by Debra Dunbar
“And this use,” Vincent continued, “put your son, Yakov, into great danger unto his own death.” He reached out a hand, and after a long moment, she took it. “You should know that he is filled with regret. Both for what he has done in the name of these…Italians. And for what you have suffered. He has much to pay for in the hereafter. The Universal Mind weighs his soul. But here…” Vincent cleared his throat to force down the frog threatening to croak its way through his stage act. “Here is where I leave you with some hope. Men are neither good nor evil in total. They respond to what life gives them. And your son made his choice. This choice, I think, was not as complete as he would have wished. The Universe understands this. And so, he is given time. Time to make amends. To earn his destiny. And in this pursuit, your son has found new purpose.”
She leaned forward a little, and Vincent responded in kind.
“He wishes you to know that he finds hope in the light. His last burden before he may commence his journey of redemption…is the guilt he feels for leaving you with his memory.”
“What must I do?” she whispered.
“Tell him. Tell him that you love him. That you have always loved him. Tell Yasha that he may move on, and that you will remember the innocence of the boy you raised. Tell him this…and he will find peace.”
“Yasha!” she shouted. “Ya tebya lublu!”
Vincent released her hand as she poured heart-wrenching emotion into the air in husky tones. When she was finished, doubled over in sobbing, the other two women stood up and reached for her, throwing arms around her.
Vincent watched the scene, misery simmering in his chest.
Once the pageantry was complete, he made his usual demonstrative exit, encouraging each of the old ladies to leave any manner of “gratuity or honorarium” in the bronze bowl near the door. He withdrew back into the closet behind the red satin drapes and sat in front of his mirror. Then he lit the candle with a match and stared at his reflection, listening for the scuffles and footfalls to subside. Usually this was an agony, waiting for the clients to file out until he could collect the donations and go about his merry.
But tonight, he needed a moment.
Yakov Dmitrivich.
Vincent knew him. He knew him all too well. More specifically, he knew precisely how the man died. He’d pilfered payments to Capo Vito and the Baltimore Crew over the years. They were small sums, only a dollar here and there. Usually from the cat houses up near the Jones Falls. But it was enough to be noticed, and since he wasn’t family, Yakov’s life was forfeit. However, since he’d holed up in the Russian blocks with a half-dozen armed men waiting to plug anyone with an Italian accent who came knocking, Vito had sent his time pincher to ease the process.
It wasn’t hard. Only about ten seconds and ten square yards. He’d cleared the guns out of the room, then stepped aside long enough for Vito’s boys to spray lead.
Vincent wiped the makeup from his face then jerked the fez off his head and tossed it onto the bench. It’d been a while since he heard any noise from the other room, so he figured it was safe to emerge. Returning to the rented second-story room over the grocer, he sprinkled some water over the tobacco bowl, closed the window, and scooped up the evening’s take to stuff into his pocket.
The night air still held just a little chill, still early in May. A fog settled in over the city from the waterfront, filled with the stench of mud and death. Vincent took the short way home, less eager to enjoy the evening now that his mind dwelled on Yakov Dmitrivich’s mother.
A soup kitchen was in the process of closing up shop just a few doors away, and more than a few men in threadbare jackets stumbled out onto the street. Vincent lingered by the soup kitchen stoop, watching as a bald-headed fellow swept the floor’s debris out onto the street. The bald man paused and gave Vincent a nod.
“Oh! Heya, there, Vinnie.”
“Vincent,” he corrected as he reached a hand into his pocket.
“Another donation?”
Vincent pulled his take of the evening from his pocket…a handful of coins and bills. He thumbed through the money, counting it all before handing the entire lot over.
The bald man pulled the tails of his shirt out of his trousers to make a basket. He received the donation, winking up at Vincent.
“You had a good night, tonight.”
“No, but you’re welcome.”
Vincent turned to continue his march home. His room sat atop a two-story brick row house on Fremont—a concession from Vito. Vincent never paid rent, and never dealt with the landlords. Vito didn’t want his one and only pincher hung out to dry.
