul.

Ivo had big plans for his grandson. Lawyers were very important in America, and Ivo decided that his grandson should be an attorney. The young boy was ambitious and intelligent, and when he was twenty-two, he was admitted to Harvard Law School. When Paul was graduated, Ivo arranged for him to join a prestigious law firm, and he soon became a partner. Five years later Paul opened his own law firm. By this time Ivo had invested heavily in legitimate businesses, but he still kept his contacts with the Mafia, and his grandson handled his business affairs for him. In 1967, the year Ivo died, Paul married an Italian girl, Nina, and a year later his wife gave birth to twins.

In the seventies Paul was kept busy. His main clients were the unions, and because of that, he was in a position of power. Heads of businesses and industries deferred to him.

One day Paul was having lunch with a client, Bill Rohan, a respected banker who knew nothing of Paul's family background.

"You should join Sunnyvale, my golf club," Bill Rohan said. "You play golf, don't you?"

"Occasionally," Paul said. "When I have time."

"Fine. I'm on the admissions board. Would you like me to put you up for membership?"

"That would be nice."

The following week the board met to discuss new members. Paul Martin's name was brought up.

"I can recommend him," Bill Rohan said. "He's a good man."

John Hammond, another member of the board, said, "He's Italian, isn't he? We don't need any dagos in this club, Bill."

The banker looked at him. "Are you going to blackball him?"

"You're damn right I am."

"Okay, then we'll pass on him. Next..."

The meeting continued.

Two weeks later Paul Martin was having lunch with the banker again. "I've been practicing my golf," Paul joked.

Bill Rohan was embarrassed. "There's been a slight hitch, Paul."

"A hitch?"

"I did propose you for membership. But I'm afraid one of the members of the board blackballed you."

"Oh? Why?"

"Don't take this personally. He's a bigot. He doesn't like Italians."

Paul smiled. "That doesn't bother me, Bill. A lot of people don't like Italians. This Mr..."

"Hammond. John Hammond."

"The meat-packer?"

"Yes. He'll change his mind. I'll talk to him again."

Paul shook his head. "Don't bother. To tell you the truth, I'm really not that crazy about golf anyway."

Six months later, in the middle of July, four Hammond Meat Packing Company refrigerated trucks loaded with pork loins, strip steaks, and pork butts, headed from the packinghouse in Minnesota to supermarkets in Buffalo and New Jersey, pulled off the road. The drivers opened the back doors of the trucks and walked away.

When John Hammond heard the news, he was furious. He called in his manager.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "A million and a half dollars' worth of meat spoiled in the sun. How could that happen?"

"The union called a strike," the supervisor said.

"Without telling us? What are they striking about? More money?"

The supervisor shrugged. "I don't know. They didn't say anything to me. They just walked."

"Tell the local union guy to come in and see me. I'll settle it," Hammond said.

That afternoon the union representative was ushered into Hammond's office.

"Why wasn't I told there was going to be a strike?" Hammond demanded.

The representative said, apologetically, "I didn't know it myself, Mr. Hammond. The men just got mad and walked out. It happened very suddenly."

"You know I've always been a reasonable man to deal with. What is it they want? A raise?"

"No sir. It's soap."

Hammond stared at him. "Did you say soap?"

"That's right. They don't like the soap you're using in their bathrooms. It's too strong."

Hammond could not believe what he was hearing. "The soap was too strong? And that's why I lost a million and a half dollars?"

"Don't blame me," the foreman said. "It's the men."

"Jesus," Hammond said. "I can't believe this. What kind of soap would they like - fairy soap?" He slammed his fist on the desk. "The next time the men have any problem, you come to me first. You hear me?"

"Yes, Mr. Hammond."

"You tell them to get back to work. There will be the best soap money can buy in those washrooms by six o'clock tonight. Is that clear?"

"I'll tell them, Mr. Hammond."