Bum’s Rush: White Lightning Series, Book 2

by Debra Dunbar

  Hattie squinted. “They were priests?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “A nun doesn’t sound so bad,” she mused. It seemed a better fate then a life of slavery to some mob boss.

  “No, but we wanted you to have a choice in the matter,” her mother said. “If you wanted to give up any ideas of having children and dedicate your life to the Church, I’d support it. But that needs t’be your choice, not a decision others make when you’re a wee babe.”

  Hattie frowned in thought. “How did they know I was…how I am?”

  Her parents shared another heavy look before Alton replied, “It was our fault. We didn’t know, and we were worried for you. You have to understand, we had no one to turn to, when it all started.”

  Hattie asked, “How did it start?”

  “It was your crib, is what,” her mother said.

  Alton chuckled. “Aye, that was annoying.”

  “You found your way out of your crib by twelve months,” Branna continued. “Always were a climber. I’d come in and there you were lying in your crib like a proper good baby. I’d turn around and you’d be crawling around on the floor. I thought I was going mad. Then we’d take you outside in your pram and we’d get lost. Every time. Streets I’ve walked for years, but I couldn’t decide if I was coming or going. And then came the cats.”

  Hattie blinked. “Cats?”

  “Aye. Cats. Suddenly everywhere—wee kittens crawling up and over us.”

  Her father laughed. “We showed you a cat one day what had a litter. You were maybe two years. You played with the kits for an hour, and then we were up to our knees in kittens at all hours.”

  “Which was when you started getting sick,” her mother added.

  Hattie leaned back in her chair. “I was pinching light and didn’t know when to stop.”

  “Who else could we turn to?” Branna concluded. “We spoke with Father Martin.”

  Alton grumbled, “The bastard. Next thing we know, there’s men at the door telling us they need to take you away to save your soul.”

  Hattie did her best to piece together the scene from a chapter in her life, of parents perplexed by their child’s odd abilities and resulting sickness. Had Vincent’s parents felt the same? Had they turned to a priest who’d gone to the mob rather than to some mysterious religious order?

  “Would it have been any different here, though?” she asked. “In the States? Say you were a young couple in, oh, New York. And you find your child had these sorts of abilities. Would you go to the Church then?”

  “Probably,” Alton said. “Then I’d be running from a whole other bunch of people wanting the same thing—to snatch my baby away.”

  Branna smiled. “We’d run, but first I’d go see Seamus. Have him cook me up a fresh birth certificate before we headed out, just to cover our tracks.”

  Hattie nodded along, but the joke was lost on her. Finally, she asked, “Who’s Seamus, then?”

  “Your cousin, girl!” Alton downed the last of his tea.

  “I have a cousin in New York?”

  He waved her question off. “Your uncle Stephen moved to the States in ’95. Seamus was born here. True-blooded American.”

  “He’s the one who sends us those Christmas cards every year. Always says to visit if we ever come up to New York,” Branna added.

  Hattie nodded, remembering the cards. “And he could forge us vital documents if needed?”

  “Not as such. He’s the genuine article. Works for the records something or another…whatever it’s called in Brooklyn. But I’m sure he’d do us a proper if pressed!” With a wink, her father stood up and gathered the dishes.

  Hattie sat in her chair ruminating. Both her parents were quick to the point regarding cousin Seamus. It was clear to her that he’d been a sort of fallback plan if things went sideways in Baltimore.

  Records division. In New York City. Well, that was interesting. Brooklyn. Vincent was by way of Brooklyn. Vincent, who had no idea whether his parents were alive or dead, or even what their names were. She could offer…but then again, he was so touchy when it came to that subject that she hated to bring it up.

  Branna stood and leaned over the table, cupping her hand over the flowers to take a sniff as Hattie’s father washed the plates in the sink. “I know what that was all about,” she said gently.

  Hattie swallowed hard. “That a fact?”

  “Aye. It’s been on my mind, as well, the past few months.”

  Hattie turned to face her mother in surprise. “You’re a mind reader, then?”

  “No need to read minds. It’s completely understandable.”

  Her fists gripped the sides of her dress, balling them up as she tightened her fingers. What exactly did her mother find “understandable”?

