by Debra Dunbar
“Bargaining power? Against whom?”
“Who do you think?”
Vincent snickered. “Are you suggesting some sorta uprising?”
Capstein waved his hands in undue drama. “No, no! We simply need to think toward the future, and take it step by step. You,” he spat. “You are the lone pincher among the Baltimore Crew. What does that tell you?”
Vincent shook his head in bafflement. “Not a lot.”
“It tells you that Vito hasn’t pursued his legacy. No one on the Eastern seaboard believes he will survive the coming years.” Capstein ran a finger underneath his nose with a sniff. “Do you really think this is his moment?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Capstein slapped a hand against the bar top in a motion that reminded Vincent of his time pinch scam on the old ladies up in the city. Then lifting his head in a dramatic show, Capstein uttered words with practiced precision.
“The fate of our kind rests in our own hands, time pincher! Step one is to make sure you’re aligned with the right people, strong families who are poised to survive what’s coming.” He leaned closer. “Have you ever given any thought about relocation?”
Vincent eyed him in disbelief, then turned to finish his whisky. “Can’t say I have.”
“Perhaps the time is ripe?”
“I can’t leave the Crew.”
“Why?”
Vincent opened his mouth to reply but couldn’t find an answer that wouldn’t have sounded infantile. He settled for, “It’s just not the way it works.”
“Three pinchers versus…what? If you were, just for the sake of argument, to move to Richmond. What would the Crew do, then? Come for you? With me and Betty, and yourself, all ready for them? The balance of power would be…” Capstein scoffed. “Laughable.”
Vincent shook his head.
Capstein scowled at him. “You disagree?”
“I think you’re full of pop and copper,” he replied. “You and me are just accidents. Best to soak up what you got here—” he gestured to the bar, “—and just find some sorta happiness.”
Capstein glared at him, then returned to his drink. “I figured you for a man of broader vision.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a dimes-and-nickels kind of guy. You spin a yarn like this, and I start thinking that maybe you’re gonna get your bosses in a lather sooner rather than later. I don’t want to be around when that happens, so I’m okay. Thanks, though.” Vincent lifted his glass.
Capstein eyeballed the glass, then Vincent…and lifted his glass to the toast.
“Fine, then,” he said. “But you should know—no one prospers in this new world without an advantage.”
“You think the famiglia don’t got no advantage?”
Capstein held still. And Vincent smirked.
He had him. Whatever this air pincher from Richmond was stitching together for Vincent, he’d cut it short with a quick word.
Famiglia.
No one dared resist the power of a gang as large and organized as the Italian mafia. Such was the body of influence on the East Coast, emanating from New York City down to Baltimore and west to Chicago. Richmond, with its Upright Citizens could busy themselves with whatever scheme they liked. In the end? It was all family.
And Vincent was attached to them.
Lefty rushed into the speakeasy with a pasty expression. Sweat glistened on his brow. He took a second to peer left, then right. Finally, he spotted Vincent at the bar, and approached.
“Got a hold of Tony. We gotta head out to the waterside.”
“What?”
“Waterside. The Chesapeake.” Lefty reached for Vincent, pulling him clear of Capstein.
Vincent steadied himself, eyeing the other man with focus. “What’s the story?”
“We got a situation. Freelancers for Tony got pinned down by the Rappahannock River, not a half hour from here. Word came down, we’re supposed to escort them back home.”
Vincent blinked, then squinted, then frowned. “What?”
Lefty sighed. “Some boat-leggers got their ass in a twist, and now we have to see the shipment through to Baltimore. That’s from Vito.”
Vincent stared at Lefty, who seemed unusually stressed about this situation. “Okay. You got the dime on these freelancers?”
The ride to Richmond hadn’t seemed as long as the winding back-county roads they were taking toward this section of the Bay. Vincent scowled as the car hopped and jumped over the ragged, unkempt lanes winding through endless forest toward the swampy morass to the east.
Boat-leggers. This was their domain, this spindly, fish-gut stench through which they drove. And of all the places in the world, this was one of the very last he wanted to be in.
A car with several men followed behind them, along with Capstein. He’d pledged that the Upright Citizens would return Lefty’s car to Baltimore. Vincent couldn’t care less about the vehicle, but Lefty appeared indomitably invested in the disposition of his car—so much so that a full-breadth treaty was at stake between the Crew and the U.C. to ensure its protection.
Vincent dipped his head out the passenger side window, breathing in the balmy, humid air. “These boat-leggers,” he declared, “they’re for sure hunkered down on this river. Right?”
Lefty nodded. “That’s what Tony says.”
“Who’s Tony been on the horn with?”
“One of the water side distributors,” Lefty grunted. “Name of Lizzie Sadler.”
“And why do we have to deal with this and not Tony?” Vincent grumbled as they rounded a turn alongside the water’s edge.
“Because we’re here, and no one else is.” Lefty mulled over his own statement for a while, before continuing, “It’s blind luck we were here, to begin with. Let’s not get our oysters in a roast over it. These are simple people. We’re here to break them clear of the river mouth and get them safe to Baltimore.”
“Safe from whom?” Vincent prodded.
