At least there was no shortage of work. Maybe the war had made America nervous about aliens, Salvatore wasn’t sure, but the government had put quotas on immigration. Apart from a lot of black people who came up from the South, the flood of new immigrants into New York had turned to a trickle. Meanwhile, the city was booming. Wages were good, and rising.

The years had passed. By 1925, Salvatore’s cache of savings had grown enough for him to wonder whether, maybe, he could think about looking for a wife.

He was walking down Sixth Avenue on a cold day in December when he met Paolo. His brother was looking sharp, in a double-breasted overcoat and a derby hat. He might have been taken for a banker. Or a gangster. He was evidently surprised to see Salvatore, but he grinned.

“You chose the right place to meet, kid,” he said. “Come in and eat.” The Fronton occupied a basement a block to the west of Washington Square, by Sixth Avenue. Run by young Jack Kriendler and Charlie Berns, it was one of the best speakeasies in town. Salvatore noticed that as soon as Paolo’s face appeared at the entrance, where visitors made themselves known through a peephole, the door was instantly opened, and Paolo was greeted by name.

The Fronton was a spacious cellar. The floor was mostly taken up by tables with white tablecloths. There was a bar along one side of the room, and pictures of the Wild West on the walls. The place was already filling up with the lunchtime crowd, and Salvatore noticed one or two well-known faces. But Paolo was given a table at once. They each ordered a steak, and in the meantime, they were served Irish whiskey. Salvatore remarked that Paolo looked well, and Paolo smiled, raising his glass.

“Let’s drink to Prohibition, brother. It’s been good to me.”

When the temperance movement had triumphed, and the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution banning the sale of “intoxicating liquors” went into effect in 1920, the face of America might have changed. But it sure as hell hadn’t stopped people drinking. The law was the law, but millions of people didn’t believe in it. Respectable restaurants would adopt subterfuges—a bowl of soup, for instance, might turn out to be liquor. And in cities like New York, there were the speakeasies—subject to police raids, but ever-present. And of course, as with every law that denies people something they are determined to have, Prohibition had created a huge and profitable market, where illicit supply could name its price. Bootlegger operators like Rothstein, Waxy Gordon, Frank Costello, Big Bill Dwyer and Lucky Luciano were making fortunes. Salvatore had wondered for a long time if his brother was involved in bootlegging. Now Paolo had as good as told him.

They chatted about the family. Paolo asked Salvatore about his love life, and then told him: “I can get you a real high-class girl, I mean one of the best. For free.” He grinned. “She owes us a debt. You want to try her?”