  “I don’t blame you in the least,” her mother added, “and you shouldn’t feel ashamed about looking to the future and wondering what that might hold for you.”

  “The…the future?”

  “You’re thinking of children,” she stated.

  Hattie’s heart skipped a beat. “Well…I suppose the subject bears a second thought.”

  “You must wonder if you can have children. And the honest truth is that I have no more clue than you do. I don’t have any idea either whether they’d end up with abilities like your own. Your father and I have wondered and thought on that one many a night.”

  Hattie released a breath, then smiled at her mother. “I’ve a long way to go before I show any interest in that sort of thing.”

  Branna gave her a knowing smile. “I was your age when I gave birth to you. And don’t tell me there haven’t been young men catching your eye lately. That’s a good thing, as long as you’re careful. I’m always here to listen and to help if needed. Although if you don’t want my help, then that’s fine, too. I’ll just—”

  Before her mother could turn away, Hattie grabbed her arm. “No, Ma. I appreciate it. Things are just too complicated right now. For me, for children, or anyone who might step up wanting to make that sort of thing happen with me.”

  Branna nodded thoughtfully. “When the time comes, we’ll see you and your family are safe. You and your husband won’t be raising a special child by stumbling around the way your father and I did. We’ll help.”

  “Thank you, Ma.” Hattie kissed her mother on the cheek, then withdrew to her bedroom. As she reclined onto her bed, she thought of Vincent’s parents, and whether they’d turned to the Church. Would they have? Had that order her father had spoken of followed Hattie’s kind all the way to America? Or had it always been the mob on these shores? Did they buy him outright, or had they strong-armed his parents into surrendering their child? Were they even still alive?

  These were questions Hattie would need to know the answer to if she were ever to truly understand the man she met with once a fortnight.

  And also if she ever wanted children of her own.

  Chapter 2

  On a day like this, Vincent Calendo would’ve been enjoying the usual Sunday brunch with Lefty at Alphie’s. Bright sunshine filled the sky, and people would have their windows open, ready to let in the breeze. However, this was no ordinary Sunday. It was a business Sunday, and Vincent was in Philadelphia.

  He parked Lefty’s car in front of a fish cannery on the river bank, and the two left the brilliant summer morning for the dank gloom inside the building. A pair of wingtips clacked along the concrete floor to greet them. Filling those shoes was a lean middle-aged man with close-cropped brown hair and coal-black eyes. He offered a smile filled with all the warmth of a shark’s grin as he extended a hand to Lefty.

  “You Mancuso?” he asked.

  Lefty nodded and shook his hand with a firm grip. “DeBarre?”

  “Glad you made it in so early. I gotta flatfoot it to the City by sundown, and I wasn’t sure how long we were gonna chew the fat. If we can move this along, all’s the better.”

  Lefty shot Vincent a cautious glance before the f
aintest smirk flickered in the corner of his mouth.

  “I can’t escape the notion that you’re brooming us off, DeBarre,” Lefty declared. “If this is a bad time, I’m sure Vito won’t mind if we come back some other day.”

  DeBarre’s eyebrows shot high, and he sucked in a breath. “Oh, no no. That’s not it. We want no beef with the Crew. It’s just been a hell of a week, you catch my shine?”

  Lefty nodded mirthlessly. “These are trying times. And I assure you, we have no interest in wasting your day.” He cleared his throat and stood aside with a flat-handed gesture to Vincent. “Loren DeBarre, you’ll be pleased to meet Vincent Calendo.”

  DeBarre and Vincent shared a look, and they both smirked.

  “Yeah, Lefty. We’ve, uh…we’ve met before,” Vincent told him.

  Lefty lifted his chin with a frown. “When?”

  “About two years ago. Christmastime, I think?” DeBarre answered.

  Vincent snapped his fingers and pointed to DeBarre. “That was it. Big gala up at the Yorkshire Arms.”

  DeBarre laughed. “They was pouring giggle-water like it was going out of style!”

  “They were,” Vincent agreed. “Volstead Act just passed, and the Treasury Men were pinching their seat cushions over every drop of grease flowing out of the City.”