As he trotted across the street, he spotted a familiar figure leaning against the stoop of the row house—a middle-aged man with shiny silver-streaked black hair drawn back against a widow’s peak. His light beige trench coat drooped unbuttoned, its most remarkable feature being the right sleeve, which was sewn shut high up at the shoulder. It was a nice piece of tailoring that made anyone who wasn’t staring assume he was just wearing the coat over his shoulders.
Vincent released a sigh, balled a fist in his trousers pocket, then lifted his chin.
“Hiya, Lefty. Kinda late for you to be kicking heels this part of town, ain’t it?”
Lefty Mancuso pulled himself from the shabby wood door to the row house and stepped down the stoop to street level, his eyes sharp like ice picks.
“You’re late.”
“What, we had a date?” Vincent jibed. “I woulda bought you flowers or something.”
Lefty stood resolute in his typical monolithic dignity. “You’re usually home by nine.”
“What can I tell you? Old ladies got no kinda schedule.” He sized up Lefty’s clothes. Black suit. Thin tie. Working hat. “What’s the beef? We got a job?”
Lefty nodded once. “We have a job.”
“What, tonight?”
“What do you think?” Lefty replied with an impatient lift of his chin. “Get dressed. We’re driving to Cumberland.”
Vincent shook his head. “Is this from Vito?”
“Yes, it’s from Vito.”
That settled it. There was no escaping this late-night errand. When Vito called in Vincent, that meant the Capo needed his powers. That was what Vincent was there for.
That was his purpose.
“Alright, alright,” he waved. “Give me five minutes.”
Chapter 3
Hattie sat cross-legged on the bow of Raymond’s boat. This was her place. Out on the Bay, in the dark of the night, everything in the world seemed right.
The engine house at the center of the vessel chugged away, sending diesel smoke into the air and vibrations through the wood planks below. The boat didn’t make any kind of appreciable headway along the wide, semi-choppy water of the Chesapeake Bay, so the breeze that rushed over her face was all Mother Nature. Her bangs flipped along her cheekbones, rushing along her eyelashes in the wind, and she shook her head to settle them back in place.
The moon had nearly set to the west, meaning it was about an hour past midnight. They still had an hour’s travel ahead of them before they could deliver the crates of illegal brandy into the hands of the Upright Citizens, an upstart mob out of Richmond who’d developed a regular working relationship with the Baltimore Crew. This new relationship had generated plenty of work up and down the Bay. And that work was enough to keep both Hattie and her partners as well as Little Teague’s group flush with business.
Now, it seemed, Teague had seen fit to remove the competition. Hattie fumed on it, watching as the bow split the waves along the surface of the water.
“What’d you think?” Raymond called from behind her. “’Bout the Solomons Island Boys?”
“I think,” she replied with a composed tone, “that they’ve kicked a hornet’s nest.”
“Are we the hornets?”
“When I’m done with them,” Hattie replied, turning to Raymond with a smirk, “they’ll be stung plenty.”
“Thoughts
on that? What ya planning?” he asked as he settled himself on the engine house behind her.
“Oh, I’m thinking ’bout smacking Teague with a leather strap. Maybe a bat, if I’m not feeling charitable.”
He chuckled. “Serious, though. He’s got twenty men working with him. What’re you gonna do about it?”
Probably nothing. Hattie scowled, then stretched her arms high over her head with a yawn. “Can’t do much until I talk to Lizzie, can I? It’s her show.”
Raymond nodded. “She’s gonna drop bricks.”
“Count on it.”
He crouched down a little, his face easing into a soft mound of concern. “Are you feeling better? You looked pale as hell back there.”
She nodded. “Fresh air does a person good.”
“Wouldn’t say it’s all that fresh.”
“It is, if you’re used to city air.”
Raymond released another thunder-laugh. “True ’nough. I’m happy far away from that city. You should move if you’re fancyin’ a rural life more.”
