by Debra Dunbar
Cooper. What kind of Italian changes his name to Cooper?
“You were hard on him,” Vincent said. “Cooper.”
“Yeah?”
“About his name? How he changed it?”
Lefty turned to face Vincent. “He’s a monkey banging for bananas. Playing the part of Mister Jones, wing-tipped American. Probably would wear a blond wig, if he could get away with it.”
“Are you really that upset about him giving up the Church? You really that religious?” Vincent asked.
“I’m Italian.”
“So am I,” Vincent countered. “Not a big church man, though.”
Lefty turned away. “Yeah, I suspect something like you wouldn’t be.”
Vincent winced.
Something like him.
The car pulled up to the Old Moravia Hotel. Lefty was out of the car and nearly to the oversized bronze-and-glass hotel doors by the time Vincent’s feet landed onto the street. Lefty held the door for him and pointed for the lobby bar. Vincent stepped into the lounge, nodding to a face or two he recognized.
No one nodded back.
That was normal. At least, for now. Once Vito heard about the time pinch, and how Tony was standing at the end of the bar with an early morning cocktail in his hand instead of bleeding out on a dirt road in Western Maryland because of Vincent, they’d start nodding back. He might never truly be family, but maybe then they’d at least treat him as if he were human and not some disgusting aberration.
Lefty disappeared into a back room tucked behind the lobby desk. Vincent leaned against the front wall, eyes on the door Lefty had disappeared into. A figure stepped into his line of sight, and he sucked in a breath to prepare for the usual “you’re a freak and an abomination” pleasantries he’d grown accustomed to.
He turned to find Tony staring at him.
Tony took a sip of his drink…gin, by the smell of it.
“You’re still alive,” he said, sizing Vincent up foot to fedora.
With a smirk, Vincent responded, “Yeah. So are you.”
Tony sucked in a breath and cradled his glass. His lips parted once or twice, but no words came.
He simply nodded once, then walked off.
Vincent shook his head. That was probably as close to a “Thank you” as he was likely to receive from Tony. As far as things usually went, it wasn’t bad.
Lefty stepped into the room, and the conversation of the gathering immediately dropped to a whisper. Footsteps clacked against the marble walls of the front lobby, and the whispers fell into silence. Vito Corbi entered the lounge. The man was broad-chested, with a square head. His eyes drooped beneath boxcar eyebrows, giving the misleading impression of a perpetually sleepy man. This man had his hands on the reins of the Baltimore Crew for five years, now. It hadn’t taken him long to earn the respect of every man in that room, as well as the neighboring states.
Vito marched past the bar, waving away a flute of sparkling wine the bartender offered. His languid eyes scanned the room, settling finally onto Vincent.
Vincent pulled himself off the wall and straightened his jacket.
Vito turned to approach. The men between them hustled to make a lane.
Vincent cleared his throat and firmed up his posture.
When Vito was only about three steps away, he gave Vincent a long examination.
With a voice full of gravel, he asked, “You’re still sick?”
“No, sir,” Vincent replied with as much strength as he could muster.
“That’s good,” Vito replied with measured cheer. “Because a stregone that kills himself with his own magic is useless to me.”
Vincent’s heart fell a few inches.
Vito turned toward Tony, who likewise stiffened his posture, and asked, “Are they all dead?”
“The ones that showed up, yes.”
“Our man on the inside?” Vito pushed.
Tony blanched, then answered, “Dead, too. He was…just a little kid.”
Vito shook his head. Addressing the crowd, the Capo declared, “This is what we get for dealing with animals.”
A spattering of dry laughter echoed off the walls.
Vito continued, “They send bambini to do a man’s work. They take the charity of civilized men such as ourselves, and they piss on it. Squeeze a few nickels out of our associates, all because they feel emboldened.” He smacked a fist into an open palm. “If these dogs do not respect us, then how are we seen by proper men? They see us as weak. Weak, because we have it easy here.”
Vito plodded around the room, never really looking anyone in the eye.