  Vincent remembered that party. It was the first trip he’d taken outside of Baltimore in quite a while. The man had introduced himself to Vincent as a “down pincher.” Vincent never figured out what that meant, exactly, but his status among the East Coast families was solid as granite, and Vincent never felt the urge to prod. It felt rude, somehow.

  Lefty glowered at Vincent’s side as DeBarre extended a hand for Vincent to shake.

  “We pinchers stick together, Lefty. Don’t get gloomy about it,” Vincent told him.

  “I would have remembered a Christmas gala,” the man groused.

  Vincent hid a grin. “That was the year the flu was making the rounds again. You caught it right in the chest. Lenin himself coulda marched an armored column up Light Street, you would’ve thought it was a three-man band.”

  Lefty nodded. “I remember that winter. Almost killed me.”

  DeBarre slapped Lefty’s good shoulder. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re still with us. Come on, gents. We got some gin cooling off down in the poke.”

  The down pincher led the two deeper into the building, steering them past the canning line which sat dormant. DeBarre explained it was due to the new ownership who insisted on “keeping the Sabbath.” The Philadelphia family took advantage of the owner’s piety and used the cannery for official business while the workers enjoyed their day of rest.

  As they descended a short flight of stairs into the basement and steam pipe tunnels beneath the building, a blood-chilling shriek echoed off bleak walls, muffled and indeterminate. It was like a cry from the bowels of hell itself.

  Vincent cleared his throat as he peered at DeBarre.

  The pincher shrugged. “Arnoud’s here.”

  Lefty nodded thoughtfully as Vincent frowned, perplexed.

  “Who?” he asked.

  Lefty sucked in a smug breath, then answered, “Seems you haven’t met all the pinchers in Philly.”

  DeBarre chimed in. “To be fair, Arnoud is new.”

  “What’s his flavor of cake?” Vincent asked.

  “He’s a touch pincher,” DeBarre answered, just as another godless scream erupted from one of the rooms ahead. “Makes you feel what he wants you to feel. Which can put a sweat on your mop, if you think good and hard about it.”

  Vincent nodded as they strolled past what he’d deduced by the whimpering was Arnoud’s torture chamber. Touch pincher? The power that implied was staggering.

  DeBarre shoved aside a heavy steel door hung on a rail. Beyond the hulking panel of metal was a cozy space with red carpeting and Tiffany lamps set upon dark wood tables. A tiny service sat in the center of the room, its brass top sporting a silver bucket of ice chilling a bottle of clear liquid. DeBarre gestured toward the chairs arranged in random angles to create pockets of conversation space. The room was empty, save for the three.

  Lefty took a seat without a word.

  Vincent looked around as DeBarre poured three drinks, “Nice joint. Quiet.”

  “It’s like a library in here on Sundays,” DeBarre said as he squeezed some lime into highball glasses. “Most of the boys are downtown today. Me and Arnoud are stuck here doin’ the business.”

  Lefty lifted his hand once again. “And we will be quick about it, don’t you worry. Capo Vito has some concerns regarding trafficking up the Delaware, and he sent us to make nice.”

  DeBarre chuckled as he handed over the drinks. “Well, you can tell Vito that we’re peaches and cream up here. What’re his concerns?”

  “As you may know, we’ve farmed out most of the boat-legging up and down the Bay.”

  DeBarre wrinkled his nose. “Don’t you mean bootlegging?”

  “Boat-legging,” Vincent chimed in. “On boats. It’s what they like to call it. And it’s a whole different set of skills from hustling hooch by truck.”

  Indeed, Vincent had become deeply familiar with those requisite skills this past spring when he’d spent a few days on a boat with the Crew’s boat-leggers.

  With Hattie Malloy.

  Which was his other purpose in Philadelphia. Sure, Lefty had some shop to talk with DeBarre. It wasn’t anything Tony or one of the other men couldn’t handle though. But the word around the campfire was that a pincher in Philadelphia had experienced a run-in with a Hell pincher, and now that Vincent was aware of the new guy, Arnoud, the dots were connecting.

  Lefty said, “Vito’s concerns are security. On your end, to put it directly.”

