Just who was Charles Luciano, the man everyone knew as ‘Lucky?’ He was a New York gangster; a pimp, a boss of the underworld, the man who had been exiled from American soil for corruption and organised crime, a terror of polite society. A wolf in a tailored suit, they’d called him, and tonight Mr. Luciano was dancing the night away in the hills of Sicily. He waltzed like a gentleman, and he had the smile of a movie star like Cary Grant. He was the guest of honour at this prestigious feast, where no-one judged him for the crimes he had committed in America. For indeed, it was thanks to Lucky that the American army had been able to liberate Sicily. Lucky had not forgotten his people: he had brought honour to the Sicilians from the other side of the Atlantic. His tricks and dealings had enabled the marines to ally themselves with the Sicilian mafia and take down Mussolini. El Duce had fallen like an overripe tomato from the vine, and tonight Luciano would fall asleep in a woman’s arms rather than in a cell in Alcatraz. Here in Sicily, he was a free man once again. He’d always had a knack for getting himself out of trouble – hence the nickname. The founder of the American arm of the Cosa Nostra could finally breathe again. He was back in Sicily, where he had quickly settled into his old ways. He walked along the port of Palermo under the admiring gaze of his compatriots, he sipped his coffee on sunny terraces, he held interviews with journalists. He strode through town with his head held high; he was somebody here, and the people greeted him with polite deference. He got special treatment, and received gifts and invitations. He had even found a fish wrapped up in newspaper on his doorstep yesterday; a huge, freshly caught fish. His house was filled with bouquets of flowers, as if he were some star of stage or screen; it was funny, really. Yes, here in Sicily they had welcomed him like royalty. Although the island was not as bustling as New York, it had its charms. After all, perhaps it was time he start thinking about his retirement. Maybe getting arrested had worked out for the best. And yet he felt lonely here, in spite of the playacting, the flattery and the kindness shown him. He was not who they thought he was. What he truly loved was to be feared and respected, and yet a touch of authenticity and love would do him a power of good. The pretty Sicilian girl gazed dreamily at him. Would she be his for a night, or might he hope for something more? How much did she know of the many accusations that hung over him? Would she be able to listen to even a handful of his crimes without running off in tears? He would find out in time; for now, her wide, dark eyes had captured his gaze.
“So is it Luciano or Lucky?” she asked, simpering.
“It’s Lucky to the Americans, to my Jewish friends, to the Italian families looking for peace. To pretty Sicilian girls like you it’s Luciano.”
“Luciano, I so admire everything that you’ve done for Sicily. I'm in awe of your courage. I would have liked to go to America too, but I wasn’t lucky like you.”
“It’s a long story between me and America...a love story that ends in divorce.”
“I can’t believe they would divorce a man like you! My dream is to live in a beautiful house up in the hills, with children running around in the garden and a big dog. What do you call those dogs who run races again? I love them...I can’t believe I'm dancing with you, Luciano.”
“Yet here we are,” he smiled, flattered.
“I hope you know that in Sicily we all love you, and that you should feel at home here,” she told him.
I dream of you, more than you dream I do
how can I prove to you this love is real?
You're mean to me more than you mean to be
you just can't seem to see the way I feel!
The vocalist was singing a Frank Sinatra number, with a nod and a wink to Charles Luciano. It made him feel nostalgic, and the beautiful Sicilian girl squeezed his hand when she saw how he missed America.
Alan Alfredo Geday