“These goat-men from the mountains…they pull hunting rifles on our own, like they were shooting quail. No fear. No respect. Only disregard.”
Vincent squinted one eye. There had most certainly been fear in the eyes of the Dryfork Brothers. But this was the story Vito had chosen to tell.
A story that didn’t involve Vincent.
Vito turned and laid a hand on Lefty’s shoulder. “If Alonzo had not been there, they might have shed blood. And we would be at war.”
Vincent pursed his lips.
Lefty stared down at the floor as Vito shook his frame in congratulations.
“This is why we must take great care when we deal with animals. Respect their brutality, but not their minds. Caution, yes. But not fear. We have power they do not.”
Vincent lifted his head a little, waiting for a look…just one look…from the Capo.
He received none.
Vito released Lefty and returned to the bar. “Our dealings with West Virginia will tax our resources for a while. Just a while. Our business on the coast must continue in the hands of outsiders.” He nodded to Tony. “Are affairs in order on the water?”
Tony replied, “We have several options, and fair prices in place.”
“And they are discreet?”
“Highly. Our success is their success.”
Vito nodded. “Bene.”
The meet concluded without ceremony, certain key individuals gathering around the Capo for specific marching orders…including Lefty. Tony turned away from the gathering, sucking back on his gin as he stared out the hotel window.
Vincent gave him a nudge. “You did good last night. With the Dryforks. Almost had them eating outta your hands.”
Tony shook his head and just stared.
Vincent added, “Vito should’ve heard you. He’d have been proud.”
“I’m lucky he doesn’t blame me for the whole thing coming up turnips.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Vincent whispered, leaning a little closer. “That was Coop, and we both know it.”
“Ahh…”
“Where is Coop, anyhow? Thought he’d be here.”
Tony finished his drink and set the glass down onto the marble sill. “Probably flippin’ cards uptown.”
“Poker hall?”
“He heads a basement operation up by St. Eustace. I told him to keep his mug underground until Vito cooled off.”
Vincent nodded. “Probably a good idea.”
“Whatever.” Tony turned away without another word, leaving Vincent alone.
The cloud of hangers-on began to disperse as Vito retired to his back room. Vincent caught a glimpse of Lefty as he eased away from the bar.
Lefty’s eyes fell onto Vincent. And he looked away. A knot tugged at Vincent’s chest as he balled a fist in his pockets. That was a fine trick, taking credit for Vincent’s pinch. A pinch that nearly killed him.
Lefty approached, his lips stiff. “You need a nap, or something?”
“I don’t need nothing.”
“You need a shave, is what you need.”
Vincent sighed, then ran a hand over his cheek. Lefty…wasn’t wrong.
“Come on,” Lefty chimed. “We’ll get us both to a barber. We look like a coupla apes over here.”
Chapter 7
It had been a long and lean week for Hattie and her parents. Despite her spree at th
e market, the fish lasted for two meals, and the vegetables for three. It wasn’t four days until they were back on bread and watery chicken bone soup. Hattie was sure her father could kick his cough if they could only feed him properly. He’d always been hale and strong, and possessed the frame of a capable steel worker. But when something goes sideways inside the body, no muscles could help that.
Lizzie hadn’t snared a shipment all week with the Crew. The one time Hattie’d ventured back to Locust Point, she found Lizzie nipping at the bottle of whisky from her desk drawer which the woman thought was a secret. “Everything’s going to the Solomons Boys,” she’d told Hattie.
And so, when a knock came the following Tuesday morning, Hattie nearly leapt out of her skin. She opened the door to the apartment to find a tiny boy standing with his cap in one hand and a folded note in the other.
“Miss?” he asked, holding the note out.
Hattie looked down at the adorable child and took the note. He cupped his hand out to her, eyes round and soft, brimming with some fairly convincing tears.
“A nickel, miss?”
She grinned. “Lizzie paid you a nickel already, didn’t she?”
His lip trembled.