  “What’s wrong with our security?” DeBarre bristled.

  “We don’t know,” Lefty replied. “But you’re in a dry state. Feds are keeping their eyes peeled.”

  DeBarre asked, “Have you had any trouble shooting hooch up the river yet?”

  “No.”

  “So, what’s the beef?”

  “No beef,” Lefty responded. “We’re just looking for you to paint us a picture. How you receive shipments, what you do to keep a toe-and-heel ahead of the G.”

  “I don’t get it,” DeBarre said with a frown and a wave of his gin. “Everything’s running smooth as butter. What’s with the third degree? Your people get the hooch up-river, and we get the particulars and the dollar bills into Vito’s hands. It’s a system, and it works—and you not shooting straight with me puts my teeth on edge.”

  “It’s really more of a teaching situation, Lefty offered. “You do it right, so we’d like to share in your wisdom. Maybe we got other ports of call which aren’t locked as tight as yours. Maybe it’s just good business. This ain’t no shakedown. We’re just trying to pick your noodle.”

  Vincent eyed Lefty as DeBarre took a long sip of gin to contemplate the man’s words. Lefty was privy to far more family business than Vincent. Hell, Vincent wasn’t even considered famiglia. No pincher was. Though DeBarre seemed to be the closest thing to establishment any pincher could hope for.

  DeBarre grinned, then set down his glass. “Let’s cut to the fat, huh? Why are you really here?”

  Lefty bobbed his head in equivocation, muttering his way through a bluff of some sort.

  Vincent cleared his throat, then said, “We’re looking to acquire pinchers.”

  Lefty shot him a disdainful glare.

  DeBarre shifted his gaze to Vincent and nodded. “So, that’s why Vito sent his pincher to Philly. You’re in the market.”

  “It’s a matter of priority for the Capo,” Vincent added.

  DeBarre lifted his hands. “Thank you for getting to the point. Long way around, maybe. But fine. I got good news and bad news for you. Good news is that you’re making a proper request. There is opportunity to buy and trade pinchers among the senior families, and it’s proper that the request be
made by one of us.”

  “And the bad news?” Lefty grumbled.

  “Bad news,” DeBarre said scooping his drink back into his hand, “is that the market’s lean. No pinchers to be had at the moment, thanks to this Bratva horseshit.”

  “Bratva?” Vincent repeated.

  “Yeah. The Russians are hitting New York something fierce. Tempers are boiling already and it’s looking to be a hot summer.”

  Vincent sighed. He was familiar with the Bratva, such as they were back home. “We’ve taken care of the Brotherhood in Baltimore,” he announced.

  “Bully for you,” DeBarre said. “Unfortunately the rest of us still gotta deal with these jokers. They lose their turf to the goddamn Bolsheviks, so now they become our problem. Which means all the major families are scooping up pinchers left and right. I know that’s not what you wanna hear, but it’s the truth. If you really did take out the trash down there in Baltimore, then you should count yourself lucky.”

  Lefty asked, “It’s really that bad?”

  “Could be, soon enough. We got our ears to the ground, and we don’t like what we hear.”

  A noise sounded from the corridor behind the large steel door, and the three turned to watch as a gaunt, mouse-faced man entered the lounge. He ran fingers over his hair to restore its propriety, muttering something about people being so rude.

  DeBarre stood up and motioned to the man. “Just in time to be awkward— Bradley Arnoud, this is Alonzo Mancuso and Vincent Calendo. They’re from Baltimore, so dial it down a hair.”

  The touch pincher’s face erupted into an unsettling grin. “Heya, fellas! It’s a peach to meet the two of you!”

  He hopped forward to extend a hand to Vincent.

  Vincent checked it for blood before shaking it.

  Arnoud giggled in an oddly infantile manner, then spun around to greet Lefty.

  “Done with your toy?” DeBarre asked him,

  The man shook Lefty’s hand, then ducked his head sheepishly. “Gosh, no. He’s just taking a moment. The poor boy passed out on me. I mean…” He slapped his thighs and cocked his head. “Rude? Right?”

  Vincent stared at the touch pincher. “Rude. Yeah, I guess.”