“I… I’m not one hundred percent solid on the whos and whats.”
“Well, ain’t that cherry?”
Lefty slowed the car as the road petered to a thin pad of mud and dust. Capstein pulled his car behind, parking it and stepping out to gaze across the inlet of the Rappahannock alongside Lefty and Vincent. Two other men climbed out and went to stand next to Lefty’s car, waiting for the go-ahead to drive the Fiat back to Baltimore.
“Dark as shit,” Capstein muttered.
Vincent nodded.
Lefty simply stepped forward, eyeballing the shadowed inlet with sharp eyes.
“You set?” Capstein asked, turning halfway to his own car.
Vincent nodded. “We’re set. Thanks for your help.”
“It’s the least I could offer.” He nodded to Vincent, then whispered, “You do what you need to do, and when you’re free of prying eyes—” Capstein nodded toward Lefty, “—you give me a call.”
Capstein left Vincent with a business card, then tipped his hat.
Trotting down toward the water’s edge, Vincent stared over the length of water snaking toward the Bay. The moon was low to the horizon, near close to setting. They’d have no light to work with for about two hours before the sun rose. And when that happened…well, then they’d have a completely new concern to contend with, he supposed. Vincent squinted into the distance. A shape lingered near a muddy cove jutting out into the Rappahannock, a tall white oak tree curling its branches over the water. And beneath that oak sat a distinct shape. It seemed angular and familiar, but not quite what he had expected.
“See that?” Vincent asked.
“What?”
“That.”
“Where?”
Vincent gestured with verve toward the white oak tree.
Lefty shook his head. “What are you babbling about, you gorilla?”
“Are we not looking for a boat with Vito’s rum loaded up?” Vincent snapped. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s a boat over by those trees, covered up with some
branches.”
Lefty eyed Vincent, then peered with intent toward the east. “You really see something?”
Vincent squinted again. “Yeah. That’s a boat all right.”
“You guys good? Can we get out of here?” Capstein asked.
Lefty sucked in a breath to respond, then held his response. Instead, he turned to Vincent.
Vincent simply smiled at Capstein. “Have a nice morning, Elmer! I think we’re off the map, now.”
Lefty tossed the keys to his car to him, then lifted a finger, pointing it at the car. The message was clear. That car doesn’t make it intact to Baltimore, and it’s war.
Capstein seemed comfortable with that arrangement. The two men waited until both cars pulled away, then continued onward along the shabby lane alongside a strip of mud that lanced out into the water, searching for the boat that Vincent had spotted. Lefty marched forward along the night-shadowed lane as Vincent followed. They continued for several minutes, the lights of both cars having long since vanished.
Vincent gripped Lefty after a while, jerking him to a halt. “Okay.”
Lefty cocked a brow. “Okay?”
“Here.”
“What?”
Vincent stepped toward the white oak, eyeing the boat. It was barely visible under all the tree limbs. As he walked closer he saw the dim outline of a large black man bent over the railing of the boat, tying off a mooring line. The other inhabitant, a woman of maybe twenty three or so, watched him from behind the lattice of tree branches with hard eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Good evening!”
The woman jerked backward at his address.
“You’re Tin Lizzie’s crew?” Vincent pressed, moving closer while Lefty remained behind, staring with a puzzled frown at some bushes about ten yards away.
The woman slipped soundlessly from the boat onto the shoreline. She was petite, a waif of sorts, light coppery-blonde hair cropped close to her ears, a farmer’s shirt tucked loosely into pants.
She stood with hands on her hips and just stared.
Vincent nodded to her. “Hello?”
She peered at him with a face twisted in confusion. Vincent looked back to Lefty, whose eyes were alert over the water, focusing in a completely different direction on nothing.
“Lefty?” Vincent barked.
Lefty snapped his attention toward Vincent. “What?”
Vincent gestured to the woman standing thirty feet in front of him.
Lefty shook his head. “You see this boat, or what?”
Vincent curled a brow. “Are you serious, old man? I know it’s dark as hell out here, but do you need glasses or something? Get over here. Closer, so you can see it.”
The woman cleared her throat, and in the distance, he heard a profound thud, as if a million pounds of steel had been dropped thousands of miles away. Lefty walked forward to Vincent’s side, sucked in a breath, then retreated several steps.
Vincent nodded to the woman. “I’m guessing you’re our freelancers?”
She took a few steps forward, pulling the bangs from her face. She was…cute. Actually, she was very pretty, if one were predisposed to the wholesome, Mary Pickford type.
“Lizzie sent you, then?” she asked.
Vincent nodded. “By way of Vito Corbi. We’re with the Baltimore Crew Who are you?”
At the name, the girl’s eyes widened. She pulled her arms across her chest, shrinking inward as if she wanted to disappear. He took a step forward, and she retreated a half-step.
Vincent lifted a hand. “I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re here to help.”
The man haunting the boat hopped up, clearing the side of the vessel to land alongside the girl. He was a muscular man, wearing overalls and boots. His face was stolid, threatening.
Vincent peered up at him. “Heya there.”
The man growled at him. “Start talkin’.”
Vincent cast a glance to Lefty over his shoulder. “You wanna help here, or am I gonna get my head pounded into pulp?”