“Save it, kid,” Hattie snickered. “Go spend your nickel before someone lifts it off you.”
The boy’s face shifted into an expression of disappointment. “Aw, nuts.”
Hattie read the note as the boy bounded down the hallway to the front stairs.
COME TO THE WAREHOUSE. WE’VE GOT A BUSINESS. L.
Rushing into her working clothes, Hattie checked on her father who was sleeping off the night’s labor and gave her mother a quick kiss on the cheek. She made excellent time to Locust Point, pulling the warehouse door aside with a clatter. Hattie was expecting to find a few barrels or a skid of bottles waiting inside.
Instead, she found the all-too-familiar emptiness.
“Malloy!” Lizzie shouted from the back. Her tone was less dreary than usual. Almost bright.
Hattie trotted to the end of the warehouse and up the stairs for the office. Lizzie ushered her in with a wave of the hand, adding, “Close the door.”
Hattie cocked her head. There was literally no one in the warehouse to eavesdrop on the two of them, but she obliged anyway. “You said we have some business?”
“Yes, we do. Business with Little Teague.”
Hattie’s brow lifted, and she took a seat. “Do we, now?”
“So, I finally grabbed Tony by the ear and sat him down to talk cheese. He confirmed the Crew’s sending all their business to the Solomons Island Boys right now.”
“Why?”
“Prices,” Lizzie replied with a roll of her eyes. “Teague’s undercutting us.”
“When’d that start?”
“About the same day you and Raymond failed to get snatched by the Feds. I get the feeling he’s sore about that.”
“He’s sore?” Hattie blurted out.
“So, he’s trying to wait us out. Scoop up all the Crew business while they’re policing the west.”
“Was this gangster of yours any use to us, then?”
Lizzie leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial volume. “Tony says Vito’s hot under the collar about these West Virginians, and Tony’s been playing it safe. He can’t get involved with the water side of the business right now, but he’s eager to keep two boats on the Bay. Little Teague may be a bargain right now, but when we pack it up his prices go straight through the roof. Tony knows that. Man’s got education. And so, he’s thrown us a bone.”
“What sort of bone?” Hattie prodded.
“The location of the Solomons Boys’ next drop.”
Hattie nodded. “And what’re we supposed to do with’t?”
“That’s up to us. With your special skills, I’m sure we’ll make good use of it.”
“Fine. Where’s the drop?”
Lizzie consulted a note beside her elbow. “They’re running some moonshine down to the Upright Citizens. Drop’s at night at a tiny inlet north of Richmond by the name of Deltaville.”
Hattie nodded. “I know it. What night are they planning?”
Lizzie shook her head. “What do you think?”
“Tonight?” Hattie barked.
“Which gives you more than enough time to get down there, and…improvise.”
Hattie leaned back in her chair. “I could take a car.”
“Cheaper just to take the boat.”
“If I’m using my special skills, then I don’t want Raymond there.”
Lizzie’s shot her a weary grin. “You’re still keeping him in the cold?”
“It’s my choice.”
“I suppose so, but it might make things a little easier on you if you just told him.”
Hattie shook her head. She had one person in her life who treated her like a regular human being. No awkward distance, no undue concern, no fear or disapproval in his eyes when he looked at her. The last thing she wanted was for that one person to turn into yet another pair of eyes she’d have to worry about. Someone who might have to make even more sacrifices to keep her free.
Or worse yet, let something accidently slip to someone who’d be happy to take a payday and turn her in to the mob.
“I’ll hire a boat,” Hattie declared.
Lizzie waved her fingers. “Suit yourself. I’ll toss in extra for the transportation. This is a business expense, way I see it.”
They drove to McComb’s, giving Raymond a wide berth per Hattie’s request. The pier was clear of Treasury men, and even if it wasn’t, she was doing nothing illegal on this side of the trip. Lizzie gave her a wave as Hattie stepped down onto the wide wood planks stretching over the Magothy River, connecting several warehouses and boat slips in a tenuous ribbon. She noted that roughly half had been boarded closed. Probably the working of the Feds. The Solomons Island Boys used McComb’s more extensively than did Lizzie. That was the beauty of Winnow’s Slip. It was too far inland to really be considered a proper pier.