If only it were that easy. How many times had she begged her parents to move out of Baltimore? To flee somewhere safe and sequestered? But there was no money, and the only jobs were in the city. Her mother spent long hours in the Magnus Fields Textile Plant, working a mechanized loom. And her father…well, he was one of several hundred who slaved away most of their lives at Bethlehem Steel. The new buildings…the taller buildings…they all had skeletons of steel, and Bethlehem was the provider of choice for the city of Baltimore. Because of this, they remained in Hampden, alongside so many other Irish families, working and sleeping and digging themselves deeper and deeper with each passing year. Worse, they had to worry about her.
No one with her abilities remained free for long. The mafia snapped up pinchers like toads eating flies, using threats and violence to keep them in what amounted to slavery for the gang’s own purposes. That was the destiny her parents had sacrificed so much to protect her from. So, she kept her head low, her bangs over her eyes, and she kept her illusions close to the truck.
And she stayed out on the safety of the water as much as possible.
They continued south toward Newport News, letting in at some unnamed inlet on the Bay side of the peninsula. So many of these fingers dug into the mainland, draped in thick canopies and cattails. They were a wonderland of secrecy that the Treasury men could never manage to fully cover. Good thing too, since they were now under the auspices of the Commonwealth of Virginia, where Prohibition wasn’t just the law of the land, it was the spirit of the land.
A line of orange light flickered along the water’s edge as Raymond piloted the boat along the muddy banks. Six men stood in a line, one waving them in with his torch. Raymond killed the engine with a kick of his boot and tossed a mooring line to one of the gentlemen gathered on the shore. They tied up the boat to a tall stump, the remains of some bizarre execution mid-trunk which the former tree had suffered.
“Evening,” one of the Richmond boys bellowed. “Or, morning. Whatever.”
Hattie rushed up the side of the boat to pull back the canvas tarp covering the crates of brandy.
The lead man stepped onto Raymond’s boat, steadying himself for a half-second as he waved the torch over the crates.
“Six cases, huh?”
“That’s all we were given,” Hattie replied.
He shrugged and made a bit of theatrical agony over the disappointing numbers. In truth, they knew precisely how many bottles they were taking delivery of. Therefore, they had precisely the correct dollar amount to pay upon delivery. This was just him being an ass, and Hattie knew it.
The man released a whistle from between two fingers rammed between his teeth, and the others hopped on board to lug the crates onto dry land.
Hattie stood by to supervise. Her special skills were rarely needed on this sort of run. The hooch was delivered, and she took payment. If there was any talking to be done, she did it since the Virginians were even less patient with someone of Raymond’s complexion than those up north were.
“You’re up awful late,” the lead man muttered as the last crate left the boat. “For a girl.”
“A girl?” she asked with as much playful lilt as she could muster.
“Don’t you have someone waiting for you at home?”
Here it was…the obligatory gesture of manly dominance. Hattie rarely saw these river rats without there being some sort of display of braggadocio, or some other assertion that she ought not to be wearing pants and running booze after hours. This was the terrain upon which she plied her trade. She didn’t like it, but she accepted it.
With a sharp grin, she turned to the lead man, bangs shading her eyes, and said, “Several someones are waiting at home for me, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”
The man turned toward her, taking the bait perhaps too well. “And how many of these someones are willing to make you honest?”
“Honest?” she repeated, not liking where this was going.
“An honest woman. Or are you one of those girls? A loose dame?”
She strapped her grin against gritted teeth like a steel vice. “You going to talk living arrangements all night, or am I getting paid?”
He shook his head and released a low snicker. Turning to his compatriots, he gestured for a tiny package of brown paper wrapped in twine. He extended his hand to shove it into her chest, the backs of his knuckles grazing the curve of her breast as he did so.
Hattie sucked in a breath, then snatched the package. The twine was tight, and she sighed.
“You can count it now, if you like,” he declared with a lift of his brow. “I won’t take offense.”