The other man composed himself, running his hand down his vest. And with a measure of poise Vincent had thought impossible, Lefty strode forward.
“You work for Tin Lizzie Sadler?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “Aye.”
Lefty gestured toward the boat. “Are these barrels meant for Vito of the Baltimore Crew?”
She nodded.
Lefty gave Vincent a quick gesture, a flat palm moving toward the boat.
Vincent announced, “Then we’re the cavalry. How do you do?”
Chapter 11
Hattie watched the two men as they boarded the boat and tried to control her panicked terror. Run. Hide. Disappear. She’d known Lizzie would call in the Crew, and that they’d send their gangsters, but she expected them to arrive via their own ship, clear the space where the river met the Bay and escort them home, not stroll up the lane and board their boat.
And that one…he’d seen right through her illusion. They were right here, next to her. If they’d realized what she was, then she was done. They’d drag her off, and her parents would never see her again. Everything she loved would be gone, and she’d be a slave to the mob.
Calm down. These gangsters were here to help them, not take her away. She needed to shove her fears deep down, and assess these men that were climbing aboard their boat.
The first one a middle-aged fellow with silver streaks by his temples and throughout his dark hair, seemed to have only one arm. He did most of the talking between the two, and Hattie figured him as the one in charge.
The second one, on the other hand…
He was young, a few years older than she was, and of moderate height. Dark eyes hung under inky brows, deep enough in their sockets to give him a brooding quality, but not so much that he seemed haggard. He had a somewhat hawkish nose, an angular jaw, and prominent cheekbones that would sharpen with age, but were now softened by the smooth oval of his lean face. If she’d seen him pass by on the street, he would have warranted a second furtive glance. He was handsome. He was very handsome.
And he was the one who’d seen through her illusion. She bit the inside of her cheek as she buried a surge of humiliation. It’d been several hours since she’d passed out from the last illusion. That had been a nasty pinch that had sucked the consciousness out of her, but she should have at least recovered enough to fade the boat into the leaves they’d decked it with. This was two illusions in one week that had failed. That demon in Deltaville…well, that was an extraordinary case, at least that’s what she’d thought. But now, some hoodlum from Baltimore walked right up to the boat despite her light pinch.
He’d looked her square in the eye and almost seemed amused at how bad it was.
Hattie’s frustration melted to exhaustion as Raymond pulled off the white oak branches and fired up the boat to edge them back onto the Rappahannock River. The moon had set. If that other boat was waiting for them at the mouth of the river, they wouldn’t know until they nearly collided with it.
She eyed the younger man. “Begging your pardon.”
He turned to her with a lift of his brow and a charming bow.
“Are you packing there, boy-o?” she asked.
He grinned, and the effect was totally disarming. “You got a peculiar hang to your words. Where are you from? England or something?”
“Ireland, but late of Baltimore.”
With a smug smile, he lifted his hands, indicating he was unarmed. “Don’t need iron, miss.”
Well, that was cocksure of him. What’d he plan to do, swim across to the other boat and beat half a dozen armed men down bare-handed, with bullets flying? His funeral. Unfortunately, it would probably be their funeral as well.
Hattie turned to the older man. “No offense, but I’m assuming you’re not in any shape to hold a Tommy gun.”
He pulled a revolver from his jacket, holding it low for her to inspect.
“I lost my right arm in the War,” he muttered. “But I’m an a
dequate marksman. We have you covered, ma’am.” He re-holstered his piece, then extended his hand to shake hers. “Lefty Mancuso. This here’s Vincent Calendo. We’re here to see you home safe.”
She nodded to Vincent, then lifted a brow at the other man. “Lefty? You really let them call you that, then?”
He stuffed his hand into his pants pocket. “I was a southpaw before the War. I got worse things to feel sorry about.”
Hattie nodded and turned from the man with a roll of her eyes.
“Don’t mind him.” The young Valentino double grinned. “He was born with a lemon in his mouth and never recovered.”
Raymond shushed them as they approached open water. “Quiet, all of you,” he grumbled. “Only got an hour of night left. Them buzzards will be waitin’ for us.”
Lefty stepped beside Hattie to address Raymond. “Who are they? Tony was light on the details.”
“Don’t know,” Raymond replied. “We took these barrels off an ocean trawler, and then half hour later, we had them shootin’ at us. Came from the south. Thinkin’ maybe they’re the Carolinians doing a double-Dutch.”
Lefty shook his head. “Horace Wellington’s men wouldn’t thumb their noses at Vito. Not like that.”
Hattie sniffled. “They’ve done it before.”
Lefty didn’t reply. Vincent reached for the stack of tarp-covered rum barrels and stepped up, steadying himself a head-and-shoulders higher than the rest to peer at the water.
“Coast is clear,” he declared. “They probably beat feet back to wherever they came from.”
“I hope you’re right. They had machine guns. Not just pistols,” Raymond informed him.
Lefty scowled, then took a seat alongside Raymond. Hattie had nowhere else to be, and given the choice, she’d rather be on top of those barrels. So, she wandered closer to this Vincent fellow. He dropped down and offered her a hand to climb up.