Hattie found two dark-skinned gentlemen loitering on a menhaden trawler. She inquired whether they were outbound that day, and they informed her that the waters off Hatteras had warmed up early, sending the hot currents right up the mouth of the Chesapeake. This was good news. These men were eager for a payday, just like she was. Plus, they’d be willing to pick her up on the return once their business was done.
To their credit, the men let her be on the run down the Bay to Virginia. Sitting at the bow, as usual, Hattie tried to cook up a plan as they chugged along. She hated it when she didn’t have a course of action ready to execute. Everything in its place, step by step. This was what her father had taught her. That was what kept her a free pincher. But this? This would be sheer improvisation, and the more Hattie tried to create scenarios in her mind, the more she realized she really just had to wait and see what was waiting for her in Deltaville.
The menhaden trawler dropped her off just north of her destination, and she wove her way along the wooded waterside until she reached the finger of land stretching out into the Bay. The sun had just begun to set, the eastern sky rolling into a lush cobalt blue as the clouds overhead took a pink tone. If the drop took place at midnight, she’d still have hours to wait them out. At least it was safe. There was no way either the Solomons Island Boys or the Upright Citizens would bother standing ankle-deep in mud for hours on end, feeding the mosquitoes.
Hattie followed the sliver of land farther out. A tiny ribbon of pine forest split the peninsula wider, and as the last rays of daylight began to slip up the conifer trunks, Hattie spotted a gravel dust road leading to a handful of buildings at the water’s edge. She counted maybe six shanties, most likely fishing shacks and ice houses meant to capture hauls and ready them for transport inland. Nothing in Deltaville looked permanent or lived-in. This was a working site.
Stepping out into the space between buildings, Hattie looked around. The odor of fish hung heavy in the air. The road wa
s in poor condition, the mud reclaiming much of the gravel, but the buildings were in good repair. This site wasn’t abandoned. And it was perfect for the Upright Citizens. Hattie felt a twang of jealously. Even Jake had never invested in such reliably discreet drop-off points.
But then again, he never needed to. Maryland was still a “wet” state. They could load and unload barrels at proper piers. The Treasury men were always sniffing around for actionable offenses, such as transporting liquor out of state. But they were normally easy enough to sidestep, particularly when Hattie pinched light. It was a great job to have—while there was work. This past week had brought home to Hattie just how precarious their business future was. At any moment, the mobsters could decide to divert all their distribution to someone else, or decide they needed to do it themselves.
The notion that the Baltimore Crew would pull all their trafficking off the water was a constant threat to their livelihood. Lizzie kept hearing rumors from her contact in the mob that Vito was dissatisfied with outsiders moving his hooch. Should the day come that he chose to bring the work in-house, they’d all be out of a job. Luckily, the Baltimore Crew had never really expanded their numbers sufficient to take over the distribution.
Making her way around the cluster of shanties, Hattie tugged open one door. A slate floor greeted her eyes, with thick walls lined in cork. Ice house. If it weren’t for the pervasive fish stench, this could provide good cover for when the mobsters arrived. On the other hand, she mused, what if they used these buildings to store the barrels?
That was unlikely. This being a nighttime drop, the Upright Citizens were more likely just to bring a truck and carry the hooch straight back to Richmond.
Shutting the door, Hattie continued exploring the rest of the fishing camp. One by one, she scoped out the structures and the slapdash gravel paving between them. One shack sat closer to the water, apart from the rest. It was larger by footprint, if not by height. The wood planks running vertically between metal panels looked particularly weathered and mouldered. Darkened. Perhaps even scorched. It could have been some original building at this site. Maybe a fire cleared out the rest, and the current structures were hammered together a little closer to the road?