She tried to hook her finger into the twine, but found it was pulled far too taut.
“I’ll give the Upright Citizens the benefit of the doubt,” she replied, pocketing the stack of paper-wrapped bills into her trousers’ pocket.
He shook his head. “A young woman like yourself ought to be wearing a dress, don’t you think?”
She guffawed. “You want me to wear a dress? Out here?” She extended her arms toward the Bay.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Dames in pants…you’re just asking for trouble.”
Raymond shifted in his position. So practiced was he that even Hattie had ceased to notice him looming behind her. But the increased provocation on the part of this Virginian jerk-weed had stirred his protective instincts.
Instincts which could get him killed.
One of the land-bound Richmond boys pulled a pistol from his holster and cocked it before Hattie realized what was even happening. She lifted a hand to Raymond, and out to the rest.
“Boys,” she shouted. “Let’s be civil.”
The pistol-bearer snarled. “You keep your darkie on a leash, little girl!”
The hand she’d spread against Raymond’s overalls balled into a fist. A dozen illusions filled her mind. How best to teach this turnip-brain a lesson? Fill his brains with a living nightmare? Some horror? Or should she simply conjure up a bevy of G-men for them to piss themselves over?
Even as she thought of drawing on her light-pinching powers, her stomach flipped. She wasn’t quite recovered just yet. Trying another large-scale light pinch might send her unconscious.
And her being unconscious wouldn’t be wise in the company of these mule-heads.
Hattie cleared her throat and looked up at Raymond. His nostrils were flaring. This needed a smooth hand.
“Oh, come on now,” she declared with a hint of swagger. “We’ve had ourselves a proper exchange. Let’s not sully the moment with unkindness.” She stepped up to the lead man, tossing her bangs aside with a flick of her neck so that he could see her eyes. “You’ve got six cases of Baltimore’s finest, there. I’m sure there’s thirsty folk who could use a drop. Let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”
She pressed a finger onto his chest, flipping it up to his collarbone as she drilled the slightest, most miniscule pinches of light int
o his eyeballs.
In an instant she was as sultry and alluring as Clara Bow. Close quarters, one-on-one…this magic was cheap as they came. And it better work, because this was about all she could manage right now.
His eyes swallowed her illusion with great gulps, and his knees buckled just a bit. With a clearing of his throat, he barked, “Okay, load it up. Let’s get moving.”
She turned her back to him, ready to shoot Raymond an assuring wink, when a hand slapped down onto her arm.
Hattie sucked in a breath as the lead man leaned close to her ear to whisper, “A word?”
She forced her muscles to relax. Best not to betray her terror. The man eased her away from Raymond, and off the boat onto the water’s edge. The others hauled away the crates one by one, leaving them alone.
“How many words do you think you’ll need?” she quipped. “I have a long pull back up the Bay, and I’d like to get started.”
He released her arm and folded his hands in front of him. His face had eased. This wasn’t intimidation. If anything, it looked like a confession.
“Look…miss.”
“Malloy,” she offered.
“Miss Malloy, I’ve seen you on the water before. Maybe we’ve done business, I can’t be sure. But I want to keep you on the right side of this business, if you take my meaning.”
She squinted. “I’m not sure where to take that.”
“Your boy,” he pressed, nodding toward Raymond.
“What, Raymond?”
“Whatever. Time’s coming, his kind won’t be welcome on the water. Now, you’re a smart girl. A go-getter. I respect that. So, I want you start thinking about the future. Get clear of his kind. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
She pulled in several breaths, releasing them in guarded volume. “I think I’ve got you figured right.”
“That’s good.”
“I’ll be leaving, then.”
She moved away from him, keeping her face forward until she eased up against the side of the boat. Hattie stepped high and boarded.
“Let’s go, Raymond,” she whispered.
He rushed for the engine house to give the crank a good spin, and as the engine turned over to release several plumes of black smoke into the air, he reached for the bank to push off.